-Reviews, Advice & News For All Things Tech and Gadget Related-
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!
Before you begin reading, I want to be upfront with everyone reading this, yes, I was paid to post this article, but since I do believe in MyPatriotSupply, I hope you can give this a read when you have time to do so!
This Christmas, give something far more important than decorations or gadgets— give the one thing people regret not having when the lights go out: food security.
Because if the past few years have shown anything, it’s this: stability can disappear overnight.
Shelves can empty. Delivery trucks can stop. Storms can knock out power for days. And when that happens, the only thing that matters is whether you’re prepared.
That’s why our friends at My Patriot Supply launched their Buy 1, Gift 2 Christmas Special—and the timing couldn’t be more fitting.
I can’t stop asking it, and I hate that I do—Where are you, God? I feel myself screaming this into the void sometimes, my chest tight, my hands trembling. I know the answer, of course. I believe it with every fiber of me. Yet believing and feeling are not the same thing, are they? And my feelings? They’re tired. They’re frustrated. They’re angry.
Christian Tech Nerd Quick Quiz!
Let’s see who can answer the below question correctly…..
If a woman has an abortion, can she still get into heaven?
Isaiah 55:8–9 keeps whispering in my mind: “My thoughts are not like your thoughts. Your ways are not like my ways. Just as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.”
I underline the word like every time I read it. It burns. God’s thoughts are not like mine. They’re not even in the same neighborhood. I worry about my body. He worries about my soul. I want a promotion at work, a little more stability. He wants to raise the dead. I avoid pain and long for comfort. He uses pain to bring peace. I want to live before I die. He says, die so you can live. We rejoice at our wins. He rejoices at our confessions.
I want to scream sometimes because I can’t see this plane He operates on. I’m here, stumbling over potholes in my life, getting cut by people I thought I could trust, struggling with sins I can’t seem to conquer, and I feel like I’m drowning. But He? He’s in a different dimension. His throne is higher than my mess. And I hate that I have to trust that without seeing it.
Lord, forgive me for the anger. Forgive me for the doubt. I feel it in my chest like fire and ice at the same time. Yet I know that even my anger is not outside your knowledge. Even my fury is not beyond your control.
What controls me doesn’t control Him. What troubles me doesn’t trouble Him. What fatigues me doesn’t fatigue Him. An eagle does not flinch at traffic. A whale does not panic during a hurricane. A lion does not cower at a mouse. And yet I am quaking at so much less. How much more, then, is God able to soar above, plunge beneath, and step over the troubles of this earth? Matthew 19:26: “With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”
I can’t help but ask: How can God be everywhere at once? How can He hear all the prayers whispered in crowded churches, shouted in bedrooms, whispered in car rides? How can He be Father, Son, and Spirit, all at once? And yet, perhaps it’s because heaven runs on different physics than this messy, broken earth. Perhaps our understanding is simply too small.
So I pray. I pray with trembling hands but with faith as well. I pray because He is above, and yet bends low. Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” And that’s the paradox that keeps me alive: He is everywhere above, yet He bends close enough to touch my tears.
I confess, Diary, I want certainty. I want to see the blueprint, the grand design. But I know better. I know that trusting God’s dimension, His plane, His realm, is all I can do. And that is enough. He does not need my understanding. He needs my faith.
Lord Jesus, remind me today that you are the ruler of the universe. Remind me that even when I cannot trace your steps or comprehend your ways, you are working. Remind me to lift my eyes, to see your hand in the small things, to rejoice in confession, to bend my knee in humility.
I want to stop my petty measuring of life against my own desires. I want to stop resenting the pain that He allows. I want to trust that what seems like chaos is just a shadow of His greater plan. I want to rest, Diary. Truly rest, in the knowledge that He bends near, that He hears, that He sees, that He loves.
God, I entrust you with my future. I entrust you with my life. Protect my soul, guide my feet, teach me patience, refine me through this fire. I don’t want just comfort—I want endurance. I don’t want just temporary peace—I want eternal joy. Help me to remember that Your thoughts are not mine, and yet they are good. Help me to remember that Your ways are not mine, and yet they are righteous.
Amen.
And so I close my eyes tonight, clinging to the truth, even when my heart thrashes: God is in heaven, God is in control, and God is bending close to me. I don’t have to see the whole picture to know that it is perfect. I don’t have to understand every step to know that He is faithful. And somehow, that is enough to keep breathing, to keep praying, to keep living in hope—even when the world is loud, and the pain is raw, and my anger is real.
I don’t even know where to begin tonight. My heart feels swollen—full, tender, bruised, burning—and I’m not sure if that’s because I’m angry, or sad, or overwhelmed with gratitude. Maybe it’s all of it at once. Maybe that’s how it is when God is trying to peel away the noise of the day, the demands of the world, and draw me—this stubborn, distracted, restless child—back into His presence.
“Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).
That verse should be tattooed on my forehead at this point. Or maybe on my phone screen. Or on the inside of my eyelids so I see it every time I blink. Because being still does not come naturally to me. It’s like my soul is always pacing, anxious, trying to do everything and fix everything and be everywhere.
But tonight, I felt that tug again—the one that whispers, Come away with Me. And I finally listened.
I don’t know what made me pause. Maybe it was the heaviness I’ve been carrying this week. Maybe it was the argument I had with someone close to me. Maybe it was the way loneliness hit me out of nowhere this afternoon, like a sudden gust of wind that knocks you sideways. Or maybe it was the way Scripture just wouldn’t leave me alone today.
Especially this one: “Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you.” —James 4:8
God isn’t the one who moves away. I am. Every single time.
So tonight I turned off the lights, closed my bedroom door, and sat on the floor—back against the wall, knees tucked up like a little girl. No music, no phone, no distractions. Just silence. Thick, unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable silence. And it dawned on me like a confession: I don’t know how to be alone with God anymore.
Isn’t that ridiculous? I’m a grown woman. I’m a Christian. I teach others about prayer, I post verses on my Instagram stories, I encourage people to “seek His face”… and yet when I tried to just sit with Him, quietly, intimately, intentionally, I felt like I was fidgeting in the waiting room of my own soul.
Why is this so hard?
I think part of it is anger. Not anger at God, but anger at how everything around me pulls me away from Him. Angry at the constant noise, the expectations, the pressure to keep up, to respond, to maintain connections on apps I don’t even care about. Angry that society applauds busy schedules and crowded calendars but views solitude with God as something odd—something reserved for monks or overly spiritual people who don’t live in the “real world.”
But Jesus lived in the real world. Jesus was busy. Jesus had crowds pressing against Him, disciples needing Him, people chasing Him for miracles. And still, Scripture says: “But Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed.” —Luke 5:16
Often. Not occasionally. Not when He felt like it. Not when He was overwhelmed. Often. If the Son of God needed that silence, that solitude, that “alone with the Father” time—who am I to think I can survive without it?
Tonight I told Him everything. Things I haven’t said out loud. The things I hide behind laughter or “I’m fine” texts or keeping myself busy enough not to feel. I told Him about the ache in my chest that’s been there for months. I told Him about the confusion I feel about my future, the frustration of praying for things that still haven’t moved. I told Him about my impatience, my fear, the relational tensions that make me feel like I’m cracking in places no one can see.
And then I told Him what scares me most: I don’t like being alone with myself, so sometimes I avoid being alone with You.
But instead of shame, He gave me peace. That whisper again. That gentle warmth. That softening of my breathing. It felt like He settled into the room with me—not dramatically, not loudly, but deeply. Quietly. Intimately.
Like He had been there all along, waiting for me to stop running.
I think that’s what the devotional writer meant—those instinctive reactions we all have to danger. Grabbing a child before they fall. Pulling someone away from harm without thinking. Our bodies react automatically because we’ve lived long enough to know: danger demands response.
But oh, how I long for my spirit to be like that. To turn to God just as quickly. Without thought. Without debate. Without hesitation.
To bend my attention His way the moment fear whispers, or anxiety rises, or loneliness creeps in.
Maybe that’s what practice does. Maybe intimacy with God grows the same way instinct does—slowly, quietly, through repetition, through time spent, through discipline that doesn’t feel glamorous or exciting.
I guess I just never realized how little discipline I’ve had in this area.
I value community so much. I love fellowship, gathering with friends, going to church, being part of something bigger than myself. But what good is community if I’m spiritually dry? What good is fellowship when my own soul is panting like David described: “As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for You, O God.” —Psalm 42:1
How can I pour out if I haven’t sat still long enough to be filled?
Tonight I prayed a simple prayer—one that tasted like honesty and surrender and longing:
“Father, teach me to be alone with You again. Strip away the distractions. Make me hunger for Your presence. Let silence become sacred to me, not scary. Let solitude become sweet, not strange. I want to know You deeply, truly, personally—not just through sermons or songs or conversations, but through stillness. Draw me into that place where it’s just us. And don’t let me substitute noise for intimacy anymore.”
I felt tears sliding down my face before I even realized I was crying. I guess that’s what happens when the Holy Spirit moves quietly enough to bypass my defense mechanisms.
Then another verse washed over me: “Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly…” —Colossians 3:16
Richly. Not barely. Not occasionally. Not when convenient. Richly. You can’t be filled with something you never make time for.
And I think that’s what tonight really exposed: I want the comfort of God without the commitment of solitude. I want His nearness without giving Him my attention.
But real love—real relationship—doesn’t work like that. Not with God. Not with anyone.
So here I am, writing this entry with a heart that is still tender, still humbled, still wanting more. Wanting Him. Wanting that quiet, that peace, that awareness of His presence that doesn’t need a worship band or a sermon or a crisis to trigger it.
Just Him. Just me. Just us.
If I’m honest, I’m still a little angry—angry at how easily I get spiritually scattered. Angry at how the world trivializes solitude. Angry at myself for neglecting the one relationship that matters more than anything. But maybe that anger is the spark God will use to fuel change. Maybe holy frustration is sometimes a gift.
My prayer now is simple:
“Jesus, make being alone with You my instinct. Make Your presence the place my soul runs to first. Let the disciplines that intimidate me become the habits that anchor me. And when distractions tempt me, whisper louder. When I drift, pull me back. When I forget, remind me gently. I want to know You—not just as my Savior, or my Provider, or my Protector—but as the One I sit with, quietly, daily, lovingly, intimately.”
I think I’m beginning to understand something: The more time I spend alone with God, the better I can love people. The more I know His voice, the better I can hear others. The more I rest in Him, the more I can show up fully present in my relationships. And the more His Word settles into me, the more my heart is transformed into a place where His love can breathe.
“In Your presence there is fullness of joy.” —Psalm 16:11
I want that fullness—desperately. Not the surface-level stuff. Not the temporary encouragement of a good worship song. Not the emotional high of a Sunday service. I want the daily, deep, quiet, unshakeable joy that comes from being with Him… even when no one sees, no one applauds, no one knows.
Tonight was a beginning. Not dramatic. Not fireworks. But real. A step toward intimacy I didn’t realize I’d lost. A moment of stillness I didn’t know I needed.
Maybe being alone with God isn’t as mysterious as I’ve made it. Maybe it’s simply surrendering my attention—bending it toward Him again and again until it becomes instinct. Maybe the joy of His presence is waiting in the quiet moments I keep avoiding.
So here is my final prayer before I sleep:
“Lord, keep me close. Teach me silence. Teach me stillness. Teach me to love the quiet moments with You more than the noisy moments with the world. Make me a woman who is not only filled with Your Word but shaped by Your presence. And let my time alone with You be the well from which everything else flows.”
Father, as I sit to write tonight, my heart feels tender in a way I can’t fully explain. I’ve been lingering on Acts 12:5 all day: “So Peter was being kept in the prison, but the congregation was intensely praying to God for him.” There’s something so beautiful about the way the early believers united—not in panic, not in despair, but in prayer. Intense, expectant, hopeful prayer. It makes me examine the focus of my own prayer life, and honestly, Lord, I feel a gentle conviction rising in me. I see how easily I slip into bringing You my concerns first, my needs, my anxieties, my dreams. And yes, You say to cast all my cares on You (1 Peter 5:7), but I also hear You asking me to widen my gaze.
Today You asked me, “Do you pray more for yourself than for others?” And my heart whispered, “Yes… sometimes.” Not always, but more often than I want to admit. There are days I rush to pray about my job, my relationships, my future, my uncertainties—sometimes without pausing to lift up the people around me who may be carrying far heavier burdens. And then I think about Peter in that prison, and how the church didn’t stop to think about themselves—they united for him. They prayed him into freedom. They prayed with passion because they believed prayer mattered. They believed prayer moved Heaven. I want to pray like that—for others—consistently and with deep compassion.
Lord, I’m realizing that praying for others requires a softness of heart that only Your Spirit can produce. It means noticing people. It means slowing down long enough to actually see their need. It means letting my heart be moved by the pain, hopes, and longings of those around me. When Paul wrote, “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2), he wasn’t offering a polite suggestion—he was laying out part of the structure of Christian community. True love isn’t passive. True love kneels. True love intercedes. True love remembers the suffering of others even when our own lives feel heavy. Lord, shape my heart into one that loves like that.
I’ve also been thinking about all the different people Scripture tells us to pray for. “I urge, then, first of all, that petitions, prayers, intercession, and thanksgiving be made for all people— for kings and all those in authority…” (1 Timothy 2:1–2). Sometimes praying for leaders feels distant, or impersonal, or honestly… a little pointless. But Your Word says it matters. Praying for the unsaved matters. Praying for ministers of the gospel matters. Praying for the persecuted church—who right now may be sitting in prisons, like Peter once did—matters deeply. You move through intercession. You knit hearts together through intercession. You break spiritual chains through intercession. And You grow us spiritually through intercession because it pulls us out of the center of our own universe and places You there instead.
Lord, one of my greatest weaknesses is that sometimes my prayers become lists rather than conversations. I never want my relationship with You to be mechanical. I never want to treat You like a dispenser of blessings. I want to love You more than what You can give me. I want my prayers to reflect trust, surrender, and compassion—not spiritual consumerism. When I pray only for myself, my world becomes small. But when I pray for others, my world expands, because I begin to see people the way You do. Their names take on weight. Their struggles become personal. Their victories feel like my own. In praying for them, I step into their stories, and in doing that, I step closer to You, because You are always near the brokenhearted.
I think of Jesus praying for others—how He prayed for His disciples, how He prayed for all believers that would come after them (John 17), how He prayed for forgiveness for the ones crucifying Him. If the Son of God Himself prayed so earnestly for others, shouldn’t I follow that example? It humbles me, Lord. It reshapes my view of prayer entirely. Prayer isn’t just about my life being changed; it’s about Your kingdom being revealed in the lives of others. It’s about standing in the gap for someone else when they are too weary to stand on their own. It’s about being willing to be inconvenienced in my heart for the sake of loving someone the way You ask me to.
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Today, You placed specific people on my heart. A friend who is struggling silently. A family member who is drifting spiritually. A coworker who seems happy but carries deep insecurity. A young woman at church who is growing in faith but feels spiritually attacked. These people matter to You more than I can comprehend. Lord, let me be faithful to lift them up. Let me pray for them the way the early church prayed for Peter—with intensity, with unity in Spirit, with unwavering trust that You hear. Let my prayers be fueled not by duty but by genuine love.
Father, I don’t want to be someone whose prayers revolve around my own world. I want to grow into someone who instinctively lifts others up, who intercedes with joy, who sees intercession as partnership with You rather than a task on a spiritual checklist. I want to be someone who looks at the brokenness of the world and responds—not with complaint or hopelessness—but with prayer. Because prayer acknowledges that You are still working. Prayer acknowledges that nothing is impossible with You. Prayer acknowledges that You care for every need—no matter how big or small.
And now, Lord, I want to pray:
Heavenly Father, soften my heart and widen my perspective. Teach me to pray for others with sincerity and perseverance. Help me see the people around me—really see them—and lift them before Your throne. Let my prayers be shaped by Your will, guided by Your Word, and filled with compassion. Deliver me from self-centeredness in prayer. Make me an intercessor, not for my glory, but so that Your love may flow through me. Help me to obey the command to pray for all people, for leaders, for the lost, for the church, and for those who suffer for Your name. Give me a heart that kneels before it speaks, a heart that carries others’ burdens with tenderness. Lord, help me to grow spiritually through praying for others, and in all things, make me more like Jesus. Amen.
As I close this entry, my heart feels lighter, but also more aware. I see now that one of the surest ways to grow spiritually is to make prayer less about me and more about others. When I shift my focus outward—when I intercede, when I cry out for someone else’s freedom, healing, salvation, or comfort—something in me transforms. I become less self-absorbed. I become more compassionate. I become more aligned with Your heart. And Lord, that is what I long for more than anything—to have a heart that reflects Yours.
Help me, Jesus, to live this out—not just tonight, but day after day. Help me to love others deeply, pray for them boldly, and trust You completely. Amen.
Today I felt God tugging at my heart, whispering, “Daughter, pay attention. I’m teaching you something.” Sometimes I feel like I’m stumbling around trying to understand what it really means to walk out this faith that I love—this faith that feels like the most important truth in my life. But today, I was reminded again of the brokenness all around me and the small, powerful ways God invites us to make a difference.
Not long ago, I found myself confronted again by the pain and heartache in the world. It’s not that I’d forgotten; it’s just that sometimes the world throws it right in your face. Some weeks it seems like the struggle behind people’s smiles is more visible than usual. I can almost read the heartache tucked between their words or hear the tremble in someone’s voice long before the tears come. And in those moments, I feel this ache—frustration at my own helplessness, compassion for what others are going through, and this deep yearning to somehow be light in the middle of someone’s darkness.
Family members struggling. Loved ones hurting. Friends grieving.
Strained and broken relationships. Physical and emotional pain. Financial hardships that keep people awake at night.
Everyone has something. And while our struggles differ, pain doesn’t have a ranking system with God. Everything we carry matters to Him. I know this, but sometimes I wonder if other people know it too—if they realize how deeply seen they are by Him. Maybe that’s part of why my heart gets so stirred up. I want people to feel loved. I want them to feel cared for. I want them to somehow catch a glimpse of God’s compassion through the small things I do. But honestly… sometimes I’m so drained myself that I don’t know what difference I can even make.
Still, God keeps reminding me that sometimes the only thing we can do for someone is to simply be there. To sit with them in the silence. To listen without rushing to fix. To offer compassion even when we don’t fully understand.
But what else can I do? What else should I do?
I’ve been sitting with this question all week: How can I make a difference in someone else’s day? Not in giant, world-saving ways—but in small, faithful, meaningful ones. And maybe—just maybe—those little moments matter more than we realize.
So today I tried to unpack that question, and these three things kept coming to mind.
1) Smile
It feels silly writing it out, but I can’t help thinking about how powerful a simple smile can be. I wonder how often one person’s smile ends up being the best thing someone else sees all day. Something so small, but big in impact. So easy… yet so easy to forget.
Sometimes when I’m rushing, or stressed, or lost in my own world, I forget to look up. I forget to be present. I forget that my face might be the one reminder someone needs that there’s still kindness in the world.
I caught myself today at the grocery store, checking out with that little automatic frown I wear when I’m tired. Then the Holy Spirit nudged me. I raised my eyes and smiled at the cashier. She looked startled for a second—then she smiled back. And maybe it meant nothing. Or maybe, just maybe, she needed someone to look at her like she mattered.
Lord, teach me to choose joy even when my heart feels heavy. Help me remember that my countenance can carry Your light. “The joy of the Lord is your strength” (Nehemiah 8:10). Let my smile be strength for someone else.
2) Reach Out
This one is harder for me, if I’m honest. When someone is on my heart, I often intend to reach out… later. I’ll text them later. I’ll check in later. I’ll send that email later. And then? I forget. Not because I don’t care—God knows I care—but because I get distracted, or tired, or overwhelmed.
But I can’t help thinking about all the times I have received a message right when I needed it. Those moments when a friend says, “You were on my mind today,” and suddenly the whole world feels a little less dark. How many times have I whispered, “Lord, I needed that”?
I want to be that for others. I want to act when God nudges my heart.
Today as I was driving, someone came to mind, someone I hadn’t talked to in months. And I felt that familiar inner pull. So I reached out—just a simple message, nothing fancy. She replied within minutes, telling me she’d been having a really hard week and had prayed for encouragement just this morning.
Moments like that remind me: God uses us. Our words matter.
Lord, help me be obedient when You place someone on my heart. Let me not be so distracted that I miss the chance to love someone well. “Encourage one another and build each other up” (1 Thessalonians 5:11). Let me be a builder, not a bystander.
3) Pray
Prayer changes things. I know this. I believe this deeply. But sometimes praying feels like pouring water into dry soil that never seems to soften. Sometimes I pray and pray and pray… and nothing seems to shift. And I’ll be honest—those are the moments that frustrate me. Those are the moments I wonder if anything I’m doing is even helping.
But then God reminds me: Prayer isn’t just about outcomes. It’s about connection. It’s about surrender. It’s about trusting that when I bring someone’s name before God, He hears me. And not only does He work in their life—He works in mine too.
I think of the verse: “The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective” (James 5:16). I don’t always feel righteous, or powerful, or effective. But God never asked for perfection—just faithfulness. Just willingness.
So today, I prayed. I prayed for the hurting people around me. For healing. For peace. For restoration. For God’s comfort to meet them like warm sunlight after a long night. And maybe I’ll never know what those prayers accomplished—but God knows. And that’s enough.
Lord, teach me to pray boldly, faithfully, and consistently. Let my prayers be a lifeline for those who feel like they’re drowning. Let me trust in Your unseen work.
Tonight, as I write all this down, I keep thinking about the fruit of the Spirit: “Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.” (Galatians 5:22–23)
This is who I want to be. This is the woman I want to grow into. Compassionate. Joyful. Kind. Soft-hearted but strong in faith. Isn’t that the kind of person who makes a difference in the world?
Sometimes I worry that my small offerings don’t matter. But maybe making a difference doesn’t always look like changing someone’s life—it might simply be changing their day. Giving them a moment of hope. A breath of peace. A reminder that they aren’t invisible and they aren’t alone.
And maybe that’s enough.
A Prayer for Today
Dear Lord, Thank You for opening my eyes to the hidden burdens people carry. Thank You for stirring compassion in my heart even on the days when I feel tired and discouraged myself. Help me make a difference in someone’s day, even in ways that seem small to me. Teach me to smile with Your joy, reach out with Your prompting, and pray with Your strength.
Make my heart tender, my ears open, and my spirit willing. Let Your love flow through me, not because I’m strong, but because You are. Help me shine Your light in a world that feels so heavy with sorrow. Amen.
So how can I make a difference in someone’s day? By smiling. By reaching out. By praying.
Simple things. Small things. But maybe holy things too.
God, I am furious tonight. Not at You—no, never at You—but at this world that is broken, at circumstances that are relentless, at people who hurt without thinking twice. My soul is screaming, and I can barely sit still. I feel like I’m drowning, gasping for understanding in waters that never stop rising. Yet here I am, writing to You because You are the only one who makes sense in this mess.
I think about Joseph tonight, because how else do I keep from losing it completely? Genesis 47: “Now there was no bread in all the land; for the famine was very severe, so that the land of Canaan languished because of the famine.” No bread. No relief. Complete chaos. Joseph faced a famine that could have destroyed everything he knew, and yet he didn’t crumble. He didn’t curse the heavens. He said to his brothers: “God sent me before you to preserve life. For these two years the famine has been in the land, and there are still five years in which there will be neither plowing nor harvesting. And God sent me before you.”
And God sent him. God sent him. Before the famine even touched the land, before the hunger and fear and suffering began, God was already there. Why, then, do I feel like I am the only one standing in the middle of fire without armor? Why does it feel like everyone else has a map and I’m stumbling blind? I rage, God—not at You—but at the injustice of it all, the way life twists its knife and tests faith with cruelty.
Psalm 34:19 haunts me tonight: “Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivers him out of them all.” And yet, I feel battered, bruised, and sometimes abandoned. My patience is raw, frayed. I cry and pray and sometimes feel like I am screaming into a void. Help me, God, not to let this anger turn into bitterness. Let it drive me closer to You, not push me away. Let it sharpen my vision so I can see You in the middle of the storm.
I am tired of feeling powerless. I hate feeling powerless. I hate that I have to wait, watch, and hope while everything around me collapses. I want to shake the heavens and demand justice, demand clarity, demand relief. And yet, I will not curse Your timing. I will not trade faith for fury, even if the fury feels justified. Teach me to channel this anger, God, into fierce, unrelenting trust. Let me be bold in my petitions, raw in my prayers, and unwavering in my belief that You are not silent.
Lord, I confess I often recite my woes faster than I declare Your greatness. I am quick to narrate my fears but slow to proclaim Your faithfulness. Forgive me, Father. Teach me to shout Your glory over the chaos. Let my mouth speak heaven’s truth louder than my heart beats with panic.
I want to be like Joseph. I want to see the famine, the heartbreak, the betrayal, and still say, “God sent me before this. God is here. God will outlive this.” I want to hold that certainty in my chest while the storm tries to tear it away. I want to rage against the evil, cry against injustice, and still stand firm because You, Lord, are unshakeable.
Psalm 46:1 says, “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” Very present. Not maybe, not later, not if I’m lucky—very present. And yet, I wrestle with the silence sometimes. I scream into my pillow, throw my hands to the sky, demand answers, and still You remain. Not absent. Not inattentive. Just…waiting for me to trust.
I am angry, Lord. I am frustrated. I am afraid. And I am faithful. My heart is raw, but it is Yours. I will not turn away. I will not whisper quietly while my faith crumbles in the background. I will roar in prayer. I will challenge the darkness with my cries. I will cling to You with teeth gritted, fists clenched, and soul unbroken.
Teach me to walk through this chaos with fire in my heart. Let my anger become courage. Let my frustration fuel persistence. Let my despair sharpen my faith. Let me remember that the famine, the pain, the brokenness—they do not define me. You do. You define me. You precede me. You outlive this.
So tonight, God, I surrender all my anger, all my confusion, all my trembling, and I place it in Your hands. Let me speak life over the chaos. Let me declare Your purpose over the pain. Let me see You in the famine, in the betrayal, in the sleepless nights. I will not lose sight of You, Lord. Even when I rage, even when I cry, even when I feel abandoned—I will not lose sight of You.
Today I sat quietly with my Bible open to Luke 15:11–24. I’ve read the parable of the prodigal son many times, but somehow, this morning it settled on me in a deeper, more personal way. Maybe it’s because lately I’ve been wrestling with guilt that lingers like a shadow—guilt from mistakes I’ve made, expectations I haven’t met, and moments when I’ve wandered farther from God than I ever intended to. And yet, in this story, I see a Father who does not measure out His love according to my behavior, my consistency, or my ability to keep everything together. I see a Father whose love rushes toward me even when I feel least deserving of it.
As I read, I could almost picture the younger son rehearsing his speech on the long road home—practicing the words he hopes will soften his father’s disappointment: “Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” I imagine his voice trembling as he tries to prepare for rejection or punishment. But the part that grips me most is that he never gets to finish that speech. His father doesn’t even let him. Instead, Scripture says, “But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and had compassion, and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him.”
Every single time I read that, something in me breaks open. The Father ran. He ran toward the one who squandered everything, toward the one who had been reckless and selfish, toward the one who betrayed his love. And He didn’t hesitate—not for a moment.
Lord, why is it so hard for me to believe You treat me like that? Why do I fall into the same trap of thinking I need to earn Your affection, compensate for my failures, or prove that I’m worth loving?
Sometimes I project onto You the reactions I’ve experienced in people—conditional acceptance, approval that hinges on performance, affection that can shift without warning. But You’re not like that. You never have been. “I will be a Father to you, and you shall be My sons and daughters,” You tell me in 2 Corinthians 6:18. You don’t say, “I might be your Father if you behave.” You declare Your love as a certainty, a settled truth. Today I needed that reminder more than anything.
As I sit with this parable, I feel You gently exposing the way I’ve been approaching You—not as a beloved daughter, but as a servant who thinks she has to earn back her place. I come with apologies, promises, and anxiety, hoping You’ll let me back in. But You don’t negotiate. You don’t stand at a distance with crossed arms. You run toward me with compassion. You wrap me in Your love before I can even explain myself.
God, thank You that Your love doesn’t depend on me. Thank You that You welcome me back even when I’ve wandered off the path You set for me. The prodigal son didn’t earn his father’s embrace, and I can’t earn Yours. This truth brings such freedom, and yet I still struggle to fully accept it.
Sometimes I wonder if the son hesitated at the edge of the property—if he felt fear knotting in his stomach, if he paused before taking those final steps. That hesitation feels familiar. There are moments when I’m ashamed to come to You because I think my sin or my inconsistency has somehow changed Your heart toward me. But You remind me again and again that nothing I’ve done can dim Your love. “For I am convinced that neither death nor life… will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Lord, I want to rest in that truth. I want my heart to stop striving for a place it already has.
Father, today I bring You all the parts of me that feel messy, broken, or lost. I lay before You the mistakes that still echo in my mind, the moments when I chose my own way, and the fears that make me hesitate to trust Your goodness. Please help me to see myself the way You see me—not as a servant trying to earn a place at the table, but as a daughter who already belongs there.
I imagine what it must have been like for the son to be robed in his father’s best garment—to feel the fabric wrap around him like dignity restored. I picture the ring sliding onto his finger, the sign of authority, belonging, identity. The sandals placed on his feet, the feast prepared in his honor, the music beginning, and the household rejoicing. All for someone who expected rejection. All for someone who felt unworthy. That kind of love feels almost too extravagant, too overwhelming, but that’s exactly the point. You don’t love as the world loves. Your love is perfect, unconditional, and unchanging.
Jesus, I think about the times I’ve wandered—maybe not into physical places of rebellion, but into emotional and spiritual ones. Times when I’ve let anxiety lead me away from Your peace. Times when I’ve allowed discouragement to push me into self-reliance. Times when I’ve sought affirmation from people instead of from You. And each time, You’ve waited for me with patience that humbles me. You’ve whispered truth into my confusion, reminded me of who I am, and drawn me back with kindness.
Lord, I praise You because even when I feel lost, You never lose sight of me. Even when I distance myself, Your love remains steady. And even when I fall short, You restore me gently without hesitation.
Father, today I come before You with a grateful heart. Thank You for the reminder of Your unconditional love. Thank You that Your arms are always open, always welcoming, always full of compassion. Help me let go of the fear that I have to work for Your affection. Teach me to receive Your grace with humility and joy. Remind me that I am Your daughter—not because I earned it, but because You chose me. Lord, help me to live in the freedom of being loved without condition. And when I wander, please bring me home quickly. Amen.
As I reflect, I realize how often I focus on my failures, while You focus on my identity. You don’t look at my past and call me unworthy. You look at me and call me Yours. You see not the mess I’ve made, but the person You created me to be—the woman You’re shaping, the daughter You delight in.
That truth settles over me like warmth. It softens something inside me that has been tense for too long.
I think of the joy in the father’s voice when he said, “For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.” That joy wasn’t cautious or restrained. It was full. It was loud. It was overflowing. Sometimes I forget that You rejoice over me—not reluctantly, not quietly, but gladly. “The Lord your God… will rejoice over you with singing.” It amazes me that Your love is not just patient but celebratory.
Lord, thank You that my story is never too broken for redemption. Thank You that no matter how far I drift, You always make a way back. Thank You that Your love doesn’t fade with my failures or strengthen with my successes. It simply is—constant, steady, true.
Tonight, as I prepare for rest, I want to carry the image of Your open arms with me. I want it imprinted on my heart so deeply that when guilt or fear tries to whisper lies, I will remember the truth of who You are. A Father who runs. A Father who embraces. A Father who restores. A Father who celebrates my return every single time.
Lord, let my life reflect that love—toward myself, toward others, and toward You. Help me walk in the confidence of a daughter who knows she is cherished. Help me show compassion the way You’ve shown it to me. And help me rest, truly rest, in the security of Your grace.
I took a long walk earlier this morning—down by the little trail near the old bridge—and I found myself whispering one scripture over and over, like oxygen for my soul: “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” (Hebrews 13:8). It’s funny how a verse I’ve known since childhood can suddenly feel brand new when my heart is tired or overwhelmed.
The world feels so volatile at times—like sand shifting under my feet. People change, circumstances change, plans change, my own emotions change. And sometimes I catch myself wishing life could slow down just long enough for me to breathe deeply. But today, while walking in the crisp morning air, I heard that familiar whisper of the Holy Spirit reminding me: Jesus never changes. No matter how chaotic everything feels, He remains the same steady, loving, faithful Savior.
I let that truth settle in my spirit like warm sunlight.
The Power of His Name Never Changes I kept thinking about the first part of Hebrews 13:8—“Jesus Christ is the same…”—as if the sentence couldn’t even wait to introduce “yesterday, today, and forever.” The emphasis is on His identity first. Jesus Christ is the same. His very name carries power, and that power has not diluted over time. I think sometimes I forget just how much strength, authority, and gentleness is bound up in the name of Jesus.
When I first got saved, I remember how speaking His name felt like crossing from darkness into light. I was so tangled up in superstition, fear, and some practices I didn’t even fully understand at the time—things I now recognize as occult or spiritually dangerous. But when I gave my life to Jesus, all of those chains broke. It wasn’t because I suddenly became wise or brave—it was because His name carried a power that darkness couldn’t withstand. I didn’t fully understand it then, but looking back now, I see how strong and steady His hand was, even when I was stumbling my way into grace.
YESTERDAY
I love how the Lord doesn’t erase our past; He redeems it. Isaiah 54:4 has always touched me deeply: “You will forget the shame of your youth and remember no more the reproach of your widowhood.” Sometimes I read that verse and feel like God is wiping tears off my face with His own gentle hands.
My “yesterday” held mistakes, insecurities, and so much confusion about who I was. I carried shame that wasn’t even mine to carry. And I carried guilt over things God had already forgiven long before I forgave myself.
But today I’m reminded that Jesus stands in my yesterday, rewriting every chapter with mercy. He turned my fear into confidence, my doubt into trust, and my shame into a testimony of His goodness. Remembering what He did for me isn’t painful anymore—it’s a reminder of His unchanging love. Every time I think about the spiritual darkness I once dabbled in, I feel nothing but gratitude. He delivered me completely, and the power of His name is still as mighty today as it was the day He broke those chains off my life.
TODAY As I write this, I’m sitting by my small bedroom window, watching the sunset paint gold across the sky. Today had its challenges—little stresses at work, a few anxious thoughts about my future, and some personal prayers that still feel unanswered. But even in those uncertainties, I sense His presence.
Someone once said, “The day of miracles is not past, because the God of miracles is still present.” That feels so true today. Jesus is not a distant memory or a historical figure preserved in ancient text. He is alive. He is with me. He listens to my prayers even when I’m too tired to articulate them well.
And even though my circumstances shift like unpredictable winds, Jesus does not move. He is the same today as He was when He healed the sick, calmed storms, forgave sinners, and called His friends by name. When I whisper “Jesus” in the middle of my anxiety, something changes inside me—not because I suddenly control my life, but because I remember Who is in control.
Sometimes I wish I could see the miracles He’s doing behind the scenes. But I’m learning to trust that just because I don’t see instant changes doesn’t mean He isn’t working. He is faithful today. He is present today. He is powerful today.
TOMORROW (FOREVER) Thinking about tomorrow used to scare me. Not knowing where I’ll be in five years… not being sure how my future will unfold… wanting so badly to make the right choices and not disappoint God or myself. But today, pondering Hebrews 13:8, I felt this unexpected peace settle in me. If Jesus is the same forever, then my future is not a frightening unknown—it’s a place He already stands in, smiling, guiding, preparing, protecting.
He already knows the chapters I haven’t lived yet. He has already planned blessings I can’t imagine. And He has already forgiven mistakes I haven’t even made yet. What an overwhelming kind of love.
And thinking of children one day—the idea that their future is also secure in Him—makes my heart swell. Even though I’m not a mother yet, the reassurance that Jesus holds their tomorrows is deeply comforting. When the world seems unstable, I can already imagine myself speaking this truth over my future children: “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever. He will never leave you.” What a gift to pass down.
A Prayer from My Heart
Lord Jesus, Thank You for being unchanging in a world that changes too quickly for my heart to keep up sometimes. Thank You for being the same Savior who rescued me years ago, the same presence that comforts me today, and the same God who already stands in my future with hope and purpose prepared for me. I praise You for Your name—so full of power, healing, and mercy. Thank You for redeeming my past, guiding me in the present, and securing my forever. When fear tries to control me, remind me of Your constancy. When doubt whispers, let Your truth speak louder. Jesus, I trust You with every yesterday, every today, and every tomorrow. Amen.
Closing Thoughts Tonight
As I end this post, I feel lighter than I did this morning. The world may still change at its dizzying pace, but I don’t feel left behind anymore. I feel held—gently, securely—by the One who has never changed and never will.
Maybe that’s what faith really is: not pretending that nothing changes, but remembering that He doesn’t.
And that is enough for me tonight. Enough for today. Enough for forever.
I feel this deep, almost tender pull to pour out everything in my heart about Thanksgiving—what it means, what it stirs up, and how I can truly thank You in a way that honors the love You’ve shown me, again and again. Maybe part of being 25 and still figuring out life is acknowledging how much I need Your steady presence, especially in the seasons that are supposed to look picture-perfect on the outside but sometimes feel messy on the inside.
Thanksgiving is only a couple days away, and I’ve been thinking about how to thank You, Lord, with a whole heart. Psalm 107:8 keeps replaying in my mind: “Let them give thanks to the Lord for His unfailing love and His wonderful deeds for mankind.” Your unfailing love. Your wonderful deeds. Not just in the past, but today—right here in my uncertainties and joys and anxieties and hopes.
Sometimes, Lord, my heart feels a little bit tangled this time of year. Thanksgiving can bring that mix of sweetness and heaviness—memories of loved ones who aren’t here, old wounds in family dynamics, the quiet ache of wanting things to look a certain way and knowing they won’t. And honestly, sometimes I get disappointed with myself because I know I should be thankful, but all I can feel is tired or overwhelmed or slightly heartsick. It comforts me to know You already see that. You already know. And You don’t shame me for the feelings I’m working through. You just draw me in closer.
So today, Jesus, I want to prepare my heart. I want to carve out that private space to confess where thankfulness has felt out of reach. I want to name the sadness You already know about, the anxieties I keep trying to pretend I don’t have. I want to sit with You and let Your love fill the places where human love sometimes feels thin.
Because I really do want to walk into Thanksgiving this year with gentleness in my spirit, with gratitude that breathes, with a heart so centered on You that it becomes something contagious—something that lets the people around me feel Your grace even if they don’t have the words for it. I want my thankfulness to be real, not forced. I want it to come from remembering who You are.
Lord, You’ve done so much in my life. Your “wonderful deeds” aren’t always loud or dramatic. Sometimes they’re small and quiet and easy to miss until I look back and realize Your fingerprints are everywhere. Thank You for sustaining me this year in ways I barely noticed at the time. Thank You for comforting me in my loneliness, for restoring hope when I thought I’d lost it, for teaching me—slowly but faithfully—how to trust You more.
As I think about Thanksgiving and how to practice gratitude in meaningful ways, I feel myself longing for rhythms that actually turn my heart toward You. Not just traditions because they’re cute or expected, but practices that help me remember You’re near.
One thing I love is the idea of thanking You for the people at the table. Whether it’s the kiddie table or the grown-up one, I think there’s something so beautiful about naming the ways we see Your creativity in each person. Thank You for the way You’ve made each one of my family members unique. Help me speak encouragement that builds up and not words that come from old frustrations. Help me celebrate how You’ve made them, even if the relationships are imperfect.
Maybe this year I’ll ask everyone to share one reason they’re thankful for the person sitting to their left. It’s simple, but it’s also powerful. There’s something holy about speaking out loud the good we see in others. Maybe it helps us see You more clearly, too.
And Lord, I want to bring prayer back into the center of it all. Even when I’m at a table where not everyone believes in You, it still feels right to pray before we eat—to thank You for the food, for the hands that prepared it, for the day itself. Give me the courage to offer to pray if no one else does. Help me do it with gentleness and humility, not pressure or pride. And maybe I’ll ask if others want to share something they’re thankful for so I can lift it up to You as part of the prayer. Because giving thanks is richer when we do it together.
Another thing I want to do is read a Psalm of thanksgiving. Psalm 107 feels perfect. It tells the stories of people crying out to You in their distress—and You answering them every time. “Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; His love endures forever. Let the redeemed of the Lord tell their story” (Psalm 107:1–2). Yes, Lord. I want to tell my story too—not because it’s perfect, but because You’ve been faithful through every imperfect part of it. Your love truly endures forever.
Maybe we’ll each share a small story of Your goodness this year. Maybe I’ll go first so others feel safe to follow. And even if the stories are simple, like “God helped me through a hard day,” they still glorify You. You deserve to be thanked for every good gift, big or small.
And Lord, I just want to be honest: sometimes being thankful is hard. Sometimes Thanksgiving presses in on old grief or memories we wish we didn’t carry. Sometimes we walk into a room already anxious or exhausted. Sometimes our hearts feel bruised, and thankfulness feels like something we have to force.
But You remind me that I don’t have to pretend with You. You invite me to bring every hurt, every heavy memory, every expectation that makes my shoulders tense. You say, “Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). Thank You for that promise.
And maybe part of being grateful is simply remembering that You’re close to the brokenhearted. That You aren’t asking me to muster up fake joy but to come to You honestly so You can fill my heart with real thankfulness—the kind rooted in who You are, not in how perfect the day looks.
So here is my prayer for Thanksgiving, Lord:
Father, soften my heart this Thanksgiving. Make me aware of Your presence in every moment. Help me notice Your blessings—the obvious and the hidden. Heal the places in me that feel fragile. Quiet the anxieties that rise up when I least expect them. Let my gratitude be sincere and deep. Let it reflect Your unfailing love. Let it overflow to the people around me so they feel Your grace too. Teach me how to celebrate well, to love well, and to thank You well. Amen.
I’m grateful, Lord. Truly. And I want this Thanksgiving to be more than a holiday. I want it to be a holy day—a day where my heart leans fully into Your faithfulness.
Thank You for loving me. Thank You for saving me. Thank You for never letting go of me.
Lord, I don’t know whether I’m more comforted or more angry, more relieved or more exhausted. Maybe it’s both. Maybe this is what faith looks like at twenty-five—raw edges, shaky hands, but a stubborn love for You that refuses to break. Maybe that’s what You’ve been trying to show me all along: that justification isn’t about the perfection I keep trying (and failing) to reach. It’s about You reaching down, pulling me into Your grace, even while I’m still messy, still loud, still angry at the world, still trying to believe that I’m really forgiven.
This morning I kept thinking about what it means that believers in Christ are justified—not later, not after we get our act together, not when we finally live holy enough or pray long enough or feel spiritual enough. But now. Right now. In this moment. In this too-bright room with my chipped lavender nail polish and the heaviness of a long week pressing on my shoulders.
Justified. Pardoned. Cleansed. Freed.
God, I’m trying to wrap my mind around that word, because sometimes I feel so condemned. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never outrun the mistakes I made at nineteen, or twenty-two, or yesterday. Sometimes I feel like the enemy stands over me shouting, “Guilty, guilty, guilty!” and I’m ashamed to admit how often I believe him. But then there’s Romans 8:1 whispering through my doubts: “There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” No condemnation. None. Not a little less. Not reduced. Not delayed. Zero.
Why does that truth make me want to cry and scream at the same time?
Maybe because I’m tired of walking around like salvation is something I have to keep earning when Jesus already finished the work. Maybe because grace feels too good—too immediate—to be real. Maybe because I don’t understand a love that strong. Maybe because part of me is still angry that sin has consequences I can’t undo… yet You still say I’m justified.
Lord, You know I don’t want cheap grace. I don’t want to throw Your mercy around like it’s disposable. I don’t want to treat Your sacrifice lightly. But I also don’t want to insult Your love by pretending that forgiveness is too far away for someone like me.
I’ve been thinking about the thief on the cross. How dare he receive the same justification as Paul? How dare he—after a lifetime of choices that likely harmed people, scared people, destroyed something sacred in himself—receive salvation in a single breath, a single moment of faith? Part of me wants to shake him. Another part of me wants to hug him. And then the biggest part of me realizes that I am him—undeserving, but nevertheless justified.
Jesus didn’t say, “Come back when you’re cleaned up.” He didn’t say, “Let Me see your spiritual résumé first.” He didn’t say, “Try harder and maybe I’ll consider it.”
No. He said, “Today you will be with Me in paradise.” Today. Right then. Right in the middle of the pain, the consequences, the shame, the nearing death. A moment of faith—and You called him justified.
And God… it makes me angry how beautiful that is. Angry in a way that twists inside my chest because I want to be good enough, and yet You insist I don’t have to be. Angry because grace disarms all my self-reliance. Angry because it means I can’t cling to my guilt like a trophy of my own humility.
But grateful. Deeply, painfully grateful.
I think about Paul—your servant, Your chosen instrument, the man who endured beatings, shipwrecks, hunger, imprisonment, betrayal, and sleepless nights. A man who poured out his life until the last drop was ministry. And You say he wasn’t any more justified than that thief.
What kind of God loves like that? What kind of God levels the ground so fully at the foot of the cross that the hardest worker and the last-second believer stand shoulder-to-shoulder, equally loved, equally washed clean?
My God does.
My Jesus does.
So why is it so hard for me to accept that I’m included in that? Why does justification feel like a gift I can describe but not quite hold without dropping? Why do I keep living like I’m still on trial?
Your Word keeps telling me the verdict has already been spoken. Already. Not someday. Not eventually. Now.
“For I will be merciful toward their iniquities, and I will remember their sins no more.” (Hebrews 8:12)
No more. Forgotten. Buried. Gone.
Lord, why am I still remembering what You’ve already erased?
Last night, and today, when I prayed, I felt this almost physical sense of You saying, “You’re accepted. Today. Not after you straighten your emotions or fix your flaws or stop being angry at the church or stop overthinking everything. Today.”
And I felt my chest unclench a little.
I don’t know how to fully believe it yet, but I want to.
There’s this image I keep thinking about—this ladder You’ve lowered down from heaven into the vineyard. The one the old preacher talked about. The one that says Your acceptance is how we enter the vineyard, not the fruit we grow once we’re inside. And it comforts me, but it also stings, because I keep trying to climb the ladder with handfuls of fruit I’ve forced myself to produce, as if You need proof of my sincerity. As if You need me to justify myself, when justification is Your work alone.
Father, teach me to accept being accepted.
Teach me to live like someone who’s truly pardoned. Teach me to stop digging up the graves of sins You already buried.
I want to stand before You the way justified people do—with both humility and confidence. With both repentance and joy. With both surrender and assurance. You didn’t die to give me a halfway salvation. You didn’t resurrect so I could stay chained to the idea that I have to save myself daily.
Lord, free me from this self-condemnation. Free me from the lie that Your grace is fragile or conditional. Free me from believing that every mistake pushes me further from Your heart when You yourself said You remember my sins no more.
I feel so small lately—but maybe that’s okay. Justification means Your love is big enough to cover the places where I fail. It means I get to breathe again. It means the courtroom is empty, the gavel has fallen, and the Judge has declared me righteous because of Jesus, not because of my performance.
So here is my prayer, God—raw, trembling, but honest:
“Lord Jesus, thank You for justifying me by Your blood. Thank You that I stand before You without condemnation. Thank You for pardoning my sins fully, immediately, eternally. Teach my heart to believe what my mind knows is true. Tear down every fear that tells me I must earn what You freely give. Help me walk in the freedom You purchased. Help me trust that Your grace is stronger than my guilt and more present than my failures. I surrender my shame to You. Make me whole.”
Amen.
And yet… there’s still this fire inside me. Anger at sin. Anger at the enemy. Anger at the lies that try to steal what You’ve already promised. Anger at myself for being so easily deceived. But maybe that anger is holy too. Maybe it’s what pushes me toward the cross. Maybe it’s what reminds me of how desperately I need You every hour.
Justification isn’t a feeling. It’s a fact. A declaration. A spiritual reality that doesn’t bend with my emotions. And Lord, I need that constancy. I need a truth that doesn’t crack when I do.
Lord, I choose to trust You.
Today I am accepted. Today I am forgiven. Today I am Yours.
The Christian Tech-Nerd 