Saturday, March 14, 2026

When the Heart Sees What Reason Cannot

 

Joseph, Forgiveness, and the Quiet Wisdom of the Heart

“The heart has its reasons which reason knows not.”
Blaise Pascal

Reason tells us that betrayal deserves distance.

Logic says that when someone has wounded us deeply, the safest response is to protect ourselves. We might forgive in theory, but we rarely trust again. From the perspective of reason, forgiveness often appears foolish.

Yet the scriptures sometimes show us a deeper wisdom.

The story of Joseph in Genesis 37–41 begins with cruelty that reason cannot easily forget. Joseph’s own brothers envied him, stripped him of his robe, and sold him into slavery. He was carried far from his father, far from his home, and forced into a life he never chose.

From a purely rational standpoint, Joseph had every reason to harden his heart.

Years later, however, something extraordinary happens. Joseph rises from prisoner to ruler in Egypt. Power is now in his hands. The very brothers who betrayed him will eventually stand before him in need.

Reason would say this is the moment for justice.

Reason would say this is the moment to settle accounts.

But Joseph’s story unfolds differently.

Somewhere in the long years between betrayal and reunion, Joseph’s heart learned something his brothers did not yet understand: God was working through the pain.

The suffering that seemed meaningless had become part of a larger purpose.

Joseph later speaks the words that reveal this transformation:

“Ye thought evil against me; but God meant it unto good.”
— Genesis 50:20

This is not the language of resentment.

It is the language of a heart that has discovered a deeper perspective.

Joseph did not ignore what his brothers had done. He did not pretend the wound never existed. But his heart had come to see something beyond the injury itself. What looked like destruction had become preservation. What looked like betrayal had become the pathway through which God saved many lives.

Reason sees the offense.

The heart sees the possibility of redemption.

That is why Joseph’s forgiveness is so powerful. It was not merely an act of kindness. It was the recognition that God can weave even the broken threads of human actions into something meaningful.

Pascal understood this mystery.

The heart sometimes perceives truths that reason cannot yet explain. In the quiet places of life—through prayer, reflection, or long suffering—we begin to see beyond immediate circumstances. The heart learns to trust that God’s purposes can move through even the darkest chapters of our lives.

Joseph’s story shows us that forgiveness often begins in that hidden place.

Not when the past suddenly makes sense.

Not when justice feels complete.

But when the heart begins to see that God is still working.

For many people in recovery or spiritual growth, this moment is familiar. There comes a time when we look back at the painful roads we have traveled and realize that something good has emerged from them—wisdom, humility, compassion, or the ability to help someone else walk through their own darkness.

What once seemed only loss becomes part of a larger redemption.

Joseph’s life reminds us that reason may count the wounds, but the heart can discover the meaning.

And when the heart begins to see what God has been doing all along, forgiveness becomes possible.


Reflection

Sometimes we understand our life only in hindsight.

What once appeared as betrayal, loss, or suffering may later reveal itself as part of God’s quiet work in shaping our path.

Reason sees the injury.
The heart, over time, may come to see the purpose.

And in that discovery, forgiveness can begin.

Thursday, March 12, 2026

Running Into Ourselves




“No matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.”   — Audrey Hepburn 

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”   — Carl Jung 

 

There comes a moment in life when running stops working. 

We run from places. 
We run from memories. 
We run from mistakes. 

 

Sometimes we even run from the quiet voice inside us that asks us to change. 

But eventually we discover something surprising: 

 

 

Wherever we go, we bring ourselves with us. 

Our fears travel with us. 
Our wounds travel with us. 
The habits we refuse to see quietly shape the road ahead. 

 

Audrey Hepburn captured this truth in a simple but powerful way: no matter where we run, we eventually run into ourselves. 

 

Psychologist Carl Jung saw the same reality from another angle. He observed that the parts of ourselves we refuse to recognize still influence our lives. When we ignore them, they quietly guide our choices, and we call the results fate. 

 

In recovery, this moment becomes a turning point. 

We stop blaming geography. 
We stop blaming other people. 
And we begin the deeper work of honesty. 

 

That is where the real change begins. 

 

One truth slowly becomes clear: 

“Wherever I run, my fears go with me. 
Wherever I surrender, God can meet me.” 

The road forward does not begin by running farther. 

It begins the moment we stop running, turn inward, and face the truth of who we are. 

And in that quiet place of honesty, we discover something we may never have expected: 

We were never meant to run forever. 

We were meant to surrender. 

Because the place where we finally meet ourselves is also the place where God has been waiting all along. 

Sunday, March 1, 2026

He Walked It With Me

 


A Reflection on How the Gospel of Jesus Christ Changed My Life


I have lived a long road.


It has not been straight.

It has not been smooth.

It has not always been faithful.


There were years when I believed I was walking alone.

Years when pride led me.

Years when fear shaped my decisions.

Years when I thought I had to fix myself before God could possibly want me.


Recovery began to loosen that illusion.

“I can’t. He can.”


But for a long time, I did not fully understand who “He” was.


Over time — through loss, service, scripture, surrender, and quiet repentance — something changed. Not suddenly. Not dramatically. Slowly.


I began to see that Jesus Christ had not entered my life late.


He had been walking it with me all along.


When I was raising my son alone.

When relationships ended and I did not understand why.

When shame felt heavier than hope.

When I sat in meetings unsure if I could stay sober one more day.


He was there.


Not excusing my mistakes.

Not approving my pride.

But sustaining me in ways I did not recognize at the time.


The beauty of my story is not that it was clean.


It is that I was never abandoned.


The gospel of Jesus Christ did not erase my past.

It redeemed it.


It did not remove my weaknesses.

It reshaped them into dependence.


It did not make me impressive.

It made me grateful.


Today, when I serve, teach, work, pray, or sit quietly with scripture, I do so with a steady awareness:


The road was long.


But it was never lonely.


And the Savior who walked it with me then

is still walking it with me now.