Dimensions. As a remodeler and DIYer, I know that dimensions describe openings, door and window size, square footage, etc. Dimensions are all about height, width, length and depth. They’re essential.

What do dimensions have to do with love? Everything. God’s love for us, expressed through Christ, exceeds our comprehension. We cannot measure it.

“And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is.” Ephesians, 3:18 (NIV)

We lack the ability to understand the dimensions of God’s love. This is why Paul longed for him to give the Ephesian Christians the power to understand the deep depth, towering height, and East-West width of God’s love for them.

The closer we move to understanding God’s love, the more we know that we all fall short.

Do you feel like you don’t measure up? I do. On my own, how can I? I fall and fail in so many ways. So do you. Compared to a perfect and loving God, we all do.

How do we please him? According to A.W. Tozer, “We please God most, not by frantically trying to make ourselves good, but by throwing ourselves into His arms.”

This is why his boundless love is so wonderfully amazing; it’s blessedly so.

Imagine asking God, “Do you love me, Lord?” He smiles and says, “Oh, yes, my child.” Then like a child, you ask, “How much?” He smiles even more broadly, stretches his mighty hand high in the air and keeps going until its height towers in the heavens.

Then God opens his arms wide—wider than East is to West. Then he shows you the vastness of the deepest ocean, and says, “I love you even more than this.” And then you realize it’s the same ocean that God chose to cast your sins and failures into to forgive and forget them.

Maybe he’d say, “I loved you before time, before I made the world, before I made you. I show you my love in height, width, length and depth, but I love you more than can be measured. I love you because I choose to, my child.”

I need God’s power to understand his love for me. We all do. His dimensions of love are staggering. It boggles the mind and imagination.

Think of it: In love, God sent his only Son into the world to die for and save sinners like me. And then, in love, he rescued me from myself.

In her song “Dimensions”, musician Jess Ray describes our inability to understand God’s love and Jesus’ promise to save. I’d quote its beautiful lyrics, but songs are best heard. I recommend a listen.

This side of Heaven, God’s children don’t know much he loves them. I want to. Oh, Lord, please give me the power to understand and accept even a millimeter of your love for me.

God’s love for his children is limitless. It can’t be comprehended with dimensions. They’re not big enough. Hallelujah.

When the most important person in history becomes the most important person in a life, friends and family are attracted or repelled. I’ve seen it. Jesus Christ draws people, and in doing so, he draws lines in the sand of hearts.

Toward him or away, we all move. But no matter what we do, he saves and sends.

“Behold, I am sending you out as sheep in the midst of wolves, so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.” —Jesus (Matthew 10:16 ESV)

When Christ sent his disciples into the teeth of the world, he warned them to be wise. Snakes are crafty. They sneak up on things and strike at opportune moments. They’re shrewd and smart.

Jesus wants us to be wise like snakes and innocent like doves. I’ve seen pigeons and seagulls scrapping and scarfing on city streets and piers and beaches. They seem snippier and snappier than snakes. They look ruthless.

Doves are different. As gentler cousins to pigeons, they coo sweetly. Maybe this is what Christ meant. Doves beautify our mornings. They soothe. They’re lovely. We need more beauty and less ugly in our world.

It’s teeming with evil. Jesus knew that wolves in robes would drag his followers in front of judges and rulers. He knew they’d be hard-pressed and mistreated. He knew everything that would happen to them, yet he sent them anyway.

He loved his own enough to die for them. Surely, they could handle some fear and roughness … with his strength and help. We can too.

Christ’s words about overcoming the world comfort me far more than any dove could:

“I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33 ESV)

Jesus promises problems and peace. How can a carpenter from Nazareth bring both? Because beneath the robe is royalty. When he rose from the grave, he defeated death and stifled its sting. As the maker of all things, he remade both.

In doing so, the King of kings routed the enemy of our souls and the world of wolves. I love Aragorn, but he’s just a shadow of Tolkien’s seeming understanding of the King over all kingdoms—the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End. (Revelation 22:13)

As followers, what does Jesus want us to do until he comes again to gather us into his kingdom? To press on, pilgrims. We trust in his goodness and mercy and his perfect payment of our debt to him. Paid in Full. What three words are more precious?

Meanwhile, be salt and light. Tell the truth in love. Stand fast. Resist the enemy. Be like snakes and doves. Be wise and innocent.

I want to live this way, so that someday I’ll hear my King say, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

Come quickly, Lord.

Yesterday, I served as an underwater “Uber.”

While snorkeling on the island of Hawai’i, I enjoyed the privilege of powering my wife Emily from the under-towish waters of the Pacific back into the calmer shallows of our resort lagoon.

I loved it. Hand-in-hand, I used my big natural flippers within my bigger fake flippers to propel us. She felt free to trust me and watch fish and other critters with calm and peace.

Emily said she knew that I knew the way back and so was able to enjoy the view and let her feet and legs float along with the ride.

I led her, and she loved it. And I love that she loved it.

I’m her God-given leader, not because I’m better than she, but because he made me for that role. Emily’s smarter than I am in some ways and in other respects, I’m more gifted.

God, our perfect father, knows best how to gift his children and enable them to fulfill their roles in helping one another serve and please him.

I think that my leading and her trusting pleased him yesterday. I think our underwater “Uber” made him smile. God loves seeing husbands and wives walk—and swim—in harmony toward him.

All we need do is trust the Captain of our souls. 🛟 And breathe.

Jesus bids us follow him. When we do, the way can be rough and rugged. His followers trod a prickly, thorny and hard path, but he’s The Good Shepherd. If he draws us, we will stumble, but he promises to save us from ourselves and to lead us home. As beautiful as our world can seem, the one to come will flawlessly beautiful. I got sand cross sandals to leave a mark, but they’re leaving blisters on my poor feet. I must break them in. Or maybe God’s using them to break me in. Strangely appropriate and just right. ❤️‍🩹✝️

I grew up in a North Texas neighborhood, and our elementary school was across the street. The woman on my right was my best little friend and classmate and lived two doors down. She and I played house in our front yard.

Her childhood friends are the others in the photo, among others. They’ve been getting together for decades. Their enduring friendships seem rare and refreshing to me.

When I see photos of their meet-ups, I see the same bright and youthful faces. Seeing their smiles encourages me. I’m not close to my male childhood friends. We live states away and grew apart years ago. We believe differently.

I joined the military, traveled and lived in different states. They stayed in North Texas.

One of the girls invited me to drop in on their gathering. She and I walked to kindergarten together so long ago. She sent me a message and shared the time and place. I thanked her and didn’t think I’d make it. I was in town to help care for my mother. I wanted to be there for Mom’s dinner and bedtime. And I was exhausted. I’m worn out.

I lay down for a bit and rested. I woke and checked on my mom. She laughed when I told her about the invite and named names. She seemed to remember most of them. Especially my bestie and also the one who told my mom a few years ago that I was her first kiss.

While Mom ate and spent time with a caregiver, I shaved and decided to drop in for the homegirl dinner date. With some trepidation, I drove to the restaurant. It’s within walking distance of our old neighborhood. I was a shy kid and a very shy adolescent.

Though still an introvert, I’ve learned to allow the outgoing elements of my personality to flicker and shine. It’s easier to love others and show I care for old and new friends. And it’s how God made me. I was made to smile and joke and laugh and now cry.

I wore a ball cap, spotted them, and slipped over to the table. There was an open seat next to my former neighbor at the head. I sat, smiled and said “Hi, everyone. How’s it going?”

Stares and silence. But only for a second. She jumped up and squealed my full name. Laughter and smiles. I crashed their dinner party, looked kind of incognito, and they recognized me. They knew me.

Hugs all around. I sat near her for a while and then went to the other end of the table to talk with the one who invited me, my kindergarten walking buddy. I worked the room. Not as politician, but as an old friend.

I learned two other things last night: A classmate’s first name is not Hud (I thought he was supercool and the girls thought he was supercute). And one of the girls (the first kiss one) did not have a mega crush on a friend.

They asked me about my mom. At least four of the eight have cared for an aging parent. A few still do. I told them how tired I am, shared a bit of my stress and hurt over my siblings. They nodded and one hugged me and said, “We get it and you.”

She gets me in another way too. She suffered something similar to my last summer health event and lingering malady a few years ago. I broke a leg nearly 12 years ago. Neither of us handle heat well now. Both of us have been broken (in bone, at least). I still feel broken, but am better in many respects. Restoration often begins with loving correction.

These homegirls refreshed me last night. They get me in my anguish over my mom. I’m glad I lay down and was strengthened with a bit of rest. I’m thankful that God restored me enough to rally to go. I would’ve missed out on two rounds of hugs and one happy squeal.

I wasn’t a huggy kid. My parents weren’t good at it and neither was I. I’m much better now. God hugs me in many ways. But first he loved me by shattering my shield. It had to go.

He broke it with circumstances and his perfect loving care. I’m thankful to my Lord for breaking me and for being broken for me. ✝️❤️‍🩹 And for the invite.

NOW it’s a holy day. Easter Sunday? The name doesn’t do it justice. It’s Resurrection Day. And for believers who know real forgiveness and deliverance, it’s the absolute best day ever. It’s the bright Sunday after a dark and gloomy Friday. Good Friday? Good for us. Blessedly good for us.

To me, Easter now means one blessed and glorious thing—Christ is risen.

He is risen indeed. What does this mean? It means that after taking on the sin of the entire world—yours and mine, after willingly submitting to God’s punishment for our transgressions, for our damning inability to please a perfect Father, his only Son lovingly accepted our death sentences as his own. He shed his blood to buy ours.

His enemy and our deceiver won nothing. Jesus redeemed everything. He conquered death and hell. When he called us to follow him, he washed away our sins and stamped our filthy records and guilty verdicts with three wonderful words: PAID IN FULL.

Jesus satisfied our sentences, bought us, and brought us from our dungeons of sin and shame. No matter what you’ve done in your life, if God draws you to his Son, he forgives you and adopts you into his family … forever. God doesn’t lose his children. Jesus said it himself, “I give them eternal life, and they will never perish, and no one will snatch them out of my hand.” (John 10:28 ESV)

Believers are bought with a price, redeemed in love and amazing grace, and cherished as children. THAT is Easter. Hallelujah.

Jesus is risen indeed. Follow him and be rescued—and risen someday. Just think of the egg hunts and green grass and warmth and beauty and love of God’s new gardens where we’ll smile and laugh with joy together.

Every day will seem like Resurrection Day. Forever. ❤️‍🩹

I've noticed something new about me.

Instead of asking God for things, I now thank him for things. Rather than seek his blessings, I count them. My perspective is different. It’s been changed.

My strength was stripped from me last summer and so much seems new. My prayers are now grateful where at times they were ingratiating. Blessings seem like mercies. They're no longer over and above, but just enough. Blessedly enough.

God has shown me that it's not about me. It's about him. It's always been about him. But he's also shown me that when it comes to his fatherly love for me, it is blessedly about me. I'm the one who desperately needs it. He doesn't need anything, which makes his love for me even more special.

Now, I just thank him for basic stuff like rest and peace and my wife and his personal letter to me and to anyone with eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts to hold dear. His words are more than worthy of my trust because they're true. They have to be—they're backed by his promises.

I thank him now and seek connection with others. For years, I thought I was a Han Solo and didn't need anyone. I had myself, and I was more than enough. Silly man. If I were enough, I would've withstood that summer storm. Instead, I was swept away and desperately needed rescue, reset and restoration.

Now, a good day begins with a morning prayer of thanks—and promise refreshers. And music that unlocks a bit of my soul's joy and then real words with real people. Others' struggles now feel wounding to me rather than pitiable. My self-protection has been replaced with vulnerability and empathy.

If you see me around town with a smile and a finger pointing skyward, say hello and bless me with a bit of kindness. I'll do the same for you. It’s the least I can do when compared with the most he has done. My Lord died for me. I will live for him and die trying.

When my parents took us to our Grandpa Nick’s, it always went the same way. He smiled and shook our hands until they hurt and we crumpled in pain. Then he laughed and gave us bubble gum. Once my parents drove off and after a bit of grandpa time, he put us to work mowing his lawn while he drank beer.

Grandpa Nick was Domenico. And his last name was spelled with a “grave” accent on the i, as in Luscrì. I like to think that it’s a sign of royalty, but have grave doubts. Especially after discovering that one of my Luscrì ancestors may have served as a bodyguard for a brigand who resisted the deposition of an Italian monarch.

On the flip side, bodyguards are typically elite fighters. So there’s that. Plus, it would be fun to introduce myself at parties as Patrizio Luscrì (LooscrEE). And Patrick derives from the Latin name Patricius, meaning "nobleman" or "of noble birth." I'm not noble. Just trying to be faithful.

I’m not a name dropper, but this is interesting: I’m likely related to Pierfranco Luscrì, an art director who worked with Mel Gibson on The Passion of the Christ.

Domenico was born in a little mountain village in southern Italy, in the Calabria region. I know this through family folklore, and I verified it by getting a copy of his birth certificate. To do so, I hired “The Italian 007”. He secured an official copy from the comune in Platì.

Why hire an international man of mystery to uncover my grandfather’s birth details? Not to find out about the ì, surely—for a much more meaningful reason.

It was to verify something, hitherto unbeknownst to me, something that I was born with. I didn’t know about it until the summer of 2023.

Italian citizenship.

Like my grandfather and father, I was born an Italian citizen. Constitutionally, this is because of a concept known as “Jure Sanguinis”, Latin for “Right of blood.”

The Italian Constitution grants those born in Italy the right to pass their citizenship to their children—as long as they do not naturalize in another nation before the birth of the child. When my grandfather naturalized, America required that he give up his foreign citizenship and renounce his allegiance to an Italian king.

Back then, to become American one must become only American.

My father was born before his father naturalized. He was born to an Italian citizen, which made him an Italian citizen. Having been born in America, he could’ve become a dual citizen. Because I was born to an Italian citizen in America, I was a born American and can become a dual citizen. Neither of us knew it. He passed away in 2014, but I hope to tell him about it in Heaven.

So, I found out in 2023 and began my 739-day journey to research, collect vital records and documents, have them “apostilled” (certified), translated, and shipped to an Italian lawyer who had convinced a court in Florence that a woman and her grown children in my little California town were also born citizens.

It was a ton of work, but fulfilling. I enjoy history and genealogy and doing difficult things. It galvanizes me. Also, interacting with a 007 is uber cool.

I filed my case. Then I waited. And waited. And waited. While waiting I came up with silly scenarios to entertain my wife and deal with the waiting. One was to fantasize about showing up at my court in Reggio Calabria and loitering outside until an employee walked up.

I would smile and say in Italian, “Ciao, mi chiamo Patrizio. Lavori qui? Vorrei ottenere la cittadinanza italiana, per favore.” (Hello, my name is Patrick. Do you work here? I would like my Italian citizenship, please.)

Finally, early Tuesday morning, March 10, 2026, I got a surprise email message from my lawyer, Luca. It contained the Italian words, “Ciao, finalmente” and “congratulazioni!” I knew enough of my new language to feel instant excitement, disbelief and relief.

The judge assigned to my case wrote this in her decision (translated):

I was born an Italian citizen. I did nothing to earn that citizenship, but scream my first breath. I did nothing to deserve it.

God did everything. He loved me before he laid the foundations of the world and every nation on it. He breathed life into me. He gave the gift of life to my father and his father. And you too. Life is a gift. So is citizenship. One is of much more value than the other.

And eternal life is infinitely more valuable than anything else. Jesus said so himself when he taught his parables of the Pearl of Great Price and the Treasure in the Field.

Yes, I just went spiritual on you. It’s what I do. Why? Because everything has spiritual significance. Even citizenship. It has everything to do with blood and birth and family.

Heavenly citizenship is about all that. And it’s about adoption.

I was born for life and service to my family and future service to my God. Christians are blessed with an ultimate citizenship in what C.S. Lewis called a “far-off country.” Eternal life as a citizen in Narnia is just a shadow of citizenship in Heaven where there will be nary a tear or fear or failure or grief.

I’m glad and grateful that the Italian justice system ruled in my favor. They followed their constitution and the rule of law. They affirmed the truth.

But I’m much more grateful to God for providing a substitutionary penalty for my offenses against him. His son and my Lord took my punishment for me and secured a place for me in paradise. My debt is paid in full. Forever.

Ave Re Gesù. Hail, King Jesus. I pledge my ultimate allegiance to my Savior and Lord of lords.

Within a week, I was wrecked and remade. With two traumatic events in five days, God blessed me with new pain propelled by ancient mercy. He who formed the heavens and earth loved me even before he made me. I’m nothing special, just blessed.

Until that week in July, I wasn’t sure that God truly loved me or what he wanted from me. I thought he’d made me free because I believed in him. As Jesus said, “And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” (John 8:32 NLT)

I thought I was free. I was—in a sense—free to believe the truth. And I did. But I wasn’t free to follow him freely. I tried and did in some ways, off and on, but my chains slowed and staggered me. I needed release from the lies I clung to.

My most debilitating fear formed by a most evil lie? God didn’t accept me. It is true in a sense. He doesn’t accept my ability to be good enough. I have none. If I were, Jesus Christ, his beloved son, died for nothing and least of all for me.

I needed a spiritual crisis to realize my need for the greatest truth any of us can fathom: We can never be good enough to please God. He alone is good enough.

We’re flawed, broken and absurdly imperfect. If you think you’re more than this, please add foolish to your list of imperfections. I have.

I needed the pain and fear of two health scares in a week to snap me out of my deception, delusion and selfish behavior. I needed to decide with whom I’d placed my eternal trust: in puny me or in a mighty savior.

In those first few fearful nights, I woke screaming. My wife knows. I frightened her.

What was I so afraid of? That God had given up on me. That his love for me was a lie. That I’d gone too far and trampled his grace. All lies.

God says in his word that the only sin he doesn’t forgive is a willful and lifelong refusal to accept Christ’s sacrifice for sin and trusting in oneself rather than in his son. This damning refusal can take many forms.

The pharisees in Jesus’ days on earth refused to accept that he was the messiah and did worse—they saddled others with guilt and unbelief. They also tried to sully the Holy Spirit by attributing his power to the devil and his demons. Jesus says this blasphemy is unforgivable.

I first believed while watching The Ten Commandments and The Greatest Story Ever Told. Each time I heard the words of Jesus or those that elevated God, I believed. I believed Jesus was the messiah and savior of the world, but I didn’t completely transfer my trust from myself to my Lord. Not until last summer.

When your world is rocked, you see what you’ve built it on, your foundations are revealed. We all base our worth on something. Prestige from work, marriage, family, achievement, reputation, money, toys, homes, land, power—whatever floats our boats. But life’s storms can wreck any boat. If you don’t know this, you will.

When foundations are shattered in a storm—and we all brave them or cave to them—winds and waves wash away our tinker-toy timbers, fluff, our less-than-foundational “truths.” Our tough times expose our weak beliefs. They clarify our priorities.

Joyfully though, trials and tribulations can produce new affections, better loves. I know. Overnight, my old shabby less-than loves were replaced by better, brighter eternal ones. Love for my Lord, family, friends, brothers and sisters and fellow sinners supplanted affections for politics, power, ambition, lust, and other distractions.

Overnight. Just like that. God can move slowly or quickly, but he always moves. He changes hearts and minds and remakes loves. He can do what he wants. He’s God.

Now, I light up when I see texts from friends and encouraging brothers. I spend time with people a decade plus older than me. Children make me laugh, and I make them giggle by being a “Funky Unky” (uncle). A particularly mischievous little urchin (youngest son of a brother) smiled at me and nearly made me cry with joy.

Like Ebenezer Scrooge, I’m not the man I was. And mostly because I now know that I never knew anything. Humility makes heroes of us all.

Where are you right now in life? Sailing pretty in the sun? Or are your skies darkening a little? If you belong to God, follow Jesus and be faithful. He’s got you. If you stray, don’t worry—The Good Shepherd will comfort you with his rod and staff. It may not feel like comfort in the moment, but it will someday.

If your God’s child, he won’t let you go. He doesn’t un-adopt his children. Think of the prodigal son. He strayed. Then he returned and was forgiven, clothed and restored. Consider King David. He became an adulterer and a tyrant. God loved him still. He corrected him and inspired David’s words about rods, staffs, comfort, rocks of refuge, fortresses, shields and bucklers.

If you’re a child of the King, God will change your loves. For him, for others, for heaven to come. He’s a master remodeler. Sometimes, he has to make things worse to make them better—new and beautiful. Stand fast, pilgrims and former prodigals.

God loves you and Jesus is making all things new. Hearts, lives and loves.

A woman of the city, who was a sinner and possibly a prostitute, stood behind Jesus. She wet his feet with her tears, wiped them with her hair and kissed his feet.

How did Jesus respond to her humility? He affirmed her and used her faith to correct his host, a pharisee.

“Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not ceased to kiss my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment.

Therefore I tell you, her sins, which are many, are forgiven—for she loved much. But he who is forgiven little, loves little.” And he said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.” Then those who were at table with him began to say among themselves, “Who is this, who even forgives sins?” And he said to the woman,

“Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”

I’ve noticed something about fellow sinners who know they’ve sinned greatly yet are forgiven. You can see it in their eyes, their words, kindness, humility, empathy, and gratitude. They’re grateful for this truth—Jesus knows every sin we commit in this broken world. Yet he took them all on himself and died for us.

Staggering sin, amazing grace, sacrificial love. What a beautiful gift forgiveness is from an infinitely graceful savior.

I hope and pray that people see some measure of humility in me. I’ve been forgiven much and now I love Christ and others more than ever. Some may judge, but those who know—truly know—God’s forgiveness consider themselves fellow forgiven sinners, not anyone’s betters.

These are the sinners who encourage me.

“Our sins are many, but His mercies are more” is from a sermon by former slave ship captain John Newton. You know, the guy who wrote Amazing Grace. I can’t imagine the depths of grief and gratitude he wrestled with. I wrestle with both.

I’m not sure there are many who don’t. Maybe those who think they’re good because they haven’t murdered anyone or something horrible like that. I haven’t murdered anyone either. That doesn’t make me good.

There are none who do good, not not one. '“As it is written: ‘There is no one righteous, not even one. There is no one who understands, no one who seeks God. All have turned away, they have together become worthless; there is no one who does good, not even one.’” (Romans 3:10-12 BSB)

John Newton knew he was a sinner and had done wrong for years. The woman who anointed Jesus’ feet knew the depths or her sin. I know mine. I know I slipped and failed and drifted.

My sins are many. So are yours. But God’s mercy is more. Infinitely more.

Consider these promises from scripture. They’re God’s words. They’re promises from the one who made us, loves perfectly and died for the world. Once and for all. God wants you to know that he can forgive you completely. In fact, he says this.

He can throw our sins into the depths of a bottomless sea. He can cast them as far as the east is from the west (which means beyond distance). God alone can choose to forgive AND forget sin. No one else can. When God forgives, he forgives forever. He doesn’t dredge up our failures.

When we ruminate on our forgiven sins, he may as well say with smile, “What sins?”

Like he said to the woman, Christ is ready and able to say to us, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”

Forgiven forever. Amen.

While driving in the mountains, I realized something: Yes, I was reborn decades ago and had a love for the truth. But now, I have a love for my savior. I can say it and I often do. God rescued me last summer and is restoring me day by day. The truth still matters greatly to me, but the Way, the Truth and the Life matters more—much more.

Jesus Christ is my savior. He’s also my advocate. John wrote, “My little children, I am writing these things to you so that you may not sin. But if anyone does sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous.” (I John 2:1 ESV)

What is an advocate? An advocate is someone who pleads on another’s behalf.

As my advocate, Jesus defends me before a perfect and holy judge. Christ covers my sin with mercy and forgiveness based on his all-sufficient merit. I can do nothing to defend myself. Neither can you. We are all guilty as charged. I’m forgiven as loved.

You see, Jesus is not merely an advocate for those who are his. He’s our sacrifice. HE died for us. He took our sin upon himself and paid the penalty for us. Jesus is much more than an advocate, a pleader. He’s the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. Yours and mine.

I think Christ smiles inwardly as he advocates for his sheep. He knows every detail of our worst and most horrible sins and offenses, yet he pleads for us. He loved us so much that he died for us. He became sin who knew no sin.

I think God smiles too. I wonder if they smile together—not as an inside joke, but as a shared joy.

I’m incredibly thankful. I drifted, I strayed, I fell and failed. Yet I’m forgiven. Not only that, Christ is helping me forsake the things that ensnared me. He’s broken my chains. There will be other temptations and trials, I’m sure, but Jesus has given me the gift of gratitude by freeing me from my flailing and failure. I love him.

He’s the ultimate advocate with an air-tight case: He paid the penalty for our offenses, and he's perfect. God is the corrector, Jesus the redeemer, and the Holy Spirit the comforter. What a dream team.

And what a wonderful agreement they have—our forgiveness and full acquittal based on Jesus Christ’s redeeming sinless sacrifice. Jesus offers a clean slate for all who repent and follow him. Christ alone makes possible complete acquittal and forever joy.

Wolves. They’re in our county and in forests and fields and places without leaf or branch or stem. They’re in our cities and towns. Wolves are part of our world.

Wolves are wonderful opportunists. They cull the weak. They coordinate and recon and work together to separate and kill. They’re ruthless and will turn on a wounded pack member quicker than on a healthy victim.

A man in my Northern California county looked me in the eyes and said that very thing. I didn’t understand his meaning for a few seconds. He said it with dread and trauma. He recounted his story and said this telling was the first time he’d been able to talk about it without crying.

He lives with his wife and dog minutes away from where I live with my wife and dog. He lives near others who live near town. Our town.

His story: A few months ago, he took his dog out around dusk and up her favorite hill. She’s not a small dog, but not wolf-sized either. They walked in her territory where she sniffs and marks and goes about her business being a dog every day.

Partway up, the man turned and saw a huge black head and eyes not three feet away from his face. His dog reared and reacted with the fight or flight instinct we share with animals. He says it seemed ready to fight to the death for him.

Then he saw a second wolf. Both were black and about 150 pounds, according to him. The wolves paused and seemed temporarily puzzled. They were ready for the dog. They knew its smell and were engaged in a coordinated hunt and attack on the dog. The man was an X-factor. For now.

When fight or flight kicked in for the man, he fought. He snatched a stick and began stabbing at the wolves. They recalibrated as the man and his dog made their way down the hill. After fearful seconds, the wolves aborted the hunt and moved off. When it seemed safe, the man asked his neighbor if he’d heard anything. Nope, he had his TV on loud and didn’t hear a thing.

This bothered the man much more than it would’ve normally. Why? Because our fight or flight mechanism triggers a shutdown of our frontal lobes, the area of our brains that keeps things real, logical and in perspective. Adrenaline and physiological changes can create extreme fear and a desire for affirmation.

Did you see what just happened? (Please say that you did.)

We want others to salve the severity of our trauma, to affirm the validity of our terror. Fight or flight can make affirmation seekers of us all. And when the triggering trauma is powerful, it can change us.

The dog may be a bit more vigilant now, but has likely recovered from her fright. The man was affected deeply, maybe for the rest of his life. So was the man writing these words—by his own trauma last summer.

Both men endured two traumas within a week. A few days after the wolf assault, the man suffered a horrific motorcycle accident. He broke six ribs, a collarbone and a shoulder blade. He had surgery and now sports plates and screws and still needs another surgery.

This man is an uber-experienced motorcycle rider and mechanic. Within the same week of the attack, he went on a long ride. Did he suddenly lack the confidence and resilience he’d enjoyed for years? He told how deeply the attack affected him.

Wolves are here in our county fields and woods. And cattle, pets and people are at risk. We must ask ourselves—do we protect them at our peril or do we preserve them and ourselves with proper stewardship?

In a fallen and ferocious world awaiting a new and perfect paradise, it seems wise and reasonable to simply fulfill our God-given roles. We should steward the earth and protect the weak and vulnerable by controlling the strong and predatory.

I sold my Scouts, yes. But not to Juan Diego. If that’s even his real name. It IS the name the buyer gave me for his hauler. “Juan Diego F”, to be precise. When Juan pulled up to our home early last Wednesday, he asked, once again, “Do they run?”

No, they do not run, like I told the buyer and your person. Well, the white one runs, but it doesn’t drive. The master clutch cylinder and system needs bled. Like I said.

Our mission: Get two International Scouts, a 1961 and a 1964, up and onto his trailer bed that was about four and half feet above the street and half a Scout short because Juan had other cargo already. Double dipping on the run, I saw.

Our tools: ramps, chocks, a friend and his six-year-old son, a quad with a snow scoop and one wound-up, first-time (I discovered later) car hauler, two gigantic spools of something taking up at least one Scout spot. (See photo below.)

Oh, and one terrified terrier tied up to a bumper (not a Scout). (The kid brought her, not me.)

Our problem: The white Scout that had the red Scout trapped in my driveway refused to budge in reverse with three men and a boy pushing it. It would roll forward (and uphill) all day long, but wouldn’t budge beyond a couple of feet backwards.

We pushed. I fretted. I bled out the clutch fluid, I jacked up all four wheels. The culprit? Right rear. We pushed again. And again.

Juan Diego came up with an idea. He brought over some plastic thingees to put under the stuck tire. He said something about seeing someone else do it. “It makes them slide,” he said hopefully.

We tried it and something worked. The wheel released. We tossed the thingee to the side and pushed the Scout into position behind the first set of ramps.

I put the six-year-old behind the wheel and for some reason (lack of experience) he wasn’t good at lining up the wheels with the ramps. Maybe because he wasn’t sure which way to to turn the wheel to turn the wheels. Imagine that.

I nudged the Scout with my snow-scooped quad and moved it about halfway up the ramps. When I gunned it, the quad, made for fun in the snow and on trails and NOT to push 2,800-pound vehicles up 30-degree angled ramps, bogged and heaved and spun tires and tried and died at least once.

I tried a few more times until the Scout with the driver kid rolled back and smacked the snow scoop. Plan B? A winch. “We need a winch, Juan.”

Juan had a winch, but its cable was blocked by the two ginormous spools of whatever. “Could you run the winch cable between the slats of the pallets?”, I asked with growing frustration.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Do you have a battery for the winch?”

I got a battery from my garage. As I did, I saw Poppy the terrified terrier. She looked so frightened tied to the bumper. I apologized to her and tried to soothe her fears with my edgy voice. My air compressor had been running, quad engine roaring, tension building. Poppy looked put-out.

I charged the battery and brought it to Juan Diego. By then he’d ascertained that he lacked wingnuts to connect my battery to his winch set. “Do you have any of these?,” he asked as he held the cables to the battery posts.

This when I kinda lost it. “I DON’T KNOW. MAYBE.” (All caps to denote my raised voice and stress.) I stomped back to the garage to look for some wingnuts. I caught myself and apologized to Poppy … again.

Juan Diego’s winch was inoperable. The controller was gone. He groused a little and said something about the guy who sold him his first hauling rig. Yes, this was his first haul, Juan admitted. This is when I began to feel more sorry for him than annoyed.

It’s also when I decided to call the local tow company. I spoke with the receptionist and then to a tow guy and then to the owner. I kept having my call elevated. He came on and said, “Okay, what am I getting myself into here?”

My friend, the six-year-old’s dad, told me that the tow company owner can be pretty grumpy. Grumpy or no, he agreed to come out and see the circus. 20 or 30 minutes later, we heard the tow truck coming.

He pulled up and began to position his truck to winch the Scouts. He backed into position like a superhero, and I felt a surge of hope. He could save my bacon. He latched onto a Scout and I took over as steer guy. Sorry, kid.

The tow-pro hauled one Scout into place. We rolled the other one out and into position. I got in to steer it. He had me and the car most of the way up the ramps when everything gave way and I rolled back onto the street.

I had no brakes and jammed on the pedal. Still no brakes. Only laughter. I couldn’t stop laughing … once I got over my fright and helplessness, the stress and absurdity of the situation cracked me up. But that’s how I cope with hard things in life. I laugh and laugh and laugh, apparently. It’s my trauma response.

The tow guy laughed too. Then he made a joke about charging me for three Scouts, once for one and twice for the other that he had to winch twice. I was told that the tow guy could be a little grumpy, but was rock solid in his service.

I want to think that he sensed my stress and distress and laughed and made a joke to help me diffuse both. He definitely helped me that day. He saved the sale and the day, in fact. Those Scouts would’ve never made it on the hauler without him.

We got the them on with only one little kink—the red one sat precariously at about a 30-degree angle with its rear leaning toward the street. Oh, and the retractable ramps wouldn’t fold back into place. Just two minor and dangerous discrepancies.

The tow guy used my die grinder to cut off the welds to pull out the pipe things to release the ramps and remove them. This made Juan slightly less illegal for his cross-country haul. He could reattach the ramps later and get his winch working after trekking to North Carolina. Maybe leave off the giant spools next time too.

Each time I walked by Poppy the terrified terrier, I felt for her. I still don’t really like her (we have a long history of her charging me in my own yard to yap when she was younger and bolder), but I felt for her with all the compressor and grinder noise.

The tow guy left me with a bill for $200, which I gladly paid as it’s a small price to pay to someone who save another’s day. Plus, the buyer paid me to pay the tow guy.

Juan spent a couple more hours tying up and tying on the Scouts. I got my chocks back and helped him lift and load a ramp. I also asked him to be careful and apologized for nearly going nuts over the wingnuts. I felt sorry for Juan Diego F.

He had to deliver the spool things to a military base in New Jersey and then head down to Wilmington, NC to drop off my Scouts—the buyer’s Scouts now. I released myself from liability that day. One look at the skewed cargo set-up was enough for me to do so. I didn’t want to be be responsible for the red one crushing another driver.

I lay down for a nap and when I woke, Juan Diego was gone. He’d begun his journey East. Next stop: Spool Base in Jersey. I prayed for his safety. I wouldn’t drive his rig seven miles east, let alone nearly 3,000.

Fare thee well, Juan Diego F. May God protect and guide you. Please stay safe.

Six decades ago, at 9:56 am CST in a little town in the middle of Iowa, I greeted my parents and the world. A third little boy. A winter baby. It was likely snowy and cold. Meanwhile, my mother’s father was in the same hospital after suffering a heart attack. Her younger brother was about to ship out for Vietnam.

It seems that I was born in the midst of family difficulty and trauma. This makes sense somehow.

60 years today. I’m in the fourth quarter of my life now. It’s go-time. Put up or shut up. It’s when champions are made. And all that sports stuff. The truth is this: I’m all in, not with sports—with life. I will follow Christ the rest of my days. No turning back.

I’ve been a Christian for 38 of these 60 years. I’ve been faithless, faithful, flawed, foolish and flimsy and faithful again. All these words apply to my walk, stumbling, straying and drifting. I’m no different than John Newton and exactly and blessedly the same in one respect—I’m a recipient of the greatest gift of all—God’s amazing grace.

I once was lost, but now am found,
was blind, but now I see.

and later in the hymn,

The Lord has promised good to me,
his word my hope secures;
he will my shield and portion be
as long as life endures.

Newton and I and you and every person who’s ever lived is a wretch. We can only receive God’s grace through Christ’s sacrificial death. It is a gift we can never earn or deserve. I don’t know about you, but I desperately need this gift from the most gracious giver.

I’m sixty. I thought I’d be a granddad by now. I planned on a wife and two kids—a boy and a girl. Just like the little wooden kids in my Fischer-Price house set. Oh, and a dog. My wife and I are childless. Cancer robbed me of natural fatherhood, of that joy.

It’s okay. At this stage of life and the way my body feels after what seemed like a near-death experience last summer, I’m okay with it. I don’t have the energy or confidence that I enjoyed at forty or thirty or twenty. Life sometimes feels overwhelming. And I’m more than busy trying to care for my mother and come through for my family.

Here’s what I’m most thankful for: family and friends who forgive me for my weaknesses, a gracious savior who died for my sins, and a God who washes me completely clean and chooses to forgive AND forget my failures. Forever and amen.

I’m 60 and have a quarter of life left to live, maybe. Who knows? I’m already cultivating old-man friends in their 70s. Maybe they feel comfortable with me because I don’t move fast and am quick to laugh. They seem to like me. I’ll take it. I’m blessed.

My wife loves me. My mother needs me. My family’s watching me. Christ died for me.

I’m truly grateful to be sixty. I have all the birthday gift I need and could ever hope for. Paradise found. Hope assured. Rescue complete … or almost so.

Finish well. Run your race, Patrick. I just want to hear God say, “Well done, my son.”

My pastor talked about Jesus calming the storm today. After hearing his humble and faithful words in his message, I was inspired to write this.

Sermon based on Mark 4:35-41 when Jesus calmed the storm:

Who is this? That the wind and sea obey him.

This is what the disciples asked one another after Jesus calmed the storm that threatened to kill them all. After he said to the wind and waves, “Peace. Be still.”

Before that, he woke from his nap and asked them, “Where is your faith?

It was in the same place mine would be, if I were in that boat on the Sea of Galilee in that storm. My faith would be with my heart—in my shoes and in my shaking knees.

Like the disciples were, I’m weak and life is hard. We’re all weak. Why? Because our faith is too often contingent on circumstances rather than on trust. We all fail in faith.

Jesus, the storm calmer, never fails. His power over our lives and circumstances remains strong through any storm and struggle.

God’s blessing of peace transcends all our understanding. We need only to trust. Or not. His disciples lacked trust—as we would and do. Jesus knew they would, which is why he crashed on his cushion before they crashed in their courage.

He is ever faithful. We are ever fearful.

His disciples, just like we would, thought they were as good as dead. Even in his sleep, the creator of the wind and the waves knew better. He always does and forever will.

That day on that sea, as my pastor said, Jesus stilled every molecule of the waves and the forces and physics he created. The storm calmer is in authority over everything. He is sovereign and in control. How can the creator of all not be?

God’s will WILL be done. Wind and waves? No worries, no fuss, no fear.

Your life will have storms. None of us can stop what’s comin’. But you can rest on God—and on your cushion. Take a nap. Don’t worry, be happy. Jesus is King. God is who he says he is. He loves and protects his children and wants them to trust him through every storm.

Peace. Be still. Nothing can stop God from fulfilling his promises.

Storms are coming, but the ultimate father has our ultimate best in mind. He is patient, kind and no coddler of children. Why not keep the storms at bay? Because he loves us more deeply than any earthly father can. He is God, after all. Our God. The only God.

What is Jesus’ lesson here? Why calm the storm? To show us this: Life is bigger than we are. So are the seas. And only a deep awe of God can chase away our feeble fears.

Take heart, brothers and sisters. As Paul did:

Yes, I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor ruling spirits, nothing now, nothing in the future, no powers, nothing above us, nothing below us, nor anything else in the whole world will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
—Romans 8:38-39

Rest in Jesus. Ask him to calm your storm. God is good and his son is the Light of Life. He is who enlightens our darkness and stills the wind and waves.

Who is this? The Lord, the love binder, the rester of fearful hearts, the storm calmer. Jesus is the maker and remaker of all things. He can rescue anyone.

What once was steady is now a stab. For me, it’s a bit of joy. It’s quick, but it cuts right to the heart. It’s like a piercing and warming light in the darkness.

Today, I went out to our driveway. Emily was still inside. I got into the truck and waited for her to come out to leave in her car behind me. The plan was to meet at the office in five or ten minutes. I got in and waited. I was boxed in.

Five to ten minutes later, she walked out the front door, took one look at me and laughed. I was pretending to look dead … this time from boredom. Actually, I was resting while waiting for her to discover that she’d parked behind me.

I decided to rest and relax and look dead because I knew it would make her laugh when she realized that she’d forgotten that she’d trapped me in our driveway. I smiled because I knew she’d find it funny. Soon. Any moment now.

She walked out and burst into laughter. “I’m so sorry. I forgot. I love you.”

“I love you too. But please don’t do this to me. I can only care for one person with this kind of thing at a time.” I joked because I’m caring for a loved one with memory issues right now. We laughed heartily.

On the way to the office, I thought, Did God just bless me with a little stab of joy? It felt foreign and oh, so welcome. I once felt happy mostly and experienced joy much more often. Now, it seems like an outlier, like a lovely visitor who pops in for a moment to brighten a day and gives a glimpse of what could be again.

I prayed and thanked God for my little stab of joy. I asked him to bless me with more. “I just need a little shot here and there, Lord.” Like a taste, a promise.

When Emily walked up to me behind the office, I was near tears. I thanked her for my stab of joy and for our laughter and told her about my prayer. We hugged and kissed and told each other that we love the other. Another stab of joy.

I got to do something Jason Bourne did many times. No, I didn’t beat up a bad guy or hot-wire a car within three seconds before leading yet another exciting chase scene. Although, I probably could pull off the last part—I’m that much of a techie nerd.

I was handed a safe deposit box and given a little “room” which was more of a cubicle than a room and more of a stall than a cubicle. But it was rather plush for a little county bank in the Sierras. I was left to pack valuables and documents in the box. No gold or guns or fake passports—much more essential stuff—end of life desires and best intentions.

I filled it to the brim. Not just with documents, but with hope. With promise of a brighter 2026. With conviction that I was doing everything I could think to do to help my Texas family.

Unlike Jason Bourne, I’m not hiding with fake identities, I’m finding out exactly who I am. I have no aliases. I’m just Patrick. I’m my parents’ third son and middle child of five. Over these difficult weeks, I’m finding out who I am in a crucible of pressure and challenges. I’m not on the run, but I am on the Lamb. I rest on Christ alone.

All that I am—puny, weak, sinful and frail—is who I am, but not who I was made to be by the Great I AM. My parents chose me for this tough task for some reason. All I can do is be myself, but most essentially, be true to my Lord.

I packed the deposit box. There was no tough-guy, international man of mystery music, no rapid-fire cool scene cuts, no chase. There was just a son trying to do his duty, to preserve whatever family unity remains, to care for his mother and siblings, to make his father smile, and to live up to his born-again identity.

When the bank teller relocked the box, I thanked her for giving me this new experience. I’d already mentioned Jason Bourne, so she smiled at my nerdery. I think she found my friendly goofiness endearing and refreshing. Sometimes, strangely I’ve found, it can be easy (and therapeutic) to be goofy and graceful under pressure. I think I laugh so as not to cry.

But this I’m sure about: My welcome silliness is not a result of any strength I have. It’s because of strength I’m given to enable me to walk according to my born-again identity. I can only shine when the Light of the World shines through me.

“I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.” John 8:12

Now that the holidays are over, may I ask you something? This is an essential question for a better new year: Were you a joyful elf or a grumbling grinch for Christmas? Careful now. Your honesty may determine your future.

Before you answer, read the words from a self-described “most and dejected reluctant convert in all England”—C.S. Lewis. He was a skeptic for years before becoming a saint. From Mere Christianity:

“Now there are a great many things that wouldn’t be worth bothering about if I was only going to live eighty years or so, but I had better bother about if I am going to go on living forever. Perhaps my bad temper or my jealousy are getting worse so gradually that the increase in my lifetime will not be very noticeable but it might be absolute hell in a million years.

In fact, if Christianity is true, hell is precisely the correct technical term for it. Hell begins with a grumbling mood, always complaining, always blaming others, but you are still distinct from it. You may even criticize it in yourself and wish you could stop it. But there may come a day when you can no longer. Then there will be no you left to criticize the mood or to even enjoy it, but just the grumble itself going on and on forever like a machine.”

Forever like a machine. This is frightening. Can you imagine grumbling for forever? I know a few grumblers. We all do. They’re challenging, to say it nicely. To say more can turn grief with them into OUR grumbling. To avoid this, I build boundaries.

I use them, not to keep challenging people OUT, but to keep them IN my life. I also use them as guardrails to keep myself from cranking up my own grumble machine.

I struggled with grumbling through my keyboard. I read and listened to things that outraged and saddened me. This fueled my grumble machine for days—until last summer. Everything changed in July. Before that, this kind of silliness was the stuff of my grumbling:

Politics: I can’t believe what they’re doing. It’s so wrong. What a bunch of idiots. Our country’s going to hell in a hand-basket. So stupid. Blah, blah, blah.

Sports: I can’t believe what they’re doing. They’re so bad. What an idiot owner and GM. This team’s going nowhere fast. So stupid. Yada, yada, yada.

Me: I’m so smart. I can do anything. I don’t need anyone. I’ve been hurt so many times anyway. I’m afraid. I don’t trust fully trust God. So stupid. Grumble, grumble, grumble.

We all grumble. At our peril. We can become grinches—grumble machines. As Lewis writes, we complain, blame, and criticize others. Here’s the scary part: If we grumble long enough, we cannot stop and will continue grumbling in fits and starts all the way to a hell. Forever. An eternity of misery. We will become infernal grumble machines.

We should all be careful. In Proverbs 6, God lists sins that he hates:

“There are six things that the Lord hates, seven that are an abomination to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that make haste to run to evil, a false witness who breathes out lies, and one who sows discord among brothers.” —‭‭Proverbs‬ ‭6‬:‭16‬-‭19‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Notice the phrase “sows discord.” Grumbling, complaining, gossiping can lead us to blame and criticize other sinners—to sow division. Discord can tear apart families, churches and countries. God hates it.

Sowing discord is a choice—a sinful one. So is sowing love—one we are called to do.

When we fill our hearts with praise and love from God and seek good in others and serve them instead of ourselves, when we say no to the hellish grumbler, life is richer and better—infinitely better. And we have a real future of joy and peace and love.

Grumbling is born of fear, selfishness and anxiety—all three fuel the machine. Kind words and consideration create warmth and love from a heart and mind at peace. When one places trust and security in the savior, the Prince of Peace, grumble machines sputter and die.

Grumbling or gratitude? Hell or Heaven? Forever turmoil or abiding peace? We all have a choice. Life isn’t over at the grave. It’s eternal. And it’s much better lived as Jesus did: in spirit and truth.

Let’s follow him all our days on earth and in heaven forever. And leave grumbling to grinches. I choose to love and lift my wayward brother to God. Lord, have mercy.

It is done, it is finished
No more debt I owe
Paid in full
All sufficient merit now my own

I’ve noticed something special about the lyrics above from Shane & Shane’s All Sufficient Merit. When a sinner like me (and you) is touched by God, these words begin to mean so much more. To broken and forgiven sinners, they become everything.

Jesus said of his work on the cross as done and finished. If he were British, he may have said “done and dusted.” Aramaic or Britannic—different words and sounds, same glorious truth: Our debt is paid. We’re forgiven.

I was touched by God last summer. I surely needed it. After my touching, I needed to know that Jesus Christ paid my debt. He did so on the cross and when God drew me to himself nearly four decades ago. He who knew no sin became sin for me. And for you. He paid our debt. In full. It is finished.

When we know this because God touches and saves us and we are born again, our accounts are marked “Paid in Full” or something that means that in any language. Only the Lamb of God has all sufficient merit to save sinners from God’s justice. He did so with his blood and death. He paid our ransom for us.

As I write, it is Sunday. I made it to service. To do so, I survived some spiritual warfare. Pressures without, resolve within. But I’m heartened by the battle. When a Christian responds rightly to pruning, soil is freshened, seeds are watered and fruit is borne. God is the ultimate gardener.

And Jesus is the ultimate sacrifice. He alone is worthy of all our love and devotion. He says to follow him. As silly sheep in need of a shepherd, we owe him that and more. He bought us. He died for us. We must live and die, if necessary, for him. Daily and in each moment.

As I listened to the sermon, my pastor struggled with tears as he said this, “Past-tense spirituality is a frightening thing.”

This hits home. My spiritual life went through windows of tense, lulls and drifts, hills and valleys, droughts and drenches. If we’re honest, all pilgrims struggle with inertia and momentum, past and present. I did and do.

I was living a desiccated spiritual life. It lacked freshness and vitality. My life was dry and dusty because my spirit needed to be “freshiccated.” I love words, but I don’t know what I’m talking about. But I am talking about something. Momentum.

But for momentum to matter, new life had to be purchased and debt paid for. Insufficiency had to be made sufficient. Speaking of words, what is insufficient? It’s this: Not enough, lacking in what is necessary or required.

Ever get a returned check stamped, “Insufficient funds”? I have. In college or maybe as a young struggling professional. It happened a few times, but not in decades. Nowadays, I like to have more than enough to pay for things.

Here’s the glorious truth: You and I could never have enough of anything to pay our sin debt. There’s not enough money or talent or goodness in the world to pay for even our “little” sins. Not in this world and not by any of us.

But the King of kings and Lord of lords? Emmanuel: God with us? He is all sufficient.

Jesus is more than enough and much more than we could ever hope for. He is a wealth of riches and love and mercy and goodness. He chooses us. And he made his choice in a garden. Redemption through pain and death. For us and forever.

All sufficient merit? You don’t have it and neither do I. We’re sinners in need of a savior, prisoners in need of pardon, debtors whose debts can be paid in full. What do we get in return for nothing we can give?

Forgiveness, mercy and guilt-free lives forever. Ask God to forgive you. Accept the true gift of Christmas: Immanuel. God with us.

Jesus paid it all, all to him I owe.

“Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” (—Jesus, Matthew 19:14)

I once thought that my life and the kind of person I was would determine my eternal future. I was taught that I could make it to heaven, if my good works outweigh my bad. I no longer believe this. I don’t think I ever did. Why? Because I know myself. I’m a foolish sinner who falls in some way every single day. Every day I struggle with anger, pride and selfishness—like any other guy. And other sins too.

How can I be good enough? I can’t. If I could, why did Jesus choose to die for me?

In 2011, I moved to Northern California for the beauty of the Sierra Nevada. I met Emily, married and was happy for a few years.

I broke my leg in 2014. Maybe twenty minutes before my tibial plateau snapped, I’d danced on a log and thanked God for healing my knee after a recent ligament tear on a ladder. As I stepped off, I felt healed and well again. I thanked God again and headed off to the barn to watch a two-year-old bull get banded. I had no idea that God was about to engineer my big break.

I had surgery and went through months of rehab. Something changed in me. I began to drift from God, my wife and my new family. I cycled, did a triathlon, and competed in a swim race in Santa Cruz’s “Red Triangle” and got in the best shape of my life. I was fit, but not spiritually.

Last July, God reset me ... again. This time, he corrected my heading for good.

I call it a Sea Change. It was a series of corrective circumstances that effected a transformation. My sea change took trauma. It hurt. It was haunting. Its effects linger, but I’m grateful for it. Profoundly grateful.

Like Paul, I can now say this: “For I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work among you will complete it by the day of Christ Jesus.” —Philippians 1:6.

The story of Jacob wrestling with God and God “touching” his hip comes to my mind. I’m no Jacob. I’m just Patrick—a shabby, silly man who was graciously given a second chance by a good and perfect God. He’s mending me and keeping me trusting him along the narrow path.

I can’t see into your heart, but I want to share mine. I’m a silly sinner in need of God’s amazing grace. We all are.

For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23). And the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 6:23) and God demonstrates His own love toward us in that while we were sinners, Christ died for us (Romans 5:8).

I know I can’t be good enough for God on my own. No one can.

Everyone must make their decision about Jesus Christ—we can choose to accept Him and repent and turn away from our sins and receive his free gift of eternal life, become sons and daughters of God or we can reject the truth to our death and, at best, suffer separation and darkness.

The urgency of eternal matters struck me when I hurt myself and now that my mom is struggling. I want for her what I want for you and yours: To know that Jesus is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. Jesus alone.

“And you shall know the truth and the truth will set you free.” (John 8:32) That is exactly what happened to me 38 years ago when my heart and eyes were opened. He healed my blindness.

Now, that verse is just ONE of my favorites. Here’s a new one: “Many sorrows come to the wicked, but unfailing love surrounds those who trust the Lord.” (Psalms 32:10)