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.