My mom or dad—I’m not sure which—asks me, “Did anyone else do this to you?”

It is strange because my dad had just said he didn’t remember, but someone is already accepting that he did.

I said “yes.”

Two close family members, both about seven or eight years older than me.

My father becomes visibly upset.

He picked up the kitchen table, the table big enough to seat our family of six, and slammed it down.

His reaction was stronger when I told him what others had done than when I told him what he had done.

I remember noticing that.

It felt like we spent more time and emotional energy talking about what other people had done to me than what I had just accused my father of doing.

When I told my father about himself, he said he didn’t remember, and we moved on.

He didn’t seem angry or sad that his daughter was accusing him of doing this. He had said he didn’t remember, but there was no visible reaction to the accusation itself.

Now, though, he was angry.

And this anger was different.

I couldn’t handle it because I wasn’t being disciplined. This was new to me. I didn’t understand what I had done wrong. I wasn’t in trouble, right?

I’m not sure I can even comprehend what exactly he was responding to.

I was lost for words, and my chest was full of that same tightness I had felt upstairs.

I was frightened and confused.

So I got up and walked out of the house.

I told my mom I wanted to leave.

She was noticeably confused, and I told her I wasn’t going back into the house.

She left my dad, and the two of us went to a park. She parked the car, and we got out and talked.

I can’t remember much of that conversation.

I remember one question.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I said, “I don’t know.”

She asked if anyone else knew besides my best friend, the one I had told through text messages.

I told her my two closest cousins knew.

She called her sister, who asked me the same question.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Again, I said, “I don’t know.”

I didn’t know how to answer her.

I didn’t know how to explain that there had never been a moment when telling felt possible.

The truth is, I hadn’t even known what had happened to me.

Maybe a year earlier, I had watched an episode of Oprah where she interviewed a woman about being molested. I remember listening to this woman describe what had happened to her and, for the first time, hearing language for something I had experienced.

Something inside of me broke.

No one had ever taught me what was appropriate or inappropriate when it came to my body.

I knew the touch did not feel right coming from my father.

I knew it made me uncomfortable.

I knew I didn’t want it.

But I didn’t know what the event was called.

I didn’t know that there was a word for what had happened to me.

So when people asked me why I hadn’t told them, I didn’t have an answer that made sense to them.

I had already spent years carrying something I didn’t have the words for, and now that it was finally out, everyone wanted to know why I hadn’t said it sooner.

Today, I still wonder what would have changed if I had told them earlier.

What I know is that, from where I stood that day, telling did not make me feel safer.

It did not make me feel protected.

It only seemed to make everything worse.

Since I was too afraid to go back to my house, my mom took me to my aunt and uncle’s house across town.

When we got there, I called my closest cousin.

“Is there any way you can come here? A lot just happened.”

I’m not sure how she convinced her parents to bring her, because she was only thirteen. I don’t remember when she got there either.

But I remember sitting outside on the steps, trying to fill her in on everything that had just happened.

Then my uncle, my father’s brother, came outside.

He looked at me and asked, “Why are you here?”

It was such a strange question because, honestly, I didn’t know what my mom had told them when she dropped me off.

I said, “I don’t think I can talk about it.”

He asked, “Why?”

“I don’t know. I just can’t.”

He didn’t push me to explain.

Instead, he handed me his laptop.

“Type it then.”

So, I did.

I gave the laptop back to him.

He read it.

Then he slammed it closed and went inside the house.

Jasmin and I looked at each other.

We were both fearful and helpless, two young girls sitting on the steps of my aunt and uncle’s house, watching the adults around me react to something I had barely begun to understand myself.

This was the day that changed my life.

I had no idea what would come of it.

But I knew that on this day, I had ruined everything.

-C.K

If you’re just finding this series, you can read the story from the beginning here…

Introduction: Was it Worth all of this?

Chapter 1: The Pastor's Daughter

Chapter 2: What a Familiar Feeling

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Frustration. Hurt. Confusion.

They were still there, sitting heavily on me after everything that had been said the night before.

Because my parents’ bedroom opened off of the kitchen, I refused to eat or drink anything that day. I stayed in my room. I did not want to see them.

And neither one of them came upstairs to speak to me after what was said.

My middle brother knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to go to a shoe sale with him and my twin brother. I said yes and got dressed. At this point, it was about 1:30 p.m.

As I walked out of my room and down the stairs toward the kitchen to leave, I avoided making eye contact with my mom, who was there. She looked at me and said, “Not speaking today?”

I responded with a simple, “Hi,” and continued walking out the door.

Now that I was in the car with my brothers, I could finally breathe a little bit. But I was quiet the entire ride.

We arrived at the shoe store, which was having a sidewalk sale. It was a hot summer afternoon. As we walked around, I started feeling lightheaded.

I had not eaten or had anything to drink all day.

Because I was getting dizzy, I went inside to pay for the cute church shoes I found and sat down while my brothers continued shopping.

As I approached the register, my vision began to fade. Everything around me turned white, and I could barely walk.

I handed the cashier my money and left my shoes and change sitting there because I knew something was wrong. I had never fainted before, but somehow, I knew my body was about to give out.

I reached for a bench, knocking over shoes along the way, and sat down.

I tried to get my body to calm down enough so I could see my phone screen and call my brothers, who were still outside shopping.

For a moment, my vision returned. I called him and told him I was about to faint and needed to go home.

Both of my brothers came inside to find me. But as soon as I stood up, my vision disappeared again.

This time, my body refused to cooperate.

I could hear everything happening around me, but I could not see, and I could not move.

So, what do teenage brothers do?

They dragged me out of the store by my torso while my feet dragged across the carpet like a rag doll.

I heard people asking, “Does she need water?” and “Is there a doctor here?”

They laid me on the floor, and someone unzipped my sweatshirt to expose my chest while trying to figure out what was happening.

A doctor told my brothers to call an ambulance. They believed I was suffering from some type of heat exhaustion.

They called.

I was placed in the ambulance, and because my twin brother and I only had driving permits, my twin rode in the ambulance with me while my middle brother followed behind.

The only thing I remember about the ambulance ride was them asking if I had eaten that day. I also remember the EMT’s telling my twin brother that my middle brother could not run red lights the way the ambulance was.

So my twin called him and told him to stop.

When we arrived at the hospital, my vision slowly started returning, and I was wheeled inside.

There were no rooms available because apparently everyone had experienced heat exhaustion that day.

So I sat in the hallway on a hospital bed.

And that was when I saw my parents arrive. I’m not sure where my twin brother went.

My heart sank.

This was the first time we were speaking that day, and I was sitting there completely vulnerable and weak. I was on a hospital bed, surrounded by strangers, and still carrying everything that had happened the night before.

The moment I locked eyes with my mom, I started crying.

She asked, “Why are you crying? Are you scared?”

“Yeah,” I said.

And that was true.

For more reasons than she knew.

While they waited for the doctor to check my vitals and make sure everything was okay, I noticed that my brothers must have given my mom my phone.

My heart sank again.

The night before, I had texted my best friend everything I was feeling about my father. I was angry. I was hurt. And I had cursed a lot.

As a pastor’s kid, this was my absolute worst nightmare.

I didn’t want my mom to know that I knew she had my phone, so I stayed still and looked up at the mirror sphere attached to the ceiling. The kind nurses use to see someone approaching from the other side.

And there, in that reflection, I could see my mom clearly.

Scrolling through my phone.

Social media was not really a big thing at the time, so I knew exactly what she was reading.

My text messages.

I sat there helplessly watching my mom read the words that held my four-year secret.

Then I heard my dad’s phone.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Buzz.

It sounded like a piano playing the same key over and over.

I thought to myself, This can’t be what I think it is.

My mom was forwarding every message I had sent to my best friend to my father.

In that moment, my life felt over.

Lying on that hospital bed, I was overcome with anxiety.

I watched my mom continue sending messages while my father’s phone kept vibrating. I watched his body language become more and more aggressive.

I was shriveled with fear.

There was nowhere to go.

I wished I could get up and run away, but I was stuck.

What a familiar feeling.

After some time, the doctor came back and discharged me. I have no idea what they did for the heat exhaustion. I just knew that I was about to face my father’s anger over the messages I sent, and now I had to finally address the secret I had carried for four years.

As we walked back to the hospital parking lot, my father asked me, “What do you have to say to me so bad?”

“Nothing,” I responded.

He kept pushing.

“There must be something. You’re talking about it so much with your friend. What is it?”

I don’t remember how many times I said “nothing” during his interrogation.

How strange.

The man who did it was demanding that I say something.

If it were up to me, I would have carried this secret forever.

If it were up to me.

When we got home, I was summoned to my parents’ bedroom again.

They both looked at me, waiting for an answer to the question my father had been repeating on the ride back home.

I finally said, “I’ll say it, but Mom has to leave the room.”

My mom agreed to leave.

Looking back, I still wonder why.

So now it was just me and my father.

He was waiting.

I finally said the words I had spent four years trying not to say.

Through a flood of tears, I said:

“When I was 11, you touched me on the couch in the living room.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Dad, yes you did. I remember it. I can’t forget it.”

He shook his head in disbelief and called my mom back into the room.

“There’s no secrets in this house,” he said.

Then he looked at her and said:

“Lina says I touched her

…but I don’t remember.”

— C.K.

Introduction: Was it Worth all of This?

Chapter 1: The Pastor's Daughter

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Not because it isn’t important, but because I know how it might look. The story begins with me making out with my teenage boyfriend, and part of me still worries someone will decide that somehow explains what happened to me.

Trauma has a way of teaching you that your normal teenage mistakes will be used against you.

They won’t.

My teenage choices and the abuse I experienced are separate stories.

Before I tell you how my secret came to light, you need to understand the world I grew up in.

We lived in Hebron, Maryland, a small town on the Eastern Shore. Much of my extended family lived just down the road in Salisbury. Around there, everyone seemed to know everyone, and everyone seemed to know my family. Our last name carried weight. I came from a long line of pastors, evangelists, missionaries, and educators. Church wasn’t just something we attended; it was woven into our family’s identity.

For the first fifteen years of my life, I was the only girl among four brothers. My little sister wasn’t born until I was fifteen.

I was a daddy’s girl through and through. We practiced my church solos on our family’s piano in the living room. He taught me the songs, and later I’d search for them on YouTube so I could perfect them. He beamed whenever I did well, and I lived for that look of approval. We spent countless afternoons fishing together, just the two of us. If my dad loved something, I wanted to love it too because it meant spending time with him. We ate at local restaurants together, just the two of us. My dad used to tell me that, as his only daughter, I had a special place in his heart. I believed him. Being close to him wasn’t something I questioned; it was one of the safest parts of my childhood.

When I was nine years old, my father became the head pastor of a church in the nearby town of Preston.

Almost overnight, I wasn’t just his daughter anymore; I became the pastor’s daughter.

I admired him as much from the pew as I did from our living room. To me, he was the best pastor I’d ever known.

Being the only daughter already made me stand out, but becoming the pastor’s daughter added another layer.

I felt like my choices were not just my own; they reflected on my family, my father, and the church he led. Even as a little girl, I was becoming accustomed to carrying that pressure.

I grew up believing my brothers had more room to be ordinary teenagers than I did. As the pastor’s daughter and the only daughter for most of my childhood, I felt like every mistake and every accomplishment carried more weight.

I didn’t fully understand just how heavy that weight was until one evening when I was fifteen.

Our church congregation was riding home on a bus after visiting a church where my father had been preaching. Sitting beside me was my sixteen-year-old boyfriend.

We did something incredibly typical of teenagers—we made out on the bus.

Looking back, it was probably not the smartest place or time. Teenagers are known for poor timing and questionable decisions. But at the time, I was just a girl who liked a boy and got caught.

I don’t know who saw us. I don’t know how many people noticed.

But I know my father did.

Even though he was sitting all the way in the front of the bus, he saw.

On the ride home, I caught the scent of my boyfriend’s cologne lingering on my dress. I smiled to myself as I looked out the window, a lightness filling my chest.

I had no idea this lightness was about to disappear.

I remember walking through the front door still smiling, my shoes clicking against the hardwood floor, and almost immediately my father looked at me and said:

“Get in my room.”

I walked into my parents’ bedroom and waited for my parents to come in behind me. I don’t remember exactly what I said. I don’t remember how the conversation started.

But I will never forget what he said.

“Do you want the church to think you’re a whore?”

The lightness in my chest disappeared, replaced by a knot I could feel tightening inside me.

Not only because of the accusation, but because of the word itself.

My father was my pastor. I had never heard him say that word before. And somehow, I became the first person I ever heard him say it to.

I asked him, “Do you think I’m a whore?”

He responded, “Well, you’re acting like one.”

My mom remained silent, stoic, and uninvolved. This was her demeanor when my father disciplined us.

Her silence while her daughter was being called a whore, paired with the anger in his voice, made those words cut even deeper.

I don’t remember everything that was said after that. What I remember is walking upstairs, but really just wanting to run away or fight.

Because something about that moment felt deeply unfair.

I had watched my brothers kiss their girlfriends. I had helped my middle brother sneak a girl into the house while my parents were at church. She stayed in his room for a long time, and I remember answering the phone and pretending I didn’t know she was there.

My parents didn’t know what I knew.

But somehow, I was the one who became the problem.

I was the one who was labeled.

I was the one who was called a name I would never forget.

Upstairs in my room, I furiously texted my best friend on my old flip phone, my thumbs flying over the number pad.

I was angry at my father’s control over my life and the way I felt like I could never measure up to his expectations.

There was something else underneath all of my anger.

A devastating secret.

Only a handful of people knew, and together we had carried it for years.

A secret I had never shared with my mom or any adult.

A secret that had shaped the way I saw myself, even though I didn’t fully understand it yet.

That night, I fell asleep still angry. I thought the worst part of that day was being called a word that broke something inside of me.

I didn’t know that the next day would bring everything I had buried into the light.

I didn’t know that the secret I had spent years protecting would finally be spoken.

By the next day, everything I had spent my life trying to protect would begin to unravel.

-C.K.

Introduction: Was it Worth all of this?

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As I write this introduction, I’m sitting on the floor of my parents’ house. Two months ago, I moved back after leaving Chicago. The question that keeps echoing in my mind is this: Was it worth all of this?

I asked myself that question after learning, once again, that someone doesn’t believe me—that my father, their former pastor and now head elder of the church, inappropriately touched me when I was eleven years old.

I wasn’t shocked. I was disappointed.

I stopped being shocked by these kinds of accusations about 2 years ago.

Disappointed that people would believe I fabricated something so devastating about the man I loved with my whole heart. Even more painful is watching people choose a version of reality that protects them from grief while leaving me, the victim to carry its weight alone.

Alone is what I have perpetually felt since I disclosed the abuse at the age of fifteen.

So, I often return to the same question: Was it worth all of this? The pain, defending myself, my shattered view of family and parents, the cost of therapy over the years, or the lack of trust in anyone.

The last twenty years have been marked by the deepest pain I have ever known. Yet if there is one thing I hope this story communicates, it is that God has never been absent from it—even when He felt impossibly distant. We often say that God allows suffering for His glory and our good. I want to explore another way of understanding that truth: that nothing we endure is wasted in His hands. Experiencing trauma, processing trauma, living through its aftermath, and fighting not to settle into blaming God or turning away from Him is excruciating, yet none of it is wasted.

If you have experienced what feels like the worst thing imaginable, I hope this mini memoir offers an honest account of suffering, faith, doubt, healing, and hope. It is not a story with every answer neatly tied together. It is the story of someone still walking through it.

And if you’re wondering whether God can sustain someone through this kind of pain, the fact that you’re reading these words is part of the answer.

I’m still here.

I’m still writing.

-C.K.

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The psychiatrist, Dr. K, responded:

“Yes, therapy is a poor substitute for love.”

The moment Dr. K said that, I felt both agreement and discomfort.

Because, as a therapist, I know how deeply healing therapy can be.

But as a human being and as a Christian — I also know there are wounds no clinical skill can fully heal in isolation.

I began thinking about the thousands of sessions I’ve had and how incomplete healing can feel when someone has no safe, tangible relationships outside the therapy room to actually practice love, trust, conflict, and connection.

The statement stayed with me because I think it exposes something many people misunderstand about healing.

1. Therapy is a poor substitute for love

I agree with Dr. K. There is no substitute for love and acceptance in genuine human relationships.

Therapy cannot replace love, community, attachment, or belonging. What it can do is help us to become healthy enough to risk participation in love more fully.

Biblically speaking, Adam was with God in the garden, and yet God still said it was not good for man to be alone. So He made Eve.

Human beings were created for relationship.

Therapy is a tool that helps us function better in love. How we function in love is shaped by countless factors, and those factors cannot always be untangled with a spouse, friend, or family member. Sometimes it is helpful to sit with someone trained to navigate painful terrain without projection, defensiveness, or personal bias.

Functioning better in love can look like many things:

Giving love

Sometimes you withhold love because giving it no longer feels safe.

So you push it away before it ever has the chance to reach you.

Receiving love

Sometimes love is offered to you, but receiving it feels dangerous.

So you reject it before it can reach you.

Remaining in love

Once you have relationships with staying power, therapy can help you navigate communication, trust, boundaries, conflict, grief, and emotional regulation. In many ways, therapy helps people learn how to keep love alive instead of unintentionally sabotaging it.

2. Your relationship with a therapist will often mirror your other relationships

How you show up in therapy is often how you show up in “the wild,” as some of my clients say.

Therapy is still a relationship, even if it exists within a professional container.

As a therapist, I have experienced both the beauty and difficulty of walking with people as they wrestle through what love means to them. I have been yelled at, shut down on, rejected, and misunderstood by clients. I have also been appreciated, trusted, affirmed, and deeply enjoyed by them— and vice versa.

Both experiences matter.

The pleasant and unpleasant moments are all information.

They reveal how someone experiences connection, conflict, vulnerability, and emotional safety.

Love is not simply someone getting it right all the time, though that would certainly be easier. Often, love is the choice to remain emotionally present through misunderstanding, hurt, and conflict without immediately retaliating or withdrawing.

Therapy gives people a place to practice that.

And if you are willing to engage honestly in the process, those skills eventually follow you outside the therapy room.

3. God’s love is not the same as human love

But even healthy human love has limits.

This raises another question:

If human relationships matter this deeply, where does God fit within all of it?

Although God said it was not good for Adam to be alone, that does not minimize the incomparable nature of God’s love.

Human love matters deeply, but it was never meant to replace God.

I would even argue that human relationships are one of the primary ways God teaches us how to give and receive love in the first place. Through people, we experience glimpses of His character: sacrifice, patience, mercy, delight, forgiveness, consistency, and grace.

God sacrificed everything to remain in relationship with humanity. He gave His Son (a significant relationship) so that separation would no longer be the final word between Him and us.

That kind of love is difficult to fully comprehend.

Maybe that is why even our deepest earthly relationships only feel like a taste of something greater. We experience moments of profound love here on earth, but never in their fullness, because here on earth — you simply cannot have it all.

Perhaps Heaven is the first place where love will finally feel complete.

Conclusion

The truth is, we do not heal alone.

Much of what we call trauma comes from relationship — from another person making a choice that harmed us, often without regard for us as we needed to be seen.

If that is where pain begins, it makes sense that healing must also happen in relationship.

To heal, we need connection.

Experiencing love, with all its joy and pain, is deeply tied to mental and emotional health.

The joy of love teaches your mind and body that connection can be safe, life-giving, and beautiful. The pain of love, when worked through in healthy ways, builds resilience. It teaches you that difficulty does not always mean abandonment, and conflict does not always mean the end.

You do get to choose how you participate in love.

But only thinking about love without experiencing it in community is like having your favorite meal placed in front of you and never being allowed to taste it.

You were made for more than observation.

You were made for connection — and that cannot be lived out in isolation or in the therapy room alone.

—CK

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As a little girl, I quickly picked up on what people responded to and what they didn’t. I began to shape myself accordingly. I learned how to present in a way that earned applause, and with it came the affirmation that I was anointed and that God would use me in big ways.

Though well-intended, it taught me something untrue: that my performance and other people’s approval, had something to do with how God sees me.

In adulthood, that message was reinforced in a different form. In a charismatic Baptist church, being educated, articulate, and polished signaled usefulness to the body of Christ. Again, it was well-intended. But underneath it was the same message: that being impressive and effective is where your value lies.

I didn’t realize I was learning how to perform long before I ever called it faith.

A life devoted to Christ

Intimacy with God is found in the ordinary rhythms of life—waking up, making tea, speaking to a stranger, making the bed, watering the plants, folding clothes. These moments have more to do with devotion than a once-a-week performance.

Devotion is not about being impressive; it is about being present. It is the quiet posture of, “I need You. I want to be near You.”

I began to realize how confused I was about what it meant to feel close to Christ. If I only feel close in moments filled with adrenaline—when I’m dressed up, polished, and “on”—then that isn’t closeness at all.

The people we are truly close to see us in our most unremarkable states—groggy, sluggish, unimpressive. That is what it looks like to live with Christ. And let’s be honest, when someone says that they love you and desire to be around you when you are unimpressive is one of the greatest expressions of love.

If we cannot recognize His presence in these ordinary moments, and only expect to find Him in intensity and spectacle, we will miss Him. And yet, it is often here—when we are least impressive—that God is pleased with us. Bad breath, messy hair, and all.

Religious performance

The problem with a performative faith is that it is built on a lie—one many of us have believed for far too long.

There is no performing for Christ. Performance assumes distance—that He is in the audience while you are on a stage. But God is not watching from afar. He is with you. Near you. Gently drawing your attention away from what is begging for applause and back to relationship with Him.

You cannot perform a life—you can only live one. Performance has limits. No one can remain in the lights, the fog, and the applause forever. And when faith becomes performance, it slowly creates a deeper need for more—more attention, more affirmation, more approval.

For many of us, this didn’t start in church. It started in childhood.

When a child learns to hide their emotions—hearing things like “fix your face” or “people are watching”—they learn to perform instead of be known. Over time, that pattern carries into their relationship with God. It becomes difficult to separate who God is from what was learned through parents or church communities. The lines blur, and performance begins to feel like devotion.

But forcing a smile in the presence of God does not make Him more pleased with you.

He is not waiting for the polished version of you. He is present with you as you are—tired, honest, unguarded. Before you do anything impressive, you are already fully seen and fully known by Him. Like a newborn baby—unimpressive, unpolished, yet fully adored—that is how Christ holds us.

Do not confuse what you were taught about love with who God actually is.

-CK

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Mark 11:12 -14 | | ESV

Here we meet Jesus walking from Bethany after preaching. We can imagine that He was tired, but we know for sure that He is hungry.

He saw a fig tree in bloom in the distance. When He got closer, expecting to see fruit, what he saw in the distance was the same as when he got close: leaves on a tree. This is disappointing. The fig tree had leaves, which normally signal early edible buds (breba figs) — leaves signal fruit, but there were none. The tree advertised something it didn’t have. It falsely attracted Jesus (and I can imagine others) to it, only to leave him hungry. I imagine even hungrier, because the idea that you are going to eat only to not eat makes you notice your hunger even more.

A life of Fruit

Reflecting on the scripture, I think about the need for fruit to be actually borne in our lives and not solely the appearance of it. Clearly, Jesus has a problem with this; so should we. A life truly informed by Christ is fruitful through spiritual means and allows others to be fulfilled. People do not get fulfilled through appearances. An attractive, barren spiritual life only lures people to more emptiness.

I sit with so many people, that I think about their experiences that appeared to be fruitful that only left them emptier. Whether it was sin itself, church leaders, family, or friends, we are all affected by the lack of true fruit. This is why it is important to Jesus that we don’t display the appearance only.

What then should we take from this?

True fruit is borne from a life genuinely formed and transformed by Jesus Christ. That is the only way to lead others to Him. That is the only way to remain in Him.

Performance cannot produce fruit. Busyness cannot manufacture life.
To sit with the One who sits with your brokenness is how fruit begins to grow.

To choose the other way is to risk being exposed in your barrenness before God. When Jesus cursed the fig tree, He did not take a fruitful tree and make it barren. He revealed a tree that promised fruit but bore none. The withering was not the removal of life, but the exposure of emptiness.

From Genesis, we already know what false fruit produces — shame and deception.

Production vs. Bearing

There is a difference between producing fruit and bearing fruit.

Production is outcome-centered. It measures success by what can be counted, displayed, or applauded. Production asks, What am I accomplishing? What is the visible result of my effort? It thrives on strategy, activity, and momentum. It is fueled by pressure — sometimes subtle, sometimes crushing — to make something happen.

Production can look impressive. It fills calendars. It builds platforms. It keeps ministries busy and reputations polished. But production is anxious. It depends heavily on human effort. When the results slow, fear rises. When the applause fades, insecurity grows.

Bearing, on the other hand, is connection-centered. It asks, Am I abiding? Am I rooted? Bearing assumes that life flows from a source beyond the branch itself. In the Gospel of John 15, Jesus does not command His disciples to manufacture fruit. He tells them to remain in Him. Fruit is the evidence of union, not the reward of strain.

A branch does not grit its teeth to grow grapes. It remains attached to the vine, and life does the rest. Bearing fruit takes a long time; not many wait for it.

Production is loud.
Bearing is often hidden.

Production focuses on leaves — what can be seen from a distance.
Bearing produces nourishment — what sustains up close.

In the Gospel of Mark 11, the fig tree had leaves that promised something. From afar, it appeared fruitful. Up close, there was nothing to satisfy hunger. It is possible to signal vitality without possessing it. Production can create that illusion.

Bearing cannot be faked for long.

Production is driven by fear of insufficiency.
Bearing is formed in surrender.

Production asks, How do I prove I am fruitful?
Bearing asks, Am I close enough to Christ for His life to flow through mine?

One creates exhaustion.
The other creates endurance.

And here is the hard truth: fruit that is produced by performance may impress people —including ourselves, but fruit that is borne through abiding feeds them.

The invitation is not to work harder at producing results. It is to go deeper in remaining.

May we learn to have a deep desire to bear fruit, not to produce it.

My Current POV

In my twenties, I lived in a constant state of production and achievement. I was often unsure, anxious, tired — and highly productive.

Performance is frequently rewarded more than character. I said yes to many things not from desire, but from obligation. The output brought affirmation. I was told I was gifted. Called. Trusted. And much of that was true.

But beneath it all was an unrelenting pressure to keep producing — the quiet lie that if you stop, you lose your impact.

Yet the call is not first to produce. It is to bear fruit.

I am beginning to see that stopping does not diminish impact — it deepens it.

So I am committed to something different. Not doing for the sake of doing. Not saying yes because I can. But choosing with wisdom what truly bears fruit.

That may mean my life looks different than I once imagined. It may mean letting opportunities pass. It may mean disappointing expectations — even my own.

But fruit requires intention. And I would rather bear fruit than simply stay busy.

I am willing to be overlooked if it means I am no longer empty.

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Part II:

“The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.”

There is so much that is begging for our attention here, and I will do my best to draw things out that piqued my interest and I would love to hear what stands out to you.

Pay Attention to Wind

Jesus is speaking here. Jesus doesn’t begin with doctrine here—he begins by inviting us to notice what is already happening. To be grounded. To be present. This scripture first invites us to simply pay attention to the wind. Paying attention to one thing is the hardest thing that we do. Not only are tangible things outside of ourselves fighting for our attention, but so are our thoughts, emotions, and physical sensations.

When I am paying attention to the wind, I am more so paying attention to how it is affecting me. Right now, in the middle of winter in Chicago, I am negatively impacted by the wind because it makes me colder than I already am. It also makes it hard to breathe. When tornadoes occur, the wind becomes destructive. It destroys homes, communities, and takes lives. When wind interacts with water, it creates ripples and waves. The wind works against a sailboat to propel it forward. In the spring and summer, it cools me off. It adds a nice, soothing breeze to my walks or when the window is open in the house. I also know what it feels like when I want to be affected by the wind and I am not. I often find myself saying, “If there were a slight breeze, the weather would be perfect.” I also enjoy the artificial wind from my fan by my bedside.

I know I am not alone; we have all had these kinds of thoughts and feelings when it comes to wind. This scripture doesn’t teach me something new so much as it names something I’ve already experienced and to notice it.

The sound of the wind is something else that is asking for our attention. The wind whistles as it clashes with more wind. When trees are impacted by the wind, it rustles the leaves and branches of trees. We hear it slam closed doors to be violently opened. We hear it knocking against our windows and bouncing the wind chimes into one another. The wind and the effects of wind have a sound.

Invite the Spirit

As the scripture says, like the wind, the Spirit goes wherever it pleases, and it has a sound. In our desperation, we beg for control of the Holy Spirit. We want it to aid us in our pain, decision-making, and joy. Since we have no control over how the Spirit chooses to interact with us, paired with our lack of comfort with uncertainty, we will even think that we willed the Spirit to do something that we told it to do. Like the cartoon air benders, there is no such thing to bend wind. The Spirit is something that no one can point to and say, “There it is, go get control of it.”

Instead of a false sense of control with the Spirit, there is a more accurate and better relationship to have with the Spirit.

It is one of invitation only.

Similar to sending out invitations for a party with a dress code. Though you are expecting people to come, they can decide if they are coming, when they are coming, and how they are coming. Yes, if it is supposed to be a 90s theme and someone comes in with business casual, you can choose to be upset, but it is merely an invitation to participate. Invitations are hopeful longings of connection.

The Sound of the Spirit

I can imagine that, just as we know the difference in sound between rain and wind, so it is with the Spirit. The Bible tells us what the Spirit sounds like when it resides in us. That sound is carried by breath—air moving through our lungs, up the larynx, and out through the mouth. How we choose to speak is the sounds that the Spirit makes.

Galatians 5:22–23

22 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness,
23 gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law.

Ask yourself, what does love sound like? Do I sound like peace? Do I sound patient? Am I making a noise that is kind and good? Do I reverberate faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control? Have the awareness to know when you sound like this and when you don’t.

2 Corinthians 3:17

Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.

Ask yourself, do you sound like someone who is free from the bondage of sin? What would such a person sound like? What does the opposite sound like?

Listen Carefully

There is a sound. And it is up to us to invite the Holy Spirit to aid us to sound like it. Being made in the image of God means that we are shaped in every way. Our diction is connected to the image we bear. Sometimes the Spirit does not arrive with clarity or answers, but with a sound we recognize before we understand. Like the wind, it moves freely, shaping what it touches and passing beyond our attempts to control it. The wind will keep doing what it has always done, and so will the Spirit. Perhaps the invitation is not to fully grasp the impossible (where it comes from or where it is going), but to listen closely and ask ourselves what kind of sound our lives are making.

- C. K.

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I have witnessed:

• Lies

• Emotional infidelity

• Sexual infidelity without disease transmission

• Sexual infidelity with disease transmission

• Spiritual or biblical manipulation

• Physical violence

• Wives left raising several children

• Husbands left raising several children

• Spouses battling cancer

• The desire to open a relationship to other partners

• The desire to close an open relationship

• Addiction

• Children born outside the marriage

• Financial infidelity

• Slowly losing interest in one another

…and more.

I work primarily with a Christian population, and as a Christian myself, I was horrified to realize that these were not abstract stories or distant headlines. These were the lived realities of people I knew by name.

Reading about these things on social media, hearing them in the news, or encountering them through gossip never affected me in the same way. Those people were distant. I didn’t know them.

But sitting across from real people, carrying real pain, as a single Christian woman—that was terrifying.

While I was dating my now-husband, I would go home to my apartment filled with panic and outrage, projecting other people’s realities onto our relationship.

This isn’t supposed to happen.
What happened in their walk with Christ that led them here?
How can I avoid this?

Out of fear, I would ask him whether he had ever had “certain” thoughts, hoping to pre-screen for potential destruction. At the same time, I turned that scrutiny inward: What would ever lead me to do any of these things? Should I even get married if I don’t know who I’ll be—or what I’ll face—ten years from now?

I was an anxious mess. How could I dare to be married if all of this was possible?

So now, standing in the tension between a therapy career that outpaced my early years of marriage, I want to share some of what I’ve learned.

Listening deeply

Entering my sixth year as a therapist and approaching my first year of marriage, I’ve noticed that I hear my husband differently than I did at the beginning of our relationship. We’ve been together for five years now, and the way I listen has shifted.

What I mean is this: although I don’t see my husband as a client (even though I admittedly tried in the early days), my training has shaped how I listen. I’m attuned to what might be happening beneath what is initially being communicated.

Ironically, this skill wasn’t strengthened most through therapy work itself, but through being in close, lived-in relationships—with friends and with my husband. Proximity teaches listening in a way textbooks can’t.

Listening, observation, and curiosity are essential to building intimacy. Their absence, on the other hand, slowly erodes it. I’ve seen many couples come to view their spouse as a problem to solve rather than a person to love, enjoy, and be curious about.

Something as simple as sitting together and people-watching—then sharing the different conclusions your minds come to—can offer a window into each other’s inner worlds and spark meaningful connection. I’ve often heard couples say, “I’ve never thought about it that way before.”

It makes me wonder: if we slowed down—if we sat still, listened, observed, and allowed ourselves to be curious—how much conflict, misunderstanding, or distance might we avoid?

Embracing otherness

What I’ve also learned is that it is both wise and loving to embrace one another’s differences.

On my best days—especially in the middle of frustration—I hear a quiet reminder from God: he’s not you.

I’ve learned, and am still learning, that this applies to every situation.

“He’s not you” can be as simple as this: he doesn’t care if the bed is made every day, just as I don’t care how the dishwasher is loaded. In those moments, I can choose irritation and ask God to make him more like me so life feels easier—or I can choose to honor the way God has uniquely knit my husband together.

He doesn’t enjoy all the things I enjoy. After years of trying to convince him otherwise—and one unused bike later—I’ve accepted this truth: he is not me. He doesn’t like bike rides. It’s not devastating; it’s disappointing, and I will be okay. Thankfully, one of my closest friends does love bike rides, and when I want company, I can have it.

Going a level deeper, he isn’t anxious about the same things I am—and that is a gift. His steadiness helps calm my anxiety, just as my awareness can help him at times. We balance each other.

He also doesn’t need space when he’s upset the way I do. He longs for closeness instead. Again, he is not me—and that difference invites me to love him more intentionally, not less.

Spouses are not containers for your projections

I’ve also come to recognize how often I project my own desires—especially my tendency to shut down emotionally—onto my husband. In doing so, I’ve sometimes used him (and others) as a container for my own unprocessed thoughts and feelings, avoiding the harder work of naming and owning them myself.

This makes me wonder how often, in marriage, we assume we already know how our partner will respond. Through projection, we decide what they think, feel, or are capable of hearing. And instead of disclosing the truth, we choose concealment.

I wonder how many of the tensions I mentioned earlier are quietly carried alongside small lies—omissions, half-truths, unspoken realities. Each one may seem insignificant, but together they create a bottomless pit of destruction for everyone involved.

What begins as self-protection often ends in distance.

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Reality is best, Illusions are the devil

From sitting with couples, I’ve seen how the harshness of reality can quietly pull us toward illusion and fantasy. When disappointment goes unnamed or pain goes unattended, fantasy can begin to feel like relief. Sometimes it’s subtle—an internal drifting, a private wondering of “what life could be like if…” Other times it grows into something more deliberate, even dangerous, such as choosing to live out that fantasy with someone outside of the marriage.

Regardless of its size, fantasy always functions the same way: it pulls our attention, hope, and emotional energy away from our spouse and places it somewhere else. What begins as imagination slowly becomes disconnection. Instead of turning toward our partner, we turn toward an idea, a possibility, or a person who feels easier, safer, or more affirming in the moment.

I often think of illusion as the work of the enemy because it is rooted in falsehood. Illusion and fantasy are not of God; He operates in truth, presence, and reality. God meets us where we actually are, not where we wish things were. Yet the truth of dissatisfaction in a relationship can feel unbearably vulnerable to name. It requires courage to admit loneliness, resentment, longing, or disappointment—especially to the very person we fear might confirm those feelings.

So instead of telling the truth, we tell ourselves a lie. We convince ourselves that the fantasy is harmless, that it’s temporary, or that it somehow says more about our circumstances than our choices. Over time, though, living in illusion dulls our capacity for honest connection. What starts as self-protection slowly reshapes us, and if we are not careful, we risk becoming people who no longer know how to live in truth at all. We become the lie that we have told ourselves.

The end, is not the end

I have seen the ground—the brokenness, the grief, the places where hope feels exhausted. And I have also caught glimpses of His heavenly glory, at work in marriages that most would call dead. I have watched Him help, restore, and sustain in ways that cannot be explained apart from His presence.

When our hearts remain turned toward Christ, He can redeem our story. That redemption does not always look the way we expect. For some, redemption means the courage and clarity to leave an abusive marriage. For others, it means choosing the hardest road—extending forgiveness after betrayal or infidelity—because that is what the Lord calls us to do.

God’s redemption is not one-size-fits-all, but it is always rooted in truth, safety, and love. He is a Redeemer. And though I have not witnessed the final chapter of every relationship I’ve encountered, I often find myself wondering where those couples are now.

I don’t know—but the Lord does. And He is still writing their story and mine.

“…wonder is the spirit behind awareness that transforms paying attention from a discipline to one of life’s greatest joys.”

-David Benner, “Soulful Spirituality”

I started this the day before my birthday, in a busy airport at 10 p.m., writing and editing because I wanted to get as close as possible to my actual 30th birthday—to see if anything in me would shift at the last minute while approaching 30. It didn’t.

My twenties held so many transitions that I’ve stopped expecting myself to know anything with certainty. Instead, I want to learn how to hold life more loosely and freely. I want to learn what it means to care for my soul. I want to be less of who I think I’m supposed to be, and more of who I actually am.

I could talk about the enlightenment and the rich lessons my twenties have given me, but somehow that doesn’t feel important right now. What feels important is the wonder and attentiveness of this very moment: the quiet approach to 30.

I wonder how I will change, and how I will stay the same. How I’ll approach goals at this stage of life. Whether I even have goals anymore—or care to. I wonder how I can show more of myself, and what kind of wife, friend, and person I’m becoming. I met my husband in my mid-20s, and we’ve only been married nine months. So much has changed already; what else will?

I wonder which friends will stay close and which will drift. Who I’ll meet in my thirties. What prayers I’ll be brave enough to pray—and which ones I’ll still be too afraid to.

I wonder what burdens I’ll finally set down because they were never mine to carry, and which old patterns will still linger a little longer. I wonder what new hobbies I’ll try, what kind of writer I’ll become, what kind of therapist I’ll grow into. I wonder if the dreams I hold now will someday take form—or remain dreams.

All of these wonderings remind me of how much I don’t know.
And somehow, that feels like the point.

I hope I never lose my wonder.

- Celina Knight

²¹ Jesus asked the boy’s father, “How long has he been like this?”

“From childhood,” he answered.

Mark 9:21 NIV

Jesus steps into a chaotic scene where a boy is suffering under an unclean spirit. The spirit would make him lose his speech, seize him, and throw him to the ground. This boy has been tormented with this since he was a child. When I read the father’s answer to Jesus’ question of “how long?”, I’m reminded of how much of our inner world begins forming in those early years. Childhood is where we first learn who we are, what people are like, and how the world works.

The passage calls him a boy—likely a young teenager—yet even before adolescence, there had been something working against his life. Likewise, many of us can point to things that have been with us since childhood: beliefs, fears, wounds, or ways of relating that keep us from becoming who we believe God has called us to be. These long-held patterns of being work against life, where God works toward life, which is Himself.

In therapy, adults often return to these early places not to dwell on the past, but to understand how past experiences shape the patterns of today. Questions naturally arise:

• Why do I keep getting into these kinds of relationships?

• Why does this area of life trigger such fear?

• Why do I speak to myself—or others—this way?

• Who first told me that about myself?

• Why do I feel like I am not enough?

These questions help us trace present-day struggles back to their beginnings. “From childhood” implies both duration and depth—wounds or patterns that have been with us for a long time and therefore take time to heal.

Maybe the barriers trace back to your father, mother, sibling, or teacher. Maybe to the things that happened—or the things that should have happened but didn’t. Whatever the source, healing requires God’s presence. Therapy can be a great partner in that process, but prayer invites God into the deepest layers of the story where only He can work.

Childhood is meant to be a place of safety, nurture, and formation. For many of us, it wasn’t. Instead, it held trauma, neglect, violation, or abandonment —which now feel embedded into our formation. When these burdens are carried alone, they can lead us to approach adult challenges with the coping strategies of a child. A child cannot handle adult problems.

So pray. Keep praying. Invite God into the places that formed you—from childhood—to bring the healing only He can give.

Reflective Question: Am I willing to address my struggles from childhood? How will I move forward in this process?

Prayer: Lord, I am so glad that you have the full picture of my life’s story. You’ve felt my pain, and you’ve cried when I have cried. May you give me the courage to address these challenges I face with myself and others that have stemmed from childhood? Remind me that you have the ultimate power to heal. Give me the right therapist to sift through these things with. Help my unbelief if I am not yet convinced that you can do this for me.

In the Healer’s name, Amen.

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Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.

Galatians 6:2 ESV

Many of us think we’re acting in love, when in reality we’re acting out of fear—and it’s slowly wearing us down.

I have heard the phrase, “I am finally going to put myself first,” so much lately. Though I believe I understand the sentiment, with deeper and slower thought, something else is lingering beneath the surface—something more than a seemingly selfish ambition that is tired of people. Most often, this is said when someone is exhausted from doing much more for others than for themselves. With time, what is often uncovered is that it was not love driving their “care” for others, but fear.

Fear of the “what if” when deciding whether they were going to lend a hand to a loved one or not. Fear that someone would reject or abandon them if they decided to say “no.” A classic case of people-pleasing—something that will always and forever leave us exhausted. The backwardness of it all is that people-pleasing is actually a selfish ambition dressed up as care—a disguise of servanthood and selflessness. Behind people-pleasing is fear and a need to be validated through behavior rather than simply being. People-pleasing makes everything heavier.

If the decisions were instead made out of love and not fear, there would be less worry about whether you would be abandoned if you did not “do the right thing.” Oh, how often we carry this same perspective into our relationship with God. What a flawed and sin-filled thought—one meant to deceive you into distancing yourself from God rather than being drawn to Him.

The same is true for your relationships here on earth. The Bible asks us to bear one another’s burdens, but burdens should only be borne out of love. Carrying a burden out of fear is a poor excuse for carrying.

The better way is to work through the fear of people leaving your life. Ask yourself questions and investigate the fear. Oftentimes, we recognize the fear and immediately jump into the protective behavior of people-pleasing rather than slowing down and being curious. What are you really afraid of here? What do they have that, if they leave, you will no longer have access to? Where have you felt this before?

People leaving because you cannot do for them most likely has more to do with them than with you.

In the Christian walk, it is important to help carry the burdens of others because Scripture says it is in fulfillment of what we are here to do through Christ Jesus. Also, carrying is not fixing. I envision helping someone move a couch. You cannot do anything about the weight of the couch. The only thing you can do to help is lift the other side and relieve them from the fullness of the weight for a moment. After you are done bearing the weight for that moment, you check in, rest, pray, and go home.

If you feel a bit of shame as you recognize these patterns, take heart—God never exposes something to condemn you, only to heal you. Working through the fear will allow you to fulfill the second greatest commandment: to love your neighbor as yourself.

Reflective Questions: Is my burden-bearing out of fear or love? Where did this develop for me? Where was I taught that I needed to please others and not just care for them lovingly?

Prayer: Lord, my people-pleasing has increased my fear and decreased my affection toward people. Teach me how to abandon myself in You, and become more of a burden bearer out of love and not fear. Though the stains of sin are present, help me not to be consumed by the thoughts that relationships can only function this way, including my relationship with you.

In Jesus’ name. Amen

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Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better.

Ecclesiastes 7:3 KJV

I remember the first time I read this scripture at my Poppop’s house. I was SO upset. I asked my Poppop, “Why, why?! Why does this have to be true?” He asked me to read it out loud again. He said, “Well, we pay more attention in sorrow. It is good to laugh and enjoy life, but we do not pay as much attention to God as we should in those moments. Pain makes you sober up.”

Of course, I know that is true, but man, do I wish that laughter was better than sorrow! This is why I call this a “backward hope.” I actually think many biblical concepts are a backward hope.

A backward hope, meaning that to get to hope, you have to suffer some pain first. The Bible has a pattern of saying that after the suffering, there is joy. What I imagine is similar to giving birth to a child. It is the pattern we see in the stories of the Bible, leading us to the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ. There is suffering, sorrow, pain, hope, and then joy. This pattern echoes in the story of Job, who, after losing everything, was restored and blessed with more than he initially had. Similarly, Joseph's journey from being betrayed by his brothers and exiled to rising as a powerful leader in Egypt shows how God's plan works through trials to bring about redemption and joy.

Submitting to such a process can feel grueling, and so is avoiding this process. We all have the hard work of choosing which hard we would like to endure. If the Bible is true, after the suffering and pain, you are rewarded with a deeper joy. We often try to skip over the pain, avoid it, chase it away, stay up at night finding out how to get rid of it —when the Bible asks us to sit in it, see Christ, and allow it to pass.

The countenance of the heart is made better when we don’t abandon God in the suffering, but invite Him in and wait for Him.

Reflective Question: Consider what chapter of your life story might sorrow be writing today. How can you embrace the idea that your heart is shaped and strengthened by the sadness you endure?

Prayer: Father, when I am uncomfortable, let alone in pain, I don’t think of this scripture. Sometimes, I don’t think of any. Imprint your word on my heart to remember in times of sorrow, knowing that it is something that You say is making me better. Help me to submit to your process of making me better.

In Jesus’ name. Amen.

P.S. | Paying attention: I recently revisited this scripture when leading a grief processing group for a small congregation on the Westside of Chicago. First, I must say this is the most emotionally and spiritually healthy church I have ever seen, which I am still in awe of. They suffered a great deal of pain through loss in their church. I opened the group with this scripture, and just asked them to sit with it. I told them my experience with the scripture and how I intially got offended by the truth of it. I asked them what do they feel when they hear this in light of losing parents, children, houses, jobs ...etc. Without spiritually bypassing, most were able to say thorugh tears that they understand the sobering truth, because they were able to understand more deeply their worship and thier God, but it is a painful truth. I remember one woman sharing “this is not a linear process, I sit on my couch many times a week for 15 minutes just stuck in sadness because I cannot go in the room where my husbands clothes are to get something I need.” Some, were where I intially was when reading, upset that pain is better. This scripture and most come alive when you experience what it is referring to. Experiencing deep sorrow is the only way you know that it is better than laughter, because something changes in your heart. God also gave us the ability to somatically experience pain in our chest when we experience pain. When our hearts break our chest hurts. Pay attention to your sorrow and pain and allow scripture to come alive.

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4 Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when there is the log in your own eye? 5 You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother’s eye.

Matthew 7:4-5 ESV

I’ve never heard anyone say, “I love being held accountable”. I personally don’t enjoy it. Accountability often feels icky; it often offends, making our defenses of protection come up. Accountability has been distorted as something threatening. And the way that it is done is important, but that’s for another day. In the scripture, Jesus is speaking of accountability here as a tool of correction, not a weapon of destruction where protection is needed. Jesus calls those who call out someone else’s issues without looking within first— a hypocrite, ouch. To avoid hypocrisy, we should take the time to acknowledge if anything we are trying to correct needs to be corrected in ourselves first.

It is also important to note that “brother” in scripture often means an actual brother, someone close to you, or a fellow believer. Being a brother means that there is a personal relationship there, a closeness where some trust is present. This point highlights our enduring human impulse to correct those who are outside our immediate circles.

It is unwise to forgo accountability because of egocentricity. Being so consumed with Self pushes out the necessary tools of correction to produce the vital good fruit that God wants for you and is good for you. Accountability leads to humility —a good fruit. Humility leads you to Christ. At the core of this, the log is a tool to make you more like Christ. Though this process may feel threatening, it is not.

We must note that a log is much heavier than a speck. The log carries more weight on our bodies and brains. So, when Jesus asks us to take the log out of our own eye, it is because it impacts us much more than someone else’s speck. A speck is only an irritant to a log, it is not the log. To bypass a log and give attention to a speck is a self-awareness issue. Awareness is fundamental to accountability and spirituality. This scripture is asking us to be self-aware.

The question is, will you take the time to give the log the attention that it deserves? A great place to uncover all the heaviness of the log is the safe place of therapy.

To take the log out, you cannot be isolated. Therapy is a great log remover. Once you see clearer (and this will take time), you then have permission from Jesus to get the speck out of someone else’s eye. Why? Because you can see clearly now.

Reflective Question: Are you able to identify your log today? If so, what will you do with this information?

Prayer: Father, forgive me for all of the specks in others’ eyes that I have pointed out before addressing my logs. With your grace, guide me to someone safe that can help me uncover my own brokeness and faults so that in due time I am able to help others. When that time comes, help me to be gentle and humble, knowing that my log-removing process moved me to greater awareness of you, myself, and my neighbors.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

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So she called the name of the Lord who spoke to her, “You are a God of seeing,”for she said, “Truly here I have seen him who looks after me.”

Genesis 16:13 ESV

Here, we run into the beginning of the story of Hagar. Hagar was Sarah’s Egyptian slave. When Sarah was unable to conceive, she gave Hagar to Abraham to bear a child. Pregnant and proud, Hagar looked down on her barren mistress. Sarah’s harsh treatment drove Hagar into the desert.

An angel found her by a spring. “Return and submit,” he said, “but know you’ll bear a son named Ishmael, and your descendants will be countless.” Hagar called God “El Roi” — the God who sees me. She returned and bore Ishmael, whose name means “the God who hears.”

Today, we all struggle with not being seen in relationships. Often, the struggle to be seen is when someone does not fully understand another’s situation, and they aren’t being as empathetic as needed for the vulnerability that was given. To be seen is a feat that only God can conquer. No one can fully understand the pain, trauma, or even joy of another person. Unless you are in their body, you cannot feel what they feel. There are attempts by our neighbors here on earth, and those should be appreciated, though we may still be navigating a lingering sense of emptiness.

God, however, made these bodies that hold the pain, trauma, and joy. He dwells and abides within these bodies. He saw all and felt all that happened and is happening. That is how He can see us — not merely by looking at us or listening to us, but by becoming us. He also knows and understands our unconscious material that we are even unaware of. He essentially sees us before we see ourselves. He knows the depths of hearts that we are ignorant of (1 Kings 8:39; Jeremiah 17:9–10). He hears us before our minds race or mouths open. A heart poured out to Him is the safest place, because He has already and will continue to see you.

A noteworthy piece of Hagar’s story is that she called God “the God who sees me” when the angel instructed her to return to the misery of being under Sarah’s submission. How was she able to come to that conclusion when He did not tell her to run, leave, and be safe? Would that have been a better use of naming Him a God who sees?

We can conclude that God protects even when we remain under submission to the threat. Taking a closer look at her story, the truth is that Hagar ran to the desert — a much bigger threat than Sarah. A desert is not suitable for anyone to live in with no shelter, let alone a pregnant woman. God preferred her to be physically safe to deliver her baby boy, though she remained emotionally unsafe. He even gave her a promise that her legacy would be plentiful. His seeing her was that, if she remained in Him, she would be emotionally safe in Him. We also must not rush to look over that God provided Hagar with what she needed (shelter), which may have opposed what she wanted (to escape emotional pain). Over time, Sarah turned Sarai (her new name), softened toward Hagar, and she was able to give birth to her son Ishmael, whose name means “the God who hears.”

Meeting a need that is not even recognized by you is God seeing you. To be seen is to be provided with what you need, and not necessarily what you want. What would life mean if we got everything we wanted, and nothing of what we needed? The question remains: what did God actually see that Hagar is referring to? My curiosity leads me to believe that God saw — and always sees — the full picture. God, being the Seer, makes Him trustworthy to return to something that would have been seen as safer to leave — hallelujah.

Reflective Question: Do you believe God can keep you emotionally safe in a situation that you feel you need to remain? Why or why not?

Prayer: Lord, I am too often relying on my own strength to remain emotionally safe. I want to resign from that role in my life, because it causes me to run from things that you may prefer me to remain in. Thank you for seeing me and knowing the full story, with all the hard emotions that I hold in my body. I have nothing to prove to man; you will redeem my story over time in your way. Give me grace to remain until you permit me to leave.

In the Seer’s name, Amen.

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² fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.

Hebrews 12:2 | NIV

I was sitting with a mother, who told me about a trip to the eye doctor with her young daughter that changed everything for her. For the past several years she has dealt with adverse behavior from her daughter and went for an annual eye check-up. The mother explained to the eye doctor how her daughter is reading words right to left and not left to right. The mother, thinking that it is a cognitive issue mentioned needing to go to a nuerologist next to understand what is going on with her daughter. The eye doctor, said “well, let me do an exam on her eyes and see if I can see anything on my end.” After conducting the eye exam, the doctor explained to the mother that her daughter has a lazy eye that is preventing her from reading left to right. It is essentially flipping things backwards. The doctor then asked, “does she have any behavior issues?” The mother states with great fatigue, “yes.” The doctor looked at the mother with empathetic eyes. “This may also be related to her behavior. Your daughter’s brain is having a hard time making sense of what she sees, so it’s confusing her, this is causing alot of emotional distress for her, hence the behavior problems. If we are able to fix her eyes, I bet she will be calmer and give you less behavior issues.” No one ever expects to get a behavioral issue rectified with the eye doctor. The mother with gladness and relief started to internally bless the Lord for the ability to fix eyes.

Look how important our eyes are to seeing things with accuracy. It reminds me how vital our eyes are to our emotional, behavioral, and mental functioning. Not everyone can physically see, and yet they are still followers of Christ; therefore, this must mean that the scripture is referring to an internal and eternal sight. Spiritually speaking, our eyes are our hearts. Fixing our eyes on sin and the temporary things of life reverses our thinking, interrupting the process of salvation that God is desperately waiting to give us. Looking to Jesus, in our hearts, regulates our nervous system. Our thinking slows, emotions are settled, and behavior begins to change just by fixing our eyes. Fix has multiple meanings… To fasten. To mend. To repair. To decide. To organize. To make. To influence the outcome of. Whatever your “fix” is, it is wise to connect it to the Fixer.

There is a pattern of us fixing our spiritual eyes on desires or sin that give us nothing substantial in return. This better fixing is to notice a Savior who deeply loves you and is here to perfect your faith. A savior that died for your sins, whether you acknowledge His sacrifice or not. A savior who suffered shame to conquer shame for you.

He is waiting for you to see Him.

Reflective questions: What is fighting for your heart’s attention when it comes to God? Are you willing to surrender that to God and take what He has to offer you?

Prayer: Father, I ask that if I cannot identify what kind of fix I need, you identify it and help me. I cannot fix my eyes on you by myself; I am in desperate need of guidance. My emotions and behavior are not feeling settled. I want to know what it feels like to rest in you. Teach me how to fix the eyes of my heart on you.

In The Fixer’s name. Amen.

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Have you ever read a passage of Scripture and thought God was asking too much of you?
This is one of those passages for me. The truth is, it is a lot—especially when approached with our own strength in mind. When David wrote this, he had God’s strength in mind, not his own. So that is how we will approach it.

We are mostly familiar with the fourth verse of this Scripture because we love the idea of getting what we desire. Verse three shows us that God is the one getting what He desires for us—which is better than what we want.

Trust in the Lord and do good:
Trust is a fundamental function of life—from trusting your CTA ride to work to be smooth, to trusting a spouse not to step out of your marriage. Trust exists on a spectrum involving depth and longevity; the closer it gets to our hearts, the deeper the trust—and the bigger the heartbreak when that trust is ruptured.

Here, David is encouraging us toward a place where our desires will be given to us. It begins with trusting God—letting go of worry and control while rehearsing the truth that He is, in fact, trustworthy.

Do good:
This sounds simple, but let’s be honest—on a bad day, it can be hard to do good. Doing good is defined by God, not by us, because left to our own devices, we will, in fact, do wrong. Loving the Lord fully and loving your neighbor as yourself (Matthew 22:37–39) is a good start to the good work that David is referencing.

Dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness:
This is where mindfulness and meditative practices come into play. Dwell means to live. To live in the land means to be present—with the earth, your surroundings, your body, your soul, and your mind.

Here are some ways to practice the art of dwelling:

• Walk with no music or podcast. Take in your environment, notice how your body feels, and allow your mind to wander.

• Practice meditation by listening to relaxing instrumentals and focusing on your breathing.

• Journal and list things you are grateful for—or even afraid of—allowing yourself to live with your thoughts instead of ignoring them.

• Have conversations with loved ones without phones.

Befriending faithfulness:
This looks like being faithful to what God has given you today—not fretting over what you don’t yet have, but through gratitude and dwelling, being faithful to what is already in your hands.

Delight yourself in the Lord:
Learning how to enjoy God is exactly that—learning. It’s the process of discovering what draws you to Him and what inclines your heart to take pleasure in Him. This looks different for each of us. For some, it’s through nature. For others, through worship music. And for others still, through sharing a meal with friends. God’s omnipresence allows you to enjoy Him wherever you are; you simply need to invite Him into your heart and space.

He will give you the desires of your heart:
After going through this process of trusting, doing good, dwelling, being faithful, and delighting in the Lord, your desires will change for the better. The hope of this Scripture is not that you receive whatever you want, but that you receive more than you can imagine—because God Himself is giving you the desire.

Not to spoil it for you, but He always wants to give us more of Him. Through this process, bit by bit, you are receiving more and more of Him—which is, ultimately, what you’ve desired all along, whether you recognize it or not.

Reflective Questions:

• How can you discover what you enjoy about God this week?

• Who can you bring along on this journey with you?

Closing Prayer:
Lord, help me to desire You more than anything this world could offer. I sometimes struggle to remember that You are more than enough for me. Help me to trust You more, knowing that You are the most trustworthy one. Change my desires so that I can be closer to You, for You are my only Help.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

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However, have you noticed, reading through scripture, how extreme God can be? If anyone else spoke in such a way or was referred to in such a way, we would most likely be put off by them. They would be too much, too sure, and too extreme. These are some of the scriptural references I am talking about:

I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing.

John 15:5

‘Ah, Lord God! It is you who have made the heavens and the earth by your great power and by your outstretched arm! Nothing is too hard for you.

Jeremiah 2:17

For nothing will be impossible with God.

Luke 1:37

Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.

Hebrews 13:5

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition… present your requests to God.

Philippians 4:6

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

Philippians 4:13

…teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.

Matthew 28:20

Why is God so extreme?

As these scriptures depict, when the biblical authors describe the character of God, they often reach for extreme language. To be extreme is to exceed what is usual, normal, ordinary, or expected. And isn’t that the very point? The nature of God Himself is unusual, abnormal, and extraordinary. That is what makes Him God, utterly beyond us, completely unlike us.

To answer the question plainly: God is extreme because He works in absolutes. Even saying that feels daunting, overpowering, and yet strangely comforting. That is the awe-inspiring thing about Him. When scripture tells us that apart from Him we can do nothing (John 15:5), He means it. And when He promises that He will never leave or forsake us (Hebrews 13:5), He means it. His “extremes” are not unstable swings, but unwavering truths.

What may sound “extreme” to human ears is in fact the essence of His holiness. Only a holy God can speak in absolutes without contradiction, hold both justice and mercy in their fullness, and embody love that is at once limitless and uncompromising. Holiness is consuming; it envelops us entirely. Like being drawn into an enormous, billowy comforter, His presence surrounds and overtakes us. There is no halfway with Him. His holiness is at once overwhelming and deeply secure.

God’s extremity is not reckless or harmful, as human extremes often are. Instead, it is a steady sense of His character dripping in both confidence and love.

How to live with an extreme God

If you are like me, when God speaks in extremes, it may feel impossible to get to a place where you fully believe or trust all the absolutes of God. To learn how to live with an extreme God, acceptance is key.

Recognize His Holiness

The holiness of God is what makes Him absolutely extreme. To be holy means to be set apart, to stand outside the ordinary. God is not bound by the moderation and limits that define us. At times, that feels unfair, but it’s actually good news, even if it’s hard to accept. His holiness should relieve us from the crushing pressure of trying to know everything and do everything right. That was never meant to be our job.

I often notice in myself and in my clients a restless anxiety to “beat something to the punch.” We scramble to anticipate outcomes, thinking that less pain will come if we just stay one step ahead. But that isn’t our responsibility. That is the job of God. And while He sometimes lets us feel the sting of life’s punches, He does so to remind us of His absolute power. Even then, His absolute presence never leaves us.

God’s absoluteness teaches us that no matter what is happening, He has an extreme way of caring for us. When we are hurting, we long for someone who will go above and beyond, and that is what His holiness provides.

I’m reminded of the way my Mommom cared for me when I was sick, or even just pretending to be. I would call her or my Poppop from school and say I wasn’t feeling well. Since everything in our little town was close, he was there in about 10 minutes. I can still hear the words: “Celina, pack up, someone is coming to get you.”

There was no better feeling. Sick or not, I was thrilled to go to their house. My Mommom would be cooking a pot of soup or a comfort meal, while my Poppop set me up in the living room with a blanket, my feet propped up, and the TV turned to whatever I wanted. I stayed there until my mom got off work, always sad to leave, because I knew my mom would send me back to school the next day, sick or not.

That’s the kind of safety and security our souls long for, a place of absolute security and comfort, even when sick with sin (or not). And that is what God, in His absolute power and holiness, provides for us.

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Through reading Soulful Spirituality by David Benner, with my dear friend Jasmine, I was captivated by a line where the author stated, “We are made in the image of what we desire.” My chest started to tighten, and my eyebrows began to furrow in confusion and wonder. My mind immediately raced back to Genesis, where the author narrates Eve’s thought process in choosing to eat the fruit.

Here we see the first desire outside of God to be named. Her yearning for wisdom did not come from a desire to know Jesus, but instead a desire to eat from the tree.

We must pay careful attention to what we truly desire and where that desire will lead us.

In Genesis, Eve wasn’t desiring something “wrong.” Desiring wisdom is not wrong in itself. What warped the desire was that she sought wisdom apart from God, rather than through Him. So, when David Benner wrote that “we are shaped in the image of what we desire,” I realized the issue of warped desires in my life.

When thinking of “made in the image of,” that phrasing comes from Genesis 1:26:

“Let us make man in our image, after our likeness…”

Before Eve had the opportunity to desire anything else, the intention in creating her, and all humans, was that we would desire God, for we are shaped and made in His image.

How to Desire

Not only were we created to desire God, we were created to desire, period. Desiring does not need to be taught; it is our natural makeup as humans. Before sin entered the world, our desires were rightly ordered; God was our ultimate desire, even if we had other desires too. Now, tainted with sin, our desires have reversed, and there is now a fight to desire God first. How do we pursue returning to that way of life we were originally made for?

We can find our answer in the book of Psalms.

Trust

To reach the promise of verse 4, we must not overlook what verse 3 calls us to. Trusting in God is what leads us to desire Him. Think of your favorite food that you crave often. At the core of that craving is trust that the food will satisfy you. If it doesn’t taste as good as you remembered, you feel disappointed. That disappointment shows you were trusting the desire to satisfy you. The same is true of the Lord. Leaning into trusting Him to fulfill you will stir your desire for Him. And if He does not fulfill you in the way you expected, it can cause disappointment—but we’ll return to that later.

Do Good

“Doing good” can sound subjective. But to simplify, if you filter your behavior through what Jesus names as the two greatest commandments, it becomes clear.

Loving the Lord fully and loving your neighbor as yourself are what “doing good” looks like. To love the Lord is to want to please Him, not out of fear, but out of awe of Him as your Father. To love your neighbor as yourself means to see all people outside of yourself as someone like you, someone who longs to be loved. If your actions flow from these two loves, you are pursuing good.

Dwell and Be Faithful

This might be my favorite part of the verse, because it asks us to live faithfully in the here and now. It is easy to avoid “dwelling in the land.” But this is a call to be present where you are. Anxiety and depression can take us so far from being grounded because we “what if” a lot in life, and fail to accept what life may bring. We are asked to stay here, grounded, planted feet on earth with everything that comes with it. Not dissociating when life gets hard or fantasizing about another life, but dwelling and living. It would be great to only live in the exciting and happy moments of life, but we know that life brings heartache and pain; we are called to live and stay in those moments as well, staying connected to the God that we trust.

To dwell is to be present in both pain and joy. To be faithful is to acknowledge that uncertainty is part of the journey, yet still commit your ways to God.

Delight in the Lord

Pleasure, with God, is delight. To delight yourself in the Lord is to find joy in His presence. The thing about delight is that it is not a high-energy emotion like excitement. Excitement shows up in bodily changes: your heart races, your eyes widen, your arms tingle. Delight, however, is low-energy and calm. It feels good, but in a steady, grounded way.

To be excited is to overflow with energy. Excitement is bubbly and uncontainable. It bursts out in quick movements, bright smiles, and eager voices. It is like the father in Jesus’ parable who ran to meet his prodigal son (Luke 15:20). He did not walk calmly; he sprinted. That is excitement: joy that simply cannot hold still.

To be delighted is to rest in joy. Delight is steady, warm, and heartfelt. It does not need to rush, because it savors. Scripture tells us that God delights in His people (Psalm 149:4). That word paints a picture of a God who is not merely excited in bursts, but deeply pleased to dwell with us, to take joy in our presence, and to call us His own.

Both are beautiful, but they serve different purposes. Excitement celebrates the moment of arrival. Delight treasures the ongoing presence. One feels like fireworks; the other feels like a fire that warms the room.

To be delighted reminds us that joy can linger, steady and faithful.

After walking through these steps in the way that you personally need to, since spirituality is a personal journey, the Scripture promises that your desires will then come from a place God will bless.

The Problem with Desiring

The problem we face is that we wrestle with what to desire. If we are shaped in the image of what we desire, then we must admit that sometimes we desire sin. And even when it’s not sin, we often desire things we know are not truly good for us.

When I speak with clients about desiring things contrary to what they believe is good, contrary to what the Bible calls good, or a long-lived desire that is causing agony (having children, to be married, to be healed from a disease, or to heal a child from addiction) most of them say something like, “I’m going to ask God to remove this desire.” That sounds nice, but in my experience, He doesn’t do that. I’ve asked, and it didn’t work. You’ve asked, and it didn’t work.

It doesn’t work because God designed us as desiring beings. To remove desire would be to strip away something essential to our humanity. Instead, a better prayer is: “Lord, teach me to desire You more than I desire this other thing.Though I do still desire that, You are better.”

Often, the prayer for God to “take it away” is really about avoiding the pain of disappointment. But God wants to walk with you in disappointment. It doesn’t scare Him. It doesn’t push Him away. In fact, it draws Him closer.

At the end of the day, what we desire is shaping us. The invitation of Scripture is not to erase our desires, but to let them be reordered by God’s love. When we trust Him, do good, dwell faithfully, and delight in His presence, our desires begin to reflect His heart. And as our desires are shaped by Him, so too are we.

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So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate, and she also gave some to her husband who was with her, and he ate.

Genesis 3:6

The nature of sharing is instinctive. Good news, bad news, our business, someone else’s, what scares us, what excites us … etc. It almost feels like an impulsive reaction to information; we share it. Hoarding the information in our minds probably would make us feel overwhelmed or jittery. Sharing feels like it is a core part of us being created, and it is.

It’s connective tissue to intimacy.

In Genesis, we see a downside to sharing. Eve shared what she believed to be good and felt inclined to share with her husband. Her desire of sharing the fruit was to share what she believed that fruit could do for her. She perceived the tree as having the ability to make her wise, so what is the inherent issue with her sharing? The short answer is that she wasn’t even meant to have it in the first place, because God instructed them not to eat of that particular tree.

Like the person who offers “just one hit” of a destructive drug to a friend, because it feels good to them, and the high brings some kind of personal satisfaction. They don’t realize that the friend carries a family history of addiction, even a genetic predisposition. Just because something satisfies you, even if you know it’s wrong, doesn’t give you the right to share it with someone else. What comforts or excites you in the moment might carry a cost someone else can’t afford.

When we share things that we were not supposed to even expose ourselves to, then we are sharing in sin, deception, and death. That is the crux of sharing and even receiving.

Let’s first explore why we enjoy sharing.

Why We Share

1. Social Bonding

At our core, humans are social beings. Sharing—whether it’s stories, food, experiences, or emotions builds trust and connection. It’s how we form families, communities, and cultures. From an evolutionary perspective, those who shared and cooperated were more likely to survive.

2. Sense of Meaning and Purpose

Sharing gives people a sense that their experiences or resources have value beyond themselves. Whether it's knowledge, pain, joy, or faith, giving it to others can make life feel more purposeful.

3. Validation and Identity

When people share, they often seek to be seen, known, and understood. It’s a way of saying "This is who I am." The response we get whether acceptance, affirmation, or even challenge, helps shape our self-concept.

4. Emotional Relief

Sharing painful experiences or deep emotions lightens the load. This is why confession, therapy, journaling, and prayer can feel healing. Emotional pain stored in isolation often grows, but spoken aloud, it begins to lose its grip.

5. Cultural and Generational Continuity

Stories and lessons are passed down through sharing. Whether through oral tradition, writing, or casual conversations, sharing ensures that values, beliefs, and memories endure.

6. Reciprocity and Mutual Benefit

When we share knowledge or resources, we often receive something in return—help, insight, or empathy. Sharing sets up a natural rhythm of give-and-take that strengthens communities.

7. Spiritual and Existential Longing

In Christian tradition and many others, sharing is a form of love a reflection of God’s generosity. We share because we were created to give. Christ’s life was about self-giving, and believers often share as a form of worship, witness, or obedience.

A Better Way to Share

We are created to share, to give, because we are made in the image of a giving God. Reflecting on how Jesus shared and gave through the Gospels, we have an example of the best way to give. Give generously, truthfully, and let it be void of sin. If there is no sin issue to consider when sharing, then I would consider if the thing you are sharing is life-giving. Gossiping is not life-giving, though emotional processing is necessary; weeding out the jabs to character that gossiping often leads to is a better way to share frustration.

Sharing a social media post that might frustrate you because of how corrupt, irritating, or damaging it is. Consider the reaction that you had and reflect on if you want to share, knowing that they may also feel the same.

We are called to share what gives hope, life, truth, and love. Before sharing, especially in moments of frustration or passion, it’s worth asking: Does this reflect the heart of God? Not everything that stirs us is meant to be spread. Some things are better prayed over than posted or shared. Sharing can either stir up fear or stir up faith. Let’s choose the kind of sharing that builds up, encourages, and reflects the goodness we’re called to think on, just as Philippians 4:8 reminds us.