Tag: Faith (Page 2 of 24)

What If God Isn’t Disappointed In You?

January 13, 2026 / / 0 Comments

From the Wizard of Oz to the algorithm that drives your social media feed, it’s easy to feel like the system is against you.

The wizard is distant and unapproachable, hiding behind a curtain. The algorithm is invisible, impersonal, and relentlessly evaluating, rewarding, and punishing based on performance.

That way of thinking has a way of bleeding into how we see God.

Even if we wouldn’t say it out loud, many of us quietly assume God is distant, aloof, or at the very least disappointed. Not furious, just perpetually unimpressed. Watching. Waiting. Tapping His foot impatiently.

That assumption doesn’t come out of nowhere either.

As parents, we’re often quicker to correct our kids than to celebrate what they’re doing right. At work, most of us hear far more about our mistakes than our faithfulness. When things are going well, crickets. When something breaks, immediate feedback.

Over time, we start to believe that’s just how authority works.

And eventually, we project that line of thinking onto God.

We begin to treat Him like the man behind the curtain. Uninvolved, emotionally distant, having designed a system that’s stacked against us. Or worse, like an algorithm that feeds our anxieties back to us on repeat. The more we doom-scroll, the more fear, outrage, and disappointment we’re served. Not because anyone cares about us, but because the system has learned what keeps us hooked.

So we assume God must work the same way.

But what if He doesn’t?

What if God isn’t running the world like a cold machine designed to expose your failures?

What if God isn’t disappointed in you?

What if He doesn’t want something from you at all. But instead designed this world, imperfect as it currently is, to move you toward life, growth, and trust?

I totally get why that’s hard to believe.

We look around and see a world that feels like it’s unraveling. Wars. Violence. Injustice. Loss that makes no sense. And then we’re told God is all-powerful, all-knowing, and loving. Those ideas feel hard to hold together.

I think about when my dad taught me how to ride a bike.

We lived on a cul-de-sac with a decent hill. Before ever letting me ride down it, he walked me around the top of the circle again and again, one hand firmly gripping the back of the seat. Round and round we went. Every time I wobbled, he steadied me.

Eventually, he said it was time.

“Are you going to hold on?” I asked.

He told me I had this. That he was right there. What he didn’t say, what I assumed, was that he wouldn’t let go.

We started down the hill. His hand stayed on the seat, but the grip loosened as my balance improved. Then, without me realizing it, he couldn’t keep up anymore.

I was riding on my own.

Halfway down the hill I made the mistake of looking back to check if he was still holding on. When I saw he wasn’t, I panicked. I lost control. I crashed. Scraped knees. Bloody hands.

In that moment, my only thought was that he had let me fall.

But the truth was, he had already done what I needed most.

That fall taught me something I couldn’t have learned any other way: I can’t move forward if I’m constantly looking backward.

God often works like that.

He holds us. He guides us. He steadies us more than we ever realize. And sometimes, without announcing it, He loosens His grip not because He’s absent, but because growth requires trust.

Not because He’s disappointed.
Not because He’s distant.
But because He’s closer than we think.

God isn’t standing behind a curtain. He isn’t an algorithm feeding your fears. He isn’t frustrated with you for not growing faster. He’s not even just running behind you holding the seat.

He’s at work in you and around you, inviting you forward.

And maybe the most freeing question you can ask is this:

How would you live differently if you actually believed God was for you?

Faith Makes Us Family

January 12, 2026 / / 1 Comment

Most people assume belonging has to be earned.

Work hard enough.
Clean yourself up enough.
Prove you’re serious enough.

That assumption shows up everywhere from jobs and friendships, to families and even our faith lives. But John 1:6-13 blows that whole idea up.

The central message is simple and even a little unsettling: Faith makes us family. Not effort. Not achievement. Not spiritual hustle. Faith.

Before we go any further, there’s a small but important detail that helps this section make sense. There are two Johns here.

John the Baptist is the one being talked about. While John the Apostle is the one writing.

John the Baptist’s role is clear:

“There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness… so that everyone might believe through him.” (John 1:6–7, ESV)

In other words, he’s not the main point. He’s pointing beyond himself.

That matters, because we’re tempted to make faith about what we do, how consistent we are, how strong we feel, how well we perform. But from the start, this story keeps redirecting attention away from us and toward Jesus.

John describes Jesus as light entering darkness.

And when the light shows up, people respond in different ways.

Some people don’t recognize the light.

“The true light… was coming into the world. He was in the world… yet the world did not know him.” (John 1:9–10)

This isn’t about intelligence. It’s about expectations.

People were waiting for something powerful, flashy, and forceful. What they got was humility, grace, and truth. The light didn’t look like they thought it would, so they missed it.

Others recognize the light but don’t want it.

“He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him.” (John 1:11)

These people see what Jesus is about, and that’s the problem.

Light exposes things.
It challenges us.
It tells the truth about who we are.

Some people don’t reject Jesus because they don’t understand him but because they don’t like what he says about their lives.

And then there are those who feel too far gone.

They hear the message.
They feel the weight of their past.
They assume they’ve crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed.

This might be good for other people but not me.

That’s why what comes next is so important:

“But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God.” (John 1:12)

Not helpers.
Not outsiders.
Not people on thin ice.

Family.

And John is careful to make sure we don’t misunderstand how that happens:

“Not because of their background, not because of human effort, not because someone else decided it—but because of God.” (John 1:13, paraphrased)

This isn’t about where you come from.
It’s not about willpower.
It’s not about trying harder.

It’s about trust.

And if you think your past disqualifies you, look at the people God actually uses.

David abused his power, took advantage of a woman, and arranged for her husband to be killed. Moses lost his temper repeatedly and struggled to trust God when things went wrong. Abraham lied about his wife to save himself.

These are not role models for good behavior.

They’re reminders that God doesn’t wait for people to be polished before welcoming them.

And notice what the text does not say.

It doesn’t say “believe strongly enough.”
It doesn’t say “believe fully enough.”
It doesn’t say “believe after you fix yourself.”

It just says believe.

No adjectives or adverbs.
No levels.
No fine print.

Belief isn’t something you earn.
It’s not a reward for effort.

It’s the open door.

And on the other side of that door isn’t shame or judgment. It’s grace.

Because faith makes us family.

Jesus Small Enough to Carry Can’t Carry You

January 6, 2026 / / 0 Comments

This week, we dove into John 1:1-5. We wrestled with the reality that: Jesus isn’t just some abstract idea or a distant deity. He’s the Logos – the Word – God’s ultimate communication to us, the very source of life and light breaking into the brutal, suffocating darkness of this world.

Now let’s unpack that Greek for a second. Logos. It’s not just “word” like we say it or write it. It’s the meaning, power, reason, the divine force behind everything real. This Logos didn’t just pop up in a manger. He’s existed from the beginning. Jesus is life itself. Real, unstoppable, relentless life.

But here’s the kicker: if Jesus is “small enough to carry,” He’s not carrying you. If your version of Jesus fits neatly into a box that you can hold, then that Jesus doesn’t have the power to carry your mess. Because the Jesus who is life and light isn’t a tiny, manageable faith accessory. He’s a cosmic force shattering darkness,. And if He can’t break into the dark places in your soul, then you’re holding onto the wrong Jesus.

John tells us the light shines in the darkness and darkness can’t overcome it. Darkness runs when real light steps into the room. Your fear, your shame, your failures they don’t get to stay just because you want them to. The Logos came to illuminate, to expose, to liberate.

But beware: light exposes darkness in us, not just out there somewhere. This means Jesus isn’t here to make you comfortable by hiding your flaws. No. That’s not how this works.

He’s here to confront them head-on. The small Jesus you carry around can’t do that. Only the Logos, the eternal Word, the unquenchable light is able to do this.

So here’s this week’s challenge: Stop carrying your Jesus like a teddy bear. Stop trying to tame the light. Jesus is the light that pushes back the darkness, but if you want Him to carry your load, He has to be big enough to do it.

Light doesn’t just flicker; it floods. Life doesn’t just exist; it conquers. And Jesus is both.

If you want a Jesus who can carry you, you’ve got to wrestle with the eternal, uncontainable, unshakable Word who holds all things together including you.

Monday Mood

January 5, 2026 / / 1 Comment

Mondays get a bad rap. Sometimes they’re the best day of the week. A fresh start, a clean slate, a chance to chase your goals with new energy. Other times? They feel like the worst day. They have a heavy drag after a break, especially when it’s the first Monday after a long holiday like Christmas.

Maybe you’re juggling kids back to school, the job kicking back into full gear, and routines that suddenly feel more rigid than you remember. The magic of holiday freedom fades, and the reality of early alarms, packed lunches, and deadlines returns.

It’s normal to feel a mix of emotions today: refreshed and ready to go, or tired and wishing for just one more day off. The key is how you handle this Monday mood. Because how you start your week often sets the tone for the whole thing.

If Monday feels like drudgery, try this mindset shift: Instead of seeing it as the “end” of something good, see it as the “start” of new opportunities. A day to reset, recommit, and choose what you want to focus on even if it’s just a tiny win.

Remember, routines aren’t meant to trap you; they’re there to support you. They create space for progress when life feels busy and overwhelming.

If you’re struggling to find that motivation or balance as life snaps back into place, find someone to walk alongside you. A coach or mentor, a friend or even family member can help you regain control and build a plan that fits your real life.

How are you feeling about this Monday? What’s one thing you’re choosing to lean into today?

#MondayMotivation #FreshStart #BackToRoutine #CoachingSupport #KeepMovingForward

Splitting Wood & Spiritual Strength

December 19, 2025 / / 0 Comments

How resistance shapes us in Advent.

If you want to know who you really are, grab an axe and head to the woodpile.

There’s something brutally honest about splitting wood. It’s you, the log, the cold, and the undeniable truth that no amount of wishful thinking will split that piece of oak for you.

You swing.
You miss.
You curse under your breath.
You readjust.
You swing again.
Eventually something gives, either the log… or your back.

And standing there in the bite of December, with woodchips sticking to your jeans and steam rising off your breath, the Advent lesson hits hard:

Strength doesn’t appear out of nowhere. It’s built. Slowly. Repetitively. Through resistance.

We love the idea of spiritual strength. We want deeper faith, stronger trust, steadier souls, and an unshakeable hope.

But we quietly, secretly, and deeply wish we could gain all of that without the swing of the axe, without the struggle, without the repetition. Heck without the resistance!

The woodpile disagrees.

And if we’re honest, so does Scripture.

“Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope.” – Romans 5:3-4 (ESV)

Suffering → endurance → character → hope. It’s the spiritual version of swing → resistance → breakthrough → warmth.

Nobody gets firewood without effort. Nobody gets spiritual fire without endurance.

When I’m out on my acreage with a pile of unsplit logs staring me down, I realize how often I want Advent to be sentimental instead of strengthening. I want warm lights and hot drinks and sweet moments not the hard work of shaping a soul.

But Advent wasn’t meant to be sentimental. It was meant to build strength.

Strength to wait.
Strength to trust.
Strength to hope in the dark.
Strength to believe God is working even when the world feels cold and stubborn.

Jesus didn’t come because we were strong. He came because we couldn’t be.

And yet, He doesn’t leave us weak.

He shapes us.
He strengthens us.
He forms us like a woodcutter forms kindling. He does it through pressure, repetition, faithfulness, and time.

So here’s this week’s invitation:

When life feels heavy and the resistance feels real… don’t despise the woodpile. God might be building the exact strength you’ve been praying for.

Breakthrough doesn’t come without the swing. Warmth doesn’t come without effort. Spiritual strength doesn’t come without God using the hard places to shape us.

Advent continues not just warming our hearts for Christmas, but forging them for the world we’re called to love.

Nothing Is Falling Apart, So Why Does This Feel So Heavy?

December 18, 2025 / / 0 Comments

Nothing went wrong enough to explain.
But enough went wrong to feel it.

No single moment you could point to and say, “That’s it. That’s the thing.”
Just a quiet accumulation. A slow stacking of disappointments. Small frustrations. Closed doors that didn’t slam—they just… didn’t open.

Like your car battery dying when it’s five degrees outside.
Not a crisis. Just inconvenient enough to complicate everything.
Cold hands. Cold wind. One more thing that takes longer than it should.

Or finding out a network you love—one that mattered, one you poured into—decided to go a different direction. No explosion. No betrayal. Just less room. A quiet removal. The kind of loss that doesn’t come with a clean ending, just a shrug and a “this is where we are now.”

Add in the rest of life—schedules that don’t line up, things that won’t thaw, plans that keep shifting—and suddenly the weight shows up. Not all at once. But enough that you feel it when you finally sit down at night.

And that can be heavier than a crisis.

Because when something clearly breaks, people understand. There’s language for it. There’s space to grieve it. But when life just quietly goes off-script—when momentum stalls and expectations dissolve—you’re left carrying something that feels too small to explain and too heavy to ignore.

You start telling yourself you should be fine.
That other people have it worse.
That this isn’t worth naming.

But the weight is real.

And this is where Advent refuses to be sentimental.

The world Jesus entered wasn’t falling apart in dramatic ways. It was just worn down. Politically tense. Spiritually tired. Full of people doing their best, waiting for something to change, and quietly losing confidence that it would.

That’s the world God chose to step into.

Not in a moment of triumph.
Not when everything was aligned.
Not when people had margin and clarity and emotional bandwidth.

Luke tells us, “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.” (Luke 2:11, ESV)

Unto you.

Not just the desperate.
Not just the broken.
But the quietly disappointed. The worn down. The ones dealing with dead batteries, closed doors, and the kind of loss that doesn’t come with a headline.

Christmas doesn’t show up to fix everything instantly. It shows up to be present before it does.

John writes, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” (John 1:5, ESV)

Notice what he doesn’t say.
He doesn’t say the darkness disappears.
He says it doesn’t win.

That matters when the darkness feels ordinary. When it looks like frustration instead of fear. When it sounds like, “I didn’t expect this to be this hard.”

If you’re carrying weight this season and can’t quite explain why, you’re not failing at Christmas. You’re actually standing right where the story begins.

Christmas doesn’t ask you to pretend everything is fine.
It doesn’t demand manufactured joy.

It offers presence.
It offers nearness.
It offers light that shows up quietly and stays.

So if nothing went wrong enough to talk about—but everything feels heavy—know this: you are exactly the kind of person Christmas came for.

The light is already here

When What’s Buried Needs to Come Out

December 17, 2025 / / 0 Comments

Every bourbon drinker knows about the angel’s share, the part that evaporates.
But there’s another part most people don’t think about.

The Devil’s Cut.

That’s the portion of bourbon that gets trapped inside the oak staves of the barrel.
It doesn’t evaporate into the heavens.
It doesn’t pour out with the rest of the spirit.
It sinks deep, hides out, and clings to the wood fibers like it’s got something to prove.

Distillers have to work hard, really hard, to pull it out once the barrel’s emptied.
Steam. Pressure. Water. Time.
They literally have to extract what’s hiding inside.

And once again… bourbon ends up telling the truth about us.

We All Have a Devil’s Cut

We’ve all got parts of our story we don’t talk about.
Old wounds.
Buried insecurities.
Hidden habits.
Unresolved grudges.
Memories we’ve shoved down so deep we’d rather pretend they never happened.

Call it whatever you want trauma, pride, self-protection, “I’m fine.”
But God calls it something else:

Stuff that needs to come out.

Not to shame you.
Not to expose you.
But to heal you.

Because the Devil’s Cut the part trapped deep inside may not be visible… but it still has influence.
It still flavors the spirit.
It still shapes who we’re becoming.

What stays hidden doesn’t stay harmless.

You Can Fake Fine, But You Can’t Fake Healthy

The crazy thing about the Devil’s Cut is this.
You can empty a barrel, polish it, display it proudly in your living room.
But it will still have ounces and ounces of spirit trapped deep inside the staves.

Looks empty.
Isn’t empty.

Looks clean.
Isn’t clean.

Looks finished.
Isn’t finished.

Remind you of anyone?

We’re masters at curating the exterior the good Christian image, the polished reputation, the “strong enough” persona.
But inside?
Deep in the spiritual staves?
There can still be hurt, bitterness, anger, shame, fear, or unforgiveness lurking.

Not evaporated.
Not poured out.
Just trapped.

And if God doesn’t work it out of us, it will eventually work its way through us.

God Steam-Cleans the Soul and It Isn’t Always Comfortable

There’s a reason distillers call it the Devil’s Cut.
It takes force to get it out.
Heat. Pressure. Flooding. Extraction.

Sometimes God applies heat through a hard conversation, a moment of conviction, a season of discomfort.
Sometimes God applies pressure with a challenge we can’t avoid, a weakness we can’t deny, a pattern we can’t hide behind anymore.
Sometimes God floods us with His grace not the soft, fluffy kind, but the kind that goes deep enough to loosen the things we’ve held onto too long.

It’s not God being harsh.
It’s God being holy.
And loving.
And committed to your transformation.

God refuses to leave you with a Devil’s Cut still locked inside you.

Because what’s buried in you eventually bleeds into the people around you – your family, your marriage, your leadership, your faith.

Better to let God extract it now than let the darkness seep out later.

Let God Get to the Deep Stuff

If you’re honest, you already know what your Devil’s Cut is.

That hurt from years ago you don’t want to name.
That insecurity you’ve duct-taped over with accomplishment.
That resentment you tolerate because it feels justified.
That private sin you think you have “under control.”
That pain you don’t want Jesus touching.

But He’s not asking for an apology tour.
He’s asking for access.

To the real stuff.
The deep stuff.
The buried stuff.

The part that needs refining, cleansing, extracting.

Not so He can shame you, but so He can free you.

Because the truth is:

You can’t be fully poured out for God until He brings out what’s been trapped inside you.

So let Him do the work.
Let Him apply the heat.
Let Him press where it hurts.
Let Him draw out what’s been buried.

It’s not punishment.
It’s purification.

And when the Devil’s Cut comes out, you don’t lose yourself you finally get your whole self back.

The Rep You Don’t Want to Do

December 16, 2025 / / 0 Comments

From the series: “What I Learned Between Reps (And Why You Probably Need It Too)”

I want to talk about the rep you hate.
You know the one.
The one where your muscles are screaming, your brain is negotiating, and suddenly your water bottle looks like a fantastic life choice.

Yeah. That rep.

Here’s the truth nobody wants to admit:
That rep is the one that actually changes you.

Not the warmup.
Not the reps that feel smooth.
Not the reps that make you look strong in the mirror.

It’s the ugly one.
The shaky one.
The one where your face contorts into something that belongs in a wildlife documentary.
That’s where growth hides.

I’ve hit those moments more times that I can count. Those “I could stop right here and no one would know” moments. But the problem is, I would know. And so would you because every time you skip the hard rep, you train your brain to settle.

You’re teaching yourself that comfort is more important than progress.

And hear me on this. Comfort is not evil. It’s just sneaky.
Comfort whispers: “You’ve done enough.”
Comfort lies: “This is fine.”
Comfort smiles while you stay exactly the same.

But strength?
Strength doesn’t whisper.
Strength growls.
Strength demands something from you.
Strength shows up when you push past the point your excuses were built to protect.

Here’s the lesson I learned between reps this week:

Your breakthrough is almost always on the other side of the rep you don’t want to do.

Not just in the gym.
It happens in conversations you’ve been avoiding.
In goals you keep rescheduling.
In decisions you keep pretending are not urgent.
In dreams you’ve pushed off because they feel too risky.

Everyone wants transformation.
Almost no one wants the burn that comes with it.

But the burn is the signal.
The burn means you’re in the right place.
The burn means your limits just got punched in the teeth.
And if you stay there even for one more rep you’re already a different person than you were a minute ago.

So here’s your challenge:

Do the rep you don’t want to do. Today. Not later. Not “when things calm down.”

Send the message.
Make the call.
Hit the gym.
Have the hard conversation.
Apply for the thing.
Stop numbing the fear and start confronting it.

Because here’s the secret you only learn under the barbell:
Your limits aren’t walls. They’re invitations.

And you’re tougher than your comfort zone wants you to believe.

From Forgotten to the Front Row

December 15, 2025 / / 0 Comments

When you think about the Christmas story, what do you picture? Maybe the wise men in their fancy robes or maybe the angels singing. But Luke’s Christmas spotlight isn’t on the powerful or the prestigious. It’s on the shepherds.

Shepherds weren’t the VIPs of their day. They were society’s leftovers. They were blue-collar workers, often looked down on, sometimes even considered unreliable or at worst unclean. If this were a modern concert, they’d be the folks stuck way in the nosebleed seats, ignored and forgotten. Yet in the very moment God sent the news of Jesus’ birth, He put those shepherds front and center. God brought the forgotten to the front row.

He did it because God’s kingdom doesn’t run on our human ideas of status and worth. Instead, it flips the script. The overlooked, the marginalized, the quiet and uncelebrated that’s who God chooses to carry His message. And here’s the kicker: God still does this today.

This means that no matter how “forgotten” or overlooked you feel in life, whether at work, in your family, or in your own mind God’s call can find you and put you at the center of something bigger than you ever imagined.

But here’s the challenge: Are we living like the shepherds? Are we embracing the role of being front-row followers? Those who see what others miss? Those who listen when the world is too loud to hear? And who step boldly into the light instead of hiding in the shadows?

Too often, we shrink back. We stay on the sidelines because we think we’re not “enough” not smart enough, not talented enough, not important enough. But the shepherds remind us this is a lie.

God’s invitation is for everyone, especially those who think they don’t belong. The shepherds went from watching sheep in the dark fields to being the very first to hear the best news in history. And they didn’t keep it to themselves. They ran to tell others. They became the original front-line messengers.

In our lives, this means stepping off of the sidelines of comfort and fear. It means taking risks to speak up, to show kindness where it’s unexpected, to bring hope to places it’s missing. It means lifting others who feel forgotten and making room for them to sit at the front with us.

This Christmas story isn’t just about a baby born long ago. It’s a call for us today to live boldly, to trust that God sees us even when the world doesn’t, and to be the kind of people who bring others from the back row into the spotlight of grace and love.

A final coaching question for you:
Where in your life are you choosing to sit in the back row? What would it look like to step into the front row and live like the shepherds bold, unafraid, and ready to share the good news?

The Angel’s Share

December 10, 2025 / / 0 Comments

If you’ve spent any time around bourbon, you know the distillers have a strange way of talking about loss.

You see every year a portion of the aging bourbon evaporates through the barrel.

Nope. It’s not spilled. Not wasted. Not mismanaged. Just… gone.

They call it the angel’s share. That phrase has to be read in a deep and mysterious kind of voice by the way.

I remember the first time I heard that term. I thought, Only the bourbon world could romanticize losing product and actually celebrate it.

But the longer I sit with this idea. And frankly the longer I sit with life, the more I realize they’re actually onto something spiritual.

The Loss No One Likes… but Everyone Needs

The angel’s share can take 2–5% of the barrel every single year. Yeah! That adds up fast.

Imagine running a business where a chunk of your inventory literally disappears into the air and you just shrug and smile.

But distillers understand something we often forget: If the bourbon isn’t evaporating, it isn’t maturing.

The loss is a sign that transformation is happening deep inside the wood. Something slow, hidden, and impossible to reverse.

You don’t get complex, rich bourbon without the angel’s share. And you don’t get deep, resilient faith without losing some of yourself along the way.

The Parts of Life You Think You’re Losing…May Be Exactly What God Is Using

Friends, here’s the part no one likes to say out loud:

Some of the losses you grieve were never meant to stay with you.
Some dreams needed to evaporate.
Some plans had to leave the barrel of your life so something stronger, wiser, and more Christlike could form in their place.

We don’t think that way, at least not naturally. We see loss as failure. We see change as disruption. We see evaporation as a problem to fix.

But in the hands of God? Loss becomes formation. Surrender becomes strength. Letting go becomes freedom. And the things that slip through the cracks may very well be the things that were holding you back.

What evaporates is not always what’s essential. Sometimes it’s what’s excess.

Distillers don’t panic when the angel’s share takes its portion. They expect it. They plan for it. They even build their warehouses knowing that warm summers mean more loss and more flavor.

Loss is built into the process.

When was the last time you saw your life that way?

Instead of saying, “Why is this happening to me?”
What if the question became, “Lord, what are You forming in me through this?”

Instead of asking, “Why did I lose that opportunity?”
What if the real question is, “What space is this creating for the next one?”

Instead of gripping tightly to the past, maybe we ask, “What are You freeing me from so I can grow into who You’re calling me to be?”

The angel’s share reminds us that maturity always costs something.

Let the Right Things Evaporate

Sometimes we need to let expectations evaporate. Or our need to control everything. Or our obsession with certainty. Or the pressure to be everything to everyone.

And sometimes we need to let old versions of ourselves fade, so Christ can form something new, something deeper inside us.

Don’t fear what God removes. Fear only the things you cling to that keep you from becoming who you were called to be.

A bourbon that never loses anything never gains anything. And neither do we.

So here’s the invitation: Trust the process. Trust the loss. Trust the God who knows exactly what needs to evaporate so your life can mature.

The angel’s share isn’t stealing from you.
It’s shaping you.

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