Tag: Purpose

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

0

Do You Have a Healthy Place to Grieve?

Where do you go when your heart is hurting?

Not where do you go to distract yourself.

Not where do you go to pretend you’re okay.

Not where do you go to put on a smile so nobody asks questions.

Where do you go to grieve?

Because sooner or later, every one of us will experience loss.

We will lose people we love. We will lose dreams we once believed would come true. We will lose seasons of our lives. We will lose relationships, opportunities, abilities, homes, jobs, friendships, and sometimes even the person we thought we were going to become.

And sometimes the hardest grief isn’t the loss of a person.

Sometimes it’s grieving the life you thought you would have.

I’ve learned that grief doesn’t always look like tears.

Sometimes grief looks like anger.

Sometimes it looks like silence.

Sometimes it looks like exhaustion.

Sometimes it looks like sitting alone in a room because you don’t have the energy to explain what you’re feeling.

Sometimes grief looks like laughing with your friends while carrying an incredible amount of pain inside.

And sometimes grief comes years after the loss because we were too busy surviving to actually grieve.

So let me ask you something: Do you have a healthy place to grieve?

Because I believe this is something the Church needs to talk about more.

We are often very good at telling people to have faith.

“Pray about it.”

“Trust God.”

“God has a plan.”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

And yes, there is truth in trusting God.

But sometimes we can use spiritual language to avoid emotional honesty.

Sometimes people don’t need us to explain their pain.

Sometimes they simply need someone willing to sit beside them in it.

Jesus Himself wept.

Think about that.

The Son of God stood at the tomb of Lazarus knowing that resurrection was coming, knowing that death would not have the final word, and Jesus still wept.

John 11:35 says:

“Jesus wept.”

He didn’t apologize for His tears.

He didn’t tell Himself He shouldn’t be sad because He knew what God was about to do.

He grieved.

And perhaps that gives us permission to grieve too.

Grief Isn’t a Failure of Faith

I think sometimes Christians are afraid to admit they’re hurting because they believe sadness somehow means they’re not trusting God enough.

But grief and faith can exist in the same heart.

You can trust God and still cry.

You can believe God is good and still be angry about what happened.

You can have hope and still experience heartbreak.

You can know that heaven is real and still miss someone desperately.

You can believe God has a purpose for your life and still mourn the dreams that never came true.

Faith doesn’t eliminate grief. Faith gives us somewhere to take it.

The Psalms are filled with people who cried out to God from the deepest places of their souls.

They didn’t sanitize their emotions.

They didn’t pretend everything was okay.

They brought their brokenness into the presence of God.

Maybe that’s what a healthy place to grieve looks like.

A place where you don’t have to pretend.

A place where you can say:

“God, I’m hurting.”

“God, I don’t understand.”

“God, I’m angry.”

“God, I miss them.”

“God, I’m afraid.”

“God, I don’t know how to move forward.”

And instead of running from God because of those feelings, you run to Him.

But We Also Need People

I believe God can meet us privately in our grief, but I also believe He created us for community.

We weren’t designed to carry everything alone.

Sometimes a healthy place to grieve is a trusted friend who doesn’t try to fix you.

It’s a spouse who lets you cry without telling you to stop.

It’s a pastor who listens instead of immediately preaching.

It’s a counselor who gives you permission to process what you’ve been through.

It’s a small group where you can take off the mask.

It’s someone who can sit in the silence with you and simply say:

“I’m here. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

We need people who understand that grief doesn’t operate on a schedule.

You can’t always tell someone to “move on.”

You can’t put a deadline on someone’s healing.

And you certainly can’t measure someone’s grief by how quickly they appear to be functioning again.

Some wounds take time.

Some losses change us forever.

And sometimes healing doesn’t mean forgetting.

Sometimes healing means learning how to carry the memory without allowing the pain to destroy you.

What Happens When We Don’t Have a Healthy Place to Grieve?

We find unhealthy places.

We bury it.

We numb it.

We isolate ourselves.

We become angry.

We become bitter.

We become addicted to distraction.

We pretend we’re fine.

We pour ourselves into work.

We hide behind ministry.

We hide behind church.

We hide behind our smiles.

We tell everyone, “I’m good,” when we’re anything but good.

And eventually, what we refuse to process begins processing us.

Unwept tears don’t simply disappear.

Unspoken pain doesn’t cease to exist.

Sometimes it comes out as anger.

Sometimes depression.

Sometimes anxiety.

Sometimes bitterness.

Sometimes we begin pushing away the very people who love us because we’re carrying pain we never learned how to express.

That’s why finding a healthy place to grieve matters.

Maybe Your Grief Needs a Name

Perhaps you’ve been calling yourself tired when you’re actually grieving.

Perhaps you’ve been calling yourself angry when you’re actually heartbroken.

Perhaps you’ve been calling yourself distant when you’re actually overwhelmed.

Perhaps you’ve been wondering why you’re struggling so much when the truth is simple:

You’ve experienced a loss, and your soul needs permission to acknowledge it.

So name it.

What are you grieving?

Who are you grieving?

What dream are you grieving?

What season are you grieving?

What version of yourself are you grieving?

What did you lose that you never gave yourself permission to mourn?

Sit with that question for a moment.

Don’t rush past it.

Because sometimes the beginning of healing is simply being honest enough to say:

“This hurt me.”

And Then Bring It to Jesus

Jesus isn’t intimidated by your grief.

Your tears don’t scare Him.

Your questions don’t scare Him.

Your anger doesn’t surprise Him.

Your broken heart doesn’t make Him uncomfortable.

He already knows.

And perhaps the invitation isn’t to figure everything out tonight.

Perhaps the invitation is simply:

Come.

Come with your questions.

Come with your tears.

Come with your anger.

Come with your memories.

Come with your broken dreams.

Come exactly as you are.

Because the same Jesus who stood beside a grieving family still meets people in their grief today.

Psalm 34:18 says:

“The LORD is near to the brokenhearted.”

Not far away.

Near.

That changes everything.

So if you’re grieving today, please hear this:

You don’t have to apologize for your pain.

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

You don’t have to rush your healing.

And you don’t have to grieve alone.

Find a healthy place.

Find safe people.

Find a trusted counselor, pastor, friend, spouse, support group, or community where you can be honest.

And most importantly, find your way into the presence of Jesus.

Cry if you need to cry.

Talk if you need to talk.

Sit silently if you can’t find the words.

But don’t bury your grief so deeply that you bury yourself with it.

Grieve.

Feel.

Pray.

Talk.

Heal.

And remember:

You can grieve deeply and still have hope.

You can be brokenhearted and still believe.

You can cry tonight and still wake up tomorrow believing that God is not finished with your story.

Because grief may be part of your story.

But it doesn’t have to be the end of it.

So I’ll ask you one more time:

Do you have a healthy place to grieve?

And if the answer is no…

Maybe today is the day you stop pretending you don’t need one. ~OC

0

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

0

Prayer

Dear Lord,

We come before You in the mighty name of Jesus, believing in the power of Your Holy Spirit. Holy Spirit, fall fresh upon us. Move through every place that is broken, wounded, weary, and hurting.

Bring healing where doctors cannot reach. Bring strength where weakness has taken hold. Bring peace where fear has settled. Bring restoration where the enemy has brought destruction.

Lord, release Your healing power. Let faith rise above fear. Let hope rise above despair. Let Your presence fill every room, every hospital bed, every home, and every heart that is crying out to You.

We believe You are still the God who heals, restores, renews, and makes all things new. Nothing is too difficult for You. Nothing is beyond Your reach.

Holy Spirit, have Your way. Bring healing. Bring restoration. Bring life.

We surrender every outcome to You and trust Your perfect will, knowing that Your power is greater than our circumstances.

In the powerful, healing, and victorious name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

~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

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

0

Men Stand Up

MEN, WE NEED TO TALK.

Not about politics.

Not about sports.

Not about money.

Not about who is right and who is wrong.

We need to talk about what happened to the men of God.

Because somewhere along the way, too many of us became comfortable sitting in the church while our families, our neighborhoods, and our communities were crying out for men who would actually stand up and lead.

We have plenty of men who can talk.

Plenty who can argue.

Plenty who can criticize.

Plenty who can tell everyone else what they’re doing wrong.

But God isn’t looking for more men who can point fingers.

God is looking for men who will get on their knees.

Men who will pray.

Men who will serve.

Men who will sacrifice.

Men who will give.

Men who will love.

Men who will stand in the gap.

Men who will say, “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”

Paul wrote:

“Be watchful, stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong. Let all that you do be done in love.” ~1 Corinthians 16:13-14

Read that again.

Be courageous.

Be strong.

But don’t miss the last part:

Do everything in love.

Because biblical manhood isn’t about domination.

It’s not about control.

It’s not about being the loudest voice in the room.

It’s not about demanding respect.

It’s about becoming the kind of man who looks like Jesus.

Jesus picked up a towel.

Jesus washed feet.

Jesus touched the untouchable.

Jesus welcomed the rejected.

Jesus fed the hungry.

Jesus defended the vulnerable.

Jesus wept with those who were hurting.

Jesus prayed.

Jesus served.

Jesus sacrificed.

And ultimately…

Jesus laid down His life.

So if we want to be men of God, maybe we should stop asking,

“Who is going to serve me?”

and start asking,

“Who can I serve?”

Maybe it’s time for us to put down our pride and pick up the towel.

Put down our excuses and pick up our Bibles.

Put down our anger and pick up our cross.

Put down our phones and look our children in the eyes.

Put down our criticism and start praying for the people we’re so quick to criticize.

Men, our families need us.

Our wives need husbands who pray.

Our children need fathers who are present.

Our sons need men who will show them that strength isn’t about how much power you have, but how much of yourself you’re willing to give away.

Our daughters need to see what a godly man looks like.

Our churches need men who don’t just occupy a chair on Sunday but carry the burden of the Kingdom Monday through Saturday.

Our communities need men who will stop driving past brokenness and start walking toward it.

There are people all around us who are hurting.

People battling addiction.

People drowning in loneliness.

People wondering if anybody cares.

People who haven’t stepped inside a church in years because somewhere along the way, Christians made them feel like they weren’t welcome.

Men, what if we became different?

What if we became the men who showed up?

What if we became the men who prayed?

What if we became the men who served without needing recognition?

What if we became the men who gave without expecting something in return?

What if we became the men who loved people who could never repay us?

What if we stopped trying to build our own kingdoms…

and started building His?

I’m praying for something bigger than another men’s conference.

Bigger than another Bible study.

Bigger than another church program.

I’m praying for revival in the hearts of men.

I want to see men so completely consumed by Jesus that their families can’t help but notice.

I want to see fathers praying over their children.

Husbands praying with their wives.

Men opening their Bibles before they open social media.

Men serving the homeless.

Men feeding the hungry.

Men visiting the sick.

Men mentoring young men who desperately need somebody to tell them,

“You matter. You’re loved. You were created for something greater.”

I want to see men walk into the darkest places carrying the light of Christ.

I want to see men who aren’t ashamed to worship.

Men who aren’t afraid to cry.

Men who aren’t afraid to say, “I don’t have it all together.”

Men who aren’t afraid to get on their knees and cry out,

“Jesus, change me before You use me.”

Because maybe that’s where revival begins.

Not with a crowd.

With a man.

One broken man surrendering.

One father praying.

One husband repenting.

One son coming home.

One man saying,

“Jesus, I am Yours.”

And then another man catches fire.

And another.

And another.

And suddenly…

THE FIRE SPREADS.

It moves through families.

Through churches.

Through neighborhoods.

Through communities.

Until an entire city begins to feel the presence of God.

Not because men became louder.

But because men became different.

Not because men demanded their rights.

But because men started laying down their lives.

Not because men conquered people.

But because men started loving people.

I want to see men set on fire for Jesus.

And I don’t mean a temporary emotional high.

I mean HOLY FIRE.

The kind of fire that changes the way we live.

The kind of fire that changes the way we speak.

The kind of fire that changes our marriages.

The kind of fire that changes our parenting.

The kind of fire that changes how we treat strangers.

The kind of fire that makes us uncomfortable when we’re sitting still while somebody else is hurting.

Men, I’m calling us higher.

Higher than comfort.

Higher than complacency.

Higher than excuses.

Higher than church-as-usual.

Higher than cultural Christianity.

I’m calling us to Jesus.

To surrender.

To sacrifice.

To service.

To prayer.

To courage.

To holiness.

To love.

Because our communities don’t need more men pretending to have all the answers.

They need men who know where to take their questions.

To the feet of Jesus.

So tonight, before you criticize another man…

pray for him.

Before you complain about your church…

serve it.

Before you complain about your community…

love it.

Before you tell the world what’s wrong with Christianity…

show them Jesus.

And before you demand that everyone else change…

get alone with God and ask Him to change you.

Because revival may be closer than we think.

Maybe God isn’t waiting for the perfect man.

Maybe He’s waiting for the surrendered man.

The available man.

The obedient man.

The man who will say:

“Here I am, Lord. Send me.”

So, men…

Are you willing?

Are you willing to lead when nobody applauds?

Are you willing to serve when nobody notices?

Are you willing to give when it costs you something?

Are you willing to pray when you’re tired?

Are you willing to love when it’s difficult?

Are you willing to forgive?

Are you willing to repent?

Are you willing to surrender your pride?

Are you willing to pick up your cross?

Are you willing to follow Jesus even when it costs you everything?

Because here’s the question I can’t get out of my head:

If your family became exactly like the Christian life you are living right now…

would you be proud of what they became?

Let that sit there for a minute.

Don’t scroll.

Don’t defend yourself.

Don’t think about the man sitting next to you.

Think about you.

Look in the mirror.

Look at your Bible.

Look at your family.

Look at your community.

Look at your life.

And ask yourself the question that may be the most important question a man can ever ask:

AM I REALLY THE MAN GOD HAS CALLED ME TO BE?

And if the answer is no…

Don’t run from that conviction.

Run toward Jesus.

Because He isn’t finished with you.

Men, let’s rise.

Let’s pray.

Let’s serve.

Let’s give.

Let’s love.

Let’s lead.

Let’s surrender.

Let’s become the men our families need, our churches need, our communities need—and most importantly, the men Jesus has called us to be.

One man.

One surrendered heart.

One family.

One church.

One neighborhood.

One city.

Until the fire spreads.

MEN, IT’S TIME.

Let’s set your city’s on fire—not with our anger, not with our politics, not with our pride…

but with the radical, reckless, transforming LOVE OF JESUS CHRIST.

In Jesus’ name, Amen. ~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

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑