My Story: From Brokenness to Grace | Grace in the Margins

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My Story

Act I — The Fracture

Act II — The Collapse

Act III — The Awakening

Act I — The Fracture

The Beginning

I grew up in a different time. My friends and I were expected to be out of the house every day until the streetlights came on. Then it was time to head home for homework, bath time, and supper. I spent an enormous amount of time figuring life out with my peers. We all went to church in those days, so we had a basic foundation of right and wrong; but the details were blurred by our immature logic and desires.

My parents loved me. But something in my early childhood—that I can't remember—combined with the way my brain is wired, caused me to feel unloved. For as long as I can remember I felt like I was basically alone in the world. In fairness to my parents, I was a rebellious, sassy, overly energetic child. I am certain that both of my parents did the best that they could with me. I was simply unable to receive what they were offering.

One of my earliest memories is how after enduring some form corporal punishment, I would turn and look at my parent and ask, "Do you feel better now?" This response troubled them deeply. It led them to seek professional help, where they were warned that my emotional detachment—my inability to cry or react as expected—was not something to ignore.

This left me vulnerable to following every whim that my mind could conceive as well as to adults who didn't have my best interest at heart.

I learned early on how to be alone. Alone in fear, joy, pain, sorrow, exploration, and boredom. My imagination would run wild with what I could have or should have said or done. I could lose myself in walking through the woods, building a coaster cart, or pretending I was Superman (which led to several sprained ankles). When I played with others in my neighborhood, the games we played always relied heavily on imagination—games like army, cowboys and Indians, and cops and robbers.

Because I never really felt like I belonged at home, I became increasingly comfortable relying on my imagination, whether I was playing with friends, or by myself. I lived in a world of wonder that existed mostly inside my head. Dealing with reality was too hard. Too painful. My imaginary world became my escape from my reality.

One of the first places this became a problem was at school. This was in the days of IQ tests in Elementary School. Unfortunately (for my imaginary world at least) I scored quite high. While I was content to spend my entire day in my own little world, my teachers—and parents—expected me to perform well in my academics. But academics required something of me… results! But I wasn't interested in results. Results came later. I was focused on now. Academics required engaging my mind on something concrete. I was more interested in living in fantasy. Academics led to grades—which for me were usually D's or F's, which led to pain. Pain that I tried hard to avoid. Or at least to find ways to endure.

My ability to endure pain was probably the hardest thing for my parents to deal with. There was a saying back then, "Don't do the crime if you can't do the time." Also, a song that said, "If you're going to dance, you must pay the piper." Well, I was perfectly willing to do the time and pay the piper. In following my imaginary whims and desires, I was constantly faced with the reality of consequences. But living in the real world, with the nagging pain of loneliness and rejection, seemed worse to me than the potential consequences of my choices.

I was never connected with my extended family. I had a handful of Aunts and Uncles and a couple dozen cousins that I saw on a semi-regular basis. My brother seemed to have a beneficial relationship with most of them, but I remained distant. I found the interaction with the larger family uncomfortable. While all the cousins were running around playing tag, or Hide and Seek, I would prefer to wonder around the local woods by myself or sit in a corner somewhere with my thoughts. As a result, I never really connected with either of my parent's families.

I was never really interested in having friends. I'm not sure I actually knew what a real friend was. For me, the other children in my life were viewed more as toys. Things I could play with when the occasion suited me. But things I could just as easily discard when the fun ended. Because I enjoyed all the "toys" at my disposal, it appeared to the casual observer that I was a popular kid with lots of friends. But that was just an unintended result of my living in a world where nothing was actually real, and I made up the rules as I went along.

I became increasingly aware of all these deficiencies. And that awareness drove me deeper into myself.

The Hook

I was nine years old when the hook was set.

It didn't feel like sin. It felt like curiosity. My friend and I were just exploring—two kids, spending long afternoons together. We didn't know what "sex" was. We just wanted to look, to touch, to discover. And so we did.

That's when Satan learned what bait would keep me coming back.

I didn't understand the weight of it then. I just knew I didn't want to get caught. My mom was a church organist, and I'd been in church since infancy. I knew the difference between right and wrong. But I didn't know why this felt wrong. I didn't know what part of it was broken. I just knew it had to stay secret.

Years passed. The visits slowed. The exploring stopped. But the spiral had begun.

By eleven, I was rubbing myself on bed sheets. One day, there was an emission. It scared me. I thought I'd broken something. But it also introduced a new kind of pleasure. And Satan sank the hook deeper.

That summer, I was raped—repeatedly—by an adult camp leader. I didn't know it then, but my life had just been rerouted. My understanding of sex, safety, and self was shattered. And I didn't tell anyone.

Later that summer, I discovered men's magazines. The images intensified the pleasure from the sheets. I couldn't get enough. Fantasy and masturbation became my refuge. My routine. My prison.

I was hooked. And I would stay hooked for decades.

Biblical Parallel: Adam and Eve

Genesis 3: The First Fall

They were naked and unashamed. Innocent. Curious. Free.

Then came the whisper: "Did God really say…?"

Then came the bite.

Then came the shame.

Adam and Eve didn't know what sin was. They just knew they weren't supposed to eat. But the fruit looked good. Pleasing. Desirable. So they reached. They tasted. And everything changed.

They hid. They covered themselves. They felt exposed.

And when God came walking in the garden, they didn't run to Him. They ran from Him.

It wasn't just disobedience—it was disconnection.

The hook was set.

And humanity has been spiraling ever since.

Reflection: The Lie of Secrecy

Sin thrives in secrecy. It doesn't need full understanding—it just needs silence.

That's how it grows. That's how it hooks. That's how it hides.

Like Adam and Eve, I didn't know what I was doing. But I knew I didn't want to be seen.

And that's the first lie sin tells us: "If they see you, they'll reject you."

But God's first question in the garden wasn't "What did you do?"

It was "Where are you?"

He wasn't hunting them. He was pursuing them.

He wasn't angry. He was heartbroken.

He didn't come to punish. He came to restore.

Even in the first fall, grace was already moving.

Invitation: Where Are You?

If you're hiding—behind shame, behind secrecy, behind silence—God is still asking the same question:

"Where are you?"

Not to condemn.

To connect.

Take a moment.

Write down what you're hiding from.

Name the hook.

Then ask God to meet you there.

Because He will.

He always does.

The Spiral

Adolescence didn't slow the spiral—it accelerated it.

By high school, acting out had become a daily ritual. Fantasies fueled by magazines, memories, and stories kept me hungry. And high school offered new fuel: girls who were just as curious, just as broken, just as eager to explore.

It started innocently enough—go steady, see how far I could go. But when one girl had had enough, I moved on. I wasn't looking for love. I was looking for access. And each encounter became another rung in the spiral.

I'd act out.

Feel guilt.

Cry out for forgiveness.

Promise to stop.

Then do it again.

Eventually, I found a girl willing to go all the way. And even that didn't satisfy. It only deepened the fantasy. The acting out. The shame. The cycle.

Fear of pregnancy. Fear of getting caught. Conviction of sin. None of it could break the grip.

We broke up—and so did my heart. But I didn't grieve. I medicated. Another girl. Then another. And on and on it went.

Then something shifted. A spiritual stirring. A hunger for God. I started reading my Bible. Leading in youth group. Seeking righteousness. Matthew 6:33 became my anchor: "Seek first His kingdom…"

But even as I pressed into God, the spiral didn't stop.

It just got quieter.

More deceptive.

More spiritual.

I couldn't admire a girl without objectifying her. I couldn't separate beauty from lust. I had stopped seeing souls. I only saw parts.

By graduation, I was in a full-on tailspin.

I didn't know it yet.

But God did.

Biblical Parallel: David and Bathsheba

2 Samuel 11–12: The Spiral of a King

David was a man after God's own heart.

He wrote psalms. Led armies. Loved God.

But one evening, he saw her.

Bathsheba. Beautiful. Bathing.

And he didn't look away.

He sent for her. Slept with her.

She became pregnant.

So he covered it up.

Then he killed her husband.

The spiral was swift.

Desire.

Deception.

Destruction.

And David, the worshiper, became David, the manipulator.

Until Nathan came.

Until truth pierced the spiral.

Until David broke.

"Against You, and You only, have I sinned," he cried in Psalm 51.

He didn't blame Bathsheba.

He didn't justify.

He repented.

And God forgave him.

Reflection: The Spiral Isn't the End

Addiction doesn't start with darkness.

It starts with desire.

Desire that becomes distorted.

Distortion that becomes deception.

Deception that becomes destruction.

But the spiral isn't the end.

It's the place where grace waits.

David's story didn't end in shame.

It ended in surrender.

And mine can too.

Yours can too.

God doesn't abandon us in the spiral.

He enters it.

He speaks truth into it.

He offers mercy through it.

Invitation: Name Your Spiral

Where are you spiraling?

What desire has become distortion?

Write it down.

Confess it.

Not to punish yourself—but to break the silence.

Then pray David's prayer:

"Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me." (Psalm 51:10)

Because the spiral doesn't have to end in shame.

It can end in surrender.

The Altar

There wasn't an altar call.

No persuasive speech.

No emotional invitation.

Just music.

Just truth.

Just the Holy Spirit.

It was a Keith Green concert. I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember the song. I remember the crowd. I remember the moment—standing at the edge of the stage, overwhelmed by conviction. I had been playing games with God. And He wasn't amused.

I wasn't just addicted. I was divided.

I wanted God—but I wanted my sin too.

I wanted forgiveness—but I didn't want surrender.

That night, everything changed.

I prayed: "Father, I don't want to be interested in any other girl until I meet the one I will marry."

And I wasn't.

The weeks that followed were electric.

Bible studies. Worship gatherings. Mid-week services.

New friends. Godly friends.

No drugs. No sex. Just transformation.

I was living in light for the first time.

Then I met her.

The answer to my prayer.

She made me want to be a better Christian. A better man.

We courted. We worshiped. We dreamed.

But the spiral wasn't gone.

It was waiting.

I began fantasizing about her.

Then acting out those fantasies.

Then acting out.

Then guilt.

Then shame.

Then prayer.

Then recommitment.

The cycle had returned.

Familiar. Unforgiving.

We talked. We tried to stop.

But I couldn't.

Years later, I learned how addiction rewires the brain.

How dopamine depletion drives darker desires.

How spiritual slavery isn't just metaphor—it's reality.

Jesus said, "Everyone who practices sin is a slave to sin." (John 8:34)

That was me.

Even after the altar.

Even after the prayer.

Even after the transformation.

I was still enslaved.

Biblical Parallel: Isaiah's Vision

Isaiah 6: Conviction and Calling

Isaiah was in the temple.

Worshiping. Seeking. Waiting.

Then the heavens opened.

He saw the Lord—high and exalted.

Angels cried, "Holy, holy, holy."

And Isaiah didn't celebrate.

He collapsed.

"Woe to me!" he cried. "I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips…"

Conviction.

Not condemnation.

Not shame.

Just truth.

Then came the coal.

A burning ember from the altar.

Touched to his lips.

Cleansing. Healing. Commissioning.

"Your guilt is taken away," the angel said. "Your sin is atoned for."

Then came the call:

"Whom shall I send?"

And Isaiah replied, "Here am I. Send me."

Reflection: The Altar Is a Beginning

The altar isn't the end of the spiral.

It's the beginning of surrender.

Isaiah didn't walk away perfect.

He walked away commissioned.

I didn't leave that concert healed.

I left it awakened.

Conviction isn't shame—it's invitation.

To be cleansed.

To be called.

To be changed.

God doesn't wait for us to be ready.

He meets us in the moment.

He touches the unclean.

He speaks through the broken.

And He sends us.

Invitation: Return to the Altar

Where did God first meet you?

Where did conviction first break through?

Return there.

Not to relive shame—but to remember grace.

Write a prayer of surrender.

Name the sin.

Ask for the coal.

Ask for the cleansing.

Then ask for the calling.

Because the altar isn't where you end.

It's where you begin.

The Lie of Marriage

She was the answer to my prayer.

Beautiful. Godly. Kind.

We met in church. We courted with intention. We worshiped together.

She made me want to be a better man.

And I believed the lie:

Marriage will fix me.

Intimacy will heal me.

Love will override lust.

But it didn't.

The shame I carried made intimacy almost impossible.

It warped my view of her.

It warped her view of herself.

I could see it. I could feel it.

And I hated myself for it.

But I still couldn't change it.

So I did what I always did:

I dove deeper into my addiction.

Magazines. Fantasies. Acting out.

Not just physical. Not just psychological.

Spiritual.

Jesus said, "Everyone who practices sin is a slave to sin."

And I was practicing.

Daily. Secretly. Desperately.

I convinced myself:

She'll never know.
It's not hurting anyone.
I'll stop soon.

But she did know.

It was hurting her.

And I didn't stop.

The addiction spread like mold.

It warped my relationships.

My identity.

My sense of reality.

I stopped seeing her as a soul.

I started seeing her as a solution.

And when she couldn't fix me, I blamed her.

Marriage didn't heal me.

It exposed me.

Biblical Parallel: Hosea 1–3

Love That Won't Let Go

God told Hosea to marry a prostitute.

Not to shame her.

To love her.

She left him.

Again and again.

She returned to her old lovers.

She sold herself.

And Hosea didn't rage.

He pursued her.

He bought her back.

He spoke tenderly to her.

He said, "You are mine."

Not because she was faithful.

Because he was.

Hosea's love wasn't blind.

It was relentless.

And God said, "This is how I love Israel."

This is how I love you.

Reflection: Love Isn't the Cure—Grace Is

Marriage is beautiful.

But it's not a cure.

It's a mirror.

It reflects what's hidden.

It magnifies what's broken.

It reveals what needs grace.

My wife loved me.

But she couldn't heal me.

Only God could.

And He didn't abandon me.

Even when I abandoned her.

Even when I abandoned myself.

God's love isn't sentimental.

It's sacrificial.

It's stubborn.

It's holy.

Like Hosea, He pursues.

He redeems.

He whispers, "You are mine."

Invitation

If you've believed the lie that love will fix you—let grace speak louder.

Write down the expectations you placed on others to heal you.

Then write what only God can do.

Ask Him to love you like Hosea.

To pursue you.

To redeem you.

To whisper, "You are mine."

Because grace doesn't wait for you to be whole.

It meets you in the fracture.

The Thorn

After fourteen years in Youth Ministry, I stepped into a new role as Worship Leader. It was another season of stretching and growth. I was now helping lead the entire church. Nearly every church I served was transitioning from traditional to contemporary worship—a rocky, tumultuous process. But it proved to be a role I was suited for. And God walked me through every bump and bruise.

During that time, I joined several international mission trips. I saw poverty I'd never imagined—rampant hunger and homelessness, overwhelming desperation, churches with only one Bible passed from family to family. And yet, the people were joyous. Content. Their worship was more intense than anything I had witnessed before.

For them, Jesus was everything.

I learned the truth of the phrase: Jesus can never be all you need until He is all you have.

I began to understand how the Psalmist could write,

“Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you.” —Psalm 73:25

That lesson became part of the fabric of my life. Over the years, I've seen countless souls come to faith in Jesus. I've walked with couples on the brink of divorce, sat with friends in their deepest valleys, and celebrated mountaintop moments. I've helped addicts find freedom through the healing power of the Holy Spirit—even while I remained bound myself.

That paradox was both a blessing and a burden.

God used me to lead others to deliverance, while I silently grieved my own captivity.

Looking back, I ask: Who can take a life so fractured and use it to bring healing, hope, and redemption?

God can.

Biblical Parallel: Paul's Thorn and God's Power in Weakness

Paul explains that to keep him from becoming proud because of the surpassing greatness of the revelations he received, he was given a thorn in the flesh—a persistent affliction that tormented him. He pleaded with the Lord three times to remove it.

God's answer was not deliverance.

It was grace.

"My grace is sufficient for you," the Lord told him, "for my power is made perfect in weakness."

Paul came to understand that the thorn was not a liability, but a platform. Instead of hiding it, he began to boast in it—not because suffering is good, but because weakness became the place where Christ's power rested most fully.

Paul was no stranger to spiritual authority.

He saw visions.

He performed miracles.

He planted churches.

He wrote Scripture.

But he also suffered.

Not publicly.

Privately.

Persistently.

He begged God to take the thorn away.

Not once.

Three times.

And God said no.

Not because He didn't love Paul.

Because He did.

Paul didn't get relief.

He got revelation.

That weakness wasn't a liability.

It was a platform.

When Paul was weak, God was strong.

Reflection: Ministry Isn't Proof of Wholeness—It's Evidence of Grace

I led hundreds.

I taught truth.

I sang worship.

I discipled the broken.

And all the while, I was breaking.

God didn't pull me from the pulpit.

He poured Himself into it.

My addiction didn't cancel my calling.

It clarified it.

Because I knew what it meant to need grace—

not once,

but daily.

I didn't minister from a pedestal.

I ministered from a fracture.

And that's where God shines brightest.

Invitation: Boast in the Thorn

If you've believed the lie that ministry requires perfection, let Paul's story rewrite yours.

Name the thorn you've begged God to remove.

Then name what God has done through it.

Ask Him to show you how His power rests on your weakness—

how your fracture might become a fountain,

how your story might become a sanctuary for others.

Because grace doesn't wait for you to be clean.

It meets you while you're bleeding.

And when you ask,

"Who could use a life like mine?"

He answers,

"I can."

God can.

Act II — The Collapse

The Collapse

By November 2022, my world began to unravel.

It started with my body. A cough that wouldn't quit. A foul taste in my mouth. Weight falling off without effort. A thirst I couldn't quench. I was up every fifteen minutes—day and night—running to the bathroom. My mouth stayed dry. My body stayed tired. Constipation set in. Fatigue settled deep into my bones.

Eating became painful. Sleeping became impossible. Living became exhausting.

I didn't know what was wrong. I only knew that something was.

Work added pressure instead of relief. Driving a special needs school bus had once felt meaningful. Now it felt like exile. Silent routes. Non-verbal preschoolers. Four-a.m. alarms. No social life. No ministry. No outlet. I felt invisible, useful only for the task at hand.

My finances began to unravel as well. Overtime threatened my Social Security benefits, but I was afraid to confront my supervisor—afraid to lose the fragile stability I had left. Every decision felt like a risk. Every risk felt unbearable.

By then, social withdrawal was complete. Since 2018, I had focused everything on my family, trying to repair what addiction had broken. But outside of them, I had no close friends. No lifeline. No one to talk to. Fear, exhaustion, and isolation closed in together.

And exhaustion does what it always does. It drives us back to whatever once worked.

So I returned to the only coping mechanism I knew.

The addiction came roaring back—stronger, more insidious, demanding more and giving less. It happened multiple times a day, hidden carefully from my family and buried beneath layers of guilt. I had promised myself I would never alienate them again, so I didn't bring the habit home.

I moved it.

Out of my house.

Onto my school bus.

It felt safe. Solitary. Concealed. And for a brief moment, it worked.

But the spiral had grown tighter.

The Arrest

I never set out to write this story.

I lived it.

For most of my life, I survived in the margins—of certainty, of belonging, of myself. I learned early how to live inward, how to endure loneliness, how to escape into imagination when reality felt unbearable. That way of surviving carried me farther than it should have. It also carried a cost I didn't understand until much later.

Addiction deepened the margins.

Shame fortified them.

Silence made them feel permanent.

And somewhere along the way, I became convinced that God belonged to the center—while I belonged somewhere outside of it.

I was wrong.

I didn't meet God when everything came together.

I met Him when it fell apart.

I met Him in jail cells and hospital rooms.

In silence.

In Scripture.

In the long work of becoming honest.

The margins weren't where my story ended.

They were where God finally met me without pretense.

This book isn't a testimony of victory tied in a bow.

It's a record of survival reshaped by grace.

A slow emergence from secrecy into light.

Not dramatic.

Not complete.

But real.

I am not whole.

But I am present.

I am honest.

And I am still held.

Biblical Parallel: Jesus in the Margins

Jesus rarely did His deepest work in the center.

He touched lepers.

He ate with sinners.

He spoke with Samaritans.

He noticed the bleeding woman.

He defended the adulteress.

He did not wait for people to move toward holiness.

He stepped into their exile.

The margins were not a detour for Him.

They were the mission.

And they still are.

Reflection: The Margins Are Holy Ground

We often think holiness lives in sanctuaries and certainty.

But more often, it takes shape in silence.

In waiting.

In places we didn't choose.

God builds altars where we learn to stop pretending.

Where survival gives way to truth.

Where imagination no longer has to carry the weight of reality alone.

If you are in the margins—

if you feel unseen, unfinished, or disqualified—

you are not beyond grace.

You may be closer to it than you realize.

Invitation: Stay

Where are your margins?

Where have you learned to survive instead of belong?

You don't need to leave them yet.

You don't need to fix them.

You don't need to explain them.

Just stay.

Because grace does not rush us out of the margins.

It meets us there.

And it stays.

The Surrender

Elijah had just called down fire from heaven. He had just defeated the prophets of Baal. He had just watched God move in undeniable power. And then he collapsed.

When Jezebel threatened him, fear overtook reason and Elijah ran. He fled into the wilderness, found a broom tree, sat down beneath it, and prayed to die.

"I've had enough, Lord," he said. "Take my life."

He wasn't weak. He was exhausted.

And God did not rebuke him.

Instead, God sent an angel. Not with correction or instruction, but with food, water, and rest. Elijah slept. He ate. He slept again. Only after his body was tended did God speak.

And when God finally spoke, it was not in wind or earthquake or fire. It was in a whisper.

Sometimes collapse isn't failure—it's fatigue. Sometimes relapse isn't rebellion—it's desperation. And sometimes silence isn't abandonment—it's invitation.

Elijah didn't need a sermon. He needed sleep. He needed sustenance. He needed presence. So do we.

God doesn't always shout. Sometimes He waits. Sometimes He sits beside us in the shade. Sometimes He speaks only after we are finally still enough to listen.

Elijah didn't have answers under that tree. He didn't have strength. He didn't even have hope. He sat down and asked to die. And God did not argue with him. He didn't correct his theology or demand faith Elijah didn't have.

God stayed.

He gave him bread. He gave him water. He let him sleep.

And when Elijah was finally able to listen, God came quietly. Gently. Near.

Sometimes the holiest moment isn't prayer—it's endurance. Sometimes faith looks like staying alive one more day. And sometimes the whisper isn't meant to fix anything, only to remind us that we are not alone beneath the tree.

God does not require strength from the exhausted.

He provides presence.

And presence is enough.

Freedom in Confinement

Authors’ Note: Written in confinement

6/5/2023, 5:00 AM

I was already an addict when I met my wife. I didn't recognize it as addiction, but I knew I had a serious problem. While I had already tried to put that habit behind me, I certainly wasn't willing to go to jail in order to be free.

For decades, I tried all sorts of remedies - everything I could find. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I always knew that true freedom was going to be costly. But I was afraid to pay the price. I was afraid of the humiliation of confession to anybody. I was afraid of my family’s hurt and anger. I was afraid of divorce. I was afraid of having to face myself alone.

But being alone was what I desperately needed. Because alone is where I would discover the manifest presence of God. Being alone, I discovered that I wasn't alone at all. God was here all along. I just kept pushing him aside.

While I absolutely didn't want to come to jail, God, in His love finally tore me out of the life that I refused to leave.

And locked up in jail, I have finally found freedom!

God has opened my eyes to see myself clearly for the first time in my life. He has opened my eyes to His Word like never before. Truth springs from every page. He is teaching me the fear of the Lord and revealing the knowledge of God. His word is sinking deep in my heart—establishing roots. And giving insight. I can sense his Holy Spirit rising within me in strength.

When I look to the future, I am confident that he will sustain me.

I am free. Period.

Free!

He has shown me the path that I must follow, and I will follow it. Stay active in twelve-step groups, get involved in a local church, serve, serve, serve, be diligent in seeking Him through his Word, prayer, and meditation, and to live simply and honor the vows I made in my youth.

I know that I will be divorced - in the eyes of the law and man - and this is the good and right thing to do. While I know that I have forsaken my marriage vow, I also know that God restores what is broken. I don't think Jesus was giving a command, I think he was stating a fact; “What God has joined together, man cannot separate.” So even though our marriage will be legally annulled, in God's eyes I will always be a married man. I realize that I might be wrong about this, and being wrong would certainly make my life easier, but until God shows me otherwise this is how I choose to live my life.

I will certainly strive to make friends in my new city, but I will strive like a married man. This will all be new to me. And I can only pray that God grant me the grace and strength to live it out. But this is my conviction. I am a married man, and I will conduct my affairs as a married man.

I'm excited and terrified by the challenges that lie before me. Living on my own for the first time in my life will be difficult. I will have to handle all of my affairs like a big boy. I am certain that I will make mistakes along the way, but I also know that God will be right there, guiding me through them to make me stronger, and to prepare me for the next challenge.

At this point, I believe that in time God will bring my wife and I back together. And we will live the life that we were supposed to live all along. But even if not, I will still go to my grave finally being faithful to God… and her.

In jail, I have found freedom!

Thank you, Father.

Happy Birthday

Author’s Note: Written in confinement on May 15, 2023

It's my birthday - in jail - so far, so good. I expected the day to be different. Not yet…

Two hours of Bible reading, quiet time, and meditation this morning. I'm enjoying my first experiments in meditation. It feels clumsy and disjointed at times. But still, I am sensing tangible benefits. At least my mood and reaction to stress has been better. I look forward to continuing this journey into the deeper things of the Spirit.

For example, yesterday Karen and I engaged in an exchange that included Nina (a woman I had an inappropriate relationship with). That exchange continued, off and on, throughout the whole day. With me striving to remember sordid details of a specific day.

In the past, that would have always led me back into my sin-habit. This time, no such leading. In fact, the only impact it had on my mind, was a reminder to lay it down before God again and declare those memories as “sin.” After a few minutes of prayer, I fell asleep. That was different.

In fact, all of those memories seem to be powerless to me … since February 22nd actually.

I'm hesitant to mention it for fear that they will pop back up, but this is the longest I've ever gone without those memories. No memories from my sin-habit encounters chasing me. Nipping at my heels.

Glory to God! I feel free! Today is just over 11 weeks. There may be a lot of life yet before me, but this is certainly an encouraging start.

Granted, I've started this journey before; The most effective start being in May of 2018. But there is one glaring difference this time. This time I am growing spiritually by leaps and bounds.

Last time, Jesus absolutely moved in my life and swept my house clean. I even read books and discovered music that encouraged me—no, drew me—into deeper devotion and commitment to him. But I was prideful and arrogant, and believed that I had all that I needed—that I was healed.

So, in my blind wandering, I wound up placing my wife on the throne of my life. I saw her as the one I had hurt the most. While her hurt was deep and real, it was nothing compared to what I had done to my relationship with God. So, onto the throne she went.

I focused on her - Her healing, her dreams, her desires, her needs. All of this would have been appropriate, had I dealt with my relationship with God first.

At the same time, I was looking to her to give the same focus back to me. Not only did this leave me frustrated - and ultimately empty - but it left her confused. She was loving me the best that she could, which was really good, but I was looking for things that she couldn't possibly provide. Because she isn't God.

Only God could provide the environment I needed to heal and stay free from my sin habit; but I had displaced Him by putting my full focus on her. The result was nearly complete frustration for both of us. Even though we did have many, many great moments, the last few years can be best summed up as missed opportunities. If I had headed the call to seek a deeper relationship with Jesus, then both of us would have been in a place where our marriage could have reached new and higher intimacy. We could have been so much stronger.

Instead, because of the misplaced pressure that I put on my wife, and my not allowing God to work in me, we are now broken. She no longer trusts me - or even believes me. She can't see a future that includes me. And I am in jail - learning lessons that the Holy Spirit has been teaching me for five years.

As a result, I was like the man who had demons cast out of him;

But because he neglected his own spiritual growth afterwards, when the demon returned, he found the house swept and clean, so he brought seven other demons with him, and moved back into that man. And his later condition was worse than the first (Matthew 12:43-45). That was exactly my story.

This time, however, is different.

Yes, my house has been swept clean. It was left completely empty. But since then, I have diligently sought God, and He has come. He has filled - and is filling - me with truth, knowledge, and with his spirit. I am learning to lean on him like never before. He has become my everything. I no longer need my wife - or anybody else - to fill the empty space within me, because it has been filled by the Holy Spirit.

I have now finally come to a place where I can put all my loved ones in their proper place. I can now love my wife with the love she needs from me. Not that I have arrived anywhere. I'm just at a spot on a journey.

I must continue to grow. Continue to stretch, continue to be filled. Lest there be an empty space left open for my sin habit to regain a foothold. I never want to go back there.

So, it's my birthday.
Happy birthday to me!
God is good.
He loves me.
He accepts me.
He calls to me.

I answer, “Here I am, Lord, take me.”

Guess Who I Saw Today

I was once challenged by the Worship Leader at a large festival to pray to God while looking into the eyes of the person sitting next to you.

What a ridiculous suggestion! We all know that the proper posture for prayer is “head bowed, eyes closed.” Right? (It was years later when I realized the fact that nowhere in Scripture are we instructed to pray with our heads bowed and eyes closed.)

I reluctantly tried to follow his challenge.

I found it uncomfortable at first. Really uncomfortable. The person I was praying with clearly felt it too.

By the conclusion of both of our prayers, some of the discomfort dissipated. But it still seemed weird. Out of place. Somehow, wrong.

But a seed had been planted. I couldn’t seem to shake this idea that there was something real about what he had led us to do.

Shortly after that, I found myself leading an evening devotional time during a Youth Mission Trip. While expounding on Jesus’ parable of the Sheep and the Goats, I came across:

“Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.” —Matthew 25:40 (NIV)

Suddenly a thought came to me. The person sitting next to me was certainly counted among “the least of these brothers and sisters of mine.” Even though I didn’t personally know them, they were created in His image. He died for them. His Holy Spirit dwelt within them. So based on this verse, while I was looking into their eyes, I was — in a sense — looking into the eyes of Jesus.

The more I’ve considered this, the clearer the picture has become.

If the Holy Spirit dwells within us, then of course we can connect with that Spirit.

Jesus drove this point home when He said to Saul:

“I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting,” he replied. —Acts 9:5

At first look, it seemed that everyone Saul had persecuted was a living, breathing human person. But Jesus made it clear that this just was not so. These are His children. He takes what happens to them very seriously. He considers that everything that happens to them, happens to Him.

In that light, we are surrounded by Jesus every day.

When I consider that Jesus takes this so personally, it has a serious impact on how I see and treat those I share the earth with. I am slower to react. I show more grace. I refuse to judge.

I now try to take this truth with me every day.

So, guess who I saw today?

A Prayer From Jail

A Prayer From Jail
5/8/2023, 5:30 AM

Father, there’s so much of me that I still need to surrender to you.

I need to surrender my will. Like Much-Afraid in “Hinds Feet on High Places,” it seems that I need to sacrifice my will more than once. It seems to just keep popping up, causing trouble.

So Father, here I am, surrendering my will to you once more.

Accept my sacrifice and consume my will with your holy fire, leaving nothing but ashes to be blown away by the wind.

And Father, remove from me the root of selfish love. Consume that love with your fire as well. Cause the seed of your love, that you have planted in my heart, to flourish and grow. May your love grow within me until I am full of nothing other than you.

As I feed your love within me with your Word, I need you to provide the life-giving water to cause it to grow.

Holy Spirit, live in me. Move in me. Teach me to stay out of your way; to allow you to live and move through me.

That is my victory… You!
I will live in victory to the extent that I allow you to live in and through me.

Father use this time to teach and condition me to allow You to reign in me.

Take your place on the throne of my life.

I’m not my own; I have been bought with a price.

Take possession of all that remains of me and prune me. Remove all the branches that bear bad fruit – or no food at all. Cultivate those branches that bear good fruit until I bear good fruit with my whole being.

Oh God, I serve you! I serve none but you.

Take me.
I offer myself as a living sacrifice.

May nothing remain in me that isn’t you.

Awaken the new me.
Bury the old me in a grave.
Hide the location of that grave from me, so I can’t return to dig it back up.
I want nothing more to do with the old me.

A Psalm From Confinement

Conceived in trouble
Brought forth in pain
Delivered in hope
Reared in faith

Consumed by despair
No comfort found

Life seemed hopeless
But You were there all the time
Where could I turn?
But You were there all the time

How many times, O Lord?
How many times have You shown me
And I closed my eyes
How many times have You called
But I stopped my ears

You’ve surrounded me; You’ve hemmed me in
But I shook You off; I chased my sin
I groped in darkness unable to win
You offered grace again and again

Prayer was lifted
The answer was, “Yes”

Come alive in me

Written in confinement.
No explanation.
No defense.
Just truth.

Confession

Author’s note: This is not about how to get forgiven. It’s about learning to live like you already are.

I’m a sinner. I suspect you are, too. As such, we all want and need forgiveness, which thankfully is offered freely through the blood of Jesus.

However, in my life I’m aware that there is a difference between being forgiven and living as though I know I’m forgiven. I still tend to linger in guilt and shame over my transgression long after I’ve been forgiven.

I simply cannot believe that God intends that we continue to carry the burden of our sin after He paid such a price to purchase our freedom.

So I return to Psalm 51.

Be gracious to me, O God, according to Your lovingkindness;
According to the greatness of Your compassion blot out my transgressions. —Psalm 51:1

David knew a thing or two about forgiveness and freedom. We would do well to consider and follow his example.

He begins by asking for grace. This is important to remember as we progress through this Psalm. David makes some bold pronouncements and requests; but they are all based on the foundation of God’s grace. David understands that he could do nothing to earn God’s favor. He can only trust God to be consistent in His action toward David. He identifies this as grace.

David immediately qualifies this request with:

according to Your lovingkindness;
According to the greatness of Your compassion

David is not reminding God of His lovingkindness and compassion. He’s reminding himself.

In our sin, our focus quickly changes from our Father to our failure. We begin to see the whole world through the lens of shame and disappointment. Without immediate correction, we will begin to believe the lie that all is hopelessness and despair.

It seems critical in the confession of our sin to God that we remember Who we are talking to. More importantly, who we are not talking to.

We are not talking to a God who is waiting impatiently for us to realize that we deserve the punishment that is surely headed our way. We are kneeling before a God who patiently waited for us to run to Him so we could be restored.

As Christians, we naturally read this Psalm in the light of Jesus’ sacrifice on our behalf. We must remember that David offered this prayer centuries before Jesus. And it is evident through the rest of David’s writing that he believed his prayers were answered.

That phrase, blot out my transgressions, seems so New Testament.

For me, that is what makes this Psalm so powerful.

The grace, mercy, and forgiveness of God didn’t suddenly appear with the advent of Christ.

God does not change.

We are not walking on new, thin ice when we seek forgiveness and restoration from our Heavenly Father. We are leaning on traits that have been part of God’s character since before time.

God has always been quick to forgive and restore. That’s in His nature. It’s part of who He is.

When we come before God with our confession of sin, we need not be timid or fearful. He is not mad at us.

He is more ready to forgive us than we are to ask.

Falling Into His Grip

“The steps of a man are established by the LORD,
And He delights in his way.
When he falls, he will not be hurled headlong,
Because the LORD is the One who holds his hand.” —Psalms 37:23-24

My reflection on this passage while in confinement:
4/7/2024

"God does not only pave the path. He guides each and every step to keep me moving in the right direction.

God takes pleasure in every detail about my life.

God sees every detail of my life in the light of eternity.

What may seem like a failed exam to me is only a misused punctuation to Him.

While this season may seem like a total failure to me, in God’s eyes I merely stubbed my toe.

I may feel as though I am lying on my back looking up at the rest of the world, when in reality, God is supporting me as I regain my confidence in His plan and goodness.

God has got this.

We still have eternity before us."

My thoughts today:
2/25/2026

God led me into jail. At the time, it did not feel like grace. But the reality is: God lovingly tore me out of a life that I had refused to walk away from. In leading me to jail, He was setting me free.

If you are in a place that feels like confinement — whether physical, emotional, or spiritual — it may not be evidence of His absence. It may be evidence of His intervention.

It was while incarcerated that I began to experience the truth of His delight in my ways. As I immersed myself in His Word, I began to see the world through different eyes. His eyes. And slowly, He showed me how He sees me. Not as I appear in the mirror, but how I fit in eternity. I am His child. His creation. And He loves me. Far more completely than I love my children.

When I fell, I was injured, but I wasn’t destroyed. Instead, God used the occasion of my fall to give me new life. A different kind of life. A forward-looking, optimistic, faith-led life.

And you are not destroyed either. The fall may feel final in the moment. This is where Psalm 37 becomes personal. The fall is not fatal when Jesus is holding your hand.

God did not abandon me when it seemed to me that all was lost.

Instead, He held me close and allowed me to finally experience true freedom — from behind bars.

God’s leading is not as a guide walking ahead of me. It’s not even as a friend walking beside me. But as a loving Father, gently holding my hand. Both for guidance and for comfort.

Maybe you have been looking for God far out ahead of you — waiting for a sign in the distance. But what if He is closer than that? What if He has never let go of your hand?

And together, we will make it home.

If you are lying on your back today — ashamed, confused, or afraid — look up. You may discover that you have not been hurled headlong after all. You may find that the hand still holding yours is the same hand that created you, and calls you His child.

Act III — The Awakening

The Margin Before Genesis

Before the first word was spoken, before the first light pierced the darkness, before time itself began—there was a margin.

Not a void.
Not a blank.
But a space filled with the fullness of God.

It’s the space just to the left of Genesis 1:1 in your Bible. Go ahead—open it. Look at it. That tiny sliver of white space before the words “In the beginning…” That’s where my favorite part of the Bible lives. Not in a verse or a chapter, not even in a book—but in that sacred silence before the story begins.

Because in that margin, God already knows.

He knows the entire story—every thought, every intention, every word, every life, every rise and fall, every act of redemption. He knew the laughter of Sarah and the tears of Jeremiah. He knew the betrayal of Judas and the restoration of Peter. He knew the cross. He knew the empty tomb. He knew you. He knew me.

And He had a plan.

A Season of Saturation

For most of 2023 and 2024, I found myself in a season of stillness. I had more time on my hands than I’d ever had before. What began as boredom turned into a divine appointment.

I started reading—10 to 14 hours a day. Dozens of Christian books filled my shelves and my soul. Some of these books captivated my spirit, leading me to read them several times. In fact, there were a couple that I read so many times that I began to wonder if I could rewrite them myself.

But one book drew me in like no other: the Bible.

I read it cover to cover. Not once, but fourteen times in twenty-two months. Genesis to Revelation, again and again. I read it silently. I read it aloud. I read it to a friend who was legally blind and had never owned a Bible. We read together for hours each day, and somewhere between Genesis and Ruth, he met Jesus.

What a privilege that the Father allowed me to play a small part in that.

That season changed me. God used His Word to teach me, stretch me, correct me, and comfort me. But more than anything, He used it to reveal Himself. And the more I read, the more I saw how it all fits together—how the threads of history, prophecy, poetry, and promise are woven into one seamless story.

The Story Before the Story

The deeper I went, the more I realized something profound: none of this was accidental. Every moment in Scripture is the result of countless moments before it. Every encounter is the culmination of a thousand unseen choices, circumstances, and divine nudges.

For the first time, I realized that the history books are just that—history. They are the story of lives that were actually lived.

The Story of Joseph (Genesis 37–50)

Think about Joseph, the son of Jacob.

He was favored by his father.
Despised by his brothers.
Sold into slavery.
Favored by his master.
Unjustly thrown into prison.
Favored by his jailer.
Forgotten by the cupbearer.

From his vantage point, things looked grim—maybe even hopeless. Nothing made sense. Every step forward seemed to be followed by two steps back.

But God was doing something.

Every moment of Joseph’s life—every betrayal, every injustice, every delay—was preparation. God was shaping him, humbling him, positioning him. All of it was leading to a moment Joseph couldn’t yet see.

So he could save his family from famine.
So he could bring them to Egypt.
So they could become a nation.
So the promise to Abraham could be fulfilled.
So the Messiah could come.

Joseph didn’t see the big picture.
But God did.

Joseph lived in the margins.
But God was writing the masterpiece.

The Margin of Eternity

That’s why I keep coming back to the margin before Genesis 1:1. Because in that space, God already knows. He saw the whole story before the first word was written. He still sees it all.

“Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” —Psalm 139:16 (NIV)

“He chose us in Him before the creation of the world.” —Ephesians 1:4

“The Lamb who was slain from the creation of the world.” —Revelation 13:8

Before the beginning, He was already there.
Already loving.
Already planning.
Already redeeming.

That margin is not empty.
It’s full of purpose.

Reflection

Have you ever paused to consider what God knew before your beginning?

What if your life—your story—is not a series of random events, but a carefully woven thread in a divine tapestry?

The margin before Genesis reminds us that we are not accidents. We are not forgotten. We are part of a story that began before time and will echo into eternity.

And the Author?
He’s still writing.
Still revealing.

Prayer

Lord, thank You for knowing me before I ever knew You. Thank You for the margin—the space where Your eternal plan began. Help me trust that You are weaving my life into something beautiful, even when I can’t see the pattern. Teach me to rest in the knowledge that You knew… and You still chose me.
Amen.

The Word Before the Word

Before there was light, there was the Word.
Before there was time, there was the Word.
Before there was a beginning, there was the Word.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
He was with God in the beginning. Through Him all things were made;
without Him nothing was made that has been made.” —John 1:1–3 (NIV)

John doesn’t start his gospel with a manger. He starts with eternity. He takes us back—not just to Genesis 1:1, but to the margin before it. And there, in that eternal space, we find Jesus.

Christ Before Creation

Jesus didn’t begin in Bethlehem. He didn’t begin in Mary’s womb. He didn’t begin at all. He always was.

He is the Word before the Word.

The One who spoke creation into existence. The One who walked with Adam, wrestled with Jacob, and appeared in the fire with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. The pre-incarnate Christ was always present—always active—always central to the story.

And then, He stepped into the story He authored.

The Word Became Flesh

“The Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us.” —John 1:14 (NIV)

The eternal became temporal. The infinite became touchable. The Author became a character in His own story—not to observe, but to redeem.

This is the mystery of the incarnation: that the One who existed before time entered time. That the One who created the world allowed Himself to be born into it. That the Word who spoke stars into being would one day cry out in anguish on a cross.

And He did it for love.

The Voice That Still Speaks

The Word didn’t stop speaking after creation. He still speaks.

He speaks through Scripture. Through the Spirit. Through family, friends, and others. Through the quiet moments when your heart is still enough to hear Him. He speaks in the margins of your life—the spaces between the noise, the pauses between the plans.

And when He speaks, things change.

“For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword…” —Hebrews 4:12 (NIV)

The same Word that created the universe is now at work in you. Not as a distant echo, but as a living presence.

The Word in You

If Christ is the Word, and the Word lives in you, then you carry eternity within you. You carry the voice that calmed storms, cast out demons, and called Lazarus from the grave. You carry the very power of creation.

You carry the Word that was before the beginning.

And that Word is still creating. Still restoring. Still calling things into being that are not as though they were.

Reflection

What does it mean to you that Jesus existed before creation?

How does it change your view of Him—not just as Savior, but as the eternal Word?

You are not following a man who lived and died.
You are following the Word who always was and always will be.

Prayer

Jesus, You are the Word before the Word. The voice that spoke creation into being. The light that darkness cannot overcome. Thank You for stepping into time to redeem what You created. Speak into my life again. Remind me that You are not just in my story—you are the One who wrote it. Amen.

Living in the Margin

If the margin before Genesis 1:1 is where God’s plan begins,
then the margin of your life is where He is still moving.

We often think of the margins of life as the leftovers—the spaces between the “real” moments. The waiting rooms. The detours. The delays. The seasons that don’t make it into the highlight reel.

But what if the margin is where the real work happens?

What if the margin is where God speaks most clearly, moves most deeply, and reveals Himself most intimately?

The Myth of the Main Stage

We live in a culture obsessed with the spotlight. We’re taught to chase the platform, the promotion, the next big thing. But God often does His best work offstage.

Moses met God in the wilderness.
David was anointed in obscurity.
Jesus spent thirty years in silence before three years of ministry.

The margin isn’t the absence of purpose. It’s the preparation for it.

Margin as Sacred Space

When you live with margin-awareness, you begin to see your life differently. You stop rushing through the in-between moments. You stop resenting the waiting. You start looking for God in the quiet corners.

Because He’s there.

He’s in the long commute.
He’s in the sleepless night.
He’s in the seemingly unanswered prayer.
He’s in the ordinary Tuesday.

“Surely the Lord is in this place, and I was not aware of it.” —Genesis 28:16 (NIV)

Jacob said those words after waking from a dream in the middle of nowhere. But God had been there all along. The margin was holy ground.

Living from Completion

When you live in the margin, you live from a different posture. You stop striving to become something and start resting in what already is.

God is not figuring you out.
He’s not waiting to see how your story ends.
He’s already there.

“For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things He planned for us long ago.” —Ephesians 2:10 (NLT)

You are not becoming His masterpiece.
You are His masterpiece—becoming aware of it.

It is as if God has given us a mirror in which we see what we look like through our own eyes; and a picture of Jesus that allows us to see what we look like to God.

“God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” —II Corinthians 5:21 (NIV)

Margin as Mission

Living in the margin doesn’t mean living passively. It means living purposefully. It means walking through life with the awareness that every moment is sacred, every encounter is divine, and every step is part of the plan.

It means listening more.
Trusting more.
Resting more.
Obeying more.

It means living like you’re already in the presence of the One who wrote your story—because you are!

Reflection

Where are the margins in your life right now?

Are you rushing through them—or resting in them?

What would change if you believed that God was already there?

You don’t have to wait for the next chapter to find Him.
He’s in the margin.
He always has been.

Prayer

Lord, teach me to live in the margin. To stop striving and start trusting. To see You in the quiet places, the in-between spaces, the moments I often overlook. Help me live with the awareness that I am already in Your presence, already in Your plan, already in Your love. Amen.

Invitation to Wonder

You’ve walked with me through the margins—
before the beginning,
through the silence,
into the Word,
and across the tapestry of time.

You’ve seen that God is not just the Author of the story—
He is the space in which the story unfolds.

He is before all things,
and in Him, all things hold together.

But this isn’t just a theological truth.
It’s a personal one.

You are not outside of His reach.
You are not outside of His plan.
You are not outside of His love.

You are already in the margin.
Where God lives.

The Wonder of Being Known

To live in wonder is to live awake.

Awake to the presence of God in the ordinary.
Awake to the eternal in the everyday.
Awake to the truth that you are fully known, fully loved, and fully held.

Wonder doesn’t require answers.
It requires awareness.

It’s not about figuring everything out.
It’s about standing in awe of the One who already has.

The Invitation

So here’s the invitation:

Live like you are already in the presence of God—because you are.
Live like your story is already known—because it is.
Live like the Word is still speaking—because He is.

Return to the margin often.
Pause.
Listen.
Look again.

Because in that sacred space,
you’ll find the One who was there before the beginning
and who will be there beyond the end.

Be Still

Come, behold the works of the LORD,
Who has wrought desolations in the earth.
He makes wars to cease to the end of the earth;
He breaks the bow and cuts the spear in two;
He burns the chariots with fire.
‘Cease striving and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations,
I will be exalted in the earth.’
—Psalm 46:8-10 (NIV)

‘Cease striving and know that I am God;

We rarely admit how hard we try to fix ourselves. We may not say it aloud, but our calendars, prayers, and thoughts betray us—we believe sanctification is a performance. If you are tired of trying to become someone better for God, this reflection is for you.

We think if we work hard enough, pray long enough, read deeply enough, God will surely be pleased. And maybe then we’ll change.

We often live as though sanctification—the process of becoming more like Jesus—is ours to manufacture. We read the latest book, binge hours of sermons, and pour ourselves into avoiding sin, all in an effort to become “holy enough,” as if the phrase God helps those who help themselves were gospel truth.

But Scripture tells a different story.

God helps those who cannot help themselves.

In the margins—the divine detours—we find a better way. In these places, our strength finally gives out. We run out of verses to quote and pep talks to rehearse. And it’s there, in the silence, that we hear something ancient:

“When we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly… While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” —Romans 5:6–8

God didn’t wait for us to clean up. He moved toward us while we were helpless. There is something about our surrender that draws Him near.

“For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast.” —Ephesians 2:8–9

God knows our pride. If holiness could be earned, we would take the credit. But He is the One who transforms—and He waits until we stop striving.

It is foolish to believe that lasting change originates with us. God is the Creator and Sustainer of the universe and all it contains. He alone has the wisdom and power to make the changes that truly matter. Even our confidence that we know what needs changing is often rooted in pride.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” —2 Corinthians 12:9

It is in our weakness that God’s power flows. Surrender is not quitting—it is the doorway to divine strength.

Those who try to help themselves chase change and find disappointment. But those who are still and know—they find God.

God does not wait for us to help ourselves. He meets us at the edge of our striving and whispers grace into our exhaustion. The margins are where effort ends and surrender begins—not because we’ve given up, but because we’ve finally let go.

In those still places, the miracle begins. Not a performance. Not a reward. A resurrection.

We are invited to work in response to grace—but never to forget that the outcome belongs to Him. We must be about the work God has placed before us, while trusting Him completely with the results.

He does not need our help.
He desires our trust.

Reflection

Where are you striving in your own strength today? What sin, fear, or burden have you been trying to fix on your own?

Take a moment to be still. Picture yourself laying down the tools of self-effort at His feet—the worry, the planning, the shame, the frantic work. Exhale your weakness. Inhale His strength.

Prayer

Lord, forgive me for trusting in my own strength.
I confess that I am weak and powerless to change myself.
Today, I cease my striving.
I choose to be still and know that You are God.
Thank You that Your power is made perfect in my weakness.
Take control of my struggles, my sins, and my efforts.
Be exalted in my life today.
Amen.

*Written in confinement.*

Seek His Face

Key Scripture

“Unless the Lord builds the house, the builders labor in vain.
Unless the Lord watches over the city, the guards stand watch in vain.
In vain you rise early and stay up late, toiling for food to eat—
for He grants sleep to those He loves.”
—Psalm 127:1–2

God desires to be desired—not for what He can give, but for who He is. He longs for us to seek His face, not merely His hand.

Too often, our prayers are filled with requests for provision, protection, and promotion. And while God is a generous Father who delights in blessing His children, He never intended for His gifts to replace His presence.

When we chase after blessings, we find ourselves weary, frustrated, and spiritually dry. But when we chase after Him, everything changes.

Psalm 127 reminds us that all our striving is in vain unless the Lord is at the center. We can build, guard, hustle, and grind—but without Him, it’s empty. Yet when we seek Him first, when we make Him our pursuit (Matthew 6:33), His blessings follow us—even in our sleep.

Shift the Focus

God doesn’t want to be a means to an end.
He is the end.
He is the reward.

And when we seek Him—not for what He can do, but for who He is—we find rest. We find peace. We find purpose.

A Picture of Blessing

Psalm 127 goes on to describe children as arrows in the hand of a warrior—a sign of strength, legacy, and divine favor.

But this truth extends beyond children. Every blessing from God—whether it’s:

Family
Provision
Opportunity
Peace

—is ultimately a byproduct of His presence.

When we dwell with Him, we walk in confidence—not because of what we have, but because of who is with us.

Facing the Gate

The psalm ends with a powerful image: standing before the judges in the gate. These were the authorities, the decision-makers, the ones who could determine your fate. But when you know you’re walking with God, you don’t fear the gate. You don’t fear the verdict.

Because no matter what the world decides, you are held in the hand of the One who reigns above it all.

Prayer

Lord, forgive me for the times I’ve sought Your hand more than Your heart.
Teach me to desire You above all else.
Help me to seek Your face daily, to rest in Your presence,
and to trust that every good thing flows from You.
I want to dwell with You—not just visit.
I want to know You—not just need You.
Be my pursuit, my portion, and my peace.
Amen.

*Written in confinement.*

What Are You Feeding

Key Scripture

“How can a young man keep his way pure?
By guarding it according to your word.
I have stored up your word in my heart,
that I might not sin against you.”
—Psalm 119:9, 11

We ask big questions.

What is God’s will for my life?
Who should I marry?
What is my calling?
What is God saying about this crisis, this relationship, this ache I carry?

And yet, with all our longing for answers, we often neglect the clearest voice we’ve been given—the Word of God. We search elsewhere.

A song that moved us.
A sermon that stirred something.
A conversation that resonated.

These may carry echoes of truth. Glimpses of God’s heart. But if King Jesus is who we most want to hear from, why do we so rarely sit with His words?

Ask yourself honestly:

Do I believe the Bible is God-breathed? Alive? Sharp?
Not merely inspirational—but formative?

Here is a gentle but revealing question—not as a rule, but as a mirror:

Can you quote one Scripture from memory for every year you’ve walked with Jesus?

We celebrate the Bible culturally.
We defend it publicly.
We keep it nearby.

And still, we often leave it unopened.

This is not condemnation.
You are not being punished.
You are not less loved.

By the finished work of Jesus, you are already as righteous as you will ever need to be.

But something is misaligned if nothing feels off about neglecting God’s Word—because Scripture is not about earning holiness; it is about shaping desire.

We are students by nature.

We study headlines.
Sports statistics.
Music lyrics.
Market trends.

The deeper question is not whether we are being formed—but by what.

What do you consistently feed your mind?

What do you allow to shape your reflexes, your imagination, your instincts?

Psalm 119 invites us to re-orient our appetite—to remember that the Word of God is not a side dish. It is daily bread.

Open it.
Eat it.
Sit with it.
Let it dwell richly.

You do not need credentials.
You do not need perfect understanding.
You only need a willing heart—and the courage to keep showing up hungry.

Prayer

Lord, awaken my hunger for Your Word. Forgive me for the ways I’ve searched for clarity everywhere except the place You’ve spoken most clearly. Shape my desires, train my appetite, and teach me to live on every word that comes from You.
Amen.

*Written in confinement.*

Faith to Faith

Romans 1:17

“For in it the righteousness of God is revealed from faith to faith …” —Romans 1:17

This righteousness is not achieved—it is credited.
It is the righteousness that God places into our account by faith.

There is nothing I can do to earn this righteousness.
It is given freely, received by faith alone.

It begins with faith,
produces faith,
and ends with faith.

And it requires nothing more than faith the size of a mustard seed.

Faith is all we bring to the table at salvation—justification.
Faith is also the goal of our lives after salvation—sanctification.

By faith, our lives are gradually transformed into the image of Christ Jesus, as we apply what He has revealed through His Word.

And even this faith is not self-generated.

Faith itself is a gift—given by the Holy Spirit.

*Written in confinement.*

Look and Live

Key Scripture

“As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of Man be lifted up,
so that whoever believes will in Him have eternal life.”
—John 3:14–15

In the wilderness, the Israelites were dying—bitten by serpents, the consequence of their rebellion (Numbers 21:4—9). But God, in His mercy, provided a way of healing: a bronze serpent lifted high on a pole. There was no ritual, no sacrifice, no work required. Just one thing: look—and live.

That moment in Israel’s history was more than a rescue; it was a foreshadowing. Jesus pointed back to it when He said, “Even so must the Son of Man be lifted up.” Just as the bronze serpent was raised for healing, Christ would be lifted on the cross for our salvation.

And the invitation remains the same. Not work harder. Not clean yourself up. Not prove you’re worthy. Just look. Look to Jesus. Believe. And live.

Reflection

We often complicate grace. We try to earn what can only be received. But the gospel is stunning in its simplicity:

“For God so loved the world…” —John 3:16

That includes you. That includes your mess, your doubts, your failures.

Jesus is the Judge, yes—but He didn’t come to slam the gavel. He came to open the door. The judgment isn’t in His coming; it’s in our response. The Light has come. Will we turn toward it—or away?

Prayer

Lord Jesus, thank You for being lifted up for me. I confess that I often try to earn what You’ve already given. Help me to simply look to You in faith. Thank You for loving me before I ever loved You. Today, I choose to believe. I choose to live.
Amen.

After God's Heart

“After He had removed him, He raised up David to be their king, concerning whom He also testified and said, ‘I HAVE FOUND DAVID the son of Jesse, A MAN AFTER MY HEART, who will do all My will.’” —Acts 13:22 “Man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.” —1 Samuel 16:7

The Paradox of David

“All My will?” David’s record does not immediately affirm that claim.
He was passive with Joab (2 Samuel 3:27), reckless with the Ark (2 Samuel 6:1–7), and grievously sinful in his encounter with Bathsheba—marked by complacency, lust, deception, and murder (2 Samuel 11).

He ignored Amnon’s sin, distanced himself from Absalom, tolerated idol worship (1 Samuel 19:13), and defied God by ordering a census (2 Samuel 24).

How can a man with such a fractured history be held up by God Himself as one who would “do all My will”?

Divine Perspective

And yet… God said it.

Because God does not judge as man judges.

God’s declaration about David was not denial of sin, nor indulgence of failure. It was a divine, eternal assessment of the heart beneath the behavior. God saw not only David’s falls, but the direction of his life—his reflex to return, repent, and realign himself with God's heart.

Throughout the books of First and Second Kings, David becomes the standard—not because he was flawless, but because his heart consistently turned back toward the Lord.

When David sinned, he did not justify, conceal, or harden himself.
He broke.
He confessed.
He returned.

Psalm 51 is not the prayer of a man defending himself, but of one undone by grace. And God restored him.

Grace in Weakness

This pattern is not unique to David.

Paul’s thorn was not punishment—it was grace (2 Corinthians 12:7–10).
Job’s suffering was not evidence of guilt—it was a divine testimony of integrity (Job 1–2).
David’s restoration was not earned—it was received.

God has always worked this way.

“You formed my inward parts; You wove me in my mother’s womb.” —Psalm 139:13

God knows us completely. He is not surprised by our weaknesses. He is not confused by our limitations. Even those things we perceive as flaws exists within the scope of His sovereign design.

Playing the Hand We’re Dealt

It is as if God has dealt each of us a hand—strengths, weaknesses, wounds, tendencies.

He knows every card.

So when we come to Him frustrated over repeated failure, He does not rage against us. His anger is directed at what sin does to us—not at us as His children.

His grace does not deny responsibility, but it refuses shame as the final word.

David played his hand imperfectly—but faithfully.
Not because he never fell, but because he always returned.

To be “after God’s heart” is not to live without sin.
It is to live without hiding.

Prayer

Merciful Father, thank You that You look beyond outward appearances and see the heart. Thank You that You know me completely, including my weaknesses, and that Your grace is sufficient for all of it. Forgive me for the times I despair over my failures or try to hide them from You. Shape in me a heart that quickly repents, consistently returns, and rests fully in Your mercy. Amen.

*Written in confinement.*