It’s that time of year again. I’m sitting in my cozy house, listening to Christmas music and watching Hallmark movies. A warm cup of tea is never far from me, with delicious cookies at my beck and call that I’ll probably regret next month.
Christmas has always held a special place in my heart. As a child, I loved the presents and the lights. My family went all out. We would take the day after Thanksgiving to decorate our house and often my grandparents’ house as well, covering everything in lights and festive displays. Christmas carols by Elvis, Patsy and Elmo, Reba, and Burl Ives played as we hung bright, twinkling things around our home.
As a teenager and young adult, I craved that time with my family, especially my grandparents. Every year on Christmas Eve, after we’d finished our huge Christmas feast, we would sit down with our slices of pie and watch Home Alone or rather, we would watch my grandpa watch Home Alone. Every year without fail, he made the same comments at the same moments. Each trap Kevin set earned a heartfelt, “Oh man, that REALLY had to hurt,” each one worse than the last. It was like watching my grandpa transform into a young boy all over again, every single year.
At least once during our festivities, my grandma would sit down at my piano. With or without a music book in front of her, she would play beautiful hymns and carols. Always quietly, as if she simply wanted the music to fill the spaces between conversation. If she ever made a mistake or forgot a note, you couldn’t tell. It wasn’t meant to be a performance. It was a constant presence, gentle and grounding, never overwhelming.
​My mom was always at the heart of it all. The kitchen came alive under her hands as she prepared beautiful spreads of food, each dish arranged with care, never rushed, always thoughtful. It wasn’t just about feeding people. It was an act of love, of service, of making sure everyone felt welcomed and cared for. Her quiet devotion set the tone for the entire day, a living reminder that Christmas is meant to be an offering of ourselves to others, not just for one day, but for the whole season.
My dad, meanwhile, was rarely still. He bustled in and out, fixing, adjusting, hanging lights, making sure the outside of our home felt just as warm and inviting as the inside. He greeted neighbors with a wave, a joke, a smile that came easily and honestly. His cheerfulness and steady kindness reflected something deeper. That how we show up to the world matters. That joy, generosity, and welcome shouldn’t be seasonal decorations, but year-round practices.
As an adult, I miss the calming reassurance of so many of those moments. The smiles and laughter. My grandparents’ laughter and hugs. They were so ingrained in this holiday that without them, it feels like a different event altogether. And then I remember.
They both knew what this holiday was really about. At the core of the movies, the music, and the presents, I was always reminded that this holiday is a Holy-day. We celebrate it because God came to earth in the form of a baby, the most vulnerable form, to die for each and every one of us. That the God of the universe, the Creator of all, loved us so infinitely that He chose to come down, suffer alongside us, be beaten, ridiculed, and killed so that we would have the chance to spend eternity with Him.
He didn’t have to do that. We chose to separate ourselves from Him. We chose to sin. We choose, again and again, to push Him aside. And still, He chose to endure the pain and suffering before Him so that we, too, would have the chance to choose Him for eternity.
It’s because my grandparents knew and trusted in that truth that I know I’ll get to spend Christmas with them again. And next time, it won’t be for a season.
Next time, it will be for eternity.

As I’ve gotten older, Christmas and how I view it has changed and grown. Some years I’m fully in the spirit, and other years I’m basically squinting at the season from the corner of the room. But at the core of it all, there are small comforts that steady me, little traditions and moments that wrap themselves around my edges in the gentlest way. This year is no different.
One of my favorite things to do during the colder months is curl up on my couch in front of a crackling fire with a hot cup of tea and a good book. It’s where my introverted bibliophile soul feels most at home. The soft glow of the Christmas tree fills the room and makes the whole moment feel like the first real exhale of the day. Sometimes there’s music playing quietly in the background, the same carols I grew up with. “The Christmas Guest” by Reba still gives me chills after all these years, and playful classics like Frosty the Snowman and Percy the Puny Poinsettia pull me back into childhood without asking permission. Even the memory of that borderline-aggressive pine spray my mom spritzed onto our artificial tree still drifts through my mind. It was the kind of pine scent that announced itself the moment you walked into the room, and somehow that unmistakable smell still carries a softness that belongs to a simpler time.
There are plenty of tiny comforts I pretend I’m above, even though they absolutely make the season feel complete in ways my soul still craves. Growing up, my mom loved Christmas with her whole being. The second Thanksgiving dinner ended, the tree went up, the lights went out, and every corner of the house transformed. When we weren’t listening to music, Hallmark movies were playing in the background. Love them or hate them, there’s something about those cheesy, predictable, cliché movies that I need after a long day. I don’t care how many times I’ve seen “The Spirit of Christmas,” I still get that little breathy “ahhh…” moment when Daniel says, “Twelve days isn’t nearly long enough.” These movies are like potato chips. They’re not a full meal, but I keep reaching for them anyway.
Speaking of things I keep reaching for, I’ve learned that somewhere along the way I stopped resenting fudge season. (Mom, don’t worry, you’re not misreading this. Miracles still happen.) If you know my family, you know November and December are fudge months for us. We make twenty-seven different flavors, each with its own carefully crafted recipe. It takes time, effort, and a whole lot of counter space to prep, cook, set, cut, and wrap them. For years, the moment November hit, I’d feel that familiar sink in my stomach because I knew what was coming. But in recent years, that feeling has softened. There’s something oddly comforting about the rhythm of it now. Moving around the kitchen with my mom, Christmas music or a movie playing in the background, each flavor slowly coming together. It creates a warm, steady atmosphere that softens the pace of the season and fills the kitchen with a feeling I didn’t appreciate until adulthood.
At the end of the day, nostalgia ties all of this together. Christmas has always been the season where memory feels louder. When I look at our tree, filled with homemade ornaments from my sisters and me, little souvenirs from vacations, and tiny tributes to pets long gone, I feel that familiar warmth settle in. Childhood peace finds its way back to me every time I hear those old carols or watch Christmas cartoons like “Donald’s Snow Fight” or “Mickey’s Christmas Carol.” It’s an immediate comfort, like being pulled into a memory that still knows my name.
One of my most cherished traditions sits outside of music and ornaments altogether. Every Christmas Eve, my grandpa watched Home Alone like it was the first time he’d ever seen it. It didn’t matter how many years passed or how many times we put that movie on… he lit up the exact same way. He laughed, cringed, and cheered at all the same parts, completely delighted every single time Kevin outsmarted those burglars. I loved the movie, but I loved watching him even more. And if I’m honest, I’d trade just about anything to sit beside him and watch him watch it one more time. Even now, that memory is one of the comforts I keep returning to. A tradition that lives on, even if he isn’t here to carry it with me.
Growing up, Christmas was my favorite holiday, not because of gifts or snow, but because it brought everyone together. The day after Thanksgiving, we decorated the house inside and out. We baked fudge, cookies, and savory treats for my mom’s annual Christmas party. We caroled around town, and we played or sang in our church’s Christmas program. But at the heart of all of it, beyond the lights and carols and decorations, was our core belief in Jesus. Christmas wasn’t just a holiday for my blood family. It was a celebration shared with my Christian family, where we all set aside our differences and worries to remember that God came down in the form of Jesus to live and ultimately die so that each of us could have the opportunity to spend eternity with Him.
And that is the most comforting embrace I get during this time of year.

We’re all collectors of stories. Some are lighthearted, some carry pain, and some are given to us whether we want them or not. They end up shaping how we see ourselves, God, and the world around us. Lately I’ve been thinking about the kinds of stories I carry and how they’ve changed me.

Personal stories, t​he ones that mark us.
I still remember a middle school dance where a “friend” announced my crush to the entire school. The boy and the usual bullies took turns harassing me the rest of the night. I wanted to disappear. But then a boy I didn’t really hang out with, someone who also got picked on, walked over and asked me to dance. He didn’t try to fix it, just stayed nearby, cracked a few jokes, and gave me space to be quiet. I didn’t laugh much, but I never forgot the kindness. Moments like that carve themselves into you, not because of the pain, but because of the unexpected grace that meets it.
Not every memory stings like that one. My grandpa had a way of making space for me, even while he worked. He set up a little corner in his workshop with a table, chair, and cable so I could watch Looney Tunes while he tinkered. Every so often he would pause to teach me something. One time he saw me drawing a dog and without any adieu, turned my sketch into a wooden toy. My grandpa was good at many things, but what he gave best was his time. That was his love language, and I carry that with me still.

Inherite​d stories, the ones handed down.
The story of Job has taken on different meaning for me as I’ve grown. As a kid, I saw it as a story of a man God allowed to be tormented, and it unsettled me, especially when I felt like I was being tormented myself. Over time, I began to see it differently. Job wasn’t abandoned; he was trusted. God had such confidence in him that He allowed the enemy to spend his energy trying, and failing, to break him. That shift changed how I understood suffering.
Some stories come to us not from scripture but from the people who lived before us. My grandma loved to tell about how she and my grandpa “courted.” He drove all the way from Lind down to Yakima one Sunday morning just to go to church with her, then took her for milkshakes at the soda fountain. After that, he made the ​drive every Sunday without fail. A story like that becomes part of the family’s bones, steadfast, ordinary love told in long drives and early mornings.

Ch​os​en stories, the ones we claim.
Some stories we pick up for ourselves. Years ago, I fell into the Throne of Glass series. I devoured every release the day it came out and have reread them more times than I can count. Each time I return, I carry old versions of myself into the story, the excitement of first reads, the comfort of certain seasons. What keeps me coming back are the characters who choose to fight when everything seems lost. That has become my story too, courage in the dark.
Other stories don’t come from books but from people who live what they teach. In high school, my history teacher had us working on presidential campaign projects during the McCain–Obama election. We all knew where most of our teachers stood, but every time we asked him his opinion, he gave the same answer. “That’s not my job,” he would say. “My job is not to tell you what to think. My job is to help you learn how to find answers and to think for yourself.” Those words stuck with me. They reminded me that the best stories aren’t instructions on what to believe, but invitations to grow in how we see and understand the world. It is a lesson I have carried into my own classrooms, where my goal is not to hand students conclusions but to help them build the tools to reach their own.

Unintentional stories, the ones we never asked for.
Some stories stick to us even when we wish they wouldn’t. “You can do anything you put your mind to” used to sound like a cruel joke. But as the years passed, life itself turned it into something truer than I expected. It doesn’t mean anything comes easy. It means imagination and persistence can move mountains you once thought unshakable.
Other uninvited stories cut deeper. As a child in church, Mark 11:24 rang in my ears: “Whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.” At a summer camp, a pastor laid hands on me and prayed for healing. I was tiny, maybe six, and I believed with everything I had. And I wasn’t healed. For years afterward I wrestled with anger at God, at church, at anyone who tried to comfort me. These days I’ve found some measure of peace with my circumstances, but there are still moments when I wonder why. That story never left me, and maybe it never will.

The collection as a whole.
Together, these stories, personal, inherited, chosen, and unintentional, make up who I am. They remind me that not all stories are easy, and not all stories are happy. But each one carries weight. Each one shapes how I love, how I fight, how I trust, and how I see God.
We’re all collectors of stories. The question is, which ones are you carrying? Which ones are you ready to pass on, and which ones still have something left to teach you?

This has been another heavy week. The state of our world and our country has weighed on me in ways that feel almost unbearable. I continue to grieve the loss of humanity through Charlie Kirk’s assassination, the constant reports of shootings, the division that only seems to deepen. On top of that came the ache of sending my niece to college and the familiar grind of living with chronic pain, all while still showing up for responsibilities. It has been a week that almost made hope feel like a fragile, feeble, unattainable concept… Almost.
Sunday, my family and I watched Charlie Kirk’s memorial, and my soul needed that. Under the crushing ache of grief for our country and for humanity, there were moments that not only restored my faith in people but also reignited my own faith. The service began with Charlie’s pastor proclaiming that the answer to all of life’s struggles could be found in Jesus Christ. His short sermon ended with an invitation for anyone who wanted to accept Christ into their hearts to stand. In the silence that followed, the stadium seemed to breathe as hundreds rose to their feet. It was breathtaking.
Later, Erika took the stage and reminded “older” Christians of our duty to help new Christians grow, to nurture faith rather than let it wither. And then she gave a living example of what that looked like. With tears in her voice, she spoke of Charlie’s heart for the lost, especially young men searching for direction, and then she said something I will never forget:

Her strength undid me. Her ability to forgive, to answer hate without hate, felt like an act of rebellion against despair. A choice to hold on to hope when bitterness would have been so much easier.
The week held another goodbye I was not ready for: taking my niece to college. I cannot begin to put into words how much I love this kid. Summers glued to my side, late-night talks, and in the past four years, sharing a home as she grew from a struggling teen into a compassionate, responsible, joy-filled young woman. Somewhere along the way, she became my best friend. So watching her walk into this new chapter undid me all over again. We barely made it out of sight before texting each other how much we already missed one another. Yet even through tears, I know she is prepared. I have hope that the same character I have seen in her will only deepen as she steps into adulthood.
And then, as autumn arrives, my body has started its annual rebellion. Chronic pain flares in my knees, hips, and back, leaving me drained by the time I get home from school. Most evenings are spent either trying to dull the ache or scrambling to prepare for another day. But even so, each morning I choose to meet my students with a smile. Teaching through pain is not easy, but it is one small act of resistance: to believe that my students deserve joy and consistency even when my body would rather collapse. Some days, that is all hope looks like… showing up when you do not feel like you can.
Hope is not naïve. It is radical. It refuses to let hatred, grief, or pain have the final word. It breathes in stadiums filled with new believers, it lingers in the goodbye hug between aunt and niece, and it steadies trembling knees in the classroom. Hope is my rebellion, and I choose it.

It has been a week since Charlie Kirk was assassinated, and honestly? I feel no better today than I did the day after. If anything, I feel worse.
My emotions keep circling: calm reassurance that Charlie was a brother in Christ, and that God will use even this loss to draw people to Him. Sadness, because after years of listening to his voice, I feel like I’ve lost someone I knew, someone I would have liked to call a friend. Fear, because there are people who celebrate his death, mocking him for his beliefs, beliefs I largely share. And then anger. Anger that our country and our world have slid to a point where this is not only tolerated, but celebrated. Anger that consequences and common sense have evaporated. Anger that we have turned so far from God, from the principles this nation was built on, that hatred and death are embraced as if they were virtues.
With all of that roiling inside, I still had to plaster on a smile. I have had to return to teaching after Charlie’s assassination, after Iryna Zarutska’s murder, after the Evergreen school shooting, on the anniversary of 9/11, and in the middle of conflict in my own school. And tomorrow, as I ache preparing to send my niece, my best friend, off to college, I will have to smile again.
When students ask how I am doing, I force myself to say, “Today is going to be a great day because I am going to make it one.” When they tell me they openly wept after watching the video of Charlie being shot, I have to keep my response “school appropriate” and “not political or religious.” What I want to say is: it is okay to cry. I have cried, too. A man was assassinated. They should have never been exposed to that. The world is dark, and I cannot promise it will get better soon.
But I can also say, at least here, that I have peace and hope in Christ. Even in the middle of hatred, violence, and uncertainty, I know He has a plan. I cannot hand that same peace to my students because it is not considered professional. So instead, I try to be a light. A sliver of hope. And I pray that somehow, through me, they glimpse the love of God.

Today began like any other. I went to work, came home for lunch, and scrolled on social media during my break. That’s when I saw the headline: Charlie Kirk had been shot while speaking at a university in Utah. I was stunned. I shared the news with my family and then forced myself back to the rhythm of the day. By the time I packed up from work, my phone buzzed with the confirmation I didn’t want. Charlie Kirk had died from his wounds.
Charlie married Erika Frantzve in 2021. Together, they welcomed a daughter in 2022 and a son in 2024. Wherever you stand politically or theologically, whether you agreed with him or not, at the end of every day, he was a husband and a father. If you doubt that, scroll through Instagram or TikTok and search “Charlie Kirk as a father.” Beyond the debates and the headlines, his children are innocent. And they were just robbed of their dad. They will grow up with photos, videos, and secondhand stories instead of having their father read them bedtime stories and tuck them in at night. They will hear their mother speak of his faith, his convictions, his laughter… but they will never feel the weight of his arms around them as they drift to sleep. A man’s political voice may echo in history, but for a child, it is the absence of his presence that leaves the deepest wound.
In our hyper-connected world, it is too easy to forget that public figures are more than their sound bites. We see a fraction of a life and imagine we know the whole person. We reduce them to icons, hashtags, or punchlines, stripping away their humanity. Yes, Charlie Kirk often said things that sparked controversy, things that made their way into duets and reaction videos. But that does not erase the truth that he was a living, breathing human being who loved and was loved.
As I write this, fact-checking and sourcing, I want to be clear. Too many articles describe his death with headlines like “Charlie Kirk shot,” or “Charlie Kirk dead after campus shooting.” That phrasing flattens the reality. He was not simply shot. He was assassinated. Murdered. This was not an accident. A gun did not go off by mistake. A person loaded, aimed, pulled the trigger, and took his life by choice because of disagreement with his words. When we soften that truth, we underplay the horror of political violence. And when voices online frame such violence as justified, we invite it to happen again.
On TikTok, Instagram, and Facebook, reactions flood in. Many, friends and strangers alike, are offering condolences. Yet far too many respond with cruelty: laughter emojis, comments that he “deserved it,” even praise for the shooter. A friend posted about Charlie’s death, and someone replied with mocking words and celebratory scorn. This should chill us. We have reached a point where cheering for murder feels acceptable to some. It does not matter whether you are Democrat or Republican, Christian or Atheist, Muslim or Jew. We are all human beings. We all bleed. As a Christian, I believe every life is sacred, and watching others treat life as disposable breaks my heart.
At approximately the same time, Evergreen High School in Colorado faced its own shooting. No lives were lost, but students were wounded, classmates traumatized, and families shaken to their core. Hallways that should have been filled with ordinary noise and laughter were instead marked by fear. And again, the debates swell over gun control, blame, and politics. But before all that, before the shouting, we must say what this is: attempted murder. Violence carried out by individuals, not inanimate objects. Violence born from hearts steeped in anger and hate.
Our culture is breaking. And yet, it is not beyond repair. But if we continue celebrating violence, excusing cruelty, and mocking the dead, we risk losing more than lives. We risk losing our humanity. I pray I never live to see that day. But prayer must be met with action. If we want to slow this descent, if we hope to nurture compassion and empathy again, then we must be willing to embody those things. I must be willing to embody them.
Because at the end of the day, whether we agree or not, every one of us is flesh and blood. Every one of us is loved by God.
Tonight, I pray for Charlie Kirk’s family. I pray for the Evergreen community. I pray for those mourning not only loss of life but the loss of dignity and humanity in how that life is treated. And, hardest of all, I pray for the ones who pulled the trigger and for those who cheer them on.
We need a return to humanity. Without it, we will not only lose lives. We will lose ourselves.

The past couple of weeks have felt like juggling fire while standing in a construction zone… literally. Our school is still being revamped, I’m scrambling to get everything ready for back-to-school, and the August heatwave has been relentless. In the middle of it all, I’ve found myself clinging to small things that calm the chaos: routines, humor, moments of rest, and perspective.
Over the last couple of years, our school has been under construction to help bring us into the 21st century, making the building safer and more energy-efficient. With school starting next week, many staff, myself included, have been trying to get into the building to set up classrooms, prep student Chromebooks, and tackle all the other details that come with back-to-school. The problem is that much of the building is still in disrepair. Rooms are filled with construction gear, ceilings are open with ventilation and electrical unfinished, there’s no air conditioning, and the dust is everywhere. (To be clear … they should be done next week, Monday or Tuesday.) In two of my rooms, crews are still actively working. The few times I’ve stepped in, all of my things have been shifted around, leaving me unable to find what I need. I’m doing my best not to panic, but at the end of the day, life itself often feels like a construction zone, unsettled and unfinished.
Navigating back-to-school in these conditions requires skills that aren’t usually part of the process. Normally, patience is something I extend to students and staff as we all adjust to a new year. Right now, I’m practicing it in excess and asking others to offer it back to me as I juggle under less-than-ideal circumstances. Adaptability has become essential. I can’t set things up the way I’d like, so I’ve had to change my approach. I spent at least a week making sure my curriculum was fully digitized so that, when the time finally comes to set up physically, I can focus on the classrooms themselves. The truth is, life rarely gives us perfect conditions. Growth and progress come from learning to adapt, even when things are far from ideal.
In the middle of the dust and disarray, I’ve leaned on anchors that steady me. Routines keep me grounded, especially my planner. Some days I use it to map out tasks ahead, other days I record what I’ve accomplished. Watching the pages fill reminds me that I am making progress, that the chaos does mean something. I also rely on humor. You know the phrase, “You have to laugh, otherwise you’ll cry”? As cliché as it sounds, it’s true. Sometimes it’s a silly meme I scroll past, or something hilariously out-of-the-blue my niece says. Rest is another anchor, though it doesn’t come naturally to me. I’ve started blocking it out in my planner as a reminder that “me time” deserves as much space as the work that piles up. In those moments of rest, I find perspective: my success and value aren’t tied only to what I accomplish. Work matters, but it can’t be the whole of life.
What I’ve learned through this process is simple: construction zones are messy, but they’re temporary. And at the end of the day, they’re signs that something new is being built or something old is being repaired. The dust will settle, and the growth will be worth the mess.

Growing up in a multigenerational Christian family, I started life with a pretty firm foundation in my beliefs. Even as a teenager, when my friends and classmates were partying, swearing, and doing who-knows-what, I stayed out of it. I often chose to spend time reading, with my family, or with the few friends who shared my faith. But that didn’t stop the teasing… or the loneliness.
So what do we do when we walk with God, but the world around us, including people we love, chooses not to?
Today, I want to talk about a biblical figure who set a high standard, but one that feels attainable: Enoch. He walked with God so closely that one day, God simply took him. He didn’t die. He didn’t go out in a blaze of glory. He just… went home. Enoch didn’t just talk the talk, he walked the walk, even when the world around him mocked and denied God.
So what does it mean to walk with God now, when so few seem to care?

Enoch: Faithful in Obscurity
The Bible doesn’t say much about Enoch. In Genesis 5:21–24, he’s briefly mentioned as the father of Methuselah, a man who “walked steadily with God” until God took him. Hebrews 11:5–6 expands on this, describing how “by faith Enoch was taken from this life, so that he did not experience death… for before he was taken, he was commended as one who pleased God.”
So what makes Enoch such a powerful example for us today?
His life stands in contrast to his surroundings. Enoch lived before the flood, in a time of growing wickedness. Genesis 6 paints a picture of a world so corrupt and violent that God ultimately decided to start over. While exact population estimates vary, many scholars believe humanity was already widespread and culturally advanced. Biblically, we read about strange happenings, like the “sons of God” taking human wives, resulting in the Nephilim, a corrupted and infamous generation.
While details are debated, one thing is clear: it was a dark time. Technological and cultural advancements didn’t make the world better… they made it more self-indulgent, violent, and godless.
And in the middle of all that, Enoch chose to walk with God.

What Does Walking with God Mean?
How do we follow Enoch’s example in today’s culture?
Three words come to mind: consistency, closeness, and direction.

• Consistency

Consistency is a spiritual muscle. It takes time and intention. For me, it starts with daily Bible study. That rhythm helps me hear God more clearly and apply His Word to my life, even when things feel chaotic.

• Closeness

It may sound cliché, but closeness with God matters. Not just reading about Him or doing “Christian things,” but actually seeking His presence. Enoch didn’t perform miracles or preach to crowds. He simply drew near to God. You and I can do that too.

• Direction

As I build consistency and closeness, I find it easier to hear God's direction. Sometimes it comes through Scripture. Sometimes it’s a prompt to reach out to someone or pray unexpectedly. But I have to be listening… and listening requires space for silence.

The World That Doesn’t Walk
It’s hard to walk with God when the world runs the other way.
Technology alone can be a distraction. TikTok doom-scrolling, Pinterest rabbit holes, or even games like Stardew Valley can quietly steal time and focus. These things aren’t inherently bad, but our culture doesn’t encourage moderation. Everything is louder, faster, and more self-indulgent.
We also live in a world that rewards self-centeredness. Online, it's all about brand, followers, and viral reach. We've glorified the "me mentality" and turned it into an industry.
And then there’s promiscuity, which is no longer hidden but paraded. Pornography, once taboo, is now accessible in seconds. Worse yet, it’s normalized. Books, TV, movies, and music increasingly push sexually explicit content, often under the guise of art, freedom, or “just being real.” Even schools and workplaces aren’t immune. Curriculum controversies, explicit literature, normalizing overly sexual behavior, and the rise of “sex sells” marketing all point to a culture saturated with sexual obsession.
We’re told not to judge. “As long as it’s behind closed doors,” people say. But it isn’t behind closed doors anymore, and real people are being hurt, spiritually and emotionally.

How to Talk with God Daily (Even If You’re Alone in It)
Here are some ways I try to stay rooted, even when it’s hard:

1. Stay in the Word
   Read your Bible daily, even if it’s just one passage. Use the Bible app, pick up a Daily Bread booklet, or find a reading plan that speaks to your season.
2. Find a Faithful Few
   Surround yourself with at least one or two people who also want to grow spiritually. Your tribe matters. Even Jesus walked in community.
3. Practice Stillness
   Silence feels unnatural, even uncomfortable, in a world that’s always “on.” But stillness creates space to hear God. Turn off the noise. Sit in it. Pray through it.
4. Be Faithful in the Small Things
   Don’t underestimate the little obediences… biting your tongue, praying through frustration, or choosing gentleness over gossip. That’s where faith is formed.

Conclusion: A Legacy of Quiet Faith
I know it’s easier said than done. But it starts with one small, intentional step. Find a daily practice that helps you feel closer to God, and commit to it. Baby steps are better than no steps at all.
Enoch didn’t live loudly. He simply walked steadily. With God, not with the world. And God noticed. He notices you, too.So the question is:
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