A baby lies wrapped in cloth, placed not in a cradle but in a feeding trough, watched over by weary parents and curious shepherds.

This is one of the most familiar images in human history. It appears on Christmas cards, church banners, children’s storybooks, hymn sing posters, and even Christmas articles. We sing about it every December. We reenact it. We sentimentalise it. A newborn. A mother. A quiet night.

Why would the greatest story ever told begin like this? Why does the most decisive invasion of Earth look so unimpressive? We would think of a purple-looking conqueror with absolute power, an infinity gauntlet gleaming on his hand. But instead, we are given a child. Does that not seem odd? Have we grown far too familiar with the story, or is there something profoundly wondrous about this child?

If we slow down long enough to really look, the image should strike us as deeply strange. The Eternal Son, by whom and through whom all things were made (Colossians 1:16), in time took upon Himself a human nature, a body, a heartbeat. This is the wonder the apostle John writes in the first chapter of his gospel account:

“And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us, and we saw His glory, glory as of the only begotten from the Father, full of grace and truth.” (John 1:14, NASB1995)

Literally, the Word who was with God and was God pitched His tent among us. He descended into our frailty. The eternal Son of God lies in that manger, unable to lift his own head, dependent on a teenage girl for warmth and food. 

What we are confronted with every Christmas is a mystery. The power we expected when God descends is present but hidden, veiled beneath flesh and infancy. And this is the mystery we are invited not just to notice, but to behold.

Robed in Frail Humanity

“Come, behold the wondrous mystery
In the dawning of the King
He the theme of Heaven’s praises
Robed in frail humanity.”

The wonder of Christmas is not just that a child was born, but who this child is. This is not God pretending to be human. This is not God visiting in disguise. This is God becoming man. Eternity stepping into time. Christmas demands more than a glance. It calls for contemplation. It bids us stop, linger, and behold. The Author has written himself into the story.

“For in Him all the fullness of Deity dwells in bodily form.” (Colossians 2:9, NASB1995)

See the One whom heaven cannot contain now contained within a virgin’s womb (Luke 1:35). See the One who upholds the cosmos learning to crawl (Colossians 1:17). See the One who made Mary now drawing life from her by feeding from her. See the Creator who formed the oceans now breathing the air He Himself created. The One who designed the human brain now sleeps and dreams within one.

He walked among us. He slept. He wept (John 11:35). He grew weary (John 4:6). He learned obedience (Hebrews 5:8). He ate and drank. He felt the warmth of a friend’s embrace and the sting of betrayal’s kiss. He was like us

Why the God-Man?

But why this mystery? Why did God become man? Why must the salvation of mankind take this shape?  

God is Creator. We are creatures. And we have sinned against Him. Not just broken rules, but violated relationship. We have rejected His authority, distrusted His goodness, and pursued our own passions and desires. The gravity of our offence is immeasurable because it is committed against an infinite Holy God whose justice cannot be compromised.

Your eyes are too pure to approve evil, And You can not look on wickedness with favour (Habakkuk 1:13, NASB95)

Yet Only man ought to make the payment, since man has sinned (Ezekiel 18:4). But only God can make the payment, since only God possesses infinite worth. This is where the wisdom of God is made manifest. As St. Anselm of Canterbury puts it, it has to be a God-Man.

In the sufferings of Christ, there was that which was human, that He might be capable of death; and that which was divine, that His death might be efficacious for the salvation of sinners - John Owen, Communion with God (paraphrased)

He did not come just to set an example. He did not come simply to inspire moral resolve. Only one who is fully human could stand in our place, live in our stead, suffer in our body, die our death. 

Therefore, He had to be made like His brethren in all things, so that He might become a merciful and faithful high priest in things pertaining to God, to make propitiation for the sins of the people. (Hebrews 2:17, NASB95)

Only one who is fully divine could offer a sacrifice of infinite value, untainted by sin (Hebrews 9:14).

Born to Bleed

What kind of people require God himself to be like them to be saved? Sinful and wicked people (Romans 3:10-12). Helpless people (Romans 5:6). People who cannot save themselves or do anything to earn a right standing with this Holy God.

But the hymn beckons:

“Come behold the wondrous mystery:
Christ the Lord upon the tree.
In the stead of ruined sinners,
hangs the Lamb in victory.”

What Child is this? This is the Child born to be pierced. The child whose tiny hands will be fastened onto a wood, not for His own sake, but for ours. The Child was born to bleed. Not as a tragic accident. Not as a noble misunderstanding. But as the eternal plan of God, determined before the foundation of the world (Acts 2:23)

But He was pierced through for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; The chastening for our well-being fell upon Him, And by His scourging we are healed. (Isaiah 53:5, NASB95).

The humility of Christ’s birth tells us something honest about our condition. If we could climb our way to God, he would not have needed to come down to us. If moral improvement were enough, Bethlehem would be unnecessary.

But “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23). And so glory came down.

Behold and Believe

So what shall we do with this mystery? How should we respond as we behold it?

The only proper response to Christmas is faith. Not admiration alone. Not nostalgia. Not religious sentiment warmed by carols and candles. Faith. Faith that this Child really was who the scriptures claimed Him to be: God with us (Matthew 1:23), the Word made flesh (John 1:14), the Savior of the world (Luke 2:11). To behold the mystery is to be summoned to trust the Christ it reveals.

You shall call His name Jesus, for He will save His people from their sins. (Matthew 1:21, NASB1995)

The shepherds did not merely look at the Child; they went to Him (Luke 2:15–16). The magi did not simply study the signs; they fell to their face and worshipped (Matthew 2:11). Mary did not fully understand, but she believed and treasured these things in her heart (Luke 2:19).

To behold is to bow. To see is to surrender. To behold Him rightly is not merely to admire the scene, but to trust the One lying in the manger. To marvel at the mercy, faithfulness and salvation of God. The manager confronts us with the horror of our sin. It was our guilt that made Christmas necessary. 

Sin is the ugliness of Christmas. It stands behind the scene and is the reason the Savior came - John MacArthur

If God must become man to rescue us, then our plight is worse than we think, and His love is greater than we can ever imagine.

“Come, behold the wondrous mystery
Slain by death, the God of life
But no grave could ever restrain Him
Praise the Lord, He is alive.”

The God of life entered death itself, and death could not hold Him (Acts 2:24). So Christmas calls us not only to marvel, but to turn. To lay down our pride. To abandon our self-reliance. To confess our need. And to trust fully in the Child who came to save sinners. To respond not to seasonal sentimentality, but deep, honouring, joyful adoration. To see this baby and say with Thomas, “My Lord and my God!” To behold the mystery and echo the angels: “Glory to God in the highest!”(Luke 2:14)

He calls you and me, not just to behold, but to bow in faith, in awe, and in reverent worship. 

Come Behold the Wondrous Mystery — yet to come

And yet, as wondrous as Christmas is, it is not the end of the story. This same child who was later crucified, died, buried, rose from the grave and ascended to heaven, will come again. It will not be in obscurity, but in glory (Matthew 25:31). Not to suffer, but to reign (Revelation 11:15). Not in humility, but in splendour. 

This means Christmas is not just a memory to be cherished, but a promise to be trusted. The first coming guarantees the second. So we wait as we sing:

“What a foretaste of deliverance,
How unwavering our hope.
Christ in power resurrected,
As we will be when He comes.”

This Christmas, then, let us do more than sentimentalise. Let us meditate on this mystery:  the God who came near, the Saviour who bore our sin, the King who will return in glory.  And as we behold this mystery, may our hope be kindled and our worship deepened until faith becomes sight.

Now may the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you will abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. (Romans 15:13, NASB95)

“So, Anselm,” he said, turning towards me from across the dining table, “how do you say no to certain things?”

The question landed softly, but it carried weight. I knew at once what he meant. He wasn’t asking about schedules or boundaries. He was asking about the quiet, almost invisible habit that has shaped much of my life: people-pleasing.

I mumbled some vague response, but his words followed me home. Later that night, staring at the ceiling, the Spirit did His work. Replaying scenes, exposing motives, pulling back the curtain on decades of smiling compliance: moments when my desire to help, to appear competent, to keep peace, to rescue, had not really been about love.

People-pleasing has been a companion. I can scarcely remember a version of myself untouched by its grip. It became a strategy for survival. A defence mechanism. A way to keep peace, earn approval, secure belonging, and avoid being misunderstood or rejected. Perhaps I could be enough. 

But lately I’ve been asking myself whether my “introversion” is really how God made me or just a mask I learned to wear. And yet something in me has begun to shift. The more the Lord grows my faith, the clearer it becomes: this desire to please is not as innocent as it seems. Beneath the smile and ‘sacrifices’ often hides something darker: fear wearing the mask of kindness, pride cloaked in humility.

After interacting with a couple of resources on this subject, the unmasking began.

Treason of the Heart

People-pleasing is not primarily about kindness or compassion. It is not simply the desire to serve. It is a misplaced allegiance.

“For am I now seeking the favour of men, or of God? Or am I striving to please men? If I were still trying to please men, I would not be a bond-servant of Christ” (Galatians 1:10, NASB95)

Paul’s words unmask me every time. He doesn’t soften them. He calls this impulse treason. If our fundamental aim is to secure human approval, we cannot at the same time live as servants of Christ. We cannot obey with courage.

"...but just as we have been approved by God to be entrusted with the gospel, so we speak, not as pleasing men, but God who examines our hearts. For we never came with flattering speech..." (1 Thessalonians 2:4-5, NASB95)

People-pleasing is not just exhausting. It is enslaving. It shapes our decisions, rewrites our boundaries, distorts our motives, and makes our sense of worth fragile, dependent on the shifting opinions of others.

For years, people-pleasing didn’t feel sinful to me. It felt responsible. Peaceful. ‘Supportive.’ But the truth is that it often flowed from fear, not faith; from pride, not humility; from a desire to look godly rather than to be godly.

‘Woe to you when all men speak well of you, for their fathers used to treat the false prophets in the same way.’ (Luke 6:26, NASB95)

Jesus warns that universal approval is often a sign of compromise, not faithfulness. When the frown of people terrifies us more than the displeasure of God, we have discovered our true master. And for me, this mastery has often dressed itself in flattery.

The Flattery Beneath the Fear

“In a world where only success and triumph are shared, we are afraid of others seeing us for who we really are. So we pretend. We perform.” - Musungu Yosia

One of the subtlest expressions of people-pleasing is flattery. It doesn’t always look like insincere compliments. It often shows up as softened truths, hidden feelings, or saying what we think others want to hear. And when acceptance becomes the compass of our speech, truth and courage lose their way. At its root is fear, fear of being disliked, fear of losing reputation, fear of appearing weak or foolish, fear of being in conflict.

I’ve caught myself doing this countless times: I’ve nodded too eagerly at opinions I didn’t share, softened truths I wished I’d spoken plainly, and hidden my struggles to appear stable. At my worst, I was whoever people wanted me to be: smiling when I was hurting, agreeing when I disagreed, shaping my words to earn approval. 

“A lying tongue hates those it crushes, And a flattering mouth works ruin.” (Proverbs 26:28, NASB95)

Flattery is not love. It is outright lying. It is deceit. It wounds while it smiles. When I flatter, I am not loving my neighbour; I am using them. I am bending the truth to protect my comfort, preserving peace at the cost of holiness.

But flattery does more than distort our words; it distorts our fellowship. It creates a counterfeit peace. A calmness built on silence rather than sincerity. 

‘If we say that we have fellowship with Him and yet walk in the darkness, we lie and do not practice the truth’ (1 John 1:6, NASB95)

The apostle John reminds us that this hiddenness is not light, but darkness. We walk in the shadows, hiding our true thoughts, fears, and struggles, all while calling it humility or maturity. The fear of disapproval drives me to mask my true thoughts and feelings, convincing myself that being liked or avoiding disagreements is safer than being honest. Fear rarely shows up as fear. It manifests as niceness, compliance, overcommitment, and silence.

The Pride Beneath the Niceness

People-pleasing is not only fear-driven; it is also pride-driven. That was a hard confession for me to make.

Sometimes my desire to help, that is, to be dependable, available and reliable, has been more about managing my image. I wanted to be seen as the mature one, the strong one, the sacrificial one.

But underneath that “humility” was a belief that I needed to be impressive to be loved and accepted. Scripture cuts through the façade:

“Do nothing from selfishness or empty conceit, but with humility of mind regard one another as more important than yourselves;” (Philippians 2:3, NASB95)

The desire to appear humble is, ironically, a form of pride. My so-called humility is often just concealed ambition, an attempt to secure worth by how helpful or sacrificial I seemed. But God opposes this way of living:

“...Therefore, it says, “God is opposed to the proud, but gives grace to the humble.” (James 4:6, NASB95)

Pride places self: our image, our reputation, our adequacy, at the centre. True humility does not need to be liked. It is content to be small because Christ is great. The gospel offers a better mirror. A glory not reflected in the world’s eyes, but in the cross of Jesus Christ.

Boasting in the Cross

If Galatians 1:10 exposes the disease, Galatians 6:14 gives the cure:

“But may it never be that I would boast, except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, through which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world.” (Galatians 6:14, NASB95)

The cross gives us a new boast, a new anchor for identity, safety, and worth. To boast in the cross is to rest our entire hope on Christ’s finished work.

When I repented of my sin and placed my faith and trust in Jesus Christ as Saviour and Lord, something radical happened: the world died to me. Its approval no longer defines me because, in Christ, I am fully known, fully loved, fully accepted on account of Christ.

But Paul doesn’t stop there; he adds, “and I to the world.” Not only has the world’s opinion lost its power, but my craving for its acceptance died too. Because I am united to the one whose acceptance alone matters.

“For you have died and your life is hidden with Christ in God.” (Colossians 3:3, NASB95)

People’s opinions lose their tyranny because they no longer define me. My pride dies because Christ exposes my sin, secures my worth, and frees me from needing to impress anyone.

“For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; not as a result of works, so that no one may boast.” (Ephesians 2:8-9, NASB95)

To boast in the cross is to unmask ourselves before God and confess: ‘This is who I am now: not what people think, not what I perform, not what I fear. I am Christ’s.’ 

It means the fear of man loses its grip because the Son of Man has spoken a better word over us. This is the death of people-pleasing. This is the birth of true freedom. No image management. No performance. Only grace.

The Slow Unmasking

Freedom from people-pleasing is not instant. It is the slow, gentle unmasking of a heart learning to boast in Christ alone. It begins with knowing who we are, and then living before one face: God’s. 

The more clearly we see His gaze of grace, the less we panic under the gaze of people. Slowly, quietly, the heart relearns its rhythms. The Spirit loosens the knots of insecurity we tied over many years. He untangles the fear of disappointing others, the silent dread of being misunderstood, the pressure always to say the right thing, act the right way, or maintain the right image.

‘The less I need people to like me, the more I can genuinely love them.’

For me, it has looked like:

• Saying “no” to good things when obedience requires it.
• Allowing others to think poorly of me without rushing to defend myself.
• Asking for help when sin plagues me, without shame.
• Speaking truth kindly but clearly, even if it creates tension.
• Receiving criticism with patience instead of panic.
• Letting others be disappointed without collapsing inside.
• Doing unseen obedience simply because Jesus sees.

Some days I do these things well. Many days I don’t. But slowly, the mask is slipping. Slowly, fear is losing its voice. Slowly, pride is being crucified. Slowly, the Spirit is shrinking my craving for acceptance and expanding my joy in Christ.

“When you have tasted the beauty of God and the approval of God in Christ, the addiction of Human approval is broken and you are free.” -  John Piper

When I live before the eyes of people, I perform. When I live before the eyes of God, I rest. His gaze is not suspicious or shifting. It is the gaze of a Father who delights in His child, a Saviour who finished the work, and a Spirit who has sealed my place in God’s family.

The Confessions of a Silent People-Pleaser

People-pleasing promises safety, but it cannot give rest. Only Christ can. When Paul says, “If I were still trying to please man, I would not be a servant of Christ,” he reveals something crucial: we are always serving someone.

We either serve the opinions of others or we serve Christ. One path leads to exhaustion, anxiety, and bondage. The other leads to rest, courage, freedom, and love.

“…If anyone wishes to come after Me, he must deny himself, and take up his cross daily and follow Me.” (Luke 9:23, NASB95)

Jesus invites us to die to those false masters so we may truly live. To take up the cross is to die to the old compulsions. To wrestle against the old instincts with the power of the cross. 

I admit it is not easy. I am not there yet. The temptation to please people is still loud. The fear of rejection still claws at my heart. I still wrestle with old instincts: to curate, hide, impress. I even feel it as I type these words. But He who began the good work will be faithful to complete it (Philippians 1:6). He promises:

“…but whoever loses his life for My sake, he is the one who will save it.” (Luke 9:24, NASB95)

Letting go of the need for approval and acceptance does not diminish us; it saves us. It frees us to walk in the freedom Christ purchased for us (Galatians 5:1). We stop people-pleasing by treasuring Christ more. As we behold His glory, He transforms us “from one degree of glory to another” (2 Corinthians 3:18).

This does not promise freedom from pain, misunderstanding, or rejection. But it frees us from the slavery of needing approval or the fear of disappointing anyone.

I’m learning, slowly, to fix my gaze on the cross of Christ, where my identity is firm and secure. Before one face.For one glory. By one cross. And His grace really is enough.

On that dark Thursday morning, the call had come suddenly. He was being rushed to the hospital. From mum’s tone, it sounded serious. Outside the office, I froze. Words felt small. But in that moment, I found myself praying with the leper in Matthew 8:2, “Lord, if you are willing, you can make [him] well.” I believe He could. I trusted Him enough to ask boldly, hoping for the same response the leper received: “I will, be clean.” But as the hours passed, I was left clutching silence, holding on to a prayer that heaven seemed to have set aside.

When faith meets silence, verses like Job 42:2 can almost sting:“I know that You can do all things, And that no purpose of Yours can be thwarted.” If God can do all things, why didn’t He do this one? If He is the God “who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think,”why didn’t He do this one thing I already asked? It wasn’t a bad request. I wasn’t asking for something sinful. It was a plea for mercy, for hope, for help. But when the answer came in a form I didn’t expect, it shook something in me.

I know He hears me. I know that in Christ and through faith, I can approach God with freedom and confidence (Ephesians 3:12). Yet somewhere in the silence, I started to wonder: did I pray rightly? Did I misunderstand His will, misread His heart, or something in myself that disqualified the request?

You may have felt this too. The unanswered prayer for healing. For the salvation of a loved one. For reconciliation, for provision, or for a spouse. The request that seemed good, right, even God-honoring. You prayed, trusted, waited, and hoped, but the supplication seemed to be declined.

And sometimes, I have wondered what to do with that silence. What does it mean when the God who can does not? When His power is unquestionable, but His will remains unsearchable? Can I still trust His heart even when His hand withholds?

The Doubts We Don’t Voice

Unanswered prayers shake us. They press into the soft places of our faith and stir questions we don’t always want to ask. The leper’s words become our own “Lord, if You will…” The silence on the other end tests our faith. Our doubts often take shape in different ways.

Maybe you are like me, who sometimes doubt His will. I know He can, but I’m no longer sure He wants to. We begin to wonder if suffering is the only language He uses to make us holy. The enemy takes that moment of waiting and plants lies: If God is good, why does it seem like He takes pleasure in your pain? (Lamentations 3:33)

Other times, we doubt His wisdom. We believe God sees all things, yet when His answers don’t align with our desires, we begin to think we see more clearly than He does. We forget that His understanding stretches beyond our line of sight.

“For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts than your thoughts…” (Isaiah 55:9, NASB95)

And often, beneath it all, we doubt His goodness. Pain tempts us to interpret His character through our circumstances. We start to measure His love by what He gives rather than who He is. ‘If He really cared,’ we think, ‘He wouldn’t let this happen.’

Our doubts are real. But don't make friends with doubt. Unanswered prayers are not proof of God’s indifference, punishment, or forgetfulness. They are invitations to look again at who He is.

The Purpose in His Silence

Sometimes God’s silence feels heavier than His words. We bring our requests, our desires, our waiting hearts, and heaven seems still. But perhaps His silence does not mean absence; perhaps it means presence in a deeper way.

When doubt creeps in, we need to look again at who God is. Not through the lens of what He hasn’t done for us, but through the unchanging truth of His Word. Scripture speaks to every whisper of unbelief that ‘unanswered prayer’ stirs in us.

All through Scripture, God’s silence has never meant indifference. When Jesus stood before Pilate and said nothing (Matthew 27:14), His silence was not weakness. It was love about to be displayed. When Lazarus lay dead and Jesus delayed (John 11:6), His silence was not neglect. It was a prelude to resurrection. The pauses of God are never empty; they are purposeful.

We so easily turn prayer into a kind of spiritual formula, as though the right words or enough faith should make things happen. Yet God does not prove His goodness by haste, but by His steadfastness and faithfulness in the waiting. 

“The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, To the person who seeks Him” (Lamentations 3:25, NASB95)

He listens long before He responds, shaping our desires until they can hold what He intends to give. Sometimes the quiet is His way of teaching us to trust the heart we cannot yet see. It is not indifference that makes Him wait, but love, a love too deep to rush what time will one day reveal as His grace. 

The Prayer We Never Prayed

If unanswered prayers make us question God’s love, the gospel stands as our greatest reminder that His love has already answered far more than we ever asked.

Paul reminds us that once we were “dead in trespasses and sins” (Ephesians 2:1). We were unable to save ourselves, unable even to ask rightly. And yet, in that state, by His grace, God made us alive together with Christ.

This was the greatest request we never prayed for. We never thought to ask for forgiveness. We never dreamed of requesting eternal life. We never imagined that the Holy One would give His Son for rebels like us. And yet God did far more abundantly than all we could ask or think (Ephesians 3:20).

At the cross, God forever proved both His ability and His willingness. There, when the Son’s cry went seemingly unanswered (Matthew 27:46), God was answering the greatest need we never voiced. He was cancelling our debts, silencing the law’s condemnation, crushing sin and death, defeating Satan, and giving us life everlasting.

“He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him over for us all, how will He not also with Him freely give us all things?” (Romans 8:32, NASB95)

If He has already accomplished the greater, will He fail in the lesser? If He has already conquered the grave, can He not be trusted when He opens the door of heaven for one we love, even when it breaks our hearts?

The cross silences the lie that God is indifferent. In Christ, we see that God’s “no” was once the means of our salvation. The Father did not remove the cup from His Son, and through that “no,” He gave us the eternal “yes” of redemption.

“God’s willingness to do good is not proven by giving us everything we ask, but by giving us Himself.”

The God who withheld nothing for our salvation is the same God who hears every cry from His children. His silence is often the shadow of a greater mercy still unfolding.

Let God Define Good

When prayers seem unanswered, it’s often because our definition of good is smaller than God’s.

We call something good when it feels pleasant, timely, and aligned with our desires. But Scripture calls something good when it makes us more like Christ. — Esther Lovejoy (Paraphrased)

God’s goodness does not always take the shape of ease. His goodness is not defined by outcomes but by His nature. Sometimes it comes clothed in disappointment, delay, or denial.

“No good thing does He withhold from those who walk uprightly.” (Psalm 84:11, NASB95)

If He withholds it, then by His definition, it was not good… or at least, not yet. What He withholds in one season, He redeems in another, shaping us to treasure the Giver more than the gifts.

“Every good thing given and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow.” (James 1:17, NASB95)

His withholding, then, is not a denial of goodness but an expression of it. Much of His goodness unfolds beyond the reach of our understanding, quietly working in places our eyes cannot yet see.

“God is always doing 10,000 things in your life, and you may be aware of three of them.” — John Piper

True faith bows before mystery. It does not demand that God fit our version of good. It trusts that His version is always better. Faith prays like the leper: “Lord, if you will, you can.” And faith accepts both the “yes” and the “no” as coming from the same good hand.

“The Lord is good to all, And His mercies are over all His works.” (Psalm 145:9, NASB95)

The Gift of ‘Unanswered Prayers’

This does not mean unanswered prayers are easy to bear. The longing for healing, provision, companionship, reconciliation, or relief is very real. The ache of waiting can linger long after the ‘amen’.

But Scripture calls us to root our faith not in His answers, but in His character. God’s power has not changed. His goodness has not shifted. His wisdom has not failed. Even when His answer is not what we asked for, it is never less than what is best.

“God will either give us what we ask for in prayer or give us what we would have asked for if we knew everything he knows.” — Timothy Keller

Where are you still waiting on God’s timing? What prayer have you stopped praying because hope has grown dim? What truth about His heart do you need to remember in the waiting? How might God be using the ‘unanswered prayers’ to sanctify your heart, teaching you to treasure Him above the gifts you long for?

My prayer life still bears the shadows of hopes that took a different path than my prayers imagined. But I am learning to rest my hope not in outcomes but in Him, to let my disappointments drive me deeper into His wisdom, to bend my will beneath His, trusting that if He withholds, He withholds in love.

Over a year later, I still feel the ache of the response to the prayer I made that morning. But I no longer see it as an ‘unanswered prayer’. It has become a place where I return not to grieve what was withheld, but to remember who He is. One day, I will look back and recognise that even the “no’s” and “not yets” were threads of mercy woven into His perfect plan.

Until then, I will keep praying. I will trust again. I will choose to praise God from whom all blessings flow, for who He is, even when I can’t see what He’s doing. I will anchor my heart in what He has already revealed about Himself. With Job, I will keep saying, “I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted.” I will keep praying to this God “who is able to do far more abundantly than all we could ask or think”.

As I shared in one of my previous articles, the Lord once led me through a season marked by pain, tears, confusion, and surrender. What I had once known of God’s comfort at the time felt distant and hollow. My prayers were often tearful, sometimes wordless, and occasionally angry. Suffering, by its very nature, always feels unwelcomed. It intrudes. It unsettles. It exposes. It doesn’t knock; it breaks down the door. However, ‘we have a choice of how we respond to this intruder.’

When I stumbled upon Esther Lovejoy’s book, The Sweet Side of Suffering: Recognising God’s Best When Facing Life’s Worst, the title alone felt like a whisper from the Spirit. Could there truly be sweetness in sorrow? Could I, like Paul, taste joy in the furnace of affliction? Through Lovejoy’s words, I began to see that it was possible.

Before the Lord delivered me through those trials, He gave me something greater: perspective. Through the book, I discovered encouragement and a new vision for how God uses suffering as a tool of grace. In the breaking, I sensed He was not absent but nearer than I realised.

This book is not theory. Esther Lovejoy writes not as a detached commentator but as one who has walked through the fire. Her reflections are deeply biblical and profoundly personal, a companion in the dark who doesn’t minimise pain but lifts our eyes to God in it.

Tracing the Sweetness

The book unfolds thematically across ten chapters, each exploring how God’s goodness shines through suffering. Lovejoy begins with The Sweetness of His Voice, showing how pain tunes us to hear God’s Word (Psalm 119:71), then moves to The Sweetness of Knowing God, where intimacy deepens in affliction (Philippians 3:10). In The Sweetness of His Care, she recounts tangible ways God upholds His children, while The Sweetness of Surrender highlights the freedom of yielding to His will (Romans 12:1).

The later chapters explore The Sweetness of Shared Suffering and The Sweetness of His Comfort, where fellowship with Christ steadies weary souls. She closes with The Sweetness of His Names, The Sweetness of His Grace, The Sweetness of His Correction, and The Sweetness of Hope, reminding us that trials refine us and prepare us for eternal joy (Romans 5:3–5).

At its core, this is not a manual for escaping hardship but an invitation to meet God in it. Lovejoy shows suffering as a refining fire, stripping away illusions of control while producing endurance, hope, and Christlikeness (1 Peter 4:12-13).

The book is short, readable in a few sittings, but lingers in the soul because it speaks to the raw places where we most need truth.

Conviction, Not Clichés

What I appreciated most is the book’s refusal to settle for easy answers. Too often, suffering is met with throwaway phrases like “be strong”, or “everything happens for a reason,” or “God is Sovereign”, and rightly so. Though well-meaning, they ring hollow in the valley of real pain when we attempt to explain the pain away.

Lovejoy offers something far better: compassion without shortcuts. She acknowledges the heaviness of grief, the confusion of loss, and the long nights of unanswered prayer. Yet she gently lifts our gaze to Christ, who meets us right where we feel most undone.

Her words reminded me that God is not distant in disappointments. He does not rush recovery. Nor does He grow tired of tears (Isaiah 42:3). Like the psalmists, Lovejoy shows that lament and faith can coexist. And she drives home this statement that has been one of my favourites:

“even when I cannot trace His hand, I can trust His heart.”

The Paradox of Joy in Pain

One of the most striking features of Lovejoy’s writing is her embrace of the paradox of joy and pain. She refuses to flatten the Christian life into either triumphalism or despair. Instead, she holds together joy in pain, honesty in lament, and hope in loss.

She makes space for weeping and questioning, yet shows that even in the shadows, joy remains. It’s quiet. It’s hidden. But it’s also unshakable in Christ. Each chapter is laced with Scripture, not as steps to follow, but as invitations to cling to the living God.

In this light, sorrow is not denied but transformed. Affliction becomes the very stage on which God’s sweetest graces shine most clearly, drawing us into intimacy with Him and anchoring us in hope.

Ten Lessons from the Furnace

When I was done, I found myself not just informed but deeply formed by the truths in the book. What follows are ten lessons that shine brightest when you read the book, truths that turned the furnace of suffering into a classroom of grace:

1. Suffering Is a Gateway to Growth - Hardship is often the soil in which God plants seeds of maturity. Without the pain, we might never grow in compassion, humility, or resilience.
2. God Is Present in Our Suffering - The sweetness of suffering is not found in the pain itself but in the presence of God within it. We may feel alone, but we are never forsaken.
3. Trials Refine Our Character - Like gold in a furnace, trials burn away impurities. Patience, endurance, and faith are formed in the crucible of affliction.
4. Trusting God Brings Sweetness in the midst of Pain - When we surrender our circumstances to the Lord, we begin to see unexpected blessings, even joy, emerge from places we thought were barren.
5. Suffering Deepens Faith - Hardship presses us to depend on God in ways comfort never could. Faith grows not on the mountaintops but in the valleys.
6. Community offers Support and Healing - We were not designed to suffer alone. Sharing our burdens in the body of Christ allows His love to flow through others.
7. Suffering Can Serve a Purpose - Even when we cannot trace His hand, we can trust His heart. God weaves our trials into His larger story for His glory and our good.
8. Gratitude Transforms Perspective - Choosing gratitude in the midst of pain shifts our gaze from what we lack to what we still have in Christ.
9. Pain Connects us to Christ’s Suffering - Our trials become a fellowship with the Man of Sorrows, reminding us of the depth of His love on the cross.
10. Hope Is Found in Eternity - All suffering has an expiration date. Eternity with Christ promises joy so vast that our present afflictions will feel “light and momentary” (2 Corinthians 4:17).

For Every Pilgrim on the Path

Who, then, should read this book?

First, the sufferer. Anyone walking through pain, loss, or trial will find in these pages a companion who understands and a perspective that lifts the heart toward God’s nearness.

Second, the caregiver: friends, family, or counsellors who long to walk wisely with the hurting will discover language, insight, and sensitivity that can help them offer more than clichés.

Third, the church leader: pastors, elders, and small group leaders will find this book a valuable resource for discipling others, since suffering eventually touches every flock.

But in truth, no Christian is exempt from sorrow (John 16:33), which means this book is ultimately for all of us. If you are not suffering today, you will be tomorrow, or someone you love will. The book can prepare us to meet those moments with faith and tenderness.

The Sweet Side of Suffering

For me, this book was not abstract theology but a living testimony. In the depths of my own affliction, I felt weighed down by bitterness and self-pity. Yet by reading the book, the Spirit redirected my gaze, not away from pain, but through it, to see God at work in hidden ways.

I began to notice small but significant evidence of His care: an unexpected call and visit from a dear brother, a text from a sister letting me know how she’s praying for me, verses of Scripture that spoke with new power, and a growing tenderness toward others in their own suffering. These glimpses became signposts of God’s presence in the valley.

What this book has impressed upon me most deeply is that suffering is not a detour from God’s purposes. It is often the very road by which He leads us into deeper fellowship with Himself.

“A season of suffering is a small price to pay for a clear view of God.” — Max Lucado

The sweetness is not found in the pain itself, but in the God who meets us there and gives us more of Himself. And because of that realisation, I’ve come to see what Paul meant when he said,

“…Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me” (2 Corinthians 12:9, NASB95)

Suffering is never easy. It may hurt so bad. In fact, it will. But the good news is that in Christ, it can also hurt so good. Nothing is wasted. Not a single tear, not a sleepless night, not a season of loss. In Him, it can (even in its pain) be sweet. The Sweet Side of Suffering is an encouragement for the weary souls who long to see how Christ turns our midnight hours into moments of His presence.

Thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumph in Christ (2 Corinthians 2:14)

I wouldn’t call myself lazy. I get things done. I meet deadlines. I even have moments of intense, focused work. However, laziness doesn’t always look like idleness. Sometimes it masquerades as productivity without purpose, focusing on side tasks while neglecting what truly matters. I’ve noticed something about me lately: a subtle laziness dressed up as rest, procrastination masquerading as preparation, a quiet yielding to distraction’s gentle pull.

I get to work, open my colour-coded calendar and see what’s waiting: emails that need replies, calls I should’ve returned, meetings to attend, project deliverables piling up. But instead of planning and diving in, I stall. ‘Like so many, I find myself reaching for my shiny pocket rectangle, that beloved window into distant realms’ (Endangered attention). ‘Maybe just a glance at social media to see what’s new. A ‘quick’ check at my statuses. ‘Trying to attend to the world as God does’. A little prep first,’ I tell myself. I’ll get in the right headspace before I begin.

Minutes vanish. Twenty here. Forty there. I make progress, but distracted progress. I have been the servant the parable of the talents never names (Matthew 25:14-30). Not the one who buries his talent, but the one who settles for less, distracted and half-hearted. The one who gives God something, but not everything. I stop short of what is possible, because I stay too long in distractions He never called me to.

At the end of the day, a strange tension lingers: I did something, but not what I could have. I was present, but not purposeful. And into that fog, The Spirit whispers the sharp edge of God’s Word:

“Therefore be careful how you walk, not as unwise men but as wise, making the most of your time, because the days are evil.” (Ephesians 5:15–16, NASB20)

It didn’t just confront me, it convicted me. I’ve squandered moments. I have not been making the most of my time. I have treated time as if it were mine to spend, as if it could be paused, refunded, or stretched.

“Just One More”

Our world disciples us to distraction. TikTok trains us to live in thirty-second doses. Netflix whispers, ‘Just one more episode.’ Instagram swipes the next reel without your permission. Notifications nudge like needy children tugging at our attention. I find myself opening statuses, not because I’m searching for anything meaningful, but simply to soothe that restless craving for something new.

Everything around us conspires to keep us scrolling, refreshing, checking. Never fully here, never fully satisfied. And somewhere in the middle of it all, is a harsh tyrant: “Just one more”. One more before I start. One more to take the edge off. One more to help me wind down. One more, and then I’ll get serious.

What once might have felt like indulgence now feels like a warm-up or cooling off. This lie, “just one more”, is no innocent phrase. It’s a thief. It doesn’t steal our whole day at once. Just a little here. A little there. Minutes become hours, hours amount to days.

“‘A little sleep, a little slumber, A little folding of the hands to rest,’ Then your poverty will come in like a drifter, And your need like an armed man” (Proverbs 6:10–11, NASB20)

Spiritual poverty doesn’t often come like a storm. It seeps in like a leak. A series of tiny delays. A distracted heart, slowly growing numb. It slowly becomes a pattern. And the pattern becomes a life. And I begin to realise what once felt like small compromises harden into habits. And I must ask: Am I living as though my time belongs to Christ or to my Comfort?

Walking Carefully, Not Carelessly

Paul’s call in Ephesians 5 is not random advice for better scheduling. It flows from the identity he laid out in the previous verses:

“for you were formerly darkness, but now you are Light in the Lord; walk as children of Light” (Ephesians 5:8, NASB95)

Children of light should not stumble through life as if the dark still blinds us. We’re called to walk with awareness, to live eyes-open in a world where time is a contested territory. Why? “Because the days are evil”(v16). The world around us does not drift toward righteousness. The whole world lies in the power of the evil one (1 John 5:19).

And the evil one doesn’t just tempt us to rebel, but to grow complacent. He wins not only through defiance, but through distraction. A thousand tiny detours can still lead to destruction.

“For this reason we must pay much closer attention to what we have heard, so that we do not drift away from it.” (Hebrews 2:1, NASB95)

To float is to drift. If we are not actively redeeming our time for Christ, we are wasting it. Time itself has become a battleground for me. Every moment is either redeemed or squandered.

Let me be clear: this is not a call to fear, panic or godless productivity. The world worships speed, efficiency, and results. It equates worth with output. But God is not impressed with full colour-coded calendars and empty hearts. He is not glorified by activity divorced from adoration.

He desires faithful stewardship. He desires a surrendered living (Romans 12:1). The wise, therefore, are not merely busy; they are purposeful. They work, but are mindful of who they are serving. Always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord their labour is not in vain (1 Corinthians 15:58).

In the Fullness of Time

But for those of us who feel the weight of wasted hours, there is good news: Jesus Christ not only came to save our souls. He also came to redeem our lives. That includes our time.

“But when the fullness of the time came, God sent forth His Son…” (Galatians 4:4, NASB95)

Christ stepped into time. Every moment of his thirty-three years bent perfectly to his Father’s will (John 8:29). He never once wasted a second. Never delayed obedience. Every word, every step, every act aligned with God’s eternal purposes.

And on the cross, he bore the weight of every sin, every squandered hour we’ve ever wasted, every slothful attitude, every distracted day, every neglected duty. In rising again, he didn’t just forgive our past; he freed our present:

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come.” (2 Corinthians 5:17, NASB95)

Now, grace doesn’t make time trivial; it makes it sacred. We redeem time because Christ has redeemed us.

“Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and that you are not your own? For you have been bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body.” (1 Corinthians 6:19–20, NASB95)

Our time is not our own. Every hour belongs to Him because He bought it with His own blood, whether we’re resting or working, in hidden service or seen. Every task now becomes an opportunity for worship.

“Whatever you do… do all to the glory of God.” (1 Corinthians 10:31, ESV)

Redeeming Time from Distraction

To redeem time is to remember who owns it. Time is not our enemy. It is a gift purchased by Christ. The gospel reminds us that every moment is wrapped in grace: our days are numbered by the Father (Psalm 90:12), secured by the Son (Ephesians 1:7), and guided by the Spirit (Romans 8:14). We are no longer slaves to distraction or fear of wasting life, because Jesus has already redeemed us from futility (1 Peter 1:18–19). This changes how we use our hours. In Christ, even ordinary moments can be to God’s glory:

Emails answered in faith, children cared for in love, meals cooked with gratitude, conversations seasoned with grace, work tasks completed with integrity, a prayer whispered between errands in trust, extra hours put in to finish that semester with perseverance, time taken to coach that coworker who just can’t get it yet, a text sent to encourage a struggling friend, patience shown to an impatient child, studying through that difficult passage you’d rather skip, choosing prayer over scrolling.

The gospel frees us from both frantic striving and lazy drifting. We don’t need to prove our worth with productivity, nor surrender it to distraction. Instead, because Christ has already secured our inheritance, we can spend time generously pouring out for others, knowing none of it is wasted in Christ. So how does the gospel reshape the way we spend our days?

1. Begin with grace -We repent of our time wasted through distractions and start the day, reminding ourselves that we work as God’s beloved and place our hours in His hands through prayer (Lamentations 3:22-23).
2. Anchor your day in Scripture - Even a brief, slow reading of God’s Word fixes your heart on what matters most and nourishes your soul (Psalm 119:105).
3. Make Christ part of your ordinary work - Approach tasks, chores, and responsibilities as acts of worship (Colossians 3:23), asking Him to turn duty into delight.
4. Trade scrolling for seeking - When distraction tugs, choose prayer, Scripture, or encouragement instead, remembering your joy is in Christ (John 4:14).
5. Practice gospel interruptions - See unexpected needs and disruptions as opportunities to serve with the patience of Christ (Mark 10:45)
6. Build Sabbath rhythms -Rest in faith, declaring with your pause that Christ holds the world together, not you (Psalm 127:2)
7. End with thanksgiving - Close the day by naming God’s grace in your hours, trusting no moment given to Him was wasted (1 Thessalonians 5:18).

The night is far gone; the day is at hand (Romans 13:12). The end of all things is near (1 Peter 4:7). And the Master is coming. As we set our hope on the grace to be brought to us at His revelation, may he find us awake and sober-minded (1 Peter 1:13), not fearful. But faithful hearts, calendars, and to-do lists alike surrendered to him. Blessed is that servant whom his master will find so doing when he comes (Luke 12:43).

Our Master is not only Glorious, but also Good. For He is not unjust so as to overlook your work and the love that you have shown for his name (Hebrews 6:10). And when He is revealed, and we stand before Him glorified, we will not regret a single moment spent for his glory. For He will say:

‘Well done, good and faithful servant. You were faithful with a few things, I will put you in charge of many things; enter into the joy of your master.’ (Matthew 25:21, NASB20)

Growing up, I was taught that God is holy, and rightly so. His purity, His majesty, His consuming fire-like glory were emphasised in catechism classes, through liturgies, and especially through the sacraments. The wrath of God wasn’t just a doctrine; it felt real and near. Confession and penance made it tangible.

I remember sitting in the confessional, naming my sins, then walking out clutching a prescribed list of prayers, hoping that if I said them right, enough times, and meant them, God would finally be appeased and spare me.

Even prayer felt precarious. I could not imagine approaching the Father directly. A mediator was required. It wasn’t Christ, Mary (I know). And so, unintentionally but effectively, I learned to see the Father as far off: pure, holy, angry, and easily displeased because I am perpetually a sinner.

That view shaped me deeply. Even after coming to true faith in Jesus Christ, a suspicion of God’s grace lingered. I believe in the gospel. I trust Jesus as my Lord and Saviour. But deep down, I imagined Christ standing between me and an angry Father, calming Him down, absorbing His blows, turning away His fury.

It made my Christian life a balancing act: gladly approaching the Father in prayer on my good days, but hesitant and drowning in despair on my worst. I lived as though His love was fragile, easily lost, easily revoked.

How could I rest in His presence if one sinful thought or wrong motive might change His heart toward me? Sometimes that fear drove me harder: more striving for fervent prayers, straining to prove myself. Other times, it crushed me into despair. I knew the cross. But I did not know the Father’s heart.

While reading a book, “Communion with God” by John Owen, with a group of brothers and sisters, I stumbled across a truth I had overlooked for years. It wasn’t anything novel or hidden. It has always been right there:

“For the Father himself loves you…” (John 16:27, NASB95)

That sentence stopped me cold. I had read it before, but this time it felt personal. Clear. Undeniable. The Father Himself loves me. And He has loved me eternally.

The Eternal Love of the Father

John Owen writes,

“The greatest sorrow and burden you can lay on the Father, the greatest unkindness you can do to him is not to believe that he loves you.”

Those words struck me like a thunderclap. All my years of suspicion and striving weren’t just spiritual struggles; they were wounds to the very heart of God, who has loved me far longer and deeper than I dared believe.

By living as if His love were reluctant, fragile, or easily lost, I have been treating the Father’s eternal heart as though it were uncertain. My doubts suggested that His promises could not be trusted, that His affection must be earned, that His love was too thin to bear the weight of my failures.

Long before my fears and failures, long before my first sin, even long before the world itself was formed, He loved. “I have loved you with an everlasting love,” He declares (Jeremiah 31:3). Paul tells us, “He chose us in [Christ] before the foundation of the world… In love he predestined us for adoption to himself as sons” (Ephesians 1:4-5). Before creation. Before sin. Before time itself. He loved.

Love That Does Not Change

You may ask: But what about when I sin?

Many of us live as though God’s love rises and falls with our performance. When we do well, we imagine His smile. When we fail, we fear His love retreats. But this misunderstands both His love and His immutability. God’s unchanging nature doesn’t mean He is distant or cold. It means His love is steady, unshaken by our highs and lows. 

“Every good gift… is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change” (James 1:17).

Owen again writes: “Though we change every day, He does not change. Our love is like a stream that is dried up in summer, but His is like a fountain always flowing.” His love does not flicker like a candle in the wind. It blazes like the sun, unmoved by storm or shadow.

Or you may also ask, what about Ephesians 2:1-3? Did He still love us while we were dead in sin?

Well, if God’s love were dependent on our worthiness, there would be no hope. But the next verse answers your question with breathtaking grace:

“But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ…” (Ephesians 2:4-5, NASB95)

Even while we were spiritually dead, His eternal love was at work, raising us to life in Christ. As one post I saw on Instagram puts it:

When God chose to set His love upon you, He did so with full knowledge of your foolishness.

Every sin, every failure was already accounted for, and yet He loves you still. His love is fixed. The Father Himself loves you. And he never changes.

Calvary’s Love: Expression, Not Cause

This is the staggering beauty of the gospel: the cross is not what makes the Father love us. It is what reveals how deeply He already did. As Owen puts it, 

Christ’s work did not purchase love from the Father, but made a way for that love to reach us without compromising justice.

The cross is where mercy and justice kiss (Psalm 85:10). Or as another hymn declares: “And God’s peace and perfect justice kissed a guilty world in love.”

It is where the Holy Father, who cannot ignore sin, meets the Loving Father, who would not leave us in our guilt. It is the peak revelation of God’s heart, a heart that has always burned with love for His people.

Jesus came, not to persuade the Father to love us, but to reveal the love that was already ours. “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son” (John 3:16). “In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son” (1 John 4:10). The Son was sent because the Father loved us, not so that He might start loving us.

When Jesus went to the cross, He wasn’t twisting the Father’s arm. He was displaying the very heart of the Father. As Jesus Himself said, “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father” (John 14:9). At Calvary, we see not a rift between the Father and the Son, but a perfect unity of purpose and love.

Living in the Father’s Love

If we truly believe that “the Father himself loves us”, it will transform the way we live. This truth is not merely theological; it’s profoundly practical and life-changing.

1. Prayer becomes a delight, not a performance: We come as children to a welcoming Father (Matthew 6:8-9). We can speak freely, knowing you are welcomed, not merely tolerated.

2. Bible reading becomes a letter from a loving Father: His Word is not cold instruction, but a revelation of His affection. We are not just checking boxes. It is a delight.

3. Assurance grows strong and steady: His Love is not fragile or dependent on our performance. Our failures may grieve Him, but in His love, He disciplines us as sons and daughters (Hebrews 12:6). His correction is not the withdrawal of affection but the proof of it. Nothing can separate us from His love (Romans 8:38-39).

4. Sin loses its charm: How can we run after the very things that Christ died to free us from, when we are already embraced by perfect love? We fight sin not to gain His love, but because we are already loved.

5. Love for the church grows: If the Father loves our brothers and sisters, how can we not love them too?

6. Evangelism is fueled: We plead with the world, “See what kind of love the Father has given to us” (1 John 3:1) and be reconciled to God (2 Corinthians 5:20).

7. Perseverance in suffering is strengthened. When trials press hard, we remember that the Father’s love is not withdrawn in the storm. His eternal love steadies us, assuring us that even suffering is woven into His good purposes (Romans 8:28; Hebrews 12:6).

The Father Himself Loves You

I still feel the pull of my old doubts at times. There are days I find myself slipping back into performance mode, wondering if I’ve done enough to stay in the Father’s favour. But then I remember the words of Jesus:

“for the Father Himself loves you, because you have loved Me and have believed that I came forth from the Father” (John 16:27, NASB95)

Because we have believed in Christ, we have believed the Father’s own revelation of His love. Faith receives not only the Son, but also the Father’s heart in sending the Son. John Owen writes:

“The saints have communion with the Father in love… The love of the Father is the fountain from whence all other sweetness flows. This love of God is the first and chief gift, the fountain of all other mercies. He gives all things in love, and nothing in wrath.”

In other words, when you believe in Jesus Christ, you are not only escaping wrath. You are stepping into the eternal current of the Father’s love, the fountain from which every other gift flows.

Saint, have you lived your Christian life with a view of God the Father as distant or disapproving? Have you carried the weight of trying to earn His smile, fearing His love might be withdrawn? Have you measured your worth by your performance rather than His promise? Then let this truth settle deep into your heart: The Father Himself loves you.

Not just the future, sanctified version of you. Not the you that has it all together. Not the polished, put-together you. He has loved the faltering, doubting, stumbling you who is even now being conformed to the image of His Son.

He loved you before time began. He sent His Son because He loves you. And He has given you His Spirit as a guarantee of His love.

Let His eternal love calm your fears, lift your prayers, steady your assurance, ignite your zeal for holiness, and deepen your fellowship. “For the Father himself loves you.” Don’t just read it. Believe it. Receive His Love by Faith.

Believe me, I know the heaviness of heart. The kind that unsettles you deep down and makes your chest tighten. I had crossed the line… again. That resolve I made in prayer, not to look at worthlessness (Psalm 119:37), now lies shattered at my feet. The room feels smaller, as if my own thoughts were cornering me. That inner lawyer in my head called conscience is relentless: How could you? Again? If you really loved God, would you keep falling here?

And then came the thought of what the Holy One might be thinking of me at that moment. Whether His gaze was now filled with disappointment, disgust, or simply disinterest. Was He shaking His head, tired of forgiving me for the same failure? Did He even want to hear from me at that moment?

Then I recall Jesus’ parable of the rocky soil that sprouted quickly but withered under the sun (Matthew 13:20-21). Was that me? Or the covenant Job had made with his eyes “not to look lustfully at a young woman” (Job 31:1). Was I fooling myself? Or like Esau, had I traded away something priceless, something holy, for a moment of appetite, and no amount of tears could undo it (Hebrews 12:17). Was this the moment God would let me walk away, bowl of stew in hand, never to return?

Those are the kind of questions that linger when it comes to a besetting sin, especially sexual sin; the guilt is heavy. It does not leave quickly. It follows you into prayer. It waits for you in silence. It makes you doubt God’s patience. It makes you question His love.

However, I have been quietly learning an important truth in my fight against lust. One that shifts my gaze from my failures. If I am going to fight lust, it wouldn’t be by gritting my teeth harder. Something deeper has to change. Not just my habits and patterns, but my heart. And that is what I want to highlight in Paul’s letter to the Ephesians.

An Unusual Antidote

“But immorality or any impurity or greed must not even be named among you, as is proper among saints; and there must be no filthiness and silly talk, or coarse jesting, which are not fitting, but rather giving of thanks.” (Ephesians 5:3-4, NASB95)

At first glance, “thanksgiving” might seem like an odd alternative to lust and sexual sin. But Paul’s instruction is no accident. Lust and sexual sin are ultimately a matter of ingratitude. It arises when the heart fixates on what it doesn’t have rather than giving thanks for what God has already provided. The soul that is dissatisfied, always reaching for more, is a soul that has forgotten the daily gifts of God’s provisions, His mercy, His presence, His sustaining love.

When I say sexual sin, I don’t just mean the physical act of fornication or explicit pornography. I mean the lustful glance that lingers a moment too long. The quiet fantasy that rewrites reality for my own pleasure. The sexually flirtatious jokes excused as harmless fun. The “accidental” scroll to suggestive tweets. Even the subtle hunger for attention that makes me dress or act in a way meant to provoke desire. The small compromises like double-tapping or zooming in on that revealing picture, replaying that sexual movie scene with fornication or lips pressing in passionate lust, convincing ourselves it’s “just entertainment”. These are often tiny sparks that fuel a larger fire.

Gratitude interrupts that cycle. When the heart dwells on God’s goodness, every craving loses its power. The more I cultivate thanksgiving, the less room there is for lust. In this way, purity isn’t just discipline; it’s the overflow of a thankful heart.

Sexual Sin and the Ungrateful Heart

Paul connects sexual immorality with covetousness: an unholy hunger for what is not mine. Lust is greed dressed in romance or pleasure. It thrives when I’m convinced that I need something beyond His provision to be satisfied. So I reach out for that dirty tweet I know will feed my curiosity, rewatch that movie scene, click that website.

But gratitude pulls sexual sin up by the roots, because gratitude sees God’s goodness clearly and says, “I have more than enough in Him. “ Gratitude opens our eyes to see that God ‘withholds no good thing from those who walk uprightly’ (Psalm 84:11). It notices God’s daily kindnesses as evidence of His generosity. And when my heart is full of gratitude, lust loses its leverage.

Lust grows in the soil of discontentment and thrives in an atmosphere of dissatisfaction. But a heart filled with thanksgiving has no room for the suffocating fumes of discontentment. It refuses the serpent’s whisper, “God is not enough.” A thankful heart remembers the cross, where every spiritual blessing was secured for us in Christ (Ephesians 1:3), and rests in the truth that God’s provision is already more than enough.

Purity After Failure

You may ask, What if I’ve already stumbled sexually? What if lust has won battles in my heart and I feel marked by my past sins? Is there any hope for purity after I’ve fallen?

Oh Yes! I speak as a brother who has known defeat in this battle. Even after coming to know and trust in Jesus, I have repeatedly given in to lustful temptations. I’ve lingered on lustful thoughts, scrolled where I shouldn’t have, and entertained fantasies that left shame behind. Sometimes it felt as if every failure piled itself into a wall between me and God, and I wondered if I could ever truly be free.

The prophet Micah has been a lifeline:

“Do not rejoice over me, O my enemy.
Though I fall, I will rise;
Though I dwell in darkness, the Lord is a light for me.
I will bear the indignation of the Lord
Because I have sinned against Him,
Until He pleads my case and executes justice for me.
He will bring me out to the light,
And I will see His righteousness.” (Micah 7:8–9, NASB95)

Even after failure, God calls us into the light. He forgives, restores, and reshapes our desires. Sexual purity is not a distant ideal reserved for the flawless; it is a grace-filled reality for anyone willing to trust Him again, looking to Jesus, the Author and Perfecter of our Faith (Hebrews 12:2).

The Gospel and the Guilty

This is the staggering hope of the gospel: when I feel crushed by shame after falling again, gratitude begins by looking back to the cross, to Jesus, who loved me and gave Himself for me (Galatians 2:20). The Judge Himself stepped into my place, taking my guilt, every sin I now despise, and paid for it in full, nailing it to the cross (Colossians 2:13–14). There, God did not merely tolerate me; He chose to make me His own at the cost of His Son’s blood (1 Peter 1:18-19).

That means I don’t have to flee from Him when I fail. The very One I’ve sinned against is the One who now pleads my case. I can run to Him, and when I do, I find mercy and grace in my time of need (Hebrews 4:16): a mercy that is new every morning (Lamentations 3:22-23) and grace that trains me to say no to ungodliness (Titus 2:11-12).

Gratitude in the fight for purity isn’t forced or superficial. It doesn’t pretend everything is fine while guilt screams at our conscience. Thanksgiving arises naturally when the guilty sinner calls to mind what Christ has accomplished for them through the cross.

“So, as those who have been chosen of God, holy and beloved, put on a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.” (Colossians 3:12, NASB95)

We fight for holiness not to earn love, but because we already have it. We are chosen in Christ. We are beloved of God. And though sanctification is ongoing, our perfection is already secured (Hebrews 10:14). That identity fuels the battle against lust and impure desires.

Wielding Gratitude Against Lust

If thanksgiving is the Spirit’s weapon against lust, then we must learn to wield it daily. Gratitude is not passive; it is active, a muscle to train, a gaze to shift. Here are a few practical ways I suggest to you:

1. Remember What You’ve Been Rescued From: Without Christ, the wages of my sexual sin was death (Romans 6:23). Gratitude grows when I pause and remember what I’ve been spared from: the ruin, the shame, the bondage. The more vividly I recall my salvation, the less enticing sin will become.
2. Count Your Blessings, Name Them One by One: Recall the mercies of God (Romans 12:1) you’ve received: the Spirit’s presence, Salvation, Grace, Justification, Love, Peace, Hope, Adoption, Inheritance, Assurance, Joy, Comfort, Scripture, Strength in Weakness, Deliverance from Sin, Spiritual Gifts, God’s Sovereignty over your Life, His daily Provision, the Promise of Resurrection, Eternal Life, Glory, Honor, Righteousness, Forgiveness, Reconciliation, the Local Church, Friends, Family, and the list goes on. A heart already full of God’s goodness has less room for lust to seduce.
3. See Sexuality as Sacred Stewardship: 1 Thessalonians 4:3 reminds us that our sexuality belongs to the One who bought us (1 Corinthians 6:19-20). Gratitude says, “Thank You, Lord, for entrusting me with this gift. Help me guard it well.” Lust will not flourish where reverent stewardship reigns.
4. Flee with a Full Heart: Some temptations are not meant to be reasoned with but fled from. Too often, we try to resist while spiritually starving. Fill your heart with Scripture, Prayer, Worship, and Joy in the Lord so that when temptation comes, your soul is already feasting on better things.

Thanksgiving Makes Purity Possible

Scripture teaches that sexual sin is not just a matter of self-control but of gratitude. Why? Gratitude remembers God’s goodness and finds full satisfaction in Him. Sexual purity is not merely about avoiding pornographic content or turning away from a lustful glance, or chastity, for their own sake. Greg Morse writes:

“God offers you something higher: to see his glory. As sure as lust distorts the world, purity reenchants it. As lust dims beauty and hides God’s face in night, purity cleanses our vision and dawns day upon the face of Christ for us to behold him. Our eyes cannot serve two masters.” (Victory that Lasts)

It is about guarding the eyes of our hearts so that we can see Him more clearly, and refusing to trade the glory of His face for the dim, counterfeit pleasures that can only blur our sight.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” (Matthew 5:8, NASB95)

Do we believe it? Do we believe that the pure in heart shall see God? When lust comes knocking, will we fixate on what He withholds, or lift our eyes to all He has given? Will we starve on discontent, or feast on mercies new each morning? And when we fall, will we hide in shame, or run to the cross where every debt was paid?

I know I am still very much in the thick of this battle. I still struggle, and there are days when the pull of sin feels stronger than my resolve. Yet even there, I find that His grace does not grow weary of me. He meets me weary in my struggle, lifts my eyes again, and reminds me that the fight is not in vain.

Gratitude may not erase the struggle overnight, but it does anchor us in the truth that Christ is enough, and He will not let us go. It is not enough to merely refuse ungodliness; let your heart swell with thanksgiving for all Christ has done, until lust finds no air to breathe. For purity, in Christ, is not only possible, it is radiant. It is beautiful.

O Lord, my God,
How often I stumble in the same place.
How often I grieve that I return
to the very sin that I hate.
The weakness of my flesh betrays me.
For I do not do the good I want.
This sin’s grip, its shame, its familiar chains,
presses heavily on my soul.

I confess that I am not strong enough to overcome it.
Prone to wander, prone to leave the God I love,
Do not let me grow comfortable in rebellion.
Do not let me make peace with what nailed You on that tree.
Let my grief over sin be real,
Let it drive me into Your arms, not away.
For Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners,
among whom I am the worst.

When the accuser whispers,
silence him with that old rugged cross,
where I found life at Christ’s expense.
When my own heart condemns me,
lift my eyes to the Righteous One
who stands in my defence.
Jesus, my ad­vo­cate ab­ove,
My friend be­fore the throne of love.

Though I fall,
I will rise again by Your mercy.
Though I sit in darkness,
You will be my light.
Though my sins rise up to condemn me,
The cross declares me free.
Though the enemy mocks my defeat,
I will wait for the God of my salvation,

I praise You, O Father,
For who is a God like you?
A Righteous God who pardons iniquity,
who does not retain anger forever,
who delights to show steadfast love,
who treads sin underfoot.
Cast my sins into the depths of the sea,
and remind me they are remembered no more.

I wait for You, O Lord my God;
My hope is in Your salvation.
Though I walk with a limp from my weakness,
I walk in the light of Your forgiveness.
O Christ, deliver me yet again.
Train my heart to love holiness.
Strengthen my hands to fight temptation.
And keep me until the day when sin is no more.

Oh, how I groan to see that day,
When faith gives way to sight,
When tears are wiped and death is undone.
The fight with sin will cease forever,
and the Lamb will be my everlasting light.
Clothed in white, faultless before Your throne,
I will sing the song of the redeemed,
where grace at last has brought me home.
Amen.

Her eyes towards me seemed different when we crossed paths after the church service. Or maybe it was just me, seeing through the fog of guilt. One careless statement made without malice. Yet I knew the moment it left my lips that I should’ve prayed, “Set a guard, O LORD, over my mouth; Keep watch over the door of my lips.” (Psalm 141:3). I hadn’t meant to wound her. But the damage was done. The conversation kept replaying in my mind. That phrase. My motive. I wasn’t worried about being misunderstood. I was heartbroken and grieved over the rift I had caused in our friendship.

Her silence spoke volumes in the days that followed. Quick hellos. Polite smiles. The warmth seemed to have gone. And in its place, a growing ache in my heart. Not just guilt, but conviction. I had wounded a friend, a sister in the Lord. But the Spirit didn’t let me stay there. He pressed in gently but firmly, refusing to let me rest on the idea that time will just heal.

I sought counsel on how to handle the situation. One Sunday, with trembling hands and a humbled heart, I approached her, called her aside and said the hardest words to say: “…I apologise for my unkind words. I hurt you, and I’m sorry. Please forgive me…”

That experience made me wonder: What if I had never reached out to apologise? What if I let “time heal?” What if she hadn’t forgiven me? What happens when mercy is withheld?

These questions don’t just raise the issue of forgiveness; they spotlight the deeper heart work of reconciliation. Forgiveness and reconciliation are not always the same. But here, I want to focus on the former: Forgiveness.

When Mercy Is Muzzled

Let’s be honest. Forgiveness is not easy. Whether you’re the one confessing or the one absorbing the offence. It often feels like surrender. It humbles our pride. It makes us vulnerable. It leaves us open to being hurt again. But for those in Christ, forgiveness is not weakness. It’s warfare.

“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” (Romans 12:21, NASB95)

Forgiveness is how we overcome the evil done to us without becoming evil ourselves. It’s choosing mercy over vengeance, and grace over bitterness. We’re not surrendering to the offence, we’re surrendering to Christ. In doing so, we overcome evil with the power of His love.

“To withhold forgiveness isn’t just emotional self-protection. It’s a spiritual rebellion.”

Forgiveness is not a feeling. It is gospel obedience. Unforgiveness may feel justified. It may even wear the mask of wisdom: I’m just setting boundaries. I’m just guarding my heart. But underneath, it is quiet resistance to the very grace that saved us. When we cling to the offence, we reject the mercy that was poured out on us.

“For judgment will be merciless to one who has shown no mercy...” (James 2:13, NASB95)

“But if you do not forgive others, then your Father will not forgive your transgressions.” (Matthew 6:15, NASB95)

“…My heavenly Father will also do the same to you, if each of you does not forgive his brother from your heart.” (Matthew 18:35, NASB95)

These are not gentle suggestions. They are sobering warnings. A forgiven people must learn to forgive. Unforgiveness is not neutral. It is spiritual suicide, dressed in the disguise of strength.

Why Forgiveness Can’t Wait

Jesus makes a shocking application when it comes to bitterness, resentment, and unresolved conflict, whether in us or against us:

“Therefore, if you are presenting your offering at the altar, and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your offering… first be reconciled to your brother, and then come and present your offering.” (Matthew 5:23–24, NASB95)

Did you hear that?

The Holy One would rather you walk out of church mid-song than lift your hands in worship while harbouring bitterness or unforgiveness. He would rather you stop your praying, your serving, your singing, or even participating in the Lord’s table if there’s a rift left unreconciled.

Jesus doesn’t treat broken relationships as secondary matters. He calls reconciliation so urgent, so vital, that we must pause our worship to pursue it.

“Therefore I want the men in every place to pray, lifting up holy hands, without wrath and dissension.” (1 Timothy 2:8, NASB95)

To sing while brewing bitterness in the heart or knowingly ignoring a broken relationship is not worship; it’s a performance. And a dangerous one at that.

Bitterness that lingers becomes bitterness that roots. Delay creates space for sin to grow, and for Satan to divide what Christ has united.

“Be angry and do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and give no opportunity to the devil.” (Ephesians 4:26–27, NASB95)

Every church is full of sinners. We will offend, disappoint, and hurt one another. But grace makes us different. Grace makes us forgive and pursue reconciliation. And when forgiveness is delayed or denied, Satan gains a foothold.

The Forgiveness We’ve Received

“But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8, NASB95)

Jesus didn’t wait for us to get our act together. While we were still sinners, still hostile to Him, He went to the cross. Forgiveness isn’t just something we do; it’s something we’ve been given.

“We don’t forgive because the other person deserves it. We forgive because we’ve been forgiven far more.”

When we withhold forgiveness, we reveal that we’ve forgotten this. Or worse, we’ve never truly grasped it. We downplay our own sin and magnify others’ offences. But the cross exposes our self-righteousness. It reminds us that our debt was far greater, and Christ paid it in full.

The good news of the gospel is that Jesus died not just to reconcile us to the Father, but to one another.

“For He Himself is our peace, who made both groups into one and broke down the barrier of the dividing wall… so that in Himself He might make the two into one new person, in this way establishing peace.” (Ephesians 2:14–16, NASB95)

His blood speaks a better word than bitterness. His grace opens the door to restoration. The same Spirit who opened our eyes to mercy gives us the strength to extend it.

The forgiveness we’ve received doesn’t just invite us to forgive, it enables us to forgive. To forgive freely is gospel strength. It is living proof that we’ve tasted grace. That we understand the weight of our sin and the wonder of His mercy.

Those who know grace best are quickest to extend it. So when we find forgiveness difficult, we go back to Calvary. We remember what He’s done for us and let that mercy shape how we extend it to others.

Forgiveness Isn’t One-Sided

We sometimes assume forgiveness is only for the one who’s been hurt. But Scripture places responsibility on both sides.

“…So that on the contrary, you should rather forgive and comfort him, otherwise such a one might be overwhelmed by excessive sorrow.” (2 Corinthians 2:7, NASB95)

Forgiveness is not just about letting go of the offence; it’s about embracing the offender in love. That is Reconciliation (I hope to explore this further in future).

When I asked my friend for forgiveness, she didn’t dismiss me, nor sent me to the purgatory of silent treatment to punish me until my pain was sufficient. She shared how my words had landed on her, forgave me, not performatively, but sincerely. I handed her Skittles, an awkward peace offering, maybe. She assured me with her kindness and warmth. Grace did its quiet work. I walked away, heart lighter, soul humbled.

If you’ve sinned against someone, Scripture calls you to confess. Not with excuses nor qualifications. But clearly. Humbly.

If you’ve been sinned against, you are called to forgive. Not with grudging tolerance, but with gospel grace and assurance to the one seeking it.

How Grace Defeats the Grudge

Grudges feel powerful. They help us protect ourselves, preserve our pride, and punish those who’ve hurt us: silently, passively, and sometimes, even politely. But beneath the surface, grudges don’t guard us; they poison us. They are slow acts of spiritual sabotage, draining our joy, dimming our worship, and distancing us from others and from God. This isn’t just about keeping peace in relationships. It’s about keeping life in our souls.

Grace, on the other hand, does the opposite: It doesn’t harden the heart; it softens it. It doesn’t keep score; it cancels debts. Grace disarms the grudge by pointing us to the cross, where our deepest offences were forgiven at infinite cost.

“A man’s discretion makes him slow to anger, And it is his glory to overlook a transgression.” (Proverbs 19:11, NASB95)

This is glory. This is wisdom. This is freedom. This is Christlikeness.
When we choose to overlook an offence, not by pretending it didn’t hurt, but by releasing it in light of God’s mercy, we reflect the very heart and character of Christ.

So, is there someone you need to talk to? A friend you hurt or who hurt you? A colleague you ignore, a relative who always seems to strike a nerve, a church member you are silently avoiding. Don’t assume time can heal what only grace can.

It may not be easy. It may be messy. Apologies may land clumsily. Tears may come. The other person may not respond as you hope. They may even withhold forgiveness.

But obedience does not wait for outcomes. It rests in God.

“If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men.” (Romans 12:18 NASB 1995)

So Reach out. Send the text. Make the call. Pull them aside after the church service. Speak honestly. Confess clearly. Forgive eagerly. Extend Mercy.

There was a season in my life when suffering didn’t take turns. It came in waves. One after another. It began with unmet expectations: something I had earnestly prayed for, hoped for, waited for, only to watch it unexpectedly fall apart. It was heavy. Crushing. A week later, losing a dear friend. It didn’t feel real. But it was daunting. A few days after the burial, just when I thought I could catch my breath, came Dad’s first memorial. The kind of pain that breaks something inside you that you didn’t know could break. Grief doesn’t check your calendar. I found myself reliving the ache all over again. Then came Babu’s passing. Death, that so-called mighty foe, seemed to hover close, looming in the silence, trying to steal my hope, as though it still had the final say. And yet, each loss still tore through me like a fresh wound.

In the thick of that season, I was stripped of words and willpower. I couldn’t make sense of God’s providence (Read Lord, to whom shall I go?). I couldn’t pray except to groan. I wept. Lamented. Like Jacob wrestling through the night, I contended with God. But unlike Jacob, I didn’t walk away with a blessing. Just a limp. In that silence, the enemy whispered, Maybe God has changed His mind about you. Maybe you are not His afterall. Perhaps you’ve exhausted His mercy. And in my exhaustion, those lies didn’t sound so outrageous. They sounded eerily possible.

Unlike Asaph, my feet stumbled. Weariness made compromise feel justifiable. The guards I had once held up against sin were quietly lowered. I indulged. I found myself echoing David’s words in 2 Samuel 15:26, “Let him do to me whatever seems good to him”. It wasn’t a declaration of trust. It was a defeat. At the time, those words were not Holy. They were not brave. They sounded more like ‘kama mbaya, mbaya’, the Kenyan shrug of passive resignation. A spiritual sigh. A helpless, bitter acceptance that God is too big to fight and too mysterious to understand. I wasn’t resting in His sovereignty. I was collapsing under it.

A Dangerous Kind of Surrender

It’s possible to say the right thing with the wrong heart. That’s what I did.

David spoke those words in deep sorrow, on the run from Absalom, his own son. His kingdom was crumbling. His closest friends were betraying him. His heart was breaking. And yet he said,

“But if He should say thus, ‘I have no delight in you,’ behold, here I am, let Him do to me as seems good to Him.” (2 Samuel 15:26, NASB95)

At first glance, it feels like spiritual apathy. But David wasn’t shrugging God off, he was laying himself down. There’s a difference. One is giving up because we feel God doesn’t care. The other is giving in because we know He does.

“Then the Lord said, ‘Because this people draw near with their words And honor Me with their lip service, But they remove their hearts far from Me…’” (Isaiah 29:13, NASB95)

That was me. I knew how to sound surrendered, but inside, I was still holding back, uncertain if God was truly for me in that season.

What Changed?

The weight didn’t lift all at once. But slowly, quietly, God began shifting my perspective, not by removing my suffering, but by revealing His character.

I began to search, not for reasons, but for who God is. The Sovereign One who wounds and binds up (Job 5:18). The Shepherd who walks with us through the valley of the shadow of death (Psalm 23:4). The compassionate Lord who, though He causes grief, will still have compassion according to His steadfast love (Lamentations 3:32). The Man of Sorrows acquainted with grief (Isaiah 53:3).

During a seminar themed “The J-curve”, I came across the book The Sweet Side of Suffering by M. Esther Lovejoy, which helped me know and understand His character in seasons of suffering. The more I looked at Him, the more my “whatever seems good to Him” became less of a throwaway phrase and more of a prayer of faith.

I started to see that He is not just Powerful, He is Wise. He is not just Sovereign, He is Kind. He is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit (Psalm 34:18). He is faithful in every season, a refuge in the day of trouble (Nahum 1:7). He does not grow weary, nor does He forget His own.

The God Who Sees

I think of Hagar, alone in the wilderness, carrying pain no one else saw, and how in that moment, God revealed Himself not as distant or indifferent, but as El Roi, “The God who sees” (Genesis 16:13).

And here is the mercy: even when our surrender is messy, even when it starts as bitter resignation, God sees. He does not despise the one who breaks down before trusting. He receives even the smallest seed of faith and grows it (Matthew 17:20). That is what He did for me.

“A bruised reed He will not break, and a dimly burning wick He will not extinguish…” (Isaiah 42:3, NASB95)

Over time, my limp turned into a lean. I began to lean not just on what I wanted God to do for me, but on who He had proven Himself to be: Faithful (Deuteronomy 7:9), Tender (Psalm 103:13–14), True (John 14:6), A Father to the fatherless (Psalm 68:5). A Fortress for the weary (Psalm 18:2). A Comforter who does not grow tired of comforting (2 Corinthians 1:3–4)

Now, when I say, “Let Him do to me whatever seems good to Him,” I mean it differently. I mean:

“Even here, even now, I trust that You are good and You do good. When I don’t understand Your Hand, I will trust Your Heart.”

That kind of surrender is not weak. It is not passive. It is the bravest thing we can do in that moment. Because it says, “I know who You are. And even in this, I’m Yours, and I trust you.”

The God Who Saves

But more than seeing, God stepped in.

The hope I’ve come to know is not just that God notices our pain, it is that He entered it. Jesus, God in the flesh, did not stay distant from sorrow. He became acquainted with it. He wept. He was rejected. He suffered loss. And ultimately, He took on the deepest ache of all: our sin.

On the cross, Jesus bore what we could not carry: not just grief, but guilt. Not just wounds, but judgment. He died the death we deserved, so that we could live the life we never could earn. And in rising again from the dead, He did not just give us comfort, He gave us Himself.

This is the heart of the Gospel: that while we were still sinful, still broken, still wrestling, still unsure how to surrender, Christ died for us (Romans 5:8). He didn’t wait for our faith to be strong or our words to be right. He met us in the mess. He made a way.

And because of Him, surrender doesn’t have to be bitter. It can be safe.

“The hands we are falling into are scarred with love. They are strong enough to hold the universe and gentle enough to hold us.”

From Resignation to Rest

In that season of suffering, at first, I thought I was surrendering. But really, I was just giving up. My version of “Let Him do to me whatever seems good to Him” was not born from faith; it was fatigue. I wasn’t saying, “God, I trust You.” I was saying, “I’m tired of fighting.” And while that might look similar on the outside, the heart behind it matters deeply.

Resignation says, “God is too powerful to resist, so I might as well stop trying.” Rest says, “God is too wise and loving to doubt, so I’ll place myself fully in His hands.” One is bitter. The other is brave.

I had to learn that true rest does not come from giving up on what I wanted. It comes from giving myself fully to the One who truly knows what I need. It is the rest that only comes when we stop demanding answers and start clinging to the character of God. He reminded me that even that season was appointed by Him for my good. I thought I could not handle all the losses and the pain that came with them. But then He reminded me:

“No temptation has overtaken you but such as is common to man; and God is faithful, who will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will provide the way of escape also, so that you will be able to endure it.” (1 Corinthians 10:13 NASB95)

In time, I started looking not for an explanation, but for His face. I needed to know: Is He still good, even when life isn’t? And He was. He is. I no longer say David’s words with a shrug. I say them with a settled soul: “Let Him do to me whatever seems good to Him.”