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

Hey there, friend.
Let’s talk about liminal spaces. You know, those weird, in-between places where you’re not quite *here* anymore but not fully *there* yet either? Doorways, thresholds, moments where the veil between you and the divine feels so thin it’s like you could reach out and touch it. The Celts called these “thin places,” spots where heaven and earth brush up against each other, where you can almost hear the heartbeat of God. And I’m not just talking about physical places—though those are real too, like a quiet beach at dawn or that one pew in your church that just *feels* holy. I’m talking about those moments in life when you’re caught in transition, suspended, waiting, and something sacred sneaks in. Think about Moses at the burning bush in Exodus 3. He’s just out there, tending sheep, minding his own business, when *bam*—a bush is on fire but not burning up. God says, “Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground” (Exodus 3:5). That patch of desert wasn’t holy because of the dirt or the shrubbery. It was holy because God showed up in the in-between, in the ordinary, and Moses was paying attention. He stepped into a liminal space, a threshold where the eternal crashed into the everyday.

Or how about Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane (Matthew 26:36-46)? He’s in this gut-wrenching moment, not quite at the cross but no longer just teaching and healing. He’s in the middle, sweating blood, wrestling with what’s coming. It’s a thin place, where his humanity and divinity are laid bare, where he’s crying out to God and the air feels electric with the weight of what’s about to happen.

Have you ever been in a moment like that?
Where you’re stuck between what was and what’s next, and God feels so close it’s almost too much? Liminal spaces aren’t always comfortable. They’re often disorienting, like standing in a doorway not sure if you’re coming or going. Think about the Israelites wandering in the wilderness for 40 years (Exodus 16-17). They’d left Egypt, but the Promised Land was still a dream. They were in-between, grumbling, doubting, yet God kept showing up—manna in the morning, water from a rock. Those desert years were a thin place, where they learned to trust, to lean into the mystery of a God who meets you in the messy middle. So here’s a question for you:

Where are the liminal spaces in your life right now?
Are you in a season of waiting—maybe for a job, a relationship, a diagnosis, or just some clarity? What if those in-between moments aren’t just empty gaps but holy ground, places where God is waiting to meet you? I mean, think about it: when you’re stuck in transition, when you don’t have all the answers, don’t you find yourself a little more open, a little more raw, a little more ready to hear that still, small voice? And here’s another thing to chew on: What if liminal spaces aren’t just about you finding God, but God finding you?

In Psalm 139:7-10, David says, “Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.” There’s no in-between place where God isn’t already waiting. That jobless season, that heartbreak, that moment when you’re staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m.—those are thresholds, thin places where the divine is whispering, “I’m here.” So, what’s it look like to lean into these spaces? Maybe it’s pausing in the middle of your chaos to breathe and say, “God, show me where you are in this.” Maybe it’s noticing the ordinary moments—a sunrise, a conversation, a quiet walk—and asking, “Is this holy ground?” What if you stopped rushing through the in-between to get to the “next thing” and instead let yourself linger, let yourself listen?

Here’s one more question to sit with: What’s keeping you from seeing the thin places in your life?
Is it fear? Distraction? The need to have it all figured out? What if you let go of that for a moment and just stood still, like Moses, sandals off, ready for God to show up? Liminal spaces are everywhere, friend. They’re the thresholds, the waiting rooms, the moments when you feel a little lost but a lot alive. They’re where God loves to show up, where the ordinary becomes extraordinary. So, where’s your thin place today? And what might happen if you stepped into it, heart open, ready to meet the One who’s already there?

Keep your eyes open.
Holy ground is closer than you think.

Grace & Peace,
-Pastor Scott.

You ever notice how life has this way of whispering to you, tugging at your soul, daring you to leap? It’s like there’s this quiet voice, this nudge, that says, Go for it. Step out. Try. But then, just as quick, another voice chimes in—louder, safer, more practical: What if you fail? What if it’s a mess? What if you look like a fool? And so, we stay put. We don’t move. We don’t risk. And years later, we’re left wondering: What if I had? This is about the risks we never take and the regret that lingers like a shadow when we refuse to step out in faith. Because here’s the thing: life isn’t meant to be a museum exhibit, preserved behind glass, untouched and unchanging. Life is messy, wild, and alive—it’s meant to be lived, not just survived. And sometimes, living means risking.

The Weight of What Could Have Been

Let’s start with a story. In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus tells this parable about a man who gives his servants talents—bags of gold, essentially (Matthew 25:14-30). Two of them take the money, invest it, risk it, and double what they were given. But the third? He’s scared. He buries his talent in the ground, keeps it safe, and hands it back unchanged. No loss, but no gain either. And the master? He’s not impressed. He calls this servant “wicked” and “lazy.” Harsh, right? But here’s the kicker: the servant’s biggest failure wasn’t losing the money; it was refusing to risk it at all. That’s us sometimes. We’re handed gifts—talents, dreams, opportunities—and we bury them. Why? Because we’re afraid. Afraid of failure, afraid of rejection, afraid of the unknown. But what if the real failure is never trying? What if the regret we carry isn’t about the things we did and messed up, but the things we never dared to do? C.S. Lewis once wrote, “You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.”

But dreams require risk.
Goals require movement.
And movement requires faith—faith that the God who made you didn’t make you to play it safe, but to step out into the wild, beautiful unknown.

The Pull of the Safe and the Siren of Regret

Think about it: what’s the risk you’re avoiding right now? That conversation you need to have but keep putting off? That career change you dream about but won’t pursue? That idea, that passion, that calling that keeps you up at night but feels too big, too scary, too out there? We tell ourselves we’re being wise, cautious, responsible. But sometimes, caution is just fear dressed up in a suit. The Bible doesn’t exactly endorse a life of playing it safe. In Hebrews 11, we get this roll call of faith—people like Abraham, who left everything to go to a land he didn’t know (Hebrews 11:8). Or Moses, who stood up to Pharaoh, risking everything for a people who didn’t even appreciate him (Hebrews 11:24-27). These weren’t people who buried their talents. They stepped out, trusting that God was in the risk, that God was in the leap.

And here’s the thing: they didn’t have guarantees. Abraham didn’t have a map. Moses didn’t have a five-year plan.
They had faith.
Faith that the God who called them would show up. As the poet Rainer Maria Rilke said, “The future enters into us, in order to transform itself in us, long before it happens.” The future is calling you, but you’ve got to step toward it.

The Regret That Haunts

Now, let’s talk about regret. Regret is the ghost of risks not taken. It’s the ache of what could have been. Studies show that people don’t regret their failures as much as they regret their inactions. Bronnie Ware, a palliative care nurse, wrote in her book The Top Five Regrets of the Dying that one of the most common regrets she heard was this: “I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.” Yikes! That hits doesn’t it?

Regret is what happens when we let fear win. When we choose safety over faith. When we bury our talents instead of risking them. And the tragedy? We don’t just rob ourselves; we rob the world. Your gifts, your voice, your story—they’re not just for you. They’re for others. For the people who need what only you can give. As Jesus said, “You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden” (Matthew 5:14). But a light that’s buried? It doesn’t shine.

Stepping Out in Faith

So, what do we do? How do we take the risk? How do we step out when our knees are shaking and our palms are sweaty? First, we remember that faith isn’t the absence of fear; it’s the courage to move through it. As Mark Twain put it, “Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—not absence of fear.” Faith is saying, I’m scared, but I’m going anyway.

Second, we trust that God is in the risk. The Psalms tell us, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters” (Psalm 23:1-2). But here’s the part we forget: the shepherd also leads us through the valley of the shadow of death. Faith doesn’t mean we avoid the valley; it means we trust the shepherd to guide us through it.Finally, we start small. You don’t have to quit your job and move to Timbuktu tomorrow. Take a step. Write the first page of that book. Have that hard conversation. Sign up for that class. Risk something. Because the alternative—staying stuck, staying safe—leads to a life half-lived. And you were made for more than that.

The Invitation

So here’s the invitation: don’t let regret write your story.
Don’t let fear bury your talents. Step out. Risk. Trust.
The God who made you is the God who calls you, and He’s not calling you to a life of safety but to a life of faith.
As the great theologian Frederick Buechner said, “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” But you’ll never find that place if you don’t take the risk.

What’s the risk you need to take today? What’s the leap your soul is begging you to make? Don’t wait for the perfect moment, because perfect moments don’t come. Step out in faith, and let the future unfold. Because the only thing worse than failing is never trying at all.

So, what’s it gonna be? Will you bury your talent, or will you risk it? The choice is yours, but the world is waiting for your light.

Grace & Peace,
Pastor Scott.