Tag: christianity

Whispers of the Savior: Learning to Listen For Jesus

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Living in the Light of God’s Gifts

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop Abusing Grace

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Prayer

Father, in the mighty name of Jesus, I refuse to treat Your grace casually.
Break every chain of sin in my life.
Expose every lie my flesh has believed.
Give me a holy hatred for sin and a fierce love for righteousness.
Strengthen me by Your Spirit to reject every temptation and stand boldly for Your truth.
Jesus, thank You for Your sacrifice—teach me to honor it with my life, my choices, and my obedience.
I choose holiness. I choose surrender. I choose You.
Amen.

We talk a lot about grace—Christ taking our punishment, ending the need for sacrifices, shielding us from the wrath of a holy God. But somewhere along the line, people twisted that truth into an excuse to live however they want.
Let me be blunt: grace is not your permission slip to sin.

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Some people ask, “Well, if God won’t punish us anymore, why not just sin as much as we want?”
Because that’s a foolish, flesh-driven mindset. Yes, God still loves His children—but sin will wreck you. It will chew up your life, harden your heart, and make you spiritually deaf and blind (Hebrews 3:13). Grace may remove eternal punishment, but it does not remove consequences.

The Bible doesn’t sugarcoat this:
Whatever you obey, you become a slave to—sin leading to death or obedience leading to righteousness (Romans 6:16). There’s no neutral ground. If you’re indulging your flesh, you are willingly chaining yourself back to the very thing Christ died to free you from.

Sure, God can love someone sitting in a jail cell. But the bars are still there. Their crimes still destroyed lives. Sin always hurts someone—sexual immorality destroys families, addictions destroy bodies and relationships, lies destroy trust, covetousness opens the door to even worse evil. Sin is not harmless; it’s weaponized self-destruction.

That’s why Scripture says we have an obligation—not to the flesh, but to put it to death (Romans 8:12–13).
If you keep feeding your old nature, you will die. Spiritually. Emotionally. Sometimes physically. Grace doesn’t change that.

And let’s be honest—if we truly understand how deeply the Father loves us, we wouldn’t dare treat His grace like a cheap loophole. To use the cross as an excuse to sin is to spit on the sacrifice of Jesus. It’s spiritual arrogance, plain and simple.

Yes, we’re under the law of love now (Romans 13:8–10). Yes, we’re freed from the curse of the Law because Christ became the curse for us (Galatians 3:13). But freedom from the Law was never meant to give us freedom to rebel. It was meant to free us to love, to obey, to walk in the Spirit.

God’s intention has always been for humanity to accept His love. But we rejected it, chased evil, and proved we were utterly incapable of saving ourselves. That’s why a Savior had to come—not so we could go back to our filth, but so we could finally walk in the life, purity, and power He paid for.

Grace is a gift—but it’s also a call to fight your sin, not flirt with it.

Led by the Spirit: Answering God’s Call to Give

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

I’m sitting here, frustrated. There’s a weight on my chest, and it’s not physical—it’s this nagging, suffocating feeling that keeps telling me I’m not doing enough. I don’t know if it’s the pressure of expectations from the world or from within the church, but I feel so conflicted about giving. It’s one of those things that should come easy, right? After all, God gave everything for us. Jesus left His throne in heaven to come and die for us so that we could have eternal life. And yet, when it comes to giving of my finances, I still feel this heavy reluctance, like I’m holding on to something I don’t want to let go of.

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But here’s the thing: I know I’m supposed to give. I know God calls me to. And I can hear the voices, the Bible verses in my head, telling me to give generously, joyfully, and sacrificially. I know God says, “For God loves a cheerful giver” (2 Corinthians 9:7). I’ve read that verse a million times. But I’m not always cheerful about it. I don’t always feel joy when I write that check or click that donation link online. And maybe that’s where the real struggle lies: it’s not about the act of giving, but the condition of my heart in those moments. Because, if I’m honest, I don’t always feel like I’m doing it for the right reasons. It’s not always worshipful. Sometimes it feels like an obligation, a box to check off my Christian to-do list. And that bothers me. A lot.

I think I’ve been going about it all wrong. Maybe it’s because I’m still so wrapped up in the idea of money, of what I have and how much I have. I’m not rolling in cash. I’m living paycheck to paycheck, and the bills don’t stop coming. There’s this deep-rooted fear inside me that if I give too much, I won’t have enough left for myself. It’s like I’m clinging to what little security I have left, as if God won’t actually provide for me the way He promises He will.

But, when I read passages like Philippians 4:19, “And my God will supply every need of yours according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus,” I feel so convicted. I know God will provide for me. If I just trust Him. If I give freely and generously, without worrying about whether or not I’ll have enough left. After all, He has already given me everything. He gave me His son. Jesus, who became poor for my sake, who endured the cross for me. In light of that, what is my small sacrifice, really?

But I’ll admit, I feel a little angry when I think about it too. It’s like I’m doing this internal battle between my flesh and my spirit. My flesh says, “Don’t be so foolish. You’re barely making ends meet. What are you going to do when that unexpected expense hits?” And my spirit says, “But remember what Jesus did for you. Don’t you trust Him to take care of you? Don’t you believe that He will provide, just like He says He will?”

It feels like the world tells me to hold on tight to what I have, to be “smart” and “practical,” to “look out for number one.” But that’s not what the Bible says. The Bible says to give generously, to trust God with your finances, and to do it joyfully because, honestly, He doesn’t need my money. He doesn’t need anything from me. But He’s giving me the opportunity to partner with Him in this. To worship Him with my resources. It’s about the heart, not the amount.

I know this. I know this. But there’s a tension I can’t ignore. I want to obey God, but sometimes my fear wins. I find myself hesitating, and I get mad at myself for it. I know I should trust God more. I know that, if I really believed His promises, I wouldn’t have such a hard time. But it’s hard not to be afraid when you’re living paycheck to paycheck. Every dollar feels like it has to stretch further than it really does, and the idea of letting go of even a little bit of it feels like jumping off a cliff.

Jesus said in Matthew 6:24, “No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other.” Well, if I’m honest, I think I’ve been serving money more than I’ve been serving God. It’s like I say I trust God, but then when it comes time to give, I second-guess Him. I hold back. I try to control things myself.

And that makes me so angry. Why can’t I just trust Him fully? Why does this feeling of inadequacy creep in, making me think I need to hold on to what I have for security? Why is it so hard to let go? I wish I could just give without thinking, without calculating every single bill and worrying about whether I’ll have enough.

The thing is, I know God will take care of me. I know He’s faithful. In the moments when I choose to trust Him, I see His faithfulness in my life. He’s always provided for me. He’s always made a way. So why am I still struggling with this? Why is it so hard to trust that God will use my small offering to do something big?

Maybe it’s because I’m too focused on what I can see. I’m looking at my bank account, my circumstances, and not seeing the bigger picture. In 2 Corinthians 8:9, Paul writes, “For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that you by his poverty might become rich.” I think about that verse and how Jesus literally gave up everything for me. He became poor so that I could become rich in Him. And He’s asking me to do the same. To give of myself, to give of my resources, because I know He’s got me. It’s not about how much I give—it’s about the attitude of my heart. Am I giving out of love for Him, or out of obligation? Am I giving out of faith, or out of fear?

God, I need help with this. I’m sorry for my lack of trust. I’m sorry for holding on so tightly to the things You’ve blessed me with. Help me to be more generous, to give joyfully, to give because I love You and want to see Your kingdom advanced. I pray for a heart of generosity, not just with my finances, but with my time, my energy, my love. Help me to trust You more fully, to stop looking at the world’s version of security, and instead look to You as my Provider. You are my Shepherd, and I lack nothing.

Father, thank You for providing for me. Thank You for sending Your Son, Jesus, to take away my sin and to give me life abundantly. Help me to have a heart like Yours, full of love, full of generosity. I pray that You would help me see opportunities to give, and that You would give me joy in the process. Help me to trust that as I give, You will always provide for my needs. Thank You for the grace You’ve shown me. Let me show that grace to others.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

It’s hard. But I’m going to keep trying. Because if He can give everything for me, I can give what I have—no matter how little it may seem. I want my heart to be right. I want my giving to be worship. And I want to trust that God will provide—because He always does.

Where’s God?

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

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.

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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.

Lord, help me trust your higher ways.

Praying for Others: A Path to Spiritual Growth

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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.

Yesterday, Today, Forever: Jesus NEVER Changes

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

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.

Thank You, Jesus.

How do you thank God for thanksgiving?

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

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.

With all my heart,
Amen.

Pardoned of our Sins: Believers in Christ are Justified by His Grace

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

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.

And that is enough.

One Foot In The World, One Foot In Christ

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

I don’t even know why my heart feels so heavy right now. Maybe it’s the way the world keeps pulling at me like vines that want to drag me back into places Jesus already called me out of. Or maybe it’s because earlier today at church, I heard something so painfully simple that it felt like a sword sliding straight between my ribs: “Jesus is calling us to choose. No more half-following. No more one foot in and one foot out.”

It stung—God, it stung—because I knew it was for me.

And I’m tired of pretending it wasn’t.

I keep thinking about what Jesus said in Revelation 3:16, that terrifying verse I always skim over even though I know it’s meant for hearts like mine: “So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth.” I hate that word—lukewarm. It sounds weak. It sounds flimsy. It sounds like compromise. It sounds like me, honestly. I feel like a woman who can declare her love for Christ with her mouth but still lets the world whisper to her actions.

And I’m angry about it. Angry at myself, angry at my inconsistency, angry at how comfortable compromise feels sometimes. I’m compassionate, yes, but compassion doesn’t erase the fury I feel toward the parts of me that keep settling for less than obedience. I want to choose Jesus with my whole life, not just with the parts that feel easy, or manageable, or convenient.

Tonight I asked myself the question that everyone avoids because it exposes the soul: Which side of the line am I on? And I didn’t like the answer that bubbled up. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t bold. It was something like:

“Some days here, some days there.”

That’s not a line. That’s wobbling.

That’s dancing on both sides and pretending it’s balance.

I read Matthew 6:24 again, the verse that makes the division so painfully clear: “No man can serve two masters.” Jesus didn’t say it as a metaphor. He said it as a fact. Like gravity. Like breath. Like truth. You cannot serve two masters. Period. Not you, not me, not the holiest woman or the most broken sinner. None of us can do it. And yet here I am trying, pretending I’m the exception, pretending Jesus will somehow honor divided loyalty when He never once asked for half of me. He asked for all.

Sometimes I think the world has a version of me that Jesus never created. A version that nods along to conversations that don’t honor Him, just so I won’t “ruin the vibe.” A version that softens truth when it should stand firm. A version that seeks approval from people who barely even know God, while the God who formed my bones watches me choose silence over conviction.

God, forgive me.

I prayed about this earlier, but the prayer felt like it came from a throat full of stones:

“Lord, I don’t want to be divided anymore. Take the parts of me that are still tangled up in the world. Pull me fully onto Your side of the line. Cleanse me. Correct me. Strengthen me. Let me hunger for You more than I long for approval or comfort or convenience. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

But even after praying, I still feel the tug. It’s like two hands are pulling on me—one scarred and holy, the other shiny and temporary. One full of life, one full of lies. And I hate that the lies still have hooks in me sometimes.

Today after service, I sat in my car and just stared at the steering wheel, asking Jesus why it’s so hard to choose Him fully when I know He is life. I know He’s salvation. I know He’s truth. I know He’s the only One who has ever loved me with no conditions. So why the struggle? Why the back-and-forth? Why the flickering loyalty?

And the only answer that felt honest was: because dying to the world feels like dying.

But Jesus already said that in Matthew 16:24, didn’t He? “If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me.” Deny. Not reduce. Not postpone. Not negotiate. Deny. And maybe that’s the part I keep running from. I want a faith that costs me nothing, feels good all the time, and still pleases God. But that’s not Christianity. That’s comfort with a Jesus sticker slapped on top.

I’m frustrated because I know the truth but still hesitate to obey it fully. I can almost hear Jesus asking me the same question He asked the disciples: “But whom say ye that I am?” And I answer with Peter’s boldness—“You are the Christ, the Son of the living God”—but then I live like He’s optional.

God, that realization makes me angry. It makes me want to scream into a pillow. How can I love Him so much and still drift? How can I feel this deep burning loyalty and still let the world distract me? How can I pray with fire but live with lukewarm actions?

Maybe this is what Paul meant in Romans 7:19 when he said, “For the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do.” If even Paul felt this war inside, then maybe I’m not as alone as I think. Still, knowing I’m not alone doesn’t make the battle easier. It just makes it shared.

I want to be bold for Christ. I want to be unwavering. I want to be the woman who doesn’t just talk about faith but embodies it. I want to be the kind of believer who causes demons to tremble—not because I’m powerful, but because I’m fully surrendered. Fully His. Fully committed.

But wanting and doing are two different things.

So tonight, I’m drawing the line for myself. A real one. A solid one. The line Jesus already drew centuries ago but I keep blurring with my own indecision.

I’m choosing His side.

Even if it costs me comfort. Even if it costs me relationships. Even if it costs me the version of myself that tries so hard to be liked by people who don’t even love God.

I’m choosing Jesus.

I wrote out a prayer in my journal, and I want to write it again here because maybe I need to see it twice to finally believe it:

“Lord Jesus, teach me to walk in holiness, not half-heartedness. Teach me to love You more deeply than I love my excuses. Strengthen me to choose You every day, every minute, every moment I’m tempted to drift. Break the chains of double-mindedness. Purify my heart. Make me whole in my devotion. Make me bold in my faith. Keep me on Your side of the line. I surrender. Again. And again. And again. Amen.”

I think the real problem is that I’m afraid of what full surrender looks like. Afraid of who I’ll become. Afraid of losing the pieces of my life that aren’t aligned with Him. But maybe those pieces aren’t worth keeping. Maybe they’re the very things holding me back.

Maybe being fully His is the freedom I’ve been begging for.

Jesus didn’t die for me to live in spiritual limbo. He didn’t carry the cross so I could carry compromise. He didn’t rise from the dead so I could stay stuck in a halfway faith that makes Him nauseous.

No more lukewarm.

No more double life.

No more divided heart.

I choose Jesus. With anger at my past choices, with compassion for my own fragile humanity, with fire in my spirit and trembling in my hands—I choose Him.

Tonight, I step fully onto His side of the line.

And I’m not looking back.