Blog

Category: Deep

  • Grace In The Dirt

    I don’t know why Jesus would want to use someone like me. The truth is, I wouldn’t have chosen me. I spent years not even wanting myself. I couldn’t stand the man in the mirror. I couldn’t stand the weight of my own failures. And trust me, there’s been more failure than success. More broken promises than kept ones. More moments of weakness than strength. I am not some special person. I’m not polished. I’m not impressive.
    I’m messy. I’m complicated. I’m stubborn.
    I’m a walking contradiction most days. I’m desperate for grace and hungry for God but fighting the flesh that betrays Him.

    Sometimes I sit in the quiet and wonder: Why me, Lord? Why use someone so deeply flawed? Why love someone who spent so long running away? Why die for someone who couldn’t even bear to look at himself?

    But then I remember that It was never about me being good enough. It was never about me being worthy. It was never about what I had to offer.

    He wanted me because He loved me first.
    Before I lifted my eyes. Before I whispered a prayer. Before I ever thought of Him. When I was still a mess. When I was still covered in shame. When I was still sprinting toward destruction.

    He wanted me because He saw what He could do in me, not what I had done.
    He wanted me because broken vessels are the ones that shine His light the best.
    He wanted me because His grace doesn’t glorify the worthy; it glorifies Himself. He wanted me because He is a Redeemer.
    Because He takes messes and makes testimonies. Because He takes ashes and makes beauty. Because He takes the things the world throws away and says, “This one’s mine.”

    Jesus didn’t come for the perfect. He didn’t come for the powerful. He came for the sick.
    He came for the weak. He came for the sinners who had nothing to offer except empty hands and a broken heart. And if you’re like me, if you’ve ever wondered why He would even look your way, Just know it’s because love like His doesn’t make sense by human standards. It runs deeper. It sees farther. It chooses anyway. I still don’t understand it fully. But I’m learning to stop questioning it, and start living like someone who was worth rescuing.

    Because to Him, I was. And to Him, you are too. He wanted me because He is “close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). He wanted me because “while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). He wanted me because “God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise” (1 Corinthians 1:27).

    He didn’t wait for me to clean up. He didn’t wait for me to figure it all out. He came running while I was still a long way off (Luke 15:20). That’s grace. That’s mercy. That’s Jesus. So if you’re standing there with nothing to offer but a broken heart and tired hands, good. That’s all He ever needed to work a miracle. And He’s not done yet.

  • I’m Not a Saint, Just a Story

    I know I come off as hellfire and brimstone in a lot of my writings. I know the tone can be sharp, the words heavy, and the message uncomfortable. But understand something, none of it comes from a place of hate. It’s not judgment. It’s not pride. It’s perspective.

    It’s conviction. And conviction isn’t cruelty, it’s love. It’s the same love that won’t let me stay silent when I see people slipping. It’s the kind of love that yells watch out! when you’re walking too close to the edge. It’s not to shame, it’s to shake. Shake us out of comfort. Shake us out of compromise. Shake us out of thinking I’m good, when in reality, we’re spiritually asleep.

    See, the danger isn’t always in doing wrong. Sometimes it’s in thinking we’re doing fine when we’re really coasting. And comfort is the quickest way to drift from Christ. You’ll never find Jesus in a life that’s just about being cozy, liked, and unchallenged. Walking with Him? It costs. It convicts. It confronts. But it also saves.

    Jesus doesn’t promise a smooth ride here. In fact, He warned it would be hard. He said the road is narrow. The burden is a cross. But the destination? That’s where the joy is. That’s where the reward is. That’s where eternity with Him begins.

    And hear me when I say this, He’s not asking for perfection. He’s asking for progress. For movement. For a willing heart. For a desire to get back up every time you fall. Because the truth is, He already knows we’re flawed. He knows we’ll mess up. But He wants our yes anyway.

    I don’t share this stuff because I think I’m some spiritual giant. I’m not. I’m nobody. Just a man who was broken, saved, and changed. A man who can’t stop talking about the One who pulled him out of the dark. I don’t want you to think highly of me. Honestly, don’t. I’m not the point. Jesus is.

    Think highly of the One who loved you before you even knew His name. The One who died to give you a way back to the Father. The One who is still reaching for you, even now.

    So if what I write ever cuts deep, I pray it also heals. If it ever shakes you, I hope it also roots you. Because it’s not about me being loud, it’s about making Him known. Don’t think highly of me. Just think of Jesus.

  • Religious Lips, Rebellious Hearts

    You’re Worshipping Idols and Don’t Even Know It. I’ve been guilty of this. I have to check myself daily because it’s an easy trap to walk into. It doesn’t look like a golden calf, so you think you’re good. It doesn’t stand on an altar or wear a robe, so you think it doesn’t count. But idolatry today is much quieter. Much more deceptive. Much more comfortable.

    It looks like the bank account you obsess over. The job title you wear like armor. The mirror you check twenty times a day. The approval you constantly crave from people who don’t even walk with God. The image you’re desperate to maintain, even if it means faking a life you’re not really living.

    You’re not bowing with your knees, but you’re bowing with your priorities. You’re not singing to it, but you’re sacrificing for it. You’re not burning incense, but you’re burning time, energy, peace, purpose. All of this just to keep it happy.

    Some of you are worshipping a relationship that’s not even healthy. You’ve put a person in a place only God should occupy, and you’re wondering why everything feels off-balance. You’re expecting a broken human being to give you identity, peace, fulfillment. The things only the Holy Spirit was ever meant to bring.

    And here’s the part nobody wants to hear:
    You worship people more than you worship God. The scary part is you don’t even see it.

    You fear what they’ll think more than what God already said. You shape your life around their expectations instead of His commands.
    You let their opinions define your worth more than His truth does. And you chase their validation like it’s eternal, just like it’s salvation.

    But people can’t save you. People didn’t die for you. People didn’t tear the veil. People didn’t conquer the grave. So why are they sitting on the throne of your life?

    Others are worshipping their pain. You’ve made an idol out of your trauma. You’ve built your personality around what hurt you, and now you protect it more than you pursue healing.

    And let’s talk about comfort for a second, because for a lot of us, that’s the true god of this generation. We worship comfort. We sacrifice growth for ease. Obedience for convenience. Holiness for pleasure. Truth for what won’t offend.

    You’re still attending church. Still quoting verses. Still wearing the cross. But your heart belongs to something else. And God sees it.

    These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. – Matthew 15:8

    That verse isn’t about pagans. That’s about us. The truth? Idols don’t need temples anymore. They live in your habits. They live in your feed. They live in what you scroll to, what you binge on, what you can’t say no to.
    They live in the quiet moments of compromise that you keep justifying because “God knows my heart.”

    Yeah. He does. He knows who’s really sitting on the throne in your life. And if it’s not Him, it doesn’t matter how dressed up it looks, how culturally accepted it is, or how many Christian words you throw on top of it. This makes it still an idol. And idols always demand sacrifice. Eventually, they will ask for everything.

    So maybe it’s time to do a heart check. What are you really worshipping? What do you rearrange your life for? What do you trust more than God? What can’t your ego and pride let go of, even if He asked?

    Because following Jesus doesn’t just mean putting Him first. It means putting everything else second. Tear the idols down. All of them.
    Even the ones you dressed up in religion.
    Even the ones that feel good. Even your Pastors, Prophets, Evangelists, and Religious Leaders that have died that you still worship more than God. You put their words and love you had for them above your love for God.

    You can’t walk in freedom if you’re still bowing to chains. And you can’t serve a holy God with a divided heart. Choose today who you will serve. And make sure it’s not the god of them, or the god of you. Only One deserves that throne.

  • The Soil That Knows My Name

    Here’s what this place means to me. This dirt, this land, this air, it’s where I am from. Maybe I didn’t fully grow up here, but this is where I was made. Where my bones were shaped, where my heart was taught to beat with pride, patience, and grit.

    This place didn’t just raise me, it molded me. It whispered lessons into me every time I walked across the field, every time I sat on that porch swing, every time I heard the creak of the barn door or the rattle of gravel under car tires.

    A large part of my heart belongs here. Stuck right here in this soil, between the fence posts and the hay bales, in the shadows of the hills and the warmth of that old farmhouse kitchen. I carry it with me every day, even when I’m not here.

    Family runs deep in my veins. Deeper than most folks understand anymore. Not just in last names or old photos, but in the way I love, the way I work, the way we fight for each other and stand through storms together.

    This may just be the most beautiful place on earth to me. And it’s not just because of the view. It’s the feeling. The memories. The stories.

    I remember feeding the calves with Grandma. Her voice was soft, her hands steady. She taught me how to be gentle with something small and scared.

    I remember collecting the dead chickens in the coop with Grandpa. That’s not the kind of memory that makes it into the movies, but it’s real. And it taught me about life, and death, and responsibility.

    I remember the quads, the speed, the mud, the laughter. I remember every path we carved through the fields like it was yesterday.

    And that’s just the tip of it.

    I remember the smell of fresh cut hay.
    I remember cold mornings when breath hung heavy in the air. I remember the sun rising over the hills, and the quiet that followed. I remember all of the family dinners that felt like communion. I remember sitting on the porch after a long day of playing with my siblings, we’d watch the sky catch fire as the sun dipped behind the hills.

    I. Remember. Everything.

    This place is more than just a spot on a map. It’s my foundation. My beginning. And no matter where I go, it’s my home.

    Always will be.

  • Sanctified Sinners and Barstool Saints

    I’ve heard it my whole life, that you won’t make it to heaven sitting in a bar on the weekends. And listen, I get it. There’s a fair point there. Scripture calls us to be set apart, to live holy, to walk away from the old man and put on the new. There’s absolutely a call to live righteously.

    But let me tell you something that most folks don’t want to admit out loud. You know what you’ll often find in a bar that you can’t find in a lot of churches? The answer is simple, it’s GRACE.

    That drunk sitting on a barstool might hand you his last dollar if you looked like you needed it. That woman sipping a cocktail might ask how you’re really doing and mean it more than someone dressed in THEIR Sunday’s best. That regular bartender? He might listen to your whole story without judging a single word. I know that might mess with some folks theology. But it’s the truth.

    People don’t skip church and head to bars because they’re all trying to rebel. A lot of them just don’t feel safe in the church. They walk into a sanctuary and get side eyed over their clothes, over their past, or the fact that they still smell like last night’s mistakes. But they walk into a bar and feel seen, heard, even loved for who they are, not who they pretend to be. Somewhere along the way, we got it wrong.

    Jesus didn’t sit with the righteous. He sat with the tax collectors, the prostitutes, the outcasts. All of the ones that religious people crossed the street to avoid. He didn’t run from messes. He stepped right into them.
    He didn’t throw stones. He offered grace.
    And the ones He did rebuke the most? The Pharisees. All of the religious elite who knew all the scriptures but couldn’t recognize the Savior standing in front of them.

    The body of Christ wasn’t called to be a gated community of the perfect. It was called to be a hospital for the broken. A safe place, a refuge. A place where people with addictions, baggage, trauma, doubt, and sin can walk in, not be fixed on the spot, but be loved through the process.

    Churches need to start looking less like country clubs and more like those late night bar stools where real conversations happen.
    Where vulnerability is allowed. Where masks come off. Where grace pours like cheap whiskey and love flows like an open tab.

    We’ve been too busy acting like the Pharisees in the synagogue instead of the Friend who sat at the well. The truth?
    Sitting in a bar doesn’t get you to heaven.
    BUT SITTING IN A PEW EVERY SUNDAY DOESN’T EITHER. Jesus does. And He’s not afraid to walk into the darkest places to find His people.

  • The Harsh Truth

    I’m thankful for the liars.
    I’m thankful for the haters.
    I’m thankful for the betrayers.

    They pushed me closer to my purpose. They drove me into the arms of God. What they meant to destroy me, God is using to build me. Every lie, every knife in my back, every whisper campaign, they all helped me see clearer, pray deeper, and stand stronger. They taught me who not to be. And more importantly, they helped reveal who I am.

    I know some of what I say is uncomfortable. I know it goes against the grain. It grates against flesh. It stirs something in people. But that’s exactly what it’s supposed to do. The things I write aren’t meant to stroke egos or win applause of people, they are meant to shake the spirit awake. Jesus didn’t come to bring peace in the way the world defines it. He said it Himself that He came to bring a sword. Division. Separation. Not to destroy, but to distinguish His people from the enemy’s people.

    Too many churches today are nothing more than motivational TED Talks with a cross in the background. People sit under pastors who wouldn’t dare preach about sin, hell, or holiness. Instead, they preach prosperity, comfort, and self-love dressed up in Christian lingo. It’s not the Gospel. It’s self-help sprinkled with Scripture. And it’s sending people to hell with a smile on their face and a tithe envelope in their hand.

    We’ve made church a stage, not a sanctuary. We’ve traded conviction for comfort. Truth for tolerance. The Holy Spirit for hype.

    But I refuse to stay quiet.
    I refuse to water it down.
    I refuse to speak half-truths just to make people feel safe in their sin.

    Because the truth isn’t always gentle.
    It’s not always soft. It doesn’t always hug you, it convicts you. It challenges you. It calls you to crucify your flesh, not cater to it.

    The real Gospel doesn’t make you comfortable. It calls you to war, with your sin, with the world, and with anything that stands between you and the will of God.

    So if you’re looking for comfortable Christianity, you’re in the wrong place. This isn’t about popularity. This isn’t about applause. This is about eternity. And I’d rather be hated for speaking the truth than loved for feeding people lies.

  • The Past Doesn’t Define You

    I don’t even know how to explain all that I’ve been through. I’ve walked through fire that left me scarred in ways that no one could ever see. I’ve smiled through pain just to survive the day. I’ve been in rooms full of people and felt completely alone. I’ve lied and said I’m okay more than I’d care to admit. Behind closed doors, I’ve cried out to God with nothing but brokenness in my hands. I was left wondering if He was even still listening.

    I’ve done things I wish I could undo. Seen things I wish I could unsee. Said things in anger, in pain, out of fear. Many things that still echo in my mind, reminding me of who I was when I was just trying to hold myself together.

    I’ve been brought to my knees more than once. And not in worship, but in utter defeat. With absolute regret. Also with complete exhaustion. I’ve looked in the mirror and barely recognized the person staring back. I’ve asked God to just let it end. Just let the pain stop. But he had different plans, because I’m still here. And that’s not just a sentence, it’s a miracle.

    The devil came for me hard. First, he tried to destroy my mind when he came at me and caused me anxiety, and the shame. Most of all, the constant voices telling me I wasn’t enough. Then he came for my body, with sickness, fatigue, and chronic pain that doesn’t stop. When that wasn’t enough, he came for both, hoping I’d finally break.

    What the enemy didn’t know is that God had already put something in me that couldn’t be killed. He put a purpose. He gave me a calling. He gave me a reason to rise again. Even when I had no strength of my own. I’m here for such a time as this.

    I’m not who I used to be. I’m also not who I’m going to be. But I am here, wiser, stronger, and more aware of the fight I’m in. I’m also more confident in the God who’s kept me through it all. I’m not done. I’m not out. I refuse to let the darkness that tried to take me out win.

    You can’t kill what God planted. You can’t silence what He raised up for this generation. I may be bruised, but I am not broken. I may carry around scars physically and emotionally, but they are the proof that I survived. That I overcame because the grace of God.

    For anyone that is reading this who’s barely holding on, hear me when I say this, You are not alone, And this isn’t the end. God’s not done with you either. This is just the beginning.

  • Flavor Of The Month

    could never be the flavor of the month, per se. I don’t bend to trends or follow the fray.
    I don’t play nice in pre approved boxes,
    don’t march in line or mirror your optics.

    I don’t match the beat of the world’s drum. I got my own rhythm, my own hum. It ain’t always smooth, but it’s real. It’s mine. And that alone makes it a threat in your design.

    See, I can be controversial, not because I scream. But because I sit silent, and still don’t agree. Because I smile in storms and walk through fires. With unbothered steps and unshaken desires.

    You call my peace a violent opposition. Because I won’t play the role you wrote in your vision. You want a reaction, a spark,
    a show, but I give you calm, and you don’t know where to go.

    You see, your system’s built on control,
    on scripts, on fear. But I tore out the page
    and made it clear. I don’t fit in your frame,
    I’m the break in your mold. The glitch in your matrix, the truth you were told to ignore,
    to shame, to silence with style. But I speak with my presence and I walk every mile.

    So no, I could never be your flavor of the month. I’m not sweet enough to swallow,
    not safe enough to stunt. I’m bitter truth,
    and holy rage. I’m freedom unfiltered, off the stage.

  • Who Is Qualified To Judge

    At what point do you feel like you’re qualified to look down on someone else because of their past? I mean seriously, when do we cross that invisible line to where we suddenly feel authorized to judge who’s worthy and who’s not? Who gets to serve God and who doesn’t? Who gets to sing on the praise team, who gets to teach, who gets to minister—based on what we think we know about someone else or their past?

    Let me be as real as possible, we all need God’s grace every single second. Not one of us walks this life without it. Not one of us has earned it. Not one of us deserves it. Not one of us is better than the next. We’re all level at the foot of the cross. No VIP section. No spiritual hierarchy. No cleaner testimony. Just broken people being held together by grace and mercy.

    Who do we think that we are to say what someone else can or cannot do for God?

    Oh, you shouldn’t be on the praise team because you did this. You shouldn’t be ministering to them because you went through that. You shouldn’t be teaching this class because of what you used to be.

    Really though? Since when has God taken our opinions into account when He calls someone?

    Do me a favor, Ask yourself, who am I that He is mindful of me? Think about that for a second. That a perfect, holy, righteous God would look down at you, with all your flaws, all your baggage, all your wrong turns, and still choose to love you, use you, and walk with you.

    Now don’t you even forget that if He is mindful of you, then He is mindful of that person as well. The same grace that covers you is extended to the person you’re looking down on. The same mercy that picked you up is reaching for them too.

    We’ve got to stop playing spiritual referee, blowing the whistle on people’s callings just because we remember their fouls. You don’t know what God is doing in someone’s heart. You don’t know the conversations He’s having with them in secret. You don’t know the healing, the restoration, the transformation that’s happening behind the scenes.

    So stop looking down on people. Get humble, and start looking up at people. See them the way Jesus sees them. See the potential, the purpose, the calling. Stop being the voice of shame, and start being a voice of grace. Remind people who they can be, not just who they used to be.

    Because at the end of the day, none of us are qualified without Him. It’s grace that qualifies us all.

  • My Pain is a Blessing

    My Pain is a Blessing

    That sounds strange, I know. Especially when you’re living with pain that doesn’t go away, pain that lingers day after day, like an unwanted shadow. Chronic pain wears on you, physically, mentally, emotionally. It drains you in ways most people will never understand.

    But even in that, I’ve learned something deeply valuable: pain has a purpose.

    If I never had pain, if I never faced suffering, I might start to believe I didn’t need help. That I had it all figured out. That I was strong enough on my own. But the truth is, I’m not. I’m not perfect, I’m not self-sufficient, and I wasn’t made to be.

    Pain is what reminds me I need God.

    It’s what drives me into His arms. When my body aches and no relief comes, when I’m exhausted just from existing, when I wonder how I’m going to get through another day, He meets me there. In the stillness, in the struggle, in the silence. I need Him every moment, and pain keeps me close. Not because God wants to see me suffer, but because He wants to see me lean on Him, trust Him, know Him in the deepest way.

    And maybe… maybe that’s a blessing.

    Because someone else out there is suffering too. Someone feels like they can’t go on. Someone is battling chronic pain, invisible illness, or emotional weight no one sees. If that’s you, I want you to know: I see you. I am you.

    And if my dependence on God, if my ability to keep moving, even when it hurts, can shine a light for someone else in the dark, then maybe that’s part of why I’m still standing. Not because I’m strong, but because He is. Not because the pain is easy, but because God is faithful in it.

    My suffering is how I stay connected to Him.
    My weakness is how His strength is made perfect.
    My brokenness is where His grace meets me.

    So no, I don’t thank God for the pain. But I thank Him that even in the pain, He’s present. And I thank Him for using it, for using me to remind someone else they’re not alone, and they’re not without hope.

    Chronic pain may be part of my life, but it will never define me.
    God does that. And He’s not finished with me yet.