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.

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.

Remembering My Brokenness

I recently listened to a sermon that has stuck with me. It was filled with truths that settled deep in my spirit, both convicting and encouraging me. However, one point from the sermon required some wrestling. I wasn’t sure I agreed—or, more honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to agree.

For decades, I’ve begged God to help me forget my sins and the sins committed against me. The memories are painful and heartbreaking—why would I want to hold onto them? And my enemy loves nothing more than to remind me of them at every turn. So wouldn't it be better not to remember?

In his sermon titled Brokenness, Voddie Baucham explained why we need to remember our sins. He argued that if we could forget them:

1.  We could never testify to the goodness of God.

2.  We would lack warnings to avoid repeating those sins.

3.  We could not rejoice in our victories or recognize the spiritual growth the Holy Spirit has produced in us.

I thought about this throughout the day. If I couldn’t remember my sins, would I still testify to God’s goodness in my life? If I forgot the hardships God delivered me from, would I still proclaim His faithfulness? Without those memories, would I continue into the same sins, never truly breaking free from their bondage? And could I recognize spiritual growth without recalling my past struggles?

His point began to make sense. I didn’t like it, but I could accept it.

As I reflect on my life—the difficult times, the sins that continue to haunt me, and the struggles I still face—I can see God’s hand at work throughout it all. With each season of my life, I recognize how God has used these lessons to help me grow. He has transformed a sinner, once headed for destruction, into someone who earnestly seeks Him.

As I look ahead, I am certain of one thing: remembering my sins does not lead to condemnation, for I am no longer condemned (Romans 8:1). However, recalling my past actions serves as a reminder that God will use everything in my life to help me grow, teach me lessons, and sanctify me. Because of this, my life will continue to bring glory to His name. Once, I was destined for eternal death, but now, through Christ, I have been given new life—eternal life.

Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we boast in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us. Romans 5:1-5