Tag: Choice

Stop Scrolling, America: You Look Like You Need A Hug

STOP SCROLLING.

Seriously.

Put down the phone for a minute.

Turn off the cable news.

Step away from the outrage machine.

Take a breath.

Because my country is hurting.

WE, THE PEOPLE, ARE HURTING.

And pretending everything is fine isn’t going to make it better.

We are exhausted.

We are angry.

We are divided.

We are scared.

We are frustrated.

We are watching neighbors turn against neighbors and families turn against families.

We’ve allowed political parties to become identities and political opponents to become enemies.

We’ve allowed algorithms, politicians, pundits, and influencers to convince us that the person on the other side of the aisle is somehow less American than we are.

STOP.

Just stop.

Your neighbor isn’t your enemy because they voted differently.

Your coworker isn’t your enemy because they worship differently.

Your friend isn’t your enemy because they were born somewhere else.

Your family member isn’t your enemy because they see the world differently.

They are human beings.

And they’re hurting too.

Behind every political argument is a person.

A mother worried about her children.

A father wondering how he’s going to pay the bills.

A senior choosing between groceries and medicine.

A young person wondering if there is still a future worth believing in.

A patient fighting for another day.

A grieving family trying to figure out how to keep going.

A lonely person desperately hoping somebody notices them.

These are our people.

Not their people.

OUR people.

We don’t have to agree with one another to care about one another.

We don’t have to share the same politics to share the same humanity.

We don’t have to worship the same way, speak the same language, look the same, come from the same country, or vote for the same candidates to understand one simple truth:

We are all human beings.

And America is supposed to be bigger than our divisions.

Bigger than our political parties.

Bigger than our outrage.

Bigger than our fear.

Bigger than our hatred.

America was never supposed to be us versus them.

America is supposed to be WE, THE PEOPLE.

So here’s the challenge:

STOP looking for reasons to hate each other.

Start looking for reasons to help.

STOP asking, “What party are you?”

Start asking, “How are you doing?”

STOP asking, “Who did you vote for?”

Start asking, “How can I help?”

STOP trying to win every argument.

Start trying to heal a few wounds.

STOP dehumanizing people.

Start seeing people.

And when you see someone hurting, don’t ask whether they deserve compassion.

Give it.

When someone falls, help them up.

When someone is hungry, feed them.

When someone is lonely, sit with them.

When someone is afraid, remind them they aren’t alone.

When someone is different from you, get to know them.

And when someone disagrees with you…

LISTEN.

You might discover that you have far more in common than you ever imagined.

America doesn’t need more people screaming at each other.

America needs people who remember how to be neighbors.

Stand for truth.

Stand for justice.

Stand for compassion.

Stand for freedom.

Stand for the vulnerable.

Stand for the people who have no voice.

And stand for what is right—even when it’s unpopular.

Because the strength of America has never been that we all think alike.

Our strength is that we can be different and still choose to live together.

We can disagree and still love.

We can argue and still respect.

We can come from different places and still call this country home.

We can have different beliefs and still recognize the dignity of another human being.

THAT is strength.

Not cruelty.

Not hatred.

Not humiliation.

Not division.

True strength is having the courage to love people you don’t agree with.

So, America…

HEY, AMERICA.

You look like you need a hug.

And honestly?

So do we.

My country is hurting.

We, the People, are hurting.

But I refuse to believe this is the end of our story.

I still believe in America.

I still believe in our neighbors.

I still believe in ordinary people doing extraordinary things.

I still believe we can put down the weapons of division and pick up the tools of compassion.

I still believe we can look across the aisle and see a fellow American instead of an enemy.

I still believe we can choose humanity.

I still believe we can choose decency.

I still believe we can choose courage.

I still believe we can choose each other.

So here’s what I ask of every American reading this:

Don’t become part of the problem.

Be the person who refuses to hate on command.

Be the person who listens before judging.

Be the person who helps when helping is needed.

Be the person who refuses to let politics erase someone’s humanity.

Be the neighbor who shows up.

Because this country doesn’t belong to one party.

It belongs to all of us.

WE, THE PEOPLE.

Different.

Imperfect.

Hurting.

Hopeful.

Still here.

Still capable of choosing something better.

So, America…

Come here.

Let’s hug it out.

Then let’s roll up our sleeves, look one another in the eye, and remember what those three words were always supposed to mean:

WE, THE PEOPLE.

Not us versus them.

Us.

All of us.

And if we’re going to heal this country, it starts right there.

With us. ~OC

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The World Is A Subway Car

THE WORLD IS A SUBWAY CAR

Think about the world for a moment as if it were one giant subway car.

People are packed inside.

Some are sitting quietly, staring out the window. Some are talking loudly. Some are laughing. Some are crying where nobody can see. Some are exhausted from the journey. Some are angry. Some are afraid.

Some know exactly where they’re going.

Others aren’t even sure what station comes next.

And somehow, we’re all riding together.

That’s what makes the subway such a powerful picture of our world.

We don’t get to choose everyone who gets on the train.

We don’t get to choose everyone’s politics, religion, race, nationality, economic situation, personality, or past.

We don’t get to know everyone’s story just by looking at them.

The person sitting across from you might be carrying a broken heart.

The person standing beside you might be fighting a battle nobody knows about.

The person who looks angry might have spent the night crying.

The person who seems completely lost might simply need someone to remind them that they aren’t alone.

And here’s the thing:

We’re all passengers.

None of us owns the subway car.

None of us gets to declare that only people who look like us, think like us, worship like us, or vote like us belong inside.

We’re sharing the ride.

And every person on that train has a story.

DIFFERENT STATIONS

Life takes us through different stations.

Birth.

Childhood.

Friendship.

Love.

Loss.

Success.

Failure.

Illness.

Grief.

Change.

Hope.

And eventually, our earthly journey comes to an end.

Some people ride with us for decades.

Others get off after only a few stops.

Some people enter our lives unexpectedly and change everything.

Others leave behind memories that stay with us long after they’ve disappeared through the doors.

That’s life.

We are constantly meeting people at different stations.

And perhaps the question isn’t simply:

“Where are you going?”

Perhaps the more important question is:

“How are you treating the people riding beside you?”

THE PERSON NEXT TO YOU MATTERS

Jesus never seemed overly concerned with building walls between people.

He crossed boundaries.

He talked with people others avoided.

He touched people others considered untouchable.

He stopped for people others walked past.

He noticed people.

That’s something the world desperately needs right now.

We need to notice people again.

Not labels.

Not stereotypes.

Not political categories.

Not social-media arguments.

People.

The human being sitting beside us.

The mother trying to hold her family together.

The veteran carrying memories from a battlefield.

The immigrant hoping for a safer tomorrow.

The elderly person who hasn’t had a meaningful conversation in days.

The teenager wondering if anyone sees them.

The person battling addiction.

The person grieving a spouse.

The person living with chronic illness.

The person who smiles every day while privately wondering how much longer they can keep going.

You may never know what someone is carrying.

So be kind.

SOMETIMES THE TRAIN GETS DARK

Every subway has tunnels.

There are moments when the windows become black and all you can see is your own reflection.

Life has tunnels too.

Cancer.

Parkinson’s.

Dementia.

Grief.

Divorce.

Financial hardship.

Loneliness.

Addiction.

Fear.

Depression.

Loss.

There are seasons when it feels like the train has entered a tunnel and God has disappeared from view.

But here’s something important about a tunnel:

The darkness doesn’t mean the train has stopped moving.

You may not see the destination.

You may not understand the route.

You may not know why you’re going through this particular tunnel.

But the train can still be moving forward.

Sometimes faith is simply holding on until the lights come back on.

DON’T MISS YOUR STOP

One day, every one of us will reach our final station.

And when that happens, I don’t think we’ll be thinking about how many arguments we won on social media.

I don’t think we’ll care who had the better political meme.

I don’t think we’ll wish we’d spent more time proving ourselves right.

We’ll remember people.

We’ll remember conversations.

We’ll remember moments when somebody showed up.

We’ll remember the hand that reached for ours when we were hurting.

We’ll remember the person who prayed with us.

We’ll remember the person who stayed when everyone else left.

So while you’re riding this train called life, don’t miss the opportunities to love people.

Don’t be so busy staring at your phone that you miss the person sitting beside you.

Don’t be so consumed with being right that you forget to be kind.

Don’t become so comfortable in your own little corner of the subway car that you forget there are hurting people everywhere around you.

WE’RE ALL GOING SOMEWHERE

The world is a subway car.

We’re all passengers.

We’re all carrying something.

We’re all headed toward another station.

And maybe our assignment isn’t to control the entire train.

Maybe it’s simply to make the ride a little better for the people God has placed around us.

Offer encouragement.

Give grace.

Listen.

Forgive.

Help somebody carry their bags.

Make room.

Speak hope.

Stand beside the hurting.

Love your neighbor.

And when someone gets on the train who looks different from you, remember:

They’re a passenger too.

They have a story.

They have a destination.

They have hopes.

They have fears.

They have value.

And they were created by the same God who created you.

So let’s stop treating one another like enemies riding in opposing subway cars.

We’re on the same train.

We’re sharing the same journey.

And every station we pass is another opportunity to love somebody.

The doors are closing.

The train is moving.

We don’t know how many stops we have left.

So let’s make every stop count.

Let’s love while we’re here.

Let’s serve while we’re here.

Let’s forgive while we’re here.

Let’s encourage while we’re here.

Let’s point people toward Jesus while we’re here.

And when our journey is finally finished, may we be able to look back and say:

“I didn’t just ride the train.”

“I helped somebody make it to the next station.”

Keep loving.
Keep serving.
Keep encouraging.
Keep overcoming.

And whatever station you’re at today—remember, you’re not riding alone. ~OC

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I’m Curious

In a Facebook post, one of my friends poised the following questions.

The questions peaked my curiosity.

Can we act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God while serving under the banner of the American government?

Can we claim to be a nation founded on freedom while ignoring the freedom, dignity, and humanity of our neighbors?

Can we call ourselves a Christian nation while forgetting that Jesus never told us to love only the people who look like us, vote like us, worship like us, or were born where we were born?

Is our country poised to encourage us to love our neighbors as ourselves?

I’m curious.

Because Micah 6:8 doesn’t say:

Act justly when it’s politically convenient.

Love mercy when the person deserves it.

Walk humbly when everyone agrees with you.

It simply says:

“Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God.”

And Jesus didn’t give us a list of exceptions when He said:

“Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Our allegiance to Jesus must always be greater than our allegiance to a political party, a government, an ideology, or even our own comfort.

America has laws.

America has leaders.

America has political parties.

But Jesus has disciples.

And disciples are called to something higher.

We are called to feed the hungry.

Welcome the stranger.

Defend the vulnerable.

Care for the forgotten.

Stand with the oppressed.

Speak truth when truth costs us something.

Love our enemies.

And treat every human being as someone created in the image of God.

So maybe the question isn’t simply:

“Is America doing enough?”

Maybe the harder question is:

“Am I?”

Am I loving my neighbor?

Am I showing mercy?

Am I pursuing justice?

Am I walking humbly?

Am I willing to speak when silence would be easier?

Am I willing to stand with people Jesus would have stood beside—even when standing there costs me friends, followers, comfort, or approval?

Because before I am an American…

I am a follower of Jesus.

And when the values of my government, my political party, or my culture collide with the teachings of Christ, I don’t get to rewrite Jesus.

I have to follow Him.

That’s not anti-American.

That’s discipleship.

Jesus first.
Neighbor second.
Politics somewhere far behind.

So yes…

I’m curious.

What would America look like if Christians actually took Jesus seriously?

Not just on Sunday.

Not just in our churches.

Not just when it benefits us.

But everywhere.

Maybe that’s where the real change begins. ~OC

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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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