The conversation initially revolved around work, interests, and the things we are passionate about, and gradually it became more personal. At some point, we started talking about writing, and he asked me about the things I choose to write about when nobody is telling me what to write. I explained that I write about different things; sometimes I write for other people, sometimes I write because there is something within me that needs to be expressed, and sometimes I document my own experiences because I know that one day I will look back at them and be encouraged by the woman I was becoming. Writing, for me, has never been only about producing words. It has also been a way of processing life, preserving memories, making sense of experiences and leaving something behind that I can return to.

Then he said something I wasn't expecting. He told me that he had noticed I put God before my professional interests when I described my writing, and that observation caught his attention.

I responded quite plainly: “Yeah. God is my first love. My profession is second. Always.” He was impressed by how audaciously I said that, and he commented that it is rare to hear someone say that out loud.

Our conversation continued, but I kept thinking about his compliments. Apparently, the order in which I described my life had already said something about what was important to me and that made me wonder : Can people tell what our convictions are when they converse with us?

What do we naturally talk about when nobody asks us to perform? What excites us, frustrates us, consumes us or makes us deeply emotional? What do we celebrate? What do we complain about? What do we defend? What do we desire? What do we speak about when the professional titles, carefully curated profiles and public versions of ourselves are stripped away?

Because perhaps that is where our convictions become most visible.

It is easy to tell people what we believe. It is easy to say, “God comes first,” but I have been thinking about the difference between confessing a conviction and living it, because sometimes our mouths can say one thing while the patterns of our lives quietly communicate another.

Jesus said in Matthew 12:34, “For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.”

There is something sobering about that verse when you sit with it for a while. Our mouths have a way of revealing what is happening inside us, before we even admit it to ourselves.

We can carefully curate our social media pages, polish our biographies, choose impressive words to describe our faith and tell people that Jesus is our first love, but an ordinary conversation has a way of exposing us.

And that made me ask myself an uncomfortable question: If I never told people that Jesus was my first love, would you know?

Would you hear it in the way I speak about my work? Would you hear it in the way I talk about people? Would you hear it in the way I respond to disappointment, success, rejection or opportunity? Would you hear it in the way I speak when I am frustrated, tired or angry, when I am no longer consciously thinking about representing my faith?

I think these are important questions because we can become so accustomed to saying the right things that we forget to examine whether our lives are actually agreeing with what our mouths are confessing.

We can say that God is first while allowing our careers to become our identity. We can say that Jesus is enough while constantly seeking validation from people. We can say that our identity is in Christ while feeling worthless whenever our achievements go unnoticed. We can say that we trust God while anxiety dominates every conversation we have about the future. We can say that we love people while speaking about them with contempt when they are not in the room. We can say that we have forgiven someone while continuing to carry the offence everywhere we go.

And perhaps the most sobering part is that the people around us may notice the contradiction even when we do not.

Sometimes we think people only hear the things we intentionally say, but they are also listening to the patterns underneath our words. They are listening to what we repeatedly talk about, what we constantly complain about, what we celebrate and what we seem unable to let go of. They are watching how we treat people who cannot advance our careers, how we respond when someone else succeeds, how we behave when we are disappointed and whether the faith we profess has actually shaped the way we interact with the world around us.

Our lives are speaking even when we are not making a speech.

This is important for those of us who openly identify with Christ, because people are watching. Someone may never read your Bible, but they may encounter your faith through the way you treat them. Someone may never attend your church, but they may still experience Christ through your patience, your honesty, your compassion or even the way you handle conflict.

This does not mean we have to become performers, constantly monitoring ourselves because we are terrified that someone might catch us being imperfect. Christianity is not about manufacturing a polished personality so that everyone thinks we have it together. We are human, and we will have moments when our emotions get the better of us, moments when we say something we wish we had expressed differently and moments when God reveals an area of our hearts that still needs His work.

The answer is not to become better at sounding Christian. The answer is to allow Christ to become more deeply rooted in us, because eventually, what is inside will overflow.

If Christ is truly becoming the centre of our lives, then over time, that should affect more than our vocabulary. It should affect our character, our priorities, our relationships, our ambitions, our reactions and our understanding of success. It should influence the way we speak when we disagree, the way we respond when someone hurts us, the way we celebrate someone else's success and the way we conduct ourselves when there is absolutely nothing to gain from being kind.

I think that is what it means, to mirror Christ.

And perhaps this is where the conversation with that stranger became special.

He did not know my entire story. He did not know every prayer I have prayed, every season I have walked through, every moment when my faith has been tested or every private conversation I have had with God. He simply heard me talk about my life, and somehow he noticed something about the order of my priorities.

It made me wonder what other people notice when they talk to me.

If someone spent an hour with me, what would they conclude that I love? Would they hear ambition before they hear faith? Would they hear insecurity before they hear confidence in God? Would they hear a hunger for recognition before they hear contentment? Would they hear bitterness when I speak about people who have hurt me, or would they hear someone who is still learning how to extend grace? Would they hear someone whose relationship with Christ genuinely shapes the way she sees the world?

These questions are not meant to condemn us. They are invitations to examine ourselves.

Because sometimes the very things God gives us can quietly take His place if we are not careful. He gives us a career, and the career becomes our identity. He gives us influence, and influence becomes our validation. He gives us opportunities, and opportunities become our evidence of worth. He gives us relationships, and being loved by people becomes more important than being rooted in His love. He gives us gifts, and eventually the gift becomes more important than the Giver.

So perhaps one of the questions we should periodically ask ourselves is not only whether Jesus is still our first love, but whether the things He has given us have begun to compete with Him for that position.

And if they have, then, we need to return.

Because there is something beautiful about being able to say, “God is my first love,” and have someone who barely knows you notice it without you having to convince them.

I want that to always be me.

I want my writings and ordinary conversations to reflect Him. I want my professional life to honour Him, but I also want the way I speak to people when there is nothing professional at stake to honour Him. I want to be able to enter important rooms and still remember that the room does not determine my worth. I want to pursue excellence without worshipping achievement, build a career without making it my identity, and receive the good things God gives me without allowing those good things to replace the One who gave them.

Because people are listening.

So I keep coming back to that verse: “For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.”

May the abundance of our hearts increasingly be Christ.

May our conversations carry the evidence of what we claim to believe, not because we have mastered the art of sounding religious, but because Jesus has genuinely become the centre of who we are. May the people who encounter us find patience where they expected pride, grace where they expected judgment, humility where they expected self-importance and hope where they expected despair.

And before we tell the world that Jesus is our first love, we should quietly ask ourselves whether our lives are making the same confession.

If I never told you, would you know?

I hope the answer, for all of us, becomes yes.

Of course I did.

There is something about seeing children encounter God that wrecks me. Maybe, it’s because I am sentimental in the presence of God myself, and their response reminded me of something I hope I never lose as I grow older: childlike faith.

It made me think about the words of Jesus when He said, “Let the little children come to me.” I have read that verse many times, but watching those children this morning made me wonder if there is something about their innocence and simplicity that Jesus was drawing our attention to. There was no performance in them. They were not trying to look spiritually mature or figure out the right response. They were simply responding to Jesus.

And perhaps that is part of what makes childlike faith so beautiful.

Childlike faith is not childish faith. There is a difference. Childishness can be immaturity, but childlikeness can be a profound kind of trust. A child does not necessarily understand everything their father is doing, but they can still trust him completely because they know who he is.

A child can ask their father for something and walk away believing that, somehow, Daddy will take care of it. They do not need to understand the logistics, the timeline, or every possible outcome. They simply know their father.

Maybe this is part of what Jesus was inviting us into.

Because as we grow older, life teaches us to be careful with trust. We experience disappointment, delays, unanswered prayers, broken promises and circumstances that do not make sense. We learn to calculate. We learn to anticipate disappointment before it arrives. We learn to protect ourselves, sometimes so well that we can begin approaching even God with some of the guardedness that life has taught us.

We say we trust Him, but somewhere underneath our words is a quiet question: What if He does not do it? What if it takes too long? What if the answer looks nothing like what I imagined?

Children seem to have a different way of believing.

When Daddy says something, they believe Daddy.

They do not spend the next three hours trying to figure out whether Daddy has the resources to do it. They do not develop five contingency plans in case Daddy changes His mind. They simply trust the person who said it.

And I wonder if sometimes God is calling us back to that kind of faith.

Not a faith that ignores reality or refuses to acknowledge disappointment, but a faith that knows the character of the Father well enough to trust Him even when we cannot understand His methods.

A faith that can say, I don't understand this, but I still know You.

A faith that can wait without concluding that God has forgotten.

A faith that can experience disappointment without becoming cynical about His goodness.

A faith that can hear silence without assuming abandonment.

This kind of faith feels difficult when you are an adult because adulthood teaches us so much about what can go wrong. We learn how to manage expectations. We learn to protect our hearts. We learn how to keep moving even when something inside us is hurting. We learn to contain our emotions and, sometimes, even our wonder.

Watching those children cry made me think about that too.

There was something beautiful about the fact that they were not trying to contain themselves, or look composed enough. They simply responded to what they were experiencing.

And maybe that is another part of childlike faith that I do not want to lose: the freedom to be tender before God.

I do not want adulthood to make me so composed that I cannot be moved by Jesus anymore. I do not want wisdom to cost me wonder. I do not want discernment to become suspicion. I do not want the disappointments of life to make me so guarded that I forget how to simply run to my Father.

Perhaps this is why that scene stayed with me long after I stopped watching it.

Somewhere in those children, I saw something I recognise in myself: the part of me that can still be completely undone by God. The part of me that can sit before Him and feel everything. The part of me that does not always need an explanation before surrendering.

The part of me that still wants to say, “Jesu, my love.”

I think there is something precious about being able to love God like that.

Not because everything is perfect.

Not because every prayer has been answered.

Not because I understand everything He is doing.

But because I know Him.

And maybe that is what growing up in God is supposed to look like. Perhaps maturity is not becoming so sophisticated that we no longer need the simplicity of a child. Perhaps it is becoming wise enough to understand that life is complicated while remaining innocent enough to trust the One who holds it.

So, Jesu, my love, as I grow older and life becomes more complicated, I hope I never become too sophisticated to trust You. I hope I never become so familiar with disappointment that I forget Your goodness, or so accustomed to waiting that I forget how to hope. I hope I never become so focused on becoming impressive that I forget the simple desire that sits underneath everything else: I want to make You proud. I want to make You smile. I want to love You well.

Beneath all the things adulthood has taught me, there is still a heart that wants to believe its Father, run and rest in the knowledge that I am loved by you.

Father, I thank you for Baby-like faith.

The kind that does not need to know everything before it trusts.

The kind that can wait without giving up.

The kind that can cry without embarrassment.

The kind that knows, even in the middle of uncertainty, You love me.

And maybe, really, that is enough.

Jesu, my love♥️

As we caught up, our conversation eventually moved to relationships, both platonic and romantic, and somewhere in the middle of all that talking, I found myself saying something that I immediately knew I needed to write down.

I told Irene, “I think most relationships don't work because we don't have a spiritual revelation of the people we are with.”

The more I thought about what I had just said, the more I realized that perhaps one of the things we lack in our relationships is not necessarily love, but sight.

We love people, but do we really see them?

Do we see beyond their personalities, their habits, their mistakes, their current circumstances and the things they are able to do for us? Do we see the grace that God has placed upon their lives, the things He is forming in them, the things they carry that we may need, or is familiarity robbing us of this divine opportunity.

There is something powerful that happens when we receive a spiritual revelation of the people we are involved with, because we begin to relate to them with a different kind of patience and endurance.

When you understand that the person beside you is not perfect, you stop being shocked every time they behave like a human being. You begin to expect that they will make mistakes, that there will be misunderstandings, that they will sometimes disappoint you, and that there will be seasons where loving each other requires more intentionality than it did before.

Not because you have lowered your standards or decided that anything goes, but because you have come to understand that people can be deeply valuable and still deeply imperfect at the same time.

And perhaps when we see the grace someone carries, our hearts become more open to forgiveness because we are able to separate the person from the mistake. We can confront what happened without allowing one moment to rewrite an entire relationship, and we can hold people accountable without reducing them entirely to their failures.

I am not trying to paint a picture of two people being reckless and continually hurting one another simply because forgiveness is readily available. That is not what I mean at all, because forgiveness is not the same thing as the absence of boundaries, and understanding someone's wounds does not mean volunteering to become collateral damage from them.

There are relationships where the wisest thing you can do is walk away, and there are people you can genuinely love while also recognizing that they should no longer have access to you.

But I am talking about something else.

I am talking about navigating relationships with wisdom rather than simply reacting to disappointment.

Nowadays, we are so quick to cut people off.

We are quick to find better—a better friend, a better partner, a better community, someone who understands us more easily, inconveniences us less, challenges us less, and fits more neatly into the life we have imagined for ourselves.

And sometimes, of course, finding something better is exactly what needs to happen. But I wonder if we have become so comfortable with replacement that we have forgotten the beauty of cultivation, because there are some things in life that become valuable not because they were perfect from the beginning, but because people were willing to stay long enough to nurture them.

Not every difficult friendship is a bad friendship, just as not every disagreement means you chose the wrong person. Not every season of distance means the relationship is over, and sometimes what looks like a relational crisis is actually an invitation to learn how to communicate, forgive, grow and love someone beyond the convenience of being understood all the time.

Some relationships need conversations. Some need grace. Some need boundaries. Some need time to grow.

And sometimes, honestly, we are the ones who need to grow.

He Who Finds a Wife Finds a Good thing

This is aso why I have been thinking about that Scripture we quote so often:

“He who finds a wife finds a good thing and obtains favor from the Lord.”

I have heard this verse explained so many times through the things a woman can do for a man: she can cook, she can clean, she can take care of the home, she can serve him, she can make his life easier.

But I don't think the goodness of a woman can possibly be reduced to domestic usefulness.

A robot can cook and clean.

Anybody can be paid to do those things.

So when Scripture says that he who finds a wife finds a good thing, I believe it is pointing to something much deeper than what her hands can produce.

A woman can be a good thing because of the wisdom she carries, because she understands purpose, because she can discern things that her husband may not see, because she can challenge him without competing with him, because she can bring counsel when he needs clarity, and because there is a particular grace upon her life that can complement what God is doing in his.

The goodness is not merely in what she can do.

It is also in what she carries.

And I think we can extend that principle beyond marriage, because Scripture also tells us that iron sharpens iron, and one person sharpens another.

There is something about that picture that I love, because iron does not sharpen iron by simply existing beside it. There is friction, there is pressure, there is resistance, and yet through that process something becomes sharper and more useful.

I think some friendships are like this.

A good friend is not always the person who makes you feel comfortable, agrees with everything you say and tells you exactly what you want to hear. Sometimes the person who loves you is the person who can look at you and say, “I don't think you're seeing this correctly,” or “I think you're settling,” or “This isn't who you said you wanted to become,” and still remain beside you while you wrestle with the truth.

There are people God puts in our lives who are not there merely to affirm us, but to sharpen us. They challenge our thinking, stretch our capacity, expose our blind spots, introduce us to perspectives we would never have considered on our own, and remind us of convictions we are tempted to forget.

They may see things in us that we are sometimes too close to ourselves to see.

And perhaps that is another kind of spiritual revelation: recognizing that not everyone God places around us is there to make our lives easier. Some people are there to make us better.

Some carry wisdom that we need. Some carry a grace that complements ours. Some have walked through things we have not yet encountered and therefore carry a perspective that we cannot manufacture for ourselves.

Some people will open doors, some will challenge us once we walk through them, and others will simply sit with us through seasons where there is nothing to fix.

If we only ask, “What am I getting from this relationship?” we may miss the much deeper question of “What has God placed inside this person, and why might He have allowed our paths to cross?”

That question changes things.

Because suddenly, friendship is not just about having someone to laugh with, travel with, send memes to, or call when something interesting happens. It becomes a place where grace can be exchanged, where two people can learn from one another, sharpen one another, and perhaps become more aligned with who God is calling each of them to be.

And I think that is beautiful.

So Irene and I started searching our hearts

That conversation stayed with us because once you start thinking about people this way, it becomes almost impossible not to turn the question inward.

How have I been seeing the people in my life?

Have I reduced them to their mistakes?

Have I been too quick to discard relationships simply because they became difficult?

Have I expected grace from people while being unwilling to extend the same grace to them?

Have I mistaken someone's difficult season for their entire character?

Have I taken the time to ask God what He might be doing through a relationship before deciding that the relationship is no longer useful to me?

And perhaps the hardest question of all:

Have I been asking God to change the people around me when He is actually trying to change me?

I don't think the answer is that we should hold onto every relationship forever, because there are people who are not meant to stay, relationships that become unhealthy, and doors that God really does ask us to close.

But perhaps before we close every difficult door, we should become quiet enough to ask God for wisdom.

Maybe the relationship doesn't need replacement. Maybe it needs a conversation, forgiveness, boundaries, time, or simply the maturity to acknowledge that both people are still becoming.

And maybe, sometimes, the relationship that needs changing is not the relationship itself, but the way we have been seeing it.

Because perhaps the real question is not simply, “Is this person good for me?”

Perhaps we should also be asking, “What has God placed in this person?”

“What grace do they carry?”

“What am I supposed to learn from knowing them?”

“How are they sharpening me?”

And perhaps, just as importantly, “What am I carrying that God might want to use to sharpen them?”

Because the people in our lives are not merely characters in our stories. They are people with their own stories, their own purposes, their own weaknesses, their own becoming, and their own relationship with God.

Maybe that is why we need revelation before reaction.

And perhaps this is the prayer I want to carry from that conversation:

Lord, give me the spiritual revelation to see the people You have placed around me beyond what they can do for me and beyond the mistakes they make. Give me wisdom to recognize the grace they carry, patience to cultivate what is worth cultivating, discernment to know when boundaries are necessary, humility to receive correction, courage to let go when You say it is time, and enough understanding to know that sometimes the person who needs to change in a relationship is not the other person, but me.

Teach me not only to ask who belongs in my life, but to understand why You allowed our paths to cross in the first place. And when I encounter the people You have entrusted to me, give me the eyes to see what You see in them.

I don’t queue up a playlist, hit shuffle, and let it drift into the background while I check my phone or do chores. I find one song, anchor myself to it, and play it until I’ve completely drowned in it.

Some people call it an obsession. To me, it’s meditation.

When you listen to a track on a loop, the noise of the world slowly fades away, and the music turns into a mirror. By the tenth play, you know the words. By the fiftieth, you notice every breath, every rise in the harmonies, every subtle shift in the instrumentals. By the hundredth, the song isn’t just floating around the room, but it has also settled deep into your spirit, revealing emotions you didn’t even realize you were carrying.

Lately, the track on endless repeat has been What a Miracle Feels Like by Tauren Wells featuring Naomi Raine.

Holding On When You Can’t See the Shift

It’s easy to believe in good outcomes when everything is going according to plan. It’s easy to feel confident when the evidence is right in front of you.

But this song meets you right in the uncomfortable gap between believing and seeing.

Tauren Wells and Naomi Raine bring a grounded, raw energy that hits straight to the heart. They aren’t singing from a place where everything is neatly resolved. They’re singing from the middle of the struggle. They remind us that faith isn’t about ignoring the hard reality but choosing to stand firm anyway.

To Those Crying in the Middle

There is a very specific kind of heartbreak that happens in the middle.

It’s after you’ve prayed, worked, hoped, and given everything you have, but the shift hasn’t come yet. The middle is where tears fall silently in the dark. It’s where doubt whispers, “Did you mishear? Is this ever going to change?”

It is so easy to believe when you’re standing at the starting line, full of energy. And it’s easy to celebrate when you’re standing at the finish line holding the victory.

But what about when you’re right in the thick of it?

If you are crying in the middle today: your tears do not mean your faith is broken; you are just human, and the weight is real. You are allowed to feel the sting of the wait while still refusing to give up ground.

The Middle Is Also a Miracle

We have a habit of measuring miracles only by the happy ending. We act like the miracle only counts when the burden is finally lifted.

But as I drown in this song for the hundredth time, another truth has settled into my heart: the middle is also a miracle.

- It is a miracle that you are still standing after everything that tried to pull you under.

- It is a miracle that your heart is still soft enough to hope, even when you’ve been disappointed.

- It is a miracle that you can sit in the quiet of an unanswered prayer and still feel a spark of faith whispering, “Keep going.”

The miracle isn’t just the moment you walk out of the storm. The miracle is the supernatural strength that keeps you breathing, trusting, and enduring even as the storm rages.

The Heavy Hallelujah

The line that keeps pulling me back, play after play, is the reminder to hold onto your hallelujah.

Praising is simple when the road is smooth. Gratitude comes easily when life is handing you wins, but holding onto your hallelujah when the weight feels heavy is a completely different kind of strength.

It’s saying, “Things are tough right now, but I refuse to let go of my hope.”

Maybe this is what a miracle feels like: raw, tear-stained, stubborn faith that refuses to let go.

A Declaration, Not Just a Song

That’s why I loop it.

Because on the first listen, it’s a great song, but by the time I’ve listened to it for hours, it stops being someone else’s track and becomes a declaration over my own life. It becomes a steadying rhythm that I carry into the rest of the week.

So if you catch me listening to the same four minutes of music all day, know that I’m not stuck. I’m just letting the miracle sink in.

Maybe the miracle you’re waiting for hasn’t arrived yet, but if you’re still holding onto your hallelujah, perhaps the miracle has already begun.

Over to you:

Do you have a song you play on endless repeat when you need to anchor yourself? What track are you drowning in right now?

“This light I carry is for the world, is for the nations oo. I’ll shine my light...”

Later that same day, I sat down for the Koinonia service, and Apostle Joshua Selman taught on the same thing: becoming a light to the nations.

You can already imagine my reaction; I literally screamed. God is so intentional with His promptings, and while this kind of alignment has happened to me before, I still get undone every single time.

Apostle Joshua said something that has been sitting heavily in my spirit ever since: The world will understand Jesus through our lives.

We are the living epistles. Not everyone is going to pick up Scripture, but everyone around us is, whether we realize it or not, reading us.

This forced me to ask myself a scary, humbling question: What have people been reading through my life?

Am I actually being the light? Am I reflecting Jesus in my family, at work, and in my private relationships? If someone were asked to read me out loud like a book, right now, what would the narrative be? Would it show a life truly alive in Christ, anchored in purpose, or would it be beautifully written pages with nothing of eternal substance worth remembering?

That is an uncomfortable question to sit with.

It’s easy to feel like a light during a worship service, but the light isn’t tested on Sunday. It’s tested in the ordinary minutes nobody is filming. It’s tested when you’re exhausted, overlooked, or frustrated at work. It’s tested when someone you love hurts you, and you still have to be legible as someone who belongs to Christ in that exact moment.

Faith that only works when the music is playing isn’t light; it’s just an echo.

As I sat with that weight, I remembered an interaction from about a month ago.

A guy reached out to me out of nowhere and said, “I have a few questions that need answers, and I thought you’d be the right person to ask.”

I asked him what kind of questions.

He said they were about God, navigating the Christian life, and relationships.

I took a deep breath. This was someone I hadn’t even met in person. I decided to call him, and what started as a simple conversation turned into a two-hour discussion. I answered his questions with grace and wisdom.

At one point, he paused and said, “You are so smart.”

I’ve been dissecting that exchange because I think it captures the entire point. He didn’t reach out because I carry a title or stand on a stage. He reached out because somewhere along the line, my posture, my speech, or my life made me readable as a safe harbor.

That is what being a living epistle looks like in real time: someone flips to a page in your life and decides there might be an answer there.

That moment captured Apostle Joshua’s entire sermon long before he preached it. He spoke about what it actually takes to be a compelling Christian, breaking it down into a few pillars.

1. Convictions

Conviction is the bedrock. Apostle Joshua emphasized having grounded convictions that keep you anchored when culture shifts.

This landed deeply for me.

Even in my personal life, I’ve always said that the only way a man can get my attention is by speaking with conviction. I have no appetite for people who move with the crowd. I need someone who stands on business, who knows his why, regardless of what everyone else around him is doing.

Faith operates the same way. Light isn’t convincing if it flickers every time the wind changes. I don’t want a faith that shifts with the temperature of the room, but a why so deeply rooted that people can rely on its stability.

2. Character

If conviction is what you claim to believe, character is what remains when no one is checking. It’s the version of you that shows up when there is no platform to stand on and no testimony to tell later.

Character is spiritual maturity translated into everyday life.

That guy on the phone didn’t get a curated, rehearsed version of me. He encountered whatever was genuinely inside me at 8:00 PM on an ordinary evening. Character is what made that space safe for him to be vulnerable because light doesn’t expose people to humiliate them; but to bring clarity and healing.

3. Resourcefulness and Value

Spiritual desire without practical substance leaves people hungry.

Apostle Joshua noted that a compelling Christian must carry real value—wisdom, discernment, competence, and the capacity to serve others.

Good intentions aren’t enough when someone is drowning; you need to have a rope.

On that phone call, it wasn’t enough for me to care about his confusion. I had to have actual oil in my lamp to share. Being a light means actively cultivating your mind, your spirit, and your capacity so that when people come to your well, they actually find water.

Being the light was never meant to be an emotional high or a temporary mood we step into on Sunday. It is the steady, underlying infrastructure of our daily lives. It is found in the convictions we refuse to abandon when they become inconvenient, the character that remains intact when no one is watching, and the tangible wisdom we cultivate to serve others.

So now, I’ll pass the question to you:

If someone opened the book of your life right now and read it out loud, what story would it tell?

And whatever your honest answer is... that’s usually where the real work begins.

Because long before people hear our testimony, they have already been reading it.

.

It sounds like this: You are too flawed by your habits. Your worship is stained. You will never be what God wants you to be.

It’s a whisper that traps us in a cycle of shame, convincing us that we are perpetually self-sabotaging our own futures. We look at our repeated mistakes, our stubborn patterns, and our fragile discipline, and we conclude that we’ve disqualified ourselves from the altar.

But here is the truth we must shout over the whisper: God is our future. And He is not caught off guard by your humanity.

There Are No Coincidences

We often live with the anxiety that one wrong turn will completely derail our lives, as though we are walking a tightrope over an abyss of random occurrences. But there is no room for coincidence in a life surrendered to the Creator.

The Lord has intentionally, carefully, and lovingly curated your life.

- Every step? Divinely ordered.

- Your mistakes? Never beyond His knowledge or His power to redeem.

This doesn’t mean every painful thing or wrong turn was “meant to happen” in some fatalistic way. We make choices, we make mistakes, and we live through the consequences of a broken world. But there is an anchoring peace in knowing this: Everything that has happened in your life was seen by God. Even what He did not delight in, He can redeem and weave into His purposes.

Because of that, you can look at your chaotic timeline and whisper, “I’m okay.”

The Redemptive Detour

When Scripture says, “All things work together for good,” it reminds us that God can redeem even the roads we took away from Him. His grace has a way of meeting us in places we never imagined He would.

If you are waiting to become perfect before you offer your heart, you are misunderstanding the entire history of God’s relationship with humanity. If you believe you are deeply flawed, that makes you exactly like everyone else who has ever walked with God.

With God, being flawed has always been the standard for being helped.

Look at the Apostle Paul:

- He was the ultimate accuser, throwing believers into dark prisons.

- Yet God made a fierce believer out of a fierce persecutor.

- The same man who once orchestrated the suffering of Christians later endured shipwreck, beatings, and imprisonment for that very same gospel, and counted himself honored to do so.

God has been turning hearts of stone into warm, beating flesh for longer than you have been alive.

On Heaven’s Daily Rotation

It is an overwhelming privilege to realize how thoroughly we are accounted for in God’s loving care.

Think about the sheer scale of the cosmos, and then think about this: You are on today’s agenda.

To know without a doubt that before heaven’s purposes unfold in your life today, your name has never escaped God’s attention. The Lord has not forgotten you. You are fully known, fully seen, and deeply loved.

Surprisingly, we matter that much. But we do. You are not an afterthought trying to sneak into the presence of a busy God. You are a beloved child welcomed into the presence of your Father.

Come as You Are

Your stubborn habits are not a barrier to the Creator of the universe. Your history is not too messy for Him to redeem.

If He can rewrite the story of a persecutor on the road to Damascus, He can rewrite yours. With God, nothing is impossible; even the coldest, hardest of hearts can be set ablaze with His love.

Stop waiting until you think you’ve fixed yourself before you approach the altar.

He has never been intimidated by your flaws. He already knows them, loves you still, and invites you to come.

Come.

Then, a notification popped up from a dear friend in South Africa.

“Ah sis I love your article, I think I’ve been in spiritual weariness since the year started. I am not saying I was perfect last year but I did read my Bible, pray, fast, but I’ve done none of that this year… but I will find my way back.”

I stared at the screen for a long moment, completely moved. My immediate thought was a quiet confirmation: This is why I write.

In a world obsessed with metrics, it is so easy to lose sight of why we tell stories in the first place. We track analytics, but you cannot quantify the weight of a person reading your words across the continent, dropping their guard, and admitting, “I am weary.”

Her message got me thinking about the quiet, heavy seasons we all go through, and the silent burdens we carry when we find ourselves in a dry spell.

The Reality of the Dry Season

Whether it is spiritual weariness, burnout, or mental exhaustion, there is a particular kind of grief that comes with realizing you’ve drifted from the habits that once anchored you.

We live in a culture that demands constant consistency. We are told that growth is linear, that discipline must never break, and that our worth is tied to daily output. And when that momentum stops, guilt quickly takes over. We don’t just feel tired; we feel like we are failing. We begin to see prayer, Scripture, and the practices that once sustained us not as gifts, but as another list of things we’re falling short of.

But weariness isn’t a sign of personal failure. More often, it’s simply a warning from your soul that you’ve been running on empty for too long. The real danger of a dry season isn’t the dryness itself; it’s the isolation. We convince ourselves that everyone else is thriving while we are the only ones standing still. We perform wellness publicly while quietly walking through a drought.

Coming to Our Senses: The Way Home

When I read my friend’s words—”but I will find my way back”—my mind immediately went to the story of the Prodigal Son.

We often focus on the dramatic departure or the inheritance spent in a far-off country. But the true turning point of the story happens in a quiet moment of isolation. The text says, “And when he came to himself...” Other translations put it this way: he came to his senses.

That phrase has stayed with me.

To come to your senses is to remember who you are. It is the moment the fog clears just enough for you to look around at the lack, the distance, and the dryness and realize, I don’t belong here. This place is starving me. It’s time to go home.

My friend’s message reflected that very moment of awakening. She didn’t wait until she had rebuilt her routine or regained her spiritual rhythm before admitting where she was. In the middle of her weariness, she came to her senses, looked toward the horizon, and made a choice.

And that is the beauty of the Father’s house. The journey back doesn’t require a grand, exhausting leap of perfection. The parable reminds us that while the son was still a long way off, his father saw him and ran to him. God doesn’t stand at the finish line waiting for us to get everything right. He moves toward us the moment we turn back.

An Invitation to Come Back

If you’re reading this and you’ve been carrying your own version of weariness since the year started, and you’re looking back at the habits, prayers, or passions you once held close and wondering how the gap became so wide, this is your invitation to come home.

Stop using last year’s discipline to punish this year’s exhaustion.

Permit yourself to rest, but don’t pitch your tent in isolation. The dry season is a chapter, not the final page of your story.

The very fact that you miss those moments with God says something. The longing to return is often evidence that grace is already at work. Your heart is waking up. The Father hasn’t forgotten the way to meet you.

Turn back today. It doesn’t have to be a loud, dramatic declaration. It can be a quiet prayer, a single page of Scripture, a moment of stillness, or a simple decision to begin again. Drop the guilt and take that first small step. The journey home isn’t a relentless sprint; it’s a slow, grace-filled walk. And even while you’re still a long way off, the Father is already looking down the road for you.

To my friend, and to everyone who reads these reflections and shares their heart with me: thank you. Every message reminds me that words travel far beyond our sight. They cross borders, enter hidden places, and sometimes become the quiet reminder someone needed to take one more step toward home.

That’s why I keep writing.

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For the past seven months, I have intentionally protected my hunger for God.

Seven is a number throughout Scripture often associated with completion and perfection. Yet, reaching this milestone feels less like an ending and more like a deeper invitation; a call to protect the hunger that has carried me this far.

To anyone looking from the outside, maintaining this posture sounds like a simple, passive state of being. But anyone who has tried to shield their focus knows the truth: it is not as easy as it seems.

The Mid-Year Slump and the Illusion of “Dues Paid”

We’ve reached that stretch of the calendar where a collective spiritual fatigue tends to set in. Call it the mid-year wall. It is easy to feel like you’ve paid your dues—you’ve lifted your hands in worship, you’ve put in the hours of prayer, and a subtle voice whispers that you “deserve” a break.

That is exactly where the drift begins.

There is a profound truth about the awakening we have in Christ: no matter how deeply you’ve encountered Him, if you stop abiding in His presence, the old life begins to look familiar again. The very things God delivered you from start to feel strangely appealing—not because they satisfy, but because neglect has weakened your spiritual appetite.

Distraction isn’t always a massive, dramatic fall. Usually, it’s just a whisper:

“Just one more glance. Just one more compromise. Just one more day without prayer.”

One becomes five, and your appetite changes.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Jesus is moved from His rightful place as your first love to Someone who has to compete with the noise of the world.

The Slippery Nature of Revelation

This reality was brought home so powerfully during a worship session when Minister Dunsin Oyekan said something that has been looping in my mind ever since:

“Spiritual truths are slippery; you can lose them.”

It hit me with such urgency because it is a sobering warning.

You can have a moment of overwhelming clarity in the presence of God on a Sunday, but by Tuesday afternoon, the weight of everyday life can make that revelation feel like water slipping through your fingers.

If you aren’t intentionally holding onto what God has entrusted to you—if you aren’t guarding the container of your heart—it slowly leaks away.

You can literally lose a truth you once walked in if you do not actively protect it. That realization changed the way I think about spiritual growth. Revelation isn’t merely received; it must be stewarded.

Seven Months of Grinding Focus

Knowing how easily we can leak what we’ve received makes these past seven months mean so much more.

It hasn’t simply been a calendar milestone. It has been the slow, daily work of building a fortress around the revelations God has entrusted to me. It has meant choosing to remain in His presence instead of returning to familiar distractions.

Protecting this hunger hasn’t been about achieving a state of flawless, uninterrupted peace. It has been a daily fight.

• It meant choosing the quiet over the noise, even when the noise felt familiar.

• It meant guarding my mornings and my evenings like sacred appointments.

• It meant saying no to distractions that seemed harmless but quietly diluted my devotion.

• It meant carrying my cross daily.

Most importantly, it meant accepting a simple truth:

If I don’t actively feed my devotion, the world will gladly starve it.

Consistency isn’t built in the moments when everything feels easy. It’s forged in the moments when you’re tired, when the year feels long, when life becomes noisy—and you choose to stay anchored anyway.

Lock In: Arise and Eat, for the Journey Is Far

If you find yourself standing at this mid-year intersection feeling the weight of spiritual weariness, this is your invitation to lock in. Do not lose heart, and do not faint.

I want to echo the words spoken to Elijah when he sat exhausted beneath the broom tree:

“Arise and eat, because the journey is too great for you.”

We cannot walk the remainder of this year on yesterday’s meals. You cannot survive July on January’s momentum. If you try to journey on an empty spirit, the world will gladly offer substitutes that promise satisfaction but leave you emptier than before.

This is the season to feed your hunger for righteousness even more.

Return to the Word. Return to prayer. Return to worship—to the place where your soul remembers what truly satisfies. Consume the Bread of Life daily. and drink from the living water.

Protecting the Hunger

Seven months in, I have learned that hunger is one of the greatest gifts God can give a believer. It keeps you searching, listening, and completely dependent. It keeps you returning to Him day after day.

I refuse to trade that hunger for temporary distractions or familiar comforts. I’ve come too far to go back now. Despite the distractions, the exhaustion, and whatever this season continues to throw at me, I have found a God too good to walk away from.

If you’re feeling weary, don’t quit now. Guard what God has spoken. The truths you’ve fought for are too precious to lose simply because the year is progressing.

Arise.

Eat.

Stay anchored.

The journey ahead requires a heart that is still burning for Jesus

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I remember the days I thought I couldn’t make it through. The days when my heart felt so heavy it was physical, pressing against my chest. I remember the painful seasons of shedding—the days I lost relationships, closed doors on opportunities, and had to actively choose to lay my own expectations down at the foot of the cross. In the quiet of those heartbreaks, all I could whisper was, “I trust Your will better, Lord.”

And then, slowly, the days became lighter.

I remember the random Wednesday when my spark suddenly came back. I woke up, and everything didn’t hurt the way it did the day before. The suffocating weight was gone. I thank God that even on the days when I literally felt like I couldn’t breathe, I still chose His presence. I chose to crawl to His feet and just cry.

This is where I was forged. I look back now, and all I see is an intentional God, who takes time to make men before He sends them. He’s in no rush whatsoever. I talked to a friend a few days back and shared my anxieties concerning a certain sphere of my life. But in prayer, I was reminded that there has never been a time that The Lord failed to prepare His own before sending them. He is not that unjust. He is not the kind that scoffs when we fail. He is the master builder. He takes His time. He trains with precision. There is no guesswork with Him.

He’s a good shepherd. He restores time when we lose it. He binds up every wound that we may incur on our way to destiny. He’s a good leader. He’s a good Rabbi.

Because I trusted Him with the broken pieces and allowed Him to build me, He has carried me right through the confusing parts. He knows my name. He knows my deepest desires. And oh, how He has answered. He has opened doors for me that make me look back and literally catch my breath. Who am I to experience this kind of love? Who am I to walk through these rooms, to experience this level of intimacy that changes, restores, and rebuilds?

As I step into July, the seventh month, I am reminded that seven is the number of perfection, completion, and rest. These past seven months have been exactly that—a reflection of His perfect timing and His glory. A testament to the Holy Place I have learned to run to at all times.

Oh, my Father. My God.

Olorun mi.

Adun mi.

All that I have. All that I am. It all belongs to You

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The plot follows Stan, a God-fearing man dating a sharp, ambitious businesswoman. Together, they dream of launching their own finance company but when Stan seeks the Lord for clarity, the trajectory shifts entirely: God calls him to be a pastor.

After some wrestling, his partner yields to the shift. They decide to start small—a quiet home fellowship, taking things one day at a time. But almost immediately, family and friends begin calling Stan’s girlfriend “Mummy G.O.”

She is instantly uncomfortable and resistant.

As I watched her reaction, I couldn’t help but laugh. Not because it was funny, but because I had been in that exact spot. I know the sudden claustrophobia of a label you never asked for.

I was twenty-one when people started calling me a pastor’s wife. Not jokingly, but with a seriousness that felt heavy—as though my fire for God had already decided the course of my life.

At that age, I was radical. Unshakable. The kind of believer who would pray for hours and mean every word. I wasn’t naturally loud, but the fire inside me was stronger than my quiet personality, stronger than my love for solitude, stronger than my instinct to stay small.

When fire is visible, people name it. They project onto it.

So they called me “pastor’s wife,” as if passion must equal position, as if loving God openly meant my future had already been written into a particular script.

Being young and having people speak conclusions over you does something. It makes you feel watched. Like you can’t stumble. Like you have to become what others have already decided.

It reminds me of Joseph at seventeen, dreaming dreams bigger than his shoulders could carry. The dreams were true, but they needed time.

At twenty-one, I think I was in that kind of season—not because the fire wasn’t real, but because I was still becoming.

Around that time, I was finishing school and seriously considering ministry. My parents didn’t understand, and my brothers called often, asking whether I was sure—whether I realized how irrational it looked to walk away from years of education into something so uncertain.

But when you’re young and convinced, you don’t see risk. You see obedience. And obedience feels like clarity, even when everyone else calls it reckless.

Eventually, I deleted all my social media.

Not because I hated it, but because the stage had become louder than my becoming. Social media stopped feeling like a place of expression and started feeling like a place of performance—full of assumptions about who I would marry, where I would serve, and what role I would occupy.

At twenty-one, you deserve the right to evolve without an audience.

Joseph had to leave his father’s house before becoming who the dream said he would be. He walked through pits, prisons, and hidden places where nobody called him ruler—where silence did its quiet work.

Looking back, stepping away from visibility feels less like a loss and more like mercy. A season where fire could be refined into something steadier.

Years later, when people ask why I don’t particularly enjoy social media, I struggle to explain it. How do you say, “I needed room to become without being labeled”?

So I let them assume.

But here’s what I know now: I’m still burning.

The fire is just different. Quieter. Steadier. Less concerned with being seen and more rooted in timing.

By the end of the movie, something shifted. I found myself moved to tears.

The girlfriend didn’t simply give in to pressure; she eventually saw the vision for herself. Her eyes were opened to the calling. But what broke me was the man’s patience. He didn’t force her. He didn’t rush her. He didn’t abandon her while she wrestled with the weight of it.

He held space for her until her heart caught up to the reality.

It taught me something about surrender—and about the beauty of a love that protects your process instead of rushing your position.

Maybe twenty-one was never about stepping into a title.

Maybe it was about learning that fire is a gift, but formation is mercy.

And looking back, I realize that being called “pastor’s wife” was never really about marriage at all. It was about people catching a glimpse of something real and naming it too soon.

Because some things are true.

They just need a patient partner, a faithful God, and the time to become

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She was shocked.

To be fair, she had reached her limit with me. She was tired of me talking about Nollywood movies all the time, so this past Valentine’s Day, she decided to stage an intervention. She gave me access to her Netflix account.

But a week later, I realized something: I kept forgetting it existed. I moved through my days exactly as I had before.

And somehow… that felt like a mirror.

Because sometimes, that’s how we live with God, too.

The salvation. The grace. The Spirit dwelling in us. It is already ours. It has already been given. And yet, we go through life like we’re still waiting for the “log-in” credentials. We move through our days like orphans, praying like we’re longing for something that is currently sitting in our hands.

It reminds me of a traveler dying of thirst while carrying a canteen they forgot to unscrew.

We so often treat Grace like a “break glass in case of emergency” feature—something we only reach for when the world is on fire. But Grace isn’t an emergency exit.

It is the very air we breathe.

It is the subscription that never expires, the water that never runs dry, and the table that is always set.

I don’t always walk in the fullness of this truth. I forget.

So today, I am reminding myself, and I am reminding you:

The price is paid.

The subscription is active.

The table is set.

We don’t need to chase.

We just need to remember to live like the gift is ours.

In a culture where we are all our own PR agents, that sentence feels like a bucket of cold water. We live in a “look at me” economy. From LinkedIn bios to Instagram reels, we are told that if we aren’t shouting, we aren’t existing. We’ve been convinced that our value is tied to our visibility—that if we don’t “brand” our lives, our service, and even our faith, they don’t count.

But there is a gritty, ancient truth in those five words.

Someone once asked me if I was a "ghost" because I don't post. I tried to explain that I’m just in a space where I don’t see the point of broadcasting everything I do. In modern digital terms, people might call it "gatekeeping" your life. But on my end, it’s much simpler: I have died to self.

The Paradox of the Modern Ego

If you have truly “died” to yourself—to your need for validation, your pride, and your craving for the spotlight, then there is nothing left to market. A person who is “dead” to their ego isn’t trying to sell you a version of themselves. They aren’t polishing a persona or managing a reputation. They are simply there, doing the work.

When the ego dies, the craving for validation goes with it. You stop trying to sell people on the idea of who you are and start actually being that person. There is a terrifying, profound freedom in the grave of the ego: when you have nothing to prove, you have nothing to lose.

The “PR Assignment” Trap

We live in a world where everything feels like a PR assignment. We do a good deed and instinctively reach for our phones to document it. We have a breakthrough in prayer and immediately think of how to tweet it. We’ve turned our spiritual lives into content.

But the moment we perform for an audience of men, we lose the reward of the Father. When our service becomes a “campaign,” we are no longer serving God; we are serving our own image. We are trying to “advertise” a life that is supposed to be hidden in Christ. True humility isn’t thinking less of yourself; it’s thinking of yourself less. It’s the ability to do the work in the dark and be perfectly content if the light never hits you.

“My Time Has Not Yet Come”

There is a recurring rhythm in the life of Jesus where He pulls back. When pushed to show His power or claim His crown prematurely, He simply says: “My time has not yet come.”

Jesus refused to be hurried by the crowd's demands or the pressure to “trend.” He understood that divine timing is more important than human momentum. In our world, we are told to “strike while the iron is hot” and “build the platform now.” But if God hasn’t called you to the stage, stay in the wings. A “dead man” doesn’t worry about missing his moment. He knows his times are in God’s hands.

The Power of the Hidden Years

We forget that the vast majority of Jesus’ life was spent in total obscurity. For thirty years, the Savior of the world worked in a woodshop. He wasn’t building a “following”; He was being faithful in the small things.

The world tells us that if you aren’t seen, you aren’t growing. But in the Kingdom, the most vital growth happens underground. A seed doesn’t advertise itself while it’s germinating in the dirt; it just stays there, dying to its old form, until it’s time to break the surface. When we obsess over being “known,” we cheat ourselves of the preparation that only happens in the “Hidden Years.” We want the platform without the character that the quiet provides.

The Heart Inspection

In a world of “Personal Branding,” we’ve become experts at tricking ourselves. We can convince ourselves we are serving God while secretly checking the “likes” count.

The difference between a “monument” and a “window” isn’t always visible to the naked eye; it’s a matter of the heart. We have to be ruthless with our own motives. We have to sit in the quiet and ask the uncomfortable questions:

Am I doing this for God, or am I doing this for the version of me I want the world to see?

If no one ever found out I did this, would I still find joy in doing it?

Am I building a kingdom, or am I just building a platform?

I have made it a rule to stop before I post anything and perform this diagnostic on myself. I ask: What is the end goal of this? Is it centered in God, or do I just want the glory? If the answer tastes even slightly like self-promotion, I let it stay in the drafts. When we perform for an audience of men, we are alive to our own ego. But when we serve for an audience of One, we find the “ghostly” freedom of the hidden life. We stop advertising the servant and start reflecting the Master.

The Daily Death

This isn’t a one-time decision. The apostle Paul famously said, “I die daily.” Every morning, we wake up, and the ego tries to resurrect itself. It wants to be noticed; it wants to be credited; it wants to advertise its latest achievement. But the secret to peace is to put that ego back in the grave, over and over again. We serve for God, not for man. Our motives must be washed clean every single day so that we aren’t performing, but simply following.

A Word of Encouragement

If you feel overlooked today, take heart. If you feel like your work is invisible or your “time” hasn’t come yet, don’t rush to advertise. God sees the work done in the secret place. He is more interested in the quality of your character than the size of your platform.

There is a deep rest that comes when you stop trying to be your own publicist. You don’t have to convince the world that you matter—God has already settled that. Stop selling yourself. Just be. If the work is from Him, it doesn’t need a billboard; it just needs a faithful servant who is willing to stay invisible so the Light can be seen.

But even though the immediacy of the miracle dissipated immediately, the Message of the miracle was something that they could carry with them into future seasons.

And so people who experience miracles but miss the message, don’t really get the value of the miracle.

For its one thing to experience God’s provision and it’s another thing to leave that season knowing that God is a provider.

The many things God has brought us out of in the past weren’t just miracles. He wanted us to leave the season with a message; not just experiencing what He can do, but also Knowing who He is.

This distinction is crucial. It’s the difference between a fleeting moment of awe and a foundational shift in understanding. When we only focus on the immediate gratification of a miracle, we treat God like a vending machine – we put in our need, and out pops a solution. But God desires a deeper relationship, one built on trust and knowledge of His character.

Consider the Israelites in the wilderness, God provided manna daily, a clear and undeniable miracle. Yet, many still grumbled and doubted, failing to grasp the message that God was their faithful sustainer. They experienced the provision but missed the profound truth of God’s unwavering commitment to them.

Similarly, in our own lives, when prayers are answered, it’s easy to celebrate the outcome and move on. But the true value lies in internalizing the lesson: God hears, God cares, and God is capable. Each answered prayer, each moment of divine intervention, is an opportunity to deepen our understanding of who God is – not just what He can do for us.

This shift in perspective transforms our faith from a series of isolated events into a continuous, growing relationship. It allows us to face future challenges not with fear, but with the confident assurance that the God who provided before will provide again. This isn’t naive optimism, but a faith forged in the crucible of past experiences, where the message of God’s character was etched into our hearts. Therefore, let us not merely chase after miracles, but diligently seek the message embedded within them, for it is in understanding God’s nature that we truly unlock the enduring power and purpose of His divine interventions.

The bread in the wilderness and the bread at the last supper – these are not just isolated acts of sustenance, but profound declarations of God’s identity and His ultimate plan for humanity. The disciples, like many of us, were initially focused on the physical act of eating. They saw the bread as a solution to immediate hunger, not as a symbol of spiritual nourishment and eternal life. This highlights a common human tendency: to prioritize the tangible and immediate over the spiritual and eternal.

The true “revelation” in these events is the understanding that our deepest hunger is not for physical food, but for a relationship with our Creator. Jesus, as the “bread of life,” offers a sustenance that goes beyond the temporary satisfaction of a meal. He offers a connection to God that fills the void in our souls and provides lasting peace and purpose.

Therefore, while miracles are indeed “nice” and can certainly strengthen our faith, the ultimate goal is to move beyond the awe of the event itself and embrace the “miracle worker.” It’s about recognizing that the power behind the miracle is not just a force, but a personal God who desires an intimate relationship with us. This acceptance of the miracle worker transforms our understanding of the world and our place in it. It shifts our focus from what God can do for us to who God is to us – our Father, our provider, our sustainer, and our ultimate source of life. This deeper understanding allows us to live a life of unwavering faith, knowing that the God who performed miracles in the past is the same God who walks with us today and will guide us into the future.

Miracles are God’s way of introducing Himself.

And if all we take is the benefit and not the revelation,

We leave the encounter unchanged.

But when we receive both the miracle and the message,

We don’t just walk away helped…

We walk away knowing Him.

After the Bible study session, I texted Josephine, “Thank you for joining, and I hope you were blessed.”

She replied, “Amy, do you know today I went to church for the first time in four years? And when I was leaving church, that’s when you texted.” I was so surprised, but then I knew it was God.

I was shocked for a moment. I marveled at God’s intentionality and doings. This is a girl I helped get a job two years ago. God literally said, “You gave a job provision, but there’s something more important she’s missing.” Sunday really felt like a full-circle moment. It truly was a testament to divine timing and purpose. That encounter solidified my belief that God orchestrates even the smallest details of our lives, often using us as instruments in His grand design.

It wasn’t just about inviting someone to Bible study; it was about connecting a soul to a spiritual lifeline at precisely the right moment. The sheer coincidence of her leaving church just as my text arrived was too profound to be anything but a divine appointment.

This experience also highlighted the ripple effect of our actions. Two years prior, a simple act of kindness in helping her secure employment had laid the groundwork for this deeper spiritual connection. It wasn’t just a job; it was a bridge, unknowingly built, that God would later use to draw her closer. It made me reflect on how many other seemingly ordinary interactions might be part of a larger, unseen plan.

The joy and awe I felt were immense. It wasn’t just a personal victory; it was a confirmation of faith, a powerful reminder that when we step out in obedience, even with a simple “God, abeg,” He can do immeasurably more than we ask or imagine. This wasn’t just a full circle; it was a spiral upwards, demonstrating how God builds upon our past actions to bring about future blessings, both for ourselves and for others. It was a moment that deeply enriched my own spiritual journey and reinforced the importance of being open to God’s leading, even when the path isn’t immediately clear.

It taught me that sometimes, the greatest impact comes from simply being available and willing to be used. I didn’t plan for this profound outcome; I just followed a prompting. And in doing so, I witnessed a miracle unfold. This encounter will forever be etched in my memory as a powerful example of God’s unfailing love and His intricate involvement in our lives. It encourages me to be bold in my faith and always be ready to extend an invitation, as you never know whose life you might touch or what divine appointment you might facilitate.

Sometimes we think obedience has to look big to matter. But often it’s the small moments — a name that comes to mind, a message sent, a simple “God, abeg.” And somehow, God weaves those little acts into something eternal. Sunday reminded me that when we make ourselves available, God can turn the simplest promptings into divine appointments.

This moment reminded me of the story of Philip and the Ethiopian Eunuch—Acts 8:26-40. God told Philip to go to a certain road, and there he met a man searching for truth, and that encounter changed the man’s life.

Sometimes God is already working in someone’s heart before we even arrive. Our role is to be willing when He nudges us. What feels like a small act of obedience might be someone else’s moment of return and restoration. We may not always see the full picture, but now and then, God lets us witness a glimpse of His divine timing.

What struck me most was the weight of truth around surrender. One statement kept echoing in my mind:

“Too much logic is proof that you have not surrendered.”

Take a moment to sit with that.

Logic isn’t wrong—God gave us minds to reason, but when logic becomes the filter through which we decide whether to obey, it exposes conditional trust. Logic says: “This instruction doesn’t make sense, so I’ll wait until it does.” Surrender says: “Even if it doesn’t make sense, I’ll obey because I trust the One who speaks.”

Too often, logic is fear dressed up in a smart outfit. We rationalize disobedience so it looks wise but underneath, it’s a refusal to yield. And the signs are usually subtle but clear:

Your appetites haven’t changed.

Your friendships haven’t shifted.

Your tolerance for gossip is still alive, in fact, you even prefer juicy gossip.

Your heart is still intact, not broken.

And then there’s worship. We were reminded that worship is not content. True worship is meant to take you somewhere where you are emptied enough for God to dwell and trust you with His presence. In other words: worship is intimacy not performance.

Ask yourself: when was the last time you put your phone down in church or at a worship session? A time when you did not take a picture or make a reel to “remember the moment,” but to be fully present with God? As a generation, we need to learn that, some moments are too sacred to capture. Some moments are meant to transform you, not your followers.

Peter’s story brought this home for me. The same man who denied Jesus three times—was later transformed through surrender.

Imagine the shift: Peter could have stayed in fear, thinking, “I failed. Who am I to lead? I can’t do this.” But he yielded. He chose to align his heart with God’s purpose, even when it felt impossible. And when he did, boldness replaced fear. Guilt became courage. And the result? He preached, and three thousand people gave their lives to Christ.

Peter’s story asks us today: what fear or logic is holding you back? What is keeping you from stepping into your calling, from fully surrendering? Becuse God doesn’t call the qualified; He qualifies the called. But He does it through surrender.

The whole Upper Room experience left me reflecting: going to church is not enough. The real question is—what is changing? What am I letting go of?

This session was a quiet but firm reminder that intimacy with God requires honesty, release, and obedience. My writing can’t even do it justice.

All that to say, Dunsin Oyekan is coming to Nairobi, and I can’t wait. We also have an Upper Room Experience with Apostle Grace Lubega in Abuja later on. And at this rate, I might book two flights to Nigeria this year.

It’s 4 am as I write this, and I barely slept.

My body feels heavy.

My emotions are loud, refusing to be ignored.

Prayer didn’t exempt me from the grief I have to carry now, and that truth alone feels sobering.

On Monday, I wrote about Jesus in Gethsemane — about the prayer,

“Not my will, but Yours be done.”

But what I didn’t know is that I was writing myself into it. God has an interesting way of speaking to me, and this time, I wasn’t ready.

Jesus knew the end from the beginning, yet He still felt the weight of it all. He asked. He wept. Knowledge didn’t cancel grief. Agreement didn’t remove the cost.

And neither has mine.

I am in the quiet recognition that obedience does not erase longing, and that surrendering does not silence the ache of what is being laid down

I’m not fighting God. My relationship with Him has moved past the baby-faith experiences, where obedience feels like a gamble, but my body hasn’t caught up to my spirit yet, and my heart is still mourning what it had quietly hoped for.

Sometimes I feel like this cup is too heavy for me to carry, because in all honesty, all I wanted was another chance to breathe again.

But right now, I am so far from it.

I close my eyes, and moments return.

Words. Tone. Silence.

The realization that desire, no matter how pure, does not guarantee alignment. And in these moments, I feel the ache of surrender all over again.

And this is the part we rarely name:

You can pray and still hurt.

You can obey and still grieve.

You can trust God fully and still feel undone.

In Gethsemane, Jesus didn’t rush into strength. He stayed long enough and allowed the weight to pass through Him.

So I’m allowing it too.

I’m not pretending the loss doesn’t matter.

I’m letting grief exist without calling it failure.

I am allowing myself to weep, to break, to feel even when every passing moment feels like I am drowning.

Maybe this is what Jesus meant when He spoke of blessings in unexpected places. Maybe happy doesn’t mean cheerful. Maybe it means held, seen, broken. Maybe it means God is near to the ones whose hearts have been cracked open by obedience.

Happy are the heartbroken —

not because the breaking feels good,

but because even this is holy ground.

And Gethsemane is not the end of my story.

Closing Note

If you find yourself in your own Gethsemane, the quiet tension between obedience and grief know that you’re not alone. This space is not failure, and sometimes staying here is the most faithful thing we can do.

That season, my TikTok feed was filled with videos of people saying they wouldn’t be joining the Hallelujah Challenge anymore. Many shared that their prayers hadn’t been answered and were losing hope in the program and in God. As I watched, my heart broke. I remember crying, feeling the weight of disappointment, weariness, and unspoken questions. It felt like I was carrying a collective ache for people who had prayed, waited, believed… and were tired.

I remember texting my Nigerian friend, Femi, and him calling me almost immediately. He listened, helped me process what I was carrying, but even after the call ended, the heaviness stayed. That entire day, I found myself interceding—holding before God not just my own emotions, but the silent cries of many hearts that felt unheard.

And in that place of intercession, something began to shift

From Requests to Surrender

It reminded me that sometimes, we come into God’s presence carrying requests and petitions, but how often do we pause and ask, “Lord, what do You desire from me?”

We live in a fallen world, and delayed prayers—unanswered questions, prolonged waiting can easily tempt us to doubt God but His character is not measured by how fast He comes through for us. God’s faithfulness is not up for debate simply because the timeline hurts. Sometimes the delay is not a denial of His goodness, but an invitation into deeper trust.

So often, we come with desires, but not surrender. We want His hand to move, yet we rarely wait for His heart to lead. But worship was never meant to be about what we receive from God—it has always been about who we become before Him. It’s easy to worship when we are asking, but what happens when He asks something of us instead?

Becoming the Altar

What if the Hallelujah Challenge is not just a space to present our needs, but an invitation to become the altar itself? What if God is more interested in our yieldedness than our requests? What if He chooses not to answer the things we’ve written on our lists? Will He still be worthy of our hallelujah, our dance?

Are we content to stay in His presence even when He remains silent—when all He gives us is Himself?

It’s one thing to know that God is able, and another to know that He is willing.

And for many of us, contentment with the latter is the true test. We know He can heal—but if He doesn’t, will we still worship? We know He can bless in countless ways—but when He chooses a blessing that stretches us, even hurts us, will we still love Him?

Can we still worship if the answer delays? Can we still lift our hands in hallelujah if the door we prayed for stays closed a little longer?

This is what it means to become the altar.

It is the place where we stop measuring God’s faithfulness by results. It’s where we release the need to understand and choose to rest in His will. Jesus understood the ache between divine ability and divine willingness. He knew the power of El Shaddai. He knew that with one call to heaven, twelve legions of angels could come to His aid. God was able to take the cup away and Jesus more than anyone knew that power. Yet, He still yielded.

He drank the cup dry.

“Nevertheless, not my will, but Yours, be done.” —Luke 22:42

If Jesus could trust the Father in both directions—when heaven moved and when heaven remained silent—then maybe this is the invitation before us too

And maybe that is what true worship is.

So what if this season isn’t about what you receive, but about what you become? What if God is calling you to be the place where His fire can rest?

Worship beyond Answers

Being the altar means saying, “I am okay if You don’t answer the way I hoped, because You’ve already given me all I need—Yourself.” It is choosing praise when it would be easier to complain. It is surrendering your plans, your expectations, your timing, and trusting that His presence is enough. It is trading striving for stillness, performance for purity, and desire for devotion.

So when you lift your hands, let it not just be a gesture of emotion, but a posture of surrender. Let your lifted hands say, “Lord, I’m available. Yield my heart. Yield my will. Yield my life.”

A Gentle Invitation

As the Hallelujah Challenge begins again next Monday, I want to encourage you: whether you are full of faith or feeling tired, join the live if you can. And if you can’t, watch the sessions later.

May we not just attend the Hallelujah Challenge, but become it.

May our lives rise as a hallelujah in moments of victory, in seasons of waiting, in places of uncertainty, and in the quiet corners where only God sees.

Because sometimes, the greatest miracle is not what God does for you, but what He does in you.

What Is the Answer When Life Feels Overwhelming?

The answer is Jesus.

The name of Jesus holds healing, provision, peace, and purpose. When we stop searching everywhere else and call on His Name, we discover that everything we’ve been longing for is already found in Him. Scripture reminds us that “God highly exalted Him and gave Him the name that is above every name” (Philippians 2:9–11).

When Life Feels Like a Search for Answers

There are seasons when life feels like an endless search for answers. We try to understand broken dreams, closed doors, and storms we never anticipated. We seek wisdom from many voices and solutions that promise relief but never fully satisfy. Yet the Bible shows us that the answer was never hidden—it was always in the Name.

The God Who Is “I AM”

When Moses stood before the burning bush, overwhelmed by the calling before him, he asked God who he should say sent him. God replied, “I AM WHO I AM” (Exodus 3:14). Not I was, or I will be, but I AM—the ever-present, all-sufficient God.

When the Israelites needed deliverance, the answer was not in their numbers or strength, but in Yahweh, their Rescuer. In every generation, God reveals Himself as the One who is exactly what His people need.

The Name That Holds Power

Throughout Scripture, we see the power in the name of Jesus displayed again and again:

When the waves threatened to sink the disciples, they did not need a lifeboat—they needed Jesus, the One who calms storms (Matthew 8:26).

When the blind cried out, they did not need a physician—they needed Jehovah Rapha, the Lord who heals (Mark 10:46–52).

When sinners stood condemned, they did not need excuses—they needed the Lamb of God, the Redeemer (John 1:29).

Declare the Name of Jesus Over Your Life

Whatever you are searching for today, the answer is not found in striving, worrying, or waiting—it is found in His Name.

He is Jehovah Jireh, your Provider.

He is El Roi, the God who sees you.

He is Abba, your Father.

He is Jesus, the Name above every name.

Your heart may feel restless. Your prayers may seem unanswered. Your burdens may feel too heavy to carry, yet the solution is never separate from the Savior. The same Jesus who called Lazarus from the grave can resurrect what feels dead in your life (John 11:43–44). The same Jesus who multiplied loaves and fish can multiply faith in seasons of lack (Matthew 14:19–20).

Why the Name of Jesus Changes Everything

When you speak the name of Jesus, chains break, fear fades, and hope rises.

The name of Jesus is not just a word—it is authority, power, and victory wrapped in love.

It is the whisper in the valley and the anthem on the mountaintop. It is the strong tower we run to, the rock on which we stand, and the anchor that holds when everything else fails.

You do not need every solution. You only need the Name.

This year, whisper it. Declare it. Rest in it.

Everything you need is already found in Jesus.

If this encouraged you, share it with someone who may be searching for answers today.

But as years passed, something began to shift. The more I encountered God through scripture and revelation, the more my writing changed. It was as if my words were announcing what I didn’t yet have language for.

I noticed that when it came to writing about Jesus, I didn’t have to strain. The words came naturally, effortlessly, deeply. While other topics began to feel like work, writing about Him felt like worship — like my soul finally speaking its native language.

And now, I see myself in the woman at the well.

She arrived carrying history, longing, quiet shame, and unanswered questions. She came for water and encountered revelation. She met a Man who read her like a thirsty landscape — seeing not only the dry cracks of her past but the hidden springs beneath, and instead of walking away, He poured Himself out as Living Water.

“Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst.” John 4:13–14

She arrived empty. She left running with testimony.

Scripture tells us she left her water jar behind — the very thing she came for.

That’s what writing has become for me.

From Applause to Altar

There was a time when I measured my words by numbers, but applause fades quickly. It satisfies for a moment and then demands more.

Now, writing has become my altar. It’s the place where ambition bows and crowns are laid down. It’s where I remember that influence without intimacy is hollow, and that the only audience that matters is the One who already knows me fully.

And often, as I write, I find myself remembering a song that has become a prayer:

Oh, glorious God, I praise Your name. I lay my crowns and worship You.

Along the way, I’ve learned something sacred.

I can gatekeep my life experiences. I can guard my process, my voice, my gifts, and everything that involves me.

But I cannot gatekeep Him.

I can’t hide the One who can keep me from stumbling. He has been too faithful, too good, too sovereign in my story to be concealed.

“Now to Him who is able to keep you from stumbling and to present you blameless before His presence with great joy…” — Jude 1:24

A Word for the Thirsty

If you’re reading this and you feel that quiet thirst — Jesus is still sitting at the well.

Waiting. Seeing. Offering Himself.

“If anyone is thirsty, let them come to Me and drink.” — John 7:37

You don’t need to clean yourself up. You don’t need perfect words. You just need to come.

Come see the Man.

Come see the One who knows you fully.

Come see the One who stays.

Come see the One who fills.

He is still here.

If you feel led to give your life to the Man at the well, the One who changed mine—I would love to walk with you on that journey. The best way to start a new year is by giving your life to the One who owns the year. Don’t hesitate to reach out and text me anytime. Taking this step is life-transforming, and you don’t have to do it alone. I’m here to support, encourage, and pray with you as you discover the fullness of His love and grace. Shalom.

There are days I ask God why He formed me from softness instead of steel. Why didn’t He make me more detached, more indifferent, more “resilient” in the way the world defines it?

This year, my heart travelled in silence. I loved, and I lost. And somewhere along the way, I realized just how soft I am. I’m always aware of my tenderness, but this year exposed it. I feel deeply. I love with my whole heart, and I don’t do well with conflict in spaces where love exists. When something fractures, my body feels it, and I struggle to catch my breath. Sleep becomes difficult. My heart stays awake, carrying weight it doesn’t know how to put down.

There were moments when I wondered if this was a small echo of how God felt when He gave His only Son to a world that would misunderstand and wound Him.

My body bears the age of adulthood, but my emotions feel like those of a child, untouched by cynicism. My heart is a blooming garden in a world obsessed with concrete. I feel things so deeply that even joy can leave me breathless, and grief knocks me to my knees. This depth sometimes makes me sick, not just in spirit, but in body and bone. And in my quietest moments, I wonder if this sensitivity is a wound or a window.

Then Scripture leans in and whispers Ezekiel 36:26:

“I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.”

And I realize that this fragility is not a flaw, but a promise fulfilled. Jesus wept with Mary. He paused for the blind. He felt power leave Him at the touch of a desperate woman. He could have saved the world with detachment, but He chose to suffer with us. So maybe my ache is an echo of His compassion.

“You have kept count of my tossing’s; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?” (Psalm 56:8)

Maybe our tears are not wasted. Maybe they are weighed.

I may not always understand why my heart breaks open so easily, but I am learning that my sensitivity is an echo of anointing. I see in colors others miss. I feel tremors others ignore. My empathy makes me sick, but it also makes me see. And I believe God did not give me these eyes to shut them, nor this heart to harden it.

So, I remain soft.

People often celebrate silence, but my strength is that I cannot stay silent.

Some wish for detachment; I have wished it too, more times than I’ll admit, but every time I try to grow cold, my heart reminds me: it wasn’t built for silence. It was built to witness. To break. To bow in compassion. This world has tried to toughen me, but the Spirit keeps me tender.

There is power in not being numb.

To the girl who can’t stop crying,

You are not too much.

You are enough.

So, I will keep feeling, even when it hurts, because it means I am aligned with heaven. And when I fall apart, I will fall into the arms of a God who never asked me to be unbreakable, only faithful.