Marriage: Heirs Together by Grace

 

Dear Reader,

This morning, while reading 1 Peter 3, I found myself thinking carefully about Peter’s counsel to husbands and wives.

Some scriptures seem immediately relevant to our lives. Others invite us to pause and ask:

What is the eternal principle, and what reflects the customs of another time?

I grew up in what many today would describe as a traditional home.

My father worked in his business, while my mother stayed home to raise my brother and me.

During the day, our home was largely my mother’s domain. She made decisions, kept things moving, cared for us, disciplined and encouraged us, and managed the countless responsibilities of family life.

When my father came home, however, the atmosphere shifted.

He was regarded as the head of the household, and my mother cared for him in a way that showed he held a distinct place in our family.

Looking back, I realize that both of my parents were very capable people.

My mother could have worked outside the home if circumstances had required it.

My father could have cared for children, cooked a meal, managed a household, or handled the duties my mother normally performed.

They may have done these things differently, but both were capable. Both accepted responsibilities in keeping with the customs and expectations of their time.

•  •  •

Today, much of that world has changed.

In many homes, both spouses work. I personally know fathers who change diapers, prepare meals, straighten up around the home, and do household laundry.

Many mothers manage businesses, earn incomes, make major financial decisions, and carry responsibilities that previous generations may have considered primarily a husband’s role.

This can make Peter’s words difficult for a modern reader:

“Likewise, ye wives, be in subjection to your own husbands…” —1 Peter 3:1

If I stop there, I might conclude that Christianity requires me to recreate the household structure of centuries past.

Fortunately, Peter does not stop there. A few verses later he turns to husbands and writes:

“Likewise, ye husbands, dwell with them according to knowledge, giving honour unto the wife… as being heirs together of the grace of life; that your prayers be not hindered.”  —1 Peter 3:7

Heirs together.

I believe those two words change the way we should read the entire passage.

Peter lived in a culture very different from ours. Marriage, property, family authority, and the legal standing of women were not what they are today. Yet underneath the social structure of Peter’s world is an eternal gospel principle.

A husband and wife stand before God as heirs together.  Neither has a greater claim upon God’s grace than the other.  Neither has exclusive ownership of wisdom, ability, responsibility, or spiritual worth.

Their responsibilities may sometimes be different, but their value before God is not.

We should also be careful not to measure the value of family responsibilities merely by the income they produce. 

Without financial support a household cannot function, but neither can it function for long without the countless domestic, emotional, and nurturing responsibilities that sustain the people within it. 

Both are necessary, regardless of which spouse performs them.

My mother’s staying home does not mean she is incapable of doing what my father did.

My father’s working outside the home does not mean he is incapable of nurturing children.

They can have divided the labor. The division is real. As a couple, their abilities are greater than their assigned roles.

In my own experience, the joining of shared responsibilities has become increasingly important to me.

The gospel does not give us a detailed household organization chart telling us who must earn the paycheck, who must prepare dinner, who must balance the checkbook, or who must comfort a frightened child at two o’clock in the morning.

What the gospel gives us are principles for the spiritual family: love, sacrifice, responsibility, fidelity, gentleness, service, humility, compassion, forgiveness, and commitment to God.

The modern world may change the outward arrangement of a home, but it cannot change the spiritual needs of the people living inside it.

• Children still need security.

• Spouses still need respect.

• Families still require sacrifice.

• People still need to know that they are loved.

Every marriage can still face the temptation of allowing pride, control, resentment, or selfishness to replace companionship.

I once thought of my childhood home as a place where my mother ruled during the day and my father ruled when he came home.

Today I wonder whether there is a better word than rule.

Perhaps a Christian marriage is not ultimately about either person ruling.

It is about serving.

Christ did not demonstrate leadership by demanding privilege. He demonstrated it by serving, sacrificing, teaching, forgiving, and ultimately giving Himself for others.

A husband demonstrates this by loving, protecting, listening, sacrificing, forgiving, serving and seeking God.

A wife demonstrates it by bringing her gifts fully into the marriage while also loving, serving, sacrificing, forgiving, and seeking God.

There will certainly be differences. One spouse may understand finances better. The other may understand the children better.

One may be more patient. The other may be more decisive.

One career may take priority for a season. Years later, circumstances may reverse.

The person who once provided most of the income may eventually need to be cared for by the one who once stayed home.

Life has a way of rearranging our roles.

Roles may change. Circumstances may change. Abilities may change.

But the covenant remains.

The cornerstone of a covenant marriage is the promises a husband and wife make to one another and to God.

As a final clarification, Peter continues in verse 8:

“Finally, be ye all of one mind, having compassion one of another, love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous:” —1 Peter 3:8

Those words may provide the clearest picture of what a Christian household should look like.

• No to competition, domination, or one person proving who is in charge.
• Yes to compassion, courtesy, understanding, and love.
• And ultimately, unity before God.

My childhood home belonged to another generation.

There were good things within it that I would never want to lose: commitment, responsibility, sacrifice, family loyalty, and the willingness of two people to work together for something greater than themselves.

The outward structure may have changed. The eternal principles have not.
A father still needs to love and nurture his children.
A mother still needs to love and nurture as well.
Both can unite in that effort.

When the relationship is Christ centered, no one is diminish all are increased and
they become something greater together.

My take away from 1 Peter 3: “Heirs together of the grace of life.”

Two capable people. Perhaps imperfect, yet children of God united.

Walking side by side toward Him, and learning one day at a time how to love each other along the way.

Thank  you for taking the time to read and reflect.

  🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️  

Returning to Stillness

Good Evening, Dear Reader,

This evening, I came across these words from the Zen poet Ryōkan:

“The water of the mind, how clear it is!
Gazing at it, the boundaries are invisible.
But as soon as even a slight thought arises,
Ten thousand images crowd it.”

At first, I did not understand what those words meant.

I understood the image of clear water. Most of us have seen a pond or lake so calm that it looks like glass. An infinity pool can create much the same impression, seeming to merge with the sky until the boundary almost disappears.

What made me pause was the line: “But as soon as even a slight thought arises, ten thousand images crowd it.”

What I had overlooked was the power of a single thought. Left unchecked, it can quickly lead to a whole stream of others.

For example, a friend might make a small comment about something I am doing—such as skipping regular meals and eating salads instead—and suddenly the door opens to ten thousand more thoughts.

They may begin with trying to remember the last time I sat down to a full meal. Was it yesterday, or was it last week?

Before long, I am no longer remembering what was actually said. Instead, I am replaying what others have said about my eating habits: “I do not know why you go out to dinner when you hardly eat anything. It is not worth the money.” Then I recall something similar from years ago.

Next, I begin questioning my self-image. I hear words no one is saying, ask questions no one is asking, and relive experiences that began long ago but still feel present today.

By then, the original thought has disappeared.

Ryōkan continues:

“Attach to them and they become real,
Be carried by them, and it will be difficult to return.”

That may be one of the clearest descriptions I have found of what an undisciplined mind can do.

A memory becomes disappointment. Disappointment can become resentment. Resentment can become evidence that life is unfair. And sometimes the story ends with the conclusion: There must be something wrong with me.

A fear about tomorrow becomes something I begin suffering from today.

An event that lasted only a few minutes can occupy the mind for hours, days, or even years.

I am not imagining this; I have lived it. Before recovery, I often believed that because I thought something, it must be true. If I felt insecure about my eating habits, I could quickly turn that insecurity into a judgment about myself. A thought became a conclusion, and before long I had internalized it as truth.

If I felt hurt, I believed someone had hurt me. If I felt rejected, I believed I had been rejected. If I felt afraid, I believed there must be something to fear.

My mind could take a small disturbance and build an entire world around it.

Alcohol once provided a temporary escape from that world. It quieted the noise for a little while.

But eventually alcohol became another part of the noise.

Recovery began teaching me something different.

·         I did not have to believe every thought that entered my mind.

·         I did not have to follow every memory wherever it wanted to take me.

·         I did not have to rehearse every resentment.

·         I did not have to solve tomorrow before going to bed tonight.

Alcoholics Anonymous gave me practical ways of returning.

Sometimes that return begins with a simple inventory:

·         What actually happened?

·         What part of this belongs to me?

·         Is there something I need to correct?

·         Is there something I simply need to release?

At other times, I return by speaking honestly with another person. Sometimes the return comes through making an amends. It has also come through helping others.

And increasingly, for me, it comes through prayer and meditation.

The Psalmist wrote:

“Be still, and know that I am God.”
—Psalm 46:10

I used to think stillness meant finding a place where nothing disturbed me.

Today, I understand it somewhat differently.

Stillness can exist even when thoughts continue to come. The change is that I no longer have to climb aboard every one of them.

I can notice the resentment without feeding it.

I can remember the mistake without becoming the mistake.

I can acknowledge fear without allowing fear to choose my direction.

I can recognize yesterday without moving back into it.

And then I can return.

Return to this moment.

Return to gratitude.

Return to prayer.

Return to the person standing in front of me.

Return to the next right thing.

For me, this is where recovery and spiritual development meet.

Recovery teaches me to recognize the thoughts that carry me away.

Spiritual growth teaches me where I want to return.

Not simply to an empty mind, but to a mind redirected toward God, service, gratitude, compassion, and truth.

Paul described this as being:

“transformed by the renewing of your mind.”
—Romans 12:2

Renewing does not mean that yesterday disappears. It means yesterday no longer has to determine today’s direction.

The water may become disturbed. Old memories may rise. Resentments may return. Fear may appear without invitation.

But I do not have to keep stirring the water.

I can become still long enough for clarity to return. And when clarity returns, I often discover that the next step was there all along.

Today I need not follow ten thousand thoughts.

I need only recognize where I am, remember whose I am, and ask God to help me take the next right step.

The mind may wander into yesterday.
Grace continually invites us home to today.

With gratitude.

  🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️ 

 

As Far as the East Is from the West

Dear Reader,

This evening I have been spending time with Psalm 103. Within it, I find a beautiful description of God's mercy—not only toward David, but toward each of us.

David begins with words many of us know:

“Bless the LORD, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless his holy name.”
—Psalm 103:1

Then comes an important instruction:

“And forget not all his benefits.”
—Psalm 103:2

Those words remind me of the closing line of the AA Promises:

“We will suddenly realize that God is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.”
—Alcoholics Anonymous, p. 84

For those of us in recovery, this reminder has special meaning.

After many years in recovery, it can become surprisingly easy to forget where I came from. I know I sometimes forget the loneliness, the fear, the broken relationships, the broken promises, and the repeated resolve that tomorrow would be different.

What I cannot forget is that God met me there.

So it is vital that I “forget not all His benefits.”

This is not to say that I have everything straightened out or that I have repaired every mistake. I am still a work in progress.

I am saying that God meets me where I am, and He is still teaching me a better way of living.

Here I am encouraged by David's continuing words:

“Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases;
Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies.”
—Psalm 103:3–4

Forgives → heals → redeems → crowns.

There is movement in those words. God does not merely forgive the past; He begins restoring the person.

These are not the words of a God reluctantly tolerating His children. They describe a God actively reaching out to us.

I do not read “who healeth all thy diseases” as a promise that every physical illness will disappear or every wound will be immediately healed. Some healing takes place within us as God gives us strength to live through what cannot yet be changed.

Through the guidance of a Higher Power, recovery has helped me understand that forgiveness is much larger than simply having a debt erased.

Forgiveness allows life to begin again.

It does not mean every consequence disappears. Some wounds require time. Some relationships may never return to what they once were. Some things we damaged may require amends, patience, and years of changed behavior.

But our past does not have to become our permanent identity.

God does not look upon the repentant soul and say,

“You will always be the worst thing you ever did.”

Psalm 103 tells us something very different:

“The LORD is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy.”
—Psalm 103:8

And then comes one of the most beautiful promises in scripture:

“As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us.”
—Psalm 103:12

Think about that image. East and west give us a picture of immeasurable separation. David is telling us that when God forgives, He does not keep our sins nearby so He can continually hold them against us.

That is how completely God is willing to separate the repentant person from the sin that once seemed to define him.

This does not give us permission to ignore responsibility. Quite the opposite.

Because I have been forgiven, I am free to become responsible.
Because I have received mercy, I can make amends.
Because I have been shown patience, I can learn patience.
Because someone carried the message of recovery to me, I can carry it to someone else.

And this is where Psalm 103 begins to meet Step Twelve:

“Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.”
—Step Twelve

The spiritual awakening is not simply that I stopped drinking.

It is discovering that a life I thought was finished could be redeemed.

It is realizing that failure did not exhaust God's patience.

It is discovering that grace was present even when I could barely recognize it.

And once I truly understand that, something changes.

I begin wanting another suffering person to know it too.

I can sit beside someone who believes his life is beyond repair and say:

I once believed that too.

I can listen to another person's shame without condemnation because I remember my own.

I can offer hope because hope was once offered to me.

God's mercy does not end with me. Mercy received becomes mercy shared.

This may be one of the deepest meanings of carrying the message.

We are not carrying a message that says,

“Look how well I have done.”

We are carrying a message that says,

“Look what God can do with a surrendered life.”

Psalm 103 even acknowledges how fragile we are:

“For he knoweth our frame; he remembereth that we are dust.”
—Psalm 103:14

I find tremendous comfort in those words.

God knows exactly what He is working with.

He knows our weaknesses.
He knows our fears.
He knows the resentments we struggle to release, the habits that stubbornly remain, and the character defects that occasionally reappear when we thought they were long gone.

He remembers that we are dust.

Yet He loves us still.

His mercy is not based upon our perfection.

David writes:

“But the mercy of the LORD is from everlasting to everlasting upon them that fear him.”
—Psalm 103:17

Here I understand the fear of the Lord not simply as being afraid, but as reverence—recognizing who God is and placing myself humbly before Him.

From everlasting to everlasting.

There is no corner of my past where God's mercy cannot reach.

No yesterday so dark that He cannot redeem it.

No failure so deeply buried that His light cannot find it.

And no person sitting in an AA meeting, a church pew, a jail cell, a hospital room, or alone at a kitchen table at three in the morning is beyond the reach of God's love.

That is the hope I hear in Psalm 103.

And that is the hope I believe Step Twelve asks us to carry.

We do not carry perfection.

We carry experience.

We do not carry judgment.

We carry compassion.

We do not tell people that life will suddenly become easy.

We tell them that they no longer have to walk through it alone.

Someone once carried that message to us.

Today it may be our turn to carry it to someone else.

And when we do, our recovery becomes more than something that saved our own life. It becomes a means through which God may touch another.

Psalm 103 begins with remembering what God has done for us. Step Twelve asks what we will do with what God has done for us.

So today I join David in saying:

“Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.”

I will remember the forgiveness.
I will remember the redemption.
I will remember the lovingkindness.
I will remember the people God placed along my road.

And then, with gratitude, I will try to become one of those people for someone else.

For God's mercy is greater than our past.

His love is greater than our weakness.

And His forgiveness reaches—

as far as the east is from the west.

🙏

The Responsibility of Recovery

 

Dear Reader,

This morning I have been considering a word that does not always sound very spiritual:

Responsibility.

For much of my life, I believed responsibility simply meant doing what was expected of me—mowing the lawn, delivering papers, saving money, meeting family expenses, keeping commitments, and taking care of the ordinary duties of daily life.

For long periods during adolescence and early adulthood, I was able to meet these responsibilities remarkably well.

However, as the roots of addiction and alcoholism slowly choked my existence, even these basic responsibilities began to disappear.

By the time I found recovery, responsibility was no longer a quality I could honestly claim for myself.

When I first came into Alcoholics Anonymous, much of my attention was centered on what had happened to me.

There were disappointments, losses, broken relationships, fears, resentments, and circumstances I deeply wished had been different.

In early sobriety, much of my growth involved learning again to take responsibility for the basic needs of life.

Slowly, I gained enough strength and stability to begin repairing relationships, meeting everyday obligations, and learning to live life twenty-four hours at a time.

Over the years, through working a Twelve Step program, I began to regain some sense of sanity.

With the guidance of a sponsor, the fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous, and a growing faith in a Higher Power, I came to understand that responsibility reaches far beyond simply doing what is expected of me.

Certainly, I remain responsible for the life immediately around me.

But recovery gradually introduced me to a deeper understanding of responsibility.

It brought me to a question that continues to challenge me:

“What am I going to do about the person I am today?”

That question changes everything.

I no longer have to allow yesterday to dictate what I do today.

I can acknowledge the past without continuing to live there.

I can accept responsibility for the life that is placed before me now.

There is an important difference between responsibility and control.

I cannot change yesterday.

I cannot control what another person thinks of me.

I cannot make someone forgive me.

I cannot guarantee tomorrow.

I cannot control the outcome of every decision I make.

But today, I can act.

I can take an honest inventory.

I can admit when I am wrong.

I can make amends where possible.

I can ask for help.

I can pray.

I can forgive.

I can show up.

I can reach out to another person who is struggling.

And I can choose the next right thing.

For me, this is where recovery and spirituality have gradually become inseparable.

At one time, surrender sounded almost like giving up.

I have since learned that spiritual surrender is very different from abandoning responsibility.

When I turn my will and my life over to God, I am not asking God to live my life for me.

I am asking for His direction.

Then I must still step forward, take action, and accept responsibility for my choices.

The Serenity Prayer expresses this beautifully:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
courage to change the things I can,
and wisdom to know the difference.

There is responsibility in every line.

Serenity asks me to stop fighting what is beyond my control.

Courage asks me to act where action is possible.

Wisdom helps me discern the difference.

That is not passive spirituality.

It is an active partnership with God.

Recovery has also taught me that responsibility grows as we grow.

In the beginning, my responsibility was very simple:

Don’t drink today.

Then it became attending meetings, listening to others, working the Steps, calling someone when I needed help, and becoming willing to look honestly at myself.

As recovery deepened, responsibility began asking different questions:

How do I treat people?

Do I keep my word?

Do I carry resentment, or do I practice forgiveness?

Do I listen?

Do I serve?

And most recently, responsibility has taken on an even deeper meaning:

When someone reaches out for help, am I willing to reach back?

Gradually, the question of my life has changed from:

“What can I get from life?”

to:

“What can I give to life?”

Through my experience, I have discovered that God does not always remove the road in front of me.

More often, He gives me enough light to take the next step.

For me, this is one of the quiet miracles of spirituality:

The outcome remains His.

The step remains mine.

My prayer today is that I may recognize the small part of this world that has been placed in my hands—and care for it well.

My recovery.

My choices.

My words.

My actions.

My willingness to help another human being.

I cannot control where every road leads.

But with God’s help, I can be responsible for the direction of my next step.

And for today, that is enough.

🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️

All Is Well, All Is Well

 

Good morning, Dear Reader,

Over the past few days, I have been immersed in the Book of Psalms as I prepare for a lesson I will teach during the first week of September.

The book of Psalms is arranged in five separate books. Across its 150 psalms we encounter recurring themes of Torah and Messiah, lament and praise, faith and hope. Again and again, the writers speak honestly about fear, grief, uncertainty, gratitude, worship, and their trust in God.

One psalm that has caught my attention is Psalm 23:

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.”

Here David gives us a beautiful message: the valley is real. The danger is real. But so is God’s presence.

Likewise, Psalm 46 offers reassurance in the midst of trouble:

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

As I continued reading, I began to notice a recurring movement scattered throughout the Psalms: from pain toward trust, from lament toward praise, and from fear toward hope. That movement reminded me of a familiar hymn in the Latter-day Saint hymnal, “Come, Come, Ye Saints,” with its repeated assurance: “All is well! All is well!”

The hymn was written by William Clayton in 1846 during the westward journey of the Latter-day Saints. It was born in a time of uncertainty and hardship, shortly after Clayton received joyful news that his wife had safely given birth to their son. The Saints were still traveling an uncertain road, surrounded by mud, storms, illness, separation, and the unknown. Yet from within that difficult journey came the declaration: “All is well.”

That is the beauty of “All is well.” It is not a declaration that the world is calm. It is a declaration that God remains steady.

Psalm 121 and Psalm 34:18 reinforce that same confidence:

“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.”

“The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart.”

Many of us hear the words “all is well” and imagine that they must describe a life without struggle. The Psalms teach otherwise. They were often written out of trouble, tears, fear, loneliness, and uncertainty. Their writers cried out to God honestly. They questioned. They grieved. They waited. Yet again and again, they returned to trust.

In much the same way, “Come, Come, Ye Saints” was born out of hardship, not comfort. Its repeated phrase “All is well” is not a denial of suffering. It is a declaration of faith made while the road is still difficult.

Faith does not always allow us to say, “Everything is well.” Sometimes faith simply allows us to say, “All will be well because God is with me.”

As I reflect on my own recovery from drugs and alcohol, I identify with many of the laments found in the Psalms:

·    some days are confusing

·    some prayers feel unanswered

·    some burdens do not leave quickly

·    some healing takes time

Yet through recovery I have found:

·    I can still take the next step

·    I can still trust God today

·    I can still believe I am being carried

·    I can still say, in hope, “All is well.”

Recovery has not taught me that every day will be easy. The Psalms do not promise that either. What both have taught me is that I do not have to walk through difficulty alone. God can be present in the valley, near to the broken heart, and steady when everything around me seems uncertain.

So, as I end this message, I find refuge in the Psalms because they remind us that we can cry out honestly in our pain, continue walking in faith, and discover that peace is not always the absence of trouble. Sometimes peace is simply knowing that God is with us in the middle of it.

And because He is with us, we can continue our journey saying, “All is well. All is well.”

🙏  🧘‍♂️  💕  🤗  ☮️

Mindful of Us: Psalm 8

 

Dear Reader,

This morning I found myself reflecting on Psalm 8 and on a question that seems almost as large as the heavens the psalmist was looking toward:

"What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?"  - Psalm 8:4

The phrase "son of man" caught my attention. In the Hebrew of this psalm, the expression is ben adam. At its simplest, it means a human being, a mortal person, a member of the human family.

That alone is worth pausing over.

The psalmist looks upward at the moon and stars, at a creation so vast that human life can appear almost insignificant. Then he looks honestly at humanity. We are limited. We are fragile. We are not nearly as powerful as we sometimes imagine ourselves to be.

And yet the psalmist asks a remarkable question: Why would God be mindful of us at all?

He does not ask why man is so powerful, so wise, or so important. He wonders why the Creator of the heavens concerns Himself with people as small and temporary as we are.

For me, that is a deeply recovery-centered question.

Many of us have lived at both extremes. At times we have felt too important, too self-willed, too certain that we knew what life should be and how everyone around us should behave. At other times we have felt broken, ashamed, and hardly worth noticing. Addiction, pride, fear, resentment, and pain can all distort the truth of who we are.

Psalm 8 offers a better balance: right-sizing is not the same as belittling ourselves.

I am reminded that I am not the center of some grand universe. The celestial sky above me is vast. God is God, and I am not. Recovery begins well when I stop trying to rule life and become willing to surrender to a Power greater than myself.

But humility is not self-contempt. Humility is truth.

I am limited.
I need help.
I cannot control everything.
But I am not worthless.

Psalm 8 does not end with our smallness. The psalmist also tells us that we are not forgotten. In fact, he goes on to describe humanity as crowned with "glory and honour." We are small beneath the heavens, yet we possess a dignity given by God.

That may be one of the most healing truths a suffering person can hear.

No matter what continues to plague us, Psalm 8 tells us that God is mindful of us. Not merely aware of us from a distance, but attentive to us, concerned for us, and actively caring for us.

This is a truth I experience almost every twenty-four hours of my recovery. The tools are often simple: the willingness to admit that I need help, the acceptance of kindness offered by others, and the willingness to return that kindness through love and service.

We are small, and yet crowned with dignity. We are frail, and yet remembered. We are human, and yet precious to God.

There is another lesson in the expression ben adam. Every person we meet is included in that ancient idea: a member of the human family.

That changes the way I should see the people around me. The struggling newcomer, the difficult neighbor, the lonely elder, the impatient friend, the person who has disappointed me, and the person who keeps falling and getting back up are all people God is mindful of.

If God remains mindful of them, then I must try to be mindful too.

That may mean listening with more patience, speaking with more kindness, teaching with more tenderness, and remembering that no one I meet is ever "just" a problem to be solved.

Each person is a soul.

For the Christian reader, the words also carry a deeper echo. The New Testament book of Hebrews quotes Psalm 8 and then turns our attention toward Jesus. The simple expression "son of man," which in the psalm speaks of humanity, later becomes one of the titles Christ so often uses for Himself.

I find great comfort in that connection. The God who is mindful of humanity did not remain distant from humanity. In Jesus Christ, He entered our mortal condition. Christ knew grief, rejection, loneliness, suffering, and death. He knows the weakness of the ben adam because He chose to walk among us.

Psalm 8 begins with wonder at the heavens, but it leads me back to compassion on earth.

The question is not only, "What is man?" The deeper answer is this: we are small, but precious; weak, but not abandoned; human, but held in the mind and mercy of God.

For those of us walking the road of recovery, that is good news.

• We do not need to become grand in our own eyes.

• We do not need to despair over our weakness.

• We only need to remember who God is, and trust that He has not forgotten who we are.

Humility says, "I am not God." Grace says, "But I matter to God." Service says, "And so does the person standing beside me."

Thank you for reading. May you always find God's love and encouragement.

🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️

Wake Up and Live

Dear Reader,

This morning I came across these words attributed to Bob Marley: 

"Life is one big road with lots of signs. So when you riding through the ruts, don't complicate your mind. Flee from hate, mischief and jealousy. Don't bury your thoughts, put your vision to reality. Wake Up and Live!"  -- Bob Marley

I believe Marley's message lends itself exceptionally well to recovery. Every image in it can be understood through the experience of addiction, sobriety, and spiritual awakening.

The road is life itself. Few would argue that joy and sorrow are constant companions as we travel through our mortal experience. Even before I found recovery, there were moments of great joy - holding a newborn child, sharing laughter with people I loved, and experiencing the simple gifts of an ordinary day. There were also moments of profound sorrow, including holding the hand of a family member as they passed through life's final curtain.

Recovery did not remove either joy or sorrow from my life. What changed was the way I judged, believed, reacted, and acted.

Before recovery, much of my thinking was bound by self, ego, resentment, jealousy, and mischief. Life was often centered on me - what I wanted, what I expected from others, and what I thought the world owed me. Mildly stated, even my desires could have very few boundaries. I believed freedom meant doing what I wanted. In truth, I was often being driven by the very things I thought I controlled.

Even in early recovery, many of those old ways of thinking remained. Sobriety did not instantly erase them. Through the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, and by staying close to people who had already walked this road, I slowly began to see life differently. I learned to take inventory, admit my wrongs, make amends, pray, meditate, serve others, and surrender what I could not control.

Somewhere along that road, often without recognizing it at the time, I began to wake up. 

And I began to live.

The road still has bumps, ruts, detours, and potholes. Recovery has never promised me an easy road. What it has given me is a better way to travel it. A spiritual way of living has become something like a stronger suspension system: the rough places are still there, but I no longer have to be thrown about by every one of them.

That does not give me permission to become careless or reckless. Quite the opposite. The spiritual path asks me to surrender the illusion that I am always in control. It asks me to seek a Higher Power and, in my own faith, to place greater trust in God and His Son, Jesus Christ.

Through sobriety, prayer, meditation, scripture, and service, my mind has become less complicated. I am learning to live more closely to the prayer, "Not my will, but thine, be done." I still make mistakes. I still encounter potholes. But today I do not have to drive deliberately into every one of them.

Increasingly, I find myself living among the calm, happy people, places, and things that once baffled me. I have come to understand that peace does not require a perfect road. It requires a different way of traveling.

“I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.” 
- John 8:12 (KJV)

For me, this is the light I have found in recovery and in scripture. It does not remove every obstacle from the road before me, but it illuminates enough of the path for me to take the next right step. It helps me recognize some of the warning signs, avoid many of the potholes I once drove straight into, and find my way again when I wander.

Recovery, then, has become far more than putting down alcohol. It has become a spiritual awakening - a way of seeing more clearly, loving more freely, and living with greater purpose.

Bob Marley's words say, "Wake Up and Live."

Christ's words invite me to walk in the light.

Today, I see those messages meeting on the same road.

It is my sincere hope that every person who is struggling, searching, or simply trying to find a better way through life will have the opportunity to discover such guidance - and, one day at a time, to wake up and truly live.

🙏 🧘‍♂️ 💕 🤗 ☮️