Faith Around the Flagpole

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1 Timothy 4:12 –Don’t let anyone think less of you because you are young. Be an example to all believers in what you say, in the way you live, in your love, your faith, and your purity.

Coach Jeremy stood a step back from the circle of students at the flagpole, hands in his jacket pockets, fighting the coach’s reflex to lead.

He reminded himself what he had told faculty and parents: this was student-led, not a show for adults. His job this morning was to watch, to pray quietly, and to make sure the kids owned what they were doing.

Nash Wisner was one of the middle schoolers there. His shoulders were squared, eyes sweeping the crowd. Coach Jeremy knew the kid’s family and liked them. Nash had a steadiness to him and seemed to care about things that mattered.

By the time the clock edged toward 7:30, the crowd had swelled to two-hundred. The sound of them filled the small courtyard.

Between the songs, students like Nash Wisner stepped forward. They were awkward at first. Their words weren’t polished, but they were leading their peers. They prayed for friends who were struggling, for teachers carrying heavy loads, and for families needing strength.

Jeremy thought of how rare it was to see middle schoolers stand in front of peers and live their faith out-loud like this.

As their prayers came to a close and the school bell rang across the campus, the coach’s throat tightened as he looked in the eyes of these students. It was like each of them were given a jersey with their name on it.

Nash and other students knew they were agents of change, and today they were going to live like it.

Coach Jeremy stayed where he was for a moment under the flag flicking overhead. He knew on a day like today how easy it would be to sleep in or blend into the crowd without anyone noticing. But these students, along with others across the country, chose faith over comfort.

And as he followed them inside, he decided he would too.

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Strong in Every Storm

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Isaiah 43:2 — When you go through deep waters, I will be with you. When you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown. When you walk through the fire of oppression, you will not be burned up; the flames will not consume you.

It was one of those mornings when I felt heavy long before the sun had fully risen.

I carried my worries like a weight across my shoulders. Responsibilities piled high. Problems without clear answers crowded my mind.

I turned to my Bible out of habit and hope, even though my thoughts were tangled and the words blurred. Still, I kept reading. That day, I found myself drawn into the story of Jesus on the boat with His disciples when the storm hit.

The scene played out clearly in my mind. The wind screamed across the water. Waves crashed hard against the wooden sides of the boat. The danger was real—enough to sink them.

And there, right in the middle of it all, Jesus was sleeping.

He was not absent or unaware of the storm. He was simply resting.

When the disciples woke Him, He did not join their panic. Instead, He asked a simple question: “Where is your faith?”

Those words struck me deeply. I knew the end of that story—how Jesus calmed the storm—but it felt like God was asking the same question to my anxious heart that day.

I closed the Book and stayed still for a moment. A truth swelled up inside me:

God is strong.

Not just strong in a distant, “back then” kind of way. He is strong here and now, with authority over the storms that press in around me.

More than that, He is not standing on the shore watching from afar. He is in my boat with me embodying peace.

And if you are wondering, no, the storm around me has not broken yet. The answers I want are still somewhere beyond the horizon, but I know I am not facing it alone.

If you can relate, I hope you will take courage with me. The waves are no match for Him.

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Wide Eyed and Wonderful Life

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Psalms 9:1 — “I will give thanks to the Lord with my whole heart; I will recount all of your wonderful deeds.”

There are moments when life slows down. It’s like the whole world has paused and is holding its breath to see what happens next.

That’s how it felt in the at work that day. I was on the couch, laptop open, trying to focus. My wife Sarah was there. Her stepmom, GiGi, too—watching Reese for us.

Our little girl was still in that almost-walking stage—testing the waters, clinging to furniture, never daring to cross the open floor. Like many nervous parents, we wondered if we would ever see her take those first steps.

Don’t get me wrong. Reese had always been right on time with her development, so there was nothing to worry about. But for Sarah and me, this felt like our one hope right under the surface.

Then, out of nowhere, that little one-year-old got up and moved. As she lunged forward, I could tell she had it.

No wall. No couch. No hands. Just Reese, swaying, wide-eyed and toddling. One step, two, three, four, five. Five seconds of wobbly, glorious motion before she fell into her mama’s arms.

And it took my breath away.

In that Kodak moment, I felt everything. My whole chest swelled, my face flushed, and goosebumps covered my arms.

Fast-forward a few weeks, and she was running everywhere—into every room—climbing every surface, and moving faster than we could keep up. Those five seconds just became part of the everyday. I didn’t realize, along the way, that I had stopped noticing.

That’s the danger, isn’t it? God gives us moments that take our breath away, and then we just… move on.

God answers prayers, opens doors, and carries us into new places. But if we’re not careful, the extraordinary starts to feel ordinary. We begin walking like it’s no big deal, forgetting what it was like to take that first step.

So, I’ve been learning to slow down, to notice, and to remember with gratitude those days where I prayed for what I have right now.

Maybe today is ordinary. Maybe it’s messy. But what if you walk with God through it the way Reese wobbled across that break room floor—wide-eyed and expectant?

It might just take your breath away all over again.

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When Less is More

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Philippians 4:11 — “Not that I am speaking of being in need, for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content.”

The first thing you should know about Joshua is that he likes to hug. A lot.

“Bring it in, Bud!” he says every time he meets someone new. Again, he’s an enthusiastic, grinning, full-send hugger.

He is also what you might call a minimalists— someone who had it all, decided it wasn’t enough, and now lives with a lot less than most people think is practical.

He didn’t start out this way. He grew up in Ohio as a poor kid with big dreams. Like a lot of people raised without much, he chased that version of success that comes with keycards and cufflinks. By his late twenties, he was hauling in six figures and racking up frequent flyer miles.

But then life did what life does.

Joshua’s mother passed away. His marriage ended in the same month. He was just 28. He owned a large three-bedroom house and a job title longer than most church prayer lists, and he was miserable.

It was then that Joshua realized just how unhappy he was.

So, in the wake of all that, he started to let go. Of his stuff, that is. He moved into a smaller house, got rid of the TV, the DVDs, the furniture, and the backup spatula— basically everything that once gave the illusion of security. One by one, he cleared out his life.

But the miracle Joshua found, obviously, wasn’t the empty shelves.

It was the space that showed up in his soul.

See, the peace he found came when he stopped pretending that more would finally make him feel like enough. He once found identity in what he had, but now he was finding peace through surrendering all of that.

He discovered that when enough is finally enough, you realize you’ve had more than enough all along. You start hearing the birds outside again. You show up for dinner with both feet in the room. And you start hugging people. Alot.

That’s the thing no one tells you: when your arms aren’t carrying everything, they’re finally free to reach out.

So…

“Bring it in, Bud.”

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The End Is Just the Beginning

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Isaiah 25:8 — “He will swallow up death forever; and the Lord GOD will wipe away tears from all faces.”

There’s things you try to bury and run away from your entire life.

Bart Millard was only three when his parents divorced. His mom remarried and moved away, and it was decided that he and his brother would stay with their dad, Arthur.

Arthur Millard worked hard and stayed sober, but his temper ruled the house. Small things, like being cut off in traffic, could set him off, and Bart became his favorite target. He spent most of his childhood walking on eggshells, bracing for the next explosion.

But everything changed in high school when Arthur was diagnosed with cancer. The disease weakened his body—and, somehow, softened his heart. He gave his life to Jesus.

Almost overnight, he began to change. Bart, now his caregiver, had a front row seat to the transformation.

He started talking about grace and peace and love like they were more than words, and he lived it. The man who was once a monster became kind, gentle, and apologetic. Bart stopped fearing him and started thinking of him as his best friend.

They found something they never had before—until cancer took it away. And it wasn’t the past that hurt most. It was losing what they’d finally found.

At the funeral, Bart’s grandmother leaned in and whispered, “I can only imagine what your dad’s seeing now.”

That one line became a lifeline. Bart clung to it through grief, scribbling it on scraps, receipts, journals—anything. It gave him something to picture besides an empty house.

In time, Bart and a few others began the band MercyMe, and as they sat down to write one last song of their album he found inspiration in those old journals with “I can only imagine” scribbled across every page.

He wrote the song in just ten minutes, and the rest is history.

But that’s not the end of the story.

Today, when Bart closes his eyes and sings those words— “I Can Only Imagine”—he’s not just remembering what God did. He’s looking ahead to what God will do.

Because the gospel doesn’t stop at changed hearts or even gravesides. It carries on—into forever. Into a kingdom where there are no more regrets and no more goodbyes.

And the truth that steadied Bart through every wound and every loss still stands: if God can write that kind of ending for his father, He can write one for yours too. Or your sister. Or your friend. Or that person you’ve been praying for so long it hurts.

So, believe Him for the future.
Believe Him for your loved one.
Believe Him for what’s still ahead.

Because one day, we will finally see with our own eyes.

Can you only imagine it?

LYRICS  |  I CAN ONLY IMAGINE

I can only imagine what it will be like
When I walk by your side
I can only imagine what my eyes will see
When your face is before me
I can only imagine

Yeah

Surrounded by your glory
What will my heart feel
Will I dance for your Jesus
Or in awe of you be still
Will I stand in your presence
Or to my knees will I fall
Will I sing hallelujah
Will I be able to speak at all
I can only imagine
I can only imagine

I can only imagine when that day comes
And I find myself standing in the Son
I can only imagine when all I will do
Is forever, forever worship you
I can only imagine, yeah
I can only imagine

Surrounded by your glory
What will my heart feel
Will I dance for your Jesus
Or in awe of you be still
Will I stand in your presence
Or to my knees will I fall
Will I sing hallelujah
Will I be able to speak at all
I can only imagine
Yeah
I can only imagine

Surrounded by your glory
What will my heart feel
Will I dance for your Jesus
Or in awe of you be still
Will I stand in your presence
Or to my knees will I fall
Will I sing hallelujah
Will I be able to speak at all
I can only imagine
Yeah
I can only imagine

I can only imagine
Yeah
I can only imagine
I can only imagine
I can only imagine

I can only imagine
When all I will do
Is forever, forever worship you

I can only imagine

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When Fear Stands in the Way

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Psalms 56:3 — “When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.”

I stood at the edge of the woods that afternoon, just trying to catch my breath in the heat. I was standing in the shaded path near the ropes course at summer camp when I saw him.

A young boy—maybe seven—stood trembling on top of a telephone pole, tears dripping down his cheeks. His arms were rigid at his sides, and his knees shook beneath him.

This was the final challenge of the ropes course. They called it “The Leap of Faith.” The goal was simple: jump off the platform and reach for a nearby trapeze bar suspended in midair. But for this kid, it might as well have been the Grand Canyon.

From the ground, the belayer called up with gentle encouragement.

“You are safe, buddy. You are clipped in,” he said. “Those ropes are solid, but listen. You do not want to go back the way you came. Trust me. The safest way down is to jump.”

The boy stood frozen for what felt like forever. I wondered if he would try climbing down. Then, quietly, he bent his knees and jumped.

When he caught the bar, the grin that broke out across his face was unforgettable. All the fear was still hanging in the air, but now it was drowned out by something louder: joy.

That memory has stayed with me for years. Not because of the stunt, but because I have lived in that tension—wanting to turn back, doubting what I cannot see, standing on the edge of something that looks impossible.

But sometimes the only way forward is a leap. Not reckless. Not blind. But real, trusting faith grounded in the confidence that you are already held.

If you are standing on a ledge today, frozen with fear, listen closely. There is a Voice calling to you—not shouting, not rushing—but reminding you that, while the way forward might feel risky, you are not unprotected. You are never alone.

Friend, you may not see the harness, but that does not make it any less secure.

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A Brotherhood of the Broken

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2 Corinthians 1:4 – “Who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”

You do not forget the day everything changes. For Daniel, it was the day he left the hospital without Lyndsie.

She had been his person—for ten years of cancer and ten years of marriage. She was the steady, gentle presence that held their home together. Now, it was just Daniel, two young children, and the kind of silence that clings to the walls.

At first, people came. They brought meals, sent gift cards, wrote notes, offered help. His community was generous and kind. But grief does not follow the timeline of casseroles and sympathy cards. And before long, the world moved on.

Daniel did not.

He tried to manage what he could. But what he really needed could not be delivered in a meal tray. He needed someone who understood. A young man who had walked this same stretch of road—who had buried the love of his life and somehow kept showing up for school pickups and bedtime prayers. Someone to say, “You are not alone. You are not crazy. You will make it.”

He searched for that man. He prayed for him. But no one came.

Eventually, Daniel made a quiet vow.

“God, if you ever bring another widower into my life, I will not let that man walk alone. I will be, for him, what I needed most.”

And then it started—slowly, quietly. First, one widower crossed his path. Then another. Then more. Each man carrying a version of the same story and battles.

That is when Daniel realized God had not ignored his prayer. He had been preparing him to answer it.

“Refuge Widowers” was born from that vow. It became a brotherhood of grieving fathers and broken husbands walking side by side, pointing one another to the only hope strong enough to carry their weight. Not answers. Not quick fixes. Just presence, courage, and faith that holds steady when life falls apart.

Today, you may not have walked the same road Daniel has. But chances are, you have survived something. Chances are, you know what it feels like to wait for someone to show up. And if you do, then hear this: your pain does not disqualify you. It may be the very thing God uses to reach someone else.

So, look around. Pay attention. There is likely someone within reach who needs what you once prayed for.

Be who you needed. Say yes to the hard road. Don’t wait for someone else to lead the way because your story might just be someone else’s lifeline.

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The Rust Bucket Good News

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Romans 8:16 – “The Spirit Himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God.”

The cars were not pretty. Most looked like someone had bolted them together in their driveway with leftover parts and a lot of hope.

But I was eight years old, and it might as well have been Daytona.

Dad and I sat in the metal bleachers with concession stand hotdogs and sticky Coca-Colas. The sun dipped low over the track, and the first cars roared to life. He grinned, handed me my drink, and nudged me to pick my favorite. I chose the clunkiest one out there, paint chipped, muffler barely holding on. It had heart.

Then came the trash talk.

“My rust bucket’s gonna beat your rust bucket!”

I chanted, over and over, louder every time. The crowd was big, the engines louder, but I made sure my voice was the loudest. Even when the race paused and silence settled in, I kept going.

“My rust bucket’s gonna beat your rust bucket!”

People started to stare. Dad glanced around, and I thought for a second he might tell me to hush. Instead, he smiled. Then he leaned over and shouted it too—just as loud as me. We kept going until the cars fired back up and drowned us out again.

I think about that night more than you would expect. Because when I close my eyes, I can still feel what it gave me. It was this deep sense of being chosen, delighted in, completely at ease.

And if I am honest, that is what my adult heart still needs.

Somewhere along the way, most of us trade childlike joy for striving. We start to believe that we have to earn our place. That God’s love is measured by how well we hold it together, but it never was.

The heart of faith is not found in performance. It is found in trust. It is knowing that even if all you have is a busted-up rust bucket and an off-key chant, your Father still draws near. He sees you. He loves you.

You do not have to be impressive today. Just be His.

Come back to the bleachers, and let Him love you loud.

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The Lawn Care Love Letter

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John 15:5 – “I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing.”

“Do I really have to do this?” I’d groan.

Dad would smile, wiping sweat from his brow. “If I’m gonna be out here in this heat, I’d rather not be alone.”

Yard work. Always yard work.

I would shuffle across the porch, dragging my feet like a prisoner on work detail, clutching the trash bag or flicking the hose on and off. I’d rather have been anywhere else…like my bedroom.

But Dad never seemed to mind. Instead, he’d talk to me about weeds and grass and fertilizer.

Sometimes, in the middle of all that sweat and dirt, his eyes would flick to me and he’d smile. Like the real reason he had called me out there wasn’t the yard, but me.

It’s taken me a lifetime to see that.

To Dad, mowing grass and outdoor chores always came second to spending time with his boy.

Now I’m the one out there with the hose and the rake. My own little one runs around my knees, giggling like it’s the best place in the world. My wife leans on the porch, smiling. And I get it.

And now I see that is what God’s been doing all along too. He is not measuring my worth by what I can produce. Instead, he just asks me to show up, to spend time with Him, and to let Him tend the tangled places in my soul.

So, here’s to being present.

Here’s to letting the abiding nearness of God transform the way I see the world and shape the way I show up for the people around me. Here’s to saying, in the small ways and the hard ways, “I see you, and I’m here.” Because when we carry the presence of our Heavenly Father with us, the ones we love will feel it too.

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Facing Giants with Faith

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Romans 8:31 – “What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us?”

David didn’t look like a warrior. He was sunburned from long days in the hills, and his hands smelled like sheep. He didn’t carry a sword or shield, just a sling and a knapsack with bread and cheese for his brothers at the battlefront.

But when he reached the camp, the air felt thick with something worse than war—fear.

Goliath was enormous, and louder than life. He strutted out each morning, mocking Israel and their God, and the soldiers, grown men seasoned by battle, just stared at the dirt. Nobody moved. Not even the king.

But David couldn’t stomach the silence.

He asked why no one was stepping up. They laughed and told him to mind his sheep. But David had seen deliverance before—in the hills, from the jaws of lions, from the claws of bears. This was no different. This giant wasn’t bigger than the God he knew.

He knelt by a stream, careful with his choices. Five smooth stones. One sling. And a heart full of faith.

As David stepped into the valley, Goliath laugh thundered. But David’s eyes were steady on the One who had always been faithful. He knew this fight wasn’t his to win. It was God’s.

A single stone flew, small but mighty. Time seemed to stand still. Then, with a mighty crash, Goliath fell. Silence spread, followed by a roar of victory. What followed was a surge of courage in men who had once been paralyzed by fear.

What mattered most wasn’t that David was brave. It was that he was certain. Certain of God’s power. Certain that one step in faith could be enough to move heaven.

We spend too much time counting stones, doubting our worth, imagining every way we could fail. But maybe the question isn’t “Are you enough?” Maybe it’s: Do you trust the One who is?

God still brings giants to the ground, and He still uses the unexpected to do it. So, take heart. Let your faith rise and stay certain that He is about to do what only He can do.

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