Tag: Choice

The Mountain

Is God is calling you to climb a mountain?

You’ve been staring at this mountain long enough.

The diagnosis.
The disappointment.
The betrayal.
The loss.
The fear.
The rejection.
The impossible situation.

And somewhere along the way, you started believing that because the mountain is BIG, your God must be small.

NO.

Caleb stood at 85 years old and looked at a mountain filled with giants and said:

“GIVE ME THIS MOUNTAIN.”

Not give me an easier assignment.
Not give me a different battle.
Not wait until the circumstances improve.

Give me this mountain.

That’s the kind of faith I want.

Faith that doesn’t collapse when circumstances change.

Faith that doesn’t disappear when the answer doesn’t come quickly.

Faith that doesn’t need everything to make sense before it takes another step.

I will walk in the confidence of God- regardless of the mountain standing in front of me.

Because my confidence isn’t in my circumstances.

My confidence is in Jesus.

The mountain doesn’t determine whether God is faithful.

The diagnosis doesn’t determine whether God is faithful.

The storm doesn’t determine whether God is faithful.

The enemy doesn’t determine whether God is faithful.

God is always faithful. Period.

So bring me the mountain.

Bring me the thing that scares me.

Bring me the thing that makes me realize I can’t do this in my own strength.

Because when I reach the place where I can’t, I discover the place where He can.

I don’t need to understand the entire journey.

I just need enough faith to take the next step.

One More Step.

When I’m tired—one more step.
When I’m afraid—one more step.
When I’m hurting—one more step.
When I can’t see the way forward—one more step.

Not because I’m strong enough.

Because Jesus is.

And hear me clearly:

I am not backing down.

I am not bowing to fear.
I am not surrendering to circumstances.
I am not allowing yesterday to dictate tomorrow.

God, give me this mountain.

Because I know who walks with me.

His name is Jesus.

The One who walked out of the grave.
The One who conquered death.
The One who holds my future.
The One who has never abandoned me.
The One who is still Lord when everything around me is falling apart.

I don’t need the mountain to be smaller.
I need my faith to become bigger.

So, Jesus…

Give me this mountain.

Give me the courage to climb it.
Give me the faith to face it.
Give me the strength to endure it.
Give me the perseverance to finish it.

And when I reach the top, I won’t take the credit.

I will point everyone to you.

Because I didn’t overcome because I was strong.

I overcame because Jesus was with me every step of the way.

The mountain may be big.
The battle may be real.
The circumstances may be brutal.

But Jesus is still Lord.

And if Jesus is with me—

I will keep on climbing.

Give me the mountain.
Give me Jesus.
and let’s go.

“Now therefore, give me this mountain…” — Joshua 14:12

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Love Your Neighbor

Today’s a new day!

Maybe the hardest question we can ask ourselves as Christians isn’t, “Do I love Jesus?”

Maybe it’s this:

“Has following Jesus actually made me love my neighbor more?”

That question has been sitting heavy on my heart.

Because I’ve spent a lot of years learning about Jesus.

I’ve read the Bible. I’ve listened to sermons. I’ve sat in Bible studies. I’ve prayed. I’ve worshiped. I’ve written about faith, grace, suffering, forgiveness, hope and the goodness of God.

I’ve talked about discipleship.

I’ve talked about what it means to follow Jesus.

But lately, I’ve found myself asking a much more uncomfortable question:

Am I actually becoming more like Him?

Because there is a difference between knowing Jesus and becoming like Jesus.

And sometimes I wonder if we’ve become really good at the first one while completely missing the second.

We know the verses.

We know the doctrine.

We know what we believe.

We know what we think is right and what we think is wrong.

We know what other people should be doing.

But do we love them?

Really love them?

Not just the people who agree with us.

Not just the people sitting beside us in church.

Not just the people who vote like us, think like us, worship like us or live their lives the way we believe they should.

I’m talking about the difficult people.

The angry people.

The broken people.

The addicted people.

The people who have made terrible mistakes.

The people who don’t believe what we believe.

The people who have hurt us.

The people who have hurt themselves.

The people who don’t look like us.

The people who don’t smell like us.

The people society has decided aren’t worth much.

The people who make us uncomfortable.

Those people.

Jesus called them our neighbors too.

And that’s where this gets painfully personal for me.

Because it’s easy to love people when loving them costs us nothing.

It’s easy to talk about loving our neighbor when our neighbor looks, thinks and lives like we do.

It’s easy to say, “Jesus loves you,” from a safe distance.

But what happens when Jesus asks us to get close?

What happens when loving our neighbor means listening instead of lecturing?

Forgiving instead of keeping score?

Serving instead of being served?

Showing grace instead of passing judgment?

Sitting with someone in their pain instead of trying to explain it away?

What happens when loving our neighbor requires us to put our pride down?

That’s where discipleship gets real.

Because Jesus didn’t simply tell us to love people.

He showed us what love looks like.

He touched people everyone else avoided.

He ate with people religious society had rejected.

He stopped for people everyone else walked past.

He noticed people everyone else ignored.

He loved people who couldn’t give Him anything in return.

And then He stretched His arms across a wooden cross and showed us that real love is sacrificial.

So I’ve been asking myself:

What if discipleship isn’t measured by how much Bible I know, but by how much love I give?

What if spiritual maturity isn’t about how many arguments I can win, but how much grace I can extend?

What if becoming more like Jesus means becoming slower to judge, quicker to forgive, more willing to listen and more willing to love people who don’t deserve it?

Because here’s the truth I’ve had to confront:

I can be right and still be unChristlike.

I can know Scripture and still have a hard heart.

I can defend the truth and still fail to show grace.

I can go to church every Sunday and still walk past my neighbor without ever noticing that they’re hurting.

I can call myself a disciple while becoming increasingly comfortable with people I don’t like being treated as though they don’t matter.

And that realization hurts.

Because I don’t want to simply talk about Jesus.

I want my life to look like Him.

I want people to experience something different when they encounter me.

I want the lonely to feel seen.

I want the hurting to feel safe.

I want the broken to know they aren’t beyond redemption.

I want the person who disagrees with me to know I can disagree without hating them.

I want the person who has fallen to know there is still grace.

I want the person who feels forgotten to know that somebody cares.

I want my neighbor to encounter Jesus—not because I preached a sermon at them, but because I loved them.

Maybe that’s the discipleship journey we’re missing.

Maybe following Jesus isn’t about becoming more religious.

Maybe it’s about becoming more human—the kind of human God created us to be before sin taught us to divide, judge, hate and exclude.

So I’m asking myself today:

Has following Jesus made me love my neighbor more?

Has it changed the way I speak to people?

Has it changed the way I treat people who disagree with me?

Has it changed the way I respond to the broken?

Has it made me more compassionate?

More patient?

More forgiving?

More generous?

More willing to serve?

More willing to listen?

More willing to love without expecting anything in return?

And perhaps most importantly:

Would my neighbor say that following Jesus has made me a more loving person?

That’s the question that scares me.

Because it’s one thing for me to say I’m becoming like Jesus.

It’s another thing for the people around me to actually see it.

Maybe it’s time we stopped measuring our discipleship by how many Christian things we do and started measuring it by how much love is actually coming out of our lives.

Because Jesus didn’t say the world would recognize His disciples by their political opinions.

He didn’t say they would know us by our church attendance.

He didn’t say they would know us by how loudly we defended our beliefs.

He said they would know us by our love.

So before I point another finger…

Before I criticize another person…

Before I decide who is worthy of my compassion…

Before I tell someone else what they need to change…

Maybe I need to get on my knees and ask God:

“Lord, change me first.”

Make my heart softer.

Make my hands willing to serve.

Make my ears willing to listen.

Make my eyes willing to see the people everyone else overlooks.

Make me love the people I don’t understand.

Make me forgive the people who hurt me.

Make me compassionate toward people whose stories I don’t know.

And when I encounter someone who is hurting, broken, angry, lost or far away from You…

Don’t let me walk past them.

Let me stop.

Let me see them.

Let me love them.

Let me become Your hands and feet.

Because maybe the greatest testimony we will ever give isn’t something we say.

Maybe it’s the way we love someone who thought Christians would hate them.

And tonight, I hope we all sit with this question for a while:

If the only Bible my neighbor ever read was the life I lived, would they see Jesus?

Not perfection.

Not religion.

Not condemnation.

Jesus.

Because if my discipleship hasn’t made me love my neighbor more…

Maybe the problem isn’t that my neighbor needs to come closer to Jesus.

Maybe I do. ~OC

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Parent Your Phone

As I watch the news or scroll through social media, I hear and read a lot about how parents should police their children’s cellphone use.

I agree.

But maybe as adults we need to be worried about just more than the younger generations phone use.


Maybe as adults we need to put OUR own phones down.

That one hurts.

Because we can talk about kids being addicted to their screens.

We can talk about teenagers who spend hours scrolling.

We can talk about social media stealing their attention.

We can talk about the dangers of what they’re watching.

But if we’re honest…

We have to look in the mirror first.

Because sometimes we are just as guilty of the very thing we’re warning everyone else about.

Our phone is beside us when we wake up.

It’s in our hands while we’re eating.

It’s there when someone is talking to us.

We reach for it when we’re bored.

We reach for it when we’re uncomfortable.

We reach for it when we’re lonely.

We reach for it when we don’t want to think about what we’re feeling.

And sometimes…

We reach for our phones before we reach for God.

Ouch.

Maybe we don’t need to parent our children’s phones nearly as much as we need to parent our own.

Because somewhere along the way, many of us stopped using our phones and started being used by them.

A notification goes off…

We respond.

Someone posts something…

We check it.

Someone sends a message…

We stop whatever we’re doing.

The phone rings…

We immediately reach for it.

And the person sitting right in front of us?

They wait.

Our spouse waits.

Our children wait.

Our friends wait.

Sometimes even God waits.

And we wonder why our relationships feel disconnected.

Maybe it isn’t because we don’t love people.

Maybe it’s because we’re physically present…

but emotionally somewhere else.

Jesus said, “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” — Matthew 6:21

So where is our heart?

Because sometimes you can tell where someone’s heart is by where their eyes are.

And if our eyes are constantly staring at a screen…

Maybe we should ask ourselves what has captured our attention.

I’m not saying phones are evil.

I’m not saying technology is evil.

I’m not saying social media is evil.

I’m saying anything that can control us needs to be surrendered to Jesus.

The Bible says, “I will not be mastered by anything.” — 1 Corinthians 6:12

Not anything.

That means our phones don’t get to master us.

Notifications don’t get to master us.

Algorithms don’t get to master us.

Social media doesn’t get to master us.

Jesus is supposed to be our Master.

So maybe we need to start parenting our phones.

Maybe we need to teach ourselves that dinner is more important than notifications.

That a conversation is more important than a comment.

That our children’s eyes deserve to meet our eyes.

That our spouse deserves our full attention.

That sitting with someone who is hurting is more important than scrolling past another post.

That prayer deserves more attention than Facebook.

That God’s Word deserves more attention than our newsfeed.

And maybe we need to remember something incredibly simple:

Life is happening on the other side of the screen.

Your children are growing up.

Your marriage needs you.

Your friend may be hurting.

Someone around you may desperately need someone to listen.

And you may be missing it…

because you’re looking down.

So today, I’m asking myself the same question I’m asking you:

Who is parenting whom?

Do I control my phone…

or does my phone control me?

Could I put it down for an hour without feeling anxious?

Could I sit at lunch or dinner without checking it?

Could I spend time with God without reaching for it?

Could I have a conversation without looking at it?

Could I go somewhere without needing to document it?

Could I be completely present…

without a screen between me and the people I love?

Because maybe the issue isn’t our phones.

Maybe the issue is what we’ve allowed our phones to become.

So here’s my challenge:

Put it down.

Not forever.

Just long enough to look up.

Look at your spouse.

Look at your kids.

Look at your friend.

Look around your dinner table.

Look at the person sitting alone.

Look at the world God actually gave you.

And then…

look up toward Heaven.

Because there is a God who has been trying to get our attention long before our phones ever existed.

And maybe today He isn’t asking you to download another Bible app.

Maybe He’s simply whispering:

“Put the phone down, My child.
I’m right here.”

So before we tell the younger generation to get off their phones…

look at your own screen.

Before you complain about their screen time…

look at your own.

Before you tell them they are addicted…

ask yourself if you are.

And before you scroll to the next post…

stop.

Look at your phone.

Now ask yourself one brutally honest question:

“If I gave God the same attention I give this phone, how different would my life be?”

Let that question sit with you.

Don’t scroll.

Don’t defend yourself.

Don’t make excuses.

Just sit with it.

Maybe it’s time we stopped parenting everyone else’s phones…

and started parenting our own. ~OC

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Mud, Spit and the American Church

Today’s a new day!

I grew up in a different generation.

We played in the dirt until the streetlights came on. We climbed trees, rode our bikes without helmets, scraped our knees, and somehow survived. We came home covered in mud, sweat, and stories.

If you had something on your face, chances are your mom or grandma would lick her thumb or use a little spit to wipe it away before anyone else noticed. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was an act of love. Nobody thought twice about it.

It was a simpler time.

I also grew up in churches where pastors weren’t trying to become celebrities. They weren’t worried about likes, followers, or building a personal brand. They opened the Bible, preached the truth, called people to repentance, and pointed everyone to Jesus. Sometimes the sermons made you uncomfortable. Sometimes they stepped on your toes. But you left knowing you had encountered God’s Word, not just another motivational speech.

Today, so much has changed.

Many children rarely play outside. Screens have replaced backyards. Adventure has been traded for entertainment.

Many parents would never imagine using spit to clean a child’s face. We’ve become increasingly concerned with appearances, convenience, and comfort.

And sadly, much of the American Church has changed too.

Far too many pulpits have exchanged the Gospel for self-improvement.

Messages about sin have been replaced with messages about success. Repentance has been replaced with positive thinking. The cross has been overshadowed by personal branding. 

Instead of shepherds feeding the flock, many churches have become stages where personalities perform.

People leave feeling inspired—but not transformed.

Yet when I read Scripture, I find something fascinating.

Jesus wasn’t afraid of mud.

In fact, one of His miracles involved making mud with His own saliva.

He spit on the ground, mixed the dirt into mud, placed it on a blind man’s eyes, and told him to go wash. When the man obeyed, he came back seeing.

Think about that for a moment.

The Creator of the universe could have simply spoken a word.

Instead, He chose mud.

He chose spit.

Something ordinary.

Something people might even consider offensive.

Because God has always been in the business of using unlikely things to display His glory.

The Gospel itself is offensive to human pride.

It tells us we cannot save ourselves.

It tells us we must die to ourselves.

It tells us that forgiveness came through a bloody cross.

None of that fits neatly into today’s culture of comfort and self-esteem.

But it is still the power of God.

The American Church doesn’t need better marketing.

It doesn’t need cooler stages.

It doesn’t need more polished personalities.

It needs pastors who love truth more than applause.

It needs believers who desire holiness more than popularity.

It needs people who are willing to get their hands dirty serving others instead of polishing their own image.

Maybe we’ve become so obsessed with looking clean that we’ve forgotten the One who still isn’t afraid to kneel in the dirt.

Jesus still meets broken people.

He still restores blind eyes.

He still heals wounded hearts.

He still calls sinners to Himself.

The method may not always look impressive.

The process may not always be comfortable.

But His power hasn’t changed.

Perhaps it’s time for the Church to stop trying to impress the culture and start looking more like Christ again.

Maybe what we need isn’t another life coach with a Bible verse.

Maybe we need shepherds who will faithfully preach the whole counsel of God-even when it’s unpopular. 

Maybe we need believers who aren’t afraid of a little mud if it means someone finally sees Jesus. 

Because sometimes, God still chooses mud.

Sometimes, He still uses spit. 

And He has always used ordinary people surrendered to an extraordinary Savior. 

Lord, may Your Church once again become known—not for its polish, but for its faithfulness. Give us courage to speak truth with love, humility to serve without recognition, and hearts that care more about Your glory than our comfort. Amen. ~OC

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Grit, Faith and Determination

Today’s a new day!

Some battles don’t come with warning.

They arrive quietly—or sometimes all at once—and suddenly you find yourself standing in the middle of something you never expected to face.

I’m in one of those seasons right now.

But here’s what I’ve learned: a tough battle doesn’t have to steal your hope.

I’m choosing to stay positive. I’m choosing to keep moving forward. And I’m choosing to lean—not because I am weak, but because I understand that none of us were created to walk through the hardest seasons of life alone.

I am incredibly grateful for my family and friends who continue to stand beside me.

Your prayers, messages, encouragement, phone calls, hugs, and simple reminders that you’re there mean more than I can put into words. Sometimes you may think you’re just sending a quick message or saying a quick prayer, but to someone in the middle of a difficult battle, those little things can become lifelines.

Your support means the world to me.

There will be difficult days. There will be moments when the road ahead looks intimidating. There may even be times when I have to take things one day—or one moment—at a time.

But I refuse to let the battle define me.

I want my response to adversity to be defined by grit, faith, courage, and determination.

Grit says, Keep going.

Faith says, God is still here.

Determination says, I’m not finished.

And love reminds me that I’m not walking this road alone.

I don’t know exactly what tomorrow will bring. But I know I don’t have to face tomorrow by myself.

So, to my family, my friends, my prayer warriors, and everyone who has taken the time to encourage me:

Thank you.

Thank you for believing in me when the battle gets heavy.

Thank you for standing beside me when I’m tired.

Thank you for praying when I don’t have the words.

Thank you for reminding me that there is still something worth fighting for.

And most importantly, thank you for walking beside me.

This is not about pretending everything is easy.

It’s about facing what is difficult without surrendering our hope.

It’s about acknowledging the battle while refusing to give the battle the final word.

So here we go.

One day at a time.

One prayer at a time.

One step at a time.

With grit.
With faith.
With determination.
And with a whole lot of love surrounding us.

The battle may be tough.

But I’m tougher than the battle.

And with God, family, friends, and an army of people standing beside me, we’re going to face this together.

Let’s tackle it.

Not with fear.

Not with surrender.

But with grit, faith, and determination.

And whatever tomorrow brings, we’ll meet it together. ~OC

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Squeezing Life

Today’s a new day!

Living with multiple health issues has taught me something I never would have learned in a life without suffering:

Our time on this earth is far too precious to waste.

When your body reminds you every day that life is fragile, you begin to see things differently. You stop taking tomorrow for granted. You stop assuming there will always be another opportunity to call someone, hug someone, forgive someone, laugh with someone, or tell the people you love how much they mean to you.

You begin to understand that life isn’t measured only in years.

Sometimes it is measured in moments.

A conversation that makes you smile.

A sunset that takes your breath away.

A prayer whispered through tears.

A song that reminds you God is still near.

A hug from someone you love.

A meal shared around the table.

A memory made on an ordinary day that somehow becomes extraordinary because you were there to experience it.

My health journey has taken many things from me. There are things I once could do that I can no longer do. There are dreams that have had to change. There are days when simply getting through the day feels like an accomplishment.

But I’ve learned not to let what I’ve lost become the only story I tell.

Because God is still writing.

I may not understand every chapter, but I trust the Author.

I may have questions I cannot answer, but I can still have faith.

I may have limitations, but I am not without purpose.

And I may have scars, but those scars can become reminders of God’s faithfulness.

Living with illness has made me want to squeeze every bit of meaning, purpose, joy, gratitude, and hope out of the short time we have on this earth.

Not because I am afraid of dying.

But because I have learned to appreciate living.

I want to love people while they’re still here.

I want to make memories instead of waiting for the “perfect” moment.

I want to encourage somebody who feels forgotten.

I want to remind the broken that they are not useless.

I want to tell the person sitting in the darkness that morning is still coming.

I want my life—even with all its limitations—to point beyond me to Jesus.

Scripture reminds us:

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” — Psalm 90:12

Numbering our days doesn’t mean living in fear of the end.

It means learning to recognize the value of today.

Today is a beautiful gift.

This breath is a gift.

This conversation is a gift.

This person sitting beside you is a gift.

This opportunity to love, serve, forgive, 

encourage, worship, and make a difference is a gift.

We don’t know how many pages remain in our story.

So I’m not waiting until tomorrow to start living.

I’m not waiting until I’m healthy enough.

I’m not waiting until everything makes sense.

I’m not waiting until life becomes easier.

I’m choosing to live the life God has placed in front of me today.

Maybe that’s what being an overcomer really means.

It doesn’t mean we never struggle.

It doesn’t mean we aren’t afraid.

It doesn’t mean we don’t have bad days.

It means we refuse to let our circumstances have the final word.

We keep getting back up.

We keep believing.

We keep loving.

We keep hoping.

We keep looking toward Jesus.

And we keep squeezing every drop of meaning out of this beautiful, difficult, unpredictable gift called life.

Because one day, when this earthly journey is finished, I don’t want to look back and realize I spent all my time waiting for life to begin.

I want to know that I lived.

I loved deeply.

I laughed often.

I made memories.

I recognized and encouraged people.

I served Jesus.

I held onto hope.

And even in the hardest seasons, I trusted God enough to keep moving forward.

Life may be shorter than we think.

So don’t wait to tell someone you love them.

Don’t wait to make the memory.

Don’t wait to forgive.

Don’t wait to reach out.

Don’t wait to live.

Squeeze every drop of meaning, purpose, love, and hope out of this day.

Tomorrow belongs to God.

But today is a gift.

And I intend to unwrap it. ~OC

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Don’t Live With Regrets

Today’s a new day!

I’ve often thought about something that feels both heartbreaking and unnecessary.

When I die, I don’t want people to suddenly tell the world how much I meant to them.

I don’t want long social media posts about the memories we never made.

I don’t want flowers that arrive too late, or words spoken over a casket that could have been shared over a glass of ice tea.

I want the conversation while I’m still here.

I want the phone call.

I want the text that says, “I’m thinking about you.”

I want the laughter around the dinner table, the long conversations on the porch, the road trips, the prayers together, and the ordinary moments that somehow become extraordinary simply because they were shared with someone we love.

Life is incredibly fragile.

As someone who has spent years walking through chronic illness, I’ve been reminded again and again that tomorrow is never guaranteed. We all assume there will be another birthday, another holiday, another chance to reconnect. But sometimes, that chance never comes.

One of the greatest tragedies isn’t death itself.

It’s the conversations we never had.

The forgiveness we never offered.

The hugs we never gave.

The visits we kept putting off.

The words, “I love you,” that remained trapped behind pride, busyness, or the illusion that there would always be more time.

Don’t wait.

If someone comes to your mind today, maybe that’s not an accident.

Call them.

Invite them to lunch.

Take the drive.

Write the letter.

Pray with them.

Make the memory now instead of wishing you had after they’re gone.

At the end of our lives, very few people regret spending too much time with those they love.

They regret the opposite.

They regret the vacations they postponed, the friendships they neglected, the family gatherings they skipped, and the relationships they allowed to slowly drift away.

Love isn’t measured by what we say after someone dies.

Love is measured by how we show up while they’re still living.

Jesus demonstrated this beautifully. He walked with people, ate with them, listened to them, laughed with them, wept beside them, and loved them in the everyday moments of life. He didn’t wait until it was too late to express His love.

Maybe today is your reminder.

Don’t let another day slip by.

Don’t assume they’ll always be there.

Don’t allow pride to steal another year.

Reach out.

Create the memories.

Take the picture.

Share the meal.

Say the words.

One day, the opportunity will pass.

Live in such a way that when the day of goodbye finally comes, your heart is filled with gratitude instead of regret—not because everything was perfect, but because you chose to love while there was still time.

Don’t wait until a funeral to celebrate someone’s life.

Celebrate them today. ~OC

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Racial Violence. Death. Hanging. Silence.

Tasia Fortune was found hanging.

I do not believe it was suicide.

But if you believe this was a suicide, then you should still demand that every question be answered. If there are circumstances that raise questions about whether her death was truly a suicide, then those questions deserve a real, independent investigation—not dismissal, not silence, and not another case quietly filed away.

Mississippi has a painful history of Black people dying under circumstances that have left families and communities demanding answers. For decades, deaths involving trees, ropes, and hanging have carried the horrifying shadow of America’s history of racial terror.

And now, in 2026, we are still having these conversations.

That should disturb every one of us.

Dear White Community: silence is not neutrality when people are demanding justice.

You don’t have to know every fact to demand that the facts be uncovered.

You don’t have to have all the answers to stand beside a grieving family.

And you don’t have to wait until something happens to someone you love before you decide that every human life deserves the same level of scrutiny, dignity, and protection.

Demand a real investigation.

Demand independent oversight.

Demand federal review when circumstances warrant it.

Demand transparency.

And demand that our laws be strong enough that justice is never dependent upon someone’s race, wealth, power, ZIP code, or political connections.

This isn’t about jumping to conclusions.

It’s about refusing to accept unanswered questions when a human being is dead.

It’s about refusing to let history repeat itself in silence.

It’s about making sure that when a Black person dies under suspicious or disputed circumstances, the response isn’t:

“Move along. Nothing to see here.”

No!

We have something to see.

We have questions to ask.

We have families to hear.

We have institutions to hold accountable.

And we have a moral obligation to insist that  every death deserves the truth.

Because justice delayed is painful.

Justice denied is devastating.

But justice ignored is a choice.

And silence is a choice, too.

Choose to speak.
Choose to ask questions.
Choose to demand the truth. ~OC

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Jesus Over Tribalism

I have come to a place in my faith where I would rather upset my fellow Christian community by loving the people Jesus called us to love than fit comfortably among Christians united by who they condemn.

That may not always make me popular.

It may not earn me invitations.

It may make some people question my theology, my priorities, or even my faith.

But I can live with that.

Because when I look at Jesus, I don’t see someone building His ministry around determining who was worthy of love.

I see Him moving toward the hurting.

Toward the rejected.

Toward the outcast.

Toward sinners.

Toward people religious society had already written off.

Jesus touched the untouchable.

He ate with people others avoided.

He spoke with people others ignored.

He defended people others condemned.

He showed mercy when others demanded judgment.

And He commanded us to love our neighbors—not just the neighbors who look like us, vote like us, worship like us, think like us, or agree with us.

Love is not supposed to be selective.

If my Christianity requires me to hate someone in order to prove that I belong to the right group, then I need to take another long look at Jesus.

I don’t want to be part of a Christian community that is united primarily by the people it opposes.

I want to be part of a Church united by the One it follows.

Jesus.

I would rather be criticized for loving too many people than praised for condemning too many.

I would rather be accused of having too much compassion than too little.

I would rather stand beside someone who is hurting and remind them that they are loved than stand at a distance and remind them of everything they have done wrong.

That doesn’t mean truth doesn’t matter.

It does.

But Jesus never separated truth from love.

Grace and truth walked together.

So if loving like Jesus makes me uncomfortable to some Christians, I’ll accept the discomfort.

If compassion makes me controversial, so be it.

If welcoming the hurting makes some people question me, I’ll answer with the example of Christ.

Because at the end of the day, I don’t want to be known as someone who was really good at identifying who was wrong.

I want to be known as someone who loved people well.

I want people to encounter Jesus when they encounter me.

Not my politics.

Not my anger.

Not my judgment.

Not my tribe.

Jesus.

There are already enough Christians standing together because of who they condemn.

I want to stand with Christians who are willing to love because of who Jesus is.

So yes…

I would rather upset my fellow Christians by loving the people Jesus called us to love than fit comfortably among Christians united by who they choose to condemn.

Because I would rather be uncomfortable with people while following Jesus…

than comfortable with people while becoming unlike Him.

“By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” — John 13:35

Love isn’t weakness.

Love isn’t compromise.

Love isn’t abandoning truth.

Love is one of the clearest ways we show the world that we belong to Jesus. ~OC

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Living

Today’s a new day!

I know what it’s like to be dying.

I know what it feels like to look at your life and realize that tomorrow is never promised. I know what it’s like to spend time in hospital rooms, sit across from doctors, hear words that change the way you look at the future, and wonder how much time you have left.

I know what it’s like to come face-to-face with my own mortality.

But here’s the thing:

I don’t spend much time thinking about death.

I know it’s there.

I know one day my earthly journey will come to an end. I don’t deny it. I don’t run from it. And because of my faith, I don’t fear what comes after this life.

But I’m not going to spend the days I’ve been given worrying about the day they run out.

I’ve got too much living to do.

I’ve got too many memories to make.

Too many conversations to have.

Too many sunsets to watch.

Too many laughs to share.

Too many hugs to give.

Too many stories still waiting to be told.

Too many people I love who still need to hear, “I love you.”

There are places I still want to see, songs I still want to write, prayers I still want to pray, and moments I still want to experience.

There are memories I haven’t made yet with the people I love.

So I’m going to make them.

I’m going to laugh when I can.

I’m going to cry when I need to.

I’m going to celebrate the ordinary moments because I’ve learned that ordinary moments are often the extraordinary ones we remember most.

I’m going to sit a little longer at the dinner table.

I’m going to call the friend I’ve been meaning to call.

I’m going to tell people what they mean to me while they’re still here—and while I’m still here.

I’m going to stop saving life for someday.

Because someday isn’t guaranteed.

Today is.

Living with serious health challenges has taught me something I could never have learned from a textbook:

Life isn’t measured only by how many years we have.

It’s measured by what we do with the years we’ve been given.

Death may be somewhere down the road, but I’m not going to stand on the road staring at it.

I’m going to keep walking.

I’m going to keep loving.

I’m going to keep believing.

I’m going to keep making memories.

I’m going to keep squeezing every drop of meaning, purpose, joy, and hope out of this crazy, beautiful life.

And when my time finally comes, I don’t want to look back and wish I had lived more.

I want to be able to say:

I lived.

I loved deeply.

I laughed loudly.

I made memories.

I encouraged people.

I shared my faith.

I fought through the hard days.

I celebrated the good ones.

I didn’t waste my life being afraid of losing it.

I chose to live it.

Because death may be inevitable.

But today is a gift.

And I’m not wasting the gift.

I’ve got too much living to do.

Too much loving to do.

Too many memories to make.

Too much purpose left to pursue.

And as long as God gives me breath…

I’m going to fully embrace it. ~OC

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