Category: Faith

When Christmas Hurts – Hope for the Lonely Heart.

(A Christmas Reflection)

Every year, the lights go up, the music turns on, and the world seems to lean hard into cheer. “Merry Christmas!” echoes from store speakers, greeting cards, and overcaffeinated morning show hosts. But for many, this season feels anything but merry.

If that’s you this year—if you’re sad, lonely, or walking through grief—this post is for you.

You’re Not Broken Because You’re Hurting

Let’s just say it plainly: being overwhelmed this time of year doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human. The world around us says you should feel magical and joyful, but your heart might feel tired, cracked, or heavy. And that’s okay.

Some of you are facing Christmas with an empty chair at the table.
Some are trying to navigate celebrations while carrying the weight of loss.
Some are quietly battling depression behind everyone else’s holiday excitement.
Some just feel alone—maybe more this season than any other.

Pain has a way of echoing louder during a season built on celebration. But you need to hear this: you’re not strange, and you’re not alone.

Even the First Christmas Had Tears

We often picture the first Christmas as serene: a silent night, peaceful animals, starlit skies. But the truth is, on the edges of that holy night, there were tears, fears, and exhaustion.

Mary and Joseph were far from home.
The city was overcrowded.
They delivered a baby in a place no one would choose.
It was messy. It was loud. It was lonely.

In other words—Christmas didn’t begin in perfection. It began in need, in uncertainty, in the dark.
And into that darkness came Jesus.

Your darkness doesn’t disqualify you from Christmas; it may actually help you understand it more deeply than most.

God Sees You in This Season

One of the most comforting truths in Scripture is this:

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.” (Psalm 34:18)

Christmas is not about us climbing up to God; it’s about God coming down to us.
Not to the strong, but to the struggling.
Not to the whole, but to the broken.
Not to the merry, but to the messy.

If your heart feels cracked this Christmas, God is not avoiding you—He is drawing near.

Permission to Feel What You Feel

You don’t have to fake joy.
You don’t have to “snap out of it.”
You don’t have to match the mood around you.

Your grief is real.
Your loneliness is real.
Your weariness is real.

And Jesus meets you as you are—not as the season suggests you should be.

But Here’s the Good News: Hurt Is Not the End of Your Story

There is hope. There is healing. There is comfort. And even if you can’t feel it today, it doesn’t mean God has stopped working.

Sometimes the most courageous prayer is simply:
“Lord, hold me together today.”

Sometimes the most faithful act is showing up to a new morning.
Sometimes hope grows quietly, like the slow, gentle rise of dawn.

Christmas reminds us that light comes—not all at once, but steadily, faithfully—into the darkest places.

A Few Gentle Encouragements for This Christmas

1. Let someone in.
You don’t have to share everything, but you also don’t have to carry everything alone.

2. Give yourself grace.
If all you manage is a small step today, that step matters.

3. Look for the tiny glimmers.
A song. A memory. A cup of coffee (my favorite). A kind word.
They don’t fix everything, but they remind us that God is still at work.

4. Remember: joy is not the same as happiness.
Joy is the quiet assurance that God is with you—even when your heart aches.

You Are Not Forgotten This Christmas

If this season is hard for you, please know this:
I see you. God sees you. You matter.

You are loved—extravagantly, endlessly, right now in the middle of your pain.

Christmas is not just for the cheerful; it’s for the weary, the grieving, the lonely, the ones trying their best to hold it all together.

It’s for you.

May the God who came near in Bethlehem come near to your heart today.
May He fill your darkness with His gentle light.
And may you sense—even in the smallest ways—that you are not alone.

Merry Christmas, dear friend.
Even if it’s a quiet one.
Even if it’s a hard one.
Even if it looks different this year.

The light is still coming. And so is hope.
-Grace & Peace
Pastor Scott.

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Advent Reflections Week 2 – When ‘Peace” Isn’t Really Peace.

“And He will be called… Prince of Peace.”
We read those words from Isaiah 9 every Advent, and they land soft and comforting—like warm light on a winter night. But Isaiah didn’t write them in a peaceful moment. He wrote them into chaos, fear, war, and political collapse. And into that storm he declares: A child is coming… and His rule will bring real pea

But here’s the thing about peace: not everyone in Scripture understood what it truly meant.

So for a moment, let’s imagine a conversation—a contrast—between the Prince of Peace Isaiah saw coming… and someone who thought he already understood peace, but didn’t.

Herod: “Peace Is What I Control.”

Herod the Great had a definition of peace that looked impressive on paper: massive building projects, economic growth, order enforced by power. A kind of forced calm.
He believed peace was the absence of threats.

So when whispers came of a child born King of the Jews, his version of “peace” suddenly cracked. A baby? A star in the sky? A question from wandering scholars?
Herod’s peace was so fragile it couldn’t survive a rumor.

He clutched control.
He tightened his grip.
He did the unthinkable—because fear always twists false peace into violence.

Herod teaches us this:
Any peace built on control will eventually crumble under the weight of fear.

Jesus, the Prince of Peace: “Peace Is What I Give.”

Now picture the contrast.

No palace.
No armies.
No fear-driven decisions.
Just a manger, a mother, and angels announcing “peace on earth.”

Jesus does not maintain peace by eliminating threats—He transforms peace by entering the world’s brokenness and absorbing its chaos.

His peace is not fragile; it’s fierce.
Not passive; but restorative.
Not enforced; but embodied.

He doesn’t clutch power—He lays it down.
He doesn’t silence threats—He redeems enemies.
He doesn’t demand calm—He brings healing.

If Herod preserved peace by tightening his fist, Jesus brought peace by opening His hands.

Isaiah said, “Of the greatness of His government and of His peace there will be no end.”
Real peace is not something you hold together; it’s something God holds together.

And Here We Are, Second Week of Advent

Between Herod’s panic and Christ’s presence is a question we must face during this season:

Which version of peace do we trust?
The one built on control…
or the one born in a manger?
Which do we honestly identify with more?

You see, Advent invites us to choose again. It invites us to dig a bit deeper, and reflect on our own personality archetype and patterns we fall into when the tides begin to rise and the pressures on.

Questions for Your Heart This Week

  1. Where am I clinging to control and calling it “peace,” rather than trusting the Prince of Peace to hold what I cannot?
  2. Am I holding on with a ‘Herod’ like grip? How can I loosen this false understanding of peace?
  3. What would it look like for Christ’s peace—not my preferences, not my need for certainty—to guide my reactions, relationships, and leadership this week?

May His peace—full, fierce, and everlasting—meet you on the road to Christmas.
-Pastor Scott.

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Christmas Reflections – Week 1

In the hush of the Advent season, we prepare our hearts for the coming of the King. Yet long before the angels filled Bethlehem’s skies with glory, heaven had already broken into human lives with terrifying, life-altering announcements. Two of those encounters—one with Jacob, one with Mary—stand centuries apart, yet they reveal the same two postures we still bring to God today. Jacob met God on the banks of the Jabbok River (Genesis 32:22-32). A man (the Scriptures say “a man,” but Hosea later calls Him angel and God Himself) appeared in the night and wrestled Jacob until dawn. Jacob fought with every ounce of his cunning, strength, and self-reliance—the same traits that had stolen birthright and blessing, the same instincts that had kept him running for twenty years. Only when his hip was touched and he was left limping did Jacob finally cling instead of wrestle. “I will not let You go unless You bless me,” he gasped. Even in surrender he was bargaining, yet God honored the cry and renamed him Israel—“he struggles with God.” The limp would stay with him forever, a permanent reminder that the blessing comes only after we exhaust our own power.

Centuries later, another angel stepped out of eternity into a humble Galilean home. This time the greeting was not a challenge but a shattering promise: “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” Mary’s first reaction was trouble and fear—just like Jacob’s—but the similarity ends there. Where Jacob clenched his fists, Mary opened her hands. “How can this be?” she asked, not in defiance but in honest wonder. She did not demand signs, wrestle for control, or calculate how to make the impossible happen in her own strength. She simply placed the entire weight of the future on the word of God: “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38). One encounter left a man limping into the rest of his life, forever marked by the struggle. The other left a young woman magnifying the Lord, carrying within her the Hope of the nations.

We still meet the living God in these same two ways. Some of us wrestle. We hear the call of God—to repentance, to forgiveness, to mission, to surrender—and our instinct is to grapple. We want explanations, guarantees, and control.
We bargain: “Lord, I’ll follow if You first fix this situation, heal this wound, secure this future.” We exhaust ourselves trying to bless ourselves, only to discover that every blessing from heaven comes with a limp we didn’t choose. Others hear the same voice and respond like Mary. They do not silence their questions—Mary asked “How?”—but they lay every question at the feet of the One who is faithful. They say, in essence, “I do not understand, I cannot make this happen, and I am afraid—but I belong to You. Let it be.” Faith, for them, is not the absence of fear or doubt; it is the presence of surrender. This Christmas, the Child who displaced Jacob’s strength with a touch and filled Mary’s emptiness with divine life still comes to us. The angels’ song still sounds: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace…” Peace—not to those who wrestle the Angel to the ground in their own power, but to those with whom He is pleased, those who receive rather than resist, who open rather than clench.

So the question is not whether God will break in—He already has, in a manger, on a cross, by His Spirit. The question is how we will meet Him. Will we spend another year wrestling in our own strength, walking away blessed but broken and limping? Or will we, like Mary, dare to say today, “Let it be to me according to Your word”?

Which posture will mark your Christmas—and the year to come?
Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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A Thanksgiving Devotional: Forgiveness, Reconciliation, and the Courage to Try Again

Every Thanksgiving, we talk about gratitude—giving thanks for blessings, family, food, and the goodness of God. But sometimes the things we’re most thankful for are the things God heals inside us: old wounds, buried regrets, lingering anger, unresolved relationships.

And strangely enough, a lesson in forgiveness shows up in Home Alone through the quiet, misunderstood character known as Old Man Marley. (Do you remember him?)

We first see him through Kevin’s fearful eyes—pale, silent, distant, dragging a shovel across the snowy sidewalk. But later, sitting together on a church pew, Marley finally opens up. He confesses that he hasn’t spoken to his son in years because of a painful argument. Pride sat heavy between them. Fear kept him from trying again. Regret made him feel paralyzed. And the saddest part? He watches his granddaughter sing in the choir but doesn’t go near her… because reconciliation feels impossible. It’s a like lesson for all of us and the baggage of anger, resentment and unforgiveness that many of use lug around with us. Some call it just a ‘chip on the shoulder’ but it’s more of an abscess on the heart which prevents any forward momentum because we’re anchored to this burden that could potentially be lifted if we were to just expose it and release it.

Maybe you’ve been there.
Maybe Thanksgiving brings you around people you love but don’t know how to talk to anymore, and so you’ve quit trying.
Maybe the table is set, but something unsaid still sits between you and someone else, and the weight of that baggage keeps nagging at your heart.
Maybe gratitude is hard this year because bitterness is louder than the quiet thanks, or maybe it’s overlooked altogether because of this mountain of hurt piled up at the door of your heart.

Scripture doesn’t ignore this ache. It speaks into it with both truth and tenderness. I want to explore this for just a moment. And I hope you’re still reading this:

1. Forgiveness Is God’s Invitation to Freedom

“Bear with each other and forgive one another… Forgive as the Lord forgave you.”
— Colossians 3:13

Forgiveness isn’t excusing what happened. It’s not pretending the pain didn’t matter.
Forgiveness is choosing not to let the wound have the last word. If we do, it will just continue to fester in our souls and make us even more bitter in life.

When Marley admitted, “I’m afraid to call my son,” it wasn’t the conflict that trapped him—it was the fear of taking the first step. Forgiveness begins when we decide, “I won’t let fear freeze me anymore.” It takes real guts to be the one to initiate the forgiving. Most are reluctant to even entertain the notion because all-to-often pride gets the better of us.

2. Reconciliation Requires Courage, Not Certainty

“If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”
— Romans 12:18

God doesn’t say reconciliation will always be easy. Or fast. Or neat. Or even possible – there’s a big “if” hanging out in this verse. Sometimes the other person isn’t ready. Sometimes the relationship may never look the same.

But as far as it depends on you—you can initiate peace.
You can send a text. Make a call. Offer a prayer. Turn toward the possibility instead of away from it.

Back to Home Alone and this scene for just another moment:
Kevin tells Marley, “You should call him.” It’s a simple, childlike nudge toward hope. Isn’t it interesting that children have the tendency to hitting the heart of the matter? If we grown-ups would just become wise like kids again. (Somewhere I hear Jesus scolding His disciples for trying to shoo off a bunch of kids from talking to Him.) Simplistic faith usually has the direct approach to life, while we ‘adults’ tend to overcomplicate every avoidance and insult. Why can’t we become child-like in our faith again? What’s stopping us?

3. Thanksgiving Isn’t Complete Without Grace

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”
— Matthew 5:9

At the end of Home Alone, there’s a brief moment easily missed unless you’re watching for it:

Marley stands outside with his son—talking, laughing, embracing. His granddaughter runs into his arms.
The family he thought he lost… restored. The snow falls. The world is quiet.
Forgiveness has opened a door he thought was locked forever.

That’s what grace does.
It rebuilds.
It reopens.
It releases both the wounded and the one who caused the wound.

A Thanksgiving Reflection

Here’s a quick reflection for each of us to consider.
This Thanksgiving, before the turkey hits the table, maybe take a moment to ask:

  • Is there someone I need to forgive, even if only in my heart for now?
  • Is there someone I need to reach out to, as far as it depends on me?
  • Is fear keeping me from trying, when grace is inviting me forward?

God specializes in resurrection—not just of souls, but of relationships.
Even the frozen, silent ones. Even the ones we think are beyond repair.

And who knows?
Like Old Man Marley, this might be the year something long-broken finally comes home.
Give this some serious though friends. Don’t live a life of bitterness when grace and even peace are possible for you right here and now. Find the courage and reach out.

Prayer:
Lord, as we give thanks this season, soften our hearts where they’ve grown hardened. Give us courage where fear has settled in. Help us forgive as You have forgiven us, and guide us toward peace where reconciliation is possible. Amen.

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The Unnoticed Goodness

Thanksgiving has a way of slowing us down just enough to notice what’s been happening all along—the overlooked kindnesses, the small mercies, the quiet faithfulness that rarely makes headlines. It’s the season when we finally pause long enough to see the fingerprints of God on the ordinary. I mean, His presence is everywhere!

But here’s what’s been hitting me lately: some of the most powerful moments of goodness are the ones no one else ever sees.
No platform.
No applause.
No credit.
Just a quiet decision to do the right thing because it’s right.

Maybe it was the way you let someone go ahead of you in line, even though you were late.
Maybe it was the word of encouragement you sent that you thought was “no big deal.”
Maybe it was the prayer you prayed for someone who will never know your name.

Thanksgiving reminds us that gratitude isn’t just something we feel—it’s something we live. And when we live it quietly, faithfully, consistently… those moments echo. They ripple out further than we realize.

Scripture puts it simply:
“And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up” (Galatians 6:9).

Doing good when someone is watching is easy.
Doing good when no one sees—that’s where character is formed.
And often, those hidden acts are the ones God uses to shape someone’s story in ways we’ll never fully know this side of heaven.

You may think you’re just holding a door, paying for someone’s coffee, giving a quiet offering, sending a text, praying a prayer.
But perhaps the person on the receiving end was standing right on the edge—and your small act of unseen kindness pulled them back.

This Thanksgiving, maybe the most meaningful gratitude isn’t found around the table but in the unnoticed corners of everyday life… where God is shaping the world through ordinary people doing ordinary good.

Not for applause.
Not for credit.
But for the quiet joy of reflecting Christ.

Three Questions for the Soul

  1. If God is the only one who notices the good I do this week, is that enough for me?
  2. Whose story could be changed by one small, unseen act of kindness from me today?
  3. Do I want to be known as grateful—or do I want to be grateful in a way that genuinely changes the way I live?

May your Thanksgiving be filled not just with gratitude spoken, but gratitude practiced—quietly, faithfully, joyfully.

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

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The Offering Plate is Half Empty – Now What?

Hey.
It’s Sunday morning.
The worship band just landed on that last sustained chord, the one that makes everyone feel like the roof lifted off for a second and maybe goosebumps have appeared on your arms.
But now, here comes the part nobody asked for on the original tour bus of Christianity: the offering.
The ushers start their slow walk down the aisle.
Baskets. Plates. Little velvet bags on sticks (Our church has the boxes in the back and we give afterwards).
Whatever your tradition calls it, it shows up like clockwork.
And lately, maybe you’ve noticed—like I have—that the plates (or in our case the Offering Box) looks…lighter.
Not dramatically empty, not yet, but definitely not overflowing.
Half empty, maybe even a little less than half.
And here’s the thing: nobody says it out loud, but everybody feels it. The pastor (me, in this case) feels it when the finance report lands in my email inbox before our next board meeting.

The treasurer feels it when the mortgage and other bills are due.
The single mom feels it when she drops in a twenty and wonders if it’s enough.
The guy in the back row feels it when he pretends to check his phone so he can let the plate pass by without anyone noticing.

So let’s just talk about it.

No announcements.
No guilt slides.
No Malachi proof-texts dropped like grenades.
Just us.

The offering plate is half empty—now what?

First, can we admit that tithing can feel like the last surviving relic of rule-based religion?
Ten percent.
The word itself sounds like it was invented by an accountant who moonlights as a Puritan right?!
And somewhere along the way we turned a wild, ancient practice of trust into a spiritual report card.

You didn’t hit 10%?
F minus in faith, see me after class.
No wonder there’s resistance.
No wonder there’s guilt.
No wonder some of us just… pass the plate. I’ve been on both sides of this.
I’ve been the broke twenty-something who genuinely had $11 in the bank and felt like a failure when the plate came.
I’ve been the pastor who stood up front and said “God loves a cheerful giver” while secretly scanning the room to see who looked cheerful and who just looked constipated.

Here’s what I’m learning—slowly, painfully, wonderfully: The goal was never to fill the plate.
The goal was to free the heart.

In the Old Testament, people brought crops, animals, oil, flour—stuff they actually lived on.
Handing it over was a way of saying out loud, “I can’t make the sun come up tomorrow, but You can.
Here’s my trust, in grain form.”

Jesus sits down opposite the treasury one day and watches the river of coins clinking in.
Rich people tossing in heavy bags—impressive, loud, tax-deductible.
Then a widow drops in two tiny coins worth almost nothing.
And Jesus loses His mind (in a good way).
He calls His disciples over like He just saw the Grand Canyon of faith.
“She put in more than all the rest.” Not because the budget was suddenly balanced.
But because her heart was suddenly free.

If I’m honest – that story wrecks me, because I want my giving to be about freedom, not fear.
I don’t want to give because I’m afraid God will take something if I don’t.
I don’t want to give because I’m afraid the church lights will go out.
I don’t want to give because I’m afraid of what people think when the plate passes by my row (or I pass by the box in the back).

I want to give because I’m stunned again that everything I have is borrowed anyway.
I want to give because I walked into this building carrying wounds and walked out carrying hope, and somebody paid for that hope.
I want to give the way I want my kids to see their dad give—eyes wide open, grinning, no arm-twisting required.

So if the plate is half empty right now, maybe it’s not a crisis.
Maybe it’s just an invitation.
An invitation to ask better questions than “Am I hitting 10%?”

Questions like:
What would it look like to move from guilt to gratitude?
From obligation to overflow?
From resistance to release?

Start anywhere.
Five bucks. Fifty. Five hundred. Zero.
Just make it honest.
Make it a moment where you look up—literally or figuratively—and say,
“This is me trusting You with what feels impossible to let go of.”

Because here’s the secret nobody tells you in stewardship season: the plate is not a tax.
It’s a testimony. Every coin, every crumpled bill, every direct deposit, or online payment is a little postcard that says,
“I was afraid, but I did it anyway.”
“I was broke, but I’m not broken.”
“I thought I needed this more than God did… turns out I was wrong.”

So yeah.

The offering plate is half empty.
Maybe that just means there’s room for something new to be poured in.

Your move.

-Grace and peace,
Pastor Scott

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The Upper Room Door Buster

Hey friends,
it’s Scott, sitting here in an old office chair, it’s an old faux-leather thing that smells faintly of wood polish and long days or burning the candle at both ends. Outside of my window, there’s an old maple that’s bleeding out its last furious red, each leaf a small, slow-motion fire spiraling down to the ground like it’s trying to write something on the earth before it dies.



I can’t stop thinking about that upper room (John 20). The air was thick with terror and unshed tears. They too had probably been burning their candles at both ends. The disciples are all bolted in that musty room, breathing shallow, convinced the story just ended in a splatter of blood and a borrowed tomb.

Then the impossible.
He’s there.

Not a ghost.
Not a metaphor.
Flesh.
Breath.
Heartbeat.

And the first word out of the mouth that once called Lazarus out of the dark is the same word He offers them now: Peace.
But watch (watch close), because He doesn’t hide the damage. He lifts the robe, turns those once-ruined hands palm-up, lets the ragged light fall straight through the holes. The resurrection body still carries the crucifixion. The wounds didn’t get airbrushed out in some cosmic Photoshop.

They glow.

And I’m wrecked by this:
Maybe glory isn’t the absence of the scar but the scar set on fire by love.
I have scars that still throb when the weather turns. (Anyone else have old soccer knees and battle scars like me?)

You do too.
Places we were torn open and never quite sewn back the same.
Rooms we keep locked.
Stories we rehearse in the dark like a verdict.

But the Risen One walks straight through those locked doors, breath warm and steady, and says,
“Look. Touch. These are the places the nails went in… and these are the places the world will know it was love that held me there.”

The wounded hands are the ones flipping fish over coals at dawn, feeding men who swore they never knew Him.
The pierced side is the doorway He keeps inviting Thomas to reach into (doubt and all).
So maybe resurrection isn’t erasure.

Maybe it’s the wound transfigured, still telling the truth about Friday while singing the louder song of Sunday.
Maybe the cracks are where the light is planning its jailbreak.

So today, friend, open the fists you’ve been clenching around the shards.

Let Him breathe into the fractures.

Let Him turn the scar into a window.
Because the leaves are falling like grace, and the tree looks dead, but I’ve seen what happens in spring to wood that remembers it was once a cross.
The wounds remain.
The love remains more.
Grace & Peace be with you.
Really.

-Scott

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Pouring Out, Lifting Up

(1 Samuel 1–2)

There’s a quiet power in Hannah’s story—one that speaks directly to anyone who has ever carried a burden silently, prayed a prayer desperately, or waited on God faithfully.

Hannah enters the narrative not with triumph but with tears. Year after year she bore the weight of unanswered longing. Yet what sets her apart isn’t simply her suffering, but her response. Scripture tells us that Hannah “stood up” (1 Sam. 1:9). That small, simple phrase marks a turning point. She rose from her place of discouragement and poured out her soul before the Lord with unguarded honesty.

No scripted prayer.
No polished language.
Just a heart laid bare before the God who listens.

And He did listen.

Hannah’s story reminds us that God is not moved by our performance—He is moved by our surrender. What she offered Him in tears, He returned in joy. What she released in prayer, He redeemed in His timing.

Then comes her song in 1 Samuel 2—bold, prophetic, overflowing with praise. Her voice, once choked with grief, becomes a testimony of God’s power to reverse circumstances:
“The Lord raises the poor from the dust… He lifts the needy from the ash heap.”

This is the rhythm of Hannah’s life, and often the rhythm of ours:
What we pour out before God, He is able to lift up in His grace.

For pastors, ministry leaders, and everyday believers, Hannah invites us into three timeless truths:

1. Honest prayer is holy prayer.
God meets us not in the prayers we think He wants, but in the ones that come from the unfiltered places of our hearts.

2. Waiting is not wasted.
Hannah didn’t see God’s silence as God’s absence. She stayed faithful, and God was quietly at work.

3. Worship is our witness.
Hannah’s song isn’t just gratitude—it’s testimony. It points beyond her blessing to the character of God Himself.

Perhaps today you’re carrying something heavy…
a decision, a fear, a disappointment, a prayer that feels unanswered.

Hannah’s story whispers to us:

“Stand up. Come before Him. Pour it out. God still lifts up what is surrendered to Him.”

May we learn from her courage to pray honestly, her faith to trust patiently, and her joy to praise boldly—believing that the God who lifted Hannah’s head is the same God who lifts ours.

Grace & Peace,
-Scott.

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When Days Unravel (a poem)

When the day unravels
not in threads but in flames,
and everything I carefully stacked
topples without warning—
I forget how to hold myself together.
I forget how to breathe.

When trouble rises
like dark water creeping at my ankles,
when the walls feel too close
and every light in the room flickers out—
I whisper the smallest prayer,
and trust that You hear even that.

Prayer has never been my lifeboat of last resort.
It has always been the place
where I find myself again.
Where Your presence sits quietly beside me,
filling the gaps of my strength,
turning my trembling into victory,
again and again.

So here I am—
hands open,
releasing everything I was never meant to hold.
Letting the hurt escape on the exhale,
knowing You already understand
every sharp edge of my heart.

And tomorrow—
that wild, mysterious tomorrow—
belongs to You.
I’ll step into it
with trust as my footing,
and You leading me home.

-SStrissel 10/29/25

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Cast It ALL (Psalm 55:22)

Hey there, beautiful souls, Pastor Scott here, sorry it’s been a minute.
I have a few minutes today and I’ve been reading this verse today just meditating on it and perhaps you’re sometimes like me with what seems to be the weight of the world on your shoulders. This verse has gives me hope, and I think it will do the same for you.

Today, let’s lean ponder this verse full of promise hope and assurance because it’s something that resonates with me and with the kind of truth that can shift the air around us all. Lets dig into that verse. It’s Psalm 55:22.

It says, “Cast your cares on the Lord, and he will sustain you; he will never let the righteous be shaken.”
Let that sink in for a second. “Cast your cares.” Not toss them lightly like you’re skipping stones on a lake, but “cast” them—like a fisherman throwing a net, like you’re heaving something heavy into the arms of someone stronger. There’s weight to this word. There’s intention here. There’s a letting go that feels like both surrender and strength. Life, right? It’s heavy sometimes. You’ve got bills stacking up, relationships fraying or just plain falling apart, dreams that feel like they’re slipping through your fingers. Maybe you’re carrying grief that’s too big for words, or anxiety that wakes you up at 3 a.m. with a racing heart. And here’s David, the poet-king, the guy who’s been betrayed, chased, and undone, whispering to us across centuries: “Cast it. Give it to God. He’s got you.” What’s wild about this verse is that it’s not just a command—it’s a promise. God doesn’t just say, “Hand it over.” He says, “I’ll sustain you.” That word, “sustain”—it’s not about a quick fix or a pat on the back. It’s about being held up, carried, nourished, like a plant getting just the right amount of water and light to keep growing.

It’s God saying, “I see the weight you’re carrying, and I’m not going anywhere. I’ll hold you steady.” And then there’s that last bit: “He will never let the righteous be shaken.” Never. Not when the diagnosis comes, not when the job falls through, not when the world feels like it’s spinning out of control. The righteous—those who are chasing after God’s heart, who are trying, stumbling, and getting back up—aren’t promised a life without storms. But they’re promised a God who keeps them anchored through it all.

So, what’s the invitation here? It’s to stop clutching. To stop white-knuckling your worries like they’re yours to solve alone. What if you took that thing—the one that’s been keeping you up at night—and you just… let it go? Not because you’re giving up, but because you’re giving it “over”. You’re trusting that the God who made the stars, who knows every crack in your heart, is big enough to handle it. This isn’t about pretending everything’s fine. David, the guy who wrote this psalm, was in the middle of betrayal and chaos when he penned these words. He wasn’t floating on a cloud of good vibes. He was raw, real, and probably a little scared. But he knew something we often forget: God’s not afraid of our mess. He’s not asking us to clean it up before we come to Him. He’s saying, “Bring it. All of it. The fear, the doubt, the anger, the questions. I can take it.”

What would it look like to cast your cares today? Maybe it’s a prayer whispered in the car on your way to work. Maybe it’s writing down that thing you’re afraid to name and leaving it on the page, an offering of trust. Maybe it’s just sitting still for a minute and saying, “God, I don’t know how to let this go, but I’m trying.”

There’s freedom on the other side of casting. There’s a lightness, a steadiness, a knowing that you’re not alone. Because the God who sustains you? He’s not just powerful—He’s personal. He’s close. He’s got you, right here, right now, in the middle of whatever you’re facing. So, let’s ponder this together, friends. What’s the weight you’re carrying? What’s the care you need to cast? And what might happen if you trusted—really trusted—that God’s got you, that He’ll sustain you, that He won’t let you be shaken?

Questions to Chew On Today:

1. What’s one care you’re holding onto right now that feels too heavy to carry alone? What would it look like to cast it onto God?

2. When you hear “He will sustain you,” what does that stir in you?
Do you believe God can hold you up, even in the messiest parts of your life? Why or why not?

3. What’s one small step you can take today to let go of control and trust God with your worries?

4. How might your life feel different if you truly believed you wouldn’t be shaken, no matter what comes?

Keep pondering, keep casting, keep trusting.
You’re not alone in this.
-Grace and peace, Pastor Scott

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