There’s a difference between pursuing unity and using “anointing” language to pressure people into cooperation and silence.
In recent years and past assignments, I’ve heard phrases like:
“Don’t grieve the Spirit.” “Protect the anointing.” “Don’t bring division.” “Stay aligned.”
Often those statements were sincere calls toward humility, peace, and healthy communication. But sometimes they became spiritualized tools to discourage honest conversations about dysfunction, leadership failures, lack of accountability, or unhealthy systems.
Either way, the impressions have sat with me over time.
Long story short: The Bible never teaches that truth-telling threatens God’s presence.
In fact, Scripture consistently shows that God honors repentance, integrity, humility, justice, and truth — not image management.
Real unity is not built on fear. It’s not maintained by suppressing concerns. It’s not preserved by protecting leaders from discomfort.
Biblical unity can withstand honest conversations.
Healthy leadership does not demand silence “for the sake of the mission.” It models accountability first, welcomes respectful feedback, and creates safety for people to speak truth in love without fear of spiritual labels being attached to them.
Frankly, the phrase “touch not the anointed” has silenced more hurting people than it has protected genuine ministry and work cultures.
If an organization only values honesty when it flows upward in praise — but not when it flows upward in concern — that’s not spiritual maturity. That’s control.
The fruit of the Spirit is not image preservation. It’s love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. If faithfulness by holy definition requires courage, not silence, then it’s only fair to question any vehicle seeking to quench the very thing it allegedly stands for.
There are seasons where God feels close enough to touch…and seasons where He feels far away.
Yet Jeremiah 31 reminds us of something beautiful: “The LORD appeared to him from far away.”
Even from a distance, God still spoke love. Even through wilderness and grief, His faithfulness remained.
Sometimes we expect God’s presence to look like immediate rescue, instant healing, or emotional certainty. But there are moments when He meets us from what feels like “far away”—not because He has abandoned us, but because He is teaching us that His love is deeper than our current feelings.
If you are walking through sorrow, disappointment, confusion, or exhaustion today, remember this: God’s silence is not the absence of His faithfulness.
The same passage says: “I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore I have continued my faithfulness to you.”
Everlasting means His love did not begin with your strongest season, and it will not end in your weakest one.
And then comes the promise: “Again I will build you.”
God rebuilds people.
He restores what grief tried to hollow out.
He brings worship out of wilderness.
He teaches trembling hearts to dance again.
Even in chaos, we can posture ourselves in worship because we trust that God’s plans are still unfolding. Worship is not denial of pain—it is confidence that despair does not get the final word.
If God is rebuilding you right now, don’t despise the process. The One who loves you eternally is still being faithful to you presently.
Let’s pray…
Father, in seasons where You feel far away, help me remember that Your love has never left me. When grief, disappointment, or exhaustion cloud my vision, remind me that Your faithfulness is still holding me together. Teach me to trust You not only in moments of clarity, but also in the wilderness where I cannot yet see what You are rebuilding. Heal the places in me that have grown weary, restore what despair has tried to steal, and posture my heart in worship even before the breakthrough comes. Thank You that Your love is everlasting, Your plans are still good, and You are not finished with my story. Build me again, Lord, and let my life become a testimony of Your restoring grace. Amen.
There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t announce itself while you’re in it.
It’s not loud. It doesn’t always look like breaking down in a hallway or sitting in the dark parking lot outside the hospital trying to gather yourself before you go back in. Sometimes it just looks like functioning. Clocking in. Clocking out. Making calls. Answering texts. Sitting beside the hospital bed like you’re holding the whole world together with duct tape and determination.
You do what you have to do.
You become provider, advocate, scheduler, translator of medical jargon, emotional anchor, and sometimes the only stable point in a room full of uncertainty. You learn to live in two worlds at once—one foot in hospital rooms that smell like sanitizer and fear, the other in a life that keeps demanding normalcy from you like nothing has changed.
And somehow, everything has changed.
For a lot of dads, the hardest part isn’t just surviving the NICU or a long hospital season. It’s what comes after.
Because when the alarms stop and the routine of scans, rounds, and consultations fades, there’s this quiet that shows up. And in that quiet, everything you didn’t have space to feel starts asking for attention.
That’s where it gets complicated.
During the crisis, you run on adrenaline and necessity. There’s no room to fall apart, because someone has to keep the wheels turning. But once the urgency lifts, the body finally catches up with what the mind had to postpone.
And sometimes that looks like depression that didn’t have time to introduce itself earlier.
It’s disorienting, because people around you assume the hardest part is over. They’re grateful—and you are too—but they don’t always see that “over” doesn’t mean “undone.” You’re still carrying the weight of decisions, sleepless nights, financial strain, and the quiet fear that lived under every update from a doctor.
“Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you.” — Psalm 55:2
And if you’re honest, you might not even have the language for what you’re feeling yet. Just heaviness. Irritability. Numbness. A sense that you should be “back to normal” by now, but normal doesn’t quite exist anymore in the same way.
What makes it harder is how isolating it can be.
Not everyone is equipped to hold space for what you’re processing. Some people move on quickly, not out of indifference, but because life keeps moving and they don’t know what to say anymore. Even family, as well-meaning as they are, might be dealing with their own version of grief or fear. So, the support you need doesn’t always show up in the way you need it to show up.
And you can find yourself in this strange place of being surrounded, yet still alone with it.
Then there’s the layer no one talks about enough: your kids still needing care beyond survival. Appointments. Therapies. Counseling. Emotional regulation that requires patience you’re not sure you have left. And you’re trying to be the steady presence for them while quietly wondering who is steady for you.
That tension can feel impossible—like you’re supposed to be both strong and untouched by what you’ve just walked through.
But you’re not untouched. You’re just still standing. And there’s a difference.
If you’re in that in-between space—the season after the season—where everything is quieter but somehow heavier, I want to say this clearly:
What you’re feeling is not a failure of faith, strength, or character. It’s often the delayed impact of prolonged stress and trauma finally finding space to surface.
You were in survival mode. Now you’re in recovery mode, even if it doesn’t feel like recovery yet.
“Come to Me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28
And recovery is not linear.
Some days you’ll feel fine. Other days you’ll feel like you’re back in it emotionally, even when nothing is actively wrong. That doesn’t mean you’re going backward. It means your mind and body are processing what they couldn’t process in real time.
You don’t have to rush that.
You also don’t have to do it alone, even if it feels like the support around you is limited. Sometimes the right support isn’t a crowd, it’s one person who can sit with you without trying to fix it.
Sometimes it’s a counselor who understands trauma and transition. Sometimes it’s simply learning to name what’s happening inside you, so it doesn’t stay undefined and heavy.
“Bear one another’s burdens and so fulfill the law of Christ.” — Galatians 6:2
And if you’re struggling to be present the way you want to be, especially for your kids, it doesn’t disqualify you. Conversely, it reflects the reality that you’ve been carrying more than one person is designed to carry for a long time.
Your presence matters more than your perfection.
Even now. Even in the exhaustion. Even in the days when you feel like you’re just getting through.
If no one has told you lately in plain terms: what you carried through that season was significant. What you’re carrying now still matters. And what you need in this season matters just as much as what everyone else needs from you.
There’s no shame in needing time to come back to yourself.
And maybe that starts with letting God meet you honestly instead of trying to meet Him polished.
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18
You’re not behind. You’re not broken.
You’re in the aftermath of something heavy—and learning how to breathe again in a different kind of normal.
There are seasons when words flow freely—and seasons when they don’t.
This is one of those seasons for me.
If you’ve noticed fewer blog posts or podcast episodes, I want to offer a simple and honest update about why. Not as an exhaustive explanation of everything happening in my life, but as a way of being transparent with this community I deeply value.
Since December, I’ve been engaged in counseling and therapy at The Refuge Center. This has been an important part of my ongoing healing journey as I continue to process past trauma and pursue greater wholeness. It is steady, intentional work that requires time, honesty, and emotional presence.
In February, I entered the editing phase of Jubilee’s book while also starting her nonprofit (more details to come). These are sacred responsibilities to me, and they deserve thoughtful attention as these efforts begin to lift off the ground.
In March, I stepped into a new Accounting Manager role with Rural Health Redesign Center. It has been a meaningful professional transition, but also one that requires focus and adjustment as I learn new rhythms and responsibilities. Around the same time, I began a two-month mental health evaluation as part of Vanderbilt’s VUMC Studyfinder program, which confirmed my ASD diagnosis earlier this month.
Alongside these transitions, my roles at The Gate Church and Messenger Fellowship have also shifted. Instead of focusing on admin and tech support, I’m beginning to move more into my wheelhouse—spiritual formation and education. This work has been deeply life-giving, though more inward-facing.
Most importantly, I’m doing my best to be fully present for my kids and support them as they finish their school semesters strong. That responsibility remains one of my highest priorities.
All of these pieces together have created a season in which I simply do not have the same capacity for consistent blogging and podcasting as before.
This is not a step away from this space, but rather a recognition of the season I am currently in.
I still believe in the value of storytelling, reflection, and honest conversation. I still care deeply about this community. And when the time and capacity return, I look forward to engaging more regularly again.
For now, I’m grateful for your patience, your understanding, and your continued presence here.
When the world is at war—especially during a conflict you disagree with—it can leave you feeling conflicted about how to even approach God. Do you pray for peace? For justice? For protection?
What if you are no longer entirely sure what the “right” outcome is supposed to look like?
And perhaps even more unsettling: What happens when you are no longer fully confident your own perspective is entirely right either?
If that is where you find yourself, you are not alone.
One of the comforting realities of Scripture is that the Bible makes room for this kind of tension. It gives language to grief, uncertainty, confusion, and even disagreement while still drawing us toward prayer instead of away from it.
So, what does it look like to process war faithfully?
First, it starts with honesty, raw as it may be.
One of the greatest misconceptions about prayer is that we are supposed to sound composed and certain before approaching God. Yet throughout Scripture, we see the opposite. The Psalms are filled with unresolved prayers from people who were hurting, confused, and desperate for understanding:
“How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?” (Psalm 13:1)
There is nothing polished about that prayer. It is emotional. Unfiltered. Human. And maybe that is the point.
When violence unfolds across the world and everything feels heavy or deeply wrong, we do not have to sanitize those emotions before bringing them to God. We can pray honestly:
“God, this does not make sense.”
“I do not understand why this is happening.”
“This feels heartbreaking.”
Lament is not the absence of faith; it is faith refusing to disengage. At the same time, Scripture continually redirects our attention away from political positions and back toward people—an increasingly difficult thing in an age where outrage spreads faster than empathy.
In 1 Timothy 2:1, Paul urges believers to pray “for all people.” Not merely the people we agree with. All people.
That includes civilians caught in the middle of conflict, families grieving unimaginable loss, children living in fear, and even soldiers on opposing sides of war.
It is possible to care deeply about human suffering without endorsing every action tied to it. Prayer allows us to hold that tension without surrendering compassion. And perhaps that matters more than we realize because prolonged conflict has a way of hardening people if they are not careful.
Jesus said, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God” (Matthew 5:9). Peace in Scripture is not passive sentimentality. It is something God values deeply.
Praying for peace may feel unrealistic in the middle of war, but it is not naive. If anything, it is resistance against the belief that destruction and violence are inevitable.
Sometimes our prayers are simple:
“God, interrupt cycles of violence.”
“Bring de-escalation where tensions are rising.”
“Raise up leaders who value wisdom over power.”
Even when we cannot envision peace ourselves, prayer aligns our hearts with the heart of God.
But Scripture also makes clear that justice matters deeply to Him.
Micah 6:8 reminds us to “act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.” I think it is significant that mercy and humility remain attached to justice in that verse because, especially during war, the desire for justice can slowly transform into bitterness, vengeance, or hatred if we are not careful.
Prayer has a way of exposing that shift before it consumes us.
We can ask God to defend the vulnerable, bring truth into the light, and hold powerful people accountable while simultaneously asking Him to protect our hearts from becoming hardened in the process.
Because if we are not careful, we can become so consumed with winning arguments that we forget the humanity of the people suffering underneath them.
Which brings me to arguably one of the hardest parts of all: praying for leaders.
Scripture instructs believers to pray “for kings and all those in authority” (1 Timothy 2:2), even when we strongly disagree with them.
That does not mean endorsing every decision they make. It means recognizing that no earthly authority exists outside God’s awareness and asking Him to intervene where human wisdom falls short.
Sometimes those prayers sound like:
“Give them wisdom they do not currently have.”
“Surround them with truth instead of ego.”
“Restrain decisions that would bring unnecessary harm.”
Other times, all we can bring before God is confusion.
Romans 8:26 says, “We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us.” I love that verse because it reminds us that prayer does not require perfect clarity.
Sometimes faithfulness simply sounds like:
“God, I feel torn.”
“I do not know what the right outcome is.”
“Help me not grow numb to suffering.”
God is not waiting for us to say everything perfectly before He listens. He meets us honestly in uncertainty.
And maybe that is one of the hidden invitations within prayer itself: not merely to ask God to change the world around us, but to let Him change what is happening within us too.
Because over time, prayer has a way of softening us instead of hardening us. It makes us more compassionate instead of more reactive, more humble instead of more certain.
As James 3:17 describes wisdom from heaven is “peace-loving, considerate, full of mercy.”
You do not have to solve the world’s problems to pray faithfully in the middle of them. You simply have to show up honestly and trust that God meets you there.
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