When Words Are Not Enough: Finding Integrity and Hope in Pastoral Care

 

God is near!

God is merciful!

God is enough!

These three truths have become an anchor for me. As a pastor, I often struggle to find the right balance between comfort and integrity, between offering hope and calling people to responsibility. There are moments, especially in counselling or at a funeral, when words feel both necessary and inadequate.

Let me share how I’m learning to live with that tension.

Henri Nouwen once said that caregivers are called to be “living reminders of God’s presence,” not spokespersons for the afterlife. That reminder has shaped the way I see my role. We provide no comfort by guessing someone’s eternal destiny; I believe it comes from pointing the living toward the God who remains faithful and present, even in death (dark and lonely moments).

The Pastor’s calling is not to declare where the deceased is, but to hold up the hope that God’s mercy is bigger than our understanding. I am convinced that when we speak from that place, we open doors of grace rather than condemnation.

Our task is not to secure heaven for some and others not. Our tasks is to open the door to Christ, the one who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. When we do that, we make space for both grief and grace, for mystery and mercy to live side by side. So that in the paradoxes of life we find The God of Peace.

The same is true in pastoral counselling. We must resist the urge to hand out eternal verdicts on those who struggle, fail, or doubt. Our role is not to assign destinations but to walk alongside people. David Bosch reminds us that mission, and therefore ministry, is about joining the movement of God’s love towards people. It is not a performance of divine authority but a sharing in divine compassion.

And this, I believe, is where the heart of pastoral care truly lies… in the quiet, faithful work of presence. We are called to stand beside people in their questions, to remind them that God is still at work even when the answers are unclear. When we learn to trust that truth, something shifts inside us too.

If we can learn to trust God with the dead, then surely we can trust God with the living. That is where true comfort begins. We do not bring peace by explaining the mysteries of eternity, but by standing faithfully within them, pointing people again and again to the God who is near, merciful, and enough.

21 Years

 

 Twenty-one years, my love.

 That’s a lot of days

a lot of mornings waking up

and still choosing each other.

 

We’ve had good days,

days full of laughter and light,

days when love felt easy.

And we’ve had hard days,

when the weight was heavy,

and words weren’t enough.

 

We’ve been blessed with joy

three beautiful children,

living reminders

that love grows and multiplies.

 

And we’ve walked through loss.

The kind that marks you forever.

Saying goodbye to  our little boy

was a grief too deep for words.

Fifteen months of love

and then a lifetime of missing.

Yet even in that valley,

Grace carried us.

 

Through laughter and tears,

through dreams and heartbreak,

God has held us.

His faithfulness has been our anchor,

His grace, the glue

that’s kept us here,

still standing,

still us.

 

So today, as we celebrate twenty-one years,

I don’t just see love

I see faithfulness.

I see survival.

I see grace written

all over our story.

 

And I see you.

Still beside me.

Still the one I choose.

Still the love of my life.

The Legacy We Leave: Investing in Each Other

Yesterday, I watched my friend - a young man, in his early twenties, mourn the loss of his father. His dad was a great man, respected in his community, devoted to his family, and admired by those who knew him. But what struck me most was not his list of accomplishments or the stories people shared about him. What struck me was the strength I saw in my friend as he grieved.

Though his heart was heavy, he stood as a pillar of comfort and support for the rest of his family. He was able to carry them, even while carrying his own sorrow. And as I reflected on it, I realized: he was only able to do this because of the investment his parents had made in him.

We live in a world that often measures success by what we accumulate… money, possessions, achievements, recognition. But the truth is, none of these things last. What truly endures is the way we treat people. I heard it said that people hardly remember what you did for them but they almost never forget how you made them feel.

When Jesus taught His disciples, He reminded them:

“Store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal.” (Matthew 6:20)

Treasures in heaven are not bank accounts or trophies… They are the lives we touch, the people we nurture, and the love we give away. My friend’s father had invested deeply in his children and in those of us who cared enough to listen. He taught them (us) faith, resilience, and compassion. He modelled what it means to lead a family with grace. And now, even in death, that investment continues to yield fruit.

Here's my thoughts…

Legacy is not about leaving behind monuments; it’s about leaving behind people who embody your values.

The Apostle Paul put it this way when he wrote to Timothy: “And the things you have heard me say in the presence of many witnesses entrust to reliable people who will also be qualified to teach others.” (2 Timothy 2:2)

Paul understood that true legacy multiplies. It’s not only what you teach, it’s how what you teach lives on in others. My friend’s father entrusted values and faith to his son, and now, in a time of crisis, those seeds are blossoming.

Watching my friend, I realized that grief and legacy walk hand in hand. Death is painful, but a strong legacy softens the blow. We cry, but we also remember. We mourn, but we also stand a little taller because of the shoulders we are standing on.

This experience left me asking myself: What am I investing in the people around me?

Am I so caught up in my own world, my to-do lists and my goals that I forget to spend time with those I love? Am I more focused on what I leave to people (money, possessions) than on what I leave in people (values, faith, love)?

We are called to be a people that empowers:

Parents invest in their children not only by providing but by being present.

Friends invest in each other by showing up, listening, and encouraging.

Churches invest in communities by teaching, equipping, and serving.

Each moment of kindness, each word of encouragement, each lesson shared is a deposit into someone’s life. These investments compound. They outlive us. They shape generations.

My friend reminded me that inheritance is more than wealth. In fact, the greatest inheritance is not financial at all. Proverbs 13:22 says, “A good man leaves an inheritance to his children’s children.”

That inheritance is wisdom, courage, faith, and compassion. The kind of riches that cannot be stolen or devalued.

When my friend stood strong in the middle of his grief, it was clear he had inherited far more than property or possessions. He had inherited a spiritual and emotional wealth that now allows him to carry others. That is the kind of inheritance we should all strive to leave.

As I watched my friend honor his father through his own strength, I was reminded that life is about more than what we get, it’s about what we give.

One day, people will gather to remember us. They will not remember how busy we were, how many things we owned, or how high we climbed. They will remember how we loved, how we invested in others, and how we shaped the lives around us.

My friend’s father is gone, but his life continues to bear fruit through the son who now stands as a pillar for his family. That is the beauty of investment. That is the power of legacy.

This week, be intentional about investing in someone. Listen deeply. Encourage sincerely. Teach generously. Love sacrificially.

Because the legacy you build today will become the strength someone leans on tomorrow.

My Silence Does Not Mean Retreat or Surrender: It's Just Me Healing

This is me… I am a man in grief. Grieving the loss of loved ones, friendships, and even parts of my identity I once held dear. The noise of grief is overwhelming—it’s loud, relentless, and at times, it feels like it’s killing me. It’s the kind of noise that drowns out clarity, peace, and even hope. So I’ve chosen silence—not as a retreat or surrender—but as a way to heal. 

For me, silence is not about giving up; it’s about stepping back to breathe, to reflect, and to confront the chaos within. It’s about creating space to listen—not to the noise of the world or even my own pain—but to something deeper. In this silence, I’m learning to face the thoughts and emotions I’ve been avoiding. 

I’ve realized that silence doesn’t mean I’m doing nothing; it means I’m doing the hard work of healing. It’s a deliberate choice to step away from toxic environments and unhelpful conversations so I can focus inward. It’s a space where I can process my grief, my anger, my confusion—and begin to understand what these feelings are trying to teach me. 

But let me be honest: when I choose silence, people often assume I’m retreating or giving up. They might think I’m weak or that I’ve surrendered to the weight of my circumstances. That couldn’t be further from the truth. My silence is not an act of defeat—it’s an act of survival. It’s me saying, “I need this time to heal.”   

Psalm 46:10 says, “Be still, and know that I am God.” As a Christian and Pastor, this verse has always been familiar to me—a call to step out of harm’s way and find refuge in God during life’s storms. But lately, as I sit in my grief and silence, this verse has taken on new meaning for me. 

This isn’t just about escaping external harm; it’s about stepping out of my own way. The greatest noise I face right now isn’t coming from outside—it’s coming from within me. It’s the noise of my grief, my doubts, my fears, and the questions that keep swirling in my mind: “Why did this happen? What do I do now? Who am I without them?” 

Silence has forced me to confront these questions head-on—to sit with them long enough to hear God’s voice amidst the chaos. And what I’m learning is that being still doesn’t mean avoiding pain; it means trusting God enough to face it. It means acknowledging that He is God—and that my struggles, my ego, and even my grief are not worth the worship I sometimes give them.

This isn’t easy for me to admit because vulnerability has never come naturally to me. But in this silence, I’m learning that healing requires honesty—honesty with myself and with God. 

Grief is messy; healing is slow; and silence is uncomfortable. But it’s necessary for me right now. In this season of loss—loss of loved ones, loss of friendships, loss of identity—I need silence more than ever. It’s not about shutting out the world; it’s about creating space for healing.

In this silence, I’m confronting both internal and external demons—the doubts that haunt me at night and the wounds others have inflicted on me during the day. And while it feels like a battle some days, it also feels like surrender—not surrendering to pain but surrendering to God’s presence in the midst of it all.

I don’t have all the answers yet—I may never have them—but what I do have is faith that God is working in this silence even when I can’t see it clearly.

So if you see me quiet right now—if you notice me withdrawing—it’s not because I’ve given up or retreated from life. It’s because I’m doing what I need to do to heal. This silence is sacred for me; it’s where I’m finding strength again.

I don’t know how long this season will last—grief doesn’t follow a timeline—but for now, this is just me healing. And maybe you’re in your own season of silence too—grieving your own losses or wrestling with your own demons.

If you are, let me encourage you: don’t be afraid of the quiet moments. Step back if you need to; sit still long enough to hear God for who He truly is—and let your silence be a space where healing begins.

This is where I am right now—grieving but trusting God for healing in the midst of it all. This is just me healing…and maybe it can be you too.

A Reminder: Grief Will Always Be Part of Me

I’ve been thinking a lot lately — and honestly, writing these blogs often becomes my way of processing what’s swirling around in my head and heart. Today, I want to share something that keeps coming up for me: grief isn’t something that goes away. It becomes part of who I am.

There was a time when I thought grief was a season. Something I’d "get through" or "move past." But now I realize it’s more like a companion — sometimes loud, sometimes quiet, but always walking with me. "

I’m not writing this from some place of "all better now." I'm writing as someone who still sometimes tears up in unexpected moments, who still misses what was lost, who still has days of heavy sighs. And maybe you do too.

C.S. Lewis in his book "A Grief Observed" is quoted to say, “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning” For me grief isn’t just sadness or pain or even a fear. It’s a shift. It’s learning how to live in a world that’s been rearranged, without asking me if I was okay with the change. It’s messy, unpredictable, and not something that fits neatly into timelines or checklists. As a matter of truth (for me), we are kind of forced to stumble forward. We must realize that this is not a sprint; we stumble along, and shuffle along and sometimes just press pause (rest to find strength), but we keep going. WE MUST KEEP GOING FORWARD.

I’ve come to see that grief shapes the way I see the world now. It’s made me softer in some places and maybe a bit guarded in others. It’s deepened my empathy for others who are hurting. It’s changed the way I love — with a little more urgency, a little more tenderness. But in the spirit of being honest, I must admit that it has also made me ultra-sensitive and irritable. Mostly, I think it has given me reminders, etched into my soul, of the people and moments that mattered so deeply. Those reminders are bittersweet, but they’re sacred. It’s those reminders that make the difficult and hard moments bearable.

I used to think I needed to push grief away or fix it. Now I let it sit with me. Sometimes it whispers; sometimes it doesn’t say anything at all. But it's there, and I don’t try to shoo it away anymore. Instead, I try to learn from it. I speak up (thank God for a patient wife) and voice my discomfort at my table, but I have to acknowledge its presence.

• I’ve learned that my tears aren’t weakness (as frustrating as it might be). They’re proof of love.
• I’ve learned that talking about my losses doesn’t reopen wounds; it helps heal them in layers.
• And I’ve learned that I can laugh, plan, hope, and still carry grief with me. There’s room for both.

Probably the hardest of all is the tension between holding on and moving forward. But I don’t believe in "moving on" anymore. Instead, I believe in walking forward, carrying my grief like a story I tell with love and reverence. Sometimes that means lighting a candle on a hard anniversary. Sometimes it’s writing here, hoping that someone reads this and knows that they are not alone.

Grief reminds me that I’ve loved deeply. It reminds me that life is fragile, fleeting, and beautiful. And while grief will always be part of me, it doesn’t define me. It shapes me — sometimes painfully, but also beautifully.

So, if you’re carrying grief today, I hope this little piece of my heart reminds you: you’re not alone. We’re stumbling forward together. And in the midst of all of it, there is still hope, still beauty, and still moments of light.

We keep going. We stumble forward.

A Pastor's Reflection - through Grief’s lens and Life’s Mirror

Grief has a way of reshaping us, carving out lessons in the most unexpected ways. Some of these lessons come swiftly, like a lightning bolt of clarity, while others linger, unfolding slowly over time. This morning brought one such moment of reflection—a learning curve that left me questioning not just the nature of loss but the essence of who I am.

A dear friend made a profound observation during a conversation about ministry and loss. He said, "Loss comes with the territory of ministry, but perhaps the worst loss is the loss of self." He went further to clarify that this loss should not be confused with self-denial. His words struck a chord deep within me, sending my thoughts spiraling into introspection.

This morning, I found myself standing in front of the mirror, staring at my own reflection. The man looking back at me was familiar yet strangely foreign. His face bore the marks of time spent in ministry—lines etched by sermons preached, prayers lifted, and lives touched. But as I searched his eyes, an unsettling question gnawed at my soul: Who is this? … is this me? … who am I? Who have I become? Am I more than what I can see?

The Gospel echoed in my mind, a verse I’ve preached countless times: “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me” (Luke 9:23). This passage has always been foundational to my understanding of discipleship. Yet today, it felt deeply personal—uncomfortably so. Have I truly denied myself for Christ? Or have I simply traded one version of myself for another… one more acceptable to others of even to myself?  Worse still, was I losing myself entirely in an effort to meet expectations and please others?

My friend’s comment brought clarity to a distinction I had not fully considered before: denying self versus losing yourself. These concepts may seem similar on the surface but are profoundly different in their implications.

- Denying Self: At its core, self-denial is an intentional act of surrender—a relinquishing of personal desires and ambitions for the sake of Christ and His kingdom. It is a choice made daily to follow Him wholeheartedly, even when it costs us comfort or convenience. True self-denial is rooted in love and devotion; it is not about erasing who we are but about aligning our identity with God's purpose.

- Losing Yourself: Losing oneself, on the other hand, is far less intentional (maybe, more incidental) and often far more damaging. It happens gradually, as we pour ourselves out for others without replenishing our own spirit. Strangely enough, it could also be an unconscious act of trying to protect yourself… It can stem from trying too hard to meet expectations or sacrificing our authenticity in an attempt to please people. Unlike self-denial, losing oneself can leave us feeling empty, disconnected from our true identity—a shadow of who we once were.

Ministry is a calling that demands much—time, energy, compassion, and sacrifice. It is a privilege to serve others and share God’s love with them. Yet it also carries risks if we are not careful. The danger lies in pouring out so much that we forget to nurture our own soul. We can become so consumed with serving others or even with protecting “the Ministry” that we lose sight of who we are in Christ.

This morning’s reflection reminded me that ministry should never come at the cost of losing oneself entirely. Yes, we are called to deny ourselves for Christ’s sake—to lay down our lives in service to Him—but this does not mean abandoning our identity or neglecting our own spiritual health.

As I stood before the mirror today, searching for answers, I realized that rediscovering myself is not about reclaiming who I used to be but about embracing who God has called me to become. It’s about finding balance—learning to deny myself without losing myself entirely.

To do this requires intentionality:

- Spending time alone with God to reconnect with His purpose for my life.

- Setting boundaries in ministry to protect my emotional and spiritual well-being.

- Remembering that pleasing others should never take precedence over pleasing God.

- Trusting that my worth is not defined by what I do but by who I am in Him.

Grief has taught me many lessons—about loss, resilience, faith—and today it reminded me of something crucial: that even as I serve others through ministry, I must guard against losing myself along the way. Denying oneself for Christ is noble and necessary; losing oneself entirely is neither.

As I continue this journey of faith and service, I pray for wisdom to discern the difference—and grace to embrace both self-denial and self-discovery in equal measure. For in Christ alone lies my true identity—the reflection staring back at me through grief’s lens and life’s mirror.

Unspoken Reality of Ministry: Friendship and Loss

I don’t particularly enjoy what I’m about to share, but I believe it’s an essential truth to confront.

One of my Heroes of Faith and in Ministry is the Rev. John Wesley. He once said, “Holy solitaries' is a phrase no more consistent with the Gospel than holy adulterers. The Gospel of Christ knows no religion but social; no holiness but social holiness.” Wesley emphasized that Christianity—and by implication, Ministry—is inherently relational. Ministers are not meant to operate in isolation but within a supportive Community.

Loss doesn’t only occur when loved ones pass away; it happens as we navigate life itself. Having served as a Pastor for the past 24 years, I've come to realize that alongside the steadfast pillars of Faith and Family, another constant companion in ministry life is the all too familiar feeling of loss.

The Ministry of Word and Sacraments demands sacrifices that few outside this calling truly understand. Perhaps the most painful sacrifice is the continual loss of deep friendships. Ministry is inherently relational—at least for me—which paradoxically makes building genuine friendships more complicated rather than easier. The very ability that enables you to form profound bonds with others and build community is also the source of deep heartache when someone leaves your church—and, inevitably, your life.

I’ve seen very good friendships that began with great promise fall apart or break due to changing circumstances, shifting church dynamics, or the unavoidable collision between my pastoral role and personal connections... I think every honest Pastor might agree—at least to some extent—that this is one of the hidden costs of ministry. Over time, a strange hesitancy develops—a reluctance to fully let your guard down. This protective instinct doesn’t stem from distrust but from experience.

Believe it or not, Pastors feel loss deeply, even if we hide it well—or sometimes not at all. I once heard someone say that pastors are forced to be actors: they must act strong when they feel weak and endure humiliation so that others may feel better about themselves…I think that there’s truth in that statement. While the pastoral role requires emotional resilience, it doesn’t make us immune to pain. Every goodbye, every fractured relationship, every unmet expectation leaves its mark on us.

Ministry is a calling filled with joy and purpose but also with sacrifice and heartache. It’s a delicate balance—pouring out love while guarding your heart, building relationships while bracing for inevitable losses. Yet through all this, I’ve learned something profound: the pain of loss doesn’t diminish the value of connection; it highlights its importance. Even when friendships fade or circumstances change, the moments shared remain meaningful and significant.

I close with a quote from another one of my heroes of faith, Father Henri Nouwen: “To live a spiritual life we must first find the courage to enter into the desert of our loneliness and to change it by gentle and persistent efforts into a garden of solitude.” Perhaps the solution to the challenge of loss in relationships lies in our ability to transition from our deserts of loneliness to gardens of solitude—a place where peace can flourish amid pain.

To my fellow Pastors and those in Ministry: you’re not alone in feeling this way. And to those outside of ministry who may not fully understand—thank you for your grace and patience as we navigate this complex journey of Faith, Service, and Relationships.

Seek the Light

Sometimes I think I underestimate the trauma caused by grief and or loss. The loss of a loved one leads us to question our beliefs about the nature of humanity, the meaning of life, and the role of God… Our sense of security is often shattered. We tend to  feel helpless, vulnerable, and often defeated.

Trauma is often defined by experts as a distressing or disturbing experience. It is disruptive and often disillusioning, causing us to question and even doubt things we once perceived as obvious and normal. Grief, especially when it follows a traumatic loss (By the way, I think, any loss is traumatic in its own way), can be particularly challenging. Traumatic bereavement occurs when the natural grieving process is disrupted due to the traumatic nature of the death, leading to intense emotions like fear, anxiety, guilt, anger, or shame.

A loss of any kind can shatter our assumptions about the world, making it seem unpredictable and unsafe. It often leads to ruminations about the death, with questions like "Why did this happen?" or "Could it have been prevented?" These thoughts can be overwhelming and may lead to feelings of guilt and self-blame, even when there is no fault involved.

Lately, I am discovering that trauma, loss and grief (whatever term you prefer) can also give us or lead us towards Hope. The activist and church leader, Bishop Desmond Tutu, once said something along the lines of "Hope is the ability to see the light no matter how dark it may seem." I may be misquoting, but it expresses what I hope to convey… Finding Hope is a choice to look for Light in all circumstances.

Attending my Dad's funeral was one of the toughest moments I experienced in a long while, yet it filled me with so much hope. Daddy’s life seemed to be filled with so much light amidst the dark tunnels or moments. Listening to and seeing how a simple person, who some might have condemned or seen as insignificant, offered so much light to the world, was truly inspiring. My dad's ability to always get up and fight one more time despite the obstacles, his ability to admit his flaws and own his mistakes and thus overcome them, gives me hope. It provides a guiding light through the dark valley of death.

I must pause here and say that my dad never claimed to be deserving of this light. He always reminded me that Christ is the Light. Could this be what actually illuminated his light as a beacon for his family to imitate and follow? Christ's light best shines through humble vessels that surrender to Him, I suppose.

In the end, dealing with grief and trauma is not easy, but it can lead us to profound insights and a deeper understanding of hope. By embracing our vulnerabilities and seeking support, whether through faith, therapy, or community, we can navigate the darkest moments and find a way forward. As we move through the grieving process, we can honor the memory of our loved ones by living our lives with purpose and hope.

Reflections on Caregiving and Grief

I have the honor and privilege, granted by the grace of God, to play a small part in caring for my Dad. A little more than a year ago, Daddy was diagnosed with cancer and declared terminal by doctors.

I cherish the opportunity to sit by Daddy’s bedside from time to time. I do not consider this a small thing; it is truly a privilege that not many get to experience.

As I sat next to Daddy’s bed last night, watching him wrestle in his sleep, I found myself reflecting on my Daddy’s battle with cancer. A whirlwind of emotions overwhelm me. Memories of my mother’s illness, when I was just 15 years old, flooded back, my Mother in-laws passing less then 2 months ago reminds me of life’s fragility and the weight of grief.

 Both Mom and Mommy fought bravely against the challenges of their sicknesses but eventually succumbed due to complications related to their sicknesses. As a son, I witnessed their strength and faith firsthand.

Now, facing the possibility of losing my father, I feel both scared and weary. The doctor advised me to research end-of-life symptoms. While this knowledge is essential, it is also daunting. As my father enters this final stage, I need to be aware of certain signs:

-  Exhaustion and Weakness: I’ve noticed Daddy becoming increasingly fatigued, often preferring sleep over engaging in conversations or activities we once enjoyed together.

-  Loss of Appetite: His interest in food has diminished significantly, which is heartbreaking to witness.

-  Changes in Breathing: I’ve read about irregular breathing patterns and the “death rattle,” and the thought of experiencing that fills me with dread.

-  Confusion or Delirium: Daddy has always been a numbers guy—a dreamer and a “make it happen” kind of person. The idea that he might lose that part of himself and become confused is terrifying; yet, it is slowly becoming our new reality. 

- Physical Changes: Watching him lose weight and vitality serves as a stark reminder that time is slipping away.

 Understanding these symptoms helps me prepare for what lies ahead, but it doesn’t lessen the emotional burden I carry.

As a Pastor, I strive to be a pillar of strength for others, but right now, I feel vulnerable. Admitting this is tough; I feel I can’t be both vulnerable and strong. Others need me, yet this journey is exhausting. It weighs heavily on me—especially after having to leave my father while he is unwell to conduct memorial services or counselling sessions for dear congregants and their families. It is difficult, but I must admit that the bereaved families inspired me; their tears mirrored some of my own fears—I can’t help but think, “what if we are next?” At the same time the "break away" from Daddy's sickbed helps me regroup and find courage... yet even saying that makes me feel... guilty... I guess... don't know...

In these moments of despair, confusion, and a strange  hopefulness I’ve  learned to find some solace in certain practices:

-   Seeking Support: Connecting with fellow pastors, family and friends who understand this journey has been invaluable. Sharing my fears and experiences provides a sense of community that reminds me I’m not alone. My wife has been my pillar of strength… having just stood at the graveside of her mother, she still finds the time and energy to support me.

 -  Prioritizing Self-Care: It’s easy to neglect my own needs while caring for my father and others. However, I’m learning that taking time for myself—whether through prayer, meditation, or simply enjoying a good cup of coffee—is essential for recharging my spirit.

-  Leaning on My Faith: My faith has always been a source of strength. In prayer, I find comfort and guidance. Trusting in God’s goodness and grace helps me navigate this tumultuous season.

-    - Honoring My Parent’s Memory: Reflecting on the bravery of my mother, mother in-law and inspires me to embody that same resilience. They taught me the importance of never giving up, even when faced with life’s harshest realities.

Daddy’s cool demeanor and playful nature—steadfast in his faith—encourage me to hold on, press on, and remember to find humor even in tough times.

As I grapple with the impending loss of my father, it’s crucial for me to acknowledge both my pain and the love surrounding us. Each moment spent with him is precious; every shared memory is a treasure.

In this journey through grief, I remind myself that it’s okay to feel weak—this vulnerability is part of being human. As I navigate these difficult waters, I hold onto hope and faith. My father has shown immense strength throughout his illness, and as his youngest son (Baba Seun), I strive to honor his legacy by remaining steadfast in love and support.

While the road ahead may be fraught with challenges, it also presents an opportunity for profound connection... Connecting to God and others.

By preparing myself with knowledge about end-of-life signs and leaning into my faith community for support, I can find a way forward amidst the pain. This journey may be painful, but it is also filled with moments of grace that remind me of the love we share as a family.

 

Our Understanding of God Shapes Our Values

The Power of Perception: How Our Understanding of God Shapes Our Values and Theology

I have heard it said that hurting people hurt people… in my 20+ years ministering with and alongside people, especially the hurting, I found this statement more true then I would want it to be. I find it unfortunate that many of these hurts stem from our perceptions that God or God's people have caused us pain.

As human beings, we seem to be constantly grappling with the question of God's existence and the nature of the Divine. Even the Atheist seem to be saying that I can’t believe in a cruel God that claims to be loving… I further found that this crucial wrestling often defines how we perceive ourselves and our significance in this world. Our ideas about God profoundly impact everything we do—how we live, how we treat others, and the choices we continue to make.

I’ve always found the illustration of Dropping a pebble in a pond, it illustrates how small (or even traumatic) changes in our perception of the Divine can create ripples that affect our lives and the expressions thereof.

 

If we believe that God is loving and kind, we are more likely to embody those qualities in our own lives. However, if we see God as strict and judgmental, that perception can lead us to act negatively toward others and ourselves. If we believe God to be absent or non-existent then that certainly affects how we interact or live in this world. I think that it is essential to think carefully about what we believe and to engage in open dialogue with others who hold different ideas and perspectives. By learning from each other, we can ensure that our beliefs are rooted in love, compassion, and fairness (values that I think most will agree necessary in our lives).

If we believe that God is loving and kind, we are more likely to embody those qualities in our own lives. However, if we see God as strict and judgmental, that perception can influence us to act in negative ways towards others and ourselves. It is essential to think carefully about what we believe and to engage in open dialogue with others who hold different ideas. By learning from each other, we can ensure that our beliefs are rooted in love, compassion, and fairness. 

I am of the humble opinion that Life is an expression of values learned, and as Christians, we find our value in who God is. Living out these expressions means standing up for what is right, being kind to others, and making a genuine effort to understand and help those around us. Our beliefs should not remain mere abstractions; they should translate into tangible ways of being and doing that make a meaningful difference in the world. By aligning our values with our understanding of God, we can create a more loving and just society—and ultimately, a more compassionate world.

 Reflecting on my personal journey, I remember the time of my beloved son Judah's passing. My first response was to wrestle (to fight) with God. I felt anger, confusion, and profound sorrow. This perspective and emotion translated in me have a terrible attitude towards others. Recognizing this made me ask, "How do I change my perspective?"

I believe the answer (for me at least) laid in how I communicated my dismay and perspective about God and my  Faith. You see I am convinced that our language significantly influences our actions; therefore, the solution resides in our theology. Theology is simply the words or conversations we have regarding God and the things of God. What we say when we are in pain or confused about our circumstances or things simply doesn’t make sense, really makes a difference. Please do not misunderstand what I am saying… no amount of positive thinking will fix mistakes. We need to get hands on to ratify our mistakes… But finding a loving God and wrestling with God about the injustices and honestly engaging God about our perspectives on the matters certainly will help us navigate turbulent times.

 

Here is what helped me make sense of things when God and or Gods people didn’t make sense to me:

- Engage in Reflective Prayer: Take time to pray not only for comfort but also for understanding. Ask God to reveal His nature to you.

 - Explore Scripture: Dive into biblical texts that emphasize God's love, mercy, and compassion. Let these truths reshape your understanding.

 - Surround Yourself with Community: Engage with a community that reflects God's love through their actions and support. Sharing experiences can provide new insights into your own struggles.

 - Practice Gratitude: Focus on what you are thankful for each day. Gratitude shifts your perspective from what you lack to what you have been given.

 - Seek Professional Help: Sometimes it’s beneficial to talk to someone trained to help navigate grief or spiritual struggles.

By intentionally engaging with God and shifting our language around Him—from one of judgment to one of love and seeking understanding—we can transform not only our perspectives but also how we interact with others (especially those who are hurting). Ultimately, this journey toward understanding can lead us away from pain and toward healing—both for ourselves and those around us.

In conclusion, let us remember that our perceptions shape our reality. By fostering a theology rooted in love and compassion, we can break the cycle of hurt and create ripples of positive change in ourselves and the world around us. Seek the God of love, and you will find Him.