When I Asked to Walk With God, and the Ground Gave Way

 

One of my prayers every night is this:

"Lord, give me a chance to walk with You. To follow You completely. To walk in the righteous path."

And then, for days, everything unraveled.

Instead of clarity, I was handed struggle after struggle. My patience was stretched until it tore. The deepest core of my emotions was crushed, ground down until I no longer recognized myself. It felt like I was dragged into the lowest pit, a place where light barely reached. Negative thoughts swarmed me, relentless and suffocating, until there came a moment when I didn't want answers anymore. I just wanted to disappear.

I was shaken to my core.

I cried out to God with no polish left in my words. 

"Why am I feeling like this?" 

"Why is all of this happening now, when my faith in You is stronger than ever?"

"I asked for a chance to walk with You, so why does the path like thorns, stones, and rubble cutting into my feet?"

I didn't understand. I still don't understand, at least not fully.

Then came my dream.

I can't remember every detail, only the weight of it. I was standing on the edge of a deep cliff. Beside me stood a man in a long white robe. We were looking down as buildings, massive rocks, cars, entire structures were being swallowed whole, pulled into destruction as if the ground itself had given up. Then everything shifted into chaos.

I wasn't part of it. I was only an observer.

I stood on a rock as floodwaters surged below. In the water lay a young female child; naked, lifeless, her long hair spread around her, placed on a cardboard box like something discarded. And I did nothing. I just stood there, watching. Unable to move. Unable to save. Awake inside the dream, but powerless.

When I woke, I told myself it was just another strange dream. Lately I've been having many.

But later, standing alone in the bathroom, a thought struck me with terrifying clarity:

God is testing me.

Not in comfort, but in descent.

Not by lifting me up but by dragging me down to the lowest point, to see how deep my faith truly goes when there is nothing left to hold onto.

Because I have always said I wanted to follow Him completely.

And following Him was never promised to be easy.

I thought of the story of Job, how faith is not proven in abundance, but in loss. How righteousness is not revealed in safety, but in suffering. Maybe this is only the beginning. Maybe there are still more trials ahead. More stripping. More silence. More moments when God feels impossibly far, even as He is closest.

I don't know if I am strong.

I don't know if I am ready.

All I know is that I asked to walk with Him, and now I am learning that walking with God does not always mean walking on solid ground. Sometimes it means walking through collapse, through grief, through questions with no immediate answers.

And still choosing not to turn back.

When Heaven Felt Near

I really wasn't sure if I was going to open up about what happened to me earlier. I don't even know if you'll believe me. But I can't help myself. I feel compelled to share such beautiful thing that happened to me. 

On my way to work, riding quietly in the car, I put on my earphones and pressed play on a praise and worship song. The familiar melody filled the small space around me. I leaned against the window and closed my eyes, letting the music carry what my words couldn't.

Then it happened.

I had a vision.

I was on top of the water, kneeling. The surface beneath me was calm, steady, defying logic, yet filled with peace.And then slowly, I stood up. And there, before me, was a man. His hair was long, falling near his elbows. I couldn't see His face because He was surrounded by an overwhelming light. Too radiant, too holy to look at directly. All I could see is His arm, extended toward me, as if gently calling me closer, saying without words, "Come to Me." 

And then I woke up.

I opened my eyes, back in the car, back in this world. But something in me had shifted. In that exact moment, the first message that echoed in my mind was this: God hears all my prayers. Not some of them. Not only the spoken ones. But even the silent cries, the whispered doubts, the prayers I could barely form.

My chest felt heavy and light all at once. Tears fell freely without warning. I lifted my eyes toward the sky, not caring who might see.

In that moment, I understood something profound: I was never unheard. I was never unseen. Every tear, every plea, every late-night conversation with God had reached Him. 

Jesus is real.

My God is alive.

He is the way, the truth, and the life.

Some encounters don't ask to be proven or explained. They simply arrive, meet you where you are, and remind you, gently but powerfully, that heaven is closer than we think, and God has been listening all along. 

I am smiling and crying at the same time while writing this right now. My heart still trying to catch up with what my soul already knows.

Emotional Autopsy

At some point in my life, something inside me stopped responding.

Not dramatically.

No breakdown. No tears

Just a quiet shutdown like a switch flipped when no one was looking.

I was scolded often when I was new. Blamed when things went wrong. Questioned even when there was no proof.

At first, I resisted. I explained. I defended. I felt.

That phase didn't last.

Repeated blame doesn't need to be loud to be effective. It just needs to be consistent. 

So I adapted the only way the mind knows how when escape isn't possible: I reduced myself.

I learned that anger changes nothing. That disappointment wastes energy. That fairness is irrelevant when power has already decided the story.

Eventually, my emotions became inefficient. So my system archived them.

Now, when accusation come, there is no internal reaction. 

No spike in pulse.

No tightening in the throat. 

No need to be understood.

Just compliance without agreement. Silence without peace.

This is not acceptance. This is dissociation dressed up as professionalism.

I didn't forgive them.

I didn't grow past it.

I simply stopped granting the situation access to my nervous system.

The danger isn't that I no longer feel anger. The danger is that I no longer register injustice as a threat.

That rewires a person.

It teaches you to tolerate what should alarm you. To remain functional while being diminished. To mistake emotional absence for stability.

And this follows you.

You let people interrupt you.

Cross lines.

Rewrite events.

Because somewhere along the way, you learned that resistance costs more than silence. 

One day, the numbness will fail.

It always does.

And when it does, it won't ask politely.

It will arrive as exhaustion with no cure, rage with no target, or grief with no origin.

This is not who I am.

This is what happens when a person is blamed long enough that their mind chooses disappearance over pain.

Final verdict:

I am not broken.

I am adapted to a hostile environment.

And adaptations meant for survival should never be mistaken for a life.

The Night the Elevator Took Me Somewhere Else

Last night, I was convinced it was the end of me.

My workplace is located in one of the tallest buildings in Lusail, Qatar. My clinic sits on the 8th floor, and every night after work I follow the same routine: bathroom break, then elevator straight down to the ground floor. 

Except last night, I didn't. 

I skipped the bathroom and went directly to the elevator lobby. While waiting, I pulled out my phone, put on my earphones, and played Dorado's playlist, my usual way of zoning out after a long shift. The wait felt longer than usual, so without much thought, I pressed the ground floor button again.

The doors beside me opened.

I stepped inside without checking the screen because I was certain I had pressed zero. I stayed distracted, scrolling through my playlist, letting the music drown out the silence.

But the ride felt...wrong.

Too long.

I finally looked up at the screen.

38.

I was going up.

Panic hit me all at once. I started pressing everything. Every button within reach only to realize there were no floor buttons inside the elevator. Just open, close, and a bell. I pressed them all but nothing happened. The elevator didn't slow down. It didn't stop.

It kept climbing.

I tried to calm myself, forcing a nervous joke in my head:

"Ah sige nalang...maybe I'll just get a quick look at the top floor."

The elevator stopped at the 36th floor. The doors opened painfully slow. No one came in. The doors stayed open longer than normal, as if waiting for something, or someone, then closed again. The elevator resumed its ascent.

38. The doors opened.

I stepped out and immediately realized something was wrong. The floor was dark. Empty. Unfinished. Plastic sheets covered the walls, wood and cement scattered everywhere. It was clearly under renovation. The air felt heavy, stale, like it hadn't been disturbed in a long time.

Then someone passed by.

A middle-age Middle Eastern man, not very tall, wearing a white shirt. I froze where I stood. He stopped and looked me over from head to toe.

"Inti mamnu hena" he muttered. You are not allowed here.

My voice came out shaky. "Fi mushkila...hag elevator, brother. There's a problem with the elevator." 

He glared at me, then switched to English.

"Go. Leave now. Or you won't get to leave anymore."

My blood ran cold. 

I didn't argue. I didn't think. I pressed zero and ran back inside the elevator.

As the doors were about to close, a hand stopped them.

An American man stepped in. He was wearing a suit and holding a brownish-black case. Relief washed over me. I wasn't alone anymore.

Or so I thought.

As the elevator descended, a question crept into my mind. "Where did he come from?" There was no one else on that floor. Just me and the other man. 

I glanced at him again.

He was unnaturally pale. His face looked hollow, drained of life. There was a deep violet bruise on his cheek, and beads of sweat rolled down his face despite the cold air inside the elevator. He looked...sad. Empty.

I checked his reflection in the mirror. He was staring straight at me.

My entire body went cold, like I had been dropped into a freezer. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I turned my eyes back to the screen, watching the numbers crawl downward far too slowly.

The ride felt endless.

Finally, the doors opened. 

I rushed out without looking back. 

And then my heart stopped.

I was back on the 38th floor.

The darkness. The plastic. The unfinished walls.

I froze.

That was when I heard a loud ambulance siren from the street, our room being so close to the constant bustle outside. 

I woke up gasping for air, my heart pounding violently in my chest. I grabbed my phone and checked the time.

3:12 a.m. 

I didn't sleep again after that.

And now, every time I step into an elevator, I make sure to look at the screen.

Every single time.

Because I'm not sure...

If I really woke up...

Or if I just finally made it back.

Trusting God When Nothing Makes Sense

 "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

If I am being honest, this verse has tested me more than it has comforted me. Because trusting God is easy when life is going well. When prayers are answered quickly, when plans fall neatly into place, when the future looks clear and promising, so it feels natural to say "Yes, Lord, I trust You." But this verse doesn't exist for those moments. It exists for the seasons when nothing makes sense at all.

There have been times in my life when I thought I had everything figured out. I made plans carefully, thought things through logically, and convinced myself that I knew what was best. And yet, those were often the moments when everything unraveled. Doors closed. Opportunities disappeared. People I thought would stay walked away. And I was left staring at the mess, asking God "Why would You let this happen?"

That is where Proverbs 3:5-6 becomes uncomfortable, because it asks me to stop leaning on my own understanding a lot. I want explanations. I want timelines. I want guarantees. I want God to bless my plan instead of asking me to surrender it. 

But this verse reminds me that trust is not about clarity. Trust is about surrender. 

Trusting God with all my heart means choosing to believe that He sees what I cannot. It means accepting that His silence does not mean His absence, and that delays are not denials. It means admitting that my perspective is limited, shaped by fear, pain, and impatience, while His perspective is ETERNAL.

"Submit to Him in all your ways" sound simple, but it is one of the hardest things to do. It means letting God lead not just in the big decisions, but in the daily ones. It means bringing Him into my doubts, my confusion, my exhaustion, and even my disappointment. It means saying, "I don't understand this, but I will still follow You."

And then there is the promise: He will make your paths straight.

Not easy. Not perfect. Not free from pain. But straight.

Looking back, I can see how God redirected me when I was headed toward things that would have broken me. I can see how unanswered prayers protected me. I can see how detours shaped me into someone stronger, more patient, and more dependent on Him. At the time, it felt like I was lost. In reality, I was being led.

This verse does not tell us that life will make sense. It tells us that God is trustworthy even when it doesn't. 

So today, I am learning, slowly and imperfectly, to loosen my grip on control. To stop demanding explanations. To trust that the God who holds my future also understands my present. And to believe that even when the road feels uncertain, He is still guiding every step.

Because sometimes, faith is simply choosing to walk forward even when you cannot see when the path leads, believing that God already does.

Leaning Less on Myself, Trusting More in God: A Proverbs Reflection

The Book of Proverbs has become one of the most meaningful books I have ever read in the Bible. I did not expect it to affect me the way it did, but somewhere between its verses, something in me began to shift. It changed me in ways I could not immediately explain. It widened my faith, sharpened my understanding, strengthened my principles, and reshaped how I see life itself.

What struck me most about Proverbs is its honesty. It doesn't sugarcoat wisdom, nor does execute foolishness. Instead, it gently, yet firmly holds up a mirror. As I read, I found myself reflecting on my past decisions, my wrongdoings, and the moments when I relied too heavily on my own judgment. In that process, surprisingly, instead of feeling condemned, I felt guided.

Every chapter felt practical, almost conversational, as if wisdom itself was sitting beside me, patiently offering counsel. Little by little, its words began to direct my steps toward a more righteous path, not through fear, but through understanding. 

There were passages that lingered in my mind long after I closed the Bible, but one in particular took my breath away: Proverbs 3:5-6

"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding." (KJV)

At first glance, the verse seems simple. But the more I sat with it, the deeper it became. It is a direct invitation and challenge to trust God fully, without reservation, and to stop depending solely on our own reasoning. It reminds us that our thoughts, no matter how confident or convincing they may seem, are still limited. They are shaped by emotion, fear, pride, and incomplete knowledge. 

Trusting the Lord with all our heart means surrendering the need to always be right, to always be in control, or to always understand everything before taking a step forward. It means acknowledging that God sees the whole picture when we only see fragments.

I realized that leaning on my own understanding had often led me to unnecessary worry, regret, and disappointment. But trusting God - truly trusting Him, offers peace even when answers are unclear. When we place our confidence in Him, we lost nothing. 

He is the One who plans with purpose, executes with precision, and evaluates with perfect wisdom. 

Proverbs taught me that wisdom is not just about knowing what is right, but about choosing to live out daily. And sometimes, the wisest thing we can do is admit that we do not know everything, and trust the One who does. :)

Messy Thoughts from a Semi-Functional Human

I would like to begin by clarifying one thing: I am technically functioning. I wake up (eventually), I go to work, I answer messages, sometimes days later and I keep myself alive with a combination of caffeine, overthinking, and pure spite. By all definitions, that counts as semi-functional.

My brain, however, is a different story.

Inside my head is a chaotic group chat where every thought talks at once. One moment I'm planning my entire future, career goals, financial stability, inner peace, and the next I'm aggressively replaying something embarrassing I said in 2010. No transitions. No warning. Just emotional whiplash. 

I will be washing dishes and suddenly think "Wow, what if I'm actually the problem?" Then immediately after "Should I eat tonight?" This is what personal growth looks like now, apparently.

I have lists. Soooo many lists. To-do lists, grocery lists, life goal lists. None of them are completed. I write them to feel productive, then reward myself with a nap for the emotional effort. My brain considers "thinking about doing something" as good as actually doing it. We are still negotiating. 

Okay let's talk about motivation. Mine shows up randomly, unannounced, usually in between 3-4am. And then I suddenly decide I will wake up at 5am, pray, drink coffee, water, write something on this blog site, fix my life, and become unrecognizable. By morning, that version of me has vanished like a scammer after one message. 

And yet, somehow, I manage. I laugh. I show up at work despite not wanting to. I keep going. Even with messy thoughts, unfinished plans, and a brain that refuses to calm down, I am still here, doing my best with what I have. Which, on some days, is the bare minimum, and that is still valid.

So, here's to all the semi-functional humans out there: the ones who are tired but trying, chaotic but caring, confused but still moving forward. We may not have it together, but we have personality, resilience, and at least one coping mechanism that probably isn't healthy. 

And honestly? That counts for something.

I Tried Adulting. I'd Like a Refund.

I woke up one morning with back pain, a calendar full of responsibilities, and a sudden emotional attachment to kitchen sponges. That's when I knew it finally happened. I had become an adult. No warning. No orientation. Definitely no refund policy.

When we were kids, adults made it look so glamorous. They had money, independence, and the authority to say things like, "Because I said so." What they failed to disclose is that money disappears immediately, independence comes with crippling anxiety, and the only thing you say confidently now is "I'll deal with that later."

Adulting is essentially paying bills and then asking yourself, "What exactly did I pay for?" Although at least right now, I didn't have to think of paying rent to exist, nor paying electricity to see, but I pay internet to survive emotionally. and after all that, my bank account looks at me and says, "You should've stayed a child." 

Let's talk about food. As a child, I dreamed of eating whatever I wanted. As an adult, I eat whatever is fast, affordable, and doesn't require emotional commitment. Dinner is often a deep, philosophical question: Should I cook? Order food? Or simple lie down and wait for hunger to give up? And why does food expire so quickly now? I buy vegetables with good intentions, place them carefully in the fridge, and two days later they've transformed into a science experiment. Meanwhile, instant noodles survive nuclear wars.

Sleep? Sleep no longer rest, it's a luxury subscription I cannot afford. I'm tired when I wake up, tired during the day, and mysteriously energetic at 2:47am. That's when my brain decides it's time to replay every embarrassing moment I've had since 2009.

Then there's the emotional side of adulting. No one prepares you for how proud you'll feel doing the bare minimum. I cleaned today. Not the whole house, just one specific area. But still. Growth. I deserve applause and perhaps a small parade. 

And don't get me started on social interactions. Making friends as an adult is just two people saying, "We should hang out sometime," knowing very well it will never happen. Our schedules are busy, our energy is low, and our preferred social activity is cancelling plans.

The most offensive part of adulting, though, is realizing your parents were right. Not about everything but enough to hurt your pride. Suddenly, you understand why they were always tired and why they got mad when lights were left on. Electricity is expensive. Peace is fragile.

I thought adulting meant having everything figured out. Instead, it's Googling things like "How long can you ignore an email before it becomes rude?" and "Is this a normal amount of pain or am I dying?" 

So yes, I tried adulting. I showed up. I paid the bills. I made lists. I forgot the lists. I survived another week on caffeine and hope. And honestly? I'd like a refund. 

If anyone needs me, I'll be lying down, mentally preparing myself to do responsible thing tomorrow. 

The Reality of Being a Medical Care Professional in Qatar

When people find out I work as a medical professional in Qatar, they usually smile and say things like, 

"You're lucky."

"That must be such a good life."

And I always nod. Because explaining the whole truth feels... heavy.

Yes, Qatar offers opportunities. Yes, the pay is better than back home. Yes the clinics and hospitals are modern. But what people don't see is what it costs; emotionally, mentally, and sometimes physically, to be here.

Leaving home isn't just a flight. Coming to Qatar wasn't just about packing bags and boarding a plane. It meant leaving behind people who know you without explanation. It meant choosing growth over comfort. It meant missing moments you can never get back. You learn very quickly how to celebrate birthdays through a phone screen. How to smile while saying "Im okay" when you're not. How to be strong, because there is no other option. Some nights, the silence in your room feels louder than any hospital alarm. 

The job is heavy even when you love it. Nursing here is no joke. The shifts are long. The workload can be overwhelming. Some days you barely have time to breath, let alone process the things you see and feel. You care for patients from all walks of life, each with their own fears, pain, and expectations, and you carry that with you long after your shift ends. There are days when you give everything you have, then go home completely empty. And yet, the next day, you do it all over again. Because that's what nurses do.

Being a foreign nurse comes with silent pressure. When you're a foreign nurse, you feel like you always have to prove yourself. You're careful with your words, your actions, your tone. You work twice as hard not because someone tells you to, but because you don't want to be seen as "less than." You represent your profession. Your country. Your people. And that pressure? It's exhausting.

Homesickness hits at the most unexpected times. It doesn't always come on sad days. Sometimes it hits while you're laughing with friends. Sometimes while folding laundry. Sometimes when you hear a song that reminds you of home. You miss simple things. Family meals, familiar streets, the comfort of being understood without having to explain yourself. These are moments when you ask yourself, "Is this still worth it?"

And still, there is pride. Despite everything, there is pride in this life. Pride in knowing you save lives. Pride in surviving days you thought you couldn't. Pride in becoming stronger, more independent, more resilient than you ever imagined. 

There's a special kind of bond among nurses here, unspoken, deep, and real. Only another nurses away from home truly understands what it takes to keep going. 

This is the reality. Being a medical care professional in Qatar isn't just about salary or status. It's about sacrifice. It's about showing up even when you're tired, lonely, or emotionally drained. It's about choosing to keep caring in a world that often forgets to care for caregivers. This life isn't easy. But it's real. And for those of us living it, it's a story written with quiet strength, courage, and heart. 

And to the nurses who are planning to work in Qatar.

Come prepared, not just professionally, but emotionally. This journey will offer growth, opportunity, and stability, but it will also ask for patience, adaptability, and strength you may not yet realize you have. This is not an easy path, but it is one that will shape you deeply. 

Qatar will test you. It will stretch you. It will change you.

But it does not get to take your humanity, unless you allow it to. Hold on to your purpose. Remember why you started. And never forget: the strength you carry today is built on courage, sacrifice, and an unwavering commitment to care. 

You are seen. You are needed. And you are not alone. 

A True Covenant Friendship: The Story of King David and Prince Jonathan

 I decided to write about the story of King David and Prince Jonathan because it is both the most beautiful and the most painful story that I have ever read in the Bible. As I read, my heart grew heavy, and tears was unending.

I cried so hard that even when I arrived home, I couldn't stop. I remember thinking to myself that I could no longer continue reading the Bible. I was stuck at the moment when Prince Jonathan warned David through the arrows. That single scene broke me. It felt like reading a goodbye that was never meant to be spoken. 

What made it even more painful was knowing that David and Jonathan would never get the chance to live their lives together as their friendship was cut short by Jonathan's death, leaving only a promise, a covenant, and a love that could not be lived out in the world.

And so, Jonathan was a prince, the rightful heir to Israel's throne, the son of King Saul. David was a shepherd boy, newly anointed, carrying more faith than armor. Their paths crossed after David defeated Goliath. But something deeper than admiration happened that day. The Scripture says "The soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul." (1 Samuel 18:1)

It was never an ordinary friendship. It was a divine connection.

Jonathan recognized what many refused to see: God's hand was upon David. And instead of competing, instead of guarding his title, or resenting the future king, Jonathan did the unthinkable. He took off his royal robe, his armor, his sword, his bow, and gave them to David. In that moment, Jonathan was not just giving gifts, he was surrendering his claim to the throne. 

David had been living under the shadow of King Saul's jealousy. Saul's anger toward him was growing, and David knew his life was in danger. Prince Jonathan loved David deeply and wanted to warn him without arousing suspicion. So together, they devised a secret plan. 

Jonathan's love was not loud. It was faithful.

In one of their final meetings, Jonathan told David, "tomorrow I will go out to shoot some arrows in the field. I will send my boy to you. If I say 'the arrows are beyond you,' then you must flee, for my father seeks to kill you. But if I say 'the arrows are on this side of you,' you may safely stay."

The next day, Jonathan went out as planned. He took his bow and shot arrows, calling to his young servant, "Look, the arrows are beyond you!" The servant, seeing only a simple game of archery, did not understand. Confused, the young servant ran to fetch the arrows, unaware of the hidden message.

But Jonathan, his heart breaking, could not help but weep. He loved David as a brother and the thought of their forced separation filled him with sorrow. David, watching from hiding, saw Jonathan's tears and understood the danger was real. He, too, was overcome with emotion.

Finally, after confirming the signal, David came out from his hiding place. They fell on each other's necks, weeping together, their hearts torn by the love of friendship and the pain of impending separation. Then, with a heavy heart, David had to flee, guided by Jonathan's silent, tearful warning. 

Jonathan spoke words that still echo with humility and faith. "You shall be king over Israel, and I shall be next to you." (1 Samuel 23:17) 

But Jonathan never sat beside David on the throne, (as Prince Jonathan, the son of King Saul, died in battle on Mount Gilboa.) "The Philistines killed Jonathan, Abinadab, and Malki-Shua, Saul's sons." (1 Samuel 31:2) yet he played a vital role in shaping the man who David would become. 

Their friendship teaches us that godly relationships are not built in what we gain, but on what we are willing to give. Jonathan didn't walk away when it became dangerous. David did not forget Jonathan when crown finally rested on his head. Years later, David searched for Jonathan's son, Mephibosheth, and showed him kindness. Not out of obligation, but out of love for his friend.

David and Jonathan's story reminds us that the truest friendships are rooted in faith, loyalty, and sacrificial love. A love that reflects God's own heart.

May we all be blessed with a Jonathan in our lives, and may we learn how to be one.

Closer Than Before: A Year-End Prayer

The years 2024-2025 were some of the most challenging seasons of my life. There were days filled with questions, nights heavy with tears, and moments when the whys felt louder than the answers. In the midst of the pain, I confess that I did not always see Your reasons, Lord. I did not always understand what You were doing. 

Yet now, as this year comes to an end, I pause, and I thank You.

Thank You, Lord God, for never letting go of me, even when I struggled to hold on to You. Thank You for drawing me closer through the very trials that almost broke me. Thank You for answering my prayers, not always with what I wanted, but with lessons. Lessons etched into my heart, lessons I know I will carry forever. 

You already know what is in my heart, O Lord. Every unspoken hope, every quiet fear, every longing I could not put into words. And now, as the year 2026 stands just hours away, I come before You with a humble prayer: let what I have started with You continue. Let my walk with You grow deeper, stronger, and more sincere. Teach me not only to seek You in desperate moments, but to remain close to You in every season.

Please bless me, Lord. Bless my whole family and my friends. Cover us with your grace, guide us with you wisdom, and surround us with Your peace. You are my God, my Savior, my refuge, my stronghold.

I choose not to fear, for You are with me.

I choose not to be dismayed, for You are my God.

I know You will help me.

I know You will strengthen me. 

And I know you will uphold me with the righteous right hand of Your love and faithfulness. 

On this promise, I stand.

Thank You, Lord, for the past, for the present, and for the future You are already holding. Into this new year, I place my trust in You - fully, willingly, and wholeheartedly. Amen. 💛