I am standing at the Western Wall in Israel with my right hand pressed against the ancient stone and my left hand holding a small plastic baggie filled with prayers I carried from Bakersfield, California. Marty took this photo without me knowing it. I was in tears — praying for her, praying for friends, feeling the weight of a place saturated with prayer.

I never thought I would write about abide.

I thought I was carrying prayers to a wall.

God was teaching me how to remain.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit — for continuing to move me, grow me, correct me, and show me new understandings I could not have reached on my own. Thank You for not just teaching me about abiding, but patiently leading me into it.

To my wife, Marty — for walking this Journey with me, abiding with me, taking up the sword beside me, and carrying the torch together. When one of us grows weary, the other lifts it. Under Christ we are not two separate flames trying to survive. We are one body, one yoke, one covenant, one shared calling.

To Rocky Fleming, Influencers, and the men who helped shape this path — for the Holy Spirit-inspired Journey material that has changed the course of so many lives. To Rocky, a man of God, whose surrendered life has helped many of us see that the greatest influence is not found in being seen, but in becoming yielded enough for Christ to be seen through us. To Les Pearsey, Bryan Craig, David Dobbs, and the men who have walked with me, challenged me, sharpened me, and helped me understand what an abiding life can become.

To the readers, the seekers, and the men still standing near the edge — especially those who are tired, unsure, or not yet certain what abiding really looks like. Be assured of this: when you find Him there, you will know. And when you truly begin to abide, your life will not stay the same.

SCRIPTURE

“Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in Me.” — John 15:4 (NKJV)

“I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit; for without Me you can do nothing.” — John 15:5 (NKJV)

“He must increase, but I must decrease.” — John 3:30 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

I know there are books and teachings and sermons on the word abide.

This is not one of those.

This is not me trying to explain the word from a distance.

This is me trying to tell you what it has come to mean after sixty-seven years of living, resisting, surrendering, writing, praying, walking with my wife, guiding men — and learning that Jesus was never asking me to visit Him.

He was calling me to remain.

Truth is, I never thought I would write much of anything.

I was not the kid in school imagining English would become some sacred tool in my life. I had no long, formal training in language. I did not come into this with a writer’s background.

And yet here I am.

Writing.

Reflecting.

Sitting with the Word of God and asking Him where it covers me. Where it corrects me. Where it explains what I have lived.

Somewhere along the way, writing became more than writing.

It became therapy.

It became prayer.

It became one of the places God taught me to abide.

Not perform.

Not impress.

Not make myself visible.

Just stay close enough to listen.

THE STORY

In 2015, Marty and I traveled to Israel.

That trip changed something in me.

I had read Scripture. I believed Scripture. I had heard it taught for years. But walking the Holy Land brought something alive in me I cannot fully explain.

It was not that God became more real there.

God was already real.

But the Word took on ground. Dust. Stone. Footsteps. History.

I walked places Jesus walked.

I stood in places where prayer had soaked the stones for generations.

And one of those places was the Western Wall.

In the photo, my right hand is pressed against the ancient stone.

My left hand is holding a small plastic baggie filled with rolled-up prayers I had carried all the way from Bakersfield, California.

Names. Friends. Burdens. Hopes.

People had trusted me with those prayers, and I carried them there.

A rabbi was beside me. Around me, men were praying with a depth and devotion that moved me to the core. The women had their own side of the Wall, and somewhere nearby Marty was there too.

I remember thinking about her.

Praying for her.

Wondering where she was and what she was experiencing.

What I did not know in that moment was that she was the one taking the picture.

I was in tears.

Not a few quiet tears I could hide.

Real tears.

I felt the weight of such enormous prayer around me. As if the heaviness of the world had gathered into that one place. So many people praying. So many lives. So many whispered cries pressed into stone.

I felt gratitude.

I felt unworthy.

I felt small.

Not worthless.

Small.

There is a difference.

Worthless forgets who God made you to be.

Small remembers who God is.

Standing there with my hand on that Wall and those prayers in my other hand, I felt the magnitude of worship, history, longing, faith, and need all at once.

One by one, I placed those prayers into the Wall.

One by one, I lifted those people to God.

I did not have fancy words.

I did not need them.

I just carried them there.

THE MOMENT

Looking back now, I think God was teaching me something about abiding before I had language for it.

Abiding is not just standing close to God for yourself.

It is becoming the kind of man who carries others into His presence.

That moment was in 2015.

Now it is 2026.

Around the same time of year, I look back at that photo and it still brings tears to my eyes.

Because I can see more now than I could see then.

I can see that many of those prayers were answered in ways beyond what I could have imagined.

Not always exactly the way we would have written the story.

God is too holy and too wise to be reduced to our preferred outcomes.

But He answered.

He moved.

He covered.

He carried.

And in some places, He did far beyond what I thought to ask.

But the deepest answer was not what happened to the prayers in that bag.

The deepest answer was what happened to me.

I did not just leave prayers in that Wall.

I left a version of myself there too.

THE TURN

Somewhere in that season, something settled in me.

I had spent much of my life accepting and objecting.

Accepting certain parts of God.

Objecting to others.

Accepting His comfort. Objecting to His authority.

Accepting His help. Objecting to His timing.

Accepting His forgiveness. Objecting to the surrender He was asking of me.

But I cannot object to the Word of God anymore.

I have seen too much.

I have lived through too much.

I have walked too close to the places where Jesus walked to treat His Word like theory.

At some point, a man has to decide whether Jesus is an addition to his life or the authority over it.

That is where abiding begins.

For me, abiding has become very simple.

Not easy.

Simple.

It is time. It is proximity. It is remaining.

It is putting Jesus before everything and into everything.

It is waking up grateful that I am still here after all I have been through.

It is opening the Word not just to read it, but to let it read me.

It is praying while I am driving.

It is asking God what He is showing me in the middle of something that frustrates me.

It is standing at the foot of the Cross in my heart — not once in a while, but as the posture of my life.

And yes, I still slip.

There are still moments when my mind drifts.

There are still times when I put Him on the back burner longer than I should.

But not like before.

Not with the same distance.

Not with the same resistance.

The old bridge has been burned.

I crossed the Bridge, and by the grace of God, I do not want a bridge back to the old man.

That does not mean I am finished.

It means I know where home is.

THE DRIFT

The drift says you can love Jesus and still keep one hand on the old life.

The drift says you can follow Him closely enough to be comforted, but not closely enough to be changed.

The drift says you can visit the Word when you need something, then return to your own reasoning when life gets loud.

The drift says a man should be strong enough to carry it all himself.

The drift says surrender is weakness.

The drift says abiding is for softer men, slower men, quieter men.

The drift says visibility is proof of value.

The drift says if nobody sees it, honors it, applauds it, or names it, then it must not matter.

That is a lie.

Abiding is not weakness.

Abiding is a man finally coming under the right authority.

It is a man laying down the illusion that he can carry what only Christ was meant to carry.

It is a man learning that leadership without surrender becomes pressure.

Strength without intimacy becomes performance.

Prayer without obedience becomes noise.

Influence without abiding becomes self dressed up in spiritual language.

And visibility without surrender can quietly become another altar.

I know that ground.

I stood on it longer than I care to admit.

There is something in a man that wants to be seen.

Recognized.

Affirmed.

Respected.

Applauded.

And some of that desire is understandable. We all want our lives to matter. We all want to know that what we have carried, built, endured, and poured out was not wasted.

But the abiding life begins correcting even that.

Because Jesus does not invite a man into intimacy so the man can become impressive.

He invites a man into intimacy so the man can become surrendered.

And sometimes the most powerful servant in the room is the one who has stopped needing the room to know his name.

I know that hunger. I have felt the pull to be seen, named, and affirmed for what I carried. But the longer I walk with Jesus, the more He keeps showing me that the servant does not need to become the story. Christ does.

That is the version of me Jesus keeps asking me to leave behind.

THE REFLECTION

Much of the language God used to shape this in me came through Rocky Fleming and the Journey material he was Holy Spirit-inspired to write.

Rocky is a man of God, and those materials have changed the course of life for many.

Marty and I are two of them.

That process did not just give us information.

It gave us a path.

A way to understand what Jesus was inviting us into.

Not religious appearance.

Not performance.

Not just being a better version of ourselves.

Intimacy. Self-feeding. Personal abandonment. Absolute trust.

Abiding relationship with Christ.

The Journey helped me see that a man cannot keep living on someone else’s spiritual food forever. At some point, he has to learn how to feed himself from the Word of God.

He has to stop being spoon-fed only on Sundays.

He has to sit down with Scripture.

He has to wrestle.

He has to listen.

He has to ask, Lord, what are You saying to me?

A man who does not know how to feed himself spiritually will eventually grow weak, even if he looks strong everywhere else.

That is one of the great deceptions a man can fall into.

We can appear strong and still be starving.

We can lead businesses, families, ministries, teams, and conversations, and still be spiritually malnourished.

We can know how to provide, protect, fix, build, manage, and push through — and not know how to remain.

And Jesus did not say, produce fruit by trying harder.

He said abide.

Remain. Stay connected. Stay under My authority. Stay in My love. Stay close.

As men, we sometimes miss that target.

We want the plan. We want the assignment. We want the fix. We want the weight room, the strategy board, the next play, the thing we can do with our hands.

But abiding starts before the doing.

It starts in the staying.

It starts in the hidden place.

There Jesus forms a man away from the noise. Away from the applause. Away from the pressure to be seen. Away from the need to have every act noticed and every sacrifice named.

But abiding was never meant to stay locked away in a private room with Jesus.

If it is truly abiding, it does not stay there.

It walks back into the world with us.

It walks into our marriage.

It walks into our family.

It walks into our conversations.

It walks into our work.

It walks into our friendships.

It walks into our ministry.

It walks into our pain.

It walks into our calling.

That is where abiding becomes visible.

Not because we are trying to prove something.

Because Christ is now going with us into everything.

A good friend of mine, Dan Bartel, once shared a concept that has stayed with me.

He said it is like a quarterback in a football game calling out, Hut one. Hut two. Hut three.

But in this picture, the quarterback is Jesus.

And instead of calling hut, He calls:

Abide.

Abide.

Abide.

I love that.

Life is always shifting at the line of scrimmage.

The defense moves. Pressure comes. Noise rises. The clock is running.

The temptation is to panic, force the play, or rely on our own read of the field.

But the call remains the same.

Abide.

Abide.

Abide.

Stay connected before you move.

Stay surrendered before you speak.

Stay under His authority before you try to carry authority.

Stay close before you try to lead others close.

That is not weakness.

That is the strongest place a man can live.

Because a man who abides is not drawing from ego.

Not drawing from fear.

Not drawing from old wounds, old appetites, old proving grounds, or old identities.

He is drawing from Christ.

And when a man draws from Christ, his influence changes.

His marriage feels it.

His children feel it.

His friends feel it.

His words change. His silence changes. His decisions change. His patience changes. His prayers change.

Even his presence changes.

Maybe that is part of what it means to become invisible.

Not because your life does not matter.

Because it has finally stopped trying to be the main thing.

Because the applause no longer governs your obedience.

Because Christ is becoming more visible than you are.

That kind of invisibility is not absence.

It is surrender.

It is the posture John the Baptist lived — less of him, more of Christ.

It is a man who no longer needs to be the headline because he has finally found the King.

It is a servant who can walk into the room, carry the burden, pray the prayer, speak the truth, wash the feet, make the call, show up again — and never need to make himself the story.

That is not a small life.

That may be the largest life a man can live.

And that is one of the things I have seen through the Journey groups over the years.

When one man truly begins to abide, it does not stop with him.

Marty is helping lead women through that same process. Rocky, even in the later years of his life, still flies across the country to sit with women and men, pouring into lives that are still being shaped by the Journey.

That alone says something about the abiding life.

It keeps giving.

It keeps showing up.

It keeps carrying the torch.

And there is a picture I keep coming back to.

Picture a man clipping a carabiner to a cord.

In this picture, the cord is Christ.

That moment — when the carabiner closes around the cord — is the moment a man stops trying to live near Jesus and starts living connected to Him.

Then he carries Jesus into the next place.

His marriage.

His kitchen table.

His drive home.

His conversation with another man who is hurting.

And in that place, another man clips in to the same cord.

Then he carries Jesus into the next place he goes.

And another connection forms.

Before long, what looked like one man’s private walk with Christ becomes a web of abiding influence.

One man abides.

A wife feels it.

A son watches.

A daughter remembers.

A friend gets carried.

A stranger gets reached.

A prayer gets placed in a Wall.

And maybe that web is not only there to show who influenced whom.

Maybe it is also there to catch a man when he falls.

A web of abiding under God’s grace.

Held by the hands of His mercy.

Covered by His love.

That is abiding love.

Not sentimental love.

Not soft religious language.

Not words we say because they sound spiritual.

Abiding love is covenant love.

It stays.

It remains.

It keeps showing up.

It carries names in a bag from Bakersfield to Jerusalem.

It prays with tears against ancient stone.

It walks back home and keeps praying when the photo is over.

It sits with the Word.

It leads men.

It honors a wife.

It changes a family.

It burns the bridge back to the old life.

It keeps saying yes to Jesus when the old self wants an exit.

And slowly, if we let Him, Jesus makes us less obsessed with being seen and more willing to be sent.

Less hungry for applause and more hungry for obedience.

Less controlled by affirmation and more anchored in His affection.

Less interested in being impressive and more willing to be faithful.

There are many ways to explain the word abide.

But for me, at sixty-seven years old — after all these miles, all these prayers, all these failures, all these rescues, and all this mercy — I think I would say it this way:

Abiding is learning to live so close to Jesus that leaving Him no longer feels like an option.

Not because I am strong.

Because He is home.

WALKAWAY LINE

Abiding is not becoming invisible because you do not matter; it is remaining so close to Jesus that He becomes what others see.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

Where is Jesus asking you to become less visible so He can become more visible through you?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Teach me to abide.

Not as a concept. Not as a word I admire. Not as something I teach, quote, or write about from a safe distance.

Teach me to remain in You when life gets loud.

Teach me to stay close when my flesh wants control.

Teach me to listen before I move, surrender before I speak, and trust before I try to fix what only You can carry.

Teach me to stop chasing the places where I am seen, and help me become faithful in the places where only You see.

Make me less hungry for applause and more hungry for obedience.

Make me content to grow smaller, so that You grow clearer through my life.

Thank You for the prayers You allowed me to carry.

Thank You for the people You placed in my life.

Thank You for Marty, for the Journey, for the men and women who have walked beside us, and for every quiet place where You have taught me that Your presence is not something to visit.

It is where I am meant to live.

For the one reading this who is still looking, still uncertain, still standing near the edge — let them see that You are not calling them into religious performance.

You are calling them home.

Let them know that when they find You there, they will know.

And once they truly begin to abide, nothing will ever be the same.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

I took this in an aspen grove, late in the season, the light coming in low and gold. From where I stood, it looked like a thousand separate trees. It was not. An aspen grove is one organism — a single root system pushing up trunk after trunk, each one looking like it stands on its own. I didn’t go looking for a metaphor that morning. I just kept the camera up and paid attention. The metaphor was already there, under my feet.

Many trunks.

One root.

What looks separate above the ground is sharing life beneath it.

And the deepest work is happening where no one can see.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit — for revealing what moves beneath the surface of my own heart. You have been faithful in the quiet places, where clarity forms long before the words arrive.

To my wife, Marty — for your encouragement, your listening heart, and the way you draw out the stories God has placed in me. You have been more than a companion on this journey. You have been a sharpening voice and a steady witness beside me.

To the readers — for walking these Sparks with me. Your willingness to read, reflect, and tell me how the words meet your own walk means more than you know. I love doing this with people who are listening for Him beneath the surface of ordinary life.

SCRIPTURE

“Now before the feast of the Passover, when Jesus knew that His hour had come that He should depart from this world to the Father, having loved His own who were in the world, He loved them to the end.” — John 13:1 (NKJV)

“To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NKJV)

“Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in Me.” — John 15:4 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

Everyone you love will have a last day with you.

Most of the time, neither of you will know it.

It rarely announces itself. No banner. No warning. Just an ordinary conversation that turns out to be the last one — and you only learn it was the last one later, looking back.

I don’t say that to darken the room. I say it because it changes how you stand in the room.

When Jesus knew His hour had come, He didn’t withdraw. He didn’t rush. He washed feet. He spoke peace. He gave thanks at a table where betrayal was already sitting. He loved His own to the end — and He finished what love had to say.

He left no love unfinished.

THE STORY

Recently, I stood in a room honoring people whose season of leadership was ending — and welcoming the ones just stepping in.

New voices. Younger leaders. Callings still forming.

I was there for Marty as she moves deeper into her own ministry calling. I came to stand beside her the way she has stood beside me for years. So I watched the next generation rise, and I felt my own season shifting under me at the same time. My years. My service. The slow turn from carrying things out front to learning how to bless, steady, and stand behind what God is raising up next.

And I watched Marty live out the DNA of Jesus — surrounded by kindred souls, all of them trying to abide, all of them wanting to carry the good news. What started as one invitation years ago was standing right in front of me, grown into a room full of people.

Then my phone went off.

A text. From a friend, responding to a Spark I’d written called Are You Ready. He said he believed I was ready. That he was ready too. And that the clearest sign of readiness he knew was a life marked by gratitude — and that we both lived there now.

I didn’t take it as flattery.

Then it landed deeper. Because this was the man God used to open the door to my deeper walk with Jesus. In 2010 he tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Come with me.” No pressure. No pitch. Just presence. He brought me into a small group of men, and that one invitation reshaped my faith, my marriage, and the way I now recognize the Spirit moving.

He couldn’t have known what it would become. Neither could I.

So when his words came back to me fifteen years later, I didn’t hear flattery. I heard fruit.

Fruit from a seed, I didn’t understand when it was planted. Fruit from a root system I stepped into before I had any language for it. Fruit from the quiet faithfulness of God, working underground long before I knew He was working at all.

THE MOMENT

I looked back across that room.

The ones completing a season and the ones stepping into one. The younger and the older. Marty in the middle of it, living it out. The text still warm in my hand from the man who first said, “Come with me.”

And I realized I wasn’t looking at a collection of separate people.

I was looking at a forest.

What looked like many separate lives was one living thing.

The roots had been growing the whole time.

THE TURN

We tend to read a room like that as motion. People coming and going. One season closing, another opening. Endings on one side, beginnings on the other.

But that’s the surface.

Seasons change above the ground. The life beneath them does not. The endings and the beginnings, the youth and the age, the seed and the fruit — they weren’t separate events happening near each other. They were one work, surfacing in different places at the same time.

That was the convergence. Past merging into future. Gratitude and readiness meeting in a single room.

THE DRIFT

There’s always more time.

You’ll say it later — at a better moment, when it isn’t so emotional, when the words come out cleaner.

The season isn’t really ending. It only looks that way. Nobody’s last day is today.

That voice is patient and reasonable and almost kind. It lets the love stay unspoken because tomorrow feels guaranteed. It tells you the people who rooted you will always be there, so you never have to thank them.

But a man tapped my shoulder fifteen years ago and said, “Come with me.” He didn’t wait for a better moment. He just spoke.

A forest grew out of it.

THE REFLECTION

An aspen doesn’t grow as a single tree. It grows as one life, expressed many times.

That is how the Body of Christ works.

A word spoken in faith. An invitation offered without pressure. A life touched — then another, then another. And one day you look up and you’re standing in the middle of a forest, and you didn’t plant it. Grace kept moving underground while you weren’t watching.

It doesn’t come from striving. It comes from abiding.

The branches look separate. They are not. They are held by the same vine, fed by the same root, alive by the same Spirit. What I saw in that room was not effort. It was abiding, made visible over time — God forming and correcting and sustaining people until they had become a body, equipped and ready for the work He had in mind.

I did not see individuals standing alone.

I saw one thing — held together beneath the surface, and held together in love.

WALKAWAY LINE

Readiness is not measured by the time we think we have left, but by the love we refuse to leave unspoken.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

Who rooted you — and have you said so, while there is still time?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the ones You use to draw us closer to You. For the seeds planted in faith, and the fruit revealed in time.

Teach us to abide and not to strive. Teach us to recognize the roots beneath the surface, and the people You used to plant them.

Give us the courage to speak love before the season passes. Let gratitude mark our lives. Let nothing You have asked us to say stay buried in us.

Root us deeply in Christ, and use our lives to strengthen others.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

I was sitting in the bow of a steelhead boat on the Umpqua River when God started teaching me about water.

Cold air.

Moving water.

The bow pointed forward.

And beneath the surface, something was traveling in a place I could not see at first.

The fish were not everywhere.

They were in the seam.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit — for all You continue to show me, for the quiet corrections I do not always recognize at first, and for faithfully helping me remain in the seam when the currents of life try to pull me somewhere else.

To Jesus — for being the Living Water that does not leave us circling in stagnant places.

To the men of God I was fishing with — walking beside you has changed my life. What we shared on that river was more than a trip. It was fellowship. Brotherhood. Iron sharpening iron. Laughter that came from a good and honest place. And God using the current to teach me long after we came home.

To my wife, Marty — for always supporting me on these adventures, for understanding the way God speaks to me through moments, roads, rivers, cameras, and creation, and for standing beside me as I keep learning how to follow His flow.

SCRIPTURE

“I say then: Walk in the Spirit, and you shall not fulfill the lust of the flesh.” — Galatians 5:16 (NKJV)

“My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me.” — John 10:27 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

Not every current is the flow of God.

Some carry you forward.

Some pull you sideways.

Some look harmless at first —

until you realize you have been circling the same water for years.

THE STORY

February 2019. The Umpqua River, Oregon.

Steelhead fishing with dear friends.

Cold air. Moving water. Lines in the river from dawn to dusk.

I had a camera in my hand more than I had a rod.

That was not unusual for me.

The guys were catching fish.

I was catching moments.

And somewhere in the middle of that river, God started showing me something I could feel before I could name.

I was sitting near the bow.

The boat was pointed forward.

The river was alive.

Everything was moving.

But the men who knew that river were not dropping lines anywhere.

They were looking for something specific.

The seam.

The place where two currents meet.

The place where the flow changes.

The place where the fish travel beneath the surface.

To the untrained eye, it looks like just another stretch of river.

But to someone who knows what to look for, the seam matters.

It is where movement becomes meaningful.

It is where the harvest waits just below the surface.

And that stayed with me.

At the time, I thought I was just watching water.

Looking back, I believe the Holy Spirit was giving me language for something I would need later.

Because life has seams too.

THE MOMENT

A river does not move in one simple line.

There are currents. Pressure. Pulls.

Fast water. Slow water.

Places where the river moves clean.

Places where it swirls back on itself.

And then there is the eddy.

The eddy looks calm.

Almost safe.

But it is not really carrying you forward.

It circles.

It pulls.

It holds.

It creates motion without progress.

And I have known places like that in my own soul.

Places where I was moving, but not growing.

Busy, but not obedient.

Thinking, but not surrendered.

Reacting, but not being led.

The enemy does not always need to drag a man into obvious destruction.

Sometimes he only needs to move him into a circle.

The same fear.

The same offense.

The same wound.

The same old story.

And because there is movement, a man tells himself he is still in the river.

But he is not moving forward.

He is circling beside it.

THE TURN

That is why discernment matters.

Because not every current is the flow of God.

Some pull with urgency.

Some pull with emotion.

Some pull with appetite.

Some pull with offense.

Some pull with fear.

Some pull with the voice of the past.

And if we are not listening to the Holy Spirit, we will mistake movement for direction.

We will mistake pressure for calling.

We will mistake familiar water for safe water.

But the Holy Spirit does not lead us in circles.

He leads us into truth.

He leads us into obedience.

He leads us into living water.

Not always easy water.

Not always calm water.

But water with purpose.

Water with direction.

Water that keeps the soul alive.

And He does not always explain the whole river.

Sometimes He only shows the next current.

THE DRIFT

There is a voice that says:

Just stay here.

At least you know this water.

You can deal with that later.

You are not stuck. You are just waiting.

You are not drifting. You are just tired.

That voice sounds reasonable.

It isn’t.

Reason listens for wisdom.

This voice negotiates with stagnation.

It tells a man motion is enough.

It tells him familiar water is safer than surrendered water.

But the longer a man stays in an eddy,

the easier it becomes to forget what forward feels like.

I have stood still in moving water and called it forward.

THE REFLECTION

The seam is not where life gets easy.

It is where God teaches us how to stay in His flow.

It is where competing currents reveal what is really pulling us.

It is where obedience has to become more than an idea.

Because the Christian life is not passive.

We do not just float.

We follow.

We listen.

We respond.

We adjust.

We surrender.

And sometimes we have to admit we are not in the flow of the Spirit at all.

We are in the eddy of our own reactions.

Old habits.

Resentment.

Control.

Comfort.

Whatever keeps us moving just enough to avoid admitting we are stuck.

That is a hard thing to see.

But it is grace when God shows it.

Because the Holy Spirit does not reveal stagnation to shame us.

He reveals it to lead us out.

There have been seasons in my life when I thought I was moving forward because I was busy.

I had responsibilities. Plans. Work. Ideas. Even good intentions.

But looking back, I can see stretches where I was not being carried by the Spirit.

I was being carried by momentum.

And momentum can look like calling

until God asks you to surrender the direction.

That is where the seam becomes sacred.

Because in the seam, you have to pay attention.

You have to watch the water.

You have to listen.

You have to know the difference between the current that carries life

and the current that pulls you away from it.

The Holy Spirit is not just comfort after the storm.

He is guidance in the current.

He is the One who says:

Not there. Here.

Not that voice. Mine.

Not that circle. This way.

Jesus did not promise stagnant water.

He spoke of rivers of living water flowing from the heart of the one who believes in Him.

That is what He invites us into.

Not familiar circles.

Not safe stagnation.

But a flow that comes from the inside out, sourced in Him.

The fish in that river were not traveling without purpose.

They were moving toward what they were created to do.

And maybe that is part of what stayed with me.

God has placed purpose in us too.

Not just survival.

Not just reaction.

Not just another lap around the same old pain.

Purpose.

Direction.

Calling.

A life in step with the Spirit.

A life that learns where the seam is.

A life that refuses to confuse stagnation with peace.

Because peace is not the absence of movement.

Peace is knowing Who is leading the movement.

The seam is not just a place in the river.

It is a place of discernment.

A place where a man learns the difference between being pushed by pressure and being led by the Spirit.

A place where he stops calling circles peace.

A place where he learns to follow the Living Water instead of drifting beside it.

The enemy does not need to pull you out of the river

if he can keep you circling beside it.

WALKAWAY LINE

Not every movement is progress.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

Where in your life are you being carried by the Holy Spirit — and where have you mistaken familiar water for forward motion?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Teach me to recognize the seam.

Not just in the river,

but in my own life.

Show me the places where two currents are pulling against each other.

Your Spirit and my flesh.

Truth and comfort.

Obedience and control.

Living water and stagnant circles.

Give me discernment to know the difference.

Where I have mistaken movement for progress,

wake me up.

Where I have called the eddy peace,

lead me out.

Where the enemy has tried to keep me circling the same wound, the same fear, the same habit, or the same old story,

break the pattern.

I do not want to be carried by impulse.

I do not want to be led by offense.

I do not want to drift beside the river and call it faith.

I want to walk in the Spirit.

I want to stay in Your flow.

I want to move where You are moving,

pause where You say pause,

and follow where You lead.

Keep my bow pointed toward You.

Keep my heart tender to Your voice.

And when the current gets strong,

remind me that I am not alone in the river.

You are with me.

You are leading me.

And I want to stay in Your flow.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

He didn’t know I was there. I walked back inside, found the camera, fitted the telescoping lens, and eased my way back out slowly — staying behind him just enough to hold the moment without disturbing it. He sat perfectly still in the grass. Not frantic. Not looking for a way out. Just present. Looking out across the street like he already knew exactly what he was doing.

Some seasons are not meant to be announced.

They are meant to be lived.

Built.

Prayed through.

Survived.

DEDICATION

To my wife Marty — for the countless conversations at tables, in cars, in quiet evenings, and through long seasons where we sat together and kept asking the same question: “Where are we headed?” Thank you for walking beside me with like mind, like spirit, and a shared desire to keep Jesus at the center of our marriage, our direction, and our future.

To my sister Jeffrey — for continuing to travel this adventure with us and allowing us to walk beside you in yours. Watching your growth, your resilience, your continued development, and your support through the years has been a blessing deeper than words can explain.

To Bakersfield — for becoming far more than a place on a map. For the kindness, warmth, faith, and community Marty and I found here after leaving behind nearly forty-five years in the Bay Area. For the people who still look each other in the eye… still wave… still ask how you’re doing and actually mean it.

To the Holy Spirit — who was nudging me long before I fully understood who He was. Thank You for guiding my steps even when I could not yet recognize Your voice.

SCRIPTURE

“But you, when you pray, go into your room, and when you have shut your door, pray to your Father who is in the secret place…” — Matthew 6:6

THE HOOK

I walked outside one day and stopped.

There was a squirrel in the front yard — sitting perfectly still in the grass.

Not frantic.

Not darting.

Just sitting there, looking out across the street.

Focused.

Aware.

Like he already knew exactly what he was doing.

I watched him for a moment and then went back inside.

Found the camera.

Fitted the telescoping lens.

Eased back out through the front door slowly — staying wide and quiet enough to hold the moment without disturbing it.

Standing there behind that lens…

Something about that posture hit me.

He was not wasting movement.

He was reading the environment before taking the next step.

THE STORY

That image stayed with me longer than I expected.

Because honestly — moving to Bakersfield felt a lot like that.

After nearly forty-five years in the Bay Area, Marty and I stepped into a completely different world.

The Bay Area taught me many things.

It shaped part of my story.

But somewhere along the way… it also became emotionally cold.

Busy.

Concrete.

Disconnected.

You could ride an elevator with ten people and no one would say a word.

Everyone moving.

Everyone guarded.

Everyone somewhere else mentally.

Then we came to Bakersfield.

And almost immediately… something felt different.

Not perfect.

Different.

Alive.

We began knowing our neighbors.

Not waving-across-the-driveway knowing.

Real knowing.

People coming to gatherings.

Stopping to talk.

Checking in.

Laughing together.

Doing life together on a near daily basis.

And honestly — that hit me harder than I expected.

Because back in San Jose, we lived in a small cul-de-sac for years.

And out of the entire neighborhood… we barely really knew one neighbor.

That realization stayed with me.

Bakersfield was a new experience.

It started as simple as the grocery store.

Cashiers would remember conversations from the week before.

Remember your name.

Ask how things turned out.

Simple things.

Human things.

Things that used to feel normal in this country.

Strangers would look you in the eye.

The man walking down the street would say, “How you doing?”

Not because he wanted something.

Because kindness still lived here.

And underneath all of it… there was something else.

Faith.

Community.

People who openly loved Jesus.

Not perfectly.

But sincerely.

You don’t always realize your soul has adapted to isolation until someone sincerely asks how you’re doing.

That realization stayed with me longer than I expected.

There was a time in my life when I thought growth needed witnesses.

Proof.

Momentum.

Recognition.

I thought if something important was happening… people needed to know about it.

But life has a way of humbling that mindset.

THE MOMENT

Seeds do not break open in public.

Roots do not grow in front of crowds.

Even Jesus withdrew.

Into wilderness.

Into solitude.

Into prayer.

The world celebrates visibility.

But heaven often develops people in hidden places first.

And if we are not careful… we can confuse attention with transformation.

One feeds the ego.

The other changes the soul.

Sometimes God changes your location because your soul can no longer grow there.

THE TURN

I have learned something difficult over time.

Not everyone deserves access to the season God is building inside you.

Some people only understand finished fruit.

They do not understand roots.

The pruning.

The breaking.

The rebuilding.

The silence.

And honestly… some things lose strength the moment they are constantly announced.

Because talking about becoming something… and quietly becoming it… are not the same thing.

There is a kind of discipline that grows stronger in private.

A kind of faith that matures away from crowds.

A kind of identity that settles when nobody is clapping.

THE DRIFT

“There’s nothing wrong with letting everyone know…”

“People should see your progress…”

“You need to keep yourself visible…”

That voice sounds productive.

It isn’t always.

Sometimes it is just the hunger for validation wearing the mask of connection.

I know.

Because I stayed in soil that had stopped feeding me.

For years.

THE REFLECTION

The older I get… the more I realize that God is rarely in a hurry.

He grows oak trees slower than weeds.

He builds foundations before platforms.

And He often removes noise before revealing direction.

Some of the strongest people you will ever meet… will not be loud.

They will be grounded.

Steady.

Difficult to shake.

Because they were formed somewhere deeper than public approval.

There is nothing wrong with sharing life.

But there is something powerful about protecting what is still becoming.

Jesus said to pray in secret.

Because secret places change people.

And sometimes the most powerful thing a person can do… is disappear long enough for God to rebuild them properly.

Looking back… that squirrel understood something I was still learning.

Provision matters.

But environment does too.

He sat still long enough to discern where life was actually coming from.

And maybe that is part of wisdom.

Not simply moving.

But knowing where your soul can truly grow.

WALKAWAY LINE

Private growth often produces the strongest fruit.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

Are you spending more energy announcing who you want to become… or quietly becoming it?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Teach me how to grow without needing attention.

Help me resist the urge to broadcast every unfinished piece of my life.

Strengthen me in quiet places.

Build roots deeper than recognition.

Where pride still seeks applause… humble me.

Where fear still seeks approval… steady me.

And where You are rebuilding something inside me… help me trust the process enough not to rush it into the light too soon.

Teach me how to become strong in secret.

Not for my glory.

But for Yours.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

This sphere sits in my own backyard. Nothing remarkable about it. Just glass.

One evening I looked through it. The entire scene bent around a single focal point.

The Cross.

And the world rearranged itself around what was already standing there.

Most of us don’t see what is leading us.

The world is quick to praise it.

And by the time we finally recognize it —

We have already been following it for years.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit — for showing me the way and showing me the light. And most of all, for unhooking the leash and giving me the ability to recognize who I am actually leashed to — my Heavenly Father. His love. His grace. His mercy.

To my sister — who always inspires me with her stories of adventure. The dogs. The leashes. This Spark was birthed in those conversations, and her input is woven into the heart of it.

To my wife — who always supports me, loves me, and encourages me. Who once sat me down and said, “Honey, you need to keep writing.” And so I’m writing. And writing. And writing. Thank you.

To my readers — who continue to encourage me and be inspired. I hope your lives receive something fresh from these pages. A new perspective. A new thought. Something worth carrying.

SCRIPTURE

“Stand fast therefore in the liberty by which Christ has made us free, and do not be entangled again with a yoke of bondage.” — Galatians 5:1 (NKJV)

“For as many as are led by the Spirit of God, these are sons of God.” — Romans 8:14 (NKJV)

“Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

The strongest leash in my life was the one nobody could see.

Including me.

From the outside, it looked like discipline.

From the inside, it never let me rest.

THE STORY

There was a time in my life when I believed strength meant outperforming weakness.

Not just weakness at work.

Weakness in identity.

Weakness in where I came from.

I grew up around instability and survival systems that quietly shape people long before they recognize it. I watched patterns move through generations. Some loud. Some subtle. And somewhere inside me, I made a decision very early —

I would not become what I came from.

My father passed down a lot of things I eventually had to leave behind. But one thing he gave me — and gave me cleanly — was discipline.

He knew how to work.

I watched him sleep on a couch beside an alarm clock, waking through the night to rotate parts inside chemical tanks so jobs would keep moving. The discipline was real. The rest of what surrounded it… I could not carry forward.

So I pushed hard the other way.

Harder than most people probably realized.

When my father had to walk away from the business, I stepped into a world I was nowhere near prepared for. Young. Inexperienced. Carrying something much larger than myself. Liability. Responsibility. Pressure. Employees. Decisions and consequences I did not yet fully understand.

And I knew immediately — if I was going to survive this, I had to earn respect.

So I did what came naturally.

I outperformed.

I learned every process. Every system. Every moving part. I worked beside the employees. I mastered what they mastered. Then I pushed myself harder.

Eventually, the respect came.

So did the leash.

At the time, I did not recognize it. Because the world rewards people like that. Discipline gets praised. Achievement gets rewarded. Reliability gets admired.

Nobody pulls a high performer aside and says —

Be careful. This might quietly become your identity.

So the leash kept tightening.

Not just in business.

Everywhere.

The gym. Softball. Bowling. Hunting. Boating. Photography. Projects. Goals.

Whatever I touched — I had to master. And once I mastered it, I moved on to the next.

At the time, I thought I was building excellence.

Looking back, I was outrunning inadequacy.

I was not tethered to the activities.

I was tethered to what was driving them.

And what drove me was deeper than ambition.

It was survival.

If I could outperform the room, I felt safe. If I could become exceptional enough, maybe nobody would ever see the frightened parts underneath.

Then life added weight.

Marriage. Children. Responsibility. Grief I did not have language for. Forty-five employees. Managers depending on decisions. Payroll. Liability.

There was no pause button.

No room to collapse.

Failure was not digestible to me.

Not disappointing.

Not inconvenient.

Annihilating.

So I pushed harder.

And for a long time — externally — it worked.

But somewhere along the way, the realization arrived.

The leash was not the business.

Not the responsibilities.

Not the hobbies.

Not the discipline.

The leash was the fear underneath all of it.

The need to prove.

The need to survive.

The need to become untouchable.

The need to outrun where I came from.

THE MOMENT

And the most disorienting part of an invisible leash is this —

The world applauds it.

It does not warn you.

It celebrates you.

It hands you trophies for the very thing tightening around your chest.

And the people praising you have no idea what is actually holding you upright.

Neither do you.

The leash I could not see was the one leading me.

And the world applauded it the whole way.

THE TURN

Years later, I met Jesus.

But the real shift did not come from believing in Him.

It came from a complete heart exchange with Him.

I had a saying I lived by for decades —

Ninety-nine percent of something is one hundred percent of nothing.

When I finally surrendered my life to Christ, I knew immediately this could not be partial.

I could not give Jesus occasional authority.

Because partial surrender still leaves something else holding the leash.

So the exchange became complete.

Not overnight perfection.

Alignment.

Abiding.

Daily pursuit. Daily surrender. Daily recalibration.

And something inside me changed.

The leash did not disappear. But it stopped leading me.

That distinction matters.

Because there are things we may never fully be rid of this side of heaven. Old instincts. Old fears. Old reactions. Old survival systems.

But God does not leave us tool-less.

He gives awareness.

Discernment.

Wisdom.

A toolbox.

And over time, you stop walking into every room emotionally unprepared, reaching for performance, control, or fear.

You pause long enough to reach for the right tools.

The old leash still tugs sometimes. Writing. Projects. Goals. The instinct to master.

But now I recognize it.

And recognition changes everything.

There is an undercurrent inside me now that steadies me before emotion takes over.

Not perfectly.

Consistently.

A muscle built through abiding.

I can sit in rooms where emotions rise all around me and feel peace underneath it.

Not because I am stronger.

Because I am aligned.

And when things become imperfect, I know I have a God who is still perfect.

THE DRIFT

Push harder.

Stay disciplined.

Outwork what you feel.

Outperform the weakness.

Discipline solves what feeling cannot.

The performance is the proof.

I know. Because I followed a leash I could not see. For most of my life.

THE REFLECTION

Looking back, I understand something I could not see then.

My life was never truly transformed by achievement.

Achievement only temporarily silenced the fear.

Peace came later.

Peace came through surrender.

Through realizing I no longer needed performance to tell me who I was.

And along the way, I came to recognize something else.

Not every leash we carry is fully our own.

Some are inherited. Through atmosphere. Through grief. Through fear. Through survival systems passed quietly down.

And the beautiful part of it is this — what I found is reachable for anyone.

Not because my way is the great way.

Because surrender changes what is leading you.

I am not trying to become someone people follow.

I am trying to live in a way that reflects the One I follow.

That carries enormous responsibility.

Because how we live affects people. Our words. Our reactions. Our alignment.

The older I get, the more I believe the greatest responsibility we carry is not success.

It is the care of others.

Kindness.

Presence.

Stewardship.

Those are the things that leave the deepest marks.

I spent enough years fighting for first place.

Now —

I fight for second.

WALKAWAY LINE

Just because something drives you… doesn’t mean it should lead you.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What invisible leash may still be quietly shaping your decisions, your reactions, your identity, or your sense of worth?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for loving us enough to reveal the things quietly leading us.

The fears we learned to survive through.

The pressures we learned to perform through.

The wounds we learned to hide behind.

Teach us how to recognize what is pulling at us before we surrender authority to it.

Help us exchange striving for surrender. Performance for peace. Fear for alignment.

Teach us to abide closely enough to hear Your voice above the noise of the world.

And let the lives we live leave behind kindness, wisdom, care, and truth for others.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

The corner lifts. Ace and Jack. Twenty-one. There was a season of my life I had learned to read what was in my hand without ever showing what was on my face. The skill was real. The cost took years longer to see.

Some games don’t destroy you because you lose.

Some destroy you because you get very good at winning them.

I have spent most of my life learning systems.

How to read them.

How to survive them.

How to stay ahead of them.

Long before I ever sat at a blackjack table…

I was already learning the game.

DEDICATION

To my sister — for the role you played in my life, and for teaching me things no one else ever could have taught me.

To my wife, Marty — for walking through storms, trials, victories, and revelations beside me. Thank you for recognizing something in me I did not fully understand myself. A peculiar treasure of God, as you would say. Thank you for loving me through every season — and for helping lead our lives toward Jesus instead of away from Him.

To the reader — if something inside this story stirs reflection about your own walk, your own identity, or the games you may still be playing, I pray God reveals truth gently and clearly to your heart.

To life itself — the long road, the painful lessons, the unexpected adventures, and the difficult seasons that one day become the very things that taught us who we really were.

SCRIPTURE

“For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul?” — Mark 8:36 (NKJV)

“O Lord, You have searched me and known me.” — Psalm 139:1 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

I didn’t become “the outlaw” because I wanted attention.

I became him because I never wanted to feel exposed again.

THE STORY

When I was young, I learned early that vulnerability came with a cost.

If you were different…

You got noticed.

If you were weak…

You got preyed upon.

If you were emotionally exposed…

Someone eventually used it against you.

So I adapted.

Sports.

Fighting.

Competition.

Winning.

Control.

I became obsessed with learning systems.

How people moved.

How pressure worked.

How environments shifted.

How to stay ahead emotionally while everyone else reacted.

At some point, survival stopped being behavior…

and became identity.

People started calling me “the outlaw.”

At the time, I wore it like armor.

Confident.

Strong.

Capable.

Untouchable.

But underneath all of it…

I was just building a man nobody could wound anymore.

THE MOMENT

What most people never understood was this:

I was never reckless.

I was disciplined.

Even at the blackjack table.

Especially there.

I didn’t drink away money.

I didn’t spiral emotionally.

I didn’t lose control.

I studied.

Blackjack became another system to solve.

Pattern recognition.

Emotional discipline.

Reading the room.

Knowing when to press.

Knowing when to walk.

And eventually…

I became very good at it.

Too good.

One vacation especially stays with me.

Marty and I were on a cruise ship years ago.

The first night I walked through the casino, I noticed they were running two-deck hands.

The moment I saw it…

I knew I could take the table apart.

So night after night…

quietly…

carefully…

under the radar…

I did exactly that.

I counted cards.

Stayed composed.

Stayed unnoticed.

Or at least I tried to.

Each evening I walked away with more money than the night before.

Each afternoon Marty and I would head down to the pool.

At first it was just casual conversation.

A few questions.

“How did you do that?”

“How are you walking away ahead every night?”

Most people leave their money at the table.

That’s the part they couldn’t understand.

But day after day…

The circle around us kept growing.

Ten people.

Then twenty.

Then thirty or forty gathered around the pool wanting to hear about the tables, the systems, the discipline, the edge.

People are fascinated by someone who seems to understand a game they keep losing.

I remember Marty and I going back to the room one afternoon and realizing something had shifted.

“Oh boy,” she said,

“we better get a handle on this.”

And she was right.

Because that old edge in me…

the outlaw…

the part that learned how to survive by staying ahead of systems and people…

was becoming visible again.

But something else was happening too.

Even while winning…

I was already beginning to leave the table internally.

Because deep down…

I could already see the cliff hidden behind the thrill.

I had watched enough people lose themselves chasing the rush.

Lose marriages.

Lose money.

Lose identity.

Lose peace.

Stay at the table long enough

and the game starts playing you.

THE TURN

So while I could have kept going…

I walked away.

Not because I lacked skill.

Because I finally understood the danger of becoming mastered by the very thing I thought I controlled.

And the truth is…

no one really knew me back then.

Not fully.

Not my parents.

Not my friends.

Not even the people closest to me.

I was emotionally unavailable by design.

Like a ninja.

Always studying the room.

Always guarded.

Always ahead of the threat.

I confused isolation with strength.

I confused being unreadable with power.

But eventually…

God began revealing something deeper.

I wasn’t free.

I was protected.

There’s a difference.

THE DRIFT

There is a voice that teaches men to build armor so thick they eventually disappear inside it.

Stay sharp.

Stay ahead.

Stay untouchable.

Never let them see weakness.

Never need anyone.

Never lose control.

That voice sounds like wisdom.

It isn’t.

Wisdom builds character.

Fear builds fortresses.

And some men spend their entire lives confusing emotional isolation with strength.

I know. Because I wore that armor. For years.

THE REFLECTION

The real turning point in my life didn’t happen at a blackjack table.

It happened in my backyard.

At the cross.

After the surgeries.

After the health scares.

After the trials.

After enough life had pressed hard against me to expose what still remained underneath all the armor.

I sat there one day and began uncovering, discovering, and discarding the things I needed to lay at the feet of Jesus.

Control was one of them.

The outlaw was one of them.

The need to stay untouchable was one of them.

And slowly…

The games started losing their authority over me.

Not because they stopped being thrilling.

But because peace started becoming more valuable than power.

Today, winning looks very different.

Winning is waking up beside a wife who loves Jesus.

Winning is putting my feet on the ground every morning and thanking God for another day of life I was never guaranteed.

Winning is knowing my sister walks with Him too.

Winning is sitting beside people rooted deeply in faith instead of performance.

Winning is gratitude.

Winning is peace.

Winning is still being invited to sit beside God’s campfire after everything I’ve carried through this life.

And one day…

when this final game is over…

I pray I hear only this:

Well done.

Welcome home.

Game’s over.

WALKAWAY LINE

Some of the most dangerous games in life are the ones you become very good at winning.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What part of your identity was built to protect you — and what would happen if God no longer required you to hide behind it?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for every difficult season that revealed what truly lived underneath my strength.

Thank You for the lessons hidden inside survival — the ones I could only understand years later.

Teach us the difference between wisdom and fear…

between protection and isolation…

between control and surrender.

Show us the places where we still hide behind identities built from pain instead of truth.

And remind us that real peace is not found in mastering every system around us…

But in finally becoming known by You without needing armor.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

She opened her hand and showed me two coins. Small. Bronze. Worn smooth at the edges the way things get when they’ve lived in a pocket for years. Armor of God coins — carried so long their shape had pressed itself into the denim of my Levi’s.

I thought I knew the trail. I had been there before. But the seasons had turned. And the field had grown over everything I remembered.

DEDICATION

For my mother — who brought me into this world and delivered me through the first labor of it. And for the trials that came after — which taught me more than I could thank them for at the time.

For the friend who first walked into the berry patch beside me — and trusted me to get us out, even after I was the one who led him in.

For the ones who walked alongside me — who cared when they could have moved on, who inspired me once in a while in ways they may never know.

For Marty — who sees what I walk past. Who reached into my pockets that day, held out two coins, and called me into the room to tell me there is nothing more precious to her than being married to a man who armors up every morning and carries it with him wherever he goes. She wanted me to know I was loved. Honored.

For the readers — those still inside the thorns, clearing what needs to be cleared. And those who have walked out of the field, and no longer stand under the pressure of it.

SCRIPTURE

“My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing.” — James 1:2–4 (NKJV)

“Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.” — Ephesians 6:11 (NKJV)

“And when they had twisted a crown of thorns, they put it on His head.” — Matthew 27:29 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

I almost didn’t make it into the world.

Born early. Underweight. The umbilical cord wrapped around my neck before I drew my first breath.

They placed me in an incubator just to keep me here.

I think about that sometimes.

Not with bitterness.

With recognition.

The labor started early for me. Before I had a name for it.

THE STORY

When I was young, we had a cabin in Boulder Creek.

When friends came to visit, we chased everything the hills had — the creek, the redwoods, the trails that wandered far past where anyone told us to stop.

One afternoon I decided to lead a group of us through a berry patch trail I had walked before. I knew it. I had been there.

But the seasons had turned.

The trail was gone.

The vines had taken everything over — chest high, then taller — crossing and tangling until no path could be traced, no ground could be trusted.

At first it felt like adventure. We laughed. Ate berries. Pushed forward.

Then the field changed.

One bush. Then another.

Then we lost the trail completely.

Before we understood what had happened, we were trapped deep inside a massive field of thorn-covered vines. No edge visible. No tools. No way back that made any sense.

The more we forced ourselves through it, the more the thorns tore at us.

Our skin. Our Levi’s. Our arms. Our faces.

By the time we found the other side, we looked like we’d been through a paper shredder.

One of my friends looked at me — scratched, bleeding, shredded — and said:

“What did you get us into?”

THE MOMENT

Years passed.

Life started filling in the answer.

Marriage young. Children young. Financial pressure that moved in and didn’t leave. Fear that found the walls of the house and made itself at home.

Performance with no ceiling.

Survival that felt like a full-time job with no days off.

I had been taught the rules clearly:

Be tough. Provide. Endure. Work hard. Stay silent until spoken to. Defend your honor.

I did all of it.

And the thorns still came.

The harder I pushed through, the more I bled.

It wasn’t until I was forty that I visited the idea of Jesus seriously. And then spent nearly a decade doing almost nothing with it.

Then something began to shift beneath me. Not sudden. A slow excavation.

I found myself standing at the cross in my backyard.

Not metaphorically.

There was a physical cross there. And I stood at it.

And I laid everything down.

My sin. My failures. My bitterness. The wounds from childhood I had pressed into corners of myself where I thought no one could see them. The anger. The need to prove something to people who were no longer even in this world.

All of it.

I asked God to excavate whatever was left.

Something lifted.

The field didn’t end because the thorns stopped.

The field ended because I finally stopped believing I had to carry them.

THE TURN

I understand the Armor of God differently now than I did the first time I read Ephesians 6.

Then I read it like a text.

Now I wear it like gear.

Every morning — the belt tight, the breastplate in place, the shoes on, the shield up, the helmet seated, the sword in hand.

Not partially. All of it.

You cannot wear half the armor and expect full protection. That is not faith. That is decoration.

And the sword — I learned this the hard way — must first penetrate your own heart before it can help anyone else.

Marty does laundry the way she does everything. Thoroughly. No corner missed.

She called me into the room one afternoon and held out her hand.

Two coins.

“You never cease to amaze me. I find these everywhere. Your pockets. Your jackets. Your drawers. And I’ve watched you give them to men for years.”

She wasn’t correcting me. She was telling me what she had witnessed.

That the armor had become so embedded in what I carry that it leaves impressions even when I don’t notice.

The coin pressed its face into the watch pocket of my Levi’s. Year after year.

What you carry long enough eventually leaves its mark.

THE DRIFT

There is a voice that tells you the field is what makes a man.

That the bleeding is the point.

That if you survive it alone, you’ll come out the other side forged.

That real men find their own way out.

I believed that voice for a long time.

Every time I pushed harder through the thorns alone, I just bled more. And told myself the bleeding was proof I was doing it right.

The field doesn’t care how tough you are.

It just keeps growing.

THE REFLECTION

The hardest thorn God ever removed from me was bitterness.

Not the obvious wounds. The ones I had buried so deep I had forgotten they were still bleeding.

Forgiving people who hurt me as a child — people who were no longer even in this world — was the thorn that had worked its way in furthest.

When God finally pulled it free, peace entered places in me I didn’t know existed.

Not relief. Peace.

That is a different thing.

There is a night at Dolphin Bay I have carried for years.

We sat down to dinner and our waiter approached the table. Something inside him registered immediately. Not anxiety. Darkness. The kind that sits low and quiet and isn’t looking for conversation.

I asked Marty to head back to the room after dinner.

When his shift ended, he sat down.

We talked for hours.

The next afternoon, we were passing the same restaurant when he spotted us from across the lawn.

He dropped what he was doing and ran toward us.

Then picked me up and wept.

We didn’t understand the full weight of it until later.

He had planned to go home that night and end his life.

But something about being seen — truly seen — changed what he did next.

Today he is married. Has children. Became a professional golfer.

That story is his to tell.

I only know what it taught me:

The armor is not only for surviving your own thorn patch.

Sometimes it prepares you to walk into someone else’s.

You cannot do that for another man if you are still bleeding through your own.

WALKAWAY LINE

When I finally walked out of the field — I realized the thorns had already been carried for me.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What thorn have you been forcing yourself through alone — one that was never meant for you to carry?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

You know every thorn patch we have wandered into — some by ignorance, some by pride, some by trusting a trail that had long since grown over.

You know the ones that are still bleeding.

Thank You for not leaving us inside them.

Thank You for the Cross — where the thorns already went before we ever arrived.

Help us to stop white-knuckling through what we were never meant to carry alone. To lay it down. To let You excavate whatever is left underneath.

And teach us to armor up — not to prove our strength, but to protect what You are building inside us. So that when You call us to walk into someone else’s field, we are ready for that too.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

An island of photographs. Some I return to often. Some I haven’t opened in years. All of them still here — because for most of my life, keeping was easier than choosing.

A photo captures.

A photograph reveals.

And what you keep — eventually keeps you.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit — for being present in my photographs long before I knew how to see You. For walking beside me when You were invisible to my heart… and for now giving me a clearer view of the photograph my life has become.

To my wife, Marty — who continues to be one of my greatest joys. Some of the best photographs I’ve ever taken are the ones that captured our life… our journey… together.

To the photographs I’ve finally released — and to the ones I’m still learning to. You showed me that keeping isn’t always loving, and letting go isn’t always loss.

To the reader — who holds their own library of moments. As you scroll through what you’ve kept… may you begin to see differently. What still serves you. What no longer does. And what matters most.

SCRIPTURE

“But we all, with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory, just as by the Spirit of the Lord.” — 2 Corinthians 3:18 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

I have been taking real photos since 1976.

Before that, I was the one carrying a Polaroid Instamatic — capturing moments before I even understood what they meant.

That year my parents bought me my first real camera.

A Canon AE-1.

And that was it.

I thought I was chasing the perfect photograph —

the one I would take… and never need to take another.

It doesn’t work like that.

THE STORY

Years turned into decades.

Cameras changed. Technology changed.

But one thing didn’t —

The photos kept stacking.

Thousands. Tens of thousands. More than I could keep track of.

Entire libraries filled with moments I didn’t want to lose.

At one point, I needed tens of terabytes just to hold it all.

And somewhere along the way, something shifted.

The more photos I had —

The harder it became to find the one that actually mattered.

You ever try to show someone a picture?

“Hey… I want to show you this.”

And then it starts —

Swipe.

Swipe.

Swipe.

You know it’s in there. You just can’t find it.

They’re standing there waiting. Watching you scroll past image after image that means nothing to them.

Eventually you just say —

“I’ll send it to you later.”

Because you know what it’s going to take to find it.

Time.

Effort.

Focus.

THE MOMENT

But somewhere along the way…

The photo stopped being just a photo.

It became a photograph.

The kind that doesn’t just capture a moment —

It carries the heart of it.

The kind you don’t forget.

Not because it’s perfect.

Because it tells the truth.

There are images like that in all of our lives.

Moments where you can look back and see exactly who you were then —

and who you were becoming.

Not always better. Not always clearer. But different.

Over time, something shifts.

The resolution improves.

The image sharpens.

Not because the camera got better —

but because the man did.

Some photographs don’t need a caption.

No explanation. No backstory.

You can feel it the moment you see it.

The image tells the whole story.

Life works the same way.

We store everything.

Moments. People. Experiences.

Some meaningful. Some painful. Some long past their time.

I’ve got photos in my library of people who aren’t here anymore.

Friends. Moments. Animals I loved.

Every time I see them, something comes back.

Not always bad. But not always alive either.

Sometimes it doesn’t feel like remembering —

It feels like resurrecting something that was never meant to stay.

And yet —

I don’t delete them.

I can’t even fully explain why.

It’s not logic.

It’s attachment.

And that’s when it hit me —

I wasn’t just managing a photo library.

I was managing my life the same way.

Holding onto things I didn’t need.

Scrolling past things that didn’t matter.

And when it came time to find something real —

I didn’t always know where to look.

Jesus wasn’t even in my library.

Now He’s the first image I see.

THE TURN

I wasn’t looking for Him then.

Didn’t think about Him.

Didn’t search for Him.

He wasn’t buried in there somewhere —

He just wasn’t there.

Now He’s the last one I carry.

Everything I look at.

Everything I remember.

Everything I try to understand —

It all runs through Him.

I used to think the goal was to capture the perfect image.

Now I know —

It doesn’t take thousands of photos to reveal a man.

Just one that tells the truth.

That image changes over time.

It ages. It carries a few more lines. A little more wear.

But something else happens —

it gets clearer. More honest. More aligned.

God doesn’t just preserve the image.

He refines it.

THE DRIFT

You can spend a lifetime collecting moments —

and still not know what your life actually points to.

Because it’s not about how much you’ve stored.

It’s about what shows up first when you go looking.

Most men aren’t lost.

They’re buried.

Under too many attachments. Too many memories. Too many things they never released.

And when it matters most —

They’re still scrolling.

There is a voice that says —

“Keep it… you might need it.”

“Don’t let that go… it still matters.”

“Hold onto it… it’s part of you.”

That voice sounds careful.

It isn’t.

It’s clutter.

Because eventually —

What you refuse to release becomes what you can’t see past.

I held a full library and an empty center. For many years.

THE REFLECTION

Everything changed for me when I didn’t need to search anymore.

Not because I had fewer memories —

But because I finally had a center.

Now when I look back —

I don’t just see moments.

I see where I was without Him.

And I see where I am with Him.

And the difference —

is unmistakable.

WALKAWAY LINE

You don’t need a full library to reveal your life — just one honest image that makes it obvious who you belong to.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

When someone scrolls through the library of your life… what shows up first?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Show me what I’ve been holding onto that no longer belongs.

The images I revisit. The attachments I’ve kept. The things that still shape me in ways I don’t always see.

Give me the courage to release what clutters my view.

Give me the clarity to recognize what truly matters.

Let my life not be defined by what I’ve stored —

but by what You are forming.

Sharpen the image.

Refine the man.

And make it unmistakable who I belong to.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

This cross is in my backyard. Not for design. Not for effect. It was built in a season I should not have survived — West Nile, then a widow-maker. By every medical account… I shouldn’t be here. I can assure you — it was a miracle. But the body healing wasn’t the end of it. It was the beginning of something else.

Some things don’t need managing.

They need burying.

The body healed.

The man hadn’t.

DEDICATION

To Marty — who asked the question that made me name what I had already chosen.

To the brother who came to the cross with me, and stayed face-down beside me until something broke.

To the dear friend whose final days made me face the rest of mine.

To Jesus — who met me before I knew what to ask, and finished what I could not.

SCRIPTURE

“So when Jesus had received the sour wine, He said, ‘It is finished!’ And bowing His head, He gave up His spirit.” — John 19:30 (NKJV)

“I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me.” — Galatians 2:20 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

The brother lay face-down at the foot of the cross.

I lay beside him.

Forty-five minutes.

No words for most of it.

Not silence — weight.

Surrender taking up the space your pride used to fill.

When I got up, something had been left behind.

THE STORY

I had already survived what I shouldn’t have survived.

West Nile. Then the widow-maker. Three stents.

A heart that quit on me — and a God who didn’t.

By every medical chart, I was supposed to be a number.

I’m not.

That’s not a metaphor. That’s a fact I live with every morning.

But healing the body isn’t the same as healing the man.

I had a dream around that time. Simple. Clear.

I had died.

And the last thing I would do was build a cross.

So I built it.

I built it in my backyard — where I would see it every day.

Not as decoration. As a marker.

Around it, benches.

I spent hours there. Not casually. Uncovering everything I could remember.

Every agreement I had made with the wrong voice.

Every failure I had filed and forgotten.

Every place I had justified.

I brought it all up.

At the same time, I was walking through something I wasn’t prepared for.

My companion dog, Whisper, was dying of cancer.

She wasn’t just a dog.

She was close to me in a way only a few things in life ever are.

Watching something that loyal… that present… that constant… fade in front of you —

it does something to a man.

It stripped the noise.

It pulled everything real to the surface.

Life. Loss. Time.

What matters… and what doesn’t.

Marty knew something was happening.

She didn’t know everything.

But she saw the cross.

She saw the hours.

She knew.

A few days before what came next, I told her:

“I made a covenant with Jesus.”

She said:

“Do you understand the responsibility that comes with that?”

I said yes.

Because I did.

THE MOMENT

Then a brother came over. A man of deep faith.

We went to the cross.

And we stayed.

Forty-five minutes.

Face down.

At the foot of it.

And right there — I gave it all up.

Not part of it.

All of it.

Because the cross is not just where things end.

It’s where the exchange happens.

His heart… for mine.

Not partial.

Not managed.

Full.

He didn’t just take what I brought.

He replaced it.

You don’t leave with the box.

He didn’t just take what I brought.

He replaced it.

THE TURN

Days later, I asked God:

What’s next?

It came fast.

Opportunity. Direction. Movement.

Like something launched the moment I was emptied.

Then came another dream.

I asked Him:

Am I going to die?

The answer came back clear.

Yes.

…

You already did.

THE DRIFT

The drift voice sounds reasonable. Almost wise.

“I’ve worked through it.”

“I’ve forgiven them.”

“I keep it where I can see it — so I never forget.”

That’s not bondage.

That’s growth.

I knelt beside that box for years and called it healing.

THE REFLECTION

Burial is different than management.

Management keeps the box close.

You sort it.

You label it.

You revisit it.

You tell yourself you’re being honest because you can still name everything inside it.

Burial doesn’t argue with the box.

Burial digs.

There is no partial burial.

You don’t keep a portion of what’s killing you and call it freedom.

The cross does not negotiate terms.

It completes them.

Anything not surrendered…

is still being carried.

What I left at the foot of the cross wasn’t a feeling.

It was a freight load I had been carrying for years.

Anger I had nursed toward my father.

Bitterness I had carried toward my grandfather.

Betrayal I had learned by heart.

Fear I had named so often it had become furniture.

I dug.

And I left it.

The cross isn’t a place you visit to manage your wounds.

It’s where the man who carried them dies —

and a different man walks back to the house.

I remember thinking, when it was done:

It’s finished.

Not the cross.

Me.

Not improved.

Replaced.

WALKAWAY LINE

You don’t leave the cross carrying less. You leave it carrying different.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What are you still carrying that the cross is waiting to bury?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

I thank You for the cross — not as a symbol, but as a place.

A place where the man I was can be left, and the man You’re calling me to be can rise.

Search me.

Show me what I am still managing instead of burying.

Give me the courage to dig the hole.

Give me the strength to walk back to the house without it.

Let what is finished, stay finished.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

Marty took this in August of 2013 — Nuremberg, Germany. She was down in the center field between the two stair podiums, when she sensed something was on me. She didn’t wait. She raised the camera and captured the shot. When I reached the bottom, she looked at me and said, “You okay?” I said yes. She said, “What’s going on?” I told her how hard it had just hit me — that I had tears in my eyes. She said, “Well, I captured the shot. I’ll never forget the way you looked coming down those stairs.”

I felt it before I understood it.

A heaviness the air refused to release.

Stone that remembered what men try to forget.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit — for preserving life long enough to learn what matters, and walking with me into places I should never have lived to see.

To Marty — for walking beside me, capturing what I miss, and steadying every season with quiet strength.

To those whose families carry the weight of war, persecution, and survival — may truth honor what evil tried to erase.

To the man still waking up under a weight he calls life — there is more on the other side than you think.

SCRIPTURE

“Remember the days of old, Consider the years of many generations. Ask your father, and he will show you; Your elders, and they will tell you.” — Deuteronomy 32:7 (NKJV)

“And have no fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness, but rather expose them.” — Ephesians 5:11 (NKJV)

“And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it.” — John 1:5 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

The steps were steeper than I expected. Not in their rise — in their weight.

By the time I was halfway down, the air had changed. Not the temperature. Something older than that. Something the stone refused to let go of.

I wanted off those steps quickly.

But before I reached the bottom, I understood something I had read about for decades and never once felt.

And I didn’t know yet that Marty was already at the bottom, watching — carrying her own version of this moment.

THE STORY

Marty and I were traveling through Germany in August of 2013. The trip itself was a kind of mercy.

Sixteen months earlier, I had almost died — twice. Two separate heart events inside a stretch of weeks that should have ended me. Stents went in. Recovery began. There was a season where standing up too fast was a victory, and the doctors made no promises about anywhere I would or would not stand again.

But there I was. In Nuremberg. Climbing a platform in another country, with my wife beside me, breathing air I had no business still breathing. I was grateful to my Heavenly Father every step up those stairs. I had no idea what the steps down would teach me.

If the name Zeppelinfeld doesn’t land, the place will. It is the grandstand where Hitler reviewed his rallies in the 1930s. The platform built for one man to project dominance over a country, a culture, a continent. Tens of thousands stood in those fields below, faces lifted, while a single voice told them who to hate, who to fear, who to follow.

I had read the books. Watched the footage. Sat through the documentaries.

None of that prepared me for the steps.

THE MOMENT

Walking down, I felt something I did not have a word for. Not sadness exactly. Not fear. Something more like proximity to a wound that had not closed.

I thought about the Jewish families. The trains. The camps. The mothers and the children and the silence after. I thought about how it started — not with armies, but with words. Speeches. Slogans. A single voice telling a tired country who was to blame.

And I thought about how easily a heart surrendered to the wrong authority becomes a weapon.

I felt the weight of the world right there — every life that platform had cost, every lie those crowds had swallowed, every door that had closed forever because no one stopped it in time.

I am not a man who cries easily. I had tears in my eyes by the time I reached the bottom.

Some places hold warning long after the noise is gone.

Stone remembers what men try to forget.

THE TURN

I came down those steps a different man than the one who climbed them.

Not because I had learned more history.

Because I had felt history under my feet.

Marty was waiting at the bottom. She had been below me the whole time, having her own experience — watching her husband climb a platform he had no business being strong enough to climb. She saw what the stone was doing to me before I had language for it.

She asked if I was okay.

I said yes — the way men say yes.

The reflex word. The word a man uses when he has spent decades answering before checking.

Then I told her the truth.

The trip went on. The museums came after. The Holocaust exhibits. The names. The faces. The rooms full of what evil had done when the watchmen fell asleep.

When Marty and I came home, we knew we had not been on a vacation. We had walked through a history of the soul — the weight of what choices do to a world, to a country, to a people, and to the quiet rooms inside ourselves.

We came back with a weight that will never leave us.

THE DRIFT

There is a voice that visits men my age. It comes dressed like wisdom. It sounds like maturity. It says things that feel like rest.

You have earned a quiet life now. You have done your part.

Leave the heavy things to the younger ones. They will figure it out.

History is just history. Don’t carry what isn’t yours.

You are tired. That’s reasonable. Stop watching so closely.

It sounds like peace. It isn’t.

It is surrender of the wrong kind. It is discernment going to sleep while a culture forgets the cost of forgetting. It is comfort wearing the mask of clarity. It is a watchman trading his post for a quieter chair and calling the trade rest.

History rarely returns wearing the same uniform. But it returns. And it walks in easier through the doors a tired generation forgot to close.

I know. Because I drifted for many years before God showed me a new way.

THE REFLECTION

I am approaching sixty-seven. My body has fought battles it did not ask for. Three stents. A neck rebuilt. A back that no longer bends like it used to. There are mornings I feel every year I have lived.

But my mind has never been clearer.

There is mercy in that. God sharpens perspective as departure years come closer. He lets a man see what mattered and what didn’t. What burdens he created himself. What regrets need surrender. What was real peace, and what was just exhaustion wearing a quieter face.

I wake up most mornings now with more peace than I had at thirty-five.

Not because life softened. Because I finally laid down what was never mine to carry.

Some of it. Not all of it. But enough to breathe.

I lived under that weight so long I stopped naming it. It just became normal — the air I breathed, the load I woke up to, the version of life I assumed was life. The strange thing was what happened when it briefly lifted. I did not feel relief. I felt scrambled. Too quiet. Like the calm before a storm I was already bracing for.

I wish I had found this clarity sooner — not at a younger age, necessarily, but with a younger awareness. Fewer decades defending what did not need defending. Fewer years calling weight a calling. Fewer mornings waking up to a phone instead of a Father.

The man on those Nuremberg steps was carrying more than he knew. A heart sixteen months out from almost stopping. A life he had not yet learned to receive as a gift. A faith that had survived two near-deaths but had not yet rested. A wife at the bottom of the stairs who could already see what the stone was teaching him.

There is nothing like the moment a man recognizes the places he has been taking life for granted. It gives him a deeper view. A higher one. A clearer line of sight on where he has come from and where he is headed. Some get there sooner. Some get there later.

I know I am there now. And I do not want to take anything for granted any longer.

I nearly lost my heart before I learned what had been weighing on it.

Some wounds never close — they just go quiet enough to pass for peace.

Stone remembered what I had forgotten.

The man writing this finally knows the difference.

WALKAWAY LINE

The steps behind you still have value when God is teaching you how to walk forward.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

A man cannot lay down what he refuses to name.

What weight in your life have you been calling normal — and what would peace look like if you finally laid it down?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for preserving life long enough to learn what matters.

Keep us from forgetting what history has already paid to teach us. Guard us from the enemy and the principalities that prey on a forgetful generation. Expose false authority — in the world, in our culture, and in the quiet rooms of our own hearts.

For the one reading this — stir something deeper. Lead them to their own set of stairs, where they can look honestly at where they have come from, where they are walking, and where You are still calling them.

Trade our weight for peace. Our blindness for clarity. Our regret for surrendered wisdom. Teach us to walk lighter and truer — under Your authority alone.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

Jodi took this picture in my backyard, standing at the cross. Sent it to me a while later and asked me to write a Spark on it.

It wasn’t hard.

Jodi sent me this picture…

but what he really sent me…

was something to look at twice.

A shadow stretched long across the ground.

A man standing in front of a cross.

Light behind him.

Form ahead of him.

And something about it… stayed.

There’s something about a shadow…

it never leaves you.

From the time you’re born

to the time you die…

it follows.

Sometimes in front.

Sometimes behind.

To your left.

To your right.

It changes size.

Changes shape.

But it never stops showing up.

Unless…

the light changes.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit — for the constant presence that walks with me through every decision, seen and unseen. The quiet witness. The one who reveals what I cannot see on my own, and keeps me aligned with what is true.

To my wife, Marty — who reminds me daily, often through something as simple as Jasper at my feet, what it looks like to walk in step. Loyal. Present. Always there… like a shadow that never needs to announce itself.

To my brother Jodi — who sees what others walk past, and took a simple moment and turned it into something worth looking at twice. Your encouragement doesn’t just follow… it strengthens. I’m grateful for you.

To the reader — who may recognize something here. The shadows that follow. The ones that shape. And the quiet invitation to look again at what’s really casting them.

SCRIPTURE

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for You are with me.” — Psalm 23:4 (NKJV)

“I am the light of the world. He who follows Me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life.” — John 8:12 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

I remember a moment years ago…

a little girl in a backyard…

screaming.

Not playing. Not startled.

Terrified.

We thought something had happened.

The pool was nearby…

My mind went there fast.

I ran out ready to rescue.

Heart pounding.

THE STORY

There she was…

frozen.

Hands up to her face.

Tears running.

Shaking.

I dropped down beside her and said,

“What’s wrong?”

She pointed…

couldn’t even get the words out…

“It’s following me…”

I looked down…

And there it was.

Her shadow.

Every move she made…

It made.

Every step she took…

It followed.

And the more she tried to get away…

The more it stayed.

She wasn’t afraid of the shadow…

She was afraid of what she didn’t understand.

So I reached out and took her hand.

We moved together.

Slow.

Then faster.

Then she stopped…

and watched.

And something shifted.

Fear…

turned into curiosity.

Curiosity…

turned into laughter.

And before long…

She was chasing it.

Running from it.

Running back into it.

Completely free…

From what had just held her captive.

THE MOMENT

Somewhere along the way…

We stop chasing our shadow…

and start being shaped by it.

I’ve watched mine for years.

Different seasons. Different angles.

Times it looked strong.

Times it looked worn.

Times it stretched further than I thought it should.

And times it nearly disappeared.

But it was always there.

A quiet reminder…

that something was behind me.

Standing there…

looking at that cross…

I saw something I had missed before.

Every man lives with a shadow.

Few stop to ask whose light is casting it.

You don’t choose whether you have a shadow.

You choose what you stand in.

THE TURN

Not all shadows are the same.

Some are cast by fear.

Some by pride.

Some by things we never dealt with.

Some show up in the night…

when everything feels out of alignment.

When you can’t see clearly…

But you can feel something isn’t right.

Those shadows don’t follow light.

They wait for its absence.

But there’s another kind.

The kind that shows up…

when you’re standing in the right place.

THE DRIFT

Don’t focus on what follows you.

Be your own source.

Stand tall enough and the shadow shrinks.

The light you need is already inside.

I stood in my own light and watched my shadow stretch the wrong way. For years.

THE REFLECTION

In complete darkness…

There is no shadow.

Nothing revealed.

Nothing defined.

Nothing exposed.

But in the presence of true light…

Everything becomes clear.

Not just where you are…

But what’s actually behind you.

The cross doesn’t remove the shadow.

It reveals it.

Aligns it.

Puts it in its proper place.

You don’t lose your shadow in the dark.

You lose the light that made it visible.

WALKAWAY LINE

What follows you matters less than what you’re standing in.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

Whose light is casting the shadow you’re living under?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Help me see clearly.

Not just what follows me…

but what I’m standing in.

Expose the shadows in my life

that were never meant to lead me.

And keep me in Your light —

where truth is revealed, not hidden.

Where I don’t have to guess

what’s shaping me.

And where I can walk forward

without fear of what follows.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

I keep coming back to this image — a collar, a chain, no dog in sight. Just the evidence of something that once held a life in place.

Sometimes the chain isn’t what’s holding you anymore.

But something in you… never left.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit — for stirring reflection and illuminating the path of a man’s life, both in what I’ve walked and what I’ve witnessed in others.

To my wife, Marty — who continues to walk these roads with me, carrying weight beside me through every season, steady and present when it mattered most.

To the reader — who may feel something here worth pausing for, and find the courage to look at their own path with fresh eyes and an open heart.

SCRIPTURE

“Stand fast therefore in the liberty by which Christ has made us free, and do not be entangled again with a yoke of bondage.” — Galatians 5:1 (NKJV)

“Therefore if the Son makes you free, you shall be free indeed.” — John 8:36 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

The chain is gone.

So why do you still feel it?

Why does something in you hesitate… hold back… stay within a boundary that isn’t even there anymore?

Not everything that keeps a man in place…

is still attached to him.

THE STORY

I remember seeing a photo years ago…

a dog chained to a galvanized pipe out in a field.

No shelter. No movement beyond the length of the chain. Just enough to survive.

There was water… but it wasn’t clean. Food… but not enough to live on.

Skin stretched over bone.

Still breathing… but barely living.

And I couldn’t shake the thought —

how long had it been there?

Not just starving…

but bound.

And I later learned his name…

Logan.

I’ve seen it another way too.

Marty and I were out driving one day in Bakersfield… just taking the long way through the country.

We came across a pile of what looked like someone’s life — trash, furniture, pieces left behind in a hurry.

And there… laying on a mattress in the middle of it…

was a dog.

Skinny. Worn down. Waiting.

We coaxed her into the car.

Brought her home. Fed her. Let her rest.

She was a silver pit… one of the sweetest dogs I’ve ever seen.

Followed me everywhere. Stayed close.

Like she had already decided she belonged.

A couple days later…

we found the owners.

They hadn’t abandoned her.

They had been forced to leave… fast. And she had run off during it.

When they came to pick her up —

you could feel it.

That wasn’t just a dog.

That was family.

And the moment she saw them…

everything changed.

THE TURN

Some lives are chained.

Some lives are just… separated.

And sometimes…

we mistake one for the other.

THE DRIFT

There are things we carry that once made sense.

Things that taught us how to protect ourselves. How to cope. How to survive.

But time moves on…

and sometimes those patterns don’t.

The chain can be gone… and the response still there.

Like a hand that once touched a hot stove —

you don’t reach for it again.

Not because it’s still burning you…

but because it taught you once.

Old signals still firing…

in moments that no longer exist.

A man can be free…

and still live like he isn’t.

I walked the length of a chain that wasn’t there anymore.

For years.

THE REFLECTION

A man can have food on the table… a roof over his head… breath in his lungs…

and still be dying inside.

Not because he isn’t surviving —

but because something in him is still bound…

or still far from where he belongs.

We don’t always get chained by force.

Sometimes we attach ourselves…

to old wounds old thoughts old patterns old ways of coping

Things we use to steady ourselves… that eventually start steering us.

There were years I thought I was chained to my own life.

Responsibility that didn’t clock out. Outcomes tied to decisions that weren’t always mine.

The economics were good…

but the weight was constant.

Some chains don’t look like suffering.

They look like success… responsibility… or even provision.

And even now…

some days the chain looks different.

Limits I didn’t choose.

But I’ve learned this —

Not everything that keeps you still is meant to keep you bound.

Writing doesn’t feel like a chain.

It feels like space.

God doesn’t teach a man how to survive bondage.

He sets him free from it.

There was a moment in my life…

when everything shifted.

Not because I got stronger —

but because the chain was cut.

Jesus didn’t just meet me where I was…

He broke what was holding me there.

And more than that —

He brought me back to where I belonged.

I carry a pocket knife every day.

Always have.

And I’ve come to realize —

sometimes what a man needs most…

isn’t more strength.

It’s something sharp enough to cut what’s still trying to hold him.

Not everything in your life needs to be managed.

Some things need to be severed.

WALKAWAY LINE

The hardest part of freedom… is believing you don’t belong in the chain anymore.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What are you still responding to… that no longer has the authority to hold you?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Show me what has been cut… that I’m still living as if it remains.

Where old signals still guide me — even though truth has already set me free.

Help me see clearly what no longer belongs in my life.

And give me the courage to step fully into what does.

Sharpen me where I’ve grown dull.

And may my knife always be ready — to cut away any bondage that tries to find attachment to me.

And for the one who feels bound right now — to something they can’t seem to shake

meet them there.

Remind them You are still the One who breaks chains.

And give them the strength to walk out of what no longer holds them.

Not just free in word — but free in how they live.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

Photo taken by Marty during a walk near my sister’s place.

We were out walking when I leaned against the tree for a little support. Marty lifted the camera and caught the moment. The sign beside me read five miles an hour.

I was grateful to still be walking.

And aware I was walking differently.

These days Marty sees and witnesses in a way I once did.

Now she is behind the camera.

And I am in the lens.

Some seasons do not ask you to stop.

They ask you to slow down long enough to hear what strength alone never could.

Sometimes the body tells the truth before pride will.

Strength rarely leaves in one moment.

It leaves by inches.

And in the quiet that follows, God shows you what was never leaving.

DEDICATION

To Marty — who stood beside me through the disorienting seasons when I sat wondering what life would look like next. When strength changed, you did not. Your love, support, and steady encouragement kept moving me forward, and often helped me hear what God was calling me toward when I could not hear it clearly myself. And may God always keep you strong enough to pick up the hoe — and gracious enough to keep loving the man who set it down.

To the Holy Spirit — for renewing the inner man when the outer man was changing, for never leaving my side, and for being the steady place I could lean when I did not know which direction to go.

To the reader — who may be carrying private challenges, quiet losses, or a season heavier than mine. May this encourage you to pause, wait, listen, and hear the voice of God in the middle of it all.

To the men entering this season — finishing one work, becoming ready for the next. May you set down what God is asking you to release, and may you not flinch when He places something heavier in the hand that’s free.

SCRIPTURE

“To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NKJV)

“Therefore we do not lose heart. Even though our outward man is perishing, yet the inward man is being renewed day by day.” — 2 Corinthians 4:16 (NKJV)

“Moreover it is required in stewards that one be found faithful.” — 1 Corinthians 4:2 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

We were walking up my sister’s driveway in Truckee. Snow on the pines. Snow on the road. Snow falling soft enough that you could hear it land.

The incline is not steep. It used to be a stretch I walked without thinking about it.

Today my breath was running ahead of my body.

I leaned against the tree just past the sign. I needed it. Just for a second. Just to catch up with myself.

The sign read five miles an hour.

My body was already keeping that speed.

Marty lifted the camera.

The moment held me there.

THE STORY

I stood under that pine and the world went quiet the way winter makes things quiet when fresh snow has just settled.

Five miles an hour.

That was the road’s speed. It was also mine. And somewhere between those two truths, something pulled my thoughts back home.

Months earlier. Different season altogether. Our backyard in Bakersfield. Marty on her knees in the dirt, pulling weeds by hand — we don’t put anything chemical in that soil because the dogs run the yard. She had not asked me to help. She rarely has to. But I saw her working and I wanted to step in.

So I picked up the hoe and walked out into the morning.

The blade bit clean. The weeds came up. The motion came back the way it always does when your hands remember work they used to know. She glanced up and smiled. Still in her season of strength. Down low in the dirt while I stood and worked the blade.

About thirty minutes in, my body started talking. Not loud. Just clear.

I kept going for a few more swings. Pride buys you a little time before truth collects.

Then I set the hoe down. Walked to the chair on the patio. Sat down hard.

Marty kept working. She did not look up. She was not keeping score.

And the loss came in quietly — a knowing that there was a time I would have finished that yard and started another one.

THE MOMENT

I came back to the driveway slowly. To the snow. To the pine. To the sign.

Marty was a few steps ahead, waiting. She did not rush me. She rarely does. She was standing in this season too — watching ground she has not yet walked, with a man she has loved through every version of himself.

That was the garden.

This was the climb.

Two different seasons. Same lesson arriving again — not to scold me, but to show me.

And what I felt under that tree was not weakness. It was witness. The pine was not just holding me up. It was standing with me while God did quieter work.

He was showing me what still remained when the old version of me could not keep pace.

Not who I used to be. Not who I am trying to get back to. What is still here — in this body, at this pace, in this season — under His hand.

I thought I was losing usefulness.

I was being reassigned.

THE TURN

The hoe left my hand. The pen had already taken its place.

I had not noticed the trade in the garden. I almost missed it again on the driveway. God has a way of doing that quietly. He takes one thing slowly enough that the new thing is already in your other hand by the time you realize the first one is gone.

Some changes arrive as losses. Later, you realize they were invitations.

The Sparks were already coming. The book was already forming. The reflections that had been gathering inside me for years were finding their way to the page. And I had been so focused on what was leaving the right hand that I almost missed what God was placing in the left.

And I’ll tell you the part that brings me joy. If one younger man picks up a Spark and does some honest gardening in his own life, the reassignment was worth it.

THE DRIFT

Maybe I should push through it.

Maybe if I just rested up I could get back to where I was.

Maybe usefulness is measured in what the body can still produce.

That voice sounds wise on the surface. It sounds like discipline. It sounds like not giving up.

But underneath it is a refusal — a refusal to listen to what the season is actually saying. A refusal to receive what God is actually handing you. A refusal to accept who you are now, because you are still trying to be who you were.

I know.

Because I drifted there.

For years.

THE REFLECTION

When the hands change, the carrying changes. But the calling does not.

That truth has met me in more than one place now. Once in the dirt. Once in the snow. The same God who slowed me in the garden slowed me on the driveway. The same Spirit who steadied me on a patio chair steadied me again under a pine tree at five miles an hour.

The places changed. The lesson did not.

There are days my body does not love this pace. There are days my spirit does. Both are true at the same time, and I have stopped needing them to agree before I can call this a good day.

Because what God is doing in me now is not finished.

He is still uncovering.

Still forming.

Still showing me what remains beneath what I used to be able to do.

I am still being revealed.

And that may be the holiest work of this season.

At five miles an hour.

WALKAWAY LINE

When strength leaves one hand, wisdom must rise in the other.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What is God uncovering in you that strength was covering up?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father, thank You for meeting me in the garden and meeting me again on the climb. Thank You for the work You gave me when I had the strength to do it. Thank You for the work You are giving me now in a different form. Help me not to grieve the season You have closed. Help me to receive the season You are opening. Renew the inner man. Steady the hand You are filling. Slow me when I need to be slowed. Uncover what You are still revealing. And let me carry what You hand me — not what I used to carry, not what I wish I still carried, but what You are placing in front of me today. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

This is the chair where I meet the morning.

The lamp.

The open Bible.

The cup with my mark on it.

A book about wasting time with God.

The phone reading 10:16.

This is my chair — exclusively. An upgrade from the one I wore out. I shopped for it all over the country and finally landed it in South Carolina. The day it arrived, and I sat down in it, Marty said, “wow.” Then she came over, sat in it herself, and said “I want one.”

This corner has held more honest moments than most rooms in my life.

Less furniture.

More territory.

I often sit here beside the Holy Spirit and let the day come to me before I go to it.

There are places that quietly become sacred.

Not because they are expensive.

Not because they are impressive.

But because they have held versions of you no one else ever fully knew.

This chair has held many of mine.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit — who keeps forging my soul through every season.

To my wife, Marty — my first reader, my steady encourager, the faithful keeper of the flame.

To Bryan Kramer — whose reflections often stir deeper reflection in others, including me.

To the reader — who may be carrying something today that does not need to be fixed first… but faced honestly.

SCRIPTURE

“Create in me a clean heart, O God, And renew a steadfast spirit within me.” — Psalm 51:10 (NKJV)

“Being confident of this very thing, that He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.” — Philippians 1:6 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

We spend a lot of life trying to fix what only truth can heal.

The leaking faucet.

The flat tire.

The bill that needs paying.

Those have answers.

The ache underneath does not.

THE STORY

This morning I opened an email from my friend Bryan Kramer.

He had written about standing in line for coffee, phone in hand, mentally trying to repair himself before the day had even started.

The conversation he replayed.

The email he wished he had written differently.

The decision he kept second-guessing.

The pressure to become a better version of himself before the first sip.

Then came the line that stayed with me:

“When did I become a problem that needs solving?”

That question has weight.

Because many of us live that way.

Trying to optimize ourselves.

Repair ourselves.

Outperform our weaknesses.

Manage perception.

Correct every flaw before anyone notices it exists.

Especially men.

We are built to fix things.

The leaking faucet.

The broken gate.

The engine noise.

The financial problem.

The family tension.

The future.

Give a man a problem and he often feels alive.

But give him a wound — and many of us reach for tools that were never made for healing.

I know because more than once, I mistook control for growth.

THE MOMENT

Yesterday I was talking with a friend about one of his employees.

The man had just finished two years on an ankle monitor and was heading back home to Tennessee. My friend was worried he would fall right back into old patterns.

I understood the concern.

But I told him something simple.

We can guide people.

Support people.

Pray for people.

Love people.

But we cannot fix people.

Only God and a willing heart can do surgery that deep.

That includes us.

Some of the hardest people we try to fix are the ones staring back at us in the mirror.

Some wounds were never meant to be managed.

They were meant to be surrendered.

THE TURN

There have been seasons sitting in this chair when I looked backward more than forward.

Roads I chose.

Strength I once had.

Memories I wish I could step back into.

Moments I would handle differently now.

Age has a way of introducing reflection.

And reflection becomes one of two things:

Wisdom.

Or regret.

The difference is whether truth is invited into the room.

Maturity is not pretending everything turned out perfectly.

It is owning what didn’t.

Accountability is where correction becomes possible.

Not denial.

Not spin.

Not image management.

Not blaming the season, the stress, the spouse, the economy, the childhood, or the timing.

Accountability.

The moment a person says:

Yes… that was me.

Yes… that needs work.

Yes… I see it now.

Yes… Lord, come into that place.

That is where healing gets permission to begin.

THE DRIFT

There is a voice that keeps a lot of people trapped.

Just keep polishing the outside.

Stay impressive.

Stay busy.

Stay defensive.

Stay one explanation ahead of the truth.

That voice sounds like protection.

It is not.

It is delay.

And delay can cost years.

There is a kind of self-improvement that looks productive on the outside — but is really avoidance dressed in nicer clothes.

I know.

Because I wore them.

For years.

THE REFLECTION

I once went through a tax audit.

His name was Joe.

Short guy. Briefcase in hand. The kind of man who walks in looking ready to disassemble the plant.

My CPA had warned me before he arrived:

“This guy is tough. We’ve dealt with him on a lot of audits.”

There was one write-off Joe questioned.

Truthfully, I had questions about it too.

I could have argued.

Deflected.

Acted offended.

Pretended certainty.

Instead, I said:

“You know what — I have wondered about that myself. I am happy to gather whatever is needed and let you guide me.”

He took his time.

He looked it over carefully.

Then he set the paper down and said:

“You know what — we’re not going to worry about it.”

At the end of the audit, he told me it was the most pleasant audit he had ever experienced.

I smiled.

(Ha ha — until the next guy.)

But the lesson stayed.

Owning a weak position honestly is stronger than defending it falsely.

That is true in marriage.

True in leadership.

True in friendship.

True before God.

A lot of people think accountability is humiliation.

It is not.

It is alignment.

It is stepping back into reality.

And reality is where grace does some of its best work.

You cannot correct or fix everything.

Sometimes you just need to find the flow.

Jesus did not call perfect men.

He called willing ones.

He did not ask people to arrive polished.

He asked them to follow.

He did not heal those who had image.

He healed those who brought truth.

The freest people I know are not the ones who fixed themselves.

They are the ones who finally stopped pretending — and let God meet them honestly.

WALKAWAY LINE

You cannot heal what you refuse to name.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

Where in your life are you still trying to fix what first needs to be faced honestly?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the places that hold our history while You shape our future.

Thank You for the quiet chairs, the early mornings, the hard reflections, and the moments when truth finally rises to the surface.

Forgive me for the times I worked on appearances while neglecting the heart.

Forgive me for trying to fix through effort what only surrender could heal.

Break every alliance I still have with appearances.

Give me courage to name what is real.

Give me humility to own what is mine.

Give me faith to trust that where truth enters, grace can follow.

Create in me a clean heart.

Renew a steadfast spirit within me.

And keep forming me into the man You intended all along.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

The Tram D201A. Mine, once. I let her go in a garage sale — and I remember the day. A quiet sadness in it, the kind that shows up when you know you’re closing a real chapter. She wasn’t just equipment. She was a whole season of my life walking out the door in someone else’s hands. I bought her to reach further. It took me fifty years to learn why reach was never the point.

Some men chase frequencies their whole lives.

Some get tuned instead.

I spent years building antennas.

Heaven was building me.

DEDICATION

To mistakes — for teaching me what pride never could.

To my friend — who got in trouble with me, trusted me, and let me learn what leadership costs.

To my mother — whose calm frequency steadied her son in a moment of recklessness.

To the Holy Spirit — who was tuned to me long before I knew how to tune to Him.

SCRIPTURE

“Keep your heart with all diligence, For out of it spring the issues of life.” — Proverbs 4:23 (NKJV)

“And after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a still small voice.” — 1 Kings 19:12 (NKJV)

“Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy — meditate on these things.” — Philippians 4:8 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

Yard House. Wednesday evening.

Marty and I had just sat down.

Screens on every wall. Basketball on one. Baseball on another. An argument on a third.

Music overhead. Loud enough to compete.

Phones everywhere. Couples across from each other, eyes down, thumbs moving.

Nobody was transmitting on the same frequency.

I looked across the table at Marty.

Still. Present. Waiting on her menu like waiting was a form of prayer.

She was the only clean signal in the room. And somehow, we were both on the same frequency.

And that’s when the word came back.

Bleed-over.

Hadn’t thought it in fifty years.

THE STORY

The Tram D201A cost me real money.

A working man’s month. Not a kid’s allowance.

But I’d wanted her a long time. And when I finally sat her on the bench in the garage, I felt the satisfaction of a man holding mastery before he’s earned it.

I was young. Santa Clara County.

Everything about electronics fascinated me — radios, systems, signal power, the way sound could travel through air and land in another man’s living room twenty miles away.

Something in me wanted to push every system I touched one step past where it was designed to go.

My friend was quieter.

Thoughtful. The kind who’d question a plan once — not twice — and then go along with it because we were friends and he trusted I’d thought it through.

I hadn’t thought it through.

Not really.

I’d thought about it the way a young man thinks — the result, not the path. The reach, not the cost.

We built a field of antennas behind the property.

Scrap flareline pipe. Copper wire strung between the posts across an acre. Batteries wired into an illegal linear amplifier I’d modified past any reasonable limit.

We powered it up.

For a few minutes, we were gods.

Then the county lit up.

Fire dispatch bled into police.

Police bled into ham.

Ham bled into CB.

CB bled into private frequencies, aviation bands, commercial radio.

Somewhere over Santa Clara, a pilot was trying to talk to a tower and getting my amplifier instead.

We didn’t know that yet.

All we knew was our own signal, strong and clean, punching through to whoever was listening.

The authorities knew more than we did.

They triangulated us inside an hour.

And then the horses came through the wire.

I don’t remember who owned them.

I remember the sound.

I remember running toward the field and finding what copper wire does to an animal’s legs when it’s stretched at chest height and charged.

No deaths.

But injuries you don’t forget.

Injuries that weren’t theirs to pay for.

My friend didn’t say much that night.

Neither did I.

I took the blame. Not because I had to — because I knew.

I was the one who’d convinced him. I was the tone-setter. The voice. The frequency he’d tuned his own decisions to.

He’d doubted the plan.

I’d drowned out the doubt with volume.

I was leading before I was wise enough to lead.

My mother met me at the door.

She didn’t yell. She didn’t cry.

She didn’t break me down. She didn’t excuse me.

She defended me to the people who needed to hear a mother defend her son — and then, in the quiet after, she corrected me with a calm I’ve been trying to carry ever since.

She didn’t raise her voice once.

She didn’t have to.

Her frequency was already higher than mine.

Then came the cost.

The consequences that would be etched into my soul forever.

I wanted reach.

God wanted surrender.

THE MOMENT

I’ve thought about those horses for fifty years.

Not every day.

Not every year.

But they come back — usually when I’m about to open my mouth about something I haven’t thought all the way through. Or when I’m about to raise the volume on a room that’s already loud.

They come back because they were innocent.

They didn’t ask for my amplifier.

They didn’t tune into my signal.

They were just animals in a field, living on their own frequency, and my reach bled into their lives and left a wound.

That’s what bleed-over is.

Not the noise you mean to make.

The noise that spills into people who never asked to receive it.

Some signals speak.

Others wound.

I thought I was broadcasting.

Heaven was triangulating me.

THE TURN

Two different men.

The young man who flipped that switch in the garage.

The older man sitting at Yard House decades later.

The road between them is longer than any antenna field I ever strung.

The young man wanted to reach past the county line.

He wanted to dominate.

He wanted his voice to carry.

He wanted to be heard — because somewhere underneath it, he wasn’t sure he mattered unless he was loud.

The older man sits across a table from his wife.

Watching a room full of people transmit into each other without knowing what they’re spilling.

Wanting something different entirely.

I don’t want reach anymore. I want clarity.

I don’t want volume. I want presence.

I don’t want to overpower channels. I want to guard atmospheres.

I once chased power.

Now I protect peace.

Marty has done that for thirty-one years.

Guarded atmospheres.

Her peace wasn’t handed to her. She earned it. Through her own years, her own fires, her own quiet decisions to stay tuned when everything around her was static.

Her frequency is wide-band peace.

It doesn’t fight for airspace. It settles into a room and lets the room settle with it.

I’ve watched her walk into chaos and calm a room without ever raising her voice.

That’s tuning.

That’s what I didn’t have a word for when I was building antenna fields.

THE DRIFT

The drift has a voice. Always has.

It tells you things that sound like wisdom, but aren’t.

Be louder. Be heard. If you don’t dominate the room, someone else will.

Turn up your signal. The strongest frequency wins.

Push past the limits. Limits are for people who don’t have your gifts.

The right amount of power is always a little more than you have.

If you’re not reaching, you’re not living.

I know.

Because I amplified it. For years.

THE REFLECTION

There’s a reason Elijah didn’t find God in the wind. Or the earthquake. Or the fire.

Those were the frequencies Elijah expected.

Big power. Big reach. Big signal.

The kind of voice a prophet on the run from a queen might want — loud enough to drown out the threat and confirm he hadn’t been abandoned.

But God wasn’t on those channels.

God was on the still small voice.

The smallest voice in the scripture.

The quietest frequency on the mountain.

And the one Elijah had to stop transmitting to hear.

I think about that passage more now than I did at twenty-five. More than I did at forty.

I think about how much of my life I spent trying to be heard on frequencies God wasn’t broadcasting on.

I think about how much bleed-over I’ve caused in rooms that didn’t deserve it.

Not horses in a field this time.

People. My people. The ones closest to the antenna.

Proverbs says to keep the heart with all diligence — because out of it spring the issues of life.

Every issue.

Every signal.

Every word that leaves your mouth is a broadcast of what’s already tuned inside you.

You cannot transmit peace from a heart set on dominance.

You cannot transmit grace from a heart set on winning.

You cannot carry the still small voice of God into a room when the inside of you is still running a linear amplifier at full power.

So the Lord does something merciful.

He tunes us.

Through mistakes. Through wives. Through mothers. Through horses we’ll remember for fifty years.

Through the Holy Spirit who was on our frequency long before we ever learned to find His.

Some men grow older.

Some men get tuned.

It took me sixty-seven years to tune what mattered most.

I thought I was chasing frequencies.

Heaven was trying to reach mine.

WALKAWAY LINE

The strongest signal in my life was never volume — it was peace.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What are you spilling into the people around you — without knowing you’re doing it?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for tuning me when I didn’t know I needed tuning. Thank You for the mother You gave me, the wife You gave me, the friend who stood beside me in my foolishness, and the horses in a field who taught me what reach can cost. Thank You for every mistake You used to cut my volume down until I could finally hear the still small voice that had been calling me all along.

Lord, guard what I transmit. Keep my heart clean, because I know now that what’s inside always spills out. Give me the discipline of restraint, the discernment to know when silence is the strongest signal, and the humility to carry peace into rooms that are starving for it.

Tune me daily, Father. And when I drift off frequency, pull me back quickly — before the people I love get caught in the wire.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

Pismo Beach. 2018. Peaches walked toward the shoreline like she belonged there — small frame, calm stride, the whole Pacific in front of her. I lifted the camera and let her keep walking.

I realized how small she was.

And how small I was too.

The ocean never argues.

It just arrives.

And puts everything else in its place.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit — who returns old moments at the exact hour they are needed.

To Marty — faithful through every wave, every season, every storm that ever broke over us.

To Peaches — who brought joy in life, and still brings it in memory.

To the reader — may something here help you breathe deeper and see further.

SCRIPTURE

“Be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath; for the wrath of man does not produce the righteousness of God.” — James 1:19–20 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

There were years I confused speed with strength.

Fix it fast. Answer quick. Win the point. Control the room.

If a customer walked in heated, I joined the heat.

If an employee was upset, I matched the volume.

If a problem got loud, I got louder.

Sometimes I made good decisions inside that storm.

More often, I paid for them later.

THE STORY

Years after, I sat in a deposition tied to a lawsuit with enormous consequences.

Twelve attorneys.

Sixteen hours.

Pressure from every direction.

But by then, life had taught me a different rhythm.

Pause.

Wait.

Listen.

Pause again.

Then respond.

Only answer the question.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

That night my attorney told me it was one of the most controlled depositions he had ever witnessed.

But the calm didn’t come from a courtroom.

It came from the storms that came before it.

THE MOMENT

Years later, on a beach in Pismo, I watched my Sweet Peaches walk toward an enormous ocean.

She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t perform. She just walked — like the water had been there waiting for her.

And standing behind the camera, something quiet shifted in me.

The ocean wasn’t shouting.

It wasn’t scolding.

It wasn’t demanding anything.

It was simply… vast.

And every loud thing I had carried in suddenly looked smaller than it had any right to be.

Most things in front of us only look huge

because they are all we are looking at.

THE TURN

The ocean doesn’t ask to be heard.

It just arrives. Wave after wave. Current after current. Crash after crash.

And somehow… it brings peace.

There is power in what does not need to announce itself.

I have always been drawn to grounded people — not because of their age, but because of their settledness. They had lived through enough weather to stop shaking with every wind. Even when I disagreed with them, I respected where they had landed.

Some convictions are not inherited.

They are earned.

THE DRIFT

There is a voice that wants to keep you reactive.

Win this. Prove it. Defend yourself. Be louder. Be first.

That voice sounds strong.

It isn’t.

Real strength doesn’t need urgency. It can wait. It can listen. It can stay kind under pressure. It can stand firm without becoming hard.

I know.

Because I had been rushing it

For years.

THE REFLECTION

One of the greatest things God ever showed me came as three words.

Uncover. Discover. Discard.

Uncover the wounds — the ones that should never have happened to a child, the ones I carried into trust and conflict and identity without knowing I was carrying them.

Discover how much of my adult life was still being governed by old injuries.

The people were long gone.

But I was still carrying them.

Then came the hardest part.

Discard.

Lay it down at the cross. Release what no longer served me, others, or Jesus.

Understanding another person’s brokenness does not excuse what they did. But it can help you release what they left behind.

The light on my path grew brighter when bitterness no longer walked beside me.

When Marty first brought me to Bakersfield, she took me to meet a woman named Dorothy in hospice. Advanced MS. Words came hard. Movement came harder. But I spoke to her as if nothing important had been lost — because nothing important had. She would look at me with bright eyes, hold my hand, squeeze hard. And love came through.

Sometimes I left in tears.

Dorothy taught me what the ocean teaches.

Not all listening uses ears.

Many people don’t need answers first. They need to be seen.

Fight for second place.

When two people fight for first, both lose. Especially in marriage. Most arguments are not about dishes or schedules or money. They are about unseen needs, unmet expectations, joy that quietly got stolen.

Seek to understand before seeking to be understood.

That one shift can save years.

Sometimes the greatest victory is moving toward each other instead of away.

When I stood beside the ocean that day, I did not feel smaller in a bad way.

I felt freer.

Not every story is mine. Not every battle is worth fighting. Not every wave requires response.

Some thoughts need to crash.

Lose force.

Turn to foam.

And return where they came from.

Peaches is gone now. I miss her. But some souls keep giving long after they leave. She filled my joy in real time. Now she fills it in memory.

Even after every wave that has come since that day on the sand —

Joy still knows where to find me.

I wasn’t born to win every battle. I was born to endure the journey and receive God’s promise.

WALKAWAY LINE

The ocean never told me I was nothing — it reminded me I wasn’t everything.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What feels enormous right now… might only need a wider horizon.

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the vast things that restore proportion.

Thank You for the waves that calm us, the trials that teach us, the people who quietly ground us.

Teach me to pause before reacting.

To listen before speaking.

To understand before defending.

To release what no longer belongs in my hands.

And when life feels too large —

lift my eyes higher.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

When I look at the phone in our hand now… I see a counterfeit shield.

God told us to take up the shield of faith.

Not the shield of noise. Not the shield of distraction. Not the shield of endless alerts. Not the shield of artificial urgency.

Faith.

Yet somewhere along the way… many of us began reaching first for the glowing shield in our hand — instead of the unseen one protecting our soul.

Some truths do not arrive when you are young.

They arrive after decades.

After pressure. After deadlines. After long drives. After ringing phones. After victories no one sees… and costs no one knew.

They arrive when a man has lived long enough to compare roads.

DEDICATION

To the years of trials, pressure, victories, losses, and long labor in the workforce — years that taught me much, cost me much, and eventually led me to the foot of the Cross, where I can now look back and see the contrast of where I traveled, where I landed, and where by grace I am going.

To my wife, Marty — who stood beside me through those years, carried burdens with me, believed through seasons with me, and helped build not only a future, but an eternity-centered life.

To the Holy Spirit — who walked with me even when I did not understand it, guarded me when I could not see it, and now teaches me the beauty of stillness, quiet places, and hearing His voice.

And to anyone who feels the pull of this age — who knows convenience is real, but knows the cost is too — this one is for you.

SCRIPTURE

“Above all, taking the shield of faith…” — Ephesians 6:16

“My sheep hear My voice…” — John 10:27

“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10

There was a season when I had a big red phone sitting on my desk.

When it rang, I got excited.

Because you never knew who was on the other end.

It might be opportunity. It might be growth. It might be favor. It might be the next open door.

I built a career on technology.

I know what it gives.

I also know what it takes.

Then time passed.

And the same ring that once stirred excitement… began stirring tension.

Maybe it was the IRS. Maybe it was regulation. Maybe it was bad news. Maybe it was another problem entering the room.

Same phone.

Different meaning.

Now fast forward.

We carry phones in our pockets, beside our beds, at our tables, in our cars, in our hands while life itself is happening.

And half the time… we still don’t know who’s on the other end.

Spam. Fraud. Phishing. Noise. Urgency pretending to matter.

Then one thought hit me hard.

What if that phone rang… and Jesus was on the other end?

What would He say?

Would He ask why I answer everything else so quickly — yet make Him wait?

Would He remind me what matters?

Would He tell me to slow down?

Would He tell me to forgive someone?

Would He tell me to come outside?

Would He tell me to be still long enough to hear Him again?

Would He ask why I gave my best attention to everything but Him?

Or maybe…

He already has been calling.

Just not through the device in my pocket.

Through conviction. Through Scripture. Through silence. Through sunsets. Through dogs waiting in the yard. Through the wife beside me. Through the ache in my spirit that knows there must be more.

The phone in our pocket rings all day.

And we keep missing His call.

There was a time not everyone had a cell phone.

Now almost everyone does.

That alone should make us pause.

What was once a tool… is now nearly attached to identity.

Technology is not going away.

So the real question is no longer — should we use it?

The real question is — who is using whom?

We gained convenience… and often lost presence.

We gained speed… and lost depth.

We gained connection to the world… and lost connection across the street.

We gained a glowing shield… and forgot the one heaven gave us.

And many never noticed the trade… until years were gone.

And somewhere in all of it, we began carrying more memories of other people’s lives… than our own.

I know both worlds.

I know what it means to need the phone. I know what it means to build with it. I know what it means to be burdened by it.

And I know the freedom that comes when it no longer owns your reach, your mornings, your dinner table, your thoughts, or your peace.

Half the time now, I can’t even find mine.

And strangely enough — I love that.

I know. Because I lived it. For years.

I remember neighborhoods where garage doors stayed open.

People sat in lawn chairs. Kids ran through sprinklers. Dogs barked across fences. Someone stopped by just to say hello.

Now many doors are shut. Locked. Gated. Secured.

And many people live behind walls… while also hiding behind a screen.

The thing about shields is this — they protect.

But they also block.

They block interruption. They block awkwardness. They block silence.

But they can also block neighbors. Block tenderness. Block conversation. Block presence.

And sometimes… block the voice of God.

I think about my sister in the Truckee mountains.

Walking dogs. Breathing pine air. Living outdoors. Moving in creation. Hearing quiet.

She once said she found the ultimate place in life.

I believe her.

Because some wealth cannot be measured by signal strength.

Some riches never appear on a screen.

So I’m not here to preach.

I’m here to reflect.

I’m here to ask what voice gets our quickest response.

I’m here to ask what matters when the room gets quiet.

As for me — I want the days ahead to look different.

More yard time. More dog time. More walking time. More laughter. More prayer. More eye contact. More gratitude. More peace.

I want to use technology — without letting it use me.

I want to hold tools loosely.

I want to hold faith tightly.

When my Heavenly Father calls me home, I pray the shield of faith is in my hand — not the one in my pocket.

What steals sand from your hourglass grain by grain?

One day every phone will go silent.

Only eternal things will still be speaking.

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for every useful tool — but forgive me where tools became masters.

Forgive wasted attention. Forgive divided thoughts. Forgive missed moments. Forgive misplaced priorities.

Teach me stewardship in this age.

Restore my hearing for Your voice. Restore my hunger for what is real. Restore my joy in simple things.

Teach me again to take up the shield of faith first.

And when You call… let me hear You clearly.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

This tomato came from our garden — one of thousands Marty and I have grown since we moved into that house in 2004. But it wasn’t always like this. For years, we were just two people standing on three acres of dirt, trying to figure out what the land would let us do.

Some things grow above ground.

Others root below.

And sometimes — what looks barren is only waiting.

DEDICATION

To Marty — who carried water tree by tree when the ground gave up. Who walked the rows with me season after season as the Holy Spirit taught us both — using the garden to show us our own lives. Every harvest is hers too.

To the redwoods — that taught us beauty without wisdom does not last.

To the persimmon — that waited seven years to feed everyone around it.

To you — tending your own garden, watching your own soil, trusting your own seasons. May you have the wisdom to know what to release — and the patience to hold what only needs one more season.

SCRIPTURE

“And let us not grow weary while doing good, for in due season we shall reap if we do not lose heart.” — Galatians 6:9 (NKJV)

“He shall be like a tree Planted by the rivers of water, That brings forth its fruit in its season, Whose leaf also shall not wither; And whatever he does shall prosper.” — Psalm 1:3 (NKJV)

“To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

2004.

We pulled into the driveway of a finished house on 2.75 acres of raw dirt.

Inside — tile laid, cabinets hung, every room done.

Outside — nothing. Just ground, wind, and work, we didn’t know how to start.

Marty stood beside me, looking at all of it. And I remember thinking — we’re going to live here the rest of our lives. Whatever this becomes, we’re going to have to build it ourselves.

THE STORY

I didn’t know how deep to plant a tomato. I didn’t know how much water a pepper needed. I didn’t know that some things go in the ground in October and some in April and some never go in at all in Bakersfield heat.

So I learned. Slow. Wrong first, then right. Irrigation lines redesigned more times than I can count. Beds torn out and rebuilt. Seasons where the soil beat me — and seasons where the soil gave more than we could carry.

One year, the celery took over. More than we could eat, more than we could give away. Another year, the tomatoes came in by the crate. We set baskets on the kitchen floor because we ran out of counter.

And then came the redwoods.

Over 50 of them — planted in long rows along the back acres. They were beautiful. The kind of beauty you stand back from and think: yes, this is it. This is what the land was meant to be.

Marty and I walked between them in the mornings. It became our prayer walk. Shade, stillness, rows of green holding us.

But redwoods don’t belong in Bakersfield. They belong where the fog rolls in, and the rain comes regularly, and the ground drinks deep every year. We had planted them where they could not be sustained.

The drought came.

The green went first. Rust crept up the needles from the tips. Then the dropping started — drifts of dead needles under each tree, thicker every week.

And Marty — I’ll never forget this — Marty would go out with buckets. Tree by tree. Trying to save what we had built.

One by one, they died anyway.

We had to take them out. And I grieved. Not just the trees — what they had meant. The prayer walk was gone. The beauty was gone. All that was left was ground again.

THE MOMENT

Year six, I stood in front of the persimmon tree.

It had given me nothing. Not a piece of fruit. Barely a canopy. Six years of watering, feeding, tending — and it just sat there. Barren. Stubborn.

I was done.

I told Marty: I’m taking it out. Making room for something that’ll actually produce. Six years is enough. This one’s not going to.

She didn’t argue. She just said: one more season.

I almost said no.

At six, I was ready to uproot it.

At seven, it fed everyone around us.

That seventh year, the persimmon exploded.

Fruit I couldn’t count. Orange, heavy, pulling the branches. We gave them to neighbors, to family, to anyone who’d take a bag. And I stood there with dirt on my hands and thought — I almost tore this out.

The roots had been going deeper the whole time. I just couldn’t see them.

THE DRIFT

The voice is always there. It sounds reasonable. Sounds like stewardship.

It’s not working. It never will.

You’ve given it enough. Cut your losses.

You tried. You learned. Move on.

Sometimes the voice is right. The redwoods taught me that. Some things are planted where they cannot be sustained, and wisdom says let them go.

But sometimes the voice is lying. Sometimes what looks dead is only rooting. And the hand that tears it out at year six never gets to see what year seven was building.

I know. Because I listened to it. For years.

THE REFLECTION

Church taught me the words. The garden taught me what they meant.

It taught me that abundance follows stewardship — but stewardship is slow. It taught me that beauty without wisdom doesn’t last. It taught me that some seasons look barren because the roots are still going.

And it taught me this: God is a patient grower. He doesn’t plant and walk away. He tends. He waters. He waits. When the fruit comes, it’s not because we forced it — it’s because He knew the season was coming all along.

How many people do we give up on one year too early? How many marriages. How many callings. How many children. How many pieces of ourselves.

Fruit delayed is not fruit denied.

WALKAWAY LINE

Some things are not barren — they are rooting.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What in your life are you ready to tear out — that might only need one more season?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father, thank You for being the patient grower.

Thank You for the seasons I couldn’t see through — and for the roots You were building while I was watching the ground.

Give me wisdom to know what to release, and patience to hold what only needs more time.

Let me trust Your timing over my impatience.

Let me see my life the way You see a garden — not ready to harvest, but never abandoned.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

I wasn’t looking for it.

Just scrolling. Searching.

But when I saw it — it stopped me.

I was looking for gauntlets… armor… something to represent the battle.

But when I saw this pair… it wasn’t the strength that caught me.

It was the protection.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit and to Jesus — for meeting me at the end of myself… and reminding me I was never meant to do this alone.

To the brothers who stood beside me — who sharpened me, challenged me, and stayed when it mattered.

To the men who walked it with me — David Dobbs, who first tapped on me and invited me in. Bobby Johnson, my first Journey group guide, who poured into me. Les Pearsey, Rocky Fleming, Bryan Craig, Stephen Elcano — men who lived the fight, not just talked about it. Some now home with Papa.

To my wife — who carried the weight when I couldn’t… and never let me forget who I was becoming.

SCRIPTURE

“Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.” — Ephesians 6:11 (NKJV)

“My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience.” — James 1:2–3 (NKJV)

“As iron sharpens iron, so a man sharpens the countenance of his friend.” — Proverbs 27:17 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

I sat on the edge of the bed.

Trying to put on a shirt.

My arms wouldn’t answer.

And I knew —

Strength wasn’t going to be enough.

THE STORY

One memory still comes back.

A hard day I’d won. Driving home. Windows down.

I felt invincible.

Strength did this. Drive did this. Will did this.

That’s what I believed.

Gym three, four nights a week. Racquetball. Softball. Hunting. Fishing. Everything at full throttle.

Physically strong. Financially strong. Driven. Aggressive. Relentless.

A man needed strength… economics… desire… and the will to go get it.

I thought that was enough.

THE MOMENT

2006

West Nile.

Sent home to die.

Two years… barely functioning… watching my wife carry everything.

I couldn’t fix it.

I was empty.

My body was still there.

My spirit had nothing to stand on.

THE TURN

One night.

Jesus stood at the end of my bed.

He interlocked His hands with mine. Turned them over.

And said —

You are healed.

The trial didn’t end that night.

But something did.

The lie that my strength was the foundation.

The lie that I had been carrying it alone.

I had built my life on what I could produce… not on what I could stand on.

I had strength… but no covering.

2008 rolled in.

I was one of two survivors — out of 837 the CDC tracked.

That number should have ended me.

It didn’t.

And Marty kept saying it — winter and summer —

“He’s not done with you.”

I spent that season in the garden with her.

A lot of time to talk to Jesus.

A lot of time to think about the soil I’d been planted in.

I had to come to terms with my new physical self — and my new internal self.

The men’s ministry gave me healing ground. Nutrient-rich soil to grow from.

And there were gardeners — many of them.

Watering. Tending. Staying.

God got a hold of me in a powerful way.

He gave me a dream — a large cross in my backyard.

I woke up and told Marty.

She asked why.

Because He had something planned.

So we built it.

A reminder —

of the man who dies at its foot…

and is reborn.

At that cross, with Les Pearsey beside me, I died to self.

Made the exchange.

My heart for His.

What started as a reminder became a gathering place.

Men came. Couples married at its foot. Marty’s ministry grew there.

The stories keep going.

The gauntlet had morphed.

It was never about strength.

It was always about faith.

So had everything around me.

THE DRIFT

You’re strong… you’ll figure it out.

You’ve always handled things.

Just keep pushing.

That voice sounds like confidence.

It isn’t.

It’s dependence… on something that can disappear overnight.

I know. Because I lived it. For years.

THE REFLECTION

Those gauntlets.

They weren’t about power. They were about protection.

Because without your hands… you can’t carry anything.

And mine aren’t what they used to be.

Surgeries. Strain. Even opening a jar reminds me.

It’s made me pay attention to what I took for granted.

And here’s what I didn’t see coming —

These same hands, fragile now, are the ones He’s asked to write.

To tell the stories. To build these Sparks.

The weakest part of me became the calling.

And it’s the same with the heart.

You can build strength — and still be completely exposed.

God gave us armor… because He knew what was coming.

Those gauntlets didn’t come out of the forge looking like that.

The scars on the plate are the proof of what they stopped.

You’re not supposed to come through this untouched.

You’re supposed to come through covered.

Life is a gauntlet.

But most men run it unarmored.

Every morning — I put the armor on.

Belt of truth. Breastplate of righteousness. The helmet of salvation.

I shod my feet with peace.

I take up boldly the shield of faith.

Not as ritual. As preparation.

Because you prepare before the battle shows up.

The battle was always there.

Only the covering changed.

We wear devices now that track everything.

Heart rate. Recovery. Strain.

Signals we can’t see… until something tells us we’re off.

I wear a Whoop. Others wear an Apple Watch… a Garmin… something that keeps them aware of what’s happening underneath the surface.

And it made me wonder —

What if we had a spiritual tracker?

Something that showed us when we were drifting… when our peace was off… when our alignment was slipping.

Then it hit me…

We already have one.

It’s the Holy Spirit.

He has to be activated — but once He is, He never goes low on battery.

No charging cable. No dead zones. No updates required.

Available 24/7.

Now that’s my kind of tracker.

One I listen to consistently.

How about you?

I don’t need a device to tell me anymore.

I armor up daily.

And I know when I’m off.

WALKAWAY LINE

Strength without covering isn’t strength — it’s exposure.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What are you relying on right now… that wouldn’t hold if it was taken from you?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Meet the man reading this right where he is.

Show him where he’s exposed… and what he’s leaning on.

Give him the courage to step into Your covering.

Prepare him for what’s ahead.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~

Middle of the day. No alarm. No guilt. Fully down — no negotiation, no calculation, no apology. I used to walk past this and keep moving. Took me longer than I’d like to admit to understand what they already knew.

It was right in front of me…
and I almost missed it.

Not because it was hidden…
but because I wasn’t looking for it.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit — for bringing awareness in the quiet places I used to overlook.

To my brother Stephen Elcano — who stimulates my thinking and sharpens me… a kindred spirit walking a similar path, and a gift I don’t take lightly.

To my dear friend Bryan Kramer — for the way you inspire me and call things out that matter.

To my wife, Marty — who doesn’t just read what I write… she lives it. You are the hidden treasure in my life… and my treasured nap buddy, right alongside our four Aussies — all of you teaching me something I took far too long to learn.

SCRIPTURE

“For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul?” — Mark 8:36 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

It’s 12:11 p.m.
Wednesday. Tax day.

And I’m laying down for a nap.

That alone would have been unthinkable for most of my life.

For years…
I wouldn’t pay that price.

A nap felt like losing ground.
Felt like giving something up.
Felt like someone else might be getting ahead.

So I stayed moving.
Stayed chasing.
Stayed producing.

No matter what it cost.

THE STORY

This morning I sat with a friend…
Stephen.

We talked about writing.
Why we do it.
Why now.

Different seasons…
same realization.

There’s a cost to everything.

I lived that for years in business.

Every client… every project…
same question:

“What’s it going to cost?”

Can we afford it?
Do we want to pay it?
What do we get in return?

That question runs deeper than business.

It’s everywhere now.

The world is asking it.
The news is asking it.
The markets reflect it.

What’s the cost of war?
What’s the cost at the pump?
What’s the cost of all of it?

And we pay it.
One way or another… we pay it.

Tax day is a hard teacher.
File late and the cost doesn’t disappear.
It compounds.
Penalties. Interest.
Maybe one of those exhilarating audits down the road.
The bill was always there.
You just pushed it forward.

THE MOMENT

But here’s what hit me…

I don’t think we’re asking the right question.

You’re not missing the hidden cost.
You’re avoiding the answer it would give you.

THE TURN

The hidden cost.

That’s the one nobody’s talking about.

Not really.

Because the hidden cost doesn’t show up on the invoice.

It shows up later.

In your body.
In your relationships.
In your peace.
In your direction.

I’ve had over 18 surgeries in my life.

I paid the visible cost.

But what I live with now…
that’s the hidden cost.

The things no one could fully explain.
The things the body doesn’t respond to.
The things you only understand after you’re already in it.

That’s where the real price shows up.

THE DRIFT

“Just keep moving… you’ll rest later.”

That voice sounds like discipline.
It isn’t.

Discipline knows when to stop.
That voice only knows how to push.

It tells you you’re gaining ground…
while something deeper is being drained.

I know. Because I ran on it. For years.

THE REFLECTION

I look at my dogs now.

Middle of the day…
they just lay down.

No negotiation.
No calculation.
No fear of missing out.

They rest.

And I used to think that cost too much.

Now…

I take a nap…
and I wake up better.

Clearer.
Stronger.
More present.

I used to think a nap cost me time.
I never stopped to ask what it was costing me to never rest.

And I can’t help but wonder…

What did it cost me all those years
to stay in motion?

Because the hidden cost isn’t always what you give up.

Sometimes…

it’s what you never allowed yourself to receive.

And sometimes…

it’s what you take from others
without even realizing it.

A short answer.
A sharp tone.
A moment where you snap instead of see.

You’re thinking about where you are.
You’re not thinking about where they are.

And later…

you find out it landed deeper than you meant.

Someone felt it.
Someone carried it.

And you didn’t even know there was a cost.

That’s the hidden part.

We don’t avoid the hidden cost because we don’t know it exists.

We avoid it because…

if we ask the question honestly…

we might not like the answer.

We might have to slow down.
Pay attention.
Change direction.

And that costs something most people won’t pay.

WALKAWAY LINE

The life you’re building is shaped less by what you choose… and more by what you refuse to see.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What hidden cost are you already paying… that you never stopped to ask about?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Slow me down enough to see what I’ve been running past.
Give me the courage to ask the deeper question… even when the answer costs me something.
Help me live aware… not just active.
And teach me to recognize the things that quietly take from me… before they shape my life.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

ABOUT G~

G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.

If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.

G~