About a week ago, while I was out and about, I stopped for gas, nothing out of the ordinary… just another moment in a busy day. I was about to walk into the store to grab a snack when I felt it… a quiet, gentle impression deep within me to stop. Not loud. Not urgent. Just a still whisper: wait.
So I did.
Less than a second later, a jeep came flying past me and whipped into a parking spot right in front of the store. It missed me by what felt like a breath… a fraction of an inch. Close enough that I knew, had I taken one more step, the outcome would have been very different.
A man and his wife got out of the vehicle. His wife was visibly shaken, apologizing over and over again. I just looked at them, smiled, and forgave them as they held the door open for me. There was no fear in me… none at all. Just a calm that didn’t come from me.
I’ve been sitting with that moment ever since in wonder.
It felt as though the Lord Himself had placed His hand in front of me… holding me back at just the right time. It brings me to tears when I think about it too long… because this is how He loves us. Quietly and constantly. Faithfully watching, even when we are unaware.
“He will give His angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways.” — Psalm 91:11
The man didn’t see me until it was too late… but God saw me the whole time. Not just me… but them too. His mercy covered us both in a moment that could have turned into something devastating. What the enemy may have intended for harm was stopped before it ever had the chance to take shape.
How many times has He done this for us… and we never even knew?
There is a tenderness in realizing that we are never truly unguarded. Never unseen. Never alone.
Today, I’m just grateful. Grateful for the whisper that says “wait.” Grateful for the unseen hand that protects, and grateful for a God who keeps His children safe… over and over again.
Father, thank You for Your protection that surrounds me even when I am unaware. Thank You for the quiet ways You intervene, for the moments You hold me back, and for the mercy that covers what I cannot see. Teach me to trust Your voice, even when it is gentle. Keep my heart aware of Your presence, and fill me with gratitude for the ways You continually preserve my life. In Jesus’ name, amen.
There have been moments in my life where I have truly missed it… not just lightly, but in ways that came from deep places of pain, frustration, and woundedness. In those moments, I have spoken in ways that did not honor those God placed above me. When the weight of it settled in, I knew. I needed to humble myself.
So I did.
I went back. I repented to them, and I repented before the Lord. But truthfully, walking out repentance is not always simple. Sometimes it lingers. Sometimes it feels like the moment keeps echoing long after you’ve laid it down. You feel watched, waiting for the next slip up. If possible, enemy will even take every chance to poke and prod you into more places of pain to make that walk all the more difficult. He delights in your failure and whispers how much of a disappointment you are when it happens.
Over the past few days, I have spent time in prayer and fasting, bringing this before the Lord again and again. Not because I wanted to stay in shame, but because I genuinely desired to be right in His sight. I wanted to change. Yet there was this quiet struggle in my heart… a feeling that I hadn’t truly been forgiven. I had to prove myself.
Then today, in the middle of what felt like endless driving, the Lord met me in such a gentle way.
Right as I was arriving home, I felt His Spirit whisper to my heart: “Audience of One.”
It settled everything.
He reminded me that while I am called to humble myself before others and seek reconciliation, I cannot control whether someone chooses to forgive me. That part belongs to them. What matters is that I humbled myself, that I obeyed, that I came low before Him.
In that place, His forgiveness is not partial. It is not hesitant. It is complete.
I was taken back to the early days of my salvation, when the weight of my past felt overwhelming. I remember feeling like I needed to account for every single sin, as if I had to earn my way back into right standing. The enemy pressed hard with that lie.
But the Holy Spirit spoke something so freeing.. that my sins were cast away, removed, no longer held against me.
“As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us.” — Psalm 103:12
“You will cast all our sins into the depths of the sea.” — Micah 7:19
That is the kindness of God. That is the freedom found in His mercy and grace.
Repentance is not meant to trap us in a cycle of condemnation. It is meant to bring us back into alignment with Him. Once we have truly repented, we are invited to walk forward in humility… not constantly looking backward in shame.
There may be times when others remember what God has already forgiven. There may be moments when it is brought up again, or held against us. But I am learning that I cannot live bound to what God has already released me from. If He says I am forgiven, then that’s it. It is done.
The enemy accuses. He revisits. He replays. He wants you to never live it down. He delights in seeing you broken and hurting. He will drag it out for years if possible keeping you trapped in chains of shame and condemnation.
But God forgives and restores. That’s is why we have joy. It is because HE has forgiven us. The enemy wants you to forget that.
I choose to stay low before Him, to keep my heart soft, to remain teachable… and to trust that He alone sees the full posture of my heart.
“If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” — 1 John 1:9
Only God truly sees the heart. His mercy is deeper than my failure.
Father, I come before You with a humble heart. Thank You for Your mercy that meets me even in my weakness. Thank You that when I repent, You are faithful to forgive and to cleanse. Teach me to walk in true humility, not in shame, but in surrender. Help me to release the need for man’s approval and rest fully in Your grace. Guard my heart from condemnation, and anchor me in the truth of Your love. Let my life reflect a heart that is continually yielded to You. In Jesus’ name, amen.
There are certain people in my life who have shaped me more than they probably realize.
Not because they were easy. Not because everything flowed smoothly. But because something in me was exposed in their presence. Impatience. Defensiveness. Pride. The parts of my heart that still needed refinement.
I’ve come to think of them as quiet instruments in God’s hands.
Ephesians 6:12 reminds me, “For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers…” That verse has rescued me more than once. Because when I forget it, I turn people into enemies. When I remember it, I pause.
The battle is not the person.
That shift changes everything.
Instead of reacting in frustration, I’m invited to respond with discernment. Instead of feeding offense, I’m asked to choose grace. It doesn’t make the interaction easy, but it steadies me. It reminds me that God may be doing more in me than through the situation itself.
Jesus said in John 15 that we must remain in the Vine. Growth does not happen because I will it to happen. It happens because I stay connected. And sometimes the evidence that I am growing is not how I feel during a hard conversation, but how I respond afterward.
There have been moments when I wanted to justify my reaction. To defend myself quickly. To withdraw completely. But I’m learning that spiritual maturity often looks like restraint. It looks like asking, “Lord, what are You forming in me right now?”
Hard situations reveal what is still unhealed. Difficult people reveal where I still need patience. Unexpected criticism reveals how secure I truly am.
And if I’m honest, grace rarely grows in comfort.
Galatians 5 speaks of the fruit of the Spirit — love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. I’ve noticed those qualities don’t develop in isolation. They grow when tested. Patience requires something to endure. Gentleness requires something sharp to soften against. Self-control requires something that provokes.
I used to think spiritual growth would feel like constant peace. Instead, it often feels like friction that exposes what still needs surrender.
That doesn’t mean we accept mistreatment or abandon wisdom. Love and boundaries can coexist. Guarding your heart is not the same as hardening it. Sometimes maturity means speaking clearly. Sometimes it means stepping back. Sometimes it means saying no without guilt.
But even boundaries can be set with a steady heart instead of a wounded one.
I’ve had to ask myself difficult questions: Am I growing, or am I just enduring? Am I becoming more like Christ, or just more guarded? When something triggers me, is it because I’m being attacked — or because something in me still needs refinement?
These are not comfortable reflections. But they are necessary.
The truth is, the people who stretch me are often the ones God uses to deepen me. They are not interruptions to my growth. They are part of it.
And perhaps the most humbling realization of all is this: while I am being stretched by someone else, I am probably stretching someone too.
God is not only working on them.
He is working on me.
Every sharp edge is an invitation. Every moment of tension is an opportunity to respond differently than I once would have. Every irritation can become formation if I let it.
I am learning to pray more quickly before reacting. To breathe before speaking. To ask for the Spirit’s help instead of relying on my own restraint.
Growth is quieter than I expected.
It often looks like choosing gentleness when sarcasm would be easier. Choosing peace when proving a point would feel satisfying. Choosing love when withdrawal would feel safer.
And little by little, the rough edges soften.
Not because the world has changed — but because something in me has.
Father,
Thank You for caring more about my character than my comfort.
When I encounter people or situations that stretch me, help me remember that You are present in the process. Guard my heart from quick reactions and defensive words. Slow me down when I want to respond in the flesh. Teach me to pause long enough to ask, “Lord, what are You forming in me right now?”
If pride rises, humble me gently. If impatience surfaces, root it out. If old wounds are exposed, heal them instead of letting them harden me.
Help me to see beyond personalities and remember that my battle is not against flesh and blood. Give me discernment without suspicion. Give me boundaries without bitterness. Give me courage without harshness.
Grow in me what cannot grow in ease, patience, gentleness, self-control, steady love. Let the fruit of Your Spirit be more visible than my frustration.
And if I am someone else’s grace grower, refine me there too. Make me aware of how my words and tone affect others. Shape me into someone who strengthens rather than wounds.
Above all, keep me close to the Vine. Let my growth come from abiding in You, not from striving in my own strength.
When I was a teenager, I was baptized more than once.
If I’m honest, I don’t remember much about it other than standing in line with a group of other kids, walking up one side of the baptismal, being dunked, and climbing out the other side while everyone watched. It was something our youth group was doing. It felt expected. Almost routine. I remember the t-shirt afterward more than I remember the meaning.
Years passed.
By December 2020, my relationship with Jesus was no longer casual or borrowed from a group. I loved Him. I understood what baptism represented — death to the old life, resurrection into the new. This time it wasn’t about fitting in. It was about surrender.
And yet, in the days leading up to it, something strange happened.
Instead of excitement, I felt dread.
I couldn’t sleep. Panic attacks surfaced. Anxiety wrapped around me like something alive. On December 13, 2020, I stood on the steps of the baptismal shaking. I remember gripping the railing so tightly my hands hurt. Waves of dizziness hit me. I nearly passed out more than once.
When my name was called, I walked into the water trembling.
I fully expected that when I came up from the water, the fear would be gone. Wasn’t that how it worked? Public declaration. Obedience. Fresh start.
But when I rose from the water, the fear was still there.
I left that service confused and ashamed. I couldn’t understand why something that looked joyful for everyone else felt like torment for me. I replayed it in my mind for months. Then years. I would watch other baptisms — tears, laughter, celebration — and feel a quiet ache inside.
What was wrong with me?
Was I broken? Had I failed somehow? Why did others seem to encounter peace while I encountered panic?
Over time, the memory became something I avoided. I stopped wanting to be present for baptisms. It stirred too many questions.
Then, years later, I found myself at another baptism service. I had no intention of participating. I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. No extra clothes. No preparation. I planned to quietly observe and leave.
As I watched someone else step into the water, I felt both joy for them and that familiar longing rise up in me again.
And then I remembered Acts 8 — the Ethiopian eunuch asking Philip, “What hinders me from being baptized?” There was water. There was opportunity. He seized it.
When the invitation was given, I initially declined. The old fear stirred. So did shame. I was part of the ministry team. I should have had it together. What would people think? The thoughts were rapid, accusatory, sharp.
But something deeper in me knew this was a moment.
When I stepped into the water, the fear tried to rise again. It felt familiar — like a script attempting to replay itself. My body tensed. I could feel the resistance inside me. But this time, there was discernment where there had once only been confusion.
Prayer began.
And what had been hidden surfaced.
I won’t dramatize it. I will simply say this: it was a battle. And then it broke.
I felt it leave. Not emotionally. Not imaginatively. Tangibly.
When I went under the water that day — June 22, 2024 — I came up into something I had longed for years earlier. Peace. Lightness. Joy that stayed.
The difference was not my sincerity. I had loved Jesus deeply in 2020. The difference was understanding. There had been fear rooted deeper than I realized, and it had never been addressed. It manifested when I obeyed publicly. And because no one recognized it for what it was, it remained.
Hosea 4:6 says, “My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge.”
That verse feels personal to me now.
I was saved. I loved God. But I did not understand spiritual oppression or deliverance. I thought anxiety was just something I had to manage. I didn’t know it could be confronted and expelled.
Looking back, I don’t feel anger toward the past. I feel gratitude for growth. God did not abandon me in that first baptism. He allowed the process to unfold in its time. He exposed what needed to be addressed when I was ready to face it.
And what I carry now is not embarrassment — it is testimony.
Freedom sometimes comes in layers. Obedience does not always erase struggle instantly. But when the Lord brings light to what has been hidden, it changes everything.
If you have obeyed and still feel bound, do not assume you are defective. If you have declared your faith and still wrestle internally, do not conclude that God is disappointed.
Sometimes the first step is obedience. Sometimes the next step is deliverance. And sometimes the breakthrough comes years after the surrender.
But it does come.
Father,
Thank You for Your patience with my process. Thank You for not leaving me in confusion. Where there is fear hiding beneath obedience, expose it gently. Where there is oppression disguised as personality, bring clarity. Give Your people knowledge, discernment, and courage to pursue full freedom.
And for those who feel ashamed that their journey has not looked like someone else’s, remind them that You are writing their story uniquely and carefully.
Let every act of obedience lead not to condemnation, but to deeper liberty.
