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Minnesotans are corrupt, evil, and want chaos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Jesus’ mighty name, amen.

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

Last night I sat in the corner booth of a cute little mom and pop coffee shop with my Bible open, my journal beside me, and a peppermint tea in hand—just like every Wednesday pretty much. But something about last night felt… different. Not in a dramatic or supernatural way, just a subtle stirring in my spirit that I couldn’t ignore.

There was a girl sitting two tables down. She looked about my age, maybe a little younger. Alone. Earbuds in, but she wasn’t really focused on her phone. She glanced at my Bible more than once. Not judging—more like curious.

I felt this nudge in my spirit—one I’ve felt before and honestly, too often ignored.

“Say something. Smile. Ask her if she wants to talk or pray.”

But I didn’t.

I froze. I told myself, “Maybe she doesn’t want to be bothered,” or “She probably thinks I’m weird.” And then, like a coward, I packed up and left early.

God, I’m sorry. Truly.

I’ve been thinking about this question for weeks now: Is my faith meant to be shared? And the answer is always yes. A loud, resounding yes. But I still hesitate.

Why?

I guess I don’t want to come off as “that girl”—the one who forces faith into every conversation. But then again… why shouldn’t I be that girl if I truly believe this is life-saving truth?

Romans 1:16 says, “For I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God that brings salvation to everyone who believes.”

Am I ashamed? I don’t think so. But maybe I act like I am sometimes. That hurts to write out.

When I really sit with the thought, I think I’m more afraid of rejection than I am of disobedience. That’s heavy.

But Jesus never called us to comfort. He said, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me” (Luke 9:23).

Denying myself includes denying that fear. That worry about awkwardness. That instinct to self-protect.

I think about the early church—how they risked everything to share the gospel. Not just reputation, but their very lives. And me? I can’t even risk an awkward moment in a coffee shop?

Lord, forgive me for my silence.

I remember reading 1 Peter 3:15—“Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have.” But it doesn’t stop there. It says to do this “with gentleness and respect.”

So maybe it’s not about being loud or invasive. It’s about being available. Present. Willing.

What would it look like if I made it a point to be more intentional? Not to push Jesus on people, but to present Him—in how I speak, how I love, how I show up in everyday moments?

Honestly, it’s easy to talk about Jesus when I’m with other Christians. At church, youth group, Bible study—we’re all speaking the same language. But outside those circles, I shrink. And that’s something I desperately want to change.

I don’t want a compartmentalized faith.

I want a faith that overflows. One that people can see and feel, even without a word—but especially with one.

Jesus said in Matthew 5:14-16:
“You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden… let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.”

What good is a light if I’m constantly hiding it under the weight of my own insecurity?

I don’t have all the answers. I’m still figuring out what it looks like to live a bold faith in a quiet, unassuming world. But I know this: I don’t want to live a life that keeps Jesus a secret.

So tonight, I’m praying this prayer.

A Prayer for Boldness and Compassion

Father,
You see every part of me—the parts that want to shout Your name from the rooftops, and the parts that whisper when I should speak boldly. I thank You that You’re patient with me. That You don’t condemn me for my hesitations, but gently invite me deeper.

Lord, give me courage. Not the kind the world gives, but the holy, Spirit-filled kind that can only come from You. The courage to speak when it’s uncomfortable. To offer a word, a smile, a prayer—even when I don’t know how it will be received.

Let me never be ashamed of the Gospel, because I know it’s the power of salvation. Remind me that sharing You isn’t about perfection or performance—it’s about love. Help me love people enough to risk my own pride.

And Lord, make me sensitive. Let me listen well. Let me follow Your nudges. Let me be a light—not a spotlight, not a floodlight—just a gentle, warm flame that points to You.

I surrender my fear, my image, my comfort. Use me, Lord. Not someday. Not when I feel ready. But now.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

So that’s where I was last night. A mix of conviction, hope, and longing. I don’t want to be silent anymore. My faith isn’t just mine—it’s a gift meant to be shared.

Next Wednesday, I’ll go back to that same coffee shop. Maybe she’ll be there again. Maybe she won’t. But either way, I’ll be ready this time.

And even if I’m not, God will be.

Tag: bold Christianity

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