Tag: Endurance

Church, We Need To Talk About Suicide

September is Suicide Awareness Month.

But here’s the problem:

We don’t need another month of pretty graphics, statistics, and Christian clichés.

We need to start saving lives.

Because there are people sitting in our churches every Sunday who are dying on the inside while everyone around them keeps saying, “You look great!”

There are people worshiping with tears in their eyes who don’t know if they can make it through Monday.

There are men who have been taught their entire lives to “man up” who are terrified to admit they’re drowning.

There are women who are exhausted from pretending everything is okay.

There are teenagers terrified to tell anyone what is happening inside their heads.

And there are people who desperately need help who are afraid that if they tell the Church the truth, we’ll judge them instead of loving them.

CHURCH, THAT HAS TO CHANGE.

We cannot preach about grace on Sunday and shame broken people on Monday.

We cannot tell people that Jesus loves them and then make them feel like they have to hide their depression, anxiety, trauma, grief, addiction, or suicidal thoughts because they might be labeled as weak Christians.

Mental and emotional suffering does not make someone a bad Christian.

And getting professional help does not mean someone doesn’t trust God.

Sometimes faith looks like praying.

Sometimes faith looks like calling a counselor.

Sometimes faith looks like telling your pastor, “Brother, I am not okay.”

Sometimes faith looks like saying, “I need help.”

And sometimes God answers that prayer by sending another person to sit beside you in the darkness.

So Church…

STOP TRYING TO FIX EVERYBODY.

Start listening.

Stop throwing Bible verses at wounds you haven’t taken time to understand.

Stop telling hurting people to “just have more faith.”

Stop confusing spiritual encouragement with dismissing someone’s pain.

Jesus never asked us to pretend we aren’t hurting.

He asked us to love one another.

To carry one another’s burdens.

To weep with those who weep.

To bear one another’s burdens.

To be His hands and feet.

So what if this month we stopped asking:

“How are you?”

And started asking:

“How are you REALLY doing?”

And then—this is important—we actually stayed long enough to hear the answer.

Church, let’s become a safe place for hurting people.

A place where somebody can walk through the doors carrying their darkest thoughts and not be afraid that they’ll be judged.

A place where men can cry.

Where women can admit they’re exhausted.

Where teenagers can speak honestly.

Where broken people don’t have to clean themselves up before coming inside.

Where people can say:

“I’m struggling.”

And the response isn’t condemnation.

It’s:

“Then you don’t have to walk through this alone.”

Because here’s the truth:

You might be sitting next to someone this Sunday who is considering suicide.

You might be the last person who has a chance to notice.

That conversation you’ve been putting off?

Make the call.

Send the text.

Sit down.

Listen.

Ask the hard question.

And if someone tells you they’re thinking about suicide, take them seriously and help connect them with immediate, qualified support.

Don’t assume they’ll “get over it.”

Don’t leave them alone in an immediate crisis.

Don’t make promises you can’t keep.

Stay with them and get help.

And to the person reading this who is secretly fighting for your life:

PLEASE DON’T LEAVE YET.

You don’t have to solve tomorrow tonight.

You don’t have to pretend you’re okay.

You don’t have to carry this by yourself.

Tell somebody.

Call somebody.

Get help.

Let somebody into the battle.

Your life is worth fighting for—even if you can’t feel that right now.

And Church…

Maybe our greatest revival won’t begin with a louder worship service.

Maybe it will begin when we become the kind of Church where hurting people finally feel safe enough to tell the truth.

Let’s stop being impressed by how good people look on the outside.

Let’s become people who are willing to walk into the mess.

Let’s stop preaching about Jesus and start showing people Jesus.

Because sometimes the most powerful sermon you’ll ever preach…

is simply refusing to walk away from someone who is hurting.

If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide or feels in immediate danger in the United States, call or text 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. If there is immediate danger, call 911 or go to the nearest emergency department.

Church, let’s be the reason somebody chooses to stay. ~OC

0

Moral High Ground (Look In The Mirror)

Today’s a new day!

I’m going to say something that may make some Christians uncomfortable.

Maybe even angry.

But I believe we desperately need to hear it.

If we are going to engage a culture that is increasingly broken, divided, angry, confused, and seemingly hostile toward Christianity, we had better start by recognizing something very important:

We are sinners too.

Yes.

Us.

The people sitting in church on Sunday.

The people carrying Bibles.

The people posting Scripture on Facebook.

The people singing worship songs with our hands raised.

The people who know all the right Christian words.

We are sinners.

And if we forget that, we will eventually become the very kind of people Jesus warned us about.

Jesus told us about the danger of looking at the speck in someone else’s eye while ignoring the plank in our own.

And honestly?

The Church has become really good at finding specks.

We see the sin in somebody else’s life.

We see their political beliefs.

Their sexuality.

Their addiction.

Their language.

Their lifestyle.

Their mistakes.

Their failures.

Their past.

And we point.

And we judge.

And we condemn.

And then we wonder why they don’t want anything to do with Christianity.

Maybe we should ask ourselves a difficult question:

Have some people rejected Jesus—or have they rejected the version of Jesus they’ve seen in us?

That’s a question that hurts.

Because sometimes we have been so busy telling people how lost they are that we’ve forgotten to tell them how much Jesus loves them.

We’ve become more passionate about being right than being Christlike.

More passionate about winning arguments than winning souls.

More comfortable condemning people than sitting beside them in their pain.

And somewhere along the way, we’ve forgotten something incredibly important:

Jesus didn’t come for people who had their lives together.

He came for the broken.

The hurting.

The addicted.

The rejected.

The ashamed.

The lonely.

The prodigals.

The sinners.

People like us.

Look at the people Jesus surrounded Himself with.

They weren’t all polished.

They weren’t all respectable.

They weren’t all religious.

They weren’t all acceptable to the religious crowd.

And Jesus didn’t stand at a distance shouting, “Clean yourself up and then come see Me.”

He walked toward them.

He sat with them.

He touched them.

He listened to them.

He loved them.

And then He changed them.

That’s grace.

And here’s where this gets painfully personal:

I don’t need Jesus because I’m better than the people around me.

I need Jesus because I’m not.

I’ve fallen.

I’ve failed.

I’ve made mistakes.

I’ve had moments when my faith was weak.

I’ve had moments when fear was louder than faith.

I’ve had moments when I didn’t understand what God was doing.

I’ve had moments when I needed forgiveness.

I’ve needed grace.

And so have you.

That’s why I can’t stand on some imaginary moral high ground and look down on someone else.

Because when I look at the cross, I don’t see a platform that makes me superior.

I see a place where a broken sinner like me was rescued.

And maybe that’s what the Church needs to rediscover.

Humility.

Not compromise.

Not abandoning biblical truth.

Not pretending sin doesn’t matter.

But humility.

Because there is a massive difference between saying,

“You’re a sinner, and I’m better than you.”

and saying,

“You’re a sinner. I’m a sinner. But there’s a Savior who loves us both.”

One builds walls.

The other builds bridges.

One pushes people away.

The other opens a door.

One says, “Get your life together.”

The other says,

“Come as you are. Jesus isn’t finished with you yet.”

The world doesn’t need Christians who are perfect.

It needs Christians who are real.

People who can say:

“I don’t have all the answers.”

“I’ve struggled too.”

“I’ve cried too.”

“I’ve questioned too.”

“I’ve fallen too.”

“I’ve needed forgiveness too.”

“But I’ve discovered something.”

Jesus didn’t give up on me.

And if He didn’t give up on me, He isn’t going to give up on you.

That is the message we should be carrying into this culture.

Not hate.

Not arrogance.

Not condemnation.

Jesus.

Because at the end of the day, people don’t need another Christian yelling at them about how dark the world has become.

They need someone willing to walk into the darkness carrying a light.

They need someone willing to sit beside them when they’re hurting.

They need someone willing to love them before they agree with them.

They need someone willing to tell them the truth without making them feel worthless.

They need someone who remembers that Jesus died for them too.

So before we point our fingers at the culture…

Let’s look in the mirror.

Before we demand repentance from everyone else…

Let’s repent ourselves.

Before we ask God to change the world…

Let’s ask Him to change us.

Before we complain about how far America has fallen…

Let’s ask how far the Church has fallen from looking like Jesus.

Because perhaps revival won’t begin when the world finally starts acting like Christians.

Perhaps revival begins when Christians finally start acting like Jesus.

And maybe—just maybe—the greatest witness we can give this broken world isn’t telling people how bad they are.

Maybe it’s being honest enough to say:

“I’m broken too.”

“I’ve needed grace too.”

“I’ve needed Jesus too.”

“And I’m still standing—not because I’m perfect, but because He hasn’t let go of me.”

That’s the Gospel.

That’s grace.

That’s hope.

And that’s the message I want to carry.

So I’m not going to stand above you.

I’ll stand beside you.

I’m not going to pretend I’m better than you.

I’m going to remind you that we’re both desperately in need of Jesus.

And I’m not going to point my finger at you while pretending I don’t have my own scars.

I’ll show you mine.

Because maybe when you see that I’m broken too…

You’ll finally believe me when I tell you:

There is a Savior who still loves broken people.

There is grace for the sinner.

There is mercy for the mess.

There is forgiveness for the failure.

There is hope for the hopeless.

And there is still a cross standing in the middle of this broken world saying:

“You are not too far gone.”

So before we try to change the culture…

Let’s let Jesus change us.

Because the world isn’t looking for another group of people who claim to have it all together.

It’s looking for people who have been broken, redeemed, forgiven, and transformed by Jesus.

And maybe that’s exactly what the Church was supposed to be all along.

Not a museum for perfect people.

A hospital for sinners.

And I’m not ashamed to admit it:

I’m still a patient.

I still need Jesus.

Every. Single. Day.

And so do you.

Now go back and read that one more time.

Because this time…

don’t read it looking for someone else.

Read it looking in the mirror. ~OC

0

Being Present and Being Engaged: There Is a Difference

Today’s a new day!

Sometimes the loneliest place in the world is sitting beside someone who is physically there—but emotionally somewhere else.

Read that again.

Because there is a difference between being present and being engaged.

And honestly, I think a lot of us—including me—need to take a hard look at which one we are.

You can sit beside someone for hours and never really be with them.

You can eat dinner with your family while staring at your phone.

You can sit in church every Sunday and never truly encounter God.

You can listen to someone tell you they’re hurting while you’re already thinking about what you’re going to say next.

You can hug someone and say, “I’m here for you,” and yet never actually show up when life gets ugly.

Being present means your body showed up.

Being engaged means your heart did too.

And there’s a world of difference between the two.

Think about Jesus.

He didn’t just walk past hurting people.

He stopped.

He saw the blind man everyone else ignored.

He noticed Zacchaeus when everyone else saw a sinner.

He stopped for the woman who had been bleeding for twelve years.

He touched lepers.

He sat with sinners.

He wept with those who were grieving.

He listened.

He noticed.

He cared.

Jesus didn’t simply share people’s space.

He entered their pain.

That’s engagement.

And maybe that’s what we’ve lost somewhere along the way.

We’re connected to everyone, yet sometimes we’re truly connected to no one.

We have hundreds of friends online but don’t know who is crying behind the smile sitting across from us.

We react to someone’s Facebook post with a heart but never send the message that says, “Are you really okay?”

We say, “Praying for you,” but sometimes never actually pray.

We say, “Let me know if you need anything,” knowing deep down that we’re hoping they never call.

And here’s the painful truth:

Some people don’t need another person telling them everything is going to be okay.

They need someone willing to sit beside them while everything isn’t okay.

They don’t need you to fix them.

They need you to listen.

They need you to stay.

They need you to care when their story gets uncomfortable.

They need you to love them when they aren’t easy to love.

They need you to put the phone down, look them in the eyes, and say:

“Tell me what’s really going on.”

And then stay quiet long enough to actually hear the answer.

Because sometimes the most powerful ministry isn’t a sermon.

It’s a conversation.

It’s a cup of coffee.

It’s a hand held during a difficult moment.

It’s sitting beside a hospital bed.

It’s answering the phone at 2 a.m.

It’s showing up when everyone else has disappeared.

It’s remembering someone’s name.

It’s noticing the person who always says, “I’m fine,” and loving them enough to know they’re not.

That’s what Jesus did.

He noticed people.

And maybe we should too.

So today, I want to challenge all of us—including myself.

Look around.

Really look.

Who in your life needs more than your presence?

Who needs your attention?

Who needs your time?

Who needs your listening ear?

Who is smiling on the outside while quietly falling apart on the inside?

Who have you been physically present with but emotionally absent from?

And perhaps most importantly…

Are you merely present with God, or are you engaged with Him?

Are you just attending church?

Or are you seeking Him?

Are you just reading Scripture?

Or are you allowing Scripture to change you?

Are you just saying prayers?

Or are you actually talking with your Father?

Because God doesn’t want a relationship where we simply check in.

He wants our hearts.

Life moves far too quickly.

One day, the person sitting beside you won’t be there anymore.

One day, the phone call you keep putting off won’t be possible.

One day, the chair across the table may be empty.

One day, you’ll wish you had listened longer.

Loved harder.

Forgiven sooner.

Put the phone down.

Stayed a little longer.

Don’t wait until someone’s funeral to realize you should have spent more time with them while they were alive.

Don’t wait until they’re gone to tell them what they meant to you.

Don’t wait until the opportunity disappears.

Be there now.

Not just physically.

Emotionally.

Spiritually.

Completely.

Because people may forget what you said.

They may forget what you did.

But they will never forget how you made them feel when they were hurting.

So take time to know the difference.

Being present says, “I’m here.”

Being engaged says, “You matter to me.”

And maybe the greatest way we can love people like Jesus loved us…

isn’t simply by showing up.

It’s by staying.

It’s by listening.

It’s by caring.

It’s by entering the mess.

It’s by refusing to walk away.

Because someday, when this life is over and we stand before our Savior, I don’t think we’re going to wish we had spent more time scrolling.

More time arguing.

More time worrying about things that didn’t matter.

More time trying to impress people who weren’t paying attention anyway.

I think we’ll wish we had loved more.

Listened more.

Forgiven more.

Prayed more.

And been there more.

So today…

Put the phone down.

Look up.

Look around.

Look into someone’s eyes.

Ask them how they’re really doing.

And when they finally tell you…

don’t rush away.

Stay.

Because sometimes your willingness to stay may be the very thing God uses to remind a broken heart:

“You are not alone.”

And perhaps that’s what being the hands and feet of Jesus really looks like.

**Not just being present…

but being fully, completely, sacrificially ENGAGED.

Be present. Be engaged. Love like Jesus.

Someone may be silently begging for someone to notice them today.

Please don’t be too busy to see them. ~OC

0

Tomorrow’s

No One Knows How Many Tomorrow’s Are In A Lifetime…

So I’ve stopped taking them for granted.

That’s one of the greatest lessons chronic illness has ever taught me.

For more than two decades, I’ve lived with something most people don’t see.

Behind the smiles are hospital rooms.

Behind the laughter are tears.

Behind the encouraging words are moments of fear that I’ve never shared with anyone.

There have been nights when I’ve laid in a hospital bed listening to the machines around me, wondering what tomorrow would look like.

There have been moments when I had to confront something none of us really want to think about:

I could die.

Not someday in some distant future.

But maybe sooner than I thought.

When death becomes more than a word—when it becomes a possibility sitting at the foot of your hospital bed—it changes the way you see everything.

You stop worrying so much about things that don’t matter.

You start caring more about the people you love.

You become grateful for things you once overlooked.

A sunrise.

A conversation.

A laugh.

A hug.

Another morning.

Another breath.

Another chance to tell someone, “I love you.”

Another opportunity to say, “Jesus has been good to me.”

Chronic illness has forced me to stretch the limits of my faith.

There have been moments when faith was the only thing I had left.

And sometimes my faith wasn’t strong.

Sometimes all I could whisper was:

“Jesus, please get me through tonight.”

And somehow, He did.

Not always by changing my circumstances.

But by changing me in the middle of them.

I’ve learned that thriving with chronic illness doesn’t mean pretending everything is okay.

It doesn’t mean putting a smile on your face and hiding the pain.

It means being honest enough to say,

“This hurts.”

“I’m scared.”

“I’m tired.”

“I don’t understand.”

…and then somehow finding enough faith to say,

“But God, I’m still trusting You.”

That’s where writing came into my life.

During those long hospital stays, when the hours seemed to crawl by, I started writing simply to pass the time.

I didn’t know what it would become.

I just knew I had emotions trapped inside of me that needed somewhere to go.

So I wrote.

I wrote when I was scared.

I wrote when I was angry.

I wrote when I was hurting.

I wrote when I was grateful.

I wrote when I couldn’t understand what God was doing.

And I wrote when I needed to remind myself that God was still there.

Eventually, writing became a daily habit.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something:

Maybe these words aren’t just for me.

Maybe that hospital bed wasn’t only a place where I was fighting for my own life.

Maybe it was also a place where God was teaching me how to speak hope into someone else’s.

Because somewhere out there, someone is sitting in a hospital room tonight.

Someone is staring at a diagnosis they never expected.

Someone is crying where nobody can see them.

Someone is terrified about tomorrow.

Someone is wondering if their life still has meaning.

Someone is asking God,

“Why am I still here?”

And if my words can reach even one of those people and whisper,

“Please don’t give up. You’re not alone.”

then maybe the pain wasn’t completely wasted.

That’s what I’ve come to understand about purpose.

Sometimes purpose doesn’t come wrapped in something beautiful.

Sometimes purpose comes wrapped in pain.

Sometimes God takes the chapters we would have gladly erased and uses them to write hope into somebody else’s story.

I wouldn’t have chosen this journey.

I wouldn’t have chosen the illnesses.

I wouldn’t have chosen the hospital stays.

I wouldn’t have chosen the fear.

I wouldn’t have chosen the uncertainty.

But I can choose what I do with it.

I can let it destroy me.

Or I can place it in God’s hands and say,

“Use this, Lord.”

Use my scars.

Use my tears.

Use my failures.

Use my fears.

Use my story.

Use every broken piece of me.

Just don’t let my suffering be meaningless.

Because I don’t know how many pages are left in my story.

And neither do you.

That’s the truth we don’t like to talk about.

Every one of us is living on borrowed time.

We just don’t know how much time is left.

So I’m trying to stop counting the years…

and start counting the moments.

I’m trying to embrace the time God gives me instead of being consumed by the time I don’t have.

I’m trying to live while I’m alive.

To love while I can.

To forgive while I can.

To encourage while I can.

To write while I can.

To tell people about Jesus while I can.

To leave a little more hope in this world than I found.

Because one day, all of us will write our final sentence.

And when that day comes, I don’t want my greatest regret to be all the things I was too afraid to do.

I want to know that I used what God gave me.

That I loved people.

That I encouraged people.

That I prayed for people. 

That I made somebody feel less alone.

That I pointed somebody toward Jesus.

That I didn’t allow my illness to steal the purpose and joy God placed inside of me.

So…

I will keep writing.

Even when my hands are tired.

Even when my heart is heavy.

Even when my thoughts are harder to find.

Even when the words come through tears.

Because there is still something inside of me that needs to be said.

And there is still somebody who may need to hear it.

I don’t know how many tomorrows I have.

But I have today.

And today is enough.

Today, I can love.

Today, I can pray.

Today, I can encourage.

Today, I can write.

Today, I can live.

Today, I can tell somebody,

“Don’t give up.”

And today, I can look toward Heaven and say:

“Thank You, God, for one more day.”

I don’t know how my story ends.

But I know Who holds the pen.

And until He writes “The End,”

I’m going to keep turning the page…and live. ~OC

1

Good Morning!

Today’s a new day!

I have some wonderful news to share this morning!

I was transferred out of the ICU late last night, and I am now on the Neurology floor of the hospital. Yesterday, I completed my fourth treatment, and I have just one more treatment Saturday morning. If everything continues to go as planned, I should be heading HOME shortly after treatment on Saturday.

This week, my medical team shared just how close I came to not being here today. Those words were difficult to hear, but they also remind me just how precious every single day truly is.

And once again, I am overwhelmed with gratitude.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. 

To everyone who prayed, sent messages, visited, checked in, encouraged us, stood with us, and lifted us before the Lord—Laura and I are so incredibly grateful.

God heard your prayers.

God answered your prayers.

And I believe with all my heart that God is not finished with me yet. 

There is still a purpose for my life. There is still work to do. There are still people to love, lives to touch, and stories of God’s faithfulness to share.

Once again, Laura and I are deeply grateful for every prayer and every person who has walked alongside us through this journey.

God is good. All the time.

I pray that each and every one of you has a beautiful, blessed, and God-filled day. Never take today for granted. Today is a gift.

Keep praying. Keep believing. Keep overcoming.~OC

0

Bridges

Today’s a new day.

Your struggles are not liabilities. They’re bridges.

The things you’ve walked through—the pain, the setbacks, the tears, the moments when you wondered if you had enough strength to keep going—may feel like weaknesses. But sometimes, those very struggles become the places where your story connects with someone else’s.

Your scars remind people that healing is possible.
Your tears remind people that it’s okay to hurt.
Your perseverance reminds people that they can keep going.
Your testimony reminds people that they are not alone.

We often think we have to hide our struggles to be strong. But sometimes, strength is found in being honest enough to say, “I’ve been there too.”

Because somewhere out there, someone is silently bleeding, silently fighting, and silently wondering if anyone understands.

And then they hear your story.

They realize they’re not the only one hurting.
They’re not the only one fighting.
They’re not the only one trying to find their way through the darkness.

Your struggle can become a bridge from someone’s despair to hope.

So don’t be ashamed of the scars you carry. Don’t believe the lie that your difficult seasons make you less valuable.

Your struggles are not liabilities. They’re bridges.

Let God use every scar, every battle, every tear, and every victory to remind someone else:

“You are not alone. Keep fighting. Keep believing. Keep overcoming.” ~OC

0

A Letter From My Heart

Dear Family and Friends,

As I continue to walk through this health battle, I have made a decision that I believe I need to make for this season of my life: I need to slow down and take a break.

For the time being, I will be scaling back on posting blog posts, social media, creating and sharing music, and being involved in too many meetings and activities.

This is not an easy decision for me. Writing has always been one of the ways I process life, share my thoughts, encourage others, and hopefully make a difference. Music has become another beautiful part of that journey. And being part of meetings and connecting with people has meant so much to me.

But sometimes we have to recognize when we simply don’t have anything left to give.

Putting my thoughts together on paper can be challenging right now. There are days when the words don’t come easily, and even simple things can require more energy than I have. And honestly, I’m just tired.

Tired doesn’t mean I’m giving up.

It doesn’t mean I have lost my faith, my hope, or my desire to encourage others. It simply means that I need to give myself permission to take a break.

I have spent so much of this crazy beautiful health journey trying to keep moving forward, even in the middle of some incredibly difficult battles. But perhaps part of being an overcomer is understanding that sometimes overcoming means knowing when to stop, breathe, rest, and allow yourself to be renewed.

So, for this season, I am choosing to step back.

I don’t know exactly how long this break will last. I don’t know what the next chapter will look like. I’m simply taking things one day at a time and trusting God with what comes next.

I want to say thank you to every person who has supported me along this journey.

Thank you for reading my words.

Thank you for listening to my music.

Thank you for encouraging me.

Thank you for praying for me.

Thank you for standing beside me through the difficult days.

Thank you for reminding me that my story matters.

Your support has meant more to me than I can adequately put into words.

For now, I am going to give myself permission to rest, to be quiet, to process, and to simply live each day as it comes.

I may be stepping back from the things I normally share, but I am not stepping away from hope.

I am not stepping away from faith.

And I am certainly not giving up.

Sometimes the strongest thing an overcomer can say is, “I need to rest.”

So that’s where I am right now.

Taking a breath.

Taking a step back.

Taking care of myself.

And trusting God with the journey.

Thank you for understanding.

Thank you for walking with me.

And thank you for being part of this crazy, beautiful journey called life.

Until I share again, please keep believing, keep hoping, keep loving, and keep overcoming.

With love and gratitude,

OC

1

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

0

If We Love Our Troops, The Let’s Prove It

I keep hearing politicians say that they love our troops. I hear the speeches. I see the flags. I hear the words “Thank you for your service.” But at some point, we have to stop listening to what our leaders say and start paying attention to what their actions are telling us.

Because if we truly love our troops, then we need to start acting like it.

Right now, the USS Abraham Lincoln has been deployed for an extraordinary length of time, with reports raising concerns about conditions aboard the ship, including supply shortages and mental-health struggles. The current administration continuously dismisses concerns about the length of the deployment, with comments like “not nearly long enough.”

That should concern every American.

These aren’t political pawns.

These aren’t numbers on a military briefing.

These aren’t pieces on a chessboard.

They are our sons and daughters. Our husbands and wives. Our fathers and mothers. Our brothers and sisters. They are Americans.

And when we send them into harm’s way, we have a responsibility to make sure they have everything they need—not only to accomplish their mission, but to come home safely.

We also have a responsibility to those who have already served.

Veterans should never have to fight another battle simply to receive the healthcare, benefits, mental-health support, housing assistance, or other services they earned through their sacrifice. There are currently bipartisan efforts in Congress aimed at improving veterans’ healthcare, benefits, and services, which shows that solutions are possible when leaders choose to prioritize the people who served.

But this shouldn’t be a Republican issue.

It shouldn’t be a Democratic issue.

It shouldn’t be a conservative issue or a liberal issue.

It should be an American issue.

We can disagree about wars.

We can disagree about presidents.

We can disagree about military policy.

We can disagree about politics.

But surely we can agree on one thing:

America should take care of the people who put their lives on the line to protect America.

When a young man or woman raises their right hand and takes the oath to serve this nation, they are making a tremendous sacrifice. They are giving the government something that can never truly be repaid—their time, their freedom, their health, and potentially their life.

So when they come home, our obligation doesn’t end.

When they leave the battlefield, the battle may continue inside them.

Some carry physical wounds.

Some carry invisible wounds.

Some struggle with PTSD.

Some struggle to find employment.

Some struggle with homelessness.

Some struggle with addiction.

Some struggle with the transition back into civilian life.

And some simply struggle because the person who came home isn’t the same person who left.

We owe them better.

And to our active-duty troops: you deserve better too.

You deserve leaders who understand that military readiness isn’t simply about weapons, budgets, or deployments. It is also about morale, leadership, adequate rest, healthcare, family support, and making sure the people serving this nation aren’t treated as expendable.

The Congressional Budget Office estimates that the president’s 2026 budget request includes $718 billion in total military compensation, including $277 billion for the Department of Defense and $441 billion for the Department of Veterans Affairs.

That’s a tremendous amount of money.

But the question isn’t simply how much we spend.

The question is how effectively we use those resources to take care of the people who serve.

Because saying “We love our troops” is easy.

Putting that love into action is harder.

Love looks like making sure a sailor deployed for months has adequate food, supplies, medical care, and mental-health support.

Love looks like making sure a soldier doesn’t have to fight bureaucracy for the benefits they earned.

Love looks like making sure military families aren’t forgotten.

Love looks like listening when veterans tell us something is wrong.

Love looks like holding leaders accountable—regardless of their political party.

And maybe that’s the question we need to ask ourselves:

When are the American people finally going to wake up?

When are we going to stop allowing politicians to wrap themselves in American flags and use our troops as political props while failing to demand accountability?

When are we going to stop applauding the words and start measuring the actions?

I don’t care what political party a president belongs to.

I don’t care what political party controls Congress.

If you send Americans into battle, take care of them.

If you ask Americans to sacrifice for this country, honor that sacrifice.

If you call our troops heroes, treat them like heroes.

And when those heroes come home, don’t simply shake their hand, take a picture, and tell them “Thank you for your service.”

Be there for them.

We don’t need more political slogans.

We need action.

We need accountability.

We need compassion.

We need leadership.

Most importantly, we need to remember that behind every uniform is a human being.

So yes, I will always honor our troops.

I will always honor our veterans.

I will always stand with the families who sacrifice alongside them.

And I will continue asking uncomfortable questions when I believe our military members and veterans aren’t being treated with the dignity they deserve.

Because loving America means loving the people who have sacrificed to protect it.

And that’s the least we can do for these American heroes.

Don’t just tell our troops you love them.

Prove it. ~OC

0

Live It Up

Today’s a new day!

As I continue to walk out this crazy, beautiful, unpredictable health journey, I’ve come to a decision:

I’ve decided to live it up.

Not someday.

Not when everything gets better.

Not when my body cooperates, the doctors have all the answers, or life finally becomes easier.

Now.

Because if this journey has taught me anything, it’s that tomorrow is never guaranteed—and waiting for the perfect circumstances to start living is one of the greatest ways to miss the life happening right in front of us.

I’ve spent enough time dealing with battles, setbacks, disappointments, appointments, treatments, uncertainty, and days when simply getting through the day felt like an accomplishment.

But I refuse to let the hard parts steal all the beautiful parts.

Yes, I have limitations.

Yes, there are things I can no longer do.

Yes, some days are harder than others.

But there is still so much I can do.

There are people I can love.

Memories I can make.

Stories I can tell.

Music I can create.

Laughter I can share.

Sunsets I can stop and appreciate.

Adventures I can still take.

Prayers I can still pray.

And a whole lot of living left to do.

So I’m changing the question.

Instead of asking, “What can’t I do anymore?”

I’m asking:

“What can I do today that makes this life worth celebrating?”

That changes everything.

Living it up doesn’t mean ignoring reality.

It doesn’t mean pretending the struggle doesn’t exist.

It means refusing to allow the struggle to become the only thing I see.

It means finding joy wherever I can find it.

It means celebrating the small victories.

It means laughing loudly.

Loving deeply.

Forgiving freely.

Making memories.

Taking pictures.

Hugging the people who matter.

Telling people I love them while I have the opportunity.

And squeezing every drop of meaning, purpose, joy, and gratitude out of this crazy beautiful life.

My health journey may have changed my definition of strength.

It certainly changed my definition of success.

These days, success isn’t necessarily about accomplishing something extraordinary.

Sometimes success is simply waking up and saying:

“Today, I’m going to live.”

And then actually doing it.

I don’t know how many chapters are left in my story.

That’s okay.

I don’t need to know.

I just want to make the chapters I have count.

I want to leave footprints of love.

I want to collect memories instead of regrets.

I want to choose experiences over excuses whenever I can.

I want to celebrate the people who have walked beside me.

And I want to look back someday and know that I didn’t spend my life waiting for life to begin.

I lived it.

The whole crazy, beautiful, messy, miraculous thing.

So yes…

I’m still walking through the battle.

But I’m also going to dance when I can.

Laugh when I can.

Travel when I can.

Create when I can.

Love with everything I’ve got.

And celebrate every single blessing I can find.

Because life isn’t waiting for me to become healthy enough, strong enough, or perfect enough to enjoy it.

Life is happening right now.

And I’ve decided I’m going to show up for it.

I’m going to live boldly.

Love fiercely.

Laugh often.

Make memories.

Count blessings.

Chase moments.

And squeeze every beautiful drop out of the time I’ve been given.

I don’t just want to survive this journey.

I want to LIVE it.

So bring on the crazy.

Bring on the beautiful.

Bring on the unexpected.

Bring on the memories we haven’t made yet.

Because as long as I’m here…

I’m going to live it up. ~OC

0

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑