Tag: Lord

Safe in God’s Hands: Conquering Fear Through Faith

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

This weekend I faced fear in the mirror. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t shout or shake me. It just stared me down like it had something to prove. And for a split second—just a second—I let it. I let fear have the mic. I let it whisper all its what-ifs and why-nots into the corners of my mind.

But then I remembered who I am.
And more importantly, whose I am.

The Word hit me like a wave straight to my spirit:

“Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” — Isaiah 41:10

That’s not just poetry. That’s truth. That’s a promise.

Fear is a liar, and it loves to dress up like logic. It sneaks in disguised as “being realistic,” “protecting yourself,” or “thinking it through.” But really, it’s just a mask for unbelief. I’m not here to coddle fear anymore. I’m not making a bed for it in my spirit. I serve the Almighty God, and He didn’t give me a spirit of fear.

“For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.” — 2 Timothy 1:7 (AMP)

I say this with fire in my chest: If God didn’t give it, I don’t want it. I’m rejecting fear like poison because that’s what it is—it slowly kills joy, hope, peace, and even purpose. And I am DONE letting fear kill anything in me that God has breathed life into.

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Here’s what’s wild though: fear feels real. And maybe that’s the point. Faith isn’t about feelings. It’s about choosing truth over feelings. It’s about standing firm when your knees want to buckle.

I had this moment today…
I was anxious—my heart pounding, palms sweaty, spiraling with thoughts of everything that could go wrong in my life. I could feel fear tightening its grip like a noose. But instead of letting it choke me, I imagined myself curled up in the lap of the Father. Not a distant, angry God—but Abba. A God who wraps His arms around me like a blanket and whispers over me:

“Do not fear, for I am with you…” — Isaiah 41:10 again. Yes, again. Because I need that Word on repeat.

And I felt His love.
Like really felt it.
Not earned, not negotiated. Just freely poured out.

That kind of love doesn’t just comfort—it casts out fear.

“There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear…” — 1 John 4:18

God’s love doesn’t ignore fear—it evicts it. When I let Him in fully, fear has no legal right to stay. So why am I still renting it a room?

Time to confront this mess.

I love people deeply. But I’m also not afraid to speak boldly. Especially when I see fear running people’s lives. I’ve seen it paralyze dreams, crush marriages, stop ministries before they even begin. That’s not humility—that’s fear wearing a disguise.

God is not calling us to survive our lives. He’s calling us to live them boldly in His power. And that’s not pride—it’s faith.

Jeremiah 29:11 rings out like a battle cry in my soul:

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a future and a hope.”

If I truly believe that, then fear has no place. Not in my mind, not in my decisions, and definitely not in my future.

So how do we fight fear?

We don’t fight alone.
We don’t fake it till we make it.
We face it with God beside us.
We let His love meet us right in the trembling.

Even when we’re scared, we walk forward. That’s what courage is. As Rick Warren said so perfectly,

“Courage is not the absence of fear; courage is moving ahead in spite of your fear.”

That hit me deep today. I’m not waiting until I feel brave to obey God. I’m just going to obey—and trust that courage will follow.

And when the voice of fear tries to whisper again, I’ll answer it with this:

“The LORD is with me; I will not be afraid. What can mere mortals do to me?” — Psalm 118:6

Let that be tattooed on my soul.

God’s presence is greater than my panic.
His promises are louder than my anxieties.
And His power? It’s made perfect in my weakness.

If you’re reading this and you’ve never surrendered your life to Christ, I need you to know—He’s not waiting for you to get perfect. He’s waiting to love you now.

Here’s a simple prayer. Pray it with me, even if your voice shakes:

Prayer of Surrender:


Jesus, I’m tired of doing life on my own. I’ve been letting fear lead, and it’s only left me empty. I believe You are the Son of God. I believe You died for me and rose again. I ask You to come into my heart. Be my Lord, be my Savior, be my peace. I surrender my life, my fear, my future—everything—to You. Thank You for loving me. I receive Your love. Amen.

And for those of us already walking with Him—maybe today is the day we finally trust Him like we say we do.

I’m choosing courage. I’m choosing Christ.
Because fear doesn’t get the final word. Faith does.

The Complete Blessing: From Spirit to Flesh

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Lord, it’s just me — raw, real, and reaching. I feel so much stirring in my spirit that I can’t just sit with it anymore. I have to write it out, wrestle with it, pray through it, speak life over myself. You’ve been pressing 1 Thessalonians 5:23-24 into my heart so deeply, it’s like it’s tattooed on my bones:

“May God Himself, the God of peace, sanctify you through and through. May your whole spirit, soul, and body be kept blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. The one who calls you is faithful, and He will do it.”

I read that and my heart screams, YES, LORD. DO IT! But also, God, how? How do You make me whole — spirit, soul, and body — when life feels like it’s constantly pulling me apart?

I don’t want to be a half-built house anymore, Holy Spirit. I want to be made blameless. Not just in my outward appearance or religious rituals, but truly, deeply, wholly sanctified. This isn’t about perfectionism — this is about purification.

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Let’s start with my spirit. That part of me that cries out for You when words fail, that part of me You breathed into life, the part of me that knows Your voice even when my emotions lie. You said in Ephesians 3:16 that we are “strengthened with power through His Spirit in your inner being.” Jesus, I need that strength right now. I’m not here to perform or pretend. I’m here because my spirit wants more of You. It aches when I grieve You. It gets buried when I let my flesh take the lead. But it is yours, fully and eternally. Breathe new fire in me. Fill me with the hunger that moves mountains.

And Lord, if there are parts of my spirit that are crushed — and honestly, there are — please, please come close like You promised in Psalm 34:18: “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” I need You near. No one else will do. Heal those broken inner places, not so I can feel good, but so I can be whole and walk worthy of Your call.

My soul? She’s a mess sometimes. She’s emotional, sensitive, reactive — but she’s also vibrant, creative, and expressive. She carries the songs I sing, the tears I cry, the joy I radiate. But she gets overwhelmed. She tries to control things that belong in Your hands. She feels everything deeply, and sometimes the pain of the world pierces her too deeply.

Lord, You said You restore our soul (Psalm 23:3). I’m holding You to that promise. Renew her. Teach her to surrender. Show her that she doesn’t have to lead; she just has to follow the spirit that follows Your Spirit. Help her get in divine alignment. I bless my soul to come under the leadership of the Holy Spirit. No more hijacking peace. No more feeding fear. Soul, be still and know that He is God.

And my body? This temple that gets overlooked unless it’s in pain or gaining weight or feeling tired? I’ve spoken so harshly to her, Lord. I’ve treated her like a workhorse instead of the sacred vessel she is. Forgive me. I bless my body to come alive in Your glory. I speak healing over her, strength into her bones, and freedom into her movements.

My body lifts hands in worship. She dances, cries, embraces, kneels. She doesn’t just carry me — she carries Your Spirit, Your purpose, Your presence. I bless her to be whole, strong, and healthy. I speak to every cell, every system, every hidden trauma — be sanctified, be healed, be whole in Jesus’ name.

This isn’t about self-help or some aesthetic “healing journey.” This is about sanctification — deep, holy, through-and-through alignment with the God of peace. It’s about being kept blameless — not because I’m flawless, but because You’re faithful. You’re the One who does the work, Lord. You will do it.

You didn’t call me to salvation only to abandon me in sanctification. You didn’t save my spirit to leave my soul and body in chaos. You’re after every part of me, and I say yes. Yes, Jesus. Sanctify me. Spirit, soul, and body. I’m not hiding any part from You.

Where I’ve let trauma speak louder than truth — silence it.
Where I’ve let exhaustion speak louder than purpose — revive me.
Where I’ve let bitterness poison my soul — cleanse me.

Take the whole of me, Lord. Make it holy. Make it whole.

And God, help me to be bold with others about this. I’m tired of surface-level Christianity. I’m not interested in cute faith or lukewarm prayers. I want to see chains break, strongholds fall, spirits awaken. I want to look people in the eye and say, “He can heal you — all of you. Spirit, soul, and body.” I want to speak with holy fire and radical compassion, not just comfort but confrontation. Not because I’m better — but because I know the One who makes us whole. I know He can do it. Because He’s doing it in me.

Even on the days I feel like I’m falling apart, You’re putting me together. So tonight, I rest in the truth that You are faithful. You are working. You will complete what You started. And when You come back, I’ll be found blameless — not because of me, but because of You.

Amen.


The Disruptive Savior: Jesus Violates My Expectations

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Jesus,

Today, You violated my expectations. Again.

And honestly? It wrecked me—in the best way.

I came to You with a plan. A perfect little picture of how I thought You would move. I had it all laid out: the timeline, the method, the outcome. I expected peace in the waiting, healing on my terms, breakthrough in a way that made sense to me.

But You didn’t follow my script. You never do.

And that’s what makes You God.

I used to think that faith meant expecting You to move in a certain way. Now I’m learning that faith is surrendering all my expectations and trusting You to move however You want—even if it’s weird, uncomfortable, or completely opposite of what I had in mind.

Your ways are not my ways. (Isaiah 55:8)

And thank God for that.

I think about the blind man in John 9. You could’ve just said the word and healed him. You have done that before. But instead, You spit in the dirt, made mud, and smeared it on his eyes. That’s not clean. That’s not sanitary. That’s definitely not what anyone was expecting.

“Having said this, He spit on the ground, made some mud with the saliva, and put it on the man’s eyes. ‘Go,’ He told him, ‘wash in the Pool of Siloam.’ So the man went and washed, and came home seeing.” — John 9:6–7 (NIV)

I mean… really? Mud? Spit?

But that’s the thing. You don’t need to meet our expectations. We’re the ones who need to adjust to Yours.

And You’re not inconsistent. You’re just obedient to the Father’s will. That’s Your only consistency—total surrender to the will of God.

So why do I still act shocked when You move in a way I didn’t expect?

Why do I question Your love just because You didn’t answer how I prayed? Why do I think You’ve abandoned me just because the healing hasn’t come the way I pictured? Why do I think delay means denial?

The truth is, You’ve never failed me. Not once. But sometimes You love me too much to meet the expectations I put on You. Sometimes You intentionally violate my comfort zone to build real faith—not the kind that works when life is cute and convenient, but the kind that stands when nothing makes sense.

That’s the kind of faith I want.

Jesus, confront me. Offend my logic. Violate my false beliefs. Expose every place where I’ve boxed You in.

Because I don’t want a tame God. I want the real You.

I want the Jesus who flips tables.
The Jesus who eats with sinners.
The Jesus who doesn’t fit into any of the categories we try to place You in.
The Jesus who saves with blood, not politics.
The Jesus who washes feet but holds all power.
The Jesus who disrupts my comfort so I’ll depend on grace.

You are not predictable—but You are trustworthy.

And I know I’ve been guilty of trying to domesticate You. I’ve begged You to fit into my plans. I’ve expected blessing without pruning, glory without obedience, and miracles without submission.

But today, I lay that down.

All of it.

I don’t need a Jesus who obeys me—I need to obey You.
I don’t need a Savior who plays by my rules—I need one who saves me from myself.
And You do that. Every day.

So please, Jesus, violate my expectations. Shatter them if You have to.

If You need to spit in the dirt and smear it in my eyes so I can finally see, then do it.

If You need to let me sit in a season of silence so I can hear You clearly again, I’m here for it.

If You need to deny me what I think I want so You can give me what I really need, then so be it.

Because faith isn’t about control. It’s about surrender.
It’s not about understanding every step—it’s about trusting the One who holds the path.

And that’s You.

Lord, forgive me for all the ways I’ve treated You like a vending machine or a wish granter. You’re not here to serve my ego—You came to save my soul.

I don’t want You to just “fix my life.” I want You to transform me.

If that takes discomfort, so be it. If that means dying to my preferences, I’m ready. If that means letting go of everything I thought You would do, I’ll do it.

Because in the end, what I want more than anything… is You.

You alone are worthy.

You alone are holy.

You alone are Lord—not just in theory, but in reality.

So take my expectations, my formulas, my assumptions.
Take my pride, my need for control, my fear of the unknown.
Take it all, Jesus. You can have it.

And in return, give me eyes to see what You’re doing—even if it doesn’t look the way I imagined.

Because that man walked away seeing.

I want that kind of vision.
Not worldly vision.
Not religious tradition.
But real, Spirit-filled sight.

Sight that sees Your hand even in the mud.
Faith that trusts You even when it stings.
Love that stays, even when You move differently than expected.

You are Lord.

Not me.

Amen.

Grace That Never Lets Go

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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

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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.

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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.

When Fear is Faithful

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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.

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

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 Armor of Courage: Christian Faith Over Fear

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Today, fear tried to crawl back into my head again. I felt it creeping in through the cracks of my morning silence, wrapping its cold fingers around my chest before I even got out of bed. It whispered lies before I’d even had coffee.

It said I wasn’t ready.
That I was going to mess this up.
That I’d never be enough.

Fear. Again.

It’s not just an emotion—let’s be real. It’s a strategy. A trap. A distraction straight from the pit. I know it when I feel it now. I used to call it “overthinking,” or “being realistic.” But now I see it for what it is: spiritual warfare.

And I’m over it.

The Word says in Philippians 4:6, “Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God.”

I don’t want fear to have any room in my life. Not in my decisions. Not in my relationships. Not in my dreams. Fear muddies my judgment, distorts my view, and stifles my joy. It’s not just uncomfortable—it’s destructive.

I had to pause this morning and confront it head-on. Not coddle it. Not analyze it to death. CONFRONT it.

So I asked myself THREE questions……….
❶What am I afraid of?
❷What’s the trigger?
❸What lie am I believing?

Turns out I was afraid of failing in front of people I love. I had a presentation coming up at work and the pressure was making me spiral. Why? Because I started telling myself I needed to be perfect to be accepted. Again. That lie has teeth. But it’s a lie nonetheless.

And God is not the author of lies.

So I prayed. Out loud. With urgency. Not because I’m holy, but because I’m desperate. I told God, “Lord, I don’t want to live like this. I want to walk in Your peace, not in fear. I want the kind of courage that only comes from knowing who I am in You.”

I laid it all out. My trembling heart. My racing thoughts. My self-doubt. I gave Him the entire mess. Because that’s what He wants. Not perfection—surrender.

The moment I started talking to Jesus, the fog began to clear. My emotions didn’t shift right away, but my focus did. And sometimes that’s the bigger miracle.

I felt Him say, “Daughter, you are mine. You don’t have to perform to be loved. You don’t have to impress anyone to be accepted. Stand in My strength, not yours.”

Whew. That hit me deep.

Matthew 10:31 came to mind like a sword: “So do not fear; you are more valuable than many sparrows.”

Do I believe that? Do I believe I’m valuable to God even when I don’t get everything right? That He’s watching me, caring for me, holding my hand even when I feel shaky?

YES.
I HAVE to believe that.
Because if I don’t trust His love, I will drown in anxiety.

Fear tells me, “What if it all goes wrong?”
But FAITH says, “Even if it does, God is still good, and He’s still with me.”

Proverbs 1:33 reminds me, “But whoever listens to me will live in safety and be at ease, without fear of harm.”

There it is. That’s the real armor: listening to God. Tuning out the noise of the enemy and tuning into His voice. That’s where courage lives. Not in hyping myself up. Not in overpreparing. In listening to my Father and believing His Word.

I know I have authority in Jesus’ name to reject fear.
I don’t have to entertain it, reason with it, or invite it in like a guest.
I can slam the door in its face.

Jesus didn’t die for me to live shackled to anxiety.
He died to set me FREE.

And if I’ve learned anything this year—it’s that freedom is a choice.
Every single day.
Every moment.
Every thought.

So I’m choosing it again today.

Fear might knock on my door, but I don’t have to answer.
I’ve got spiritual armor now.
I’ve got my sword—the Word.
I’ve got truth etched into my bones.
I’m not walking in weakness anymore.


God, I renounce fear in the name of Jesus. I refuse to partner with anxiety, confusion, or doubt. You are not a God of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind (2 Timothy 1:7). Fill me with Your peace that surpasses all understanding. Show me where my thinking needs to change. Help me root every fear in Your truth, and not in my feelings. I trust You, Lord. I trust Your timing, Your plan, and Your heart for me. Clothe me in the armor of courage. Amen.

I may not be wise, but I’ve lived enough life to know fear is a liar—and God is faithful.

The war between faith and fear is daily. But I am NOT defenseless.
The enemy doesn’t get to write the narrative—I already know the ending.
Victory is mine in Christ. Period.

Now I’m going to get up, finish my coffee, and walk into this day like the daughter of the King that I am.

Because fear doesn’t get the final word. Faith does.

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.