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A winter campfire crackles just ahead. We feel both the chill in our bones and the prickle of caution on our skin. Flames can scorch, yet frost can kill.

There’s nothing more dangerous than a gauge that lies. When it blinks “full” but you're running on fumes, disaster isn't a matter of if—only when. There’s no warning light. No sputtering engine.

“This is not a checklist. This is a lattice. A path to a new beginning.”

“The ache for glory was never wrong—just misplaced.”

Two words changed everything: But God. Easy to overlook—just two brief words nestled within a sentence. Yet, these words carry the transformative power of heaven itself.

A porcelain cup, dropped from even a modest height, doesn’t dent—it shatters. That is the nature of brittleness: beautiful but fragile, strong in appearance but weak under pressure.

It’s one thing to be caught off guard by betrayal—quite another to see it clearly, knowing exactly who, when, and how.

The Vacancy of the Soul A field guide for naming the emptiness, testing its depth, and learning to let it be filled again.

There are days that don’t just weigh heavy—they lean in hard, unrelenting. Not because you're lazy, not because you’ve lost sight, but because you're holding together more than your arms were built to carry.

Humility is the quickest solvent for arrogance—both yours and theirs.

There’s something quietly terrifying about running out of gas. Not because it happens all at once. But because it doesn’t. You thought you had enough. The needle was above empty.

When I find myself frayed at the edges—when the tempter speaks not with fire, but with familiarity—when the old sins whisper like old friends—I remember her. Lot’s wife.

It didn’t happen all at once. I never woke up intending, “Today, I'll drift from God.”

He carries the Word as if lightning is locked in his bones. His message isn't rehearsed—it's forged. He doesn't craft polished phrases aimed at gaining human approval.

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” – Matthew 11:28 (ESV) There's a woman down the street who...

There’s always one in the group. They speak with a certain precision, quote Scripture in full paragraphs, win every theological debate. Their prayers feel polished. Their posture is reverent. Their opinions are... scripturally backed.

We’ve all seen them—people who carry an unshakable peace, even while walking through fire. They are not loud. They do not demand attention. But their lives whisper something holy. A nurse caring for a dying spouse while singing hymns.

I used to think the Christian life was about becoming a better version of myself. Do the right things. Say the polite prayers. Stay away from the “big” sins. Smile often. Be helpful. Be... good.

I thought it was fatigue—just the common weariness from life's relentless demands. I told myself I was simply tired from giving too much, from always trying to do the right thing yet still feeling as though something wasn't quite right.

You're committed, doing the "right" things—praying earnestly, serving consistently, studying diligently, faithfully showing up. But beneath your outward rhythms, exhaustion lingers.