I love to travel but five years ago, I stopped.  My life had disintegrated. The divorce left me in a terrible financial position, without even a full-time job. My kids were hurting. My son was in a battle for his life. Travel, once a joy, felt like a distant, unreachable dream.  So I stayed home, and I was glad to do it, because I didn't want to be anywhere else.

But now, now things are different.  My son is healthy. My daughter just graduated from college. (How do the kids keep aging while we somehow stay the same?) The dust has settled. The transition I recognized in my last post is starting to feel real.

Quietly, beautifully, the world has started calling my name again.  It’s not just about seeing new places. It’s about rediscovering myself in the process. Travel has a way of opening doors, external ones - yes, but also the ones that quietly creak open inside your soul. The ones that had been shut out of self-preservation.

I’ve started one of my favorite parts of any adventure, the meticulous planning. I know that might sound tedious to some, but to me, it’s part of the joy. After all these years, I’m planning my first international trip.

I renewed my passport. I’ve been watching YouTube videos like a student cramming for an exam. I’m even picking up the basics of the language, just enough to say hello, thank you, and maybe find a cup of coffee.  The destination? I’ll share that soon. But for now, it feels good just to say: I’m going. Not someday. Not when everything is perfect. But in a few months.

There’s something sacred about reclaiming joy.  Not chasing it, not forcing it, but noticing when it starts to return like sunlight after a long winter. I’m not the same person I was five years ago. I’ve carried sorrow. I’ve navigated survival. But maybe that’s why this joy feels different, hard-won and deeply rooted.

Planning this trip isn’t just about flights and itineraries. It’s about saying yes to life again. It’s about allowing myself to anticipate beauty. To believe that wonder still waits around unexpected corners. To remember that I’m allowed to feel light again.

Reclaiming Joy

Coming back from Florida hasn’t been a soft landing. It wasn’t a gentle glide into routine, instead it was a running leap straight back into the noise of everyday life. Work. Chores. Errands. Emails. Laundry. All of it, slapping me in the face all at once with the smell of dirty socks.

I miss the beach. I miss the waves, the easy rhythm of a town that didn’t know or care what day it was. I miss the friendly people, the kind that smile at you just because they can, not because they're rushing to their next appointment. There are friendly people here too, but something changes when you're on vacation. You're unhurried. You're not counting minutes. You're not buried in deadlines.

My sweet mom, who has quietly battled depression for so many years, said something on this trip that I’ll never forget. She looked over the water one morning and said, “This place makes me feel like I want to live again.”

I knew exactly what she meant.

It wasn’t just the beach or the sunshine. It was the freedom to breathe. To be. To feel the lightness of living without the weight of the world pressing down on your shoulders. In that sleepy little town, we weren’t just resting, we were restoring. It gave us both life. She left that place just as full as I did.

Maybe that’s why I’m already planning the next trip. It’ll be a few months from now. I’ll need to save up. I might go alone, but I don't think I'll be getting through that airport without my mother with me. It will be just us, the sound of the waves, and a quiet little dock at the edge of the world.

If there’s one theme God echoed through the sound of those waves to me, it’s this:

It’s time to let go.

Letting go of pain, yes, but also letting go of control.
Letting go of trying to hold everything and everyone in place.

My kids are getting older. They’re needing me less in some ways and differently in others. I feel the ache of that shift more than I expected. My mom is aging too. She’s changing, and so is our relationship. I’ve spent so much time holding tightly to what was. But I know God is whispering now, “It’s okay to let go.”

Let go of the past.
Let go of trying to make things stay the same.
Let go of roles that are no longer yours to carry.

This isn’t a loss, it’s transition. Transitions, though tender, are sacred ground. They are the places where God meets us with fresh grace, with new purpose, and with gentle reminders that He is not only the God of what was, He is the God of what’s next.

The truth is, you can’t move forward while clinging to the past. And God knows that I love to do some clinging like Saran Wrap.

So I’m learning to let go.
Of roles that are changing.
Of expectations that no longer fit.
Of old hurts I’ve carried too long.

Because forward is the only direction He walks.
And I want to go with Him.

Ruth’s Calling

Naomi was from Bethlehem in Judah, a place known as “the house of bread.” But when a severe famine struck the land, the irony was painful. There was no bread. No harvest. No security. So Naomi and her husband, Elimelek, left Bethlehem behind with their two sons and crossed into Moab, a foreign and often hostile land, just to survive.

There, in Moab, Ruth’s story begins.

She was a Moabite woman, and she married one of Naomi’s sons. Likely in her late teens or early twenties, Ruth expected a simple life filled with family, tradition, and the quiet rhythm of routine. But famine had already disrupted one family line, and loss was about to unravel another.

And the losses came, boy did they come, one by one.

We don’t know how or why the three men died.  Scripture doesn’t tell us if they suffered from disease, starvation, or if a tragic accident struck them down together.  Maybe some grief is too heavy for explanation.

What we do know is this:
In a cruel wave of loss, it was all gone.

First Naomi’s husband died.
Then both of her sons, Ruth’s and Orpah’s husbands, died too.

They had been in Moab for about ten years.  Ten years of shared life. Ten years of building a future.
Ten years that Ruth surely imagined would lead to children, stability, and growing old alongside her husband.

And now, all of it was undone.

Then came word from the old country.

“Naomi heard in Moab that the Lord had come to the aid of His people by providing food for them…”
—Ruth 1:6

The famine in Bethlehem had finally lifted. The Lord had visited His people again and He was restoring the land.

So Naomi made the decision to return home. Not because she had hope, but because she had nothing left to lose.  Grief pressed her forward. Hunger pulled her home.  But she had no idea that God wasn’t just restoring crops in Bethlehem, He was restoring her story, too.

In that culture, widows were among the most vulnerable. A young woman with no husband and no sons had little hope for stability or security. The socially acceptable thing for Ruth to do was to return to her father’s house and hope to remarry one day. It would have been logical. Sensible. Safe.

And scripture takes us into a moment where Naomi encourages her to do just that.

The dust was swirling around their sandals as they walked the road to Bethlehem.  The tears carved quiet paths down tired cheeks.  Three widows standing in the middle of a road, with nothing ahead but uncertainty and nothing behind but loss.

Naomi stopped walking.

She turned to the two young women beside her, daughters by marriage, bound now by shared grief. She looked at their faces, still soft with youth, still full of potential. And maybe in that moment, she realized what she could not bear: dragging them into a future she no longer believed in.

Her voice cracked as she spoke, equal parts love and lament.

“Go back,” she said. “Turn around. Go home to your mothers. May the Lord show you the same kindness you’ve shown to me. May He grant each of you rest... in the home of another husband.”

Then she wept.  Not just for what she had lost, but for them. For what they still might find if they let her go.  Naomi saw nothing ahead for herself but bitterness. But she refused to let her emptiness steal their hope.  Her story, she believed, was over. But theirs didn’t have to end with hers.

Orpah listened, heart torn. She cried. She clung.  Finally, she kissed Naomi goodbye and turned back, back to the world she knew, the language she spoke, the life that had once been hers.  Who can blame her?  I probably would have done the same.

But Ruth didn’t move.  She stayed rooted in the dust and heartbreak of that moment, looking at Naomi with love.  Naomi tried again to urge her away, but Ruth’s spirit had already crossed a line.  She was not going back. 

Out of the stillness, Ruth spoke words that would change not only Naomi’s story, but her own, and eventually, the world’s:

“Don’t urge me to leave you or to turn back from you.
Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay.
Your people will be my people and your God my God.
Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried.
May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if even death separates you and me.”
—Ruth 1:16–17

This wasn’t just poetic. It was a holy vow.

Ruth didn’t just cling to Naomi, she clung to God.  She surrendered certainty for obedience.  She let go of comfort for the sake of calling.  She released the life she thought she’d have in order to walk into the one God had chosen for her.

And here’s the beautiful thing:
Ruth couldn’t have known at the time that her decision to stay would change history.

I’m sure in that moment, she simply knew she was being called to stay with Naomi. To walk with her. To trust God.  But she couldn’t have imagined why.

She didn’t know she would one day glean in Boaz’s field.
She didn’t know she would marry him, bear a son, or become the great-grandmother of King David.
She didn’t know her name would be etched into the lineage of the Messiah.

She only knew that God was asking her to go, and she went.  Ruth’s story is proof that God doesn’t just meet us in our surrender, He blesses it.  He weaves our letting go into legacies we can’t begin to imagine.

Maybe that’s what He’s doing with me, too.

The Transformation

The old roles, the shifting relationships, the future I thought I’d have isn’t being taken from me.

It's being transformed.

Maybe the letting go is how God makes room for something eternal.

But in time, every one of those hopes was fulfilled, just not in the way she expected.

By following God’s call, Ruth stepped into a story she never could have written on her own. In Bethlehem, she met Boaz, a man of integrity and compassion, a kinsman-redeemer who not only provided for her but loved her. There’s no trace of conflict or regret in their union. Everything about their story points to quiet joy, mutual honor, and God’s blessing.

Together, they built a life.
Together, they had a child.
Together, they restored not just their future, but Naomi’s as well.

And through that child (Obed) Ruth became the great-grandmother of King David. Her obedience didn’t just rebuild her life, it helped shape the very lineage of Jesus Christ.

That’s what God does.  He takes the ashes of our plans and turns them into foundations for things we can’t even see yet.  Ruth’s story didn’t end with her husband’s death. 

It was resurrected.

Transition is so often God’s tool for growth.  It shakes us, stretches us, and sometimes breaks us, but only so He can remake us.

Life is always changing. That part isn’t optional. But how we walk through that change, that’s where trust lives. That’s where faith blooms. That’s where God meets us and whispers, “I’m doing something new.”

“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.”
—Isaiah 43:19

And so I’m learning, day by day, to open my hands.
To let go of what was.
To trust God with what is.
And to believe, like Ruth, that even the changes I didn’t choose might be the very soil where legacy is planted.

There are few things in this world more healing than sitting beside the sea.

The sun is beginning its slow descent, casting a golden glow across the waves.  The temperature is perfect. I am here, barefoot, watching that sunset stretch its colors across the sky like a watercolor painting in motion. I wish I could stay in this moment forever. Surely heaven will hold many scenes like this, only more vivid, more permanent, more whole.

One of my goals this trip was simple: see dolphins. Real ones. Not from a dock or a distant pier, but up close. So I booked an excursion called “Swim with Wild Dolphins.” And to be honest, I didn’t know what to think. These aren’t trained dolphins performing on cue, they’re wild, and sightings aren’t guaranteed. The best you can usually hope for is a fleeting glimpse as they pass you by.

Our captain was a former sports coach, a man with a whistle, a stern tone and a no-nonsense attitude. He barked out rules like we were in preseason drills, but it became clear he knew what he was doing. He told us that if we followed his instructions, we might get lucky. He added, “If they turn around and interact with you… well, that’s a lucky day.”

And wouldn’t you know it.  Luck showed up for us.

We headed into the Gulf, where the water shimmered in emerald hues and the shoreline was powdered with white sand. Before long, we spotted them. Not one, not two, but dozens of dolphins. While most tours hope for a single leap or two, we experienced something altogether different. The dolphins were playful, really playful. They weren’t just swimming near us; they were interacting.

Initially, I was nervous. Wild animals. Open water. I’m not exactly at ease swimming next to something large, fast, and alive (especially when my brain starts whispering “sharks” every other second). But the second I dipped my face into the water and watched those dolphins circle me, laughing, leaping, spinning, I forgot the fear entirely.

At one point, five of them surrounded us, weaving through us like overgrown toddlers in a game of tag. They slapped their tails, made playful clicks, and nudged each other with what could only be described as dolphin mischief. I laughed, really laughed. The kind that bubbles up from somewhere deep and reminds you what joy feels like.

Even our rule-loving captain was impressed. He said it was one of the most interactive groups he’d ever seen.

Every time I climbed back onto the boat, dripping and exhilarated, I couldn’t help but look back at the water with a full heart. What kind of God cares this much? What kind of Father orchestrates a sea ballet for a mom and her kids on vacation?

The answer, of course, is ours. The kind who delights in delighting us. The kind who knows that sometimes what we need most is not a miracle of provision or protection, but a miracle of joy.

And here’s how I know it was more than coincidence: we went back just a few days later. Same place. Same boat. Same time of day. And this time, not a single dolphin. They were gone, maybe out to sea, maybe hunting, maybe just doing whatever it is dolphins do when they’re not putting on a show. But I wasn’t disappointed. 

God had chosen that day. That moment. He knew how much joy it would bring me, how much sheer delight I would carry from interacting with those incredible creatures. And He knew I needed it.

This isn’t my first time in this part of Florida. I’ve rented the same house before. Same beaches. Same sleepy little town where time slows down and sand clings to your ankles long after you’ve left the shore. And every time I come, I find myself thinking, “It probably won’t be as magical as last time.” But every time, it is. And somehow, it’s even better.

There’s something sacred about the simplicity here. Drinking coffee on the back deck with my mom, watching the birds glide over the water. Sunrises that nudge you awake, and sunsets that seem to tuck you in. It's slow. It's quiet. And slowly but surely, it’s becoming my place. The place I go to breathe again.

I tell people I come here for a break, but the truth is, I come here to be put back together.

Five years ago, my world cracked wide open. A fire. Then my son’s cancer came back. Then divorce, layered over grief, over fear, over exhaustion. When so much hits at once, the mind doesn’t just heal because the calendar says it’s time.

But this place in Florida, it helps. There’s something about the rhythm of the waves and the hush of the wind that makes space for God to speak. And He does.

Now don’t get me wrong, I know you don’t need a beach house to find healing. I know God can meet you in a crowded waiting room or a prison cell. Just ask Paul and he would tell you healing isn’t tied to scenery. It’s tied to the Savior.

But still, God knows me. He knows that here, surrounded by salt air and sunshine, my heart is soft soil. He meets me in the middle of dolphin dives and quiet mornings. And He keeps healing me, layer by layer, moment by moment.

Healing is Layered

Psalm 147:3 “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”

I used to think healing meant moving on. Getting over it. Reaching a point where the pain no longer followed me around like a shadow. But I know better now.

Healing, as it turns out, is layered. It doesn’t arrive all at once like a lightning bolt.  It comes slowly, gently, sometimes painfully. It’s one layer at a time. And often, the deeper the wound, the more delicate the healing.

When I first came to this little beach town, I didn’t know how much I still needed to process. I thought I just needed a break. But with every visit, I find myself peeling back another layer of grief, or fear, or weariness I didn’t know I still carried. It’s not always obvious. Sometimes it shows up as restlessness. Sometimes as tears I can’t quite explain. Sometimes as a deep breath that finally feels like it reaches my soul.

Five years ago, so much unraveled at once. At the time, I didn’t know what to do except survive. But surviving isn’t the same as healing. Survival builds walls. Healing gently takes them down, one brick at a time, and lets light in again.

This place, this simple, quiet, salt-air place, has been the backdrop for God’s work in me. Not loud or dramatic. Just slow and sure. A little more peace this year. A little more clarity. A little more freedom from the weight I didn’t realize I was still carrying.

And I’m learning not to rush it.

God doesn’t. He’s not standing over me with a stopwatch. He’s sitting beside me with tenderness and time. He’s not asking me to “be okay.” He’s just asking me to keep coming to Him. To keep letting Him into the places I’ve been afraid to revisit.

Because healing isn’t about forgetting what happened, it’s about allowing Him to redeem it. And that kind of work… well, it takes time. Holy, intentional, beautiful time.

Just like the body doesn’t bounce back after surgery, the soul doesn’t bounce back from trauma. When you’ve been cut deep, you don’t leap to your feet the next morning. You ache. You rest. You wait. The swelling has to go down. The tissue has to knit itself together. Even when the scar forms, it stays tender for a while. And the deeper the wound, the longer the healing takes.

So why do we expect our souls to be any different?

Why do we tell ourselves to move on, hurry up, get over it, as if grief is something we can schedule or rush?

Jesus never rushed the wounded. He didn’t shame the broken for not bouncing back. He knelt beside them. He touched the untouchable. He gave time, dignity, and space for healing.

And He does the same with us.

So if you're not “there” yet (whatever “there” means), if you're still aching, still healing, still rebuilding, know this: you’re not behind. You're in process. You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Because real healing takes time.

And you're not doing it alone. 

Redemption, Not Erasure

Healing isn’t about forgetting what happened.
It’s about letting Jesus redeem what happened.

Sometimes we think the goal of healing is amnesia, to erase the pain, rewrite the past, pretend it didn’t happen. But that’s not the way Jesus works. He doesn’t erase our stories. He rewrites them. He takes the ashes and makes beauty, not by pretending the ashes weren’t real, but by creating something more beautiful because they were.

I think about Mary Magdalene.

We don’t know her full story, what led her to the place where seven demons held her in their grip. But we know enough to understand this: she wasn’t just hurting. She was tormented. Her mind, her body, her very being, were hijacked. She had no control. No peace. No escape. She likely said and did things no one would ever want remembered. She knew evil in a way that most of us will never comprehend.

She wasn't just a woman with a troubled past, she was a woman drowning in darkness.

And then, He came.

Jesus didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. He didn’t require a backstory or an apology. He walked right into her chaos, right into the very place others had abandoned. He spoke, and with the authority of heaven in His voice, the darkness lost its grip. The demons that had ruled her life fled at His word.

And for the first time in who knows how long, she was free.

Can you imagine the silence after? Her mind no longer spinning. Her limbs no longer trembling. Her heart no longer hijacked by a force she couldn’t name. Just stillness. Just breath. Just presence.

Jesus didn’t just cleanse her. He restored her. He gave her back her dignity. Her identity. Her future.

And that’s the part that undoes me: she didn’t just get delivered. She got chosen.

Of all the followers, of all the people Jesus could have revealed Himself to first after rising from the dead, He chose her. Mary. The one who had been the most broken. The one who had known torment. The one who had tasted evil and now stood face-to-face with Glory.

She was the first to hear her name spoken from resurrected lips: “Mary.”

Not Peter.
Not John.
Mary.

“Go and tell them… I’m alive.”

Isn’t that just like God?

The more shattered the past, the more radiant the redemption. The more complete the unraveling, the more extravagant the restoration. Mary Magdalene was living proof that the places evil has touched most deeply are often the very places where God pours out His most lavish grace.

That’s redemption.

Not erasure. Not denial. Redemption. The kind only Jesus can do. The kind that doesn’t require forgetting our worst chapters but allows them to become the setup for our most powerful ones.

I’ll never fully understand why certain things were allowed in my life. I won’t pretend the fire, the diagnosis, or the heartbreak didn’t leave marks. They did. But the longer I walk with Him, the more I see: He’s not trying to delete those chapters. He’s weaving them into a redemptive arc I never could’ve written on my own.

And maybe, just maybe, He’ll let me tell someone else He’s alive because of it.

We’re heading out for a Florida vacation today.  "We" includes myself, my kids, my mom, and my nephew (who’s along for the ride, whether he volunteered or not). In just a few hours, our apartment will be buzzing with last-minute packing, flying flip-flops, and someone inevitably yelling, “Where’s the sunscreen?” as we unplug from real life for a little while. Adventures await us, including swimming with dolphins, but I’m even more curious about the unexpected ones God might have in store.

You’d think, as a Type A person, I’d be packed and ready a week ago. Nope. Never am. I have this bizarre habit of packing the morning of a trip. Without fail, I forget something. Once, I flew to Canada for a business presentation and only realized, too late, that I hadn’t packed any professional pants. I was presenting in the morning and stuck in jeans at night, panic-shopping for overpriced slacks like a woman on a mission. I found some. I paid triple what they were worth. I've never been so happy to hand over my credit card.

Meanwhile, my son has been packing for two weeks. As a brain cancer survivor, his memory isn’t always reliable, and he carries that awareness with such quiet determination. We’ve packed and repacked his bag, checking everything twice. It’s a slow, careful ritual that shows how far he’s come, and how fiercely he wants to be prepared. You’d think that would inspire me to pack my own bag early. But no, some habits are just weirdly persistent.

I suppose that’s the thing about vacations. You can forget a charger, a swimsuit, even pants, and still find your way to peace. And that’s exactly what I’m looking forward to: real peace. I’ve rented a house right on the beach, and I fully intend to sit on the back deck, let the sound of the waves do their thing, and just be. I’ll probably write a lot, because when I have downtime that’s what I do. Writing isn’t just something I enjoy; it’s how I process life. I don’t write for the sake of words.  I write to capture a moment, to mark a memory, to hold onto a feeling before it slips away.

Maybe that’s why I connect so deeply with the writers of the Bible, especially the ones who penned the Gospels. If I had walked with Jesus, I would’ve been scribbling down every detail I could, trying to preserve the awe, the wonder, the ordinary moments when heaven touched earth. I often wish they’d included more. What did Jesus’ voice sound like? What expression crossed His face when He healed someone? How did the disciples feel—really feel—in those quiet, in-between moments?

Sometimes I imagine those scenes myself, filling in the gaps with wonder. And even though I wish for more details, I also wonder how they did it.  How did they capture the Spirit of God, the unexplainable, the miraculous, with mere words? Maybe they didn’t have the right words either. Maybe they just wrote what they could, trusting that the Spirit would fill in the rest.

That’s what I’ll be doing this week: writing, wondering, worshiping. And probably forgetting a toothbrush. But I think I’ll be okay.

The Storyteller in the Shadows

Luke wasn’t one of the original twelve. He didn’t sit at the Last Supper, feel the sea spray on the Galilean shore, or hear Jesus’ voice rise above the crowds. He was a Gentile, a physician, and likely came to faith after the resurrection. And yet, God wrote him into the story.

Not as a preacher. Not as a miracle-worker.
But as a storyteller.

Luke opens his Gospel with intention and humility:

“Many have undertaken to draw up an account of the things that have been fulfilled among us... With this in mind, since I myself have carefully investigated everything from the beginning, I too decided to write an orderly account for you... so that you may know the certainty of the things you have been taught.”
— Luke 1:1–4

Luke wasn’t satisfied with secondhand summaries. He didn’t scribble haphazardly. He investigated. He interviewed. He traced the thread of the Messiah from birth to resurrection with precision, because truth demands accuracy, and because he knew this wasn’t just a story.

It was the story.

He walked dusty roads to find those who had walked with Jesus. He sat with Mary, maybe. With Peter. With Mark. He asked, “What was it like?” and listened with reverence. He captured the wonder of those who had touched the hem of Jesus’ robe so that people like us, centuries and miles away, could still be changed by it.

And then came Rome.

The second imprisonment. Not house arrest, but a dungeon. Cold. Cramped. Unforgiving. Somewhere beneath the city’s polished stone and political frenzy, Paul sat awaiting execution. The floor was damp. The air sour. Hope seemed a stranger in the dark corners of that cell.

But Luke was there.

Not as a prisoner, but as a companion. As the friend who stayed when others scattered. As the last one standing beside the man whose faith had flipped the world on its head.

The lamplight is fading.

It’s low now, just a soft orange glow dancing against the damp stone walls. The flame flickers every time the wind sneaks in through the cracks above. Shadows stretch and shiver across the floor. Cold creeps along the ground like fog.

Luke hunches close beside the little light, the hem of his cloak bunched around him to fight the chill. A worn scroll is unrolled across his lap, already filled with delicate lines of script. His hands are stained with ink. One smudge runs up his wrist. His knuckles ache. 

His fingers tremble, not from fear, but from the weight of urgency pressing down on his chest. He dips the quill again. The oil in the lamp is running low.  Time is short. The words must live on.

Across from him, Paul rests against the curved wall of the prison, shoulders slumped, his breath measured. The chains around his ankles lie quiet. His body knows what's ahead. The skin at his temples is dark, his beard grayer than ever. Scars cross his back like a map of suffering. But his eyes? His eyes still burn. Still alive. Still fixed on glory.

His voice is low. Gravelly. But each word is carved from granite.

“Tell them…”
A pause. 

“I have fought the good fight.”

Luke leans forward, quill poised, heart cracking with every syllable.

“I have finished the race.”

He writes the words slowly, reverently. His eyes sting, not just from the smoke, but from the knowing.

“I have kept the faith.”

This isn’t just history.
This is legacy.
This is the gospel of suffering well.

Luke, who had spent so many years gathering stories, now realizes he’s writing the final chapter of his dearest friend’s life. And he will not get it wrong.

He writes, not for glory, but for truth.
Not for applause, but for eternity.
Because someone must remember the miracles.

What an absolute honor as a writer, as a believer, and as a friend.  Just imagining the moment when Paul utters those words to Luke brings a tear to my eyes.  Can you imagine more heroic words?  They are perfection, and no doubt formed by the Holy Spirit.

Now Luke, the one who had always been the observer, has become part of the story himself. The man who once wrote in third person—“they went, they did, they saw”—now writes from within.
“We stayed. We watched. We believed.”

The end was near. Paul knew. Luke knew. Everyone knew.  Nero’s Rome was no place for mercy and there would be no dramatic escape. No surprise pardon. Only the sword.

But Luke stayed.

He watched Paul say his final goodbyes. He prayed with him. Maybe he held his hand. Maybe he followed the guards with tear-blurred eyes as they led the great apostle away. And then, he kept writing because the story wasn’t over. The Gospel doesn’t end in shadows. It ends in light.

Though tradition is unclear, many believe Luke died at 84 years of age in Greece. Some say peacefully. Others say martyred, hanged from an olive tree. Either way, there’s no flashy ending to his life. Just a quiet faithfulness. Just a scroll filled with words that would echo into eternity.

He gave his life, not to be seen, but so Jesus could be seen.

Luke was never the center of the scene. But he was the recorder. The witness.
The pen in God’s hand.

And so are we.

We may not have been there when Jesus broke the bread or calmed the sea.
But we are part of the story.
When we tell others what He’s done in our lives… when we write, speak, love, forgive, 
we become like Luke.

Faithful witnesses. Sacred scribes. Bearers of a Gospel that still changes the world.  You don’t have to have walked with Jesus to walk for Him.

You just have to stay.
To listen.
And to write it down, if you choose.

The Writer at the Water’s Edge

So this week, I’ll sit by the ocean and write.

The waves will roll in, the dolphins may swim by (hopefully!), and the sun will warm the pages of my notebook. But in the back of my mind, I’ll be thinking about a different writer...one in a prison cell, ink-stained and battle-worn, giving the world one last gift.

And I’ll remember: there’s power in the quiet.
There’s purpose in the writing.
And there’s a place in the story for people like me.

Every story of Christ, every miracle, every moment of His presence in our lives, deserves reflection. Even the small ones. Especially the small ones. You don’t have to be a writer to honor them. Mary didn’t write them down, she pondered them in her heart. We’re called to do the same. To hold space for what God has done and sit with the sacred and let it shape us.

Your story, your memories, your witness, it all matters.
It matters to your family, to your friends, to someone scrolling through the dark needing a reminder that God is still good.

And it matters to heaven.

Luke wasn’t a central figure in the Bible. He wasn’t in the spotlight. But his faithfulness brought the Gospel to billions. Billions. He wasn’t the one performing the miracles, he was the one making sure we didn’t forget them. And because he did, we remember and believe.

The storytellers matter.

The ones who carry the light, not just with sermons and stages, but with journals and whispered prayers. The ones who repeat His love and His miracles, even when it feels like no one’s listening. It matters more than we know. Not just in this life, but in eternity.

So whether you're writing it down, sharing it over coffee, or simply holding it quietly in your heart:

Don’t forget the stories.
Don’t stop telling them.
They’re how the world remembers.

Well, I know you've been wondering.  

I ended up taking Winston to a wildlife rehabilitation center. It wasn’t an easy decision, believe me. But over time, he showed no interest in flying or exploring. Instead, he would nestle into my hand, perfectly content to stay with me rather than stretch his wings. As sweet as it was, I started to worry that he wouldn’t be able to adjust to life in the wild, and I imagined the other birds thinking he was... well, a little weirdo.  And they wouldn't be wrong.

So I reached out to a local wildlife rehabilitation center. They confirmed what I suspected, Winston had likely bonded with me so deeply that he didn’t realize he was a bird anymore. In his mind, he might’ve thought he was just a tiny feathered person. That theory didn’t seem far off, especially considering how he’d try to crawl up my sleeve every time we were outside.

Thankfully, the center has a very special setup. They actually have an adult bird there, one who has taken on the role of a feathered mentor. This bird is experienced in fostering young ones like Winston, those who’ve been raised a little too close to humans. It even helps feed and teach them how to be proper birds again.  Crazy that such a thing exists, but I'm glad it does.

One afternoon I watched a history series that was a four-hour marathon, and there was Winston, perched loyally beside me the entire time. It sounds ridiculous, but it felt like he was watching with me, just the two of us, engrossed in history and time travel from the comfort of the couch.  

So, as you can imagine, I may or may not have cried when I left him at the rehabilitation center. He wasn’t just a bird. He was my buddy.

Winston wasn’t with me forever, but he was a blessing. He was a holy interruption, an unexpected pause in the middle of a chaotic stretch. He didn’t solve my problems. He simply reminded me that I wasn’t alone, that life was still beautiful, that even in the pressure, God sees.

 God had sent him for a season. A moment. 

And this is nothing new. God’s Word is full of brief, divine moments that left eternal marks.

The Women and the Angels: A Resurrection Encounter

The path to the tomb was quiet, save for the soft shuffle of sandals against the earth and the occasional murmur between the two women. Mary Magdalene and the other Mary moved with the slow, steady rhythm of grief, familiar, heavy, and numbing. Their arms were full of burial spices, their hearts full of memories they weren’t ready to let go of.

The sky was just beginning to glow with the faintest traces of morning, a grayish-blue whisper that the sun was on its way. The olive trees stood still, their branches barely stirring, as if even nature was holding its breath.

They hadn’t spoken much since leaving. What was there to say?

Jesus, their teacher, their miracle-worker, the One who had changed everything, was dead.

They had watched it happen. They had stood at the foot of the cross, powerless and weeping, as He breathed His last. Now they came to do the only thing left: to honor Him in death. To care for His body with tender hands, as one final act of love.

But when they reached the tomb, everything changed.  The stone wasn’t where it should have been.

It had been rolled away.

Before their minds could even begin to process what this meant, the earth beneath their feet began to tremble. A great shaking. Not just the kind you feel in your bones, but in your very soul.

And then, light.  Not sunlight. Not fire. Something brighter. Sharper. A light that seemed to crack the air itself open.

Two men, no, not men. Angels. Dressed in robes so white they seemed woven from lightning. Their faces shone with a brilliance too holy to look at for long. Their presence was overwhelming, terrifying and awe-inspiring all at once.

The women froze. Breath caught. Hands clutched the jars of spices tighter. Eyes wide with fear and wonder.  This was not what they came for.  This was not what they expected.

I imagine they wanted to fall to their knees. Maybe they did. Or perhaps they stood motionless, heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the world around them.

Did they want to speak? To ask the angels to stay with them? To explain what was happening? Or simply to remain there in that sacred, trembling space where heaven and earth had met?

But the angels didn’t linger. They weren’t sent to soothe or explain. They were sent to announce.

“Why do you look for the living among the dead?”
“He is not here. He has risen.”

Just those words.

And that was enough.

A holy interruption. A divine declaration. A moment that split history in two.

The women didn’t argue. They didn’t ask to stay. They didn’t need to.

Because truth had come crashing through their sorrow, and now there was only one thing left to do:

Go. Tell. Rejoice.

They ran from the tomb, hearts pounding for a different reason now, not from fear, but from hope. From the electricity of joy waking up inside them. Their arms were still full, but not of spices for the dead. Now they carried something far more precious: the news that life had returned. That Jesus had done what He promised.

And the angels? They were gone. Their task was finished.

They had come, spoken, and disappeared.

A fleeting blessing, yes, but one that would echo through all eternity.

The women at the tomb experienced a divine disruption unlike anything the world had ever seen. Heaven broke through their grief with blazing light and a message that changed everything. 

He is risen.

While most of us will never stand before an angel wrapped in lightning, it doesn’t mean God has stopped interrupting our lives with His presence. Sometimes those interruptions come with earthquake and glory, and sometimes, they come quietly.

Like a robin hopping around your apartment.

No, Winston wasn’t an angel. He didn’t shine like lightning or speak divine truth. But he was a small, living reminder that God sees us in our weariness. That in the middle of deadline-stressed weeks and anxious thoughts, He can send a tiny, feathered companion to interrupt the spiral, lift our eyes, and remind us to breathe.

The scale of the moment may be different, but the heart of God is the same.

He sends what we need when we need it.

Sometimes it’s a message from an angel.
Sometimes it’s the unexpected gift of caring for something small and vulnerable.
Either way, it’s a holy interruption. And it’s always love.

When the Blessing Doesn’t Stay

The angels didn’t stay.

They didn’t walk the women home. They didn’t answer all their questions. They didn’t linger in the garden a moment longer. Their appearance was sudden, their message brief, and their departure just as swift.

But the impact? Eternal.

The truth they spoke wasn’t meant to comfort the women into staying, it was meant to move them. To send them out with joy and purpose.

And this is something we can so easily miss: the women had come to the tomb with a plan.

Their purpose that morning was grief. They were bringing burial spices to tend to a broken body. Their day was wrapped in sorrow and ritual, a sacred act of mourning for the One they had loved and lost.

But God interrupted them and their plans.

He didn’t erase their grief, but He redefined their mission. In one radiant moment, their role shifted from mourners to messengers. The interruption changed everything, not because the world around them suddenly got easier, but because God did something new in the middle of their sorrow.

“Why do you look for the living among the dead?
He is not here. He has risen.”
— Luke 24:5–6

And that’s what holy interruptions do.

They don’t always take away the pain or the pressure. But they do change how we walk forward. They turn our eyes in a different direction. They call us into a new posture, one of movement, hope, and purpose.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NIV)

Some blessings are for a moment, not a lifetime. But when God sends them, they leave us different. Redirected. Renewed.

The Day Will Come When We Won’t Have to Let Go

The women at the tomb didn’t get to stay in that shining moment. The angels disappeared. Jesus would ascend. The awe, the wonder, the joy—it was real, but it was also temporary, at least on this side of eternity.

But can you imagine how many times they must have told that story?

How often Mary Magdalene must have recounted the way the stone had been rolled away…
How the angel’s voice sounded like thunder wrapped in love…
How Jesus Himself stood before her, alive, speaking her name?

They didn’t just witness a miracle. They witnessed the miracle, the resurrection. The greatest moment in the history of the world. And they carried that story like fire in their bones for the rest of their lives.

Still, even the greatest miracle ever to happen on Earth did not allow them to remain in Jesus’ physical presence forever. Not yet.

They had to let go.

But here’s the truth that transforms that ache:
What was temporary on Earth will be permanent in heaven.

The angels were a fleeting blessing. The risen Christ walked with them only a little while longer. But every holy interruption that drew them closer to Him, every glimpse of glory, they were previews of a forever promise.

“And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying,
‘Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them.
They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God.
He will wipe every tear from their eyes.
There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain,
for the old order of things has passed away.”
— Revelation 21:3–4 (NIV)

Have you ever thought about that?

That every joy, every peaceful moment that draws you closer to God, every small reflection of His presence, will be made permanent in heaven?

The laughter, the peace, the love, and the beauty we only get glimpses of now will be the full atmosphere of eternity.  What an incredible God we serve.

He gives us blessings that interrupt our darkness, redirect our days, and carry us through. Then He promises: One day, you won’t have to let go. One day, every good and perfect gift will remain.

Until that day, we give thanks for the holy moments.
We hold them gently.
And we lift our eyes to the day they will never end.

I found a baby bird today. Right here in the city, near my apartment, of all places. It was nestled in a small patch of grass and mulch, just beneath a tree planted in one of those narrow beds crammed between stretches of pavement. I imagine it must have had a nest up there somewhere among the spindly branches, but something had gone wrong. Either the little thing leapt before it was ready, or it was nudged out by something stronger. Either way, its first flight didn't end well.

I was out walking my dog when he spotted it. His nose went straight to the tiny, featherless creature, sniffing with a curiosity that certainly wasn't safe for the baby bird. The bird was near the base of the tree, blinking up at the world with bright eyes, its beak parted slightly. I looked up, way up, at the tree branches waving gently above us, but there was no way I could return it to its nest. Not without wings of my own.

So, I did what any normal person with a heart and a tendency to collect hopeless causes would do. I scooped it up and brought it back to my apartment. I guess I’m in the business of raising baby birds now.

I’ve got to tell you, babies are a lot of work, even the feathered kind. This tiny thing is hungry all the time, its beak stretched wide, demanding food at the most inconvenient moments. It’s astonishing how much a creature that small can eat.

And then there’s the matter of supervision.  Someone always has to keep an eye on it, even when it’s napping, because if I don’t, my dog might decide to turn it into an afternoon snack. He watches it with the same intensity he reserves for squirrels, his eyes locked in, ears perked, like he’s just waiting for me to look the other way.

I am delighted by this little bird. I’ve named him Winston. I say him, but honestly, I have no idea. He could very well be a Winnie. But Winston feels right. Its distinguished, dignified, the kind of name you give a tiny creature who has already survived more than most.

And the timing of Winston’s arrival is interesting. I’ve got two intense, back-to-back work weeks staring me down.  These weeks are full of deadlines, meetings, and the kind of high-stakes chaos that normally leaves me wound up and restless. Anxiety tends to creep in during times like these, weaving itself into the quiet moments and making even rest feel like work.

But Winston, well, Winston is a welcome interruption. There’s something oddly grounding about feeding a baby bird and watching him shuffle around in his makeshift nest of towels like he owns the place. He chirps at me like I’m supposed to understand. He doesn't care about emails or project plans. He just wants warmth, food, and to not get eaten by the dog. Fair enough.

He’s become a tiny reminder that not everything has to be efficient or productive to be meaningful. Sometimes, what we need most is a small, unexpected life to care for, to pull us out of our heads and into the moment.

I know Winston needs me. But I think I might need him too.

Look at the Birds

“Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?” – Matthew 6:26

Winston has no idea how close he came to not making it. He doesn’t know about the height of the fall, or the fact that my dog’s interest in him wasn’t exactly friendly. He doesn’t know that I’m not a trained bird rescuer or that his odds of survival outside were paper thin (and honestly still are).

All he knows is that he was hungry, and someone showed up.

And isn’t that the heart of what Jesus was saying? “Look at the birds...” They don’t build savings accounts. They don’t have five-year plans. They don’t control their environments or overthink their futures. They simply exist, and God cares for them.

Winston doesn’t earn anything. He’s not productive. He’s not impressive. He just opens his beak and chirps incessantly.  If I'm being totally honest, I think he's got some personality flaws that might have gotten him kicked out of the nest.

And somehow, he’s okay.

It’s such a gentle, holy reminder for people like me, people who think if we just plan better, hustle harder, juggle faster, we can hold it all together. But the truth is, most days I feel like Winston. Flailing. Exposed. A little startled by life. And fully incapable of saving myself.

And yet, God shows up.

In the middle of the mess, in the midst of the deadlines, God gently reminds me: “You’re not in control. But I am. And I love you far more than the birds.”

Winston doesn’t worry about the next feeding. He trusts that provision will come. And every time I drop food into his little beak, I hear God whispering, “See? If I care this much about him, how much more do I care for you?”

Elijah at the Brook

It was the sound of dry wind that reached him first.

The kind of wind that stirred dust off rocks and whispered through cracked branches like a warning. He had been walking for what felt like miles, deeper into the wilderness, far from everything familiar; palace walls, watchful eyes, even the faint outline of home. God had told him to go east, to hide near the brook Cherith, and he obeyed. But it didn’t feel much like a rescue.

The land was barren, the sky stretched taut with heat, and silence hovered like a weight. Elijah may have wondered if he’d made a mistake, if he had misunderstood God’s voice. After all, who goes to a ravine to survive a drought? Who hides in a dry land and expects to live?

But then, he heard the water.

A soft, steady trickle, barely more than a whisper against stone, but enough. The brook wound its way through the rocks like a silver thread, just as the Lord had said. He dropped to his knees and drank, the water cool and against his skin. His hands trembled, not from thirst, but from relief.

Still, one question remained: What about food?

That’s when he saw them.

Black wings against a pale sky, ravens. At first, he must have thought he was hallucinating. But no, they circled and descended, and in their beaks, in their claws…bread. Meat. Elijah watched in awe as they dropped it near him, then disappeared as quickly as they had come.

He stared at the food for a moment, unsure if he was even allowed to touch something so miraculous. But hunger outweighed hesitation. He ate. And the next morning, they came again. And the evening after that. Day after day, twice a day, God fed him by the mouths of birds.

It was humbling. A prophet of the Most High, dependent on crumbs from ravens. He who had spoken thunder over kings now waited on wings for breakfast.  But in that hidden place, Elijah began to understand something he never could have learned in the courts or on the mountaintop: God didn’t need his strength. He desired his trust.

God could have sent an angel. He could have caused fruit to spring up overnight. But instead, He sent ravens, creatures most people avoided, to feed him. And He did it not once, but over and over.  There were no witnesses. No applause. Just Elijah, God, the water, and the birds.

And he was never alone.

That’s really what it all comes down to, isn’t it? Trust.  The kind that stares down the giants of an anxious calendar, an overwhelming to-do list, or maybe something more serious.  A broken relationship.  A diagnosis.  A heart that feels stretched too thin.  Trust says “Even here, God will provide.”

He is the One who sends ravens.
The One who notices fallen birds.
The One who sees you when no one else does and whispers, “I’ve got you.”

Winston doesn’t know where his next meal comes from. But he gets fed anyway. Elijah didn’t know how long the brook would last. But he drank and waited. And maybe that’s what trust looks like, not having it all figured out, but choosing to believe that the same God who feeds the birds will take care of me, too.

So I’ll keep feeding Winston. I’ll keep showing up. But more than that, I’ll keep opening my own hands, empty and unsure, and trusting that God will place something there. Maybe not always what I asked for. But always what I need.

Because His provision isn’t a formula. It’s a promise.

Holding On to His Promises When Fear Takes Over

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in You.” – Psalm 56:3

There are times in life when fear feels louder than faith.

The future feels like a question mark with no safe answer. And while we know in our heads that God is good, our hearts feel anything but calm. In moments like these, trusting God's promises can feel like trying to grip water. We know it's there, we just don't always know how to hold on.

But Scripture never tells us to pretend we aren't afraid. It doesn't say, “When I am strong, I trust in God.” It says, “When I am afraid…” Fear isn’t a disqualifier for faith. It’s an invitation into it.

The Bible is full of reminders that God knew we would wrestle with fear. That’s why some version of “do not be afraid” shows up more than 300 times. And when God says it, He doesn’t say it with frustration. He says it with presence.

“Do not be afraid… for I am with you.” (Isaiah 41:10)
“Do not let your hearts be troubled… trust in Me.” (John 14:1)
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted…” (Psalm 34:18)

When life feels overwhelming, the most practical thing we can do is return to what is unchanging. That’s what His promises are, anchors in the middle of the storm. Not vague hope, but specific truth. He will never leave you (Deuteronomy 31:6). He will supply all your needs (Philippians 4:19). He will give you peace (John 14:27). He will finish the work He began in you (Philippians 1:6).

Trusting God’s promises doesn’t mean we won’t feel afraid. It means that when we do, we choose to stand on something stronger than our emotions. We speak truth to our fear. We open Scripture even when we feel numb. We pray, even when our words are shaky. We whisper promises out loud, not because they instantly fix everything, but because they remind us who God is when everything else feels uncertain.

And slowly, fear loses its grip. Not because our situation changes, but because we’ve remembered where to place our trust.

Winston may just be a tiny bird in a cardboard box, but he’s reminded me of something eternal: we are deeply seen, carefully held, and lovingly provided for by a God who misses nothing. In the chaos of life, when we feel helpless or overwhelmed, we can still trust Him, because His care isn’t based on our strength, His presence isn’t earned by our performance, and His promises are never broken.

If He watches over the birds,
He will not forget you.

"My pain," she said.

I remember when she said it, but the details are foggy now. It was five years ago and she was still in high school, barely old enough to understand the weight of the world, yet already carrying more than she should. She’d gone through a bad breakup, and our divorce was fresh, raw and unhealed. "My pain keeps me from doing this or that," my daughter told me, like it was something she owned. Like her backpack or her phone. As if it were a medical diagnosis that just lived with her now, part of her daily reality.

I remember how it stopped me in my tracks because I understood. I still do. I carry pain too, lugging it around like an invisible weight, strapped to my shoulders. It flares up now and then, just to remind me it’s there and if I don’t keep my eyes fixed on dealing with it, it will crawl back up and take the wheel.

Pain has a way of turning into something else if left unchecked. It festers, curls inward, and sharpens into anger. It lashes out at those closest to us, slipping out in moments we wish we could take back. We like to call it pet peeves or say we’re just exhausted, but the truth is, pain mismanaged becomes a weapon.  Sometimes its pointed outward, sometimes inward. And managing it? That’s work. Hard, gritty, unglamorous work. It takes focus, constant awareness, and grace. So much grace.

In my life, pain manifests in a hundred different ways. It triggers overeating, sleepless nights, and a short temper that I can’t always hold back. That, in turn, sparks self-hatred. It’s a vicious cycle, spiraling down unless I face it head-on. Because here’s the truth: dealing with pain isn’t a one-time event. It’s not a single decision. It’s a daily choice, a moment-by-moment surrender. Especially when it’s tied to the big things like divorce, grief, regret, or loneliness. These aren’t neatly packaged issues you can set on a shelf and forget about.

The easier path is distraction. We drown ourselves in whatever numbs the ache. Some people drink, others scroll mindlessly through their screens, and some might reach for that bag of Cheetos. It feels good. Until it doesn’t. Until the moment passes and we’re left with nothing but the aftermath. Angry words that have to be mended. Regret that clings to us like smoke. Another sleepless night, wondering how it all spiraled again.

Pain unacknowledged doesn’t just disappear. It transforms. It finds new ways to make itself known, and often it hurts the ones we love the most. I know this. I’ve lived this. And the only way I’ve found to truly manage it, the only way I’ve found any sense of healing, is to take it to my Healer.  I’ve learned I can’t fix this on my own. I’ve tried. I’ve white-knuckled my way through, thinking sheer willpower could muscle me through it. But pain has roots, deep ones, and digging them out takes more than just determination. It takes surrender.

The world is full of things that promise relief, but they only last for a moment. True healing is something I’ve only found in the hands of the One who can hold all my pain without breaking.

The Roadside Cry

The sun hung low over the dusty streets of Jericho, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the worn cobblestones. The marketplace bustled with noise.  Vendors shouting prices, children laughing, animals braying, but none of it mattered to Bartimaeus. He sat, as he always did, by the side of the road, his back pressed against the sunbaked wall, legs crossed beneath him, hands outstretched. His cloak, frayed at the edges and heavy with dust, pooled around him like the remnants of a life unraveled.

He couldn’t see the faces of those who passed by, but he’d learned to read footsteps.  The hesitant shuffle of a woman burdened by grief, the sharp stride of a merchant with no time for beggars, the unsteady gait of a man who drank away his wages. Bartimaeus had learned to listen. 

He was blind. But blindness was only the beginning of his pain.

There were whispers about him, unspoken accusations that perhaps his condition was a curse, a mark of sin. His father, Timaeus, had been a respected man, a merchant with influence. But Bartimaeus? He was just another beggar, just another burden on the edge of society. The weight of shame settled like ash on his soul, too heavy to brush away.

But if you’d asked Bartimaeus why he was blind, why darkness shrouded his days and why hope seemed like a distant memory, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. Was it his fault? His family’s? Some divine punishment? He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. All he understood was the pain of it. The feeling of being trapped in a body that betrayed him, in a world that ignored him.

And then he heard His name.

Jesus of Nazareth.

The crowd thickened, voices rising with excitement. Bartimaeus leaned forward, heart pounding. He had heard the stories.  Whispers of healing, rumors of the lame walking, the deaf hearing, the dead rising. He didn’t know if they were true. He didn’t know if it even mattered. All he knew was that there was power in that name.

He gripped his cloak tighter, knuckles white, and sucked in a breath. Then, with all the desperation of a soul on the edge, he cried out, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”

The crowd turned on him, like they always did. Someone hissed for him to be quiet, others shoved him aside. “Shut up, beggar! He has more important things to do than deal with you!”

But Bartimaeus had learned long ago that pain ignored only grows louder. So, he shouted again, louder this time, voice cracking with the weight of his anguish. “Son of David, have mercy on me!”

And then everything stopped.

The crowd hushed, footsteps stilled. Bartimaeus held his breath, ears straining to hear what was happening. His heart pounded so loudly he wondered if the whole city could hear it.

And then came the voice. “Call him.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Someone nudged him. “Get up! He’s calling for you.”

Bartimaeus stumbled to his feet, nearly tripping over his own cloak. His hands shook, grasping for balance, for something solid to hold onto. He threw off his cloak, casting aside everything he owned.  His only comfort, his only security, because he didn’t want anything to hold him back. Not now. Not from this.

Guided by voices and hurried hands, he was led forward until he could feel the crowd parting around him. The air grew still, heavy with expectation. Bartimaeus swallowed hard, his mouth dry, his hands trembling.

Then came the question. “What do you want me to do for you?”

Bartimaeus’s throat tightened. He didn’t know why he was blind. He didn’t know if he’d been cursed or if life had simply been unkind. But he knew one thing, he didn’t want this anymore. He didn’t want the darkness. He didn’t want the shame. He didn’t want the brokenness.

So, he whispered the boldest words he could muster: “Rabbi, I want to see.”

There it was. Everything that made him miserable, everything that held him captive, laid bare before the Healer. He didn’t have it all figured out. He didn’t understand the reasons or the origins of his pain. He didn’t come with a list of explanations.  He just brought his need. His raw, aching need.

And Jesus answered. “Go, your faith has healed you.”

In an instant, light exploded behind his eyes. Colors he had only dreamed of flooded his vision.  The piercing blue of the sky, the rich red of merchant stalls, the golden sand shifting beneath his feet. He blinked, staggered back, hands clutching at his face. He could see.

The crowd murmured, voices blending together like music. But Bartimaeus didn’t hear them. His eyes were locked on the face of the One who had healed him, likely the first thing he saw.  The One who hadn’t required him to understand it all, but simply to ask.

And he followed. Bartimaeus followed Him down that road, eyes wide open, pain left behind on the dust where his cloak lay forgotten.

The Cloak We Carry

Bartimaeus sat on the edge of Jericho’s bustling streets, day after day, shrouded in his cloak. To most, it was just a piece of fabric, worn, dust-covered, and fraying at the edges.  But to Bartimaeus, it was more than that. It was his survival. His identity. His protection.

In those times, a beggar’s cloak was more than just a garment; it was a symbol that granted him permission to sit and ask for mercy. It marked him as someone in need, someone broken. His cloak was his license to beg and his shield against the chill of the night. It wrapped around him like a second skin, threadbare but familiar.

That’s the thing about pain. Over time, it becomes part of us, almost like a garment we wear. We drape it over our shoulders, tucking it around us because it’s familiar. Sometimes, we wear it so long that it begins to feel like part of our identity. We learn to function with it, to move with its weight, and even to protect it. It may be heavy, uncomfortable, and threadbare, but it’s ours.

Sometimes, we go even a step further.  We protect it. We shield it, cocoon it, nurture it even. It sounds irrational, but somewhere deep down, we convince ourselves that we deserve it. It’s almost like we wear our suffering as proof of the consequences we think we’re supposed to endure. I made bad choices. I hurt people. I failed. This is my punishment.

We hold onto it because letting it go feels like we’re sidestepping justice, as if suffering long enough will somehow balance the scales of what’s been done or what we’ve done to others. If we hurt long enough, maybe the debt will be paid. So we clutch that cloak tighter. We sit in the dust with it wrapped around us, convincing ourselves that this is our place. This is what we deserve.

Bartimaeus likely faced that same temptation. Sitting by the roadside for years, listening to people whisper that his blindness was his fault, that his suffering was a mark of God’s disfavor. How many days did he pull that cloak tighter around his shoulders, convinced that it was the only life he’d ever know?

But here’s the truth.  That is not what God desires for us.

Jesus came to Jericho that day not to observe Bartimaeus in his suffering, but to call him out of it. He didn’t walk by and say, “Well, this is just your lot in life. You’ll have to learn to endure it.” He called him forward, asked him what he wanted, and when Bartimaeus said he wanted to see, Jesus gave him his sight.

God’s heart is not for us to live in perpetual pain. Yes, there are consequences to our choices, and yes, this world is broken. But suffering isn’t the final word. Jesus came to bring restoration, healing, and hope. The lie we often believe is that we have to live with the weight of our mistakes forever, that we’re supposed to sit by the roadside, wrapped in our pain like a badge of honor. But that’s not redemption. That’s bondage.

My favorite part of the passage, even more than the physical healing, is reading that Bartimaeus threw off his cloak. When Jesus called him, he didn’t hesitate. He stood up, threw off the very thing that had defined him for years, and stumbled forward into the unknown. He didn’t know what healing would look like. He didn’t even know if it was possible. But he was willing to let go of what he’d always known to reach for what might be.

I can’t help but wonder, what are we holding onto because it’s familiar? What have we wrapped around ourselves because we’ve worn it for so long, it feels like a part of us? Regret? Shame? Fear? Maybe it’s something that happened to us. Maybe it’s something we did to ourselves. And maybe we hold onto it because we think it’s what we deserve.

But it’s not.

Jesus didn’t tell Bartimaeus to pick up his cloak and learn to carry it better. He didn’t ask him to endure it just a little longer. He called him forward, stripped away the labels, and healed him completely. He wanted to. Not because Bartimaeus deserved it, but because that’s who Jesus is.

He’s still that way.

I want colors I’ve only dreamed of to flood my vision again. I want to see beauty where pain has stolen it, hope where despair has settled. I want to shed the cloak of suffering I’ve carried far too long and walk down that road, eyes wide open, fully restored.

I’m learning that we don’t have to have it all figured out.  I know I don't. I know my daughter doesn't.    But one thing we do know?  We need to bring it, all of it, to the One who knows how to heal it.