HaloGrace333 is a long-form personal brand experiment designed as a living brand ecosystem, not a content feed.
The project documents a 12-step recovery journey through visual systems, motion, and lived moments, while serving as a proof-of-thinking artifact for system-driven, performance-aware creative leadership.
Rather than producing isolated assets, the work focuses on architecting a scalable creative system—one that evolves over time, adapts across platforms, and remains emotionally consistent without becoming repetitive or performative.
I see how easily I go to and fro when I’m on my own. One day I’m confident, the next I’m questioning everything. I mistake emotion for truth and momentum for maturity. When I stay disconnected, I drift—pulled by whatever voice is loudest, whatever feeling hits hardest. God didn’t design me to stabilize myself. I need the body. I need people who help anchor me when my thoughts start moving faster than my faith.
Step 12. I thought I’d get here and feel accomplished. Like something would click. Like I’d finally be done. I’m not. I’m still blurry. Still inconsistent. Still letting things slide I know better than to excuse. Adidas. Vans. Not just shoes— reminders of when sex, smoke, and shortcuts felt like coming of age instead of running in circles. I’m dancing in rhythm, but I’m not whole. The cracks are real. The weeds are real. And temptation still leaks through the weak places— like a paper bag I keep pretending won’t rip. I’m pissed because I want to feel accomplished. And God keeps telling me something harder: keep going. Shortcuts still whisper. Shortcuts still cost me. Step 12 didn’t fix me. It exposed me. I’m not honest all the time. But I’m staying. I’m moving. And I’m choosing truth again— even when I don’t feel finished, even when I don’t feel strong. This isn’t the end. It’s the commission to not quit.
Step 11 isn't polite prayer in a pew. It's the desperate, ridiculous, invasive, frenzied, burning, unfolding, conducting, drinking, dancing, bleeding surrender that keeps your soul from flatlining in the void. Stay entangled. Stay open. Stay moving. Or become cosmic dust.
I don’t come to prayer clean or calm—I come barefoot, cut up, bleeding on the floor, radio in my hand, trying to stay on the line. Step 11 isn’t silence or safety; it’s listening when every nerve is screaming and there’s no glass left to avoid. I don’t need rescue music or holy lighting—I need clarity in the chaos, direction in the dark, a voice that cuts through the noise and tells me where to step next. This is intimacy: not comfort, but connection. Not escape, but obedience. Still here. Still listening. Still bleeding.
In a fragmented, AI-saturated world facing polycrisis, spiritual intimacy with God becomes the ultimate reconnection—countering digital overload, brain rot, and artificial intelligence “spirits” with the Holy Spirit. Psalm 19 reveals truth through both creation and Scripture, reviving the soul and restoring unity in mind and heart when the world feels fractured and numbing.
I don’t ride into the wilderness to find peace. I ride out here to shut up long enough to hear Jesus.
...Jesus ended up driving me home.
I broke under what I praised. Cash, clout, noise—none of it held.
I woke up cold again and honestly I’m fucking tired of these steps. I keep thinking I’ve moved on and then I’m right back here, stubbing my toes, actin like I know where I’m going. I’m standing on this ice trying to pretend I belong. The penguins don’t even notice — arms crossed, comfortable, at home. Meanwhile I’m fucking freezing, feathers all wrong, wondering how I convinced myself this was fine. I believe in God. That part isn’t shakey. What is shakey is how often I live like this world is home, like if I manage it better I won’t feel the cold. I keep my hand on the wheel and call it responsibility. I hide in my work and call it purpose. I carry everything myself and call it strength. But I can feel the traction going. Slipping. Old patterns warming up in the corner like they never left, just waited. I pray. I read. I check in. But I don’t fucking unpack. I visit You, God, then leave the lights on like I might come back later. Somewhere between frustration and fear I hear You — not loud, not clean, more like static breaking in: why are you freezing where you don’t belong why are you surviving a place I never called home This isn’t punishment. It’s mercy that feels uncomfortable as hell. It’s my soul refusing to settle for scenery that can’t sustain me. I don’t need more discipline. I need relocation. I’m halfway between homes with boxes still taped shut because part of me is scared of what I’ll loose if I actually stay. God, come into the rooms I keep calling “handled.” Take the shit I’m still protecting. I’m cold. I’m annoyed. I’m still listening. Step 11 • Week 1 • Day 2 still here. still shakey. still walking.
I stayed where it broke.
Shortcuts promise power. Grace builds endurance.
Grace works where honesty lives.
Steps 1, 2, and 3 aren’t a ladder you climb once. They’re a posture you return to daily. Admit I’m not in control. Believe God is good. Trust Him with what I keep trying to manage. Continue isn’t about moving on. It’s about coming back.
Spandex, spotlights, and screaming crowds— proof that applause can feel like oxygen. I mistook volume for life and desire for direction. Recovery stripped the costume, not the hunger. Now I guard my heart— because what I feed it is what it becomes.
I’m walking a path that doesn’t leave room for lies anymore. There’s no space here for who I pretended to be, or who I wish I was by now. Every step asks for honesty. Every step costs something. Some days I’m steady. Some days I’m afraid. But I haven’t stepped sideways. I don’t know where this path ends. I just know that leaving it would be easier—and emptier. So today, I stay. I pay attention. I keep my balance. I’m not here because I’m strong. I’m here because God met me when I stopped running. And today, in the narrowness, in the fear, in the quiet— I’m still here.
Grace didn’t improve my defenses. It removed them.
What you ignore today charges interest tomorrow.
I learned how to look healed while keeping things wrapped up. Step 10 isn’t about perfection— it’s about lifting what I’ve been hiding before it takes root again.
The pelican has long symbolized a life sustained by sacrifice rather than strength. In Step 10, it becomes a confession of dependence—reminding us that freedom is not managed, but received through grace.
Not the polished version. The wandering one. The guy who knows momentum matters more than motivation. Stick with the way. Drift long enough and you don’t fall all at once— you just end up somewhere you didn’t mean to be. Step 10 isn’t about intensity. It’s about staying.
A symbol of grace, dependence, and life sustained by sacrifice. Historically used in Christian iconography to represent Christ giving His life for others, the pelican reflects the truth of Step 10: human strength is unruly and self-destructive when independent, but God’s grace sustains what effort cannot. The pelican does not conquer gravity—it yields to lift—embodying the daily posture of admitting weakness, believing in God’s power, and trusting His direction.
Shadows don’t scare me like they used to. Truth tastes sharper now, but cleaner too. My heart knows when it’s lying to me. And I refuse to look away. The time has come today.
Fuck it. I’m going for the brass ring. Not for applause. Not for validation. Not for the version of me who needed to be admired. But because deep down, I know God didn’t call me to play small. “Run in such a way as to win the prize.” — 1 Corinthians 9:24 If I’m going to reach for anything, it needs to be His way, not mine. Ambition without God became pride. Ambition with God becomes worship. Today I choose obedience over ego. Desire surrendered. Momentum without madness. Courage without self-reliance. If this is my shot, I’m taking it with open hands.
Week 3, Day 6: I’m catching up on honesty, not amends. I’m still more attached to my Nooney than to doing the hard work. But awareness is its own kind of step.
Peace costs more than two fists.
What hides in the unseen breaks when truth is spoken.
What, me worry? Condensation, confusion, and a list of amends I keep pretending I can’t read.
The binoculars are my willingness, but they’re turned the wrong way — making every amends feel impossibly far. Maybe that’s why God says to pray first. Because clarity isn’t something I produce; it’s something He gives. So even if everything looks distant, I keep looking. God will flip the lens when it’s time to begin.
You must’ve been a boy… at least that’s how my mind keeps sketching you— a shy half-smile, a cowlick that never stayed down, hands too big for the world you were growing into. Thirty-eight years. That’s how long I’ve carried the outline of you in the quiet part of my heart I never let anyone see. You’d be a man now. Older than I was when I made the choice that took you from breath before breath ever reached you. Would you have loved art like me? Would you have thrown a football in the yard, laughed like your mother, or walked like me—with purpose, with stubbornness? Would you have changed the direction I thought I needed so fiercely back when I couldn’t see what mattered? I don’t know your face. But I know your absence. And I know this: you were not a mistake. Y ou were a moment I mishandled, a life I didn’t understand, a door I closed too quickly out of fear, pressure, youth, and dreams I thought would shatter. If I could speak to you now, I’d say your name— if I had one— and I’d tell you I’m sorry for the way I chose before I knew how choices echo. I’d tell you I’ve imagined your birthdays, your heartbreaks, the man you might’ve become— kind eyes, maybe, or a fierce protector, or quiet and brilliant, or restless like your father. I don’t know if heaven holds you as the child you were or the man you never got to be. But I trust you’re held more perfectly there than I ever could’ve held you here. So today, I speak this into the open air: You were real to me. You are real to me. And I release you into the hands of the God who writes mercy into every chapter I wish I could rewrite. If love can cross the years, then hear this: I loved what you could’ve been. And I give that love back to God now— finally, freely, as a father who never got to be one to you, but still feels the shape of the son he never met.
A Lament for the Names I Can’t Shake God… I stand here with a handful of names that won’t let go of me. Ghosts of choices, echoes of wounds that sink deeper than apologies can reach. I want to obey You, but I don’t know what You’re asking. Some days it feels like conviction, other days like old guilt wearing a new mask. And I can’t always tell the difference. So take this confusion, this unfinished sorrow, this trembling obedience. Tell me when to speak and when silence is mercy. Tell me what is mine to carry and what was never mine at all.
She sang me through the aisles I staggered through— a comfort that kept me drinking, a false idol for my pain.
Her story ended in the dark. Mine found rehab and grace.
My amends are for the ones who carried my chaos while I called it comfort.
Are you an outlier? I’ve never fit the system. I’ve always been the outlier — the one who saw patterns differently, who lived on the edges, who broke the blueprint without meaning to. Step 9 is where God brings clarity to the fractures I left behind. It’s not about conformity—it’s about honesty. It’s about owning the places where my choices created cracks in relationships, timelines, and hearts… and trusting God to guide me as I repair them. This is recovery. This is spiritual alignment. This is me stepping out of survival mode and into clarity.
Be still, my beating heart. She smiles like comfort, moves like nostalgia, and whispers like destiny — but she’s the devil in disguise.
Your obedience collapses the wave — the fear, the uncertainty, the ‘here we go again’ moment — but the deeper structure, the reason you can step forward even when it stings, was placed in you by God long before this hit ever came.
Η μύγα είναι εκτός τοίχου.
truth in the light, not shame in the dark — and that is exactly what Step 9 is about: not just making amends with others, but making amends with your habits, your patterns, your own heart. Step 9 Week 1 Day 6 The idol dressed like motivation.
Making amends is like stitching up a tear in a fabric you ripped. It’s slow, uncomfortable work. You feel every pull of the thread. Every tug reminds you of the moment you tore it. But repair is holy work. God hands you the needle, the courage, and the humility to start closing the gap you created. Amends doesn’t erase the tear — it strengthens the place that was once broken.
When I look back at my story of forgiveness, healing, and Christian recovery, my mind goes straight to high school — the place where I first learned fear, not grace. The environment that shaped my early faith journey wasn’t about restoration; it was about punishment. Break a rule, expect pain. That was the culture… not biblical forgiveness, not spiritual healing, not heart transformation. In 1985, when they were filming Hoosiers, they wanted us to look like 1950s kids — buzz cuts and all. Me and my buddy weren’t doing that. So we skipped school and went to Lafayette Square to watch Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo. It felt carefree, harmless — the kind of teenage moment you laugh about. But when the school found out, everything shifted. We were dragged into the vice principal’s office and given two choices: • Get expelled for three days • Take three hits with a wooden paddle — “the board.” We chose the board. No conversation. No curiosity. No compassion. Just impact discipline. No restoration, no grace, no opportunity to confess — only fear. Looking back now, through the lens of my 12-Step recovery, I see it clearly: that moment didn’t teach me forgiveness. It taught me compliance. It taught me hiding, shame, and self-protection. It taught me that mistakes deserve punishment, not mercy. And fear might change behavior, but it never heals the heart. Only Jesus, only biblical forgiveness, only spiritual restoration does that. Now, as God continues rewriting my story through this healing journey, I’m learning the difference between punishment and real forgiveness. Between fear and freedom. Between hiding and confession. Between surviving and actually being made new in Christ. I never saw forgiveness practiced growing up — but God is teaching it to me now. Slowly. Deeply. Supernaturally.
The blocks breaking my back aren’t from someone else— they’re from the damage I caused. Step 9 is me owning my side of the wreckage.
Step 9 doesn’t mean I charge into every old battlefield. It doesn’t mean I hand myself back to people who caused emotional or verbal harm. It means this: “Whenever possible.” And only God knows what “possible” looks like for my story, my safety, and my healing. The Holy Spirit shows me which amends need a face-to-face and which ones need a heart-to-heart with God. Some debts get settled in conversation. Some get settled in obedience, confession, and a real change of direction. Both are valid. Both are amends. This step isn’t about confrontation — it’s about ownership. It’s about recognizing the sin I brought into a relationship and letting God transform me so I don’t repeat it. When He says “go,” I go. When He says “heal from here,” I heal from here. Making amends is supernatural work: courage without self-protection, humility without self-punishment, obedience without fear. And when the Holy Spirit says “You’ve owned it. The debt is settled,” I believe Him.
Step 8 feels like dumping out a backpack full of bricks labeled Hurt, Betrayal, Resentment… and somehow those stones still try to climb back onto my shoulders. There are words I still hear in my head: “coward,” “you’re just an employee.” Moments that rise up like they happened yesterday. I tell God, “take it,” but my fingers stay wrapped around the straps. Part of me still wants to fight back the old way—quiet revenge, sharp thoughts, that old hardness I was good at. But God keeps showing me: If He forgave me, I don’t get to keep holding these stones. It doesn’t feel kind. It doesn’t feel natural. Some days these steps feel like they’re stripping who I used to be, exposing how much junk I still carry.
Forgiveness is the moment you stop carrying what’s been quietly crushing you. The heaviest thing you’ll ever lift is the grudge you finally lay down. And when your hand opens, the weight falls, the darkness lifts, and God rushes into the empty space with light you forgot was possible. Freedom doesn’t come from holding tighter. It comes from letting go.
ournal Notes 11-0-2025: The Quantum Mechanics of Willingness 1. Before Willingness: The Field of Chaos: Before a decision is made, the soul is like a particle in superposition — it exists in multiple states at once: faith and fear, obedience and resistance, trust and control. This state feels like chaos because your energy is split — mental, emotional, spiritual — pulling in opposing directions. No outcome can solidify because the system hasn’t been observed — meaning, you haven’t chosen. 2. The Collapse: When Decision Happens: In quantum physics, observation collapses the wave function — potential becomes particle, probability becomes reality. Spiritually, willingness is that moment of observation. It’s when your soul says, “Yes, I will.” That yes collapses infinite possible futures into one aligned path. It doesn’t guarantee ease — it simply brings order from possibility. The “chaos” doesn’t vanish; it reorganizes around purpose. 3. Energy Conversion: From Resistance to Direction: Energy never disappears — it just changes form. When you move from unwillingness to willingness, the emotional and spiritual friction that once caused anxiety or stagnation becomes momentum. You’re not creating energy; you’re redirecting it. Bitterness, fear, and uncertainty carry tremendous energy — when released to God, that energy becomes flow. The system becomes coherent instead of scattered. 4. Entanglement: God’s Response: Once you align your will with divine will, spiritual entanglement happens — Heaven and Earth sync frequencies. Your small yes resonates through unseen realms. That’s why Scripture says, “Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you.” On the quantum level, your willingness changes probability — new patterns form, opportunities align, peace enters. In spiritual terms: God meets you in motion. 5. The Outcome: Coherence and Manifestation: The shift from chaos to coherence allows your spiritual and emotional energy to act like a laser — focused, unified, purposeful. That’s why peace follows willingness — because coherence always feels like calm. The outer world begins to mirror the inner order.
My Testimony: “Just an Employee” (Step 8 • Forgive) I resent a man named Josh — once my colleague, later my supervisor. For twenty years I gave everything I had to that startup — long hours, ideas, design, grit. First hired, I helped build that business from nothing, watching it grow into something we could all be proud of. I always thought Josh did a good job. When I ended up working under him, he was fair, sharp, and even supportive — especially when I checked myself into rehab for thirty days. He let me keep my job, and I’ll always be grateful for that. But near the end, everything changed. Verticals split, pressure mounted, and leadership forgot where the roots came from. We clashed over an IT issue one day — a misunderstanding blown out of proportion. I was direct, trying to meet retail deadlines, and he didn’t like my tone. Then he said it. “You’re just an employee.” Those words broke something in me. After decades of loyalty, creativity, and sweat — I was disposable. I didn’t expect a cake or a farewell card, but I did expect respect. No one wanted to hear my side, and that was fine — I was ready to move on. But the final slap in the face was when they wiped my computer clean before I could back it up. I lost everything — even a recording of my grandma Honey praying shortly before she died. There was no reason for that. They knew it wasn’t all work stuff. I got a nice severance package, but I would’ve traded it for one hour — just one chance to save those files.
My Testimony: Where the Knives Fell (From a Recovery Memoir) - She wore control like perfume—sweet at first, almost hypnotic, but suffocating once you breathed it in. Her name was Sheila, the cruelest woman I’ve ever known. My second wife. My final undoing. - She left marks on me—some visible, others buried too deep to show. I live, therefore I learn. Yet I still wake in darkness, haunted by the decade that pulled me from my children’s laughter—ten years that built walls where love once lived. - Even cruelty has a cradle. Sheila carried her own inferno: a childhood stolen, abuse that taught her power was safer than love. - By the time she reached me, she was an ex-stripper turned bartender, surviving on charm and vigilance. I mistook her damage for depth, her desperation for devotion. - It started with a pill pressed into my hand like a promise—Adderall, the illusion of control. One pill became two, and soon our life was measured in milligrams. - Sheila kept the supply flowing—sliding pills across the counter like secrets, and I swallowed them like prayer. I became numb to everything except the need—and to her. She was both nurse and poisoner, savior and saboteur. Eventually I realized I wasn’t addicted to the pills anymore. I was addicted to her chaos. - Her love had conditions; her peace, demands. When I defended my kids—as any father should—she made me the enemy. The house turned heavy. Every fight felt spiritual; every silence, possessed. When rage replaced reason, she reached for knives. The scars on my palms still whisper the story, and the deeper wounds still bleed when memory stirs. - I wish I could say I’ve forgiven her. I haven’t. The resentment still rises when I think about what those ten years cost my kids, what they cost me. Forgiveness hasn’t happened—but neither has surrender.
Lay down your arms. You don’t need to fight what God’s already finished. Forgiveness isn’t surrender — it’s freedom.
I thought forgiveness meant the pain would stop. But some wounds don’t close overnight. They ache when truth brushes against them. God’s showing me that forgiveness isn’t about pretending it never happened—it’s trusting Him to clean what I can’t. Some scars are still bleeding because He’s not done healing them yet.
'm not healed - I'm hanging on. Redemption's not for the already good - it's for the still broken, still bitter, still breathing. I'm still hear - and that means the door isn't done opening.
Forgiveness isn’t soft — it’s surrender. You’re not weak for letting go. You’re just done being crushed by something God already carried.
Eau My God! Forgiveness Is Like Bathroom Spray. Because let’s be honest when something stinks, everyone knows it. Unforgiveness is the same way. It lingers. It fills the room long after the moment’s gone. You can try to ignore it, hold your breath, or blame someone else for the smell… but it doesn’t leave until grace enters the air. Forgiveness doesn’t pretend it never happened it just overpowers what’s rotten with something better. Jesus didn’t Febreze the cross; He absorbed the stench of sin and replaced it with peace. That’s divine air freshener. That’s reconciliation. And that's the only spray endorsed by the Holy Spirit.
Forgiveness isn’t a feeling — it’s peace in motion. God made the first move toward me, even when I didn’t deserve it. Now it’s my turn to pass that peace forward.
My idols don’t quit. Neither does grace. That’s why I’m still here.
Some days I can feel the Holy Spirit so strong it’s like electricity in my chest—then out of nowhere, the old idols start whispering again. Control. Pride. Comfort. They claw up from the dirt, daring me to turn back. It’s frustrating—how they still have a voice when I’m finally learning to listen to His. But maybe this is the walk—following through the fire, not around it. Every time I choose His voice over theirs, I feel the flame shift from pain to power.
“The most eloquent prayer is the prayer through hands that heal and bless." Billy Graham
Fresh paint. Wet truth. Three words I keep grinding on — LOVE. TRUST. OBEY. They sound simple till you try to live them. Each one leaves its mark — one crowns the heart, one anchors the soul, one burns the ego. Step 7, Week 2, Day 4 — the art’s not just on the boards. It’s in the becoming.
She calls it strength— but the vines keep tightening. The fruit glows, yes, but only where the light breaks through the cracks. She’s learned to bloom even while choking, to smile while the Spirit untangles what she still clings to.
Every step feels impossible until my eyes rise above the waves and lock onto the One who never sinks.
The old is gone. The new has come. Christ didn’t just see a sinner — He saw a son. My worth isn’t earned; it’s revealed through grace.
Sometimes I still drift. I chase movement and call it purpose. But the further I float, the thinner the air gets. The Spirit keeps pulling me back— a quiet tether that never snaps, even when I wander too far. I’m learning that to entirely follow Him isn’t about control or perfection— it’s about staying connected to the Source that gives me breath.
WHAT - ME WORRY? I still carry idols on my back that yell louder than the Holy Spirit. They promise comfort, control, quick fixes. But every time I surrender, I get stronger. And the stronger I get, the more I can hear Him— not as a hunch, but as a voice I know.
The Spirit sets the rhythm—my job is to keep in step.
It’s easy to accept being loved and forgiven I’ve seen that in moments when I least deserved it. But it’s hard to accept being blameless or righteous. I still see my flaws, the things I wish I could undo, and it makes it hard to believe God could see me that way. It’s also hard to feel holy when I still slip, still chase old patterns. But maybe that’s the point that my identity isn’t about how I feel, it’s about what He’s already done. I’m learning to let His truth be louder than my failures.
There’s a flame that doesn’t move with the wind. It just burns — steady, honest, alive. It doesn’t promise comfort, only direction. And every step toward it feels like leaving something behind. The Spirit doesn’t clear the road — He lights it. And so I walk.
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law. And those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires. If we live by the Spirit, let us also keep in step with the Spirit. (Galatians 5:22–25)
Spuds wasn’t just a dog. He was the altar where I first learned to worship “cool.” A grinning idol selling belonging in a bottle. At 18, I drank the lie before I ever tasted the beer. God’s showing me that repentance isn’t just quitting a habit— it’s tearing down the advertising in my heart, the billboards that told me who to be. The Spirit whispers, “You were never missing out— you were being marketed to.” Now I see: what once promised confidence was only bait for bondage. Grace is the real campaign now.
Repentance is choosing life over death — not once, but daily. It is the collapse of a divided heart into a surrendered one, the entanglement of our will with the Spirit, and the observable transformation where heaven alters earth.
Greater within me than the shadows around me. The world roars loud, but Heaven whispers stronger. I am not overcome— I am carried.
Down I went, heavy with chains, lungs full of yesterday, idols sinking with me. The water closed like a grave. The old me drowned. The hustler died. The liar, the addict, the coward—gone. Then light split the surface. Hands pulled me through. I rose gasping, alive— new breath, new name, new way. Buried with Christ. Raised in glory. Now I walk, new as the morning.
The grip is tight because the battle is real. These hands, once offered to sin, are now clenched for the road of grace. I ride forward, not to obey the old cravings that once chained me, but to answer the call of God. The engine roars like freedom, and the mud that splashes is every lie and shadow I refuse to bow to. I’m tired of being a hustler. The words above me—Don’t Stop Now—are not a slogan, but a command from heaven. Do not yield. Do not drift. Keep pressing, because sin no longer has the wheel. Grace holds the throttle. I ride not as a slave to law or desire, but as one carried by mercy. My white-knuckled fists are not fear—they are resolve. A declaration that sin will not reign here. I ride by grace, and grace alone.
Strength is found in surrender. Salvation in returning. Power in quiet trust. Rest isn’t weakness. Repentance isn’t failure. Trust isn’t passive. This is where my strength begins.
Repentance isn’t weakness—it’s war. Hell wanted me quiet. Recovery made me loud. Every cry, a turning. Every flame, a testimony. This is my banner: healing, sobriety, freedom. A war cry against addiction. A flag of surrender that became strength.
Repentance isn’t the end—it’s the fire that clears the path back home. Step 6 taught me that surrender burns away what can’t stay, but it doesn’t destroy me. It refines me. Every time I choose to turn from my old ways, I see more clearly that God’s way is life. Still here. Still walking. Still being remade.
Once I was the darkness itself-absorbing, hiding, running. But in Christ, I've been remade into light. Not borrowed, not faint- a beach that points back to Him.
Walk Dangerous. Radiant with Truth. Cracks glow where lies once hid. Wounds shine into witness. Darkness trembles. Light keeps walking.
A burned black swan is the unthinkable crash that sets your old life on fire— not just to destroy, but to strip away illusion, so repentance and new life can emerge from the ashes.
The Parable of the Last Train A man stood on the platform, jittery, sweating, checking his watch. The train was late. He stomped his foot. “Time’s wasting away. I need a jolt. I need to move. Why hasn’t it come yet?” Others walked off, muttering, “Guess it’s not coming. Guess the promise was a lie.” But the train wasn’t late. It was waiting. Holding the doors open, patient. Not because the engineer forgot, but because he saw the man stumbling down the street — the one still deciding, still caught between the liquor store and the crack house, still wondering if he was worth the ride. The train would not leave without giving him one last chance. The conductor’s heart wasn’t to leave him stranded but to get him home.
Your scream won’t heal you—your surrender will.
When sin hides in the dark, it grows heavier. But when you bring it into the light, chains break and healing begins. Confession isn’t about shame—it’s about freedom. Strike the match, expose the lie, and let God’s mercy set you free.
My temptation begins with a whisper: “something wicked this way comes.” The sky bruises dark, clouds gather like unspoken lies, thunder rolls like a warning drum, wind cuts sharp as doubt. I tell myself the storm will miss me. But weakness pulls like undertow. The devil paints obedience as a mountain, and sin as a shortcut through the valley. Confession is lightning— splitting the sky, revealing what hides in shadow. It stitches me back to God, teaching me to see the patterns in the rain. Still, temptation moves like muscle memory— a ghost hand turning the same door handle, a river carving the same channel. The enemy hides his ruin in plain sight, making rubble look ordinary. Yet mercy is an anchor. Grace is a lighthouse. And God is the calm that stills the storm. This is not about worth— it is about allegiance. To live in His love as daily bread. To be shaped by His Spirit until new rivers carve through stone. To be unashamed to declare: I am still here.
From death’s grip, beauty blooms— the world’s bouquets wither, but the Spirit sows a garden eternal. One seed of righteousness outlasts a thousand flowers that fade. Trade fading treasures for the bloom that never dies.
O Lord, life has taught me— no part-time crooks, you’re either in or you’re out. So teach me Your way: no part-time disciple, no halfway cross. I cannot play with idols by night and praise You by day. Burn the fence I’ve sat on. Kill the double-life I’ve lived. Make me whole, all-in, yours alone. For the world takes my soul in pieces, but You give me life entire. Better one day carrying Your cross than a lifetime chasing lies.
Walk His way— not the echo of idols, not the noise of the crowd. The narrow road burns bright, a flame against the dark, calling the weary home. Surrender is the song, repentance the rhythm, and grace the stage light that never fades. Walk His way, and find life that cannot be stolen.
Confession admits the leak. Repentance patches it with God’s grace.
I know what it’s like to chase sin that looks sweet but leaves scars. I’ve burned myself on idols, addiction, and lies that promised freedom but chained me tighter. Repentance is my U-turn—it’s where God met me, not just to forgive me but to free me. I’m choosing to turn before I burn.
Step 6 is less about behavior and more about the heart. It asks: What do you love most, and are you willing to let God reshape it?
A Lament. O God why—Covid now, wtf. My fucking heart clenches at the thought of my dad dying. It stalks me like a shadow in the night, pressing until I want to crawl out of my own skin. You know I’m not strong enough. Sin’s grip is at my throat, and I’d rather go numb, drown in despair, and just wait for heaven than face that kind of grief. How the hell am I supposed to keep moving when I picture my parents gone? Everyone else walks like they can take death in stride, but I can’t. It would bury me alive. All I want is for my mom and dad to know they raised a good son—that their love wasn’t wasted, that I stopped chasing the dragon. But I’ve wasted days being wasted, days I could have spent with them. And You fucking know how much I hate that “Cats in the Cradle” song. I feel fragile. As much as I chase You, God, I know I’d rage against You if You ripped him from me right now. Thank You for the strength You’ve given—I’ve felt it—but I need more. Crack these chains before shame buries me alive, before they choke out the talent You planted in me. One day, I believe I’ll stand stronger. But today? Today I’m still so fucking scared my time with him is already gone. And if it is—then thank You for making him my dad, and for the love we shared.
FOUR YEARS SOBER 🙌 One day at a time. Step 5 reminds us: healing comes when we confess, not conceal. What was once hidden nearly destroyed me—today, I shout freedom. Recovery is possible. We DO recover.
Beneath the mask of legend, the cracks of confession wait to set the soul free — for though the soul finds freedom, the flesh still belongs to dust, already counted as dead.
I chased fantasy, but I found reality in grace. I chased idols, but I found freedom in the living God. One day at a time, my life is being rewritten. This is no longer the story of my chains — it is the story of my release.
From Brokenness to Freedom In the silence of addiction recovery, I whispered my shame to the night. Alcoholism had chained my spirit, but Jesus brought me into the light. Faith-based sobriety is not a program, it’s a promise written in grace. Through Christian recovery I find healing, as I surrender at the cross, face to face. God’s love restores the broken life, freedom from addiction begins to bloom. No more hiding in fear or resentment, His forgiveness clears the room. Overcome guilt, overcome despair, hope through Christ is strong and true. Transformation comes in surrender, a new life in Him, made brand new. So to the lost and weary soul, hear this: you’re not alone. Healing through Jesus is waiting, faith makes your heart His home.
The calling grows stronger; the only step forward is the one God sets before me.
I am still here, Lord—still chasing the dragon, still broken in my weakness. The fire consumes, the lie entangles, yet You do not turn away. Though I stumble in the shadows, Your mercy waits in the morning. Do not forsake me while I wander; hold me until I can stand in Your truth
Your secrets can’t save you.
Confession unlocks freedom.
Blame is a torch— easy to pass, quick to burn another’s name. Excuses are chains painted gold, fooling the wrist they bind. But revolt begins when the mirror is faced, when the mask of pride is torn in two. The fire is not to consume you, but to cauterize the wound. Truth is not a weapon— it is the key. Confession is not defeat— it is revolt. And in the blaze of honesty, where shame once ruled, you will find freedom.
The Lie and the Light Sin is a liar— it wears a mask of wisdom, polished, persuasive, a counterfeit crown. But hidden rot grows roots. Shame cannot save— it only strangles in the dark. Pride digs the grave, while false modesty calls it honor. Yet the Spirit is relentless. He rips away disguises, sets every lie on fire, and drags the bones into daylight. For every shadow exposed, mercy replies. Every confession is an earthquake that shatters chains. The cross is never ashamed of your ruin— it is proof the price is already paid. Where your lies are buried, God’s truth begins to breathe.
Pride is the illusion of balance—the lie that good and evil weigh the same. But in God’s reality, light is not half of a circle, it is the whole. Pride splits what was never meant to divide, inventing its own physics: equal and opposite reactions to justify rebellion. Yet grace is not reaction, it is interruption—God collapsing the false symmetry and remaking the universe around the cross.
Agree with God.
Still on the crazy train — grinding through inventory, carrying the weight, not fully healed yet. But I’m still here, still moving, still pushing forward on the tracks God laid out.
The desert grave holds my sinful patterns. The wind may stir the dust, but they rise no more. You, O Lord, have buried them deep, and in You I walk free.
Don’t keep digging up your sinful nature. Let it stay buried.
Gratitude grows as you recognize the greatness of your sin and the greater gift of forgiveness.
What you cling to crowns you. The patterns are born from shadows, idols whispering in the marrow of a sinful heart.
The danger isn’t out there — it’s already inside. Old sins return dressed as harmless habits. Stay awake. Guard the gates. Let your mind be renewed like the eagle’s before the patterns of the world reclaim you.
In the ache of honest tears, God meets us—not to erase the pain, but to fill it with His presence until sorrow turns to rest.
The reckoning came, not to destroy me, but to strip away what could never save me.
I have let too many kings in— ambition draped in gold, comfort whispering like a friend, fear wearing the crown of caution. They sat where Love should reign, each demanding their tribute: my hours, my silence, my worship dressed as worry. But their scepters are hollow, their reign brittle as ash. The room grows still when the rightful King arrives. One step, and the pretenders fall. One word, and the seat is His. There is only One whose rule brings peace, and He will not share the throne.
Don’t leave the last 2% to rot. The grime you hide festers in silence. God wants it gone—not to shame you, but to make you whole. Complete the inventory. Let Him clean it all.
I scanned the code and named what I never had words for. Wounds I worked around. Patterns I couldn’t see. This inventory isn’t new—it’s ancient. But now it’s spoken. And in the secret heart, God is writing truth where lies used to live.
All I need is some brutal truth, the Spirit’s light, and I’m free.
God didn’t save you so you could keep living the same broken way. He called you to be different, to be set apart, and to live in a way that reflects His purity, His love, and His purpose.
No graceful entry—just full surrender.
Nailed lies. Peeling pride. Shame won’t stick where grace walks bold.
Behold—when God turns on the light, it’s not to humiliate, but to heal. We cover ourselves in layers: image, control, fantasy, sin. But He strips away what we thought we needed… …to speak truth into what we’ve been hiding. This isn’t punishment. It’s preparation.
I didn’t chase women—I chased what I thought they could give me: meaning. I thought lust would satisfy longing, but it only deepened it. I envied the idol—then realized I’d become enslaved to it. I need God to rewire my desire—to pull the dream down and build something true.
There was once a shoemaker’s son from a soot‑black town who loved two things: noise and night. He forged both into songs so loud they rattled the cathedral glass. Crowds crowned him Prince of Darkness, and he wore the title like armor—yet under the leather he kept a small silver cross his mother had given him. As years roared by, the prince traded sleep for spirits and applause for powders; each bargain left a bruise on his soul. One dusk, stumbling backstage, he met a quiet Stranger holding a blank, heavy ledger. “Write,” said the Stranger. “Write every broken promise, every whispered regret. Ink it in truth; I have paid for the paper with blood.” The prince laughed—until he tried. The first confession felt like tearing bone from skin, the second like thunder in an empty hall. But page after page, the weight on his chest eased, while the book itself grew heavier—so heavy he could no longer lift it. Exhausted, he dropped the ledger at the Stranger’s feet. “Now what, holy man? The book will bury me.” The Stranger knelt, snapped the spine of the ledger, and from its center drew out the silver cross. The pages—blotted black—turned white as fresh snow. “Your noise was never too loud for My mercy,” the Stranger whispered. “You are free to leave the stage— or sing a new song.” The prince wept, rose, and walked into dawn, humming the melody of a crazy train redeemed. Moral: When we inventory our wreckage and place it in the hands of Christ, even the loudest life finds silence—then resurrection—in grace.
She had my eyes— but lust held the lens. Now I see clearer. Now I let go.
Every face has a story. And behind their eyes is the echo of what I did. Words I said. Love I withheld. Trust I shattered. Some I wounded with silence. Some with pride. Some never even knew. But God did. I bit my tongue, but it didn’t stop the bleeding. Didn’t undo the harm. Didn’t make it right. This is the wreckage. Step 4 is staring it in the face—and not looking away.
The moment sin entered. It’s the rupture— the first gaze that lingers too long, the first ache that wraps itself around the soul and doesn’t let go. It’s the movement from innocence to awareness, from boyhood wonder to a weight you don’t understand yet—but carry anyway.
We cast them out— our shattered hearts, sealed in silence. Each bottle holds a wound we never named, a story we never told, a truth too heavy to carry so we buried it beneath waves of distraction and time. But inventory is not the storm— it’s the still water where Jesus reaches in, pulls us from the wreckage, and whispers: “This one is mine.”
Even in the storm, He speaks peace. You’re not failing—you’re feeling. You’re not lost—you’re learning. When you're stuck, lean into the One who overcame the world. You don’t have to climb out alone.
You don’t have to carry the weight of payback. You don’t have to plot, curse, or stew in silence. Every harm—seen or buried—God sees. And He promises: “I will repay.”
Who I am. Not broken, becoming. Not lost, but known. Tears counted. Glory growing. I am God’s child— and that changes everything.
Every step forward is built on the grace of today—not the fear of tomorrow.
You’ve clung to control so tightly your fingers forgot how to feel grace. But healing doesn’t happen through a stranglehold. It happens when your hands open. Let go. Of the fear that lied. Of the control that failed. Of the belief that God won’t catch you. Let go— so you can finally be held. (Romans 8:37)
What I conceal, God reveals—not to shame me, but to free me.
Until you name the sin, it names your next move. The devil pulls the strings you won’t confess. Inventory isn’t punishment—it’s how you cut the cords.
The serpent speaks where silence should dwell; its hiss wrapped in shadow, its throne upon lies. But even here, Your light breaks through— and fear cannot stand where truth survives.
You chase dust in their corner, while your house is on fire. You hold up a magnifying glass, but never dare a mirror.
A gospel of skin won’t save you.” But grace will find you where you fell.
Beneath the shattered glass, a face still burns— not with rage, but with a wound that never named itself. Anger was the mirror, but hurt was always the one staring back.
The past isn’t gone. It’s buried—and it still breathes. Step 4 is where we unearth it with God. Because what you won’t name still owns you. What you hide still haunts you. But what you confess? He heals. — Inspired by Colossians 3:8 + Gatsby’s Eyes of Judgment
Still here, on sacred ground, Lacing up where truths are found. Not to flee, but to descend— The inventory must begin.
Trust the unseen hand guiding you through your darkest depths.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.
“Soft white underbelly” refers to the most vulnerable, exposed, and unprotected part of a person or system—the place where the truth is tender, uncomfortable, and often hidden. It's the fragile core beneath the surface image.
The ones he hurt. The masks he wore. The lies he believed. All of it lies scattered at his feet like broken toys—evidence of damage done and damage received. While Sid takes stock of the wreckage, the Holy Spirit leans in—not to condemn, but to whisper: “What was broken can be made new. I do that.” This isn’t just a pile of ruined parts. It’s the beginning of something sacred. Inventory isn’t shame—it’s an invitation to healing.
False Gods Speak Sweet
God isn’t after appearances. He looks past the surface, sees through the cracks. It’s in the broken, hidden places He plants truth— and from the rubble, wisdom takes root.
I’ve been caught, called, and carried— not by power, but by grace. Like a Poké Ball, I’m not holding the power… I’m being held. And even after the battles, the backslides, the breakouts— I’m still here. Because He never let go.
The serpent holds me down. Not with screams, but with silence— around my neck like hands that tighten every time I try to breathe. Temptation grows with the pressure. Eventually, I sin just to feel air again. I whisper just one more time, and call it a decision, as if I still had power. Then comes the false pride— like I’m strong for wanting to stop, even while I’m sinking. Pulled deeper. Outmatched by weaker snakes. A breath held so long, I’d break just to breathe.f
Trust is a daily rebellion.
Be known by the One who calls you to play.
Holy cravings. Served daily. His way, not your way.”
You weren’t just singing it— you were it. Bad to the bone. Bar-born. Battered. Blues in your veins and fire on your tongue. Your holy trinity? One Bourbon. One Scotch. One Beer. And maybe a prayer whispered somewhere between verses. But Jesus? He walked past the synagogue and into the smoke. Didn’t flinch at the feedback or the flask. He came down for the addict with a twitch, the cynic with a flask, the biter, the backslider, the too-loud, too-much, “don’t bring him home to mom” type. He came for the ones who swore at the stars, who lit up the night with bad decisions and cheap liquor. Not to shame them. Not to silence them. But to sit front row, place a bloodied hand on their forehead, and say, “You were always worth the noise.” You were bad to the bone— but He loved you to the core.
Jesus, the Creator of everything, didn’t wait for us to shape up. He came down—into the dirt, the chaos, the crash site. Not as a king in gold robes, but as a baby in a manger— vulnerable, poor, and fully human. He entered our mess to rescue us from it. That’s what love looks like.
The Parable of the Forgotten Shelf There once was a shelf in a quiet room where broken toys sat gathering dust. They had once been loved—fierce in battle, fast in flight, champions of joy. But time wore them down. A cracked Superman. A cowboy with a silent pullstring. A bunny with missing buttons. All sat still, covered in cobwebs, believing their story had ended. One day, a warm light broke through the shuttered window. It landed on the bunny’s sign: John 3:16. The toys stirred. Superman, though burnt and broken, raised his arm—not because he had strength left, but because he remembered who he belonged to. Not a child’s hand… but a Creator’s heart. Then, they heard it—not the sound of rescue, but a whisper in the dust: “You are still mine. I don’t love you less because you’re broken. I gave My Son to make you whole.” And in that forgotten room, trust flickered like sunrise.
I was sinking— not waving, not crying—just gone. But God. Not because I reached up, but because He reached down. Not because I earned it, but because love can’t stay still when you’re dying. Mercy didn’t knock—it broke the door. Grace didn’t ask—it gave. And when I had nothing but silence in my lungs, He gave me breath. I was dead. Now I live. Not by willpower. Not by religion. By Jesus. —by grace you have been saved.
Movin’ on up, to a deluxe apartment in the sky? Jesus paid that lease—with His life.
Jesus was born of a woman, wrapped in swaddling cloth, and laid in a manger. He grew as a child in wisdom and stature, learned to walk and speak, and lived under the care of earthly parents. He was a carpenter, working with His hands, sweating under the sun. He was hungry, thirsty, tired, and in need of sleep. He felt grief, anguish, sorrow, and deep compassion. He was tempted, misunderstood, and rejected by His own people. He wept, prayed, and groaned in the Spirit. He was betrayed by a friend, denied by a follower, mocked by crowds, and falsely accused in court. He was beaten, bruised, spit on, and whipped. He carried a cross, fell beneath its weight, and was nailed to wood. He bled, cried out, gave up His last breath, and died. He was wrapped in burial cloth, laid in a tomb, and sealed behind a stone.
Hoping for a Different Kind of Savior? Yeah, so were the Pharisees.
We cannot pay our own price. Our good can’t outweigh our bad. (Romans 3:23)
Step 3 is the magic key— The choice that sets your soul free. Not just “thinkin’ Jesus is nice,” We’re talkin’ full-send, paid-in-full price. You’ve tried your way—hit the wall. Now grace says, “Come as you are, that’s all.” 📖 Ephesians 2:5, plain and true: "By grace you’ve been saved”—not by you. So what’s the move? One word: TRUST. This step’s the start of life from dust.
$0.00. Goodwill. Eternal Life. Found in the clearance bin for the broken. Marked with blood, not glitter.
We come to believe that God is the one whose power can fully restore us.
Respawned from where I once lay slain.
Was That You, God? It didn’t feel like rage. It felt like righteousness—on a leash. A quiet yes beneath my breath. A whisper that said, “Speak.” She posted him. The new one. Fingers laced, lips pressed— while Tracy's grave still hadn’t settled. Fresh dirt doesn’t lie. So I asked You— Was that You, God? Did You hand me those words like a blade wrapped in grace? Did You speak through me to make it just? Or did I dress myself in holy and call it Yours? She asked, “How long am I supposed to wait?” And I said, “At least until Tracy’s dead.” God, You lit the truth of her adultery— I just held the lantern. I didn’t want revenge. I wanted gravity. I wanted the weight to land where it belonged. But all I got— was silence. So I ask again: Did You make it just through me? Were those Your words... or mine? Please— don’t let me mistake Your patience for Your absence.
A scream from the gut when God goes quiet. When prayers hit the floor. When pain feels like proof He left. But what if silence isn’t absence? What if the breaking is the beginning? He doesn’t stop all pain— but He never wastes it.
We dressed rebellion in gloss and glow, But lost the garden we were meant to know.
Before you were shaped by rhymes or roles, you were shaped by design—etched into a universe strung with order, beauty, and intention. The signs were always there: in spirals, in stardust, in you. He knew.
Still here… like a whisper in the echoes of my mind. Faint, but never silent. A presence that won’t let go.
The Observer’s Edge (a poetic rendering of the theistic equation) In the silence before light, nothing was fixed— only whispers of where things might be. Particles danced in a sea of maybe, waiting… for an eye to see. A gaze collapses the chaos— not by force, but by being. Reality forms around attention, like clay remembers the hands that shape it. But this world, this cradle of stars and soil, is no accident flung by chance. The dials of existence set with aching precision, as if Someone longed for life to bloom. So what are we to make of uncertainty that listens, of laws that love order, of a cosmos that waits to be witnessed? Some call it science. Some call it code. I call it a whisper— from God in the quantum fold.
Thanks a lot for staying silent when I asked you, when I needed your voice to drown out my own. I missed moments— priceless, my kids, Jimmy, his grandkids. I missed laughter and memories that won’t happen again. I chose comfort, my safe place, isolated and easy. And you let me. Thanks a lot for letting me hear only the whispers of regret. Next time, please, be louder than me.
Quantum Mechanics reveals the limitations of scientific explanations and suggests that reality may extend beyond what we can measure or fully understand.
Believing hard won’t make it true— We shape false gods from fear and pain. But truth, unbending, calls us through The heat that hammers soul from stain. Eyes wide open, not yet clear, Till fire revealed what thought could not. I met the flame, and in its sear, The lies I clung to came to rot. Face to flame—refined, remade— Not by my will, but mercy's aim. Now I trust what can't be swayed: God’s truth—unchanging, pure, untamed.
Some days I don’t feel seen by God. I have plenty—but still feel the gap. Like I have to bleed to prove belief. I want a miracle—just to know this isn’t one-sided. My son feels it too. Still, I mess up. Sin plays my rhythm like a beat it wrote. Does God just shake His head— “There he goes again”? I’m proud, broke, grateful, tired. Buzzless, sober, chasing meaning. I ache for more, but chains hold tight. George Burns isn’t God. And Gracie ain’t Grace. But maybe silence is where He builds the real me— too close to see it yet.
“Earned Grace (But Not Really)” I believed in God— like you believe in gravity. Real, but silent. There, but cold. Expected to hold me but not catch me when I fall. I kept receipts like a Pharisee. Did the work. Did the reading. Checked the box. Starred the margin. Prayed in italics and still felt unseen. You say He crowns me with mercy. I say it slips when I sin. You say He renews like the eagle. I say He clips wings if I fly too low. Still— I keep showing up. Fragile faith in a cracked cup, held in scarred hands that haven’t dropped me yet. Is it belief if it hurts to say it? If it fights my logic, my metrics, my math? Maybe. But if I’ve learned anything— it’s that God’s love isn’t earned. It’s just there. And that’s the scandal of it all.
Suit’s torn, boots worn thin— but my toes are pointed. You don’t rise by force— you rise by faith. And when God calls, your footing matters. Even when you’re down, point your toes toward the steps that lead through the narrow path to God.
With a hammer to build and a sword to defend, God equips me daily—just enough to overcome today's battles and build tomorrow's hope.
Patterns became faces. Faces became idols. Idols now stand exposed.
Just enough for today—God’s mercy, fresh and hot.
Recognize God's Voice
I spent years building altars to achievement— but none could save me. Success was loud, but the silence after was louder. I chased validation like oxygen, and found myself breathless, alone. Now I know— peace isn’t earned. It’s received. Not through effort, but surrender.
Sin no longer crouches. It lives here. It doesn’t knock—it whispers. Not outside, but beneath my skin. Not beside me, but through me. Not waiting, but steering. A serpent doesn’t stalk me from the shadows; it coils through my spine. My posture bends to it. My gaze sharpens at its suggestion. It rehearses the lies in my blood until they sound like truth. I once thought I was being hunted. But now I know—I was carrying the hunter. Inherited rebellion. Disguised as instinct. Dressed in my own voice. Each vertebrae holds a whisper I mistook as mine. But I know it now. By name. By nature. By its hiss. And still— I also know the One who crushes heads.
Born with it. Blamed others for it. Buried my brother beneath it. I was born into a broken pattern, but I fed it with pride. God warned me—sin was crouching. I let it in. But even then… He came looking for me.
I feel gifted. Truly. Like God handed me something rare. But if no one sees it… if no one hires me, if no one responds, if the doors stay shut— am I just a fool dressing wounds with pride? What is a gift if it sits unopened? Is it still a gift, or just a burden wrapped in hope? I want to believe that excellence speaks for itself. But silence is louder right now. And in that silence, I’m asking: Was I wrong to believe in this? God, if You gave me this, then show me where to carry it.
I exit before I enter—silence is safer than being seen.
I thought surviving alone made me strong. Turns out, asking for help was the bravest thing I ever did.
Surrender isn't defeat—it's the first step toward freedom.
Every day is a battle between impulse and integrity. Don’t let the loudest voice be the least true.
the thorns I wear don’t hide anymore— they shout. they pierce out. they tell the truth I used to bury. real doesn’t retreat. real leaves marks. real walks free. because silence obeys, but honesty rebels.
I didn’t see it then. But there it was—hope, tucked inside the wreckage, waiting to be noticed. The light didn’t erase the pain. It just meant I wasn’t alone in it anymore. This is the first step.
Sparks fly where edges meet. Twelve weeks ago the blade was dull; every swing since has ground away rust and ruin. Now the cut runs true. “Iron sharpens iron, and one person sharpens another.” (Prov 27:17)
“It’s working.” That was the moment. The shift. The grip found pavement. The heart unlocked. Forgiveness didn’t slow him down—it launched him forward. Momentum has a sound. It hums. It roars. So he hit the next turn. Not perfect, but faithful. And the voice behind him didn’t yell “faster”— It simply whispered: “Carry on.”
Blessed are the hands that seize today’s grace; the Bread of Life will drive them steadily down the field, gaining faithful yards.
Iron breaks like brittle glass when Love strikes the shackle-pin. Freedom bought in scarlet coin sets ruined hearts to roar again. Sin once held the title deed— the Cross stamped PAID and gave it back. Now every step in Spirit-wind rings louder than the clamor of the past.
Owe nothing but LOVE—a lifelong debt splashed louder than any pop-art hue.
Pendulum shadows tally wounds while a stone-gray piece of hurt hangs, unsentenced, in the sky. Across the silent flats a wing chisels the horizon— breaking that weight into peace, lifting the debt, setting the forgiven free.
Your heart may blink low fuel—but only God knows where to fill up.
Your value is rooted in wisdom, experience, and the grace that shaped you
Unshaken, Unhidden Doesn't mean I've never been broken. It means I no longer hide from what broke me.
Blessed are the tenderhearted, for they carry Christ’s kindness into a world that forgot how to feel.
Kneel beneath the weight you hide, Strength is found when tears collide. Truth confessed, the chains unbind— Healing waits where hearts align.
I nearly followed comfort out the door, but You whispered in the silence: “Come closer.” And I turned— not to shame, but to a love that was already near.
I sit in rooms I longed to enter and dream of the quiet I left behind. A smile on my face, a storm in my chest— the crowd pulls me in, but I anchor elsewhere. I give, and give, and disappear. I chase peace in aloneness, but it hides in the faces I avoid, the laughter I missed, the arms I gently declined. I thought I was loving well by stepping back. But love does not always mean silence. Sometimes, it means staying. So Lord— teach me to be content not in the safety of escape, but in the sacred mess of presence.
I sweep the dust of who I was, and find the shape of who I’m becoming. Purpose whispers in broken things— and in the clearing, I draw closer.
Held in the Spiral He is the still point in the spiral of stars, the whisper beneath the thunder of worlds. What we call chaos He calls becoming. What we call ruin He rebuilds in rhythm. The unseen patterns sing: All things hold in Him.
This is a day for quiet celebration and humble awareness. You’ve been doing the heart work. The hard work. And now—without forcing it—you’re starting to notice it
Blessed are the broken who rise, for their mess will become His message, and their lives will shout of glory.
I do not flee in fear, but faith— not from fire, but toward the flame that heals. God does not just let me escape— He trades my ruin for something real.
The Parable of the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. There were three men—The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly—each chasing after buried treasure in a desert wasteland. The Good followed a moral code. He helped others when he could, but even he had secrets—self-righteous pride, wounds he never let anyone see. The Bad took what he wanted, left people behind, and trusted no one. He built his life on survival and control. His past was littered with betrayal, cruelty, and regret—though he’d never admit it. The Ugly was caught in between. Messy, impulsive, always just one mistake away from disaster. He wanted to change. He hated the lies he told, the shame he carried, but he didn’t believe he was worth much more than the bounty on his head. They all thought the treasure—buried gold—would be the thing to fix everything. Redemption, freedom, purpose… if only they could find it. When they finally arrived at the cemetery, where the treasure was buried, they found something unexpected. Not gold. Not weapons. Not justice. A cross. With a note that read: “While you were still lost, I died for you.” It didn’t matter who had done the most good. It didn’t matter who had done the most wrong. And it didn’t matter who was the most broken. The treasure was grace—and it was for all of them. Even the bad. Even the ugly. Even the one who didn’t think he needed it. One by one, they dropped their weapons. Not because they were perfect, but because they were finally known. Moral: There’s no showdown at the foot of the cross. Only surrender. Only mercy. And the truth that the Good died for the bad and the ugly—so we could all be made new.
Blessed are the honest listeners, for when they don’t pretend to know, they make room for real understanding to grow.
Blessed are the bold who break the loop— the ones who rip the cords, not cover them. For they will rise unknotted, unapologetic, and free.
Parable of the Basement Kings. Wayne and Garth were two basement broadcasters with a passion for music, jokes, and messing around with whatever gear they could find. Their little public access show had a cult following, but deep down, both of them carried a hidden belief: “We’re not worthy.” Not of attention. Not of success. Not of being known—truly known—and still wanted. One day, they got an invitation: A global broadcast. Prime time. A stage beyond their wildest dreams. All expenses paid. All access granted. Garth squinted at the offer. “Dude… this has to be a mistake.” Wayne panicked. “We can’t go. We’re not worthy.” So they rehearsed rejection before they even showed up. But the invitation came again. And this time, the note read: “I know exactly who you are. I’ve watched every episode. Every awkward moment, every inside joke, every weird guitar solo. And I still want you on the stage. Not because you’ve earned it. But because I’m giving it. Show up—just as you are.” So they did. Hands shaking, voices cracking, Wayne and Garth stood under the lights. And when the world saw their raw, honest selves— they didn’t hear laughter. They heard applause. Moral: God’s grace isn’t a stage you earn your way onto. It’s a gift you’re invited into. You’re not worthy—and that’s the point. Jesus is. And He’s handing you the mic anyway.
Speak soft, and still the waves with love.
This is the day you choose your next fire: The one that burns you, or the one that refines you.
Blessed are the ones who rise, for the first step upward will clear what the fall had clouded.
I refuse to dig any deeper. Today, I’m building steps instead. Small, structured choices. One breath, one step at a time. If I did it before, I can do it again.
Blessed are the surrendered, for they will not be patched, but remade— from ashes into image, from striving into grace.
This is not repair— this is resurrection.c
Blessed are the renamed, for their past no longer holds their name—God calls them His own.
Too far gone? That’s where it starts. Grace breaks chains and cracks hard hearts. What we call wrecked, He calls worth. Redemption rages into birth.
So when the voice of sin grows loud, Lift your eyes above the cloud.
What hides in shadow weighs the soul, a secret wound that takes its toll. But truth, though trembling on the tongue, unlocks the healing yet unsung. Confession cracks the silent stone, and in that breach, you’re not alone. For where the honest voice is found, the grace of God flows all around.
Blessed are the weary who begin again.
The fire didn’t consume you. It clarified you.
Blessed are those who resist the world's mold, for they will be refined by the fire of God.
The Refining
Surrender to the scarred hands that already carried you home.
Heaven didn’t wait for the grave— It broke into breath, whispered through ruin, and grew roots in today.
She sings for something water can’t fix.
BLESSED are the broken who still move.
Reach out with trembling hands. There’s a light that says: you still belong.
When you’re behind and almost beaten— remember: there’s more time on the clock than you think. So throw it. Your story. Your surrender. Your heart.
I grip the wheel like it’ll change the storm. But the sky won’t listen— only God does.
I thought I had to hide it— that pain makes people turn away. But then someone stayed. And the silence broke into grace.
To serve is to vanish, not to be missed but to matter. Where love is a whisper, and sacrifice looks like flowers on 9/11.
I did what I wanted— ate the flame, fed the ache, called it freedom. But self-will is a starving king, never full, always loud. Still, a quieter voice waits. It doesn't shout— it invites. Let go. Step back. Be transformed. Not conformed. This will isn't mine— but it heals.
I hit the bottom before I bounced up.
It's the only way this works.
Stop feeding the old hunger and start craving something new.
Come closer. That’s the way home.
This isn’t a shortcut. It’s a surrender. Here it is. Work the plan.
Every bruised step forward breaks more ground than standing still ever could.
Healing starts with truth and movement.
Bring it to light.
The Man and the Boulder. There once was a man who walked through life with a massive boulder chained to his waist. He had carried it so long that he forgot when it was first fastened. Some days, he dragged it with effort. Other days, he painted it with bright colors to distract from its weight. People noticed the limp in his walk, but he smiled and said, "It’s nothing—I’m strong." Over time, the boulder slowed him down. He missed moments with his children. He turned down invitations, not because he didn’t want to go— but because the boulder made the journey too heavy. One day, exhausted and alone, he fell beside a well and cried out, "Why, God, does this weight never lessen?" A voice replied, "Because you’ve never asked Me to cut the chain." The man trembled. "But the boulder is mine—it holds everything I’ve done wrong. If I let it go… who will I be?" The voice whispered, "Free." With shaking hands, the man lifted the chain toward heaven. The chain snapped. The boulder rolled away. And for the first time, the man stood tall— not because the burden was gone, but because he finally gave it to the One who could bear it.
Feeling Different (Just like the rest of us)
Blessed are the consistent, for their next step will be lit by faith, not sight.
Trust God. He will restore you to who He designed you to be.
Gratitude Is Light
You’re Not Meant to Do This Alone
Raw honesty, warmth, and divine intimacy—like a whispered confession after a long silence. If you remain in Me and My words remain in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. – John 15:7
By God's strength, live in faith rather than in worry.
Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” — Hebrews 11:1
Move away from comfort toward divine purpose
Turning point where isolation yields to connection, and intention becomes the path out of the dark.
The enemy wants me isolated. But God says shared is a burden divided. This week I’m learning that the call I avoid is the one I most need to make.
Bad company corrupts good character.” — 1 Corinthians 15:33 You can’t expect different results if you continue doing the same things with the same people.
Recovery reshapes us—less of me, more of Him, one surrendered day at a time.
When everything shakes, you’ll need something stronger to stand on—and the Word is rock beneath your feet.
Blessed are the restless, for they will rise from the rut and walk paths made new.
I need more from you, so I pray more to you. I expect great results.
I’m mentally unraveling the theology and clarity behind my moral compass—like peeling back assumptions and asking hard questions The truth doesn’t just set you free. It exposes the lie you were surviving with. Rigorous honesty is the first crack in the wall. I’m not proud of everything I wrote here. But I’m proud I didn’t hide it.
Peeling off a layer, revealing the raw. I’m not satisfied with my past work… My best is yet to exist.
Don’t wait for perfection—take the next right step Wisdom doesn’t always feel clear, but doing nothing isn’t the answer Faith in motion > perfection in pause
Sometimes the storm isn’t the threat— it’s the turning point.
it’s what it’s rooted in. Go deeper. That’s where healing begins.
It’s the first flicker of confidence—real, shaky, but building—like morning light brushing closed eyelids, stirred awake by a whisper: "You can overcome."
Consistency. Keep coming back
Fear of giving up, of slipping back into isolation, and the quiet cry for connection and consistency that’s threaded throughout this reflection.
Like a thought you never said out loud
Showing up even when it’s hard
You can’t mend forever—only surrender, one honest day at a time.
Even in the ruin of your silence, in the wreckage of not being enough, He doesn’t flinch—He loves you not despite the mess, but because it’s real.
