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The still, small voice of Jesus.

A reminder for my heart.

So much noise.

So many angry words.

Headlines bleed suffering.

And yet—our hearts were never meant for this. We were not created to bear the weight of these images.

Anxiety spreads like wildfire.

Depression runs rampant.

I, too, buckle beneath the weight of anxious thoughts.

The more we try to fix,

the more we unravel.

The more we strive,

the more we exhaust ourselves.

And the truth comes like a mercy:

we cannot fix it.

Stop running.

Stop thrashing.

Stop treading water as if your salvation depends on you.

Fall back—into the everlasting arms.

Fall into the promise: “Be still, and know that I am God.”

To be still is not to quit.

It is not to fold hands in surrender to despair.

To be still is to stop the frantic striving of self, and start resting in the delight of your Creator—

the One who delights in you.

He sings songs of joy over your existence. He calls you Beloved.

He whispers peace into the chaos.

He will quiet you with His love.

Not in the roar of headlines.

Not in the clamor of angry crowds.

But in the gentle hush that meets your soul— “Peace, be still.”

The same voice that calmed stormy seas and stilled furious winds

is speaking into your anxious storm right now.

So take a breath.

Breathe in His mercy.

Breathe out your fear.

Embrace His truth.

Be still, O soul.

And know—deep, marrow-deep—

that He is God.

Known by Our Love

“By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” — John 13:35

In the 1960s, a song was written called “They Will Know We Are Christians by Our Love.” I’ve sung those words. I’ve felt the conviction behind them.

But somewhere along the way, many of us—including myself—have misunderstood what love truly is.

So what kind of love are Christians actually called to?

Paul gives us the picture in 1 Corinthians 13:4–7:

“Love is patient, love is kind.

It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.

It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking,

it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.

It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”

This is biblical love.

It is not shallow tolerance.

It is not indulgence of sin.

It is not based on fleeting feelings or cultural trends.

Biblical love tells the truth.

Biblical love sacrifices.

Biblical love endures.

And it looks very different from what the world often calls “love.”

Consider the woman at the well in John 4. She encountered the love of Christ in a way that forever transformed her life.

Jesus went out of His way to meet her—a woman living in sin, rejected by her community. He didn’t ignore her sin; He confronted it. But He did so with grace, offering her what her soul was truly thirsty for: Living Water.

He was that Living Water.

It was His love that sought her out.

It was His love that spoke truth into her life.

It was His love that changed her story.

And it is this same love—Christ’s love reflected through us—that will show the world we belong to Him. 

They will know we belong to Jesus—not by bowing to what the world calls love, but by bowing to the One who is love.

Take Heart, He Has Overcome

We are not made for this world.

We were not designed to see the images of pain and brokenness that flood our lives.

In the beginning, Adam and Eve walked in a garden of perfect peace.

They only knew beauty.

They only knew goodness.

They only knew love.

That was God’s plan.

He never intended for them to taste evil or to carry the weight of sin. He never wanted them to experience the separation that feels like hell itself.

But then the serpent entered the scene.

He planted doubt in Eve’s heart.

He whispered lies that sounded appealing.

Eve reached for what she thought would make her wise like God. She took the bite. She shared it with Adam. And in that moment, sin infected all of humanity.

This infection—sin—has spread through every generation. It steals, kills, and destroys (John 10:10). And no matter how hard we try, we cannot heal ourselves.

But God.

There is a cure. His name is Jesus.

The same verse that warns us of the thief’s mission continues: “But I have come that you may have life, and have it more abundantly.” (John 10:10)

Jesus took our sickness of sin and carried it to the cross. He conquered death so that we might live. While we remain in a world still plagued by sin, our hope is secure: this world is not our home.

Yes, in this world we will have troubles. Yes, we will witness suffering and feel the sting of sin’s curse. But Jesus reminds us: “Take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)

Because He has overcome, we can take heart.

We can take heart when darkness tries to overwhelm.

We can take heart when hope feels thin.

We can take heart because our Savior is unshaken.

“Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the LORD.” (Psalm 31:24)

I’m a Christ follower, wife, and mother with a heart for serving women as the Director of Agape Women’s Center. Writing is where I process the heaviness of life and anchor myself again in the promises of God’s Word. My prayer is that these words encourage weary hearts, point to Jesus, and remind us all of the beauty of His redeeming grace.”

Emmanuel — God With Us

God with us.

The most beautiful truth—steady and unchanging.

Not bound to a season, not wrapped only in December’s carols,

but constant, every breath, every day.

He is God with us at the breaking of dawn, when morning light spills across the floor.

God with us in the stillness as you rock your babies.

God with us in the fluorescent-lit work meetings, in the ordinary rhythms that make up a life.

He is God with us on the mountaintops, when laughter rings and joy feels weightless.

And He is God with us in the dark valleys, when sorrow swells and tears could fill a jar.

God with us in the waiting room—

hands fidgeting, prayers whispered.

God with us at the graveside—

when the ache is too deep for words.

He is God with us. Always.

He does not change.

His Word does not change.

His love never fades.

Our feelings waver.

Trends come and go.

People enter and exit our stories.

But Emmanuel—

He stays.

He bends low, sits beside us,

and whispers into the ache: I am faithful. Always faithful.

It’s beautiful to sing of Emmanuel at Christmas.

But His song? It is not seasonal.

It is the steady melody meant to hum in our hearts daily.

He is God with us today.

He is God with us tomorrow.

He is our strong tower,

our refuge, our rest, our joy.

He is Emmanuel.

God with us.

Thirsting for God

9/26

“As a deer pants for flowing streams, so pants my soul for you, O God.” — Psalm 42:1

Does your soul pant for God?

Do you thirst for Him with the desperation of one who knows that without water, you cannot survive?

Oh soul, how often we drink from shallow wells—the cup of materialism that promises refreshment but leaves us parched once more.

We chase success, climbing ladders that never reach heaven’s gates.

We long for applause, but man’s praise fades as quickly as the evening shadows.

We look to others to quench our thirst, but their broken cisterns run dry.

And so we strive… but do not thrive.

We chase… but are never filled.

Weary one, hear this truth:

If your heart does not thirst for Jesus, you will never be satisfied.

If you do not drink from the living water, your soul will remain cracked and dry.

If you sip only from the cup of self, you will drown in dissatisfaction.

If your eyes are fixed on the things of this world, they will grow dim in the darkness.

If your hope rests on anyone or anything less than Christ, you will stay thirsty.

But there is hope.

Jesus stands and cries out, “Let anyone who is thirsty come to Me and drink” (John 7:37).

He alone is the fountain that never runs dry.

He alone satisfies the deepest thirst of the human heart.

So, O downcast soul—

put your hope in God.

Lift your praise to Him, your Savior and your God.

Only in Him will your thirst be quenched

Our Creator Became the Man of Sorrows

I woke this morning with the song “The Son of Suffering” echoing in my heart.

I don’t like suffering.

I try to avoid it at every turn.

Yet Jesus—perfect, holy, God in flesh—became the Man of Sorrows.

The One who holds the whole spinning world in His hands.

The One who breathed galaxies into being.

The very One who commands seas to hush and winds to still—

before whom even stones ache to sing.

He is King of kings, enthroned above all rulers.

Yet.

He saw your unformed body.

He knit together your hidden parts.

He numbers every strand of hair.

He bottles every tear as if it were treasure.

This is an intimate God.

He loves you in your shining best.

He loves you in your shattering worst.

And still—He became the Son of Suffering.

He came near.

He became one of us.

He could have left us to sink in our own undoing.

He could have remained distant, untouched by our ache.

But that is not the way of a good Father.

Philippians 2:7 whispers the wonder:

“Jesus, though fully God, emptied Himself, taking the form of a servant, being made in human likeness.”

A servant.

Our Creator bent low—

stooping to wash dirt from feet,

to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with the broken,

to pass bread to sinners,

to seek out the ones the world had cast aside.

And He bore the weight of suffering—yours, mine, the world’s—

so that in His breaking, we might be made whole.

The Son of Suffering chose the cross.

And in choosing the cross—He chose you.

For “greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”

Jesus was friend to the sinner.

Servant to you and to me.

Sacrifice for the guilty.

He became the offering that heals every wound,

the Lamb whose suffering breathes life into the dead.

And because He was pierced, we are made whole.

Because He suffered, we live.

Because Christ bent low in suffering, we can rise in hope.