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When His Breath Speaks: Yesterday, I found myself in a conversation that stirred something deeper in me. A family member was upset about the nickname our grandkids have given my husband—they’ve taken to calling him Grumpy instead of Grandpa. Now, if you know him, it fits. He can be grumpy at times. But when those little voices call out “Grumpy!” with affection in their tone, it never fails to turn his frown into a smile. Still, this loved one expressed concern, quoting the Scripture: “Life and death are in the power of the tongue.” — Proverbs 18:21 They believed the nickname was speaking something harmful over him. I tried to explain, gently, that perhaps the verse was being misunderstood. But eventually, I stopped debating and asked Abba to speak to their heart—because they weren’t going to hear it from me. That moment sent me into reflection. What does this verse really mean? 💭 Sitting with the Scripture I sat with it. I asked Abba again, “What is this verse truly saying?” It’s from the Old Testament—a part of Scripture that points us toward Jesus , revealing who He is and what He would accomplish. So let’s break it down. Life and death… in the power of the tongue. We know Jesus brings life. But what about death? The verse points us toward the power of words , which led me to think of His words—of Jesus’ tongue . But how could His words bring death, when He is only life? This family member offered this argument: “Even if that verse refers to Jesus’ tongue, His breath is in us. So if we speak negatively, it’s His breath flowing out of us.” I paused there. I can get on board with Jesus’ breath in me . But I struggled with the idea that His breath would bring death because of something I say. Because if my words have the power to give or take life, then… Why did Jesus need to die at all? If I could save myself or destroy myself with my own words, what was the cross for? ✝️ The Final Word It all came full circle when I remembered the words Jesus spoke at the end: “It is finished.” — John 19:30 With His tongue , He spoke life to all of us. He conquered death with His words. He didn’t bring death—He defeated it. And He still does. 🕊️ Living Free So no, I don’t live in fear of what I say anymore. Growing up, I used to worry constantly about whether my words would bring blessing or curse. Not anymore. I’m free. Free to speak. Free to laugh. Free to call my husband Grumpy if it brings joy to the room. Because I’m no longer the source of life or death— Jesus is . And the more my heart stays fixed on Him, the more my words reflect His goodness. But even when they don’t… He is still enough. 💬 Reflection It’s not my words that hold power. It’s His. And they’ve already spoken life over me. 📖 Scripture References: Proverbs 18:21 – “Death and life are in the power of the tongue…” John 19:30 – “When Jesus had received the sour wine, He said, ‘It is finished.’” 🤍 I’d love to hear from you: Have you ever wrestled with the fear of “speaking death”? What helped you walk in freedom? Drop a comment below, or share how His words have brought life to your heart lately.

Last weekend I went to North Carolina for an event our pastor hosted, called “On Earth as it is in Heaven.” I walked away full of the Bread of Life. I incorporated all my notes that stood out from the different speakers and our group talks into this chapter in Ehud’s story that I am writing next: The ears of the Father are never far from the voice of a child who calls Him Abba. I don’t expect to see him again. Not after all these years. Not after the hiding and the shame. But when he walks into the edge of the market square wrapped in the same old linen robes, beard longer, eyes hollowed by time and regret, I know immediately. The priest from my childhood. He sees me too. His eyes widen, then narrow, as if searching for the boy he once dismissed. I rise from my seat near the olive barrels, heart pounding not with anger, but with a grief unhealed. He speaks first. “Ehud.” I nod. “You remember.” “I never forgot.” I motion him aside, away from the noise of barter and Moabite sneers. We walk in silence to a shaded place behind the well; the stones worn smooth by years of prayers—some answered, most not. At least not in the way many wanted them answered. He turns to face me. “I’ve heard you speaking. Preaching. Training. Whispered tales say your words carry the old teachings. That people are listening.” “They are not my words, but yes. Our people are listening.” His shoulders sag. “And what do you tell them?” I stare at him. “I tell them that Jehovah has not changed. That He sings still. Even if they’ve forgotten the sound.” His mouth twists, bitter. “You are a better man than I.” “No, but I remember. And I’m not afraid of what the remembering demands.” His hand trembles as he leans against the stone wall. “Do you think I haven’t tried? I gave everything once—my years, my strength. And what did it bring? Silence. Loss. The children of Israel mocking my prayers. The Moabites laughing as I lit empty fires.” My jaw tightens. “So you stopped lighting them.” His eyes flash. “Wouldn’t you? When the heavens feel as hard as bronze?” “No, because Abba never stopped listening. You did.” He stares at me. I see the pain behind the fury, the guilt behind the excuses. “I thought you’d understand,” he says. “I do, but I won’t let you stay there.” I step forward. My voice rises—not in anger, but conviction. The words are not mine. They never are. They pour from a well deeper than grief, older than silence. “Tell me about the god you don’t believe in.” He blinks. “What?” “Describe him. This god who abandons. Who demands strength without mercy. Who watches while his people suffer and does nothing. Tell me about that god.” He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “That’s the only god I’ve known these past years.” “Wow,” I whisper under my breath. “I don’t believe in that god either.” His arms fall to his sides. “The truth is,” I step closer, “our Abba never leaves you to save yourself. Never. That was never the plan. Never the promise.” He closes his eyes, breathing ragged. “Jehovah never leaves you to do anything by yourself. Not fight. Not grieve. Not repent. Not rejoice. Not even pray.” His lips tremble. “Let your circumstances say whatever they want,” I add. “What Jehovah says is the only truth.” His eyes meet mine, glassy with tears he hasn’t let fall in years. “Every other god only offers hope for an eternity. Jehovah gives you Himself. ” His knees buckle. He sinks onto the stone edge of the well. “The milk and honey will return to the land,” I promise. “Not because we earn it. Because He longs to dwell with His children again.” “I failed,” he rasps. “We all have.” “I taught law. Discipline. Duty.” I nod. “That’s because the deepest need inside a human is the need to feel safe.” He covers his face with his hands. “I wanted to make them holy.” “But the pursuit of God was never about perfecting people. It was always about making us part of His family.” A sob breaks free from his chest. I kneel beside him. “It is unmerited,” I continue, “because you cannot work for it, earn it, or pay for it. It’s not for sale.” He clutches at my robe like a man drowning. “How do I return? How do I lead when I am so broken?” “You’ve not been asked to produce this life.” I touch his shoulder. “Only to receive it.” He groans and lets the tears come. I put my hand on his back and wait. When his sobs quiet, I speak again, low but sure. “Don’t give my children principles to work, but bread to eat.” He breathes in like the air is new. “You knew this once,” I say. “I lost it.” “You remember now.” He looks at me, and there is light in his eyes. Small, flickering, but real. “Come, let us call the people. Let us remind them of their Father’s voice.” He stands. Not with pride. With purpose. Together, we walk to the square. He lifts his hands. I raise my voice. And we call them home. “Return,” I cry out to all nearby, “to the One who gave you milk and honey. Not just for your lips—but to show you His goodness.” “Return,” he echoes, “to the One who is not far, but near.” “Return,” I cry, “to Abba.” A crowd gathers. Faces lift. Tears fall.

I’ve been meditating on the knowledge of good and evil and sitting with Jesus, asking Him about this topic. What follows is a reflection born out of my time with Him—broken down question by question, just as it unfolded in my heart. What is the one and only thing that the Father did not want for His children? The very first command God gave us was not about morality, labor, or worship—it was about not knowing good and evil. Therefore, the one and only thing Jehovah never wanted for us was: the burden of knowing good and evil for ourselves. He didn’t want any of us carrying the weight of judgment , the need to define right and wrong apart from Him , or the consequences of moral independence. The first thing He told His children wasn’t about doing, but not doing . “You are free to eat from any tree… but you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.” – Genesis 2:16–17 This tree was not a trap. It was a boundary drawn by love. He never wanted us to bear the burden of deciding good and evil for ourselves—because that was never meant to be ours to carry. He wanted us to have a life lived in His presence, not one filled with anxiety over moral perfection. Eating from the tree wasn’t about a piece of fruit—it was about autonomy. It was us saying, “I’ll decide for myself. I’ll be like God.” And that is the one and only thing He never wanted: For us to try to be like Him without Him. Is it logical to say that partaking of the knowledge of good and evil brought death to us—and that God never wanted that? When Adam and Eve chose to eat—they stepped into a realm God never intended for them: the realm of judgment. They became aware of nakedness. Of shame. Of fear. Of separation. Eating from the tree ushered in the very thing God warned them about: death entered the world—not just physical, but emotional and spiritual. But even in that moment, God’s heart was protective. God’s next move wasn’t vengeance. It was mercy . “He drove out the man… lest he reach out his hand and take also of the tree of life and eat, and live forever.” (Genesis 3:22–24) This wasn’t cruel. This was the kindest boundary ever drawn. Because to live forever in a broken state—with the weight of guilt, fear, pain, and the knowledge of both good and evil— would have been eternal torment. Removing access to the tree of life was an act of love. Is it logical to say that the Father sent His Son, Jesus, to redeem us from the knowledge of good and evil and its consequences? When Adam and Eve ate from the tree, we all gained: The burden of moral judgment Shame (they covered themselves) Fear (they hid) Separation from God And ultimately, death Jesus came to undo all of that : He took our shame: “Who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame…” (Hebrews 12:2) He abolished fear: “Perfect love drives out fear…” (1 John 4:18) He reconciled us: “Through Him to reconcile to Himself all things…” (Colossians 1:20) He overcame death: “I am the resurrection and the life…” (John 11:25) The Father sent His only begotten Son, Jesus, to redeem us from the knowledge that broke us—the burden of trying to live by our own judgment of good and evil. Through Jesus, we return to what was lost: intimacy, life, and trust in God’s voice above our own. Through Him, we are no longer slaves to shame, fear, and moral self-reliance. “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” (John 14:6) He didn’t offer more knowledge—He offered Himself. Is it logical to say that if today we ask God for the knowledge of good and evil it is actually against His will for us? Asking God for the knowledge of good and evil is asking Him to give us something He never wanted for us. It’s not a request rooted in trust, but in fear and control. It is asking for the very thing He sent Jesus to rescue us from: a life defined by moral judgment instead of relational intimacy. The tree was off-limits not because God was withholding power, but because He was protecting innocence and intimacy. Knowing good and evil apart from God means trying to be righteous without relationship. So yes, asking God for the knowledge of good and evil today still reflects that same misstep : wanting to judge , rather than trust . Jesus didn’t come to upgrade our moral awareness —He came to restore our dependence on the Father. The New Covenant doesn’t promise better knowledge—it offers a better relationship : “ They will all know me.” (Jeremiah 31:34) He came to lead us back to the voice of God . Asking our Father for the knowledge of good and evil misses the point of redemption. It’s a form of saying: “I want to know what’s right so I can handle life without needing You.” But Jesus said: “I am the vine; you are the branches. Apart from me, you can do nothing.” (John 15:5) Is it logical to say that asking the Father for this knowledge is history repeating itself—that it’s the serpent tempting us again? The enemy hasn’t changed tactics—just packaging. Today, it might sound more spiritual: “God, show me what’s right and wrong so I can walk perfectly.” “Help me judge rightly so I never mess up.” “Make me wise so I don’t need to rely on others.” But underneath it all is the same seed: “I don’t want to walk with You—I want to walk on my own.” That is still the voice of the serpent. It tempts us to substitute intimacy with information , relationship with religious self-sufficiency . In Genesis 3:5, the serpent said: “God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” That temptation wasn’t about fruit—it was about control. About becoming like God without God. When we ask today for the knowledge of good and evil, we echo that same temptation: “Give me enough insight so I can walk this life on my own.” But Jesus shows a better way: “I do nothing on my own… I speak just what the Father has taught me.” (John 8:28) “Not my will, but Yours be done.” (Luke 22:42) He didn’t reach for the fruit. He reached for the Father. What I’ve concluded after sitting with the Holy Spirit and asking these questions is that: God never wanted us to carry the knowledge of good and evil. He wanted us to walk with Him. To hear His voice. To rest in His presence. So no, I won’t ask for the knowledge of good and evil. I will ask for closeness. For daily bread. For my Father’s voice. For His presence.

2 Kings 3 This weekend I’m visiting some dear friends and plan to attend church with them on Sunday. Their pastor mentioned that he’ll be preaching from 2 Kings 3, focusing on the story of Elisha and the ditches. He gave a small preview of the message, saying the theme was something like: “You’ve got to dig the ditch so God can fill it with water.”  At first glance, that sounds inspiring. But the more I sat with it, the more something stirred in me—a gentle nudge from the Spirit, reminding me of what’s already been done in Christ. Honestly, it struck me as a bit of a Martha move. You know what I mean—that well-meaning, earnest energy that says, “I’ve got to do something for God before He’ll move for me.” But in my journey, I’ve learned that real peace is found at the feet of Jesus like Mary —not in the striving of my hands, but in the receiving of His life birthed inside of me. So I started pondering… What if we’ve misunderstood this story?  What I Believe 2 Kings 3 Is Actually About In 2 Kings 3, three kings (of Israel, Judah, and Edom) find themselves in desperate need of water as they head into battle. There’s no rain, no visible help in sight, and their troops and animals are near death in the desert. So they seek out Elisha the prophet.  Here’s what Elisha says in verses 16–17 (NKJV): And he said, “Thus says the Lord: ‘Make this valley full of ditches.’  For thus says the Lord: ‘You shall not see wind, nor shall you see rain; yet that valley shall be filled with water, so that you, your cattle, and your animals may drink.’ At face value, it looks like a command: “You dig, God fills.” But is that really the full picture?  Who Really Digs the Ditch? The traditional view says the digging is our effort. That we need to “prepare the way” for God’s blessing. But the gospel I know—the one revealed through Jesus—says the exact opposite: He is the one who prepares the way. He is the one who fills. He is the one who does the digging. When I thought about the ditch in this story, my heart considered: Maybe the ditch isn’t something I have to create… maybe the ditch is me. Maybe the “ditch” is my heart—empty, dry, and incapable of producing life on its own. And maybe Jesus is the Digger, the One who hollowed out space inside me by removing my heart of stone and giving me a heart of flesh (Ezekiel 36:26). He made the space. He did the work. And then? He filled it with Living Water— His own life. ⸻   A Shadow of the Gospel I believe the entire Bible points to Jesus. So when I look at 2 Kings 3 through that lens, I don’t see a command to strive. I see a foreshadowing of grace. The valley was dry — like our souls apart from Him. The kings couldn’t fix it — just like we couldn’t fix our sin. There was no rain, no signs — yet God filled the ditches anyway.  They didn’t earn it. They didn’t cause it. They simply received what God provided. Martha vs. Mary This is why the Martha energy of “dig your ditch so God can bless you” doesn’t sit well with me anymore. Jesus praised Mary for one thing: She sat at His feet and listened. (Luke 10:39–42) Mary wasn’t preparing a ditch for Jesus. She was the ditch, and Jesus filled her with words of life.  Final Thoughts I haven’t even heard the full sermon yet, so I’m not trying to pre-judge what the pastor will say. But the Holy Spirit stirred something deep in me from just that small preview. I don’t believe God’s power is unlocked by our striving. I believe it’s revealed in our resting—in our willingness to believe that the work is already finished in Christ. The ditch isn’t a task. It’s a picture of our emptiness. And grace is the miracle of being filled without earning it. So this Sunday, whether the message is about digging or not, I’ll be sitting at Jesus’ feet—remembering the Living Water that flows freely, not because I worked for it, but because He already poured Himself out.

When the God you’ve heard about doesn’t match the God you’ve come to know. This past Sunday, I sat in a church service with friends, eager to hear a message from 2 Kings 3—one of my new favorite stories. You might remember from Part 1 of this blog that I see the dry land as us, and the ditch in this story as a picture of the human heart, and the water as the life of Jesus—given freely. I didn’t know what the sermon would be, but I never expected what I heard. The preacher read verses 4 through 25. Early on, he paused to highlight King Joram’s words in verse 10: “Oh no, the Lord has summoned these three kings, only to hand them over to Moab.” From this, the preacher built a case that God brings calamity —not just allows it, but sometimes sends it. He supported this idea with a verse from Job: “Shall we accept good from God, and not adversity?” (Job 2:10) My heart sank. Not because I was offended, but because I was grieving. Because that’s not the God I know. It’s not the God I see in Jesus—the image of the invisible God, the One who heals, rescues, and restores. It’s not the God who bore the curse so I wouldn’t have to. The Joram Problem Here’s what struck me immediately: Joram wasn’t a man who walked with the Lord. He was a Baal worshiper. He came from a long line of idolaters. So when things went wrong, Joram naturally blamed the divine—because in his belief system, that’s what gods did. They punished. They destroyed. They manipulated people through fear. He projected his beliefs about Baal onto Jehovah. I can’t be the only who who stopped to consider that Elisha, the prophet of the Lord, didn’t agree with Joram? “What do we have in common? Go to the prophets of your father and your mother!” — 2 Kings 3:13 That’s Elisha’s response. Not, “Yes, the Lord is punishing you.” Not, “That’s right—He brought calamity to humble you.” Just: We have nothing in common. Nothing. No shared faith. No shared spirit. No shared understanding of who God is. So why was Joram quoted—as if his words are truth—when Elisha, God’s representative, rejected him outright ? The Job Problem And then came the verse from Job. I’ve heard it used all my life: “Shall we accept good from God and not adversity?” (Job 2:10) Only here’s what so few ever seem to notice: By the end of the book, Job takes it back. He says in Job 42:3: “Surely I spoke about things I did not understand, things too wonderous for me to know.” And in verses 5 & 6: “I had heard reports about you, but now my eyes have seen you. Therefore I reject my words am sorry for them.” Job repents. He acknowledges that he was wrong about God. So why are them some quoting the parts he later recants ? Why do we stop in chapter 2 when the Holy Spirit carried the story all the way to chapter 42? Why do we use misunderstanding to explain mystery? The Truth About Calamity The idea that God brings calamity—even if “only sometimes”—is a deeply damaging belief. It builds fear where trust is supposed to grow. It warps intimacy. It makes us question His goodness when life hurts the most. Perhaps worst of all: it minimizes the Cross. If God is the author of suffering, then why did He take suffering on Himself ? Why would Jesus, who said, “The thief comes to steal, kill, and destroy, but I came that they may have life,” go around healing, comforting, and delivering people from the very adversity we say God sends? Was Jesus undoing the Father’s work? Of course not. He was revealing the Father. So… Who Digs the Ditch? In 2 Kings 3, the ditch still matters, but I’m more convinced than ever that we’ve misread the story. The ditch isn’t our effort. The ditch isn’t punishment. The ditch is a foreshadowing of the space Jesus’ death and resurrection creates within us. We are the ditch. And Jesus—beautiful, faithful Jesus—fills us with His Living Water. Even when we misunderstand. Even when we blame Him. Even when we’ve mixed up Baal and Jehovah. He comes anyway. He fills the valley. He brings life where there was only dust. Final Thoughts If you’ve ever been told that your suffering was sent by God, I’m so sorry. I pray you’ll find comfort in the truth: God is not the source of your suffering. He is your Savior in the midst of it. Jesus doesn’t just bring Living Water—He is the Living Water. And He doesn’t hold off on filling you until you dig a ditch deep enough. He’s already dug the ditch. He fills you because you are loved enough. So next time someone tells you that God brought the calamity, remember Joram. Remember Job. And above all, remember Jesus—the only perfect picture of who our God truly is. I am thankful that 2 Kings 3 was brought to my remembrance this weekend and the story of Job. Both instances sent me to the feet of Jesus. While the message didn’t line up with who Jesus showed us the Father is, it forced me to dig deeper and search for the answers to confirm what my heart already knew.

What Jesus Says to the One Who’s Praying, Crying, and Watching from the Sidelines ==================================================================== “My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me.” —John 10:27 The Deep Ache of Concern You feel it deep, don’t you? That ache in your chest. The swirl of thoughts at 4 a.m. The quiet question: “What if they’re too far gone?” “What if they never see it?” “What if they get hurt before they come home?” You’re watching someone you love walk a path you don’t understand. Maybe they’re chasing a belief system that feels off. Maybe they’re rejecting everything you’ve taught them. Perhaps they’re convinced they’re finally “free”… and all you see is bondage. Whatever it looks like—your heart breaks for them. You long for them to hear the voice of truth. You pray. You grieve. You carry. Jesus Sees Your Struggle But listen—Jesus sees it too. And He has something to say to you. “You are not their Savior.” You don’t have to be their source. You don’t have to be their guide, their preacher, or their God. That job is already filled. By Me. I’ve walked the road of rejection. I’ve felt the sting of lies and the silence of wandering hearts. And I’ve never been afraid of any of it. Truth is not an argument. Truth is a person. And I know exactly how to reveal Myself. The Seeds You've Planted “You’ve planted seeds. I’ll water them.” You’ve said the hard things. You’ve held your tongue when it cost you. You’ve cried in your car, asking, “God, what else can I do?” Beloved, you’ve done it. You’ve loved. You’ve prayed. You’ve stayed. And I promise you—Not a single word, tear, or moment was wasted. I’m the Gardener. And I know how to break up hard soil. They Can't Outrun His Love “They can’t outrun Me.” They might reject you. They might roll their eyes. They might call it “freedom,” even as they chain themselves to ideas that lead nowhere. But I am not pacing heaven in fear. I am not surprised. I am not distant. I’m already speaking to them in ways you can’t see. Already showing up in their thoughts, their sleep, their silence. Already waiting at every dead-end road they’ll ever walk down. You are not their Holy Spirit. But you are someone I love, and your heart matters to Me. Finding Rest in His Presence “So rest, child.” The truth doesn’t need to fight. It doesn’t panic. It doesn’t fear deception. Truth simply is. And the truth is: They are Mine. They always have been. Even when they’re confused. Even when they’re convinced they know better. Even when they’re walking away. I’ve already written the ending. And I’m not done. “You don’t need a plan. You just need peace. You just need my Presence. That’s Me—already in you. Already with them. Already working.” —Jesus Scriptures to Anchor You John 10:27 – “My sheep hear My voice…” Luke 15:4 – “What man among you, if he has a hundred sheep and loses one…” Philippians 1:6 – “He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion…” Romans 8:38-39 – “Nothing can separate us from the love of God…” 2 Peter 3:9 – “He is patient, not wanting anyone to perish…” A Reminder of His Love “ And never forget I love you as much as I love them.” ~ Abba Conclusion: Embracing the Journey In this journey of faith, it’s essential to remember that you are not alone. Your feelings, your prayers, and your heartache are seen. Jesus is with you every step of the way. He understands your pain and your longing for those you love. As you navigate this challenging path, hold onto the truth that He is in control. Trust in His timing and His methods. You may not see the results immediately, but know that He is working behind the scenes. The Power of Prayer Prayer is a powerful tool. It connects you with God and allows you to lay your burdens at His feet. Continue to pray for your loved ones. Pray for their hearts to be softened and their eyes to be opened. Your prayers matter. They can create ripples of change in ways you may not even realize. The Importance of Community Don’t forget the importance of community. Surround yourself with others who share your faith. Share your struggles and victories with them. They can offer support, encouragement, and prayer. Together, you can lift each other up and strengthen your faith. Trusting the Process Remember, growth takes time. Just as a seed needs time to germinate and grow, so do the hearts of those you love. Trust the process. Trust that God is at work, even when you can’t see it. Conclusion: Hope in His Promises Hold onto hope. Jesus has promised that He will never leave you nor forsake you. He is with you in your pain and your joy. Trust in His love and His plan. You are not alone in this journey. In the end, it’s about surrendering to His will and finding peace in His presence. You don’t have to have all the answers. Just trust that He does. As you continue to pray, remember His words: “You are not their Savior.” Rest in that truth and allow His love to fill your heart.

Jesus isn’t convincing the Father to love us—He’s convincing us we’ve always been loved. I heard something in Bible study today that rang through my soul like a bell struck clean: “Jesus isn’t the mediator convincing the Father to love us. Jesus is the mediator convincing us of the Father’s goodness.” I have sat with this all day. Because as a parent, I know this truth intimately. No one—absolutely no one—has ever had to convince me to love my children. Not once. Not when they were disobedient. Not when they made mistakes. Not when they pulled away. I may not have understood their choices, and I may not have been able to shield them from consequences, but the love? It never wavered. It never needed a reason. It simply was. And yet, in nearly 22 years of parenting, I’ve watched moments, circumstances, heartbreaks, and lies whisper untruths to my children about that very love. I’ve seen it in their eyes—the quiet question: “Could she still love me after this?” And I’ve been powerless to uproot those lies. Because even when I show up, even when I speak truth with tears in my voice, if a lie has taken root in the soil of their heart, only the Holy Spirit can gently pull it free. That’s what Jesus does. He’s not up in heaven pleading, “Please love her, Father—she’s trying.” He’s not twisting God’s arm or interceding with a desperate edge, as though we were unlovable until He stepped in. No, friend. Jesus is standing with nail-scarred hands, pointing to the Father’s open arms, whispering, “Look. He’s always loved you. Let Me show you.” He is the image of the invisible God. The Word made flesh. The living, breathing proof of the Father’s affection. He didn’t come to soften God’s heart toward us. He came to soften ours toward Him. Because we are the ones who forget. We are the ones who run. We are the ones who hear the lie: “You are too far gone, too much, too broken, too disappointing.” And Jesus steps between that lie and our weary hearts and says, “No. Let Me show you the truth.” He reveals a Father who has always called us beloved. A Father who has never once looked away. A Father whose love isn’t based on our behavior, but on our being—our identity as children made in His image. There have been lies in my own life. Lies I didn’t even realize I was carrying until Jesus, with all the tenderness of a Shepherd, began to show me. He didn’t yell them away. He didn’t shame them out of me. He invited me to remember who my Father really is. I’m still remembering. Still unlearning. Still being healed. But I know this now: Jesus is not mediating love between a distant Father and a desperate sinner. He is drawing close to my heart and saying, “You don’t have to earn this. You just have to see it.” And I do. Little by little, I do.

Here I am tossing and turning in my sleep because I asked someone I love dearly for sources regarding the subject of sovereign citizenship and its legitimacy. They responded: “When I have time, I’ll send you ‘Tiffany-approved’ sources.” It made me pause. Pause for many hours. Because what are my approved sources? Not having an answer right away, I went to Abba. He reminded me of the truth and the path I’ve been traveling: I only have one source. And His name is Jesus Christ. It Started With a Census The moment that came to mind wasn’t a courtroom or a protest. It was the quiet obedience of a young couple over 2,000 years ago. Joseph and Mary made a long journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem. Why? Because Caesar Augustus issued a decree that everyone had to return to their ancestral towns to be counted in a census (Luke 2:1–5). It wasn’t convenient. Mary was pregnant. Travel was hard. But they obeyed the law—even though the one who issued it wasn’t godly or just. And there, in the middle of that government-ordered inconvenience, Jesus was born. Obedience didn’t rob them of their purpose—it positioned them for God’s promise. The Illusion of Freedom : We live in what’s called the “land of the free.” And yet most of us know we’re not fully free. We’re required to have insurance just to drive. We pay taxes on everything from groceries to income. We need licenses to fish, marry, or cut hair. It doesn’t feel free. So I understand the appeal of something like sovereign citizenship, especially when it comes wrapped in phrases like “constitutional rights” and “spiritual authority.” It sounds bold. It sounds independent. It sounds righteous. But feelings don’t define truth. And spiritual freedom doesn’t mean rejecting earthly authority. The Scriptures Sovereign Citizens Might Use: Here are some verses often used to justify sovereign citizenship beliefs—along with what they actually mean when read in full context: 1. John 17:16 – “They are not of the world…” Used to say: “I don’t have to follow worldly laws.” In context: Jesus is praying for protection—not disconnection. He never told us to abandon the world but to be salt and light within it (Matthew 5:13–14). 2. Philippians 3:20 – “Our citizenship is in heaven.” Used to say: “I only answer to God.” In context: Paul reminds us of where our hope comes from—not our earthly rights. Ironically, Paul used his Roman citizenship to escape abuse in Acts 22:25–29. 3. Galatians 5:1 – “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.” Used to say: “God wants me totally free from man-made systems.” In context: Paul was talking about spiritual freedom from the bondage of sin and the law—not about evading legal authority. 4. Matthew 17:24–27 – Jesus pays the temple tax Used to say: “Jesus paid taxes just to avoid drama.” Yes—and He still paid them. Jesus sent Peter to find a coin in a fish’s mouth to pay for both their taxes. That’s not avoidance. That’s provision and humility. 5. Romans 13:1–7 – “Let every soul be subject unto the governing authorities.” Often ignored—but clearly written. Paul says all authority is from God. Taxes, laws, and civil obedience are not anti-Christian. They’re part of what it means to live in peace. What Did Jesus Actually Do? Let’s not forget: Jesus lived under Roman rule. The empire was known for oppression, corruption, and cruelty. And yet: He rendered to Caesar what was Caesar’s (Matthew 22:21). He respected Pilate’s authority, saying it was given “from above” (John 19:11). He paid the temple tax even though He was the Son of God. He endured an unjust trial without calling on angel armies to rescue Him. Jesus didn’t model rebellion—He modeled righteousness through surrender. What About the Apostles? Peter tells us in 1 Peter 2:13–17 to “submit yourselves to every human authority… whether the emperor or governors,” and to live in freedom as servants of God, not rebels. Paul (who was wrongly imprisoned many times) still said to “pray for kings and all in authority” (1 Timothy 2:1–2), so that we might live quiet, peaceful lives. These men walked in supernatural power, but they never tried to overthrow Rome. They overcame evil with good. Why This Matters Sovereign citizen arguments often: 1. Deny legal authority. 2. Twist Scripture to sound spiritual. 3. Use deceptive legal jargon. 4. Encourage law-breaking under the guise of righteousness. Jesus warned that in the last days, even the elect might be deceived (Matthew 24:24). And Paul said in 2 Corinthians 11:13–15 that even Satan masquerades as an angel of light. If a belief makes you feel powerful, free, and above the law—but leads you into pride, division, and dishonor—it is not from the Spirit of Christ. Real Freedom Looks Like This : True freedom is not found in avoiding licenses, dodging taxes, or declaring ourselves above the law. It’s found in: Trusting the One who holds all kingdoms in His hands We are in the world. Not of it. But still within it. Christ didn’t give us a roadmap to escape the world. He gave us Himself, so we could walk through it resting in the One who’s already given us freedom. “Abba, may finding You as the only true and valid source help someone with whatever issue is keeping them up at night or weighing them down throughout the day. “ Thank you for always bringing me back to what You when I call out Your Name.”