Scoot your chairs in close, kids. I have a story for you. This will help someone.

Several years ago I was working for a ministry that trained and equipped student ministers. It was a dream job in so many ways.

I’ll spare you the details, but I went through an awful season while serving in that role. Compounding it was a knowledge that I needed some answers from God Himself — it was one of those “crisis of belief” times that Henry Blackaby so eloquently talked about in “Experiencing God.”

So I prayed, and sought, and waited. Nothing, Nada.

Ultimately, I did hear from God in what was a solid, sweet fashion. God spoke in the most amazing fashion during a personal retreat at the Monastery of the Holy Spirit near Conyers, Georgia. One unique feature of this place is that you were expected to follow a discipline of silence — you didn’t speak to anyone, and no one was to speak to you. And no, I’m not Roman Catholic, nor am I any sort of a mystic. Don’t worry. I’m resolutely Southern Baptist! It wasn’t about the monks and me, but about God and me, one on one. I’ll save that story for another time (or you can contact me personally — it’s a story I love to tell.)

Years later, I’m still unpacking what God taught me during that season. Let me share with you seven takeaways. I hope these resonate with you because, if you haven’t already, you can anticipate a time in your life when the heavens are silent and hearing from God just isn’t happening,

I’d add, too, that there are plenty of stories in scripture when God didn’t speak. For years. You’re in good company.

Here are my seven:

1. Don’t Ignore the Silence

Silence can be unnerving, especially when we’re used to constant communication. But when God seems silent, it’s not an invitation to panic; it’s a call to pause. Silence can be a sacred space for reflection and growth. Think of it as God’s way of saying, “Let’s sit with this for a moment.” It’s in these quiet times we often find the deepest insights and grow in patience and perseverance.

2. Confront Sin in Your Life

Silence from God can sometimes act as a gentle nudge to examine our hearts and lives. It’s a call to introspection, asking us to confront any sin or barriers that may be disrupting our relationship with Him. This isn’t about wallowing in guilt but about clearing the air. Just as a bit of dust can cloud a lens, even small sins can cloud our spiritual vision.

3. Go Back to What You Know for Sure

In times of silence, anchor yourself in the truths you know about God and His character. Remember His promises and the ways He has been faithful in the past. This is not about ignoring your doubts or fears but about remembering that, even when the path ahead seems unclear, the foundation of your faith is solid.

4. Make a Decision and Choose Sides

When God seems silent, it’s a pivotal moment to decide where your loyalty lies. Will you follow God, trusting in His unseen guidance, or lean on your own understanding? This decision is about commitment, a declaration that, regardless of how you feel, your trust in God’s character and promises is unwavering.

5. Trust God More, Not Less

It might seem counterintuitive, but God’s silence is often the best time to deepen your trust in Him. Trusting more, not less, means leaning into faith, even when you don’t have all the answers. It’s about believing that God is at work in your life, even in the silence, shaping you for purposes beyond your current understanding.

6. Listen and Watch Closely

God’s silence doesn’t mean His absence. Sometimes, God speaks in whispers or through the actions and words of others. Pay attention to the world around you, the “coincidences,” the advice of friends, the serenity of nature. God is often at work in the subtle, teaching us to tune our senses to His gentle guidance.

7. Get Ready to Receive from Him

Finally, prepare your heart to receive from God. This isn’t about passively waiting but actively preparing—like tilling the soil for the seeds yet to be sown. It’s about making space in your life for what God is about to do, trusting that His silence is often the precursor to growth, blessing, and deeper understanding.

I hope this encourages you. Talk later!

I should know better when on social media. I’ll read a post from someone I know and care for, and think, “Are you even listening to yourself? You’re a believer. And if I were to take what you’re sharing at face value, I’d say you’re moving close to despair. How cynical can you get?”  

It’s like a drowning man who not only won’t reach for a lifesaver but isn’t content until they drown someone else along with them.

In a world that often seems overwhelmed by negativity and cynicism, it’s easy to wonder where we, as Christians, fit into the grand scheme of things. We’re bombarded with news that paints a less-than-hopeful picture of humanity and the future. It’s in these moments, however, that our faith is not just a belief but a beacon—a source of perpetual hope and unwavering trust in God’s sovereignty.

The idea that “you can’t be cynical and a Christian” might seem bold at first glance. After all, isn’t it human to feel disheartened by the seemingly endless cycle of bad news? Yet, this statement isn’t about denying our emotions or ignoring reality. It’s about recognizing that, as Christians, we are called to view the world differently. We are called to hope.

Hope, in the Christian sense, is not blind optimism. It’s a confident expectation based on the character and promises of God. Despite the chaos, despite the brokenness, we stand firm in the belief that God is always glorified in all things. This isn’t a passive hope; it’s active and alive, compelling us to engage with the world in a way that reflects God’s love and redemption.

Don’t let your familiarity with Romans 8:28 dilute its truthfulness. Paul reminds us, “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.” This verse isn’t a platitude; it’s a cornerstone of our faith. It assures us that, no matter the circumstances, God is at work. He’s weaving every thread, even those tarnished by sin and sorrow, into a tapestry that glorifies Him and fulfills His divine plan.

When we look at others or the world around us, it’s crucial to remember that there’s no person or situation beyond God’s redemption. To think otherwise is to limit the infinite power of our Creator, the one who spoke the universe into existence. How, then, can we doubt His ability to transform lives and circumstances?

Embracing this perspective shifts our focus from despair to action. It challenges us to be agents of hope and vessels of God’s love. Instead of being overwhelmed by the darkness, we’re inspired to shine our light brighter, to reach out with compassion, and to partake in God’s redemptive work in the world.

“God’s got this” might sound like a casual affirmation, but it’s a profound declaration of faith. It’s an acknowledgment of God’s omnipotence and a commitment to trust Him, even when the path ahead seems uncertain. This trust isn’t naive; it’s rooted in a deep understanding of who God is and His promises to us.

So, as we navigate through life, let’s challenge ourselves to shed any cynicism that dims our light. Let’s replace it with a hope that is as unshakeable as it is contagious. Let’s be so filled with God’s love and trust in His plan that others can’t help but be drawn to the hope that lives within us.

As you reflect on these words, I encourage you to evaluate your own heart. Are there areas of your life where cynicism has taken root? How can you actively replace that cynicism with hope? Remember, it’s a journey we’re all on together, supporting one another, as we strive to live out our faith in a world that desperately needs the hope only God can give.

Let’s not just be hearers of this message but doers. Let’s live out our hope in such a way that it provokes others to seek the source of our hope, the very heart of God. Because, in the end, hope is not just what we have; it’s what we are called to share.

I thought of a name for my autobiography, if I ever decide to write it: Well, That Didn’t Work.

My life is full of things that didn’t go the way I’d wanted or planned. Some incidents I’d drop in that file marked “It’s Just a Thing.” Another file would be marked, “What Were You Thinking?” And, unfortunately, one file would be marked “You Blew It.”

That third file would be full of unpleasant accounts.

I’m prone to be unduly hard on myself. Can I get an “amen?”

I’m learning, though, that all my past mistakes, those moments of weakness, are redeemable. Check this out.

The scene is the Garden of Gethsemane—a pivotal moment not just in biblical history, but as a metaphor for our own spiritual journeys. Picture it: the disciples, those closest to Jesus, succumbed to human weakness, dozing off when they were needed most. When they woke, imagine the weight of their regret, the sinking feeling of having missed a crucial moment to support their friend and teacher. It’s a scenario many of us can relate to on a personal level.

This story isn’t just about physical sleep; it’s about moments of spiritual slumber, times when we’ve been absent when it mattered most—missed opportunities to stand by someone, to make a difference, or to take a step of faith. And like the disciples, we often wake up to a harsh self-judgment: “How could I have let that happen?” We beat ourselves up, thinking it’s all over, that we’ve blown it for good.

But here’s the twist: despair isn’t an anomaly; it’s part of the human experience. It’s as common as the cold, and just as unwelcome. Yet, it’s in these moments of despair that Jesus steps in with a message that’s both startling and soothing. He essentially tells us, “Okay, you missed that one. But let’s not dwell on it. There’s more ahead.”

I like the concept of leaving our past failures in the “sweet embrace of Christ.” It’s about allowing ourselves to move on, not ignoring our mistakes, but not letting them anchor us in place either. Jesus’s approach is not one of dismissal but of gentle redirection: “Get up, and do the next thing.”

And what is this “next thing”? It’s moving forward with trust and faith in Him, praying and acting from a place of redemption, not regret. The best thing we could do is shift our focus from what we’ve done wrong to what we can do right, starting now.

This message is incredibly relevant for all of us. How often do we find ourselves paralyzed by past missteps? How frequently do we let the fear of failure stop us from stepping out again? Yet, here we’re reminded that our past doesn’t have to dictate our future. Our spiritual journey is not defined by how many times we’ve fallen, but by how many times we get up—and who we’re walking with.

Want some encouragement? The message is clear: there’s always a next step, a new chapter waiting to be written with God by our side.

So, let’s take this advice to heart. Let’s not let the sense of past failure defeat our next step. Instead, let’s lean into the “invincible future” with Jesus, trusting in His redemption, and always ready to do the next thing.

Until next time, keep walking in faith and light, embracing each new day and opportunity with the joy and assurance that comes from knowing He’s got us, every step of the way.

I’m preaching to myself this morning, and thought I’d let you be part of my one-person congregation.

Here’s what is true. You are carrying a burden that gnaws at your mind and heart. It’s heavy, isn’t it? That feeling of something being not quite right, of decisions left unmade or actions not taken. This burden? You know it well because, truth be told, it’s self-inflicted. You know what to do but won’t do it. It’s like knowing the path but refusing to walk it. And I get it. We’ve all been there.

But here’s the thing about this burden – it’s corrupting your life, your relationships, everything. It’s like a little bit of rust that, left unchecked, weakens the strongest metal. It’s not just about you anymore; it’s about how this burden spills over into every interaction, every relationship. It might start small, but it has a way of growing, doesn’t it?

Now, let’s pause for a second. I know this sounds serious but hold on. Here comes the good part. Listen closely. In Christ, you have nothing to hide. You see, those things we bury deep inside, those mistakes or regrets we’re afraid to face, in Christ, they’re out in the open – and yet, we’re safe. There’s no need to put on a mask, to pretend to be someone you’re not.

Nothing to prove. That relentless drive to show the world how capable, how successful, or how unbothered we are? In Christ, that pressure is off. You’re already valued, loved, more than you know. It’s not about what you do; it’s about who you are in Him.

Nothing to fear. This is a big one. Fear can be paralyzing – fear of failure, of rejection, of the unknown. But in Christ, fear loses its grip. It’s like stepping out into a storm and realizing you’re not alone, and the one who’s with you can calm the wind and the waves.

And finally, nothing to lose. In a world where we’re constantly told to protect our assets, our status, our egos, it’s liberating to know that in Christ, what truly matters can’t be taken away. It’s a security that isn’t based on the shifting sands of circumstance but on the solid rock of His love and grace.

So, what’s the solution to this burden you’re carrying? It’s simple, yet profound. Repent. Obey. Repentance isn’t just about saying sorry; it’s about turning around, going a different way. It’s about choosing a path that leads to healing and wholeness. And obeying? It’s about aligning your steps, your heart, your life with His. It’s about taking those steps, even when they’re hard.

I just gave you and me the solution to basically every problem we have. He wants to make you whole again. It’s not just a nice thought; it’s a promise. A promise of a life filled with purpose, peace, and joy. A promise that no matter how far you’ve strayed, you’re never too far from His reach.

So, take a deep breath. Let go of that burden. Step into the light of His love. You’ve got this, not because of who you are, but because of who He is in you. And remember, in Christ, you truly have nothing to hide, nothing to prove, nothing to fear, and absolutely nothing to lose.

Papa Wilson, my grandfather, died when I was eight years old. This was in 1964. I don’t remember many details about his actual death, but I do remember that he was 84 when he died. I thought that was positively ancient.

Mama was part of a family of twelve kids. At some point you cross the threshold of having a family and it becomes a litter. She was close to her daddy, and she indeed grieved.

There was some debate with Daddy and her about whether or not I should go to the funeral. Maybe they thought I’d be traumatized. I was up for it. I had sort of a morbid fascination with the whole process. I had a nebulous idea about how all this worked from TV shows and movies. I knew it was all about preparing the body for burial, picking out a casket, having the funeral itself (which these days more often referred to as a “memorial service,” as if the term “funeral” is too archaic or disturbing. Maybe they’re two different things.)

I also knew that there’d be a procession – that Papa Wilson’s casket would be carried by the pallbearers across the road from the church to the cemetery itself, and there he’d be “interred” (another infrequently used word) by being dropped into a vault in the ground and subsequently sealed and covered up in dirt. I remember thinking “what IS a pall anyway?” The whole thing, from the time the body was prepared for burial until the time it was lowered in the ground, was choreographed with the panache of a Broadway musical.

The most intriguing part of the process was what was called the “viewing.” “Wake” is another term. The excitement I felt at the time was knowing that I was going to be able to see a dead person. I loved Papa Wilson too, but I had no fear about seeing his body. I found the term “viewing” to be very accurate. We all had to take a look at him. It was part of the process, and was supposed to bring some closure. I’d add, too, that in southeast Alabama, another term was prior to the funeral you had a “sitting up,” aka wake, where someone spent the night at the funeral home or the house and sat with the body, as if it were going anywhere. The custom came from the need to keep mice and other vermin from making themselves at home in the casket – they needed to be shooed off. Or to keep the cat from sitting on the body. It didn’t matter if there were mice or cats around. You were simply expected to keep the departed company.

Papa Wilson lay in state in his house, in the parlor. I remember relatives and friends milling around on the front porch, talking in subdued whispers, as though if you were too loud it might disturb Papa Wilson. When you walked in the front door of the house, you came in the living room, and through French doors from the living room you’d enter the parlor/dining room.

So here’s young Tony, standing on the front porch, flanked by Mama and Daddy. Mama said, “Would you like to say goodbye to Papa?” I didn’t know about that … I knew he wouldn’t be able to hear me, but I also figured the goodbye was more for me than him. I said yes, but it was more of me wanting to see what he looked like than say any farewells.

So I was ushered into the parlor. People parted to let us come in. I saw the casket, gleaming in the subdued light, with the top opened, or at least half of it. I saw a white ruffle of pleated fabric spilling over the side. But because I wasn’t tall enough, I couldn’t really see into it. I could see Papa Wilson’s nose and not much else.

At we approached the side of the casket I was able to peek in. Papa Wilson was dressed in a fine suit. I heard Mama sniffling, and I glanced up at Daddy. His jaws were working, his teeth clenched.

“Doesn’t he look sweet,” Mama said.

“He looks like he’s asleep,” Daddy said.

My thought? “He looks like he’s dead.” I wasn’t fooled.

Like his grandson is now, Papa Wilson was bald. Typically his head shone like a polished hubcap. This time, however, it was so powdered that it looked like parchment. His face was stretched tight, almost like a mask. His mouth was what disturbed me – it was though it was made of wax. (I’ve since learned that mouths can be a real problem for undertakers – because the mouth is always in motion, to see it perfectly still is an anomaly.)

I stood still and examined him with frank curiosity. I think my folks expected me to cry, or run, or something. I did none of these. Candidly, I didn’t feel anything. My primary thought was, “That’s not Papa Wilson. That’s just the horse he rode in on.”

Since that day I’ve been to many more funerals and performed a fair share, too. It’s given me plenty of opportunities to observe grief. Here’s your takeaway – everyone grieves differently, and you are in no place to judge if someone doesn’t grieve the way you would. Grief is necessary.

To an observer of the eight-year-old Tony, they might feel that I didn’t grieve appropriately, if at all. That may be so.

When you think about it, grief is a part of closure, or should be. The overarching need is to move on. Grief, whatever its source, is a milestone, a transitional point from what was to what is. To get stuck in the what was can be a recipe for despair. Losses will happen, and there’s nothing that can be done about that. But staying bogged down in that loss, refusing to move on, is to doubt the bigness and sovereignty of God, who has no desire for us to be mired in the past, and is aware and present in our loss and perhaps even engineered it.

How do you move on?

This may be shallow, but … you just do. While your emotions may be raging and drowning you, understand that they are transient (unless there is some clinical problem, which we won’t go into here. I understand the reality of chronic depression, anxiety, anger, etc.).

There is no proper way to grieve. Every individual deals with loss in a way unique to themselves. Be wary of saying, “I know how you feel.” Uh, no. You might know how you would feel or have felt, but the other person? They aren’t you, and don’t cast them in your autobiography.

Say this familiar biblical phrase: “And it came to pass…”

What is isn’t what will always be. And while we may always have a sense of loss after a tragedy, the reality is that it doesn’t have to cripple us. It is legitimate to miss what once was. But, armed with the knowledge that you can’t go back, and by listening to your head as well as your heart, it is possible – and necessary – to move forward toward a new horizon. What happens tomorrow may be a mystery, but it is no mystery in knowing that no matter where you’re headed, God is already there.

I know we often talk about the uplifting stuff here, but sometimes we need to lean into the difficult parts of life too. After all, it’s the trying times that really test and shape us, right?

Let’s start by acknowledging something none of us can escape: suffering. Yup, you read that right. I’m talking about those not-so-welcome surprises that crash into our lives like uninvited guests at a party. One moment you’re coasting along, and the next, you’re floored by some piece of news or a life-changing event. You didn’t choose this; you didn’t see it coming. So what now?

Well, the truth is, we all suffer. It’s an unfortunate but undeniable part of the human experience. But how we respond to suffering—that’s what sets us apart. It’s easy to lose composure, to question your faith, and, let’s be real, sometimes even to lose that uplifting smile. But to go through the valleys and still keep your eyes on God? That’s something to write home about. It’s like taking life’s lemons and not just making lemonade, but throwing in a sprig of mint and a dash of honey too! It’s your choice to make the bitter experience a little sweeter.

We often view success and good fortune as milestones, markers that indicate we’re moving in the right direction. But let’s flip the script for a second. Pain and suffering can be just as transformative, if not more so. Ever noticed how suffering re-calibrates your internal compass? Your values get a shakeup; priorities shift like tectonic plates; even your dreams and goals can morph into something entirely different, and that’s okay! You’re not going off course; you’re just taking a scenic route you didn’t plan for.

I’m reminded of the story of Joseph in the Bible. Talk about having a hard time, huh? Betrayed by his brothers, sold into slavery, falsely accused, and imprisoned. Man, he had every reason to give up and let suffering define him. But he didn’t. He kept his faith in God, stayed composed, and even managed to interpret dreams in prison. His suffering wasn’t a pitfall; it was a stepping stone to becoming the second most powerful man in Egypt. His pain wasn’t an accident; it was a part of his purpose.

Now, I’m not saying suffering is easy or enjoyable. It’s not. And it’s perfectly normal to ask, “Why me?” or “Why now?” But let’s also ask, “What can I learn from this?” Because if you’re going through hell, why stop there? Keep going until you get to the other side, where the lessons and growth are. Don’t waste your pain; use it to propel you to new heights.

Your pain is your story, and stories are meant to be told. You might not see it now, but your experience can be the beacon that guides someone else through their storm. You’ll be the proof that one can suffer and still keep their faith, their composure, and yes, even their smile. Your pain is changing you, but that doesn’t mean it’s diminishing you. It’s chiseling away at the rough edges, sculpting you into a masterpiece in progress. And trust me, God doesn’t make mistakes; He makes masterpieces.

So let’s own our sufferings, not as roadblocks but as part of our journey. They’re the chapters that make our life stories rich, relatable, and remarkably human. And always remember: it’s the trials and tests that make the testimony. Stay strong, keep the faith, and don’t forget to smile. Life might be tough, but so are you.

Until next time, keep smiling!

One in four adults and one in five youth in the United States have a diagnosable mental illness. At Family Matters, we know this means nearly every family we come in contact with is impacted by mental illness. As Christians, we know we can turn to our Heavenly Father and seek His guidance and wisdom in all areas of our life. The Bible tells us in 1 Peter 5:7, “Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.”

Belief in an omnipotent God means we believe He can heal us of our brokenness spiritually, mentally and physically. Out of that belief, we turn to our God with prayer and faith that He can heal. We believe this for ourselves, and we encourage others to believe the same.

God can, and sometimes does, heal us when we cry out to Him, but often He doesn’t.

Often, God says to us when we continually ask him to take away our sadness, anxiety, scattered thoughts, anger and pain, “My grace is sufficient for you. My power is made perfect in your weakness” —2 Corinthians 12:9.

The only brokenness God promises to heal is our spiritual brokenness.

Mentally and physically, we are “jars of clay” that contain our spiritual treasure (2 Corinthians 4:7-18) and we often won’t be free from our afflictions until we are glorified with Christ someday in Heaven.

I see a trend in the Church that troubles me. The response of much of the Church to mental illness is to over-spiritualize both the problems and the solutions.

I have experienced it personally, and a recent study by LifeWay research has found nearly half of evangelical, fundamentalist, or born-again Christians (48 percent) believe prayer and Bible study alone can overcome serious mental illness like schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and depression.

We would never begrudge someone with cancer from seeking the best, most innovative treatment available to them. We would never simply tell them to just pray and study their Bible more! We would pray fervently for God’s healing, comfort and wisdom, but we’d also fully expect that they will see a doctor, seek treatment and take medication if it’s warranted.

We don’t do the same with mental health.

Often, when I’ve heard someone share that they are grappling with mental illness, their concern is met with answers like, “you should cast all your cares on the Lord (1 Pet. 5:7); rejoice in the Lord always (Phil 4:4); pray without ceasing (1 Thess 5:17) and you are fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14).”

All of these are biblical truths—but they should not be hurled as platitudes; platitudes to dismiss their pain, call their faith into question and shut down further discussion of a topic we may find challenging and hard to comprehend.

The mentally ill continue to receive dismissive, judgmental and marginalizing responses from much of the Church because mental health is still stigmatized. Yes, there is a spiritual component to mental illness (and physical illness), but mostly because we are spirit. To immediately draw the conclusion that someone struggling with clinical depression, anxiety disorder, mania or PTSD is under spiritual attack only makes sense if we also immediately draw the same conclusion of our friend who has been diagnosed with breast cancer, hypothyroidism or kidney stones. Yes, demon possession and spiritual oppression happens, but they are not the main cause of true, persistent mental illness. Mental illness happens at the intersection of our mind, spirit, personality, character, faith, decisions and electrical command center (our brain) but it is illness just the same.

It is vital we don’t do anything which could be construed as discouraging treatment for mental illness, because without treatment (and sometimes with it) mental illness can be terminal. Our Great Physician often uses the miracle of medicine in His healing.  Sure, medications come with potential risks and side effects. Like any other health decision we weigh the risk of treating against the risk of not treating. And I can tell you this: the risk of untreated, or undertreated mental illness is staggeringly high. The point is, it’s not our place to critique how a fellow believer chooses to treat their illness either physical or mental. We can leave those decisions between them, their families, their doctors and our Wounded Healer.

What’s the danger in over-spiritualizing mental health?

The danger is we continue to stigmatize those who are equally loved by our Great God. The danger is rather than being life-giving in our love, compassion and understanding, we who are redeemed are a stumbling block to those precious souls who cry out to the Great Physician. The danger is we miss our calling to love and edify each other, and cause a bitter root to grow between us and the world.

“See to it that no one misses the grace of God and that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many”—Hebrews 12:15.

So love, listen, pray, encourage, support, bake casseroles, drive to appointments and pick-up prescriptions. Advocate for those whose illness leaves them voiceless. Let our witness to the world be how broken people love each other.

NOTE: This article from Family Matters was written by Karis Murray, who writes candidly about mental illness and urges readers not to miss their callings to love and advocate for those whose illnesses leave them voiceless. I want to give all credit to Karis and Family Matters.

When Disaster Strikes. Sounds like a PSA, doesn’t it? It is, sort of.

We live in a fallen world, and it’s never more evident than when we view disasters – both physical and personal. We stand by helplessly and see cataclysmic forces of nature wreaking havoc – as a Mississippian, I’m way too familiar with tornados and hurricanes alike. I’d also put the implosion of the Titan submersible as a natural disaster, even though the wisdom of even getting on that thing is debatable. Personal disasters? Illness, loss, heartbreak? For sure. We all face trials that test our resolve and faith. 

But how should Christians respond when disaster strikes?

The Bible, that timeless beacon of our faith, gives us guidance. This passage has always been one I’m not comfortable with – rejoicing in sufferings? Really? It’s in there, though: Romans 5:3-5 tells us:

Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts.

As Christians, our first response to personal disasters should be to stand firm in faith. Disclaimer: That ain’t always easy.  This faith doesn’t  deny the pain or the suffering we experience but allows us to see beyond the immediacy of our circumstances, recognizing them as part of our earthly journey. Remember, we’re pilgrims and sojourners, and life is a real journey, fraught with peril. 

Consider the story of Job, a man known for his patience amidst suffering. I can’t get away from this guy. Job’s life was stricken with disaster – he lost his children, wealth, and health in quick succession. Think you got it tough?  Yet Job 1:20-21 records his response:

Then Job arose, tore his robe, and shaved his head; and he fell to the ground and worshiped. And he said: ‘Naked I came from my mother’s womb, And naked shall I return there. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; Blessed be the name of the Lord.’

His resilience in the face of such tremendous personal disaster sets an example for all Christians. And before you put Job up on some kind of pedestal reserved for superheroes, don’t forget – he’s a human, just like you and me. 

Secondly, we are reminded to seek comfort in God’s presence and promise. I’ve used this scripture several times at a graveside funeral service, but it’s always appropriate when dealing with hard times.  Psalm 46:1-2 proclaims:

God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea.

When disaster looms, we must remember to lean on God, drawing strength from His enduring love and unwavering presence.

Here’s another, and if you’re a control freak, this one hurts. We must acknowledge our human limitations and surrender control to God. Proverbs 3:5-6, a passage worth memorizing, says:

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.

Personal disasters often leave us grappling for control, but as Christians, we find solace in the sovereignty of God, knowing that our lives are in His capable hands.

Finally, we are called to love and serve one another, especially in times of disaster. Galatians 6:2 instructs:

Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.

Christians should respond to personal disasters by extending hands of help, offering prayers, and providing comfort to those in need. Read that again: we are servants. Don’t forget it. 

Take the example of the early Christian community, as depicted in the book of Acts. When a great famine struck the entire Roman world, the believers in Antioch chose to send relief to their brothers living in Judea (Acts 11:27-30). Their collective, compassionate response provides a blueprint for us today, teaching us that disaster response is not just about personal resilience but also about communal solidarity. We need each other. 

Personal disasters, whether physical or personal, can be profound opportunities for spiritual growth and community building. As Christians, we are invited to respond with faith, hope, and love – looking beyond the immediacy of our trials, seeking comfort in God’s presence, acknowledging His sovereignty, and bearing one another’s burdens. In the face of life’s storms, these responses not only sustain us but also fulfill our higher calling as followers of Christ.

There’s your bottom line, right there. Be well. Talk later!

Forgiving God may seem like an unusual concept in Christian theology. After all, isn’t God, who is perfect and sinless, the one who forgives us? However, when we feel anger, pain, or disappointment due to perceived unfairness in life, the process of ‘forgiving’ God can help us release negative emotions and realign our hearts with Him.

This blog grew out of a conversation I had just last night. I heard about a young lady who lost her mother, went through multiple pregnancies and abortions, substance abuse, the whole nine yards. Her attitude toward God was “why?” She blamed God for her mother’s death, and by inference blamed Him from everything else that was wrong. (She’s healed and whole now, so there is a very happy ending.)

Understandably, life often presents us with circumstances that appear unjust or unexplainable. In such instances, you might find yourself angry with God. Key point – it’s crucial to remember that God doesn’t need our forgiveness in the literal sense because He never sins or makes mistakes. Instead, when we talk about forgiving God, it’s about acknowledging our feelings of anger or betrayal, processing these emotions, and then releasing them, allowing ourselves to trust in God’s goodness and sovereignty once again.

When our expectations collide with reality, disappointment is a natural reaction. Often, this disappointment is directed towards people around us – loved ones, colleagues, or friends. But, at times, we might even feel disappointed with God, the omnipotent figure who, in our understanding, holds our lives in His hands. If you’re wrestling with these feelings, you’re not alone. Disappointment with God is a shared human experience and requires a compassionate, introspective, and grace-filled response.

It’s about adjusting our perspective, understanding that God’s wisdom transcends our human comprehension. Isaiah 55:8-9 says, “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the LORD. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” God operates on a divine timeline and with an eternal perspective that we, as finite beings, can’t fully grasp.

So. How do we unpack all this? It’s heavy stuff, but I think there are some answers.

Firstly, it’s important to acknowledge that it’s okay to feel disappointed.

Christianity is not a faith of stoicism or indifference. Throughout the Bible, we encounter many instances of God’s people wrestling with feelings of disappointment, doubt, and despair. Job questioned God in his suffering, and David cried out in Psalms: “Why, O Lord, do you stand far away? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?” (Psalm 10:1). Even Jesus on the cross cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46).

Feelings of disappointment with God are not indicators of weak faith; rather, they are evidence of an engaged, authentic relationship with God. Like any relationship, our bond with God involves emotional peaks and valleys. The key is to remember that it’s not about eliminating our feelings but understanding them.

Secondly, it’s crucial to bring your feelings to God.

God is a loving Father who cares deeply about your experiences, including your disappointments. Talk to Him, express your feelings, ask hard questions, just as David and Job did. It may seem counterintuitive, but sharing your disappointment with God is an act of trust. It means you believe He cares for you and understands your pain.

Next, let’s lean into His Word.

The Bible offers a vast array of perspectives on dealing with disappointment. There is the ever helpful Romans 8:28. Paul writes: “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.” This verse is not a dismissal of our disappointment but a reminder that God’s perspective is eternal. Our present disappointments may be part of a larger plan we can’t yet perceive.

It’s also necessary to adjust our expectations.

God is not a genie to grant our every wish but a wise Father who knows what’s best for us. Some folks choke on this. Often, our disappointments stem from unmet expectations, which can sometimes be misguided. Another classic, Proverbs 3:5-6 advises, “Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.” Letting go of our need to control outcomes can alleviate disappointment.

Finally, don’t hesitate to seek support from your Christian community.

Share your feelings with a trusted friend, pastor, or mentor. These individuals can provide you with perspective, comfort, and wisdom.

Remember, God’s love is steadfast, His plans are good, and His mercy is new every morning. Feeling disappointed with God doesn’t mean He has failed you. Instead, it’s an invitation to deepen your relationship with Him, to explore your faith more deeply, and to seek His comforting presence in your disappointment.

When we ‘forgive’ God, we’re not pardoning Him for a wrong He’s done. Instead, we’re acknowledging that our understanding is limited, and we’re choosing to trust Him. We are surrendering our perceived right to question His wisdom and fairness. In doing this, we open ourselves to His healing touch and restore our faith in His infinite wisdom and boundless love.

This journey of ‘forgiveness’ is not always easy and might require patience, prayer, and spiritual guidance. In these moments, remember Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 12:9: “But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”

So, take heart. Your disappointment doesn’t disqualify you from God’s love; it draws you closer to His heart. Remember to engage honestly with your feelings, communicate openly with God, immerse yourself in His Word, align your expectations with His wisdom, and lean on your Christian community. In this journey, you will discover that even in disappointment, there’s a gift – the gift of God’s grace.

So, when we find ourselves wrestling with the concept of forgiving God, it’s not about finding fault in Him but about realigning our hearts with His. It’s a step towards healing, acceptance, and a deeper understanding of His unending grace.

There is no shame to ask for prayer. I’m trying to work through my natural tendency to NOT ask.

Here’s the thing: I do not, not, not want to come across as needy, or craving attention or pity, or anything like that. 

You know the type. The person who is clingy, ill-adjusted, and needs to be the star in their autobiography. The person who would say, without irony, “It’s all about me.”

The flip side of this is scripture informs me that it’s absolutely appropriate to ask for prayer. That’s not being selfish. It’s being real. 

The Apostle Paul often asked his fellow believers to pray for him as he preached Christ. In his letter to the Christians at Corinth, Paul asked them to pray for him as he was constantly under duress for preaching Jesus (2 Corinthians 1:11).

Paul asked his fellow believers in Colossae to pray for him as he preached Christ: “At the same time, pray also for us, that God may open to us a door for the word, to declare the mystery of Christ, on account of which I am in prison — that I may make it clear, which is how I ought to speak” (Colossians 4: 3-4, ESV).

We must not be ashamed of asking others to pray for us. Paul needed the prayers of his Christian family, we too need the prayers of our brothers and sisters. And those two passages I cited are just for starters – there are plenty more.

The reality is that I AM needy, and you are too. It’s out of that needful place that you and I can ask for prayer. 

I’m a case study in this. I’ve needed to ask for prayer in an acute, even desperate way the last couple of weeks. You’ll need to indulge me. 

Here’s background, and if you’ve heard all this before, feel free to skim it (yawn).

In June of 2018 I suffered a nasty concussion. At first it wasn’t too big of a deal – my eye swelled shut, I had stitches, but it all seemed pretty routine. CT scans and x-rays showed no head or brain damage, but I did have three broken ribs. About a week after the injury, I started getting headaches on the opposite side of my head from the impact site. Overnight I developed a sensitivity to light and sound. There were some cognitive issues – it’s like my brain was shrouded in fog. 

Worst of all was the deepest, darkest emotional funk you can imagine. Anxiety, depression, and what I characterized as “a sense of impending doom” became realities. It was/is perfectly awful. 

After another round of scans and x-rays, my internist – whom I love much – told me I had post-concussion syndrome. No, I’d never heard of it either. All my symptoms were textbook. The cure? Time. I was to be patient. It would “take time.” (I’ve heard that “take time” phrase so many times that I’m afraid the next time I hear it I’m gonna punch someone in the throat.) He also put me on a killer combo of depression/anxiety meds. 

Apparently PCS victims are prone to suicidal thoughts. Praise God that hasn’t been an issue. Since then, I’ve been to a chiropractor, I’ve tried acupuncture (which was actually pretty fun, but it didn’t really help), and talked to a counselor. All well and good. 

I’ve also been to a neurologist, and that’s been very encouraging. I’d had a migraine headache 24/7 – that was taking its toll – but again, she’s tinkered and experimented with several drugs and the headaches are more manageable.

About two weeks ago, the Apocalypse. 

The mother of all migraines, which would respond briefly to meds then come roaring back. It was taking a real toll not just physically, but mentally and emotionally too.

In full senior adult mode – we love to share our ailments, right? the wonderful Dr. Bridget Jones, neurologist par excellence, restricted me to the house for five days with orders to be still and quiet, which suited me just fine. Lots of couch time, limited screen time. 

The thing about brain injuries, at least in my case, is that they become part of a new normal. I’m not completely over it, it’s mostly manageable, but some days – whew. I feel as stupid as a sack of rocks, I can’t articulate what I want to say, and I generally just need to avoid people. It’s like living under a cloud. And people will say, “You look fine,” which sounds pretty good.

The thing is, it’s not like faking being sick to get out of school or work. I’ve been having to fake being well.

So, when the doc was able to work me in, which was a miracle in itself because she stays booked up months in advance, she took lots of time with me to make sure she knew what was going on. I got a toradol shot, which is a HUGELY amped-up NSAID, and I got some relief in less than a half hour.

She sent me home with this stuff called Reyvow. It’s not a narcotic – oddly enough, migraines don’t respond well to opioids – but I SWEAR, I’ve never taken anything like THIS. Yesterday morning, within about 15 minutes of taking it, I was in a zone I can’t even describe. The headache vanished. Poof. 

But the side effects … I MEAN. I was on the couch, and it was like someone had thrown a weighted blanket over me. I couldn’t move (well, I actually could, but didn’t want to!), and experienced something like euphoria. This lasted a while, and then, well, the rest of the day, I basically didn’t get off the couch. I just sort of hovered in a groggy haze. I’d googled the med and read reviews from others who’d taken it. Some folks hallucinated. Others went numb in their hands and feet. Scary, but it did what it was supposed to do. It’s a tradeoff.

I was warned several times to NOT attempt to drive. I get that. Instead of driving 2 miles to Walmart, I might end up in Memphis. And to not try to make any important decisions, which made sense … in my state, it would have been easy to put our house up for sale or something, and not know I did it. The nurse said, “Not only could you make bad decisions, you won’t KNOW you’re even making decisions.”

I went back to work a couple of days ago. I’m making it.

I needed to ask for prayer, and I did. God has honored those prayers from so many folks who have prayed.

Why am I sharing all this? It’s because I think you can relate.

Here me again – if you are in need of prayer, ask for prayer. Folks love to pray if they know of a need. It gives them an opportunity to put some feet to what they say they believe. 

One more thought. 

In a counseling session not long after I scrambled my head, I discovered that part of what I was experiencing was actual grief – grief for the old Tony and adapting to the new Tony. Once I realized what was going on – missing the old me – it brought things into perspective and sure helped a lot. I share this to say – be kind to others. Be kind to people who don’t see things as you do, or hold the same values as you. You simply don’t know what they’re facing or have faced. As I always say, “You don’t know their stories.” Don’t be reactionary and lump them in a category of “them” or “those ____”.

Everyone you have any contact with under any circumstances was made in the image of God, and if that isn’t reason enough for respect, I don’t know what is. Please be kind. Life is challenging enough as it is without you devaluing others. 

I just made myself cry. Talk later!

I am struck this morning by how many people are living in fear.

How to suffer. I’m repurposing a blog I wrote in 2019 with some additional thoughts at the end. This is very real and pertinent to me right now.

How to suffer well. Isn’t that a cheerful thought?

I’ve given this a lot of thought recently. Because, taken on its face, that makes God out to be some sort of cosmic ogre. It makes Him sound like a wicked potentate, demanding His pound of flesh.

Fact is, God is a god of mercy and justice. So how does suffering fit in? Does God indeed choose to crush you?

Yep. For the believer, it’s not optional.

Here’s what spurred this thinking for me. It grew out of a re-reading of the classic “suffering servant” passage in Isaiah 53 which is a prophetic foreshadowing of Jesus’ crucifixion. I’ve read this passage a gazillion times, I’m sure, and have often winced when reading verse 10.

Speaking of Jesus, Isaiah says, “Yet it was the Lord’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer …”

So I thought, man, poor Jesus. I know it was all part of The Plan, but it was for a redemptive cause – his life was to be an offering for sin.

(I’d add that it’s this line of thinking which causes some non-believers to balk at the Christian faith. “I mean,” they say, “what can you say about a god who would crucify his own son?” We could unpack that later.)

Are there, then, times when God chooses for you to suffer?

I’ve concluded that yes, indeed, there is.

Understand that being crushed by God doesn’t mean that your life is an offering for sin. That role has already been fulfilled. This isn’t about you being that kind of martyr.

To illustrate, I’ll need to go all autobiographical on ya. Thanks for indulging me. I have a reason for being personal…

… but I’m not looking for pity.

You may know that in June of 2018 I sustained a nasty concussion. Concussions happen all the time. But in about a third of concussion cases, the victim incurs what is called Post Concussion Syndrome. The issues are complex, but the bottom line is that it’s not a quick recovery. Some days I feel like a poster child for PCS.

I do think I’m better. People tell me they’re seeing more of the old Tony, and I appreciate that so! I don’t necessarily feel it, but I’ll go with the bright days I do have.

Besides the apocalyptic migraines that have come with it, the cognitive issues, and other fun symptoms, the worst has been the darkest, blackest, depressed funk you can imagine. That, too, has been held mostly at bay. Yay for good meds! Better living through pharmaceuticals, right?

What that has done, though, has given me a fresh empathy for those facing mental illness in general and depression specifically. I get it.

Here’s where it gets messy, though.

For those who aren’t familiar with mental illness – either their own or by observing someone dealing with it – it is so, so easy to pass judgement.

Here’s what sufferers hear. I know experientially what I’m talking about:

”Shouldn’t you be over it by now?”

”Cheer up. There are plenty of people worse off than you are.”

” Just have more faith.”

Yeah, that’s really helpful.

The worst, for me personally, is the vibe that I get from some people who think I’m trying to get away with something. There’s no visible sign of illness, so you have to be working a scam, right?

You get cancer, or you get heart disease, and no one asks, “what did you do?” You get depression or other mental illness, and they ask, “who sinned, this man or his parents?”

I could go on, but I’d come across as a whiner.

I don’t want to be a whiner.

Back to my thesis – does God choose for us to suffer? What do you do when God chooses to crush you (and I believe He does)?

If you feel crushed by God, you are not the first, nor are you alone.

I won’t take time right now to talk about David, that man after God’s own heart, but I can tell you that he just flat-out despaired. Check out Psalms 13, 22, 38, and 42 for starters.

I don’t want to get bogged down in theological weeds. Let me be as honest as I know how to be. I think this will help someone today.

I knew the Gospel. I knew all the right answers. I’ve taught the truth as best as I knew how.

But what I have recently learned is that there is a refining work of God that can only come though moments of despair. Sometimes, you just have to suffer.

This: I believe that God, in His mercy, has caused me to suffer.

Know why? It may be that I entered a season that I needed to suffer with Him. I could sit back and be all academic about suffering, or I could experience it first hand.

Here’s what’s happened. Because He’s crushed me, the faith He gives me is now stronger, more focused, and has astonishing clarity.

By walking through days that are a slog, and facing nights that are unusually long, I see things I never saw before.

By spending time in darkness, I am coming to understand what the light of Christ is all about.

When you say depression is just evidence of a weak faith, then you’re forgetting that Jesus Himself knew horrific sorrow. Not only did He endure despair (and was forsaken by God!) He even bore all our sorrows.

The takeaway? God sometimes chooses for you to suffer. But His love for us never changes. It’s in Him we place our hope.

Some new thoughts:

• Christianity doesn’t give us a free pass out of suffering. You will suffer. I guarantee it. It’s right and proper to acknowledge you’re hurting, and hurting bad. Just because you’re a Christian doesn’t mean your suffering will be any easier or more endurable What it does mean is that you can see your suffering as one point in a timeline that stretches out into eternity. For Christians, that means that the best is still ahead of us.
• The real reward for suffering is what God does in us and through us. I’ve already spoken about this. But there’s an intimacy with God that happens amidst our suffering that only suffering can produce. It puts our feet on solid ground and not shifting sand. Our souls are touched by God Himself, who is always with us in our suffering.