no ones listening.

“This is why Katie feels like no one listens to her,” Husband politely explained as steam came out of my ears.

I had answered the question no less than 5 times in an hour – and the person that was asking the question and wasn’t listening was sitting close enough to touch for every single answer.

And Husband had heard me chant, “This is why I feel like no one listens to me!” at least 6.7 million times in recent weeks and was picking up on what made me feel that way.

Simply put: I feel that way WHEN NO ONE LISTENS TO ME.

When I have to repeat myself half a dozen times.

When I have to answer the same question ad nauseam because no one listened to my answer the first time.

Does it sound like I’m ranting? I’m sorry – I am. But I’m going somewhere, promise.

Moses. Sweet, patient Moses.

I feel like I know his story better than most. It is an account I read over and over because I find myself relating to Moses more often than not. In the midst of the familiar details – the Burning Bush, the “Let my people go!” and the plagues and the Red Seas parting – one detail really struck me recently though, a detail I had never noticed before.

In Exodus 3 Moses encounters a Burning Bush and the Lord lays out for Moses what exactly He has planned for him to do.

“Now come, and I will send you to Pharaoh so that you may bring My people, the sons of Israel, out of Egypt.” (Verse 10)

Moses responds like any sane person would – a mess of nerves and uncertainty.

So God gives Moses a pep talk in Exodus 4. He lays out a plan for Moses. He tells him what to say and then gives him signs to show them that Pharaoh might believe him. And then in verse 8 and 9, God says this: “If they will not listen to you or believe you when they are shown the first thing, they may believe when this is shown to them. But they might not believe even these two things or listen to what you say.”

They might not believe you or listen to you, even then.

It had never occurred to me that beating my head against a brick wall might be a God-ordained process. But I think that is what God is telling Moses. “Say it, say it again. Show them. Show them again. Say it, say it again. Go back and say it again… And they still aren’t going to listen to you. Say it again, anyway.”

How many times does Moses have to tell Pharaoh? At least 10.

My tendency is to stop. To say it once, and then give up. I feel unheard, or I actually am unheard, or not even listened too, but I tried, so I call it a day.

I think I must have said it wrong, or maybe wasn’t supposed to say it at all. I must have misunderstood or misspoke or just gone and ruined the whole thing because saying it more than once couldn’t possibly be the plan.

Parenting is the obvious example of saying something over and over and over and over. But it really, it happens in all my relationships. Marriage. Friendships. Discipleship. I said it once, wasn’t once enough?

I think Moses is showing me that maybe it isn’t. That saying it over and over and over and over might be exactly what the Lord is asking of me. Saying it and then showing them, and then saying it again, and then coming back and saying it again – might be just what the Lord would have me to do.

It occurs to me that The Lord did not call Moses to get a response out of Pharaoh. He did not make Pharaoh Moses’s responsibility. He made Moses’ responsibility obedience. To say it, to say it again, to say it again and to keep saying it until the Lord said “enough.”

Moses was not called to Pharaoh’s response. Moses was called to use His words like the Lord told him too.

And you know, the fact that no one listening really is not my problem. My only concern should be my obedience to what the Lord has asked me to say and how He has asked me to say it. And saying it a million times or just once, that might not be my concern either.

After all, if Moses has taught me anything today, it’s that beating my head against a brick wall just might be a God ordained process.


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hockey fights and my whole heart.

It was a Saturday night. And Mike Fisher and Tom Wilson got into a fight. And I didn’t see it.

If you’ve ever had a wake up call during a hockey game that you weren’t watching because Tom Wilson was pummeling Mr. Carrie Underwood, you and I are probably cut from the same cloth. If you’re dumbfounded and a bit appalled by what I’m saying, you’re probably cut from saner material. Please bear with me anyway.

(Also. Those are hockey players. Just in case you were that lost. Go Caps.)

You know when Peter walks on water?

24 Meanwhile, the disciples were in trouble far away from land, for a strong wind had risen, and they were fighting heavy waves. 25 About three o’clock in the morning[a] Jesus came toward them, walking on the water. 26 When the disciples saw him walking on the water, they were terrified. In their fear, they cried out, “It’s a ghost!”

27 But Jesus spoke to them at once. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Take courage. I am here![b]”

28 Then Peter called to him, “Lord, if it’s really you, tell me to come to you, walking on the water.”

29 “Yes, come,” Jesus said.

So Peter went over the side of the boat and walked on the water toward Jesus.30 But when he saw the strong[c] wind and the waves, he was terrified and began to sink. “Save me, Lord!” he shouted.

31 Jesus immediately reached out and grabbed him. “You have so little faith,”Jesus said. “Why did you doubt me?”

32 When they climbed back into the boat, the wind stopped. 33 Then the disciples worshiped him. “You really are the Son of God!” they exclaimed. (Matthew 14)

Do you ever wonder about the other disciples? I often wonder if it ever hit them square between the eyes that while Peter walked on water, they sat in a boat? That they were spectators to a miracle, not participants?

And it occurs to me that the difference between Peter and the rest of them is that one of them got out of the boat and the others simply did not.

At some point recently, I think I stopped participating. I was content in the boat, so to speak. I watched others walk on water and it didn’t even occur to me that I was choosing not to participate.

(If you are wondering, “HOW DOES THIS RELATE TO A HOCKEY FIGHT?” Bless your heart. And mine.)

Here is the thing. I love hockey. I mean, I LOVE hockey. Mostly, I love the Washington Capitals. I used to go to Caps games quite a lot. And if I wasn’t there, I would watch it on TV. But now I can get text updates, and watch the highlights on my phone later, and obsessively reload the Sportacular app, follow along on Instagram, and follow along on Twitter, so it’s almost like it doesn’t matter if I’m actually watching the game or not. I can know what happens whether I watched or not.

While this connection might not be apparent to most people, as I sat there not watching the Caps play the Predators, I began to feel like not watching the game was an overarching theme in my recent life. Sitting sideline to my passions. Removing myself from the things I love. Some times so far removed, I wasn’t even watching them.

I wouldn’t have been one of the disciples in the boat watching it play out, I’d be a disciple at home who heard the story second hand later.

I wasn’t playing the game. I wasn’t even watching the game. I was so far removed from participating that I couldn’t even be called a “bystander”.

I don’t want to be a hockey fight, that’s not my point at all.

My point is that I don’t want to be so content to a be a bystander to my own passions that I miss engaging in my own passions.

Am I making any sense at all?

I believe so strongly that the Lord designed us with purpose and passion and that designed us to engage. To get out of the boat, to play the game, to watch it all unfold and stand awe struck by what He is unfolding.

Life is hard. The feels are hard. And if you get knocked one too many times it can be easier to stand on the shore or stay in the boat and consider where you’re at close enough to the action – no need to risk going all in. No need to risk the sinking. No need to risk other’s remembering the miracle you were a part of, by the moment you failed.

Peter sort of gets a bad rap for the way the whole day plays out. Because he begins to sink. And while we might usually refer to the account as, “Peter walks on water”, the whole ordeal is more noted for when he began to sink.

But you know what pierces me to my core? 12 guys in a boat, only one of them walked on water.

I’m pretty sure I’d rather be the guy who got to walk on water than any one of the 11 guys that never even got out of the boat.

This plays out in some obvious ways.

“Why do I not participate in that ministry anymore?” “How come I don’t spend time with this person anymore?” Obvious things we bow out of, things we stop participating in and we don’t exactly know why, but if we had to pin a reason down, it’d probably start and end with fear.

But other ways are more subtle.

I spoke at a handful of events this Christmas season. It was such an honor. Such an honor.

One event in particular I really felt like I threw my heart and soul into. So I was a bit perplexed when, after I shared my message, a trusted friend said, “That was great. Beautiful. But I’m left wondering how all that hit your heart.”

As I turned her question over and over and over, I realized I had fooled myself into thinking if I engaged, if I got into the boat, but left my heart on the shore, that I had engaged enough. That somehow the part I was holding back didn’t matter.

I can’t help but wonder if that is the difference between Peter and the other 11 guys that showed up that day. Only one guy went all in with his whole heart.

I don’t want to be content half-in. I want to be all in. Running head-strong and heart-full off the shore, out of boats and across the impossible in order to be closer to my Savior.

All in. With my whole heart.

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just keep staying.

I woke up to the sound of someone laying on their horn. Outside my window. And seeing as I don’t live in Times Square, this is unusual. I sprang to the window thinking something MUST be wrong, only to find a Cadillac driving about -5 miles an hour up and down my street laying on their horn.

We had not yet reached 7am.

Up and down. Back and forth, ’round and ’round and ’round the small courtyard. Laying . On. The. Horn.

Not yet 7am.

I curled back in bed and pounded my fist against my forehead. Over and over and over.

It was almost (ALMOST) laughable. Because it was the perfect summary of the last few weeks.

The world has been yelling. Horns have been blaring. Life has been at a fever pitch. Louder than I can handle. Coming at me from all directions. Like megaphones blasting in my direction as I’ve sat there and wondering if all the yelling people can’t hear the others yelling their stories my direction as well.

And as the world has yelled, I felt the Lord grow silent. There are seasons He has so much to say I can’t take it all in, but in this season He’s been all but silent and yesterday I found myself praying the lyrics from a popular song.

Say something I’m giving up on you.”

Because as the world yelled, my Lord grew quiet. And my heart grew a little frantic, for Him to say something, ANYTHING.

To speak sense or peace into the madness. To utter anything letting me know that in the fever pitch, His still quiet presence was there.

Because I wasn’t actually giving up on Him, but my heart and mind were falling into the fever pitch rhythm. And I was frantic for Him.


Do you know what I’m saying? Have you felt the fever pitch? Have you stuck your fingers in your ears trying to drown out the scream of the world so that you can hear Him, only to not hear anything?

Not doubting that He’s there, but if He’s not going to use His voice to speak peace into existence, or to tell the storm to stop its raging then you wonder what you’re waiting on at all.

Like maybe the white roar is better than the nothing? And in the midst of the roar, the quiet almost seemed terrifying, and yet so completely and utterly necessary.

So we set aside a week for quiet and set-apartness and in the midst of that everything converged on itself and the long stretch of quiet turned into a tightly wound holler and I didn’t know if I should duck and cover or up and run.

Fight. Or flight.

They always say if you don’t make a choice, you’ve still made a decision, and I understood that acutely as I stayed. I might not be fighting, and I certainly wasn’t flight-ing, but I was staying.

At the end of the day where no choice was made but a decision was reached some clouds parted, literally and figuratively, and as the sun was setting this happened.


And in that moment it was like there was space to breathe again, as I sensed His whisper, “Just keep staying.”

The “say something” I had been waiting for.

Just. Keep. Staying.

In her book No Other Gods, Kelly Minter makes this great analogy about leaving a Tennessee Titans game mid game because they were losing so terribly. Only to find out once she was home the Titans had made the most amazing comeback, and in not staying, she missed it. Her analogy is fantastic and over the course of a few paragraphs, she says this: “…they just stayed. And sometimes that is all that is required…a lot can be said for simply hanging in there… I am telling you straight up—stay. When you’re too weary and disillusioned to do anything else, keep staying.” (pp. 144-145)

Keep staying.

And the Bible is jam packed with those stories, the waiting seasons, the holding patterns. Like Joshua at Gilgal before Jericho. Moses. The Israelites. Elijah waiting for the Lord to speak on the mountain.

The waiting game. The “say something” game.

And the truth is, the answer might be as simple and as complicated and as grace-filled and as loud and as quiet as “Just keep staying.

“Let all that I am wait quietly before God, for my hope is in Him.” Psalm 62:5 

With Love,


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something to do.

Years ago I worked for CareNet, a pro-life organization. I mainly worked their warehouse filling orders requesting literature for crisis pregnancy centers across North America. And while statistically I can’t back this, the literature I remember being most requested and counting and stocking and fulfilling orders for, was the literature on how to heal from abortion. Because no one says it hurts – your heart, soul, mind – but my experience in that warehouse tells me that it does.

One year, I worked CareNet’s conference and banquet and was seated next to a woman who had made national headlines the year prior when she showed up at presidential-candidate John Kerry’s rally with a banner reading “My abortion hurt me”. Exactly what transpired next is still unclear, but the facts are that one of Kerry’s aids walked up to this lady’s seat in this rally and tore up her poster and threw it in the trash.

I’ll never forget the lady’s face as she shared her story. And that her heart seemed to be yelling, “I came with my story, because I wanted these women to know the value of their story.”

I’m disgusted by the news and videos coming out about Planned Parenthood, but airing my views here or getting into a debate online does nothing. Because truthfully, by the time there are body parts to harvest, we are so far past the heart of the issue that we are trying to manage consequences instead of ministering to the heart of the crisis.

But I concerned that my generation, and maybe even everyone involved in this social media driven society, equates posting on social media, with social action.

But as I’ve prayed and pondered, I know unequivocally the answer is not to post on social media or write something moving, but rather to do something. And yes, we could write to our congressmen or help women be more informed or pay for more ultrasound machines in crisis pregnancy centers and abortion clinics and those are really good, really worthwhile things. But I keep going back to the heart of the issue, and how do we address the heart of this sort instead of trying to manage the consequences.

I think girls, and women need to know their value. The value of their story.

I have found myself wondering who has abortions.

“- 51% of U.S. women obtaining abortions are younger than 25; women aged 20-24 obtain 33% of all U.S. abortions, and teenagers obtain 18% (AGI).
– In 2011, adolescents under 15 years obtained .04% of all abortions, but had the highest abortion ratio, 817 abortions for every 1,000 live births (CDC).
– Black women were 3.7 times more likely to have an abortion in 2011 than non-Hispanic white women (CDC).
– The abortion rate of non-metropolitan women is about half that of women who live in metropolitan counties (NAF).
– 37% of women obtaining abortions identify themselves as Protestant, and 28% identify themselves as Catholic (AGI).
– On average, women give at least 3 reasons for choosing abortion: 3/4 say that having a baby would interfere with work, school or other responsibilities; about 3/4 say they cannot afford a child; and 1/2 say they do not want to be a single parent or are having problems with their husband or partner (AGI).”

It’s the woman pushing the swing next to you at the park. The woman sitting next to you in church. The scared high school girl who saw no other out. The woman you brush shoulders with on the metro. The woman who checked out of the grocery store in front of you.

It’s any woman who hasn’t been told loudly enough or boldly enough that woven into the tapestry of her life is value and purpose. That she is strong enough to make the hard choice. That she was made for more for throwing out the inconvenient parts of their story. That because she felt tossed aside doesn’t mean she needs to toss aside the parts she is fearful she can’t handle. That she isn’t alone. And that if she really is alone, there are people who will come alongside her.

And we need to tell them long before they are checking a box on a form in an abortion clinic – because at that point you’re working backwards to manage the consequences of a person already hurt.

They need to know from day one that the story they write with their lives matters because they matter. That they are precious and cherished because God says so. But not only are they precious and cherished, but any child they create is precious as well. And that child is worth more than a donation to science.

So what can we do? How can we reach these women before they are in crisis?
– Help tutor underserved groups. Serve those kids that spend the afternoons alone that need to know their lives matter and the choices they make matter.
– Volunteer at your local crisis pregnancy center
– Invite the mom pushing the kid on the swing next to yours to MOPs. Or to bible study. Or to play group.
– Volunteer with your youth group, volunteer with awanas, run a small group for students, teach Sunday school, help with VBS.
– Sign up to be a foster parent or pursue adoption. Women faced with the unimaginable need to know there are healthy alternatives and one of the most beautiful parts of their story can be the child they knew they could love the best by letting someone else be their parent.
– Come volunteer with me at Little Women this year. Our entire year is devoted to teaching girls bible verses that speak to their God-given value. We want them to know that they are a treasure because God says so, and so is any and every child they may ever have.

Between 1985 and 2004, the number of people in the United States who said they had no one to discuss significant matters with tripled to 25%. YOU can be the person speaking into the lonely places. If you don’t want the first person they find to talk with to be the lady handing them papers at Planned Parenthood, then find a way to be the listening ear and gentle voice in their life long before then.

Reach them with the good news that the Lord designed them with purpose and value so that if they are ever faced with a hard choice they know without hesitation the answer is that they were made for more – and so was their unborn child.

I know how you feel – it’s how I feel too. But now, please, let’s go find something to DO.

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trial by fire.

I remember sitting with a group of my peers in college and discussing the Parable of the Wise and the Foolish Builder in Matthew 7. The person that builds on bedrock, stands firm in the storm. The person that builds on sand, collapses with a mighty crash.

Moral of the story: Be wise. Build on bedrock.

I remember the language they used to describe the “glory” of building on bedrock and I sort of wondered if we were reading the same story.

I understand that there is glory associated with being wise surviving the storm. I get the theology. The analogy is not lost on me. But it seems to me it’d be easier to collapse under the weight of the storm, and let it swirl over you, then it would be to remain standing and let the storm beat against you.

Collapsing seems to be the easier option.

At least it’s been the easier option while the storms have raged in my life.

Tap out. Hide in a heap. Let the storm do it’s thing while I hide.

Is anyone with me?

I walked into a firestorm not too long ago. Unknowingly. It kind of snuck up on me. But the storm had been brewing for a while. I sat there as someone screamed, yelled, pointed, belittled and humiliated me – a literal and figurative firestorm – and I wondered how I might go about collapsing. If there was a trap door. If I could weasel my way out and pretend it never happened.

I remember thinking to myself, “This isn’t going to kill you.”

While at the same time kind of wishing it would.

Or at least that the story would end with me running away and joining the circus and never having to face another human ever again.

I love the story in Daniel 3 of the fiery furnace. The line: our God can save us, BUT EVEN IF HE DOESN’T has always made my heart skip a beat. But it wasn’t until I was working through Beth Moore’s Daniel study that she pointed something out, I had never thought of.

As Shadrack Meshack and Abednego were standing before Nebuchadnezzar and they made their declaration “Our God can save us!” they probably did not think walking into the burning flames was the way they’d be saved. They probably reasoned that God could turn the furnace off, or they would just die and go to glory – but surviving the fire itself was probably not what they thought would happen.

Which IS SO ME.

I believe God can save, deliver, redeem. But I don’t often (Read: PROBABLY NEVER EVER IN MY EXISTENCE) think that His method of deliverance is through the fire. That it might be through the trial I will be redeemed. That it is the firestorm that could ultimately save me.

While fires in my life has roared I’ve wondered if God has abandoned me. Or if He has totally forgotten about me. Or wondering if He is trying to kill me.

In the midst of life’s fires I don’t think I’ve ever rationalized that God is delivering me by way the fire – burning off what I don’t need because not only is He with me there, but He has more life for me on the other side.

“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.”

Isaiah 43:2

I suppose the obvious thing – that I was choosing to overlook – about the builder and the bedrock, is that there is more for us on the other side of the storm. Caving may be an easy out, but the Lord always has so much more for us than just surviving.

The fire is not to consume you, but refine you. Stand strong.

He has more for you on the other side.



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what no one wants to hear.

I’ve been diving into the life of Daniel.

You know. The fiery furnace. The lion’s den. The hand writing on the wall.

I feel like the Lord is opening my eyes to something new with each sentence. But the hand writing on the wall takes the cake.

Please note I am not writing “handwriting” but the HAND that was WRITING. On a wall.

I mean, for the love. Talk about making a scene.

Belshazzar is now King and he throws a big shindig for 1,000 of his besties and as everyone is feasting. And then a hand is writing on the wall and the King is shaking in his boots.

You can read all about it Daniel 5. The details about the background of this scenario are especially important. A brief synopsis is that Belshazzar calls for goblets made of precious metals to be brought for him and his party to drink from. So they are drinking and having a good time and toasting their gods. BUT, the goblets had been taken from the Temple in Jerusalem years before.

Word to the wise, stealing from God’s house doesn’t end well.

But this is just another poor decision in a long saga of Belshazzar’s poor decisions. So the Lord intervenes by sending a hand to write on the wall and stop Belshazzar dead in his tracks. But, no one knows what the writing says.

So Daniel comes in to set the record straight and this is the part that is arresting to me.

“This is the message that was written: Mene, mene, tekel, and Parsin. This is what these words mean: Mene means ‘numbered’—God has numbered the days of your reign and has brought it to an end. Tekel means ‘weighed’—you have been weighed on the balances and have not measured up. Parsin[d] means ‘divided’—your kingdom has been divided and given to the Medes and Persians.” Then at Belshazzar’s command, Daniel was dressed in purple robes, a gold chain was hung around his neck, and he was proclaimed the third highest ruler in the kingdom. That very night Belshazzar, the Babylonian king, was killed.” (Daniel 5:25-30)

Daniel knows.

He looks at the writing, and knows explicitly what the Lord is communicating.

He knows that Belshazzar has brought him in to explain what the Lord is saying. But Daniel also knows the message of the Lord is exactly what Belshazzar and his party do not want to hear. Belshazzar’s night is about to take a turn for the worst. (Literally, the worst. Like, being killed.)

How do you say what no one wants to hear? How did Daniel muster up the courage to say the worst thing he could possibly say in that moment?

Maybe it’s just my people pleasing personality, but isn’t it easier to stand in the corner twiddling my thumbs and thinking “Man. This guy has it COMING!” then to speak up?

I prefer the passive, “Nice party?!” with a sweet smile then sharing, “You’d been weighed, measured, and found wanting. This party is about to go south real fast.  And um, yeah. You’re reign is going to end abruptly. So is your life. Enjoy dessert!”

I like to take the chicken route.

It’s hard to share God’s honest truth when heads are on the line (even if it’s someone else’s.) Or when hearts are on the line.  Or when feelings are on the line. Or when a friendship is on the line.

I’m challenged by Daniel’s courage. To say when he knew was true when it was undoubtedly the worst possible news. To be courageous for the sake of the Lord’s name and fame when heads were about to roll.

I want to be a woman of courage. Who says the hard things. When they need to be said, how they need to be said – because the Lord said so.


With Love,


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the genius of no answer.

It occurred to me recently that one of the wisest women I know, rarely answers my questions.

Let me back up.

I was part of miscommunication yesterday. I cannot stand miscommunication. CAN NOT STAND. It keeps me up at night. It makes me queasy and nauseous and downright sick.

I am borderline obsessive about what is said and how it is said – and what is left unsaid and how it is left unsaid. I turn words over and over and over and analyze them until they no longer sound like words.

I am prayerfully cautious of who I go to for advice, and I try to steer clear of offering advice – unless I am explicitly asked.

And more than any of that, I get all tied up in knots when I am in a situation where I am accountable for someone else’s words.

Scripture talks about the value of words in no uncertain terms.

“For by your words you will be justified and by your words you will condemned.” Matthew 12:37

So back to the wisest lady I know.

I often go to her when I am mulling something over in my heart. When I need someone to speak truth into my situation – someone to point me in a Godly direction – she is my go-to.

But I realized after my most recent time of asking her for her hard-earned, God-honoring wisdom, that she had talked it through with me, but had not answered me. She listened carefully, and shared some bits of pieces of her experience, pointed out some scripture, shared how she had prayed through a similar situation.

But. She had not said “This is what to do…”

Yet I left knowing exactly what to do.

As I replayed the situation over and over and over again, I realized the genius of her no-answer: She pointed me to Christ, but did not answer my question. She left a void, and in the void, the Lord gave me my answer.

The Lord alone could provide the perfect answer to my dilemma. He alone could offer the solution perfectly tailored to my circumstances.

As I was processing yesterdays miscommunication and my Go-To Woman of Wisdom, I could not help but wonder if our ability to talk it out is robbing us of our ability to work it out. Is the fact that I can talk it out til I am blue in the face, making me blind to the fact that I could walk it out with Him.

I can’t help but wonder if the fact that we can chat about it, text about it, email about it, tweet about it, ask for opinions on Facebook, G Chat about it, is robbing us of the direct text with the One who holds the answer are looking for.

When I ask a million people before, during or after I have asked the Lord, am I not clouding His voice? Am I not mudding the waters?

Please, please please, know I so deeply respect and admire and believe there is a place for asking for wisdom, and for taking cold, hard advice from others. Please know that I am a firm believer in taking God-honoring wisdom and running with it.

But after my conversation with the wisest lady I know, I’m trying to practice the art of pointing to the Lord.

I’m trying not to jump in and give and answer, or reply with what my gut says, or even reply with what I’ve learned to be true. I am trying to point to the One who is True, so that He can answer in the way only He can.

I’m trying to run to Him, before I run to anyone else.

Or crawl to Him, before crawling to anyone else, as the case may be.

And when someone asks me what I have to say, I’m trying to give Him the space to answer first.



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