Wisdom is how you live.
The Trinity is not only Father, Son, and Spirit—it is also written in us as love, forgiveness, and kindness. One eternal, one fragile; one source, one echo. Together they form the shape of infinity, with Christ at the crossing where heaven and humanity meet.
This past year has been one of letting go, following sparks, facing fear, and listening for whispers. Along the way I’ve remembered faith as my compass — Grace, Presence, and Spark — and begun to see life not as poles in opposition, but as the thread in between that makes us whole. Mid-life, I’ve found, is not a crisis but a crossing.
Time is not abundant — it is fragile, fleeting, and holy. This reflection explores what it means to serve not out of convenience but out of urgency, recognizing that life itself is the gift and how we spend it is the offering back.
Sometimes grace feels easier with strangers than with those we love. Strangers carry no history, but beloveds carry memory, longing, and wounds. Across traditions, this paradox is seen not as failure but as the cost—and the wholeness—of love.
Hustlers have become role models, teaching exhaustion as ambition. Unless we choose presence over hustle, we risk passing down scarcity instead of care.
Our spirits were never meant to be split in two. Beyond the walls of masculine and feminine lies a larger wholeness—threads of order and chaos, reason and feeling, seed and soil—waiting to be remembered.
We live inside architectures we didn’t build — family, faith, culture. Most stay invisible until they crack, and in the cracks longing shows itself.
A children’s lesson on earthly and heavenly treasures sparked a question: Did Jesus ever treat money as a heavenly gift? History and scripture tell another story.
Not skills. Not senses. Just six choices we make every day—three that make us more human, and three that slowly pull us away from ourselves.
Regret is memory fused with morality.
Resentment is grief with its hands still clenched.
Remorse? That’s how we begin again.
This is not a story of shame—but a quiet return to integrity.
