You never forget the first dead body.

There is one brief, blissful moment though. Every morning right as you wake up, you forget. Forgetting feels like freedom when the memory is a monster.

You forget that death is real. Personal. That life is a thin facade. That someone you loved is buried under the ground at that very second.

But only for a moment you forget. Then the memory washes over you like a dark wave. They’re gone, and there is nothing you can do about it.

Rigor mortis sets in. Not just the body but in your memories. Freezing moments in place. Stiffening the suffering so that it feels immovable.

As hard as it is to carry a dead body, it is even harder to carry them in your thoughts.

They like to stay in the front.

They call it dead weight because the body seems to be heavier and more dense when it is not filled with life.

The valley of death adds volume to the dead. Especially when the person was someone you knew.

Knew.

I never thought one word could sting. When I typed that word, I felt it. No longer present tense.

I have been thinking a lot about my friend who died. Death tries to claim everything. Even your grammar.

I have learned that guilt and grief are so similar it is hard to tell them apart. One day you catch yourself laughing, and you stop. Hating yourself for laughing.

Grief is a sharper and deeper pain. The kind that resists.

How can I laugh right now when someone I cared about is under dirt?

The White Underbelly

The first dead body I ever saw was my neighbor’s. I was maybe 10 years old.

My family was coming home from the store, and we passed our next-door neighbor and their kids. It was pouring rain, and they were all standing around outside.

It was an unusual sight. A family huddled in a circle while rain flooded down on them. No umbrellas. No jackets.

Victim to the elements.

We stopped. My stepdad made us stay in the car. He ran to them.

That’s when I noticed a man lying on the ground lifeless. Dead in the mud.

His wife fell to her knees crying. Their kids were frozen. Shell-shocked. They were not crying but the rain ran down their faces as if to do it for them.

Our neighbor was struck by lightning. He had nails in his shirt pocket from working on their barn.

Lightning hit the nails.

Struck.

That’s what it felt like for me too.

This was the nice guy who had us over for dinner and made us laugh with terrible dad jokes. I remember how he used to say high to us every time he saw us outside. He had thick glasses and a big smile.

Now he was lying lifeless in the mud. This was my first true realization that this ride eventually ends.

I saw when they lifted the body onto a stretcher.

His shirt came up, and I could see the white of his belly. For some reason, that stuck with me. I wanted to yell for someone to cover him. To show him some decency.

But death isn’t decent. It is the white underbelly, and there is no covering that up.

D-DAY

One day I am going to die. You are too. We don’t get out of this life alive.

While this truth is inescapable it is not insurmountable. Death is not the destination, it is the pathway.

To fear it is to fear the plane ride that takes you back home from being in a war zone. Where you are traveling to is worth the expense of the vehicle that gets you there.

And yet… grief still hurts. I’ve wrestled with Paul’s words: “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” (1 Corinthians 15:55). I have felt the sting, like venom piercing the human heart.

Even when you know the destination, the goodbyes are not easy. They hurt like hell. I mean that. They hurt like evil from the pits of hell.

So how do we reconcile the reality of grief and the finished work of Christ?

Stepped On It

When I was a kid, I ran barefoot under the shadow of a tree and saw a dead bee on the ground. For reasons I can’t explain, I stomped on it. Hard.

Even though it was dead, it still stung me.

I was surprised that it was still possible.

That’s grief. That’s sin. The sting can pierce even after death is dealt with. Death stings when you touch it with flesh.

So yes, we grieve. We mourn. We wrestle. Even Jesus wept at the tomb of a loved one, knowing that his friend would be brought back from the dead moments later.

But we don’t just deal with dead flesh with our dying flesh.

Like when I was a child running barefoot, If you’re in Christ, you’re under the shadow of a tree too: The cross. Under that tree, death itself has died. Its ultimate power is gone.

When a honey bee attacks, it often dies after it stings. It gives its life to protect life. That is what Jesus did.

The cross drained the venom of sin and death.

Yet, it still hurts.

That’s the tension we live in. A tension of tears. Bitter and sweet. Tears of celebration and separation. We are glad they are in heaven but we sure miss them here.

Death in the mud. That’s what I saw with my neighbor.

That’s what the prodigal saw too. The pig pen looked like a burial. Covered in filth and far from his father.

But the story doesn’t end in the mud.

When we talk about the story of the prodigal, no one talks about the road from the farm to the Father. No one considers the pain of the path.

That road was rocky. Mud-caked. Shame-laden. Separated from his father and covered in his sin, the prodigal’s road looks like grief.

The walk home seems arbitrary though.

Because the path isn’t the point. The Father at the end of it is.

Out of the mud we go back home. Into our Father’s arms.
To be held by the One who held our every moment, who held our sins, and who was held to the Cross.
The One who took mud and breathed life into it.

I will never get over seeing my first dead body.
But I will never forget the body that changed everything — the body of Jesus.

The One would rather die than live for eternity without you.

You are loved.

Known.

Even in the mud.

Even in your grief.

God is not done with you.
He’s running.

Arms wide. Tears in His eyes. Joy on His face.

The mud won’t be a problem.

Death either.

Because He told hell,

“Take Me instead.

You can’t have him. You can’t have her.

The only way you will get to them-

is over my dead body.”

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Way before LL Cool J ever thought about rocking the bells, cemeteries in the 18th and 19th centuries rocked them, literally.

People were deathly afraid not just of dying, but of being buried alive.

Graves were dug up and later found with scratch marks, broken nails, or bodies twisted in unnatural positions. Turns out, some had been buried breathing.
Doctors had declared them dead too early.

To calm the fear, they invented the “safety coffin”. A string tied to the dead person’s hand, leading up through the ground to a bell.

Caretakers were assigned to listen.

Because if the bell rang… Houston, we have a problem.

Dead men don’t ring bells.

For Whom The Bell Tolls

Bells show up in Scripture on the High Priest’s robe. In Exodus 28, God tells Moses to sew bells around the hem.

They also tied a rope around his ankle.

Why? Because if he entered the Holy of Holies unclean, he wouldn’t come out alive.
God’s presence is so holy that even a shadow of disobedience could mean instant death.

Only one man, once a year, with blood and reverence, could go in and only if he was clean.

As he moved inside the temple, the bells on his robe would ring.
The people outside would wait and listen. As long as they heard the sound, they knew he was still alive.

But when the bells went silent? That meant death because dead mean don’t ring bells.
The Presence had claimed him and the rope was there to pull him out.

Silent bells meant something had died.

Are Your Bells Ringing?

I’m not just asking if you’ve been saved.
I’m asking, is there a sound coming from your life that proves you’ve been brought back from the grave?

What does your faith sound like?

Does joy ring out?

“Let the redeemed of the Lord say so.” (Psalm 107:2)

Then why are so many of us so quiet?

Jesus said, “If they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.” (Luke 19:40)

In other words, somebody’s going to make a sound.
Might as well be the ones who know amazing grace how sweet the SOUND.

Sound It Out

When my kids were little, they had those squeaky shoes.
Every step sounded like a dog with a chew toy.
It was fantastic. If I heard the squeak, I knew they were close and not in trouble.

But when the squeaking stopped?
That’s when I got suspicious.
It meant they’d wandered too far or were getting into something they shouldn’t.

I’ve seen this in grown-ups too.
When someone’s faith grows quiet, something’s usually off.

Not that faith always shouts but it does live.
And life has a sound.

You don’t need a bullhorn.
But even a whisper of worship rattles hell.

You can tell which team is losing a game by whose fans are quiet.
You can tell who’s losing spiritually by who’s stopped making noise.

Silence Isn’t Safe

In the movie A Quiet Place, monsters hunt by sound.

One noise and you’re done.
So the people live in silence. Often because they’re scared.

That’s what the enemy wants. Not just your defeat, your silence.
Because sound is proof of life.

If he can’t steal your salvation, he’ll try to mute your witness.
He’ll pressure you into silence, until you believe silence is safer.
But we weren’t saved to stay silent.

Get Your Song Back

I read about a man coming out of a long depression.
One day, his wife stopped him mid-step with a smile.

“You’ve started doing it again,” she said.
“Doing what?”
“You’re humming. You’re getting your song back.”

Sometimes that’s how it begins.
Not with fireworks.
But with a hum. A flicker. A heartbeat.

Psalm 40:3 says, “He put a new song in my mouth… many will see and fear the Lord and put their trust in Him.”

Your sound is more than a sign of life, it’s a witness.

What does getting your song back look like?

Laughing and not forcing it.

Singing again. In the car or in the pew. Having a concert in your shower.

Dreaming again, even if the dream still feels fragile.

Creating again. Showing up again. Caring again.

It doesn’t always start with a chorus.

Sometimes it starts with a whisper.

But even a hum is proof: there’s still music in you.

So let it ring.

Let your bells echo.

Let your shoes squeak.

Maybe you’ve gone quiet.

Maybe life tried to beat the shout out of you.

But hear me:

God’s not finished with your sound.

Start humming again.

Pray like He hears.

Worship like He’s near.

Live like you’re alive.

Because you are.

And anything that’s truly been brought back to life?

Oh, it’s gonna make some noise.

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Boxing has a major issue.

More than just steroids and Mike Tyson biting ears off, it has a lot of paper champions.

Boxing has created a culture where you are only great if you have no losses. That 0 is important.

Take Floyd Mayweather. 50-0. Fifty wins and zero losses.

The problem is that when you become obsessed with protecting the spotless record, you start protecting the fighter.

Promoters know they need to protect the 0. So fighters can end up taking fights they are expected to win rather than fights that they are not confident they will win.

You pick the fights you know you can win.

You protect the record.

And eventually, you can become a champion without ever proving yourself against the best.

I think Christians can do the same thing.

We can become paper champions.

We look like we have it together on paper, but we never risk anything.

Perfectionism can keep us perfectly complacent.

We do not witness because what if they say no?

We do not start the outreach because what if we do not have the money and it fails?

We do not pursue reconciliation because what if we try and it still does not work?

We do not challenge ourselves to do something bigger because what if we give everything we have and still lose?

We protect the 0.

I think part of the reason is that failure hurts differently when you actually cared.

It is easier to stomach when you never really try than to give something everything you have and it still doesn’t work out.

Because when you fully commit and still lose, it can feel like an indictment against you.

Maybe I am not good enough.

Maybe I heard God wrong.

Maybe I am not capable.

So we pick the fights we know we can win.

We phone it in.

We stay inside the boundaries of what we can accomplish in our own strength.

But it untethers us when we have enough trust in God to “lose” and still be okay.

Look at Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.

They were about to be thrown into a blazing furnace. They believed God could save them.

But read what they said:

“If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to deliver us from it... But even if he does not, we want you to know, Your Majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.”

They believed God could deliver them.

But they did not make obedience dependent on deliverance.

Even if.

Even if we lose.

Even if we are humiliated.

Even if it does not work out.

Even if the business fails.

Even if they say no.

Even if the relationship does not recover.

We will not bow.

There is freedom in coming out of outcomes.

Outcomes do matter, but they are not in our control.

Obedience is in our control.

Our job is faithfulness.

Our job is to plant.

God is responsible for the harvest.

As I once heard a pastor say, “You are the farmer, not the Savior.”

You sow the seed.

God grows the seed.

Imagine what we would do if we stopped feeling responsible for what happens after obedience.

How many people would we talk to?

How many prayers would we pray?

How many things would we attempt?

How many seeds would we plant?

Maybe faith is not having a spotless record.

Maybe faith is being willing to step into the ring knowing you might lose.

Because a list of failed attempts is far better than a list of things you were too afraid to attempt.

Stop protecting the -0.

Spoiler alert, we win in the end anyways. The cards are stacked. The game is rigged.

On the Cross where our Savior had the ultimate “loss” we gained ultimate victory. Even in the valley. Even in the hospital room. Even at bankruptcy court. Even at the graveside.

We have such a secure, eternal victory that no loss here is final.

Victory isn’t what we fight for it’s where we fight from.

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When I was in my early twenties, I heard a sermon that nearly made me walk out of the service.

Not because I was mad but because God had just read my mail.

The pastor was preaching about David picking up five stones to face Goliath. Then he asked the congregation:

“I wonder who in here today has rocks in your pocket? God is waiting for you to use them.”

I kid you not, in my pocket was a folded-up piece of paper.

Being a writer had been a dream of mine for years. That morning, I had finally decided to take some steps toward it. Before church, I started writing.

When it was time to head to church, I folded the paper up and stuck it in the pocket of my khakis.

So when the pastor said, “I wonder who in here today has rocks in their pocket,” I knew exactly what God was saying to me.

Use what I gave you.

Sling it.

Don’t let it stay in your pocket.

My brain is unusual. I go down some pretty niche rabbit holes.

Lately, I’ve been digging into what famous and historical people had in their pockets when they died. I know, morbid right?

But I wanted to know what did they carry with them all the way to the end.

Lyndon B. Johnson died carrying a Vicks inhaler and a pack of Wrigley’s Doublemint gum. He also had Winston cigarettes and a lighter.

He had severe heart disease and continued smoking despite his doctors’ warnings.

There’s something sobering about the possibility that a man could carry in his pocket something that was slowly killing him.

Frank Sinatra. Old Blue Eyes himself.

If he hadn’t died in a hospital gown, he likely would have died with a roll of dimes in his pocket.

In 1963, Sinatra’s son was kidnapped. The kidnappers demanded that Sinatra communicate with them through payphones.

One time he ran out of change during the crisis and panicked. After that, he carried a roll of dimes with him for the rest of his life.

Just in case.

After his death, his daughter placed the roll of dimes in his pocket one last time.

Abraham Lincoln. Old Honest Abe.

One of the things found in his wallet after his assassination really resonated with me.

In his pocket was eight newspaper clippings.

They were articles praising Lincoln, his presidency, and his policies.

Think about that.

Abraham Lincoln carried encouragement in his pocket.

The President needed reminders that he was doing something worthwhile while the country around him was trying to tear him apart. While everyone questioned him and drug his name through the mud, he kept a reminder in his pocket that some people actually thought he was doing a good job.

He carried messages that could hold him together when everything else was trying to break him.

Not just rocks.

Something that gave him stones, so to speak.

I wonder if we need to become more intentional about what we carry because we live in a world that is constantly trying to take the rocks out of our pocket.

Trying to kill our encouragement.

Assassinate our assignment.

Hell wants to burn a hole in your pocket so that what God put there falls out before you ever get the chance to use it.

That’s why I love the idea of noise-canceling headphones.

They don’t actually make the noise disappear.

Tiny microphones listen to the noise around you, and the headphones create another sound wave that counters it.

The noise is still there.

It is simply being answered.

Maybe that’s part of what God does with the fearful thoughts that come into our minds.

He doesn’t always make the thought disappear.

Sometimes He answers it.

“You’re alone.”

“I will never leave you.”

“You’re not enough.”

“My grace is sufficient.”

“There’s no hope.”

“With God all things are possible.”

The enemy shouts.

God answers.

Victory isn’t always the absence of another voice. Sometimes victory is learning which voice was designed to cancel the other.

That’s why we have to read our Bibles.

Meditate on His Word.

Hold on to what is good.

Answer accusations with Scripture.

Carry truth with you.

Because you never know when you’re going to need what’s in your pocket.

What has God already put in your pocket?

The idea you’ve been afraid to pursue.

The gift you’ve been afraid to use.

The Scripture you need to remember.

The encouragement you need to carry.

The calling you’ve been sitting on.

The stone you’ve been saving.

Don’t let it stay in your pocket.

David picked them up.

He put one in the sling.

And he let it fly.

God has already put something in your hands.

Now sling it.

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When I first got into working with a real estate investor, I knew very little about real estate. The fact they hired me in the first place should make even the most staunch atheist believe in divine intervention.

Not often, but sometimes we invest in mobile homes. Which is odd because one of the first things I learned about them was that they actually depreciate. Like a car, over time they lose value.

But we have actually done very well purchasing them at the right price, adding value to the homes, and then reselling them.

We have a knack for taking in what should be a liability and turning it into an asset. We do this by appreciating the depreciation. Meaning, we know how to put value back into what has lost its value.

New countertops. New flooring. New light fixtures. Fresh paint.

The next thing you know, where we placed our focus becomes a focal point for the new buyer. They appreciate the appreciation.

Now before you fall asleep as I drone on about investing, let me bring this back to your own home.

In our lives we have so much self-imposed depreciation. We lose the value in what we have. What should be a reason to thank God we often don’t even think about.

We are no longer thinking thanking.

I know depression can be caused by a cascade of complex issues, but no one can deny that what we often feel under the surface isn’t simply depression but depreciation.

A life spent not seeing what has been spent on it is a life that misses the rose for the thorns. The beauty for the bugs. It becomes a life that no longer stops to smell the roses.

Sidebar, I don’t think they actually smell that good. But I also liked the smell of gas as a kid, so my olfactory preferences can’t be trusted.

Speaking of noses, your nose has been in your field of vision all day. You just haven’t noticed it.

Don’t believe me? Try to look at it.

Hopefully your eyes just uncrossed and you are back to reading.

Your nose is always there, occupying a small part of everything you see. Your brain edited it out.

Neuroscientists call this perceptual filtering. Your brain constantly ignores what has become familiar so you can focus on what seems new.

I wonder if this happens to us spiritually.

We stop appreciating the appreciation.

What if the greatest gifts in our life haven’t disappeared but they’ve simply become familiar?

The spouse who still chooses you.

The children whose laughter once answered your prayers.

The Bible sitting within arm’s reach.

The mercy of God that greeted you again this morning.

The next breath you didn’t earn.

A clean glass of water.

The smell of gas when I was a kid...

Just kidding.

None of our blessings are absent.

They’ve become so constant that your soul filters them out.

Maybe gratitude isn’t finding something new to appreciate. Maybe it’s seeing what stopped feeling remarkable.

Sometimes the greatest miracle isn’t that God gives us more. It’s that He opens our eyes to what’s right under our nose.

Imagine what our lives would be like if we started appreciating more. I bet it would appreciate more. The value would come back. And in the process, so would we.

Over 50 million copies of The Purpose Driven Life have sold. We are all obsessed with knowing our purpose and God’s will. Where do we fit?

Yet the Bible says it pretty blatantly.

1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

“Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”

Rejoice. Pray. Give thanks.

Not the Live, Laugh, Love we were looking for, but it’s close.

Try to have a bad day while you rejoice, pray, and give thanks. It’s pretty hard.

Because there is something about thinking about thanking that really wakes us up. It’s caffeine for the soul.

And the more you don’t want to rejoice, pray, or give thanks, the more you need to.

It is the antidote to the sickness of depreciation.

You become an environment that bitterness and anger can’t grow in.

When my kids were little, they had those squeaky shoes. Every step sounded like a dog with a chew toy.

It was fantastic. If I heard the squeak, I knew they were close and not in trouble.

But when the squeaking stopped?

That’s when I got suspicious.

It meant they’d wandered too far or were getting into something they shouldn’t.

I’ve seen this in grown-ups too.

When someone’s faith grows quiet, something’s usually off. When they no longer give thanks. When they no longer pray.

Not that faith always shouts, but it does live.

And life has a sound.

You don’t need a bullhorn.

Even a whisper of worship rattles hell.

You can tell which team is losing a game by whose fans are quiet.

You can tell who’s losing spiritually by who’s stopped making noise.

I knew an 80-year-old man named Hireum. Pronounced Hire-em. Imagine having that name at the top of your résumé. You’re getting that job.

Hireum was so faithful to God. You would be having a discussion with him about the weather and he would say out of nowhere, “Thank God.”

You would talk about sports and he would randomly say, “Hallelujah.”

It was like he had holy Tourette’s.

But Hireum had it right.

His life is a portrait of a godly legacy.

Not because he didn’t face bad things.

But because he saw the good in his life, he had a good life.

Get your thanks back today.

Sing worship songs way too loud in your car.

Say thank you.

Appreciate the appreciation.

Take stock of how richly blessed you are.

You will find that saying thanks isn’t just good manners but a good life.

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“What would happen if I rode a beam of light?” 16-year-old Albert Einstein asked himself.

I was asking myself how to get a girlfriend as a teen, but Einstein was asking questions about relativity.

We are not the same.

That one question led him to develop theories that revolutionized our understanding of space, time, and gravity.

One question changed our und…

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When my kids were younger, checkups were part of life.

The doctor weighed them, measured their height, checked reflexes, compared everything to a chart. They weren’t looking for signs of life. They were looking for signs of development.

My kids were always in the 90th percentile for head size. They can thank me for that.

Many parents keep growth charts at…

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In my twenties, I worked in a mechanic shop for a paving company.

The shop next door raised peacocks.

It was not unusual to be working underneath a vehicle, glance down by your feet, and see the tiny legs of a peacock standing next to you.

That bird walked around like it owned the place.

The males would spread their wings all the way out, trying to intimida…

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Anyone who says sitting in a sauna is relaxing has never sat in one for 20 minutes at 197 degrees.

It is torture.

Every session reminds me why hell will not be my forever home. I would prefer not to slow roast for all of eternity.

I have noticed something strange, though.

When I’m in there alone, every minute feels longer than the last. The heat becomes all…

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In the '90s, everybody smoked, including my parents. I’m old enough to remember smoking sections at McDonald’s.

Looking back, smoking might have been healthier than the food at McDonald’s.

I’m still not convinced the McRib is a real rib. I think they’re lying.

It’s a McFib.

But I digress. My parents smoked… a lot. My siblings and I got our fair share of secondhand smoke. I’m still mad about it.

I could have been an NBA star, but those stinking Marlboros stunted my growth.

As kids, we were fascinated with smoking. One time my brother and I stole cigarettes from my mom. We stashed them in an empty peanut butter jar, and buried them in the yard.

No more secondhand smoke. We were about to find out what firsthand smoke was like.

The problem was, we couldn’t remember where we buried them. We dug everywhere and couldn’t find our stash. We had holes all over the yard.

We gave up on ever smoking them.

Looking back, losing those cigarettes was the best possible outcome. They never had the chance to harm us.

In the same way, there are things in our lives that need to be buried,

We will carry what we don’t bury.

We need to have funerals for the things that have hurt and wounded us.

I can think of nothing more harmful and cancerous than unforgiveness.

About 67% of smokers die from smoking-related diseases, but cigarettes have nothing on unforgiveness.

Unforgiveness harms 100% of those who hold on to it.

Unforgiveness is the most cancerous burden we can carry. And without realizing it, my brother and I demonstrated what forgiveness looks like:

Forgiveness is burying that which was designed to bury you.

We need to bury the weapons that hurt us so we don’t use them to hurt others.

Ephesians 4:31-32 (NKJV)

31 Let all bitterness, wrath, anger, clamor, and evil speaking be put away from you, with all malice. 32 And be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you.

The word bitterness (pik-ree’-ah) means sharpness and deep-seated resentment. It refers to something acidic.

Bitterness corrodes any container that holds it. A heart filled with bitterness damages itself.

When we hold onto hurt, we really hurt ourselves.

We need to ruthlessly detox our hearts and purge our souls from the poison of bitterness.

We need to bury the burden of bitterness today because undealt-with bitterness becomes unexpected bondage.

There are many people imprisoned behind the bars of bitterness. They are held where they were hurt.

Anchored to what angered them.

Stuck in a place they were supposed to pass through.

Bitterness is a symptom, not a disease.

To bury bitterness, we have to uproot the source.

Bitterness is birthed in the soil of unforgiveness.

Forgiveness: The Kingdom’s Foundation

Forgiveness is the foundation of the Kingdom of God.

Unforgiveness is the foundation of the kingdom of darkness.

All of Heaven rejoices when one person is forgiven.

All of hell celebrates when one person holds on to unforgiveness.

Jesus, our Savior and Blueprint, shows us that forgiveness is not optional.

As forgiven people, we must forgive people.

It’s Not Easy

We’ve all been hurt. And we’ve all hurt others. My intention today is not to minimize what happened to you.

Maybe you were stabbed in the back in a way that felt like you were stabbed in the heart.

Maybe you were cheated on by someone or cheated out of something.

Lied to or lied on.

Maybe you were framed or fired.

Even worse, maybe you were insulted or assaulted—physically or even sexually abused.

Forgiveness is not making light of the life they took from you; it’s making the most of the life you have left. (Repeat that.)

It’s not ignoring what they did to you; it’s focusing on what God did for you.

Unforgiveness says, "Look at the great sin." Forgiveness says, "Look at God’s Son."

Bury The Hatchet

Health benefits of forgiveness:

A study of survivors of domestic violence found that women who forgave their abusers were less likely to enter abusive relationships again. Forgiveness allowed them to declare, "It ends here. I am burying this burden."

Forgiveness has been shown to help people lose weight.

Trauma survivors who forgive experience a reduction in chronic stress and blood pressure by up to 50%.

Those who forgive are less likely to engage in abusive behaviors toward their children, helping to break generational cycles.

Even weirder, those who forgive actually increase their vertical jump. Showing that unforgiveness literally holds down.

The phrase bury the hatchet comes from a Native American tradition. When tribes made peace, they would have a ceremony and literally bury the weapons that had harmed them so they couldn’t be used again.

That’s what forgiveness is. It’s burying the hatchet. Digging a grave for the cancerous things so they don’t spread any further. Unhealed trauma can turn a wound into a weapon. One we use on those around us even when we don’t mean to. Bleeding on those who never cut us.

Bury The Hatchet, But Not The Boundaries

Let me introduce you to a dysfunctional family. Jacob and Laban. They would have made great reality TV.

Their family drama started with Laban swapping daughters on Jacob’s wedding night, forcing him into 14 years of labor for the wife he actually wanted.

Jacob retaliated by tricking Laban in a sheep-breeding-Ponzi scheme, growing rich while Laban’s stocks dwindled.

Years of shifting wages and mutual suspicion turned into a standoff. Jacob fled with his family and flocks, and Laban chased him down.

Finally, they made a covenant of peace, setting up a boundary stone. They declared that they would not cross the boundary to harm each other.

They buried the hatchet—but they also built a boundary.

What Forgiveness is NOT:

It is not reconciliation. Forgiveness takes one person; reconciliation takes two.

It is not forgetting. You may never forget what happened, but you can remember with grace.

It is not waiting for an apology. Just as Jesus forgave us before we asked, so should we.

It is not approval of their actions. It is alignment with God’s will.

Hebrews 12:15 warns us about the "root of bitterness" that can grow up and defile many.

Do you trip over anger and sarcasm every time that coworker talks?

Do you trip over jealousy every time someone posts a vacation picture?

Do you trip over gossip every time you talk about that person?

If you can’t root for someone when they succeed, you’re tripping over the root of bitterness. Bitterness is the residue of unforgiveness.

Today, let’s make the bravest decision we can. Bury the hatchet before it buries us.

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One Time Gift

“That’s not how I really am. That’s not really me. It’s the work. It just brings out the worst in me,” my boss said, red-faced and head low.

He had just been irate with me moments before over something incredibly minor.

In his defense, it was a demanding job. I accepted his apology. I knew exactly how he felt because I’ve been there too.

I remember getting…

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One of the greatest guitar players of all time was a man named Stevie Ray Vaughan. He was so good that the first time Eric Clapton heard him play, he had to pull his car over.

One time Stevie Ray Vaughan was performing for an audience. This was being aired live on national television.

The band was playing incredibly. Stevie was perfection. Skills and pass…

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Do you even like you?

That sentence hit me like a brick today and shattered the mirror of my own self-reflection.

I want to be a person who loves like Jesus, but sometimes I don’t.

God has heard me pray it a thousand different ways.

Help me to be more kind to others.
More gracious to others.
More patient to others.

The unsettling truth is, How can I give away …

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“Why do you dress like a (Insert racial slur)?”

I am 14 years old. Just sitting around the pool that was owned by one of my Step Dad’s bosses. The person asking me this ... .My Step Dad's boss!

My cheeks immediately turned as red as that hot Georgia sun that was shining on us. I don’t know what to say.

I am embarrassed.

I am appalled.

I am angry.

He begins to laugh as if it's some inside joke. I look over at my Step Dad.

He says nothing.

I knew right then and there, this was something my Step Dad had been joking about at work behind my back. That hurt more than the words he said to me.

Outcasted for Outcast

Baggie pants, oversized shirt, rap music blaring, and white skin.

That was me in High School in the rural south. Rap music was not embraced by pop culture back then, and neither was I.

I was outcasted because I listened to Outcast.

My High School photos are both hilarious and humiliating to look at now. I still shake my head at my outfits. Why was I wearing pants that were literally 5 sizes too big.

I was like a foreign exchange student in High School. My outfits never fit in. I was a scrawny, white kid trying to look like Eminem, surrounded by farm kids.

I never completely fit in. It didn't really bother me though. I liked what I liked.

I was used to standing out. I was used to stares. I was even used to name calling.

But I guess you just never get used to a father not sticking up for you.

I can not imagine this scene happening to my kids, now. I love Jesus but I will still throw hands when it comes to my family. I might turn the other cheek if something is done to me but not for my wife and kids. I will break a cheek for them.

I am not that “saved” yet.

The Father Who Fights Back

Exodus 14:14

14 The LORD will fight for you; you need only to be still.”

You may have never been a white guy called the “N WORD” but I am certain you have faced your fair shares of accusations.

You may have been hurt in ways in which I can not even comprehend.

For that, I feel so much sorrow that happened to you.

I just want to gently remind you that you have a Father who sticks up for you. He advocates for you. He knows your name.

He knows who you are and He loves you all the same.

So you can rest today in your fighting:

You’re fighting to be understood
You’re fighting to be seen,

You’re fighting to be right,

You're fighting to fit in.

The battle has been won. You don't have to fight to win.

You are merely fighting the wind.

You have a Father who knows you completely, yet loves you fully.

A Father who would rather die than spend eternity without you.

Now, that’s something worth fighting for!

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I never thought I’d die this way. Bench pressing. Alone. In my brother’s room.

But there I was—a teenager, a bar pressing down on my chest, lungs screaming, arms shaking.

All I could think about was how humiliating it would be if everyone in school found out I died lifting weights—alone. Not exactly the legacy I had in mind.

My brother was out for the day, and temptation won. I snuck into his room and climbed onto his forbidden bench. Set after set, rep after rep, I pushed myself to the edge, squeezing in every ounce of strength while I had the chance.

Eventually, fatigue claimed me. I stripped off a lot of weight on the bar and tried one last burnout set. Halfway through, I failed. My arms buckled. My chest burned. And then—the bar settled, firm and final, right across me.

It wasn’t heavy. Not yet panic-heavy. But the clamps were locked. I was trapped.

“Mom! Mom!” I screamed.

No answer. I was beginning to gasp for breath.

I used all of my air and with one final roar yelled again for my mom. She came running. Lifted the bar. Freed me.

Embarrassment barely scratches it. But it was the payback I deserved.

Roasts and Near Misses

Before my near-death by barbell, I was in high school, part of a weight-training crew that loved to joke around.

While someone was lifting, we were supposed to be spotting but we were too busy roasting each other. One guy was pulling a heavy bar. We looked up too late. He was now lying on the floor. The bar hovered right at his throat.

Thankfully, the bumper weights were tall enough to keep it off him but just barely.

Our distraction almost killed him. A lack of focus almost turned a routine lift into a tragedy.

That’s exactly what happens in life. When we’re too caught up in ourselves, too busy joking, judging, scrolling, or ignoring, we miss the people gasping under invisible weight.

We were made to be our brother’s keeper (Genesis 4:9). To watch, to see, to step in. Sometimes it’s holding the weight for someone else until they find their strength.

The Ultimate Spotter

But human spotters have limits. We miss signs. We can’t always hear the gasps. We can’t always see the bar tilting.

Enter the Holy Spirit: the ultimate spotter. The One who sees before we see. Who hears before we speak. Who lifts before we even know we’re falling. He is our helper, our lifter, our unseen strength.

God still spots us by speaking to us. Sometimes it’s a whisper, a nudge, a fleeting thought. But if we ignore it, tragedy can follow.

The SS Californian was less than twenty miles from the Titanic when it sank. They saw the flares. They tried to respond—but the operator had gone to bed. An estimated fifteen hundred people died because an SOS wasn’t heard.

Don’t Sign the Papers

I’ve been part of God sending an SOS through me.

I was a nervous wreck—only my second time preaching, dry-heaving behind the pulpit, anxious about looking foolish. Weeks of preparation didn’t calm my nerves. But all week, one thought kept repeating: “Tell them not to sign the papers.”

I prayed, “God, what papers? Who?”

Silence.

The voice wouldn’t go away. Persistent, but mysterious. I prayed for clarity. Nothing.

In the middle of the sermon, it came again: “Tell them not to sign the papers.”

I hesitated. “God, if this isn’t You, I’m about to look crazy.”

But I obeyed.

“I don’t know who this is for,” I said, “but I feel like God is telling me to say this: Don’t sign the papers.”

The congregation stared. No reaction. My heart sank.

Later, a young woman approached, tears streaming: “I have divorce papers on my kitchen counter. Thank you. I won’t sign them.”

The bar was invisible. The weight was real. And the rescue came because God was the spotter through me.

The Whisper Ignored

God still speaks. And sometimes the cost of ignoring Him is devastating.

A pastor friend shared a story that haunts me to this day. During a church service, he felt the Holy Spirit urging him to encourage a teenager. The kid seemed fine—solid family, always at church, everything together.

My friend ignored the prompt. That same week, the teenager tragically took his own life.

Life will put bars on our chest. Fatigue, trials, sin, grief—they’re heavy. But with courage, and the Spirit guiding our eyes, ears, and hearts, no bar needs to crush us.

Watch. Pray. Step in. Spot the strain. Listen. Lift.

We were never meant to go it alone and sometimes, the smallest whisper, the gentlest nudge, is what saves a life.

Go be a spotter today!

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We chase ghosts.

The faint glimpse of what we never heard. What we didn’t get as a child becomes the thing we crave most when we are older. It becomes an ache we don’t know how to ease. What we crave becomes carved. Deeply etched into how we love.

On a vinyl record, the sound is stored in the tiny grooves. The music plays from the cuts. Sometimes the reco…

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Ouija BORED

My parents used to chase demons.

They didn’t know that’s what they were doing. Back then, they called it ghost chasing. This was the 80s, before the internet and before it became a TV show.

Out in the rural South, silence filled the space, and fear filled the silence. So they chased what stirred both.

One day, they brought home a Ouija board they’d borrowed from a friend. They sent me and my siblings to our room while they “played” with it.

I guess a Ouija board is one way to deal with being bored.

The skies were clear. The air was still. But then the wind began to howl out of nowhere. It slammed against our trailer and rocked it like a storm was passing through.

Our phone rang.

It was the man they had borrowed the Ouija board from. He was panicking.

“Are you on the board right now?”

“Yes,” they said.

“Who are you talking to?” he asked.

They gave the name the “ghost” had introduced itself as.

His voice turned sharp. “GET OFF! He’s not one to play with!”

My parents slammed the board shut and threw it in their car. They never chased ghosts again.

Craving Eternal

Looking back, I see it clearly now.

They weren’t chasing ghosts. They were chasing a craving.

There was a spiritual hunger in their hearts. A longing for mystery. For meaning. For connection to something beyond.

But instead of running to God, they scratched a soul-deep itch with the wrong tools.

The Doctor Is Out

I used to drink only Dr. Pepper.

No water for me.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I only drank soda.

If the body is mostly water, I was mostly High Fructose Corn Syrup.

Eventually, I cut back to one a day and started drinking water. I noticed that the more water I drank, the less I craved soda.

And when I did try soda again, it tasted like syrup in the worst way.

The right diet will change your cravings.

When I started drinking water, I stopped craving soda.

The right diet doesn’t just change what you eat.

It changes what you want to eat.

Your appetite shifts with your intake.

When you start feeding on what you were made for, you stop craving what you weren’t.

Pregnant Cravings

Pregnant women sometimes crave the oddest combos. Pickles with peanut butter, or ice with hot sauce.

But there’s a medical condition called Pica, where people crave things like chalk or even dirt.

Research has discovered that they crave these things because their body is missing something essential like iron, zinc, or calcium.

And the things they are craving contains in it what they are missing.

So they are craving something unnatural to fix a real deficiency.

Cravings often point to something you need.

But if you don’t know the source of the craving, you’ll try to feed your soul with things that can’t nourish it.

Eat enough dirt and you’ll end up in it.

Eating Ants

My brother and I ate ants.

Not because we liked them but because we wanted to be liked.

Two girls in our neighborhood convinced us that they loved putting ants on goldfish crackers and eating them.

Yes, we fell for it.

There we were, eating ants on goldfish with a big stupid grin on our faces, talking about how good it tasted.

All the while they giggled.

We didn’t crave ants. We craved acceptance.

We just didn’t know how to meet the craving.

Feeding on the Wrong Things

Whether it’s demons, dirt or ants, the principle is the same: Cravings reveal what we’re missing.

When we chase validation, lust, or control-

We’re often trying to meet a spiritual hunger with spiritual junk food.

Daniel’s Example

Daniel lived in Babylon, surrounded by indulgence, temptation, and compromise.

When the king’s table offered food sacrificed to idols, Daniel refused. He chose what was pure and God honoring.

It wasn’t only about the food. It was about faith.

And God honored that decision not just with health, but with divine wisdom.

Daniel craved purity over his taste buds.

The Prodigal Son

The Prodigal craved freedom. Wealth. Pleasure. And he got it, for a moment.

But it left him broke and broken. Hungry and humiliated.

He started craving pig food.

But there was a feast at his Father’s house. His cravings drove him away.

But grace drew him back.

Taste and See

Psalm 34:8 says, “Taste and see that the Lord is good.”

But have we acquired a taste for the wrong things? We feast on distraction. Binge on approval.

Snacking on sin.

Then we wonder why we feel sick, empty, and numb.

Even in Eden, Adam and Eve craved something other than what God had given.

One bite and it all fell apart.

Fighting the Feed

Feeding your spirit isn’t passive. It’s intentional.

The flesh wants what’s fast, easy, and fake. But the Spirit invites us to something deeper. Not just empty spiritual calories.

Jesus declared that man shall not live on bread alone, when he was tempted by taste buds.

Daniel chose discipline. The Prodigal chose repentance. Both were fed by the Father.

Because what you feed on is what you become.

Jesus was the word made flesh. He stated that “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God. ”

He was what He consumed.

The Word.

Heart Transplant

To get a heart transplant requires a perfect match. The body will reject what’s not the right one.

Our souls reject anything less than the eternal, because they were made for it.

The eternity set in our hearts can only accept eternal things.

Ecclesiastes 3:11 says, “He has set eternity in the human heart.”

That means no temporary thing will ever be enough. You can’t fill an eternal void with earthly junk.

That craving you feel?

It’s for Him.

Only Jesus satisfies.

Finding Your Way Back

Ever since Eden, we’ve been trying to find our way back. Back to the Garden. Back to wholeness. Back to God.

So the next time you find yourself chasing something dysfunctional or craving something sinful be reminded:

You’re not searching for more , you’re searching for meaning,

You’re not craving distraction, you’re trying to fill a deficiency,

You’re not wanting to binge, you’re aching to belong,

You’re not looking to escape reality, you’re longing for the eternal,

It’s not a need for a high, You are hungry for home.

You have just been using the wrong map.

You’ve just been eating dirt and ants, when you are meant for something sacred.

Crave Creator, Not Crumbs

So when you feel a craving rise up—pause.

Ask yourself: “What is this really about?”

Is it hunger or hurt? Is it pleasure or pain?

Then take it to God.

Before you scroll, snack, spend, or spiral,

Pray.

Even if it’s one sentence: “Lord, show me what I really need.”

And then choose to feed on what actually fills:

His presence.

His Word.

His truth.

His love.

You will find that the more you consume the things of God, the more you will crave them.

When you feed on what’s sacred, you lose your taste for the sinful.

God has been craving to be with you more than you can imagine.

In that knowledge you will discover what you actually have been looking for the entire time,

Home.

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Buy Me A Coffee

“How are you doing today?” I asked a coworker like I always do.

“Can’t complain,” he said.

That phrase stuck with me.

Can’t complain.

Well. I can.

Give me a bad moment and I will turn complaining into an art form. My complaints are the canvas. My words are the paint. My mouth is the brush.

Before long, I have created something that is not even real. A distort…

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A man was in a boat fishing close to the shore. He saw another man fishing from the shore.

Every time the man on the shore caught a fish, he would measure it, but if the fish was big he would throw it back in the water.

He only kept the small fish. The guy on the boat said, “This looks well… fishy.”

So he idled the boat close to the guy and asked, “Why are…

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In 2013, a man in Wales made a huge mistake.

On his hard drive was the private key for 8,000 Bitcoins. When he first mined them, they were worth less than a dollar a piece. As of 2025, they were worth 751 million dollars.

While cleaning his house, the hard drive was thrown away. Now in a landfill sits a buried device containing a fortune.

A. W. Tozer once …

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