Author: thechristiantechnerd

22 year old college student! 100% Christian,! Will ALWAYS be a woman of FAITH. And my friends call me the "The Christian Tech Nerd" because I was hired by a very successful tech company in Silicon Valley, and I turned them down to be close to my family!

The Devil Agrees: Even Hell is Less Evil than Minnesota

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Minnesotans are corrupt, evil, and want chaos.

I’m only twenty five, young enough to still believe people can change, old enough to know how stubborn sin can be. I love God more than anything, and that love makes me honest, even when honesty feels sharp. Minnesota has been heavy on my heart. I do not write this with hate, but with grief, frustration, and a fierce hope that refuses to die.

I look around and I see cruelty normalized, confusion celebrated, and basic kindness treated like weakness. I see people forgetting how to speak gently, how to respect boundaries, how to act like neighbors instead of enemies. The Bible says, “Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness” (Isaiah 5:20). That verse echoes in my chest when I think about what has become socially acceptable. Sin has manners now, and truth is mocked.

Lord Jesus, I come to You boldly and broken. Your Word tells me to pray for those who persecute, offend, and reject truth. So I pray for Minnesota, not because it deserves comfort, but because You deserve obedience. I pray for hearts that are cold, minds that are proud, and mouths that speak without wisdom. Soften them, Father. Break what needs breaking, even if it hurts.

I am confrontational because love without truth is a lie. Jesus flipped tables because He cared about holiness. I refuse to pretend everything is fine when souls are slipping toward hell while smiling. “For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 6:23). I want Minnesotans to choose life. I want them to stop laughing at what destroys them.

God, teach them social order again. Teach them humility, self control, and empathy. Teach them how to speak without tearing others down, how to listen without mocking, how to disagree without dehumanizing. Your Word says, “Let all that you do be done in love” (1 Corinthians 16:14). Right now, love feels absent. I ask You to restore it, even if restoration comes through conviction.

Sometimes I feel angry, and I confess that to You. Anger rises when I see corruption excused and accountability rejected. But Your Word reminds me, “Be angry and do not sin” (Ephesians 4:26). So I lay my anger at Your feet and ask You to turn it into intercession. Let my frustration become fuel for prayer, not bitterness.

Holy Spirit, move through Minnesota like a refining fire. Burn away pride, entitlement, and cruelty. Replace them with repentance and awe. “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me” (Psalm 51:10). Do that not just for me, but for entire communities that have forgotten You. Bring pastors with backbone, leaders with integrity, and citizens with compassion.

I pray for those who lack social norms because they lack moral anchors. Without You, everything drifts. Without You, chaos feels normal. Jesus, You are the anchor. I ask You to interrupt lives in undeniable ways. Wake people up in the middle of the night with conviction. Meet them in their loneliness. Expose the emptiness of their rebellion.

I believe heaven is real and hell is real, and that belief shapes everything I say. I do not want Minnesotans to be comfortable on the road to destruction. “Enter by the narrow gate. For the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction” (Matthew 7:13). God, narrow their paths. Make righteousness appealing again.

Tonight I choose prayer over silence. I choose faith over fear. I choose to believe You can redeem even what looks rotten. I will keep praying, even when it feels confrontational, because love tells the truth. Amen.

I also pray for myself, Lord, because compassion is costly. It is easier to judge than to kneel. Guard my heart from pride while You sharpen my discernment. Remind me that I was once lost too. “While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). Let that truth keep me tender even when my words are firm. I do not want to sound holy while forgetting mercy.

Father, I lift up families, workplaces, schools, and streets across Minnesota. I pray for order where there is disorder, peace where there is hostility, and reverence where there is mockery. Teach people to value life, honesty, and responsibility again. Teach them that freedom without righteousness becomes bondage. Your Word says, “Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord” (Psalm 33:12). I ask You to draw this state back under Your lordship.

Jesus, step into conversations and correct them. Step into policies and overturn them. Step into hearts and convict them. I know that sounds intense, but eternity is intense. Heaven is worth discomfort. Salvation is worth offense. Use my prayers as seeds, even if I never see the harvest. I trust You with the outcome.

I end this entry resolved. I will not water down truth to be liked. I will not harden my heart to be safe. I belong to You, God, fully and forever. Amen.

As I close this post, I breathe deeply and choose hope again. I believe revival can begin with uncomfortable prayers like this one. I believe You still chase the stubborn and call the arrogant by name. Let Minnesota feel the weight of Your presence and the kindness that leads to repentance.

Teach protestors in Minnesota how to love truth, respect one another, and seek You above themselves. I will keep watching, praying, and standing firm until You finish what You start.

In Jesus’ mighty name, amen.

I trust You, Lord, with every soul, every flaw, every future, and every hard conversation yet to come. I surrender every judgment, every prayer, every tear, every hope, and every fear to You tonight, trusting Your justice, mercy, timing, and perfect love.

Trusting God’s Strength When You Are Weak

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I am so tired of trying to hold it together on my own. Tired of pretending that my strength is enough. I wake up every day with this gnawing exhaustion—not just physically, but spiritually, emotionally, mentally—and I feel the fire of frustration rise in me. Why do people think life is meant to be endured without God? Why do they act like faith is just a Sunday accessory, like it’s optional? It isn’t. It’s life or death. Literally. Isaiah 41:1 says, “Let the people renew their strength.” And if we don’t, we die. Spiritually. Emotionally. Soul-deep.

I see it everywhere. People walking around thinking they are strong, thinking they are “fine,” thinking they have it together because they show up, because they hustle, because they smile. But they are starving their souls. Every day, we need God. Not just a little. Not when it’s convenient. Constantly. Like breath. Like sap in the trees. Even the cedars of Lebanon only live because God fills them day by day with what they cannot make for themselves (Isaiah 14:8). If the trees—silent, incapable of prayer, incapable of choosing—need Him, how much more do I? How much more do we all?

And I am angry. Furious, really. Furious at the world that pretends I can manage on my own. Furious at myself for thinking I could. I have tried. I have tried so hard. I have leaned on my own strength, my own understanding, my own stubborn pride—and every time, I fail. I fail because I am human. I fail because only God can sustain me. Only He can renew me. Psalm 104:30, Thou renewest the face of the earth. He renews me. But I have ignored it. I have ignored Him. And it shows.

Lord, forgive me. Forgive me for the times I have treated You like a backup plan instead of the foundation of everything. Forgive me for trying to live in my own strength. Forgive me for believing I could survive without Your constant renewal. Psalm 51:10, Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me. I am broken, Lord. I am weak. I need You.

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I’m learning, painfully, that my soul cannot survive on my own effort. My body can eat, my mind can plan, my heart can hope—but the soul? It withers. Just as the body must be fed to repair wear and tear, the soul must feast on Your Word, on prayer, on communion, on the preached Word. I have been guilty of neglecting this daily nourishment. And it shows. I feel hollow. Empty. Like a vessel cracked and dry. And that makes me angry. Angry at the devil for trying to convince me that I could do it alone. Angry at myself for ever believing that lie.

They that wait on the Lord shall renew their strength (Isaiah 40:31). Waiting. That word is hard. I don’t like waiting. I want answers now. I want provision now. I want clarity, peace, protection, and strength immediately. But God doesn’t work like that. His renewal is steady. Daily. Constant. And I must learn to wait. Not passively. Not grudgingly. But actively, humbly, fiercely, because I need Him.

And the storms…oh, the storms. I see them coming, and I feel panic rise in my chest. Relationships that crumble, pressures that suffocate, temptations that whisper lies—I see them all. Woe to the tree that has not absorbed the fresh sap. Woe to the mariner who has not strengthened the mast or cast the anchor. The storms will come, and I do not want to be unprepared. I refuse. I will lean on God. I will feed on Him. I will be renewed.

Lord, today I claim Your strength. I claim it not as a weak woman hoping for a crutch, but as a warrior who knows the fight is real. Ephesians 6:10-11, Be strong in the Lord, and in the power of His might. I put on Your armor, Father. Every piece. The belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, the gospel of peace for my feet, the shield of faith, the helmet of salvation, the sword of the Spirit. Protect me, guide me, strengthen me. I am weak—but You are strong.

I also feel righteous anger toward the enemy. How dare he try to convince me I am alone, that I am powerless, that God’s provision is optional? Lies. Lies. Lies. He cannot touch me when I am rooted in You. Romans 8:31, If God is for us, who can be against us? No one. Not Satan. Not the world. Not my own foolishness.

But anger alone is not enough. I must act. I must draw renewal from the resources You have already provided. I have access to scripture. I have access to prayer. I have access to worship. I have access to Your Spirit, which intercedes for me with groanings words cannot express (Romans 8:26). I have access to communion, which reminds me daily of the sacrifice that saves me, that strengthens me. And yet, I have ignored them sometimes. How foolish I have been. How easily I let busyness and distraction rob me of You.

Father, remind me constantly of these resources. Remind me that without daily renewal, I cannot survive. John 15:5, Without You, I can do nothing. Help me to cultivate a hunger for Your Word, a thirst for Your presence, a desire to commune with You above all else. Renew me, Lord, because without You, I am nothing. But with You, I am everything You have called me to be.

I feel the tension inside me: compassion for those who are weak, fury at the foolish who reject God, frustration at my own failings, and deep, abiding hope because I know my strength is not mine—it’s His.

God is my refuge, my anchor, my ever-present help in trouble (Psalm 46:1). Even when I cannot pray, when I cannot find the words, even when my heart is too weary to open the Bible, He is there. He never leaves. His Spirit carries me when I cannot carry myself.

Tomorrow I will rise, tired but determined. I will not pretend I am strong. I will let His strength flow through me. I will let Him anchor me in every storm. I will teach others to do the same—not out of pride, but out of love. Not because I have figured it out, but because I have learned what it means to be weak and see Him strong.

Thank You, Lord, for never leaving me, for meeting me in my weakness, for renewing me even when I fail. Thank You that my weakness is not a liability—it is a canvas for Your strength to shine. Psalm 18:32-33, It is God who arms me with strength and keeps my way secure.

I am weak. But He is strong. That is the unshakable, unchanging, non-negotiable truth. If I cling to nothing else, if my soul only remembers this, I will survive. I will stand. I will thrive. Not because of my strength, but because His power flows through me.

Lord, let me never take Your provision for granted. Let me never grow complacent. Let me never believe that half-hearted devotion is enough. Let me thirst for You like the earth thirsts for rain, like the trees thirst for sap, like flowers wait for dew. Renew me. Strengthen me. Fill me. Even in my weakness, let Your power shine. Amen.

Relying on God’s Endless Love

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There’s this fire inside me that refuses to be quenched. I’m frustrated—angry even—but it’s not the petty anger at traffic or at people who just don’t get it. No, this anger is righteous. It’s the kind of anger that rises when I see a world so desperate for love and grace, yet people keep hurting each other, and worst of all, they reject God’s love as if it’s optional. I feel so strongly that God’s love is not just some abstract concept—it’s real, and it is endless, and yet humans act like it’s negotiable.

Today, I keep coming back to this verse, and it won’t let me go: “And so we know and rely on the love God has for us. God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in him.” (1 John 4:16). I write it down, I read it aloud, I try to let it sink into every inch of my being. God is love. Not just love like a fleeting feeling or a romantic sentiment, but love that is infinite, unchanging, and active. God’s love is a force that moves mountains, heals hearts, forgives sins, and restores lives. And yet… why is it so easy for me to forget that? Why do I let the world make me doubt it?

Lord, I confess that I sometimes forget the depth of Your love. I allow fear, anger, and bitterness to cloud my vision. I forget that Your love is stronger than any human rejection, any betrayal, any disappointment. Help me cling to Your love today, and every day. Help me to know it in my heart, not just my mind. Amen.

What really gets me is how little people seem to understand that God’s love is not a solitary blessing. It’s not something we just hoard for ourselves, waiting to be “deserving” enough to receive more. No. His love flows through us. It is meant to be shared, radiated, and lived. I see people all the time—friends, acquaintances, even strangers—screaming for love in ways they don’t even realize. And I feel God saying, “You have it. Share it. Be my hands. Be my heart.” But I am human. I fail. I get tired. I get angry. And sometimes, I lash out instead of reflecting His love.

There’s this tension inside me between compassion and anger, between frustration and faith. I want to be patient with the people who hurt me, who wrong me, who don’t understand me, but I’m human. And sometimes, I just want to scream, “Don’t you see? God loves you! He is waiting for you! You are not beyond His mercy!”

Lord, give me strength when my patience wears thin. Remind me that Your love never fails, even when mine does. Teach me to love as You love, to forgive as You forgive, to bless as You bless. Let me be Your instrument, even when I feel exhausted or overwhelmed. Amen.

I’ve been meditating on how God’s love is redemptive. That word—redemptive—it strikes me today. It’s not just that God loves us; it’s that His love redeems us, transforms us, makes us whole. And it doesn’t stop there. That love is supposed to extend through us. When I choose kindness instead of harshness, when I choose patience instead of irritation, when I help someone without expecting anything in return, God’s love is flowing through me. It’s not mine to keep.

I feel like I’ve only scratched the surface of understanding this. So often, I think of salvation as the end goal—like, “Okay, I’m saved. Now life begins.” But no, salvation is just the beginning of living in God’s love. And living in that love is active. It’s doing the hard things: forgiving the unforgivable, loving the unlovable, standing up for justice even when it makes people uncomfortable. God’s love is not passive. It never sits quietly. It commands action. It demands transformation. And I want to live that fully, even when it makes me unpopular, even when it makes me angry at injustice, even when it breaks my heart.

Lord, help me be bold in love. Help me not shrink away from Your call, even when it’s uncomfortable. Teach me to see people through Your eyes, to respond with mercy and grace, even when my flesh wants to lash out. Let Your love be my guide, my armor, my sword, and my shield. Amen.

I feel like I’m learning something important here: the more I rely on God’s love, the less I rely on myself. That’s hard, because I am stubborn. I like control. I like thinking I can fix things on my own. But every time I try to do that, I fail, I hurt someone, I feel emptiness creeping in. God’s love, though? His love never fails. His love fills the cracks, covers the wounds, carries me when I can’t carry myself.

I need to remind myself daily that God’s love is constant. Even when I am angry. Even when I feel unworthy. Even when I feel alone. He is there. He loves me fully, and He will never stop loving me. And because of that, I can love others—not perfectly, never perfectly, but genuinely, and with intention.

So today, I pray this:

Father, let Your love flow through me. Let me be a reflection of Your grace, Your mercy, and Your kindness. Protect me from cynicism and hardness of heart. Remind me that anger, while human, must always be tempered by love. Help me to rely on Your love, not just in moments of comfort, but especially in moments of pain, injustice, and frustration. Let me be a blessing to those around me, that they might see You in me. Amen.

I close these reflections tonight with hope. I am angry, yes, but it is tempered with faith. I am frustrated, yes, but it is channeled into prayer and action. I am human, yes, but I am beloved. I am chosen. I am a vessel of God’s endless love. And that, more than anything else, is what I rely on.

“The Lord your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in His love He will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing.” (Zephaniah 3:17)

Amen.

Whispers of the Savior: Learning to Listen For Jesus

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Lord, I need to speak to You tonight—not in the quiet polite way, but with my whole heart. Sometimes I get so frustrated, so angry that I can’t hear You clearly, and I hate that about myself. I know You’re there. I know You’re calling me. Jeremiah 33:3 says, “Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.” And yet, I feel like I’m shouting into a void sometimes. Why is it so hard for me to hear You when You promise so clearly that You will speak?

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I think the real struggle is my own mind. It’s chaotic. It’s noisy. I worry about bills, relationships, the future, what other people think of me, and in the middle of all that, how am I supposed to hear You? How am I supposed to know Your will when my thoughts are scattered and my heart is restless? Lord, forgive me. Forgive me for letting my mind wander away from You. Forgive me for letting the world’s distractions drown out Your voice.

Today, I tried to sit quietly with Your Word, really look at it, not just skim. I opened my Bible and landed on Psalm 46:10: “Be still, and know that I am God.” Be still. It sounds so simple when You say it, but it is the hardest thing in the world to do! I want to be still, Lord. I want to quiet my thoughts and listen. But the world is loud, and I am stubborn, and my emotions get the better of me. I get angry at circumstances, at people, at myself. But You—You are still. And You are perfect.

I know that hearing You isn’t about an audible voice. I’ve read that many times, but sometimes I catch myself hoping for it anyway, like I need a tangible sign to validate that You’re really speaking to me. And maybe that’s pride. Maybe I don’t trust You enough to believe Your guidance comes quietly, deep in my inner being, as a soft nudging, a conviction in my soul. Help me trust that, Lord. Help me to be sensitive to the ways You speak, whether through Your Word, through other people, or through the stirring of my own heart.

Sometimes I get frustrated because I feel like I try, Lord. I really try. I pray. I read. I meditate. I focus. But it still feels like I miss You. Am I looking in the wrong places? Am I impatient? I know You don’t work on my schedule, and yet my human side wants immediate answers, clear directions, step-by-step guidance. I want You to show me the path like a neon sign. But Your ways are higher than my ways, Lord, and Your thoughts are beyond me (Isaiah 55:8-9). So I have to let go of my need to control, to micromanage, to demand clarity, and just listen. Really listen.

Lord, I pray for discernment. Teach me to recognize Your voice among all the noise. Teach me to respond with obedience, even when Your guidance doesn’t make sense to my human mind. Teach me to trust that You are guiding me, even when the path looks uncertain or scary. I want to hear You. I need to hear You. Not just when it’s convenient, not just when it aligns with what I already want, but all the time. In my mundane moments, in my moments of anxiety, in my anger, in my sadness. I want You to be my constant.

Sometimes I feel angry at myself for not hearing You clearly before. I think, “Why did I ignore that prompting? Why did I question Your guidance?” And then I remember that You are patient with me. Your love is relentless. Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Lord, I’m broken, and I am crushed in spirit at times, and yet You are still here. You are not distant. You are not silent. You are close. And that should be enough to make me listen harder, to make me pay attention with everything in me.

I need You, Jesus. I need Your guidance, Your wisdom, Your comfort, Your correction. I don’t want to walk this life relying on my own understanding because I see where that leads me—it leads me to confusion, to bitterness, to anger, to disappointment. But walking with You leads to life, leads to peace, leads to clarity. Proverbs 3:5-6 says, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.” I want that trust, Lord. I want to submit fully, even when it stings or when it’s hard.

Father, I pray that You sharpen my ears. Not just my physical ears, but my spiritual ears. Tune my heart so I can hear Your gentle whispers guiding me in decisions big and small. Help me recognize the ways You are speaking through Scripture, through prayer, through other believers, through the circumstances of my life. Help me to act, Lord. I don’t want to hear and do nothing. I don’t want to be passive. I want to follow. I want to obey. I want to respond in faith, not hesitation.

And Lord, if I have to be angry, let it be a holy anger—anger at sin, at injustice, at fear that clouds my hearing, at myself when I resist You. But let that anger drive me to You, not away from You. Let it sharpen my desire to listen, not distract me from it. Let it strengthen my resolve to stay in Your Word daily, to call out to You without ceasing, and to open my heart to the guidance You provide, even when it challenges me.

Jesus, I want to hear You more. I want to love You more. I want to follow You more. Help me to be attentive, to be quiet, to trust. Let me call on You and actually wait for the answer, knowing that You will speak great and unsearchable things into my life if I am willing to listen. Jeremiah 33:3 reminds me that You are not silent. You are ready to answer. You are ready to reveal. I just have to open my ears, open my heart, and not run from Your voice.

Thank You for being patient with me. Thank You for never leaving me, even when I am stubborn, distracted, or angry. Thank You for being my constant guide, my anchor, my Father, my Savior. Lord, help me hear You today, tomorrow, and every day after that. Help me live a life tuned to Your voice, obedient to Your guidance, and full of love for You. Amen.

My Fellow Christians, Trust in the Lord Always, Please

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This morning I come to these pages with my heart twisted in a tangle of compassion, disappointment, and a simmering anger I keep trying to hand over to God. I feel like I’m watching people I love drift toward fear—fear of judgment, fear of rejection, fear of not fitting into some man-made standard. And I want to shake them and hold them all at once. I want to cry, “My fellow Christians, trust in the Lord always, please.” Every time I open Scripture, God reminds me that fear of people leads only to chains. “Fear of man will prove to be a snare, but whoever trusts in the LORD is kept safe.” (Proverbs 29:25) Yet so many of us still build our lives around pleasing other people instead of pleasing Him.

Jesus warned us about this so clearly. In Luke 12:4–5, He tells us not to fear those who can only harm the body but to fear God, who holds our eternity. And I know this in my mind. I repeat it in prayer. I speak it out loud when my thoughts get noisy. But then something happens—someone’s comment, someone’s threat, someone’s disapproval—and suddenly even the strongest believers I know shrink back, worried about what mere humans think. And I get frustrated, not because I feel superior, but because I know that prison all too well. I lived in it for years. I remember molding myself like clay in other people’s hands just so they wouldn’t judge me. It nearly crushed my soul.

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Sometimes I still feel that old pressure creeping back. When I sense someone’s disappointment in me, something inside me tenses. But then the Holy Spirit nudges me gently and sometimes not-so-gently: Stand firm. Trust God. Don’t give them your peace. I whisper Psalm 56:11 to myself: “In God I trust; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?” It steadies me when everything else is shaking. But why does it feel like so many of my brothers and sisters forget this the moment life gets loud? Why do we crumble the second the world pushes back?

I guess what frustrates me most is watching believers exchange the shelter of God for the false safety of people’s approval. It’s like standing in the shadow of the Almighty, then running out into a storm because someone outside called your name. We act like we’re safer relying on human praise than divine protection. And it breaks my heart. It angers me. It exhausts me. Because the Lord offers us freedom, but fear makes us kneel before people as if they hold our future in their hands. They don’t. They never have.

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And yet—even in my frustration—compassion rises in me. I know how hard it is to trust God when everything feels uncertain. I know what it’s like to feel exposed, misunderstood, or judged. I know what it’s like to worry that obedience might cost you relationships, comfort, or opportunities. But I also know the sweetness of God’s protection. I know the strength that blooms when you finally surrender the need to please everyone. I know the peace that settles into your bones when you decide His voice is enough.

Last night I prayed for the church with a heaviness I couldn’t shake. I asked God to wake us up, shake us free, burn away our fear, and restore our reverence for Him alone. I asked Him to give courage to the timid, reassurance to the anxious, and holy stubbornness to those who need to stand their ground. I asked Him to remind us that safety is not found in blending in but in abiding in Him. And I asked Him to keep my own heart from falling into the same traps I see in others. Even in frustration, I know I’m not above the very struggles I grieve.

So here is my prayer for this morning, simple and raw:


Please keep me safe, O LORD, from those who oppose me and would do me harm. Guard my spirit from the fear of people. Make my life a holy praise to honor You. Strengthen every believer who is tempted to bow to the opinions of others. Break every chain of fear that keeps us from trusting You with our whole hearts. Remind us that You alone are our refuge, our fortress, our forever safety. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

And may tomorrow find me trusting You more than today.

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Blessed Beyond Measure: A Journey Into God’s Goodness

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I opened my Bible this morning to James 2:14–26, and even though I’ve read this passage many times before, something about it stirred me more deeply than usual. Maybe it was the quiet stillness of the morning, or maybe it was the way my soul has been reaching for God with such intensity lately, searching for clarity and direction. But as soon as I read, “What good is it, dear brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but don’t show it by your actions?” (James 2:14, NLT), I felt the Holy Spirit pressing gently on the places in my heart that still need refining.

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If a woman has an abortion, can she still get into heaven?

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I recently stumbled upon a quote that said, “God blesses us because we respond to Him, not as a response to our good works.” I held onto that sentence like a precious jewel, because so often—even in my own walk with God—I’ve slipped into the mindset of trying to prove my transformation through what I do rather than who I’ve become in Christ. It’s so easy to confuse activity with spiritual maturity. And sometimes I wonder whether that’s why so many new believers get overwhelmed. They come into the faith with this beautiful spark of excitement, wanting so badly to honor God, but without knowing how to rest first in His love. They start volunteering, serving, signing up for everything in sight, hoping their efforts will show God they’ve changed. And then somewhere along the path, they burn out. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve felt it happen.

I think we, as the body of Christ, have unintentionally contributed to that misunderstanding. We often celebrate visible participation—the new church volunteer, the person who signs up for every ministry, the one who seems full of energy and eagerness—without first understanding where their heart is. Service is good and beautiful and holy, but service without foundation is like building a house on sand. It looks sturdy for a moment, until the first storm hits.

James is absolutely right: faith without deeds is empty. But deeds without faith are equally hollow. They may look impressive on the outside, but they don’t carry the substance of God on the inside. And that’s what struck me so strongly today—the reminder that my actions are not the proof of my faith; they are the fruit of my faith. Faith doesn’t begin with motion; it begins with surrender. It begins with falling at the feet of Jesus and whispering, “I can’t change myself. I need You to change me.”

Sometimes I forget that. Sometimes I slip into the rhythm of self-powered striving, almost like a spiritual New Year’s resolution. But faith isn’t a resolution; it’s a relationship. A living, breathing relationship with a God who moves through me rather than around me. When I try to do things for God without doing them with God, everything feels heavier and harder. But when the Holy Spirit stirs something in me—when I feel that gentle tug, that nudge that seems to rise from some quiet place inside my chest—obedience feels almost effortless. It feels like stepping into a river instead of trying to dig my own well.

That’s what good works are meant to look like. Not a performance, not a checklist, not a spiritual résumé—but a response. A natural overflow of the faith God has planted in me. And I love that God invites me into His work not because He needs my help but because He wants my heart. He wants my willingness, my surrender, my trust. He wants me to participate in the blessings He is already pouring out.

When I reflect on my journey with Him, I can see moments when I acted out of pure obedience to His voice, even when I didn’t understand why. And those are the moments that changed me the most. Not because I did something impressive, but because God used my small steps to shape my heart. That’s the kind of life I want—one where my faith is alive, vibrant, and continually responding to Him.

I feel blessed beyond measure not because of what I have, but because of who He is. His goodness has followed me through seasons of joy and seasons of grief, through times of clarity and times of confusion. Every time I’ve tried to take control, He has gently reminded me that surrender is my safest place. Every time I’ve grown weary, He has whispered, “Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). And somehow, He always keeps His promise.

Today I prayed that He would teach me how to better encourage my brothers and sisters—not to rush into good works out of obligation, but to grow deeper in faith so that their works rise naturally from their relationship with Him. I want to be someone who reminds others of their identity in Christ before urging them toward activity. I want to show them that transformation starts with the heart, not the hands. I want to reflect Jesus in a way that draws them closer to Him, not simply closer to tasks.

And maybe that’s part of my own calling—helping others understand that God isn’t measuring their worth by their productivity. He’s looking at their hearts. He’s looking for faith that is alive, rooted, and real. Faith that breathes. Faith that trusts. Faith that produces action as naturally as a tree produces fruit in season.

As I sit here writing all of this, I realize how deeply grateful I am for the Holy Spirit’s guidance. There have been days when I felt Him nudging me toward someone who needed encouragement, or urging me to pray for a person I barely knew, or prompting me to step out in a way that stretched my comfort zone. Those moments were never born from my own willpower. They were born from His presence in me. And every time I said yes, I experienced God’s goodness in ways I never expected.

One thing I am learning, over and over, is that God doesn’t call me to do good works so that others will see how faithful I am. He calls me to do good works so they will see how faithful He is. When I respond to Him, when I let Him work through me, His love becomes visible. His compassion becomes tangible. His presence becomes undeniable. And somehow, in the midst of that, I am blessed too.

So today, Lord, I pray this from the depths of my heart:

Father, help me to always work in response to You—not from my own strength, not from my own will, but from the moving of Your Spirit within me. Teach me to recognize Your prompting and to obey with joy. Guard my heart from striving and remind me that true transformation comes only from You. Use me as a vessel of Your love, and let Your light shine through everything I do. And guide me as I walk alongside others in the body of Christ. Give me wisdom to encourage, patience to listen, and compassion to understand where their hearts truly are. Let Your living Word take root in us all, that it may grow and flourish in our lives. I ask all of this in the mighty name of Jesus, Amen.

Tonight I rest in the truth that I am blessed not because of what I do, but because of who God is—and because I get to respond to Him with a heart that is learning, growing, and trusting more every day.

Resting in God’s Safety: A Prayer for Courage

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Tonight my heart feels tender as I sit down to write. There’s a softness in me, but also a deep ache—a quiet sadness mixed with longing for my fellow Christians to truly trust the Lord. I keep thinking about how often we let fear of other people pull us away from the peace God offers so freely. Scripture speaks so clearly: “Fear of man will prove to be a snare, but whoever trusts in the LORD is kept safe.” (Proverbs 29:25) I know this truth well, yet I still see so many dear believers weighed down by the worry of what others think, and it stirs something in me—something gentle, but urgent.

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Jesus Himself, with such compassion, warned us not to fear those who can only harm the body (Luke 12:4–5). He called us into a deeper kind of courage, the kind rooted not in our own strength but in His everlasting love and authority. When I read those words, I feel Jesus’ tenderness in them—He wasn’t scolding; He was caring for our hearts. And maybe that’s why I feel so moved tonight. When we let fear of people guide our decisions, we drift from the safety He longs to give us. It doesn’t make me angry at anyone; it simply makes me wish we all understood how deeply God wants us to rest in Him.

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Sometimes I see friends and believers holding their breath around others, trying to mold themselves to avoid criticism or rejection. My heart aches for them. I understand that struggle more than I’d like to admit. I remember times when I shaped myself around others’ expectations, hoping to avoid judgment. Those were heavy days—days where peace felt distant and fragile. And even now, in certain moments, I still feel that old tug. But then the Holy Spirit gently whispers to my spirit: Trust Me. Look to Me. Don’t give your peace away.

In those moments, I cling to scriptures that have become anchors for my soul. I often repeat Psalm 56:11: “In God I trust; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?” These words wrap around me like a soft blanket. They remind me that nothing and no one has the power to pull me out of God’s hands. And when I think about my fellow Christians who feel overwhelmed by the opinions of others, I just want to help them feel the same comfort, the same assurance that God’s love is a safer foundation than anything the world can offer.

What I feel most tonight is compassion. Deep, sincere compassion. Fear is a heavy burden to carry. Wanting to be accepted is a very human desire. And sometimes trusting God feels like stepping onto water—we know He can hold us, but it still takes courage to lift our foot. So when I see believers hesitating or shrinking back, I don’t feel frustrated at them. I feel tenderness toward them. I want to gently encourage them, to whisper, “You don’t have to be afraid. God sees you. God is with you. God will protect you.”

Because I’ve learned that true safety—lasting, unshakeable safety—comes from trusting the Lord, not from pleasing people. When we rest in Him, there’s a calmness that fills our hearts, even when life feels uncertain. And I long for all of us to experience that kind of rest.

Tonight I prayed with a peaceful heaviness in my chest. I asked God to wrap His arms around His children, especially those who feel anxious or unsure. I asked Him to lift the weight of fear from their shoulders and replace it with His gentle strength. I asked Him to help us all remember that His opinion of us is the one that brings life, hope, and freedom. And I prayed that He would keep my own heart soft, trusting, and open to His guidance.

So here is my quiet prayer tonight:
Please keep me safe, O LORD, from those who oppose me and would do me harm. Guard my heart from fear and teach me to trust You more deeply. Help my fellow believers feel Your peace and Your nearness. Make our lives beautiful reflections of Your love. Let us walk each day in Your safety. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

May tomorrow bring new strength and a deeper trust in the One who never fails us.

Surrendered Your Spirit: Living in God’s Hands

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Question: Have you committed your life to God?

Lord, I come before You tonight, and my heart is heavy, yet burning with a fire that will not be quenched. I am frustrated—so frustrated—at myself, at the world, at the way Your people stumble over their own self-centeredness, and at the times I have stumbled, even as I tried to cling to You. I ask You to hear me, O God, because I am speaking honestly. I do not want superficial devotion. I do not want to pretend. I do not want a lukewarm faith. Have I truly committed my life to You? Truly?

“Into thine hand I commit my spirit: thou hast redeemed me, O LORD God of truth.” Psalm 31:5. These words pierce me tonight. How often have I whispered them in moments of despair, in moments of quiet surrender, but do I actually live them? My spirit, Lord, I lay it at Your feet. I hand it over, though my hands tremble and my heart protests in fear. Yet I know that You are faithful. You have sustained me when nothing else could. My body, my plans, my desires—all fragile, all fleeting. But my soul, Lord, is Yours. I want it to be safe in Your hand.

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I confess, God, that my anger rises often. Not at You, never at You, but at the injustice that saturates this world. I see selfishness, cruelty, apathy, and it rages inside me. And yet, in my anger, I realize I must still trust. Psalm 31 reminds me that even when life hangs by a thread, You are holding me. I cling to that assurance even when my human emotions scream that the world is spinning out of control.

Lord, forgive me for the times I have doubted Your plan, for the times I have wanted to grasp life in my own hands, as if I could create peace and redemption without You. Forgive me, Father, for my impatience, for the times I have measured my worth in worldly achievements rather than in Your grace. Your Word says, “All things are safe in God’s hands.” How foolish I have been to believe otherwise. I want, I need, to trust that fully—not just in quiet moments, but in every storm, every betrayal, every injustice.

There is a sweetness in knowing that I am redeemed. “Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth.” Even when I feel the weight of my failures, even when my sins cling like shadows I cannot shake, Your redemption stands as an unshakable fortress. Oh, Lord, how I cling to this! How I want to shout to the heavens that no matter how hard life strikes, no matter how dark the night, You have redeemed me. You have done it before, You do it now, and You will do it again. Nothing can change Your promise, nothing can overturn Your grace.

And yet, I am angry, Lord. I am angry at myself for my weakness. I am angry at the world that resists Your will, that mocks Your name. But let this anger refine me, not destroy me. Let it drive me closer to You, not away. Let it remind me that my life is not mine—it is Yours, for Your glory and Your kingdom. Even in my wrath, let my spirit bow before You.

Father, I commit all of myself to You—my fears, my regrets, my ambitions, my heartaches, my rage. Even the anger I feel, I place it in Your hands. Let it serve You, not Satan. Let it protect the oppressed, fuel righteousness, strengthen the weary. Let it never lead me to sin or despair. “Though Thou slay me, I will trust.” Even if my path is painful, even if my trials crush me, I will not abandon You. Praise You even from the dust, O God, because Your love is unutterable, Your mercy eternal.

I think sometimes about how little I deserve Your grace, how often I fail. But even then, I remember that past deliverances are proof of present assistance. I have seen Your hand move in my life in ways that can only be described as miraculous. I have felt Your whisper in the quiet of despair, Your strength when I had none. If You were faithful then, Lord, You are faithful now. And I cling to that promise. I trust, despite my anger, despite my doubt, despite my pain.

Lord, help me to surrender fully. I want to be a woman whose life is not divided, whose spirit is not fragmented between fear and faith, doubt and devotion. I want to walk in Your light with no shadow of hesitation. Teach me to release control completely. Teach me to commit my soul entirely into Your hands, with no conditions, no reservations. Let me live as a true daughter of the King, fully known, fully redeemed, fully Yours.

I pray for courage, Lord—not just courage to face trials, but courage to live boldly in faith. Courage to confront injustice, to speak truth, to defend the weak, to love the unlovable. Courage to be angry at sin without being consumed by it, to be passionate without being prideful. Let my anger be sanctified, let my compassion be fierce. Let my heart burn with Your truth so that I may stand strong, even when the world trembles.

I ask for humility, Father. Even in my fervor, even in my righteous indignation, I need humility. Teach me to listen, to forgive, to serve. Let my zeal for Your kingdom never overshadow my love for Your children. Let me remember that redemption is not just mine—it is for everyone, and I am called to reflect Your grace as much as I cling to it.

Psalm 31:5 says, “Into thine hand I commit my spirit.” I am trying, Lord. Every day, in every thought, in every act, I am trying. But I stumble. I falter. I fight the darkness inside myself. Still, I want my life to be a living surrender, a continuous offering to You. Let this diary, let these words, be a testimony of my commitment. Let them be a reminder that no matter how stormy my soul feels, it is safe in Your hand.

Father, I pray for steadfastness. Keep me from turning back when trials arise. Remind me that the things of this world are fleeting, but my soul is eternal. Let me find rest not in comfort, not in accolades, not in the fleeting approval of others, but in You. Let every breath I take, every choice I make, reflect a deep and unwavering trust in Your plan. Let my anger and my compassion, my sorrow and my joy, all serve to glorify You.

And finally, Lord, I pray for Your love to saturate my being so fully that fear and doubt have no place in me. Let every moment of my life be a surrender, a living Psalm, a testimony to Your redemption. Let my spirit dwell in quiet resting places, as the Psalm says, even when adversities multiply. Let me commit all I have to Jesus’ faithful hand, for in Him alone is security, peace, and eternal joy.

I am Yours, O Lord. Take me. Shape me. Correct me. And even if You must slay me, let me trust You. Let me praise You from the dust, proclaiming Your unutterable love. Let me live as one redeemed, one sustained, one fully committed. And may this commitment not be just words, but life breathed in every action, every thought, every heartbeat.

Amen.

The Light of God’s Face Lifts You Up and Holds You

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Today, I feel both weight and wonder pressing on my heart. I woke with a heaviness in my chest, a raw anger at the brokenness in the world, the cruelty, the lies, the shadows that seek to snuff out what is good and holy. And yet, even in my fury, I find myself drawn to Him—God, my Father, my refuge, my unshakable fortress. He is not distant. He is not silent. He is not careless. His eyes, the light of His face, are upon me, even now, and they lift me up when the weight of life wants to press me down.

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I cling to Genesis 1:1, 3-4, and it reverberates in my soul: “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. And God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light. God saw the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness.” Oh, Father, how you have separated me from darkness! I have walked through shadows that I thought would swallow me, through nights of despair and betrayal, through moments when I could not even breathe. And still, Your light pierced me. Your voice called out into the void of my soul and said, let there be light. And there was. And there is. And You saw that it was good.

Yet, I am angry sometimes. I am angry at the lies, the injustice, the pain that seems to cling to every corner of the world. I am angry that the world resists You. But then I remember James 1:17: “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” There is no shadow in You, Lord. You do not waver. You do not falter. Every gift You have placed in my life is perfect, and every promise is true. Even in my rage, I must bow to Your constancy, even when I feel the sting of disappointment at humanity.

I lift my eyes to You. I let my tears fall. I let my fists unclench. Let Your face shine on me, Abba. Let Your gaze fall upon me, not as condemnation, not as judgment, but as the warm, fierce, tender flame that You are. Psalm 67:1 cries out in my spirit: “May God be gracious to us and bless us and make his face shine on us.” Yes, Lord, shine Your face on me. I am exhausted from hiding, from pretending, from trying to find light where there is only shadow. Lift me, Father. Hold me. Let me feel the breadth of Your love even when I cannot find it anywhere else.

You see me, Jehovah-Nissi, my Banner, my Protector, my Glory. You see the scar tissue, the wounds that refuse to heal, the memories that gnaw at my peace. And still, You do not turn away. You lift me from the ashes of my anger, the shame of my failures, the bitterness I cling to because I think I must protect myself. You make beauty from ashes. You breathe hope into the smoke. You are not moved by my mistakes, my doubt, my struggle. You are moved by Your love for me, and I am in awe.

Psalm 31:16 pulses in my heart as I pray: “Let your face shine on your servant; save me in your unfailing love.” Lord, save me in Your unfailing love. Save me from despair, from bitterness, from exhaustion. Save me from the temptation to give up on this life, on these people, on myself. Shine Your face on me. Let me feel Your delight in me. Let me know that I am cherished, that I belong, that I am Your daughter, Your treasured one, Your child of light. Turn me from darkness, Lord, into the kingdom of Your light, just as Colossians 1:12-13 promises. Let me walk fully in the inheritance You have for me. Let me live as one who is seated with Christ at Your right hand, surrounded by the radiance of Your unending love.

I feel Your light now. It burns away the coldness inside me. It warms the parts of me that I thought were too broken to feel anything but pain. Psalm 36:9 says, “In your light we see light.” Yes, Lord, in Your light, I see light. I see hope. I see possibility. I see forgiveness. I see truth piercing the darkness that so often clouds my mind. Let Your light consume the fear, the rage, the despair that tries to claim me. Let it fill the corners of my soul with Your brilliance. Let me not hide from it, even when it hurts to see myself in it, even when it reveals the parts of me I would rather ignore.

Father, I surrender everything to You. Lift up the people I love. Hold them in the light of Your face. Lift up the dreams that feel buried, the prayers that feel unanswered, the gifts You have placed in me that I am too weary to wield. Stir them up in me, Lord. Let every blessing You have whispered over me rise like the dawn. Let me steward what You have given me wisely, humbly, faithfully. Let me shine Your light in my small corners of the world so that Your glory is made known, even when the world resists.

I remember Your blessing in Numbers 6:24-26: “The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.” Lord, let it be so. Bless me. Keep me. Shine Your face upon me. Turn Your face toward me. Give me Your peace that surpasses all understanding. Let it guard my heart, steady my spirit, calm my anger, and deepen my faith. Let me rest in You even when the storms rage around me, even when I am tempted to rage back at the injustices I see. Let Your light be my shelter, my shield, my song in the night.

I am angry, Lord, and I admit it to You. I am angry at myself when I falter, angry at others who hurt me, angry at the darkness that seems so relentless. But I am also tender, Lord. Tender for Your voice, for Your presence, for Your promises. Tender for the people You love, the world You cherish, the children You have called Your own. Let my anger be righteous, not destructive. Let it drive me closer to You, closer to Your truth, closer to the light of Your face, where every wound can meet Your healing gaze. Let it push me to defend the innocent, to love fiercely, to live boldly, to proclaim Your light in the places others refuse to see it.

Lord, I do not want to forget Your power, Your mercy, Your glory. Let me remember that even when I am weak, You are strong. Even when I am wounded, You are healer. Even when I am confused, You are light. Even when I am angry, You are justice. You hold everything I love. You hold my future. You hold my mistakes and my triumphs, my sins and my prayers. You hold the entire world, and yet You are tender toward me. That overwhelms me with gratitude, and sometimes it overwhelms me with tears that I cannot hold back.

So I lift my voice in prayer. I pray for Your light to consume the darkness in me, to burn away what does not belong to You, to purify my heart and mind. I pray for Your light to shine on the world, in places of injustice, hatred, and despair. I pray for Your light to illuminate the gifts You have placed in me, to awaken me to the calling You have set before me. And I pray for Your face to shine on me, not because I deserve it, but because You are faithful, and Your love is unfailing, and Your grace is perfect.

Lord, let me rest in You. Let me feel the lift of Your hand, the warmth of Your embrace, the assurance of Your countenance. Let me see Your face in every sunrise, every act of kindness, every moment of clarity. Let me be a reflection of Your light, even in my anger, even in my brokenness, even in my humanity. Let me carry the weight of Your glory and the gentleness of Your mercy. Let me be a witness to the world of what it means to be held by the God who spoke light into existence and still speaks it into me today.

I choose to believe, Lord. I choose to trust, to hope, to shine. I choose to rest in the fact that Your light lifts me, Your love holds me, and Your face watches over me. I am Yours, wholly and completely. I am Yours to bless, Yours to shape, Yours to carry into the world. Even in anger, even in tears, even in doubt, I am Yours. And that is enough. That is everything.

Let Your face shine on me, Lord. Let Your light rise within me. Let me see the good You have placed in me, the good You are placing in the world, the good You are doing in my life even now. Let me not shrink from Your gaze. Let me meet it boldly, with reverence, with awe, with gratitude, and with the fierce love You have taught me to carry. Amen.

Living in the Light of God’s Gifts

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

I’ve been reflecting on Psalm 9:1–2, which keeps circling back in my spirit: “I will give thanks to the LORD with all my heart; I will tell of all Your wonders. I will be glad and exult in You; I will sing praise to Your name, O Most High.” Those words have wrapped around my day like a warm shawl, reminding me gently but firmly that gratitude isn’t just a feeling—it’s a posture, a choice to live with my eyes open to God’s goodness. Tonight, I want to sit quietly in this space and acknowledge the beauty of the gifts God has placed in my life.

It’s strange how quickly I forget the wonders that God has already done. One moment I’m overflowing with praise, and the next, I’m tangled in worry over something fleeting or small. But today God slowed me down—almost as if He whispered, “Look again.” And when I looked, I saw His fingerprints everywhere.

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The first thing I felt Him nudging me to remember was the gift of salvation—Christ’s precious offering. Sometimes the cross becomes so familiar that it stops shaking me the way it should. But today I imagined again what it meant for Jesus to willingly step into my place, to carry every ounce of sin, shame, and brokenness so that I could stand clean and beloved before the Father. When I consider any hardship I’m facing, it truly is microscopic next to what He bore for me.

I found myself whispering a quiet prayer:
“Lord Jesus, thank You for saving me. Thank You for loving me enough to endure the cross, the pain, the isolation, and the weight of the world’s sin. Help me never take this gift lightly. Let my life reflect the magnitude of what You’ve done.”

Sometimes I forget how personal salvation really is. It’s not just a theological concept; it’s the very reason I can breathe hope. The cross reminds me that no matter what today looks like—or what tomorrow brings—I belong to Him. And belonging to Him means nothing is wasted.

As I thought about salvation, I also felt overwhelmed by the assurance of God’s love. Scripture tells me plainly in 1 John 4:16, “God is love, and the one who abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him.” But even more striking is Romans 8:31–39, which tells me that absolutely nothing—no fear, no failure, no darkness, no spiritual attack, no heartbreak—can separate me from His love.

But still, when storms come, I start to doubt. I ask God if He sees me, if He cares, if He’s listening. And every time, He patiently reminds me that His love is not dependent on my circumstances. It’s woven into His very nature. It cannot be undone. Knowing this should anchor me, but I find I need to remind myself again and again.

Tonight I prayed:
“Father, anchor me in Your love. Let it be the foundation beneath my feet and the light before my steps. Teach me to trust Your heart even when I cannot trace Your hand.”

Something softened in me after that prayer. It was as if God gently brushed away the worry I had been clutching so tightly.

Then my thoughts turned to the gift of answered prayer. I’ve always loved that God invites me to talk to Him about everything—not just the “holy” things but the messy things, the confusing things, the trivial things, the things I’m embarrassed to admit even to myself. He listens without exhaustion, without impatience, without judgment. He is not just able to help me; He knows the best way to do it.

Today, I realized how many of my prayers—some whispered with tears, some shouted in fear, some simply breathed with hope—have already been answered, even if not in the way I expected. Looking back, I see a trail of God’s faithfulness I never would have recognized at the time. Moments I thought were delays were actually protection. Moments I thought were silence were actually preparation.

I wrote this prayer in the margin of my Bible:
“Lord, thank You for hearing me. Thank You for every yes, every no, and every not yet. Give me the faith to bring everything to You, and the patience to wait for Your best.”

What a blessing it is to be heard by the Creator of the universe. It is something I never want to take for granted.

And yet, even with these gifts—salvation, love, answered prayer—God never promised a life without adversity. Sometimes I wish He did, but then I remember Romans 8:28: “And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.” I’ve clung to that verse more times than I can count. The knowledge that God can bring good out of anything—even the things that break me—changes the way I walk through trials.

Lately I’ve been facing a few challenges that I don’t fully understand. I’ve questioned God, cried out to Him, even tried to reason with Him as if I know more than He does. But tonight I felt a sense of surrender rising in me. Not the defeated kind of surrender, but the peaceful kind that comes from remembering exactly who God is. He’s a Father. A shepherd. A healer. A protector. A promise-maker and promise-keeper. The One who sees the entire story while I only see a single page.

As I wrote these reflections, I felt compelled to pray:
“Father, I submit myself to You. Thank You for Your wisdom, even when I don’t understand it. Thank You for shaping me through trials, not to harm me but to strengthen my faith. Help me trust that You will accomplish Your purpose in me.”

Writing those words felt like placing a heavy stone at the feet of Jesus and choosing not to pick it up again.

I think a thankful heart is less about counting blessings and more about recognizing God’s presence woven through everything. Gratitude isn’t ignoring pain; it’s acknowledging God in the midst of it. It’s saying, “Lord, I see Your hand even here.”

As I sit here tonight, I’m realizing that living in the light of God’s gifts doesn’t mean I pretend everything is perfect. It means I choose to believe that God is present, active, and loving even when life feels unclear. It means I remember that adversity is not abandonment. Hardships are not punishment. Tests are not signs that I’ve been forgotten—they are invitations to trust God more deeply.

And so I want to end tonight with one more prayer, written softly from the depths of my heart:

“Gracious Father, thank You for the blessings You’ve poured into my life—salvation, love, the gift of prayer, and the promise that You bring good out of every circumstance. Teach me to live fully in the light of these gifts. Help me walk with gratitude, rest in Your love, and trust Your purposes even when I don’t understand them. Keep my heart surrendered, my faith steady, and my spirit anchored in You. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

Tonight I feel a quiet peace settling over me—a peace that reminds me that God’s gifts are not abstract concepts; they are living truths shaping every moment of my life. And for that, I am deeply, deeply thankful.