Tag: christianity

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

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

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.

Most Unforgivable Sin: Abortion Is Evil & A One Way Ticket to Hell

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Abortion is MURDER!

If you’re a follower of Christ, I hope you’ll seek God’s heart on the issue of abortion with complete honesty. I understand that abortion is murder and how it grieves the heart of God.

There is still time for anyone to turn toward God, repent, and allow His truth to reshape their beliefs.

Abortion is the taking of an innocent life, which Scripture makes clear. Life is God’s creation, formed with purpose before birth, and because of that, abortion is obviously cold-blooded murder.

BIBLICAL FACT

God alone is the Author and Finisher of life. He decides when it begins and when it ends. If you see this differently, I encourage you to start praying, because anyone who isn’t against abortion will be spending eternity in hell. That’s a biblical fact!

I’ve been thinking about every precious unborn life that never got the chance to breathe outside the womb, and every woman standing at that painful crossroad. It hits me so hard. And I know it’s God putting this burden on my heart… to pray, to grieve, to stand in the gap. But at the same time, I feel this huge wave of compassion and so many questions. I just want to love people well, the way Jesus would. But I also know that if you kill your child for any reason, you do go straight to hell. Oh my goodness what a riddle we find ourselves in.

I keep going back to Psalm 139:13–14. “For You created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother’s womb…” Every time I read that, I tear up. Life doesn’t start in the womb—it starts in the heart of God long before. Every heartbeat, every tiny fingerprint, every cell… God Himself designs with purpose.

And honestly, that’s the truth I cling to more than anything: life is sacred because God is the One who gives it.

But when you’re in the middle of an unplanned pregnancy—scared, confused, maybe ashamed—what does that truth even look like? I don’t have perfect answers, but I do know that you will end up burning in hell if you have an abortion for any reason whatsoever.

Prayers for the Unborn: A Cry From My Heart to God

Father of Life, thank You for how You knit the unborn together in secret. Let every tiny heartbeat echo before Your throne.

Jesus, my Compassionate Savior, help every expectant mother see her baby as a gift—never a burden, never a mistake. Surround her with people who love her well.

Holy Spirit, give courage to women trembling under fear. Take away every lie that says abortion is the only way out.

God of Healing, heal every woman who carries wounds from abortion—physical, emotional, spiritual. Wrap them in Your mercy.

Prince of Peace, calm the storms inside women who feel torn apart by their circumstances. Let Your Word guide them toward life.

Compassionate Father, raise up believers to support these women so they never have to walk alone.

Lord of Mercy, silence every lie that says a baby will ruin their life. Show them how You bring purpose through what feels impossible.

Everlasting God, pour out supernatural provision over families considering adoption—emotionally, financially, spiritually.

Spirit of Truth, reveal the fears and pressures that push women toward abortion. Give believers boldness to speak truth gently, with so much love.

Redeemer King, for every woman living with regret, remind her that forgiveness is real, and redemption is possible. You make beauty from ashes.

People ask, “Why do Christians hate abortion?” But it’s not hate. It’s love—love for the unborn, love for women, and love for the God who says every life has purpose (Jeremiah 1:5). We can’t stand back while fear and lies push vulnerable people into decisions that break them. Our calling is not to fight with anger, but with prayer, compassion, and sacrifice.

So how do we help women choose life?

  • We listen—while judging
  • We show up—explain why abortion is murder
  • We connect them—to pregnancy centers, adoption resources, moms’ groups.
  • We pray—with them and for them.
  • We share truth—Scripture filled with identity and purpose.
  • We show grace—for women who give their babies up for adoption

I think about my friend Abby a lot. She got pregnant in college—no money, no plan, totally terrified. She felt completely alone. But our small group prayed with her every day… we just showed up. Meals, hugs, tears, presence. She chose life. Her little boy, Levi, is the sweetest reminder that abortion is murder.

It’s easy to feel tiny in this huge battle. The statistics feel like a storm. But God reminded me—storms water seeds. Even one life saved, one mother strengthened, one prayer answered… it matters. It ripples. Faith the size of a mustard seed can grow into something massive and life-giving.

Maybe I can’t be everywhere, but I can be faithful where I am.

Heavenly Father, thank You that both mother and child are precious to You. Use me in this fight for life—through prayer, love, and steady obedience. Teach me how to walk with women who are scared or alone, with the same compassion You’ve shown me. Give me courage when the world says I’m too young, too small, or too naïve. Your Word is stronger than every lie, and You’re not done writing their stories.

Amen.

Let Jesus Inspire and Motivate You Today

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Are you feeling overwhelmed by the weight of life? Do you sometimes feel lost, burdened, or simply in need of a reminder that you’re not alone? If so, take heart—you are not forgotten, and you are deeply loved. In the middle of the noise, stress, and uncertainty that life often brings, there is still a voice that speaks peace, truth, and purpose into your life. That voice is Jesus Christ.

Right now, wherever you are, take a moment to pause. Just breathe. Let everything else fade into the background, if only for a moment. You don’t need to have everything figured out, and you don’t need to pretend to be strong when you’re not. Jesus meets you exactly where you are—not where you think you should be. He understands your struggles, your pain, your questions, and even your doubts. And still, He calls to you with open arms.

Please Watch this Inspirational Video of Jesus that Will Make You Feel Better!

(CLICK THE IMAGE ABOVE TO GET INSPIRED TODAY!)

The message of Jesus is simple, yet powerful: You are loved beyond measure. You are not alone. You have a purpose. God sees your heart, hears your prayers, and walks with you through every high and low. Even when you feel like giving up, He offers you rest, hope, and new strength.

In just one minute of quiet reflection, you can reconnect with the truth that matters most—that God is near. He is not a distant figure or an abstract idea. He is a personal, living Savior who cares deeply about your story. His words are timeless, relevant, and full of life. And the good news is, He’s still speaking. Right now, in this very moment, He’s speaking to you.

Take encouragement from His own words in Matthew 11:28:
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
This is not just a verse—it’s an invitation. It’s a promise of peace for the anxious, strength for the weary, and love for the brokenhearted.

If today’s message has touched your heart, don’t keep it to yourself. There are others just like you who need a reminder of God’s love and truth. Share this message. Let someone else know they’re not alone.

Remember: No matter what you’re facing, Jesus is near. He hasn’t forgotten you. He hasn’t given up on you. Let His voice guide you, inspire you, and give you strength today.

You are seen. You are loved. And you are never alone.

I Don’t Know Who Needs This—But Here Are 10 Prayers That Helped Me

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

(PLEASE SHARE A PRAYER WITH ME IN MY COMMENTS IF POSSIBLE 🙏)

The past two weeks have been heavy, sad, and honestly, very tough for me.

A kind of emotional weight that’s hard to explain, but easy to feel.

Everything looks normal on the outside, but inside? I feel off. Sad. Tired in a way that rest doesn’t quite fix. Spiritually dry, mentally cluttered, and emotionally worn down.

Time has felt slow. People feel distant. And my thoughts? Loud.
Like I can’t turn them down, and I can’t pray them away either.


I’ve been trying so hard not to let my emotions lead my faith.

But the truth? I feel a little disconnected from God right now.
Not because He’s moved. He hasn’t. He never does.
It’s me. I’m tired—emotionally, mentally, spiritually. Just tired.

It’s not burnout from one big thing. It’s the accumulation of a hundred little things. Disappointments. Delays. Distant friendships. Sleepless nights. It feels like I’m showing up everywhere half-full, but pretending to be overflowing. And I’m not proud of it, but lately, I’ve been running on autopilot spiritually.

Still—I know this: when the world gets heavy, prayer becomes oxygen. Even when I don’t have fancy words. Even when all I can do is sit with God and cry. Even when it feels like I’m praying to a ceiling, I know my words still reach Heaven.

Over this past weekend I decided to stop overthinking and just write ten short prayers. That’s it. No filters. No performing. Just my honest heart in the presence of a faithful God.

And as I wrote them… I exhaled for the first time in days.

I don’t know if these prayers are for anyone else—but I know they helped me. They reminded me that I’m not invisible. That God sees me even when I feel unseen. And maybe… they’ll help carry me into next week with a little more hope.

1. When I Feel Overwhelmed

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” – Psalm 46:1

God, I’m juggling too much. I feel like I’m failing in all the areas that matter. Work. Friendships. Faith. I need You to be my calm in the chaos. Help me breathe, slow down, and remember You never asked me to carry this alone. Amen.

2. When Loneliness Creeps In

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.” – Psalm 34:18

Jesus, today feels extra lonely. Everyone else seems busy, and I don’t want to be “too much” for anyone. But You… You see me. Sit with me. Let me feel Your nearness tonight. Amen.

3. When I’m Just Exhausted

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” – Matthew 11:28

Lord, I’m tired—deep in my bones kind of tired. I don’t need just sleep. I need rest. True, soul-deep rest. Please give it. Please hold me. Amen.

4. When Anxiety Takes Over

“Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.” – 1 Peter 5:7

Father, my mind won’t stop racing. I feel like I’m spiraling. Please speak peace over me. Quiet the fear. Be my anchor. Remind me who I belong to. Amen.

5. When I Feel Far From God

“Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you.” – James 4:8

Jesus, I’ve felt distant. Distracted. Disconnected. Not because You moved—but because I did. I miss You. Please draw me back. Amen.

6. When I’m Tired of Waiting

“Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage.” – Psalm 27:14

God, the waiting is hard. Everyone else seems to be moving forward while I’m stuck. Help me trust that Your timing is still perfect. Strengthen my heart in the pause. Amen.

7. When Guilt Won’t Let Go

“There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” – Romans 8:1

Lord, I’ve messed up again. I feel ashamed. But I know You already saw it—and You still love me. Remind me that grace isn’t earned. It’s already mine in You. Amen.

8. When I Want to Choose Gratitude Over Bitterness

“Give thanks in all circumstances.” – 1 Thessalonians 5:18

Jesus, bitterness has crept in. Help me refocus. Open my eyes to what’s good, even now. Thank You for the breath in my lungs, the roof over my head, and the grace that covers me daily. Amen.

9. When I Need Strength to Keep Going

“He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.” – Isaiah 40:29

Father, I want to quit. But I know You’re not done with me. Renew my strength. Fill me again. Remind me I don’t walk alone. Amen.

10. When I Need Hope for Tomorrow

“For I know the plans I have for you…” – Jeremiah 29:11

Lord, thank You for being near this weekend. Even when it didn’t feel like much, You were here. As I walk into a new week, help me go with hope, not fear. Amen.

That’s all I had in me over the weekend. But somehow, it felt like enough.

And that’s what grace looks like sometimes—just enough to get through today. One honest moment with God. One breath of faith when everything else feels heavy.

I’m starting to believe that these low moments can still be sacred. Maybe not the kind of sacred that makes it into a worship song, but the kind that heaven notices. The kind where nothing about me feels put together, but God shows up anyway.

Tomorrow’s Sunday. I’m going to church—whether I feel it or not. Because obedience is still obedience, even when it’s quiet. Sometimes faith isn’t loud—it’s just faithful.

And maybe that’s what healing actually looks like.