Photo by Gabriel Jimenez on Unsplash

In the Soil of My Affliction …
a poetic reflection by J.N. Fenwick

In the soil of my affliction,
grew bitterness so deep.
Fed by my unwillingness,
to allow the light to reach,
the darkness that consumed me,
so sure my discontent,
would be the only fruit to grow,
in this garden of contempt.
I clung to my resentment,
fed the soil with fear,
I almost missed His presence,
when the Spirit of Truth drew near.
Not with condemnation,
but with mercy that proclaimed,
“With kindness I will feed this soil,
so it will breathe again.”
The garden I had fed with lies,
began to bring forth fruit,
blossoms filled with kindness,
where my disdain once grew.
Kindness that did not require,
perfection to generate,
a field that bore forgiveness,
and fed the soil with grace.
It drew me to the table,
where its bounty fed,
the seeds of grace the Spirit
had planted there instead.

JN Fenwick (©2026)

The dust cloud on the horizon of Lo-debar always meant the same thing. Death.

For as long as I could remember, I had been waiting for that dust. In the town of Nothing—a barren outpost whose very name meant “no word”—I had lived my life as a ghost.

I was five years old when the world cracked open. I still remembered the echoes of the screaming in the palace corridors, the breathless panic of my nursemaid as she whispered that my father Jonathan and grandfather Saul were dead. I remembered the sudden, violent drop—the sickening snap in both my ankles as we hit the stone floor in our flight.

My bones healed crookedly, leaving me permanently anchored to the ground.

I couldn’t run.

I couldn’t fight.

And in the ancient world, a crippled prince of a fallen dynasty is nothing more than a loose thread waiting to be cut.

I knew the rules of the kingdom. I knew that David had taken the throne. And I knew that standard royal protocol dictated my execution. To the new king, I wasn’t a person; I was a rival lineage, a potential spark for rebellion. So, I hid my face, crawled through the dirt of Lo-debar, and waited for the day the King’s men would finally track me down.

And then, the day arrived. The heavy thud of royal sandals echoed outside my door. I was hoisted into a chariot, unable to stand on my own two feet, and carried all the way to the grand palace of Jerusalem.

When I was pushed into the throne room, I did the only thing a dead man could do: I collapsed into the dirt, pressing my face against the floorboards, waiting for the sword. I called myself a dead dog because that is exactly how the world, and my own terror, had defined me.

But the sword never came.

Instead, a voice broke through the suffocating silence. “Do not fear,” King David said, “for I will surely show you kindness…”

The King didn’t look at my useless feet; he looked at his covenant with my father, Jonathan.

He didn’t rewrite my past, but he structurally altered my present.

David pulled me out of the suffocating dirt of Lo-debar and gave me a permanent seat at his royal table, treating me like one of his own sons.

He answered my terror with an unyielding, stubborn covenant loyalty—one that looks at a broken, hiding rival and decides to cradle them instead of crushing them.

Long before the Apostle Paul penned his famous letter to the Galatians, this was the historical landscape of Kindness.

When Paul lists kindness (chrēstotēs) as a fruit of the Spirit, his mind is anchored deep in the Hebrew word David was practicing that afternoon in the palace: Chesed.

It is a kindness that does not wait for someone to earn it.

It is a kindness that actively softens a harsh environment so the broken can breathe.

For years in my own life, I lived in my own version of Lo-debar.

When the foundation of my marriage gave way and I suffered an emotional break, I found myself buried in the dark soil of trauma and anger.

Like Mephibosheth hyper-focusing on the threat of the king, I spent months hyper-focusing on the flaws and the missteps of my husband. I had packed the soil around my heart so tightly with bitterness that I was suffocating. I wanted out of the marriage. I wanted to run, but like that fallen prince, I was paralyzed by my own damage.

I thought God brought me into the dark room of counsel to execute judgment on the excuses I used to prove my case.

I expected the sword.

But Kindness is the Holy Spirit entering our dark, compacted soil and gently aerating the ground around us. When I prayed, “God, please don’t let me go,” the Holy Spirit didn’t join me in pointing fingers at my husband’s flaws. Instead, the Spirit did something far more devastating and beautiful:

He turned the mirror toward me.

Slowly, silently, the light of His truth illuminated the hard, unrenewed, angry shell of my own heart. And in a beautiful, painful twist of grace, seeing my own brokenness didn’t crush me. It leveled the ground.

I realized my husband and I weren’t a victim and a villain; we were just two flawed people, two Mephibosheths, buried in the same dirt, both desperately trying to reach the sun.

When the Holy Spirit cradled my angry soul with His Chesed, the ground softened. And for the first time in years, I could breathe enough to pull up a chair at the table and offer my husband the exact same grace, the same Chesed, I had just been given.

A Moment for the Soil

True kindness (chrēstotēs) isn’t a superficial smile; it is the Holy Spirit gently loosening the heavy, packed clay of our self-defense so that grace can take root. If you find yourself hidden in a dark season today, take a moment to look at the ground around you.

• Where are you hyper-focusing on the “soil”? Are you so consumed by the flaws, missteps, or offenses of the person across from you that you’ve forgotten to look at the condition of your own heart?

• What would it look like to drop your excuses? If you stopped using your pain to prove your case, what hidden spaces in your soul is the Holy Spirit trying to aerate and soften?

• Who needs your Chesed today? Is there a “Mephibosheth” in your life—someone flawed, broken, or defensive—who needs you to pull up a chair for them at the table, offering the same unearned loyalty God has offered you?

Leave a comment below. Let’s process the hidden work of the dirt together.

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Instead of asking us to check our intellects at the door or muster up a blind, terrified faith, these authors invite us into a beautiful, sacred dismantling of our own self-made plans.

The Logic of Mount Moriah
K. Lee Brown, Ph.D.

A brilliant, intellectually rich re-examination of Abraham’s ultimate test, dismantling centuries of philosophical misunderstanding to reveal that true faith is never a blind leap into the dark, but a calculated trust in the proven character of God.

QUOTE: “Abraham’s act was not out of a state of deception nor out of blind faith. His confidence was born from faith built on character assessment... He was extending trust to someone whose track record he knew intimately. That is not a leap into darkness. It is confidence in a person based on what that person has shown themselves to be.”

For centuries, brilliant minds have wrestled with the harrowing narrative of Genesis 22. The author masterfully highlights a detail hiding in plain sight within Hebrews 11: Abraham considered (deliberately reasoned) that God could raise Isaac from the dead. By contrasting the cold, moral rigidity of Immanuel Kant with the anxious, blind “leap of faith” popularized by Søren Kierkegaard, this piece exposes the flaw of viewing God through human systems instead of lived relationship. Abraham could walk up the mountain because he possessed a historical track record with a promise-keeping God. It is a liberating pastoral reminder that God does not ask for a voluntary self-lobotomy or blind submission to raw power; He simply desires to be deeply, intimately known.

When God Goes Quiet: Surviving (and Growing Through) Your Wilderness Season [with co-host Marti Darcangelo and Guest Jessica DeYoung]
Jan Johnson

A comforting, deeply transparent, and highly practical exploration of spiritual dryness, reframing the silence of God not as a punitive abandonment, but as a purposeful, temporary appointment for deep transformation.

QUOTE: “The wilderness isn’t forever—it’s a season with a purpose and an exit. And far from being a passive, miserable waiting room, it is actually the place where God does some of His most significant work in us. It’s not abandonment. It’s appointment.”

Have you ever done everything “right”—prayed, read the Word, served faithfully—and still felt like God completely left the building? Through a rich, conversational recap of a recent podcast episode, the author strips away the shame and misconceptions surrounding spiritual dry spells. Backed by the raw testimonies of ministry leaders who have walked through sudden internal darkness, the piece beautifully outlines what the wilderness is actually doing: executing the death of our self-reliance and unlearning old habits. It offers crucial, practical anchors—like anchoring our thoughts strictly onto God’s unchanging attributes when our feelings fail us. Ultimately, it leaves the reader with the defiant hope of Habakkuk, reminding us that even when the fig tree doesn’t bud, our Champion is still holding our right hand in the quiet.

From Sunday School Applause to Actually Understanding Scripture
Dr. Manne

A delightfully nostalgic, culturally rich, and eye-opening meditation that challenges us to move past the superficial performance of reciting Scripture and step into the profound, protective reality of the Shepherd’s tools.

QUOTE: “Two different tools. Two different functions. Both in the same hand... We fall into ditches. We get tangled in thorny bushes... And sometimes all it takes is a small cry. A tiny ‘baaa’ in the direction of the Shepherd, instead of replaying the same dark thoughts again and again.”

Recalling his childhood days in India gobbling up memory verses just to win public praise, the author confronts a vital question: Do we ever slow down long enough to ruminate on what we’ve memorized? By dissecting a ultra-familiar line from Psalm 23, he unpacks a detail most western believers gloss over—the distinct difference between the shepherd’s rod (a heavy weapon used to smash predators) and the staff (a curved hook used for rescue and gentle redirection). This piece beautifully bridges the gap between ancient pastoral imagery and modern mental exhaustion, reminding us that when we are trapped in the thorny bushes of fear or cultural oppression, we don’t need to have the whole map figured out. We just need to offer a tiny cry to the Shepherd, trusting that His rod and staff will do the rest.

The Offended Man
Marv McCarthy

A transparent, gripping, and deeply redemptive testimony of a high-profile ministry leader who watched his self-made kingdom collapse, only to discover that the gap between our expected scripts and God’s actual reality is exactly where true calling begins.

QUOTE: “The word translated offended is the Greek skandalon—a stumbling block, a snare... Jesus isn’t rebuking John for moral failure. He’s naming the specific hazard ahead of him: the gap between the liberation he expected and the liberation God was actually bringing. That gap is where offense lives.”

For twenty-four years, the author lived as a textbook Enneagram 3—ambitious, image-conscious, and climbing a prominent Christian ministry ladder, completely unable to tell the difference between “God’s Dream” and his own desire for a platform. When the ladder gave way in 2006, it triggered a grueling, fifteen-year wilderness of divorce, debt, and deep obscurity. By masterfully threading his own painful exile alongside the story of John the Baptist doubting Christ from a prison cell, he exposes the subtle danger of becoming “offended” by a God who refuses to follow our pre-written scripts. It is a profound, beautifully written reminder that the wilderness isn’t a punishment, but a sacred dismantling—stripping away our performance-driven identities so we can finally exchange the exhausting weight of our own ambition for the custom-fitted, light yoke of Jesus.

Unfinished Rooms
Eira Linden

A fiercely brilliant, witty, and defiantly joyful narrative poem that pulls up a stool next to mortality itself, refusing the cold summons of completion by celebrating the glorious, holy mess of a life still fully in progress.

QUOTE: “Pardon? / Whose time, precisely? / Mine is distributed / across several unruly chambers... Besides, / love has not finished / making an absolute nuisance of me... What would I say / when that final visitor / leaned close / with its cold little summons? / I’d say, / come back when the rooms are tidy. / Then I’d laugh, / because honestly, / that buys me / at least another century.”

In this breathtakingly clever and poignant poem, the author finds herself at a ridiculous bar where death pulls up a stool beside her, checking its watch with “sacerdotol calm.” Rather than shrinking in fear or bowing to its dreary authority, she launches into a magnificent, domestic inventory of everything in her life that remains beautifully incomplete: paintbrushes stiff with old intention, apples fat with unfinished sweetness, cats demanding apologies, and wildflowers plotting a gaudy insurrection through the concrete cracks. It is a spectacular, life-affirming crescendo for our week—a reminder that while the wilderness seasons may try to convince us that our stories are over or our spaces are too broken, our Creator specializes in unfinished rooms. It is a call to laugh in the face of our limitations, embrace our difficult yet miraculous bodies, and remember that love is far from finished with us.

A Book for the Journey:

Walking With God by Deb Snyder

To perfectly anchor this week’s deep dive into our unvarnished, beautifully incomplete stories, I am incredibly honored to spotlight a gorgeous e-book gifted to me by fellow writer Deb Snyder: Walking With God: A 10-Day Poetic Devotional.

QUOTE: “Originally I had wanted to write a story about my life, overcoming divorce... but that never seemed to get off the ground. So one day I thought, ‘let’s write a poem’—and it started from there... I hope that as you read through these poems, you imagine Christ speaking to you and showing you that He is there with you in everything you go through.”

Deb’s personal testimony is a breathtaking, living example of what it looks like to survive a crumbling script and watch God build something entirely new from the ruins. After walking through the pain of divorce and spending two decades away from the church, God radically drew her back to Himself—eventually leading her to her husband, a widower, and allowing her to legally adopt her three beautiful children: Jacob, Samantha, and Steven. While she originally tried to force her story into a traditional memoir format, God instead unlocked a beautiful, hidden gift of spiritual poetry. This devotional is a 10-day sanctuary born directly out of that hard-won redemption. It pairs exquisitely with our lineup this week: while our writers challenge us to trust God’s character when the map doesn’t make sense, Deb’s verses act as a gentle, rhythmic guide, reminding us that the Shepherd is intimately present in every single one of our unfinished rooms.

If you are interested in this Devotional, feel free to DM Deb Snyder at this link: https://substack.com/@debsnyder150669. She will email to anyone interested.

What I’m Listening To …

God I’m Just Grateful For You
Chandler Moore

[Verse 1]
There was no way until You made one
Grace upon grace, hallelujah
Even though I don’t deserve it, You did it
Even though I couldn’t earn it, You give it

[Chorus]
Who am I that You keep me on Your mind?
God, I’m just grateful for You
God, I’m just grateful for You
All my life, You’ve been right here by my side
God, I’m just grateful for You
God, I’m just grateful for You

[Verse 2]
Holy, holy, there’s only one
I give You glory for all that You’ve done
Even though I don’t deserve it, You did it, ooh
Even though I couldn’t earn it, You give it

[Interlude]
Woah, You’ve kept me all my life
Been here with me all this time

[Bridge]
I-I-I, I’m lifting both of my hands
You gave me chance after chance, after chance
And I-I-I, I’m giving all that I am
‘Cause You gave me chance after chance, after chance
And I-I-I, I’m lifting both of my hands
You gave me chance after chance, after chance
And I, I’m giving all that I am
‘Cause You gave me chance after chance, after chance

[Outro]
I survived and I’m here to testify (I’m here to testify)
God, I’m just grateful for You
God, I’m just grateful for You
I’m alright if they say I’m outta my mind
God, I’m just grateful for You
God, I’m just grateful for You

A Verse to Bring It All Together …

Isaiah 43:1-3, 19 (CSB)

"Now this is what the Lord says—the one who created you, Jacob, and the one who formed you, Israel:
'Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; or through the rivers, they will not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flame will not consume you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior...
Look, I am about to do something new; even now it is coming. Do you not see it? Indeed, I will make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.'"

Photo by Kareem Sayed on Unsplash

The Five Minute Friday freewrite prompt this week is PART …

The rules are:
1. Set the timer for 5 minutes
2. Write, write, write
3. Once the timer goes off, you’re done — no corrections, no changes.

Here’s what I came up with.

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

Part of a family here on the earth,

Part of the family of heaven above

Part French, part German, part Polish you know

Part mom and part dad, features and soul

Part flesh, part bone, part sinews and nerves

Part of me loves and part of me hurts

Which part do you love and which part do you hate

I’ll change what I can if it makes you stay.

Part of my life has been lived in a house

Part of my life we have rented in town

Part of my time I give to husband and friends

I would say more but my time’s at an end

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When I first saw the prompt for this week, I immediately thought what would I write on PART?? But, as I sat for a moment thinking, I realized how much of our lives are part of something here and part of something there. Each small part of us makes up a whole! Borrowed from cultures and borrowed from family, we have collected what makes us each who we are! Burrowed in those parts that we see in our face, in our temperament, even in our speech, are the invisible parts of God we have invited in to shape and mold us more like Him. He has taken every single part of us and redeemed it all through the gift of His Son. I am fascinated by how God knows all of us, our very thoughts before we even have them (Psalm 139:2). He knew us when we were in our mother’s womb before light even found our shadows (Jeremiah 1:5). If God knows all these parts of us, if He knelt down in the dirt and created every molecule of who we are, how can we not trust Him to hold every part of us close to Him (John 10:28-29)?

Photo by Yuri Figueiredo on Unsplash

Thank you Lord, for keeping us in your care. Forgive us for not trusting you with every detail of what we are sitting in. We give you our hearts Lord, every single last part! AMEN!

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Photo by Nancy Hughes on Unsplash

I’m nearly done writing my memoir, When the Son Breaks Through. Once a month, I’ll be sharing a raw cut — a snippet from the manuscript here on Substack. I’d love to have you along for the journey. This snippet is from my chapter on choice. Thanks for reading.

In that season, I didn’t trust God with my pain. I trusted my pain to tell me who God was. Pain’s message kept whispering, “You’re invisible! You don’t matter! No one sees you. No one understands you.” But, even in the midst of the noisy streets of my thoughts, truth wanted to be heard. “God sees! God knows! He understands!” Sadly, I just wasn’t listening.

There was no doubt in my mind that what I was reaching for was freedom from a stifling marriage. What I didn’t see was a wounded heart I had been clinging to for years — a hunger to be seen and not abandoned. My choices weren’t random. They revealed what I trusted most in that season — and I brought that baggage with me into our marriage along with the hope it would finally be satisfied …

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… Choices are made based on trust. Sometimes the choices are made instantaneously. I will enter a room and sit on a chair without a second thought because I am conditioned to trust that the chair will hold me. But if the last 5 chairs I sat in gave way, I would be wary of sitting in any chair.

I didn’t consider how my past relationships factored into my marriage. Because many of the last relationships I “sat in” gave way, it produced a lack of trust where my husband was concerned. This lack of trust created a vigilance. Every wobble, every creak was confirmation of the fragility of the “chair.” I tested his ability to hold the weight of my heart. I examined the cracks to find fault. In doing so, I overlooked any sign of potential.

Of course he wasn’t perfect and of course he made mistakes. Yes, there were issues that we needed help with in order to grow together. But, these factors were placed on the pile of previous failures.

The fact is that a calloused heart is no longer pricked by truth, even as a calloused hand can withstand pain.

Choices are the tools we use to break ground; works are the materials we use to build the wall. And once those walls are high enough, we find ourselves in a fortress of our own making—protected, yes, but also utterly alone. We begin to realize that the ‘work’ of our hands can either pave a path back to the Father or construct a barrier that keeps His grace at bay.

It was time to look at the stones I had been laying, one by one, and ask what kind of monument I was truly building.

“⁵ Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
and do not lean on your own understanding.
⁶ In all your ways acknowledge him,
and he will make straight your paths.”
Proverbs 3:5-6 ESV

Have you ever noticed yourself building walls under the guise of protecting yourself?

How do you keep your heart soft when old pains whisper to be vigilant? I’d love to hear your thoughts below.

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It is a fierce, deeply comforting, and radically liberating anthem on what it truly looks like to drop the performance, face the wilderness honestly, and anchor our hearts to the unbreakable reality of eternity.

Photo by Steven Kamenar on Unsplash

Day 14,427
Musings of a Faithful Mother

A raw, deeply moving, and vulnerable reflection on the grueling reality of life’s “in-between” seasons, reminding us that the greatest miracle of faith isn’t just a one-time deliverance, but God’s quiet, daily sustenance through years of waiting.

QUOTE: “The difference wasn’t what Caleb saw. The difference was how Caleb interpreted what he saw... The man who trusted still spent forty years in the wilderness. The man who believed still ate manna. The man who gave the faithful report still spent decades watching the same desert landscape pass beneath his feet.”

Exhausted by a lingering, high-stakes custody battle, the author peels back the polished layers of spiritual victory to expose the heavy fatigue of the wilderness. She brilliantly reframes the story of Caleb, noting that having radical faith didn’t exempt him from the grueling 40-year desert wanderings of his generation. Through her own story of facing courtrooms, anxiety, and unexpected twists of reality, she challenges us to look for the “manna” hidden in our long waiting rooms. It is a striking, deeply comforting reminder that faith isn’t the absence of fear or the instant arrival at the mountaintop—it’s the choice to keep walking, confident that the God who was faithful on Day 1 is just as faithful on Day 14,427.

The Seam
Gregrey Marchand

A stunning, visually immersive meditation on a cold Oregon river that uses the mechanics of moving water to expose the difference between frantic, stagnant human momentum and the true, discerning flow of the Holy Spirit.

QUOTE: “The enemy does not always need to drag a man into obvious destruction. Sometimes he only needs to move him into a circle. The same fear. The same offense. The same wound... And because there is movement, a man tells himself he is still in the river. But he is not moving forward. He is circling beside it.”

While fishing for steelhead on the Umpqua River, the author watches seasoned fishermen bypass the chaotic currents to hunt for “the seam”—the precise place where competing flows meet and fish actually travel. Through this quiet observation, he unmasks a profound spiritual trap: the “eddy” of our own souls. He brilliantly challenges us to realize that being busy, reactive, or trapped in repeating cycles of old pain isn’t the same as moving forward. True peace isn’t the absence of movement; it’s knowing who is leading it. This piece is a deeply poetic, soul-searching call to stop negotiating with stagnation, drop the illusion of human control, and trust the Holy Spirit to guide our bow out of the safe, familiar circles and back into the living water of true obedience.

Silence Doesn’t Get the Last Voice
Patrick Brothers

A deeply comforting, tender exploration of unanswered prayer and relational grief, anchoring our moments of doubt between the praise of the Psalms and the enduring promise of the Resurrection.

Monk by the Sea by Caspar David Friedrich, c. 1808–10, Public Domain

QUOTE: “An unanswered prayer does not mean God is gone. It means we are still in the middle of the story. And the middle of the story, no matter how long or how hard, is not where stories end.”

Writing directly from “inside the pain, not from the other side of it,” the author addresses the isolating loneliness of loving someone you can no longer reach, and the haunting silence that makes us wonder if God is even listening. Digging into Psalm 8 and the gospel of Matthew, he beautifully unpacks the tension of the “not yet”—showing how doubt and worship often sit right next to each other. He reminds us that the Greek definition of Jesus’ promise to be with us “always” literally means the whole of every day. It is a vital balm for the weary soul, assuring us that God has not grown tired of our prayers, we are not forgotten, and the current silence will never have the final say.

What Everyone Gets Wrong About David and Goliath
Jeffery Curtis Poor

A masterful, perspective-shattering re-examination of Scripture’s ultimate underdog story, moving us away from the exhausting pressure of human grit and pointing us toward the finished victory of our true Champion.

QUOTE: “Jesus is the true and better David, whose victory becomes his people’s victory, even though they never lifted a stone to accomplish it themselves... You are not fighting for your standing before God. You’re fighting from it.”

Most of us view the story of David and Goliath as a motivational blueprint for summoning the courage to face our giant problems. But the author peels back the cultural shorthand to reveal a detail hiding in plain sight: Israel already had a tall, physically imposing king named Saul who was supposed to be their champion, but for forty days, he hid. Enter David, who steps into the valley as a representative—meaning whatever happens to him transfers to everyone on the hillside. This piece beautifully transitions from David’s temporary military victory to the permanent cosmic triumph of Jesus. It is a radically liberating reminder that when facing the paralyzing giants of sin, shame, and fear, our first move isn’t to try harder to be brave, but to rest in the reality that our Champion has already won the day.

Houdini’s Safe
John Sheils

A hauntingly beautiful, raw narrative poem about a shipwrecked artist lost in a violent eddy of grief, and the terminal, cancer-stricken woman whose profound empathy handed him a paintbrush and helped him escape his cage.

QUOTE: “Go on stare / I’m the sea / I don’t care... She listened / And out it all poured / Till finally she spoke / Paint, paint it all / Paint till it hurts / Paint till you crawl”

In this gripping and deeply moving poetic narrative, we follow a Cornish artist who washes up at a couple’s door after a tragic sea storm claims his mother and ends his old world. Trapped for years in a destructive cycle of rage, bars, and addiction, he is a soul spinning in circles—until he meets a woman with cancer “lodging in her head.” In a beautiful exchange of mutual brokenness, she sits by an old kitchen sink, listens to his trauma, and commands him to paint. Through manic, raw strokes of black and grey, the artist finally processes his grief, painting Houdini in a water tank with his mother’s face staring back. It is a stunning, unforgettable portrait of how shared suffering, radical empathy, and creative expression can unlock a trapped soul, helping a drifting boat finally find its way to steady waters.

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A Book for the Journey …

Through A Glass, Darkly (Daily Hope in Light of Eternity) by Gayl Wright

To anchor this week’s journey through the heavy, silent, and messy parts of our stories, I am highlighting a deeply moving book by a wonderful fellow Substacker, Gayl Wright: Through A Glass, Darkly (Daily Hope In Light of Eternity).

QUOTE: “Where is hope when your world crashes in on you? True hope does exist, and it is rooted in eternity... It is a reality to be experienced and nurtured, even in the midst of tragedy.”

This beautiful book is a masterclass in what it means to hold onto an unshakeable faith when the wilderness closes in. Weaving together Scripture, her own deeply personal stories, poems, and prayers—alongside incredibly poignant, thought-provoking essays written by her late son, Stephen—Gayl demonstrates that true hope is never just a fairytale or wishful thinking. This pairs exquisitely with our lineup this week: while our writers challenge us to face the long wilderness miles, step out of stagnant eddies of pain, and sit in the heavy silence of the “not yet,” Gayl provides the creative, practical, and real-world tools to nurture an eternal perspective. It is a stunning, comforting invitation to look through the dim glass of our current suffering and anchor our hearts to the glorious, unbreakable reality of eternity.

What I’m Listening To …

It Is Well
Kristene DiMarco | Bethel Music

Grander earth has quaked before
Moved by the sound of His voice
And seas that are shaken and stirred
Can be calmed and broken for my regard

[ CHORUS ]

And through it all, through it all
My eyes are on You
And through it all, through it all
It is well
And through it all, through it all
My eyes are on You
And it is well, with me

Far be it from me to not believe
Even when my eyes can’t see
And this mountain that’s in front of me
Will be thrown into the midst of the sea

[ CHORUS ]

So let go my soul and trust in Him
The waves and wind still know His name
So let go my soul and trust in Him
The waves and wind still know His name

And it is well
With my soul (sing it out)
It is well
With my soul
It is well
With my soul
It is well, it is well with my soul (sing it out, it is well)

[CHORUS ]

Source: Musixmatch
Songwriters: Kristene Elizabeth Dimarco
It is Well lyrics © Bethel Music Publishing

Visualizing “The Art of Facing the Wilderness”

To capture the soul-stirring tapestry these five selections have woven for us this week, here is the visual anchor for this edition:

A weathered wooden boat resting safely inside a small, calm inlet at dusk. Just beyond the protective rocky cove, the massive, deep blue waves of a wild ocean storm are visible, but inside the inlet, the water is smooth as glass. A thick, silver morning fog is beginning to lift, parted by a sudden, brilliant ray of warm amber sunlight that catches a single green olive branch resting on the boat’s bow, illuminating the path forward with an undeniable sense of sacred rescue.

Magnific.com

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All you do is criticize

and all it does is make me hide

You say you want to know me more

But do you because

All you do is criticize

My attempts at love you shame

My attempts at grace you blame

You say you need me to understand

But do you because

All you do is criticize

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I want to know your heart

What makes you tick

What makes you sad

What hurt you so that

All you do is criticize

Can we start again

Like when we met that day

In the park where sang the larks

You said you loved me through and through

Never did you criticize

Never did you make me hide

To know you - hold you - keep you close

But all you do is criticize

I’ll just try to love you and oblige

I hope you give it a try! It’s such fun! 🤩

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Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

As the blanket of the night falls in upon my soul
A voice cries out - it pierces me; a cry I can't control.
A melody of rhythms pulsate in my mind.
A harmony of triads, so dissonant and strong
Cry out in desperate longing for connection with the One
Whose music fills an empty heart and soothes the one undone
This melody it haunts me as I fight to find some peace.
A song enchained in denial's cage - the curtain held in place.
Fighting with my deep desires, fear's words win over me.
I arise and try to sing above this tragedy.
I tuck away the voice inside - deafening its cry.
The new song I sing is more pleasing to my outer man's facade.
No depth, no joy, no lasting message; I find no real release.
The song within breaks through my mind — I'm driven to my knees.
My voice now sings the melody each note now resonates.
At first alone, the chorus sounds as it rises up to meet
The anthem's song of praise to Him Who sits upon the throne.
Deliverance is its sweet refrain - my voice now unrestrained.
I am lifted to a higher place, drowning in this song of praise.

It's You O God, my King, my Love -
To You my heart does sing
A song of love and great desire
My soul is set on fire!
The intimacy I fought so long, now choosing to receive
I join with You in our love song
Fore'er with You I'll be.

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Photo by Kevin Schmid on Unsplash

Genesis 1:1 “In the beginning God created...”

What a powerful opening to this first book of the Bible. There is no background given, no history of God and who He is; no description, no explanation, just simply: In the beginning, God created.

The only timeframe we are given as far as the “when” is in the beginning. It’s not speaking of the beginning of God (for God has always been), but of the beginning of man’s story, which God chose to begin at the moment it began.

It’s hard to even put into writing anything that starts somewhere in an eternity that exists outside of time, so I will leave it to far more educated theologians to tease that out.

From here, the story lays out all that God created.

As you read through, take note how many times the words, “And God said...” are mentioned.

“And God said...” and the great and mighty seas found their home.

“And God said...” and the earth spread out into mountains and valleys.

When God spoke, plants sprung up and trees were born.

Every time God spoke, a new part of creation came into being.

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The desires of His heart were spoken and all life that we behold every day; every breath we breathe in, every smell, every beautiful sunrise poured out from the heart of God through a word.

Everything He spoke into existence represented an intimate thought and imagination of His very soul.

And when each day of creation ended, He saw that it was all good. In other words, He was satisfied by the fact that what He spoke was perfectly represented in His creation.

Before God spoke, these words were just hidden ideas and images that lived in God’s heart.

But, once spoken, these secrets came to life, and we start to know something about God through His Word that found substance in all that He made.

These were not random thoughts and images thrown out onto the canvas of the world through the brushstrokes of His words.

No, every thought and image revealed was a part of something larger, a plan of God which had been with Him since eternity past.

When I look at these verses here in Genesis, I can’t help but wonder if every masterfully crafted part of creation is wrapped within God’s foreknowledge of all that would occur from “the beginning” (Genesis 1:1) on through to when “there will be no night” (Revelation 21:25).

As I read the words, “And the earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep”, I can’t seem to escape the thought that this so aptly describes what my heart looked like before Christ came into my life.

Chaos sprawled across the earth probably as far as the eye could see. We don’t know the details of what resulted in a formless, dark world; only that this was where “... in the beginning” began.

God saw the chaos and rather than abandon His creation, He envisioned a new earth.

He saw the glorious stars in place and the sunrise over a horizon of purple mountains and crystal waters.

The medium by which He took these images from the imaginations of His heart to a visual revelation was His Word.

God saw the chaos and death that was all around Him and believed life could be restored, and His Words became the mediator between the vision and reality.

As I meditate on this, a verse comes to mind: “In the beginning was the Word...” (John 1:1).

Such a similar phrase to what we read in the opening of Genesis 1. I don’t believe it was accidental.

I ponder whether John was purposely reflecting on a period of time long ago when God took a world so utterly broken and, with a spoken Word, restored it back to what it was intended to be.

Was it on the backdrop of that reflection that John introduces Jesus to his reader as the Word?

What a remarkable way to begin this story, about one who will become the mediator between God and a world now broken.

John opens his narrative with the main character, not by name but by a description that reveals His relationship with God the Father.

The relationship as Word indicates an intimacy with God’s heart that only words can reveal. It is the words which slip past our lips like an open door that reveal the mysteries of who we are to one another.

Jesus is that Word clothed in flesh slipping past the door from eternity past into a world that has degraded into chaos and darkness with God’s mandate to restore it back to its original design.

And just like in Genesis, God saw the chaos and rather than just start over, He had a plan and that plan began with His Word which He sent forth, and so the story begins.

I love what Sidlow Baxter wrote:

“... in the visible Jesus the invisible God is brought forth to view. The incomprehensible concept, ‘GOD,’ is objectively elucidated before us. The very heart of the Eternal is livingly ‘exegeted...’”

A Question for Reflection: Where in your life today do you need the Word to speak into the chaos and bring about a new creation? Let’s discuss in the comments.

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It is a fierce, deeply comforting, and radically liberating anthem on what it truly looks like to clear away the religious varnish and be changed from the inside out by a real Savior.

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The Real Reason Moses did NOT enter the Promised Land!

Shervin Youssefian

A breathtaking, revelatory deep-dive into the life of Moses that reframes a historic moment of apparent punishment into one of the most precise, awe-inspiring prophetic portraits of Jesus Christ in the entire Old Testament.

QUOTE: “What looks like punishment… is actually prophecy. What looks like a closed door… is actually one of the most beautifully layered foreshadowings of Jesus in all of Scripture.”

This brilliant piece untangles a question that has troubled believers for millennia: Why was Moses, after forty years of radical faithfulness, barred from the Promised Land just for hitting a rock? The author shatters the idea of a vindictive God and uncovers a masterfully orchestrated gospel blueprint. Because Moses embodied the Law, he had to stop at the border—the Law can expose our need for holiness, but it can never carry us across the Jordan. Only Joshua—Yeshua, Jesus—can bring us into the promise. Furthermore, because the wilderness rock was Christ, it could only be struck once at Calvary; thereafter, we are meant to speak to Him in faith. It is an urgent, beautiful call to stop white-knuckling our way through legalism and instead step into the living water of grace.

If Screwtape’s Department Wrote Today Letter V: Dismantling Fatherhood

Biblical Womanhood

A chilling, brilliantly executed C.S. Lewis-style satire that pulls back the curtain on the subtle, demonic strategy to dismantle the modern family—not through dramatic ruin, but through the quiet poison of a father’s distraction and passivity.

QUOTE: “Your first goal is to steal his presence while leaving his body in the room... The child will grow up with a roof and no shepherd.”

Writing from the perspective of a senior tempter instructing an apprentice, the author delivers a razor-sharp critique of the modern household’s drift. The letter exposes how easily a father can be tricked into substituting financial provision for spiritual shepherding, escaping into the numbing lull of a pocket screen or virtual victories while his children grow up emotionally starved. It unmasks the enemy’s true dread: a tender, praying father who creates safety and models sacrifice. This piece is a powerful, urgent wake-up call for men to wake up from the trance of “busy seasons,” put down the distractions, and realize that fatherhood is a fierce, daily piece of spiritual warfare.

Crushing into Blessing

Jenn J.

A deeply moving, vulnerable reflection that connects the ancient, agonizing history of the “olive press” to our own personal heartbreaks, revealing how God transforms our seasons of crushing into a precious, overflowing oil used to bless and edify others.

QUOTE: “The crushing of hardships, of struggles, and difficult trials produce oil, the outworkings of the Holy Spirit and the manifestations of God’s love and goodness toward us... And as that abundance of oil fills us up, we can pour into others.”

This exquisite piece beautifully reframes our deepest wounds not as wasted pain, but as sacred preparation. Drawing on the literal meaning of Gethsemane—olive press—the author reminds us that just as Jesus had to be crushed to pour out the Holy Spirit, our own seasons of trial and instability are where our spiritual oil is extracted. In a stirring personal testimony, she shares how childhood food insecurity and the painful identity struggles of her pre-teen years became the exact places where she now acutely experiences God’s abundance. It is a brilliant, convicting, and life-affirming call to look at our past hardships and ask: From what pain is your oil overflowing, and who is God calling you to pour it onto?

You Can’t Disciple Babylon Into Holiness

Thurston D. Gill Jr.

A razor-sharp, texturally rich, and deeply convicting look at the “tactical error” of modern believers who try to produce spiritually through political machinery what only the Holy Spirit can accomplish through regeneration.

QUOTE: “You can’t disciple Babylon into holiness... That’s the danger of expecting a system to do what only a Savior can.”

This brilliant piece acts as a necessary “tactical pause” for a weary church. Leaning heavily on historical precedents—from Constantine’s Rome to 1930s Germany and modern American evangelicalism—the author exposes the dangerous spiritual compromise that occurs when believers trade prophetic clarity for political access. We are reminded that while laws can put a temporary “leash on darkness,” they cannot bring about resurrection. It is a fierce, liberating call to remember that the government of the cosmos rests squarely on Christ’s shoulders, not ours, and that our true assignment is the slow, holy work of making disciples rather than attempting to baptize Babylon.

The Revival You Desire Is Not What You Think

Iyanu Adegbite

A gorgeous, counter-cultural deconstruction of religious expectations that strips away the noise, billboards, and program flyers of corporate “revivals” to reveal that true spiritual awakening is a quiet, sacred invitation to dwell in the hidden chambers of the heart.

QUOTE: “Revival is not about the noise. Revival is not always loud... Most often, revival is a sacred invitation into the secret place.”

In this stunningly intimate reflection, the author shares how the Lord gently dismantled her preconceived, public notions of revival—replacing the images of charged atmospheres and loud church programs with the quiet resolve of Psalm 91:1. True revival isn’t a spectacular, one-time emotional encounter; it is a continual, hidden dying to the flesh where we allow Christ to increase. Using a beautiful Yoruba proverb about a leaf becoming the very soap it rests upon, she illustrates how prolonged, secret communion with God inevitably transforms our nature until we resemble the Father. It is an exquisite and urgent call to step away from the crowd, enter the secret place, and allow personal revival to radiate naturally into our homes, conversations, and daily lives.

A Book for the Journey …

Beautiful Outlaw by John Eldredge

To anchor this week’s journey of stripping away religious performance to find the authentic, regenerating power of the Holy Spirit, I am reading John Eldredge’s transformative work, Beautiful Outlaw: Experiencing the Playful, Disruptive, Extravagant Personality of Jesus.

QUOTE: “Reading the Gospels without knowing the personality of Jesus is like watching television with the sound turned off. The result is a dry, two-dimensional person doing strange, undecipherable things... If you do not experience Jesus intimately, daily, in these very ways—if you do not know the comfort of his actual presence—you have been robbed.”

In this magnificent book, Eldredge shatters our stale, sanitized, institutionalized misconceptions of Christ and invites us to meet the real Jesus of the Gospels—a man who is fiercely honest, lavishly generous, wonderfully funny, and utterly impatient with religion. This aligns perfectly with our articles this week: while we are warned not to try to legislate holiness or hustle our way into a program flyer, Eldredge reminds us that true transformation isn’t about adhering to a religious code—it’s about falling completely in love with a real Person. It is a liberating, breathtaking call to step into the secret place, clear away the religious fog, and let the untamed life of the Beautiful Outlaw change us from the inside out.

What I’m Listening To …

Trust In God
Elevation Worship

[Verse 1]
Blessed Assurance, Jesus is mine
He’s been my fourth man in the fire time after time
Born of His Spirit, washed in His Blood
And what He did for me on Calvary is more than enough

[Chorus]
Oh, I trust in God, my Savior
The One who will never fail
He will never fail
I trust in God, my Savior
The One who will never fail
He will never fail

[Verse 2]
Perfect submission, all is at rest
I know the author of tomorrow has ordered my steps
So this is my story and this is my song
I'm praising my risen King and Savior all the day long, oh

[Interlude]
He didn’t fail you then
He will fail you not, oh
Oh

[Bridge]
I sought the Lord and He heard and He answered
I sought the Lord and He heard and He answered
I sought the Lord and He heard and He answered
That’s why I trust Him, that’s why I trust Him

[Interlude]
They that seek You lack no good thing
Those that seek Jehovah lack nothing
Oh, He will never fail
(That’s why I trust Him, that’s why I trust Him)
Oh, oh He will never fail

Visualizing “The Blueprint of True Transformation”

To capture the transition from external striving to the quiet, powerful work of the secret place, here is the visual anchor for this edition:

A hidden, ancient stone sanctuary nestled deep within a quiet woodland. Inside, a single shaft of warm, golden sunlight pierces through a high, narrow window, illuminating a simple wooden table and a small olive oil lamp burning with a steady, peaceful flame. Outside the walls, the faint, distant mist of a morning rain clears, leaving a profound sense of sacred stillness and internal refuge.

Photo by Tolga deniz Aran on Unsplash

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Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

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Deal the cards throw the dice and see what fate will throw your way

The cards come up the dice is thrown you lose

That’s the deal - deal with it

Deals are made everyday, in shady rooms and open graves

Sometimes the deals are nothing more than empty promises made

Dealing dope on the streets and in broken down sheds

Money exchanged, white powder received and suddenly your dead

How many times can I deal with this — your cruelty is harsh

I think it’s time I leave this place — I feel I’m drowning in your marsh

Of evil words and harsh demands - this wasn’t the deal I made

But you’re a liar - father of lies - you don’t care what was said

You’re only words to me were this - this is the deal

Deal with it - that’s it!

If you sign up, you get a weekly prompt on FRIDAYS. The rules are: set your timer for 5 minutes and, using the prompt, just write! No going back to fix anything and no longer than 5 minutes can be spent. It’s so fun! 🤩

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Photo by Saad Chaudhry on Unsplash

Sitting there in the dark, I reflected on what I thought my life was going to be — what I had expected.

Several years had passed since we were married. Now, those expectations lay shredded in a heap with so many others. When you’re young, you grow up carrying certain ideals of what life “should” be. As a Christian, those ideals can feel less like hopes and more like promises. A perfect marriage to a man who loves God and knows how to perfectly love me.

I lived with those strange extremities — perfection or failure, with absolutely no in-between.

Of course, there is no perfection in life, yet failure felt like death. And when those two rigid standards become do-or-die for you, it creates a horrible void that you spend your life tiptoeing around, hoping beyond hope you never fall in.

I fell in.

My husband wasn’t perfect. My marriage wasn’t perfect. But back then, I was completely missing the fact that I was a huge part of the problem. The life I was trying so desperately to curate was just smoke and mirrors. The closer it came to cratering, the harder I worked to throw scotch tape over the seams.

But when the floor gave way, what was beneath me?

The void.

The bottomless void full of broken dreams, shredded expectations, and a fractured reality. It was like an earthquake had split apart the smoke and mirrors, leaving every illusion exposed. I began to see the magic trick for what it was.

I was the magician, but the magic had stopped working.

If you have been reading along with this series over the last three weeks, you know that this bottomless void is exactly where the Holy Spirit began His deepest work.

When my curated foundation shattered, I thought I was being buried alive. But as we looked at Love, we came to realize that the crushing weight of that earth wasn’t a tomb. It was God planting me like a seed in the dark, fertile soil of His love.

In the months that followed, I discovered Joy—not as a fleeting feeling, but as a fortress that protected my heart from the carving arrows of grief while I was under the surface.

Finally, we talked about Peace—the relational anchor that finally allowed me to let go of the steering wheel, stop striving to fix the wreckage myself, and trust the One holding me together.

But let’s be honest about what it actually felt like to sit in the dark before the peace arrived.

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Long before I learned to drop my hands and rest, I was furious.

I felt utterly stuck.

I had spent months preparing to leave my marriage, convinced it was the only way to save myself. But despite my plans and determination, something deeper anchored me. An anchor of conviction.

Walking away was not an option.

It wasn’t what God wanted.

Waves of anger crashed over me. I was angry at my circumstances, angry at the man sleeping beside me, and, if I’m being completely honest, angry at God for keeping me there.

Days turned into months as I floated aimlessly, offering God nothing but silent resentment and endless, bitter tears.

He didn’t walk away.

He didn’t strike me down for my anger.

He didn’t get fed up with my timeline or tell me to pull myself together.

He just sat with me in the dark.

That is where I met the fourth fruit of the Spirit, and it didn’t look like an emotion. It looked like an impossibly long, divine fuse. It looked like longsuffering.

Longsuffering.

I had seen this word in Scripture many times. I had always associated it in my mind with patience. And, patience is part of it, but it’s a very specific kind of patience. Makrothumia, the Greek word used in Galatians 5, combines makros (long) and thumos (temper or passion).

Interestingly, when ancient translators chose this Greek word, they were trying to capture a striking Hebrew idiom: erekh appayim, which literally translates to being “long of nose.”

In the ancient Near East, the universal sign of burning anger was a person breathing heavily through flared, red-hot nostrils. To say God was “long of nose” meant it took an incredibly long time for His nostrils to flare up in wrath. He takes a long, slow breath before He reacts.

And that is where the mirror turned toward me.

For months, my own breathing had been shallow, sharp, and furious. I had been focusing entirely on the flaws and fractures in my husband. I kept a running tally of every disappointment, every wound, every shortcut. My own nose was short; my fuse had burned down to absolute ash.

But as I sat there, wrapped in the silent, unyielding patience of a God who refused to flare up at me, a conviction settled heavily in the room.

How could I demand an infinite fuse from heaven while holding a match to my own marriage?

Photo by Mariana Beltrán on Unsplash

Experiencing makrothumia didn’t instantly fix the wreckage around me, but it did something more urgent: it changed my posture. It meant that instead of packing my bags in my mind every single night, I had to learn to take a breath, drop the match, and let God slowly expand my fuse to resemble His.

Where this applied to my marriage, the shift was tectonic.

I was no longer hopelessly drowning in the angry, suffocating sea of my own resentment. God’s arm of longsuffering reached down into the dark water and pulled me up into the safety of His boat. And the moment my feet hit the deck, the rigid extremities I had lived by for years—that demand for absolute perfection or else total failure—simply fell away.

I began to see my husband through an entirely new lens. I realized that if the Creator of the universe could take a long, slow breath with my fractured soul, I could afford to take a long, slow breath with his.

It didn’t happen overnight. It took months, even years, of slow, intentional practice for the two of us to learn how to extend that kind of makrothumia to one another. There were days we still reached for the matches. But in that quiet room, that surrendering of the short fuse, was the exact starting point of our healing.

Pull Up a Chair

If you find yourself sitting in the suffocating dirt today—bumping into the people who have hurt you, nursing a fuse that has burned down to absolute ash—I want to invite you to take a breath.

Step out of the storm for a moment. Pull up a chair on the porch with me, and let’s look at the dirt from a different perspective.

Longsuffering is not a grueling sentence to become a doormat for people who mistreat you. It is the fierce, calm strength of a soul that knows it is entirely safe inside the fortress of God’s Joy and anchored by His Peace. When you know you are fully protected by heaven, you no longer have to spend your days frantically striking matches to defend your perimeter.

You can afford to hold your fire. You can afford to give others a long, slow breath.

The Husbandman is not finished with the soil of your life, and He isn’t finished with the people buried next to you, either. Trust His fuse today. Drop your matches into the dirt, and let Him expand your capacity to love the imperfect.

Photo by Joshua Earle on Unsplash

Questions for the Porch:

• Where is your fuse the shortest right now? Are you demanding perfection from a relationship, a church, or a circumstance where God is simply asking you to extend makrothumia?

• How has God shown you a “long nose” (patience) in your own seasons of wrestling? How can remembering His patience change the way you take a breath with the people around you this week?

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This week, your feed is completely empty of striving, platform-building, and loud outward noise. Instead, these authors are collectively taking their readers by the hand and leading them into the quiet rooms of the soul where real change happens. Jen Pollock Michel shows us how to cultivate a a sense of hospitality that heals our neighbors; Kristen invites us to drop the hyper-vigilance of survival mode; Emily Vermillion explains the miraculous neuroscience of how God literally rewires our brains when we stop the input; Michael H reminds us to stop staring at the fire of sin and instead look toward the rivers of communion; and finally, After His Heart brings it home by challenging us to embrace the daily, unplannable peace of the manna lifestyle.

It is a beautiful, cohesive anthem on what it truly means to log off the world’s hustle and inhabit the peace of Christ.

Photo by Philipp Torres on Unsplash

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Say Less
Jen Pollock Michel (A Habit Called Faith)

A breathtaking redefinition of hospitality that moves away from the noise of dinner tables and asks us to tend to the calm, generative pastures of silence for both God and our neighbors.

Photo by Jelleke Vanooteghem on Unsplash

QUOTE: “The quiet we learn to inhabit can enlarge and become a quiet we learn to extend to others, as a grace.”

This piece is a gentle but convicting reminder that true hospitality isn’t just about making room at a table; it’s about making room in our conversations. The author challenges us to ditch our “aggressive curiosity” and the urge to fill every awkward pause with advice or our own stories. Instead, she invites us to practice a non-anxious presence—holding open a sacred, tranquil space where others can finally drop their guards, feel what they feel, and say what they actually mean. It is a beautiful call to become people whose very silence heals.

From Survival Mode to Stillness
Kristen (‘Becoming Her’ Journal)

A vulnerable, deeply resonant confession that exposes the exhaustion of hyper-productivity and gently invites us to trade the anxiety of survival mode for the security of surrender.

QUOTE: “You start feeling guilty for slowing down... But God doesn’t operate in panic. Meanwhile, God is over here saying: ‘I got this. Be still.’”

This piece strikes a chord for anyone who has ever worn the heavy armor of survival mode. The author candidly unmasks the internal hustle—the constant, frantic planning, worrying, and timeline-checking that convinces us we must hold our entire world together. She beautifully reminds us that peace isn’t the absence of questions, but the presence of trust, and that slowing down is often a radical act of obedience. It is a comforting balm for the weary soul, reassuring us that God is still God even when we pause, and that He is already standing in the future we are so desperately trying to fix.

Your Brain Can Change
Emily Vermillion (The Bold Life)

A fascinating and deeply empowering intersection of faith and neuroscience that reveals how the quiet spaces act as a diagnostic tool for our minds, and how God literally wired our brains for transformation.

QUOTE: “You can sit in the quiet your whole life and still be controlled by the same thoughts you started with if you do not actually do something with what you find in the silence. Quiet is just the diagnostic. It shows you the trees. It does not prune them.”

This brilliant piece answers the question so many of us ask: Why is the silence so incredibly loud the moment we step into it? The author beautifully weaves the science of neuroplasticity with ancient Scripture to show that our recurring, anxious thought loops are physical “thought trees” we’ve grown over time. She reminds us that “new mercies every morning” isn’t just a lovely sentiment for a journal cover—it is literal biology. God physically generates new brain cells in us daily, creating the exact architecture needed to take our thoughts captive, prune old habits, and renew our minds from the inside out.

A new man
Michael H

A simple, direct exhortation that shifts our spiritual focus away from a frantic struggle against old sins and toward the transformative power of a humble, quiet communion with Jesus.

QUOTE: “We try to avoid sin as opposed to learning how to be in communion with God ... It is like trying to avoid fire by directly staring at it, eventually that fire will jump out into your face.”

This piece fits beautifully into the rhythm of this week’s theme by redefining what it means to become a “new man.” The author uses a striking metaphor to remind us that behavioral change doesn’t happen by white-knuckling our way through a fight with our old habits or staring directly at the things that entice us. Instead, true transformation is the natural byproduct of a humble surrender—turning our gaze away from the fire entirely and choosing to rest beside the rivers of living water.

The Manna Lifestyle: Deliverance From Today's Pharoah
After His Heart

An incredibly sharp, counter-cultural indictment of hustle culture that holds up the biblical miracle of manna to challenge our deep-seated addiction to predictability, control, and self-reliance.

QUOTE: “Manna forced the Israelite people into a posture they were not accustomed to: daily trust in a generous God... God was not merely feeding Israel. He was retraining them.”

This powerful piece unmasks our modern “Pharaoh Spirit”—the relentless drive to structure our lives around KPIs, keyboard quarrying, and oversized barn-building just so we never have to depend on God too deeply. The author brilliantly notes that physical deliverance is easy, but mental deliverance from a “slavery mentality” takes time. Manna couldn’t be hoarded or forecasted; it required fresh faith with every single sunrise. It is a urgent wake-up call for the modern believer to stop romanticizing past bondages out of fear of the unknown, and to step into the daily, life-giving rhythm of trusting the True Manna for exactly what we need today.

A Book for the Journey …

In the Eye of the Storm: Stories of Survival and Hope from the Florida Panhandle
Edited by Jennifer N. Fenwick

To ground this week’s theme of shifting into internal peace, I am reading a deeply moving compilation of poetry, stories, and photographs written by those who endured the unimaginable devastation of Hurricane Michael on October 10, 2018. When the external world was leveled and looked like a warzone, the true story became the interior resilience of the people.

QUOTE: “One thing that has not changed is the resilience and faith of the people in the region ... They are daily reminders of the strength of the human spirit and the power of hope so needed in the aftermath.”

This book is a stunning testament to everything our articles have explored this week. While Kristen reminds us that God doesn’t operate in panic and Michael H points us toward the river of communion, these survivors show us what that looks like in the flesh. It reminds us that when we stop trying to control the uncontrollable radar of our lives, we find an inexhaustible, God-given strength on the inside. It is a beautiful reminder that the eye of the storm is a place of absolute stillness—and that is exactly where hope begins to rebuild, piece by piece.

What I’m Listening to …

I Know A Name
Elevation Worship & Brandon Lake

I know a name that can silence the roaring waves
I know a name that can empty out a grave
I know a name, it’s the only name that saves
And it’s worthy of all praise

CHORUS
I call You, Jesus
I call You, I call You Healer
Risen and reigning in power
Something comes out of the grave
Every time I call You, Jesus
I call You, I call You Savior
Worthy of glory forever
Something comes out of the grave
Every time I call Your name

I have a King with dominion over death
He holds the keys in His holy nail-scarred hands
He is the heel, yeah-yeah
That has crushed the serpent’s head
Our resurrected Great I Am, come on

CHORUS

Every time I call Your name
Chains break, dry bones wake
Every time I call Your name
The gates of Hell shake

Every time I call Your name
Chains break, dry bones wake
Every time I call Your name
The gates of Hell shake
Every time I call Your name
Oh-oh-oh
Every time I call Your name
Yeah, yeah-yeah
Mmm

Where, oh death, is now your sting?
And where, oh grave, your victory?
Come on now
Where, oh death, is now your sting?
And where, oh grave, your victory?
Yeah, where, oh death, is now your sting?
And where, oh grave, your victory?
Yeah

Dead things come alive
Dead things come alive
Dead things come alive in the name of Jesus
Dead things come alive (dead things)
Dead things come alive
Dead things come alive in the name of Jesus
Dead things come alive

Dead things come alive (dead things come alive)
Dead things come alive
Dead things come alive in the name of Jesus
Dead things come alive
Dead things come alive
Dead things come alive in the name

I call You, Jesus
I call You, I call You Healer
Risen and reigning in power
Something comes out of the grave (every time)
Every time I call You, Jesus
I call You, I call You Savior
Worthy of glory forever
Something comes out of the grave (oh, every time)

Every time I call Your name
Chains break, dry bones wake
Every time I call Your name
The gates of Hell shake

Every time I call Your name (dead things)
Dead things come alive, yeah
Dead things come alive, oh
Dead things come alive in the name of Jesus (yeah)
Dead things come alive
Dead things come alive
Dead things come alive in the name of Jesus

Yeah, yeah
So much power in the name of Jesus
So much power in the name of Jesus
Found my healing in the name of Jesus
I was healed in the name of Jesus
Found my freedom in the name, Jesus
Found my breakthrough in the name, Jesus (come on, sing)

And I call You, Jesus
I call You, I call You Healer
Risen and reigning in power
Something comes out of the grave (of the grave)
Every time I call You, Jesus
I call You, I call You Savior
Worthy of glory forever
Something comes out of the grave
Every time I call Your name
Oh, yeah

Visualizing “The Internal Shift to Peace”

To bring a sense of visual rest to this week’s curation that honors both the calm after a storm and the quiet rivers of communion, this image feels right:

The peaceful aftermath of a heavy clearing storm at dusk. Gentle, warm sunlight breaks through the parting, dark storm clouds, casting a golden reflection over a perfectly still, wide river. On the bank, green trees drip with fresh rain, and the atmosphere carries a deep, breathing sense of quiet and restoration.

Psalm 91:1

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Peace isn’t a destination; it’s a connection … Source: Travelif / Getty Images

It was early morning. I grabbed my coffee and walked to the door of the farmhouse. That slow, high-pitched metallic gasp as dry, rusty hinges struggle followed by the heavy, resonant clap or thwack as it hits the frame was a sound I always loved.

The old painted floor boards of the porch held my grandmother’s aged rocking chair where I loved to sit and watch the sun come up. There was a peacefulness that hovered in the air. A rise of chirping from the early birds perched in the large overbearing oak trees dispersed throughout the yard. To the right, horses roamed finding new patches of grass to munch on. Rhythmic squeaks as I rocked back and forth added a percussion to the song that was breathing as rays of light stretched their arms from behind the mountains. A soft gentle breeze blew across my face like a gentle kiss.

This was what anyone would describe peace as.

If peace were simply the absence of noise or conflict, then it would be nothing more than an untrustworthy illusion, dangling before us, ebbing and flowing depending on our circumstances. And if you’ve been following along with this series, you know that our circumstances are rarely static.

Over the last two weeks, we’ve looked at how God meets us when our circumstances completely collapse. We talked about Love—how the breaking of our foundation was actually the breaking of ground, the moment God planted us like a seed in the dark, fertile soil of His grace. Then we looked at Joy—the fortress we hide inside so the carving arrows of grief can no longer reach us while we are beneath the surface.

But let’s be honest about what happens when you are planted in the soil and hidden in the fortress: It is still dark.

You cannot see what God is doing. You cannot see the roots growing or the wreckage being remade. And in that space of blindness, a frantic human instinct rears its head. We get impatient. We get terrified. And rather than waiting on Him, we want to take control.

We want to pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps, dig ourselves out of the dirt, and start managing the outcome. We mistake the shaking around us for abandonment, so we try to become our own deliverers. But every time we reach for the steering wheel, we break our rest.

This is exactly where the third fruit of the Spirit comes in, and why its true definition changes everything. In Galatians 5, the word Paul uses for peace is eirene. It doesn’t mean a tranquil emotion, and it certainly doesn’t mean having everything under control. Visually and literally, it means to join or bind together that which has been separated or divided. It is the picture of setting things “at one” again.

True peace isn’t the ability to control the dark; it is the choice to stay bound to the Prince of Peace in the dark. It is the holy resolve to stop striving, to drop our hands, and to rest in the middle of the unknown, trusting that the One who planted us is the One holding us together.

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The Illusion of the Wheel

There is a profound irony in our urge to take control: we do it to find safety, but it always leaves us feeling more broken.

Think about what happens when you try to force an outcome in a season where God has called you to wait. You stay up late spinning scenarios in your mind. You construct backup plans for your backup plans. You micromanage the people around you, or you try to hustle your way out of the discomfort. In the moment, it feels like action. It feels like strength.

But beneath the surface, your soul is screaming. Your body is tight, your mind is racing, and that fragile sensation of calmness we mistook for peace evaporates.

Why? Because human control is a grueling master. When you decide that you are the one who must secure your future, protect your heart, and fix your wreckage, you take a weight onto your shoulders that you were never engineered to carry. You separate yourself from the posture of a child and try to become the architect. And in doing so, you break the connection.

This is why the Greek definition of peace is so confrontational to our modern way of living. If peace means to join or bind together that which has been separated, then anxiety is the spiritual friction of trying to rip ourselves away from the hands of the Father so we can grab the steering wheel.

When Jesus stood in the back of a storm-tossed boat and whispered, “Peace, be still,” He wasn’t just talking to the water. He was modeling a reality. The disciples were frantic, grabbing ropes and trying to control a sinking ship, while the Prince of Peace was resting. He wasn’t shaken by the unknown, because He was perfectly, permanently bound to the Father.

True peace doesn’t say, “I know exactly how this is going to turn out.” True peace says, “I don’t know the ending, but I am bound to the One who does.”

When we stop striving to control the dark soil or defend the fortress on our own, we finally allow the Holy Spirit to do His mending work. We stop trying to hold our lives together, and we let Him hold us.

Returning to the Porch

We often treat peace like a destination we have to drive toward, or an elusive feeling we have to capture on a quiet morning before the rest of the world wakes up. But the fruit of the Spirit isn’t a fleeting atmosphere. It is a relational bond.

If you find yourself in the dark soil today—if you are exhausted from trying to orchestrate outcomes, manage your pain, or force the sunrise to come a little faster—hear this gently: You can let go of the wheel.

You don’t have to figure it all out today. You don’t have to ensure that everything falls into place. The Prince of Peace is not asking you to build the house or fix the foundation; He is asking you to let Him bind you to Himself.

Picture yourself back on that farmhouse porch. The wind might start to howl, and the storm clouds might roll over the mountains, but you are not standing exposed in the field. You are tucked safely inside. Peace is the quiet confidence that allows you to sit back in the rocking chair, drop your hands, and trust the architecture of the fortress you are hidden in.

True rest doesn’t come when the storm passes. It comes when we realize who is holding us together while it rages.

Stop digging in the dirt. Stop scrambling for control. Let the Holy Spirit bind up what has been broken, and rest in the hands that promise to never let you go.

For Reflection:

What is one area of your life today where you are frantically trying to grab the wheel? What would it look like to drop your hands and allow the Prince of Peace to bind you to His rest instead?

Share your thoughts in the comments below—let’s encourage one another as we learn to stay put in the soil.

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These pieces are a collective sigh of relief for the soul, reminding us that true depth isn’t found in a quick fix or a polished platform, but in the steady, honest act of letting go of control and trusting the One who forms us in the quiet.

Photo by Peter Robbins on Unsplash

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ON OIL
Miesha Kelly | A Gentle Offering

A stunning, sobering reflection that dismantles the performance of faith and calls us back to the slow, private work of cultivating a genuine connection with God.

QUOTE: “You cannot carry someone else’s years of prayer. You cannot borrow another person’s encounter with God. The oil is the living relationship itself.”

This piece beautifully unpacks the parable of the ten virgins to show that what keeps our faith alive during a “long night” cannot be borrowed, inherited, or manufactured. The author reminds us that “the oil” is gathered drop by careful drop through raw honesty, quiet attention, and steady endurance. It’s a powerful invitation for the “social minimalist” soul to step away from the loud platform of religious performance and return to the quiet intimacy of simply knowing Him.

Matthew 25:1-13

THE PROTOCOL OF SEEKING GOD
Abejide Daniel | Gospel Revelation

A relentless and challenging perspective on the hidden cost of carrying God’s presence, shifting our focus away from public fruitfulness and back to the severity of private formation.

QUOTE: “The wilderness is not a delay in the story. It is the story. What emerges from that wilderness is not a polished personality—it is a formed vessel.”

This piece cuts right through the noise of a culture obsessed with visibility and quick platforms. The author maps out the “protocol” of seeking God, showing that true spiritual weight is only formed in environments the world doesn’t celebrate—in caves, wildernesses, and long seasons of unrewarded silence. It’s a beautifully sobering reminder that when the heavens feel like brass, God isn’t rejecting us; He is watching to see if we are pursuing His gifts or if we truly believe He is worth the cost of the process.

PIECE BY PIECE
Almut Furchert | Cloister Notes - Letters From a Weary Pilgrim

A beautiful, domestic liturgy on the nature of repair that uses a broken porch sign to illustrate that both faith and healing are slow, hands-and-knees endeavors.

QUOTE: “No,” dad said, “we have to glue it piece by piece, and let each part dry before we add the next, so it does not fall apart again.”

This poignant story challenges our modern obsession with the “quick fix.” The author reminds us that whether we are mending a fractured argument, a wounded relationship, or our own hearts, real healing demands that we bend low, gather even the tiniest scattered fragments, and patiently glue them back together—one slow layer at a time. It’s a comforting reassurance that a mended life doesn’t have to look seamless to be beautiful; the visible lines of repair are simply where grace has dried.

THE OTHER SHOE DOESN’T HAVE TO DROP
A.J. Swoboda | The Low-Level Theologian

An incredibly relatable, comforting reflection on the psychological hypervigilance that keeps us waiting for bad news—and a beautiful invitation to expect God’s sudden goodness instead.

QUOTE: “What strikes me is how often I fear the suddenness of disaster while rarely holding the same expectation for the suddenness of the Spirit’s work in my life.”

The author uses a comical yet deeply formative teenage experience at a Dairy Queen to unearth a profound human vulnerability: the persistent fear that the “other shoe is about to drop.” While life in a broken world guarantees unexpected storms, this piece gently warns us not to let the fear of disaster dictate our days. By looking at how the Book of Acts flips the “sudden” tragedies of Job into sudden miracles, we are reminded that our futures are not governed by impending doom, but by a Holy Spirit who is entirely capable of breaking through our sealed horizons with sudden grace.

Proverbs 3:25-26

FOLDING A FITTED SHEET
C.J. Heck | CJ’s World on Substack

A hilarious and deeply relatable domestic comedy that turns a chaotic battle with a fitted sheet into a profound metaphor for the messy reality of adulthood.

QUOTE: “I think folding a fitted sheet is God’s way of reminding me I’m not really in control of anything. It’s like being a grownup. I really don’t know how to do that either.”

This delightful essay provides the perfect, lighthearted conclusion to the week. After trying—and failing—to replicate the effortless “evil sorcery” of a YouTube tutorial, the author surrenders to the “acceptance phase” of rolling the stretchy fabric jellyfish into an angry ball and shoving it into the closet. It is a witty and comforting reminder that we don’t have to live perfectly folded, pristine lives to get by. Sometimes, just like navigating adulthood, you just have to do your best with the “rounded hints” of what you’re given and somehow make it work.

A Book for the Journey: Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard

To anchor this week’s theme of slow, attentive seeking, I can think of no better companion than Annie Dillard’s Pulitzer Prize-winning classic. For one year, Dillard walked the valley of Tinker Creek, acting as a “meteorological journal of the mind,” obsessively watching the world around her—from the violent rush of a flood to the microscopic architecture of a drop of water.

QUOTE: “I am no scientist. I explore the neighborhood... I am a pilgrim logging a journal in the spirit of a pilgrim who flags a roadside tree and leaves a mark on a stone.”

Dillard’s writing is a fierce rejection of the hurried, superficial life. She teaches us that to see God, we must be willing to look—really look—at the world with a kind of raw, defenseless attention. It is a book that demands you slow down your breathing, step into the wilderness of your own ordinary days, and realize that extraordinary glory is always hiding just beneath the surface of the things we take for granted.

What I’m listening to …

Adonai
Chris Renzema

I promise You I will not waste Your time
Thinking of ways to clear my name
Oh Adonai, have mercy on me
But if You’re still listening to me
There’s only one thing that I need now
Oh Adonai, have mercy on me
’Cause I’ve
Got nothin’ to bring
Yeah, I’ve
Got nothin’ to bring
~!@

I know I question, know I doubt
Don’t always hear when You call out to me
Oh Adonai, have mercy on me
But if You’re still up there looking down
Oh Adonai, have mercy on me
’Cause I’ve
Got nothin’ to bring
Yeah, I’ve
Got nothin’ to bring
’Cause I’ve
Got nothin’ to bring
Yeah, I’ve
Got nothin’

I promise You I’ll not waste Your time
Thinking of ways to clear my name
Oh Adonai, have mercy on me
Adonai, have mercy on me
Adonai, have mercy on me

Visualizing “The Mastery of the Slow Surrender”

To bring a sense of finality and visual rest to this week’s roundup, an image that captures the transition from striving to resting feels right:

A quiet, sunlit bend of a shallow creek in mid-spring. Dappled golden sunlight filters through a canopy of fresh green leaves, illuminating the clear water as it ripples over smooth, dark stones. On the bank, a single wild iris stands near a mossy log, perfectly still in the peaceful, breathing silence.

This visual brings us right to the water's edge, capturing that exact posture of a pilgrim who has stopped rushing and has finally decided to sit, watch, and stay put.

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I don’t often send extra emails or ask for favors, but today is a little different.

My latest piece, “I Know the Author”—which details our family’s journey through my daughter’s relapse and her incredible path through recovery—is officially live on Sidestack today. It’s currently eligible for Substack of the Week.

Winning this would help this message of hope, trust, and healing find the families who need to hear it most right now.

It takes less than 10 seconds to vote, and no sign-up is required.

Vote Here (Just scroll down to find Laura Lynch and click "Upvote"—it takes two seconds and requires no login!)

Thank you for reading, for walking this path with me, and for helping me share this chapter of our story.

With gratitude, Laura

PHOTO BY Felix Preiss ON Unsplash

When I feel my world start caving in
I look to You and let you in
You search in places I try to hide
You bring your light against darkness collide

My tears can’t escape as you capture each one
Tracking my sorrows, You calculated their sum
You break every chain - you replace every lie
With the truth of your Word - with a song I reply

Glory be to the Lord of my soul!
From the God who is good - His mercies unfold
From the God who delights to give hope in the dark
From the God who gives light to my treacherous heart

Salvation was won through the breaking of flesh
Peace was obtained on the Cross where he bled
Undeterred by the journey, eyes fixed on the prize
When one day He’ll see me - because of Him will I rise

Rise on the wings of glorious delight
Where no more will be the darkness of night
Death will be conquered, no more crying or pain
In His glorious presence, we forever remain ✝

Revelation 22:1-5,17

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Photo by Aleksandra Sapozhnikova on Unsplash

There comes a moment when you stop asking whether something is broken and start asking whether it’s worth saving.

It was an ordinary day. I sat on the chair of my vanity, but something felt different. Looking in the mirror, it was as if I were seeing myself for the first time. I leaned forward and peered in further as if to find myself. My cheeks flushed as anger bubbled up. I looked back at myself and yelled, “What are you doing?”

The house within a house was finished. The struggling had ceased. Questions I had wrestled with found answers. Those words, “What are you doing?” hung in the air. The verdict was handed down and the gavel hit on the sounding block. I could almost feel the vibration in my own teeth. The case was closed. But the house — the one I had so carefully curated — felt stifling.

Stop delaying.

Stop waiting.

Stop gathering.

The mirror reflected back at me the person I had become — my body, my age. My youth was slipping away. I felt a tension grip my insides. If I was ever going to be seen beyond these doors, I needed more and I needed to do it now.

A new sense of direction energized me. Like a sculptor, I began to chisel away towards the vision of what I could be. I started to see someone new in my reflection. But, was it enough? That little girl still cried out to be seen. My teenage self had learned the price of being visible. I was shaping someone who would not be brushed aside.

A stranger now walked the halls of the house. I dressed differently, carried myself differently.

The soft edges of my reflection were sharpening. My clothes, once chosen to hide or accommodate, were now chosen to announce. Oversized sweaters were traded for fabric that clung to the new lines of my waist — lines I had carved out with a discipline.

I no longer shuffled through the hallway trying to remain a ghost. I walked with a deliberate sharp slap of my heel. There was a new tilt to my chin that Billy didn’t recognize—a pride that felt like a shield to me, but looked like a weapon to him.

I wasn’t just walking into a room;

I was daring him to look at what he’d been missing.

Sometimes we don’t realize we’ve already started leaving long before we ever walk out the door.

(If you missed the first raw cut from the manuscript, you can read it here: The Strategic Lean)

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Even in our bonus piece, we see the ultimate architecture—a house built of “blood and grief turned wood and stone”.

These pieces remind us that our most profound moments with God and each other often happen in the thresholds of silence, where presence is the only thing that remains.

Photo by Tjaard Krusch on Unsplash

Jackrabbit in Winter
Alex Cosgrove

A stunning marriage of visual art and verse that captures a fleeting, sacred moment of connection in the stillness of a winter morning.

QUOTE: “...reflection on the ice of your aging, changing face, as the long-eared jackrabbit appears drawing your inquisitive gaze”

This piece is a masterclass in observation, reminding us that nature often acts as a mirror to our own souls. The artwork elevates the poem into a full sensory experience, where the “solemn cathedral bells” of the doves and the crunch of frost-tipped grass create a sanctuary for reflection. It beautifully illustrates how a “shared revelry” with the wild can ground us in the present, even as we navigate the silent reality of our own changing seasons.

A Hundred Deaths
Ali Earthman

A poignant and honest look at the architecture of a heart that has weathered both deep loss and transformative grace.

QUOTE: “But one death left a scar that makes my soul soar. A splendid reminder not of death, but of everlasting life.”

This poem beautifully navigates the tension between the “miniature tombstones” of our past pains and the vibrant life that can flourish in their wake. It doesn’t shy away from the ache of old scars, yet it centers on the one “empty tomb” that changes the meaning of every other death we face. It’s a powerful testament to how our greatest surrender—being dead to sin but alive in Christ—becomes the very source of our most resilient joy.

What Words Still Hold
Antonio Castellaneta

An evocative meditation on the weight and texture of language, seeking the kind of depth that only emerges through stillness and time.

QUOTE: “I want words that do not arrive to explain. Words able to remain near what does not take shape immediately...”

This poem feels like a manifesto for the “social minimalist”—a plea for words that carry the quiet of their journey rather than the noise of the world. It beautifully captures the idea that the most meaningful things in our lives don’t always take shape instantly; they require us to remain open and patient as they move through us. It is a reminder that some of the most profound truths aren’t found in loud explanations, but in the subtle thresholds of silence where something deeper continues to breathe.

What Would He Say? A Caregiver's Poem ...
Chris B. Writes

A raw, breathtaking look at the “language of the soul” that exists between a parent and a non-verbal child.

QUOTE: “And through the ache, through the years of translating love without syllables, something clear came through: ‘Thank you, mom and dad… I love you.’”

This poem was born out of a single, piercing question: If he could talk to you, what would he say first? It captures the moment the “repairs we pretend are permanent” give way to the overwhelming reality of a life built on wordless devotion. It’s a powerful reminder that while we often wait for words to validate our efforts, the deepest truths are already being spoken in every shared breath and every quiet morning that we simply choose to keep going.

Chosen
Faithful Recovery

A resolute and rhythmic declaration of the Gospel that centers on the profound mystery of divine initiative.

QUOTE: “You CHOSE us, LORD, when we did not choose You. LOVED us even when our hearts were untrue.”

This poem serves as a powerful anchor for the week, reminding us that the foundation of our faith isn’t our own effort, but God’s unwavering choice. It echoes the themes of “The Sacred Architecture of Abiding” by illustrating that we are not just near grace—we are covered by it. It’s a beautiful concluding prayer that asks for the courage to daily “choose” the One who has already chosen and redeemed us.

BONUS ADDITION: I usually stick to 5 posts that stuck with me, but I had to include this next one. Stunning and chilling. Enjoy!

The Last Beautiful Thing
Jacqueline

This final piece is a haunting, gothic masterpiece that blurs the line between storytelling and poetry, creating a vivid landscape of love, obsession, and the high cost of refusing to let go.

QUOTE: “You made a bargain for time... But you forgot that time belongs to the one who endures it.”

This narrative is a chilling exploration of what happens when “abiding” turns into a prison. While our earlier poems celebrated the beauty of staying in the Vine, this story warns of the “monstrous” nature of an endurance that is forced rather than chosen. It is a stunning, cinematic look at a love that breaks the world to avoid an ending, only to find peace when it finally embraces the “winter that was always meant to follow.”

A Book for the Journey …

Cathedral of Prayer
Mary Florence

This week, I’ve been resting in a beautiful collection by a fellow Substack author. It feels less like a book and more like an invitation to step out of the noise and into a sacred space.

QUOTE: “A quiet sanctuary for the heart. Within these pages, prayer becomes a place—a cathedral of soft light, stained glass stillness, and gentle devotion... Each candle guides you deeper into holy ground, where silence becomes sacred and the presence of God meets the quiet heart.”

Mary Florence’s words are the perfect companion to this week’s poetry. While we’ve been exploring the “Architecture of the Unspoken,” this book provides the actual rooms for that silence to live in. It is a liturgy for anyone who needs to stop performing and simply learn how to “be” in the presence of the Light.

What I’m listening to …

God Help Me
Unspoken

When I’m at my end
Tears pouring down
And I can’t see past
What’s in front of me now

When it’s all too much
For this heart to take
There’s one name I call
One prayer that I pray

God, help me now
Feels like there’s no way out
But Jesus, You’re faithful and able
And You’ve never once let me down
God, help me now

No matter the pain
My heart may feel
No wound cuts too deep
For Your love to heal

So when fear comes to find me
And doubt starts to grow
I lift up my eyes
I know just where to go

God, help me now
Feels like there’s no way out
But Jesus, You’re faithful and able
And You’ve never once let me down
God, help me now (oh)

No one else (no one else)
No one else (no one else)
Has the power that’s in Your name
Nowhere else (nowhere else)
Nowhere else (nowhere else)
Can I run to, and be saved

God, help me now
Feels like there’s no way out
But Jesus, You’re faithful and able
You’ve never once let me down (ooh)
God, help me now
God, help me now

Visualizing “The Architecture of the Unspoken”

To close this week’s poetry edition, I’ve selected an image that captures that threshold between the seen and the unseen:

A tranquil, misty morning at the edge of a still lake. A single, wooden rowing boat is tethered to a small dock, floating quietly in the fog. The colors are muted—silvers, soft blues, and deep charcoal—suggesting a world that is “continuing to breathe” in the silence.

This visual represents the soul’s choice to remain tethered to the Vine, even when the horizon is obscured and our only language is our presence.

Remain in me, as I also remain in you.
No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine.
Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.
I am the vine; you are the branches.
If you remain in me and I in you,
you will bear much fruit;
apart from me you can do nothing.
John 15:4-5

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AT MY DAUGHTER’S WEDDING

Pay close attention, my child, to your father's wise words and never forget your mother's instructions. For their insight will bring you success, adorning you with grace-filled thoughts and giving you reins to guide your decisions.
— Proverbs 1:8-9

Mother’s Day gives us a chance to celebrate our mothers and what they have been to us. My mom’s name is Judy, and she has been my rock through the years.

Like the verse in Proverbs says, her insight and grace have been my signposts throughout life. Her deep waters of wisdom have always been a place I can drink from, especially in the darkest of times.

When I look back, there are five distinct ways she shaped the woman I am today:

1. Unconditional Love.

   When I think back to the ways I treated her (especially as a teen) and how her reaction was always to love me, it humbles me. She taught me that love isn’t a transaction; it’s a choice you make every single day.

2. Safe Place.
   My mom was always a safe place for me. I remember her coming into my room once and asking me, “Are you OK? Do you think you’re pregnant? If you are, we will walk through it together.”

   I wasn’t, but the fact that she was willing to reach into my world—no matter what I was carrying—and offer a lifeline meant everything to me.

3. A Foundation of Faith.
   She was the one who introduced me to God. She took us to church, read Scripture to us, prayed for us, and lived out what it looked like to be a godly woman. She was the embodiment of what serving and trusting God looks like in the “everyday.”

4. The Gift of Joy.
   My mom always says, “I just love to laugh.” She brings that joy with her everywhere she goes. We can be sitting in the middle of a serious conversation and something just strikes her—she’ll look at me and start laughing, and you can’t help but laugh along. She showed me that sometimes, life just doesn’t need to be taken so seriously.

5. The Heart of a Worker.
   My mother was a powerhouse. Though she was a housewife, she treated her home like a professional calling. She cleaned that house like it was her job. I never remember her just sitting around; she was always visiting people, praying with people on the phone, and keeping our lives moving forward.

MY PARENTS WITH ME

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The Long Farewell

The last few years have been a different kind of journey. I have watched her deteriorate as dementia has stolen bits and pieces of her from us. I cry sometimes watching her slip away.

But, every so often, the mom I remember breaks through with her laughter. The wisdom God gifted her with shows itself again. And she still fights the home care team we have coming to help because, as she puts it: “I will clean my own house, thank you, and no one needs to do my laundry.”

Her maiden name is LaBeouf which means “The Bull.” That she is. Strong, stubborn, and filled with a tenacity that hasn’t quite faded. Oh, how I love her.

Watching her change has made me look closer at all of us—at the traits we carry and the people who live on through our hands, our eyes, and our laughter. I wrote this poem years ago about the “archives” we carry in our DNA, and it feels more relevant today than ever. I hope it blesses you.

Heritage

I looked into my grandpa’s eyes
In my daughter’s face disguised
My son’s hands now strong indeed
Just like my dad’s I see.

Temperament like calm currents flow
From generations long ago
Eyes hazel gold so beautiful
Passed to me ... ages old

Grandma gave her that tenacity
And there’s Meema’s willful personality
My son took Peepa’s tender heart
That feels the pain of another’s lot

High cheekbones a dead give away
Of Comanche heritage displayed
Blonde hair like one we never knew
His life cut off way too soon

Deep poetic waters flow
Music locked inside us rose
From history past revealed today
Sweet sung lullabies relayed.

Unknown tears that flowed from souls
Pain and hardship we’ll never know
What did it take to bring us here
What suffering did they volunteer

Archives of history living in me
Within me the keys to great mysteries
Treasures buried deep inside my soul
Tapestries of lives sewn together as a whole

Fragments of you, pieces of me
Weaving together delicate filigrees
Illustrious buildings rise from the grave
Living forever through the love they gave

I pray you have a mom, or someone who filled that role for you, to celebrate this weekend. May God bless you and your family this Mother’s Day.

And for those of you who are moms: Happy Mother’s Day from our family to yours.

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Last week, I shared the beginning of my journey toward healing [Not Buried, But Covered] —the recognition that darkness isn’t always hopelessness; sometimes, it’s planting. My desperate prayer, “God, please don’t let go because I don’t think I can hang on,” was answered, but not in the way I expected.

I believe God took me to a place of brokenness much like a seed that must split open in the deep soil before life can unfold.

But staying in that darkness without understanding the plan is disconcerting—unless we realize a second, vital truth: hope is found in joy.

Nehemiah 8:10 says …

“…do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.”

Do not be grieved. I had spent years mourning a life grown from a fractured place. Interestingly, the root of that word “grieved” relates to cutting, carving, or shaping. Our grief carves into our hearts. Left unchecked, it forms a version of ourselves far removed from who God created us to be. It carves out deep channels for bitterness, anger, and unrelenting shame.

In this verse, Israel was told: Don’t let this pain cut so deeply that it changes the way you see God.

Why? Because the joy of the Lord is your strength.

For a long time, I couldn’t connect those two dots. How does joy end grief? I realized that as long as we are in a state of grieving, we are unprotected. The “cutting” continues. But the word “strength” here refers to a stronghold or a fortress.

Joy isn’t a fleeting feeling; it is a place to hide.

Inside the fortress of joy, the arrows of grief lose their power. My grief made me feel isolated and powerless, stuck in a snare of past shame. I felt God had left me. But joy changes the vantage point.

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How do we “conjure” joy when we are drowning in sadness? The secret is in the phrasing: it isn’t our joy; it is the Lord’s joy. God finds profound joy in bringing life out of wreckage.

When I prayed for Him not to let go, I opened the door for Him to do exactly what makes Him happiest: delivering a soul from the dark.

We see this in Psalm 18, where David—exhausted from running from Saul—declares:

“The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer.”

And we see it most clearly in Hebrews 12:2:

“…who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame.”

The joy Christ leaned into was the outcome. He endured the dark because He knew the Father’s purpose. That joy became the fortress that accusations and betrayals could not breach.

When we see God as our protector, His joy becomes the walls of our own fortress, standing firm even when the soil is still dark.

This week, if you find yourself in the ‘dark soil’ of a season you didn’t choose, remember that you aren’t just being buried; you are being protected. You don’t have to manufacture a feeling of happiness to find strength. You just have to step inside the fortress of His joy—the steady, unwavering truth that He is bringing life out of your wreckage.

What is one ‘arrow of grief’ you can hand over to the Fortress today?”

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