Faithful Writers

When people talk about heaven, the image is often the same: clouds, harps, halos. Souls float upward into a spiritual retreat, far from the mess of this world. It’s soothing. Familiar. Almost cinematic. But it’s also wrong. This vision doesn’t come from Jesus. It comes from Plato. And if your hope is shaped by his worldview, not the Bible’s, you may be clinging to a future that God never promised — and ignoring the one he actually did. Plato’s Heaven Isn’t the Bible’s Plato believed the material world was a lower, shadowy realm — a corrupted version of some perfect, invisible reality. To him, the body was a prison and the soul’s goal was escape. This dualism seeped into early Christian thought, especially through thinkers like Origen, who borrowed Platonic ideas to explain Christian truths. Even Augustine, though he ultimately affirmed the resurrection of the body in City of God , wrestled with this tension in his early writings. The result? A long legacy of Christians talking about the afterlife as if salvation means floating away from the physical world forever. But that’s not what the Bible teaches. Resurrection Over Escape The Bible’s hope isn’t about escaping the earth. It’s about God renewing it. In Genesis, God calls the material world “very good.” In Isaiah, the prophet dreams of lions lying down with lambs and swords turning into ploughshares — not disembodied bliss, but a renewed world pulsing with peace and justice (Isaiah 11.) Jesus doesn’t pray for our souls to flee to heaven. He teaches his disciples to pray, “Your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven” (Matthew 6:10). And when Jesus rises from the dead, he’s not a ghost. He eats fish. He bears scars. He walks and talks, and breathes in a physical body. Paul calls it the “firstfruits” of what’s to come (1 Corinthians 15:20) — a glimpse of what God will one day do for all creation. Revelation doesn’t end with souls going up to heaven, but with heaven coming down to earth: “Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth… the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God…” (Revelation 21:1–2) The final picture isn’t an evacuation. It’s re-creation. What We Lose When We Get Heaven Wrong If you think heaven is a ghostly afterlife for disembodied souls, you’ll start treating this world like a disposable stage. You’ll live as though what we do here — how we work, love, build, and care — doesn’t really matter. But if you believe God plans to restore creation, then everything matters. Suddenly, your job isn’t just a paycheck. It’s a calling. Your body isn’t just a shell. It’s sacred. Your home, your community, your planet — they’re not background scenery. They’re part of the story God is redeeming. This is why the early Christians were so radical. They didn’t just preach escape. They lived renewal. They fed the poor, cared for the sick, and risked their lives for the dignity of others — because they believed God was making all things new. This Changes Everything The true Christian hope isn’t just about where you go when you die. It’s about what God is doing with the whole world — and how you can be part of it now. So next time you picture heaven, forget the clouds. Forget the harps. Picture dirt. Grass. Trees. Cities. People. Work. Joy. Love. Bodies made whole. Creation made right. Heaven isn’t the end of the story. It’s the beginning of a world resurrected. And that’s a far better hope than Plato ever dreamed. Let’s Talk: What picture of heaven did you grow up with? Has it shaped the way you live now — for better or worse? Drop a comment here and let’s dig into it. © Nathan Cole Originally published on Medium .

unsplash What if the most important thing about you isn’t what you believe — but what story you’re living in? That might sound strange, especially to Christians used to thinking in terms of doctrines or worldviews. But beneath all that, every person is shaped by a story. Whether we realise it or not, we’re constantly drawing from some narrative to understand who we are, why the world is broken, and what we’re supposed to do about it. We’re not just minds that need facts. We’re humans who need meaning. And meaning always comes wrapped in a story. The stories we live by You’ve probably heard the modern ones. The progress story: We’re evolving past all those old ideas. One day, technology will solve everything. The freedom story: Be true to yourself. Break all the rules. Chase your desires and cut off whoever gets in the way. The activist story: The world is broken. But if we work hard enough, if we get angry enough, we’ll fix it. The pleasure story: Nothing really matters, so just enjoy yourself. Travel. Drink good wine. Document it all in square tiles. These stories are popular because they promise a lot. But they don’t deliver. The progress story can’t explain why we still hurt each other. The freedom story often leaves us isolated and anxious. The activist story burns people out. And the pleasure story feels hollow once the novelty wears off. You can try to live in these stories — but they’ll leave you tired, disillusioned, or numb. Sometimes all three. What we need is a story big enough to make sense of our longings and our losses. A story that’s not just emotionally satisfying, but actually true. That’s exactly what the Bible offers. The true myth C.S. Lewis once called Christianity “the true myth.” Not because it’s make-believe, but because it has the shape of the stories that have always moved us. A world made good. A fall into ruin. A promised hero. A great rescue. A future restored. It’s the story behind all the stories we love — but this one actually happened. It doesn’t ignore sorrow. It takes it seriously. It doesn’t offer escapism. It offers redemption. It doesn’t flatter us. It tells us the truth — that we are more broken than we care to admit, and more loved than we dared to hope. The cross is the plot twist no one saw coming: the King dies for the rebels. And the resurrection? That’s not a comforting end to the story — it’s the beginning of something entirely new. Why it matters If you’re a Christian, this isn’t just a story you believe. It’s the story you’re part of. That means your life has a shape — even when it feels directionless. Your suffering has a place — even when it doesn’t make sense yet. Your daily choices matter — not because they impress God, but because they’re part of a real narrative that’s heading somewhere. A story with a beginning, a climax, and a promised ending. And if you’re a writer, this is where it gets exciting. Because the world is starving for stories that ring true. Not just logically consistent, but emotionally real. Stories that don’t just diagnose the world’s pain, but offer something more than cynicism or self-help. You don’t have to write theology or Bible studies to tell the story of the gospel. You can write poetry. Memoir. Personal essays. Novels. Visual art. Letters. Whatever your form, let the true myth shape the way you see — and show — the world. Let your characters wrestle with grace. Let your metaphors echo resurrection. Let your prose remind people that beauty matters — because creation matters. We live in a world drowning in content but starving for meaning. We don’t need louder voices. We need deeper ones. So what story are you living in? That’s the question I keep coming back to. Because everyone lives by some kind of story. And only one of them is true. The Bible isn’t just a collection of comforting verses or ancient rules. It’s a narrative that explains why the world is beautiful and broken, why we long for justice and home, why death feels wrong and hope feels right. It doesn’t just offer answers. It offers meaning. It doesn’t just tell us what to believe . It tells us who we are. And it doesn’t just give us something to stand on. It gives us a story to live in — and to live for. This is not just a story to believe. It’s the story you were made for. What story have you been living in — and how did you know it wasn’t enough? I’d love to hear your thoughts. © Nathan Cole Originally published on Medium .

Photo by Alexandr Voronsky on Unsplash We like to think of identity as something we build . As if we’re the authors of ourselves. But more often than not, identity is something we absorb . We pick it up without realising. From family scripts. From childhood labels. From culture’s loudest voices. From the failures we haven’t made peace with — and the successes we’ve grown addicted to. And when we forget who we are in Christ, the world is more than happy to fill in the blanks. The names we never chose The world doesn’t offer neutral ground. If you don’t know who you are, it will name you. You are your productivity. You are your sexuality. You are your trauma. You are your body. You are your social feed. You are your relationships. You are your past. You are your potential. These messages don’t come in bullet points. They come in algorithms, expectations, Instagram captions, and late-night shame. They’re stitched into the air we breathe. We may never consciously say them out loud. But we act like they’re true — hustling to stay impressive, shrinking to avoid rejection, medicating the ache with distraction or denial. Identity isn’t just emotional. It’s spiritual. This isn’t just a mental health issue. It’s a spiritual battle. Ephesians says we once “followed the ways of this world and the ruler of the kingdom of the air” (2:2). We were dead in our sins. Not confused. Not slightly misaligned. Dead. But God, being rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ. He didn’t just give us a fresh start. He gave us a new self — one that’s being remade in the image of Jesus. The gospel doesn’t merely save us from hell. It saves us from every false identity that threatens to swallow us whole. What Christ says about you In Christ, you are not your worst day. You are not your performance review. You are not your diagnosis. You are not what they said behind your back. You are not your high school reputation or your adulthood imposter syndrome. You are: Chosen (Ephesians 1:4) Adopted (Ephesians 1:5) Redeemed (Ephesians 1:7) Sealed (Ephesians 1:13) Raised up (Ephesians 2:6) Created in Christ Jesus for good works (Ephesians 2:10) This isn’t motivational fluff. These are spiritual realities — anchored in God’s eternal love, secured by Jesus’ blood, guaranteed by the Spirit’s seal. You don’t have to earn these names. You just have to remember them. Why remembering matters It’s no accident that the New Testament is full of identity language. “Put on the new self.”“Consider yourselves dead to sin.”“Be who you are in Christ.” That’s the call again and again. Not just to believe — but to remember . Because we are forgetful people. And forgetful people are vulnerable people. When we forget who we are in Christ, we reach for whatever identity offers the most comfort, the most affirmation, the least friction. And usually, those identities feel good — until they break under pressure. Until the metrics change. Until the applause stops. Until the loneliness catches up. Identity that holds When your identity is in Christ, it doesn’t mean you never struggle. But it means your struggle has context — and your value has already been decided. You don’t have to perform for love. You don’t have to prove you matter. You don’t have to chase belonging like it’s a prize you could lose. In Christ, you are secure . That means when you fail, you’re still forgiven. When you succeed, you’re still humble. When you’re forgotten by others, you’re still known by God. When the labels come — “lazy,” “too much,” “not enough,” “unloveable” — they no longer have the final word. Becoming who you already are Christian growth is not about becoming someone else. It’s about becoming who you already are in Christ. It’s not self-improvement. It’s Spirit-led transformation. It’s not becoming your best self. It’s being conformed to the image of Jesus. It’s not living out of fear. It’s walking in the freedom of a name that can’t be revoked. This is not just a message for new believers. It’s for all of us. Because in a noisy world, even the most grounded Christian can lose their footing. Even the most “mature” believer can forget the names they’ve already been given. If you’ve ever found yourself asking, “Who am I, really?” — you’re not alone. That question isn’t a weakness. It’s a signal. It means you’re paying attention. It means you’re hungry for truth. It means you’re ready to silence the noise and return to the only voice that really matters. If that’s where you are right now, I created something that might help. If you’re looking to slow down and remember.. There’s a lot of noise out there — and it’s easy to forget what’s most true. If you’re in a season where identity feels blurred, or if you simply want space to reflect on who you are in Christ, you might find this helpful. I’ve created a 30-day printable devotional called Identity in Christ . Each day invites you to pause, open Scripture, reflect, and pray. It’s simple, unhurried, and rooted in truth that doesn’t shift with the moment. No pressure. Just an invitation. © Nathan Cole Originally published on Medium . Download the devotional here

Photo by Olya P on Unsplash The quiet pressure to produce It doesn’t always show up as a voice in your head. Sometimes it’s just the way your stomach drops when you see someone else’s career update on LinkedIn. Or the way you feel restless when you take a slow morning instead of ploughing through your to-do list. I’ve carried this pressure — the sense that my worth hangs on what I get done. Work harder, study more, check the boxes, move the needle. If I achieve, I matter. If I don’t, I’m nothing. It sounds dramatic when written out, but many of us quietly live this way. The gospel against the grain Ephesians 2:8–10 offers words that run against the cultural current: “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith — and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God — not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.” Here’s the order: Saved by grace (not performance) Through faith (not self-effort) As a gift (not an achievement) To do good works (not to prove our worth) It’s not that work doesn’t matter. It’s that work flows from identity rather than creating it. Achievements are fragile anchors Building identity on achievement feels safe — until it doesn’t. Grades slip. Careers stall. Bodies slow down. Someone younger, faster, smarter enters the room. And then what? If who I am depends on what I achieve, I’m always one failure away from collapse. But if who I am depends on what Christ has done, the foundation is different. He doesn’t change. The cross doesn’t expire. His declaration of grace doesn’t wobble with the markets or the metrics. Grace doesn’t erase work — it redeems it Notice Paul’s flow: grace first, works second. We don’t earn grace by working; we work because grace has already been given. That’s liberating. It means the tasks of the day — emails, spreadsheets, parenting, phone calls — are no longer auditions for acceptance. They are expressions of it. We work not to prove ourselves but to love others. Grace doesn’t cancel diligence. It redeems it. Living from acceptance, not for it Imagine two people doing the same job. Outwardly they look identical — same desk, same deadlines, same tired commute. But one is working to prove they matter. The other is working because they already know they matter in Christ. The difference is enormous. One is chained to achievement; the other is free to serve. A word for the weary achiever If you’re exhausted from carrying the weight of proving yourself, Ephesians 2 whispers something counter-cultural: you are God’s workmanship. His creation. His craft. That means your identity is already given, not earned. Your worth is already secured, not negotiated. And your work — whatever it looks like — is part of God’s larger story, not the thing that defines you. Where this leaves us You are not your résumé. You are not your GPA. You are not your productivity stats. You are God’s beloved, created in Christ Jesus for a life of grace-shaped good works. And that means even on the days when you don’t achieve, you are still His. Keep going If you’d like a way to anchor this truth in your daily life, I’ve created a 30-day printable devotional journal called Identity in Christ . Each page is short: one passage, a reflection prompt, and space to pray. It’s designed to fit into ten quiet minutes a day, and it’s available as a PDF (US Letter/A4) or for GoodNotes. View the 30-day Identity in Christ journal on Etsy → At the end of the day, the truest thing about you isn’t what you’ve achieved – it’s what Christ has already done. Where do you most feel the pull to prove yourself, and what helps you remember your worth is secure in Christ? I’d love to hear in the comments. © Nathan Cole Originally published on Medium .

Photo by Daniil Zameshaev on Unsplash We’re so familiar with the Gospels that we rarely stop to ask the obvious: what kind of books are these? For most of history, people didn’t even frame the question in terms of genre. The Gospels were Scripture – read in churches, proclaimed in sermons, harmonized into a single narrative about Jesus. Later, during the Enlightenment, skeptics dismissed them as myth, while others insisted they were unique – a one-of-a-kind category, unlike anything else in the ancient world. But in recent decades, scholars have noticed something striking. The Gospels fit a genre that was widespread in the first century: the “Life” (bios). These short works told the story of a person of significance – a philosopher, a military leader, even an emperor. They didn’t aim for modern-style detail or strict chronology. They were selective, using episodes and sayings to reveal the essence of someone’s character. And the Gospels fit right in. But they also turn the genre upside down. They don’t just tell a life. They tell the Life. And that’s what makes them explosive. Lives told character through story If you pick up Plutarch’s Life of Alexander, you won’t find a detailed timeline of every year in Alexander the Great’s reign. Instead, you’ll find carefully chosen episodes: a decisive battle, a pivotal conversation, a revealing moral choice. Each one is meant to illustrate Alexander’s character. The Gospels work the same way. They don’t tell us Jesus’ height, the shape of His face, or what He ate for breakfast. They don’t fill in the trivial details we sometimes wish we had. Instead, they zero in on the stories that matter most – the ones that reveal His heart, His authority, His mission. • Mark races us through healings, exorcisms, and confrontations, hammering the question: who is this man? • Matthew frames Jesus as the new Moses, the teacher whose words define a kingdom. • Luke highlights the outsiders, showing how Jesus’ compassion disrupts the norms of society. • John slows the pace, unfolding conversations that reveal divine glory breaking into human life. Just like other ancient Lives, the Gospels select, arrange, and highlight episodes to reveal character. But unlike other Lives, the character in question isn’t simply great. He’s world-shaking. The twist: not just a life, but the Life Here’s where the Gospels bend the genre. Most “Lives” honored figures of the past – philosophers, rulers, heroes – whose deaths were fixed in history. The Gospels insist that Jesus’ death wasn’t the end, but the turning point. And not only that. They insist He’s still alive. John says it outright: “These are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name” (John 20:31). In other words, the Gospels aren’t written simply to inform or inspire. They’re written to invite. You’re not just learning about Jesus. You’re being confronted by Him. Summoned into His story. That’s not how a “Life” was supposed to work. You could admire Alexander. You could imitate Socrates. But Jesus? You don’t just admire or imitate Him. You belong to Him. His life becomes the key to your own. A Life that redefines lives Most ancient Lives aimed to inspire. You’d read about a general’s courage or a philosopher’s wisdom and be challenged to live in the same spirit. The example was the point. But the Gospels go further. Jesus is not just an example. He is a savior. When you read His Life, you don’t walk away with a set of moral lessons. You walk away, confronted by a cross and an empty tomb. His story doesn’t just inspire your life – it transforms it. His death for sin becomes your death to sin. His resurrection becomes your hope. Paul put it bluntly: “I have been crucified with Christ, and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me” (Galatians 2:20). That’s not admiration. That’s union. The Gospels are the record of Jesus’ Life. But they’re also the doorway into ours. His story is not a distant model but a living invitation. Why it matters today You might wonder: Does any of this talk about genre really matter? Isn’t it just academic background? Here’s why: In an age of skepticism, some dismiss the Gospels as fairy tales, while others treat them as theological reflections with little grounding in history. But ancient readers knew exactly what kind of works these were. They weren’t legends floating above reality. They were written in a recognizable form – the “Life” – to make the boldest claim possible: that Jesus of Nazareth is not just another figure worth remembering, but the one through whom God is remaking the world. And here’s the twist modern readers need to hear: unlike every other “Life,” this one doesn’t stay on the page. It reaches out and claims you. The Gospels are about Jesus. But they’re also about you. Your story. Your life. Your place in God’s world. The Gospel as invitation So what kind of books are the Gospels? Ancient readers would have recognized them as “Lives.” But they would have stumbled at the audacity: a crucified man presented as the world’s true Lord, whose story doesn’t end in death but in resurrection. The Gospels fit the genre. But they also break it open. Because Jesus isn’t just one more figure of history. He is the Life. And His story can become yours. © Nathan Cole Originally published on Medium . If this article resonated with you and you’d like to know more about my journey and writing, I’d love for you to visit my About Me page .

Have you ever “just trusted God” while also mentally rehearsing 57 ways everything could go wrong? Yeah, same. I once prayed, “Lord, take this worry,” and five minutes later, I was on Google diagnosing myself with a tropical disease I couldn’t even pronounce. Why? Because surrender is cute in theory… until your kid has a fever, your inbox explodes, and your brain decides it’s auditioning for a disaster movie. Anxiety isn’t a faith flaw. It’s a human one. But what if, what if our overthinking could be a place God meets us, not just something He wants us to shut off? When Worry Becomes a False Idol Sometimes, without realizing it, our fear gets more attention than our faith. We think we’re being responsible . But somewhere along the way: We start trusting our thoughts more than His truth. We spend more time spiraling than surrendering. We bow to the idol of control, wearing it like a productivity badge. Overthinking isn’t just exhausting. It can slowly become a kind of worship. Not the holy kind. The “I’m giving my brain more authority than God” kind. Convicted? Yeah… me too. Prayer Isn’t a Panic Button, It’s a Pattern Prayer is not just: What you do when you’re already sobbing in the bathroom. A checklist to fix your feelings. A performance with fancy language. Prayer is a pattern of releasing, on repeat. Like spiritual exhaling. “Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.” — 1 Peter 5:7 The word cast isn’t passive. It’s messy, active, and sometimes daily. Like throwing your burdens into God’s hands again and again because you keep snatching them back. The “Slow It Down” Surrender Routine Here’s a simple prayer tool I’ve used (especially when my thoughts are doing backflips at 2 a.m.): S — Say it out loud. Name the thought. Be specific. (“I’m scared I’ll fail.” “I’m worried my kid’s anxiety is my fault.”) L — Listen. Breathe, invite God into the thought spiral without trying to fix it. O — Offer it up. “God, this is too heavy for me. Please carry it.” W — Wait in the Word. Pick one verse. Just one. Write it. Whisper it. Sit in it. Example: “When I am afraid, I put my trust in You.” — Psalm 56:3 Final Blessing: For the Overthinker Who Loves Jesus May you be reminded that peace isn’t something you earn, it’s a Person you return to. May your worries become invitations, not accusations. And may you stop assuming God is annoyed with your questions. He’s not tired of you. He’s walking with you. © The Blooming Educator

Pexels I wasn’t confident that miracles were something that happened today. Not really. Until one night, we were gathered in a rented classroom, having just started a church in panic and in prayer. We didn’t have a space for midweek Bible study, but our gathering was attracting enough attention that it wouldn’t fit in my living room. It was just supposed to be a small Bible study, but it became a standing-room-only gathering. We read from the Book of Acts — we were starting a church, lower case “c,” might as well figure out how they started the Church, capital “C.” I noted, “They seemed to see a lot of miracles back then. Why don’t we see that today?” Everyone “Hmmed.” A man in the front row, a medical doctor, raised his hand. “Jim, I think God wants me to pray for someone.” “That’s nice,” I said. I wasn’t about to have God interrupt my Bible study. “No, I mean someone in this room right now.” “Oh,” I said. I wasn’t sure where this was going. “The Lord is telling me that someone in this room is having trouble closing his left hand all the way.” I thought to myself – You should have said back pain. You definitely would have gotten someone with back pain. Yours was way too specific. But before I could ruin the moment, a man in the back of the room blurted out, “Oh, that’s me!” All eyes turned on him. “I hurt my hand like 20 years ago, and I’ve never been able to close my left hand all the way since then. It doesn’t bother me much; I’m just always aware of it.” “Ok,” I said to the doctor. “Why don’t you go pray for him?” I went on with the Bible study, not sure what to make out of all that. I didn’t know how to follow up. I hadn’t grown up in a church that talked about the supernatural in anything but a historical context. The next day, I phoned the guy at the back of the room. “What happened?” “I don’t know what to tell you,” he said, “but I can close my hand all the way now. I haven’t been able to do that in 20 years. And the strangest thing was that right when that guy started talking (they didn’t know each other, and he had forgotten the doctor’s name), I felt this warm sensation moving up through my body from my feet to the top of my head. I honestly didn’t care about anything else at that moment – I just didn’t want that feeling to stop.” His hand was healed permanently. We’ve never forgotten that moment. For the skeptics, I don’t know what to tell you, except I am the most skeptical and unlikely pastor there is. I didn’t grow up with a charismatic kind of Christianity, and I had largely ruled out the supernatural as a distant fantasy or historical reality now long stopped. But I saw it right in front of my eyes, and attempts to explain this away through natural causes seem to me rather desperate. Occam’s razor wins out here. I know what it feels like to be unsure of what I believe in, and I know what it feels like to believe in some basic metaphysical reality, but find stories like this odd. What this experience made me do was lean into prayer. The Bible says that Jesus can do more than we can ask or imagine, so now I pray with that in mind. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. If you know someone who might be encouraged by this story, feel free to forward it along! © James W. Miller

Photo by Paola Chaaya on Unsplash I literally see the tired look in your eyes when you talk about your life. I hear the heaviness in your voice when you whisper, “Everyone seems so far ahead of me.” And my heart aches because I know what it feels like. I’ve been there too, and I still catch myself in there sometimes: scrolling, comparing, shrinking inside. I want you to know that you are not behind. I know it doesn’t always feel that way. Sometimes it seems like life is moving faster than you can keep up. Friends, family, and colleagues appear to be reaching milestones effortlessly, while you’re still figuring out your next step. But I need you to hear this clearly, their journey isn’t yours. God’s timing for you is perfect, even when it feels slow or uncertain. You’re Not Broken, You’re Becoming Sometimes, when we feel “behind,” we think something is wrong with us, but what if it’s not about being broken, but about becoming? Every small step you’ve taken, every lesson you’ve learned, every baby step and short breath, even the ones that felt like failures, are quietly shaping you into someone stronger, wiser, and more prepared for what’s next. Growth isn’t always visible, but it’s happening, and it matters. When you get to that point where you’re overwhelmed, remember this truth: “Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” – Philippians 1:6 You’re still in process, and that’s okay. God hasn’t forgotten you; He’s still working on you, in you, and for you. Your Journey Isn’t Supposed to Look Like Theirs I know it’s tempting to measure yourself against others. You glance at someone else’s life and feel the sting of inadequacy, but comparison is a thief, my dear. It steals joy and blinds us to our own progress. Their timeline, their challenges, and their victories are theirs alone. You are on a different path, one that is designed just for you. Trust it even when it feels like you’re moving slowly. God is moving with you, preparing you, and guiding your steps. Scripture says, “Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else.”— Galatians 6:4 Your path is not meant to look like anyone else’s, and when you trust that, peace begins to settle in. Even when it feels like you’re moving slowly, God is moving with you, preparing you, and guiding your steps in His perfect rhythm. Small Wins Are Still Wins Pause for a moment. Reflect on what you’ve accomplished in the past weeks, months, or even days. Maybe it’s something small, showing up when you didn’t want to, speaking your truth, healing from an old wound, or learning something new. Those are victories too. Don’t brush them off; celebrate them, and let them remind you that progress isn’t always about giant leaps, but about consistent, faithful steps forward. Hear This Today, instead of comparing yourself, take a few minutes to write down three things you’ve done recently that you can celebrate. Speak these words over yourself: “I am not behind. I’m growing at the pace that’s right for me.” Breathe in the peace that comes from knowing your journey is unique and your timing is perfect. And remember, GOD is with you and I’m walking with you, cheering you on, even in the moments you can’t cheer for yourself. © Favour

Google Nano Banana You got saved. You repented. You prayed. You tried with everything in you. So why are you still fighting the same addiction your dad had? Why do you rage exactly like your mom did? Why does this pattern feel like it was waiting for you before you even made your first mistake? Here’s what nobody tells new Christians: Some battles you’re fighting weren’t yours to begin with. They were handed down. And if you keep treating inherited patterns like personal failures, you’ll spend years exhausting yourself with the wrong strategy. The Question That Haunts Struggling Believers “What’s wrong with me? I’m saved. I’m trying. Why can’t I stop?” You’ve deleted the apps. You’ve gotten accountability partners. You’ve confessed the same sin to the same people dozens of times. You’ve cried out to God, wondering if He even hears you anymore. And still, the pattern persists. Sometimes it even feels stronger after you get saved than it did before. That’s when the shame spiral starts: “Maybe I’m not really saved. Maybe God can’t use me. Maybe I’m uniquely broken." But what if the problem isn’t your salvation, your effort, or your brokenness? What if the problem is that you’re fighting a generational battle with personal weapons? The Biblical Reality Most Churches Don’t Teach Here’s what made everything click for me: Exodus 20:5 says God visits “the iniquity of the fathers upon the children to the third and fourth generation.” Read that again. The iniquity (sin) of the FATHERS visits the CHILDREN. For multiple generations. This isn’t about God punishing kids for their parents’ sins. It’s about spiritual patterns that get passed down through families. When someone in your family line opens a door to sin, it creates access. That access can be inherited. Your grandfather’s alcoholism? He gave destructive patterns a foothold. Your mother’s rage? She reinforced that access. Now you? You’re dealing with the consequences of doors you didn’t even open. That’s not your fault. But it is your fight. Why This Hits Different Than Regular Sin Personal sin feels manageable. You made a choice, you face consequences, you repent, you move forward. But generational patterns feel disproportionate. Like you’re not just fighting your mistakes — you’re fighting something older, deeper, and stronger than your personal involvement would explain. That’s because you are. When I finally understood this, everything shifted. Not because the battle ended (it didn’t), but because I finally knew WHAT I was fighting, which meant I could learn HOW to fight it. The Two Types of Doors You Need to Close This is the revelation: Not all sin patterns have the same source. Personal Doors: Sins YOU committed. Choices YOU made. Access YOU gave through your own actions. Started after you personally engaged You can trace it to specific choices The intensity matches your involvement Generational Doors: Patterns passed through your bloodline. Access the enemy gained through your ancestors’ choices. Existed before your involvement Other family members battle the same thing The intensity is way stronger than your actual involvement Different source = different strategy. You can’t repent for sins you didn’t commit. If your grandfather opened the door to alcoholism, that wasn’t your sin. But that door still affects you. That’s where this gets practical. How to Identify Which Doors Are Open Ask yourself three questions about each pattern you’re battling: 1. Does anyone in my family struggle with this? Think parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles. It might not be identical — alcoholism, drug addiction, and porn addiction are all expressions of the same root (addiction). Rage, control, and verbal abuse all stem from anger issues. 2. When did this pattern start? Was it there BEFORE you personally engaged? Did you feel the pull before you ever acted on it? Can’t remember a time when this wasn’t a struggle? 3. Is the intensity disproportionate? Does the pull feel STRONGER than your actual involvement? You only engaged a few times, but the compulsion is massive? Willpower fails no matter how hard you try? If you answered yes to these questions, you’re likely dealing with a generational component. The Prayers That Actually Close Doors For Personal Doors (sins you committed): Be specific. Name the sin. Own it completely. Repent (which means turn away, not just feel sorry). Receive God’s forgiveness. Then declare the door closed by the authority of Jesus Christ. No magic formula needed. Just honest confession, genuine repentance, and faith in Christ’s blood to cleanse. For Generational Doors (family patterns): This requires renunciation, not just repentance. You’re revoking the enemy’s access through your family line. You’re declaring that the cycle ends with you. Identify the family pattern. Acknowledge you didn’t open that door, but you’re affected by it. Renounce it (legal term meaning you revoke the agreement). Call on Galatians 3:13: “Christ has redeemed us from the curse.” Declare the generational door closed by Jesus’ blood. Here’s the key: Most patterns need BOTH prayers. Your family opened the generational door. Then you engaged personally. Now you have two doors open. Close your personal door through repentance. Close the generational door through renunciation. That’s the one-two punch that brings breakthrough. The Hard Truth About Family Matthew 10:36 : “A man’s enemies will be those of his own household.” Jesus said this. He was preparing you for a painful reality: The people you love most might become obstacles to your freedom. Not because they’re evil. But because your freedom exposes their bondage. Your change disrupts the family system. The enemy uses family dynamics as weapons. You might notice: Family members who mock your faith Relatives who tempt you back into old patterns Loved ones who enable through “concern” Gatherings that consistently trigger the pattern This isn’t about hating your family. It’s about recognizing that spiritual warfare often happens closest to home. Sometimes loving your family means stepping back. Not forever. Not with hatred. But for a season — so you can step UP into freedom. You can honor your parents while maintaining boundaries. You can love your siblings while protecting your breakthrough. Distance isn’t rejection — it’s a warfare strategy. What to Expect After You Pray Immediately: You might feel lighter. You might feel resistance. You might feel nothing. All of that is normal. Over days/weeks/3–6 months: The pull weakens (not gone, but less intense even if just by a noticeable bit). The pattern has less power. Temptation comes, but doesn’t control you like before. Be patient with yourself. Long-term: The pattern becomes manageable. Your bounce-back time gets faster. You’re walking in increasing freedom (not perfection, but progress). Important reality check: Closing the door doesn’t mean instant victory. It means you’ve removed the enemy’s legal access. Now you fight from authority and not oppression. The Part Nobody Wants to Hear This isn’t one prayer and done. Closing generational doors is a spiritual discipline you maintain. The enemy will test that door. He’ll try to get you to reopen it through agreement, sin, or doubt. So you keep reinforcing: When intrusive thoughts hit: “That door is closed. You have no access here.” When temptation feels generational: Pray for renunciation again. Reinforce the boundary. When family dynamics trigger the pattern: Declare your freedom. “The cycle ends with me.” Some battles require daily declaration. Others weekly. Some you pray once and never deal with again. The door stays closed as long as you don’t reopen it. And even if you slip back — even if you fall into agreement — you have the authority to close it again. Grace upon grace upon grace. Why This Matters for Your Future You’re not just fighting for yourself. You’re fighting for your kids. Your grandkids. Generations that haven’t been born yet. When you break the cycle, you don’t just free yourself. You free your entire family line going forward. Your children won’t inherit this pattern. Your grandchildren won’t battle what you battled. The dysfunction stops with you. That’s not just a personal victory. That’s generational transformation. The Romans 8:28 Reminder “And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.” All things. Even the pattern you’re battling. Even your family’s sins. Even the tears and falls and exhaustion. God’s using ALL of it for your breakthrough. You’re about to be the cycle breaker in your family line. The pattern ends with you. But you have to understand the source before you can fight the battle. You have to know whether it’s personal or generational. And you have to pray accordingly. This isn’t magic. This isn’t a formula that guarantees instant freedom. This is Biblical warfare based on understanding where the battle actually is. Your grandfather opened doors he didn’t know how to close. Your parents fought battles they didn’t understand. Now you have the knowledge they didn’t have. Use it. Fight with authority. Close those doors. Break the cycle. And watch God redeem generations through your obedience. What family patterns have you noticed in your own life? Have you ever considered that some struggles might be inherited rather than just personal choices? PS. If you’d like a more detailed guide on breaking generational sin patterns, I created a full breakdown on notion, access it here . © Ashneil

Photo by Diana Simumpande on Unsplash Making Your Heart His Home There’s a kind of peace that doesn’t just visit, it stays. Like, it lingers in your thoughts, it colors how you speak, it changes how you see the world. That’s what it feels like when you begin to host God’s Presence, not occasionally, but every single day. Most believers know how to visit God. We pray, we worship, we feel His nearness, and then we return to our routines as if His Presence is a place we check in and out of, but there’s a deeper call, which is the call to become a home for Him, not a hotel. More Than a Morning Devotion For years, I thought I could measure closeness to God by how long I spent in devotion, but the Presence doesn’t thrive on hours; it thrives on awareness. In my walk with Yeshua, I’ve seen that hosting Him daily isn’t about length, it’s about life. It’s the whispered prayer before a meeting, the calm refusal to gossip, the decision to forgive when your flesh wants to fight. It’s knowing you’re not walking alone, even in the most ordinary moments. Speaking experimentally, I’ve come to the conclusion that God isn’t looking for grand performances; He’s looking for hearts that remember Him between the verses. The Secret Atmosphere There’s a quiet difference in those who carry Him. Their words heal instead of hurting, and their peace disturbs chaos. You just feel something sacred in their presence, not because they’re special, but because they’ve made room for Someone special, and that’s what daily hosting looks like. It’s room-making. When you guard your thoughts, when you silence your phone just to say “Thank You, Lord,” when you choose purity over popularity, you’re preparing a dwelling and not just a regular schedule. You don’t need to shout for the Presence; you just need to stop crowding the room. A Gentle Nudge for You Maybe this is your reminder that God doesn’t want to be part of your day; He wants to be in your day. He shouldn’t be an option, but your only choice. Start small, whisper His name more often, invite Him into conversations, decisions, and silence. You’ll begin to notice how the air around you changes, not necessarily dramatically, but deeply. The Presence was never meant to be a Sunday experience. It’s a daily reality for hearts that are ready to stay open. So today, host Him. Not out of duty, but out of sincere love, because when He’s welcome, everywhere becomes Holy ground. © Favour