The Power to Wound, The Choice to Love

Dear Reader,

There is a difficult truth most of us eventually discover about ourselves.

We are capable of both kindness and selfishness. 
Compassion and resentment. 
Mercy and judgment.

At first this realization can feel discouraging. We want to believe goodness means the absence of darker thoughts and impulses. Yet human experience, recovery, and faith all suggest something deeper.

We are not made good because we are incapable of harm. 
We become good when we recognize the darkness within us and choose, day by day, to live by love instead.

There is no triumph in kindness when selfishness was never a temptation. Character is revealed when one has the strength to wound, yet chooses mercy.

The Apostle Paul seemed to understand this struggle within the human heart when he wrote:

“Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil speaking, be put away from you… And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another…” 
— Epistle to the Ephesians 4:31–32

Notice Paul does not pretend bitterness and anger do not exist. 
He speaks to people who know these emotions well.

The invitation of the Gospel is not to deny our humanity, but to transform it.

This transformation often happens quietly in ordinary moments of life.

When we could speak harshly but remain gentle. 
When pride asks to be right, but love asks us to listen. 
When resentment begins to rise, yet we pause long enough to choose compassion instead. 

Perhaps this is why mercy is such a sacred thing.

Mercy is not weakness. 
It is strength disciplined by love.

An anonymous writer once observed:

“Blessed is the soul who knows its power to wound, yet chooses gentleness; who feels anger, yet seeks peace; who sees weakness within, yet walks daily in love.” 

To me, this is one of the clearest signs of spiritual growth and recovery.

Not perfection. 
Not pretending we are free from selfishness or fear. 
But becoming increasingly aware of what lives within us and choosing, one day at a time, to let kindness speak louder than anger. 

Maybe the truly good person is not someone untouched by darkness, but someone who has looked honestly at their own heart and still chooses love, acceptance, forgiveness, and peace.

🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️

Becoming as Little Children

Dear Reader,

A friend recently shared with me a quote from theologian Reinhold Niebuhr:

“Humor is a prelude to faith, and laughter is the beginning of prayer.”

At first reading, I found the quote somewhat shallow.

After all, laughter alone does not make us spiritual.
Many laugh to avoid pain.
Others laugh to avoid truth.

Yet the more I reflected on his words, the more I began to sense there might be something deeper hidden beneath them.

Perhaps true laughter has less to do with amusement and more to do with humility.

There are moments in life when we become so serious, so burdened, so certain of ourselves, that we lose the ability to see clearly. We begin defending our pride, protecting our image, and clinging tightly to the belief that we are in control.

Then suddenly, through grace, honesty, friendship, or even recovery, we catch sight of ourselves as we truly are.

Not worthless.
Not condemned.
Simply human.

And sometimes the first healthy response to that discovery is not despair—but a quiet smile.

Not mocking laughter.
Not careless laughter.
But the kind that softens the heart and allows us to breathe again.

The scriptures seem to point toward this same spirit when Jesus taught:

“Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.”
— Matthew 18:3

Children possess something many adults slowly lose.

Wonder.
Teachability.
Trust.
The ability to begin again after failure.

A child can laugh honestly because a child has not yet fully learned the exhausting burden of pretending to be greater than they are.

Christ continues:

“Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.”
— Matthew 18:4

Humility may be one of the great doorways to both faith and prayer.

Recovery teaches something remarkably similar.

Many of us arrive spiritually exhausted—trying to manage life through fear, pride, resentment, or self-reliance. Then one day, often in the presence of others equally broken, we finally let down our guard. We laugh at our own thinking. We admit we do not have all the answers. And strangely, in that moment, we become more open to God than we were in all our striving.

Perhaps this is why Proverbs teaches:

“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”
— Proverbs 17:22

Not because laughter removes suffering, but because humility helps heal the soul carrying it.

Maybe Niebuhr’s insight was never really about comedy at all.

Maybe it was about the beautiful moment when the human heart stops pretending, becomes teachable again, and quietly turns itself toward God like a little child.

Amen

AA Promise: A Faith That Beomes Visible

Dear Reader, 

Last night while reading First Epistle to the Corinthians Chapter 13 and First Epistle to Timothy Chapter 4, I found myself drawn to two messages that seem deeply connected. 

The first speaks of faith, hope, and charity. 
The second speaks of example, teaching, and living in such a way that both ourselves and those who hear us may be saved. 

Together, these passages suggest something beautiful: 

Faith, hope, and love are not merely beliefs to possess. 
They are realities meant to become visible in the way we live. 

Paul writes that though we may speak with the tongues of angels and possess great knowledge, without charity we become as sounding brass and tinkling cymbals. 

In other words, wisdom without love eventually becomes noise. 

How true this can be in everyday life. 

Many of us can quote scripture, explain doctrine, or speak intelligently about recovery, spirituality, or human nature. Yet the deeper question remains: 

Do our lives reflect what we claim to believe? 

The older I grow, the more I believe people are changed less by argument and more by example. 

A patient person teaches patience. 
A forgiving person teaches forgiveness. 
A hopeful person quietly gives hope to others. 

This may be why Paul counseled Timothy: 

“Be thou an example of the believers…” 

Not simply a teacher of truth, 
but a living witness of it. 

And perhaps the most remarkable part of the message follows shortly afterward: 

“…for in doing this thou shalt both save thyself, and them that hear thee.” 

What a powerful thought. 

There are moments in recovery and spiritual life when we mistakenly believe we must first become perfect before we can help another person. 

Yet experience often teaches the opposite. 

Many of us heal while helping. 
We grow stronger while encouraging others. 
We discover hope while carrying hope to someone else. 

This principle lives deeply within recovery itself: 
we keep what we have by giving it away. 

Faith begins to grow when shared. 
Hope deepens when offered to another discouraged soul. 
And love becomes real when it moves beyond emotion into action. 

Perhaps this is why charity “never faileth.” 

Not because human beings are always perfect in loving, 
but because genuine love continues to heal wherever it is honestly practiced. 

I suspect the world is changed less by great speeches and public recognition than by ordinary people quietly living their beliefs day after day. 

A sponsor answering a late-night phone call. 
A friend listening without judgment. 
A teacher speaking gently. 
A young person standing for what is right despite fear. 
A tired soul choosing kindness one more time. 

These simple acts become sermons without pulpits. 

And maybe this is what Paul hoped Timothy would understand: 

Do not wait to become extraordinary before becoming useful. 

Live with sincerity now. 
Practice faith now. 
Offer hope now. 
Show love now. 

For in doing so, we may discover that God is not only working through us to help others — 
but also quietly saving us in the process.