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I stand at the window of this moment in history, gazing out upon a world that feels both familiar and unrecognizable. Chaos and spectacle move side by side—ruins and radiance, fear and fascination, destruction wrapped in dazzling distraction. Voices rise from every direction, promising safety, certainty, salvation. Yet beneath the noise, beneath the headlines and rehearsed assurances, something deeper trembles. Scripture tells us that creation itself groans, laboring and waiting for the manifestation of the sons of God (Romans 8:19–22). It is true. The earth is not merely reacting to events—it is crying out.

Lately, I’ve been paying attention—not just to the news, but to the feeling underneath it all. The tone. The repetition. The uneasiness that lingers even when

There are moments when the world feels unbearably loud with injustice. When violence is normal, corruption is rewarded, truth is twisted, and those who are trying to live righteously feel worn down by it all. In those moments, heaven can feel painfully quiet. We pray. We wait. We wonder. And sometimes, like the prophet Habakkuk, we ask the question we are almost afraid to say out loud:

Where are You, God?

Habakkuk lived in a time that feels eerily familiar. He looked around and saw violence in the streets, injustice in the courts, corruption in leadership, and the righteous being pushed aside while the wicked prospered. The law had lost its power. Justice was

Reflections from Habakkuk 1

There are moments when the world feels unbearably heavy — when suffering seems louder than hope, injustice feels stronger than truth, and God’s silence feels more painful than our unanswered prayers. In those moments, our hearts do not form neat theological statements; they form questions. Honest ones. Urgent ones. Why, Lord? How long? Where are You in all of this?

It is in those moments that we discover something sacred: we feel safe asking hard questions when we trust the relationship. Children who are secure in their parents’ love are not afraid to ask “why” when something doesn’t make

Trusting God’s Sovereignty Instead of Writing Our Own Story

It is that time of year again.

The end of the year is when people naturally pause to reflect on the past and look ahead to the future. We evaluate what we accomplished, what we didn’t, and what we hope to do differently next time. We plan. We reset. We dream again.

But for those of us who follow Christ — or as some prefer to say, are disciples of Christ — reflection goes deeper than goals and resolutions. It becomes a spiritual posture.

Some no longer like the word “Christian” because, sadly, in America, the label does