This moving quote is explained at the bottom --

"O child of my Father, wounded, bleeding, and worn by inward woes,

turn not thy face away;

let me lift thee from thy bed of rock,

and stretch thee on the green sod of a pure affection;

for am I not thy brother, stricken in thy stripes, and healed in thy rest?"

This passage is written as a compassionate appeal from one suffering person to another. It’s rich in metaphor, but the meaning is fairly direct when unpacked:

“O child of my Father” — The speaker is addressing another person as a fellow child of God, emphasizing shared origin and spiritual kinship.

“wounded, bleeding, and worn by inward woes” —

The suffering described is not physical but emotional or spiritual—guilt, grief, inner conflict, or despair.

“turn not thy face away” —

Don’t withdraw, don’t isolate, don’t hide your pain.

“let me lift thee from thy bed of rock” —

The “bed of rock” suggests a hard, cold place of suffering—perhaps stubbornness, despair, or a life devoid of comfort.

The speaker is offering help out of that state.

“stretch thee on the green sod of a pure affection” —

In contrast, this is an image of rest, gentleness, and healing—

being cared for through sincere love and compassion.

“for am I not thy brother” —

The speaker grounds this appeal in shared humanity (and likely shared suffering).

“stricken in thy stripes, and healed in thy rest” —

This is the deepest idea:

“stricken in thy stripes” - I feel your pain as if it were my own.

“healed in thy rest” - Your healing brings me healing too.

In simple terms:

The speaker is saying: “You who are hurting deeply—don’t shut me out. Let me help you. I care for you as one who shares your pain, and your healing matters to me as much as my own.”

It’s a picture of redemptive compassion—the idea that true love enters into another person’s suffering and finds its own healing in helping them recover.

 

When I saw this picture I knew I would find words to explain how it struck me, today was that day. 

I went to the mission to visit one of the men (Fred, we both have the same name) and take him out for coffee; as we walked to the coffee shop we passed so many different faces. Christ has tuned my heart to the downcast, and the streets of Portland are filled with faces lost and bound. What an experience to simply walk there, what opportunities rise up to meet you! 

Along the way back, we met a brother that graduated from the program a few years ago and Fred introduced me to him and after we chatted with him for a few minutes, we left him, with a smile of encouragement on his face. 

Then a young woman, in her mid-twenties, and I'm sure she wasn't five feet tall, with ashen skin, and eyes with the unmistakeable look of loss and confusion. She wasn't thin, yet, and we stopped and told her about the women's program at the mission and gave her a pamphlet that lists all the free resources available to her. She seemed appreciative and as we left we noticed she didn't discard the pamphlet, many do. 

 We walked by a group of about six people sitting, backs against the wall, and we handed out some more pamphlets on the mission. 

At the end of the block, the walk was littered with items from a woman’s backpack—old cosmetics, a pen, a compact—as well as two pages torn from a notebook that lay on the walk. I picked them up and read what was written: it was one paragraph: a plea for help, and the hopeless question of whether all help is “fictitious.”

We looked up and another brother that graduated from the program was walking by on his way to a job interview; we chatted for a bit and then prayed his endeavor would be successful. 

All this as we walked by in just one block. 

The following piece is in response to his nephew recounting the horrors of war he saw. March 17th 2026 I posted my Grandson's piece. 

  "To speak in response to such a meaningful piece of personal experience is challenging. 

No wise persons wants to fill the space of suffering with words that might do harm to the sacred suffering in that silence. 

But, something your words brought to my mind and heart was how they reflect what Jesus did. 

He came to that ditch, he was dragged too, and the gospel goes into great detail telling the horror of it all, ending with him being hung up in the air as well. 

It recounts the brutality...the carnage, the blood. It doesn't protect us from the mother's wail, the tears, the soldiers laughing and joking, the indifference, the cowardliness of the disciples and the anger and wrath of it all from various angles. 

It's devastating, and it shaped the souls of those who witnessed it and countless souls of those who heard about it but were never there. Almost all of the apostles died for that witness and in solidarity with it. 

To be a with...is at the sacred heart of vulnerable love. To honor the suffering seen, is done by giving voice to the voiceless. In our humanness we want to raise our hand and give a middle finger to the hell and horror of it all. Jesus holds up his hand too, and it's got a scar from being nailed to the cross. 

We are wounded healers. You are, your sister is, your mother is, your father is...your dear comrades living and fallen are. Thank you for going, for enduring, for suffering, for your witness and for your anger. May its fire form you for greater light and not consume you into a soul full of darkness. 

But we are Moons, not Suns...so at least half the time...we are dark, until the light returns. 

 

How do we come to Christ? 

"He that comes to me I will in no wise cast out." Jn.6:37

"Various "rules" and "steps" have been proposed for seekers after salvation, the filling of the Spirit, guidance and other experiences of the Christian life. Sometimes they confuse more than clarify. 

No two experiences are alike. We tend to make a norm of our own experience and force it upon others. Coming to Jesus is a personal matter, not a dry business procedure. Nobody ever fell in love by reading books on how to fall in love. We meet someone, associate with someone, and either fall in love or not fall in love. There are, indeed, certain conditions that must be met in a personal knowledge of Christ, but it is more like falling in love than a cold business deal. There is a sense of need, a drawing near, a fellowship that ripens with the years. The expressions and manifestations vary with different types and temperaments. Do not try to imitate a made-to-order experience handed down from someone else. He invites you to come as you are and know Him for yourself." Author unknown. 

 

"Though the spider is weak and feeble, she spins web with her hands and clings to the beams in the king’s spotless palace, dwelling safely on high, out of danger. Her wisdom makes up for her weakness.

So the ant, the coney, ( a small, guinea pig-like relative to the rabbit). locust, and spider—all small and frail—are wise in their ways. 

Shall not a Christian be wiser still? 

True saving grace is the highest wisdom. Every godly believer, though weak in grace, possesses this divine wisdom:

• the ant’s wisdom—to lay up provision in summer against the rainy day; 

• the coney’s wisdom—to build his house on the Rock, Christ; 

• the locust’s wisdom—to go forth in bands together; (church)

• the spider’s wisdom—to take hold of the strong beams of God’s promises in the King’s chambers.

If God has thus recompensed your weakness with such wisdom, why then should you complain?" William Bridge, 1600s.

 "Yesterday a woman walked in at 4 PM. to my tattoo parlor. 

No appointment. Asked if I could squeeze her in.

“What do you want?” I asked.

She showed me a photo on her phone. 

Numbers. Just numbers.

“392. On my wrist. Simple. Black. Can you do it now?”

I looked at her. She’d been crying. Eyes red. Hands shaking.

“Yeah, I can do it. But can I ask what 392 means?”

She sat down in my chair. Took a breath.

“It’s the number of days my daughter stayed clean before she overdosed. I found her yesterday. I want to remember she tried. That 392 days mattered.”

I didn’t know what to say. Just nodded. Started setting up.

She kept talking. Needed to talk.

“Everyone’s going to say she relapsed. That she failed. 

That addicts always relapse. 

But they won’t say she was sober for 392 days. 

That she went to meetings. Got a job. Started painting again. That she was my daughter again for 392 days. 

They’ll remember one day. The last day. 

But I’m going to remember 392.”

Her voice broke.

“This tattoo is proof those days existed. That she fought. 

That she almost made it.”

I finished the tattoo. Simple numbers. 392. On her wrist. 

Where she could see it every day.

She paid. Tipped way too much. Started to leave. Then turned back.

“Can I ask you something weird?”

“Anything,” I said.

“Can you keep that stencil? The 392? 

And if anyone ever comes in here struggling with addiction. 

Or losing someone to addiction. 

Can you offer to do this tattoo for free? 

Any number. However many days their person stayed clean. 

10 days. 100 days. 1 day. I don’t care. 

Just so they know those days counted.”

She left before I could answer.

I kept the 392 stencil. Put it in a frame behind my counter. Wrote under it:

“Days of sobriety tattoos — always free. 

Any number. Because every day counts.”

I didn’t think anyone would take me up on it.

Three days later, a man came in. Saw the sign. Started crying.

“Can you do 1,279?”

“Absolutely. Who’s it for?”

“My brother. He was sober 1,279 days. 

Died in a car accident last week. 

Sober driver hit by a drunk driver. 

The irony is killing me. He fought so hard. And some stranger took him out.”

I did the tattoo for free. He hugged me for five minutes.

Word spread.

I’ve done 23 sobriety number tattoos in three weeks. Free. 

Every single one. 47 days. 6 days. 1,823 days. 2 days. 

One woman got “14 hours” tattooed.

“My son stayed clean for 14 hours before he relapsed and died. Everyone says 14 hours doesn’t count. But it does. He tried. 

For 14 hours he tried.”

I tattooed 14 hours on her shoulder. 

She sobbed the entire time.

When I finished, she looked at it and whispered, 

“Now everyone will know he tried.”

Yesterday someone came in and asked for “0 days.”

I was confused. “Zero?”

He nodded.

“My daughter never got clean. She tried to quit so many times. Went to rehab four times. But never made it past a few hours before using again. 

She died at 23. Everyone says she didn’t try. But she did. 

She tried so hard. Zero days sober but a million attempts. 

Can you tattoo 0 with a little infinity symbol?”

Because her attempts were infinite even if her days weren’t.

I cried while doing that tattoo. Zero with an infinity symbol. 

For a girl who never stopped trying even though she never succeeded.

A teenager came in two days ago. Seventeen years old. With his dad.

“Can you do 91 days? For me. I’m 91 days sober. 

I want to remember.”

I looked at his dad. Dad nodded.

“He asked for this. I’m proud of him.”

I did the tattoo. 91 on his forearm. 

When I finished, the kid stared at it.

“Now when I want to use, I’ll see this. 

I’ll remember I made it to 91. I can make it to 92.”

His dad paid. Tipped $200.

“You’re saving lives with ink,” he said. “Keep doing this.”

The kid comes back every 30 days. 

I add a small tally mark next to his 91. He’s up to 151 days now. Five tally marks. He’s going to make it.

The original woman came back yesterday. The 392 tattoo.

“I wanted to show you something,” she said.

She pulled up her sleeve. Another number.

“1.”

Just the number 1.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

She smiled through tears.

“One year since my daughter died. 

One year I’ve survived without her. 

Someone told me I should get a tattoo for my own sobriety. 

From grief. From giving up. 

I’ve been sober from ending my own life for one year. Because of this.”

She pointed to 392.

“Every time I wanted to give up, I looked at this. 

If she could fight for 392 days, I could fight for one more. 

So I’m marking my days now too. One year. 365 days of choosing to stay.”

I have a wall now. Photos of every sobriety number tattoo I’ve done. 

47 tattoos in two months. 

Numbers ranging from 14 hours to 6,247 days.

Every single one free.

Every single one a story of someone who tried. 

Who fought. Who stayed clean for as long as they could. 

Some made it. Some didn’t.

But every number matters.

Because addiction isn’t about the day someone relapses.

It’s about all the days they didn’t.

And those days deserve to be remembered. Marked. Honored.

I started this because a grieving mother asked me to remember 392 days. Now I’m remembering hundreds of days. Thousands of days. Marking them in ink on the skin of people who refuse to forget.

Every number tells me the same thing:

Trying counts. Fighting counts. Even if you lose, the fight counted.

I’m a tattoo artist. But these aren’t just tattoos. 

They’re monuments. 

Proof that someone tried. 

And in a world that only remembers the last day, 

I’m making sure we remember all the days before it." Author unknown

My Grandson wrote the following piece called, 

"On witnessing suffering." 

He is a witness-bearer of the hardships of the Myanmar Civil War. His reflections explore our moral obligations to the lives and pain of others.    

"It is not surprising that the innocent are killed, tortured, driven from their country, made destitute, or reduced to slavery, imprisoned in camps or cells, since there are criminals to perform such actions.

But it is surprising that God should have given affliction the power to seize the very souls of the innocent and to take possession of them as their sovereign lord. At the very best, he who is branded by affliction will keep only half his soul. —Simone Weil

After I graduated from high school, I volunteered for an NGO, that helped people in the Myanmar Civil War. 

Assisting medically at the front line, reporting the Burmese military’s atrocities, giving aid to internally displaced people—this was all part of the job. 

Everyone sees a lot of discomfort in this line of work and must decide how to live with it. We can let the emotions saturate us, both compassion and despair, and sympathize with the victim to an extent that becomes uncomfortable: a choice that exhausts the soul. 

The other option is to remain indifferent, to view reoccurring disasters as normal, to see human life as a statistic, to treat a tragedy as merely another report. 

And throughout the years I volunteered, I was slowly fed the fruits of war. Each event witnessed piled upon another, leaving me with the choice of either becoming broken or calloused.        

What I saw still lingers with me to this day. 

Fleeing families hiding in the jungle, waiting for the Burmese Military to leave their village. The tarp huts they lived in, and the food they ate: plain rice and chilis, devoid of any real nutrients. 

Children running around in the dust, unable to study. Empty houses left behind, broken schools and churches hit by bombs and bullets. 

A buffalo missing one of its front feet, looking at us while we walked past it and the surrounding landmines. 

Two dead men in the back of our truck, insides spilled and limbs torn. Photos of families killed, mothers holding their dead sons, fathers holding their broken daughters. 

Autopsies of massacres where the victims were set on fire; you could tell if they died before or during the fire by looking at their lungs and seeing if they were black or white. 

My friend lying dead on the culvert, because he failed to get under it before the jet got him. My unconscious friend's injury, her brain laid bare after the bomb took off the top of her skull cap. 

Another friend dragged along the ground towards safety, quiet, eyes blank, bleeding out on the floor from his stomach. Two young resistance fighters burned alive by the Burmese Military, hung with their hands and feet tied together in one bind behind their back, gasping for air, asking to be taken away from the fire. Each event witnessed piles upon another, leaving one either broken or calloused. And I cannot describe the rage I feel. 

How does one reconcile such tragedy? 

As Weil writes, it is not surprising that such suffering exists in this world. However, it is surprising that the powers that be in this universe seem to be indifferent to our suffering—that if there is a God in the sky, he seems to think that intervention is unnecessary, while we crush and maul each other down below. When we experience or witness such affliction, it seems clear that some kind of justice must be done. But even so, it seems that justice is an event that rarely occurs in this world. Burmese soldiers seem to dismember and rape without consequence, laughing while they walk away from their mutilated prey. And since we cannot get justice, it seems that all we can do is resent.   

In a world full of unreconcilable suffering, how does one live with it?

Most people try to avoid the possibility of enduring such affliction—to have a heart of stone and to be unbreakable. To avoid seeing others’ suffering. To read the news of tragedies around the world and walk away pretending it’s normal. To never be vulnerable enough to be affected by love. To navigate through this world unscathed, chasing pleasure and avoiding pain. 

But what if we were to welcome the possibility of being crushed with open arms? To take the bludgeoning straight in the face? To live and eat in the same home with suffering, walking down the treacherous path together, holding one another’s hands? To lie bloody and naked next to a friend’s dead body, staring into his dark eyes, waiting for our turn to join him in death? Because what good will ever come about if no one has a heart of flesh?

I do not know the definite answer to the problem of suffering, but I will leave with this, a dream I had. I was in the jungles of Burma, sitting in a kitchen hut, eating and talking with the rebels around me. I recognized the man to my right, a doctor who had seen many broken bodies and crushed spirits. He talked of how it takes mettle and strength to endure through all the tragedies that one has witnessed. To my surprise, I replied with an answer unlikely to come out of my mouth: perhaps it takes the most to forgive those who bring about such pain."  

 

Christ said - "A bruised reed shall he not break, and smoking flax shall he not quench." 

"Christ ministers to weak, broken people pictured as “bruised reeds” and “smoking flax, (smoldering wick).” 

These are people crushed by misery, awakened to their sin, deeply aware of their guilt, and helpless in themselves. 

With no strength left, they turn to Christ with a tiny, flickering hope—constantly threatened by doubt and fear. 

This is exactly who Jesus calls “poor in spirit” (Matt. 5:3): those who mourn their need, see their debt to God, and yet hunger and thirst for mercy.

When God sends trial after trial, don’t judge yourself or others too harshly. 

This bruising is necessary to conform us to our Savior, “who was bruised for us” (Isaiah 53:5), so we learn how deeply we depend on Him and how much we owe Him.

The second great comfort is this: 

Christ will not break the bruised reed (Isaiah 42:3). 

He deals tenderly with the weak and broken. Think of it this way: 

• A doctor may cause pain but never destroys the patient—he restores life by degrees. 

• A surgeon cuts but does not cut off limbs. 

• A mother never throws away her sick, fretful child.

If even fallen human mercy acts this way, how much more will God, the very source of mercy? 

Christ has taken the most loving roles upon Himself—husband, shepherd, brother—and He will fulfill every one perfectly, because the Father appointed Him and He willingly undertook them. 

He borrows the gentlest names (Lamb, Hen) to show His tender care. His very name Jesus means “Saviour.” 

He came to “heal the broken-hearted” (Isaiah 61:1). 

At His baptism the Holy Spirit descended like a dove, declaring He would be a gentle Mediator.

Look at how He actually carries out His work: 

• As Prophet, He opens with blessings: 

• “Blessed are the poor in spirit” and 

• “Come to Me, all you who are weary” (Matthew 5:3, 11:28). 

• As Shepherd, His heart yearns over lost sheep (Matthew 9:36). 

• As Priest, He died for His enemies, now intercedes in heaven for weak believers, and even put prayers into our mouths. 

• As King, He is a “meek King” and “Prince of Peace” who welcomes mourners and shows compassion alongside majesty.

He was tempted so He could help the tempted (Hebrews 2:18). 

He is the perfect Physician for broken hearts—

He died so He could heal our souls with the very blood we caused Him to shed.   

In short: you may trust this Saviour completely. 

He will never crush the bruised reed—

only heal, lift, and cherish it.

What should we do with this truth? Three clear, practical applications: 

Come boldly to the throne of grace (Hebrews 4:16)

Don’t let your sins keep you away—Christ appears in heaven only for sinners!

Are you bruised? Then He is calling you.   

Come trembling if you must, but come.   

He is not only our Friend, but our Brother and Husband.

This is why the angels shouted “good tidings of great joy” (Luke 2:10) 

and why Paul says “Rejoice in the Lord always” (Philippians 4:4). 

His presence turns any condition into comfort. 

Stay steady when you feel bruised

Christ’s pattern is always the same: 

He wounds first, then heals. 

No unbroken, self-sufficient soul will ever enter heaven.

Our trials will be matched by our future graces and comforts.

Since He refuses to break me, I will not break myself with despair. 

I will not hand myself over to Satan, the roaring lion, to be torn apart.

Like a mother who is most tender toward her sickest, weakest child, Christ shows the greatest mercy to the weakest believer.

He even plants an instinct in weak things to lean on something stronger: 

the vine clings to the elm; 

the weakest creatures find the strongest shelters. 

The church, knowing her own weakness, 

gladly leans on her Beloved and hides under His wings.

 

No matter how bruised or weak you feel, run to Christ. 

He will never break you—

He will heal you, 

comfort you, 

and carry you all the way home. 

Rejoice in Him!

 "“If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!” Mt. 6:23.“

"Great indeed, because the person whose light has become darkness has an added torment 

because darkness not only hides realities,

but it produces all kinds of deceptive unrealities.

When a person’s moral or spiritual vision becomes corrupted and distorted, the harm is greater than simple ignorance.

Their inner “light” no longer reveals truth 

but creates illusions,

twisting reality so that good appears evil and evil appears good;

continually throwing up their twisted and malignant shadows.

Instead of calmly lacking sight, they become confident in their blindness,

proudly believing they see clearly while rejecting truth.

Their mind fills with distorted perceptions and feverish imaginings, reversing the natural order of things.

In such a state, the person cannot recognize what is truly good or divine; the whole universe appears inverted and corrupted,

like a sick palate that tastes sweetness as bitterness.

Bottom line -When conscience or spiritual insight becomes corrupted, it does more than hide truth—

it actively distorts reality,

causing a person to mistake evil for good and darkness for light."

 Jesus said, “I am the way." 

But how do we know the way? 

If you were visiting Galilee when Christ walked the earth, and you asked a resident, which "way" should I take to find Jesus?" He would point to the way Jesus walked and simply say, 

"Follow the signs."

 O the path will be filled with signs! 

There will be a once lame man walking and leaping praising God, 

there will be a blind man who sees for the first time! 

There will be souls that were the rejected and despised, brimming from ear to ear, finally feeling love and inclusion; 

the road will be littered with people restored, forgiven, 

and filled with the love of God!    

Jesus will have a wake of healing, compassion and loving-kindness deluging the "way" where He walked; 

the signs will be easy to follow! 

I have to ask myself, what wake do I leave behind me? 

 I read Col. 2:1-8 in "The Passion Translation," and the words just jumped off the page!!

I've been evangelizing a young woman online, we'll call her Susan,  and she immediately came to mind as I read this; so I personalized the passage a bit and sent it with prayers. 

"Hi Susan, I read a passage this morning and I just love it! 

Paul paints a vivid picture of the kingdom of God as Jesus taught it; I’ve inserted your name to personalize it. 

"Susan, I wish you could know how much I have struggled for you.   

I am contending for you that your heart will be 

wrapped in the comfort of heaven 

and woven together into love’s fabric.

This will give you access to all the riches of God as you experience the revealing of God’s great mystery —

Which is, Jesus the Christ.

Why do I struggle and care you may ask? 

Because our spiritual wealth is in Him, 

like hidden treasure waiting to be discovered—

heaven’s wisdom and endless riches of revelation knowledge are found in Him.

 

 

Seven women showed up for my church service at the jail last night, a wide mix of ages, colors and appearances. 

Outward appearances are always deceptive, one never sees the strength of the tides, currents and undertows below a seemingly calm surface.

 Prolonged struggle, deep anguish and hardship leaves its mark on the countenance: it extinguishes the light inside, and it's almost always visible.  

The meeting went well, and one woman approached me after and asked to talk, where she shared with me that her 13 year old daughter Emma, had attempted suicide: she survived with no permanent consequences, but it was close. The kind of close that leaves a mother replaying every second in her mind, wondering which breath might have been her child’s last. There are no words to describe the alarm in her voice; she was overwhelmed with anguish and helplessness, and with fearful, searching eyes looked to me to give her the answers she so desperately sought.

When she told me the story I pictured one of my granddaughters,  and I felt a gale force wave of helplessness surge over me, recognizing this little girl is completely out of reach of her Mother's consoling arms of love as she sits incarcerated on some petty, first offense misdemeanor, unable to even communicate with her child. The distance between them felt cruel and suffocating. My mind went blank and I just began to gush prayers with her and we pled for Christ's rescuing hand of protection.

I'm not sure I've ever felt so impotent, it haunts me... 

Emma has been provided counseling and her Mother hopes to be released in two days, the longest two days this woman will ever endure!

So as I drove home, with Emma and her Mother racing through my mind, so many unanswered questions running through my mind left me with one hope, the mercy of God. 

 

 

 

Am I a Stoic, or a Christian?

The following quote helps me understand the difference. 

“There is the Stoic's idol, chiseled by austere conscience, from the granitic masses of spiritual strength, and worshipped as the image of divine Justice, Majesty and Holiness. This has won and held captive the noblest spirits that are not wholly Christian, and glorified them to a manliness approaching something divine; yet wanting still the mellowing of pity, and the grace of sweet and glad affections.”

The writer is saying:

There exists a kind of moral ideal shaped by Stoicism — 

severe, 

disciplined, 

carved out of a hard and demanding conscience. 

It portrays God primarily as 

Justice, Majesty, and Holiness — 

strong, stern, and unbending.

This ideal has inspired many noble people who are not fully Christian. 

It has elevated them, giving them great strength, dignity, courage, and self-mastery — almost godlike in moral firmness.

But, the author says, something is still missing:

It lacks pity (tender compassion).

It lacks gentle and joyful affection.

It lacks warmth.

It is strong like granite — but not softened by love.

In worshipping the combination of attributes, through which Christ  has shown us the Father, there can be no fear that any duty will be forgotten, any taste corrupted, any aspiration laid asleep. 

Drawn upward by such an object, nothing in us can remain low and weak: the simplicity of the child, the strength of the man, the love of the woman, the thought of the sage, the courage of the martyr, the elevation of the saint, the purity of the angel, press and strive to unite and realize themselves within our souls. 

 Tell me—what do you see here? A young, beautiful woman holding her degree in a Master of Science in Clinical Epidemiology and Biostatistics, the parchment clasped in steady, accomplished hands?

Oh friend, that barely brushes the surface of her story.

Behind that gown stands a lion-hearted woman. An indefatigable spirit. A faith in Christ not polished by comfort, but forged in fire. That “little scroll of paper” was not handed to her by ease or privilege—it was wrestled from adversity by prayer, grit, and grace.

She was born into poverty, in a land where rebels roamed and children were not always safe; where corruption twisted justice and fear lingered in the background of daily life. Her father abandoned her. Her mother loved her fiercely—but love could not always shield her from hunger, hardship, or the relentless weight of survival. From childhood, she learned what it meant to work, to endure, to hope when hope seemed thin.

And yet—she rose.

That curving smile is more than pride. It is holy defiance.

It says: I will not be stopped.

It says: I will not surrender to the story written for me.

It says: By God’s gracious hand, I will go forward.

Every exam passed, every sleepless night endured, every doubt answered with prayer was a quiet act of rebellion against despair. She has overcome obstacles most of us will never have to imagine—let alone conquer.

So yes, you see a degree.

But I see courage baptized in suffering.

I see perseverance refined by trial.

I see a daughter who refused to let poverty define her future.

And I see a woman whose faith carried her where fear once stood guard.

 "Jesus’ warning about the end of the world wasn’t about the devil. It was Lot’s wife.

Usually, we think leaving somewhere is easy. You pack your bags, shut the door, and that’s it. You’re gone. But there’s a gap that happens when your body moves faster than your mind. You can be physically standing in a safe place while your heart is still stuck in the place you just left.

You see it when someone quits an addiction but keeps their old dealer's number. Or when someone starts a new relationship but spends the whole time complaining about their ex. They’ve moved, but they haven't actually left.

The danger isn't just the act of looking back; it’s the hesitation. You can be standing right outside a disaster and still get caught in it if you're not fully committed to getting away.

Genesis 19 doesn't give this woman a name. It doesn't tell us what she was thinking or feeling. It just identifies her as Lot's wife who looked back from behind Lot and became a pillar of salt. That's it! No special effects, drama or big speech, just a pillar of salt.

Earlier in that story, God was incredibly patient. The family was dragging their feet in a city about to be destroyed, so the angels literally grabbed them by the hands and pulled them out. The instruction was point-blank: "Do not look back".

She didn't get out because she was fast or holy. God’s messengers literally dragged her out. She was on the right path. She was officially "saved."

But she was trailing behind. Her body was heading toward the mountains, but her focus was still on the city. The word used for "looked back - nabat" in the Hebrew isn't about a "quick glance" over the shoulder. It’s about a deep, focused stare. She turned and looked intensely, like she was surveying the situation. We don't know if she missed her house, her friends, or her stuff. We just know where she was looking when the city fell.

Jesus brings this up in Luke 17 verse 31-32.  He’s talking about people trying to "preserve" their lives. He warns that when things get serious, you shouldn't go back into your house to grab your belongings. Then he drops three words: "Remember Lot’s wife." He doesn't give a long lecture on her sins; He just points out that she hesitated.

Jesus uses her as a case study on "urgency." He treated that moment seriously enough to repeat her name as a warning. The issue wasn’t sentiment, but the hesitation. A divided attention in a decisive hour.

You are trying to save a relationship, a habit, or a memory that God has already judged. You are standing in the middle, entertaining the "just one more time" thought.

God did everything for her. He gave the warning, provided the escape route, and even physically pulled her to safety. But He won't force someone's heart to change direction. She survived the fire, but she ended up part of the ruins anyway because she couldn't let go of what was behind her. 

She ended up stuck on that road; somewhere between being saved and being lost; neither hot nor cold; just lukewarm.

Jesus didn’t tell us to remember the fire or the sins of Sodom. He told us to remember the woman who was halfway to safety and decided she wasn't ready to go. Salvation was in front of her, and Judgement was behind her, but she suddenly lost that "urgency" to keep going. 

What is the one thing you have physically left behind, but are still mentally turning to face?"

Ellis Enobun

 

' Charity believeth all things! ' — what simplicity, what a refreshing lack of worldly wisdom and experience; what a dupe such gullibility must be; how it is imposed upon and played upon and cheated."

Such is the verdict of the worldly spirit, which suspects all things, which is easily provoked, and thinketh all evil.

Charity believeth all things. A dupe, is it? 

I ask you which is the greater dupe, the charity that believes all things, or the selfishness that believes nothing? 

There are knaves in the world, 

there are superstitions in the world, 

there are deceivers and deceived; 

but one who lives as if these were all, 

loses the good and invites the evil. 

Before the cold gaze of suspicion, hearts close themselves as the sensitive flower closes beneath the cloud.” 

To me the last line is the most significant; “Before the cold gaze of suspicion, or superiority, hearts close themselves.”

Nothing reaches a closed heart, 

Even with thorough preparation, inspired words, long prayers, or stirring delivery, the walls stay up because they sense condemnation rather than love.

“Their hearts would close.” 

But Seeing others as equals ("sinners like myself"), as beloved souls whom Christ loves and actively reaches out to redeem. 

The focus shifts from critiquing sin to gently drawing out the innate nobility, honor, truth, and goodness that God has placed in every human heart, and the hearts open and the Holy Spirit works with power. 

Backsliding

Here are some reasons why many struggle in their faith and soon backslide – 

“The shrinking from difficulty, 

the dread of ridicule, 

and the love of ease sap a man's moral earnestness 

and soon dry up the very roots of all moral faith. 

Though he must believe before he acts, 

he will not long continue believing 

once he has ceased to act. 

The coward who flees the fight mutters as he retreats that “there is really nothing worth fighting for.” 

Those who decline the high battle of the Christian life convince themselves there is no worthy field, 

no urgent call, 

no real enemy—

and the clarion call of God that pierces and inspires faithful souls 

becomes to them mere hypocritical noise. 

The prophet’s battlefield, 

where every step demands vigilance, 

appears in their eyes a soft and pleasant stroll; 

and the sins that good men have 

spent their lives driving back 

become their most agreeable companions, 

of whom it was mere bigotry to think ill."

In essence: 

Moral cowardice and inaction do not merely follow disbelief—

they actively produce and deepen it, 

leading to self-deception and the redefinition of sin as harmless pleasure.

I think the nearest illustration I can give about ministering at the jail is this:

Imagine a tender-hearted woman who volunteers at the Humane Society. She cannot pass a stray without kneeling; she cannot hear a whimper without her chest tightening. She has carried home more abandoned puppies than she can count, pressing their trembling bodies against her own as though her warmth alone could mend what the world has broken. She would stand like a shield between any creature and cruelty.

Then one cold afternoon in the country, a farmer tells her he has seen a litter of seven puppies—half-starved, shivering in a bramble bush, abandoned by their mother. “They won’t last the night,” he says. “They’re all alone.”

Her heart lurches her blood turns to ice. She can almost feel their thin ribs beneath her fingers before she has even seen them. “Take me,” she pleads. “Please—before it’s too late.”

They climb into his truck. The engine roars, gravel spits, and she grips the dashboard as if every second were a heartbeat slipping away. When they finally find them, it is worse than she imagined. Seven small bodies tangled in thorns. Eyes too big for their gaunt faces. Ribs sharp as birdcages. They do not bark. They only stare—afraid even of rescue.

She kneels in the dirt. She speaks softly. One by one, she gathers them into her arms. They resist at first, stiff with distrust, but then—one fragile surrender at a time—they lean into her. The truck ride back is filled with quiet whimpers and the faintest flicker of hope. At the shelter, the veterinarian begins the slow, sacred work of healing: cleaning wounds, warming cold bodies, coaxing them back toward life.

That is the scene I walked into last night.

Except they were not puppies.

They were seven women—of every age and every color—each carrying the same haunted look in their eyes. At first, there were walls: practiced smiles, folded arms, silence that had learned how to survive. But when trust was earned and defenses lowered, the stories came out—haltingly at first, then in a flood. Stories of vicious assaults. Of unspeakable betrayals. Of childhoods starved of tenderness. Of homes where love never lived.

And beneath it all, the same trembling question those puppies carried: Is anyone coming for me?

To sit in that room was to kneel again in the bramble bush. To see ribs showing—not of the body, but of the soul. To realize how long they had shivered without warmth, how long they had learned not to hope.

I cannot explain what a privilege it is to speak words of hope into that kind of darkness. What an honor it is to watch a guarded face soften. What a blessing it is to see a woman, who has survived the tyranny of unloving caregivers and the brutality of broken men, begin—just barely—to believe that she is not abandoned.

There is a kind of holy work in that room. Not dramatic in noise, but in courage. Not loud in triumph, but in the quiet miracle of trust.

Last night, I did not rescue anyone. I simply knelt beside seven wounded hearts and reminded them they were not alone in the bramble anymore. And that, to me, is sacred beyond words.

"And when we do our best, and most strenuously follow 

the duties and responsibilities of our calling (faith or life work), We must not allow a flutter or trace of self-congratulation to hinder the quiet meekness of our heart. 

For when we look up to that which we dare to hope for,

Our mightiest achievements appear dwarfed. 

Mere clumsy attempts to spell out the alphabet of eternal wisdom, but they are signs of a willing pupil, like the upturned look of Mary sitting at the feet of Jesus. 

And these symbols of faith and service God will be graciously pleased to accept them from us, because He sees in them the early efforts of a soul destined one day to grow into more divine dimensions." James Martineau, abridged.  

Original - 

“And when we best and most strenuously follow the obligations of our career, we can permit no flutter of self-gratulation to disturb the quiet meekness of the heart. 

For only look up on that which we dare to hope, 

and how are our mightiest achievements dwarfed. 

All insufficient in themselves, — poor spellings-out of the mere alphabet of eternal wisdom, — they are but signs of willing pupilage, — the upturned look of a disciple sitting at the feet. 

As symbols of faith and service, God will be graciously pleased to accept them from us; and discern in them the early essays of a soul that shall assume at length dimensions more divine." 

 

To the soul filled with the Holy Spirit, 

and freed with an eternal love, 

the Christian hope gives peace and power by 

restoring the broken proportions of the mind; 

and tranquillizes the restlessness of a spirit 

that unconsciously feels, "cabined, cribbed, confined," 

It is this faithfulness to our deepest nature — 

the power we receive from it, 

the quiet we find in it, 

in a waking conscience, 

a self-forgetful heart, 

an ungrudging hand, 

that gives to the Christian view of life 

its most irresistible persuasion upon the heart.

Thoughts ever earnest for the truth; in a perpetual outlook of hope from our lowliness toward an infinite glory.  

For myself, I confess it is the only evidence that seems to give me true, serene, steadfast faith. 

Yet when, in darker moods of thought, 

I search for some narrower, intellectual ground of trust

and try to believe by argument alone, I sometimes doubt whether I do more than imagine I believe."

Abridged James Martineau.

“Beyond the company of the great and good 

stands a vast and varied crowd: 

no line must forbid their passage; 

some span of sympathy must embrace them too. 

No proud mysteries or secret rites guard the Christian brotherhood; 

even wandering guilt must be sought and brought home, 

and penitence lingering on the steps must be invited within. 

Christ will not remain head of the “whole family” 

if its forlorn members are cast off in selfish shame, 

and no gentle care is given to smooth their path of return."

Here is the beauty of the original – 

"Beyond the company of the great and good, a vast and various crowd is scattered round: 

no line must be drawn which they are forbid to pass: some span of sympathy must embrace them too. 

No proud mysteries, no secret initiation, 

guards the entrance to the Christian brotherhood; 

even wandering guilt must be sought for and brought home; and penitence that sits upon the steps must be asked to come within the door. 

Christ will not remain at the head of the " whole family," 

if its forlorn and outcast members are simply put away in selfish shame, and no gentle care is spent to smooth the pathway of return." James Martineau. 

This story has been circulating and it’s definitely worth a share—whether it’s true or not.

Biker Bought Teenage Girl At Gas Station Human Trafficking Auction For $10,000

My name is William "Hammer" Davidson. I'm sixty-nine years old. Vietnam vet. Been riding for forty-four years.

I've seen evil. Real evil. The kind that wakes you up screaming fifty years later.

But nothing prepared me for what I heard through a bathroom wall at a gas station outside Kansas City at 3 AM.

I'd been riding for twelve hours straight. Coming back from my brother's funeral in Colorado. Cancer took him at sixty-five. Too young. I was running from grief, needed coffee and a bathroom break.

The men's room shared a thin wall with the women's room. That's why I heard them so clearly.

"Fifteen hundred. She's damaged goods. Tracks on her arms."

I froze.

"Two grand. She's young. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Still profitable."

My blood turned to ice.

Then I heard her voice. Young. Terrified. "Please. My mom's looking for me. Just let me call her."

They laughed. One slapped her. The sound echoed through the wall.

"Five thousand. Final offer. I'll have her working in Denver by sunrise."

I stood at that sink with my hands shaking. This was human trafficking. Right here. Right now.

The door opened. Three men walked out. Behind them, a teenage girl. Thin. Bruised face. Dirty clothes. Her hands were zip-tied.

She looked right at me. Mouthed two words: "Help me."

They were heading to a white van in the parking lot. I had maybe ten seconds before they'd be gone forever.

I pulled out my wallet and stepped in front of them.

"How much for the girl?"

They turned. Hands moving toward weapons. Sizing me up. Six-foot-two biker in leather.

"Ten grand," one said. "Cash. Right now."

I showed them the money. Fifteen thousand I'd withdrawn for my brother's burial expenses. "I've got it. She's mine."

The girl's face crumbled. She thought I was another monster. Another buyer.

They took the cash. Walked away. Got in their van and drove off.

I turned to her. She backed away.

"Don't touch me."

"I won't. I'm calling the police."

"No!" She lunged for my phone. "They'll send me back! To the group home where this started!"

I lowered the phone. "Tell me."

Her name was Macy Rodriguez. Sixteen. Foster kid since age eight. The woman running her group home had been selling the girls for years. The ones nobody cared about. The runaways. The addicts.

"She got me hooked," Macy said, showing me the track marks. "Said it would make it easier. I've been clean three days. Since I ran. But they caught me in Topeka. Been passing me around since."

Three days. This child had been trafficked across state lines for three days and nobody noticed.

"Your mom—"

"Dead. OD'd when I was seven. I don't have anyone."

Of course. That's how they chose victims.

I looked at this broken sixteen-year-old with dead eyes and track marks and bruises. The system had failed her at every single turn.

"Macy, I'm going to help you. But you have to trust me."

She laughed bitterly. "Trust the biker who just bought me?"

I pulled out my knife. She flinched hard.

"I'm cutting the zip ties." I did. Then handed her my phone. "Call whoever you want. Run if you want. I won't stop you."

She stared at the phone. "I don't have anyone to call."

"Then let me call someone who can actually help."

I called Luther, our club's lawyer. Woke him at 3 AM. "I need help. Trafficking situation. Sixteen-year-old victim. Need safe placement."

Thirty minutes later, two cars arrived. A woman from a trafficking victim's advocacy group. A social worker Luther trusted personally.

Macy panicked. "You said you'd help!"

"I am. These people specialize in this. They know what you've been through."

Jennifer, the advocacy director, approached slowly. Rolled up her own sleeve. Track marks, faded but visible. "Fifteen years ago, I was you. Someone helped me. Now I help others."

Macy broke down sobbing. Jennifer held her.

The social worker pulled me aside. "You know you committed a felony tonight? Participating in a trafficking transaction?"

"Yeah."

"The police will have questions."

"Let them ask."

I gave my statement. Described everything. The men. The van. My bike's dashcam had captured footage. Partial VIN visible.

"This might crack open a case we've been working for six months," the detective said. "What about you? You paid ten thousand dollars."

"I don't want it back. Use it for her. Whatever she needs."

Macy went to the safe house that night. Started the long road of detox and healing.

I visited three days later. She was in withdrawal. Shaking. Sick. But alive.

"Why'd you help me?" she asked.

"Because you asked me to."

"That's it?"

"That's everything."

"Other men saw me that night. At different truck stops. They looked away. Or they—" She couldn't finish.

"I know."

"Why didn't you?"

I thought about Vietnam. About times I'd looked away. Times I'd known something was wrong and chosen silence. It had haunted me for fifty years.

"Because I've looked away before. Different war. Different evil. I wasn't doing it again."

The police arrested Mrs. Patterson and two other group home staff members. Seventeen girls testified. Seventeen children she'd sold.

The trafficking ring fell apart. Five men arrested, including the three from the gas station. My dashcam footage helped identify them. They're all serving twenty-plus years.

Macy's recovery was slow. Painful. Detox. Therapy. Learning to trust again.

I visited once a month. Brought books. Helped with homework. Just showed up.

On her seventeenth birthday, she asked, "Why do you ride?"

"Freedom. You're in control. You decide where to go. Nobody owns you."

She understood that immediately. "Can you teach me?"

"When you're ready."

On her nineteenth birthday, she called. "I'm ready."

I taught her on a small Honda. She was terrified, then determined, then joyful.

"I'm flying," she said after her first solo ride, tears streaming down her face. "I'm actually flying."

She got her license. Bought her own bike. Started riding everywhere. To campus. To therapy. To the safe house where she now volunteered.

"I'm going to be a social worker," she told me. "The right kind. The kind who actually protects kids."

"You'll be great at it."

"Because I know what it's like to need saving?"

"Because you know what it's like to be saved by someone who didn't look away."

Macy's twenty-three now. Has her social work degree. Works with trafficking victims full-time. Testifies at trials. Saves girls who were her six years ago.

She still rides. Purple Harley Sportster covered in trafficking awareness stickers.

Last month we organized "Macy's Run for Freedom." Two hundred bikers. Raised fifty thousand dollars.

At the end, Macy gave a speech.

"Seven years ago, I was sold in a gas station bathroom. Three men bidding on me like livestock. I'd given up. Accepted I'd die young in some hotel room and nobody would care."

She looked at me. Her eyes full.

"Then a biker overheard. He could have walked away. Called police and let them handle it. Instead, he stepped in. Put himself at risk. Bought me so he could set me free."

"People ask why I trust bikers. Why I call them family. It's because when everyone else—the system, the police, regular people at truck stops—when everyone looked away, a biker didn't."

"He saw a sixteen-year-old mouth 'help me' and he helped."

Two hundred bikers were crying.

"So when people tell me bikers are dangerous, I tell them they're right. Dangerous to traffickers. Dangerous to abusers. Dangerous to anyone who hurts the innocent. Because bikers don't look away."

She's right. We don't.

That night changed me. Changed our whole club. We started training. Learning signs of trafficking. How to spot victims. Who to call.

We've helped four more girls since Macy. Four more times we noticed something wrong and acted.

Each one is alive. Free. Healing.

The ten thousand dollars? I never wanted it back. Used it for Macy's first apartment. Security deposit. Books. Whatever she needed.

"I'll pay you back," she said once.

"You already did. By surviving. By helping others."

Macy has a photo in her apartment. Me and my bike outside that gas station. We went back years later so she could take it.

"Why come back?" I asked.

"To remember. This is where I died and got reborn. Where someone saw me as human instead of property."

The caption reads: "My hero. My savior. My dad."

That last word destroys me every time.

I never had kids. Couldn't. Medical reasons. It haunted my marriage. Part of why I rode so much. Running from that emptiness.

Then a sixteen-year-old mouthed "help me" at 3 AM.

And I became a father.

Not through blood. Through choice. Through showing up when it mattered most.

Macy Rodriguez is my daughter. She calls me Dad. I call her my kid. We're family.

It started because I refused to ignore evil. Because I heard trafficking through a bathroom wall and wouldn't look away.

Because sometimes the most important thing you can do is stop at the right gas station at the right moment.

And pay attention.

Macy starts her master's program next fall. Specialized trafficking victim advocacy. She's going to change the system that failed her.

"I'm going to make sure no other girl is sold by the person meant to protect her," she says.

She will. I believe that completely.

Because Macy survived hell. Escaped. Healed. And now she's becoming the person she needed seven years ago.

The person who doesn't look away.

The person who acts.

The person who saves.

Just like a biker at a gas station taught her.

I keep that moment close. The moment she mouthed "help me" and I had to choose.

Look away or act.

Run or stand.

Ignore or intervene.

I chose intervention. And it gave me a daughter. Gave Macy a life. Gave four other girls freedom.

All because I was too stubborn to let evil win in a gas station bathroom at 3 AM.

People ask what makes someone a hero. I don't have a good answer.

I just know that when a child asks for help, you help.

When you hear evil, you fight it.

When someone mouths "help me," you don't look away.

You never look away.

That's not heroism. That's just being human.

But in a gas station at 3 AM, being human was enough to save a life.

To start a family.

To change everything.

Macy's free now. Flying on her purple Harley. Saving others. Living the life those men tried to steal.

And I get to call her my daughter.

Best ten thousand dollars I ever spent.