Tag: Christian womanhood

The Power of Silence: Embracing Alone Time with God

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

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.”

Amen.

The Shepherd Knows His Sheep By Name

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Dear Lord, a few days ago, someone mispronounced my name for the fifth time in a row during a company zoom meeting. And even though it was innocent, I felt something rise up in me—a strange mixture of frustration, sadness, and invisibility.

Why does something as “small” as a name carry so much weight? Why does being seen—truly seen—matter so much to us?

And then I thought of you God.

I thought of how You, the King of Kings, Creator of the Universe, called me by name. You don’t stumble over it. You never forget it. You don’t get it wrong. You don’t ask, “Hey…what’s your name again?” No. You speak it with clarity, affection, and purpose. You say it with authority. You whisper it in the dark. And You shout it in the spirit when I forget who I am.

God, You said, “I have summoned you by name; you are mine.” (Isaiah 43:1) That verse has been echoing in my chest all day like a heartbeat. You are mine. Those three words undo me.

I’ve had moments when I questioned my value—not because I didn’t believe in You, but because I couldn’t see how someone as holy and big and omniscient as You could have space for someone like me. I’m not famous. I’m not particularly loud. I’m not everyone’s first choice. But somehow, You knew my name long before anyone else ever called it out.

When Moses stood before that burning bush in Exodus 3, You didn’t start with a long explanation or a heavenly trumpet blast. You said: “Moses, Moses.” You spoke his name twice. Twice! That wasn’t random. That was intimacy. That was relationship. That was recognition.

And when Samuel was a young boy, uncertain, probably wrestling with the brokenness of the leaders around him—Eli’s sons were a whole mess—you still met him. You didn’t wait for him to have it all together. You called his name, again and again. “Samuel… Samuel.” Even when he didn’t know it was You at first.

God, You are patient.

You waited for Samuel to hear You correctly.

You called him by name in a season of confusion.

And You’re doing the same with me.

When I feel lost in a crowd or buried beneath comparison, You call my name.

When I’ve failed, like Peter did… when I’ve betrayed my own convictions or let fear silence me… You call me again. Just like that angel said: “Go tell the disciples—and Peter.” (Mark 16:7) That verse always makes me cry. You made sure Peter knew You hadn’t forgotten him. You still called him by name even after the denial. You reinstated him when he probably thought he was disqualified.

So many people forget or distort names. I’ve been called everything from “Janelle” to “Janessa” to “Just—you.” But You, Jesus? You call me daughter. You call me beloved. You call me by the name You wrote in Your book before the foundations of the world.

“Before I was born the Lord called me; from my birth He has made mention of my name.” (Isaiah 49:1)

That’s not poetic fluff. That’s truth. It means my identity isn’t just a mix of syllables my parents liked. It’s not just a legal signature. It’s a divine utterance. My name is known in heaven. Engraved, not penciled in. Not forgotten. Not a placeholder.

So tonight, in the stillness of my room and the rawness of my thoughts, I choose to believe this deeper:

You know me, God.

Not just the “public” me. Not just the praying me. Not just the writing, smiling, leading me.

You know the quiet, insecure, questioning me.

And still… You call me by name.

Father, help me to remember this when I feel invisible. When the world wants to rename me with its own labels—“Not Enough,” “Too Much,” “Second Choice,” “Too Broken”—remind me of Your voice.

Remind me that You, the Lord of all, not only know my name… You speak it with love.

Jesus,


Thank You for calling me by name. Thank You that I don’t have to shout to get Your attention. I don’t have to be famous to be known by You. I don’t have to get everything right for You to remember me. You knew me before the womb. You formed me with purpose. You named me with intention.

I surrender every false identity tonight. Every name that life has tried to pin on me—failure, disappointment, mistake, forgotten—I lay them at Your feet. Let the only name I answer to be the one You’ve given me.

Call me again, Lord. Loud if You must. Whisper if You will. But don’t stop calling me. Because there’s nothing more beautiful than being known by You.

Amen.

FINAL THOUGHTS….

I think part of maturing in faith is learning that being known by God is better than being known by people. Yes, it feels good to be seen, heard, and remembered by others. But human memory fails. Intention falters. But God’s knowledge of me? It’s eternal. Secure. Intimate.

I’m not just a name on a list. I’m not a username. I’m not a forgotten prayer request.

I’m known. By name. By grace.

Passing the Torch of Grace

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

This week feels heavier than usual—not in a bad way, but in a way that makes me pause, reflect, and search my heart deeper than I have in a while. I just finished a devotional on leaving a legacy, and it hit something in me. Something sacred. The kind of stirring that can only come from You.

I’m only 25, but lately, I’ve been asking myself: When I leave this earth, what will I be remembered for?
Not the clothes I wore, the selfies I posted, or even the goals I crushed. But the eternal things—the ones that carry weight in Your Kingdom. I don’t want my life to echo with the applause of people, I want it to echo with the sound of surrendered worship, poured-out love, and seeds of faith that sprout long after I’m gone.

Scripture that pierced my heart this week:
“Store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal.” – Matthew 6:20 (NIV)

Lord, what am I storing up? I don’t want to be so focused on building a life that the world claps for that I forget the life You’ve called me to build—a legacy rooted in You. The world glorifies glitter, hustle, and self-glory. But You… You glorified sacrifice, humility, and serving.

You said in Acts 20:35,
“It is more blessed to give than to receive.”
And I believe that, with every part of my soul.

When people remember me, I want them to say, “She lived for Jesus, even when it wasn’t easy. She loved when it hurt. She forgave when it wasn’t fair. She gave when she had little. She served without needing applause. And she burned with a hunger for God’s Word that could light up others.”

That’s the legacy I want. One that sets others ablaze for You, Jesus.

Thoughts I’m wrestling with tonight:

  • What kind of seeds am I sowing right now that will outlive me?
  • Who am I discipling, encouraging, praying for?
  • What part of my story is helping someone else find You?

I feel this urgency—not fear—but a holy burden, to make sure I’m not wasting my time on temporary things. I want to influence others for Your cause, not mine. Not my brand, not my name, not my achievements. Just You, Jesus.

Lord, help me to shift my thinking. If I understand the inheritance I have in eternity, then I won’t cling so tightly to my possessions or status here on earth. You’re teaching me that generosity doesn’t begin with money—it begins with surrender. With a heart that says, “Use me. Spend me. Pour me out.”

My Prayer Tonight:

God,
I don’t want to live a small, self-centered life. Break any chains of selfishness in me. Deliver me from the fear of being forgotten by this world, and instead give me the passion to be remembered in Heaven.
I surrender my time, my talents, my treasures. Teach me to steward them well, not for my comfort, but for Your Kingdom.
Let my life be an arrow that points straight to You.
May my legacy be one of faith, courage, love, truth, and obedience.
In Jesus’ Name,
Amen.

Here’s a list I started today: Ways I can influence others for Christ:

  1. Start a Bible study with young women in my community. We’re all hungry for connection and truth, and I know I don’t have to be perfect to lead—I just have to be willing.
  2. Write letters of encouragement to people going through hard times—friends, coworkers, even strangers. Words can water souls.
  3. Be intentional with social media—use it to share Scripture, testimony, and hope, not just aesthetics.
  4. Volunteer at church regularly, especially in areas where there’s a need, not just where I’m comfortable.
  5. Give generously, even when my budget feels tight. If I believe God is my provider, I’ll give like it.
  6. Mentor a younger believer—maybe someone just starting their walk with Jesus.
  7. Serve my family with more joy and patience. Ministry starts at home.
  8. Be bold in evangelism, even if it’s just a conversation at a coffee shop or with my Uber driver.
  9. Support missionaries through prayer and giving. They’re doing frontline Kingdom work.
  10. Live transparently, so people see both my struggles and my surrender, and find freedom in knowing they’re not alone.

Spiritual Growth Plan – How I want to grow and increase my hunger for God’s Word:

✅ Wake up earlier (even 20 minutes) to spend uninterrupted time in the Bible.
✅ Memorize one verse a week—carry it in my heart like armor.
✅ Read through the New Testament in the next 90 days.
✅ Fast one day a week from something that distracts me—social media, coffee, or comfort food—and replace it with deeper prayer.
✅ Keep a Scripture journal to track the verses that speak to me and how I’m applying them.
✅ Ask God for fresh revelation every time I open His Word.
✅ Worship more—not just at church, but while I clean, drive, cook, or cry.
✅ Surround myself with God-hungry people who sharpen me spiritually.
✅ Read one Christian book a month that challenges my walk.
✅ Stay accountable with a friend for spiritual check-ins.

Some days I feel like I’m doing okay. Other days, I feel like I’m barely scratching the surface of what You’ve called me to, God. But I believe You honor the desire to grow. I believe that every step toward You matters.

Psalm 112:6 says,
“Surely the righteous will never be shaken; they will be remembered forever.”
That’s the kind of remembrance I want. Not fame. Not praise. But eternal impact.

I think of the woman who anointed Your feet with her expensive perfume, and how You said in Matthew 26:13,
“Truly I tell you, wherever this gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.”

She didn’t build a platform. She poured her heart out. And You said her story would echo for eternity.
That’s the kind of legacy I want.

So tonight, Lord, I choose legacy over luxury.
I choose faithfulness over fame.
I choose obedience over opportunity.
I choose Christ over comfort.
Let my life not just be lived—but spent, sown, sacrificed, and surrendered for something bigger than me.
Let my love for You not die with me, but live on in every life I’ve touched.

Jesus, if there’s breath in my lungs, there’s purpose in my days.
Don’t let me waste them.
Write Your story through my life.

Women Belong in The Kitchen: Embracing My God-Given Role in a World on the Brink

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

The kettle is whistling and the bread just came out of the oven. The warmth of the stove wraps around me like a blanket, and the quiet is a comfort — not a curse. The world outside may be in chaos, but in here, peace still reigns. Not because I have it all figured out, but because I know who holds the future.

Even though I live alone for now — no husband, no children — I live as if they’re already part of my life. Because one day, if the Lord wills, they will be.

“Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.”
— Psalm 37:4

And I do desire marriage. I desire to serve a husband. To raise children in truth. To be a keeper of the home who is clothed in strength and dignity — not caught in the world’s confusion about what it means to be a woman.

I don’t see the kitchen as a prison. I see it as a place of preparation and power. It’s where I practice serving, sacrificing, and sustaining life. Even now — even just for myself — I treat every meal I prepare, every space I tend, every routine I build, as an offering. Because this is not about me. It’s about being faithful in the waiting.

“She rises while it is yet night and provides food for her household.”
— Proverbs 31:15

I want to be ready when God calls me into marriage — not just emotionally or spiritually, but practically. I want to know how to feed, nurture, support, and follow my future husband with grace and strength. And I want to raise children who know truth from lies, who see joy in discipline and purpose in obedience.

“Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.”
— Proverbs 22:6

The world is falling apart. The news grows darker every day. And while people stock up on weapons and solar panels, I’m stocking up on wisdom, discipline, and love. Because survival is about more than having a pantry full of food. It’s about knowing how to create peace in a storm — and that starts in the home.

So yes, I belong in the kitchen. Not because I have to — but because I choose to be a woman who nurtures life. It’s where I’ll minister to my family. It’s where I’ll teach lessons, dry tears, fill empty bellies, and pray over every plate.

“The wise woman builds her house, but with her own hands the foolish one tears hers down.”
— Proverbs 14:1

I’m not foolish. I know what’s coming. And I want to be ready in spirit and skill when the world expects women to be helpless and hopeless.

Prayer
Father, thank You for creating me with purpose. Thank You for showing me that womanhood is not weakness, but strength of a different kind — softer, deeper, and holy. Help me to become the kind of wife who blesses her husband all the days of his life. Make me diligent in this season of waiting — to work, learn, and worship in private, unseen ways. Let this home be a training ground for the life You’re preparing me for. Amen.

Sometimes I think of my future husband. I wonder what he’s doing tonight. Maybe he’s chopping firewood or reading the Word by lamplight like I am. Maybe he’s praying for a woman who will walk beside him without questioning his leadership or trying to take it from him.

I pray I’ll be the answer to that prayer.

“Wives, submit to your own husbands, as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife even as Christ is the head of the church…”
— Ephesians 5:22–23

That verse is not a burden to me. It’s a comfort. I want a husband I can trust to lead — and I want to be the kind of woman he can trust to follow without resistance. Because that kind of order isn’t outdated. It’s biblical. It brings peace, not confusion.

And I know the world rolls its eyes at women like me. They think we’re brainwashed, repressed, afraid. But I’ve never felt more free. Free from the pressure to compete, to climb, to prove myself by the world’s standards. I know who I am — and whose I am.

“Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.”
— Proverbs 31:30

So tonight, I light my candles. I pray over my future table. I fold my laundry with care and organize my shelves because this is my calling. Even now, without a husband to serve or children to raise, I am living the life of a God-honoring woman in training.

Prayer
Lord, prepare me to be a wife and mother who walks in wisdom, patience, and deep love. Teach me to lay down selfish ambition and pick up quiet faithfulness. Let me serve now with joy, knowing that You see everything done in secret. Bless my future husband, wherever he is tonight. Strengthen him to lead. Teach him to love. And when the time is right, bring us together in Your perfect plan. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

This is enough for tonight. The stew is cooling and the world is still turning. But my heart is full. Because even in this quiet season, I know I’m becoming exactly the kind of woman I was made to be.

And when the time comes — when God brings my family — I won’t just be ready. I’ll be grateful.