The Absolute Tension: Love, Holiness, and the Way Home

 I wear a lot of hats.

Quite literally, sometimes, but mostly metaphorically. On any given day, I am a Geographer for the USGS. I am a Woodworker. I am a Quilter. I am a Dad to Job and Arch.

These are important roles. They describe what I do, and they describe relationships I cherish. But they are hats. I put them on, and I take them off. If I lost my job tomorrow, or if I never stitched another quilt, I would still exist. I would still be me.

The problem arises when we confuse the "hat" with the "head."

The Identity Crisis

We live in a culture that encourages us to glue our hats to our heads. We are told that our desires, our struggles, or our behaviors are not just things we experience—they are who we are.

We see this clearly in the conversation surrounding homosexuality. It is a sin that has been elevated into an identity. But it is not the only one. We do the same thing with Pride, identifying ourselves by our status. We do it with Gluttony, identifying ourselves by our appetites. We do it with Lying, when we become so accustomed to spinning the truth that we forget what reality looks like.

The Bible calls these things sin. And the danger isn't just that they are "bad behaviors"—it is that they are competing identities.

I cannot identify as a fish and a dog at the same time; those are contradictory natures. In the same way, I cannot find my core identity in a sin—whether it be sexual, emotional, or behavioral—and simultaneously find my identity in Christ. One definition of "self" will always be at war with the other.

As a Christian, my foundational identity is "Son of the Most High." That is the head. Every other hat I wear must fit comfortably on top of that one. If a hat contradicts my identity as a Son of God, I cannot simply jam it on. I have to throw it away.

The Tension of Absolutes

This brings us to a difficult reality. If we hold onto a sinful identity, does God stop loving us?

No. But the answer is more complex than the world wants to admit. We often think of God’s attributes as a sliding scale, but they are actually absolutes.

1. God is Absolute Love. He desires to be with us.

2. God is Absolute Holiness. He cannot coexist with sin.

This creates a cosmic tension. Because God is Love, He wants us in His presence. But because God is Holy, He cannot allow us into His presence while we are clinging to an identity of sin. If He allowed sin into His presence, He would cease to be Holy, and He would cease to be God.

The Way Back

God created us, and He knows we are dust. He knows that we are going to fail. As Romans 3:23 (NASB) reminds us, "for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God."

This is not a surprise to Him. But because He desperately wants us to shed that "hat" of sin and return to Him, He didn't just wait on the porch—He paved the road. He provided the way back through Jesus.

Jesus is the resolution to the tension. He satisfies God's Holiness by paying the debt for our sin, and He demonstrates God's Love by offering us a way to restoration. We don't have to stay stuck in a false identity.

The Prodigal Resolution

There is no better picture of this than the story of the Prodigal Son.

In Luke 15, when the son runs off to live a life of wild sin, the Father does not stop loving him. However, the Father does not go move into the pig pen. He does not compromise the holiness of his home to accommodate the rebellion of the son.

The son is in the pig pen, effectively identifying with the pigs. He is separated from the Father not because the Father’s love failed, but because the Father’s holiness is immovable.

The tension is only resolved in Luke 15:17 (NASB): "But when he came to his senses..."

The son had to drop the identity of the "rebel" and the "pig-feeder" and return to the identity of the "son." That is what repentance is. It isn't just saying "I'm sorry." It is the act of accepting the way back that God provided, taking off the hat of Sin, and walking back into the Holy presence of the Father who has loved us the whole time.

Dog-like faith

 We just got back from a four-day trip to my parents' house for Christmas. We had to leave the dogs with my in-laws, and it was a bit of a mixed bag for them. Natalie, our older, smaller one, got the VIP treatment inside the house. But Ruby—who is younger and, let’s just say, "spirited"—had to spend most of her time on a lead outside, only coming in to sleep in her own space at night.

When we finally pulled in, the reunion was intense. But it was the next morning that really wrecked me.

Because Ruby is so rambunctious (and because we value actual sleep), we have to close her out of our bedroom at night. At 6:00 AM, we woke up to her crying in the living room. Not barking at a squirrel, but crying. A deep, soulful whine.

When I opened the bedroom door, she didn't just wag her tail. She practically exploded. I was immediately bathed in saliva, and once she calmed down enough to lay on the bed, she physically pinned us down. She used her weight to make sure we weren’t going anywhere. She was terrified that if she let go, we might disappear again.

It got me thinking about the way I welcome God—or rather, the way I don’t.

We talk a lot in church circles about "child-like faith." To me, child-like faith is that simple, unquestioning trust. It’s the peace of knowing your Dad has the wheel. But watching Ruby that morning, I realized there is another category I’ve been missing:

Dog-like faith.

If child-like faith understands trust, dog-like faith understands desperation.

Ruby didn’t care about dignity. She didn’t care that it was 6:00 AM. She didn’t care about the rules of the house. She knew that there was a door between her and the ones she loved, and that was unacceptable to her. She cried until the barrier was removed.

I realized that, spiritually speaking, I am usually content to sit on my side of the door. I might whimper occasionally when I realize I’ve forgotten God, or when the "reality" of life gets too heavy. But mostly, I’m comfortable. I let the door of distraction, or busyness, or just plain apathy stay shut.

I lack the desperation of the dog.

I want to be more like that Canaanite woman in Matthew 15. She came to Jesus begging for help, and when He tested her, essentially comparing her to a dog, she didn't get offended. She leaned in.

"But she said, 'Yes, Lord; but even the dogs feed on the crumbs which fall from their masters’ table.'" (Matthew 15:27, NASB)

She refused to leave without Him. She had that dog-like tenacity that said, I don’t care how I look, and I don’t care about the protocol; I just need You.

I want to stop being polite about the distance between God and me. I want to get to the point where I understand my desperation well enough that I am willing to destroy the door to get to Him.

Peter talks about a joy that defies description:

"...and though you have not seen Him, you love Him, and though you do not see Him now, but believe in Him, you greatly rejoice with joy inexpressible and full of glory..." (1 Peter 1:8, NASB)

My dog has "joy inexpressible" when I walk in the room. Why is my reaction to the Creator of the Universe so often just a polite nod?

My goal for this coming season is to learn from Ruby. When I feel that separation, I don't want to just cope with it. I want to cry out until the door opens. And when I find Him, I want to do what it says in Song of Solomon 3:4:

"I found him whom my soul loves; I held him and would not let him go."

I want to pin Him down with my praise and my presence, refusing to let the distraction of "reality" pull me away again. I want a faith that is less dignified, and a lot more desperate.

The day the Earth stood still

 Imagine, for a moment, the absolute silence of a world that has stopped moving.

At this very second, you are hurtling through space. At the equator, the Earth is spinning at roughly 1,000 miles per hour. The atmosphere, the vast oceans, and the very ground beneath your feet are all locked into that momentum. If that rotation were to stop abruptly by any natural force, the result would be the most violent catastrophe in the history of the universe.

The oceans would not stop; they would continue their 1,000 mph journey, creating tsunamis miles high that would scour the continents clean. The atmosphere would continue to scream across the surface, leveling everything in its path. Deep within the crust, the tectonic plates would buckle and tear as the "bulge" of the Earth’s center attempted to flatten. The kinetic energy released would generate enough heat to boil the seas.

Mathematically and physically, the world would literally tear itself apart.

Yet, ancient history records a day when this impossible event occurred without catastrophe. In the Book of Joshua, we find a commander in the heat of a critical battle, realizing he needs more time to secure the victory God had promised.

“Then Joshua spoke to the Lord... and he said in the sight of Israel, 'O sun, stand still at Gibeon, and O moon, in the valley of Aijalon.' So the sun stood still, and the moon stopped, until the nation avenged themselves of their enemies.” (Joshua 10:12-13 NASB)

When we read this, we often focus on the "stopping." But the true miracle was the sustaining. For the sun and moon to "stand still" from the perspective of an observer on Earth, God had to conduct a symphony of the miraculous. Every molecule of water was held in place; every tectonic fault line was steadied; every breath of wind was governed. He didn't just pause the clock; He held the entire physical world together in His hands so that His servant could finish the work at hand.

If we serve the God who manages the angular momentum of a planet at the request of a man, why does our modern life feel so ordinary?

We have become "Modern-day Nazarenes." In the Gospel of Mark, it is recorded that in His own hometown, Jesus "could not do any miracle there... and He was amazed at their unbelief" (Mark 6:5-6 NASB). We read these accounts in our Bibles, but we have watered down our faith into a safe, academic philosophy. We acknowledge that God could move, but we don't live as if we expect Him to.

We often excuse this by saying these "big" miracles were only for special times. But the Bible is full of everyday miracles. Jesus told us that if we have faith, we would do "greater works" than He did (John 14:12). The limitation isn't in His power; it is in our anemic expectancy.

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There is, however, a vital distinction in how we ask. Joshua didn't ask for a longer day so he could rest; he asked so he could fulfill God’s purpose. James 4:3 warns us that we often do not receive because we ask with "wrong motives." When our lives are aligned with His—when we are seeking His glory in our work, our families, and our creative pursuits—we move from passive belief to active faith.

Sometimes, we need the sun to stand still. But other times, the miracle is more internal. As the saying goes: "Sometimes God moves the mountains, and sometimes He performs bigger miracles and moves me."

The God of Joshua is the same God we serve today. He still holds the tectonic plates, and He still holds the details of your life. Perhaps the greatest miracle we can ask for today is a heart that truly, deeply believes that the Bible is true—and a faith that expects the Creator of the universe to show up in the middle of our ordinary days.

An open letter to my kids

 To my kids,

I look at the world you are growing up in, and sometimes I just want to apologize.

It is a world that is loud, fast, and obsessed with "right now." Everything is on demand. You can binge a whole season of a show in a day. You can buy something with one click and have it at the door tomorrow. You are surrounded by a culture that screams, "If you want it, you deserve it, and you should have it instantly."

It looks like freedom. But I want to tell you a secret: It’s actually a trap.

There is a verse in the Bible (1 Corinthians 6:12) where Paul talks about this. He says, "All things are lawful for me, but I will not be mastered by anything."

That word "mastered" is the key. The world tells you that "Freedom" means having no rules—doing whatever you feel like, whenever you feel like it. But if you can't say "no" to your phone, or your spending, or your temper... then you aren't free. You are being mastered by those things.

I want you to have a different kind of freedom.

There is a phrase I want you to carry in your pocket. It’s a principle of investment that applies to money, to skills, and to your walk with God:

"If I do not when others do, then I can when others cannot."

This is the hardest lesson to learn, but it is the most valuable:

• If you save your money when your friends are spending it on junk... you will have the freedom to be generous when they are stuck in debt.

• If you invest your time learning a hard skill—whether it’s coding, or woodworking, or understanding the Bible—while others are just scrolling... you will have the ability to build things they can’t even imagine.

Discipline feels like losing in the short term. I know it does. It feels like you are missing out on the fun.

But think of it like the workshop. I can’t "finance" a skill. I can’t put "master craftsmanship" on a credit card. I have to pay for it upfront, hour by hour, mistake by mistake. But once I have paid that price, I have a freedom that the guy who took the shortcut will never have. I have the freedom of capability.

My prayer for you isn't just that you "follow the rules." My prayer is that you build a life of such deep strength and character that you are useful to God.

So, when everyone else is taking the easy road, and you feel the pressure to join them... hold the line. Make the investment. Do what others won't today, so that tomorrow, you can go where others can't.

I love you, and I am proud of who you are becoming.

Love, Dad

The Hats I Wear (And Why I Take Them Off)

 

I woke up the other morning with one very specific thought: My head is freezing.

I’ve realized that as I get older (and balder), I lose a lot of heat right off the top. So, I started doing something I used to think looked ridiculous—I started sleeping in a stocking cap. It sounds funny, but lying there, I remembered hearing stories about the "old days" before central heat, when everyone wore nightcaps to bed. It’s actually where the design for the Santa hat comes from—it wasn't a fashion statement; it was a survival tool. I tried it, and the physiology works. I slept better.

But because my brain rarely stays on one track, that got me thinking about hats in general.

I don’t really consider myself a "hat guy." I don’t own a single baseball cap. But if you looked in my closet, you’d see I actually have quite a few. I have wide-brimmed hats for the sun and beanies for the cold. For me, a hat has always been a tool—something I use to protect myself from the elements.

Most of my hats, though, are a specific style—the flat cap (or ivy cap). I’ve worn them since I was a teenager. I realized recently that I don’t just wear them for style; I wear them because they were the "uniform" of the men who made me who I am.

I remember a trip I took years ago across Kansas with my dad and my grandpa. We were doing family history research, driving long hours and stopping in small towns. We walked into a diner for lunch, all three of us wearing our flat caps. The waitress looked up, did a double-take, and then a triple-take. She told us it looked like she was seeing the same person at three different stages of life.

That moment stuck with me. In that diner, the hat was more than a piece of wool; it was a connection. It was a uniform that said, “I belong to these men.”

That idea of the hat as a "uniform" sent me down a bit of a rabbit hole regarding the military. I had a rudimentary understanding of it, but I did some research to really understand the philosophy. In the military, a hat is almost never just a hat; it is a "cover." The language matters.

The general rule is simple: if you are outdoors, you are covered. If you are indoors, you uncover. But the reason is about readiness. A soldier generally only salutes when wearing a cover. The hat is what authorizes the gesture of respect.

There is one major exception that fascinated me: "Under Arms." If a soldier is indoors but wearing a duty belt or carrying a rifle, the cover stays on. Why? Because the hat signals that the soldier is in a state of readiness. To take it off would be to symbolically "relax" their guard. If you are armed, you are on duty; if you are on duty, you remain covered.

That concept of "covering" naturally led me to the Jewish tradition. I found that the Kippah (or yarmulke) isn't actually a commandment in the Torah, but a custom that became law over thousands of years. The Talmud speaks of men refusing to walk even four cubits (about 6 feet) with an uncovered head.

The theology behind it is beautiful. It is called Yirei Shamayim—the "Fear of Heaven." The skullcap acts as a physical barrier, a constant tactile reminder that there is a divide between man and God. It tells the wearer: "You are not the highest authority. There is always something above you." It is a permanent posture of humility and submission.

So, we have the military cover (signaling readiness and duty) and the Jewish covering (signaling reverence and the boundary between earth and heaven).

But then there is the Apostle Paul.

In 1 Corinthians, Paul throws a curveball. He instructs Christian men to uncover their heads when they pray or prophesy. It took me a little while to understand why he would say that. If covering your head is a sign of respect in so many cultures, why would Paul say to take it off?

I think the answer lies in the difference between a Soldier and a Son.

A soldier keeps his cover on to show he serves the King. He is an agent of the state, always ready, always under protocol. But a son? A son takes his hat off in his Father's house.

Paul was teaching us that because of Jesus, the boundary—that "ceiling" the Kippah represents—is gone. We don't need a "cover" to approach God anymore. We don't need to hide our glory or signal our submission through a piece of fabric. We have the status of sons. We have direct access.

We all wear a lot of "hats" in life. I wear the "Dad" hat, the "Woodworker" hat, the "Geographer" hat. Those are good hats. They represent my responsibilities and the work I do to serve my family and my community.

But I’m learning that "Child of God" isn't a hat I put on. It’s who I am when the hat comes off. It’s who I am when I’m vulnerable, uncovered, and open before the Lord.

So, I’ll keep wearing my flat cap to honor my dad, and I’ll definitely keep wearing my stocking cap to stay warm at night. But when I bow my head to pray, the hat comes off. Not because of a rule, but because I’m home.

More Than Firewood

 Years ago, my dad and I planted an apricot tree. We had high hopes for it, envisioning summers filled with fresh fruit. But nature had other plans. The tree only produced fruit once in its entire life. Eventually, bugs got to it, boring deep holes into the trunk, and disease took over. It was, by any agricultural standard, a failure. Dad eventually had to cut it down to make room for something productive.

To most people, that pile of bug-eaten logs was just firewood. It had lost its utility, its integrity was compromised by voids and cracks, and it was full of defects.

But I saw something else in the wood. I took it into my shop with the intention of turning it into bowls. It was difficult wood to work with; the bug damage meant there were significant chunks missing, and old injuries had created swirling, stubborn burls. If I wanted these bowls to actually hold anything—to be usable—I had to address the voids.

I didn't try to hide the damage. Instead, I filled the cracks with colorful epoxy. The resin flowed into the deepest empty spaces, bonding the shattered grain back together. When it hardened, it didn't just make the wood functional again; the vibrant color contrasting with the natural grain made it far more beautiful than a "perfect" piece of wood would have been.

It reminds me of Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 12:9: "And He has said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.'"

I can pick up those bowls today and tell you the story of the cracks. The epoxy scars aren't ugly blemishes; they are the defining features of the piece’s beauty.

The Craftsman’s Hands

It got me thinking about how God looks at us.

I was reading through the creation account recently and I noticed a shift that I hadn't really paid attention to before. When God created the universe—the stars, the oceans, the mountains—He simply spoke. He commanded, and reality obeyed. "Then God said, 'Let there be light'; and there was light" (Genesis 1:3).

But when it came to humanity, the method changed. He stopped speaking at creation and started working in it.

"Then the Lord God formed man of dust from the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living being." (Genesis 2:7)

I dug into that word "formed" a bit, and it turns out the Hebrew word used there (yatsar) is the same term used for a potter molding clay. He got His hands dirty. We weren’t just commanded into existence; we were crafted.

He Doesn't Need the Wood

This leads to a realization that really shifts my perspective. God is God. He is perfect and complete. He wasn't sitting in heaven lonely, needing us to fill a void in His life. Paul actually had to explain this to the men of Athens in Acts 17:25—that God "is not served by human hands, as though He needed anything, since He Himself gives to all people life and breath and all things."

If God needed us to be productive—like a farmer needs an apricot tree—He would have discarded us the moment we sinned and stopped producing righteousness. We would have been firewood.

But He didn't throw us away. Why?

Because He wants us.

Just like I didn't need that broken apricot wood to survive, God doesn’t need us. I kept the wood simply because I desired to see what it could become on my lathe. God keeps us because He desires to have us at His table.

Reframing the Rescue

This completely reframes John 3:16 for me: "For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son..."

I used to read that as a rescue mission, which it is. But if God needed us, the Cross would just be a necessary repair—a calculated expense to fix His broken workforce. But because God just wants us, the Cross becomes a staggering, voluntary act of passion.

The "epoxy" of His grace—paid for with the life of His Son—flowed into the deepest voids of our sin. He didn't have to do it. He chose to. As Peter wrote, the Lord is "not wishing for any to perish but for all to come to repentance" (2 Peter 3:9). That is the language of desire, not obligation.

When I really stop and try to understand the desperation of God's desire for us, the appeal of sin just falls apart. Why would I hang on to the handful of mud that is my brokenness when I am being offered the diamond of His intimate love?

God is the ultimate Craftsman. He doesn't just want to patch us up so we can hold water; He wants to fill our broken places with His grace in a way that makes us more beautiful than if we had never broken at all. He wants to set us on His table, not as mere utensils, but as cherished heirlooms.

The Relentless Blade

 The darkness didn't just inhabit the cell; it bled from the stone.

At first, it was just a stain—a slick, oily residue in the corners of the room. I spent my nights backing away from it, pressing myself into the center of the floor, knees to my chest, shivering. But the shadows were predatory. They didn't just spread; they hunted.

I fought them. Desperately, I fought them. When the first tendril lashed out and wrapped around my ankle, I screamed. I clawed at it until my fingernails broke. I hacked at the encroaching tide with a jagged, rusted shiv I’d found in the muck. I slashed and stabbed, frantic to keep the filth off my skin.

But the darkness was viscous and heavy. It moved with a sentient, patient malice.

It happened slowly. A slip in the mud. A moment of exhaustion. The oil touched my skin, and it didn't just sit there; it burned. It burrowed. I felt it worming its way into the muscle of my calf, weaving itself into the fibers of my own flesh.

I tried to cut it out, but I couldn't find the seam.

Eventually, the screaming stopped. The fighting stopped. I sat in the darkness, not because I was trapped, but because I was heavy. The fight had drained me, but as the shadow filled my lungs, I felt a new, terrible kind of strength replacing it.

It was a cold, feral power. I felt a hunger in my belly that wasn't for food—it was a desire to consume, to destroy, to pull everything else down into the dark with me. The pulse in my ears was no longer my own; it was the rhythmic thrum of the Beast.

I looked at my hands. They were black, clawed, and terrifying.

I wasn't just a captive anymore. I was the monster. I had become the thing I feared, and the horror was that part of me liked it.

Then, the world ended.

The iron door didn't open; it disintegrated. It vanished in a flash of heat so intense the stone archway ran like molten wax. I recoiled, hissing, shielding my eyes against a light so pure it felt like acid on my skin.

A Warrior stood in the breach.

He was not safe. He was not gentle. His skin shone like burnished bronze in a furnace, and his eyes were flames of fire that saw everything—the rot, the hunger, the shadow woven into my marrow. He wore no armor, for He needed none. In His hand, He held a broadsword—massive, terrifying, and honed to an edge that seemed to cut the very air it rested in.

I trembled. Not with the fear of a victim, but with the terror of a villain caught in the act.

I knew why He was here. He hadn't come to save me; He had come to slay the beast. And I was the beast.

I felt a wave of absolute terror, followed immediately by a crushing, desperate relief. Do it, I thought. End it. Burn this out of me, even if it kills me.

I didn't run. I couldn't. I bowed my neck, exposing the place where the corruption was deepest, and waited for the execution.

The Warrior stepped forward. The floor shook. He raised the great sword high. The light caught the steel—blinding, absolute, and inevitable.

There was a rush of wind.

With a single stroke from the relentless blade of Truth, the steel fell.

The agony was blinding—a white-hot tear that screamed through my nerves. It was a violence so specific, so precise, that it felt like being unmade.

But the blade did not bite into my bone.

It sheared through the impossible knot. It severed the fusion of soul and sludge. There was a wet, tearing sound as the shadow shrieked, severed from my spine, and dissolved into ash on the floor.

I gasped—a ragged, desperate inhale. It was the first breath of clean air I had tasted in a decade. The feral hunger vanished, replaced by a hollow, aching peace. I fell forward, weeping, bleeding, and terrifyingly alive.

I touched my chest. I felt only my own heartbeat.

I was undone. I was scarred. But I was free.

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"For the word of God is living and active and sharper than any two-edged sword, and piercing as far as the division of soul and spirit, of both joints and marrow, and able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart."

— Hebrews 4:12 (NASB)

Sticks and Stones, and the Loopholes of Our Broken Hearts

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."

We teach this to our kids. We repeat it like a mantra, trying to armor them against the cruelty of the playground. But if we are being honest, we know it is a complete lie. Bones heal. They knit back together. But words? Words can destroy you completely.

We often forget that words hold legitimate power—both creative and destructive. With the exception of human beings, God made all of creation by simply speaking it into existence. "Let there be light," and there was. He formed man with His own hands and breathed life into us—suggesting a deeper level of intimacy—but that created power of speech is something He shared with us.

Every word that comes out of our mouths carries that weight, yet we often treat that power casually. We focus on the letter of the law—avoiding a specific list of "bad words"—while completely missing the spirit of what we are saying.

About twenty years ago, God spoke to me really clearly about this distinction. At the time, I didn't think I had a problem. I wasn't mean with my words, and I didn't throw swear words around flippantly. In fact, it was rare for a "bad word" to ever come out of my mouth.

I was spending the summer in Nevada for a job, and my wife Gina and I decided to take a trip to a nearby opal mine. On the way there, we passed signs warning us about the wild donkeys in the area. Naturally, the jokes started coming.

I took a bunch of pictures and even made a photo album that I titled the "Wild A** Trip." I was cracking jokes like, "Get off my a**." I felt completely fine doing it. I justified it to myself: That is a completely legitimate word for a donkey. It’s in the dictionary! The Bible even uses the word!

I felt safe. I was technically following the rules.

But then God spoke to my heart. He highlighted the fact that while I was using the word in its correct context, I was laughing because I had found a loophole. I wasn't using the word to describe an animal; I was using it because I found a "permissible" way to be profane. My intent was to be edgy, and so in my heart, I was not choosing Godliness.

God began to show me that profanity is more about our heart condition than the actual vocabulary list we use.

Every "curse word" generally has a legitimate origin. But by the same token, we can take regular, even beautiful words, and make them profane if our heart is wrong. We see this all the time in the South. The phrase "Bless your heart" sounds polite, but depending on the tone, it can be just as profane and cutting as any four-letter word.

It isn't about the letters; it’s about the spirit behind them.

We have to be careful, precise, and intentional. It is easy to misspeak and hurt someone unintentionally with a misplaced word. But more importantly, we have an opportunity to use this power for good.

Sticks and stones can build amazing structures, sure. But words? Words can create things of unspeakable beauty. Let’s build with them. (Ephesians 4:29)

Strawberry Candy and Folded Cash: Learning the Dialects of Love

 I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how we learn to love, and more importantly, how we learn to recognize love when it doesn't look exactly like our own.

I noticed something about my father-in-law. He has a consistent habit of giving money to me, my wife, and my kids. He does this for others, too. It’s not about flashing wealth; it’s just what he does. His own father did the same thing.

For a long time, I have to admit, I struggled with this. My instinct was to be cynical. Giving money isn't my "love language," so I often interpreted it as "buying love" or a transactional substitute for real connection. It felt impersonal to me.

But I’ve realized that I was looking at his actions through my own self-centered lens. I was judging his actions by my preferred methods. The reality is that for his generation, and the one before him, providing resources was the ultimate expression of duty and care. When he hands over cash, he isn’t buying affection; he’s saying, in his own dialect: "I want to make sure you are safe. I want to know that I am still useful to you."

It got me thinking about the generational gap and how easily we miss the love of those who came before us.

The Scent of Strawberry Candy I remember going to my Grandma's house as a kid. To be honest, it was often awkward. It was boring, she was old, and her house smelled funny. I was the youngest quiet kid, and I didn't know how to relate to her, and she didn't know what to do with me.

But now that I’m getting older (and probably starting to smell funny myself), I look back with different eyes. I see that Grandma really did love me fiercely; I was just too young and self-absorbed to translate her actions.

Her house wasn't huge, but she made sure we were comfortable, even if that meant I got the hide-a-bed couch. She was an amazing cook and always fed us really well (I can almost smell the cinnamon rolls). And, inevitably, there was the candy bowl filled with those strawberry hard candies—the ones in the red wrapper that looked like a strawberry, with the soft jelly center.

For birthdays, I’d get a card with money. For Christmas, I’d get socks. As a ten-year-old, socks are a terrible gift. As an adult, a fresh pair of socks on Christmas morning is a top-tier present. That shift represents my own movement from wanting excitement to appreciating provision. Her love was quiet, steady, and based on meeting needs I didn’t even know I had.

The Love Gap in Marriage We bring these inherited styles into our marriages, and it creates what I call a "Love Gap." Our natural, self-centered nature says, "My way of showing love is the right way," and we judge our spouse for doing it differently.

When I got married, I realized my wife came from a family of "Loud Lovers," while I came from a family of "Quiet Lovers."

• My wife would say "I love you" so often—sometimes dozens of times in a conversation—that to my ears, it started to suffer from inflation. It felt like it was losing its value.

• In contrast, I almost never said it. I’m sure my own dad said it to me, but I honestly can't remember a specific time. To my wife, my silence felt like a famine.

It created a cycle: the quieter I got, the louder she got in an attempt to get a response. We both had to learn. She had to learn that the words hit the target harder for me when they weren't used as filler. And I had to learn the hard truth that she needs to hear the words more often than once every twenty years—and crucially, I need to say them unprompted.

Becoming Bilingual The Bible holds a fascinating tension regarding how we show love. In Matthew 5, Jesus tells us to let our light shine before men so they can see our good deeds. In the very next chapter, Matthew 6, He warns us not to practice our righteousness before men just to be seen.

Which is it? Loud or quiet?

I think the answer is that we need to be Loud for their sake, and Quiet for our own soul’s sake. Love must be visible enough so the recipient feels secure, but humble enough that we aren't doing it for applause.

Now, as a father to teenage boys, I’m seeing the pattern repeat. One son is a "loud lover" who needs physical touch and constant verbal affirmation. The other is a "quiet lover" whose highest compliment is putting his phone down just to sit in the same room with me in silence.

I am learning that part of maturing as a husband, a father, and a follower of Christ is becoming "bilingual" in love. We have to learn to speak the dialect of the person standing in front of us, rather than just shouting in our own native tongue and wondering why they don't understand.

We need to learn to value their language more than our own comfort. Love is about being consistent, intentional, and—when necessary—out loud.

More Than Just Quiet Time: Why Solitude Doesn't Always Recharge Us

I consider myself an extreme introvert. Large crowds drain me instantly, and social interaction—while meaningful—often feels like a heavy withdrawal from my emotional bank account. According to the standard cultural definition, the prescription is obvious: If I’m drained, I need to be alone.

But there is a glitch in that theory.

While I desperately need alone time, I found that there is one specific exception to the rule. I can spend hours with my wife—just sitting together, reading, or existing in the same space without pressure to perform—and instead of draining me, it refills me.

If "people" drain introverts, why does she recharge me?

It made me realize that the whole introvert/extrovert dynamic is too two-dimensional. It ignores the most critical component of our internal wiring: The Spiritual Battery.

The Difference Between Stopping the Drain and Refilling the Tank

We often confuse "unplugging from the world" with "plugging into God."

For an introvert, solitude stops the leak. When I get away from the noise and the crowds, the drain stops. I stop losing energy to performance, processing, and social expectations. But sitting in an empty room doesn't necessarily add energy back into the system; it just stops me from hitting zero.

True recharging requires a power source.

This is why time with my wife is different. Because of the safety and intimacy of our relationship, I’m not "performing." I am connected. It’s a relational current that flows back into me.

Rethinking the Yoke

This concept completely changed how I read one of the most famous passages in the Bible. In Matthew 11:28–30 (NASB), Jesus says:

"Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls."

I always viewed the "yoke" as a work metaphor—two oxen plowing a field together. In that view, the "rest" comes because Jesus is strong and He pulls the heavy side of the load. That’s true, but I think there is a deeper mechanical truth here.

What if the yoke isn’t just about leverage? What if the yoke is a connection cable?

When Jesus tells us to take His yoke, He isn't just saying, "Let Me help you work." He is saying, "Plug into Me."

The reason so many of us are exhausted—even after our quiet times, even after our vacations—is that we are operating on battery power. We retreat to solitude to let our batteries cool down, but we never actually plug them in. We return to the world just as empty as we left, just slightly less stressed.

Operating "Plugged In"

Jesus didn't offer an escape from the work; He offered a power source for it.

"Yet those who wait for the LORD will gain new strength; they will mount up with wings like eagles, they will run and not get tired, they will walk and not become weary." (Isaiah 40:31, NASB)

The Hebrew word for "gain new" strength here literally means to exchange. We trade our depleted battery for His infinite current.

If you are feeling drained today, look at your "recharge" habits. Are you just isolating yourself to stop the bleeding? Or are you finding that safe harbor—in the presence of God, or the "one flesh" safety of a spouse—to actually reconnect to the Source?

Solitude might preserve your sanity, but only the Source can restore your soul.

No Casual Entry: The Physics of Holiness and the Heart of Worship

For years, I have held onto a personal theory about worship and creativity. It started with a simple observation of the Throne Room of God as described in Scripture. Whether it is Isaiah’s vision or John’s revelation, there is a consistent element: the unceasing anthem of the angels crying out, "Holy, Holy, Holy, is the LORD of hosts" (Isaiah 6:3).

My theory was practical. I postulated that if I wanted to write genuine worship songs, I needed to go to the source. I believed that by joining the angels in singing "Holy, Holy, Holy," I could posture my heart to enter that room, "download" what heaven was currently singing, and bring it back to earth.

It was a beautiful thought, but as I have dug deeper into the Word, I have realized that while the mechanism might be right, my motivation needed a profound shift. I was treating the Throne Room like a resource center—a place to go when I needed inspiration.

But the Bible makes one thing terrifyingly clear: There is no casual entry into the Throne Room.

The Weight of Glory

When we look at the accounts of men who actually saw this place, we don't see them pulling out a notepad to write a hit song. We see them hitting the floor.

In Isaiah 6, the foundations of the temple trembled, and the house filled with smoke. In Ezekiel 1, the prophet fell on his face. In Revelation, John fell as though dead. The atmosphere of the Throne Room isn't just "peaceful"; it is heavy. It is electric.

This brings me to a hard truth about the modern church. Too often, we approach God as "sunday christians." We treat the presence of God as a weekly scheduled event where we can stroll in, sing three songs, feel a goosebump, and leave unchanged. We attempt to enter the Holy of Holies with a casual spirit, forgetting the lesson of the Old Testament priests.

For the Levitical priests, entering the presence of God was a matter of life and death. They had to wash, prepare, and carry blood to cover their sins. If they harbored secret sin or entered flippantly, they didn't come back out.

While we live under the New Covenant and have access to the Father through the blood of Jesus (Hebrews 4:16), the nature of God has not changed. He is not less holy now than He was then. As Hebrews 12:28-29 reminds us, "religiously serving God with reverence and awe; for our God is a consuming fire."

The Physics of Holiness

I used to struggle with the idea of God’s holiness. It sometimes felt like God was demanding we bow down to feed His ego. But I have come to realize that God is not arrogant; He is Holy.

Think of it like the sun. The sun is not "arrogant" because it burns up a piece of paper that floats too close to its surface. The sun is simply being the sun. Its nature is one of absolute, uncontainable nuclear power. The paper is destroyed not because the sun is mean, but because the paper is incompatible with that environment.

This is the physics of spiritual reality. The unholy cannot exist in the presence of the Holy.

When we live as "sunday christians"—ignoring God Monday through Saturday, harboring secret sins, and living casually—we cannot expect to survive an encounter with the Consuming Fire on Sunday morning. We might be in the church building, but we are certainly not in the Throne Room. We are stuck in the outer courts, wondering why our worship feels hollow.

Redefining Humility

So, how do we enter? The key is humility, but perhaps not the way we usually define it.

I used to think humility was thinking less of myself—beating myself up for being a sinner. But in the glare of the Throne Room, humility isn't about self-deprecation; it is about self-forgetfulness. It is the shift from a horizontal view (comparing myself to others) to a vertical view (seeing myself in light of Him).

When Isaiah saw the Lord, he cried out, "Woe is me, for I am ruined!" (Isaiah 6:5). He didn't say this because he had low self-esteem; he said it because the light exposed the dust. But notice what happened next. He didn't stay ruined. A seraph flew to him with a burning coal from the altar, touched his mouth, and said, "this has touched your lips; and your iniquity is taken away and your sin is forgiven" (Isaiah 6:7).

The Transaction

This is where my original theory about songwriting gets redeemed.

Entering the presence of God is indeed a transaction, but it isn't "I give you praise, You give me a song." It is "I give you my life, You give me Your fire."

When we stop trying to use God to get a creative spark and instead submit to His holiness, the dynamic changes. We go from Utilitarian ("I need a song") to Submission ("Here am I").

• Isaiah went in, saw the Lord, was purified by the coal, and came out with a Prophetic Commission.

• Ezekiel fell on his face, was filled with the Spirit, and came out with a Message for Israel.

• The Psalmist enters the gates with thanksgiving, sees the glory, and comes out with a New Song.

We do leave with something. God loves to give good gifts to His children. If you are a writer, He will likely fill your pen. If you are a singer, He will fill your mouth. But the gift is the byproduct of the encounter, not the goal.

Living as Everyday Priests

I am not writing this as someone who has mastered it. I am writing this as a man who is tired of my own casualness. I am realizing that I cannot be a "sunday christian" and expect to carry the weight of Glory.

To enter the Throne Room, we must be "everyday priests." We must wash ourselves daily in the Word. We must keep short accounts with God regarding our sin. We must live in a state of reverence, so that when we close our eyes to worship, we aren't trying to bridge a gap of a million miles.

We step into the flow of the river that is already moving. We join the song that never stopped. We add our small voice to the thunderous, eternal reality of the angels:

"Holy, Holy, Holy, is the LORD of hosts, The whole earth is full of His glory."