Jesus began winning my heart by speaking to me through a secular song.

I was married as a teen and we were both very immature and had not one tool in our box to make a marriage work. It was the late sixties and the temptations were high, the times were rebellious and the popular slogan of the time was, "God is dead."

I assure you He was not dead, and the largest revival the world ever saw was during the late sixties and early seventies where a world wide revival swept through like a might wind.

I see signs of it now, and I pray it grows midst, what in some ways,

are the darkest of times.

I'll paste the link to the song that began my salvation experience.

He used this song to open my heart and that very night I picked up a Bible and began reading about Jesus.

The Holy Spirit fell with such force I found Him irresistible,

long before I knew what the Holy Spirit was!

That experience taught me the truth of the following quote --

"In all churches individuals are better than their denomination, creed, or doctrines, and amidst gross error and indoctrination,

which is often of a very narrow spirit,

noble virtues spring up, and eminent Christians are formed.

God always looks for a seeking spirit,

and even in the midst of many errors,

His truth will penetrate the heart. "

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s4WGPxg9jPQ&list=RDs4

"Someone says, “I have a rebellious heart and an unholy life. When I look honestly at myself, I get totally discouraged. I know temptation and feeling abandoned by God are bad enough, but if my heart and my daily life were truly good, I wouldn’t feel this way. Yet I keep committing serious sins—so don’t I have every reason to be discouraged?”

No. Discouragement itself is a sin—a “gospel sin.” Your failures under the law are never a good excuse to break the gospel by losing heart. Yes, every sin is far worse than any suffering or punishment. Hardships are only the first scratch of sin’s claws. But here’s the truth that changes everything: even though the sins of God’s people dishonor the Holy Spirit, wound the name of Jesus, and damage the reputation of the gospel, believers still have zero reason to stay discouraged. Why?

Because you will never be condemned for your sin—no matter how great it is. The Bible is clear: “There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” Christ was made sin for you. If He took your sin on Himself, that sin can never destroy you. God’s justice will not make you pay a debt twice. Jesus wasn’t just arrested for your debt—He was locked up and paid it in full, to the very last penny. He paid it better than you ever could have, even if you had gone to hell yourself. The bill is settled. The case is closed. So stop letting your sins talk you into despair. Christ has already handled them completely."

William Bridge, "A lifting up for the downcast" 1600s.

 “We all long to have our “youth renewed like an eagle’s.”

At first glance, the surest path to happiness seems simple: hold on to that carefree childhood zest, when everything felt fresh, exciting, and full of wonder. A lucky few, bursting with vitality, manage to keep that spark alive their whole lives.

I remember a friend of Robert Louis Stevenson telling me this story. Stevenson was alone in London, and about to set off on a lonely sea voyage.

He dropped in on his friend, who was also packing for a trip the next day and had to rummage through the junk-filled attic for his trunks.

Stevenson begged to come along.

There, perched on a broken chair amid the dusty clutter, he spun an entire wonderful romance out of the random stuff lying around.

That kind of eager, childlike freshness is something most of us lose as we grow older.

Instead, we’re left fighting off weariness and drudgery, trying not to become just tired commuters plodding through our endless to-do lists and burdens.

The real question is: can we find some kind of “medicine” for the soul—something that revives our fading sense of wonder, brings back the delight and untroubled zest we felt as children when everything new felt magical, and pushed back against the dullness and staleness of everyday adult life?”

Arthur C. Benson.

I love this little story and it brings so many thoughts to mind.

In Psalm 103 the Lord says -

"He satisfies your desires with good things

so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s."

To live having our desires satisfied by "good things",

and not the evil bread of darkness, is one of God's greatest gifts to us.

 

It was "men's church" at the jail last night; about 18 guys showed, and over half were there at the last meeting, and one fella that looked vaguely familiar, and he told me he was in jail 12 years ago, and remembered me too. 

The one thing I know now, more than ever is, you can't read a person by their looks. Time and again, the meanest looking turn out to be the most gentle and the most open. 

The first fella to arrive, introduced himself as a street preacher, and I sensed the Holy Spirit in him but his mission seemed to be the unraveling of end times prophecy and he had a graph he's been working on and was itching to show it to me. I was rescued by the arriving men, and I prayed in the meeting. 

I preached on Matt. 6:22-23 "The eye is the lamp of the body." 

The presence of God hovered in and over the meeting, and every man's eye was on me: they were engaged! This is His power and His love that pours out, calling them to Himself: and I can tell you there is no place I'd rather be than in that rushing, surging tide of grace!  

Christ's words plumbed the depth of sin and His grace beamed with an almost irresistible glory. Believe me, you can feel it when the hearts relates, is convicted and is looking for mercy. 

Before I closed I made an appeal for prayer for any special needs, no one spoke up, so I began praying for every child the men have, every waiting spouse, every weeping parent and grandparent, and every lamenting sibling and loved one. This was the Holy Spirit's grandest entrance, almost like a "mighty wind." 

When I finished, one fella, that struck me as one of the most innocent, asked if I would pray for his wife, he then revealed that after he was incarcerated she fell into depression, and then, on top of all the upheaval, her beloved dog died, and ultimately she relapsed, and is now out selling herself on the streets to feed her Fentanyl habit. I was stunned. He wasn't angry, no jealousy or shame, no nothing, his only thought was for her safety, he just wanted God to protect her. 

The world of darkness can reduce us in ways we never imagined; and it's depth of evil is beyond calculation; only satisfied when we forfeit our souls. 

 

 

At times, when sorrow weighs us down or a hard duty rises before us, we still find enough light within to pray with a lifted heart. In that quiet surrender, God seems near—gathering us into a vast deliverance. The soul turns inward and sees His light; it reaches outward and feels His strength.

Then we step over fear and labor with a new resolve. Even sorrow is transfigured—its clouds glowing with a solemn beauty, like a sky lit from within. They hang above us not as threats, but as a sheltering fire, or as the high mountains of another world—terrible, yet strangely a place we could remain, even beneath the rumble of what we cannot escape.

What once loomed so large to our anxious sight shrinks into smallness before a wider vision. Troubles that felt like floods become as dew upon the grass. The world itself, with all its noise and striving, seems a quiet sphere, drifting in the depths of heaven.

Such moments come to every tested and faithful soul. They hold more true life than years spent in routine and striving. They become our inner landmarks—steady lights that remain long after, reminding us how deeply our spirit shapes what we see above us.

We romanticize the past because fear has been stripped away from it.

We spoil the present because fear still clouds it.

The tragedy is that life keeps proving we can survive the worst—

yet we cannot stop fearing the next thing.

Understanding why fear is part of our story might be the key to wisdom itself.

That's the point of the following quote by Arthur C. Benson ---

"After living a full life—seeing much, enjoying much, and enduring much—a person often looks back and feels a quiet dissatisfaction.

Their days weren’t ruined, but they were always slightly shadowed by the sense that happiness was never quite as pure as they had hope.

So they turn their thoughts to the old scenes of love and companionship.

They call up memories from the darkness, like flipping through an old photo album, and gently retouch them.

They remove the worries, the disappointments, and especially the fears—transforming the past not into what it actually was,

but into what it might have been: warmer, softer, more golden.

Thomas Carlyle nailed it when he said the reason memories of the past always look so beautiful is because the fear has been taken out of them.

It is fear of what may happen and what must eventually happen that overshadows our present happiness.

Remove fear, and we would be truly happy.

Yet here’s the strange paradox: even though we’ve survived our darkest and saddest experiences completely unscathed,

we never seem to learn not to be afraid.

If we could only understand why fear is woven so deeply into human life,

we would have solved a great part of the riddle of the world."

It's no mystery why the Bible says "Fear not" near 365 times.

“He took her by the hand and lifted her up, and immediately the fever left her; and she ministered unto them.” — Mark I: 31.

Mark had a very active mind, perhaps the most active of the four evangelists. He delights to record not words, but deeds. I do not think that any of the others, after telling of this woman’s cure, would have immediately added, “and she ministered unto them.” The sequel is not what we should expect. When an invalid rises from fever, we expect others to minister to her and help repair the ravages of disease. Matthew, after describing the healing of Jairus’s daughter, records Jesus’ command that “something should be given her to eat.” No doubt the time came when she, too, ministered to the household; but Matthew does not go on to say so. He leaves the scene at the bedside.

Is Mark, then, less sympathetic? Is it a lack of sentiment that makes him hasten to tell us how soon this woman was back at her work? No; I think it is the opposite. Mark sees that the great use of a temporary burden is the power it gives for human service. This is a side of suffering we seldom consider. We rarely think of sickness as preparation for deeper usefulness. But Mark does; to him, that is its glory. The woman raised from the bed of fever is not merely restored; she is enlarged. She is in a better state than if she had never been ill. The illness has become an enrichment. And her new spirit of service must have been to her friends as great a surprise, and as great a miracle, as her healing.

“Faith which works by love” Gal. 5:6

 “The amount of faith we place in others is quite out of proportion to our actual knowledge of them. 

You will see two girls, in the course of just a few hours, becoming mutual confidantes. 

Why is this? 

It is because they have taken a liking to one another. 

Their faith in each other has had nothing to build upon but love. 

There has not been time for experience. 

Love is the anticipator of experience. 

Love pays in advance; it gives the money before it receives the thing. 

Divine love is no exception. 

God pays humanity in advance for services not yet rendered; 

I suppose that is what the prophet means when he cries, 

“Behold! His reward is with Him and His work before Him!” 

Love gives its confidence in advance. It does not wait for proof. 

It does not linger for corroboration. It does not suspend its trust until its object is weighed in the balance. 

It surrenders its faith unpaid for.

My friend, let this be your faith in your fellow human! 

Do not wait until you have proven them! 

You look out upon the lapsed masses; you see no beauty to be desired in them. 

Will you then let them go? 

Is your faith to be dependent on sight? 

Not if you love. 

If you love your lapsed brother, you will hope all things for him. 

Love gives the benefit of the doubt to those who seem unpromising. 

Love imputes its own righteousness to those who are still in shadow. 

Love believes in tomorrow for those in a dark today. 

My friend, if you love, you will believe that all things are possible for humanity. 

Though as yet you see no rainbow, though as yet you hear no bells across the snow, though as yet there has come from the waters not even an olive branch of peace, still you will believe. 

Love itself shall be your rainbow; love itself shall be your bell of hope; love itself shall be your message from the flood. 

Humanity is still climbing the Dolorous Way—fainting beneath her crosses, groaning amid her thorns. 

Do not wait till she has conquered, do not wait till she is crowned! 

Go out to meet her in her climbing! Go out to greet her in her night! Go out to own her in her rags! 

Take up her bitter cross and call it yours! 

And if people say to you, “Why do you dare to hope for these withered leaves?” 

lay your hand upon your heart and say, “Love believes all things!”

George Matheson. 

Inner Peace: Why God Sometimes Takes It Away

  

This deep inward peace and quietness of soul is such a priceless gift that God sometimes raises its value by temporarily removing it. 

Ordinary blessings are often taken for granted—

until they’re lost and then restored, at which point they feel extraordinary.

It’s completely normal to sit at your desk or go about your daily work without a second thought. 

But if you get seriously ill and can’t even step into your workplace for five or six weeks, then when you finally manage to return for just one day, you think, “What an amazing blessing this is!”

 The same is true with health. When you’re strong and can travel three, four or five miles a day, and barely notice it. 

But after you’ve been at death’s door and start to recover, even the simple ability to move your hand or stir your leg in bed fills you with gratitude: “I can actually move! What an extraordinary mercy!”

Inner peace works exactly the same way. As long as it flows without interruption, we treat it as ordinary. 

But when that peace is shaken—when our souls are buffeted by Satan or deep discouragement—and then it is wonderfully restored, 

we suddenly see it for the extraordinary blessing it really is.

This is why God sometimes allows even His dearest children to become discouraged and their peace to be interrupted: 

He is deliberately raising the value of this spiritual treasure in our eyes.

God is a tender Father who wants all of our love directed toward Him. Our joy, peace, and comfort are merely the “nurse” that helps sustain our spiritual life. 

When He sees us loving the nurse (the gifts) more than we love the Father Himself, He gently removes the nurse for a season. 

He will not allow anything—even good things like peace—to steal first place in our hearts." 

William Bridge, A Lifting up for the Downcast. 

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