When Love Stayed: A Story of Grace, Healing, and the Man God Knew I Needed

We met in June of 1981. I had just graduated from high school in Winchester and decided to go to Breakaway in Ocean City with Youth For Christ. Keith was from Pennsylvania and was traveling with the Pocono YFC group as a leader. The conference ran from Sunday to Friday. We met on Wednesday.

A friend dragged me down to the basketball courts to meet “this guy.” When I saw him standing there with his clipboard, sunglasses, dark tan, and girls hanging around him, I thought, Great, another full-of-himself jock.

That night, though, we ended up in the same group at dinner. Afterward we spent most of the evening talking as we walked the boardwalk after the session. By the end of the week Keith believed God had told him I was the girl he would marry.

God had not told me any such thing.

I left that week thinking I’d probably never see him again, and honestly, I was fine with that.

One week later I was at a YFC meeting in Winchester when Keith walked in for a surprise visit. I wanted to hide. What was he thinking? He spent the weekend in town, and we got to know each other better. My family thought he was wonderful. I still wasn’t convinced.

Over the next six months he called, wrote letters, and yes, eventually I even wrote back. I visited him too. Somewhere along the way I realized he was becoming a dear friend.

In December of 1981 Keith showed up with a dozen roses and a ring. He proposed on Christmas Eve.

I felt terrible sending him home with that ring still in his pocket. He was crushed. He couldn’t understand why, because he was certain I was the one he was supposed to marry.

After that we stopped communicating. In fact, Keith didn’t hear from me again until June of 1982.

I knew he would be back at Breakaway, and there was something I needed him to hear from me directly. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it in person, so I wrote a letter and sent it with a friend.

Keith had hoped I might be there. Instead, all that arrived was my letter.

After Keith proposed and we stopped talking, I met someone else. I believed he was “the one.” Truthfully, he seemed more like the kind of man I thought I deserved.

Keith was good. He came from a Christian home. He was kind, pure, loving—the best man I had ever known. Deep down, I didn’t believe someone like him could truly love someone like me.

In the letter I tried as gently as possible to explain that not only had I met someone else, but I was pregnant.

But there is no gentle way to say something like that.

I was later told that after Keith read the letter, he sat and cried. He still believed I was the woman God had called him to marry, but now he wondered if he had heard God wrong. Maybe he had just imagined it all.

When he got home, he called me. We talked for hours. The baby’s father didn’t want to marry me and wanted me to have an abortion. Keith listened as I wrestled through my options. He walked me through the pros and cons of adoption, but I was deeply torn and unsure.

Throughout my pregnancy we stayed in touch.

Keith listened patiently when I called to say the baby’s father and I were getting back together and wanted to try again. A few weeks later he listened as I cried through another heartbreak.

And through all of it, he still loved me.

He prayed for me. He encouraged me. He stayed my friend. He became a steady source of kindness, love, and support during one of the most confusing seasons of my life.

On December 18, 1982, my son was born. When I got home from the hospital, I called Keith to tell him the news. I also told him we would soon be heading to Children's Hospital because my son had congestive heart failure caused by holes in his heart—VSD and ASD.

Those months were filled with hospital stays, medications, fear, and uncertainty. Through it all, Keith remained faithful. He continued to encourage me and carry me through the terrifying moments when I didn’t know if my baby would survive.

In May, when my son was five months old, Keith came to visit. We had been talking and writing steadily for nearly a year by then. He spent the weekend with my family and got to know my son.

We talked for hours.

The day after he returned home, he called and told me he still loved me—and that he had fallen in love with my son too.

After I hung up, I talked to my mom.

“I don’t love him,” I told her. “He’s my best friend, and I don’t want to lose that.”

My mother looked at me like I had lost my mind.

“You’d be foolish to let a man like that go,” she said. “Men like him don’t come along often.”

“But Mom, I don’t know if I love him.”

“Yes, you do,” she said. “You just don’t realize it yet.”

I thought about her words for days.

Part of me wondered if Keith might be my last hope. I prayed constantly, asking God for clarity. I wanted some kind of sign—something written plainly in front of me. Was Keith really the man I was supposed to marry? How could someone so good still want me after everything?

I couldn’t understand that kind of love. I wasn’t even sure I believed in it. And if it did exist, I certainly didn’t think it existed for someone like me.

About a month after Keith’s visit, I finally called and asked him if he still wanted to marry me.

He told me he’d give me an answer after he returned from vacation the following week.

The next morning he left for the beach with friends. On the drive there, he asked one of them to be his best man.

He didn’t need a week to think about it. He already knew.

What God had spoken to his heart two years earlier still hadn’t changed.

That week felt endless for me. What if he said no? What if I had waited too long? What if I had ruined everything?

I was young, confused, and still had very little understanding of who God truly was. I had become a believer in 1978, but I didn’t yet understand His love or His character. I was too young to be a mother and too immature to be a wife.

Yet even then, God was quietly working all things together for His glory.

When Keith returned home, he spoke with his father, who thought he was far too young to become a husband and father. Still, he told Keith that if this was truly what God wanted, they would support him.

Four months later, on November 26, 1983, we were married.

Yes, I married a man I wasn’t entirely sure I loved.

But he was my best friend.

I had put him through so much during those two years. Yet God used Keith’s love to slowly begin breaking down the walls around my heart. For years I had kept both people and God at a distance. As Keith often says, my walls were probably stronger than Fort Knox.

He was the only person I truly let in.

Even then, it would take years before I allowed him to see all the dark and hidden places in me.

Over time, God began bringing light and healing into those places. There was so much brokenness in my life that needed healing, and through it all Keith stayed beside me. He loved me, challenged me, encouraged me, and walked with me through places I never wanted to go.

God knew exactly the kind of man I would need. And despite all my resistance, He made sure I had him.

Through the years I have grown to love this man deeply. Looking back now, I think perhaps I always loved him, even if my understanding of love was immature and incomplete.

Because real love is not just emotion. It is choosing to stay. Choosing to fight for one another. Choosing to walk through hardship together until, over time, love deepens into something steadier, richer, and far more beautiful than young romance ever imagines.

When I tell our story, Keith sometimes says I make him sound perfect.

He isn’t.

God has shaped and softened him too over the years. He has had his own growing to do. But while he is not a perfect man, he has been perfectly suited for me.

And these last forty-three years of marriage have been good.

Wonderfully good.

Not perfect. But good.. 
Today I am joining with the following link up! Feel free to check them out!  Wedded Wednesday and Wifey Wednesday. 

Pure Religion: What Genuine Faith Looks Like

This morning, as I read these verses, I noticed something I had not really paid attention to before. Often, when people speak about the Christian faith, they say, “True religion means caring for orphans and widows.” They often use those words as if James were giving a command. But when I looked closer, I saw that James is not speaking in command language here. He is describing what a life surrendered to Christ will look like.

James is showing us the outward evidence of inward faith. The word he uses for religion refers to the visible expression of worship—our acts of devotion toward God. In other words, James is not talking about empty rituals, but about a faith that can be seen in everyday life.

He gives us three clear marks of pure and genuine religion: a controlled tongue, caring for those in need, and remaining unstained by the world.

First, our words matter deeply to God. Scripture repeatedly reminds us that the tongue has power to heal or wound, to build up or tear down. Jesus warned that we will give account for careless words, and James himself says the tongue is difficult to tame. If our worship on Sunday is sincere, it should shape the way we speak on Monday.

Second, genuine faith moves us toward the vulnerable. Caring for widows, orphans, and those in need has always mattered to the heart of God. Compassion is not an optional extra for believers. It is one of the ways Christ’s love becomes visible through us.

Third, James says pure religion remains unstained by the world. This does not mean withdrawing from people or living in fear. It means refusing to let the values, desires, and corruption of this world shape our hearts more than Christ does. We are called to live differently because we belong to Him.

Many people emphasize caring for others, and rightly so. But James does not separate these things. If our speech is careless, if our hearts love the world, or if we ignore those in need, something is out of order. Pure religion touches every part of life.

So today, prayerfully consider before the Lord:

• Is your relationship with Jesus positively affecting others?
• Are your words building people up or tearing them down?
• Are you caring for those in need with both compassion and truth?
• Is your love for Christ shaping you more than the world is?

Pure religion is not found in appearances or empty claims. It is seen in a life being changed by Jesus—one word, one choice, and one act of love at a time.

Bringing My Loneliness to God

 

For quite some time, I have wrestled with a question I am almost too ashamed to ask:

If I know who God says I am through Christ—loved, valued, seen, accepted—why does loneliness still hurt so much? Why do I still wrestle with needing people? Why can I know these truths deeply, and yet still ache when no one reaches out? Why does being left out sting? Why does the silence of others feel heavier than it should?

I have always thought this was a faith problem. I am beginning to understand that it is not necessarily a faith problem. It is often a human one.

God created us for relationships. We were made not only to be loved by God, but also to experience His care through people. We need to be known, remembered, pursued, encouraged, comforted, and understood. These desires are not weaknesses. They are part of how we were designed.

Sometimes I have believed that if my faith were stronger, I would not feel the pain of relational lack. I have even thought that perhaps I wouldn’t need people at all. But that is not true.

God’s love establishes our worth, but human connection often helps that love become felt.

Here is what I am learning: for some of us, loneliness cuts deeper because it touches older wounds. If you grew up unseen, emotionally alone, carrying burdens too young, or learning that your needs came last, then adult loneliness may awaken more than present sadness. It may stir old grief that has never been healed.

When no one reaches out, now something deeper whispers: No one comes for me. No one notices. I am alone again.

That pain is real—but it is not the whole truth.

Sometimes what we call loneliness is actually a longing for two specific things:

To be pursued. To be understood.

Not just invited somewhere. Not just surrounded by people. But to have someone think of you first. To have someone ask how you really are. To be known beneath the surface and still wanted there.

That kind of longing is not you being too much. It may simply reveal the kind of love you needed as a child but did not receive.

And perhaps healing is not found in shaming yourself for needing people, but in bringing that ache honestly before God and allowing Him to heal that wound.

Maybe the answer is not pretending I no longer need people, or shaming myself for the ache when loneliness rises. Maybe it is bringing that need honestly before God, trusting that He understands both the wound and the longing.

I do not have all the answers for loneliness. I only know that God is not ashamed of my need, and He is not distant from my ache. Somehow, even in this season, He is teaching me that I can bring it all to Him. I am still learning this, but I believe He can meet me even here.

Hurting His Church, Hurting Christ

I heard the terms “covenant community” and “covenant relationship” long before I really understood what they meant. Even now, I don’t understand in full, but what I have begun to understand has totally changed my view on how God wants me to live, especially how He desires that I treat His children.

You see, what I am beginning to understand is that when I became a follower of Christ, I entered into a covenant with God. In the Old Testament, every time there was a covenant made between two parties, it required the sacrifice of animals. The animals would be cut in half, laid opposite of one another, and the two making the covenant would pass through the flesh. Both parties knew that if either of them broke their part of the covenant, God would do to them what was done to the animals. God takes the making of a covenant very seriously; it’s not something to be entered into lightly.

When Christ came to earth, He was sacrificed for our sins, and we symbolically “pass through” the sacrificed body of Christ into a covenant relationship with God. Christ was the blood that was poured out for our sins. When we believe on the Lord Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of our sins, we “pass through” His flesh to God and enter into a covenant with God.

When you begin to understand the responsibilities of a covenant partner, it is both amazing and sobering. As a covenant partner with Christ, it means that my enemies are His enemies and His enemies are mine. Covenant partners protect one another—they have each other’s back. In covenant with Christ, He exchanges our robe of filth for His robe of righteousness. We become one in the Spirit.

Remember in Acts 9:4, where Jesus confronts Saul and says to him, “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?” Saul was persecuting Jesus because he was persecuting believers whom He was in covenant with. In a covenant relationship, what my enemy does to me, he does to God also.

So let us take this one step further. In a Christian community, believers are in covenant with Christ and one another. So if I mistreat, gossip about, or criticize another believer, then I am doing those very things to God. When my actions are divisive in the church and my words or actions are causing strife, I am sinning against God. If I speak lies and spread rumors against my brothers and sisters, I lie against Christ.

It’s a sobering thought, a painful, heart-wrenching thought. I now realize all those things I have thought, done, or how I might have treated another believer, I have done to Christ!

Oh, may God forgive me! May He forgive the CHURCH. Why do we continue to hurt one another? It grieves my heart! Do we not know, do we not understand, we hurt Christ when we behave in such a way!

He calls us to love one another deeply…from the heart. (1 Peter 1:22) Love does not lie, gossip, divide, criticize, or mistreat one another. This is not the vision Christ gives of how His bride, His church, should behave.

How are you treating your fellow believers? Allow God to search your heart. Ask Him to show you those areas where you have sinned against the body, the church. Confess them, then if applicable, go to those you may need to ask forgiveness of.

Nothing is more important to God than His church, His children, and nothing should be more important to us than making sure our actions and attitudes are becoming of a Child of God. (Phil. 1:27, Col. 1:10)

Therefore I, the prisoner of the Lord, implore you to walk in a manner worthy of the calling with which you have been called, Eph 4:1

The Smallest Seed of Faith

Every person on this planet carries a story. And if we take the time to truly listen, we realize how much there is to learn from one another.

There are stories of triumph and tragedy, and everything in between. Stories marked by beauty, by loss, by endurance. Every single one matters. Every single one is worth telling.

I believe that. I really do.

And yet, when it comes to my own story, I struggle to see it the same way. It makes me wonder if others feel this too. If they look at their own lives and see something less meaningful, less compelling, less worthy of being told.

Because I have lived through a lot.
Moments I walked through well, and moments I didn’t.
Seasons of deep darkness and long, dry deserts.
And also, seasons so full of light, I felt like I could almost catch a glimpse of God.

And then there were the other times.
The ones that felt like walking through hell.

Looking back, I think what marked most of those seasons wasn’t clarity or confidence. It was simply this: I held on to hope. I didn’t always know God. I didn’t always understand Him. And if I’m honest, I didn’t always trust Him.

But I held on to the smallest hope that He was there.

Because to trust God is to believe that He is good, that He sees you, and that He is working for your good. And there were many years when I wasn’t sure I believed that at all. There were times I was convinced He didn’t care about me.

And maybe that’s where the beauty of a story really begins.

Not in having it all figured out.
Not in unwavering faith.
But in the quiet, stubborn refusal to let go completely.

In the smallest, almost imperceptible seed of faith.

The kind that barely whispers, what if He is good?

The kind that survives.

Because that’s what our stories hold—
Not perfection, but perseverance.
Not certainty, but endurance.

We made it through.
We didn’t give up.

And somehow, even when our grip was weak, we were still being held—not because we held on tightly, but because God never let go.

When Everyone Does What is Right: A reflection on Book of Judges 17–19 and the cost of self-made truth

 Yesterday in my Bible reading, I sat in the Book of Judges chapters 17–19. I’ve read it before, but this time it didn’t just pass by me. It settled in. I’m still thinking about it.

It’s the kind of passage you almost want to look away from.

Micah builds a household shrine, creating his own version of worship. The tribe of Dan comes and takes the idols, establishing false worship as their own. And then the story turns darker still. A Levite’s concubine is abused, discarded, and murdered in Gibeah. Her body is cut into twelve pieces and sent throughout Israel.

It’s hard to read. Hard to understand why God would include it. But maybe we’re not supposed to understand it as much as we’re supposed to feel the weight of it.

All of this happens under one haunting truth: “In those days there was no king in Israel. Everyone did what was right in his own eyes.” (Judges 21:25)

This warns us what it looks like when people walk in disobedience, not all at once, but step by step.

It begins with distorted worship, as we shape God into something we can manage.

It moves into compromised leadership, those who should know truth but no longer live it.

And it ends in the unthinkable, where people made in the image of God are treated as disposable.

It’s easy to read this and think, how could they fall so far? But I can’t help but ask the harder question, how could we not?

Because left to ourselves, we don’t drift toward truth. We drift toward what feels right. And what feels right isn’t always what is right.

These chapters aren’t just showing us their depravity. They are holding up a mirror to our own.

We were never meant to be our own authority. We were never meant to define truth for ourselves. And when we try, it doesn’t lead to freedom. It will always lead to ruin.

Maybe that’s the warning tucked into these chapters:

When everyone does what is right in their own eyes, what follows is not freedom… but loss of a moral society.

Leah: Unloved But Not Unseen

 “When the Lord saw that Leah was unloved, He opened her womb.”

—Genesis 29:31

I don’t think I’ve ever been as moved by Leah as I was the last time I read her story. Maybe it’s because I’ve been writing my own. Or maybe it’s because I finally slowed down long enough to really see her—to step into her life and feel what she must have felt.

I realized I identify deeply with her. Not because our stories are the same—they’re not—but because of the lies our circumstances can whisper. I imagine they sounded very similar.

Leah was rejected. She wasn’t the one Jacob wanted—just the one he ended up with. He didn’t love her. That had to be a hard place to live, knowing you weren’t chosen. Knowing the person closest to you loves someone else more.

And Scripture doesn’t soften it. It simply says she was unloved.

I have felt that. Not only unloved, but unlovable. Like something must be wrong with me to be so hard to love. I wonder if Leah felt that too.

But God saw her.

That’s the part I’ve missed before, and I don’t want to miss it again. It matters.

God didn’t just see Rachel—the beautiful one, the loved one. He saw Leah—the overlooked one, the one living with quiet rejection every day.

You can hear her heartbreak in the way she names her sons:

“The Lord has seen my affliction; surely now my husband will love me.”
—Genesis 29:32

“The Lord has heard that I am unloved…”
—Genesis 29:33

“Now this time my husband will become attached to me…”
—Genesis 29:34

She keeps hoping… maybe now.
Maybe now I’ll be enough.
Maybe now I’ll be loved.

It’s easy to read that and see her pain—but if I’m honest, it’s not hard to recognize it either. I may not say it the same way, but I’ve felt it. I’m sure you have too.

We’ve all had moments where we think, if I just try a little harder, maybe things will change. Hoping this time will be different. Wanting to be seen, wanted, chosen.

Leah wasn’t just naming her children—she was revealing what her heart was still chasing.

But then something shifts.

When she names Judah, she says, “This time I will praise the Lord.”
—Genesis 29:35

She doesn’t mention Jacob. She doesn’t tie her worth to whether she’s loved in return.

She just… praises God.

Nothing around her had really changed. Jacob didn’t suddenly love her more. But something in her did. She stopped looking to him to fill what only God could.

And when you look at her legacy—the line of her sons—God chose the line of Levi to become His priest. And Judah… this is amazing what God did. Leah, the one who felt unwanted, unloved, is the very line God chose to bring Jesus through.

God didn’t overlook her life. He was working in it all along—through the pain, through the longing.

And that matters for us.

Because it’s easy to believe the unseen, unwanted parts of our lives don’t matter.

But Leah’s story says otherwise.

God sees.
He hears.
And He is doing more than we realize—even in the places that hurt.

Zipporah: When Obedience Matters

In a recent reading of Exodus, I was struck again by Moses’s wife, Zipporah. She’s easy to overlook because she’s only mentioned three times, and we know very little about her.

Her story is part of the larger story of Moses—his calling, his leadership, his obedience. And yet, right in the middle of it, we see that everything hinges on her.

The scene feels abrupt and unsettling. God confronts Moses over disobedience and is on the verge of taking his life. It is sudden and severe.

And Zipporah steps in.

No hesitation. No long explanation. She acts.

She circumcises her son, and in doing so, she preserves the life of the man God called to lead His people. It is not a gentle moment. Her words carry intensity—tension, perhaps confusion, maybe even resistance.

But still, she obeys.

Zipporah was not an Israelite. She was the daughter of Jethro, the priest of Midian. She did not grow up within the covenant the way Moses did. And yet, in this critical moment, she responds with clarity and urgency.

She sees the threat to her husband, and she acts. Her obedience was costly. It was immediate.

I think about how often we wait to obey until we feel ready. We wait until we understand everything. We wait until obedience feels easier, softer, more comfortable. She doesn’t sort through her feelings first.

Zipporah didn’t have that luxury.

She reminds me that delayed obedience is still disobedience.

Her story is brief, but it speaks.

And in the moments that matter most,

God gives the grace to step in and obey.

The First Woman

We often hear Eve’s story told as a warning. A cautionary tale about deception, weakness, or failure. But I have been thinking about it differently lately. I wanted to look at her story through the lens of how God saw her.

From the beginning, she was never an afterthought.

God created both man and woman in His image. That means Eve carried the same dignity, the same worth, the same reflection of God as Adam. There was no hierarchy in value, no lesser imprint of His likeness. She was fully seen, fully known, fully intentional.

When God said it was not good for man to be alone, He created a “helper suitable.” That word helper, which means ezer in Hebrew, has been misunderstood for generations, often reduced to something small or secondary. But it is the same word used to describe God Himself as the helper of His people. It is not a position of weakness, but of strength. Eve was created to stand beside, to complement, to bring what was lacking—not to diminish, but to complete.

And then the fall.

Yes, Eve was deceived. But Adam was there. He chose as well. Scripture does not leave the weight of sin resting on her shoulders alone. Yet for so long, the narrative has quietly shifted in that direction. But God does not single her out as the greater failure. He speaks to both. He holds both accountable. He continues to engage with her, not dismiss her.

And even in that moment—right there in the midst of brokenness—God speaks a promise.

I love how that first hint of redemption was spoken to the woman. Through her offspring would come the One who would crush the serpent. God did not erase her from the story. He wove her into the very center of His plan to redeem it.

Eve’s story does not end in failure. It looks toward hope.

Even her name reflects this. She is called the mother of all living—not the mother of all who fell, but of all who would live. Life, not ruin, becomes her legacy. And maybe that is what we most need to remember. God’s view of women has never been small.

He sees strength where the world has spoken weakness.
He sees purpose where shame has tried to take root.
He sees image, dignity, and a vital place in His unfolding story.

Eve was not the end of something good. She was the beginning of a story God was never going to leave unfinished.

He Carried Me Down the Mountain

 

There was a time when I was discouraged in my healing, and I felt like I had somehow ended up right back where I started. It felt like the same emotions, the same questions, the same ache. I remember saying to a dear friend, “Why am I here again? Haven’t I already worked through this?”

She offered me a picture I’ve never forgotten and in the years since I have thought a lot about what she said. 

She told me, “Trauma can feel like living alone on top of a mountain. Isolated. Exposed. Stuck in a place you never meant to stay. If we are honest, it’s a place we never wanted to be. But it felt safe up there. Eventually, healing must come, and healing—real healing—is the long journey of walking down off that mountain.

But it’s not a straight path.

It winds.

It circles.

It doubles back in ways that can make you feel disoriented.

So sometimes, when you look around, it feels like you’re standing in the same place you’ve already been. The same view. The same terrain. The same pain is rising in familiar ways.

But you’re not.

You’re just on the same side of the mountain…further down than you were before.”

That truth settled deep in me.

Because I realized what felt like failure was actually progress. What felt like being stuck was really movement—slow, steady, often unseen, but it was real. Healing isn’t a clean descent. It is layered, patient, and sometimes painfully repetitive.

Over time, I realized something else too—I did come down off that mountain. Not in a single moment, not in a dramatic breakthrough, but step by step, grace by grace.

And even now, I know there will always be places in me that need healing. Always more growing to do. But I am not where I once was. I have come down off that mountain.

The lessons I learned there still live in me. The strength that was formed there didn’t disappear when the season changed. And more than anything, I did not walk that mountain alone.

There was One who walked with me every step of the way.

The One who, when I was too weary to keep going, carried me.

And He still does.

So when I find myself in a place that feels familiar—when old wounds whisper or old struggles resurface—I remind myself:

This isn’t the top of the mountain. I’ve already come down.

I See You Through Grace

 

It's been two years. 

I don’t know if this is normal, but in the two years since you’ve been gone, I’ve come to understand you more.

Maybe it’s because I’ve changed. I see things differently now.

I look at your life, and I see the little girl who grew into a woman, a wife, a mother, a young widow, a grieving parent, a grandmother, and a child of God.

I see the trauma you walked through. The hardships. The suffering. The uncertainty. And I realize that in each season, you did what you believed was best.

You did the best you could with the knowledge you had at the time. Isn’t that all any of us can do?

It wasn’t always perfect. Mistakes were made. But you kept showing up. 

I know I said this, in part, at the end of your life, and I hope you fully understood. I am grateful God has given me the ability to forgive and give grace in those spaces that hurt, or I just didn’t understand. 

I’m still learning from your life. Still growing, still softening, still understanding. And so in that way, you are still with me.

And now, with time and distance, I can say what I couldn’t before: I see you with grace. I carry less blame, less hurt, and more understanding. I hope you knew, even when I didn’t know how to show it, that I loved you.

Friendship: Being Intentional

 I am exceedingly grateful for the women God has brought into my life to encourage me on toward being more like Christ. Some have only been apart of my daily life for a season some have remained through many seasons. Both are cherished. 

My prayer for you today is that you have a friendship that encourages you to be Christ like. It’s not always easy, we live in a busy, crazy world, but it’s not impossible. I have found it takes intentionality (which I’m not always good at). I can’t just expect a godly, Titus 2 type, friendship to just find me. Oh sure, sometimes they just happen, and those are a beautiful thing. Most often though it requires both sides to be intentional about reaching out. 

Let’s make this year a year of reaching out to those friendships a little more often. Let’s not wait for friends to connect with us, let’s connect first. Check in with a text, phone call or even a card. (I know, I know!!) 

To be honest I’m preaching to myself. I truly need to be a better friend to those who are always there for me. I need to reach out more. This is one of my prayers this year. Would you pray for me as I pray for you? May we all be more intentional in our friendships.

Continue Doing What You Know Is Right

I woke up feeling heavy-hearted. 

As believers, we know we are living in difficult times. 2 Timothy 3:1 warns that the last days will be terrible. It describes these days as dangerous and filled with fear. We see people who are selfish, boastful, arrogant, and unholy. They may appear godly but deny God's true power. This has been happening for a while, but I’ve felt it intensify over the last decade. 

I won't share specifics because I believe the signs of evil are clear. At least to the Christian. Sin is being accepted and celebrated in our world, reminding us that the warnings in 2 Timothy 3 are here.

This morning, though, my heart felt especially heavy thinking about the growing evil around us. How do we get through these times? How can we stay holy in an unholy world? The answer is in God's word: we must keep doing what we have been taught

We must continue to pray. We continue to speak the truth. We continue to read and follow God’s word. We keep living for Jesus, loving each other, doing good, and being kind. We share the gospel through our words and actions. These are the things we've been taught. These are the things we know. 

It won't be easy. We will suffer for following God. We will be persecuted. We will be mocked, misunderstood, lied about... But, God has equipped us to endure through the last days. He has given us His word and His Spirit who lives in us. 

Brothers and sisters, remember, we have been given "everything we need for life and godliness" (2 Peter 1:3), which means that through His divine power, we have already received all the spiritual resources to live a godly life in this ungodly land.