thechristiantechnerd

Echoes of a Prayer: Finding Meaning in the Hail Mary

Posted on September 1, 2025 by thechristiantechnerd

Today I sat with a prayer I used to avoid.

I’ve heard it whispered in cathedrals, chanted by rosary beads, and mumbled in funeral homes. The Hail Mary—a prayer that once made me uneasy. Not because of its words, but because of the way others react when you mention it, especially outside of Catholic circles.

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But the truth is… I’m done apologizing for reverence.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”

This prayer begins with Scripture. Luke 1:28. Gabriel didn’t greet Mary with a casual “Hey.” He called her “full of grace.” That’s not flattery. That’s Heaven’s assessment. And I think that matters. When God chooses someone to carry the Savior, you don’t ignore that person just because it makes your theology uncomfortable.

I was raised in a non-denominational church. We didn’t “do” Mary. We skipped over her after the nativity scene like she was a prop, not a person. And yet… she was the first to say yes to Jesus. Before Peter preached at Pentecost. Before Paul wrote Romans. Before John baptized anybody. It was Mary who said yes to God in the silence of her womb and the scandal of her culture.

I pray the Hail Mary now not because I idolize her—but because I see her courage. I honor her “yes.”

“Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.” – Luke 1:38

Mary wasn’t just obedient—she was brave. Brave enough to carry shame in a society that would stone her for premarital pregnancy. Brave enough to raise the Son of God knowing He was born to die. Her yes came with a sword—“a sword will pierce through your own soul also” (Luke 2:35)—and she still gave it.

Obedience is not cheap. It will cost your pride, your comfort, your reputation. And yet we still hesitate to honor the one who bore the cost before us? That’s fear. That’s pride. That’s arrogance masquerading as orthodoxy.

“Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.”

This is Elizabeth speaking in Luke 1:42, under the anointing of the Holy Spirit. It’s praise. It’s prophetic. It’s the Spirit of God acknowledging that Mary’s womb was holy. That her obedience brought forth the Redeemer. Why are we afraid to repeat what Scripture declares?

Every time I pray the Hail Mary, I think about how inconvenient it was for Mary to obey God. And yet, how quickly I make excuses when God tells me to forgive someone, or to speak truth when it’s uncomfortable. Mary’s story puts me in check. She reminds me that surrender to God always carries a price—but also, an eternal reward.

And maybe that’s why some people resist her. She convicts them without saying a word.

The final part of the prayer—“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death”—that’s the part that usually stirs controversy. “Why pray to Mary?” they ask. But here’s the thing: we’re not praying to Mary like she’s God. We’re asking for her intercession—like I would ask a prayer partner to lift me up.

If I believe the saints are alive in Christ (Romans 8:38-39), if I believe that we’re surrounded by a “great cloud of witnesses” (Hebrews 12:1), then why would I deny the reality that Mary, glorified and reigning with Christ, hears us through the Spirit?

She’s not my Savior—but she carried mine. I won’t worship her, but I will walk in her footsteps of obedience.

Tonight, I prayed the Hail Mary with full sincerity.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…”
And I felt peace—not idolatry, not distance from God—but deep, maternal peace. A peace that reminds me that God uses the humble. That God honors the lowly. That God calls us to impossible things and gives us His grace to do them.

Jesus is the center of this prayer. He always was. Even when we’re saying Mary’s name, the miracle in her womb—the reason she’s “blessed among women”—was Him.

“The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory…” – John 1:14

I’m not interested in soft Christianity that avoids anything uncomfortable. I’m not scared to look “too Catholic” if the words I’m saying are soaked in Scripture and full of truth. I’m not here to fit into a denomination. I’m here to know God.

And if a young woman in Nazareth could say yes to God at the cost of everything, then I can too.

So I’m going to keep praying the Hail Mary—not to be edgy, not to be pious, but because I see in it the echoes of God’s glory. Because I want my “yes” to carry weight like hers did. Because I’m learning that God’s story is bigger than our categories.

And because obedience—real, reverent obedience—is always worth it.

God,
Thank You for choosing the humble. Thank You for using Mary as a vessel to bring forth the Savior of the world. Help me never to shrink away from reverence. Teach me to honor what You honor, to love what You love. Give me the courage to say yes, even when it costs me everything.

May I carry Christ within me—not physically like Mary—but spiritually, through obedience, surrender, and bold faith.

I ask for the prayers of those who have gone before me, and I rest in the truth that Christ is always the center of every holy thing.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

Grace That Lifts: Rising Again in God’s Strength

Posted on September 1, 2025 by thechristiantechnerd

Tonight, my heart is full—raw but full. I sat alone in my room, lights low, music off, and just stared at the ceiling with tears quietly slipping down the side of my face. Not because I felt sorry for myself, but because I realized how close I came to giving up… again.

Giving up on me.

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I don’t always say this out loud, but I’ve spent a good portion of this year silently fighting battles no one could see. And what’s worse? I almost believed the lie that I didn’t have it in me to keep going. Almost. But tonight, I got reminded—Grace doesn’t run out. God’s grace lifts.

You know, I’ve been reading 2 Corinthians 12:9 again and again.

“And He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.’”

I used to quote that like a bumper sticker when things got hard. But now, I feel it. My weaknesses have exposed me this season. My pride took some hits. My plans didn’t unfold the way I pictured. I lost people. I lost energy. At times, I lost the will to show up as the woman God created me to be.

But I didn’t lose God.

He met me right here—in my mess, my mid-breakdown, my almost-quit point. And He lifted me. Not because I deserved it, but because His grace doesn’t function like man’s approval. His grace is an extension of His love, not my performance.

The enemy has been whispering to me that I’m too behind, too flawed, too tired, too everything. But you know what? I’m calling that out. I’m confronting that lie with some real truth. Because the Word says:

“The righteous may fall seven times, but still get up.” – Proverbs 24:16

That’s ME. I fell. But I got back up. And I’m getting back up again. I’m not done, and I refuse to be counted out just because things didn’t go smoothly.

Let me be real. We talk a lot about fighting spiritual battles—but sometimes the real war is just getting out of bed with purpose, smiling when life feels like it’s in pieces, and choosing to believe that God’s not done with your story. That’s warfare too.

I want to speak directly to the old me and maybe someone reading this one day: Stop treating yourself like a side character in your own life. God didn’t send His Son so you could live in survival mode forever. No. He came to give you life and life more abundantly (John 10:10).

So when you feel like quitting, remind yourself: “You are worth the effort it takes to get to your expected end.” You are worth the fight it takes to stop settling for mediocre just because it’s familiar. Even now—especially now—there’s still hope for you.

Tonight, I prayed differently. Not out of desperation, but out of declaration. I didn’t come to God broken down and hopeless. I came to Him like a daughter who knows her Father loves her too much to let her drown in disappointment.

Here’s what I prayed:

Father, thank You. Thank You for not letting me give up when everything in me screamed to quit. I lift up every person who feels buried under the weight of discouragement, defeat, and silent pain. I pray for the one who can barely open their Bible right now. For the one crying themselves to sleep. For the one who’s surrounded by people but still feels alone.

Lord, Your Word says that Your grace is sufficient. I ask You to make that grace tangible tonight. Wrap them in it like a warm blanket. Let it silence the accusations. Let it bring clarity where confusion reigns. Let it soften the heart that’s gone numb from pain.

Heal their wounded places. Speak peace to their inner storms. Remind them they were never meant to carry it all alone.

Let them see that even in this—You are working all things for their good (Romans 8:28). Help them rise, not in their own strength, but in Yours.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

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I guess what I’m learning is this: Rising again doesn’t mean the fall didn’t hurt. It means you’re stronger than what tried to break you. And God? He’s still writing your story. You’re not disqualified just because it didn’t happen the way you expected.

Let’s not be the kind of Christians who only testify once we’ve “made it.” Let’s be the ones who share even while we’re still climbing. Because someone needs to know that faith isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s whispered through tears at 2 AM when you choose not to give up.

That’s where I am.
Not perfect.
But still standing.
Still believing.
Still rising—with the grace that lifts.

And I believe that’s enough.

A Prayer for Every Need: The Our Father Is The Perfect Prayer

Posted on August 30, 2025August 30, 2025 by thechristiantechnerd

I’ve been reflecting a lot lately on how we approach prayer, and honestly, it’s been a bit of a struggle. I know, I know, that’s not the kind of thing you’d expect me to admit, but here we are. I guess I’m wondering—does anyone else feel like they pray the hardest when things are falling apart? Maybe it’s not even something major, but those times when you’re tossing and turning in bed, too tired to sleep, too restless to relax. Or the times when everything seems fine on the surface, but deep down, you’re carrying a weight you can’t quite shake. Is that when your most fervent prayer comes too? When you don’t know what to say but know you need God more than anything?

I’m guilty of not always knowing how to pray. Even after all this time, I still feel like I’m fumbling for the right words sometimes. I’ve got good intentions—good heart—but my mind just goes blank. I can sit there and talk to God like He’s right there beside me, and still, I get caught up in the silence, wondering if I’ve said the right things, or if I’ve said enough.

Maybe that’s something you’ve struggled with too. Maybe you’ve set aside time to pray, but then, when the time comes, you find yourself with nothing to say. Your mind wanders, and the words seem to escape you. I know I’m not the only one who has experienced this. Heck, even Jesus’ disciples struggled with this! They came to Him asking, “Lord, teach us how to pray.” (Luke 11:1). If they needed help, who am I to think I’ve got it all figured out?

That’s when I turn to what Jesus taught in Matthew 6. I think it’s such a beautiful, straightforward reminder of what prayer really is. Jesus didn’t just leave us to figure it out on our own. He gave us a model, a guide. And it’s one of the simplest yet most powerful prayers ever spoken.

Matthew 6:9-13 tells us:

“Our Father in heaven,
hallowed be your name,
your kingdom come,
your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us today our daily bread.
And forgive us our trespasses,
as we also forgive those who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from the evil one.”

I don’t know about you, but I find so much comfort in those words. They’re the words of Jesus—God’s own Son—given to us as a blueprint for how to connect with the Father. And what gets me is that even though we’ve heard it a thousand times in church or at family dinners, the more I sit with it, the more I realize how perfect this prayer truly is.

I’ve come to see that this prayer, the Our Father, is a model for my prayer. It’s not just something we recite in groups or before meals. It’s personal. It’s a conversation with God. Every single line is full of meaning, and it shows us how to align our hearts with His will.

Let’s break it down:

Our Father in heaven – He is our Father. Not just a Father, but our personal Father. There’s intimacy here. He is close. He cares. He hears us. And He’s in heaven, ruling and reigning, but still fully present with us.
Hallowed be your name – His name is holy. This is a moment of reverence, where we acknowledge the power, majesty, and sanctity of who God is. It’s a recognition that He is far beyond us, and yet, He chooses to be with us.
Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven – This is where I have to check my heart. How often do I pray for His will to be done over my own? If I’m being honest, sometimes I’d rather have my own plans fulfilled. But Jesus reminds me that His Kingdom, His way of doing things, is what truly matters. It’s about surrendering control. It’s about saying, “God, I want what You want.” It’s a prayer for the world to be made right, and for me to live in line with that.
Give us today our daily bread – Simple, isn’t it? It’s not asking for an abundance, just for what we need today. This is a reminder to trust God every single day, to rely on Him for provision. It’s humbling. It’s saying, “God, I need You today, and tomorrow, and the next day.”
And forgive us our trespasses, as we also forgive those who trespass against us – This one stings, doesn’t it? It’s so much easier to ask God to forgive us than it is to forgive others. But that’s the thing. The forgiveness we receive is the same forgiveness we are called to extend. It’s a sobering reminder that grace isn’t just for me, it’s for everyone.
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one – This is where I have to pray with real honesty. I know I can’t make it through life on my own. I need God’s help to avoid sin, to stay on the path of righteousness. It’s a plea for His protection. A plea for strength when we face the trials and temptations of this world.

There it is. The perfect prayer. Simple yet profound. Jesus knew exactly what we needed to pray. Not a bunch of empty words or mindless repetition, but a prayer that brings us back to the heart of God. A prayer that grounds us in His presence. It covers everything: worship, submission, provision, forgiveness, and deliverance.

If you’re like me and often feel like you’re stammering in your prayers, let the Our Father guide you. It’s not just something you recite by memory. It’s a framework for how we live in relationship with God. Sometimes, when I have nothing left to say, I just repeat these words, and in that, I find peace.

God knows exactly what we need, even before we ask (Matthew 6:8). And yet, He still invites us to pray. That’s grace. So when you don’t know what to say, pray the Our Father. Let it be your breath when your spirit is dry.

God, You are good. Your will is perfect. Help me to trust You more, to forgive more, and to follow You with all my heart. In Jesus’ name, amen.

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Anxious Thoughts, Anchored in Christian Faith

Posted on August 30, 2025August 30, 2025 by thechristiantechnerd

Tonight, Friday, I had one of those conversations that lingers long after the words have left the air. You know the kind — where someone says something so casually, but it hits a deep nerve because you know there’s truth behind it, even if it’s not the truth that should lead.

My friend looked at me and said, “Sometimes you just can’t help it. Worry is just… part of life.”

And I get it. I do. I’ve been there. I am there.

Bills. Future. Relationships. Health. The “what ifs” that creep in when you’re brushing your teeth or folding laundry. It feels almost irresponsible not to worry sometimes, doesn’t it? Like worry is our way of preparing or protecting ourselves. Like if we don’t think through every possible bad scenario, we’re being naive.

But here’s the problem. That mindset doesn’t align with what God says. At all.

“Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything: tell God your needs and don’t forget to thank Him for His answers.” — Philippians 4:6 (TLB)

That’s literally a command. Don’t worry. Not about some things. Not about most things. About anything.

I wanted to tell my friend right then and there — with love but also firmness — “Sis, that’s a lie straight from the pit. Worry might feel natural, but that doesn’t mean it’s right. And it sure doesn’t mean it’s godly.”

Because here’s the thing: God doesn’t give us a standard without a solution. He’s not cold or distant. He doesn’t just throw “Don’t worry” at us and leave us alone with our anxious minds. He gives us a whole formula.

Let me break it down again for myself — because girl, I need this tattooed on my heart:

Step 1: Pray about everything.
If it matters to me, it matters to Him. Whether it’s the results of a biopsy or just the fact that I’m scared I’ll be single forever… He cares. So I have to open my mouth and speak. Not stress in silence. PRAY.

Step 2: Tell God your needs.
Don’t just beg. Be honest. Be specific. It’s okay to say, “Lord, I need clarity. I need strength. I need provision. I need peace.” This is not a burden to Him. This is relationship.

Step 3: Thank Him for His answers.
This one is the hardest when anxiety clouds my view. But God calls me to thank Him before I see the result. To say “Thank You” while the bank account is still low, while the test results are still pending, while the future is still blurry. That’s faith. That’s surrender.

And THEN… comes the promise. And this part blows my mind every time I read it.

“If you do this you will experience God’s peace, which is far more wonderful than the human mind can understand. His peace will keep your thoughts and your hearts quiet and at rest as you trust in Christ Jesus.” — Philippians 4:7 (TLB)

God’s peace isn’t logical. It’s not based on the situation improving. It’s based on HIM.

I’ve tasted that peace before — in moments when everything around me screamed panic, and yet inside, I was still. Not because I had it all figured out, but because I knew He did.

Tonight, I’m choosing that peace again.

I’m laying my anxious thoughts before God. The ones about where I’ll be next year. The ones about whether my life is measuring up to some invisible Christian-woman standard. The ones about how people perceive me — if they think I’m “too much,” too serious, too spiritual, too opinionated. I give it all to the One who made me and already knows how my story ends.

Father God,
You said not to worry. And I confess that I do. I’ve let anxiety become my default setting, and I’ve excused it as just being “realistic.” But You’ve called me to something higher — to trust, to pray, to thank You even when the answer hasn’t arrived yet.

So I bring it all to You. Every fear. Every need. Every unknown. You are my anchor, and You are steady. I believe that as I trust You, You are already working behind the scenes.

Teach me to trust more and fear less. Let Your peace, the peace that confuses the world, flood my mind and heart tonight. Quiet every racing thought. Speak louder than my fears.

In Jesus’ Name,
Amen.

It still amazes me,how countercultural this gospel is. The world says, “Worry is normal. Anxiety is part of life.” But God says, “Not for My child.”

And while I still feel things deeply — I’m a feeler through and through — I no longer let my emotions rule me. I choose faith. I choose obedience. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

I’m not passive about this anymore. I’m not soft about worry. I fight it. I confront it. Not just for me, but for every sister watching me walk this journey.

Because if God says peace is possible, I’m going to live like it’s true.

When Fear Falls Silent

Posted on August 29, 2025August 30, 2025 by thechristiantechnerd

As much as I wrestle with my anxious heart, I am reminded that God’s Word calls me to a higher place—a place where fear falls silent because faith speaks louder.

I can’t help but think about how often we humans live captive to worry. We fret about our health, the future of our families, money, the state of the world, even the smallest things like salt and sugar intake—things we imagine could throw our lives off balance. The truth is, much of this worry is unfounded, a thief stealing our peace and joy.

The Longman Dictionary defines worry as “an uncomfortable feeling in the mind, caused by a mixture of fear and uncertainty.” How true. And yet, worry doesn’t just stay in our minds; it spills over into our bodies, our spirits, and our actions. Dr. Charles Mayo said something that hit me deeply: “I’ve never known a man who died from overwork, but I’ve known many who have died from doubt.” That doubt—that worry—is more deadly than we realize.

So, what am I worrying about today? Honestly, sometimes it’s everything all at once—my family’s health, my job, the world’s instability. But when I bring it all before God, I realize how small those worries are compared to His infinite power and love.

Jesus’s words in Matthew 6:34 keep ringing in my ears: “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” This isn’t just a suggestion; it’s a divine command to release the burdens that we were never meant to carry alone.

I remind myself that worrying about tomorrow is pointless because God alone holds the future. Proverbs 16:9 says, “In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps.” How often do I forget this? I make my plans, map out every detail, and then stress when things don’t go as I imagined. But God? He is sovereign. He guides my steps even when I’m unsure which way to turn.

And honestly, there’s enough trouble in today without borrowing from tomorrow’s troubles. I think about people who wake up each day terrified—some cry out, “Good Lord, it’s morning!” while others cheerfully say, “Good morning, Lord!” Which one am I?

I want to be the latter. I want to greet each morning with faith that God is present, that He is in control.

God declares Himself as the eternal “I AM,” a God of the present moment. Too often, I find myself trapped either in regrets about the past or anxieties about the future. But the Apostle Paul encourages me to forget what lies behind and press forward (Philippians 3:13). And when worry threatens to consume me, Paul’s words in Philippians 4:6 give me a lifeline: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”

Prayer is my refuge. When fear screams loudest, I whisper my needs to God, trusting that He hears and cares.

Lord, I come before You now with my fears and worries. You see the turmoil in my heart. I ask for Your peace that surpasses all understanding to guard my heart and mind in Christ Jesus (Philippians 4:7). Help me to surrender my anxious thoughts to You, trusting You with my tomorrow and my today. Give me strength to face each moment with courage and faith, knowing You are my refuge and my strength (Psalm 46:1).

I confess that sometimes I let worry control me, stealing the joy You desire for me. Forgive me, Lord, for doubting Your promises and for holding on to fears instead of releasing them into Your hands. Teach me to walk boldly in faith, to confront the lies of fear with the truth of Your Word.

I remember that God is not a distant deity but a loving Father who cares deeply for His children. He reminds me in 1 Peter 5:7, “Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.” That’s not just comforting—it’s revolutionary. I don’t have to carry my burdens alone.

Sometimes, I think our worry stems from a lack of trust in God’s goodness and timing. But I want to believe that God is good, always. That His plans for me are for peace and not for harm (Jeremiah 29:11). Even when life feels uncertain and scary, God remains my anchor.

I’m learning that to confront worry, I must confront my fears head-on—not by denying them, but by taking them to God and standing firm in His truth. The enemy would love nothing more than to keep me paralyzed in fear. But the Spirit gives me power, love, and self-discipline (2 Timothy 1:7).

So today, I choose faith over fear. I choose to face my worries with a prayerful heart and a confident spirit. I don’t have all the answers, but I have a God who does.

I pray this for everyone who’s burdened with worry, for those who feel defeated and powerless. May you find rest in God’s promises. May you release your fears into His capable hands. And may you wake each morning with the courage to say, “Good morning, Lord.”

Fear will fall silent—not because it disappears—but because faith speaks louder.

Amen.

The Complete Blessing: From Spirit to Flesh

Posted on August 29, 2025August 30, 2025 by thechristiantechnerd

Lord, it’s just me — raw, real, and reaching. I feel so much stirring in my spirit that I can’t just sit with it anymore. I have to write it out, wrestle with it, pray through it, speak life over myself. You’ve been pressing 1 Thessalonians 5:23-24 into my heart so deeply, it’s like it’s tattooed on my bones:

“May God Himself, the God of peace, sanctify you through and through. May your whole spirit, soul, and body be kept blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. The one who calls you is faithful, and He will do it.”

I read that and my heart screams, YES, LORD. DO IT! But also, God, how? How do You make me whole — spirit, soul, and body — when life feels like it’s constantly pulling me apart?

I don’t want to be a half-built house anymore, Holy Spirit. I want to be made blameless. Not just in my outward appearance or religious rituals, but truly, deeply, wholly sanctified. This isn’t about perfectionism — this is about purification.

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Let’s start with my spirit. That part of me that cries out for You when words fail, that part of me You breathed into life, the part of me that knows Your voice even when my emotions lie. You said in Ephesians 3:16 that we are “strengthened with power through His Spirit in your inner being.” Jesus, I need that strength right now. I’m not here to perform or pretend. I’m here because my spirit wants more of You. It aches when I grieve You. It gets buried when I let my flesh take the lead. But it is yours, fully and eternally. Breathe new fire in me. Fill me with the hunger that moves mountains.

And Lord, if there are parts of my spirit that are crushed — and honestly, there are — please, please come close like You promised in Psalm 34:18: “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” I need You near. No one else will do. Heal those broken inner places, not so I can feel good, but so I can be whole and walk worthy of Your call.

My soul? She’s a mess sometimes. She’s emotional, sensitive, reactive — but she’s also vibrant, creative, and expressive. She carries the songs I sing, the tears I cry, the joy I radiate. But she gets overwhelmed. She tries to control things that belong in Your hands. She feels everything deeply, and sometimes the pain of the world pierces her too deeply.

Lord, You said You restore our soul (Psalm 23:3). I’m holding You to that promise. Renew her. Teach her to surrender. Show her that she doesn’t have to lead; she just has to follow the spirit that follows Your Spirit. Help her get in divine alignment. I bless my soul to come under the leadership of the Holy Spirit. No more hijacking peace. No more feeding fear. Soul, be still and know that He is God.

And my body? This temple that gets overlooked unless it’s in pain or gaining weight or feeling tired? I’ve spoken so harshly to her, Lord. I’ve treated her like a workhorse instead of the sacred vessel she is. Forgive me. I bless my body to come alive in Your glory. I speak healing over her, strength into her bones, and freedom into her movements.

My body lifts hands in worship. She dances, cries, embraces, kneels. She doesn’t just carry me — she carries Your Spirit, Your purpose, Your presence. I bless her to be whole, strong, and healthy. I speak to every cell, every system, every hidden trauma — be sanctified, be healed, be whole in Jesus’ name.

This isn’t about self-help or some aesthetic “healing journey.” This is about sanctification — deep, holy, through-and-through alignment with the God of peace. It’s about being kept blameless — not because I’m flawless, but because You’re faithful. You’re the One who does the work, Lord. You will do it.

You didn’t call me to salvation only to abandon me in sanctification. You didn’t save my spirit to leave my soul and body in chaos. You’re after every part of me, and I say yes. Yes, Jesus. Sanctify me. Spirit, soul, and body. I’m not hiding any part from You.

Where I’ve let trauma speak louder than truth — silence it.
Where I’ve let exhaustion speak louder than purpose — revive me.
Where I’ve let bitterness poison my soul — cleanse me.

Take the whole of me, Lord. Make it holy. Make it whole.

And God, help me to be bold with others about this. I’m tired of surface-level Christianity. I’m not interested in cute faith or lukewarm prayers. I want to see chains break, strongholds fall, spirits awaken. I want to look people in the eye and say, “He can heal you — all of you. Spirit, soul, and body.” I want to speak with holy fire and radical compassion, not just comfort but confrontation. Not because I’m better — but because I know the One who makes us whole. I know He can do it. Because He’s doing it in me.

Even on the days I feel like I’m falling apart, You’re putting me together. So tonight, I rest in the truth that You are faithful. You are working. You will complete what You started. And when You come back, I’ll be found blameless — not because of me, but because of You.

Amen.

Divine Whispers and Heavenly Kisses

Posted on August 29, 2025August 30, 2025 by thechristiantechnerd

Sometimes, Lord, I sit in the stillness and it feels like the whole summer rushed at me like cold waves. End of summer always does that to me—brings a weightiness, a holy heaviness that presses into my soul. It’s not depression, not sadness really… just a kind of holy pause. A contemplative ache. A yearning to know—have I made a difference? Did I obey You when it counted? Have I pleased Your heart? Was I a good steward of the time, the breath, the resources, and the people You placed in my life?

Truth be told, I’ve been hit hard this year. Not always in ways that showed up on the surface, but in my soul. You know that, Lord. You saw me.

I look back, and I can’t deny: there were kisses from heaven.

Some were soft, gentle…Others were fierce, disguised as fire.

Scripture tells me in Romans 8:28 that “all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose.” Not all things feel good. But I’m finally realizing—they’re working for my good.

Even when my best friend called to tell me the doctors found something wrong with her dad. Even when I felt like the bottom dropped out and I didn’t know how to pray. I did pray. Weak prayers. Ugly prayers. Honest prayers. And You still showed up. The diagnosis wasn’t what we hoped, but it also wasn’t what we feared. And somehow, in all of it, we felt You closer than we had in years.

God, this year, I have seen You in the quiet places.

You kissed me with that unexpected job interview when I thought I was completely overlooked.

You kissed me through the laughter of my little niece who said, “Jesus makes me giggle.”
You kissed me with peace in the waiting.

You kissed me with confrontation, too—calling me out when I was slipping into compromise, using people-pleasing as a poor excuse for silence.

I don’t always like how You love me, Lord. But I know it’s love all the same. Hebrews 12:6 says, “For the Lord disciplines those He loves, and He punishes each one He accepts as His child.” You don’t coddle me. You grow me. You stretch me. And it hurts. But thank You for not letting me stay the same.

Some of Your kisses this summer came wrapped in grief.

My best friend’s heartbreak broke me, too. Not being there for her physically, not being able to hold her while she cried… that haunted me for all of June. But then… the dream. That dream You gave me where I saw her happy, light all around her. I woke up crying, Lord. That was You. That was Your way of saying, “I’ve got her. I’ve got you too.”

Jesus, help me live with thanksgiving in my bones. Let me not be so busy doing that I forget to be. To be aware. To be grateful. To be present to the soft whispers You’re always sending—those “you are Mine” reminders.

I want to walk into the fall with eyes wide open. Watching. Listening. Surrendered.

Your Word says in James 1:17, “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights.” Even the hard things that become good things—those are gifts, too.

So I’ll take time today. I’ll reflect. I’ll let the tears fall if they need to. I’ll praise You in the remembering. I’ll shout thank You even for the almosts—the doors You closed, the relationships You protected me from, the battles I didn’t have to fight because You stood in front of me.

You kissed me, God, in ways I didn’t deserve. You kissed me in discipline. You kissed me in favor. You kissed me in loss. You kissed me in surprise. You kissed me in the storm—and in the calm after.

Let me never confuse the mundane for meaningless.

A friend’s text. A sunrise with colors I can’t name. The fact that my lungs still breathe and my legs still carry me. The ability to worship You freely. To speak Your name without fear.

These are heaven’s kisses. Every one of them.

Let me live like I know that.

Let me love like I’ve been kissed by God.

Let me fight for joy. Let me confront lies with truth. Let me stay soft in a world trying to harden me. Let me never forget what You’ve done.

Because You are worthy. You are holy. You are here.

You are Emmanuel—God with us.

Even here. Even now.

Lord Jesus,

Thank You for the beauty in brokenness.
Thank You for every whisper, every kiss, every form of love You’ve shown me—whether soft or sharp.

I give You this past year.
The joys, the wounds, the growth, the grace.
And I invite You into every moment of the year to come.
Teach me to recognize Your kisses.

Let my soul be quick to say “thank You”
And let my life be a reflection of Your goodness.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Blame Ends Here: I’m done pointing fingers!

Posted on August 28, 2025August 30, 2025 by thechristiantechnerd

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I’ve been feeling convicted lately. Not guilty—convicted. There’s a difference. Guilt just sticks to your soul like mud, but conviction comes from the Holy Spirit and leads you toward cleansing. And right now, I need cleansing. Not just from the obvious sins, but from that sneaky one I’ve been nursing in silence: blame.

You know what I’ve realized, Lord? Blame is a comfort zone. It’s easier to say “She hurt me,” “He triggered me,” “They abandoned me,” than to say, “I chose this response.” Because choosing to be angry, bitter, cold, or petty means I have to face myself. And let’s be real—sometimes I’d rather point the finger outward than take a hard look in the mirror.

Galatians 5:22-23 keeps ringing in my ears:

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control…”

SELF-CONTROL. Not other-control. Not blame-shifting. Not retaliation. Self. Control. The one fruit I pretend isn’t in the basket when I’m fired up.

Earlier this week I was frustrated with my boss—again. She made this snarky comment about my “slow pace” on a project that I literally prayed through and poured my heart into.

Then I heard that still, small voice: “You’re standing on the outside, but inside you’re stomping your feet.” Just like that kid in time-out, pretending to submit while rebellion boils underneath. That hit hard. I’m not called to passive-aggressiveness or silent rebellion. I’m called to radical, inconvenient obedience.

So here I am, laying it all down. No more blaming her. No more blaming my past, my wounds, my triggers. They’re real, yes. But they don’t get to define my reactions anymore. Only You do, Lord.

I’m reminded of Romans 14:12:
“So then, each of us will give an account of ourselves to God.”

MYSELF. Not my coworkers. Not my parents. Me. And if I’m being honest, my account’s got some chapters I’d rather not read aloud. But You already know them.

You see my heart—and love me anyway. That’s what humbles me most. You see the fake apologies, the grudges disguised as boundaries, the sarcasm hiding my disappointment. And still, You invite me into grace.

Holy Spirit, search me. Please. Rip the roots of bitterness out before they become my identity. I don’t want to be “the girl who was hurt” anymore. I want to be “the woman who was healed and chose joy anyway.”

God, I want to live Galatians 5, not just quote it. I want my love to be genuine, my peace to be unshakable, my kindness to be reflexive, not forced. I don’t want to react like the world—I want to respond like You. Because You never played the blame game, even when You had every right to. Jesus, You were blameless, and yet You bore my blame. And what do I do with that sacrifice? I pick it up and throw it at others, using it as a weapon to justify my own hurt. Forgive me, Lord.

Here’s my prayer tonight:

Father, create in me a clean heart (Psalm 51:10), and renew a right spirit within me. Deliver me from the temptation to justify sin with someone else’s failures. You are the Judge, not me. You are the Redeemer, not me. Teach me to stop blaming and start forgiving. Soften my heart, even toward those who don’t apologize. And when I mess up, give me the humility to repent fully and quickly, not just partially. Holy Spirit, grow Your fruit in me. I surrender my responses, my emotions, my rights. I choose obedience, not offense. I choose peace. In Jesus’ name, amen.

I’m realizing that the blame game is the devil’s favorite playground. He doesn’t need us to sin loudly—he just needs us to keep a bitter scorecard while pretending we’re fine. I refuse to play his game. I’d rather play for the Kingdom.

The more I surrender to God, the more I see how much I’ve tried to manage my own vindication.

But Romans 12:19 says….

“Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: ‘It is mine to avenge; I will repay,’ says the Lord.”

That’s hard. So hard. But necessary. Because when I hold on to blame, I’m essentially saying I don’t trust You, God. And that’s not the legacy I want.

I want to be known for releasing, not resenting. For healing, not harboring. For grace, not grudge.

So I’m putting down the gavel. I’m not the judge. I’m not the jury. I’m just a daughter of the King, learning to respond like royalty instead of reacting like a wounded orphan. I’m not perfect—but I’m being perfected. And that’s enough.

If anyone ever reads this entry one day (God help them!), I pray they feel the freedom that comes when you stop blaming and start confessing. It’s like unclenching a fist you didn’t realize was tight. Suddenly, peace can fill your palm.

Ending the blame game doesn’t mean you were never hurt—it means your healing matters more.

I’m done pointing fingers. I’m lifting hands.

The Disruptive Savior: Jesus Violates My Expectations

Posted on August 28, 2025August 30, 2025 by thechristiantechnerd

Jesus,

Today, You violated my expectations. Again.

And honestly? It wrecked me—in the best way.

I came to You with a plan. A perfect little picture of how I thought You would move. I had it all laid out: the timeline, the method, the outcome. I expected peace in the waiting, healing on my terms, breakthrough in a way that made sense to me.

But You didn’t follow my script. You never do.

And that’s what makes You God.

I used to think that faith meant expecting You to move in a certain way. Now I’m learning that faith is surrendering all my expectations and trusting You to move however You want—even if it’s weird, uncomfortable, or completely opposite of what I had in mind.

Your ways are not my ways. (Isaiah 55:8)

And thank God for that.

I think about the blind man in John 9. You could’ve just said the word and healed him. You have done that before. But instead, You spit in the dirt, made mud, and smeared it on his eyes. That’s not clean. That’s not sanitary. That’s definitely not what anyone was expecting.

“Having said this, He spit on the ground, made some mud with the saliva, and put it on the man’s eyes. ‘Go,’ He told him, ‘wash in the Pool of Siloam.’ So the man went and washed, and came home seeing.” — John 9:6–7 (NIV)

I mean… really? Mud? Spit?

But that’s the thing. You don’t need to meet our expectations. We’re the ones who need to adjust to Yours.

And You’re not inconsistent. You’re just obedient to the Father’s will. That’s Your only consistency—total surrender to the will of God.

So why do I still act shocked when You move in a way I didn’t expect?

Why do I question Your love just because You didn’t answer how I prayed? Why do I think You’ve abandoned me just because the healing hasn’t come the way I pictured? Why do I think delay means denial?

The truth is, You’ve never failed me. Not once. But sometimes You love me too much to meet the expectations I put on You. Sometimes You intentionally violate my comfort zone to build real faith—not the kind that works when life is cute and convenient, but the kind that stands when nothing makes sense.

That’s the kind of faith I want.

Jesus, confront me. Offend my logic. Violate my false beliefs. Expose every place where I’ve boxed You in.

Because I don’t want a tame God. I want the real You.

I want the Jesus who flips tables.
The Jesus who eats with sinners.
The Jesus who doesn’t fit into any of the categories we try to place You in.
The Jesus who saves with blood, not politics.
The Jesus who washes feet but holds all power.
The Jesus who disrupts my comfort so I’ll depend on grace.

You are not predictable—but You are trustworthy.

And I know I’ve been guilty of trying to domesticate You. I’ve begged You to fit into my plans. I’ve expected blessing without pruning, glory without obedience, and miracles without submission.

But today, I lay that down.

All of it.

I don’t need a Jesus who obeys me—I need to obey You.
I don’t need a Savior who plays by my rules—I need one who saves me from myself.
And You do that. Every day.

So please, Jesus, violate my expectations. Shatter them if You have to.

If You need to spit in the dirt and smear it in my eyes so I can finally see, then do it.

If You need to let me sit in a season of silence so I can hear You clearly again, I’m here for it.

If You need to deny me what I think I want so You can give me what I really need, then so be it.

Because faith isn’t about control. It’s about surrender.
It’s not about understanding every step—it’s about trusting the One who holds the path.

And that’s You.

Lord, forgive me for all the ways I’ve treated You like a vending machine or a wish granter. You’re not here to serve my ego—You came to save my soul.

I don’t want You to just “fix my life.” I want You to transform me.

If that takes discomfort, so be it. If that means dying to my preferences, I’m ready. If that means letting go of everything I thought You would do, I’ll do it.

Because in the end, what I want more than anything… is You.

You alone are worthy.

You alone are holy.

You alone are Lord—not just in theory, but in reality.

So take my expectations, my formulas, my assumptions.
Take my pride, my need for control, my fear of the unknown.
Take it all, Jesus. You can have it.

And in return, give me eyes to see what You’re doing—even if it doesn’t look the way I imagined.

Because that man walked away seeing.

I want that kind of vision.
Not worldly vision.
Not religious tradition.
But real, Spirit-filled sight.

Sight that sees Your hand even in the mud.
Faith that trusts You even when it stings.
Love that stays, even when You move differently than expected.

You are Lord.

Not me.

Amen.

Wrestling with Doubt as a Christian

Posted on August 28, 2025August 30, 2025 by thechristiantechnerd

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The weight of the world feels almost unbearable some days. Everything seems flipped. Right is called wrong. Wrong is celebrated. Sin is dressed up in sequins and paraded in the streets, while righteousness is mocked and silenced. I used to think we’d have more time before it got this loud—this twisted—but here we are. And I know You’re not surprised.

“Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness…” — Isaiah 5:20.

Your Word warned us, Lord. And now we are living in the middle of that woe.

Sometimes I just want to scream. Not because I hate people—I don’t. I ache for them. For the blind leading the blind. For the influencers raising a generation on relativism and emotion, not truth. For the silence of the church where there should be a shout. For my own weariness in holding the line.

I feel the tension in my soul every single day. To go along or to speak up. To be silent or to be that “annoying Christian girl” who just has to bring Jesus into everything. But how can I not? He is everything to me. He pulled me from darkness. He healed parts of me no one saw. He made me new. If I deny Him, I deny myself.

But today was hard.

I watched another celebrity mock believers. “Y’all still believe in that sky fairy?” she laughed. Thousands of likes. Thousands of cheers. I cried. Not because I’m weak, but because I know what it’s like to live without hope—and I know what it’s like to meet Jesus. And I want that for them, even if they spit in my face. Even if they call me brainwashed. Because Christ said they’d do all of that.

“If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first.” — John 15:18

Jesus, You knew this would happen. You promised this walk wouldn’t be easy, but You also promised You’d walk with me. I guess that’s what I’m clinging to right now: that I’m not alone, even when it feels like I’m walking upstream in a river of compromise.

It’s hard to hold on when it feels like faith itself is on trial.

Every time I open social media, the battle is louder. The culture says be “politically correct,” while You’ve called us to be morally correct. There’s a war raging, not just around us, but inside of us. The culture war is just a symptom of the deeper spiritual war, and I can feel it tearing at hearts. Mine included.

But Lord, I believe. Even when it’s hard. Even when I don’t feel You the way I used to. Even when my prayers feel like they’re bouncing off the ceiling.

I still believe.

I still believe You are the Way, the Truth, and the Life (John 14:6).
I still believe the Bible is Your living, breathing Word (Hebrews 4:12).
I still believe You died and rose again, defeating death and hell (Revelation 1:18).
I still believe the cross is not foolishness, but the power of God (1 Corinthians 1:18).
I still believe You are coming back, and soon.

So help me, Jesus.

Help me keep my eyes on You, not the headlines.
Help me keep my ears tuned to Your voice, not the noise of the crowd.
Help me to stand, even if I’m the last one standing.
Help me to speak when You say “speak,” and be silent when You say “wait.”
Help me to love, even when I’m hated.
And help me to never confuse compassion with compromise.

The world follows Carl Sagan’s voice—”The cosmos is all that is, or ever was, or ever will be.” But I hear Your whisper through the ages: “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” — Genesis 1:1.

Sagan saw a godless void. Calvin saw a stage for Your glory. I choose to see what Calvin saw—what You showed us. Creation is Your theater, and we’re living in the final act. I’ve read the end of the script. I know who wins. You do. So I will not be afraid.

But Lord, give me wisdom. There’s so much deception. And it’s subtle. The devil isn’t dumb. He disguises lies as “love.” He paints sin with glitter and slogans like “your truth” and “just be you.” But Your truth is the only truth that saves. And it breaks my heart that so many will miss it because it doesn’t feel good or sound trendy.

Jesus, revive Your Church. Shake us. Wake us up. We were not called to blend in. We were never meant to be lukewarm or “cool.” We are salt and light—meant to sting and shine. Forgive us for choosing comfort over conviction.

I want to be bold, God. But not rude. I want to be loving, but not compromising. I want to reflect You, even when people reject me. Because this world is not my home. I’m not living for likes. I’m living for “Well done.”

So tonight, I lay my weariness before You. I pour out the ache, the confusion, the heartbreak, the loneliness. I give it all to You. And I pick up peace. I pick up faith. I pick up the cross.

Because You’re worth it.

Every tear.
Every rejection.
Every label.
Every loss.

Jesus, You’re worth it.

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