Quiet Moments of Faithfulness

We’re living in a world that feels increasingly unsettled.

Wars rage. Natural disasters devastate. Economies wobble. And beneath it all, people are losing hope — trying to hold together some sense of purpose in the chaos.

Even on a personal level, there’s a restlessness we can’t quite name. We scroll through endless reels on social media — people trying to be funny, wise, relatable, “real” — all in the search for likes, validation, connection. There’s this collective striving to be seen, to matter, to make a difference.

It’s not vanity, really. It’s something deeper: a yearning to contribute, to be useful, to leave a mark that outlives the noise.

And yet, in the search for something big, we often overlook the simple.

Not everything that matters goes viral. Some of the most powerful things we’ll ever do won’t be posted, recorded, or applauded. They’ll be quiet moments of faithfulness, acts of goodness offered not to the world, but to the person right in front of us.

I may have mentioned this in a previous article, but it’s worth repeating. If you missed it the first time, here it is again. Leo Tolstoy once told the story of a king who believed that if he always knew the right time to act, the right people to listen to, and the right thing to do, he would never fail. So, he sought the answers far and wide. But it wasn’t any of his wise men who showed him the truth. It was a humble hermit, a man worn by time but grounded in stillness, who led the king to discover that truth doesn’t always speak; sometimes, it reveals itself in silence, in service, in surrender.

The king learned not through words but through presence. He came to see that:

The right time is now because now is where eternity meets us. The present moment is sacred. It’s not just convenient; it’s consecrated.

The most important people are those you are with in this moment — not the influential or impressive, but the souls entrusted to your path right now. They are not random. They are divine appointments.

And the most important thing to do is to do good, not because it earns favour, but because it reflects the nature of God Himself. Goodness is the imprint of heaven on earth.

This is not just moral advice; it is a spiritual calling.

We live under the illusion that we’ll have more time, that tomorrow will offer a better moment to show love, to offer help, to extend grace. But delay can become disobedience. Procrastinated compassion often becomes missed purpose.

God doesn’t ask us to change the whole world in one sweeping act. He simply asks us to be faithful in the moment, to be present, attentive, and willing. Goodness is not measured by scale but by sincerity.

We were never meant to live in theory or intention. The Spirit moves in real time. And the fruit of that Spirit — love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness — is meant to be lived now, not later.

So pause. Look around. The people around you aren’t just background noise. They are your mission field, your ministry, your mirror. There’s no need to impose yourself or your kindness. But if an opportunity presents itself, be fully present.

Do good. Do it now. And do it to those with you now.

Not because it’s easy. But because it’s holy.

The Messenger Painting - by Kathy Linden

A Shift in Interest

I’m an empath, and over the years I’ve noticed how easily attention sharpens when something truly interests a person. Details then become clearer, the mind is more alert, and energy is more focused. Why? It’s simply because we are governed by our interests.

We tend to see, understand, and respond to the world around us when it’s directly tied to what we care about. When we’re passionate about a subject or invested in a goal, we notice things others miss. We become more capable, more aware, more alive.

But what happens when our interests are misaligned? Here lies the problem. 

One example is our interest in other people. When we become far too interested in the downfall of others—their failures, their flaws, their drama—we are attracted to everything negative. We spend more time on news feeds that are flooded with scandal and controversy. Conversations veer toward criticism rather than celebration. And all the while, the world quietly falls apart—not because we’re blind, but because we’re looking the wrong way.

Another example is sport. Think of a passionate sports fan. They know the history of their team, every player’s stats, the game schedule, even the nuances of the referee’s calls. Their interest sharpens their senses—they notice subtle plays, strategy shifts, body language. It’s not because they’re more intelligent than anyone else—it’s because they care. Their focus is fueled by passion, and as a result, their awareness and insight deepen.

Now compare that with someone watching a game they don’t care about. They miss the details, the tension, the artistry. The same event unfolds before both people, but only one is truly awake to it. That’s the power of interest.

But even in sport, misaligned interest shows up. Fans can become fixated on an athlete’s mistakes rather than their effort. A missed goal, a bad pass, a defeat—and suddenly the tide turns. Harsh words fly, online abuse spikes, and judgment replaces admiration. Talent is overshadowed by one bad moment.

What would happen if we became more interested in people’s progress than their mistakes? More invested in solutions than in problems? What if we paid attention to the quiet acts of courage, the slow climb of someone rebuilding their life, the small but significant steps of someone chasing a dream?

Interest is power. It directs our energy, our attention, and ultimately, our actions. When our interest shifts from destruction to development, from judgment to encouragement, we start to rebuild not just others—but ourselves.

So here’s a challenge for all of us:Take stock of your interests. What are you drawn to? What captures your attention? Are you feeding your mind with negativity, or are you tuning in to things that elevate, inspire, and push you forward?

Because the truth is, the world becomes what we choose to focus on. And if we want to live in a better one, we need to care about better things.

Stay focused. Stay inspired. Choose interest that builds, not breaks.

Casting Stones

In my previous post, I wrote about the refining fire — a mysterious and holy process. While it strips us, shapes us, and ultimately transforms us, in our pain, in our surrender, we come to know God more intimately. We discover that we are not as strong as we thought, not as self-sufficient, not as in control. We are, in truth, deeply dependent on grace.

And yet… even in this place of personal refinement — or perhaps because of it — we sometimes fall into a strange posture: judgment.

We start noticing other people’s faults more easily. Their choices. Their flaws. Their failures. We start measuring them against standards we ourselves are struggling to meet. We watch them fumble and fall, and before we even realize it, we’ve picked up a stone — perhaps not in our hands, but in our thoughts, our words, our tone, our assumptions.

John 8:7 (NIV) “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone...”

Judgment isn’t ours to carry. None of us are sinless. None of us are done being refined.

Yet, while sitting in the fire of our own transformation, we still believe we have the right to judge someone else’s?

Malachi 3:3 doesn’t say the fire is for some — it says God sits as a refiner and purifier of His people. All of them.

Each of us.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth: We don't always look refined while we're being refined. Sometimes we look raw, messy, unhinged, immature. Sometimes we’re stuck in patterns we don’t know how to break. Sometimes we fall back into old habits, or lash out from old wounds, or act in ways that make others question if we’ve grown at all.

But does God walk away?

No. He sits. Patient. Present. Watchful.

And if He — the only one truly worthy of judgment — chooses to stay and work gently with each of us, how much more should we offer that same grace to each other?

The person you’re tempted to criticize might be standing in their own fire right now. You may not see the heat, but it’s there. And God is sitting with them, just as He sits with you. Refining. Purifying. Waiting for His image to appear.

So maybe instead of casting stones, we can extend compassion. Speak gently. Pray quietly. Trust that their process — no matter how messy — matters to God, too.

Because the fire is not a place for comparison. It’s a place for surrender. And none of us comes out of it shining because we were better than others. We shine because God stayed with us long enough to bring His reflection to the surface.

So if you're in the fire today, let it humble you — not just for your own growth, but so you can be a safe place for someone else in theirs.

Ask yourself today:

Am I offering the same grace I so deeply need?

Am I making space for others to be refined, or am I judging them while their fire still burns?

Lay the stone down. The fire is doing its work.

And none of us is finished yet.

When God sits by the Fire

Today, a dear friend shared something on social media with me. It’s a well-known sermon illustration tied to Malachi 3:3: “He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver…”

To better understand these words, a woman visits a silversmith to understand how silver is refined. The smith explains that the silver must be held in the center of the fire — right where it’s hottest — to burn away all impurities. He sits and watches the process closely, never leaving, because if the silver is left in the fire even a moment too long, it will be ruined.

When asked how he knows when the silver is fully refined, the silversmith replies: “When I can see my image in it.”

I sat with this for a while and then wondered… Does God allow us to go through suffering, pain, and loss to refine us — until His image is reflected in us?

Because if you’ve lived a little, you know life doesn’t leave us untouched. Over the years, we gather experience, opinions, patterns, pride. We learn how to survive, how to stand on our own two feet. We become self-reliant, efficient, even impressive. But in the process, we can also become distant — layered, defended, weighed down.

The world taints us. It influences our thinking, our values, our pace. It teaches us to strive, to perform, to compete, to prove ourselves. And slowly, we begin to draw away from what really matters. For many of us, our faith becomes a duty instead of a relationship, because we support the world’s systems without even realizing we’ve stopped seeking God’s ways.

Then life interrupts. A loss. A crisis. An illness. Something shatters, and suddenly, the scaffolding we built our lives on crumbles — and we’re left standing in the heat of it all, wondering: Is this the refining fire?

And maybe it is. Because when we go through hardship, something happens: We are often stripped of our pride, ego, and the illusions of self-sufficiency.

Our attachments to worldly things — status, wealth, reputation, even our well-worn beliefs — are exposed as fragile.

Our inner life comes to the surface: our faith, our fears, our identity, our capacity to love.

It’s with this stripping away that we can become more open to faith, love, compassion, humility, mercy, and dependence on God.

Romans 8:29 puts it plainly: "For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son..."

That’s the refining process. That’s what all the fire is for.

Not to destroy us, but to conform us to the image of Christ. Not suffering for suffering’s sake, but transformation through surrender. A becoming. A revealing. Until one day, when God looks at us, He sees something familiar. His reflection.

And that makes the fire, while still painful, not pointless.

So if today feels hot… if you feel pressed, stripped, broken, exposed… remember your Silversmith. He sits by the fire. He watches. He never leaves. Because you matter too much to be left unattended.

And He knows the moment your heart starts to reflect His own.

Find a quiet moment today and ask:

Is there something God may be refining in me — not to harm me, but to bring something deeper to the surface?

Let that question sit with you in the stillness.

 

Tolerate and be Tolerated

You’ve probably heard something like this before:

• “Don’t talk about so-and-so in front of me.”

• “I don’t want to hear anything that questions my beliefs.”

• “You can’t say that—it’s offensive.” 

We all have lines we don’t want crossed. That’s fair. Boundaries are important. But lately, it feels like personal preferences have become public commandments. Not just “please respect my space,” but “you’re a bad person if you don’t agree with my rules.” 

I can’t help but think: Is this what the Pharisees did? 

In religious texts, the Pharisees were the people who added layers and layers of rules, turning something meant to be freeing into something heavy and exhausting. They were more focused on keeping people in line than actually helping anyone. 

I’m not saying people today are quoting scripture at each other, but we do something similar. We throw rules into the room like grenades: 

• Don’t bring up that politician.

• Don’t question this narrative.

• Don’t say anything that makes me uncomfortable.

And when we do, we’re shunned. Cancelled. Labelled. Branded. 

What happened to live and let live?

Real tolerance isn’t agreeing with everyone. It’s not pretending we all think the same. It’s letting people be—even if they’re wrong, even if they push your buttons, even if they make you pause and think. 

We’re losing that. We’re replacing it with a culture where everyone has to tiptoe, where people talk in code, and where a single misstep means you’re done. 

We’ve gone from sharing space to shrinking it. From being honest to being afraid. 

The moment we start slapping labels on people—“ignorant,” “toxic,” “problematic”—we stop listening. We stop seeing people as people. We reduce them to a word and dismiss them. 

Some of us go even further: we tighten the noose. We hold people to an impossible standard. Say one wrong thing, and they’re hung out to dry. No conversation. No grace. Just judgment. 

It’s exhausting. It’s not kind. And it’s not working.

Let’s be honest. Some subjects make our skin crawl. We react. We get angry. Defensive. Hurt.

 

Why? Because it’s not just about the topic. It’s about what it touches in us.

 

1. It’s personal

Some things hit a nerve because they remind us of pain. Our past. Our upbringing. A wound we haven’t dealt with. When something feels personal, it’s easy to take it as an attack—even if it isn’t meant that way.

 

2. It challenges us

Sometimes we’re not as sure about our beliefs as we thought. A challenge feels like a threat. So we double down instead of admitting, “You’ve given me something to think about.”

 

3. It threatens our sense of identity

Beliefs have become identities. It’s not just what I believe—it’s who I am. So if you disagree with me, it feels like you’re rejecting me. That’s dangerous. It turns every disagreement into a battle.

 

4. It reminds us, we’re not in control

Some topics remind us we’re not in control. Injustice, grief, regret. It hits a place we don’t want to go.

 

These feelings are real. They’re human. They’re not shameful.

 

We can’t stop people from saying things we don’t like. But we can stop and ask ourselves: 

• What’s really going on inside me right now?

• Is this about what they said—or about something I haven’t dealt with?

• Can I be curious instead of just angry or hurt?

That kind of honesty isn’t easy. But it’s freeing. The more we understand what’s behind our reactions, the less we need to control everyone else just to feel okay.

 

 

 

Sway, Stretch, Adapt!

The oak fought the wind and was broken, the willow bent when it must and survived. ~ Robert Jordan

The hard truth about life is that it doesn’t care if you’re ready. It’ll huff, it’ll puff, and it’ll blow you down whether you’ve reinforced yourself with bricks of endurance or just slapped on some faith so that you don’t fall through the cracks. You can either stand like a stubborn old oak and snap under the pressure of every bad thing that happens, or you can bend like a palm tree and ride out the horribleness of it all.

I can’t talk for everyone, but I can look at my own reactions to hardship. I tend to make it harder on myself. I bulldoze over my own limits, ignore the flashing neon signs my body throws up, and then act surprised when I feel awful—physically. I know not every gut feeling is a wise old sage whispering secrets. Sometimes it’s just trauma or bad habits that die hard. But there’s still wisdom in listening to my body.

I’ve learnt that the whole “push through at all costs” mindset is a fast track to burnout. Yes, I break. Yes, I bend. But I’ve also learnt to extend. I’ve learnt to extend myself a little grace. I’ve learnt to extend my awareness past the need to just get through an upsetting experience and actually “experience” it head-on.

Life can’t be good all the time. If it were, we’d never grow. Instead of treating life like a battlefield where we’re either victorious or roadkill, maybe we should learn to move with it—sway, stretch, adapt. Because real strength is not just about standing tall. It’s knowing when to lean, when to flex, and when to throw our hands up, eat a chocolate, and try again tomorrow. 

Afterall… tomorrow is another day!  

Set the Bar Higher

When you set the bar too low—when you tell yourself that dreaming bigger is pointless—you’re basically rolling out the welcome mat for mediocrity. Maybe you think you’re being practical, avoiding disappointment, but let’s be honest: you’re selling yourself short. Worse, you might be relying only on your strength, measuring your potential by what you can do instead of what you can do with God. Going solo in life is like trying to assemble furniture without instructions. Frustrating.

Your mind is your only prison, and the only enemy is the part of you that refuses to be tamed—the doubt, the fear, the voice that tells you to play it safe. With faith as small as a mustard seed, you can move mountains. When you team up with God, doors open that you didn’t even know existed.

A good way to seize the day is to avoid settling. Instead of shrinking your goals to fit your fears, stretch beyond your comfort zone—way beyond—because that’s where real growth happens. That’s where faith is tested, courage is built, and transformation takes root. Set the bar higher than comfort and higher than reason. When faith gets involved, the impossible starts looking an awful lot like your next big challenge. And it’s not always about winning. It’s about learning how to live fully, in gratitude, while rising and staying above the muck and mire of the world.

The Good, the Bad, and the Grey In Between

I want to send a little apology to anyone who sees the world in black and white—because, let’s be honest, life is one giant grey area with a whole lot of messy in between. We all like to think we’re the good guys, the ones making the right choices, doing the best we can. But the truth is, without a little darkness, we wouldn’t appreciate the light. And without the light, we’d never see our own shadows creeping along behind us.

The biggest achievement in life is not perfection—it’s self-awareness. It’s about knowing who you are, quirks, flaws, bad hair days, and all. It’s about owning your mistakes, laughing at the ones that don’t sting too much, and learning from the ones that do. Sometimes, we’re the hero of the story, and other times, we’re the villain in someone else’s story. And that’s okay.

Life is like a game of darts. We aim for the target, the perfect bullseye, and half the time, we miss. Sometimes, we hit the wall instead. Because we’re imperfect, we’ll always fall short. In the end, what matters isn’t the miss, or the fall, or the failure; it’s the fact that we keep trying, adjusting, figuring things out as we go. Taking responsibility when we knock over the metaphorical beer on the counter, and celebrating the moments when we actually land a solid hit.

It’s not about having all the answers. It’s about being open, being real, and maybe, just maybe, having a little fun along the way.