Amusenu

           

Reflecting on the amusenu takes me back to quiet afternoons in the village, where the steady rhythm of  threshing millet would echo through the compound like a kind of sacred music. As a    child, I didn’t think much of it. It was just another part of life—watching aunties and grandmothers take turns with the amusenu, swinging it with practiced strength, dust rising with every beat. But now, I see how much more was happening in those moments—how the ordinary became a parable.  

The amusenu is a simple tool, a wooden stick. Nothing fancy. But its work is essential. Without it, millet remains locked in its husk—useful in potential, but not yet nourishing. It’s only through the beating, the pressing, the patient, repetitive striking that the grain is released and made ready. That image has stayed with me, especially in times when life feels like a series of heavy blows.

I’ve had seasons like that—when prayers seem unanswered, when doors close, when everything feels uncertain. And I’ve asked God the hard questions: Why this pain? Why now? What’s the point? Yet Scripture reminds us: “No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it” (Hebrews 12:11, NIV). Just as millet must endure the amusenu, so must we face hardship if we are to grow strong. Not all suffering is in vain. Some of it is shaping.

The Bible also reminds us of this gentle but necessary work: “His winnowing fork is in his hand to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his barn, but he will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire” (Luke 3:17, NIV). The amusenu becomes a metaphor for the Holy Spirit’s work in our lives: separating what is good and life-giving from what no longer serves us. It is hard, yes. But it is also holy.

I wonder how often we resist the very process that’s freeing the grain in us. We want ease, but we pray for depth. We desire comfort, but we ask for faith. And God, in His wisdom, allows the amusenu to strike—not to destroy us, but to reveal what is precious.

So I hold this reflection close: May I not despise the threshing floor. May I trust that the beating is not punishment, but preparation. And may I believe that something good—something strong, something nourishing—is being brought forth through it all.

If you are going through a hard season, perhaps this is your amusenu moment. It may not feel pleasant, but it has purpose. Let it form you, not just bruise you. Let it bring out the grain.

And maybe today, take a quiet moment to ask:

What is God separating in me?

What is He preparing me for?

Can I trust the process, even when it hurts?

You’re not alone on the threshing floor. God is present, lovingly at work.

And when the dust settles, you’ll see: the grain remains.

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Edula

 

Long ago, people used edula—granaries carefully constructed to store their millet, maize, sorghum, and cotton. An edula was more than just a place to keep harvests safe; it was a symbol of preservation, provision, and trust in the future. Every edula represented the hard work, resilience, and faith of those who planted in hope and harvested with thanksgiving.

Reflecting on the edula today, I realize how deeply its symbolism speaks into my spiritual life and journey with God.

The edula is intentionally built. It is often raised off the ground to protect its contents from pests, moisture, and decay. Its walls are crafted carefully, its roofing meticulously thatched to shield the precious harvest from rain and sun alike. Every grain stored within it represents hard work, sweat, faith, and expectation—a season’s worth of prayers and perseverance. For farming families, the edula is a sign of God's provision. It is the tangible evidence that the seeds scattered in faith have yielded sustenance and hope for the days to come.

As I ponder the role of the edula, I am reminded that God also has a way of storing up in us what is valuable—the spiritual fruit born out of our obedience, perseverance, and faith. Just as farmers do not immediately consume all they harvest, God, too, preserves certain seasons and lessons in our lives, preparing us for the future. Not every experience, not every blessing, is meant for immediate enjoyment; some are meant to be stored, safeguarded, and drawn upon in times of need.

In Deuteronomy 28:8, God promises Israel, "The Lord will send a blessing on your barns and on everything you put your hand to." In many ways, the edula is a barn—a sacred space where God’s blessings are kept safe. In my life, I see the edula as the inner storehouse of faith, memory, and testimony that God is building within me. Every answered prayer, every victory over temptation, every moment of divine provision is stored up, becoming spiritual grain that nourishes me during times of drought or hardship.

The building of an edula also demands foresight. It requires faith that there will indeed be a harvest worth storing. It is built before the harvest comes. Similarly, the Christian life is one of hope and preparation. We are called to live expectantly, to build our inner edula with disciplines of prayer, study, worship, and service, trusting that God will honor His promises in due time. Proverbs 6:6-8 exhorts us to look to the ant, which prepares its food in the summer and gathers its provision at harvest. In the same way, we are called to live wisely, building spiritual reserves that will sustain us when visible blessings seem few.

However, just as an edula must be maintained to keep out rodents, rain, and rot, so must our spiritual lives be diligently guarded. Neglect can lead to spoilage. A leaking roof on an edula can destroy an entire harvest. Likewise, compromise, negligence in prayer, unconfessed sin, or spiritual apathy can corrode the good work God has begun in us. I am sobered by the words of Jesus in Matthew 6:19-20: "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven." What am I truly storing in my heart’s edula? Earthly accolades, possessions, fleeting pleasures—or the imperishable treasures of godliness, love, and obedience?

The edula also reminds me of God's abundant generosity. It is easy to take for granted a full granary until a season of scarcity comes. In spiritual life, too, it is often in the "dry seasons" that I come to appreciate the quiet, hidden work God has done in me. It is then that I draw deeply from the edula of Scripture hidden in my heart, the reservoir of songs sung in previous seasons of joy, the memory of God's faithfulness when life felt easier. These stored treasures become vital nourishment for the soul.

There is also a communal aspect to the edula. In many communities, during times of famine or great need, those who have abundance share with those whose edula is empty. The church, too, is called to be such a community—where we share encouragement, resources, and prayers with those facing spiritual or physical lack. Acts 2:44-45 paints a beautiful picture of the early church: "All the believers were together and had everything in common. They sold property and possessions to give to anyone who had need." A heart full of stored-up grace must be a heart open to sharing.

Yet, I must confess that maintaining my edula has not always been easy. There have been seasons when I lived from one "spiritual meal" to another, neglecting to build a reserve through daily devotion and intimacy with God. There were times when spiritual laziness left me vulnerable to fear and doubt. These experiences have taught me that I cannot live only on yesterday’s harvest. Manna in the wilderness spoiled when hoarded; similarly, I must daily seek fresh encounters with God while still treasuring and preserving the lessons of the past.

Moreover, the edula reminds me of the importance of gratitude. It is easy to admire a full granary and forget the God who gave the rain, the sun, the strength, and the increase. Deuteronomy 8:17-18 warns, "You may say to yourself, 'My power and the strength of my hands have produced this wealth for me.' But remember the Lord your God, for it is He who gives you the ability to produce wealth." Every "grain" in my spiritual and physical edula is a testimony of God’s goodness, not my own prowess.

Lastly, the edula points me to the eternal harvest yet to come. Jesus spoke often of harvest imagery—of wheat and tares, of fields ripe for harvest, of barns being filled. In Revelation 14:15, we read of the final harvest when the Son of Man swings His sickle over the earth. My life today is preparation for that great harvest. Am I bearing fruit that will last? Is there grain in my edula that will endure the refining fires of judgment?

As I look at the humble edula, I am filled with awe and gratitude. It stands as a quiet testimony of God's provision, my responsibility, and our shared future hope. I pray that, by God's grace, my life, too, will be a well-tended edula—a place where His blessings are preserved, His lessons are stored, and His glory is reflected.

May we each be diligent to build, maintain, and fill our spiritual edulas, trusting in the Lord of the Harvest who never fails.

Amen.

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Brothers at War

 

Sometimes I sit back and wonder if humanity has really moved far from the story of Cain and Abel. The first siblings of scripture—bound by blood, separated by anger—still echo in the headlines of our times. The blood of brothers crying out from the ground is not just a poetic phrase from Genesis. It is a living reality in the rubble of Gaza, the trenches of Donetsk, the disputed valleys of Kashmir. These cries rise not from strangers, but from kindred peoples, torn apart by politics, pride, power, and centuries of unresolved wounds.

Israel and Palestine. India and Pakistan. Ukraine and Russia. These aren’t just nations facing off in ideological or territorial battles. They are people with intertwined histories. In many cases, they are family. They have shared languages, interwoven cultural tapestries, ancient trade routes, faith traditions, and at times, even common ancestry. Their division is not something that emerged naturally. It was designed—by humans, by empires, by colonizers, and sometimes, by the very people themselves who could not overcome fear, mistrust, or the lust for dominance.

Take Cain and Abel: the story is deceptively simple. Two brothers bring offerings to God. One offering is accepted, the other is not. Jealousy creeps into Cain’s heart. Instead of confronting his insecurity, instead of asking questions or seeking reconciliation, he lets the envy fester. God warns him, “Sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must rule over it.” Cain does not listen. He invites Abel to the field and spills his blood. When God asks where his brother is, Cain responds with chilling indifference: “Am I my brother’s keeper?”

This is the heart of today’s global conflicts: we have stopped being our brother’s keeper. The moment we turn away from the pain of those who were once close to us—families split by walls, faiths torn by politics, neighbors divided by inherited grudges—we become participants in Cain’s crime. We don’t need to hold a gun or launch a missile to echo his sin. Our silence, indifference, and dehumanizing of the “other” do the work just as well.

History, too, has played its part. Take the partition of India and Pakistan in 1947. A subcontinent, long accustomed to a mosaic of religions and ethnicities, was hastily sliced in two by the departing British Empire. In their rush to leave, they left behind chaos—millions displaced, families torn apart, horrific violence unleashed. Hindus and Muslims who had once lived side by side became enemies overnight. The trauma still lives on, decades later, passed down like an inheritance through generations.

The story is not much different in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Jews and Arabs have lived in the same land for millennia. But modern political Zionism, European colonial designs, and the trauma of the Holocaust collided with Arab nationalism and centuries of Palestinian rootedness. The result? War, exile, occupation, terror, and unending cycles of retaliation. People who once traded in markets together now hurl rockets and missiles. Neighbors have become nemeses.

Ukraine and Russia tell yet another tragic version of this tale. Their histories are braided together—through the Kievan Rus', Orthodox Christianity, Soviet rule, and shared linguistic and cultural elements. But under the weight of post-Soviet identity struggles and geopolitical ambitions, especially Russia’s expansionism, that shared heritage has been turned into a weapon. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine has not only violated borders—it has pierced the hearts of people who once considered each other kin. Brothers became occupiers. Friends became refugees.

And yet, the Bible gives us more than just the tragedy of Cain and Abel. It also gives us the story of Joseph and his brothers—a counterpoint of hope amid betrayal. Joseph, too, was cast into a pit by those closest to him. His brothers, driven by jealousy, sold him into slavery, faked his death, and moved on with their lives. But the story did not end in the pit. Joseph rose, not just in power, but in grace. When famine struck and his brothers came begging for food, not knowing who he was, Joseph had every opportunity to take revenge. But he chose reconciliation. Through tears, he revealed himself and said, “What you intended for harm, God intended for good.”

This is the redemptive path that still lies open to the nations at war today. The pit does not have to be the end. Forgiveness, though costly, is still possible. But it demands a radical reorientation—a remembering of brotherhood, a confession of past wrongs, a relinquishing of pride.

The challenge, of course, is that nations are not always willing to remember. Pride blinds. Political leaders speak in the language of power, not reconciliation. Media often amplifies fear more than hope. Entire populations are fed narratives that dehumanize the other side. Children grow up not knowing the names or faces of their supposed “enemies,” only inheriting the pain their ancestors could not resolve.

And yet, in every conflict, there are also those who resist this tide. Israeli and Palestinian mothers who grieve together. Indian and Pakistani artists who collaborate across borders. Russian and Ukrainian Christians who pray for peace, not victory. These are the quiet keepers of brotherhood. They choose to remember what war tries to erase: our shared humanity.

We must remember: war may be as old as time, but so is forgiveness. And while we are often quick to repeat the sins of our ancestors, we are just as capable of choosing a different legacy. The scriptures are not just mirrors—they are roadmaps. They show us where division leads, and they offer glimpses of what reunion can look like.

Maybe the first step toward peace is not at the negotiating table or through another ceasefire (though those are vital). Maybe the real beginning is remembering: that we were once brothers and sisters. That we still are. That the image of God does not stop at the border. That the ground crying out with blood also cries out for justice, for mercy, for healing.

I do not pretend that reconciliation is easy. Forgiveness never is. But it is necessary if we are to live differently from Cain. We must learn to say yes—I am my brother’s keeper. Yes—I will remember that we were once one. Yes—I will choose peace, even when war seems easier.

And in the end, as we bury more sons, grieve more mothers, and harden more hearts, we must dare to ask: how many more brothers must we lose before we remember we belong to one another?

As we sit with these stories—both ancient and unfolding—may we pause, not only in thought, but in prayerful reflection. Let us bring before God the brokenness we see and the brokenness we carry. May our hearts be softened where they have grown indifferent, our eyes opened where they have been blinded by fear or pride. Let us grieve the blood that cries out from the ground, and ask for the courage to be keepers of one another once more. May we dare to hope in the possibility of reconciliation, even where despair has settled in. And as we pray, may we not only remember our shared humanity, but begin to live as though it truly matters—across borders, beyond grudges, with compassion deeper than politics and love stronger than vengeance.

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New Pope

The bells toll from St. Peter’s Basilica, the white smoke rises, and the world beholds a new face on the balcony—a new shepherd for the Roman Catholic Church: Pope Leo XIV. Cameras flash, faithful voices cheer, and social media explodes with commentary, questions, and hope. A new chapter begins, steeped in the centuries-old tradition of apostolic succession, but equally shaped by the unique man who now carries the title “Holy Father.” And yet, as we gather in awe of the ceremony and the symbolism, a gentle whisper must rise within our hearts: the pope is human. He makes mistakes. He forgets. He is a man called to lead, but he is still a man.

This is not said to discredit the pope or diminish the joy and meaning of his election. Pope Leo XIV’s acceptance of this global pastoral role is significant and worthy of recognition. Leadership within the Church—especially on such a scale—demands courage, grace, and immense responsibility. It is a holy office that should be held with reverence. But even as we honor this moment and the man who now occupies it, we must remember: Christians are  called not to anchor their faith in any individual, however devout or wise, but in Jesus Christ. It is good to support and respect church leaders, but it is essential to keep our worship rightly ordered.

Scripture gently warns us not to fix our  hope in human leaders. In Acts 10:25–26, when Cornelius knelt before Peter, Peter quickly responded, “Stand up; I am only a man myself.” This humility echoes across the New Testament. In 1 Corinthians 1:12–13, Paul challenges the divisions in the early church: “One of you says, ‘I follow Paul’; another, ‘I follow Apollos’... Is Christ divided?” Even Peter, the apostle upon whom papal tradition is founded, failed Jesus when he denied Him three times. Yet Christ, in mercy, restored him and re-entrusted him with pastoral responsibility (John 21:15–17). This interplay of human failure and divine grace is central to the story of the Church.

As Pope Leo XIV steps into this sacred role, he will inspire many. His words will carry weight. His decisions will shape theology, politics, and conscience. There will be times when he leads with clarity and wisdom, and perhaps moments when he, like his predecessors and all of us, falters. That is not a scandal—it is simply human. And this is precisely why our eyes must  remain on Jesus, “the author and perfecter of our faith” (Hebrews 12:2). No leader, no matter how anointed or revered, can replace the person and work of Christ.

The temptation to exalt leaders is not unique to Catholicism. Across traditions, Christians are prone to elevate pastors, bishops, teachers, and influencers to pedestals they were never meant to stand on. This creates spiritual fragility: when the leader stumbles, so does our faith. But the Church, in its truest form, is built not on charisma or office, but on Christ—the solid rock. He is “the head of the body, the church... the beginning and the firstborn from among the dead” (Colossians 1:18). His lordship is unshakable, His character flawless.

Pope Leo XIV now carries a burden most of us will never understand. It is a global, spiritual, and deeply personal weight. Rather than critique, the Church should pray. Pray for wisdom, for humility, for discernment. Pray that he listens more than he speaks. Pray that his heart remains tender before God and that he serves not for prestige, but out of love for Christ and His people. 1 Timothy 2:2 urges us to intercede “for all those in authority,” that we may live peaceful and godly lives. Our prayers are not wasted. They are part of how we, too, participate in the life of the Church.

Still, we must not confuse the office with the throne. Only Jesus reigns forever. Only Jesus saves. When leaders fall, Christ stands. When institutions tremble, Christ remains our rock. He is not elected by cardinals, but appointed by God before the foundation of the world. His authority is not symbolic or ceremonial—it is eternal. “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me,” He declares in Matthew 28:18. This is our confidence.

To those who carry wounds from the Church—from abuses of power, hypocrisy, or spiritual neglect—the arrival of a new pope may stir conflicting emotions. Joy. Skepticism. Hope mixed with hurt. You are not unseen. The failures of leaders do not erase the faithfulness of God. Jesus does not forget your pain. In Revelation 21:5, He promises, “Behold, I am making all things new.” That includes the Church. That includes our weary hearts. That includes you.

So as the banners wave and Pope Leo XIV begins his pontificate, let us celebrate with discernment. Let us honor without idolizing. Let us support with prayer, not blind loyalty. And above all, let us lift our eyes beyond the Vatican balcony to the hill of Calvary—where our Savior bled and rose, not for a throne of gold, but for the redemption of the world. The pope is important, but he is not our hope. Jesus is. And Jesus remains.

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When I Missed a Step

 

I was rushing down the staircase, driven by the urgency of the moment, perhaps trying to beat time or simply following the daily rhythm of busyness. In that hurried pace, I missed a step. Just one step. But that single misstep was enough to jolt my body, twist my balance, and hurt my toe. I didn’t fall down, but I stumbled. I froze mid-motion, standing still in both pain and shock. For a few seconds, I was suspended between movement and stillness, between what could have been a greater fall and the grace that kept me standing. That moment has lingered with me longer than the pain in my toe. It became more than just a physical experience—it turned into a spiritual metaphor.

The stumble became a mirror of life’s own missteps—those moments when we move too fast, driven by our goals, desires, and schedules, without attentiveness to where we are, how we are, or even why we are moving in the first place. In our rush, we often miss a step—not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. We miss a chance to pause. We ignore the nudge to slow down. We bypass the wisdom of presence.

In that moment of standing still, unsure of what to do, I thought of Psalm 46:10: “Be still, and know that I am God.” Stillness was not something I had intended to practice that day. But the stumble demanded it. It insisted that I stop, pay attention, and reckon with the fragility of my own movement. The pain in my toe was real, but it was not the only message. The deeper message was in the shock—the abrupt interruption of my hurried rhythm and the stillness that followed.

God often speaks in the in-between places. Not always in the grand moments of celebration or the deep valleys of suffering, but in the brief, sudden pauses of life. In Elijah’s encounter with God in 1 Kings 19, we are told that the Lord was not in the wind, nor in the earthquake, nor in the fire, but in the “still small voice” (1 Kings 19:12). Could it be that God was present in that minor stumble, in that unplanned halt on the staircase? Could it be that He was inviting me to listen?

There is something deeply spiritual about stumbling. It is not quite falling, but it is a disruption of balance. It reminds us that we are human, that even our strongest steps can falter. Proverbs 16:9 says, “In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.” I had planned my day, mapped my movements, yet God allowed that single step to shake me—not to harm me, but to remind me of who really orders my path.

As I stood there, I remembered how quick I am to take motion for granted. My legs carry me without a second thought. My feet go where I send them, obediently and reliably. Until they don’t. Until they hesitate. Until they hurt. And in that brief break from normalcy, I was reminded of my own dependence—not just on my body, but on God’s sustaining grace. Paul writes in Acts 17:28, “For in him we live and move and have our being.” Even my ability to rush down stairs is a grace. I forget that sometimes.

The toe throbbed with pain, but my spirit throbbed with awareness. I began to ask myself: what else have I been rushing past? Have I missed important moments in my relationships, my prayers, or my discernment because I was too focused on moving forward quickly? Have I overlooked God’s whispers because I’ve been more attuned to deadlines than to divine direction?

Jesus never rushed. His ministry was urgent in its purpose but patient in its pace. He walked with people. He lingered in conversations. He noticed the woman who touched his garment (Luke 8:45), he saw Zacchaeus in the tree (Luke 19:5), and he wept with those who mourned (John 11:35). His steps were deliberate. Even when others pressured him to hurry, he remained grounded in the Father’s timing. That realization humbled me. My stumble revealed how often I try to outrun grace, as though the outcome depends solely on my speed.

After a while, I limped a little to test my weight. The pain wasn’t unbearable, but it reminded me to tread carefully. There was a gentleness required now—a mindfulness in each step. And maybe that is the gift hidden in the stumble: the call to be gentle with oneself, to walk with care, to live attentively. It is the same call we hear in Micah 6:8, where the prophet writes, “He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”

That kind of walk—the humble walk—requires the ability to learn from the stumble. To see it not as failure, but as a teacher. And so I’ve begun to pray differently. Not just for strength to keep going, but for the humility to stop when needed. For discernment to recognize the voice of God even in the smallest disruptions. For grace to accept that not all forward movement is progress if it comes at the expense of presence.

If you’re reading this and have recently “stumbled” in life—maybe not physically like I did, but emotionally, spiritually, relationally—I invite you to reflect. What is that stumble teaching you? What pace are you keeping, and who set it? Are you being still enough to hear the voice of God? Are you allowing yourself to feel the pain, not just to treat it, but to understand it?

You don’t have to fall to know that something is off. Sometimes, the near-falls are grace’s gentle alerts. Let them speak. Let them re-center you. God doesn’t waste anything—not even a missed step. In His mercy, He uses even our stumbles to slow us down, to open our eyes, and to call us back to the sacredness of now.

May your steps be steady. But when they falter, may your heart be open to what the Spirit might be saying through the silence that follows.

“The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, and He delights in his way. Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down; for the Lord upholds him with His hand.” —Psalm 37:23–24

What moment in your life caused you to pause, and what did you hear in the stillness?

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Entitlement and True Help

Today I was chatting with my husband about individuals that usually say “You are there because of me.” It's often said quietly or thought silently by those who once lent a helping hand to someone who has since risen to a new level of success. This statement seems innocent on the surface, but underneath it carries weighty emotions—pride, entitlement, disappointment, perhaps even resentment. When someone you once helped succeeds or gets recognized, it’s tempting to believe their success is a reflection of your sacrifice, a badge of your own goodness. And yet, this belief, if unchecked, can evolve into something dangerous: a subtle claim to ownership over someone else’s journey.

I have seen this pattern in others, and I must confess, I have caught it in myself too. A friend I mentored now shines in public spaces, quoted and admired, while I remain in quieter corners. I remember the nights we wrestled with vision, the doors I opened, the platforms I shared. And one day, the unspoken thought crept in: “She wouldn’t be there without me.” That thought carried a bitterness I didn't want to admit. Was I celebrating her or secretly grieving the distance growing between us—between who we used to be and who she had now become?

This reflection is not about denying the value of helping others. On the contrary, helping is a virtue. The Apostle Paul, in Galatians 6:2, urges believers to “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” We are meant to lift others up, to encourage, to sow seeds of love and mentorship. But Paul also reminds us in the same chapter, verse 4, “Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else.” Helping others should never become a transaction where gratitude is the currency and pride the reward.

So why do we feel entitled after we help? I believe it’s because we imagine ourselves as main characters in other people’s stories. When they succeed, we want a footnote, a mention, a thank you. We subtly expect them to stay small enough for us to remain significant in their world. This desire may come from insecurity—a fear of being forgotten. Or perhaps it comes from a misunderstanding of what it means to truly help.

Jesus gives us a radically different picture. In John 3:30, John the Baptist says of Christ, “He must increase, but I must decrease.” This is humility at its most profound. John had gathered disciples, followers, and fame. But when Jesus appeared, John stepped aside without bitterness. He saw himself as a forerunner, not the destination. How many of us can truly say that we are content to decrease so that someone else may increase?

True help must be selfless. When we help others, we plant seeds we may never see bloom. It is not our task to own the harvest. In 1 Corinthians 3:6-7, Paul explains this beautifully: “I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God has been making it grow. So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow.” Our part in someone’s journey matters, yes, but it is God who brings growth. Claiming someone’s success as our own is forgetting that we are all laborers in a garden we do not own.

I also think entitlement creeps in when we measure help only by its cost to us. If we sacrificed time, money, or emotional energy, we begin to believe we’ve earned a lifelong place of influence or honor in someone’s life. But sacrifice is not a currency for control. Love that gives freely does not demand repayment. When we give and expect recognition, we are trading—not loving. Jesus warns against this mindset in Matthew 6:1-4, where He says, “Be careful not to practice your righteousness in front of others to be seen by them… when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.” Giving is meant to be discreet, even secret, because it is sacred.

Moreover, we must confront the painful truth that sometimes, those we help will forget us. They will move on, reframe their story, or simply grow beyond our circle. And that hurts. It feels like betrayal, like ingratitude. But in those moments, we are invited to ask a deeper question: Did I help them for their sake—or for mine? If our motives were truly to see them flourish, then we must be willing to let go, even when they no longer look back.

At the same time, those who rise must also be encouraged to remember well. Gratitude is a virtue too. In 2 Timothy 1:16-18, Paul speaks with deep affection about Onesiphorus, who “refreshed me and was not ashamed of my chains.” Paul remembers and honors the one who helped him in hard times. While no one owes us anything for our help, there is beauty and integrity in remembering the shoulders we stood on.

As I continue to walk through my own journey, I am learning to name and release the entitlement I sometimes feel. I am learning to see help as a gift, not a transaction. I am learning that success is not a pyramid but a field, and God gives different portions to each according to His will. And when I find myself whispering, “You are there because of me,” I now try to follow it with a silent prayer: “Thank you, God, for letting me be part of the story. Help me to rejoice, not resent. Help me to release, not claim.”

There is a kind of freedom that comes when we truly release others from our expectations. When we can look at someone we once helped and say, “I’m glad you made it,” with no strings attached, no need for credit, no craving for affirmation—that is grace. That is love. That is the heart of Christ.

So today, if you have helped someone who has now gone further than you imagined, rejoice. If you are battling feelings of invisibility or bitterness, confess it and ask God to soften your heart. If you are the one who has been helped, remember to honor, not out of obligation, but out of love.

In the end, we are all helped and helped by others. No one stands alone. And finally, it is God who places each of us where we are. As Psalm 75:7 reminds us, “It is God who judges: He brings one down, he exalts another.” We are not the authors of anyone’s success—not even our own. We are stewards, midwives, messengers. And that, in itself, is a holy calling.

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