Finding Hope

W hen I was eight, I learned that God has a dark sense of humor — and it comes with wings. It happened in someone else’s backyard, which feels important, because bad things rarely happen at your own house. Disaster requires an audience. I was on a swing — Zips sneakers, tube socks pulled high like my shins had something to prove. The sun was hot, the air thick, and my only goal in life was to see how high I could go before physics called 911. And then, because I was eight and believed in magic and stupidity in equal measure, I jumped. I don’t know what I expected — a soft landing, applause, maybe divine approval. What I got was pain. A thousand electric shocks erupted all over my body. My legs. My arms. My scalp. My underwear . I remember thinking, So this is how I die — in Fruit of the Looms and questionable sneakers. Turns out, I had landed on a wasp nest. They didn’t hesitate. They organized. It was a coordinated military strike. I screamed. Adults came running. There w...

When was the last time you thought about your firsts ? Not the big, cinematic ones—first car, first kiss, first hangover (the one that made you promise God things you still haven’t delivered on). I mean the small ones. The ones that seem insignificant but somehow stuck. Your first Halloween costume. Your first crush who never knew. Your first rejection—the one that made your stomach drop and your confidence call in sick. Your first sip of something you weren’t supposed to have, thinking, Ah, rebellion tastes like cherry cough syrup and regret. But here’s a question we rarely ask: What’s your first memory ? I read somewhere that most people’s first memory shows up around two-and-a-half years old. Before that, our brains are too busy building highways to hit record. So the things we think we remember—like sitting on Santa’s lap or that early trip to Disney—are often just family folklore with pictures attached. But my first memory? It’s not dramatic. It’s not even interesting. I w...

  W e hear stories all the time about the supernatural—miraculous healings, near-death experiences, strange whispers in the night that make even skeptics pause. But how do we know what’s real? That’s what investigative journalist (and former atheist) Lee Strobel asks in his new book Seeing the Supernatural . He dives into evidence of the unseen world and invites us to consider something both ancient and terrifyingly current: What if God really does still rule over the spiritual realm—angels, demons, all of it? And maybe that’s where we need to start. Because the real battle today? It’s not just political, cultural, or ideological. It’s spiritual. We like to think politics is about ideas—policy, vision, leadership. But underneath the hashtags and press conferences, something darker is happening. Something feeding on us. Every election cycle, every argument at the dinner table, every “unfriend” click on Facebook— it all fuels a spirit that thrives on outrage. That sp...

                                  H ere’s the thing about beachballs: they look light. Harmless. Neon-colored fun. But shove one under water and see what happens. It fights. It writhes. It waits. And the harder you push it down, the harder it explodes back up. That’s what we do with pain. With shame. With fear. We stuff it.  We smile over it.  We sit in boardrooms and PTA meetings, holding it underwater with white knuckles, praying no one sees the struggle in our arms. We convince ourselves:  I’ve got it handled. Until one day, the beachball shoots up, smacks us in the face, and knocks over the whole damn pool party. That’s what happened to me. My beachball didn’t surface quietly. It detonated. And when it did, it took my career, my reputation, my sense of self right down with it. Here’s what I wish someone had told me sooner: Your beachball is not the enemy. It’s the invitation. It’s beg...

Seasons F or fifty years I lived as if the world had only one season: “Hurry.” Spring meant deadlines. Summer meant conferences. Fall meant back-to-school meetings. Winter meant I should probably start running again. The earth kept turning, but I was too busy checking my email to notice. Then life slowed me down-without asking permission. And for the first time since I was four, I wasn’t chained to a school bell or a meeting calendar. I finally had the time, and the stillness, to stand still and watch the world go by… I started walking the same road every morning. Same shoes. Same time. Same stretch of cracked pavement. Here’s the secret I stumbled into: If you do the same small thing every day, you finally notice how everything else is always-quietly-changing. In late fall I watched the maples blush, unclench, and let go. I saw the lawn go from green to brown to a frozen graveyard, and then-return as a spring carpet so thick it mocked my bald patches of grass. I watched...