Tag: Peace

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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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

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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

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We’re All Living on Borrowed Time

Here’s a truth we don’t always want to think about:

Every one of us is living on borrowed time.

We may not all have the same diagnosis, the same number of years, or the same circumstances—but none of us knows how many days we have left.

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

So the question isn’t simply “How much time do I have?”

The bigger question is:

“What am I going to do with the time God has given me?”

Are you going to spend it holding grudges—or choosing forgiveness?

Are you going to chase things that won’t matter in eternity—or invest in people who will?

Are you going to keep waiting for the perfect moment—or start living with purpose today?

Are you going to complain about what you’ve lost—or thank God for what you still have?

Are you going to keep putting off that phone call, that hug, that apology, that act of kindness, that step of faith?

None of us is promised tomorrow.

But today is a gift.

Every breath is an opportunity.

Every sunrise is another invitation to love, serve, encourage, forgive, worship, and make a difference.

We are not guaranteed unlimited time.

We are guaranteed this moment.

So don’t waste the life you have wishing for the life you think you should have had.

Take the time God has placed in your hands and use it for something that matters.

Love deeply.

Forgive freely.

Serve faithfully.

Speak life.

Encourage somebody.

Tell your family you love them.

Help someone who is hurting.

Share your faith.

Make memories.

And above all, live for Jesus.

Because one day, our borrowed time will be over.

My prayer is that when that day comes, we won’t have to wonder whether we truly lived.

Let’s live a life that mattered.
Let’s leave footprints of faith, hope, love, and grace.
Let’s make every remaining day count.

Your time is a gift. What are you deciding to do with it? ~OC

#LiveWithPurpose #MakeEveryDayCount #Faith #Hope #Love #Jesus #Overcomer #LifeOfSignificance

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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

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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

The Church Should Never Be Full of Cliques

Today’s a new day!

The Church was never meant to be a place where people walk through the doors and immediately wonder, “Where do I fit in?”

Unfortunately, too many churches have become filled with cliques—small groups of people who only talk to certain people, sit with certain people, socialize with certain people, and sometimes make newcomers feel like outsiders simply because they aren’t part of the “in crowd.”

That should break our hearts.

The Church should be one of the most welcoming places on earth.

Jesus didn’t build His ministry around exclusive circles. He reached out to the forgotten, the hurting, the rejected, the sinners, the poor, the sick, and the people society had pushed to the margins. He didn’t ask people to prove they belonged before He loved them.

He simply loved them.

So why do we sometimes make people work so hard to find a place within the Church?

Cliques don’t attract people. Love does.

Cliques create walls. Jesus tore down walls.

Cliques make people feel invisible. Jesus made people feel seen.

Cliques say, “You don’t belong with us.”

Jesus says, “Come to Me.”

Think about the person who walks into church for the first time. Maybe they’re struggling with addiction. Maybe their marriage is falling apart. Maybe they’ve been hurt by the Church before. Maybe they’re grieving. Maybe they’re lonely. Maybe they’re questioning their faith. Maybe they simply don’t know anyone.

What do they experience when they walk through our doors?

Do they see people who are willing to stop, introduce themselves, sit beside them, listen to their story and make room for them?

Or do they see groups gathered together who barely acknowledge anyone outside their circle?

We need to understand something: people are watching.

Sometimes our greatest testimony isn’t what happens on the platform. It’s what happens in the hallway.

It’s whether we notice the person standing alone.

It’s whether we invite someone to sit with us.

It’s whether we learn someone’s name.

It’s whether we ask, “How are you really doing?” and actually listen to the answer.

It’s whether we make room at our table.

The Church doesn’t need more exclusive circles. The Church needs wider tables.

And this isn’t about saying that friendships are wrong. Of course we will naturally develop deeper friendships with certain people. That’s part of being human.

The problem begins when our friendships become barriers.

There is a difference between having close friends and creating a closed circle.

There is a difference between community and exclusivity.

There is a difference between fellowship and favoritism.

Jesus called us to love one another, not just the people who look like us, think like us, worship like us or already belong to our social circle.

The Church should be a family where there is room for everybody.

The single person.

The married couple.

The young person.

The senior adult.

The lifelong Christian.

The person who is just beginning to believe.

The person who has walked away and is trying to find their way home.

The person who has been hurt by religion.

The person who doesn’t have it all together.

Because here’s the truth:

None of us has it all together.

We are all people in need of God’s grace.

So let’s stop building little kingdoms inside God’s house.

Let’s stop worrying about who belongs to our group.

Let’s stop protecting our circles and start expanding our tables.

Let’s become the kind of Church where a stranger doesn’t remain a stranger.

Where the lonely find friendship.

Where the broken find compassion.

Where the hurting find hope.

Where the questioning are welcomed.

Where the forgotten are remembered.

Where the outsider becomes family.

And where the first thing people experience isn’t judgment, suspicion or exclusion—but the love of Jesus.

If we want people to come to church, we have to give them something worth coming to.

Not perfect people.

Not impressive programs.

Not political tribes.

Not cliques.

Jesus.

And Jesus is love.

Maybe it’s time for all of us to look around our churches and ask ourselves one uncomfortable but important question:

“Am I helping create a Church that welcomes people, or am I helping create a circle that keeps people out?”

Because the Church doesn’t belong to us.

It belongs to Jesus.

And His table has always been bigger than our clique.

Let’s make room.

Let’s love people well.

Let’s tear down the walls.

Let’s open the doors.

Let’s become the Church Jesus called us to be. ~OC

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When We Prayed For Everyone

I remember when churches prayed for presidents whether they voted for them or not.

We prayed for Democrats.

We prayed for Republicans.

We prayed for independents.

We prayed for people we agreed with.

We prayed for people we couldn’t understand.

We prayed for people who insulted us.

Because Jesus told us to pray for our enemies.

Somehow, somewhere along the way, we started praying more against people than for people.

We began treating political opponents like enemies of God.

But Jesus never handed us a ballot and said,

“Here is how you will know who your neighbor is.”

He handed us a command:

Love them.

I miss those days.

And I wonder what might happen if the Church started praying like Jesus again. ~OC

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A Day In My Life

Today’s a new day!

There are days when I wake up and have to remind myself that my body is not the same body I had years ago.

For most people, waking up is simply the beginning of another day. For me, waking up can feel like the beginning of another battle.

I live with Parkinson’s, Myasthenia Gravis, Gastroparesis and Dementia. Each condition brings its own challenges, and sometimes they seem to take turns—or work together—to remind me that this journey is anything but easy.

But there is something else I wake up with every morning:

Hope.

Morning Comes With Questions

Before my feet even hit the floor, I often have to figure out what kind of day my body is going to allow me to have.

Will my muscles cooperate today?

Will the Parkinson’s symptoms be manageable?

Will my mind be clear, or will dementia make the morning confusing?

Will my stomach tolerate food?

Will fatigue consume the energy I need just to get through the day?

These aren’t questions most people have to ask themselves when they wake up.

For me, they are part of everyday life.

Sometimes getting dressed takes longer than it should. Sometimes walking across a room requires concentration. Sometimes my body simply doesn’t want to cooperate with what my mind is telling it to do.

And yet, I get up.

Because I’m still here.

Even Breakfast Can Be a Battle

Gastroparesis has changed my relationship with food.

Something as simple as eating breakfast isn’t always simple. My stomach doesn’t always cooperate, and there are days when eating can leave me feeling miserable.

There are times when I wish I could just sit down and enjoy a normal meal without thinking about what it might do to my body afterward.

But I’ve learned that living with chronic illness means learning to adapt.

You make adjustments.

You listen to your body.

You celebrate the small victories.

Sometimes simply being able to eat something and keep it down is a victory.

Then There Is Fatigue

Myasthenia Gravis brings another level of unpredictability.

Fatigue isn’t always the kind of tiredness that a good night’s sleep fixes.

It can feel like my muscles have simply run out of strength.

Things that look incredibly easy from the outside can require tremendous effort on the inside.

Walking.

Standing.

Getting dressed.

Taking a shower.

Going through a normal day.

People may see me doing something and think, “That doesn’t look difficult.”

What they can’t see is the energy it may have taken for me to do it.

That’s one of the hardest things about invisible illness.

People see what you accomplish.

They don’t always see what it cost you.

Then There Is Dementia

Perhaps one of the most frightening parts of this journey is not always knowing whether my mind is going to cooperate.

There are moments when memories become difficult to retrieve.

There are moments of confusion.

There are moments when I know something should be familiar, but my mind doesn’t immediately connect the dots.

And that can be frightening.

There is a unique kind of frustration that comes when your mind doesn’t work the way you know it once did.

You know the information is somewhere inside you, but you can’t always reach it.

I’ve had to learn to be patient with myself.

I’ve had to learn that forgetting something doesn’t make me less valuable.

Confusion doesn’t make me less of a person.

And needing help doesn’t make me weak.

Some Days Are Better Than Others

That’s probably one of the biggest lessons chronic illness has taught me.

No two days are exactly alike.

Some days I accomplish more than I expected.

Other days, simply getting through the day is the accomplishment.

And I’ve learned not to measure the value of my life by how much I accomplish.

My worth isn’t determined by how productive I am.

My worth isn’t determined by how fast I walk.

My worth isn’t determined by how clearly I speak.

My worth isn’t determined by what my diseases have taken from me.

My worth comes from God.

And that changes everything.

I Still Have Things To Do

One of the greatest mistakes we can make when facing a long-term health battle is believing that our lives are over.

They’re not.

They may look different.

The dreams may have to change.

The pace may have to change.

The plans may have to change.

But our purpose doesn’t disappear simply because our bodies change.

I may not be able to do everything I once did.

But I can still encourage someone.

I can still love my family.

I can still pray.

I can still write.

I can still share my story.

I can still remind someone else that they aren’t alone.

And maybe that’s part of my purpose.

Maybe the scars from this journey aren’t just reminders of what I’ve survived.

Maybe they’re opportunities to help someone else survive their own battle.

Some Days I Get Tired

I’m not going to pretend otherwise.

There are days when I’m tired of being tired.

There are days when I wish I could have just one completely normal day.

One day without thinking about symptoms.

One day without wondering what my body is going to do.

One day without having to calculate how much energy something will require.

One day without my mind playing tricks on me.

But even on those days, I remind myself:

I’m still here.

And as long as I’m here, there is still purpose.

My Life Isn’t Defined By My Diseases

Parkinson’s is something I live with.

Myasthenia Gravis is something I live with.

Gastroparesis is something I live with.

Dementia is something I live with.

But none of those things gets to define who I am.

I am more than my medical chart.

I am more than my symptoms.

I am more than my limitations.

I am more than the difficult days.

I am a husband.

I am a friend.

I am a child of God.

I am an overcomer.

And I am still walking this journey one day at a time.

If You’re Walking A Similar Journey

If you’re reading this while living with Parkinson’s, Myasthenia Gravis, Gastroparesis, Dementia, or another chronic illness, I want you to know something:

You are not your diagnosis.

Don’t be ashamed of needing help.

Don’t feel guilty for resting.

Don’t compare your journey to someone else’s.

Don’t beat yourself up because today wasn’t as productive as yesterday.

Give yourself grace.

Celebrate the little victories.

And when all you can do today is get out of bed and make it through the day, remember that sometimes surviving the day is a victory worth celebrating.

And For Me, There Is Still Hope

My faith doesn’t mean I pretend this journey is easy.

It means I don’t have to walk through it alone.

There are days when I don’t understand why God has allowed this journey to be so long.

There are days when I am exhausted.

There are days when I have questions.

But I continue to hold onto God’s promises.

I continue to believe that my life has purpose.

I continue to believe that my story can encourage someone else.

And I continue to wake up every morning and say:

“God, I’m still here. Use me.”

That’s what a day in my life looks like.

It’s messy.

It’s unpredictable.

It’s exhausting.

Sometimes it’s painful.

Sometimes it’s confusing.

But it is also filled with moments of grace, love, laughter, faith and hope.

And tomorrow morning, when I wake up, I will do it all over again.

Not because this journey is easy.

But because I’m still here.

And as long as God gives me another day, I intend to live it with purpose.

I may have Parkinson’s.
I may have Myasthenia Gravis.
I may have Gastroparesis.
I may have Dementia.
But I am not defeated.

I am still walking.

I am still fighting.

I am still believing.

I am still hoping.

I am still an Overcomer. ~OC

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