Tag: god

When Faith Feels Fragile

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

I promise to be honest in everything I write. Sometimes, when I open my eyes to this world, my faith feels fragile—like it’s walking on a tightrope stretched thin over a canyon of confusion and chaos. The moral compass everyone once seemed to respect is spinning wildly, and I’m left clinging to the only anchor that’s ever truly steady: God. It’s like the whole culture has flipped upside down. Right is suddenly wrong, and wrong parades itself as right. How do you stay steady when the ground beneath you keeps shifting like sand?

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I’m reminded of 2 Timothy 3:12-13, which says, “Indeed, all who desire to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted, while evil people and impostors will go from bad to worse, deceiving and being deceived.” That’s exactly where we are—deception reigning, and confusion swallowing truth. The world screams, “Be politically correct!” while the Bible quietly but firmly demands, “Be morally correct.” The culture war we’re seeing? It’s not just politics on steroids—it’s a reflection of a deeper, spiritual battle raging inside hearts and souls.

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There’s a line I keep thinking about from Carl Sagan, an atheist who had a huge influence back in the ’80s. His show was iconic, and his motto was chilling: “The cosmos is all that is, or ever was, or ever will be.” No God. No Creator. Just random chance and time stretched infinitely. I feel this is the root of the moral decay—if the cosmos is just a cosmic accident, why should anyone care about absolute right or wrong? But John Calvin offers a completely opposite, beautiful truth: “The cosmos is God’s theater to show His glory.” Our world isn’t a meaningless accident; it’s a stage where God reveals Himself. That changes everything.

The God who made the stars also gave us His Word, a map for how to live—morally, spiritually, and eternally. It’s hard to stand firm when so many voices shout lies, but the Bible is clear: the message of the cross sounds foolish to those lost in sin (1 Corinthians 1:18), but to us who believe, it’s the very power of God saving and transforming us.

I won’t lie—some days I want to scream at the injustice, the godlessness, the blatant rebellion against God’s truth. But I also have to be careful. The battle is not against flesh and blood but against spiritual forces (Ephesians 6:12). The culture war we see out there is really the outward reflection of the war within every believer’s heart. Sometimes I feel it in my own soul—questions, doubts, the temptation to just blend in, to avoid confrontation, to stay silent. But silence is not an option. I feel God nudging me to be bold.

Prayer has become my lifeline. I cling to Psalm 25:4-5, “Show me your ways, Lord, teach me your paths. Guide me in your truth and teach me, for you are God my Savior.” I pray every morning for strength to keep my eyes fixed on Jesus and not on the chaos swirling around me. Because if I look at the world, I’ll be overwhelmed. But if I fix my gaze on Jesus, the author and perfecter of my faith, I find peace (Hebrews 12:2).

I pray for courage to speak truth in love, even when it’s unpopular. The world is desperate for that kind of courage. People are hungry for light, even if they don’t realize it. It’s easy to feel small, powerless, and defeated, but God reminds me in Isaiah 40:31, “But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.” That’s a promise I hold onto tightly.

I also pray for those who don’t believe, who mock, who call the cross foolish. Lord, open their eyes to Your truth. Help them see that without You, life is empty, purposeless, and fleeting. And I ask God to keep me humble, compassionate, and steadfast—never confrontational for the sake of being harsh, but always confrontational for the sake of truth and love.

It’s tempting sometimes to get discouraged. The world’s values seem upside down, and people mock those who stand for biblical truths. But I’ve read the last chapters of this story—Revelation 21:4 promises, “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain.” The God who began the story has the final word. Evil won’t win. Darkness won’t prevail.

That truth doesn’t mean we sit back and do nothing. No, it means we fight—with prayer, with love, with boldness, and with faith. It means being a light in the darkness, no matter how small that light seems. Because one small light can pierce the deepest night.

So, today, even though my faith feels fragile, I choose to stand. I choose to believe God more than the lies of this world. I choose to be morally correct, even when the world screams otherwise. I choose to fight the good fight of faith (1 Timothy 6:12), knowing the victory is already won.

Lord, help me never forget that You are the unshakable Rock beneath my feet. Keep my eyes on You, not on the shifting opinions of the world. Give me boldness to speak truth with love and compassion. Strengthen my heart when it feels weak. Remind me daily that Your glory is the ultimate purpose of this life and this world.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

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Your Life Has Purpose — God Doesn’t Make Mistakes

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Dear Jesus,

Today hasn’t been tragic, nor exciting, just… painfully ordinary. Dishes in dishwasher. Texts left on read. My reflection staring back in the mirror like, “Is this it?” But then I stumbled upon 1 Peter 1:3-4:

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade.”

And that phrase—“a living hope”—hit me like a wave.

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It’s not a future dream or some vague, ethereal promise. It’s here. Right now. A living, breathing, pulsing hope in the middle of my very blah life. I’ve read that verse before, but today, it confronted my forgetfulness like a friend yanking back the blinds and letting the light pour in.

This hope isn’t based on vibes, feelings, or circumstances. It’s rooted in the resurrection—the single most powerful event in human history. Jesus didn’t stay in the tomb, and neither does my purpose.

Still, I let my thoughts run wild far too often. When I scroll social media and see everyone else “living their best lives,” I start to question mine. My mind spirals:

“What am I even doing?”
“Why hasn’t this happened for me yet?”
“God, did You forget me?”

But those thoughts? They’re not grounded in truth. They are not rooted in hope. They’re whispers from the enemy trying to blur my focus and blind me from the inheritance already mine through Christ.

God has not forgotten me. And He is certainly not wasting my life.

John 10:10 says:

“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.”

Abundantly. Not passively. Not fearfully. Not merely surviving.
Jesus didn’t die so I could exist in emotional limbo. He came to bring me life to the full, even when my circumstances feel like less.

That’s why I have to fight for this truth. I’m done with passive Christianity. I love people deeply, but I won’t shrink to keep them comfortable. I won’t tiptoe around the fact that without Jesus, there’s no hope. No purpose. No life. I’d rather be misunderstood for standing in truth than adored for blending in. Because the gospel offends before it transforms. That’s just how it works.

But my compassion is real. I want people to taste what I’ve tasted. To see what I see. To know what I know—that God does not waste anything. Not our tears. Not our waiting. Not our quiet seasons. Not our heartbreaks. He weaves all of it together to display His glory, even if we don’t understand it in the moment.

Romans 8:28 reminds me:

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”

If that verse is true (and it is), then everything I walk through is filtered through His love and will be used for His good. Even this season I don’t understand.

But here’s the catch: I have to be willing to see through the lens of faith, not feelings. Hope requires confrontation—confronting my doubt, my laziness, my comparison, and replacing them with truth.

So today, I’m choosing to take my thoughts captive, like Paul tells us in 2 Corinthians 10:5. I’m rejecting the ones that lead me to despair, and I’m clinging to the ones that speak life. I’m not waiting to “feel” full of purpose—I already have it in Jesus.

Let me pray it out loud:

God,
Thank You for not wasting my life. Thank You for your mercy, for giving me new birth into a living hope through Jesus. Remind me that hope is not an emotion; it’s a reality I live in because You are alive. Help me stop entertaining thoughts that are not from You—thoughts of failure, comparison, and fear.

Teach me to recognize Your hand in the quiet seasons, to lean in when the world tells me to run. I surrender my timing, my dreams, and even my disappointments to You, because I know You never waste anything. Even when I can’t see it, You’re moving.

Strengthen me to walk confidently in the purpose You’ve placed on my life. Let my heart remember daily that I have an eternal inheritance that will never spoil, fade, or disappoint.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

So, today, I refuse to believe that my life is on hold. I’m not stuck. I’m not forgotten. I’m exactly where God wants me—and that means He’s working.
I’m going to live like it.

Grace That Never Lets Go

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Lord,

I’m wrestling with something deep—and I know You already see it all. I don’t want to pretend, even on this Christian blog of mine. You know my heart, every thought before I even think it (Psalm 139:1–4). So here it is, raw:

I believe in Your love more than I believe in the ground under my feet… but sometimes, I still doubt it.

Why?

Why is it that I’ve sung “Jesus loves me this I know” since I could talk, and still sometimes I wake up wondering if I’ve blown it too many times to still be in Your favor? I recite “For God so loved the world…” (John 3:16) and I KNOW You sent Jesus because You loved me, not because I’m good—but my flesh still asks, “Do I really deserve this kind of love?”

I’m not writing this out of some dramatic emotional spiral. I’m just being honest with myself—and with You. I think a lot of us Christians carry this quiet ache. This quiet insecurity. We walk around singing about Your love but we struggle to feel it.

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And I’m just done with pretending. I want to confront it. I want to expose it, call it out, and speak TRUTH over it.

Lie #1: If God loves me, I won’t suffer.
Ugh. This one is toxic. Subtle. Sneaky. And completely false. You never said that if You loved me, You’d shield me from every pain. You actually promised the opposite:

“In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” – John 16:33

You’re not absent when I’m hurting—you’re closest in those moments. You didn’t promise protection from pain; You promised purpose in pain. You’re more invested in my eternity than in my temporary comfort. That humbles me. That confronts me.

Lie #2: I don’t deserve God’s love.
True. I don’t. None of us do. But that’s the beauty of grace. You’ve never loved me based on what I do or how I perform. You love me because I’m Yours. Because You made me, called me, and redeemed me.

“Now if we are children, then we are heirs—heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ.” – Romans 8:17

God, I am Your daughter. Your beloved. Even on the days I mess up, fall short, speak harshly, or want to quit everything and hide. Your love is steadfast. It doesn’t fluctuate based on my mood or my performance. How freeing is that? You love me just as much on my worst day as on my best.

But I still fall into striving. Still feel like I have to earn it. Like I’ve gotta “be better” to be worthy of Your favor.

No more. I’m choosing to rest in Your truth, not my insecurity.

Lie #3: I don’t feel God’s love.
I’ve realized feelings lie. They are temporary, unreliable, and deeply influenced by sleep, hormones, weather, food… everything. Feelings are not fact. What I fill my mind with shapes how I feel. And if I’m not filling it with Your Word, I’m going to end up parched and emotionally disoriented.

“Feelings follow thinking.”

God, help me to renew my mind with truth (Romans 12:2). Help me to dwell in Your Word. Not just read it, but soak in it. Let it rewire my inner narrative. Let it tune my heart to the rhythm of Your steadfast love.

Because You are love. And You never change.

Truth Bomb: My heart needs tuning.

Sometimes I’m like a dry stone sitting in a river of Your presence, unable to absorb it because I’m not postured to receive. I’ve let cynicism, bitterness, comparison, or just plain distraction coat my heart in spiritual numbness.

But…

“But the steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him, to those who keep his covenant and remember to do his commandments.” – Psalm 103:17

Your love is constant. Everlasting. But for me to experience it fully, I need to fear You (honor You), obey You, and remember Your commands—not as a way to earn Your love but to open myself to it.

So today, I confess all the noise I’ve let crowd my soul. The scrolling. The comparison. The busyness. The pride. The self-pity.

Tune my heart, Lord.

Tear down the lies I’ve believed. Silence the voice that tells me You’ve forgotten me. That I’m not enough. That I’ve messed it up.

Your love is not weak.
It’s not inconsistent.
It’s not petty.
It’s not based on emotion.
It’s not earned.
It’s not manipulated.
It’s not gone.

Your love is steadfast. Firm. Steady. Resilient. Generous. Eternal.

And I believe that. Even when I don’t feel it. Even when my life feels like a question mark. Even when the prayers go unanswered and the doors stay closed.

You are still love. And I am still loved.

So tonight, I rest in this:

“The Lord appeared to us in the past, saying: ‘I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with unfailing kindness.’” – Jeremiah 31:3

Amen.

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Mornings with God: My Favorite Morning Prayers to Uplift Your Spirit

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Prayer isn’t about fancy words or having it all together—it’s just about being with God. And the more I do it, the more realize how much I need it.

Why Is Prayer So Important?

Honestly, prayer changes everything. It’s not just a routine or something we check off our to-do list—it’s how we connect with God, reset our focus, and get spiritually ready for whatever the day throws at us. Here’s what I’ve learned:

1. Praise Shifts Our Perspective
When I take time to thank God and just sit in awe of who He is, it shifts my mindset. Gratitude reminds me that He’s been faithful before, and He’ll be faithful again. Starting the day with praise puts my heart in a place of peace and joy—and that makes such a difference.

2. It Prepares Us for the Hard Stuff
Life isn’t always easy. We all face things that can shake us. But when I pray and ask God to help me before those tough moments even happen, I feel more grounded. It’s like putting on spiritual armor. Instead of reacting out of fear or stress, I can respond knowing He’s right there with me.

3. Prayer Helps Us Stand Strong Against Temptation
We all have struggles and weak spots. I’ve learned that being real with God about those areas—and asking Him for strength—makes such a difference. He doesn’t expect us to be perfect, but He does want to help us grow and choose better.

4. It Gives Us Boldness and Confidence
God opens doors all the time—little moments to love others, encourage someone, or step into something new. When I pray for confidence and clarity, I’m more likely to say yes to those opportunities instead of letting fear win. With Him, I know I’m not doing it alone.

Click here to Uplift Your Spirit with these Short Morning Prayers!

Divine Plot Twist: God’s Way of Turning Things Around

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Yesterday was one of those days where everything felt like it was falling apart, and yet, somehow, I still heard the Holy Spirit whisper: “I’m not finished yet.” And I believe Him. I really do. Even if it feels like it’s too late in the natural. Even if it seems like the damage is done, and there’s no way forward. I know better. I know the glory of God.

But being honest? It looked impossible yesterday. I caught myself staring at a situation in my life that’s been spiraling for months—something I thought would work out by now, something I prayed over, cried about, trusted for—and nothing. Still broken. Still barren. Still… not what I imagined.

I felt that lump in my throat rise up again. That familiar whisper from the enemy: “It’s too late now.”
But God.


Romans 8:28 says, “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”

All things. Not just the pretty parts. Not just the wins. But the mess, the shame, the silence, the heartbreak, the failures—even the things that feel too far gone.

Today, I’m choosing to confront this unbelief in my heart. I’m not pretending like I’m okay when I’m not. That’s not faith. That’s denial. And I’m done hiding my disappointments in the back of the closet, like God doesn’t already see them. He sees it all. And still, He chooses to redeem.

God, I believe You can turn this around. I believe it, even when I don’t feel it. I believe it, even when the timeline has passed and the doors seem shut. You are not bound by time, space, or circumstances. You step into the grave and call forth life. You still roll stones away.

John 11:40 says, “Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?”

Sometimes I forget how much You love showing up when the situation looks dead. Like with Lazarus. Everyone else was weeping. Everyone else had given up. But You walked straight into that moment with resurrection power.

That’s who You are.

I’ve got a “Lazarus situation” in my life right now, Lord. It’s past the point of fixing, humanly speaking. But I believe You specialize in the impossible. And I’m not asking You to sprinkle fairy dust over my problems—I’m asking You to show Your glory in a way that only You can. Do what no therapy session, no paycheck, no person could ever do. Turn it around for Your glory.

Isaiah 43:19 says, “See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.”

If You can make rivers in the desert, You can make a miracle out of this.

There’s a fire in me today—not anger, but holy frustration. I’m not mad at You, God. I’m mad at the lies I’ve believed about You. Mad at how often I shrink Your power down to fit inside the limits of what I can see and understand. I’m done doing that. You are GOD. There is no one like You.

So here I am—heart wide open. If it takes me crying again, I’ll cry. If it takes me praying the same prayer again, I’ll pray it. If it takes waiting longer, I’ll wait. But I’m not giving up. Because You haven’t given up on me.

Genesis 50:20 says, “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.”

That part—“God intended it for good”—is ringing in my soul tonight. He can take what the enemy meant for evil and flip it. That means nothing is wasted. That means no pain is pointless. That means God can use even this.

Jesus, if this trial leads to a deeper testimony, I say yes. If this battle ends up blessing someone else down the road, I say yes. If this detour is really divine, I say yes.

But I ask, Lord—redeem it. Don’t just heal me—use me. Use my broken pieces to build something beautiful. Use my silence to create a louder song. Use this dark chapter to illuminate Your light.

Father, in the name of Jesus, I pray with full confidence: breathe life into what seems dead. Reverse what looks irreversible. Heal what feels hopeless. Shift what’s stuck. And give me the faith to stand, even while I wait.

Remind my soul that You are still moving. Even when the door closes. Even when the test comes back positive. Even when the person walks away. Even when it all looks like it’s over.

God, I trust You to turn it around. You’re not late. You’re strategic. You’re setting the stage. And I believe that when You move, it won’t just be good—it’ll be glorious.

So I’ll keep praising You now, in the middle. I’ll keep writing these prayers with tear-stained pages. I’ll keep holding on. Because I know who You are. And I know how You work.

What the enemy meant for harm—You’re going to use for GOOD.

So tonight, I rest in that truth. Not because I understand everything… but because I trust the One who does.

Amen.

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Caught in the Clutches of Moral Filth

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It’s 1:37 AM and I’m wide awake, not because of caffeine or anxiety, but because I can feel Your Spirit wrestling with mine. You’re convicting me. You’re calling me to rise—not just as a believer, but as a woman who dares to confront the rot that is becoming “normal” in our culture.

I looked around today and felt sick. Not because the world is broken (I already know that)—but because Your people are getting comfortable in the filth. We’re not just “in the world”; we’re soaking in it. Marinating in it. Entertained by it. Desensitized by it. And then we have the audacity to say, “God feels distant.”

Isn’t it true?

When we find ourselves caught in the clutches of moral filth, when our hearts are numb from bingeing what You hate, when we start excusing sin because it’s trending—we find Your Word boring. Irrelevant. Too slow. Too old-fashioned. Too convicting.

But Your Word says something different:

“Therefore, get rid of all moral filth and the evil that is so prevalent and humbly accept the word planted in you, which can save you.” — James 1:21

Moral filth is prevalent. It’s everywhere. And Satan is crafty. He doesn’t just tempt us to sin blatantly—he numbs us so we no longer feel the conviction. He hardens us with a thousand small compromises. “It’s just a show.” “It’s just a joke.” “It’s not that deep.”

But it is that deep.

Because every time I scroll past something that grieves You and don’t feel grieved, that’s a sign my heart is crusting over. Every time I defend what You’ve called sin, that’s not progress—that’s decay.

Lord, You said:

“Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness.” — Isaiah 5:20

Are we not living in those days right now?

I have friends—beautiful, creative, kind people—who claim Your name but walk in compromise. And I’m not talking about struggling. We all fall short. I do too. But there’s a difference between struggling and surrendering to the world. Between conviction and convenience. Between repentance and rebellion.

And I’ve kept quiet for too long. I’ve let things slide because I didn’t want to be “that girl”—the one who’s always talking about sin and repentance and righteousness. The one who’s “too intense.” The one who makes everyone uncomfortable. But Jesus, You didn’t die to make me comfortable. You died to make me holy.

Forgive me for letting silence win where truth should’ve been spoken.

I feel You pressing this into my spirit:

“If we deliberately keep on sinning after we have received the knowledge of the truth, no sacrifice for sins is left.” — Hebrews 10:26

That verse chills me. It’s not about messing up—it’s about hardening. About knowing truth and choosing the filth instead. It’s about hearts that stop listening. Minds that stop repenting. Eyes that stop seeing.

But here’s the miracle: even then, Your Spirit doesn’t give up on us.

Even when our hearts are hardened by sin, You move. You pursue. You whisper and shout. You send people and Scriptures and moments that cut deep—not to harm us, but to heal us. Like a surgeon, You take the scalpel of Your Word and do heart surgery.

“For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword… it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.” — Hebrews 4:12

I’ve felt that cut. That painful, holy cut that exposes everything fake in me. You don’t just deal with symptoms—you go to the root. To the ugly. To the unspoken compromise. And somehow, instead of shaming me, You invite me to change. Real change. Deeper than behavior. Deeper than guilt. A transformation from the inside out.

Holy Spirit, keep cutting. Keep doing surgery on this heart of mine. I don’t want surface-level Christianity. I want to bleed truth and breathe holiness. I want to look at the filth of this world and not desire it. I want to hunger for Your Word like my soul is starving—because without it, I am.

Tonight, I pray not just for myself but for my generation. For those who claim You but are drowning in the noise of this world. For those who feel nothing when they sin. For those who are more shaped by TikTok than Scripture. Call us out, God. Ruin us for comfort. Wreck us for normal.

Give us hearts that hate what You hate and love what You love. Not just because we’re “supposed to,” but because we’ve seen the beauty of holiness and the horror of sin. And we choose You. Again and again and again.

Father, protect us from shallow faith. From casual compromise. From moral numbness disguised as grace. Let Your Word come alive in us—not just as a book, but as a burning fire that cannot be quenched.

Tonight I recommit my eyes, my mind, my hands, my words, and my witness to You. I will not flirt with filth. I will not laugh at what grieves You. I will not be silent while my friends slide toward spiritual death. I will speak—even if it costs me comfort, likes, or relationships.

Because You are worth everything.

Search me, O God. Expose the hidden filth in me. Cleanse me. Break me. Build me back with truth.

In Jesus’ mighty name, Amen.

One Sunrise at a Time

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As I sit down to write this, I can still feel the tension in my shoulders from all the stress I carried around like a badge of honor. I didn’t sleep well last night. My mind kept spinning with “what ifs”—what if this doesn’t work out? What if that falls through? What if I’m not enough? The future felt like this giant foggy unknown pressing in on me like a weight.

But then, the Holy Spirit gently whispered to my soul this morning as I opened my Bible to Matthew 6:34:

“Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

And I felt that Word hit me like a wake-up call.

Jesus commanded us not to worry. Not suggested. Not advised. Commanded. That’s where I feel the rub—how often we act like worry is just a personality trait instead of a form of disobedience. We normalize anxiety and stress like they’re part of being human, but Jesus calls us to a higher standard. I felt convicted, not condemned. He doesn’t shame us for worrying, but He definitely doesn’t coddle our excuses either. That’s love. Real love.

It’s almost like I heard Him saying to me: “Daughter, I didn’t design you to carry the weight of tomorrow. I give you strength for TODAY. Walk in it.”

Later, I was drawn to Psalm 68:19, where it says:

“Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior, who daily bears our burdens.”

Daily. Not weekly. Not monthly. Not “when it gets really bad.” DAILY. That means today. That means now. That means He’s not ignoring the things that keep me up at night or the pressures I pretend don’t bother me. He’s right here, ready to carry the weight I keep trying to muscle through alone. Why do I keep forgetting that?

I also reflected on Matthew 6:11, part of the Lord’s Prayer:

“Give us today our daily bread.”

Today’s. Not tomorrow’s. Not next month’s. Not “bread for when I’m married” or “bread for when the job comes through” or “bread for when everything makes sense.” TODAY’S bread. That’s what I’m supposed to pray for. That’s all I’m promised.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth: sometimes I don’t want just today’s portion. I want to see the whole staircase. I want certainty. I want control. And God, in His mercy, denies me that because He’s more interested in my trust than my temporary peace of mind.

There’s a quote I came across today that punched me in the gut (in the best way):

“Do not let the worries of tomorrow affect your relationship with God today.”

That hit hard. Because how often do I do exactly that? How often do I let anxiety put distance between me and the One who’s holding it all together? I’ll skip prayer time because I’m “too overwhelmed,” not realizing the very thing I need is time in His presence.

So here’s what I did today: I put down my phone. I got on my knees. And I prayed this:


Lord Jesus, I surrender my illusions of control. I place today in Your hands, fully, completely, with trembling trust. Help me to stop dragging tomorrow’s troubles into today’s grace. Help me to see You clearly in the chaos, to believe You’re good even when I’m uncertain. Give me strength for today’s battle, joy for today’s blessings, and peace for today’s journey. You are my portion. You are enough. Teach me to live one day at a time, walking step by step with You. Amen.

I don’t have all the answers. But I don’t need to. That’s the beauty of this walk. I just need to hold His hand.

To anyone reading this, maybe you’re like me—overthinking, overfunctioning, overstressing. Hear me when I say this with love and a bit of holy boldness: Stop it. Jesus died for more than your eternal salvation; He died to give you abundant life today (John 10:10). Not someday. Not “when things calm down.” Today.

So, what’s stealing your joy today? What’s trying to rob your peace? Is it a deadline? A diagnosis? A disappointment? A delay? Bring it to Him. All of it. He can take it. He wants it.

You don’t have to fake peace. You can receive it.

You don’t have to carry the weight. He already did on Calvary.

You don’t have to know the whole plan. Just know the Planner.

I’m learning that living one day at a time isn’t about laziness or apathy—it’s about radical faith. It’s about saying, “God, I trust You with what I cannot see, and I will be faithful with what I can.”

And if all I do today is love Him well, lean on Him deeply, and walk with Him closely—then that is more than enough.

So, here’s to tomorrow… whenever it comes. But for now?
Today belongs to Jesus. And so do I.

When Fear is Faithful

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

This weekend, my heart is heavy and clear all at once.

Heavy, because I still wrestle with fear. Not the kind of fear that reveres God — the kind of fear that distrusts Him. The kind that whispers lies, not holy awe. The kind that tells me if I let go of something I love, He’ll take it and never give it back. The kind that makes God seem like a thief in the night instead of the Good Shepherd.

And yet clear — because I know better. I know Him.

I’ve walked with Him. I’ve cried in His presence. I’ve seen His hand in moments where no one else could’ve pulled me out. I’ve watched prayers come alive in real time. So why is it that when He nudges me to surrender, I panic like a child losing her favorite toy?

I’m a college graduate, living on my own, and still clinging to my childish insecurities when God’s asking me for childlike trust.

Jesus said in Matthew 18:3, “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” And children — real children — trust. They ask questions, yes. They may cry when things change, sure. But they believe their daddy will protect them, feed them, provide for them. Why can’t I?https://youtu.be/VzY6dwn3Z_U

When I look in the mirror, I see a woman who talks a lot about faith but gets nervous when faith is tested. I say God is my Provider, yet I count the cost before I obey. I say God is good, but I hesitate like He’s about to trick me. Let me be real: I still fear that giving Him everything means losing everything.

But is that who He is?

Lord, help me. Remind me You are not a manipulator. You are a Father. A good Father.

I’m ashamed to even admit this fear out loud, but David did it in the Psalms — so maybe it’s not shameful, maybe it’s human. Maybe it’s sacred space when I take my fears to the throne instead of pretending they don’t exist.

Psalm 34:4 says, “I sought the Lord, and He answered me and delivered me from all my fears.” And I feel that deep. My fears are not always from logic; they’re from wounds. Maybe from childhood. Maybe from bad theology. Maybe from control issues I haven’t even fully admitted yet.

But the fear of the Lord? Now that’s a different story.

The sacred fear of God is freeing. It snaps the chains of every other fear. It breaks idols. It brings clarity. It’s not the fear that makes me hide — it’s the kind that makes me bow.

And if I’m honest, that kind of fear feels more foreign than I want to admit. Most Christians talk about fearing God like it’s a formula to get wisdom, but few live like His majesty could make you tremble and worship at the same time. That’s what I want — not to be afraid of God, but to be in awe of Him.

Because when I fear God rightly, I don’t fear losing control. I surrender it.

When I fear God rightly, I stop clinging to my small plans and start chasing His.

When I fear God rightly, I trust that anything He asks me to lay down is either being upgraded, protected, or purified.

It’s like James 1:17 says, “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” That scripture hits me like a wave. He does not change. I do. My heart shifts. My feelings change. My confidence wavers. But His intentions are always love.

So when I think He’s about to “take something away” from me, what I’m really fearing is His character. And that’s not holy. That’s just me projecting my broken human trust onto a flawless, faithful God.

Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me for thinking You are like man — unpredictable, withholding, hard to please. Forgive me for doubting Your goodness just because I can’t predict Your timing.

What kind of God sends His Son to die for my sin, and then plays games with my destiny?

None. That’s not who You are.

You are consistent. You are kind. You are patient when I panic, and gentle when I wrestle. Your conviction doesn’t crush — it calls me higher. You discipline me not to destroy me but to deliver me. Hebrews 12:6 says, “The Lord disciplines the one He loves.” You only prune what You intend to grow.

So if You’re asking me to hand You the thing in my hand — the relationship, the career dream, the timeline, the idea of how things “should” be — then maybe You’re trying to free me, not hurt me.

Maybe this sacred fear is the beginning of freedom.

And maybe, just maybe, the enemy has been lying to me: telling me fear of God is scary when it’s actually safe. Telling me surrender is loss when it’s really access. Telling me God is withholding when He’s just preparing. I’m done listening to those lies.

God, here I am. I give You my trust again. With open hands. With a heart that still trembles a little, but a soul that says YES. Yes to surrender. Yes to reverence. Yes to fearing You rightly so I don’t fear anything else.

I want to live in awe of You, not anxiety.

Let the sacred fear of the Lord set me free from needing to control my life. I want to trust You like a daughter trusts her Father — with joy, not suspicion.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

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Stillness That Strengthens: When God Asks Us to Wait

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Some days, I just want to run.

I want to escape the waiting, the wrestling, the in-between moments where God seems quiet and I’m left staring at my own restless heart. Running feels easier. Running feels like control. Running feels like I’m making something happen instead of sitting powerless.

But then there are these words that come back to me like a steady heartbeat: Repentance. Rest. Quiet. Trust.

They sound so simple. Almost cliché. But when I’m caught in the middle of life’s storms, those words feel like breath—sometimes even a lifeline.

And yet, they are so contrary to human nature.

I mean, who naturally repents? Who naturally rests when life demands that we perform, prove, push, and hustle? Who naturally stays quiet when the world screams for our attention, our anxiety, our panic? Who naturally trusts when every part of us is screaming, “Fix this now! Fix this now!”

Not me.

But here’s the honest truth: I need to repent, rest, be quiet, and trust. Because without these, I spiral into chaos, doubt, and fear. The kind of fear that feels like a noose tightening around my soul.

Repentance is hard. It requires me to look honestly at my sin—my impatience, my distrust, my desire to control. It means admitting I don’t have all the answers. It means laying down my pride and my so-called strength and saying, “God, I’ve been wrong. I need You.”

Psalm 51:10 says, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.” I cling to that promise every time I repent—because I know my heart is a mess without His cleansing.

And rest? Rest feels like a luxury I can’t afford. The world tells me rest means weakness. But God says something else.

In Matthew 11:28-29, Jesus invites us: “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” That rest isn’t just physical. It’s spiritual. Emotional. A surrender to His peace that surpasses understanding.

Quiet is nearly impossible in my loud, distracted world. But God calls me to stillness. Psalm 46:10 commands, “Be still, and know that I am God.” To be still is not passive. It’s powerful. It’s faith in action. It’s saying, “I will wait. I will listen. I will trust Your voice over the chaos.”

And trust… oh, how I struggle with trust. Trust means giving God the right to write my story, even when the ending looks uncertain or scary. Proverbs 3:5-6 urges me, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make straight your paths.” But trusting when I don’t see, when I don’t understand, is the hardest thing.

Waiting on God requires me to submit myself to His will—whatever it holds. Even when it means discomfort, delay, or disappointment.

But here’s the thing: there is a reward for waiting. Not always the reward I expect, but a reward nonetheless. In waiting, I encounter His grace—unmerited favor that covers my doubts and failures. I experience His compassion—tender mercies that heal my hurting heart. And I witness His justice—perfect and righteous, unfolding at the perfect time.

Isaiah 40:31 says, “But those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.” That promise is not just poetic. It’s a lifeline for my weary soul.

So, am I willing to repent so I can rest in who God is right now? Am I willing to be quiet when everything in me wants to scream? Am I willing to trust even when I don’t see the full picture?

Lord, help me. Help me to surrender my impatience, my fear, and my control. Help me to wait—not just in passing time but in faith. Help me to find peace in Your timing, not mine.

I’m learning that waiting on God isn’t about inactivity or defeat. It’s a deliberate, active posture of faith. It’s choosing to stay put in His presence even when my soul demands to run away.

I have to believe the reward is worth it. Because if waiting on God leads to deeper grace, stronger faith, and a heart more like His, then I want to wait.

Sometimes I get scared, though. Scared that my waiting is wasted. Scared that nothing will change. Scared that I’m missing out on something better.

But the Bible reminds me that God’s timing is perfect.

Ecclesiastes 3:1 says, “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.” I want to lean into that truth, even when seasons feel long or dark.

I want to rest in the fact that my God is sovereign. That He holds all things in His hands. That He is not caught off guard by my fears or my struggles. That He is working all things for my good and His glory.

Romans 8:28 is my anchor: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.” Waiting is part of the “all things.”

So tonight, I choose to stop running.

I choose repentance over pride.

I choose rest over striving.

I choose quiet over chaos.

I choose trust over fear.

Sovereign Lord, I come to You in my weakness, in my impatience, in my restless heart. I ask for Your grace to cover me. Your compassion to comfort me. Your justice to prevail in the situations that feel overwhelming.

Help me to wait on You without wavering. Help me to find peace not in the absence of difficulty, but in the presence of You.

Give me strength to stand firm. Wisdom to know when to act and when to be still. Courage to surrender my plans to Your perfect will.

I do not want to run away anymore. I want to run to You.

Teach me to wait well.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Waiting on God is hard, Diary. But I am learning it’s necessary. It’s sacred. It’s transformative.

So here I am, still waiting, still believing, still trusting.

With all my heart!

The Shepherd Knows His Sheep By Name

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

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

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

And then I thought of you God.

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

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

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

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

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

God, You are patient.

You waited for Samuel to hear You correctly.

You called him by name in a season of confusion.

And You’re doing the same with me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know me, God.

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

You know the quiet, insecure, questioning me.

And still… You call me by name.

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

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

Jesus,


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

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

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

Amen.

FINAL THOUGHTS….

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

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

I’m known. By name. By grace.