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~

I’m grateful you’re here.

Sparks by G~ has grown one real person at a time, and I never take that lightly. Whether you’ve read often, subscribed recently, or quietly followed from a distance, thank you.

I’m listening closely as this grows, and I’d love to better understand what serves you most.

You don’t need to answer every question. Even one honest thought helps.

1. Which themes speak to you most these days?

• Faith

• Growth

• Relationships

• Healing

• Purpose

• Life perspective

• Other

2. What format do you enjoy most?

• Full Sparks

• Short Notes

• Both equally

3. How often would you like to hear from me?

• Once a week

• Two to three times a week

• Only when something meaningful is ready

4. What keeps you reading?

5. Is there anything you’d like me to write about more often?

You can reply directly by email or leave a comment below.

Thank you for walking this road with me.

G~

Leave a comment

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 rushed 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~

I captured this photograph on a beautiful day in Truckee National Forest — walking with my sister, my wife, and several of our dogs.

I got the shot…

But I didn’t walk away the same.

Something about that hive stayed with me.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit — for stopping me in a moment, I almost walked past… and revealing something I needed to see.

To my wife, Marty, and my sister, Jeffrey — for calling me back… even when I stayed a little longer than I should have.

To the body of Christ — those who live in alignment, serving One King, producing something worth giving away.

To the one reading this who has been stung, shaped, or pulled out of alignment — this may be for you.

SCRIPTURE

“But if we walk in the light as He is in the light, we have fellowship with one another…” 1 John 1:7 (NKJV)

“…Sweeter also than honey and the honeycomb.” Psalm 19:10 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

I wasn’t looking for it.

Camera in hand. Nobody in a hurry.

Then something stopped me.

Not a sound.

Not a movement.

Just… it.

A beehive.

Hanging there like it had been placed on purpose.

Alive. Moving. Breathing.

I stepped closer.

The girls did the opposite.

They took off running… calling me back like I had lost my mind.

And there I stood…

Ten feet away.

Bees circling.

Camera up.

Not one ounce of fear.

All I wanted…

was the shot.

THE STORY

But it wasn’t the danger that held me there.

It was the order.

The precision.

The unity.

Thousands of bees moving in rhythm… in sync… without collision… without confusion.

Everything had a place.

Everything had a purpose.

Everything was in service to something greater than itself.

The queen.

Without her… the whole thing falls apart.

And what comes out of that alignment?

Honey.

Sweetness.

Nourishment.

Something worth tasting.

I stood there watching it… and felt it hit deeper than the moment.

Because it raised a question I couldn’t shake.

What does my life look like from that distance?

Not up close… where I can explain it.

From a distance.

Is there order?

Is there alignment?

Is there something flowing out of me… that actually feeds someone else?

THE MOMENT

That hive didn’t just show me bees.

It showed me authority.

It showed me alignment.

It showed me what happens when everything answers to the right center.

And then it got personal.

What am I actually serving?

Because whatever sits at the center…

gets the service.

And whatever gets the service…

produces the outcome.

What sits at the center of your hive…

is what drips from your honeycomb.

THE TURN

Every one of us is producing something.

Not one of us is neutral.

We all have a hive.

Thoughts. Wounds. Beliefs. Patterns. Priorities.

And all of it is in service to something.

If Jesus is at the center…

There will be evidence.

Not perfection.

Evidence.

Sweetness where bitterness used to live. Peace where reaction used to rule. Something coming out of your life… that actually nourishes someone else.

That’s the design.

THE DRIFT

That voice says… you’re just protecting yourself.

It sounds right.

It isn’t.

Protection leads you into truth.

This voice keeps you tied to the wound.

It tells you to hold onto the sting… replay the moment… build your identity around what happened.

It calls survival… freedom.

It isn’t.

And if it stays in charge long enough…

honey turns to tar.

I know. Because I lived it. For years.

THE REFLECTION

Being stung is part of life.

That’s not the issue.

The issue is what we do after.

Because wounds try to recruit us.

They come with lies attached.

Maybe I deserved it. Maybe this is who I am. Maybe I’ll never change. Maybe I should harden. Maybe I should strike first next time.

And slowly…

alignment shifts.

Not all at once.

Just enough.

Until what we’re producing no longer looks like what God designed.

But here’s the truth.

Jesus doesn’t ask you to fix the hive first.

He asks you to come.

To bring the sting. The wound. The agreement you didn’t even realize you made.

And let Him take His place at the center.

Because when He does…

Things start to come back into order.

Not perfectly.

But truly.

And over time…

What flows out changes.

Less bitterness. More grace. Less reaction. More peace. Less darkness. More light.

And eventually…

honey.

WALKAWAY LINE

The hive never lies.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

If someone tasted what’s coming out of your life right now… what would they experience?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the way You use even the smallest moments to reveal something deeper.

Search my heart.

Show me what has taken a place at the center that does not belong there.

Expose the lies I’ve agreed with… the wounds I’ve built around… the places I’ve drifted without realizing it.

Bring me back into alignment with You.

Let my life produce what You designed it to produce.

Where there has been bitterness, bring sweetness. Where there has been confusion, bring order. Where there has been darkness, bring light.

Wash me clean through the blood of Jesus.

And let what flows from my life… nourish 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~

This was a real text conversation between my sister, Jeffrey Lynn, and me. I didn’t stage it. I didn’t plan it. But look at the time in the upper left corner of that screen. 7:06 AM. That is the exact hour I was born — May 26th, 1959. I didn’t notice it until later. When I did… I sat with it for a while. God has a way of showing up in the details nobody plans for. Sometimes the last message you leave someone with is all they have left… if it was the last conversation.

It’s just a call.

Just a text.

Just another conversation…

Until it isn’t.

DEDICATION

To the ones who never got to say what they meant to say…

To the ones still carrying the weight of words left unfinished…

To the ones who wonder if that last moment was enough…

And to the ones who still have time… and don’t know it yet.

SCRIPTURE

“Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it will eat its fruit.” Proverbs 18:21 (NKJV)

“Let all that you do be done with love.” 1 Corinthians 16:14 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

In business, conversations had a rhythm.

“The last time we spoke…” “You mentioned…” “We need to follow up on…”

Thousands of clients. Hundreds of conversations every month.

Structured. Predictable.

There was always another call coming.

THE STORY

Life doesn’t follow that rhythm.

There’s no calendar invite for the last conversation.

No subject line that says: This is it.

I’ve already had mine…

With my father. With my mother.

No going back. No second call.

So now… every conversation carries something different.

When I talk to my sister… there’s a quiet question sitting underneath it.

If this were the last one… would it have been enough?

Now… just for the record—

She’s older than me.

Not by much… and I’m not saying how much…

because even now… she could probably still choke me.

But I also think back to 2015.

Israel.

The Jordan River.

She stood there… and gave her life to Jesus.

Was baptized.

That moment didn’t just happen for her.

It anchored something in me too.

And that’s the thing about moments like that…

They don’t pass.

They settle.

They root.

They stay.

Then yesterday happened.

Jasper.

Thirteen years.

Not just a dog. A companion.

Everywhere.

Bed. Car. Store. Trips. Ministry.

It’s like his heartbeat learned mine… and mine learned his.

I saw it on his leg.

Out of nowhere.

An egg-sized boil… two puncture marks.

Rattlesnake.

That was the thought.

I didn’t hesitate.

Scooped him up. Drove. Handed him over.

He looked at me.

I held the leash…

and then I didn’t.

I gave it to someone else.

And walked out.

I got in the car.

Started heading home.

Halfway there… the phone rang.

Vet.

My heart jumped.

Fast.

“Hey… we need you to sign something,” she said. “I’ll email it over.”

“What is it?”

“If he has a heart attack… do you want us to resuscitate him?”

I froze.

“Why are you asking me that?”

“Well… if it’s venom… that can happen.

And sometimes… resuscitating them makes things worse.”

And just like that—

it hit me.

I just left him there.

Alone.

And nothing else mattered.

Not being home. Not sleep.

Nothing.

I wish I could be in that cage next to him.

He’s okay.

It wasn’t a snake bite.

A cyst. Ruptured. Cleaned. Home.

But that moment stayed.

Because that look he gave me when I handed over the leash—

it wasn’t just a dog looking at his owner.

It was trust.

Complete. Unquestioning. Given.

That look… could have been the last thing he ever gave me.

And the way I walked out… could have been the last thing I ever gave him.

THE TURN

We don’t live like that.

We live like there’s always another call.

Another chance. Another moment to say it better.

But I’ve seen what happens when there isn’t.

A close friend…

In his final hours… called a handful of people.

I was one of them.

I saw his name come across my phone…

and I couldn’t answer.

By the time I called back…

he was gone.

Another brother…

same moment… different ending.

I picked up.

I got to tell him I loved him. Got to bless him. Got to speak peace over him.

I still carry that call.

THE DRIFT

You’ll get another chance.

You don’t need to say it right now.

It’s not the right moment.

You don’t want to make it awkward.

They already know.

That voice sounds like wisdom.

It isn’t.

It’s delay… dressed up as comfort.

I know.

Because I listened to it. For years.

THE REFLECTION

Every conversation carries more weight than we give it.

Not because we’re supposed to live in fear…

but because we’re invited to live aware.

Will they know I loved them?

Will they remember peace… or tension?

Did I leave it clean… or unfinished?

I remember my father.

Diagnosed in January. Gone by March.

That fast.

One conversation…

he said he hadn’t done enough.

Thought about disappearing into the woods.

I asked him one question:

What would your grandchildren say?

He stayed.

He faced it.

And now I think about that conversation.

Not perfect.

But it mattered.

My mother was different.

I was by her side for days.

Family around. Watching. Waiting. Holding.

Then I stepped away.

Just a few hours.

She passed while I was gone.

I wasn’t in the room.

I didn’t get that moment.

But here’s what I know—

My mother and I never had unfinished business.

Not once.

We told each other how much we loved each other.

Every time.

So when I wasn’t in that room…

it was okay.

Not because I didn’t want to be there.

But because nothing was left unsaid.

That’s the difference.

And it wasn’t habit.

It was intentional heart expression.

That’s how I try to live today.

With my sister. With Marty. With anyone who knows me.

So that whenever the last conversation comes—

there’s nothing left on the table.

And maybe this is what time starts to teach us…

We don’t get as worked up about things the same way anymore.

Not because we don’t care…

but because we finally see.

So much of what we chase… doesn’t last.

What does…

is what’s held in the heart.

The intangible.

The relationships.

The moments that anchor.

If someone walks away from a conversation with me…

I want one thing to be clear.

That I cared.

Not because I knew you.

But because you were here.

And that matters.

If you’re a stranger who found this by accident…

welcome.

You are not an accident.

And neither is this moment.

If you’re someone I’ve sat across from…

laughed with…

argued with…

prayed with…

done life with—

then you already know.

But I’ll say it anyway.

Because this is exactly the kind of moment I’ve been writing about.

I love you.

Not as a phrase.

As a fact.

And somewhere in all of this…

I hope you saw something bigger than me.

Because that’s the whole point.

If this was the last conversation you ever had with me—

I want it to end clean.

With love on the table.

And Jesus in the room.

WALKAWAY LINE

Every conversation feels ordinary… until one of them isn’t.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

If the last conversation someone remembers with you… was the one you had today — would it feel complete?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Slow me down enough to see what matters.

Not to live in fear… but to live aware.

Teach me to leave conversations clean. To say what needs to be said… and hold back what doesn’t.

Let love be present… not assumed.

And let my words point to You… without force.

So that if a moment becomes the last… there is peace in what was left behind.

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.

Marty and I walking the shoreline… four Aussies moving in every direction like they own the place.

Camera in hand… just taking it in.

I looked away for a second…

then back…

And there it was.

Some collisions reveal connection.

Some reveal difference.

And some… reveal who you’ve been standing with all along.

DEDICATION

To the business that carried so many, for so many years… and to every person who poured themselves into it with honesty and heart. The ones who showed up. The ones who did the work right. The ones who stood in it with integrity when it would have been easier not to.

To my wife Marty… who stood with me even in the seasons she didn’t fully understand. There were parts of the business she wasn’t close to — parts she couldn’t have known — and still, she endured. She persevered. She stood by my side knowing my intentions were good, and she supported me in every direction the road turned. On the hillside. In the shop. In the silence. In the storm. You never left my side. And this walk has been what it has been because you were in it with me.

To the Holy Spirit… for keeping me present. Keeping me locked in. Reminding me — every step of the way — that I was accountable to my actions if I was going to example Jesus in the middle of it.

To the reader… who may see something in this they already recognize. Or something they may one day have to walk through. Either way… may you walk it with Him.

SCRIPTURE

“So then, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift 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)

“Depart from evil, and do good; seek peace, and pursue it.” — Psalm 34:14 (NKJV)

“Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.” — Job 13:15 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

Conflict doesn’t always announce itself.

Sometimes it walks in the door wearing a familiar face.

Sometimes it shows up the day you’re already carrying more than you can hold.

And sometimes…

It’s been standing there for years…

waiting for the right moment to finally show its hand.

THE STORY

For years… I had been praying about how this would unfold.

I knew the day was coming.

I knew closing a business of that size — heavily regulated, hazardous materials, environmental compliance — would not be easy. I had walked with it in my prayers for a long time. Turning it over. Asking God what that day would look like. Wondering how it would all come to rest.

I never got a clear answer.

Just a quiet understanding that when the time came… He would be with me.

Then the time came.

May 12, 2021.

My manager of forty-eight years had just died.

Ten days later… I made the call.

No one was stepping forward to run the shop. I physically could not. And we were still in the muck of COVID — the world half-closed, the road ahead uncertain, the weight of every decision heavier than it should have been.

So I made the call.

We were closing.

The day I had prayed about for years…

had finally arrived.

And it came up out of the water like a beast.

I was supposed to be in surgery.

Not elective. Not optional. Paramount.

The pain had become its own daily presence — sharp, relentless, the kind that doesn’t let you forget it for a single hour.

Instead of the operating table…

I was standing in my office handing out severance checks to twenty-eight employees.

The surgery had to wait.

So did my body.

I asked God to help me tough through it. He did.

But the surgery was only one piece.

I was rolling up a sixty-three-year business that had supported generations of families.

Not a small thing. Not a clean thing. The trial of my life — beyond a doubt.

COVID was still everywhere.

The kind of business I had built meant I wasn’t just closing a door.

I had over 250 regulatory agencies to satisfy before I could legally walk away.

A lifetime to build. A long road to disassemble.

And it had to be done right. Legally. Ethically. And most of all… with care for the people who had poured their lives into that place alongside me.

Thank God I had Marty standing next to me.

She was a rock.

Between the two of us… we closed that business down first class.

It was during that shutdown that the rest surfaced.

My manager hadn’t just died.

He had been embezzling from me for years.

Forty-eight years of trust… ending in a discovery I never wanted to make.

And it didn’t end with him.

His two daughters worked for me too. They knew.

Other employees knew.

I was the last one to find out — when an employee with a conscience handed me a box of materials that uncovered the whole thing.

That box broke my heart.

Not just because of what he did…

but because of how many people around me had chosen to protect the lie.

We prayed together the day I handed out the checks.

People were crying. I was finding them jobs with other industry leaders. Signing HR documents. Writing checks. Holding it together for them when I could barely hold it together for myself.

In a body that was begging me to stop.

And in the middle of all of that…

His family showed up.

They came to tell me I should have been at the funeral.

They didn’t know I wasn’t even invited.

That was the worst part.

But even if I had been invited… I wouldn’t have gone.

Because I had finally seen what I’d been part of for forty-six years.

A relationship that had been sideways for a long time.

I just hadn’t let myself see it.

And then his nephew showed up.

A man from Chicago who had never once stepped foot in my shop.

He flew in to protect his nieces — the daughters who had worked for me for twelve years — from getting bamboozled.

He didn’t know I had already cut them gracious severance checks. Multiple vacation checks. A package anyone would be thrilled to receive.

They saw it. They knew.

They didn’t say thank you.

They left as fast as they could — because they knew the moment they overstepped, I could pull the whole thing back.

Twelve years of working for me…

and not one word.

The paradigm had flipped right in front of me.

The nephew with no business in the room was acting like the authority.

The daughters who had cashed my checks for twelve years had gone silent.

And I — the one who had built it, paid for it, and was now closing it with care — was being treated like the threat.

Little did I know…

I was about to embark on one of the biggest journeys of my life in the months ahead. Attorneys. Legal professionals. Regulatory agencies. The full weight of shutting down a major operation the right way.

Opening a business is hard.

Closing one is harder.

All of it set in motion by differences and perspectives that had been hidden internally for years…

now uncovered externally.

What was under the water…

was finally above it.

THE MOMENT

Back on that beach…

Truman didn’t know what a seal was.

And that seal… didn’t know Truman.

One a land dweller. One a water dweller.

Both playing in the same surf. Both enjoying the same afternoon.

Same water. Same sun. Same moment.

But under the hood…

two completely different species. Raised differently. Built differently. Wired differently.

Both carrying the capacity for aggression if the moment turned.

Neither one knowing what the other was really capable of.

For a moment…

They met.

Nose to nose. Still. Curious.

Trying to figure each other out.

He wasn’t where he belonged.

And neither was the seal.

They didn’t fight.

They didn’t connect.

They just… recognized something.

And then eventually…

went their separate ways.

Some collisions are not meant to become connection.

Some are meant to reveal the difference… so you can finally walk.

THE TURN

That’s the thing about shared water.

It looks like common ground…

until the surface breaks.

For forty-six years I shared the same building with that man.

The same coffee. The same handshakes. The same Christmas parties.

Same water.

Until the box broke the surface.

When his nephew confronted me that day in the shop…

I felt it in my body before I had words for it.

The inner tremble. The stirring in my gut. The nervousness that comes when something you’ve been avoiding finally arrives at your door.

I didn’t have a response in that moment.

I just stood there.

And while I was standing there…

a cockroach crawled across my shoulder.

I didn’t see it.

But Marty did.

She walked up — calm, deliberate — and slapped it off with force.

Then she looked me dead in the eye.

She didn’t say a word.

She didn’t need to.

She grounded me.

And in that single moment… I understood something I hadn’t been able to put into words.

The cockroach didn’t land on me by accident.

I had been standing in the presence of cockroaches the whole time.

THE DRIFT

“You should defend yourself…”

“You should set them straight…”

“You should tell them what their brother really did…”

That voice sounds like justice.

It isn’t.

Justice waits.

That voice rushes.

Justice listens for what God says first.

That voice listens for what the flesh says loudest.

I know.

Because I followed it.

For years.

THE REFLECTION

When I finally did speak up… it wasn’t from the tremble.

It was from the hillside.

I owned my position.

I asked them what right they had to put their business into my business — especially since they had never been part of anything I had built. Not once. Not ever.

And during the shutdown… when I was carrying twenty-eight families through the hardest season of their working lives… not one of them offered to help.

That told me everything.

It was never about their brother.

It was about money.

They painted him as a man of integrity. A man of ethics. The kind of employee any owner would be lucky to have.

I let them say it.

I never told them what he had really done.

That truth wasn’t theirs to hold.

It wasn’t mine to hand them either.

Some truths are between you and God.

He already knew. That was enough.

What I had to learn — what God prepared me for — was the difference between defending myself and standing in my position.

He quieted my heart.

He gave me listening before speaking.

He gave me time to process before responding.

He gave me Marty… standing beside me on the hillside… seeing what I couldn’t yet see.

The same Marty who walked up and knocked the cockroach off my shoulder without a word.

That’s who God puts next to a man when the pressing comes.

Looking back… I think of Job. The one in the Bible. The man who lost everything in a single season — his health, his livelihood, his standing, the trust of those closest to him.

Not because what I went through compares to what he carried — but because trial has a way of pressing a man until something underneath finally surfaces. Character you didn’t know you had. Or character you didn’t know you’d been missing.

The pain in my body. The betrayal at my back. The silence around me. The weight of twenty-eight families.

God didn’t remove any of it.

He just stood with me inside it.

And somewhere in that pressing… He sharpened something in me that smooth seasons never could have.

The shutdown.

The surgery.

The months of recovery and rehabilitation.

The test it put on me. On Marty. On us.

We couldn’t have done any of it without Jesus at the center of our relationship.

Not the marriage.

Not the business.

Not the closing of one chapter and the slow walk into the next.

He was the only reason we walked it clean.

And when I did respond… it wasn’t to win.

It was to close the door.

I haven’t spoken to that family since.

I never will.

The collision wasn’t just with him.

It wasn’t just with the nephew in the shop.

It was with an entire circle of silence I had been standing inside of for years.

The daughters. The employees who knew. The ones who chose to protect a lie over a man who signed their checks.

We had all been swimming in the same water.

I just didn’t know what was underneath it.

Until the cockroach landed on my shoulder.

And Marty knocked it off.

Some collisions don’t end in resolution.

Some end in dismissal.

Not bitterness. Not revenge. Not silence as a weapon.

Just… discernment as a doorway.

I dismissed them.

I stepped away.

And the moment I did… something I had been carrying for forty-six years lifted off me.

Because some relationships were never meant to be reconciled.

They were meant to be released.

And I know this.

When God is given the opportunity… He can take anything and turn it into something amazing.

No matter how bad it stinks.

He refined me.

He reshaped me.

He is still forging me… into the man He wants me to be.

All of this — the pain, the pressing, the cockroaches, the silence, the shutdown, the walk away —

was training ground.

And I am grateful.

Preparation doesn’t just protect you. Sometimes… it positions you to finally walk.

WALKAWAY LINE

You don’t always control when worlds collide… but you do control whether you stay on the field after they do.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

Is there a collision in your life that was never meant to become connection… that you’re still trying to make work?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Slow us down in the moments that test us most.

Give us ears that listen before our mouths respond.

Give us the discernment to know when to stand… and when to step away.

Quiet our hearts when the trembling comes. Steady our hands when the pressure rises.

And give us the wisdom to recognize the difference between a collision that’s meant to refine us… and one that’s only there to drain us.

Send us the Martys. The ones who see what we cannot yet see. The ones who step in quietly and knock the cockroach off our shoulder without a word.

When the right response isn’t ready yet… hold us in the silence until it is.

And when it’s time to finally walk… let us walk clean. Without bitterness. Without revenge. Without needing to be understood.

Just released.

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~

A ministry retreat. Atlanta, Georgia. 2013. Four days. Still water, green trees, and the kind of quiet that doesn’t happen by accident. This is where I learned what it felt like to pause long enough to actually hear. Not a performance. Not a program. Just a man, a pond, and a God who was already there waiting. This is where my walk stopped being something I carried privately — and started becoming something I lived out loud.

Pleasure doesn’t appear by accident.

Pain doesn’t arrive uninvited.

Everything comes from somewhere.

The question is whether you’re willing to trace it back.

DEDICATION

To my sister, Jeffrey — who watched the same podcast and texted me one word: “Wow.” That wow had landed in me a long time before. Truth doesn’t age. It waits.

To Marty — who has always known the difference between what feels good and what is good. She balances me without trying. That’s a gift I didn’t always deserve.

To the men I’ve walked alongside in ministry — who were brave enough to name what they were carrying in the quiet. That kind of honesty changes everything.

And to every person reading this who has something they’ve only ever visited in secrecy — afraid to say it out loud. You are not alone. And you are not broken.

SCRIPTURE

“Do not be deceived, God is not mocked; for whatever a man sows, that he will also reap.” — Galatians 6:7 (NKJV)

“All things are lawful for me, but all things are not helpful. All things are lawful for me, but I will not be brought under the power of any.” — 1 Corinthians 6:12 (NKJV)

“The thief does not come except to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.” — John 10:10 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

There’s a question I’ve learned to ask myself.

Not out of fear.

Out of awareness.

Am I doing what I want to be doing — right now?

And if I’m not… why am I doing it?

I heard something that stirred this in a podcast some time ago.

It struck a place in me I had visited quietly for years.

Often in secrecy.

Afraid to say it out loud.

Until now.

THE STORY

I learned what pain was early.

For me it wasn’t abstract.

It was relational.

There was an extreme imbalance in my parents’ behaviors —

in their pursuits for gratification.

Too much of one thing.

Too little of another.

The scale was tipped.

And everyone felt it.

So my definition of pleasure formed differently.

Pleasure, for me, became —

time alone.

Separation.

Being with my dog.

Learning mental skills.

Developing physical ability.

None of those things were bad.

But what they reveal matters.

When you grow up in imbalance…

you don’t chase chaos.

You chase equilibrium.

And I’ve been chasing it ever since.

Later in life I’ve had quiet conversations with close friends —

people asking themselves a sobering question.

What actually mattered?

Some carry the weight of knowing how much time was surrendered

to alcohol.

Drugs.

Pornography.

Slow-burning destructive habits.

Not because they were evil.

But because they were overstimulated.

And they didn’t know it.

THE MOMENT

A dear friend of mine and a long-time hunting partner.

Big, jolly man.

The kind who filled a room.

He had a habit of calling all the women “cookie.”

One evening he came home.

His wife brought him dinner.

He smiled and said —

“Honey, just set it down on the table, cookie.”

The TV tray.

Right next to the recliner he had just sat down in.

She went to the kitchen to get her plate.

When she came back —

barely a minute later —

he was gone.

Massive heart attack.

Remote control still in his hand.

That moment — the way his wife later shared it —

never left me.

Life doesn’t announce its endings.

Are we truly living?

Or are we just stagnant in the water?

We were never designed to be endlessly stimulated. We were designed to be formed.

THE TURN

Dopamine isn’t the feel-good chemical.

It’s the motivation chemical.

No dopamine — no pursuit.

The same parts of the brain that process pleasure also process pain.

They operate on a balance.

When we flood ourselves with pleasure —

the brain compensates with pain.

When we accept discomfort —

the brain eventually restores pleasure.

Naturally.

We are not broken.

We are overstimulated.

And the world keeps offering more.

More stimulus.

More comfort.

More relief.

Without ever asking where it leads.

THE DRIFT

“You deserve this.”

“You’ve been through enough.”

“One more time won’t change anything.”

That voice sounds like grace.

It isn’t.

Grace leads you toward healing.

This voice leads you toward habit.

“Everyone struggles with this.”

“At least it’s not as bad as what others deal with.”

I hear this now in my own voice.

That voice sounds like perspective.

It isn’t.

Real perspective names the thing.

This voice buries it deeper.

And I listened.

To all of it.

In the quiet places no one else saw.

I know.

Because I lived there.

On and off.

For years.

Until I started paying closer attention.

THE REFLECTION

That pond in Atlanta…

Four days.

No agenda except stillness.

And God was already there.

Waiting.

Not with a verdict.

With an invitation.

Be still.

And know.

That’s where I started to understand something I had never put words to —

balance is not a destination.

It’s a constant pursuit.

It never becomes perfect.

But it produces something that lasts longer than a dopamine hit.

Something real.

Something that holds.

I’ve lived with years of chronic physical pain.

And physical pain always carries an emotional cost.

There is pain in limitation.

Pain in not being able to do the things you once could.

The greatest gift God has given me —

besides life itself —

is this.

The ability to pause.

To reflect.

To ask why my mind does what it does.

The gift of limitation sharpened my awareness.

And I think that’s the point.

Jesus never promised comfort.

He promised life.

Full.

Grounded.

Free.

Not the version the world sells.

The version that costs something —

and lasts.

Balance doesn’t come from trying harder.

It comes from slowing down long enough to listen.

From sitting at the edge of still water…

and letting God reset the scale.

And sometimes the most faithful thing we can do

is stop running…

and let Him.

WALKAWAY LINE

What you keep feeding will eventually do the feeding for you.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What are you chasing right now — and have you traced it back far enough to know where it started?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

I come to You with an open heart — not with answers, but with honesty.

You see the places in me that rush, and the places that avoid stillness.

You know where I’ve chased relief instead of rest.

Comfort instead of closeness.

If there is anything in my life that has begun to hold power over me —

show me.

Not in condemnation.

In love.

Help me release what distracts me from what matters most.

Teach me to be present.

To notice the moments You’ve placed right in front of me.

To live awake — not numb.

To move forward without running.

For those reading this, Lord —

meet them where they are.

In their joy.

In their pain.

In their weariness.

In their longing.

Restore balance where there has been excess.

Bring peace where there has been striving.

And replace noise with Your still, steady voice.

Teach us to number our days.

To choose what is helpful.

And to walk in the life You promised —

full, grounded, and free.

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 time tightens… truth shows up

My wife captured this moment quietly on our patio while I was in prayer. I didn’t know she had taken the photo. But when I saw it later, I remembered exactly where I was — not just physically, but spiritually. Fully present. Fully surrendered. Completely still before God. It wasn’t staged. It wasn’t planned. It was just a moment… that became a mirror.

There are moments you don’t plan for…

moments you don’t stage…

moments you don’t even know are happening—

until you see them later.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit — who, in His perfect timing, got my attention and changed the course of my life… and how I now see the sand passing through the apex.

To the adventures — and the lessons found within them… that revealed time as one of God’s most precious gifts, and the choices we make with it as the second.

To my wife — for her constant encouragement, and for walking beside me as we learn to spend our time wisely together… paying attention to the grains of sand in our hourglass and our marriage.

And to the readers — those who feel something stirring, those who are searching, and those who are being reminded… this is for you.

SCRIPTURE

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” — Psalm 90:12 (NKJV)

“When my heart is overwhelmed, lead me to the rock that is higher than I.” — Psalm 61:2 (NKJV)

“But He knows the way that I take; when He has tested me, I shall come forth as gold.” — Job 23:10 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

She didn’t say anything.

She just picked up the camera.

I was on the patio. Eyes closed. Hands folded.

Somewhere between a conversation with God and a surrender I didn’t have words for yet.

I didn’t know the shutter clicked.

I didn’t know the moment existed outside of me until I saw the photo later.

And when I did—

I didn’t recognize the stillness.

Not because it was foreign.

Because it was rare.

THE STORY

I’ve spent years photographing men in prayer.

But this time…

It was me.

The man who is always behind the camera.

On the other side of it.

And I almost didn’t know what to do with that.

I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t trying.

I was just there.

Fully present. Fully surrendered.

And if I’m honest…

I don’t live there enough.

THE MOMENT

I remember the days of RV’ing and boating with my kids.

I spent hours waxing the boat… prepping everything… planning every detail for the weekend.

Then we’d come home… and I’d spend days cleaning it all up. Putting everything away. Getting it ready to do it all again.

And the truth is—

I spent more time preparing for the experience… than actually living it.

It was still good. Still fun.

But if I’m honest…

I missed more than I realized.

I had a friend who did it different.

He’d grab a small bag — a t-shirt, shorts, sandals, a chair — and that was it.

One load of laundry when he got home. Done.

What I didn’t know at the time was why.

He’d already lived at full speed. Businesses. Schedules. Always somewhere to be. Always something that needed him more than home did.

Until his wife sat down across from him and told him she was done.

Not angry.

Just gone.

He hadn’t been home long enough for her to even stay mad.

That conversation changed him.

He didn’t just start packing lighter.

He started living differently.

And by the grace of God —

He caught it in time.

I thought about that man often.

And somewhere in my own boat prep…

I should have heard it louder than I did.

There is a phrase etched in my spirit:

Hourglass Apex.

It’s the narrowest point. The tightest place.

Where time, pressure, and purpose collide.

We all pass through it eventually.

That place where life tightens… choices become fewer… noise fades… and clarity sharpens.

The comfortable won’t fit through.

The unnecessary falls away.

It’s where God says — just Me now. Follow Me through.

God didn’t put you in the pressure to crush you.

He put you there to form you.

THE TURN

Time.

We all get 24 hours.

The same amount…

until we don’t.

And so much of it slips right through our hands—

unnoticed… unaccounted for…

until we’re reaching for what’s left.

The hourglass doesn’t negotiate.

It doesn’t pause for your plans.

It doesn’t wait for you to feel ready.

It just narrows.

And the question isn’t only how much sand is left.

The question is what’s being formed while it falls.

THE DRIFT

You have time.

You’ll get to it.

You’ll slow down later.

You’ll be more present next season.

That voice sounds reasonable.

It sounds responsible.

It sounds like life.

It isn’t.

I know.

Because I believed it. For years.

THE REFLECTION

I almost missed it.

Time with my kids.

Thank God I saw it when I did.

But now?

That sand looks different.

They’re living their own lives now. Spending their time… where they choose.

And I feel the weight of it.

There’s a season I don’t talk about much.

Twelve surgeries. Four years. More than four hundred nights in a leather recliner.

Not in a hospital.

In my own home.

About 45 feet from the bedroom.

The double doors stayed open — both of them — every single night.

Because Marty needed to hear me if I called out.

She would lay across that bed, both sides of it, and sleep light.

Listening for me.

Night after night after night.

I’d sit in that chair in the dark — pillows arranged just right, a dog on my feet, another one tucked in beside me — and I’d ask myself the same question every time.

Am I ever going to return to my wife’s side?

When you marry someone, you marry them to be with them.

To sleep next to them. To reach over in the dark and know they’re there.

And here I was.

Forty-five feet away.

Night after night.

For hundreds of days.

That was the weight of time I never saw coming.

But God used that chair.

He pressed me the way He pressed Job.

Not to punish me.

Not to break me.

But to show me something I could not learn any other way.

Be still. And listen for My voice.

I think about what it means to sharpen a blade.

You work one side until the edge begins to roll — the bur forms on the other side.

Then you flip it.

Work the other side until that bur rolls back.

Then you knock the bur off entirely.

And what’s left is a sharp, clean edge.

That’s what those nights were.

That’s what those years were.

God sharpening one side of me, rolling the bur over, flipping me, working the other side.

Over and over.

Season after season.

Pressing. Refining. Pressing again.

I used to wonder — why won’t this trial end?

Now I understand.

The sharpening isn’t the punishment.

The sharpening is the gift.

I walk past that recliner now, and I almost cringe.

I can’t imagine sleeping in it again.

But I wouldn’t trade what God built in me while I sat there.

I saw this same truth in my father.

January 3rd — he was told he had cancer.

March 23rd — he was gone.

Seventy-nine days.

Near the end, he told me he wasn’t finished. That he wished he had done more.

I didn’t understand it then.

I do now.

I’ve never seen a tombstone that says:

I wish I had watched more TV.

I wish I had spent more time scrolling.

But I have seen the weight of:

I wish I had more time.

And somewhere in all of that…

something shifted in me.

Not just how I see time — but how I hold it.

Because one day…

God will flip my hourglass.

And when He does…

Time will no longer have a say.

WALKAWAY LINE

Time is not what you have… it’s what you’re spending.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What are you spending your time on right now… that won’t matter when your sand runs out?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Slow me down enough to see what matters. Strip away what doesn’t belong in the narrow place. Teach me to spend my time with intention, not distraction. Let the pressure of the sharpening not be wasted — may it form me into what You designed. Refine my heart for what lasts and keep me anchored in You through every season.

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~

July 11, 2023. Plaster room. Second cast. My left hand wrapped tight — wrist to thumb, all the way up.

There’s a moment when you realize… this isn’t going to be quick.

I looked down at the color and knew before anyone asked.

There was no clinical reason for red.

It was a prayer before the cast even dried.

Some answers don’t look like answers.

Some arrive in a Target parking lot.

Some you have to look up to see.

DEDICATION

To Marty — who stood with me through every hard day of this season and never once let me own the hardship instead of the recovery. You are irreplaceable.

To the medical teams who brought their best skill and care to a high-risk patient and gave me a fighting chance at restoration.

To my Heavenly Father — who never stopped working even when I couldn’t see what He was building.

To the woman in the Target parking lot who will never know she was the answer to a prayer.

SCRIPTURE(S)

Be still, and know that I am God. Psalm 46:10 (NKJV)

My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness. 2 Corinthians 12:9 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

I’m not someone who thinks much about colors.

I wear what fits. I drive what works. I don’t put a lot of stock in the aesthetics of things built to function.

But that day in the plaster room — they asked me what color I wanted.

And I didn’t hesitate.

Red.

Not because I liked it.

Not because it would stand out.

Because in that moment, sitting in that chair with my hand wrecked and my future uncertain…

I was praying the blood of Jesus over everything that cast was going to touch.

That was the prayer.

Red was the answer I gave out loud.

THE STORY

Four surgeries on my left hand. Finger joint. Thumb joint. Carpal tunnel. Basal thumb reconstruction — the one nobody can fully prepare you for.

I was a high-risk patient walking into all of it.

Marty had been brought up to speed.

We walked into that season the way we walk into most hard things — quiet, eyes forward, fully aware.

When the cast went on, I didn’t know if I’d get my hand back completely.

Three years later — I still don’t.

Thirty percent compromised. That’s just the number now.

And somewhere between the surgery and accepting that number…

I learned something about stillness I hadn’t understood before.

A cast doesn’t just hold a wound together.

It locks you in place so healing can work without your interference.

You can’t rush it.

You can’t muscle through it.

The cast makes the decision for you —

be still.

That’s not a metaphor I invented.

That’s just what happened to my hand.

But it became the clearest picture I’ve ever had of what God does in a broken season.

He doesn’t always explain the stillness.

Sometimes He just applies the cast.

And the only question left is whether you’ll trust the process —

or spend your strength trying to move what was never meant to move yet.

The rehabilitation comes. The work comes.

If you want to return to function, you have to do the hard work of getting there — nobody does that for you.

But first — you have to be still.

The stillness is not a defeat.

It’s a prescription.

THE MOMENT

There was a day Marty and I walked into Target.

I was leaning on her more than usual. The headaches from the cervical surgeries were pressing in hard. I was quiet. Focused on getting in and getting out.

We were picking up a muscle relaxant the doctor wanted me to try — because at that point, there wasn’t much more they could do.

I had prayed on the way in.

Not a formal prayer.

More like a whisper from a man running on empty.

God… I really need Your help right now.

I don’t know how much more I can take.

Then I looked up.

She was just ahead of us.

A woman — maybe a little younger than me. Head shaved. A small child she was gently lifting into a cart, balancing herself on a walker.

Her left leg could barely bend.

Eyes down. Focused on each step.

Every step cost her something visible.

She wasn’t asking anything of anyone around her.

She was just… moving forward.

I stood there and watched for a moment.

And something in my chest shifted.

He didn’t answer by lifting the weight.

He answered by shifting my eyes.

THE TURN

I turned to Marty.

And I said quietly — I have nothing to complain about.

That was it.

That was the whole prayer answered.

Not the relief I asked for.

Not the removal of the hardship.

Just a woman I’d never meet —

moving forward on a walker with a child in a cart —

and suddenly my perspective had somewhere else to land.

I prayed for her right there.

Silently. Real.

And afterward I just stood in the stillness of it.

Taking it all in.

Every time I think I have it tough, God finds a way to show me someone carrying more.

Not to minimize what I’m walking through.

But to remind me —

be grateful.

You are not alone in this.

And somebody somewhere may be watching you the same way you just watched her.

THE DRIFT

There’s a voice that sounds like honesty.

It says — you’ve earned the right to stay right here.

It says — nobody really understands what this season has cost you.

It says — keep your head down. Just get through it.

That voice feels protective.

Like it’s helping you survive.

It isn’t.

It narrows your world until all you can see is your own pain.

And when your world gets that small —

you miss every answer God sends that doesn’t look like relief.

I know. Because I lived it. For years.

THE REFLECTION

Marty has a phrase she brings back every time the season gets heavy.

She doesn’t let me camp in the damage.

She pulls me forward with one line — every time:

Own the recovery, not the hardship. The restoration, not the tear down.

I’ve heard it in a hospital waiting room.

In a quiet kitchen on a hard morning.

On the days when getting vertical felt like its own surgery.

And every time — it reorients me.

Because the hardship is real.

The pain is documented.

The compromised hand, the surgeries, the headaches — all of it is real.

But if that’s all I own —

I become a man defined by what broke instead of what held.

The cast was never meant to be permanent.

It was meant to create the conditions for something to heal that couldn’t heal on its own.

And then the work begins.

Not because the pain is gone.

Because restoration is a decision you make before you feel ready.

God never wastes a wound.

What He locks into stillness —

He is already working on.

The cast comes off.

The rehabilitation begins.

And one day — even with 30% still gone —

you look down at what remains…

and realize it carried you further than you thought possible.

That’s not your strength.

That’s His grace doing exactly what it promised.

WALKAWAY LINE

Stillness isn’t where your life stops — it’s where God does His deepest work.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

Where in your life has God applied a cast — and are you still fighting the stillness instead of trusting what He’s doing inside it?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

You know every wound we carry — the ones that show and the ones that don’t.

You know the prayers we whisper when we have nothing left.

Thank You for answering in ways we didn’t expect — in the lives of others, in the quiet shifts of perspective, in the moments that bring us back to truth.

Teach us to trust the stillness.

To own the recovery.

To do the work when the time comes — not because we feel ready, but because You are faithful.

And when we see someone carrying more than we are — let us stop, let us pray, and let us be grateful.

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~

My sister’s place deep in the Sierras. Mid-November. Rain-soaked pine needles covering the forest floor. Fresh-cut rounds stacked and scattered. The wood splitter resting to the right — the tool that turned whole trees into survival fuel. And underneath it all, that smell. The ozone of rain in tall pines. Nothing else quite like it.

Some things only the trail can teach you.

Some things only winter can forge.

And some things…

We keep passing down without ever stopping to ask what we’re handing over.

DEDICATION

To my wife, Marty — who would trade every smart device for a log cabin and a woodpile. And honestly? She’s not wrong.

To my sister, Jeffrey — entering another Sierra winter with wood to split and faith to carry it through.

To the young generation — carrying a weight of distraction we never had to face at their age. You are not forgotten. You are needed.

And to the settlers — who packed their wagons, trusted God with every sunrise, and kept going when the trail demanded everything they had.

SCRIPTURE

“And not only that, but we also glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation produces perseverance; and perseverance, character; and character, hope.” — Romans 5:3–4 (NKJV)

“When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, nor shall the flame scorch you.” — Isaiah 43:2 (NKJV)

“Enter by the narrow gate; for wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to destruction, and there are many who go in by it. Because narrow is the gate and difficult is the way which leads to life, and there are few who find it.” — Matthew 7:13–14 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

I was walking my dogs in the rain.

My sister’s place.

Deep in the Sierras.

Mid-November.

And the rain was doing what rain in tall pines does —

That smell.

Ozone.

Fresh bark.

Pine needles soaked through.

Nothing hits the soul quite like it.

That’s when I saw the woodpile.

And the whole thing started.

THE STORY

I know what wood is for.

Not in a conceptual way.

In a bone-deep, 10,000-foot-elevation, the-fire-goes-out-and-you’re-in-trouble way.

I hunted for years in Idaho and Colorado.

Late winter. High mountains.

Places you could only reach by horseback and mule.

Weeks at a time.

And a campfire wasn’t ambiance.

It was survival.

I learned with an axe.

Then I learned how to sharpen the axe.

Then I learned how to use it well.

That order matters.

There’s a small percentage of people left who truly relate to that.

Because today…

Hunting happens at the grocery store.

Or on Amazon.

Navigating web pages instead of terrain.

The Uber driver drops it at the door.

Two very different trails.

Same destination.

Family fed.

And I’m not saying one is wrong.

I’m saying the grit changed.

And when it did —

something else changed with it.

Something harder to name.

We sent a rocket to circle the Moon.

We can control our refrigerator from a phone.

And somewhere on the other side of the planet…

We’re still bombing countries back into the stone ages.

We evolved everything.

Except the one thing that needed to.

THE MOMENT

Standing at that woodpile…

Miles from Donner Pass.

History staring right at you.

The settlers didn’t just pack their wagons and head west.

They took a leap of faith.

Every single morning.

Knowing danger waited on the trail.

Fresh water scarce.

Food uncertain.

Disease. No doctor.

Weather that could kill.

Terrain that punished every mile.

And still — they kept going.

I thought about that.

And then I thought about now.

The danger isn’t a river crossing anymore.

It’s the guy next to you on the freeway…

Texting.

High.

Drunk.

Stressed.

Broken.

And then I asked myself the question that stopped me cold.

What have we left the generation behind us?

Everything around us evolved.

The one thing that needed to — didn’t.

THE TURN

Hardship didn’t disappear when survival got easier.

It changed form.

And the people walking through it now —

medicated, overloaded, distracted —

They’re not weaker than the settlers.

They’re carrying something the settlers never had to name.

And we handed it to them.

Not intentionally.

But we handed it to them.

THE DRIFT

“Every generation figures it out.”

“You can’t fight progress.”

“It’s not my responsibility.”

That voice sounds like acceptance.

It isn’t.

Acceptance without accountability isn’t peace.

It’s permission.

“I did the best I could.”

“Someone else will step in.”

That voice sounds like closure.

It isn’t.

One decision poured into one life with intention…

can change the direction of everything that follows.

One misled decision can pull a whole group the wrong way.

The math works both directions.

And I’ve taken the easy road on this.

More times than I want to count.

I know.

Because I walked past it.

For years.

THE REFLECTION

Jesus already knew the ratio.

Narrow is the gate.

Few find it.

He didn’t say that to discourage anyone.

He said it because truth is the only thing that actually helps.

I’ve watched something recently that gives me real hope.

A small group of young people…

pushing back.

Against social media.

Against the noise.

Against everything designed to steal their attention and call it living.

Choosing presence over performance.

And I thought —

Someone poured into them.

Someone showed up.

Said something that mattered.

Stayed long enough to make a difference.

If every one of us did that for just one life —

especially one young life —

Do the math.

The world changes.

Not on a headline.

One person at a time.

I wasn’t taught how to live life.

I was taught to go after it.

Earn. Succeed. Do all the things that make you look like you made it.

It took me a long time to figure out that none of that is the measure.

The real measure of a man…

Is what he did with his life.

What he did for others.

What he did with others.

That’s it.

That’s the whole thing.

And tonight —

tucked in a warm bed —

I think about the people who don’t know how they’re getting through tomorrow.

They didn’t see it coming.

Neither did the settlers.

But God presses us through.

He always has.

And I can’t equate it.

I can’t balance it.

So I do the only thing that makes sense.

I get on my knees.

And pray.

And then I think about a child.

Somewhere in the world right now.

Looking at the horizon.

Circle of influence minimal at best.

Asking the only question that matters at that age —

What am I supposed to do?

And I think to myself…

If I could just make a difference in one.

Just one.

Imagine what that adds up to.

Imagine what that changes.

The woodpile doesn’t care what you know.

It only cares what you did with what you were given.

And whether you left enough warmth for the ones coming behind you.

WALKAWAY LINE

One life poured into with intention is enough to change the direction of everything that follows.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What are you pouring into — and is any of it going into a life that will outlast yours?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

For every soul on a hard trail right now — meet them exactly where they stand. In the quiet places no one else sees. Lift their spirit when it feels heavy. Steady their steps when the path is steep. Strengthen them in every place that has grown weary.

May Your presence become their shelter.

Your Word their fire.

Your grace the force that carries them forward.

Stir in us the courage to pour into the generation behind us. Not from a screen. In person. With intention. One life at a time.

And for that child somewhere on a horizon right now — looking out and wondering what they’re supposed to do — may someone show up.

May it be one of us.

May they go the full distance of the life You designed for them — arriving not defeated, but shaped, refined, and standing as overcomers.

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 street was still… Early evening light stretching across the pavement… Palm trees holding their place… Nothing urgent… nothing loud… Just one of those moments you could easily walk past.

Some stops are posted.

Some are spoken.

The difference between the two…

is everything.

DEDICATION

To my wife, Marty — whose joy-filled spirit keeps inviting me into the adventure… and reminds me to stop long enough to actually live it.

To God, and to the Holy Spirit — the quiet guidance within… giving me both the knowing… and the freedom to choose. May I choose what is right in the moment… and not take what matters for granted.

To the readers — who carry their own signs, their own rewards, their own consequences, and their own inner voice. May you hear what is being spoken to your soul… and may the authority you live under be Jesus.

And to the adventure itself… and to my dog — who still teaches me what it looks like to follow through… to carry what’s been given… and to stop and listen to his master… the way I’m learning to listen to mine.

SCRIPTURE

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

THE HOOK

Jasper decided he was going to walk me to the mailbox.

Not the other way around.

I put the leash on him…

Handed him the loop end…

And he took it.

Like it was his job.

Because for him… it was.

Jasper is my service dog.

He goes everywhere with me.

Carries groceries.

Picks up what I drop.

Once retrieved a potato in the middle of a supermarket…

And got that look from the woman in the next aisle —

Did that dog just pick up that potato?

He did.

For him… it’s just Tuesday.

For everyone else… it’s a miracle.

And somewhere on the walk to the mailbox…

I realized I had it backwards.

He wasn’t my dog on a leash.

I was his person on a walk.

THE STORY

There’s a reason the leash was on.

Our neighbors have two Cane Corsos.

They’ve already taken one of mine.

So now Jasper walks leashed.

But that night I wondered —

If those dogs came out…

Would the leash save him…

Or stop him from running?

Sometimes what protects you also holds you.

We walked down the street…

Quiet neighborhood…

Nothing demanding attention.

Until I looked ahead…

And saw the stop sign.

And something landed.

How many times do I actually stop there?

I live in a cul-de-sac.

Check the mirror — nobody behind me.

Wide street. Clear sight lines.

Left. Right.

We’re good.

And I roll through.

Every time.

If a CHP officer parked his motorcycle at that corner…

I’d owe him a stack of tickets by now.

Then something small caught my eye.

Broken glass.

Right there in the road.

Scattered pieces…

Easy to miss…

Unless you were paying attention.

I hadn’t stepped on it.

But I could have.

And it made me pause.

Not just about the glass…

But about everything we walk past without seeing.

THE MOMENT

Later that night…

I sat down to write.

Trying to make sense of the day.

When I heard Marty call out…

“Honey… honey… stop what you’re doing… come quick… bring your phone.”

I didn’t hesitate.

I moved.

No second voice.

No negotiation.

Just… stop.

I walked outside…

Looked up…

And there it was.

A streak cutting across the sky…

Catching the last light of the day…

In a way that made everything stop.

Humanity…

Leaving the atmosphere.

Headed for the Moon.

And I almost missed it.

Because I was inside.

Writing.

You don’t miss what isn’t there.

You miss what you don’t stop for.

THE TURN

Same word.

“Stop.”

One earlier…

I rolled through.

One later…

I obeyed.

Completely different outcome.

THE DRIFT

“It’s just a small bowl of mint chocolate chip.”

“You’ve had a long day.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

That voice sounds like grace.

It isn’t.

Grace doesn’t lead you into compromise.

It leads you into alignment.

“You can start tomorrow.”

“This doesn’t matter that much.”

That voice sounds reasonable.

It isn’t.

Reason doesn’t override truth.

It follows it.

And night after night…

I’ve heard it.

And rolled right through the stop sign.

I know.

Because I listened to it.

For years.

THE REFLECTION

When I was a kid…

Sitting at the dinner table…

I’d kick my legs underneath…

Rock them back and forth…

Until my mom looked at me.

She didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t give a speech.

All she did…

Was look at me.

And say…

Stop.

That was it.

That was enough.

Because we were in relationship.

I knew what that look meant.

I knew who it came from.

And I stopped.

Jesus doesn’t shout.

He never has.

He speaks the way Marty spoke that night…

Clear.

Calm.

Certain.

Stop what you’re doing.

Come quick.

No thunder.

No announcement.

Just a quiet signal…

From someone who already knows what’s waiting outside.

And we hear it more than we admit.

That quiet voice…

Stop.

And then something else steps in…

Softens it…

Reframes it…

Makes it easier to keep moving.

And we keep moving.

Through the stop sign.

Through the moment.

Through the warning.

And most of the time…

Nothing happens right away.

Until it does.

A consequence shows up later.

Not dramatic…

Just real.

Pants a little tighter.

Distance in a relationship.

A heaviness in your spirit you can’t quite explain.

Broken glass…

Something that once held value…

Now scattered…

Unrepairable.

And then there’s Jasper.

No second voice.

No negotiation.

On the way there…

He had the leash in his mouth.

On the way home…

He picked up the mail.

Different object.

Same dog.

Carried what was given to him.

Both directions.

Didn’t drop it.

Didn’t question it.

Just stayed close to his master.

And when we got back…

I told him,

“Good boy.”

That was enough for him.

The other two were watching through the door.

Witnessing.

Who knows — maybe they’ll learn something.

And it made me stop and ask…

Is that enough for me?

To carry what’s been given…

To stay close to my Master…

And not drop it along the way?

I walked through the gate…

And there was Marty.

Outside.

Tending the yard.

Giving care to every tree…

Every shrub…

With the same steady devotion she gives to everything she touches.

And it made me ask…

How good a job am I doing…

Stopping when she says…

Honey… can I have a minute?

Because Jesus speaks.

Quietly.

Clearly.

Stop.

The question is never whether He said it.

The question is whether I stopped.

WALKAWAY LINE

What you keep rolling through will eventually break something you can’t put back together.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What are you not stopping for — and what are you taking for granted as you roll through?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Help me recognize Your quiet voice when it speaks.

Give me the strength to respond without negotiation.

Teach me discernment — to stop when You say stop… and to move when You say go.

Let me not ignore what matters… or take lightly what You are showing me.

Align my steps with Your truth… not my convenience.

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~

A line of sea lions pressed shoulder to shoulder along a weathered dock. Same space. Same direction. Same current moving underneath them all. But one lifts its head — aware, distinct, unmoved by the crowd around it. Not pushing against it. Not performing for it. Just still. Just clear. Almost as if he knew something the others did not.

Not every identity is loud.

Some are formed quietly…

Pressed in close…

While everything around you tries to define you.

I’ve lived both sides of that.

And only one of them holds.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit — who led me when I could not see clearly, and stayed when I could not stand steadily.

To Jesus — who did not improve my life… He exchanged it.

To my wife, Marty — whose love, strength, and covenant never allowed me to settle for anything less than truth.

To the ones still searching… and to the ones who have found where their identity truly rests.

SCRIPTURE

“And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.” — Romans 12:2 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

They were all pressed together.

Same space.

Same structure.

Same direction.

No separation.

No distance.

But one lifted its head.

Not pushing.

Not fighting.

Just… aware.

Not lost in the crowd.

THE STORY

I’ve lived long enough to know what it feels like to blend in.

To carry a name…

a role…

a responsibility…

and mistake it for identity.

We had the largest anodizing tanks in the United States — a custom-built processing system I designed myself. Du-All Anodizing Corporation.

That capability brought us work most shops never saw.

Parts we processed flew on NASA missions.

Some of them are still out there —

on Voyager,

the furthest man-made object from our planet.

On Hubble.

On every major telescope and satellite sent into space since.

By every measure, that sounds like success.

And it was.

But success has a way of becoming a name tag.

Every room I walked into —

every meeting, every event, every industry dinner —

there was a table by the door with badges.

Mine was always easy to find.

It said Du-All.

Not Greg.

Not G~.

Du-All.

People would walk up and say,

“What all do you do, Mr. Du-All?”

Or across the room —

“Hey — there’s the Du-All guy.”

After a while, you stop correcting it.

You just… become it.

And when your name is your business,

you don’t just maintain one reputation.

You maintain two.

Because is there really a difference between business life and personal life

if you never separate them?

The truth is — there isn’t.

And I didn’t.

For decades I carried that badge into every room.

Built around it.

Performed for it.

Lived up to it.

Until the weight of the name

became heavier than the man underneath it.

THE MOMENT

September 7th, 2000.

Six years into the marriage.

I remember a night in a casino.

Lou Rawls was there.

The room was star-struck.

People pressed in.

Everyone wanted a piece of the moment.

I sat back and watched.

In time the crowd cleared.

Lou looked over at me.

He could tell I wasn’t there for the performance.

He said simply —

“So. What’s your story?”

And just like that — two guys talking about life.

No badges.

No names.

No reputation managing the moment.

Just present.

I told him that his voice had been at my wedding.

That You’ll Never Find a Love Like Mine was the song Marty and I chose.

He smiled.

“That was a good choice for a man like you.”

Then he told me his.

The song was written by Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff.

And when it was recorded — Lou was at an all-time low.

Career struggling.

Identity shaken.

Carrying the weight of how the world saw him

and the gap between that and how he saw himself.

That song revitalized him.

Not just professionally.

Internally.

It shifted something about who he understood himself to be.

Lou Rawls passed away in 2006.

But that song is still playing.

Still in weddings.

Still in rooms where people are trying to say

something they can’t find words for.

His identity — the real one, not the one the world assigned —

lives on past his life.

Before we parted that night,

he looked at my neck.

I was wearing a custom solid gold pendant —

sapphire and emerald,

a yin yang symbol.

He looked me in the eye and said,

“Does that mean you’re balanced?”

I didn’t have a full answer yet.

He did.

That voice —

the same voice that had filled rooms,

moved people to tears,

been at my wedding —

dropped low and said,

“Jesus. He’s the one that balances me.”

Something in that resonated deeper than the words.

It wasn’t just what he said.

It was the way it landed.

Like it had weight behind it.

Like it had been earned.

I paused.

I smiled.

Not because I had something clever to say.

Because I had nothing.

No words that would fit.

And somewhere underneath the smile —

a quiet question was forming

that I wasn’t ready to ask out loud yet.

Who balances me?

I was wearing the symbol.

He had the answer.

I was wearing a symbol of self-constructed balance

while talking to a man who had already found the real thing.

I just didn’t know it yet.

Two guys. No crowd. No badges. Just the story underneath the story — which is always where the real one lives.

I stopped asking who I was supposed to be.

And surrendered to who He already said I am.

THE TURN

The exchange happened in my own backyard.

At the foot of the cross.

No audience.

No badge on the table.

Just me and God.

And what He said was simple.

Be still. Be G~. I’ll guide you. I’ll give you the words.

That’s the difference.

Identity built by the world has to be maintained.

Identity given by God…

holds.

One requires effort.

The other requires surrender.

And surrender isn’t weakness —

It’s alignment.

I didn’t become someone new.

I became someone revealed.

The man God had already formed…

before the world ever tried to name me.

Now I am a free agent for Jesus.

Like it or dislike it — that doesn’t move me.

Because I am no longer gaining identity through approval or affirmation.

I am just G~.

Observing where God takes me.

THE DRIFT

It sounds like growth —

Just keep improving.

Keep building.

Keep becoming.

It isn’t.

That voice never lets you arrive.

It keeps you chasing a version of yourself

that always stays just out of reach.

It calls exhaustion progress.

It calls striving purpose.

There is a kind of self-construction that looks like ambition on the outside —

but is just a man who hasn’t been told yet

that the work has already been done.

Building a name instead of receiving one.

Managing a reputation instead of resting in a calling.

Performing for rooms that were never meant to define you.

I know. Because I chased it. For years.

THE REFLECTION

Identity in Jesus is not loud.

It doesn’t need validation.

It doesn’t compete.

It doesn’t adjust based on the room.

It stands.

Even when pressed.

Even when surrounded.

Even when everything around it looks the same.

Because it knows where it came from.

Lou Rawls didn’t write that song.

But something in it found him at his lowest

and gave him back to himself.

That’s what God does.

He doesn’t hand you someone else’s identity.

He restores the one He already placed in you —

before the world got its hands on it.

I’ve walked through enough fire to know this —

What is built by man can be shaken.

What is anchored in Christ…

cannot.

This isn’t theory.

This is lived.

Forged through loss.

Refined through surrender.

Strengthened through grace.

Lou’s song still plays at weddings.

His voice still moves rooms he will never walk into.

That’s legacy.

That’s what identity anchored in something real

leaves behind.

I used to wonder what people saw when I walked in.

Now I wonder what God wants me to share today.

I don’t wear identity anymore.

I stand in it.

WALKAWAY LINE

When you know who you are in Christ — you don’t disappear in the crowd. You become clear within it.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What part of your identity are you still trying to maintain — that God never asked you to carry?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for never leaving my identity in the hands of the world.

Thank You for calling me before I understood who I was,

and for holding that truth steady when everything around me shifted.

Strip away anything in me that still reaches for approval, performance, or control.

Let me stand fully in who You have already declared me to be.

Not striving.

Not proving.

Not performing.

Just aligned.

Keep my eyes fixed on Jesus — not just as Savior, but as my foundation.

And for those still searching… meet them where they are.

Show them what You showed me —

That identity is not something we build.

It is something we receive.

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 didn’t set out to capture anything meaningful that night. I was just trying to get through it. One moment at a time.

It didn’t feel like much at the time.

Just a drop… hitting water. But something in me knew — it wasn’t random.

DEDICATION

To the ones sitting in the quiet… wondering if it’s almost over — whose strength isn’t loud, but still holding… who feel the weight and stay anyway… who keep breathing when that’s all they can do.

To the doctors who showed up when it mattered, the neighbor who helped get me there, and my wife — who heard what I couldn’t explain… and moved when it counted, led by something deeper than words.

To the divine appointments already in motion… to Jesus, who kept me here and reminded me again that miracles are real… and to the living water that didn’t just sustain me — but anchored my faith deeper than before.

And to the ones reading this now — if this meets you where you are, know this… sometimes it’s in the stillness that the deepest places of our soul are revealed.

SCRIPTURE

“My flesh and my heart fail; But God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” — Psalm 73:26 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

It was late.

The house was quiet in that way it only gets when everything slows down… but your mind doesn’t.

I couldn’t read.

Couldn’t focus.

Couldn’t even distract myself.

There was too much sitting in front of me.

Another procedure coming.

Another unknown.

Another stretch where I didn’t know how this was going to end.

So I got up.

Not because I had somewhere to go…

But because I couldn’t stay where I was.

THE STORY

I walked into the kitchen.

There were dishes in the sink from earlier… something baked, left for morning. Nothing urgent.

But the faucet had been left just slightly open.

Drip…

Drip…

Drip…

Each drop hit the water and lifted into a tiny form… then disappeared.

I stood there longer than I expected to.

Watching something so small…

Do something so consistent.

And something in me shifted.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just enough.

I went and grabbed my camera.

Set it up on a tripod.

Threw some color behind it.

Lit it the best I could.

Nothing perfect.

Nothing polished.

Just… present.

And I waited.

For the drop.

For the moment.

For something I didn’t even fully understand yet.

THE MOMENT

That drop rose up out of the water…

Clear.

Formed.

Held together… for just a second.

Then gone.

And it hit me.

That’s me right now.

Not the strength people see.

Not the plans.

Not the future.

Just… this moment.

One drop at a time.

Holding shape… for as long as I can.

And in that stillness — something shifted.

Stillness isn’t empty.

It’s where everything is about to change.

THE TURN

Because every drop doesn’t just disappear.

It hits something.

It moves something.

It creates a ripple you don’t see at first.

This isn’t about how strong I look.

It’s about whether I stay — one drop at a time.

And I started thinking…

What if this isn’t just about me getting through it?

What if every moment I stay…

Every breath I take…

Every decision not to give up…

Is touching something beyond me?

Marty.

My family.

People I haven’t even met yet.

Ripples don’t ask permission.

They just move.

THE DRIFT

There is a voice that keeps a person measuring.

Just push through this. It will pass.

Stillness means I’m losing ground.

The stronger move is to keep going.

That voice sounds like endurance.

It isn’t.

Endurance knows when to rest.

This voice mistakes movement for progress.

There is a kind of pushing through that looks like strength on the outside —

but is just fear refusing to be still.

Fear that the moment you stop moving…

you’ll have to feel what’s already there.

Fear that surrender means defeat.

When it never did.

I know. Because I lived it. For years.

THE REFLECTION

There’s a difference between control… and surrender.

Control tries to solve the whole thing at once.

Surrender says —

Just stay in this moment.

When your body feels uncertain…

When your future feels unclear…

When your strength doesn’t feel like enough…

God isn’t asking you to carry the whole weight.

He’s asking you to stay.

To trust Him in the middle… not just the outcome.

To trust that even the smallest moment…

Placed in His hands…

Is not wasted.

Not one drop.

Not one breath.

Not one quiet decision to keep going.

WALKAWAY LINE

You don’t have to carry the whole future — just don’t miss the drop in front of you.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What if the moment you’re in right now is shaping more than you can see?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

In the moments where everything feels uncertain, steady our hearts.

Remind us that we don’t have to carry what only You can hold.

Give us the strength to stay… even when we don’t understand.

And help us trust that nothing we walk through with You is ever wasted.

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~

DELIVER ME

Some things don’t show up in boxes.

He stood there longer than he needed to…

looking at what he had to sort through before he could get to what mattered.

It didn’t look like much at first.

Just another truck. Another stop.

Until I kept watching.

I was sitting out front, phone in hand. The moment I saw it, I knew I had a shot — and something was already stirring inside me before I could explain why.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit — for giving me opportunities to see what matters and what grows me.

To Marty — for living life out loud with me and always encouraging me forward.

To the reader — who may walk away with something to think about.

To the driver — who never knew his tired truck became a mirror.

SCRIPTURE

“Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me, and know my anxieties; and see if there is any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.” — Psalm 139:23–24 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

I was sitting out front when the truck pulled up.

White. Worn.

Budget printed across the side like it had somewhere important to be.

It parked.

The engine cut.

And for a minute… nothing moved.

THE STORY

Then the driver stepped out.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t grab anything right away.

Just stood there… looking at the back of that truck.

Like he already knew.

When he opened it, things didn’t come out clean.

Boxes were shifted. Some half-open. A couple looked like they’d been crammed in just to make them fit.

He climbed in.

Started moving things around…

not unloading…

just trying to get to something buried underneath everything else.

THE MOMENT

I kept watching.

Not because it was interesting. Because it felt familiar.

He’d reach for something… stop… move something else first… then go back.

Nothing had a clear place. Nothing came out in order.

It wasn’t chaos.

But it wasn’t right either.

And I felt it before I had words for it.

That quiet nudge.

The one that doesn’t explain…

just sits there until you stop ignoring it.

I wasn’t thinking about him anymore.

I was thinking about me.

I don’t need more.

I need less.

THE TURN

Not more insight. Not more effort. Not more weight.

Less.

Less that I agreed to without asking. Less that I carried because it was handed to me. Less that I kept… just because it was already there.

THE DRIFT

It’s easy to keep loading things in.

Harder to stop and ask if they belong.

I told myself it was responsibility. Growth. Even obedience.

I know.

Because I carried it.

For years.

THE REFLECTION

And now it’s in there.

Stacked. Shifted. Some of it half-open.

And when I go looking for what actually matters…

I’ve got to move everything else first.

I don’t think he finished while I was sitting there.

Still moving things. Still trying to get to what he came for.

I went back inside.

But that picture didn’t.

WALKAWAY LINE

What you carry shapes what you can reach.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

What have you been carrying so long… it just feels normal now?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

show me what I’ve been carrying that You never asked me to hold.

Give me the courage to let it go…

even if it’s been there a long time.

Even if it feels like it belongs now.

Put things back in order…

the way You meant them to be.

Not stacked. Not buried.

Clear.

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~

It’s been there the whole time.

Same ground. Same sky.

Same place I’ve walked past more times than I can count.

But not the same man.

My backyard. My cross. I wasn’t trying to capture something profound — I was just looking at it differently that day. Turns out, that’s all it takes.

DEDICATION

To the Holy Spirit — for restoring my life and bringing me back into alignment with Your will.

To Marty — my wife, my covenant partner, for the life we have walked together… growing, exploring, staying kingdom-minded, and holding eternity in view.

To Jesus — for the lens that changed everything… how I see, how I walk, and how I experience this world under Your authority.

To what was done at the cross before me — the finished work that sustains my eternal life with Him.

SCRIPTURE

“I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me…” — Galatians 2:20 (NKJV)

THE HOOK

I didn’t go looking for a moment.

I was just outside.

Backyard. Normal day. Nothing dramatic.

The cross stood where it always has.

Steel. Still. Unmoving.

No voice. No sign.

Just… there.

THE STORY

I’ve walked past it a hundred times.

Since the day I was given the dream to place it there.

Maybe more.

Mowed around it. Looked at it without really seeing it.

You get used to things that stay in one place long enough.

Even something like that.

Especially something like that.

But there are days when something shifts.

Not outside.

Inside.

And what you’ve been walking past…

starts looking back at you.

THE MOMENT

It hit me without warning.

Not loud. Not emotional. Clear.

I didn’t just put that cross in my yard.

I died there.

Not physically… but everything that used to govern me.

And what I began to realize—

was that everything I thought I knew…

everything I had built…

would be uncovered…

and if it didn’t serve Jesus—

It wouldn’t stay.

Health issues brought me face-to-face with something real.

I didn’t know if I had three months.

And in that place—

God made something unmistakably clear.

The only thing guaranteed… the only thing that would sustain…

was my relationship with Him.

Everything else could fall away.

And what I didn’t understand at the time—

was that it wasn’t just an ending.

It was a covenant.

An agreement I stepped into… whether I could fully explain it or not.

An exchange.

His heart… for mine.

Recycled… and repurposed for God’s creation.

Little did I know what was in store for me moving forward.

Two lives cannot occupy the same cross. One of them has to come down.

THE TURN

That’s the part we don’t talk about much.

We talk about forgiveness. Grace. New life.

But something has to die for that to happen.

Not physically.

But personally.

What governs you. What defines you. What you run to when things start to shake.

For me—

It was being the one who carried it.

The one who handled it. The one who held everything together.

But that version of me…

couldn’t come forward.

THE DRIFT

That voice will tell you you’re growing.

That you’re becoming a better version of yourself. That you’re learning to manage it. That you’re making progress.

It sounds like maturity.

It isn’t.

Maturity doesn’t negotiate with what’s supposed to die. It doesn’t refine it. It doesn’t rename it. It releases it.

I know.

Because I managed it.

For years.

THE REFLECTION

I used to think readiness meant having things together.

Clarity. Confidence. Some kind of internal stability.

But standing there… looking at that cross…

I realized something I can’t unsee.

Readiness isn’t about what you’ve built.

It’s about what you’re willing to exchange.

Because that’s what happened there.

Not improvement.

Not adjustment.

Exchange.

The life I had been trying to manage…

for the life He had already given.

And even now—

there are moments…

When the old ways try to reach back in.

Control. Responsibility. The need to carry what was never mine.

But it doesn’t sit the same anymore.

Because His voice interrupts it.

Not loud. Not forceful. Clear.

And I know what belongs…

and what doesn’t.

And I wasn’t the only one walking through it.

Marty was there.

Under her own pressure…

facing the reality that she could lose me.

And still—

She didn’t give herself to fear.

She stayed grounded. Steady. Speaking truth.

Refusing to submit to anything other than God’s authority.

And I watched it. Felt it. Was carried by it more than I probably understood at the time.

And then…

What came after.

I never would have guessed.

God began opening doors.

Men. Conversations. Moments that mattered.

Meeting people right where they were…

and sharing what He had done in my life.

Not as theory.

As reality.

And now…

writing.

Caring about people I may never meet.

Sharing the good news of Jesus from a place I didn’t even know existed in me.

Twenty years ago…

I never would have seen this coming.

WALKAWAY LINE

You don’t become ready by holding on — only by agreeing to the exchange.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

If the cross in your life is real… what have you actually left there — and what are you still picking back up?

MY PRAYER

Heavenly Father,

For the one reading this… meet them right where they are.

Not where they think they should be. Not where they’ve been pretending to be.

But right where they are.

If there is something they’ve been holding onto that was meant to be surrendered…

Give them the courage to release it.

Not in fear…

but in trust.

And if they’ve already been to that place—

Remind them they don’t have to carry it again.

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~