I have a friend whose wife has been in poor health for some time. Recent events and the resulting stress landed her in the ICU. With nothing to do but watch and wait, his mind searched for someone to blame for the pain, hers and his.

There is another whose husband needed a heart procedure. Thankfully, it was fairly routine, but there are some underlying problems and he is just tired.

I did what I could to lift them up and prayed for strength and healing. One is showing improvement, the other? Still waiting.

Simply saying, “I know what you’re going through, and God has this under control” seem like empty platitudes, but I have been there, alone in a cold hospital room, listening to beeps and buzzers and watching to make sure they’re still breathing. I have felt the same frustrations and cried, “God, why did this happen and why haven’t You healed it yet?”

In exhaustion, I finally closed my eyes.

Then, He whispered things that had no words, only that He is God, Creator of all things, Gracious Healer, lover of our souls. And I slept, if only for a moment.

In the deepest corners of my mind, my imagination can take me to wondrous places or if left unchecked, down a rabbit-hole. Today was one of those days.

I considered avoiding one friend, afraid she would not be at her appointed post, and things had not turned out as we had prayed for. Thankfully, she was there, but I could see the weight in her eyes.

I shuddered at each phone call dreading bad news and the “what-if” monster came out to play. What if this or that and I dragged myself into a dark place.

Then God caught my heart and said:

This is not your battle to fight.
It’s Mine.
And I’ve already won.
Trust Me.

As I began to climb out of the rabbit-hole, I could hear the Queen of Hearts and the Mad Hatter laughing as if I were the fool. However,

… the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God.  1 Corinthians 1:18

The Power of God.

If you have an extra moment today, please pray for my friends and family. God knows who and why.

Blessed are You, Lord God, King of Creation. I know You can and I know You will. I just don’t know when or where. Grant us peace, the patience to wait, and the strength to endure until then.

May You be glorified.

Amen …

Rain. Blessed rain.

I spent most of the morning escorting folks through the downpour into church. We had waited so long that most everyone was in a good mood, and it was contagious.

Settling into a pew, still a bit wet from sharing umbrellas, I read through the scriptures for the day. The Gospel recounted Jesus’ last words on the cross, one criminal mocking Him, the other asking to be remembered when Jesus comes into His Kingdom. “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do,” and it was finished.

Glancing at my hands, the surrounding joy faded into an awkward silence. I was covered in black crud, undoubtedly from umbrellas that hadn’t seen rain in a really long time. But there was more there than soap and water could wash away.

Was I the mocking thief, or the begging thief, or one in the crowd shouting, “Crucify Him?” The dirt I saw behind the dirt told the story. My sin is why He was there.

Our communion wafers are thinly pressed into perfect circles, and before I receive it, I break it half. Jesus said to “do this in remembrance” and I remember He was broken for me.

A scene from Shakespeare came to mind where Lady Macbeth had urged her husband to kill the king. When her guilt took hold, she’d rub her hands trying to wash off blood that wasn’t there. She would cry, “Out, damned spot! Out I say.” The filth on my hands garnered a similar reaction.

A leftover drop of rain ran cold down my neck as Jesus said, “Truly I tell you. Today you will be with me in paradise.” Forgiven. Welcomed into Glory.

The dirt behind the dirt faded into blood that wasn’t really there… His blood. Cleansed. Washed white as snow.

The world will rub and rub, scrape and claw, but will never remove these blood stains. The ones that set me free.

Thank you, Jesus.

The pre-dawn sky was crisp and clear, every star on full display. But in my heart, fog clouded my vision. The weekend prior had been a time of recovery and restoration, both body and soul.

Retreating to quiet spaces, the Lord invited me to walk and talk like old friends do. The sharing of bread and wine nourished my aching soul and I rose again, ready to face the days ahead.

It must’ve struck a nerve, because evil came at me hard, striking heavy blows against the rock I stand upon. The constant barrage un-steadied my footing. Doubt and fear crept in. I sought the Lord with more tears than words, because He knows my heart and the Spirit intercedes on my behalf when I’ve nothing left to pray.

A full moon commanded the night sky, yet the weight on my shoulders kept my eyes from lifting upwards. Then an Air-Life helicopter flew past carrying someone in greater need of Grace, so I paused, and poured out all I had left… for them.

I couldn’t catch my breath. I fought. I pushed. Through a mixture of tears and sweat, I was broken.

A dear friend pointed out how the moon had turned from a brilliant white to fiery orange, magnificent in color, but lacking in warmth or solace. As it descended, it turned to blood red, dragging my heart along into the darkness.

Then a cool breeze blew across my face, re-framing what I had just seen.

The bright moon that had ruled the night faded to a single flame, then a glowing ember before disappearing beneath the horizon. Over my shoulder, alternating hues of pinks and golds ignited the eastern sky. The long, dark night had come to an end.

The promise of a new day drew me from the mire. My feet were a little faster, my arms a little stronger, my heart, a lot lighter. I found my second wind (as if I ever had a first), and I could breathe again.

Father, I give You thanks and praise for the blessings You have in store. May You be glorified in all You will do today.

Amen…

A book shop owner asked me who I was as a Christian Author and it caught me a little off guard. I am a Christian, and I am an author (though sometimes I wonder), but a Christian Author? I had never considered the title.

Rich Mullins was once asked his approach to writing Christian music. He said he just tried to write good music and if the Spirit was willing, it would find a way to breathe into your song.

When I first started playing, I was more musician than Christian. I took piano lessons at my mother’s urging (thanks Mom). In college, I learned to play the guitar to impress the ladies. I guess it worked at least once because I played at my own wedding. Now my wife says I don’t play for her anymore (I need to work on that).

When the opportunity arose to play in church or at youth group, something changed. It seemed to make a difference.

Writing was similar. I didn’t set out to be a “Christian author,” I just wrote and things began to make sense. It was like God had been showing me answers all my life, just waiting for me to ask the questions.

Somewhere along the way, it seemed to make a difference, but not by anything I did. God has a way of taking the clay that we are and molding us into something He can use for His Glory.

In one difficult season, I had prayed for help with certain tasks measured by this world. God called me to trust and follow His path, no matter how unpopular it was. But a day came where impatience outweighed my faith and I spiraled deeply into worry.

I’ve prayed for miracles, both of health and heart. Some have been answered immediately (thank You, Jesus) and some… I’m still waiting on. But I had never prayed for success in this earthly venture. Then God asked me, “Why not? Do you doubt Me?”

Ouch.

So, I asked for a breakthrough. Then more doors opened than I could’ve expected and I felt foolish for not asking sooner. Perhaps those doors would’ve opened anyway or maybe God was just waiting for me to ask. I don’t know. But it was a lesson.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in ALL your ways, submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight. Proverbs 3:5-6

I wonder how many other blessings are answers to questions I’ve never asked?

I intend to find out.

The full moon pierced early morning cloud cover, slightly illuminating a long black rope across the blacktop. My task was to pull the rope while another gladiator held the other end. Then we traded positions and the battle continued. The first round was fairly even, both pulling our share, but by the fifth challenge, I was convinced he’d picked up an anchor along the way. Then he dragged me across the parking lot like a ragdoll.

Many times, the Lord allows words to explain my feelings, but today was not one of those days, until I got pulled through the fog.

Later, stepping through an office door, I faced a barrage of phone calls and emails like I usually do, but this week, I was pulled in every direction except the one I needed to go in. Like a marionette, one person controlled my left hand, one my right, and still another making my feet dance like a fool in this never ending puppet show.

Yet it took being dragged around to stop and really see who was pulling the strings. Every cry, concern or supposed “emergency” tugged until it had stretched my reach beyond its capacity.

With my arms spread wide, struggling to breathe, a heavenly voice whispered:

I’ve been there too.
I took it on so you wouldn’t have to.
Trust me, I can carry the weight.
You just have to let go.

Tears ran down my face as the strings loosened their grip. Jesus took my hands and led me forward, dragging all the “puppet masters” behind.

They still pull and prod, command and complain, but their strength is nothing compared to the Hands that hold me.

In this broken world, we’ll always be dragged and distracted… stretched to our limits.
But it is most important to know Who is pulling the strings.

Waking to an Autumn morning, somewhere between a long summer and a short winter, the heat of August had not released its grip on October. Longing for the hope in a sunrise, I emerged to find a layer of mist hovering thirty feet in the air, just enough to obscure the treetops. It lay in stillness between a clearing sky and a parched landscape, enough to see the moisture, but not close enough to be a life-giving dew.

A kinship grew in my vision as my lower extremities moved in their appointed roles, yet my mind floated in a fog. Somewhere between clarity and reality, there were a million things to do, yet the passion to do none of them.

Jesus whispered, “My sheep listen to my voice; I know them and they follow Me.” John 10:27

But a restless night had my head spinning and my ears consumed by nothing but noise. Standing at the sink, with a mouthful of toothpaste, I sought the Lord. A scene from “The Chosen” by Dallas Jenkins came to mind. Matthew said, “All I have to do is follow.”

A simplicity of peace covered me like warm water on my face. That’s all I have to do. The million other things fell behind the one, just to follow Him.

But then the world found me, my phone had divulged my hiding place. Whatever was on their desk had to be dealt with immediately as to not impede “their” day. My gut was churning, not as much with anger as disgust in that their task was important enough to invade my quiet moment. Yet, I continued my journey. All I had to do was follow.

One call became two, then three. Adrenaline began to surge through my veins and my heart pounded with the weight of it.

The Lord repeated :

All you have to do is follow.

Father, I listen to Your voice; You know me; I will follow.

Shadows faded into the long-awaited sunshine, its warmth a welcome feeling in an otherwise difficult day. Distractions still pressed in from all sides, yet You, Lord, are a mighty shield.

The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in Him, and He helps me. My heart leaps for joy and with my song I will praise Him. Psalm 28:7

I know your voice, and You know me.

All I have to do is follow.

Sunday was the day you woke up early on purpose, dressed in stuffy clothes, and got to the car just in time to not get fussed. Sitting in the front row, singing songs you didn’t know and a man in a fancy robe talking on and on about God or something. Your only job was to sit still even when your brother was poking you or whispering, “I’m not touching him” until Dad’s hand squeezed your knee, telling you to behave. If we were good, we went to a restaurant for lunch before the football game. We always had to wait for the preacher to say the blessing, and if he was at your table, you better not act up. He was God’s watchman, the closest we knew.

There was Jesus. There was you. And distance.

At a friend’s church, Jesus hung on the wall, and they said His body and blood lived in a little gold box on the altar, and only really special people could touch it. When you got old enough, you could taste it, unless you weren’t a member, then it didn’t matter what age you were.

There was Jesus. There was you. And distance.

The Bible says God would walk in the Garden of Eden and talk to Adam and Eve like family. At least until sin snuck in. Then they were kicked out. Distance.

Moses asked to see God’s face but man could not see His face and live. The Israelites could not even step foot on God’s holy mountain. Distance.

The Ark of the Covenant was believed to hold God’s presence, and no one was allowed to touch it. One man did and died on the spot.

There was God. There was everyone else. And distance.

Then, Jesus was born. He was cuddled and held. The shepherds and the wisemen saw His face. He looked people in the eyes, spoke to them, touched and healed them. He hugged people. There was no more distance.

But then there’s me.

My heart wanders. Every time I get close, temptation tries harder to maintain the distance, if not increase it. I wish I could say it doesn’t happen anymore, but the harder I fight, the harder it fights back.

There is Jesus. There is me. And the distance comes and goes like Grover teaching us about near and far (if you know, you know).

I think God missed the connection, so He built a bridge across the distance through Jesus. It took a cross, nails, and His precious blood to draw us near again, to walk… like in the garden.

I’ve found it is best to stand on that bridge when arrows fly and darkness flows underneath. Jesus lifts me when I don’t have the strength to stand on my own. No more distance.

And if I wasn’t so stubborn, I’d stay there. But I foolishly climb down when trouble passes, only to find myself knee deep in it, again.

 

Father, please guard my heart,
guide my feet,
be my strength,
stay close.

Amen…

 

A special thanks to Jim Henson and Sesame Street, for Grover.

September 11, 2001.
New York City, Washington DC, Shanksville, Pennsylvania.
Evil landed a heavy blow.
But it didn’t win.

America rose to the challenge and as Toby Keith so eloquently sang, “Put a boot in their ass.”

I remember sitting on the floor, the TV on in the background, watching my four-year-old rebuild the towers with her Legos.

September 10, 2025
Utah Valley University
Evil took Charlie Kirk away from his wife and two babies with a bullet.
But it didn’t win.

I’ve seen video of Charlie, sitting in the open, willing to debate differing opinions and ideas with all comers. He spoke with respect, intelligence, and facts while being faced with those who argued with emotion, and sometimes foul language and rage.

It is said that cussing is a product of a weak mind, uncontrolled, unable to articulate thoughts and passions, especially in the face of opposition, reasonable or otherwise.

Charlie Kirk had a knack for connecting with the person in front of him, wanting to learn as much educate, to see all sides of an issue and encourage those around him to think, do their own research, form their own opinions and be able to discuss those opinions in a civil manner, and if necessary, agreeing to disagree. But always respectful of everyone’s right to hold and express their own positions.

Political leanings aside, evil used the exchange of very difficult ideas to fuel the hatred which ultimately cost him his earthly life, and a wife her husband, and two children their daddy.

He relied on his faith, his family, and then his visions of what he thought America should be. He knew there was a cost, but he rose to the challenge and spoke anyway.

It pains me to know there are hearts so entangled with evil that they feel their particular issue is worth taking a man’s life, then celebrating the horrible deed.

I pray for those hearts, though difficult, that they may see the value of a life created in God’s Holy image, outside of the realms of politics. And I pray that the anger and disgust I feel each time I see this kind of news, be replaced with Gods love, His compassion and a faith not lukewarm.

Even today, confusion and anxiety consumed my thoughts, and I had lost the strength to fight it. Evil landed a heavy blow and reveled in it.

Then the Lord spoke:
Trust Me.
Focus on the truth, My truth.
All else is just someone’s version, or distortion of it.
Follow Me.

And evil did not win, again.

Then Jesus said to His disciples, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow Me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for Me will find it. Matthew 16:24-25

Charlie believed it.
And showed us how.
Well done, my friend.
Well done.

Rest now in the loving arms of Jesus.

Buttoning buttons and tying shoelaces consumed my Sunday morning, focused on the moment, or the next ten minutes more than the day ahead.

In the second pew, I tried to settle my heart with scripture, but random conversations drew me from the real reason I was there. I needed something, not quite sure what it was, but in the right place to find it.

Preprinted congregational confessions and absolution blew by like a South Texas thunderstorm, its living water falling too fast for the parched ground to absorb it, flowing instead into the side ditches. An affirmation of baptism flew by seemingly more like an annoyance than a blessing. I hope the others didn’t see it that way because it was very important. Perhaps it was just my brain moving at a slower pace.

Two pages flipped over to show a separate order of confession, so I spent a few moments drinking in the words.

In Your compassion, Lord, forgive us our sins, known and unknown.

Some sin is clearly black and white, easily counted and likewise should be easily avoided, (if only). The dangerous ones are those in the gray. Not as well defined but still draws me away from a God Who wants to be part of every moment. Some of those I recall, others I do not.

If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.  1 John 1:9

Then the Pastor said, “Grace is freely given. There’s nothing we need to do.”

Now, there’s nothing I could possibly do to earn God’s Grace, but I still needed to surrender my failures, this darkness, at His feet. Otherwise, the bread and wine before me would be no more than flour and grape juice, an insult to the Body and Blood of Christ, offered as atonement for my sin.

For me, confession is necessary. Not as a condition of forgiveness, but as an acknowledgment of my need for it.

Like falling into the arms of the Father
Who already holds me.

Amen …

A long weekend of getting done what needed doing left me worn out, but not enough to keep me from hitting the weights long before the sun even thought about rising. It started well, all the body parts were moving in the right direction, or pretending to, until my shoulders reminded me, I’m not 18 anymore. Those a little closer to that age seemed to breeze through the exercises, but old wounds broke through the cracks in my armor.

Football in my teens, taekwondo in my forties, or six decades of wear and tear have left their mark. The only way to get through was to push through, but at some point, there was no more push.

Old wounds.

In my exhaustion, my mind wandered past the need to breathe… to older wounds, forgiven but not forgotten, peering through the cracks of my memories. Things I’d left far behind, or so I thought. This is usually when my heart tailspins into dark places I struggle to stay out of.

But just as I kept heaving chunks of iron overhead, my mind pressed memories back as well. Each rep was like past failures piling up, daring to reappear and take hold.

I took a deep breath, arms outstretched, praying the Lord would be my strength. Shoulders still hurt. My heart still hurt. But We made it through.

Ice and ibuprofen may ease the muscles, but there is no pill for the heart. Then the Lord whispered:

The failures, the pain, the burdens.
You surrendered them to Me long ago.
There’s no need for you to take them back.
My shoulders never tire.
You could never give Me more than I could carry.

I love you way too much.

A deep breath and all that remained was memories, and the aches of the morning.

New wounds will heal.
Old wounds will heal in time.

Lord, I’m grateful that You carry me through them all.