A few weeks ago, Lydia and I sat across from each other over brunch and talked for a few hours. We lingered over our food, caught up on life, and slipped right back into the friendship we have had for as long as I can remember. Our parents were friends and part of the same Sunday School class, so Lydia has been woven into my story for decades. We spent a lot of time together growing up, even though we went to different schools. Eventually, we stood beside each other at our weddings. I even named my daughter after her.

Today is my wedding anniversary, and it has me thinking about the people who have walked alongside me through the many seasons of my life, even when life has taken us in different directions. I live about 1,400 miles away from our hometown, and I wish we talked more than we do. But when we are together, it doesn't seem to matter how much time has passed. We just pick up where we left off.

That reminded me of something Isaac preached recently from Colossians 3: that because we've been raised with Christ, we're called to set our hearts and minds on things above. He talked about it almost like setting a cornerstone. Once a cornerstone is set, it establishes a direction. It isn't about how you feel on any particular day. It is about deciding where you are going to point yourself and continuing in that direction.

And right now, I wish I could be closer.

What Lydia is walking through right now isn't a rough patch. It's something that will change the shape of the rest of her life, and there are parts of it I'm not able to share here. I know enough to wish I could do more. I wish I could show up at her house, help with her younger kids, sit with her on the hard days, and carry some of the emotional weight with her. But I live 1,400 miles away. There are some kinds of help that distance simply makes harder.

So I pray. I support the ministry work she is doing. And when I am home and we have the chance to sit across from each other over brunch, I try to be fully there. Those things are small compared to what I wish I could do, but they aren't nothing. And somewhere in all of this, I have had to remember that my hope for Lydia was never supposed to rest on whether I could be physically present for her. It rests on God. He can be present with her when I am so far away. He can carry what I cannot carry. He can work in places I cannot reach. And He is not limited by the things that limit me.

That doesn't make the distance stop hurting. I still wish I could be there. But it does mean I don't have to be enough for her. I can love her, pray for her, give when I can, and trust the One who is already there. The miles may have changed our circumstances, but they don't have to change where my hope is pointed.

My mind is very good at collecting things. An email I need to answer. An appointment I need to reschedule. A conversation I need to have. Something at church that needs to be figured out. A kid who needs something. A grocery list running through my head while I'm trying to pray. None of those things are necessarily important enough to be called a crisis, but somehow they can fill every available corner of my mind.

Maybe that's part of what Isaac was getting at when he talked about setting our minds on things above. It doesn't mean the ordinary things don't matter. They do. It means they don't get to become the thing that occupies the center of my attention. I can take care of what is in front of me without letting it become the thing I build my hope around. My circumstances can change. My to-do list can get longer. There will always be something else competing for my attention. But I can keep bringing my mind back to what is true, to who Christ is, and to where my hope is actually anchored.

A few weeks ago, Lydia and I sat across from each other over brunch, and for a few hours the miles between us were simply the miles between us. They were still there. Her circumstances were still there. Nothing about our conversation changed any of that. But I was reminded that some things can remain firmly set even when everything around them changes.

I wonder if this is what Paul is getting at in Colossians 3. We have been raised with Christ, and we are called to set our hearts and minds on things above. Not because life will stop changing, but because we have somewhere fixed to turn when it does.

We don't get to choose everything that happens around us. We don't get to control the miles, the circumstances, the interruptions, or even every wandering thought. But we do get to keep returning to what we have set our hearts and minds on.

Where has your heart been set?


This Week
Think of one person or one worry that's been pulling at your heart or your mind lately, someone whose circumstances aren't yours to control, or something ordinary that keeps crowding out your attention.

If your heart is already staying steady on Christ even while you're carrying that person or that worry, take a minute this week to notice that, and thank God for it.

But if you keep catching your mind wandering back to the same nagging thing, here's the practice: when you notice it happening, don't try to solve it right then. Just name it, hand it to God, and point yourself back toward Him.

You don't have to get your whole heart reset in one sitting. You just have to keep pointing yourself back.


Prayer
Lord, thank you for being the fixed point our hearts can return to, even when everything else keeps shifting.

Forgive us for letting our minds drift toward whatever is loudest instead of staying set on you, and for believing our hope has to rest on what we can control. Help us set our hearts on you like a cornerstone, established on purpose, not moved by how we feel today. Where we love people we cannot reach the way we wish we could, remind us you are not limited by what limits us.

We don't have to get it all reset in one sitting. Just keep pointing us back to you.

Amen.

The Bible was near me most of the time.

I had a teal green, leather bound copy that I got in high school. It had my name in gold letters on the front. It became less of a book and more of a map. The pages were soft, the gilded edges worn off, evidence of years of use, inside and out. The colors had their own stories. Yellow for something I wanted to remember. Purple for a characteristic about God. Green for the ways to grow. Pink for something that stuck out to me personally. Certain passages were underlined because they mattered to me, and sometimes I couldn’t remember why they were underlined until I read them again.

I had a habit of putting that Bible in a place that I would see it. On my bedside table. On my desk. Not just because I needed to remember that I owned it, but because I wanted it to be in a place where I would stop what I was doing to read it. It went with me to church, to youth group, and even occasionally to school.

I wanted to be a person who noticed things in Scripture. Who remembered. Who went back. Who kept learning.

So I highlighted. And underlined. And starred things. And highlighted more.

The past few years, I have stopped highlighting altogether.

Last Sunday, Pastor Isaac preached from a big chunk of Colossians 2.

Paul warns us about a collection of wrong turns: hollow philosophy, rituals, powers and authorities, and man-made rules about food, festivals, and Sabbaths. He even warns about things that appear to be spiritual but are really just self-imposed worship and false humility. If you want to know how to think, speak, or act right, just hang out with Jesus. Stay rooted in Him.

That is especially important because religion has a long history of putting guilt on people for things that God actually never required. Something can look very spiritual and still miss the whole point. What caught my attention was It felt like Paul was describing a system that looked a lot like the one I grew up in.

I grew up in a very rules-centered version of Christianity. There were a lot of things that you did, and a lot of things that you didn’t do, if you wanted to be a good Christian. Following those rules made me feel more spiritual and more serious about my faith. Maybe even a little better than the people who didn’t seem to be trying quite as hard.

Inward disciplines came easy for me. I liked digging into what a passage meant and spending time in meditation and prayer. I enjoyed having a quiet time and checking the box that said, Yes, I did that today!

And at the time, I thought that ease was a sign of strength. I thought that maybe that was what spiritual maturity looked like.

It has taken me years to realize that something coming easily and something being healthy are not necessarily the same thing.

At the church I attended in Lexington, I was in a  leadership class where the senior pastor gave an assignment to have a color coding system for our daily Bible reading. So certain colors represented certain things in our reading, and my Bible slowly became a color coded record of what I was learning.

And I loved it!

But, I also developed a habit that is a little harder for me to admit now: I would sometimes take my Bible with me to Sunday services and leave it open on a chair next to me so I could make sure it was visible.

I wasn’t necessarily thinking, Look how spiritual I am, but looking back I can see that there was some of that in there. And the uncomfortable part of that is that I thrived in that system.

The more disciplined I was, the more spiritual I felt. The more I studied, marked, remembered, and practiced, the more I felt like I was getting Christianity right. From the inside, performative discipline didn’t feel fake, it genuinely felt like I was flourishing.

That’s what makes Paul’s words in Colossians 2 hit me differently now.

“Do not handle! Do not taste! Do not touch!” and then he describes these practices as having an appearance of wisdom with their “self-imposed worship and false humility” (Colossians 2:20-23).

My highlighter wasn’t a metaphor for this passage. It was an ordinary, contemporary example of what Paul was talking about - taking something that can be good and turning it into a measuring stick of spiritual growth and then quietly believing that that measure makes me more acceptable, more disciplined, or more spiritual than someone else.

What’s interesting to me now is the difference between the disciplines I practiced publicly and the ones I didn’t.

Bible study was visible. I could carry my Bible with me, open it up on a table, underline something then highlight it, and then let others see the evidence of my spiritual life.

Fasting was different. I really only remember doing it corporately. When I was in youth group in high school we would do it as a part of praying together or for something that was happening in the world. I don’t remember making fasting a personal practice, just between me and God.

In Matthew 6:16-18, Jesus just assumes that his followers would fast and he tells them to do it in secret and then also that they should wash their faces and not make it obvious to other people that they’re fasting.

My problem wasn’t the Bible study, it wasn’t the highlighting, it wasn’t discipline. Those can all be good gifts. The problem was what was happening when a good thing became a visible way of demonstrating how serious I was about my faith.

Invisibility isn’t a magic safeguard against performance. I didn’t need anyone else to feel proud of me, I had the mental checkbox to do that. Nobody ever saw that checkmark, but it still worked as a measuring stick. But, there is something built into a hidden practice that makes performance harder to sustain. A secret fast doesn’t earn me any credit with the people around me.

A highlighted Bible carried around in public can.

So recently, I stopped highlighting. I stopped underlining too.

Part of me did it as an act of humility, I wanted to loosen my grip on the whole system of measuring myself by what I had marked. I want to read Scripture without turning the page into a record of how well I am doing. And that feels like freedom.

But I’ve also had to wonder if I just created a new rule. Maybe I’ve taken the old system and turned it upside down. Maybe the new standard is: I don’t highlight because I have learned that highlighting can become performance. And now I can quietly measure myself by how free I am from the things I used to measure myself by.

That thought is uncomfortable to me. I don’t think that I intentionally judge people who highlight or underline their Bible. But maybe. I don’t have the answer for that yet.

There is another image in Colossians 2 that I hadn’t really connected to all this before: “circumcision not performed by human hands” (Colossians 2:11). And that took me back to John Wesley.

In 1733, Wesley preached The Circumcision of the Heart, years before his Aldersgate experience (a moment that he later described as a profound awakening of faith). He used Romans 2:29 to describe the marks of a heart truly changed by God as "humility, faith, hope, and charity.” Humility comes first. That word stopped me.

Paul, in this same passage, warns about “false humility.” Wesley is pointing towards the real thing. False humility can become another religious performance. True humility looks different: it begins when we stop trying to prove ourselves and let God do His work in us.

That makes me look at my highlighter story differently. The problem wasn’t the Bible study or the highlighting. The problem was what I was asking those things to prove: that I was disciplined, serious, and doing Christianity well. I have taken something that could have been a means of grace and turned it into evidence of my spiritual worth.

The outward practice had become a substitute for the inner work. Maybe that is what I have been trying to learn: not less discipline, but discipline that makes space for God to change my heart, instead of letting the discipline prove that my heart was already changed.

Wesley’s definition of humility is even more sharp: "Humility, a right judgment of ourselves, cleanses our minds from those high conceits of our own perfection.”

High conceits of our own perfection. I had already written about that without having the words for it: I thought that ease was a sign of strength. I thought, “Maybe this is what it looks like to be spiritually mature.” Oof. Wesley had a name for it.

So is discipline still in? I think it is. Richard Foster opens Celebration of Discipline with a chapter called “Door to Liberation.” The disciplines, he says, aren’t a checklist for earning God’s approval, they're practices that make room for us to encounter God and be changed by Him.

Wesley called it the “means of grace.” Prayer, Scripture, the Lord’s Supper, and fasting aren’t the engine of grace. They are places where we put ourselves in a posture to receive it.

That distinction has become important to me. A rule tells me how I am doing. A means of grace helps me receive what God is doing in me.

The outward action can look exactly the same. I can read my Bible because I want to be seen as someone who reads the Bible. Or I can read it because I want God to meet me there.

Same action, different posture. So yes, discipline is still in. I am just learning that it has be held as a means, not a measure.

There was one part of Pastor Isaac’s sermon that I had to take a little further for myself. The sermon focused on Paul’s warning not to let other people judge us, and that is an important freedom. But then I had to ask myself what that freedom looks like from the other side, when I am the one who stopped. Because if I don’t want to be judged for my freedom, I have to be willing to offer that same freedom to someone else.

Even if someone is still holding the highlighter.

That’s not a correction of Pastor Isaac’s sermon as much as the next step I needed to take with God. Paul is clear about not letting someone else’s rules define me, but I don’t think that the freedom stopped there. It has to cut both ways. If I don't want someone else’s rules to measure my faith, I can’t turn my freedom from those rules into a new standard for measuring someone else.

If highlighting is no longer something I need, that doesn’t make my choice a measure of someone else’s faithfulness. I don’t want to trade one measuring stick for another.

So the highlighter is still sitting on my desk. I haven’t thrown it away. Maybe I’ll pick it up again someday. I just want to be more honest with myself about why I am reaching for it when I do.

And maybe that’s the question I am left with today: not whether a practice is right or wrong, but what I am asking that practice to do for me.

The disciplines in my life may look different from yours. But what if we ask ourselves: Is this a rule I am using to measure myself (and maybe someone else)? Or is it a means of grace, something I’m using to make room to meet God?

I don’t know that there’s always an easy answer. I am still trying to figure it out. Maybe you are too.

This Week
I'm not going to tell you to start or stop a spiritual practice this week, that would just hand you a new measuring stick to replace the old one.

Instead, pick one discipline you already practice, whatever it is: reading your Bible, praying, fasting, serving, showing up on Sunday. Before you do it this week, pause for a second and ask yourself honestly: what am I hoping this proves? Am I using it to measure myself against who I used to be, or against someone else? Or am I using it to make room for God to actually meet me there?

You don't need a tidy answer. Just notice.


A Prayer
Lord, thank You for tearing down the rules we build to prove ourselves to You and to everyone watching.

Thank You for the freedom Paul writes about—for freedom from measuring our worth by what we've read, marked, or given up.
Keep teaching us true humility. Not the kind that quietly congratulates itself for being humble, but the kind that simply stops trying to prove anything at all.

Help us hold the disciplines You've given us loosely enough that they remain means of grace, not measures of who's doing better.

And give us the same grace for others that we're asking You to give to us, for the ones still holding their highlighters, and for the parts of us that still want to be seen.

We don't have this figured out. We're still learning.

Meet us here.

Amen.

It's 5:30 in the morning. Vic's already gone to work, but the coffee's going. He starts it before he leaves. I'm in the recliner by the living room window, breakfast on my lap, looking out over the ranch. Bible open, before the day gets moving. Nothing dramatic about it. Just an ordinary morning.

It wasn't always like this this summer, though. And it took a sermon to help me name what had actually happened in between.

Pastor Isaac preached this week on Colossians 2, in a sermon called "Continue." One line has stuck with me since: receiving Christ isn't a parking spot. It's a merging lane.


I didn't fully understand how true that was until I looked back at my own summer.

I didn't make a decision to stop reading my Bible this summer.

I just started doing it less.

At first, maybe I skipped a morning here and there. Then a couple of mornings in a week. Summer schedules got a little looser, mornings got a little busier, and before I really noticed what was happening, sitting down with my Bible before the day started had become the exception instead of the routine.

My workout routine followed a similar path. I didn't quit working out. I just let it slide. And now that I'm slowly adding those things back into my mornings, I've been reminded of something I wish I hadn't forgotten: it is much easier to keep a good habit going than it is to rebuild one you've let go. Getting back to the weights is harder than it was when I was doing it consistently.

My muscles remember what they used to do, but they aren't quite ready to do it again. And spiritually, I think something similar happens. I didn't suddenly decide I didn't need God's Word. I didn't stop believing it mattered. I just stopped making space for it as consistently as I had before. The drift was so ordinary that I almost didn't notice it. But I'm noticing the difference now that I've started again.

This past week, I've been getting up when Vic leaves for work at 5:30 and reading my Bible while I eat breakfast. And yes, I'm physically more refueled because I'm not waiting until 10:00 to eat. But there's something deeper happening, too.

I'm starting the day grounded in Truth.

I don't read my Bible each morning because I'm trying to collect more information. After nearly 30 years of reading Scripture, that's not really what I'm looking for. I need the grounding. Without it, I can slip pretty easily back into my old patterns of perfection and performance. I start measuring the day by what I accomplish, trying to control what I can't control, feeling like I should be doing more, and generally forgetting that I am not the one holding the whole thing together.

Before the emails, errands, decisions, kids, distractions, and whatever else the day throws at me, I need to remember what is true.

The weights are coming back this week. But Scripture came first.

Colossians 2:7 gives us three pictures for what happens next: rooted, built up, strengthened.

Rooted, I already know what that looks like right now. Scripture, breakfast, 5:30am, before anything else gets a vote.

Built up doesn't happen in one sitting. It's one ordinary morning, then another, then another. No single dramatic day where I "arrived." Just another course added to what was already there. Scripture is anchored to breakfast now. This week, the weights get stacked on top of both. That's habit stacking, and it's also just what being built up looks like, one anchored piece at a time.

Strengthened is still ahead of me, if I'm honest. The weights go back on the schedule this week, and I already know it won't feel the way it used to for a while. That's not a setback. That's just what strengthening looks like.

Last week, the words "overflowing with thankfulness" felt a little out of reach. It was hard. Parenting an adult child and a middle schooler under the same roof brings two very different kinds of hard, and there were things happening that I could not control. And if I'm honest, that is where I struggle most. I want to fix things. I want to make things better. I want to be able to do something that changes the outcome. But sometimes loving someone means standing beside them when you cannot fix it for them.

I'm not overflowing with thankfulness this week. But I am starting my mornings in the Word again, and I think there is something important about that. I am reminding myself, before the day gets going, that I am not the one holding it all together. I don't have to have the answers. I don't have to control the outcome. I can be rooted in the One who does.

Tomorrow morning, I'll be back in that recliner by the window, breakfast on my lap, looking out over the same ranch. The coffee will already be going, not because I made it, but because Vic made it for me before he ever left the house.

I don't know if this will be the week overflowing with thankfulness finally shows up. I don't know if next week will be easier than this one or harder. But I know where I'll be sitting, and I know who I'm rooted in while I'm sitting there.

Not a parking spot. A merging lane.

Continue.

This Week
Think of one habit or rhythm that's quietly slipped this summer, not something dramatic, just something ordinary you used to do without thinking and now have to talk yourself into. Don't try to fix all of it this week.

If you're already back in it, rooted and steady, use this week to notice that and say thank you for it. If you're still parked, still meaning to get back to it, here's the assignment: pick the smallest piece, not the whole routine, and do that one piece tomorrow morning before anything else gets a vote.

Continuing was never about arriving. Real merging doesn't work that way either. You match the speed of what's already moving, then you go. Maybe that's what continuing actually is, not setting your own pace, but matching a rhythm that's already there, and letting it carry you in.

Prayer
Lord, thank you for being the ground we can stand on when nothing else feels steady.

Forgive us for the ways we quietly let go of the habits that keep us rooted in you, not all at once, but a little at a time, until we hardly noticed it happening. Help us start again this week, not in one big moment, but in small, ordinary steps.

Remind us that we are not the ones holding everything together, and that you are strong enough to hold what we cannot. Even in the weeks we're not overflowing with thankfulness yet, keep us rooted, keep building us up, and keep strengthening us for whatever this week holds.

Amen.

This past Sunday, Pastor Isaac walked us through the three goals Paul lays out for the church at Colossae in chapter 2: encouraged in heart, united in love, and full understanding in Christ. Two of those I want to touch quickly. The third is where I want to sit with you for a while, because it's the one I'm still working out in my own life.

Encouraged in Heart
Isaac's right that this goes deeper than a pep talk. The encouragement Paul is after isn't a mood you talk yourself into or a compliment that makes you feel good for an afternoon. It's closer to what the Holy Spirit does when he "testifies with our spirit that we are God's children" (Romans 8:16): an actual work of grace, not a feeling you manufacture by trying harder to be positive. You can't will yourself into that kind of courage. You can only receive it.


I can say that from experience. Isaac has been generous with his encouragement of my writing for years now, and it's done exactly what he preached about Sunday: it gave me the courage to keep growing as a communicator and to try things I wouldn't have attempted otherwise. But God didn't design any of us to be a reservoir, holding what we're given just for our own benefit. He designed us to be a riverbed, something it's meant to flow through. So this post is, in a small way, an attempt to pass along what's been poured into me rather than just keep it.

Complete Understanding
Pastor Isaac made a good move separating wisdom from knowledge. Charles Wesley, John Wesley's brother and the movement's great hymn writer, once wrote that he wanted to "unite the pair so long disjoined, knowledge and vital piety." Wesley wasn't inventing a new idea; he was pressing Paul's vision into everyday church life. Knowing about Jesus was never supposed to just sit in your head. Paul isn't talking about accumulating more information. He's talking about a life shaped by the truth you already know. Some of the wisest people I know couldn't win a theology debate, and they don't need to.


United in Love
Both encouragement and understanding ultimately lead somewhere: into the way we love one another.

Paul's ambition for two small churches down the road from each other, Colossae and Laodicea, was that they would stay together in love without agreeing on everything. Isaac made that point Sunday, and he’s right. But it’s also an easy point to accept because it costs us so little. Of course we can love people we disagree with politically. We don’t actually have to do anything about that.

Here's the harder version, the one I've been sitting with.

John Wesley used to say there is no holiness but social holiness: your faith was never meant to be a private transaction between you and God. It's meant to get worked out inside real relationships, with real people, including the ones who are hard to be around. The class meetings that shaped Wesley's movement existed so people would actually watch over one another, not merely avoid conflict with one another. Unity, in his mind, wasn't the absence of a fight. It was people staying close enough to be changed by each other.

That's a much higher bar than "don't argue about the upcoming election." And I don't think I've cleared it.

I have a family member I worked closely with through the years. When that working relationship ended, it was a hard season for both of us, hard enough that I don't think we'll ever get back to what we had. These days, we see each other at family gatherings. I don't avoid her in town. We live close to each other, and I've made peace with the fact that I'm not part of her work anymore. But we aren't close, not the way we used to be. I've put up some boundaries around my heart, on purpose, because I needed to.

I wish we had real unity, not just the absence of conflict. Some days I genuinely don't know how that's possible.

Here's what I've had to learn to sit with: those might be two different things. Reconciliation of heart before God isn't the same as restoration of a relationship to its old shape. Paul's ask in Colossians is the first one: that we're united in loving God, loving what's true, and not carrying bitterness toward each other. It doesn't necessarily mean rebuilding every relationship back to what it used to be. Sometimes love looks like showing up, staying kind, and keeping the healthy boundaries that protect your heart from being wounded in the same ways again. That isn't necessarily a failure to love well. It may simply be what faithful love looks like in this season.


I don't have a bow to put on this one. I'd love to tell you it all got resolved and we're close again. It isn't, and we're not, at least not yet. But I've stopped believing that unresolved means unfaithful. Paul wasn't asking the Colossians to manufacture perfect relationships in their small town. He was calling them to remain rooted together in Christ, bearing with one another in love even when life together was complicated.

If there's someone in your life like that, someone you can't fully reconcile with but haven't walked away from either, I don't have a tidy answer for you. But I don't think you're failing at unity. I think you might be living it, even in the tension and unfinishedness of where things are right now.

This Week
Think of one relationship where full agreement, or full closeness, isn't there right now. Don't try to fix it this week. Instead, ask yourself honestly: Have I let go of bitterness? Am I loving this person as faithfully as I can in this season?


If you're still hoping for something to be repaired, don't rush past that hope this week. Bring it to God plainly, in the actual words you'd use with a friend. He already knows, and he isn't asking you to perform a peace you don't yet feel.

A Prayer
God, thank you for encouraging our hearts, not because we've earned it, but because that's who you are. Give us the courage to receive your encouragement and to pass it on to someone else this week.

Teach us to love beyond the absence of conflict. Where relationships remain unresolved, comfort us in the not-yet. Keep bitterness from taking root, give us wisdom to love well with healthy boundaries, and keep our hearts open to the work you're still doing.

Keep drawing us back to Jesus, so our understanding is never just information, but a life increasingly shaped by his love. Amen.

Pastor Isaac preached on Colossians 1:24-29 this Sunday, and he was honest about it before he even started: "I don't like this message." Paul writes, "Now I rejoice in what I am suffering for you," and Isaac's first reaction, like most of ours, was come on, that can't be real.

By the end, he'd shown why it is real. Paul isn't performing stoicism. He's saying his suffering has become a place where he identifies with Christ, on behalf of the church.


I want to sit with that a little longer than the sermon had time for, because there's a real danger hiding just underneath it.

The Line that Helps, and the Line that Hurts
"Did you ever imagine your suffering may not be about you?" is a genuinely good question. Most of us curl inward when we're hurting: the deer that jumped out, the AC that broke at the worst time, the diagnosis that landed on the wrong week. Paul's answer to his own suffering wasn't to minimize it, but to widen the lens. This is for the body of Christ, not just for me.

Here's the danger. That same sentence, unmoored from Paul's specific context, becomes something people say to each other in the hospital waiting room, at the funeral, in the small group where someone finally admits they're not okay. "This isn't about you. God's going to use this for someone else."


And scripts don't leave room for someone to just be devastated for a while.

Paul earned the right to say "I rejoice in my suffering." He'd been beaten, shipwrecked, imprisoned, and he wrote those words from inside all of it, not as advice for someone else's pain, but as his own hard-won posture toward his own.

What I Learned, but only Afterward
I think of the years after my dad died. There were seasons where I couldn't see a way through, where all I could see was what other people still had that I'd lost. That's an honest, ugly part of grief nobody warns you about: the comparison, the resentment that creeps in when you're the one who's empty-handed. I didn't have anything close to Paul's rejoicing available to me then.

But years later, I found myself sitting with a friend who'd lost a parent too early in their life, the kind of loss that reshapes a whole life. And I knew what she needed, because I remembered exactly what I had needed, even though no one could walk that road for me.


That's the only place I've found Paul's words to be true for me, not in the middle of my own pain, but years later, on the other side of it, watching what God had quietly built in me through that suffering, without asking my permission first.

Grace Still has to be Met
That gap, between the suffering and whatever it produces, is the part worth naming carefully, because suffering doesn't automatically produce anything. John Wesley talked about growth in Christ as grace offered and then received, over and over again, rather than pain doing the work by itself. Two people can walk through the same loss and come out very different: one more closed and fearful, another more compassionate, more open, more like the friend I had the privilege of becoming.

That's not a promise, and it's not a formula. For someone wrestling with clinical depression or deep trauma, "meeting grace" isn't a decision they're failing to make every time they can't get there. That's where patience, professional care, and people who simply stay become as much a part of God's grace as prayer itself.


The way Paul does, and the way I'm trying to here.

One Step for this Week
If you're the one suffering right now, Paul's rejoicing is not a bar you have to clear today. Grieve badly if you need to. The hope of glory is real, but it isn't a performance requirement.

If you're not currently in the thick of it, here's the assignment. Find one person this week who is, and sit with them without trying to fix, explain, or hand them a verse.

No script. Just presence.

That's the whole thing Paul earned the right to say. Start by earning the smaller version of it.

A prayer
Lord,

We don't want to rush anyone's pain, including our own. Where we're hurting, give us permission to not have arrived yet. Where someone near us is hurting, take the fix-it words out of our mouths and replace them with the willingness to just stay.

Do in us, over time and without our noticing, whatever you did in Paul. We're not asking to feel it today. We're asking to trust that you're not finished.

Amen.

Vic had known for a few days he was going out. A neighbor, laid up with a bad knee, needed help spraying weeds and getting hay put up, and he'd asked Vic ahead of time if he could come on his day off. Vic said yes.

Partway through the afternoon, the sky opened up. Not a passing sprinkle, a real storm, the kind that soaks you through in minutes and turns dust to mud under your boots. They kept working anyway, drenched, because the job still needed doing. By the time they called it a day, the storm had blown through and the sky had cleared.

The neighbor was grateful enough to ask him to come back this week.

That's the whole story, on the surface. A man helped a neighbor. It happens all the time around here. But underneath it is something older than that afternoon, something that didn't start with Vic at all.

Gratitude has a way of outliving the moment that caused it.

Pastor Isaac preached last Sunday on July 5th, the day after America's 250th birthday. He walked us through 1 Timothy 2, where Paul tells the church to pray for those in authority, to live lives marked by godliness, and to let that spill over into how we participate in the places we live.

One line from the sermon has stayed with me all week: gratitude that stays a feeling hasn't finished its work yet. It's meant to move. It's meant to become something we do, not just something we say thank you for on Sunday and forget by Monday.

As Pastor Isaac talked about gratitude, I found myself thinking less about fireworks and flags and more about a story from Vic's family.

When Vic's dad, Gerald, was a young man, he inherited a ranch that was deep in debt. The note was strict, no room for a missed payment, and to have any hope of making it work, he needed cattle he couldn't afford. He went to the bank. They said no.

He had one more option, a neighbor named Cooley. Cooley didn't have to help him. There was no favor owed, no arrangement that made this Cooley's problem. He co-signed the loan anyway, on a young man the bank had already turned down.

Gerald never got over it. For the rest of Cooley's life, he showed up whenever Cooley needed something, not once, not as a favor repaid and closed out, but as a standing posture. Years later, when Cooley was old and his own family wanted to sell off his land to the highest bidder, Cooley called Gerald instead and sold it to him at a price that let it stay a working ranch. One gift answered by a lifetime of showing up, answered by one more gift at the end.

That's the story Vic grew up inside of, whether he could always name it or not.

Here's the part I don't want to skip past. Vic will be the first to tell you he didn't always live this way. In high school, this wasn't who he was. It's something he grew into, something he had to recognize and choose, more than once, before it became who he is now. That matters more to me than if he'd simply been born generous. A gratitude that has to be grown into, chosen again after we've drifted from it, looks a lot more like the kind of gratitude God is actually after in us. Not a personality trait. A response we keep choosing.

So when Vic worked in that storm on his day off, he wasn't just being a good neighbor in the abstract. He was standing in a line that started with a man who didn't have to co-sign a loan, and it kept going because Gerald never let himself forget it, and it's still going because Vic decided, at some point, to grow into it too.

What has been given to you that you never earned?

Maybe it's not a co-signed loan. Maybe it's a person who believed in you before you'd done anything to deserve it, a season someone carried you through, a debt of some kind, financial or otherwise, that somebody chose to absorb instead of collect. Gratitude that stops at "I'm thankful for that" hasn't finished the job. It's meant to turn into something you do for someone else, especially someone who can't pay you back either.

This Week
Think of one specific gift you were given that you didn't earn and couldn't have demanded. Not a general blessing, but a specific act of kindness, generosity, or grace. Then ask yourself: Who is standing where you once stood? How can you show up for them this week?

Gratitude hasn't finished its work when we say thank you. It finishes its work when it becomes something we pass on.

Prayer
Lord,
Thank you for the people who showed up for us before we deserved it and kept showing up long after they had to.

Forgive us for the times we let gratitude stop at words instead of letting it become action. Help us remember what we've been given, and give us eyes to see who's standing where we once stood.

Make us people who show up without keeping score, the way it was shown to us.
Amen.

I don’t remember the sermon. I don’t remember the songs we sang. What I remember is staying late after the service, talking with Danielle and Sandra while most everyone else had already gone home.

I remember feeling heavy. I’d spent years learning the right answers, attending Bible studies, getting a religion degree in college, working in churches, and doing all the things a good Christian was supposed to do. But somewhere in that conversation, I admitted what I had been carrying: I knew a lot about God, but I wanted to know Him. Not as a subject to study, but as a friend to walk with.

That night I took communion with a gratitude I had never felt before. What I know is that something shifted. The years that followed were different from the years that came before. My faith stopped being primarily about learning facts and became a relationship I wanted to cultivate every day.

I keep coming back to that younger version of me sitting there with Danielle and Sandra, trying so hard to “get it right.” I wonder what Paul would have prayed over her in that moment.

What strikes me in Colossians 1:9 is that Paul doesn’t tell the Colossians to work harder to figure God out. He prays that God would fill them with the knowledge of His will through the wisdom and understanding the Spirit gives.

That means the knowledge is a gift before it becomes a responsibility.

My younger self was approaching faith as something to master. Paul’s prayer suggests that knowing God’s will begins with receiving from the Holy Spirit, not merely accumulating information. The goal isn’t becoming an expert on God. The goal is becoming the kind of person who can recognize His leading and walk with Him.

That same shift from striving to receiving is what I see so clearly in my own backyard.

My garden looked very different a few weeks ago after a hailstorm rolled through. Leaves were shredded, stems were bent, and everything looked like it had taken a step backward before it started growing again.

But the roots were already there, doing work I had never earned and never noticed.

Right now, my garden doesn’t look finished. The parsley and basil are thriving, but the rosemary is still struggling to come back. The zucchini is slowly pushing out new leaves, and the beans and tomatoes are growing, even if they’re not as tall as I wish they were by now.

Most mornings start the same way: checking the plants, noticing what’s changed, and dragging out the hose again. With the dry weather and constant wind, missing a watering isn’t really an option. Growth is happening, but it isn’t dramatic. It’s the kind that comes from showing up day after day and paying attention.

This Week
Take ten minutes with no agenda except to be with Jesus. No checklist. No study plan. No pressure to learn something new. Just pay attention. Talk to Him. Listen. And notice what grows when relationship becomes more important than information.

A Prayer
God, thank You for the work You do beneath what I can see. When life looks shaken or unfinished, remind me that You are still forming something deeper in me.

Help me to release the need to control what only Your Spirit can grow, and instead stay attentive and willing to respond to what You are doing day by day. Teach me to show up faithfully, even when I don’t see the full story yet.

Hold me steady in what You’ve already begun, and keep shaping me by Your grace, one quiet layer at a time.

Amen.

We don't get to choose everything we inherit.

Some of it is beautiful. Some of it is heavy. Most of us receive a mixture of both without ever having a say in how it was formed or what it cost the people before us.

Faith, silence, strength, fear, generosity, survival. It all gets carried forward in ways we don't always recognize at first.

That's what makes Deuteronomy 6 so striking. Moses doesn't begin with where things came from. He begins with what happens next: you, your children, and their children after them.

The past is real, but it is not the final word.

And somewhere between what we’ve received and what we will pass on, we turn.

There's an old saddle hanging in our shed that belonged to Vic's dad.

For years, Vic's dad rode that saddle across our family's ranch. Long before I was part of the story, it carried him through calving seasons, checking cattle, fixing fence, and all the ordinary work that makes up a cowboy’s life. What I love about that saddle is that it didn't stop with him. Vic still rides in it. He'll tell you it's comfortable, broken in just right, and fits him perfectly. The leather is worn smooth in places. The stirrups show years of use. Every mark tells part of a story, and the story is still being written.

When I look at it, I'm reminded that inheritance is rarely simple.

We receive gifts from those who came before us. We also receive things that leave scars. Most of us inherit some mixture of both blessing and burden.

But God's grace has a way of stepping into the middle of those stories.

Grace goes ahead of us.

Long before we recognize it, God is already at work softening hearts, opening eyes, and awakening a desire for something more.

Grace is never passive in us. It awakens a response that we choose, even as it enables that choice.

The past is not erased. The miles are still there. The saddle still bears the marks of where it has been.

But over time, even the same saddle can begin to tell a different story.

That's what I hear in Moses' words in Deuteronomy 6.

What strikes me most about this passage is where Moses begins. Before he talks about children, grandchildren, teaching, or remembering, he starts with the heart.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength."

Then he says, "These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts."

That's easy to miss.

We tend to think generational faith begins with teaching. Moses says it begins with surrender.


Before faith can be passed on, it must first take root in us. Before it can be written into the lives of our children or grandchildren, it must be written into our own hearts.

The handoff of faith doesn't begin with a lesson plan. It begins with a life that is being shaped by God.

That's good news for those of us who come from complicated stories.

The hope of Deuteronomy 6 is that God starts with us, whether we are continuing a godly legacy or beginning a new one.


It's coming before God and saying, "Lord, start with me. Write Your Word on my heart."

As I think about that old saddle, I’m reminded that every one of us has received a story we didn’t completely choose. Some parts are worth celebrating. Others remind us how much we still need God’s grace.

This week, take a few moments to thank God for the good things you’ve received. Be honest about the parts of the story that still need His grace. Then bring all of it to Him. Ask Him to do what He promised in Deuteronomy 6. Ask Him to write His Word into your heart.
Not because we are strong enough to rewrite the story on our own, but because His grace is already at work writing His Word into us.

A new legacy doesn’t begin when we finally figure everything out.
The past is part of your story. By God’s grace, it doesn’t have to be the final word.


A Prayer
Lord, thank You for the story You've given me. Thank You for the parts that have shaped me through love, faith, and blessing. And thank You for Your grace in the parts that still need healing.
Write Your Word on my heart. Help me surrender to the work You are already doing in me. Where I need courage, give courage. Where I need wisdom, give wisdom. Where old patterns need to end, help me respond to Your grace.
Use my life to point others to You, and let the legacy I leave be one that reflects Your faithfulness.
In Jesus' name, Amen.

The Hope That Comes Before
When life feels uncertain, my instinct is usually to focus on whatever is right in front of me. I pay attention to the problem that needs solving, the relationship that feels strained, or the responsibility that can't wait until tomorrow. Hope often ends up feeling like a luxury reserved for easier days.

But as I read Paul's opening words in Colossians, I was struck by how differently he sees things. He thanks God for the Colossians' faith and love, yet he traces both of them back to something deeper: a settled confidence in what God has promised. It made me wonder how much of my own faith and love are shaped by the hope I am holding onto, or the hope I have forgotten.

Hope Is the Root, Not the Reward
The good news of the gospel is that our standing before God does not depend on our ability to earn His favor. We belong to Him because of what Christ has done, not because of what we have accomplished.

At the same time, grace is not merely a promise about our future; it is God's power at work in our present. The same grace that forgives us is also transforming us, teaching us to love more deeply, trust more fully, and reflect Christ more clearly.


Paul describes faith and love as fruit growing out of the same root: hope. Scripture shows this pattern on a scale most of us will never personally face. But I want to start with Peter, because when you see it in Acts 10, you begin to recognize it in smaller, closer moments too, like Baptism this past Sunday.

Peter Catching Up to Grace
Peter's vision on the rooftop in Joppa did not make immediate sense to him. Unclean animals, a voice telling him to eat, a command that cut against everything he had been taught about clean and unclean, who belonged inside God's people and who stood outside it. Before he fully understood what it meant, messengers were already at the door. Cornelius, a Roman centurion, had been praying, and the Spirit had already been moving in his house before Peter ever arrived.

Peter's obedience came before his understanding caught up. He walked into a Gentile home not because he had it all figured out, but because he trusted that the same God who had raised Jesus and was still at work in him was now doing something he hadn't expected. That is faith flowing from hope, not confidence that everything will make sense in advance, but willingness to follow when God leads further than he had planned to go.

And then came the love: a Jewish apostle sitting at a Gentile table, welcoming people the purity laws had taught him his whole life to keep at a distance. Not because he had forced himself to feel differently, but because he had caught up to what God was already doing in them. Cornelius wasn't waiting for Peter to arrive before God started working. God had gone ahead. Peter's part was learning to see it.

Standing at the Edge of the Water
This past Sunday I was standing at the edge of the water on Baptism Sunday when a young cowboy I know walked toward the tank to be baptized, with his family and friends watching.

My first instinct about him had been shaped more by the people he spent time around than by him. I had quietly placed him in a category. I did not know the full story of what God had been doing in his heart, only what I could observe from a distance.

But as I stood nearby and watched that moment unfold, I became aware that something deeper was going on than I had assumed. He had come to recognize his need for forgiveness and his desire to walk with Jesus.

When he came up out of the water, the expression on his face was relief and quiet joy, like something heavy had finally been lifted. In that moment, I was reminded again how often I see a category where God is already at work in a person.

This Week
This week, instead of asking God to simply show you who you've misread, pay attention to someone you've decided you already know how their story goes. And then, from the security of what Christ has already done and the hope that He is still at work in people you cannot yet see clearly, take one step toward them in love.

Not to prove anything and not to get it right, but because hope frees you to move toward people without fear. God is the one already at work in them, and He is the one who holds what you cannot yet see. God is the one already at work in them, and He is the one who holds the outcome of your obedience.

A Prayer
Lord, help me see people the way You see them. Where I've put people into categories, soften my heart and open my eyes.
Teach me to trust that You are already at work in places I cannot see.
And give me the courage to respond in love, even when I don't fully understand what You are doing.
Amen.

Most of us don’t just notice the weather where we live, we track it. Weather is spontaneous out here in Wyoming. One moment the sky is clear, and the next it has shifted entirely. But gratitude often doesn’t feel like that. We tend to treat it like something that shows up or doesn’t, something we react to rather than something we practice.

But what if gratitude is not something that comes and goes with our circumstances? What if it is a way of seeing, something we learn to practice over time, until it begins to shape how we respond to everything else?

Paul opens his letter to the Colossians with that kind of posture. Not an argument. Not a correction. At least not yet.

Before Paul teaches, corrects, or encourages, he gives thanks. Gratitude is not an afterthought for him. It is where he begins. That alone is worth noticing. The things we lead with often reveal what has shaped us most deeply.
Pay attention to where Paul’s gratitude leads him. Before he says anything about the Colossians, he anchors his thanksgiving in Christ.

The title matters here. Paul does not say “Jesus our teacher” or “Jesus our example.” He says “Christ,” the Anointed One, the Messiah, the One the whole story was pointing toward. Before he writes another word, Paul plants a flag.

And then he tells them why he is grateful. Not because they are impressive or successful or growing numerically. Because he has heard of their faith and their love.

Someone told him. A report traveled from Colossae to Paul, and their ordinary faithfulness had a radius they probably were not even aware of. It reached an apostle who had never met most of them.

Notice the direction of Paul's gratitude. Their faithfulness did not make Paul compliment them. It made him pray. Their lives redirected him toward God.

That is what a faithful life does. It does not just inspire the people around it. It gives them reason to thank God out loud.

This is what gratitude does.

Gratitude grows when we learn to notice God’s grace expressed through the faithful lives of others. It is not just a reaction to our own circumstances. It is a response to what God is doing in people around us.

Paul is not simply thankful for the Colossians. He is noticing God at work in them, and that noticing turns into worship.

And this is where gratitude becomes more than a feeling.

Most of us think gratitude arrives when circumstances cooperate. We imagine it as something we feel after the promotion, after the healing, after the relationship improves, after life finally settles down.

Paul treats gratitude differently here.

For him, gratitude is a habit of attention.

It is the practice of noticing evidence of God's work and responding to it.

That means gratitude can exist even in seasons that are unfinished. It can coexist with frustration, uncertainty, and unanswered questions because it is rooted not in perfect circumstances but in the faithfulness of God already at work.

I think that is why my gratitude for my husband, Vic, has deepened over the years.

Not because life has been easy. Not because our marriage has been effortless.

Quite the opposite.

His faithfulness shows up in ordinary moments: the way he works at becoming a better man, the friends he keeps who tell him the truth, the fact that he has not given up on us when giving up would have been easier.

Early in our marriage he would shut down when things got hard. So did I, honestly. We needed people to come alongside us. Friends who refused to let us drift. A counselor who gave us words and tracks to run on when we had none of our own.

That was grace.

We did not manufacture it, but we did steward it.

There are people we love whose marriages are fracturing right now. And when I see that, I notice what God has done in ours. The people He provided. The wisdom we did not have. The help we needed.

And noticing leads me to gratitude.

Not because our marriage is perfect.

But because God's grace has been present.

Pastor Isaac puts it this way: we have the ability to give God a good day.

Not because God needs anything from us. As Pastor Isaac illustrated Sunday, even a grandchild’s delight brings real joy to a grandparent. In the same way, our gratitude and faithfulness matter to God, not because He is deficient without them, but because love delights in relationship.

We often think of gratitude primarily as something that benefits us. And it does. It changes our perspective and softens our hearts. But Scripture consistently presents gratitude as relational. Thanksgiving is one of the ways we participate in God's joy. Like a child proudly showing a parent a drawing, gratitude delights the One who gave the gift in the first place.

Your faithful life has a radius you cannot fully see.

The way you show up for your family, tell the truth to a friend who needs it, and keep going on an ordinary Tuesday.

Most faithfulness is remarkably unremarkable. It happens in ordinary kitchens, ordinary workplaces, and ordinary conversations. It is built one small decision at a time, long before anyone notices the cumulative effect.

Someone is being shaped by that faithfulness.

Someone is being redirected toward God because of it.

Maybe gratitude is not something that arrives like the weather after all.

Maybe it is a posture.

A way of paying attention.

A habit of noticing God's fingerprints in the people around us and responding by saying, "Thank You."

So whose faithfulness has become your prayer lately?
And who might be thanking God right now because of yours?





A Question to Sit With
When was the last time you intentionally thanked God for the faithfulness of someone in your life? Who are the people whose ordinary obedience, quiet perseverance, and steady love have redirected your attention toward God?

And what might change if gratitude became less about waiting for a feeling and more about learning to notice?

A Prayer
Lord, thank You for the people whose faithfulness has shaped our lives in ways they may never fully know. Thank You for the friends who tell us the truth, the mentors who guide us, the family members who stay, and the ordinary believers whose quiet obedience points us toward You.

Teach us to pay attention. Open our eyes to the evidence of Your grace all around us. Help us become people who notice Your work and respond with gratitude. And may our own lives become the kind of faithful witness that gives someone else reason to thank You.
Amen.

A reflection on James 5:19-20 and the people worth going after

If you have spent any time around cattle, you know that most of the herd follows without much trouble. But there are always a few that present challenges. Some are bunch quitters: independent spirits that resist going with the group. Others are young and inexperienced, still learning the way. And then there are the protective mothers, hiding their calves in the brush, driven by instinct to shield what they love from perceived danger.

For those of us at Black Hills Cowboy Church, this is not abstract imagery. It is the kind of thing that makes immediate sense. And it turns out James had the same picture in mind when he wrote his closing words.


The word James uses for “wander” in the original Greek was specifically used to describe grazing animals that drift away. That is not accidental language. It is a precise and compassionate description of how most people end up far from where they intended to be, not through dramatic rebellion, but through gradual drift.

HOW WANDERING ACTUALLY HAPPENS
Most of us do not struggle primarily with choosing between obvious evil and obvious good. We generally choose good when those are the only options. Our real challenge is distinguishing between good and best, or even more difficult, between really good and best.

Grazing animals move because they are designed to. They see something green and appetizing and they pursue it. That instinct is not bad. It actually prevents overgrazing in one spot. But the same instinct that keeps them fed can lead them straight off a cliff edge if nobody is paying attention.

We function remarkably similarly. And wandering tends to happen in a few recognizable patterns.

Some people are natural boundary-pushers: entrepreneurial, curious, and drawn to the edge. That quality is often a gift. But the same spirit that makes someone innovative can also lead them to wander, grazing closer and closer to the precipice without realizing the danger.

Some people wander protectively, pulling away from community because they have been hurt before and isolation feels safer than vulnerability. Like a mother cow hiding her calf in the brush, the instinct is understandable. But isolation that begins as protection can become its own kind of danger.

And some of us, and I will put myself in this category, wander because something shiny caught our attention. I have a tendency to get genuinely excited about a new idea or direction and slowly lose sight of what I was supposed to be doing in the first place. No dramatic rebellion. Just distraction, gradual and quiet.


A STORY I WATCHED FROM A DISTANCE
Sometimes wandering stories end badly.
Sometimes they do not.
I have a story of one that did not.

I have a brother who is seven years older than me. When he finished high school, he went his own way, away from faith and away from the things he had been raised with. I was young enough that I do not remember the specifics. I just knew he was gone in an important sense.

I cannot tell you exactly who went after him or what that looked like. I was not close enough to see it. But somewhere along the way, something turned. I think having kids was part of it, maybe. The weight of being a parent has a way of pressing questions back to the surface that we thought we had buried.

What I can tell you is who he is now. He is an attentive, devoted father to six children, present in a way that clearly costs him something and clearly matters to him. He is an artist, thoughtful and kind, with a faith that is genuinely his own and a church community where he is growing.


And I am grateful, deeply and quietly grateful, for whoever went after him in those years I was not watching. Whoever asked the questions, kept the door open, and refused to write him off.

That is what James is talking about. That is the stakes.

FOUND PEOPLE AND LOST PEOPLE
Jesus told a story about a shepherd with one hundred sheep. When he discovered one was missing, he did not calculate that ninety-nine out of a hundred was an acceptable success rate. He secured the ninety-nine and went looking for the one.

Here is an uncomfortable truth: I know some found people who do not care much about lost people.

Sometimes it is selfishness. I am safe, that is unfortunate for you. Sometimes it is judgment. That was a really poor choice, what were you thinking? And sometimes it is a failure of imagination. We assume everyone faces the same temptations and battles we do, and we measure their struggle against our own experience of it.

During Sunday's message, Pastor Isaac spoke about those stuck in addiction. Someone who does not struggle with it might look at someone who does with bewilderment, thinking: just stop. But that completely misses what that person is actually facing, a stronghold that exerts real and serious power. True compassion requires us to recognize that different people face different battles. What is manageable for you might be devastating for someone else.

True compassion requires honesty about this. Mercy grows when we remember how much grace it took to bring us home, too.

Rather than writing people off, we are called to reach out, to understand, and to help pull them back.

WHAT TURNING AROUND ACTUALLY LOOKS LIKE
Biblical repentance is more than acknowledgment and remorse. It is a complete change of direction, a 180-degree turn that is physical and practical, not just emotional.

It is not enough for the wandering animal to feel bad about having strayed. It needs to actually turn around and head back toward safety. True repentance involves acknowledging what went wrong, being genuinely sorry for it, and then moving, actually moving, in the opposite direction.

This requires humility from the wanderer. But it also requires patience and wisdom from the person doing the rescuing. Showing up and announcing “you really messed up and need to turn around right now” is rarely effective and almost never kind. What actually works is helping someone see what they truly want, where they truly need to go, and what God has genuinely designed for them. We lead people back. We do not drag them.

WHY IT MATTERS THIS MUCH
God designed us as herd animals. We function better together than alone. We learn better, make better decisions, and are stronger in community than in isolation. This can feel frustrating when we are convinced we are right and someone keeps asking hard questions. But the truth remains: we need each other.

When someone wanders from truth, they are not just taking a minor detour. They are heading down a path that leads toward real loss, loss in relationships, loss of purpose, and spiritual drift that compounds over time. By going after them, we do not just help with their current situation. We turn the trajectory of a whole life.

My brother is proof of that. Six kids who have a present, attentive father. A life full of art and kindness and genuine faith. That is not a small thing. That is the result of someone, somewhere, refusing to give up on a young man who had gone his own way.

And here is one more thing worth saying, because it happened just this past week and I do not want to let it pass without naming it: our congregation prayed for rain. And it rained.
The same God who answered Elijah’s prayers on a dry mountainside, the same God who goes after wandering sheep and brings prodigal sons home, heard our prayers over a dry Wyoming range and sent rain. He is not a distant God who set things in motion and stepped back. He is present. He is listening. And He moves when His people ask.

That matters here because the same faithful God who sends rain when we pray is the God who pursues wanderers when we go after them in His name. We are not doing search and rescue in our own strength. We are joining a God who is already looking, already moving, already refusing to give up on the one.


We are all part of that team. The question is whether we are actively looking, and whether we are willing to go after the one, even when the ninety-nine are accounted for and it would be easier to stay put.

If you are wandering today, let someone help you find your way back. The humility to admit you have strayed is the first step home. And if you know someone who has wandered, do not write them off. Go after them. The stakes are higher than they look from the outside.

A QUESTION TO SIT WITH
Is there someone in your life who has wandered, from faith, from community, from the person you know they were meant to be, that you have quietly written off? What would it look like to refuse to give up on them? And if you are honest with yourself, is there an area of your own life where you have been slowly drifting without naming it? Name it today. That is the first step back.

A PRAYER
Lord, thank You for the people who refused to give up on the wanderers in our lives. Thank You for whoever kept the door open for my brother, for whoever kept asking questions and staying present during the years he was gone. Give us that same stubborn, patient love for the people in our lives who have strayed. Keep us from the comfortable selfishness of caring only about the ninety-nine who are accounted for. And in the places where we ourselves have been quietly drifting, distracted, isolated, or grazing toward the edge without realizing it, bring us back. Gently if possible. Firmly if necessary. But bring us back. And thank You for the rain. Amen.

A reflection on James 5:16-18, Elijah, and the kind of prayer that actually moves things

What makes prayer powerful? Is it the eloquence of our words? The perfection of our lives? Our theological credentials?

James gives us a surprising answer, and an even more surprising example.

"The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective. Elijah was a human being, even as we are."  ~James 5:16-17

Elijah. The prophet who called down fire from heaven, shut up the sky for three and a half years, and then, in what might be my favorite detail in all of Scripture, mocked the 450 prophets of Baal by suggesting their god might be asleep or otherwise occupied. The man had a gift for snark. I relate to him more than I probably should.

But James is not drawing our attention to Elijah's accomplishments. He wants us to notice something much simpler: Elijah was human, just like we are. Flawed. Inconsistent. Capable of extraordinary faith one day and extraordinary fear the next.

Right after his greatest victory, he collapsed under a tree and asked God to let him die. The same man. The same God. The same story.

And yet his prayers stopped the rain and started it again. Full circle. The same broken person, still useful, still heard.

That is the point. That is the encouragement. Not that Elijah was exceptional, but that he wasn't.


RIGHTNESS VERSUS RIGHTEOUSNESS
We tend to assume that powerful prayer belongs to people who have their lives more together than we do. People who pray longer, sin less, and use better vocabulary when they talk to God. But that assumption misunderstands what James means by righteousness.

Pastor Isaac pointed out in Sunday's sermon that righteousness is not the same as rightness.

The religious leaders in Jesus' day had rightness down to a science. They had volumes of rules detailing exactly how far you could walk on the Sabbath and precisely what you could and couldn't carry. They were technically correct about nearly everything.

Yet Jesus said the righteousness of His followers needed to exceed theirs. How is that possible?

Because righteousness is not primarily about rule-keeping. It is about relationship. It is about being in sync with God, understanding His heart, His purposes, and His direction, and aligning yourself with them.

Vic has been working toward getting his CDL, so there have been driving videos playing in the background of our house for weeks. One thing I have reflected on lately is that you can follow every traffic law perfectly and still be driving in the wrong direction.
Righteousness is about heading where God is heading, not just driving correctly. It is possible to be technically right and still miss the heart of God.

This is deeply freeing. It means the question is not, "Am I good enough to pray powerfully?" The question is, "Am I oriented toward God? Am I moving in His direction, even imperfectly?"

And the good news is that God is always at work drawing us further in that direction.

PRAYER AS PARTNERSHIP, NOT PETITION
Here is where I have to be honest about my own struggle.

My default mode in prayer is still too often, "God, here is what I am doing. Would You bless it?"

Being a planner and a lover of checklists, I come to God with my agenda, my plans, my preferred outcomes, and hope He will get on board. It is prayer as a divine rubber stamp rather than prayer as genuine conversation.

But the posture James describes, the posture Pastor Isaac often talks about, and the posture Elijah models is the opposite.

It starts with listening.

It starts with asking, "God, what are You already doing? Where are You moving? How can I join You in that?"

God does not need our information. He already knows everything about everything all the time. Prayer is not about updating His database or convincing Him to care.

Prayer is, in part, God's invitation to us to participate in what He is already doing in the world.


The Lord's Prayer models this beautifully. It begins with, "Hallowed be Your name," getting in sync with who God is. Then comes, "Your kingdom come, Your will be done," getting in sync with what God is doing. Only after that alignment do we bring our daily needs.

The order is not accidental. It is the shape of righteous prayer.

I am still learning this. Some mornings I get it right. Many mornings I do not. But the direction matters. The direction is toward listening before speaking, toward asking what God is up to before telling Him what I need.

THE CRASH UNDER THE TREE
I want to linger for a moment on what happened to Elijah after his greatest triumph because I think it is one of the most honest and underpreached moments in the Old Testament.

He called down fire from heaven. He defeated 450 false prophets. And then he ran, collapsed, and told God he was done. Finished. Ready to die.

And what did God do?

He did not rebuke him. He did not deliver a motivational speech.

He sent an angel with food and water and told him to sleep.
Twice.

Rest first. Eat first. The journey ahead is too much for you without it.

I am writing this at the end of a long school year, during a week I have intentionally kept quiet and set aside for rest, catching up on work that has piled up, finishing a blog post I have not written in weeks, and tackling the housework that gets neglected when every other kind of work takes over.

I am, in my own small way, sitting under the tree.

And reading this passage in that season, I find it remarkably tender.

God is not impatient with our crashes. He is not frustrated that we need to stop. He built rest into the fabric of creation because He knows what sustained output costs a human being.

The angel did not tell Elijah to pray harder or get back out there.

He told him to eat because the journey is long.


If you are in a crash season right now, tired in a way that goes deeper than sleep, running on empty after a long stretch of output, this passage is for you. And honestly, it is for me too.

Rest is not a failure of faith.

Sometimes it is an act of faith.

PRAYING FOR PEOPLE WHO HAVE HURT YOU
Righteous prayer is not only about aligning ourselves with God's purposes for our own lives. It also changes how we approach the people around us.

There is one more dimension of righteous prayer worth naming because it is one of the hardest.

How do we pray for people who have wounded us?

Our instinct is to dress up our grievances in prayer language.

"God, help them see what they did."

"God, give them what they deserve."

Which is often just asking God to vindicate us while pretending to intercede for them.

A more honest prayer sounds something like this:


That prayer is righteous not because it is perfectly gracious, but because it is honest about its own limitations and aligned with God's heart rather than our wounds.

It is getting in sync with a God who loves the person who hurt us just as much as He loves us.

That is hard.

It is also holy.

SEVEN TIMES
When Elijah prayed for rain after three and a half years of drought, he did not pray once and walk away.

He sent his servant to look for clouds seven times.

Seven times the servant came back with nothing.

Seven times Elijah stayed on his knees.

Not every prayer calls for that kind of persistence. But when we are genuinely in sync with what God wants to do, when we are praying in alignment with His purposes rather than merely our preferences, there are seasons to press in, to stay, and to keep sending the servant back to the horizon.

And when the servant finally spotted a cloud the size of a man's hand, barely a smudge on the sky, Elijah knew.

Not because the cloud was impressive.

Because he trusted the faithfulness of the God he had been praying to.

The size of the answer did not matter.

The character of the One answering did.

That is what righteous prayer looks like in practice.

Not perfectly articulated.

Not always immediately answered.

Not free of doubt, exhaustion, or crash seasons under trees.

But persistent, aligned, and rooted in the faithfulness of God rather than the adequacy of the one praying.

You are just as human as Elijah.

That is not a limitation.

According to James, that is exactly the point.

The power was never in Elijah.

It was always in the God who listened.


A QUESTION TO SIT WITH
Is your prayer life currently shaped more by what you want God to bless, or by what God is already doing?

What would it look like this week to start your prayer time with listening rather than asking? To pause and say, "God, what are You up to? How can I join You?"

Try it once today and see what happens.

A PRAYER
Lord, I confess that I come to You more often with my agenda than with open hands. I confess that I talk more than I listen and that I am more comfortable telling You what I need than asking what You are doing.

Forgive me for the times I have used prayer as a way of managing outcomes rather than meeting You.

Teach me to be in sync with You, with Your heart, Your purposes, and Your direction.
And in the seasons when I am sitting under the tree, exhausted and empty, remind me that You are not frustrated with my limits. You built rest into the fabric of things. Meet me there. Feed me. And when I am ready, send me back out, not in my own strength but in Yours.

Amen.

Prayer, Praise, and the People Who Show Up

I want to tell you about the scariest season of my life, and what I learned about prayer, community, and praise on the other side of it.

When I was pregnant with our oldest daughter, something was wrong. She was diagnosed with IUGR, intrauterine growth restriction, which meant she was not growing the way she should. Every appointment carried that particular kind of dread that settles into your chest and does not leave. Vic and I were young. My faith was real, but still growing. We were both genuinely scared.

James 5:13-16 is a passage I have read many times since then. But I read it differently now, because I have lived it. I want to walk through it with you, not as a theological exercise, but as a story about what happens when we actually do what James says.

PRAY WHEN YOU ARE IN TROUBLE AND DO NOT WAIT
“Is anyone among you in trouble? Let them pray.”
James 5:13

This seems obvious. When trouble strikes, pray. And yet, how many of us exhaust every other option first? We puzzle and strategize and lose sleep, and only after we have completely worn ourselves out do we finally think maybe we should pray.

I understand that instinct. Vic and I are capable people. We are the kind of people who fix things. But there is no fixing a baby who is not growing. There is no amount of effort that changes what is happening in the womb. That helplessness, as terrifying as it was, became one of the most spiritually clarifying experiences of my life.

When you have no other options, you find out what you actually believe about prayer. Not what you say you believe. What you actually believe.

What I found was this. Prayer is not a last resort. It is not the thing you try when everything else has failed. It is the first and most honest acknowledgment that there is a God, and we are not Him. It is how we open ourselves to His grace in the middle of what we cannot control.

James does not say pray harder, or better, or more eloquently. He simply says pray. When you are in trouble, pray. Start there. Stay there. Let that be the posture from which everything else flows.

LET YOUR COMMUNITY CARRY YOU
“Is anyone among you sick? Let them call the elders of the church to pray over them.”
James 5:14

Here is where the passage moves from private devotion to shared life, and where our story becomes personal in a different way.

We had a small group during that season, and they showed up in the way small groups are meant to show up. They prayed for us, not just “I will be thinking of you,” but real, gathered, intentional prayer. They came to see us in the hospital. They brought meals.

It sounds simple. Meals and hospital visits. But when you are young and scared, and your tiny baby has just been taken from you before you even had a chance to hold her, simple is exactly what you need.

You do not need polished theology in that moment. You need presence. You need someone to sit with you. You need food at your door without having to ask. You need people who love you enough to step in without being told how.

James is not describing an empty ritual when he talks about anointing with oil. He is describing a community that takes responsibility for one another. The oil is a sign of God’s presence and healing grace. The people are the means through which that grace is often experienced.

God has always worked this way. He forms a people, not just individuals. He distributes gifts across the body so that we remain connected, dependent, and humble enough to receive from one another.

We were not designed to be sick alone.
We were not designed to be scared alone.
We were not designed to sit in hospital rooms alone, waiting for news we cannot control.
We were designed for community. In that season, our small group became the hands and feet of Christ to us.

PRAISE WHEN THE RELIEF COMES
“Is anyone happy? Let them sing songs of praise.”
James 5:13

I want to be honest about what it felt like when we found out she was healthy.

It was not a dramatic burst of joy. It was relief. Quiet, overwhelming, almost weightless relief. They had taken her away right after she was born, and when the nurse came back and told us her lungs were fully developed, that this tiny four and a half pound baby was going to be okay, what I felt first was the slow release of a breath I had been holding for months.

That matters, because not every answer to prayer looks the same.

Sometimes praise is loud.
Sometimes it is tears.
Sometimes it is sitting very still and whispering thank you.

James tells us to praise, not because God needs it, but because it reshapes us. It trains our hearts to recognize grace. It reminds us that we are not the source of the good in our lives. We are recipients of it.

She came home after a few extra days in the hospital. Four and a half pounds, fully developed lungs, and as it turns out, a whole lot of opinions about the world. We were so grateful.

That gratitude is praise. Returning to it, letting it shape how we see even ordinary days, that is part of the life James is pointing us toward. Not just a moment of relief, but a way of living that remembers we were held.

WHAT THIS PASSAGE IS REALLY ABOUT
James 5:13-16 is not a formula for getting what we want from God. It is a picture of a life formed by trust in Him.

Pray when you are in trouble. Not as a last resort, but as your first response.

Seek community when you are suffering. Not because people are the answer, but because God chooses to work through His people.

Praise when the relief comes. Not only in the big moments, but in the quiet ones too.
The thread running through all of it is this. We are not self-sufficient, and we were never meant to be.

Grace meets us in our need. It draws us into prayer, places us in community, and teaches us to recognize God’s presence in both the waiting and the outcome.

The more we stop pretending we can do this alone, the more fully we step into the life God designed for us.

PUTTING THIS INTO PRACTICE
If this passage is meant to be lived, not just read, here are three simple ways to begin this week.

Pray first, not last
The next time something stressful hits, pause before you problem-solve. Even if it is brief, say something honest to God right away. It does not have to be polished. It just has to be real.

Let someone in
Think of one person you trust and tell them what is actually going on. Not the edited version. The real version. Let them pray for you, sit with you, or help in a practical way.
Name one thing and thank God for it

At the end of the day, take a moment to notice something good. Big or small. Say thank you for it. This is how praise begins to take root in ordinary life.

A LIFE STILL BEING WRITTEN
Our daughter Meaghan is grown now. She is quiet and thoughtful, a little shy with adults, but she comes alive around children. She is studying to become an elementary school teacher. She is a loyal friend, creative and a little theatrical, and she carries a tenderness that I think was shaped, at least in part, by a story she does not fully remember, but we never will forget.

She is a living reminder that God hears prayer, that community matters, and that sometimes the miracle arrives quietly. Four and a half pounds, fully developed lungs, and a whole life still unfolding.

A QUESTION TO SIT WITH
Which of these is hardest for you right now?

Sit with that this week. Then take one small step in that direction. Not all three. Just one.
If you are in a season of trouble or sickness, consider who you could call. You were not designed to wait alone.

A PRAYER

Can I be honest about something?

I don’t usually have a hard time speaking my mind. Ask anyone who knows me. But there is one specific situation that still makes me go quiet, and I didn’t fully understand it until I started paying attention.

When I am not confident about a topic. When I feel out of my depth. When vulnerability feels like too high a price.

That is when my yes stops being fully yes. And my silence stops being wisdom.

It becomes something else. A way of staying safe. A way of staying in the room without really being in it.

And I carried that pattern for years without naming it.

The Loophole We Don’t Talk About
When Jesus is teaching in Matthew 5, He is speaking to people who had built an entire system around managed truth. You could swear by heaven, or by earth, or by Jerusalem, each oath carrying a different level of weight, a different level of accountability.

It sounded serious. But underneath, it was a way of sounding truthful without fully being accountable.

Jesus doesn’t adjust that system. He dismantles it.

Heaven is not a workaround. It is God’s throne. Earth is not neutral ground. It is His footstool. There is no category of speech where God is not already present.

Which means the loopholes were never protecting anything. They just gave the illusion of control.

And then He says something that feels almost too simple. Let your yes be yes and your no be no.

No reinforcement. No verbal padding. No escape hatch.

Because the goal was never to find better words.

The goal is to become the kind of person who doesn’t need them.

My Quieter Kind of Loophole
I never built elaborate verbal escape hatches. Mine was simpler.

Silence.

For several years at Black Hills Cowboy Church, I would sit with thoughts about what I was learning, reactions to sermons, questions that wouldn’t leave me alone, and I kept most of it to myself.

Not because I was dishonest. But because putting my real thoughts out there felt vulnerable in a way I wasn’t ready for.

What if I was wrong?
What if I didn’t know enough?
What if speaking up cost me something?

So I showed up. I served. I did the job I was assigned.

And I kept the most honest part of myself tucked away where it couldn’t be challenged or changed.

James 5 puts it plainly. Above all, let your yes be yes and your no be no.

Don’t reach for stronger language. Don’t soften what needs to be said. Just stay steady.
But I was doing a version of the opposite.

I wasn’t overstating. I was understating. Withholding.

And the gap between what I was actually thinking and what I was willing to say was quietly costing me, and maybe the people around me too.

The Tap on the Shoulder
About a year ago, I was in a conversation encouraging someone else to step into what they were called to do.

And right in the middle of that conversation, I felt the Holy Spirit ask me the same question.

"What are you waiting for?"

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was clear.

And I knew exactly what it meant.

So I started writing. Just putting my honest thoughts into words, out loud, where people could read them and respond.

It felt exposed. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with it.

But I did it anyway.

And something shifted.

Pastor Isaac started engaging with what I was writing, encouraging it, challenging it, pushing back on it. Our church community started responding.

What began as a quiet act of obedience has become one of the most significant things in my growth.

Not because I became an expert.

But because I stopped hedging and just said the true thing.

My yes finally became yes.

The Gap Words Can’t Close
Here is what I have learned about the moments when we reach for stronger language or retreat into silence.

Both usually point to the same thing, a gap.

A gap between what we say and what we do.

Between who we want to be and who we have proven ourselves to be.

Between the thought we are having and the words we are willing to speak.

And we try to manage that gap. With intensity. With hedging. With silence. With whatever keeps us feeling in control.

But words were never meant to carry that weight.

Silence was never meant to be a hiding place.

God is not just interested in cleaning up our language. He is forming something deeper, a kind of wholeness where our inner life and our outer words actually match.

Where we are not divided. Not hedging. Not hiding.

Where we stop needing loopholes because we are no longer trying to live in two directions at once.

The Christian tradition has a word for this. Sanctification.

It is the slow, grace-driven work of God forming us from the inside out. Not just changing what we do, but reshaping who we are. Unifying our heart.

Wesley called it moving toward perfect love, not moral flawlessness, but an undivided heart fully oriented toward God, where the gap between our inner life and our outer words gradually closes.

Not through willpower. Not through better communication.

Through surrender, over time, to the God who is already present in every word we speak.
That is not a communication technique.

That is what it looks like to be made new.

What It Looks Like Now
I still feel the pull toward silence. When vulnerability feels expensive, staying quiet still feels safer.

I don’t think that instinct ever fully disappears.

But this kind of formation does not happen in private.

It happens in relationship.

It happens when we submit our honest thoughts to community, when we let people see what we actually think, push back on it, challenge it, and help refine it.

That is what writing this blog has been for me.

Not just a personal discipline, but a communal one.

Pastor Isaac’s challenges have shaped my thinking. Your responses have deepened my faith.

The willingness to say the true thing out loud, in community, is one of the ways God does His forming work in us.

John Wesley understood this. He didn’t just preach transformation. He built communities around it.

Because an undivided heart is not formed in isolation. It is formed in the company of people who will tell us the truth and stay with us while we grow into it.

That is what your yes being yes looks like in community.

Not just honest words, but an honest life, lived openly, accountably, with people who know you well enough to notice the gap.

So maybe the question is worth sitting with.

Where is your yes not fully yes?

Where is your silence not wisdom, but self-protection?

What would it look like to just say the true thing, not perfectly, not confidently, but honestly, and let your community help you grow into it?

Because integrity is not built in the moment we speak. It is built in the life we live afterward.

And it starts with telling the truth.

A Question to Sit With
Is there a true thing you have been withholding, from a person, from your community, from God, because vulnerability felt too expensive?

What would it cost you to say it?

And what might it cost you, and the people around you, to keep staying quiet?

A Prayer
Lord, I confess that I am better at managing my words than surrendering them. I have used silence as a hiding place and careful language as a way of staying in control.

Forgive me for the gap between what I truly think and what I am willing to say.

Form in me the kind of wholeness where my inner life and my outer words match, where I am not divided, not hedging, not hiding.

Give me the courage to let my yes be yes and my no be no.

Surround me with people who will tell me the truth and stay with me while I grow into it.

And where vulnerability feels too expensive, remind me that You already know the truth, and You are not afraid of it.

Amen.

When It Felt Like Silence
Early in our marriage, Vic and I found ourselves in a financial hole we’d dug one necessary purchase at a time. Credit card debt, tight margins, and the kind of low-grade anxiety that follows you into every conversation and sits with you when you’re trying to sleep.

I prayed a lot during that season, honest, desperate prayers, asking God to help us find a way out. And for a long time, it felt like silence.

What made it harder was that I couldn’t talk about it with Vic without him withdrawing. So I stopped bringing it up. I carried it quietly, ran the numbers alone at night, and told myself I just needed to figure it out.

There’s a particular kind of loneliness in that, sitting next to someone you love and feeling completely alone in a problem.

So I made a plan. We cut what we could, skimmed down, and started chipping away at the debt one payment at a time. Slow. Unglamorous. There were months where it felt like nothing was moving.

And if I’m honest, what I was really trying to control wasn’t just the budget. I was trying to control whether we were going to be okay.

That’s an exhausting thing to carry.

The Kind of Patience That Works
James 5 has something to say about this.

Writing to a church under pressure, James points them and us to a farmer. It’s an interesting choice. Farmers are not passive people. They break ground, plant seed, tend what’s growing, and show up every day whether they feel like it or not.

But there is one thing a farmer simply cannot do. Make it rain.

The farmer works with discipline and waits with trust because they understand whose hands hold the weather.

That’s the tension James is holding out for us. Not passive waiting. Not anxious controlling. Something harder than both, faithful tending with open hands.

What’s your job?
Show up.
Do the work in front of you.
Plant the seed you’ve been given.
Be faithful in the small and ordinary things.

What’s not your job?
The rain.
The timing.
The outcome.
The results you can’t manufacture no matter how hard you grip.

When the Weight Leaks Out
James also notices something else, something worth sitting with. He says, almost in the same breath as his call to patience, don’t grumble against one another.

That’s not a random addition. He’s connecting dots.

When we try to carry what was never ours to carry, the weight doesn’t stay internal. It leaks. It creates distance. It makes us harder to be around, not because we’re bad people, but because we’re crushed under something we were never designed to hold alone.

I know something about that.

The Slow Work of Trust
The shift for Vic and me didn’t come dramatically. There was no moment where everything suddenly made sense. It came slowly, one week at a time, one small provision at a time.

Food on the table.
A roof over our heads.
A car from generous friends when we needed one.

And gradually, something began to loosen in me.


We weren’t getting the miracle I’d been praying for. We were getting something quieter, daily bread in the most literal sense.

And eventually, a generous gift from Vic’s parents came at just the right moment and cleared the last of it.

But here’s what I’ve come to believe, fifteen+ years on.


The grinding, unglamorous, nothing-seems-to-be-moving middle wasn’t God’s silence.

It was the growing season.

I just couldn’t see it from inside it.

Vic and I came through that stretch too, not quickly and not without help. We did the work. We’re better for it. But it was a long road, and there were no shortcuts.

If This Is Where You Are
Maybe you’re in a field right now that doesn’t look like much.

Maybe you’ve been praying prayers that feel like they’re disappearing into the ceiling.

Maybe you’re carrying something alone that was never meant to be carried that way, running the numbers at midnight, trying to hold everything together, waiting for a sign that any of it is working.

Can I tell you what I wish someone had told me?

You’re not behind.
You’re not forgotten.
You’re not being punished by silence.


Your job is to tend the field in front of you. Show up today. Do the faithful thing.

Release the image of what you think this should look like by now, and pay attention to what God is actually providing.

The rain is His. It always was.

And He hasn’t forgotten how to grow things.

A reflection on the cross, borrowed trust, and finding Jesus under the rubble.

I've seen a lot of crosses in my life. On necklaces. On church walls. On Sundance Mountain. Familiar enough that it's easy to stop really seeing them.

But there was a season when I couldn't look at one without it costing me something. Not because the cross had changed, but because I finally understood how I had been misplacing my trust.

When the Foundation Cracked
I grew up in the church. Years of religious education, active ministry, small groups, teams, service. I knew the language. I knew the rhythms. I loved Jesus, I genuinely did.

But somewhere along the way, I started building on something that wasn't totally Him.

I placed my trust in people, in a community, in a church structure that felt solid and good. For a long time, it held. Until the season when it didn't.

I won't go into the details because they aren't necessary to share. But there was a time, long before Black Hills Cowboy Church, when the institution I had leaned on crumbled from within. There were unhealthy patterns, broken trust, and leadership that proved unworthy of what had been placed in its hands. When it fell, everything I thought my faith was standing on shifted.

That chapter is behind me now, and this community we belong to today is a different story. But what that season revealed in me is something I still carry, not as a wound, but as a gift.

In that disorienting time, I had to go looking for Jesus under the rubble of a false foundation. What I found was that He had been there all along, solid, unchanged, completely unaffected by the collapse above Him.

He was never the problem. The problem was what I had placed between myself and Him.

Measuring on a Curve
Before that season, I tended to measure my faith on a curve. I wasn't perfect, but I wasn't that bad either. Not the loudest failure. Not the most obvious mess.

But the cross doesn't grade on a curve.

It doesn't ask, “Are you better than someone else?”
It asks, “Are you whole? And are you building on Me, or on something that will eventually give way?”

Not perfect, but being made whole. Not finished, but being formed.

When I slowed down enough to look honestly, not just at my actions but at the structure of my trust, I saw it clearly. I had placed people where only Christ belonged. I had let a community carry weight it was never meant to hold. When it couldn't, I called it a crisis of faith.
What I Found at the Cross
During that season, there was a song I kept coming back to. Not a triumphant anthem, just a quiet reminder to keep my eyes on Jesus. Not because the storm wasn't real, but because the waves and wind still know His name.


There was a day when I laid it down at the foot of the cross. The misplaced trust. The quiet idolatry of institution. The pride of thinking proximity to ministry meant proximity to Christ.


And I have never been the same.

Not because life got easier, but because I began rebuilding on something that does not crack. Something that does not depend on the people around me. Something that does not change.

More Than Forgiveness
For a long time, I thought the cross was mostly about being forgiven. And it is that, deeply and completely.

But it is also more...

It is an invitation into a changed life. Not just pardon, but restoration. Not just being let off the hook, but being rebuilt on the only foundation that holds.

The cross tells me that what is broken in me is serious. But it also tells me that God's love is stronger still. Strong enough not to leave me the way it found me. Strong enough to clear away false foundations and begin building something true in their place, as I continue to surrender what He reveals.


Which means I don't have to pretend I have it together to come near. But it also means I cannot stay the same if I do.

What the Cross Asks of Me Now
Now when I see a cross, I don't rush past it.

I let it ask me something.

Where am I building on things that will eventually give way?
What am I still carrying that was meant to be laid down?
What have I quietly placed above Christ, not out of rebellion, but out of slow drift?


The cross is where resurrection begins. Not just on Easter morning, but in the daily work of a life being made new as I continue to walk with Him.

Because the cross is not the end of the story.

He did not stay buried. The same Jesus who held steady beneath everything that collapsed walked out of the grave, alive. Not symbolic. Not distant. Alive.

Which means this rebuilding is not wishful thinking. It is anchored in something real.

There is no new life without continually laying things down. But what is raised in its place is not fragile. It is held by the same power that defeated death itself.

I know that weight. I carried it longer than I realized. And I know what it feels like to finally put it down, and to keep putting it down.

If you are in a season where the ground feels uncertain, where people or structures you trusted could not hold what you placed on them, hear this:
He is not among the rubble.
He is the foundation it fell on.
And He has not moved.

A Question to Sit With
Is there something, a person, a community, an institution, even a version of yourself, that you have placed where only Christ belongs?
A Prayer
Lord,
I confess that I am better at trusting what I can see than what I cannot. I confess that I have placed people and structures in spaces that belong only to You, not out of rebellion, but out of slow drift.

Forgive me.

Clear away what I have built on the wrong foundation, even when it hurts. Remind me that You have not moved, that You do not change, that the waves and wind still know Your name.

Teach me to walk with You in what You are rebuilding. Give me the grace to keep surrendering what You place Your finger on.

It is well because of who You are, not because of what surrounds me.

Rebuild me on You alone. Amen.

He Is Not Here (Day 8)
They came to the tomb before sunrise.

Not expecting a miracle.
Not looking for hope.

They came with spices…
to care for a body.

Expecting an Ending
In Luke 24:1–12, the women arrive early in the morning.

Everything about their actions says the same thing:
They believed the story was over.

They weren’t anticipating resurrection.

They weren’t waiting for something new.

They were simply doing what love does in the face of loss,
showing up anyway.

But when they get there…
The stone is rolled away.

The tomb is empty.

And two men ask a question that changes everything:
“Why are you looking for the living among the dead?”

He is not here.
He is risen.

Who God Chose First
There’s something important in this moment.

God didn’t announce the resurrection
to the powerful or the religious leaders.

He told women,
people the culture at the time often dismissed.

That’s not accidental.
It’s a pattern.

God keeps showing up through people
the world tends to overlook.

Which means this has never been about status.
It’s always been about grace.

A Step, Not Certainty
When the women tell the disciples,
they don’t believe them.

Not at first.

But Peter runs to the tomb anyway.
He doesn’t have clarity.
He doesn’t have answers.
He just moves toward it.

And he leaves… stunned.

That matters.

Because the resurrection doesn’t require you
to have everything figured out.

It simply asks:
Will you go and see?

The Story Isn’t Over
You’ve walked through the whole week.

The celebration.
The disruption.
The quiet service.
The wrestling.
The cross.
The silence.

And now,  the tomb is empty.

Which means this story didn’t end.
It began.

And somehow… you’re part of what comes next.

A Simple Prayer
Jesus, you’re alive!

I don’t have it all figured out,
and that’s okay.

But I believe the tomb is empty,

and that changes everything.
Including me.

Send me into this week
as someone who’s been to the empty tomb.
Amen.

What Comes Next
Come to church.
Celebrate with your people!

And tell someone, maybe just one person, what this week meant to you.
Not with perfect words.
Not with all the answers.
Just honestly.

Because that’s exactly how this story started.

The Long Silence (Day 7)

There’s a part of the story we don’t always talk about.
Saturday.

When It Feels Like It’s Over
By the time Saturday morning came, the disciples didn’t know there would be an Easter.
As far as they knew… it was over.

The man they had followed, trusted, and built their lives around
was in a tomb.

So they hid.
They grieved.
They sat in the silence with no idea what came next.

The Space We Try to Skip
Most of us know this space, even if we wouldn’t call it “Saturday.”

It’s the place after loss.
After disappointment.
After prayers that didn’t seem to get answered.
It’s the waiting.
The uncertainty.

The quiet that feels heavier than it should.

And if we’re honest, we don’t like it.
We try to fill it.
Avoid it.
Rush past it.

But faith doesn’t skip Saturday.
It teaches us how to live in it.

Holding On in the Middle of It
Lamentations 3:22–26 was written in the middle of ruin.
A destroyed city.
A broken people.
Every reason to give up.

And still, these words are spoken:
“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases.
His mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning…”

That’s not loud, triumphant faith.
That’s quiet, stubborn faith.

The kind that’s barely holding on, 
and holding on anyway.

And that kind of faith matters.
God honors it.

When You Can’t Feel It
There are moments when trusting God feels natural.

And then there are moments like this.

Where you don’t feel anything.
Where clarity is gone.
Where answers aren’t coming.

And the question shifts from
“Do I understand?”
to
“Will I still trust?”
Not perfectly.
Not confidently.
But honestly.

A Prayer for the Waiting
God, faith doesn’t always feel certain—
and today it doesn’t.
Teach me to trust You in the silence.
Your mercies are new every morning,
even when I can’t feel them yet.
I’m holding on.
Amen.

Take a Step Today
Don’t rush to Easter.
Let Saturday be Saturday.

Write down one thing you’re still waiting on.
Something unresolved. Something unclear.

Set it somewhere you’ll see it tomorrow.
Because Sunday is coming, 
but you have to live through Saturday to understand what that means.

We’ll finish this together tomorrow.

He Stayed (Day 6)

If He wanted to…
He could have stopped it.

At any moment.
That’s the tension of the cross.

Not could He get down…
but why didn’t He?

The Scene We Don’t Rush Past
In Luke 23:32–49, Jesus is hanging on a cross
between two criminals.

The crowd is watching.
Mocking.
Waiting.

Religious leaders sneer from a distance.
Soldiers gamble at His feet.

And one of the criminals beside Him joins in:
“Save yourself… and us.”
It’s not a ridiculous question.
Because the truth is—
He could have.

The Question Beneath the Cross
All week, everything has been building to this:
If Jesus had the power…
why didn’t He use it?
Why stay?
Why endure the pain, the shame, the injustice?
Why not step down and prove who He is?

Where the Saving Actually Happened
Because the saving wasn’t happening
by coming down from the cross.

It was happening on the cross.

Jesus didn’t stay because He was powerless.
He stayed
because He chose you over Himself.

The Man With Nothing Left
Right next to Him is another criminal.
No good record.
No time to make things right.
No way to fix what’s been done.

And somehow, in the middle of all that…
he turns to Jesus.
No speech.
No bargaining.
Just a simple, desperate trust.
And Jesus answers him:
“Today… you will be with Me in paradise.”

The last person Jesus saves before He dies
is a man with nothing to offer.

That’s not an accident.
That’s the whole point.
Nothing Left Between
And then… Jesus breathes His last.

At that same moment, something happens in the Temple.
The curtain, the veil that separated people from the presence of God,
is torn in two.

Not gently.
Not partially.
Completely.

Which means this:
There is nothing between you and God anymore.
No barrier.
No system.
No distance you have to close on your own.
Because Jesus stayed.

A Quiet Thank You
Jesus… I don’t fully understand the cross.
But I know You could have left…
and You didn’t.
Thank You for staying.
Thank You for choosing me
instead of saving Yourself.
Amen.

Take a Step Today
Let today feel a little heavier.
Don’t rush past it.

If you can, step outside for a few minutes.

Slow down.

And just… thank Jesus.

Not with borrowed words.
Just yours.

When It Gets Hard (Day 5)

There’s a version of faith
that sounds strong… but isn’t very honest.

Like you’re supposed to always feel steady.
Always confident.
Always okay.

But that’s not what we see in Jesus.

The Garden Where Pressure Builds
In Luke 22:39–46, Jesus goes to a place called Gethsemane.
The name means oil press.

And that’s exactly what this moment feels like.
Pressure.
Weight.
Everything pressing in at once.

Jesus steps away from the others, falls to His knees, and prays:
“Father, if You are willing, take this cup from Me; yet not My will, but Yours be done.”

Not Easy. Not Polished. Real.
There’s nothing performative about this moment.

Jesus isn’t pretending this is easy.
He isn’t trying to sound strong.
He’s being honest.

Luke tells us His sweat fell like drops of blood, 
a picture of deep, overwhelming anguish.

This isn’t calm.
This isn’t composed.
This is what it looks like when the weight is real.

The Choice Inside the Struggle
Here’s something important to notice:
Jesus didn’t want to go to the cross.
He chose to go.

Those are not the same thing.

Sometimes we quietly assume that obedience should feel simple;
clear, easy, almost automatic.

But this moment tells a different story.

Faith isn’t always light.
Sometimes it’s costly.
Sometimes it’s heavy.

Sometimes it sounds like:
“I don’t want this…
but I trust You.”

If You’re in That Place
If you’ve ever prayed something like that, 
or even struggled to, 
you’re not behind.

You’re not doing faith wrong.

You’re actually stepping into something real.

Because when your faith gets hard,
this is where you find Jesus.

In the tension.
In the wrestling.

In the honest prayer you’re not sure how to finish.

He’s already been here.
He already knows what it costs
to say, “not my will, but Yours.”

A Prayer You Don’t Have to Perfect
Father, there are things I haven’t surrendered yet.
I don’t want to pretend with You.
I don’t want to clean this up.
I’m not even sure I can fully say “Your will” yet…
but I want to get there.
Help me trust You.
Amen.

Take a Step Today
Take five quiet minutes today.
Don’t ask for anything.
Don’t try to sound spiritual.

Just be honest with God about one thing
you’re struggling to let go of.

No polished words needed.
Jesus didn’t use any in that garden.

Love to the End (Day 4)

It’s one thing to love people
when they’re showing up for you.
It’s another thing entirely…
to love them when you already know they won’t.

A Moment Jesus Fully Understood
In John 13:1–17, we’re brought into the room of the Last Supper.
And what gives this moment its depth is simple, but heavy:
Jesus knows everything.

He knows Judas is about to betray Him.
He knows Peter will deny Him before morning.
He knows the rest will scatter when things get hard.
None of this catches Him off guard.
There are no surprises here.

And still… He stays.

The Posture He Chose
In the middle of that meal, Jesus does something unexpected.
He gets up from the table, kneels down, and begins washing His disciples’ feet.

This wasn’t just kind.
It was the lowest role in the room.
Dusty roads, worn feet... this was servant work.
The kind of thing people avoided if they could.

And yet Jesus, the one with all authority, chooses that position.
Not because He has to.
Because He wants to.

The Resistance We Understand
Peter speaks up, and honestly, most of us probably would too.
“Never. You’re not washing my feet.”
It feels wrong. Backwards.

Because it’s one thing to admire Jesus…
it’s another thing to let Him serve you like that.
To let Him step into your mess.
To receive something you didn’t earn.
But Jesus answers him with something direct:
“If I don’t wash you, you have no part with me.”

In other words, this isn’t optional.

You don’t just get to respect Him from a distance.
You have to let Him love you.

Before They Failed
Here’s what makes this moment even more personal:
Jesus washes the feet of people
who are about to fail Him completely.

Not after they get it together.
Not once they prove their loyalty.
Before.
Before the betrayal.
Before the denial.
Before the running.

That’s not just an example to follow.
That’s a picture of who God is.

The Kind of Love We Struggle to Receive
Jesus already knows the parts of your story
you’d rather leave out.
The regrets.
The missteps.
The patterns you wish were different.

And His response isn’t to pull back.
It’s to move closer.

Which brings us to a quieter, more personal question:
Can you actually receive that kind of love?

Because for a lot of us, that’s the harder part.
It’s easier to try and prove ourselves.
Easier to keep a little distance.
But Jesus doesn’t offer that option.
He kneels anyway.

A Simple Prayer
Jesus, it’s hard to believe
You would kneel for someone like me.
Teach me to receive Your love
without pushing it away.
And out of that, 
help me show that same kind of love to someone else.
Amen.

Take a Step Today
Do one quiet act of service for someone today.
Something they didn’t ask for.
Something no one else needs to know about.

And while you do it…
remember the kind of King
who once did the same for you.

Jesus Wept (Day 3)

It’s possible to be really excited about Jesus…
and still miss Him.

The Moment Behind the Moment
In Luke 19:41–44, Jesus is entering Jerusalem.

The crowd is loud.
Hopeful.
Full of expectation.
Palm branches in the air.
Voices shouting, “Hosanna!”
It looks like celebration.

But right in the middle of it…
Jesus stops.

The Reaction No One Expected
He looks over the city…
and He weeps.
Not quietly.
Not a single tear.
He weeps.

Because He sees something the crowd doesn’t.
They see a moment.
He sees what’s coming.
They see a king who might meet their expectations.

He sees hearts that still don’t understand Him.

Missing What Matters Most
Jesus says:
“If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace…”

They were close.
So close to Him.
And still missing it.

That’s the tension in this moment.

You can be near Jesus,
around Him, talking about Him, celebrating Him, 
and still not actually see Him clearly.

The Kind of Peace We Miss
The crowd wanted rescue.
But they wanted it on their terms.

Immediate.
Visible.
The kind of change they could control.

But Jesus came to bring a deeper kind of peace.

Not just around them,
but inside them.

Not just fixing circumstances,
but restoring hearts.

And that’s easier to miss than we think.

The Question That Lingers
Where might you be expecting Jesus
to show up a certain way…
and missing what He’s actually doing?

Where might you be close to Him, 
but not fully seeing Him?

Not as a trick question.
Just an honest one.

Because He hasn’t stopped coming close.

A Simple Prayer
Jesus, I don’t want to miss You.
Not because I’m distracted…
or because I’ve already decided how You’re supposed to work.
Help me see You clearly.
Even if it’s different than I expected.
Amen.

Take a Step Today
Read Luke 19:41–44 slowly.

Picture the moment.
The crowd.
The noise.
And Jesus… weeping.

Then ask yourself:

The King Gets Angry (Day 2)

Most of us are pretty comfortable with a gentle Jesus.
Kind. Patient. Compassionate.

But flipping tables?

That version of Jesus makes people a little uneasy.

When the Tone Shifts
In Matthew 21:12–17, everything changes.

Palm Sunday was loud.
Hopeful.
Full of expectation.

But the very next day, Jesus walks into the Temple…
and turns everything upside down.
Tables are flipped.
People are driven out.

And Jesus calls out what’s broken.
It’s not subtle.
It’s not quiet.
It’s not what most people expect.

What Was He Actually Angry About?
It matters that we understand this moment clearly.
Jesus isn’t angry at ordinary people trying to find God.

He’s angry at a system
that made it harder for them to.

The Temple was supposed to be a place of prayer, 
a place where people could come near to God.

But it had become something else.
Something that benefited the insiders
and burdened everyone else.

What was meant to be a door
had quietly turned into a wall.
And Jesus would not leave it that way.

What Happens After the Tables Fall
Right after the disruption… something beautiful happens.
The blind and the lame come to Him.
And He heals them.

Children start praising Him.
It’s like Jesus clears out everything false, 
so something real can finally take its place.

That’s the kind of King He is.
Not just gentle.
But fiercely protective of people.

Especially those who’ve been pushed out, overlooked, or hurt in places that were supposed to help them find God.

The Questions Worth Sitting With
This moment invites some honest reflection.

What was Jesus protecting?
What mattered enough to Him
that He would make a scene over it?

And maybe a harder question:
Have you ever experienced faith
more like a wall than a door?
Because Jesus hasn’t changed.
He still cares deeply about the difference between real faith
and empty religion.
Not performance.
Not appearances.
The real thing.

A Simple Prayer
Jesus, You care about what’s real.
Not just what it looks like on the outside.
Help me want that too.
Not just the appearance of faith, but something honest, something alive.
And if there’s anything in me
that keeps You at a distance…
show me.
Amen.

Take a Step Today
Go back and read just one verse again: Matthew 21:14.
“The blind and the lame came to Him at the temple, and He healed them.”
The same place where Jesus was angry…
is the place where He heals.

Welcome the King (Day 1)

Have you ever been really excited about something…
only to lose that excitement a few days later?
In the moment, it felt real. You meant it.
But it didn’t last.

That’s kind of what Palm Sunday was like.

The Moment Everyone Was Waiting For
In Matthew 21:1–11, Jesus enters Jerusalem.
It’s loud. It’s crowded. It’s emotional.

People are laying down their cloaks in the road.
Others are cutting palm branches and waving them in the air.

They’re shouting:
“Hosanna to the Son of David!”
“Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!”
“Hosanna in the highest heaven!”
“Hosanna” means save us now.
And they mean it.

This is the moment they’ve been waiting for, the arrival of a king.
The whole city is stirred. People are asking, “Who is this?”
And the answer echoes through the crowd:
“This is Jesus.”

But here’s what we know on the other side of the story:
Most of these same voices won’t still be there by Friday.

The King They Didn’t Expect
There’s a detail in this story that’s easy to overlook.
Jesus rides in on a donkey.
Not a warhorse.
Not a symbol of power or conquest.
A donkey.
And that wasn’t random.

A warhorse would have sent a clear message: strength, dominance, control.

A donkey sends a completely different one: humility, peace, a kingdom that doesn’t operate the way we expect.

Jesus wasn’t just entering the city.
He was redefining what kind of King He is.
When Expectations Don’t Match Reality
The crowd wanted a king.

But they wanted one on their terms.
They were hoping for someone who would overthrow Rome, fix their problems, and do it quickly, on their timeline, in their way.

And when it became clear that Jesus wasn’t going to do that…
their celebration didn’t just quiet down.
It disappeared.

Because it’s one thing to welcome a Savior who does what you expect.
It’s another thing to trust a King who doesn’t.

The Question That Still Matters
If we’re honest, we’re not that different from the crowd.
We still come to Jesus with expectations.
Not the polished, church-sounding answers,
the real ones.

Where have you been hoping He would show up and fix something your way?
Where have you quietly thought, “If You’re really who You say You are, then why hasn’t this changed?”

It’s a hard question, but an important one:
What do you actually expect from Jesus?
Because sometimes the tension we feel in our faith isn’t because He’s absent…
it’s because He’s not operating within the limits we’ve set.

And what if, like the crowd,
our expectations are too small?

A Simple Prayer
Jesus, I’m still learning who You really are.
Help me see You clearly this week.
Not just who I want You to be… but who You actually are.
Shape my expectations by truth—
not just by what I need from You.
Amen.

Take a Step Today
Read Matthew 21 slowly.
Don’t rush it.

Pay attention to the moment Jesus chooses the donkey over the warhorse.

Then write one simple sentence:
What does that tell you about Him?

Some passages of Scripture don’t let you stay comfortable. James 5 is one of them. It’s blunt, it’s prophetic, and it has a way of landing exactly where we don’t want it to.

I want to tell you a story before we get to the text, because I think it matters that we come to James honestly, not academically.

The Car I Should Not Have Bought
This goes back to the early years of our marriage. Vic and I walked into a dealership and walked out with a brand new car. The salesman was good at his job. There was pressure. There was urgency. “This deal won’t last. Someone else is looking at this one right now.” We felt it, and we moved quickly.

Not long after, we had a baby -- unplanned, wonderful, and completely life-rearranging. Suddenly we were trying to live on one income, and that car payment that had felt manageable before now felt like a stone around our neck. The urgency that had felt so real in that showroom? It wasn’t real at all. We had been moved by manufactured pressure into a decision our souls weren’t ready to make.

We held on for a while. We floated. Eventually, we made the hard call -- sold the car, took the hit from our savings, and absorbed the loss. It stung.

And then something unexpected happened. A friend gave us a car. Our church community stepped in and met needs we hadn’t even voiced. We were held by exactly the kind of generosity James 5 is calling us toward.

I have thought about that season a lot in the nearly twenty-four years since. I wasn’t a villain in that story. I wasn’t hoarding or exploiting anyone. But I had made a spiritually unformed decision, driven by urgency instead of discernment, by consumer pressure instead of prayerful wisdom. And James, I think, would recognize that impulse immediately.

What James is Actually Saying
James is writing in a world of brutal economic inequality -- landowners withholding wages, workers going hungry, the powerful living in luxury while the vulnerable suffered. His tone is almost apocalyptic. This isn’t a gentle nudge. This is a prophet standing up and naming injustice out loud.

It’s tempting to read this and think: well, I’m not that bad. And maybe that’s true. But the question James presses us toward isn’t only “are you exploiting someone?” It’s also: “what is your heart’s actual posture towards what you own?”

Formation, not just Information
My car story wasn’t really about greed. It was about formation -- or the lack of it. I hadn’t developed the inner stillness to pause under pressure, to ask what faithful stewardship looks like before signing on the dotted line.

This is something the Christian tradition has always understood: the goal isn’t just to know the right things about money. It’s to become the kind of person whose instincts, when the pressure is on, bend toward generosity rather than grasping. That kind of formation doesn’t happen overnight. It happens through prayer, through community, through honest moments like the one James is inviting us into right now.

The warning in James 5 isn’t primarily about guilt. It’s about alignment -- a call to examine whether the way we hold what we have actually reflects the generous heart of the God we say we follow.

What it Looks Like when a Community gets it Right
Here is what I love about Black Hills Cowboy Church: when a need is named, people move. Electric bills get paid. Meals show up. Someone with a ranch donates meat. A person without transportation suddenly has a ride. It happens quietly, quickly, and without fanfare -- and it is one of the most beautiful things I get to witness as part of this community.

Every Christmas, our Cowboy Angel Tree program takes that same spirit outward into the county. We contact the Department of Family Services in Sundance, they share the wishlists of five or six local families who need a hand, and our congregation fulfills them. Completely. It never ceases to move me.

That is not a small thing. That is the body of Christ functioning exactly as James envisioned -- wealth and resource flowing toward those who need it, not collecting in corners.

But here is the honest question James still puts to each of us individually, even inside a generous community: what is the posture of your own heart? A congregation can be collectively generous while individual members quietly hold on too tight. The communal culture doesn’t let any of us off the personal hook.


What the Other Side Looks Like
I told you we sold the car and absorbed the loss. I want to be honest: that hurt. There was real grief in it. But there was also something else -- a lightness that came from releasing what we had been white-knuckling. And then the provision came, not because we earned it, but because we were part of a community that took seriously the call to bear one another’s burdens.

That is not a prosperity gospel story. It is a story about what happens when we stop trusting in our own ability to secure ourselves, and start trusting the God who provides, often through the hands of the people sitting right next to us on a Sunday morning.

James 5 isn’t written to make you feel guilty. It’s written to wake you up -- to the condition of your heart, to the needs around you, and to the possibility that God wants to use your open hands to meet them.

Reflection Question
A Prayer