u/WatchmanMinistries

There comes a point in life when you stop worrying about what people will remember about you…

And you start wondering what your life will point them toward.

I’ve made decisions I wish I could take back.

I’ve hurt people I loved.

I’ve failed in ways that still grieve me.

If I could rewrite those chapters, I would.

But I can’t.

And maybe that’s exactly where God’s grace becomes most visible.

Because grace isn’t proven by the lives of people who never needed it.

Grace is proven by what God does with people who did.

The Apostle Paul never hid the fact that he persecuted the church.

Peter never pretended he hadn’t denied Jesus.

David never removed Psalm 51 from the Bible.

Their failures weren’t recorded to glorify sin.

They were preserved to magnify God’s mercy.

I don’t tell parts of my story because I’m proud of them.

I’m not.

I tell them because somewhere, someone else is standing where I once stood.

Someone is one decision away from destroying a marriage.

Someone is trapped in secret sin.

Someone is convinced they’ve gone too far for God to forgive.

If my failures can persuade one person to turn around before making the same mistake…

If my scars can convince someone that God’s grace is still greater than their shame…

If one person finds hope because they realized God never gave up on me…

Then every painful chapter will have served a purpose.

When this life is over, I don’t want people talking about my accomplishments.

I don’t want to be remembered for clever words, popular posts, or even a ministry.

I want them to remember a faithful God…

Who refused to stop pursuing an unfaithful man.

Like the song says:

“I don’t want to leave a legacy.

I don’t care if they remember me.

Only Jesus.”

Because if my life points even one person toward Him…

Then every chapter—

The joyful ones.

The painful ones.

The victories.

The failures.

The mountains.

The valleys.

Will all have been worth it.

⸻

Final Word

One day, every one of us will leave something behind.

The question isn’t whether we’ll leave a legacy.

The question is what that legacy will point to.

May people never look at our lives and say, “What an extraordinary person.”

May they instead say,

“What an extraordinary Savior.”

As a Christian, I hold a traditional biblical view of marriage and sexuality. I realize that many people reading this will disagree with that conviction, and that’s okay. Honest disagreement has always existed.

What concerns me isn’t disagreement.

It’s dehumanization.

Lately I’ve seen people—especially online—speak about others with a level of contempt that should trouble every follower of Christ.

Scripture teaches that every human being is created in the image of God (Genesis 1:27).

That includes people whose politics I reject.

People of other religions.

People caught in addictions.

People who have deeply hurt me.

And yes, people who identify as LGBTQ+.

Recognizing someone’s value as an image-bearer of God is not the same thing as affirming every decision they make.

Jesus Himself showed us that.

He never compromised truth.

He also never forgot the worth of the person standing before Him.

He could confront sin while extending mercy.

He could call people to repentance without stripping them of their dignity.

I wonder if we’ve sometimes reversed those priorities.

We’ve become so determined to defend truth that we’ve forgotten truth was given to lead people to Christ—not simply to win arguments.

The Apostle Paul wrote, “Such were some of you.”

Those five words should humble every Christian.

The ground is level at the foot of the cross.

None of us stands there because we deserved to.

We stand there because of grace.

So here’s my question:

Can someone read my comments online and recognize the character of Jesus—not just my theology?

I think that’s a question worth asking.

I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts, whether you agree with me or not. Please keep the discussion respectful. If we’re going to talk about Jesus, we ought to reflect His character in the way we talk to one another.

As a Christian, I hold a traditional biblical view of marriage and sexuality. I realize that many people reading this will disagree with that conviction, and that’s okay. Honest disagreement has always existed.

What concerns me isn’t disagreement.

It’s dehumanization.

Lately I’ve seen people—especially online—speak about others with a level of contempt that should trouble every follower of Christ.

Scripture teaches that every human being is created in the image of God (Genesis 1:27).

That includes people whose politics I reject.

People of other religions.

People caught in addictions.

People who have deeply hurt me.

And yes, people who identify as LGBTQ+.

Recognizing someone’s value as an image-bearer of God is not the same thing as affirming every decision they make.

Jesus Himself showed us that.

He never compromised truth.

He also never forgot the worth of the person standing before Him.

He could confront sin while extending mercy.

He could call people to repentance without stripping them of their dignity.

I wonder if we’ve sometimes reversed those priorities.

We’ve become so determined to defend truth that we’ve forgotten truth was given to lead people to Christ—not simply to win arguments.

The Apostle Paul wrote, “Such were some of you.”

Those five words should humble every Christian.

The ground is level at the foot of the cross.

None of us stands there because we deserved to.

We stand there because of grace.

So here’s my question:

Can someone read my comments online and recognize the character of Jesus—not just my theology?

I think that’s a question worth asking.

I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts, whether you agree with me or not. Please keep the discussion respectful. If we’re going to talk about Jesus, we ought to reflect His character in the way we talk to one another.

Thoughts for the Day

Saturday, July 4

Today America celebrates 250 years of independence.

Two hundred fifty years.

That is an extraordinary milestone.

Today there will be parades, flags waving in the breeze, backyard cookouts, fireworks lighting the night sky, and families gathering to celebrate the freedoms we often take for granted.

And we should be thankful.

The liberties we enjoy have come at an immeasurable cost. Countless men and women have sacrificed—some giving everything—to preserve those freedoms for future generations.

But today also serves as a reminder of another truth.

Every nation is temporary.

History is filled with kingdoms and empires that once seemed unshakable. They rose to greatness, shaped the world for generations, and eventually became pages in history books.

America, as we know it, will not escape that reality.

No nation does.

Some look at the political division, the cultural conflict, and the uncertainty surrounding our future and wonder what lies ahead.

As a Christian, those things concern me.

But they do not define my hope.

Because Scripture reminds us that God “removeth kings, and setteth up kings” (Daniel 2:21).

Paul declared that God “hath made of one blood all nations of men… and hath determined the times before appointed, and the bounds of their habitation” (Acts 17:26).

God is still sovereign.

He appoints rulers.

He establishes nations.

He determines their boundaries.

He raises kingdoms up.

And when His purposes have been fulfilled, He brings them down.

That doesn’t mean every leader is righteous.

It doesn’t mean every decision is wise.

It doesn’t mean Christians stop praying, voting, serving, or standing for truth.

It means we do those things with confidence instead of fear.

Our hope has never rested in Washington.

Our peace has never depended upon who occupies an office.

Our future has never been secured by any political party.

Our hope is found in the King whose throne has never been threatened.

So today…

Celebrate this nation.

Thank God for its freedoms.

Pray for its leaders.

Honor those who have served.

Work to make your community better.

But remember that your highest citizenship is not found beneath the Stars and Stripes.

It is found in the Kingdom of God.

Because one day every flag will be lowered.

Every earthly government will come to an end.

Every nation will become part of history.

But the Kingdom of our Lord will endure forever.

Final Thought

I’m grateful to be an American.

But even more, I’m grateful to belong to a Kingdom that will never fall.

Happy Independence Day.

May God continue to bless America—not merely with prosperity and peace, but with hearts that humble themselves before Him.

Thoughts for the Day

Saturday, July 4

Today America celebrates 250 years of independence.

Two hundred fifty years.

That is an extraordinary milestone.

Today there will be parades, flags waving in the breeze, backyard cookouts, fireworks lighting the night sky, and families gathering to celebrate the freedoms we often take for granted.

And we should be thankful.

The liberties we enjoy have come at an immeasurable cost. Countless men and women have sacrificed—some giving everything—to preserve those freedoms for future generations.

But today also serves as a reminder of another truth.

Every nation is temporary.

History is filled with kingdoms and empires that once seemed unshakable. They rose to greatness, shaped the world for generations, and eventually became pages in history books.

America, as we know it, will not escape that reality.

No nation does.

Some look at the political division, the cultural conflict, and the uncertainty surrounding our future and wonder what lies ahead.

As a Christian, those things concern me.

But they do not define my hope.

Because Scripture reminds us that God “removeth kings, and setteth up kings” (Daniel 2:21).

Paul declared that God “hath made of one blood all nations of men… and hath determined the times before appointed, and the bounds of their habitation” (Acts 17:26).

God is still sovereign.

He appoints rulers.

He establishes nations.

He determines their boundaries.

He raises kingdoms up.

And when His purposes have been fulfilled, He brings them down.

That doesn’t mean every leader is righteous.

It doesn’t mean every decision is wise.

It doesn’t mean Christians stop praying, voting, serving, or standing for truth.

It means we do those things with confidence instead of fear.

Our hope has never rested in Washington.

Our peace has never depended upon who occupies an office.

Our future has never been secured by any political party.

Our hope is found in the King whose throne has never been threatened.

So today…

Celebrate this nation.

Thank God for its freedoms.

Pray for its leaders.

Honor those who have served.

Work to make your community better.

But remember that your highest citizenship is not found beneath the Stars and Stripes.

It is found in the Kingdom of God.

Because one day every flag will be lowered.

Every earthly government will come to an end.

Every nation will become part of history.

But the Kingdom of our Lord will endure forever.

Final Thought

I’m grateful to be an American.

But even more, I’m grateful to belong to a Kingdom that will never fall.

Happy Independence Day.

May God continue to bless America—not merely with prosperity and peace, but with hearts that humble themselves before Him.

There comes a point in life when you stop worrying about what people will remember about you…

And you start wondering what your life will point them toward.

I’ve made decisions I wish I could take back.

I’ve hurt people I loved.

I’ve failed in ways that still grieve me.

If I could rewrite those chapters, I would.

But I can’t.

And maybe that’s exactly where God’s grace becomes most visible.

Because grace isn’t proven by the lives of people who never needed it.

Grace is proven by what God does with people who did.

The Apostle Paul never hid the fact that he persecuted the church.

Peter never pretended he hadn’t denied Jesus.

David never removed Psalm 51 from the Bible.

Their failures weren’t recorded to glorify sin.

They were preserved to magnify God’s mercy.

I don’t tell parts of my story because I’m proud of them.

I’m not.

I tell them because somewhere, someone else is standing where I once stood.

Someone is one decision away from destroying a marriage.

Someone is trapped in secret sin.

Someone is convinced they’ve gone too far for God to forgive.

If my failures can persuade one person to turn around before making the same mistake…

If my scars can convince someone that God’s grace is still greater than their shame…

If one person finds hope because they realized God never gave up on me…

Then every painful chapter will have served a purpose.

When this life is over, I don’t want people talking about my accomplishments.

I don’t want to be remembered for clever words, popular posts, or even a ministry.

I want them to remember a faithful God…

Who refused to stop pursuing an unfaithful man.

Like the song says:

“I don’t want to leave a legacy.

I don’t care if they remember me.

Only Jesus.”

Because if my life points even one person toward Him…

Then every chapter—

The joyful ones.

The painful ones.

The victories.

The failures.

The mountains.

The valleys.

Will all have been worth it.

⸻

Final Word

One day, every one of us will leave something behind.

The question isn’t whether we’ll leave a legacy.

The question is what that legacy will point to.

May people never look at our lives and say, “What an extraordinary person.”

May they instead say,

“What an extraordinary Savior.”

There comes a point in life when you stop worrying about what people will remember about you…

And you start wondering what your life will point them toward.

I’ve made decisions I wish I could take back.

I’ve hurt people I loved.

I’ve failed in ways that still grieve me.

If I could rewrite those chapters, I would.

But I can’t.

And maybe that’s exactly where God’s grace becomes most visible.

Because grace isn’t proven by the lives of people who never needed it.

Grace is proven by what God does with people who did.

The Apostle Paul never hid the fact that he persecuted the church.

Peter never pretended he hadn’t denied Jesus.

David never removed Psalm 51 from the Bible.

Their failures weren’t recorded to glorify sin.

They were preserved to magnify God’s mercy.

I don’t tell parts of my story because I’m proud of them.

I’m not.

I tell them because somewhere, someone else is standing where I once stood.

Someone is one decision away from destroying a marriage.

Someone is trapped in secret sin.

Someone is convinced they’ve gone too far for God to forgive.

If my failures can persuade one person to turn around before making the same mistake…

If my scars can convince someone that God’s grace is still greater than their shame…

If one person finds hope because they realized God never gave up on me…

Then every painful chapter will have served a purpose.

When this life is over, I don’t want people talking about my accomplishments.

I don’t want to be remembered for clever words, popular posts, or even a ministry.

I want them to remember a faithful God…

Who refused to stop pursuing an unfaithful man.

Like the song says:

“I don’t want to leave a legacy.

I don’t care if they remember me.

Only Jesus.”

Because if my life points even one person toward Him…

Then every chapter—

The joyful ones.

The painful ones.

The victories.

The failures.

The mountains.

The valleys.

Will all have been worth it.

⸻

Final Word

One day, every one of us will leave something behind.

The question isn’t whether we’ll leave a legacy.

The question is what that legacy will point to.

May people never look at our lives and say, “What an extraordinary person.”

May they instead say,

“What an extraordinary Savior.”

Today I turn fifty-nine.

Fifty-nine years.

Nearly six decades.

More than twenty-one thousand days of joys, sorrows, victories, failures, unexpected blessings, and lessons I never saw coming.

People sometimes ask what I would say to my younger self if I had the chance.

For years, I thought I would tell him how to avoid mistakes.

How to choose differently.

How to spare himself heartache.

But the older I’ve become, the more I’ve realized something.

If I could erase every painful chapter…

I might also erase many of the places where I learned who God really is.

So today, on my fifty-ninth birthday…

I’d simply like to have a conversation with the younger versions of myself.

⸻

To six-year-old Ben…

I know you’re confused.

You don’t understand why your mother is gone.

You don’t understand why you’re living with your aunt and uncle while other boys live with their parents.

You’re going to spend years wondering why your story began this way.

I can’t answer every question.

But I can promise you this.

God sees you.

Even when you don’t yet know how to see Him.

⸻

To thirteen-year-old Ben…

You’re trying to figure out who you are.

You’re looking for acceptance.

Trying to fit in.

Wondering where you belong.

Listen carefully.

Don’t let the opinions of people become louder than the voice of God.

One day you’ll discover that what God knows about you is infinitely more important than what anyone else thinks about you.

⸻

To seventeen-year-old Ben…

You just lost your daddy.

The world suddenly feels different.

There are conversations you’ll wish you could have one more time.

Questions you’ll never get to ask.

The ache won’t disappear overnight.

But love has a way of surviving even death.

And so does hope.

⸻

To twenty-one-year-old Ben…

You think adulthood means having all the answers.

It doesn’t.

You’re going to make some wonderful decisions.

You’re also going to make some painful ones.

Don’t confuse confidence with wisdom.

Never stop asking God to direct your steps.

⸻

To twenty-six-year-old Ben…

Tomorrow you’ll marry the woman you love.

You’re filled with hope.

Dreams.

Plans.

Marriage is a beautiful gift.

But remember…

Love isn’t sustained by emotion alone.

Choose faithfulness every single day.

Especially on the days when feelings aren’t enough.

⸻

To forty-year-old Ben…

You’re about to become a dad.

Not by birth…

But by love.

You have no idea how much that little boy is going to change your life.

He’ll teach you things about the Father’s heart that no book ever could.

Treasure every moment.

Even the ordinary ones.

Especially the ordinary ones.

⸻

To forty-three-year-old Ben…

Turn the car around.

Call your wife.

Go home.

There is nothing waiting for you that is worth what you’re about to lose.

Sin always promises more than it delivers.

Grace will find you…

But the scars are real.

Don’t believe the lie that one decision won’t matter.

It will.

⸻

To fifty-five-year-old Ben…

I know you’re sitting in front of a camera trying to make sense of another broken chapter.

You wonder whether your best days are behind you.

Keep talking to God.

Even when your prayers feel like they’re only reaching the ceiling.

He is listening.

Even in the silence.

⸻

To fifty-seven-year-old Ben…

You’re packing boxes.

Leaving another marriage behind.

Again.

You feel like your life has become a collection of endings.

It hasn’t.

God still writes new chapters after the ones we’d rather tear out.

Don’t stop believing that.

⸻

And now…

Today, I stand on the other side of fifty-nine years.

Years filled with moments I would gladly relive…

And moments I would give almost anything to undo.

Yet every one of them became part of the story God was writing.

And that’s what I see most clearly today.

If I’m honest…

There are things I would change.

Words I wish I’d never spoken.

Sins I wish I’d never committed.

People I wish I’d never hurt.

Moments I’d gladly relive if I could.

But I can’t.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because when I look back over nearly six decades…

I don’t see a man who always got it right.

I see a God who never stopped pursuing a man who often got it wrong.

His mercy outlasted my failures.

His grace proved greater than my shame.

His patience exceeded my stubbornness.

His faithfulness remained when mine faltered.

If my story proves anything…

It isn’t that I’ve lived an extraordinary life.

It’s that I’ve served an extraordinary God.

Today I turn fifty-nine.

I don’t know how many birthdays remain.

Only God knows that.

But I do know this.

The same God who walked beside a frightened little boy…

Strengthened a grieving young man…

Forgave a broken husband…

Loved an imperfect father…

And refused to abandon an aging disciple…

Will still be faithful tomorrow.

And every tomorrow after that…

Until He calls me home.

If He grants me another year…

My prayer isn’t that life becomes easier.

It’s simply that I become more like Christ.

⸻

Final Word

If I could leave one message for every younger version of myself, it would simply be this:

Don’t give up on God.

There will be days when you don’t understand Him.

Days when you question Him.

Days when you disappoint Him.

And days when you wonder if He’s forgotten you.

He hasn’t.

One day you’ll look back and realize that through every joy, every loss, every failure, every victory, and every unexpected turn…

The greatest constant in your life was never your strength.

It was His faithfulness.

Today isn’t really about turning fifty-nine.

It’s about celebrating fifty-nine years of a faithful God.

To Him be all the glory.

Today I turn fifty-nine.

Fifty-nine years.

Nearly six decades.

More than twenty-one thousand days of joys, sorrows, victories, failures, unexpected blessings, and lessons I never saw coming.

People sometimes ask what I would say to my younger self if I had the chance.

For years, I thought I would tell him how to avoid mistakes.

How to choose differently.

How to spare himself heartache.

But the older I’ve become, the more I’ve realized something.

If I could erase every painful chapter…

I might also erase many of the places where I learned who God really is.

So today, on my fifty-ninth birthday…

I’d simply like to have a conversation with the younger versions of myself.

⸻

To six-year-old Ben…

I know you’re confused.

You don’t understand why your mother is gone.

You don’t understand why you’re living with your aunt and uncle while other boys live with their parents.

You’re going to spend years wondering why your story began this way.

I can’t answer every question.

But I can promise you this.

God sees you.

Even when you don’t yet know how to see Him.

⸻

To thirteen-year-old Ben…

You’re trying to figure out who you are.

You’re looking for acceptance.

Trying to fit in.

Wondering where you belong.

Listen carefully.

Don’t let the opinions of people become louder than the voice of God.

One day you’ll discover that what God knows about you is infinitely more important than what anyone else thinks about you.

⸻

To seventeen-year-old Ben…

You just lost your daddy.

The world suddenly feels different.

There are conversations you’ll wish you could have one more time.

Questions you’ll never get to ask.

The ache won’t disappear overnight.

But love has a way of surviving even death.

And so does hope.

⸻

To twenty-one-year-old Ben…

You think adulthood means having all the answers.

It doesn’t.

You’re going to make some wonderful decisions.

You’re also going to make some painful ones.

Don’t confuse confidence with wisdom.

Never stop asking God to direct your steps.

⸻

To twenty-six-year-old Ben…

Tomorrow you’ll marry the woman you love.

You’re filled with hope.

Dreams.

Plans.

Marriage is a beautiful gift.

But remember…

Love isn’t sustained by emotion alone.

Choose faithfulness every single day.

Especially on the days when feelings aren’t enough.

⸻

To forty-year-old Ben…

You’re about to become a dad.

Not by birth…

But by love.

You have no idea how much that little boy is going to change your life.

He’ll teach you things about the Father’s heart that no book ever could.

Treasure every moment.

Even the ordinary ones.

Especially the ordinary ones.

⸻

To forty-three-year-old Ben…

Turn the car around.

Call your wife.

Go home.

There is nothing waiting for you that is worth what you’re about to lose.

Sin always promises more than it delivers.

Grace will find you…

But the scars are real.

Don’t believe the lie that one decision won’t matter.

It will.

⸻

To fifty-five-year-old Ben…

I know you’re sitting in front of a camera trying to make sense of another broken chapter.

You wonder whether your best days are behind you.

Keep talking to God.

Even when your prayers feel like they’re only reaching the ceiling.

He is listening.

Even in the silence.

⸻

To fifty-seven-year-old Ben…

You’re packing boxes.

Leaving another marriage behind.

Again.

You feel like your life has become a collection of endings.

It hasn’t.

God still writes new chapters after the ones we’d rather tear out.

Don’t stop believing that.

⸻

And now…

Today, I stand on the other side of fifty-nine years.

Years filled with moments I would gladly relive…

And moments I would give almost anything to undo.

Yet every one of them became part of the story God was writing.

And that’s what I see most clearly today.

If I’m honest…

There are things I would change.

Words I wish I’d never spoken.

Sins I wish I’d never committed.

People I wish I’d never hurt.

Moments I’d gladly relive if I could.

But I can’t.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because when I look back over nearly six decades…

I don’t see a man who always got it right.

I see a God who never stopped pursuing a man who often got it wrong.

His mercy outlasted my failures.

His grace proved greater than my shame.

His patience exceeded my stubbornness.

His faithfulness remained when mine faltered.

If my story proves anything…

It isn’t that I’ve lived an extraordinary life.

It’s that I’ve served an extraordinary God.

Today I turn fifty-nine.

I don’t know how many birthdays remain.

Only God knows that.

But I do know this.

The same God who walked beside a frightened little boy…

Strengthened a grieving young man…

Forgave a broken husband…

Loved an imperfect father…

And refused to abandon an aging disciple…

Will still be faithful tomorrow.

And every tomorrow after that…

Until He calls me home.

If He grants me another year…

My prayer isn’t that life becomes easier.

It’s simply that I become more like Christ.

⸻

Final Word

If I could leave one message for every younger version of myself, it would simply be this:

Don’t give up on God.

There will be days when you don’t understand Him.

Days when you question Him.

Days when you disappoint Him.

And days when you wonder if He’s forgotten you.

He hasn’t.

One day you’ll look back and realize that through every joy, every loss, every failure, every victory, and every unexpected turn…

The greatest constant in your life was never your strength.

It was His faithfulness.

Today isn’t really about turning fifty-nine.

It’s about celebrating fifty-nine years of a faithful God.

To Him be all the glory.

I’ve been thinking about something ever since a road trip through Wyoming and Colorado last summer.

As I drove through the mountains, I realized something that challenged an assumption I’d carried for years.

The valleys were generally the easiest part of the trip.

They were broad, open, and relatively easy to navigate.

It was the mountains where the road narrowed, visibility disappeared around every curve, the weather changed unexpectedly, and every mile demanded more attention.

That made me wonder whether we’ve sometimes reduced biblical imagery to simple slogans.

Christians often speak as though valleys always represent hardship and mountains always represent spiritual victory.

But Scripture doesn’t seem that one-dimensional.

Some valleys are places of danger, like Psalm 23’s “valley of the shadow of death.”

Others are fertile, life-giving places where people lived, farmed, and flourished.

Likewise, mountains are places where God reveals Himself—but they’re also places of testing.

Abraham climbed Mount Moriah.

Moses climbed Sinai.

Elijah climbed Carmel.

None of those ascents were easy.

Then there’s Lot.

He chose the well-watered plain because it looked like the better opportunity. His problem wasn’t the geography—it was that he chose by sight instead of by faith.

That leaves me wondering if the real lesson isn’t about mountains or valleys at all.

Maybe the consistent biblical question is much simpler:

Will we trust God regardless of the terrain?

I’m curious what others think.

Are there other passages where mountains or valleys challenge our modern assumptions about what those symbols represent?

I’ve been thinking about how often we define “blessing” by whether life becomes easier.

If things work out the way we hoped, we call it a blessing.

If they don’t, we tend to wonder where God is.

But Scripture tells a different story.

Joseph’s betrayal eventually preserved a nation.

David’s years of running prepared him to lead with humility.

Naomi’s deepest losses became part of the lineage of Christ.

None of those people would have chosen their circumstances.

Yet, looking back, it’s clear that God was accomplishing something far greater than immediate comfort.

That raises an uncomfortable question.

How many blessings do we fail to recognize simply because they arrive wrapped in disappointment, waiting, or hardship?

I’m not suggesting suffering is enjoyable or that we should pretend painful seasons don’t hurt.

They do.

But I do believe God has a remarkable way of redeeming what He doesn’t immediately remove.

Sometimes the blessing isn’t the answered prayer.

Sometimes it’s the person we become while waiting for the answer.

Have you ever experienced something that felt like a setback at the time, but years later you realized God had been protecting, preparing, or redirecting you?

Looking back, what “disguised blessing” are you now thankful for?

I’ve been thinking about the phrase, “unanswered prayers.”

The longer I follow Christ, the less I think that’s an accurate description.

Scripture never portrays God as ignoring the prayers of His people.

He answers.

The challenge is that His answer isn’t always the one we’re hoping to hear.

Sometimes He says yes.

Sometimes He says wait.

Sometimes He says no.

Paul experienced all three.

In 2 Corinthians 12, he pleaded with the Lord three times to remove the thorn in his flesh.

God answered.

The answer wasn’t deliverance from the thorn. It was:

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.”

That wasn’t a lack of response.

It was a different—and ultimately better—response than Paul had requested.

The more I read Scripture, the more I notice that God is often accomplishing two things at once.

He’s answering our prayers…

while also shaping our character.

Joseph wanted freedom.

God was preparing a ruler.

David wanted the promise fulfilled.

God was preparing a king.

Moses probably wanted to leave the wilderness long before forty years had passed.

God was preparing a leader.

I wonder how often we pray almost exclusively for changed circumstances while God is working toward transformed hearts.

Looking back, I can identify prayers God answered “yes” that I’m thankful for.

I can also identify prayers He answered “no” that, in hindsight, protected me from things I couldn’t see.

And there are still others where the answer was simply, “Wait.”

I’m curious how others think about this.

Do you believe there are truly “unanswered” prayers, or is it more accurate to say that God always answers—even when His answer is yes, no, or wait?

Jonah 4 may be one of the most uncomfortable chapters in Scripture.

Jonah wasn’t angry because Nineveh rejected his message.

He was angry because they repented.

He received exactly what every prophet should want—repentance, mercy, and revival—and resented it because God’s grace was extended to people he believed deserved judgment.

That raises an uncomfortable question:

Who is our Nineveh?

Who do we quietly believe has gone too far for God’s mercy?

One real-life story has always challenged me.

In 2006, ten-year-old Lindsay Wagoner was raped and murdered in Oklahoma.

Her father, Bill Wagoner, spent thirteen years consumed by hatred toward the man who killed his daughter.

Then he chose to meet with him.

Not to excuse what he’d done.

Not to erase justice.

But to forgive him and tell him about the forgiveness found in Jesus Christ.

I don’t know of many clearer examples of what Jesus meant when He called us to forgive as we have been forgiven.

Forgiveness doesn’t eliminate consequences.

It doesn’t deny justice.

It refuses to let hatred become the final chapter.

Jonah ends with God asking a simple question:

“Is it right for you to be angry?”

The book never tells us how Jonah answered.

Perhaps because God intends every reader to answer it for themselves.

How do you reconcile God’s justice and God’s mercy when they’re extended to people who have committed truly horrific crimes? I think that’s one of the hardest—and most important—questions the Book of Jonah asks.

One of the most difficult lessons I’ve had to learn as a Christian is distinguishing between legitimate correction and the desire to control what everyone thinks about me.

I recently saw a quote that said maturity sometimes means allowing people to believe things about you that aren’t true, remaining quiet, and trusting God to defend you.

I think there’s truth there, but with an important balance.

Scripture doesn’t teach silence in every situation. Paul defended his ministry. Jesus answered sincere questions and confronted false teaching when necessary.

But neither spent their lives trying to manage public perception.

I’ve often said:

“What God knows about me is infinitely more important than what people think or say about me.”

That thought has become increasingly meaningful to me.

David was falsely accused by Shimei and chose not to retaliate.

Jesus endured false accusations that eventually led Him to the cross.

Neither measured truth by popular opinion.

As Christians, we should absolutely remain teachable. If someone points out genuine sin or error in my life, I want the humility to repent.

But there’s a difference between receiving biblical correction and becoming enslaved to everyone’s opinion.

If we’re constantly trying to defend ourselves, explain ourselves, or convince everyone that we’re right, we’ll eventually become exhausted.

Our reputation will always be partly outside our control.

Our character never is.

At the end of the day, people only know pieces of our story.

God knows every motive, every private prayer, every failure, every repentance, and every step of growth.

That doesn’t make us indifferent to others—it simply puts their opinions into their proper perspective.

I’d rather be misunderstood by people than misrepresented before God.

Over the past few days, I’ve shared my thoughts regarding a controversy that has generated no shortage of opinions.

Some have agreed.

Others have strongly disagreed.

That’s okay.

I’ve said what I believe Scripture requires me to say, and I don’t intend to continue debating it.

But as I’ve reflected on the discussion, my thoughts have drifted toward something much bigger.

Perspective.

Jesus never promised His followers an easy road.

In fact, He promised the opposite.

“If the world hates you, you know that it hated Me before it hated you.” (John 15:18)

“You will be hated by all for My name’s sake.” (Matthew 10:22)

When I read the New Testament, I don’t find men demanding respect.

I find men enduring suffering.

Peter was beaten, imprisoned, and according to Josephus, crucified upside down.

Paul was imprisoned, stoned, shipwrecked, falsely accused, and ultimately executed.

James gave his life.

John was exiled.

The early church didn’t spend its energy debating whether someone had crossed a street.

They were crossing prison thresholds.

They weren’t arguing over insults.

They were burying martyrs.

Around our world today, many Christians gather in secret because public worship could cost them their freedom—or their lives.

Pastors are imprisoned.

Churches are burned.

Believers are beaten.

Some are killed simply because they refuse to deny the name of Jesus.

When I step back and consider that reality, I’m reminded how blessed we are.

And I’m reminded how careful we should be.

Because the true battle has never been about protecting our pride.

It has always been about remaining faithful to Christ.

The apostles didn’t conquer the world because they were willing to throw punches.

They conquered it because they were willing to carry crosses.

The Kingdom of God has never advanced through personal retaliation.

It has advanced through sacrificial love, steadfast conviction, unwavering faithfulness, and countless believers who chose obedience over self-preservation.

Because we follow a Savior who conquered the world, not by calling down twelve legions of angels, but by stretching out His hands on a cross.

He possessed all authority in heaven and on earth.

He could have summoned angels.

He could have silenced His accusers.

He could have destroyed those who mocked Him.

Instead, He endured.

He forgave.

He overcame evil with good.

That’s the perspective that makes Romans 12 make sense.

Without the cross, “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good” sounds impractical.

In light of the cross, it becomes the defining characteristic of Christian discipleship.

If I am to call myself a follower of Christ, then His response—not my emotions, not public opinion, not culture, and not even my own sense of justice—must remain my highest standard.

Whether someone agrees or disagrees with my conclusions about a particular event isn’t nearly as important as this:

When history remembers the Church of our generation, will it remember us for defending ourselves…

…or for faithfully representing Christ?

That’s the question I’ll continue asking myself long after this controversy has faded from the headlines.

Over the past several weeks, I’ve been writing a series of reflections that, at first glance, didn’t seem connected.

David’s years in the pasture before the palace.

Joseph waiting in prison after being forgotten by the cupbearer.

Nehemiah rebuilding Jerusalem’s walls.

The waiting season.

The Cabinetmaker reshaping old wood into a new purpose.

Today, after reading Luke 10 again, I realized they all point toward the same truth.

Jesus never rebuked Martha for serving.

He rebuked her because her service had become anxiety.

That struck me personally.

Years ago, I was working full-time in corrections while serving as a Sunday School teacher, youth minister, and outreach director. Looking back, I realize there were seasons when I became so busy working for God that I wasn’t walking with Him as closely as I should have been.

That led me to a difficult question:

If God changes our assignment… if the ministry slows… if the titles disappear… if nobody is asking us to lead anymore…

Are we still valuable?

I think that’s one of the hardest questions servants of God ever face because we’ve spent years measuring our value by our usefulness.

But Scripture paints a different picture.

David returned to the pasture after his anointing.

Moses spent decades tending sheep.

Joseph waited in prison.

Even Jesus lived thirty years in relative obscurity before three years of public ministry.

The pattern is remarkable.

Before God entrusts people with influence, He often teaches them intimacy.

Perhaps the pasture isn’t simply preparation for the palace.

Perhaps it’s where we discover that the Shepherd Himself is the reward.

Maybe that’s the lesson beneath all the lessons.

Maybe the waiting season isn’t an interruption.

Maybe it is the assignment.

I’d genuinely enjoy hearing your thoughts. Have you ever experienced a season where God seemed to slow everything down only to teach you something deeper than activity?

I know this post may ruffle feathers.

It may cost me relationships.

Some will disagree with me, and that’s their right.

But there are times when remaining silent would trouble my conscience more than speaking.

Over the past few days, I’ve watched the discussion surrounding the incident involving Rev. Tony Spell. I’ve listened to the explanations. I’ve read the comments. I’ve watched the longer video. I’ve tried to understand both sides of the argument.

And after doing so, my spirit remains grieved.

Before I go any further, let me be transparent.

I was raised in Apostolic Pentecost. I’ve attended Apostolic churches for more than five decades. I love the Apostolic message. I am not writing as a critic looking for faults in the movement. I’m writing as someone who considers himself part of it.

I fully understand the claims that the individual involved had allegedly harassed Pastor Spell, his family, and members of his congregation for years.

If that is true, it is wrong.

It is sinful.

It is inexcusable.

But the question before us is not whether the alleged harassment was wrong.

The question is whether the response was appropriate for a minister of the Gospel.

Those are not the same question.

What has troubled me most is not the incident itself.

What has troubled me most is the number of Christians defending it.

I have seen people compare this to Jesus cleansing the Temple.

I respectfully disagree.

Jesus cleansing the Temple was not a personal dispute. It was not retaliation. It was not settling a score with someone who had offended Him. It was a prophetic act against corruption in God’s house.

The same Jesus who overturned tables also allowed Himself to be mocked, falsely accused, beaten, and crucified without retaliation.

As ministers and Christians, we cannot build our theology around one moment of righteous indignation while ignoring a lifetime of teaching on forgiveness, self-control, mercy, and loving our enemies.

In fact, I keep finding myself drawn back to Paul’s words in Romans 12:

“Repay no one evil for evil. Have regard for good things in the sight of all men. If it is possible, as much as depends on you, live peaceably with all men. Beloved, do not avenge yourselves, but rather give place to wrath; for it is written, ‘Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,’ says the Lord.”

Those words are not written for people who are being treated fairly.

They are written for people who have been wronged.

They are written for people who have been insulted, mistreated, falsely accused, provoked, and hurt.

Paul does not tell believers that evil is acceptable.

He does not tell them to pretend wrongdoing never happened.

But he does tell them that vengeance belongs to God.

That is precisely what makes these verses so difficult.

Anyone can be gracious when treated kindly.

The true test of Christian character is how we respond when we are treated unjustly.

The question is not whether someone was provoked.

The question is whether the response reflected the teachings of Christ.

As believers—and especially as ministers of the Gospel—we are called not merely to avoid evil, but to overcome evil with good.

Perhaps what troubles me most is that many of the same people defending this behavior would condemn it if it involved a church member, a politician they disliked, or someone from another denomination.

Our standards should not change based on who commits the act.

A person’s title does not make an action righteous.

Being a pastor does not place someone above accountability.

In fact, Scripture teaches the opposite.

Pastors are called to a higher standard, not a lower one.

You may disagree with me, and that’s okay.

But I cannot watch this unfold, watch Christians celebrate it, and pretend that I am not deeply troubled by what I have seen.

I pray for everyone involved.

I pray for truth.

I pray for healing.

And I pray that we never become so loyal to personalities that we lose our commitment to biblical principles.

Because in the end, the question is not whether someone was provoked.

The question is whether we are willing to hold ourselves—and those we admire—to the same standard Scripture requires of everyone else.

“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”
Romans 12:21

I’ve been thinking about Jesus’ warning in Luke 17:32:

“Remember Lot’s wife.”

Most discussions focus on the fact that she looked back at Sodom.

But lately I’ve wondered if the issue wasn’t simply where she looked, but what she was holding onto.

The older I get, the more convinced I am that people don’t usually struggle to leave sinful things behind nearly as much as they struggle to leave familiar things behind.

A ministry season.
A church.
A career.
A relationship.
A dream.

Something that may have been good, fruitful, and meaningful for years.

Nearly 30 years ago, I stepped away from a youth ministry role that had become a major part of my life. The challenge wasn’t that I wanted to return to something bad or wrong. The challenge was that I loved that season and what God had done in it.

Looking back wasn’t about rebellion.

It was about attachment.

That has made me wonder if many of us spend our lives asking God for a new direction while quietly hoping He’ll restore an old season instead.

Abraham left Ur.
Moses left Midian.
David left the pasture.
Peter left his nets.

None of them knew exactly what was ahead.

They simply obeyed the next step God placed in front of them.

So here’s my question:

What season of your life was hardest to leave behind, and looking back now, can you see why God was leading you somewhere else?

I’d love to hear others’ experiences.

Thoughts for the Day

Monday, June 22

“Truth be Told…”

Father’s Day has always been a difficult day for me.

I lost my father in 1985 when I was 17... and the man who stepped in and helped raise me a little over three years later.

So when I see little boys & young men sitting beside their fathers in church, I notice.

When I see men my age spending Father’s Day with their dads, I notice.

When I see fathers and sons fishing together, working together, or simply sharing life together, I notice.

And if I’m being honest, there have been times when Father’s Day brought more sadness than celebration.

But Saturday, I spent several hours with my son, now 18.

We talked about everything and nothing.

Life. Family. Work. Memories. The future.

As I drove home, a line from an old song kept replaying in my mind:

“It may have a new perspective, on a different day.”

Maybe that’s what growing older does.

It doesn’t erase the losses.

It doesn’t give back the years.

But it helps you see the story differently.

Yesterday, I found myself looking at three photographs.

My father.

The man who helped raise me.

And my son.

For the first time, I wasn’t focused on what had been lost.

I was focused on what had been passed down.

The legacy of two very different men lives on in me.

And part of their legacy—combined with mine—lives on in my son.

Father’s Day still carries a measure of sadness.

I suspect it always will.

But today, it carries gratitude too.

And that’s a different perspective than I had on another day.

Fifteen years ago, I shared a quote by Henry David Thoreau:

“Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth.”

At the time, I probably appreciated the sentiment more than I understood the cost behind it.

The longer I live, the more I see that truth is one of the most expensive things a person can choose.

Throughout Scripture, truth rarely made anyone popular.

Noah spent years proclaiming a message nobody wanted to hear.

Jeremiah was rejected, ridiculed, and imprisoned for speaking God’s word.

Elijah stood virtually alone against a culture that had embraced compromise.

John the Baptist lost his life because he refused to soften the truth concerning sin.

The apostles endured persecution because they would not deny the risen Christ.

And ultimately, Jesus Himself was crucified.

The cost of truth did not end in biblical times.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer gave his life opposing a regime built on lies.

Today, believers in parts of Africa gather for worship despite the threat of violence, imprisonment, and persecution. Some have lost everything because they refuse to deny Christ.

In China and other restrictive nations, believers continue meeting in underground churches, accepting risks that many Western Christians never have to consider.

Even in societies that celebrate freedom, standing on biblical convictions can carry consequences. Careers may suffer. Friendships may be strained. Reputations may be damaged. Pressure to remain silent often replaces pressure to compromise outright.

The forms may change.

The cost remains.

One of the great misconceptions of our day is that truth and comfort naturally coexist. Scripture repeatedly shows the opposite.

Truth often disrupts comfort.

It exposes sin.
It challenges pride.
It confronts hypocrisy.
It calls us to repentance.

Many people say they want truth, but what they really want is affirmation.

Biblical truth doesn’t always affirm us. Sometimes it corrects us.

Sometimes it reveals that the problem isn’t “out there” somewhere. Sometimes the problem is in the mirror.

Yet despite the cost, Jesus still declared:

“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” (John 8:32)

Not comfortable.

Free.

Throughout history, every genuine revival and awakening began when people valued truth more than acceptance, conviction more than convenience, and obedience more than approval.

The question isn’t whether truth is costly.

The question is whether freedom is worth the cost.