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Called to Serve

Listen … Yesterday, when I walked through my door, something in me broke open— not gently, but like a flood  that could no longer be restrained. No language could carry it. Only tears—raw, unfiltered, the kind that rise  from the soul’s deepest chambers. I released it all. The quiet disappointments I buried, the subtle wounds of disrespect, the heaviness of discontentment  I carried longer than I should have. I laid it down—fully. For so long, I’ve been measuring my life by missteps, replaying failures like they were sacred scripts, standing knee-deep in what went wrong, as if pain was proof of my worth. But today… something shifted. I turned the lens. I recalculated. I gathered the evidence of grace. And what I found— brought me to tears all over again, but this time, they were holy. The seeds I’ve been entrusted to nurture— they are not just growing… they are flourishing. Those once hidden in the shadows— timid, uncertain, unseen— are now rising. There is a fire in them...
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All In

Yesterday wasn’t just a moment— it was a divine collision. The kind that shifts something eternal within you. The kind you don’t come back from the same. I stood at the foot of that mountain— one last time. Not begging. Not bargaining. But declaring. I told God,  “This is it.” And for the first time in a long while… my spirit matched my words. There is no residue of pity left in me. No fragments of doubt clinging to my bones. What once felt heavy… has lost its authority. It was as if the final thread snapped— the last tie to who I used to be. And in that breaking… I didn’t fall. I  emerged. Free. Not halfway. Not temporarily. But  completely, undeniably free. All glory belongs to God— because I didn’t untangle myself. I didn’t orchestrate this release. God’s hands were in every knot, every delay, every silent season. Call it what you want— a breakthrough, a rebirth, a reckoning — but there is no contradiction here... No hypocrisy this way! This was never about perfectio...

Do Not Resuscitate (DNR)

What unsettles me most about some people is not the harm they cause— but the silence that follows it. No conviction. No trembling. No evidence that a soul was ever stirred. As if something sacred once lived there… and quietly left. What remains is form without fire. A body that breathes, but does not  feel . A Walking corpse. Spiritually vacant,  yet socially skilled— fluent in imitation, but foreign to truth. They move through people like weather— touching everything, anchoring nowhere. I once mistook that emptiness for mystery. Confused detachment with depth. Thought restraint was discipline, when it was really disconnection. But there was  no rootedness in him— only appetite. An endless hunger dressed as desire. A man grazing on bodies, scrolling through souls like they were disposable moments. Not searching. Not building. Just consuming— to quiet something unnamed within him. Unhealed wounds don’t stay still. They wander. From bed to bed, from face to face, from high ...