Kingdom business

When Jesus preached, He did not merely offer private truths for personal comfort. He proclaimed a kingdom—a reality that operates not only in the heart but in the world. “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand” (Matthew 4:17), He declared, not as a suggestion but as an announcement. It was not just a metaphor. It was and is a system—God’s system. A divine order that runs counter to the broken systems of the world. And like any kingdom, it has its laws, its economy, and its servants. The more I walk with God, the more I realize that entering the Kingdom is not just about believing in a Savior; it is about learning to live under a King.

The world teaches independence, self-promotion, survival by competition. But the Kingdom teaches dependence on God, humility, and giving without expecting in return. It is an upside-down system, or perhaps it is better to say the world is upside-down, and the Kingdom is right-side-up. Jesus said, “My kingdom is not of this world” (John 18:36), not because it is irrelevant to the world, but because it functions with a different logic—a holy one.

When I think about the Kingdom’s economy, I think about how often Jesus spoke in parables about money, stewardship, debt, and reward. It is not because He was obsessed with wealth, but because economics is at the heart of how systems operate. In the Kingdom, giving is more powerful than hoarding. Investing in people, in the poor, in the gospel—these are considered eternal treasures. Jesus said, “Store up for yourselves treasures in heaven” (Matthew 6:20). The currency of the Kingdom is not gold or silver, but faith, obedience, mercy, and love. In the world’s economy, success is measured by how much you keep; in God’s economy, it is measured by how much you give and how freely you release.

There is also a principle of multiplication in the Kingdom that defies worldly logic. The five loaves and two fish fed thousands. A mustard seed becomes a tree. A small act of kindness, done in secret, is honored openly by God. The widow who gave two coins gave more than the rich because her gift came from a heart fully yielded. The Kingdom teaches me to give even when I feel empty, to trust that what I plant in faith God will multiply. It is not a system of transaction, but of transformation.

Just as it has an economy, the Kingdom has a law. Not a cold list of legalities, but a living law written on our hearts by the Spirit. Jesus said He came not to abolish the Law but to fulfill it (Matthew 5:17). The law of the Kingdom is love, but not a vague or sentimental love. It is a love that costs something, a love that fulfills justice, that restores dignity, that forgives deeply, and sacrifices self. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength… and love your neighbor as yourself” (Mark 12:30–31)—this is the greatest commandment, and it is the foundation of Kingdom law.

In the Kingdom, obedience is not slavery; it is freedom. It is not about controlling people but forming hearts that are aligned with the King’s will. The more I surrender to the law of love, the freer I become—from fear, from comparison, from bitterness, from sin. The world says freedom means doing whatever I want. But the Kingdom says true freedom is doing what I was created for—reflecting the nature of God in my thoughts, my choices, my relationships.

This Kingdom also has servants. And not just angels or prophets or apostles—but every single believer. Jesus did not call us to be consumers of grace only, but servants in the vineyard. He washed feet. He welcomed children. He touched lepers. He said, “Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant” (Matthew 20:26). And then He became the servant of all, even unto death. If the King Himself stooped low to serve, how can I chase only status?

In the Kingdom, leadership is not about position but posture. I’ve learned that titles can be loud, but servanthood is quiet and lasting. Many want the crown, few want the cross. But the Kingdom is clear: only those who serve with humility will be exalted. The first will be last, and the last will be first. This is not just poetry; it is policy in the system of heaven.

I have seen people reject the Kingdom because it does not offer what the world promises—instant pleasure, unchecked power, or uninterrupted ease. But those who stay discover something deeper: peace that passes understanding, joy that defies suffering, and a righteousness not earned but received. The Kingdom does not run on performance, but on grace. Still, it demands my whole life.

It is not enough to say I believe in Jesus. Even demons believe and tremble. I must align myself with the King’s way, His values, His timing. It means forgiving when I want revenge. It means praying for those who hurt me. It means refusing to worship at the altars of fame, money, or comfort. The Kingdom requires a new mind, a renewed spirit. Paul said, “Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Romans 12:2). The patterns of the world are familiar and seductive. But the Kingdom calls me to a different rhythm, one led by the Spirit, not the flesh.

I now see that the Kingdom is not only something we wait for; it is something we live in now. Jesus said, “The Kingdom of God is within you” (Luke 17:21). It is already present wherever His will is done—when justice rolls down like waters, when mercy triumphs over judgment, when people are set free from bondage. The fullness is yet to come, but the seeds are already growing. Every act of obedience, every prayer of faith, every hidden act of love is a signpost pointing to a coming glory.

And so I pray, not just for blessings, but for alignment. I pray not only, “Lord, help me,” but also, “Lord, shape me into a citizen of Your Kingdom.” I want my words to echo the Kingdom’s truth, my hands to do the Kingdom’s work, and my life to reflect the King. This world is passing, but His Kingdom is unshakable.

When all else crumbles, the Kingdom stands. When empires fall, when economies break, when laws fail, when servants grow weary—still the Kingdom of God stands firm. It is not shaken by politics, pandemics, or war. It is built on a cornerstone that cannot be moved: Jesus Christ, the King of kings. And in Him, this system of grace and truth, justice and mercy, economy and law, servanthood and glory continues—now and forever.

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The Holy Disappearance

 

“I will decrease so that the Lord may increase.”

I’ve sat with these words again and again, trying to wrap my life around them, trying to whisper them not just from my lips but from deep within. And each time I come back to them, I find myself staring not at an idea, but at a man—John the Baptist, the desert preacher who refused to cling to the spotlight. A man who knew how to get out of the way.

And I wonder—do I know how to disappear like that?

In a world where being seen feels like survival, where recognition often masquerades as worth, I’m still learning what it means to decrease. I don’t mean a performative shrinking, a false humility that hopes to be praised for being “humble.” I mean the raw, vulnerable surrender that happens when I stop reaching for control, stop feeding my need to be heard, and simply make space—for Christ, for others, for grace.

John’s story undoes me.

He had crowds. He had authority. He had a following, and the kind of clarity of purpose I sometimes envy. People walked into the wilderness just to hear him speak. They stood in the dust and the heat because he carried something real—truth and conviction and the wild scent of heaven. But when Jesus came into view, John didn’t tighten his grip. He loosened it.

“He must increase; I must decrease,” he said.

What would I have done?

Would I have clung a little longer to the crowd? Would I have grown bitter watching my influence slip into someone else’s hands—even if those hands were Christ’s? Would I have questioned the timing, asked God why the light was shifting away from me, even though I knew it must?

There’s something almost brutal about true humility—it calls for a quiet death. Not once, but over and over. The dying of the ego. The dying of the need to be seen. The dying of the story where I am always the central character. And yet, in that death, there is also strange joy. John didn’t just fade—he rejoiced. He said his joy was now complete.

I’ve been thinking about what it means to have that kind of joy. A joy that doesn’t come from being recognized, but from watching Christ be recognized. A joy that grows when I grow small. A joy that blossoms when I stop trying to prove that I matter and start resting in the truth that He does.

Some days, this joy feels close. Like when I’m praying in the dark, alone, and feel the soft presence of God like a hand on my shoulder. No audience. No applause. Just grace, just communion. Just enough. On those days, I understand what John meant. I don’t want to be in control. I don’t need to be. I just want Jesus to shine.

But other days—many days—my soul resists. It aches to be noticed. I check my motives and find them mixed. I speak of Jesus, but sometimes I’m still hoping people will remember me. I say I want to serve, but deep down I want to be appreciated for serving. I say, “He must increase,” but I whisper, “Can I stay visible while He does?”

I wonder if John ever felt that, too. He was human. Did he ever feel forgotten? Did he long for more time, more attention, more understanding? The Gospels tell us that in prison, he sent his disciples to Jesus with a question that haunts me: “Are you the one who is to come, or shall we look for another?” The man who once boldly declared, “Behold the Lamb of God,” was now asking, “Are You really Him?”

That question doesn’t sound like doubt to me—it sounds like a man stripped bare. Alone. Unsure. Wondering whether his letting go had been worth it. Wondering whether he had faded too soon.

I know that place. The in-between. The place where you’ve surrendered something precious, but you haven’t yet seen the fruit of it. The place where you’ve chosen obedience, but the outcome is hidden. The prison moments. The lonely, invisible moments. The moments where you want to believe the decrease was for something holy, but your heart still feels empty.

And yet, Jesus does not rebuke John for asking. He honors him. He says, “Among those born of women there has arisen no one greater than John the Baptist.”

John’s greatness didn’t come from being loud or prominent or even perfect in his faith. It came from his posture. From the wilderness road he walked. From the space he made for Christ to be revealed. From his willingness to disappear without resentment.

I want that kind of holiness.

I want to know how to live with open hands. How to love without needing credit. How to plant seeds I may never see bloom. How to speak truth without worrying about who’s listening. How to serve in hidden corners and call it joy. How to remember that ministry is not a stage—it’s a surrender.

The longer I walk with Christ, the more I sense He is always inviting me to go lower. Not in shame, but in freedom. Not in invisibility for its own sake, but in the kind of hiddenness where He becomes visible. It’s not about shrinking—it’s about shifting the spotlight. It’s about understanding that my name doesn’t have to echo in people’s minds if His name is glorified.

Even now, I think of the spaces where I’m still holding on too tightly. The platforms I want to stand on. The praises I want to hear. The ways I’m afraid to step back. And I ask, “Lord, teach me to decrease.”

Because the truth is, when I decrease—when I stop trying to be everything—I begin to see that He is enough. My limitations make space for His sufficiency. My smallness becomes a canvas for His glory. And suddenly, I’m not afraid of being unseen. I’m just grateful to be included in the story.

Maybe that’s what humility really is. Not thinking less of myself, but thinking of myself less. Not despising the gifts I’ve been given, but using them without clinging to the applause. Not vanishing completely, but being so rooted in Christ that I don’t mind if no one remembers my name—as long as they remember His.

John’s holy disappearance wasn’t a tragedy. It was a fulfillment. He had done what he was called to do. He had prepared the way. He had opened the path. And when his time came to fade, he didn’t fight it. He embraced it.

Lord, help me do the same.

Let my life prepare the way. Let my words clear the path. Let my ministry, however quiet or small, be a holy invitation that points to You.

And when it is time to be silent, time to step back, time to be still—give me the grace not to grasp. Give me the joy that John had. The joy of hearing Your voice rise above mine. The joy of knowing that if I disappear, and You are made known, I have not lost—I have found everything.

A Christian thought: The way of Jesus is always the way down—into surrender, into trust, into the quiet freedom of humility. And when we make peace with disappearing, we find ourselves hidden not in the shadows of obscurity, but in the light of His glory. May we decrease, and in doing so, behold the beauty of Christ increasing before our eyes.

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New Passion

When I think about the unexpected turns life can take, I marvel at how God slowly, gently steers us into places we never imagined we could go. My journey into teaching was not planned, not even a little. In Uganda, I worked in a school that had both kindergarten and primary sections. I was there, physically present, doing the work that came my way. But if someone had asked me then if I wanted to be a teacher, I would have said no without hesitation. I was tired. I was worn out. I was surviving each day, not thriving in it. The environment was demanding, the resources few, and my heart simply wasn’t in it. I never thought teaching would ever become something I could love.

Then God moved me. Literally. He took me far away from home to South Korea. And in that foreign land, where nothing looked or sounded familiar, He began something new in me. I started teaching kindergarten. And surprisingly, it was fun. I enjoyed it. There was a lightness to it, a joy that awakened something inside me. I began to look forward to seeing the children every day. Their little faces, their curious minds, their unfiltered laughter—it all began to fill my heart in ways I didn’t think possible. Teaching became something I anticipated. I would go to bed wondering what the next day would hold, not in dread but in excitement. It felt fresh. It felt like I was tasting the beginning of something beautiful.

In Uganda, I had stood in classrooms. I had interacted with children. But something had always felt heavy, as if I was carrying a burden that wasn’t mine. In Korea, I felt like I had found a rhythm. I found joy. I started to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could make a life out of teaching. Kindergarten teaching, of all things. The thing I had never wanted to do was now something I loved.

It isn’t always perfect. There are days when I question myself. There are times when a child will cry uncontrollably and I won’t know what to do. There are moments when the language barrier makes me feel like an outsider in the very classroom I’m meant to lead. There are days when I’m exhausted, when I feel inadequate, when I wonder if I’m really making any difference at all. But even in those moments, I feel God gently reminding me of the joy. The laughter. The tiny victories. The child who finally says thank you without being prompted. The one who remembers yesterday’s song. The hug from a child who once kept their distance. These little moments add up, and they keep me going.

I’m reminded of the words in Zechariah 4:10: “Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin.” Teaching these young children may seem small to some. It may look like playtime, like coloring books and alphabet songs. But in these small beginnings, something sacred is growing. I am being shaped just as the children are. God is doing a work in me, even as I try to do a work in them. Every letter we learn, every story we read, every song we sing—it’s not just a lesson for the children. It’s a reminder for me that God is still writing my story.

Teaching kindergarten has made me more patient. It has made me softer. It has made me laugh more, even when I don’t feel like it. It has taught me how to communicate beyond words, through tone, through posture, through love. Sometimes, when words fail, I find myself just sitting with a child, letting them cry, patting their back gently until they’re ready to try again. And in those moments, I think of Jesus. I think of how He welcomed the little children when others tried to push them away. “Let the little children come to me,” He said, “and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these” (Mark 10:14). In those words, I find purpose. In those words, I find peace.

I never thought I would enjoy teaching. I never imagined that little hands and loud voices could bring so much joy into my life. But here I am, waking up each day in a foreign land, looking forward to seeing my students, wondering what new adventure we will have. It’s strange how life unfolds. It’s even stranger how God takes what we once dreaded and turns it into our joy. I didn’t find teaching. It found me. Or maybe God placed it in my path in such a way that I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

And perhaps this is what walking with God looks like—not always having a grand vision, but simply saying yes to the next step. I said yes to the opportunity to teach in Korea, not knowing that it would awaken a passion in me. I said yes to the classroom, and God said yes to the transformation of my heart.

Sometimes, I still get overwhelmed. Sometimes, I still wonder if I’m doing enough, being enough. But then I remember Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 12:9: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” I am not a perfect teacher. I forget things. I make mistakes. But God’s grace is sufficient. His strength carries me when mine fails. His joy is my strength.

And now, when I think about the future, I’m beginning to dream differently. I used to dream of quiet jobs, behind-the-scenes roles, work that didn’t demand much of my emotions. Now, I imagine myself surrounded by children, singing songs, teaching letters, reading stories. I imagine a classroom full of life, of learning, of laughter. I imagine continuing to grow in this calling—not because it is easy, but because it is good. God has given me a new heart for teaching. A heart that delights in the chaos of a classroom. A heart that celebrates the small wins. A heart that is willing to try again even after a hard day.

I don’t know what lies ahead. I don’t know if I’ll teach in Korea forever, or if this is just one chapter in a larger story. But what I do know is that I have found something precious. I have found a calling wrapped in crayons and picture books. I have found ministry in tiny classrooms with colorful walls. I have found God’s presence in unexpected places—in a child’s laughter, in a classroom dance, in a whispered prayer before the school day begins.

And isn’t that the beauty of faith? That God meets us in places we never expected? That He turns the ordinary into sacred ground? That He uses little children to teach us the greatest lessons of love, patience, and joy?

I thank God for this new passion. I thank Him for the journey that brought me here, even the tired days in Uganda, because they helped me recognize the joy when it came. I thank Him for each student, for each lesson, for each opportunity to love and to grow. Teaching kindergarten wasn’t part of my plan, but it was part of God’s. And because of that, I step forward with confidence, with gratitude, and with joy. I may not have all the answers, but I know I am where I’m meant to be. And that, for now, is more than enough

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Knowing before I attack

There are moments in our walk with God when obedience does not mean charging forward blindly, but rather waiting, watching, discerning. I have often mistaken faith for haste, assuming that once God has spoken, the only next step is immediate action. But then I read again the story in Numbers 13, where God tells Moses, “Send some men to explore the land of Canaan, which I am giving to the Israelites” (Numbers 13:1–2). It strikes me that God, who had already promised them the land, still instructed them to first know what lay ahead.

Why would God, who could see the end from the beginning, command a reconnaissance mission? He already knew what was in the land. He knew the people, the cities, the obstacles, the fruit. He knew the giants and the walls. But perhaps the exercise was not for His information, but for theirs. Perhaps God wanted the people to see what they were really up against—not to frighten them, but to prepare them. Because knowing the enemy, knowing the terrain, and knowing the cost is part of walking in wisdom.

Sometimes I have rushed into battles I wasn’t ready for, simply because I knew God was on my side. And yes, He is faithful, but He also calls us to wisdom. Jesus echoed this principle in Luke 14:31: “Or suppose a king is about to go to war against another king. Won’t he first sit down and consider whether he is able with ten thousand men to oppose the one coming against him with twenty thousand?” Even in spiritual warfare, strategy matters. Counting the cost matters. Knowing what we are facing matters.

When I reflect on how the twelve spies returned—ten full of fear, two full of faith—I see a reflection of myself in both groups. There are days when I look at the promises of God and say, “Yes, we can take it.” But there are other days when I see the giants and think, “This is too much. We are like grasshoppers.” The same evidence brought two completely different conclusions. What made the difference?

I think the answer lies not just in what they saw, but in how they saw it. All twelve saw the same land. They saw the fruit, the people, the fortified cities. But Joshua and Caleb viewed the land through the lens of God’s faithfulness. The others viewed it through the lens of their fear. It reminds me that knowing before you attack is not just about gathering facts; it is about framing them with faith.

When God calls us into something new—a ministry, a mission, a reconciliation, a confrontation—we must not enter with blind zeal. Zeal without knowledge is dangerous. Paul himself once persecuted Christians with the fire of religious zeal, thinking he was doing God’s will. It wasn’t until his eyes were literally opened that he saw things as they truly were. And so I am learning to pray not just for courage, but for clarity. Not just for strength, but for sight.

There have been seasons in my life when I felt ready to attack—to move forward, to claim what was promised. But God held me back. Not because the promise was withdrawn, but because I wasn’t ready. I needed to see more. Learn more. Understand more. Sometimes I needed to go into the “land” quietly, like the spies, to discern the reality of what lay ahead. I needed to hear the whispering voices of fear so I could learn how to silence them. I needed to face the question: Will I believe what I see, or will I believe what God has said?

There is also a deep lesson in how the majority influenced the community. Ten voices full of fear made an entire nation turn away from the promise. Words have power. The way we interpret what we see can impact others. This reflection humbles me. I must be careful not to discourage others simply because I am afraid. I must not speak defeat over a situation that God has already declared victorious. Joshua and Caleb tore their clothes and pleaded with the people, saying, “The land we passed through and explored is exceedingly good. If the Lord is pleased with us, he will lead us into that land… Do not be afraid of the people of the land” (Numbers 14:7–9). But the people had already internalized fear.

To “know before you attack” is not only a call to prepare; it is also a warning to interpret well. We must guard our hearts against jumping to conclusions born of fear. We must learn to report honestly, but also trust deeply. Faith does not mean denying the presence of giants—it means believing they will fall.

I believe God sends us to explore the land before we possess it because He wants to grow our discernment. He wants us to ask the right questions: What kind of battle is this? Is it physical, spiritual, emotional? What resources do I need? Who should I walk with into this land? What lessons must I carry with me? We do not honor God by rushing in unprepared. We honor Him by trusting His process—even when it includes scouting trips and waiting seasons.

As I grow older in faith, I am learning that delay is not always denial. The Israelites delayed their entrance because they doubted, but God had originally allowed time to explore. That time was meant to equip them, not derail them. So now, when God tells me to pause and look, I no longer resist. I pray, “Lord, help me see what You see. Help me know what I must before I move. And when the time comes, give me the faith of Caleb to say, ‘We should go up and take possession of the land, for we can certainly do it’” (Numbers 13:30).

In knowing before I attack, I learn not only the size of the enemy but the size of my God. I learn the value of obedience over impulse. I learn that wisdom walks hand in hand with faith. And above all, I learn that God's promises are not always easy, but they are always worth it.

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Miscarriage

I still remember the moment I realized I was pregnant. It wasn’t dramatic or cinematic. It was quiet, personal, beautiful. I had started to notice the signs. My body was different. I was always hungry, constantly tired, and mornings became a battlefield of nausea. I had that strange sensation of frequent urination and unexplained dizziness. I told myself it could be anything. I tried not to raise my hopes too high. But deep down, something whispered, this is it.

Then I bought a pregnancy test. I waited in silence, watching time pass like it never had before. And then, two lines. Two faint, pink lines. I stared at them, barely breathing. My hands trembled. My heart thudded so loud in my chest I could hear it echo in my ears. Two lines. I was pregnant. I sat down slowly, my mind already running to the future, already imagining baby names, tiny clothes, how I would share the news. Everything in me began to bloom with joy. Just six months into marriage, and we were already building a family. It felt like a gift, a sign from God, a soft affirmation that He was watching over me.

For days, I was careful with every step. I took naps, I ate healthier, I slowed down. Even before I saw a doctor, I felt deeply connected to the life inside me. It was a hope I could touch. A future I could feel growing in me. I was already a mother in my heart, protecting what was unseen, praying silently over a soul I hadn’t yet met.

Then the spotting started.

At first, I convinced myself it was nothing. I had heard stories about women spotting during pregnancy and going on to deliver healthy babies. I clung to those stories like a lifeline. But then the spotting turned into a heavy blood flow. And the pain came—deep, searing, almost like my body was grieving before I even understood what was happening.

I rushed to the doctor, heart racing, hands shaking. He examined me and said something I’ll never forget: "Sometimes the first pregnancy just comes out. It’s normal." Normal? I wanted to scream. There was nothing normal about this. There was a baby inside me. A life. A heartbeat I had not yet heard, but already cherished. And now I was being told it was normal for that baby to just come out?

That evening, the stomachache intensified. I remember lying on my side, clutching my abdomen, crying uncontrollably. The blood wouldn’t stop. The pain was unlike anything I had ever felt. It wasn't just physical—it was soul-deep. It felt like loss. It felt like a door had closed too soon. And then it happened. My body released what I had hoped to nurture for nine months. I had a miscarriage.

The silence that followed was unbearable. I didn’t know how to mourn a baby I never held. I didn’t know how to explain to others that my heart was broken for a life they didn’t see. For days, I wandered through each moment like a shadow of myself. My husband tried to be strong, tried to carry both our sorrows, but even he didn’t know what to say. People were kind, but awkward. Some said things like “You’re still young” or “God will give you another one”, and I know they meant well. But their words felt like bandages over a wound that needed more than time. It needed God.

Since that day, I’ve not been able to conceive again. Each month carries a familiar ache, a reminder of what was and what hasn’t been. I try not to count the time, but it creeps up on me. One year passes, then another. I’ve seen others grow their families. I’ve watched the children of friends and siblings grow taller, learn to walk, to speak. And I wonder what my child would have looked like. Would they have had my eyes? My smile? What milestones would I be celebrating now? It’s a silent ache, the kind you carry while smiling in public. A grief that never really goes away.

I have prayed. I have waited. I have cried in church pews and during worship songs that speak of miracles. I have laid hands on my belly, whispered promises and Scriptures. I’ve fasted. I’ve anointed myself with oil. I’ve said all the right words and tried to believe them with all my heart. But the womb has remained silent. The months have remained empty.

Some days, hope feels thin—like a fragile glass that might shatter if I let it feel too much. Other days, I wake up with renewed strength, reminding myself that God is still able. I oscillate between faith and fear. Between believing God will do it and wondering if He ever will. My biological clock keeps ticking, like a soft drumbeat in the background of every decision I make. And still, I wait.

What I’ve come to learn is that hope is not always loud. Sometimes, hope is the quiet decision to get out of bed. To drink water. To go to church even when you don’t feel like it. To pray again, even if the words don’t come easily. Hope is in lighting a candle for a dream that seems delayed. Hope is in continuing to love God even when He hasn’t answered the most personal, most painful prayer you’ve ever prayed.

The Psalms have been my closest companions. David cried out in ways I now understand. “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” (Psalm 13:1). Those words felt like mine. And yet, David always circled back to praise. “But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation.” (Psalm 13:5). I began to see that it’s possible to be broken and faithful at the same time. To grieve and still worship. To question and still believe.

There are moments I’ve wondered if I’m being punished. If there’s some hidden sin or failure that has caused this. But the cross silences those thoughts. Jesus took my punishment. There is no condemnation for those in Him (Romans 8:1). What I am going through is not proof that I am forgotten. It is the reality of a broken world, one in which sorrow visits even the faithful. But God is not absent in sorrow. He is present. Deeply, tenderly present.

I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know if I will one day hold a child in my arms or simply hold that desire before the Lord forever. But what I do know is this: my value is not tied to my ability to give birth. My womanhood is not invalidated by the silence of my womb. My purpose is not limited to what I can carry physically. I am still loved. Still chosen. Still whole. And my story—this fragile, beautiful, unfinished story—is not outside of God’s care.

If you, like me, are walking this road, know that you are not alone. I see you. I feel your pain. I understand the longing that words can’t express. I understand the way hope and fear can live in the same heart. And I pray that as we wait, we will be met by the God who never leaves. The God who sees. The God who weeps with us. The God who, even in loss, still holds us close.

Here is my prayer—not just for myself, but for every woman still waiting, still hoping, still believing.

Prayer of Encouragement:

Dear Heavenly Father,

You are the God who sees, the God who hears every whisper, every silent tear. Today I come before You, not with perfect words or unshakable faith, but with a tender heart and open hands. Lord, You know the weight I carry. You know the dreams I hold so close, the ones that seem to be slipping further out of reach. You know how often I smile on the outside while crying on the inside.

I thank You that You are not offended by my pain. That You are not distant from my sorrow. I thank You that even when I don’t understand, You are still present. Still good. Still faithful. Lord, I lay this journey before You—the grief of miscarriage, the ache of waiting, the longing to become a mother. I surrender it all to You again and again, even when it hurts.

Hold me together on the days I feel like I am falling apart. Teach me how to hope when hope feels impossible. Show me the beauty You are writing in this story, even when I cannot see it. Strengthen my heart with the truth that I am not forgotten, not invisible, not unloved. Remind me that Your timing is perfect, even when it doesn’t match mine.

Lord, if You choose to answer this prayer with a child, I will praise You. If You choose to answer in another way, I will still praise You. Let my heart rest in the assurance that You are with me, and that Your love is enough. Help me to keep hoping. Help me to keep trusting. Help me to believe that joy is still possible.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

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Grief has a way of sitting quietly in the corners of our lives, waiting for moments when we least expect it. It returns in the silence of a room, in the echo of a remembered voice, in the gentle unfolding of a memory that feels both warm and unbearable. It has been five months since you left this world, Rev. Dr. Jessica Louise Hughes, and still, the weight of your absence does not feel real. December 8th, 2025, is a date that refuses to settle gently in my heart. It stands there, sharp and unmoving, like a line drawn between what was and what will never be again. Even now, I find myself asking questions that have no answers. How do I mourn you? How do I say goodbye to someone who never truly feels gone?

I sit back often and allow myself to remember you, not as a figure defined by loss, but as a life that overflowed with presence, warmth, wisdom, and love. Memory becomes my way of holding on to you. It is where you still speak, still laugh, still guide, still listen. In these memories, you are not distant. You are near. And perhaps that is where mourning begins—not only in tears, but in remembering well.

I think back to the first time our paths crossed at Uganda Christian University. I did not yet know how deeply you would shape my life. I did not know that in that season of training for ordination, God was placing in my life not just a teacher, but a mother, a mentor, a friend. You were not distant in your authority. You did not stand far away, observing from a place of formality. You stepped close. You saw me. You reached out. You called the archdeacon of the School of Theology and Divinity, not as a routine act, but as someone already invested in the journey of another.

That is who you were. You noticed people. You did not pass by lives without entering them. You did not teach from a distance; you taught from within relationship. You made space for others to become.

You became my Ssenga, a role that cannot be reduced to a simple word. It carries culture, care, wisdom, guidance, and deep affection. In you, I found a place of belonging that felt both sacred and natural. You walked into my life and took up that space with such grace that I never had to question whether I mattered to you. I knew. I felt it in your words, in your presence, in the way you listened.

I remember how I confided in you. There are conversations that remain etched in my heart, not because of the exact words spoken, but because of how safe I felt in your presence. You had a way of listening that made burdens lighter. You did not rush to speak. You allowed silence to breathe. And when you finally spoke, your words carried both truth and tenderness.

You counseled me in moments when I did not know what direction to take. You steadied me when I felt uncertain. You guided me without controlling me. That balance is rare. You respected my journey, even as you gently shaped it.

March 2019 remains one of those moments where your presence felt especially profound. My traditional marriage was not just a cultural event; it was a deeply personal and spiritual transition. And there you were, my Ssenga, standing with me, guiding me, supporting me, covering me with wisdom and care. You did not simply attend; you participated with your whole heart. You carried that role with dignity and love, ensuring that I stepped into that new chapter with confidence and understanding.

Even now, when I think about that day, I see you. I hear your voice. I feel your presence. It is one of the many ways you remain woven into my life story.

But grief has its own language, and sometimes it is not clear. Sometimes it comes as confusion. Sometimes as silence. Sometimes as a question that lingers: how do I mourn you, Ssenga? I find myself caught between celebration and sorrow. I want to honor you, to rejoice in the life you lived, yet my heart aches because I cannot call you, cannot sit with you, cannot hear your voice again in this life.

There is a kind of shock that does not fade quickly. It lingers, not because we do not understand death, but because love resists separation. Love insists that the person should still be here. Love remembers too well. And so, even five months later, it feels as though part of me is still waiting for something that will not happen—a message, a call, a meeting.

Grief is not something I have mastered. It is something I am learning to walk through, slowly, unevenly. There are days when I feel strong, when I can speak of you with a smile, when I can celebrate your life with gratitude. And there are days when the loss feels fresh again, when tears come without warning, when I simply miss you.

I miss you, Ssenga.

I miss your guidance.

I miss your presence.

I miss the way you understood things without needing long explanations.

I miss knowing that I could come to you.

And yet, even in this missing, there is something sacred. Because to miss you is to remember you. To remember you is to keep alive the impact you had on my life.

You were only 55 years young, and yet the fullness of your life cannot be measured in years. Some lives stretch far beyond their time on earth, not because of length, but because of depth. You lived deeply. You loved deeply. You gave yourself to others in ways that continue to bear fruit even now.

Your life was a testimony, not just in words, but in action. You embodied what it means to walk faithfully, to serve others, to lead with humility, and to love without holding back. You were not perfect, but you were present. And sometimes, presence is the most powerful gift one can offer.

There is a verse that keeps returning to my heart as I think of you: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” These words feel like a fitting reflection of your life. You fought your fight with courage. You ran your race with endurance. You kept your faith with integrity.

And now, you rest.

There is comfort in believing that your journey did not end in loss, but in fulfillment. That the same God you served faithfully has received you into His presence. That where you are now, there is no pain, no struggle, no weariness—only peace.

Still, for those of us who remain, the absence is real. The space you occupied cannot be filled by another. You were uniquely you. And that uniqueness is what we grieve.

But perhaps mourning is not about finding a perfect way to say goodbye. Perhaps it is about learning to carry love in a new way. To hold on without holding back. To remember without being consumed. To celebrate even while we ache.

So today, I choose to celebrate you.

I celebrate the teacher who shaped minds and hearts.

I celebrate the mentor who guided with wisdom and grace.

I celebrate the friend who stood close in both joy and struggle.

I celebrate the Ssenga who walked with me in one of the most important moments of my life.

I celebrate the woman who saw me, believed in me, and invested in me.

And even as I celebrate, I allow myself to grieve. Because both are necessary. Both are part of honoring you fully.

Dear Ssenga, I do not know if there is a perfect way to mourn you. But I know that I will not forget you. I will carry your words, your lessons, your love. I will carry the parts of me that you helped shape. In that way, you remain.

You remain in the way I speak to others with kindness.

You remain in the way I listen.

You remain in the way I guide those who come after me.

You remain in the way I walk my journey of faith.

And perhaps that is the quiet miracle of a life well lived—that it does not end, but continues in the lives it has touched.

I miss you, Ssenga. Deeply. Truly. But I also thank God for you. For every moment, every word, every memory.

Goodnight Ssenga Jessica. I will see you in the morning

Rest well, Rev. Dr. Jessica Louise Hughes.

You are loved. You are remembered. And you will never be forgotten.

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America! Wait

The morning was fresh with the promise of purpose. My husband and I had prayed, prepared, and planned. June 2024 had long marked itself on our calendar with quiet anticipation—we were supposed to travel to America. Everything about the journey seemed aligned. We knew where we were going. We had booked our visa interviews. We knew the embassy location. And, even more practically, we understood the train system. It was familiar, almost second nature. A train here, a change there, and we’d be exactly where we needed to be. We were not tourists anymore. We were navigators. Confident. Calm. Certain.

But something unexpected happened in the middle of all that certainty. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was simply a wrong train. We had reached the station where we were to change lines. We had done this before. Many times. We got off, walked down to the yellow line, boarded the train, and settled in for the ride. Three stations passed. I don’t remember if it was the signs or the quiet whisper in my heart that alerted me. But suddenly, something didn’t feel right. I leaned toward my husband and said, “We’re heading in the wrong direction.”

And just like that, we got off.

There are moments in life when God speaks not through a booming voice or a miraculous sign, but through a train heading the wrong way. We stood on that unfamiliar platform, processing what just happened. Then we traced our steps, turned around, and got on the right train. But in that short moment of directional confusion, something profound was stirred in me. I didn’t miss the train. I didn’t miss the embassy appointment. I didn’t miss America. I simply heard God say, “It’s not time.”

There is a strange comfort in realizing you’re not as in control as you think you are. I had everything planned with the diligence of someone who wants things to go smoothly. And yet, in that space of time—between the wrong station and the right train—I realized something was being communicated to me that had nothing to do with geography and everything to do with timing. I thought of Proverbs 16:9: “The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.” I had planned the day. But the steps—those subtle, sacred steps—were being ordered by Someone else.

How often do we assume that familiarity equals certainty? That because we’ve done it before, we won’t fail now? That because we’ve prayed, we’ve packed, we’ve purposed, it means the outcome is guaranteed? But life with God isn’t a fixed equation. It’s a journey with a living Guide. Sometimes He confirms our paths with green lights and open doors. Sometimes He confirms His will with closed doors and wrong turns. That morning, He confirmed His timing through a quiet nudge on a yellow train.

As I sat later that day, reflecting, the thought grew stronger: maybe it’s not America that’s the problem. Maybe it’s the time. Maybe it’s the season. Ecclesiastes 3:1 rang true: “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.” This wasn’t the season. The door hadn’t closed permanently. It had simply paused. I believe God speaks through delays, through misdirections, and yes—even through a train headed the wrong way.

I felt no bitterness, no anger. Just clarity. I don’t believe every missed train is divine revelation. But I believe God uses our everyday missteps to speak deeper truths. And in this instance, my spirit knew. He was saying, “Not now.”

Not now, because your heart needs more anchoring.

Not now, because something inside you is still being formed.

Not now, because your story in this place isn’t finished yet.

The strange thing is, when I received that inner confirmation, I wasn’t disappointed. I didn’t feel the burden of wasted time. Instead, I felt peace. Real peace. The kind of peace that comes when God reminds you that the delay is not denial—it’s divine alignment. It’s not the end of a dream. It’s the right ordering of it. Sometimes God doesn’t say no. He says wait. He doesn’t shut the door. He simply draws the curtain for a little while.

The wrong direction reminded me that God doesn’t just care about where I’m going; He cares about how I get there. About what I become on the way. About whether I trust Him with detours as much as I do with arrivals. About whether I can say, like David in Psalm 31:15, “My times are in your hands.”

It’s not always easy to let go of plans we have held onto for months. To release dreams that seemed right. To accept a spiritual “pause” when everything around us says, “Go.” But if we’re to walk with God, we must learn to surrender our clocks and calendars to the One who exists beyond time. The One who sees the end from the beginning. The One who says, “I know the plans I have for you…” not you know the plans. His knowing must be enough.

And so, as we turned around and boarded the train going in the right direction, I did not only turn around physically. I turned around spiritually. I shifted from pursuit to patience. From striving to surrender. From asking “why not now?” to trusting “when You say so.” Sometimes all it takes is one mistake on a familiar route to remember that we’re not navigating life on autopilot. We’re not alone. And our Shepherd still leads.

What’s remarkable is that no one else on that train knew we were going the wrong way. No announcement. No flashing lights. Just a gentle realization and a change of course. That’s how God often works—quietly, inwardly, deeply. He doesn’t embarrass us with flashing signs. He doesn’t humiliate us for our errors. He simply calls us gently: “This is not the way. Turn around. Walk with Me.”

Sometimes obedience looks like saying yes to an opportunity. Other times, it looks like stepping off the wrong train. Even when you know the station. Even when you thought you knew the way. That’s humility. That’s discernment. That’s growth.

I don’t know what lies ahead. Whether America will happen later this year, or next, or at all. But I do know this: God is not late. And He’s not careless with His children. If He says wait, it’s because the waiting has purpose. And if He says not now, it’s because now would not be best. His delays are not signs of His absence but of His presence in the deeper layers of our life.

There’s something sacred about wrong turns when you walk with God. They become sermons. They become songs. They become testimonies. Not of how perfectly you planned, but of how graciously He leads. It’s easy to praise Him when things go right. But there’s a deeper worship that rises when things don’t go according to plan—and yet your heart still says, “It is well with my soul.”

That is where I am now. In that space of “not yet” but fully held. The train moment has passed, but the message remains: God’s timing is perfect. Even in a busy station, even in a foreign land, even in a life full of hope and ambition, God sees. He knows. He leads.

And so, I wait. With peace. With hope. With trust. Because if the train was wrong but the message was right, then the journey is still good. The destination is still secure. And the One who began this journey is faithful to complete it—in His time, not mine.

Let the world rush. Let plans change. Let doors open or close. But let my heart remain anchored in the One who never gets lost, never makes a mistake, and always knows the way home.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.” (Proverbs 3:5-6)

He will make the path straight—even when it feels like a circle.

Even when we get on the wrong train.

Even when America must wait.

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