Lemonade or Alcohol

It was early summer in Korea, the kind of day when the heat sits gently on your skin and the wind occasionally stirs to offer a tease of relief. I was walking under the sun, feeling the soft weight of the season press into my body. I had been out for errands, nothing unusual, but my throat had grown dry, and my body longed for something cool, something citrusy, something refreshing. Lemonade. I remembered the tart, sweet, familiar taste from home. It had always been my go-to on hot days back in Uganda. The idea of it comforted me—a drink from home, even if I was far from everything familiar.

There was a mart nearby, tucked between a pharmacy and a flower shop. I stepped inside, greeted by the cool air and bright shelves. The familiarity of convenience stores in Korea had long become part of my daily rhythm. Even though I couldn’t read every label, I had grown used to recognizing brands and shapes. I reached for a can with a bright yellow label. The image was unmistakable—lemons, ice cubes, droplets of condensation on the illustration. Without thinking, I paid for it and stepped back outside.

The first sip was glorious. It was just what I needed—cool, sweet, slightly tart. I kept sipping, grateful for that moment of ease. I walked slowly, savoring each drop. But halfway through the can, something shifted. A strange warmth began to build in my chest. My head grew light. The lines of the buildings blurred ever so slightly, and I blinked, trying to focus. I paused, my feet unsteady. This wasn’t just lemonade.

I turned the can in my hand and looked again. And there it was, just under the ingredients list—7%. I froze. Seven percent alcohol. My heart sank. I had unknowingly consumed alcohol. I hadn’t meant to. I wouldn’t have, if I had known. But I hadn’t seen the word. I hadn’t read the Korean characters that now stared back at me, so familiar and so foreign all at once.

I stood still in the street, blinking at the bright afternoon light, the alcohol coursing through my system. My thoughts were muddled, my body no longer fully my own. I felt the dizziness settle in waves. I felt vulnerable. The images of the world doubled and split around me, and in that fractured moment, I realized just how deep my isolation could go in a place where I did not fully know the language.

It wasn’t just the alcohol or the accident. It was the reminder of how fragile understanding can be. In that moment, the language barrier was not an abstract inconvenience or a humorous mistake—it was an embodied confusion, a fog that blurred not just my vision but my sense of self. I hadn’t just drunk alcohol; I had been unaware, unprepared, and unprotected. Not because I was careless, but because I was in a world where the very letters on a label could be undecipherable, even dangerous.

I remember finding a quiet bench nearby and sitting down. I took deep breaths and tried to steady myself. I whispered a prayer, even as my head spun. “Lord, help me.” Not just with the dizziness, but with the deeper ache underneath. I was embarrassed. Ashamed, even. How could I have made such a mistake? How could I not have known? But as I sat there, I began to realize that this moment, as disorienting as it was, carried a deeper spiritual lesson.

In many ways, my journey in Korea had been marked by small and large acts of misunderstanding. Ordering food, reading street signs, understanding church announcements, catching jokes in conversations—all of these were daily reminders that I was not fluent, not fully present in the way others were. I had learned to smile, to nod, to rely on context and tone. And most days, that was enough. But the lemonade incident showed me the thinness of that safety. When you cannot read, you cannot fully guard yourself. You cannot fully belong. You depend on others, on grace, on the hope that mistakes will not be costly. You walk by faith, quite literally.

As I sat on that bench, I remembered how the Scriptures speak of the Spirit interceding for us in groans too deep for words. And I thought, perhaps the Spirit also intercedes in those moments when we lack language—not just in prayer, but in life. When we do not have the words, when we do not understand, when our speech and reading fail us, God does not fail us. God becomes our interpreter. God becomes our clarity.

There is a kind of humility that language barriers teach you. A kind that strips away the illusion of control. You become dependent in ways you were not prepared for. You learn to trust the kindness of strangers, to laugh at your mistakes, to ask for help. But deeper still, you begin to understand the silence between words. You begin to hear differently—not just with your ears, but with your spirit.

In those weeks following the lemonade incident, I became more cautious. I started asking more questions before buying anything. I would often ask store clerks or friends to translate for me. But beyond the practical adjustments, I also began to reflect more intentionally on the spiritual implications of being a foreigner, of living within a language I could not master.

Jesus, too, walked as a stranger. He crossed cultural lines. He spoke Aramaic but lived in a region ruled by Rome, layered with Greek influence. He knew the sound of being misunderstood. His disciples often failed to grasp His words. The Pharisees misinterpreted Him. Pilate asked, “What is truth?” without really wanting an answer. Jesus navigated the spaces where human understanding faltered, and yet He remained the Word made flesh.

And so I realized: if God chose to reveal Himself not through overwhelming clarity, but through incarnation—through a body that could be misunderstood, misheard, even rejected—then maybe my own embodied confusion was not beyond God’s reach. Maybe God could speak through it. Maybe He was already doing so.

I began to keep a small journal of language mistakes—not just to laugh at them later, but to track what they revealed about me, about my context, about my journey with God. In those pages were stories of asking for sugar and getting salt, of nodding through conversations I didn’t follow, of missing bus stops, of using the wrong honorifics. But in those same pages were moments of grace: a stranger walking me to the right platform, a shopkeeper who took time to explain a label, a friend who sat patiently as I searched for the right words. And I saw, again and again, that where language failed, love did not.

It occurred to me that Pentecost is, in many ways, a response to the pain of language barriers. In Genesis, at Babel, language was scattered and confusion reigned. But in Acts, the Spirit came and people heard the good news in their own tongues. God did not erase language diversity—He honored it. But He also bridged it. The Spirit translated what human speech could not.

Perhaps my experience with the lemonade was a kind of Babel moment—a scattering of understanding. But the Spirit was still near. Not with fire and wind this time, but with a quiet steadiness that reminded me that I am never truly alone in my misunderstanding.

Language, I have come to believe, is not just about words. It is about communion. It is about presence. It is about the willingness to dwell with one another, even when we cannot fully explain ourselves. God is fluent in every language, including the silence of our hearts, the confusion in our minds, and the unspoken prayers of foreigners in foreign lands.

That day in early summer, I drank what I did not understand. But I also came to taste something deeper—the vulnerability of not knowing, the humility of needing help, the grace that carries us when we do not have the words. And in that place of dizziness and disorientation, I found that God was still speaking.

Not in the clear, crisp logic of perfect sentences, but in the fractured images, the blurred lines, the bench on the side of the road, and the whispered prayer: “Lord, help me.” And He did.

Now, whenever I see cans in a mart, I smile to myself and take a little longer before picking one up. I read more closely. I ask more questions. And I remember that mistakes do not define us—but they can teach us. They can soften us. They can remind us of our need for God and for one another.

For in this life of faith, we are all, in some way, learning a new language—the language of grace, of patience, of love that crosses borders and breaks down walls. And sometimes, that language begins not with perfect understanding, but with a dizzy heart, a humbled spirit, and the presence of a God who walks with us, even when we do not yet have the words.

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Korean Beauty Standards

Korea is a beauty world. The streets glisten with youthful faces framed by smooth skin, delicate makeup, and carefully curated hairstyles. Advertising billboards beam flawless images of models and celebrities, their features unmarred by blemish or imperfection. Store shelves overflow with serums, toners, essences, creams, face masks, and sunscreens—all designed to help one attain the ever-elusive “glass skin,” that luminous, poreless, almost surreal clarity of complexion that has become a cultural aspiration. It is a world where beauty is not merely an indulgence or a leisurely pursuit—it is a form of self-discipline, a mark of effort, a social responsibility. Children are introduced to skincare from an early age. Teenagers grow up watching beauty influencers whose routines stretch to twelve or more steps. Men participate too, not as an exception, but as a norm. Appearance is everything—or so it seems.

The emphasis on self-care is intense. It requires time, money, and a form of ritualistic devotion. There is something deeply religious about it—the repetitive acts, the hope of transformation, the communal participation, the promise of reward. People wait for the right products to arrive, follow trends faithfully, seek counsel from beauty professionals, and share testimonies of what worked and what didn’t. Beauty here is more than skin deep—it is a way of life. It says something about who you are, how seriously you take yourself, and how much you respect others. A polished look translates as competence. A well-toned face signals self-respect. To look tired or undone is to risk being interpreted as lazy, careless, or socially unaware. While there is a celebration of aesthetics, it often comes with unspoken rules, exclusions, and pressures that dig deep into the human psyche.

As a Christian living in this beauty world, I find myself simultaneously fascinated and burdened. The effort that goes into skincare and personal grooming can be admirable. It reminds me that humans are created with a desire for beauty, for wholeness, for care. God made the world beautiful, after all. The flowers of the field, the colors of the sky, the intricate design of the human face—all speak of a Creator who delights in form and function, in wonder and detail. To care for the body, to cleanse and moisturize and protect it, is not in itself vain. It can be an act of gratitude. The body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, Paul tells us in his letter to the Corinthians. It is not to be abused, neglected, or treated with contempt. Cleanliness and order are not worldly inventions—they are echoes of a divine order, a God who declared creation “very good.”

But as with all good things, beauty can become distorted when it is pursued for its own sake or exalted above all else. In Korea’s beauty world, I sense a quiet desperation beneath the surface. The longing for acceptance, the fear of judgment, the anxiety of not being good enough without the right concealer or the perfect lighting. Beauty, once a gift to be enjoyed, turns into a standard to be met, a burden to be carried. Social media platforms are filled with curated faces, angles perfected to conceal rather than reveal. Filters edit out not only flaws but authenticity. A person becomes an image, and that image becomes the reality others expect you to perform every day.

The language of perfection is seductive. In church, we speak of sanctification, the process of becoming holy, becoming more like Christ. In beauty culture, sanctification is replaced with beautification, but the underlying drive is similar: to improve, to ascend, to transcend one’s current state. Yet while sanctification is a spiritual journey empowered by grace, beautification in this culture often demands personal striving with no end in sight. There is always a new product to try, a new flaw to correct, a younger standard to emulate. Time becomes an enemy. Aging is not a natural process but a condition to be resisted. Wrinkles, pores, discoloration—they are not signs of a life lived but signs of failure. And so the ritual continues, day after day, mask after mask.

In such a context, I am drawn again to the figure of Jesus. Isaiah prophesied that the Messiah would have “no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.” This is a striking description, particularly in a world that equates beauty with value. Jesus, the incarnate Son of God, did not come clothed in aesthetic superiority. He did not captivate crowds with radiant skin or striking features. His glory was not skin-deep. He touched lepers, ate with sinners, wept openly, bled visibly. His body bore wounds, and after the resurrection, he still carried the scars. The resurrected Christ was not airbrushed or filtered. He was glorified, but not in the way our world defines it. There is something profoundly countercultural in his embodiment—a beauty that embraces brokenness, a glory that dignifies the wounded.

This vision of beauty speaks to a deeper human need. Beneath the layers of foundation and the careful routines, what we long for is to be seen, known, and loved. Not in our filtered versions, but in our full humanity. We want someone to look at us—not through the lens of societal standards or peer comparisons—but with the eyes of grace. This is what Jesus offered the woman at the well, the woman with the hemorrhage, the woman caught in adultery. He saw them. Truly saw them. Not just their sins or their secrets, but their souls. His gaze did not shame them into hiding; it invited them into healing.

It is hard to rest in such love in a society that measures worth by outward perfection. But the gospel offers this radical rest. It says you are beloved, even when you are blemished. You are known, even in your imperfection. You are beautiful, not because of what you apply to your skin, but because you bear the image of God. This is not a call to abandon beauty practices altogether. Rather, it is an invitation to reframe them. To remember that care for the body must flow from an understanding of the body’s sacredness, not its shame. Skincare can be worshipful when it is rooted in peace, not panic; in gratitude, not anxiety.

As I walk through this beauty world, I find myself having to guard my heart. It is easy to slip into comparisons, to feel inadequate next to the glowing skin and sleek silhouettes. But I return, again and again, to the Word that tells me I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I remember that the fruit of the Spirit is not flawless skin or youthful glow, but love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. These are the qualities that reflect the beauty of Christ. These are the features that endure.

I also find that being a Christian in this context calls for discernment and compassion. It is tempting to judge the world of beauty as vain or superficial, but such judgment often ignores the pain and longing behind the practices. For many, skincare is not just about appearance—it is a form of coping, a small act of control in a chaotic world. It can be a mother’s way of caring for herself after sleepless nights. A student’s way of managing stress. A teenager’s way of carving identity. These routines, though shaped by culture, can be deeply human. To dismiss them outright is to miss an opportunity to understand. Instead, I ask: how can we bring grace into these spaces? How can we speak of a beauty that does not fade, a love that does not depend on performance?

Perhaps part of the answer lies in living as signs of another kingdom. Not in flaunting neglect or rejecting appearance altogether, but in modeling a different relationship with the body. One that embraces care without obsession. One that values wholeness over perfection. One that celebrates aging as growth, not decline. One that remembers that our bodies are not just canvases to be perfected but instruments to serve, temples to be stewarded, and vessels through which God’s love flows.

In the end, I am reminded that all flesh is like grass, and all its glory like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of the Lord endures forever. This is the truth that anchors me. This is the beauty that lasts. Not the beauty of glass skin, but the beauty of a tender heart. Not the glow of youth, but the glow of a life surrendered to grace. In Christ, we are being transformed—from glory to glory—not into the image of cultural ideals, but into the likeness of our Savior.

So I walk on, among the beauty shops and glowing signs, among the men and women who have labored over their routines and curated their appearances. I see them not as vain or shallow, but as fellow image-bearers, searching—whether they know it or not—for something more. And I pray that in me, in us, they might glimpse a beauty that cannot be bottled or bought. A beauty that comes from being seen, known, and loved by the One who formed us in the secret place, who called us good, and who even now is making all things new.

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Eritei

The eritei—a woven, shallow basket used to separate chaff from grain—is a common and essential tool found in almost every household in agrarian communities like those in Uganda. Though simple in design, the eritei carries a depth of meaning that has stayed with me into adulthood. It is not just a practical implement for farming; it represents a deep and powerful process of purification, of choosing what is valuable and letting go of what is worthless. As I reflect on my own journey of faith and life, I see how the imagery of the eritei connects deeply with God’s work in me. It paints a vivid picture of how God lovingly, yet firmly, sifts through my heart, my choices, and my priorities, desiring to purify me and make me useful for His kingdom.

In the Bible, this imagery is powerfully captured in Matthew 3:12, where John the Baptist describes Jesus with a winnowing fork in His hand, ready to clear His threshing floor. The clarity and urgency of that image has often challenged me: what parts of my life would be gathered as precious grain, and what parts would be burned away as chaff? This question often humbles me, reminding me that being called a Christian is not enough. The evidence of a transformed, fruitful life must be visible, not only to others but first to God Himself.

I realize that the process of winnowing is not only about judgment but also about deep love and purification. God does not delight in the chaff being thrown away; rather, He longs for the grain—the true, sincere parts of our hearts—to be preserved, cherished, and used for His glory. There have been times in my own life when I have felt the tossing, the shaking, the seemingly painful process of being winnowed. Seasons of disappointment, of unanswered prayers, of personal failure—they have all felt like the tossing of the grain in the air, the exposure of my heart to the harsh winds of trial. Yet in hindsight, I now recognize that these were not seasons of abandonment but seasons of deep refining.

Luke 22:31-32 has taken on new meaning for me in those seasons. Jesus’s words to Peter, "Simon, Simon, Satan has asked to sift all of you as wheat. But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail," reveal the tender reality of spiritual testing. I find comfort in knowing that even when I face severe trials, Jesus is interceding for me. He is not far away, observing passively. He is actively praying, strengthening, and preserving my faith. The image of being sifted is sobering, but it is also reassuring, because it shows that trials are not meaningless—they have divine purpose.

In the quiet moments of prayer and reflection, I have often asked myself: what is the "chaff" in my life? Is it pride? Fear? An unhealthy dependence on human approval? Is it laziness in spiritual disciplines, or distractions from worldly desires? Galatians 5:22-23 gives me a clear standard to measure myself by—the fruit of the Spirit. Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. When I lack these qualities, I know that there is still chaff clinging to my heart, and that I must willingly submit to God’s refining hand.

The metaphor of the eritei also reminds me that sanctification is a lifelong process. It is not a one-time event but an ongoing, sometimes painful, but ultimately beautiful journey. Malachi 3:3 describes God as a refiner of silver, sitting close by the fire, patiently and attentively purifying the metal until He can see His own image reflected in it. I imagine God, using the circumstances of my life—the joyful, the painful, the mundane—as the heat that purifies me. I am encouraged that God does not give up on me when impurities are found. Instead, He continues the work patiently until I am made into a vessel fit for His use.

Interestingly, when an eritei becomes worn out—its weaving loose, its surface rough and unable to perform its function—women and girls in my community do not immediately discard it. Instead, they pick cow dung, smear it carefully over the surface of the eritei, and then place it under the hot sun to dry. Once dried, the eritei is restored, strengthened, and ready for use once again. This simple but profound practice reminds me that God, too, does not discard us when we are broken or weakened. Instead, He lovingly repairs and restores us, using means that may seem humble or uncomfortable to us. The restoration process is not glamorous, but it is necessary and beautiful. It is a reminder that healing and renewal often come through unexpected and humbling means.

Today’s world demands discernment more than ever. In an age where social media, pop culture, and even some pulpits blend truth with subtle deception, I realize that the winnowing is not just something that happens internally but also externally. 1 Thessalonians 5:21-22 urges us to "test everything; hold fast to what is good. Reject every kind of evil." This means I must cultivate a discerning spirit, anchored in God’s Word, able to recognize truth and reject falsehood. The eritei is not passive; it requires the farmer’s skillful hand, an intentional act of separating. Similarly, I must be intentional about guarding my heart and mind.

I have also seen how this imagery applies within the wider body of Christ. Within the church, where many claim allegiance to Christ, there is a need for winnowing. The pursuit of power, the watering down of truth to suit culture, and the commercialization of the Gospel all call for a discerning, purifying move of God. It is not enough to appear religious; true transformation must happen. As painful as it is, winnowing within the church purifies the community of believers, restoring authenticity and zeal for God’s purposes.

One of the most personal prayers that emerges from this reflection is this: "Lord, winnow me." It is not an easy prayer to pray because it invites discomfort and loss. It welcomes seasons where God says no, where God says wait, or where God says let go. Yet, I realize that without His winnowing, I would remain full of impurities, half-hearted, and ultimately unusable. I want my life to bear the marks of the Spirit’s refining work, to have the fragrance of Christ, not just a shallow appearance of faith.

As I continue to grow, I pray for a heart that welcomes God’s refining work rather than resists it. I pray for the humility to recognize the chaff in my life and the courage to let it go. I pray for discernment in a noisy world, and for an enduring faith that remains strong even when tossed and tested. I pray that when Christ, the master Winnower, looks upon my life, He will find good grain—faith that perseveres, love that endures, and hope that shines even in the darkest seasons.

May we all come before God with open hands and surrendered hearts, asking Him to refine us until only Christ remains visible in us. Just as a farmer treasures the grain and discards the chaff, so too does our Father treasure every purified soul.

Lord, winnow me. Winnow us all.

Amen.

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Hurry, Hurry 빨리 빨리

빨리 빨리 (pali, pali) in Korea means quick quick or hurry, hurry . It is a phrase that echoes in every part of life here—spoken with urgency, felt with intensity. From the moment the day begins, the rhythm is fast. People eat quickly, walk briskly, talk rapidly, and respond to messages within seconds. The buses come and go with precision, the trains arrive without delay, and even small talk seems designed to get straight to the point. It is as though the entire society is wound up like a tightly coiled spring, moving with purpose, with speed, and with very little room for pause.

At first glance, this pace can feel efficient, admirable even. There is no sluggishness in this culture. Tasks are executed with excellence. Delays are minimized. People are always on the move, always achieving, always reaching forward. There is an energy in the air that can be contagious. It inspires productivity, heightens alertness, and makes one feel part of something dynamic and purposeful. It is no surprise that Korea has risen so rapidly in economic and technological terms. The 빨리 빨리 mindset is not just a way of life—it is a driving force behind progress.

And yet, beneath the efficiency lies a quiet exhaustion. The quickness that fuels achievement also accelerates anxiety. In a 빨리 빨리 world, slowness feels like failure. Rest feels like laziness. Conversations become transactional. Meals lose their warmth. Friendships struggle to deepen. There is no time to linger, to wonder, to wrestle with questions. Everything must move. Quickly. The fast pace leaves little space for silence, reflection, or even grief. It is difficult to hear God when life is always on fast-forward.

As a Christian living within this culture, I find myself caught in the tension between admiration and concern. I admire the discipline, the drive, the diligence. These are virtues not to be dismissed. Even Scripture reminds us not to be slothful in zeal but fervent in spirit. Jesus himself was not idle. He moved with intention, healed with power, taught with clarity. But he was never in a hurry. That difference is profound. Jesus moved with purpose, not panic. His time was short, yet he never rushed. He paused to touch, to listen, to weep. He withdrew to pray. He lingered at tables. He walked, not ran, to his destinations. In a world obsessed with speed, Jesus embodied a different tempo—one that flowed from intimacy with the Father, not the pressures of the crowd.

One particular story that contrasts with 빨리 빨리 culture is found in Luke 10:38–42, when Jesus visits the home of Martha and Mary. Martha, eager to serve, busies herself with preparations. She is the image of responsibility and haste. Mary, on the other hand, sits at Jesus’ feet, listening. Martha, frustrated, demands that Jesus rebuke her sister. But Jesus answers gently, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.” In a culture that prizes doing, Jesus affirms the sacredness of being. Mary’s stillness is not laziness—it is worship.

This story invites me to rethink the values I absorb in this 빨리 빨리 world. It is easy to measure worth by how fast we respond, how quickly we achieve, how efficiently we function. But the kingdom of God does not operate on earthly schedules. The fruit of the Spirit—love, joy, peace, patience—cannot be microwaved. They grow slowly, deeply, often in the hidden places. A rushed life can produce results, but not always fruit. The Spirit’s work in us is not 빨리 빨리. It is slow, steady, transformative.

I often wonder what we miss when everything is rushed. When we speed through meals, do we miss the nourishment that comes from shared presence? When we gloss over conversations, do we miss the chance to listen deeply, to discern the pain behind a friend’s hurried words? When we push forward relentlessly, do we trample over the gentle voice of God whispering for us to stop, to wait, to rest? In Exodus, God commands his people to observe the Sabbath—not just as a rule, but as a rhythm of grace. To stop work once a week was not simply to rest the body, but to declare trust in a God who provides. In a 빨리 빨리 world, Sabbath is rebellion. It says, I am not my productivity. I do not need to rush to be enough.

Living slowly in a quick culture is difficult. It feels like swimming against the current. There is pressure to conform—to reply immediately, to move constantly, to show that you are busy, useful, efficient. But I am learning that sometimes the most powerful witness is to live differently. To walk instead of run. To wait instead of push. To listen instead of talk. To make time for prayer not as a task, but as a breathing space. I fail often. I get swept up in the rush. But the Spirit keeps calling me back to stillness.

Slowness does not mean apathy. Nor does it mean avoidance. It means presence. Being fully where I am, not always chasing the next thing. It means giving attention—to God, to people, to the moment. In doing so, I reflect the heart of Jesus, who even on his way to heal a dying girl paused to speak to a bleeding woman. Who, after resurrection, did not ascend immediately but stayed forty more days to teach, eat, and encourage his disciples. Love is slow. It cannot be rushed. Neither can healing, repentance, growth, or faith.

The 빨리 빨리 culture teaches me to be efficient. The gospel teaches me to be faithful. Efficiency measures success by speed and scale. Faithfulness measures by love and obedience. They do not always go together. Sometimes God calls us to be still when everything around us says move. Sometimes he leads us through wilderness when we would rather take the expressway. But in the slowness, he is present. In the quiet, he speaks.

I do not wish to condemn the culture in which I live. There is much to honor in its work ethic and drive. But as a Christian, I must live by another clock. One that does not tick with anxiety, but with trust. One that allows room for pause, for worship, for mystery. I want to be a person who can say no to hurry, who can sit at the feet of Christ even when the world demands Martha’s pace. For it is in the slow, the still, the surrendered places that I truly come to know him—not just as a Lord to serve, but as a friend to love.

And so in this 빨리 빨리 land, I seek to walk slowly with Jesus. To eat with gratitude. To listen with patience. To speak with intention. To live not for speed, but for presence. The world may rush by, but I will not let it carry my soul with it. I will abide. For the One who is the same yesterday, today, and forever is never in a hurry—and he walks with me, even here.

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Summer

Summer is fast approaching. The days are longer, the sun is hotter, and the air feels thick with heat. It’s the kind of heat that sticks to your skin, making even the simplest activities feel exhausting. I find myself constantly reaching for a glass of water, and the hum of the air conditioner has become the soundtrack of my afternoons. It’s a season that demands physical care and attention—hydration, rest, and intentional slowness. But as I sat in front of the fan today, glass of cold water in hand, I began to wonder what this heat might be teaching me on a deeper level.

There’s something humbling about the way our bodies respond to intense weather. We sweat, we tire quickly, we seek shade and shelter. It reminds me of our limitations, our fragility. No matter how strong or productive we try to be, summer slows us down. It forces us to listen to our needs and to take breaks. In a world that celebrates busyness and constant motion, summer becomes a quiet invitation to rest. As the temperature rises, I sense God whispering, “Slow down. Listen to your body. Let Me refresh your soul.”

Drinking water has become almost a ritual—something I do without thinking, yet every gulp reminds me of how much I need it. And in that need, I’m reminded of Jesus’ words in John 4:14: “But whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” These words were spoken to a woman who had come to draw water in the heat of the day. She was thirsty, not just in her body, but in her spirit. Jesus met her there, not with judgment, but with an offer—a chance to be truly satisfied.

That verse has lingered in my heart all day. I’ve been thinking about how easy it is to try and quench our thirst with things that don’t last. We pour our energy into success, approval, control, or distraction, hoping these things will make us feel full. But like cold water in the heat, the satisfaction they bring is only temporary. We find ourselves thirsty again. And again. Could it be that our souls are longing for something deeper, something more eternal?

As I watched the sun blaze outside, I couldn’t help but think of the Israelites wandering through the desert. They, too, were hot and thirsty. Their journey was full of struggle, and yet, time and again, God provided for them—manna from heaven, water from a rock. In Exodus 17:6, the Lord tells Moses, “Strike the rock, and water will come out of it for the people to drink.” It’s such a powerful image: God making streams flow from stone, providing in the most unexpected way. That’s the kind of God we serve—a God who meets us in the middle of our dryness and makes provision where there seems to be none.

This summer heat has made me realize how much I rely on things I often take for granted—clean water, electricity, a cool room to escape into. But it’s also made me aware of the people who do not have these things. What about those who walk long distances just for drinking water? What about the elderly who endure the heat without air conditioning? What does love look like in a season like this? Perhaps part of the invitation in this heat is to think beyond ourselves and open our hearts to others. How can we be a cup of cold water to someone else? How can we make room for someone who needs shelter from the heat, physically or spiritually?

I’ve also noticed how easily frustration creeps in when I’m uncomfortable. Heat can make me short-tempered, impatient, and restless. But discomfort is not always a bad thing. It reveals what’s beneath the surface. It shows me what I lean on when I feel overwhelmed. And sometimes, it leads me to prayer. Not the long, well-worded kind, but the quiet, honest kind: “Lord, help me be kind,” or “Jesus, I’m tired,” or simply, “Be near.” These prayers are like cool streams in the desert. They don’t change the temperature outside, but they shift something within me.

The seasons of our lives are not always external. Sometimes we go through internal summers—seasons of dryness, weariness, or burning questions. We long for refreshing, but it feels just out of reach. If that’s where you are, I want to ask: where are you drawing your water from? Is it from the well of busyness, appearance, or performance? Or are you drinking from the well of Christ? He offers water that does not run dry. He offers rest not just for the body, but for the soul.

In Matthew 11:28, Jesus says, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” That invitation stands in every season, but I feel it more deeply now, when the sun is scorching and my energy is low. He calls us not to perform, not to strive, but to come. To sit. To be still. To drink deeply.

I think of the moments today when I paused to breathe, to sip water slowly, to close my eyes and just be. In those simple moments, I sensed a deeper invitation: to let Jesus be my rest, my shade, my living water. To remember that even in the heat, I am not alone. He walks with me, He refreshes me, He covers me with grace like a cloud.

So as summer settles in, I choose to listen to what it’s saying. I choose to drink deeply—not just from my water bottle, but from the well of grace. I choose to be more aware of my needs and the needs of others. I choose to let this season soften me, slow me, and stretch me.

And what about you? Are you thirsty? Not just for something to cool your body, but for something to calm your soul? Are you running on empty, worn out by the heat of life? Jesus is still offering living water. Still meeting people in the heat of the day. Still refreshing hearts that come to Him.

Why not pause right now and ask Him to meet you where you are? Why not take a deep breath, drink some water, and let that simple act remind you of His love? His well is deep, and His water never runs dry.

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Drop the Jawbone: Trusting God Beyond the Last Victory.

 

After using the jawbone, he dropped it and moved on. That verse in Judges 15:17—“When he finished speaking, he threw away the jawbone; and the place was called Ramath Lehi”—has stayed with me today. Samson had just used the jawbone of a donkey to defeat a thousand men. It was an unconventional tool, not something anyone would expect to bring about such a victory. And yet, God used it in that moment. But what strikes me most is not just the victory or the odd weapon, but what Samson did afterward—he dropped it. He didn’t hold onto it, frame it, or store it for another fight. He let it go.

That action, so simple and swift, holds a deep lesson. Samson understood that the jawbone had served its purpose. It was a temporary tool for a specific battle. Nothing more. And once the purpose was fulfilled, he moved on. But how many times in my life have I held onto jawbones? Kept things that were meant for a moment but not meant to last? It could be a strategy that worked once but no longer brings life. A relationship that served a season but is now clung to out of fear. Even spiritual habits or routines that God used to grow me—but that I now hold onto more out of tradition than trust.

There’s something comforting about keeping what once worked. We feel secure with what we know. We begin to idolize the tools, forgetting that it was never really the jawbone that brought the victory—it was God. The danger of storing the jawbone is that we start to believe that our help comes from the method instead of the Maker. We become attached to the form instead of the source.

I’ve caught myself doing this recently—relying on old patterns, hoping yesterday’s breakthrough will carry me through today’s storm. But faith is dynamic. It’s not about repeating the same thing forever. Sometimes, God gives us a tool for one moment only, and He expects us to lay it down when the moment passes. Holding on can become a burden. It weighs us down and blinds us to the new things God wants to do.

Letting go is not easy. There’s risk in moving on. There’s a kind of grief involved in releasing something that once helped you. But there’s also freedom. And trust. It’s a statement of belief that says, “God will provide again. He will fight my next battle with whatever tool He chooses. I don’t need to carry yesterday’s weapon into tomorrow’s war.”

The act of dropping the jawbone reminds me that our victories do not depend on cleverness or strength or what we carry—they depend on God’s presence. And when He moves us on, it’s because He has more to teach us, more to give us, more ways to grow us. Could it be that what’s holding me back is not a lack of provision, but my unwillingness to let go of a past provision?

What are the jawbones I’m still carrying? Old hurts that once taught me a lesson but now only weigh down my heart? A role or identity that once gave me purpose but now restricts me? Even a success that I keep reliving because I’m afraid I’ll never experience another one? Each of these can quietly become idols if I’m not careful. But dropping the jawbone is a declaration that I trust God not just for what He did, but for what He will do next.

There’s a rhythm in life, and it includes both receiving and releasing. We pick up what God gives us, we use it with all our heart, and then when the time comes, we lay it down. Not every good thing is meant to last forever. Some are just meant to carry us through a season, a battle, a lesson. The danger of not releasing is that we become people of nostalgia rather than people of faith.

Samson didn’t carry the jawbone with him. He carried the memory of what God had done. That’s what we’re meant to carry too—not the tools, but the testimony. The reminder that God showed up, that He made a way, that He turned something ordinary into something powerful. That is what should stay with us.

So today, I’m asking myself: what am I still gripping that needs to be dropped? What do I need to release so my hands and heart are free for the next thing God is calling me to? It’s not always clear. It’s not always comfortable. But it is necessary if I want to grow.

Maybe you’re carrying something, too—something that once brought victory but now only brings weight. Can you trust that God has more for you than what was? Can you believe that He’ll provide a new jawbone, a new path, a new strength when the time comes? It starts with release. With opening our hands and saying, “Thank You, Lord, for what was. I’m ready now for what’s next.”

Are you ready to drop your jawbone and move on?

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Stained Grace

Last week, my husband stood over the bathroom sink, clutching his favorite white shirt—one I’d often seen him wear to casual dinners or on long drives. This time, however, the shirt bore an unfortunate brown stain that marred its once calming tone. He recounted how it had happened, something ordinary like leaning on a dusty railing or a careless splash from a passing boda. But now, the concern was not in how the stain came to be—it was in how to remove it.

He tried everything he could think of. There was the trusted stain remover, a dash of baking powder for good measure, and even a desperate soak in jik, the powerful bleach that often rescues our whites. Still, the dirt brown stain remained unmoved, as though it had fused itself into the very fabric of the shirt, refusing to be evicted. Frustrated, and perhaps a little defeated, he eventually gave up and threw the shirt away. “I’ve tried everything,” he muttered. “It’s just not worth saving.”

That moment, trivial as it seemed, sat with me. I watched the stained shirt disappear into the trash, but my mind lingered longer than expected. I thought about how often we respond to stained things—be it clothes, relationships, reputations, or even people—with the same tired exasperation. We try what we know, and when it doesn’t work, we give up. We let go. We throw it away.

I could not help but see myself in that shirt. Sky blue, once vibrant, worn with joy—but then soiled by life’s dust and stains that no amount of scrubbing could lift. I thought of the stains I’ve carried silently—the poor choices, the sharp words I regretted, the seasons of spiritual dullness, and the hidden corners of shame I never let anyone see. Like that shirt, there have been days I felt unsalvageable, wondering if I, too, might be deemed “not worth saving.”

But that’s not how God sees us.

The Bible tells us in Isaiah 1:18, “‘Come now, let us reason together,’ says the Lord. ‘Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool.’” Unlike us, who are so easily discouraged by visible and persistent stains, God sees through them. He not only sees what we were before the stain—He sees what we can become after the stain is transformed. His cleansing isn’t superficial; it reaches into the fibers of our being, into the soul’s tightest weave.

The world often trains us to toss what is stained. We’re told to curate our lives, remove messiness, and present a pristine image. Yet, the Christian life reminds us that the gospel is not about discarding the flawed but about redeeming it. Our Savior didn’t come for the spotless. He came for the blemished, the broken, and the burdened. Jesus declared in Mark 2:17, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.”

I thought again of that shirt. What if, instead of being discarded, it had been brought to someone who specializes in stubborn stains? Someone with tools and experience beyond the domestic pantry. That’s what grace does. It takes the impossible and makes it clean. It doesn’t just bleach; it restores. It doesn’t erase the past but transforms it into testimony.

In many ways, I realized my own heart had adopted the voice of the stain. I sometimes live with the idea that unless I am spotless, I am unusable. But Scripture offers a different narrative. Paul, the apostle who once hunted Christians, became the greatest missionary of the early Church. Peter, who denied Jesus three times, became the rock upon which Christ would build His church. Their stains did not disqualify them. Grace rewrote their stories.

We all have garments of our lives stained by our humanity. But the invitation of Christ is never to discard ourselves or others. Instead, it is to allow the Spirit of God to cleanse us, renew us, and clothe us in His righteousness. Revelation 7:14 offers a beautiful image of this transformation: “They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” How paradoxical, that blood—so red—makes robes white. Only God can do that.

As I reflected further, I realized how we also treat others like stained shirts. When people fail us, we sometimes throw them away too quickly. Marriages, friendships, ministries—they all bear scars and stains. But what if instead of asking, “Is it worth saving?” we asked, “What would grace do?” Grace leans in when human efforts fail. It says, “I see the stain, but I see more than the stain.” Grace believes in restoration.

That shirt my husband threw away was just a shirt, yes, but it became for me a metaphor for how we respond to brokenness—in ourselves, in others, and even in our walk with God. It reminded me that trying and failing doesn’t mean the end. It reminded me that not all stains are permanent. And it reminded me most of all that grace is never limited to what we can do. It begins where our efforts end.

If only we would be less quick to toss what seems unclean and more willing to trust in the one who makes all things new. Our God is not a disposer of stained things. He is a Redeemer. He is the master cleaner, the restorer of sky blue shirts and stained lives alike.

And perhaps next time, before we throw something away, we might pause and ask: “What if this is the very thing grace wants to redeem?”

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