The Disappointment of “Not Me”

Posted August 11, 2026 by wordsfromww
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“For this reason, since the day we heard it, we have not ceased praying for you and asking that you may be filled with the knowledge of God’s will in all spiritual wisdom and understanding…” (Colossians 1:9)

It’s not that I think “I’m all that!”, but recently I had a situation in which I thought I knew what the will of God was. It seemed so clear to me. I even thought that He had put me in a position a couple of years earlier to be His instrument now.

But I was wrong! That’s not how things played out. I wrestle with the confusion and the questions that came flooding into a sleepless night. As a friend of mine told me, there is difficulty moving from the “why” to the “what”, the transition from “why not me” to “what would you have me do now, Lord?” It requires, so to speak, some rearranging of the furniture…moving the couch from what I thought was the best spot to somewhere over to the side.

When disappointment invades the perfect picture that has been painted in your mind, it causes a person to rethink the journey. It seems that the steps have brought the individual to this point and then, suddenly, there is a detour that veers away. It’s like thinking you’re going to Las Vegas and then realizing it’s Las Vegas, New Mexico. The glitz of the city that never sleeps is transformed into the town where you may need to get a fuel fill-up…and go on.

When the answer is “Not me”, it is the natural reaction to question why you thought what didn’t happen was God’s will? Was it my ego that reshaped the scene? Did I think I was hearing what God wanted me to be about, but really, it was what I wanted His will to be? Did I rush ahead and not hear His no?

Most of us have experienced disappointments that are similar in nature. We’ve had the indigestion in the midst of the waiting and the numbness after becoming aware of the unexpected decision. It becomes a point of growth. Our spiritual maturity is often fertilized by the pain of disappointment. We draw close to the Lord as we endure some pruning of our excesses, our unnecessaries, and the subtle hints of entitlement. Like peeling an onion, we shed a few layers of our outer skin in order to get back to what is at our core.

Thirty years in the rearview mirror, I remember a search committee from another church contacting me about their open pastorate. They showed up on a Sunday at the worship service of the congregation I was pastoring. It looked like a good situation. Carol and I drove down to their community and met on a Friday night with the Search Committee. After the interview, one of the committee members made the verbal statement, “Why do we need to look any further? Here is our next pastor right here.” We drove back home thinking that God was going to be moving us.

But the committee had one more person to interview, and they went with him. I remember the disappointment in that situation, but then our congregation had its own period of maturity that developed new life and new intentionality in the ministries with our community. The other church experienced some serious struggles that I would not have been ready to help lead them through. In the midst of the situation, I was dealing with my lack of worth and confusion. It was only after getting some distance from the disappointment that I could focus more on the “What now, Lord?”

I’ll still be wrestling with this situation for a while. There are other factors involved with it that accentuate the pain. But I know, maybe even more, that the One Who created me will guide me and care for me.

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Twenty-Second Naps

Posted August 9, 2026 by wordsfromww
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“And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone…” (Matthew 14:23)

Each Sunday in our worship service, Pastor Dan (a great preacher and person, by the way) always prays right after he reads the scripture for the morning’s message. It’s a nice prayer, focused and spiritual. I close my eyes and think about Jesus…and then I drift into a twenty-second nap. There are needs and there are wants, and what I need in that short moment is some slumber.

I wish I could apologize to Pastor Dan, but if I did, he would know that I had swayed off of the prayer trail and into the soft pillow my mind has set before me. Seriously, I think sitting quietly for a few moments with no one pulling on me, and with one of the youth speaking with the volume control turned up full blast, brings on the calming of my spirit. It is definitely what I want, but it is also what I need at that moment.

About the time Dan is landing with an amen, I hope he will receive an extended inspiration and delay the conclusion for two or three more seconds. Kind of like a revivalist preacher who would come to our church for a series of weeknight meetings. He drew out the prayer-ending amen so long, my Wrigley’s Chewing Gum had lost its spring. If Pastor Dan can spread it out, my mind is able to come back into the present, and I’m ready to hear the word of God spoken by him for the next twenty minutes or so.

I’m comforted by the biblical revelations of Jesus “needing a moment.” He often pulled to the side and spent time alone in prayer. It is never revealed what he prayed for in those solitary times, except when the tempter meets him in the wilderness. Perhaps Jesus prays for his disciples, or talks with His Father, or is simply quiet and still for the moment. Depending on the Sunday, my Baptist guilt complex either pounds on me or God’s grace is triumphant. One of the two wins. More and more, it’s the grace of God that sweeps into the moment and reminds me of the Sunday mornings in my growing-up days that I leaned against my dad in the midst of worship and slumbered for more than twenty seconds. Of course, the weight of my head pressed against him may have kept him from his own nodding off as Pastor Zachary went on and on about the things of God and the needs of his people.

On a more personal note, my twenty-second naps may be an indication of the tiredness of my soul. Sometimes we pastor-types drive ourselves relentlessly. We are ever mindful of the problems of others and frequently negligent about our own self-care. It is probably why, in my 36 years as a pastor and speaking almost every Sunday, I valued the Sunday afternoon nap. It was a gift from God that lasted much more than twenty seconds.

The difference now is that God does His renewing a lot faster. Thank you, Lord…and forgive me, Pastor Dan!

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The Jewelry Box

Posted July 30, 2026 by wordsfromww
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“In the house of the righteous there is much treasure, but trouble befalls the income of the wicked.” (Proverbs 15:6)

It opened up wide without a squeak. The varnished wood had a shine that had not dulled over the decades of its existence. I wondered how many times my dad had opened it over the years, looking for what would complete him for the day ahead.

The box had sat on top of my dad’s chest of drawers for as long as the place I lived was my parents’ residence: 1607 Thomas Street, Ironton, Ohio. In my growing-up years, the only time I opened it was to see if there was any loose change I could sneak away with. My parents were organized, never leaving a few coins sitting out in the open. I had to be the family thief, a label that carried a lot of Baptist guilt with it and stayed with me long after the clinking coins had disappeared into the cashier’s hand at the neighborhood market. After all, Mallo Cups weren’t free. They came with a price tag.

My dad passed away eight years ago. Thankfully, he went to be greeted by his Maker before COVID made living for many of the elderly unbearable. Dad was a social guy, always willing to get into conversations with people, whether they were in line for a slab of Kahn’s bologna at the Food Fair supermarket, before or after worship at Beulah Baptist Church, or with his next-door Pakistani doctors as they stood together in the front yard. COVID would have killed him. Better to head towards paradise four months short of 90 years of age.

As I scanned the contents of his jewelry box, his friendliness was evident in the mementos. There were Rotary label pins. He loved being a Rotarian. He and my mom even were the host family for a high school exchange student from Finland who had been sponsored by Rotary. Dad made the weekly Rotary Club lunch a priority on his schedule.

In a small slot, I dug out a political campaign button that said: “Nixon Now.” Dad never talked about politics, but I was pretty sure he was a Democrat. Finding a “Nixon Now” button made me wonder whether he had switched at some point, and why. Did Watergate make him consider the direction of the folk in D.C.? Or did things take a turn during a later Republican administration?

Tie clasps. My dad never wore a tie that wasn’t attached to a clasp. Most of them had a pin in the back that pushed through the fabric and anchored the front. One featured the United States Navy. He had served in the Navy in the late 40s as a baker, ready to take to the seas but spared that by the end of the military conflict. Navy defined Dad. He looked forward to the Army-Navy football game each fall so he could cheer the Middies on.

When I removed the top shelf of the jewelry box, I discovered another rare, military-related item underneath: My dad’s Selective Service System registration certificate, his entry document into the Navy. He was patriotic, a proud veteran, and part of a family of veterans. Although I did not enter the military, my older brother did, and Dad was extremely proud of how he had served in Vietnam…even though he had gone the Army way.

Two wristwatches appropriately signaled the value Dad placed on time, specifically being on time. He was organized and elevated the following of a schedule to being close to godliness. One of the watches had a wristband that indicated it had been through a few decades. The other watch could have been worn at state dinner functions if Dad ever went to one…which he didn’t!

Tucked in the back corner was a pearl-handled pocket knife. Dad seemed to always carry one with him in case there was a string that needed to be cut, or a piece of wood that needed a slight trim. He had a custom of gifting a pocket knife to his sons and grandsons. I still have mine, but it’s at the bottom of a catch-all basket, patiently waiting for me to seek its usefulness.

His high school class ring with a bit of tarnish was pushed into a holding section. I had to find a good light to see that its inscription was “Oil Springs High School”, with some kind of creature’s head protruding from the top. Another ring was a gift from the Purina Corporation he worked for in my early childhood years. It said “Salesmanship” on it, indicating the value that Dad put into his work.

There were other pins for other reasons: A Bob Evans farm pin, two State of Ohio pins and one “Oh! Kentucky” piece, a Brasil pin (spelled that way) that must have come from a Rotary exchange of some kind, and an AARP pin that probably was a reward for hitting his 80s.

I almost missed a bracelet that had become camouflaged into the fabric. It had “Laurence Wolfe, Wittensville, KY” inscribed. When I turned it over, I was brought to tears by the name “Jenny” written on the back, my mom’s name. It was a reminder of the love of his life for close to 65 years.

And, finally, there were keys…keys whose only purpose was to reside in the pockets of the jewelry box. One was for a suitcase that has long since disappeared, and the others were homeless. Perhaps Dad left them there for reasons, like to remind us that everyone has a place even though they might have forgotten what it is.

Treasures. Memories. Carriers taking me back to him and how he shaped me into who I am. It made me consider what I’m putting into a jewelry box for my kids and grandkids, not necessarily one with varnished wood and hinges, but memories and values that they will take from my life.

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Gratitude-ful

Posted July 25, 2026 by wordsfromww
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“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly; teach and admonish one another in all wisdom; and with gratitude in your hearts sing psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs to God.” (Colossians 3:16)

If you gather a few long-timers, like myself and others whose knees also making cracking sounds, we will surely talk about how it used to be. We will get all starry-eyed and emotional thinking about when we only had three TV stations to choose from (one of them as fuzzy as a month-long unshaven senior citizen). We may even remember the days we had to cook our own dinner not from a box or in a microwave, but rather from scratch. We refer to the glory days of our youth.

However, most of us…no, all of us have adjusted to the times. We adapted to microwaveable family-sized meals and have no desire to go back to how it used to be. “How it used to be” is now a display in a museum meant to entertain and amaze younger audiences. We adapted to the new ways that are either faster, more convenient, less labor-intensive, or don’t require a learned skill set. We adapted and now, instead of considering a return to what we grew up with, we think of what could be another improvement. We’ve made what is better a part of our lifestyle and have now become consumers to demand more.

In fact, our culture now includes consumers who are adult versions of whining kids, quick to post on social media about the plumber who showed up thirty minutes later than he said he would and berating the sudden disappearance of one of our 145 cable channels. In other words, we b become accustomed to what is better and acquire a sense of entitlement about receiving more.

How do we avoid being snotty-nosed, irritated, hard-to-get-along-with grown-ups? The key, which is hard to find amongst the critical environment we live in, is “Gratitude.” Our lives improve the moment we become thankful.

I know, I know, there’s a day each year when we do that thankful stuff. Well…perhaps…gratitude is more than a late November drive-by that has become dominated more by pro football games than gatherings around a dinner table. Gratitude is a quality that needs to resonate with us as much as our feelings about what used to be and what is. When we look around us with eyes intentionally bespectacled with gratitude, it changes our perspective. Maybe it even alters our demeanor and attitude.

As I write this, I am thankful for the cup of coffee that sits perched beside my laptop…and the thought about gratitude that planted itself inside my head…and the Lord who leads me…and the Holy Spirit that guides me…and the new day that is just beginning. When I root myself with gratitude in my heart, new psalms and songs begin to form inside my soul. In the downside of life, a spirit of gratitude keeps me anchored.

It’s what I’ll choose to lean into this day. As I lift my Yeti to my lips and take a sip of my Pike Place, I’ll seek to live out of gratitude.

Amen.

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1,999 Pieces

Posted July 14, 2026 by wordsfromww
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 “Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Doesn’t she light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it? And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.’  In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” (Luke 15:8-10)

I like jigsaw puzzles. In the last ten years or so, I’ve started a tradition of doing a Christmas puzzle. I look for a new puzzle, usually on Amazon or at a summer rummage sale, that features a Christmas scene of some kind. Right after Thanksgiving, I start putting the border outline out and slowly recreating the scene.

This past Christmas, I found a 2,000-piece puzzle that was going to challenge my color-blindness limitations. There were a number of shades and tones that were difficult for me to figure out, but I gave it a go. Life busyness got in the way and the puzzle took shape at a turtle’s pace.

Christmas came and it wasn’t even close to being done. January, February, a trickle was flowing from the box onto the tapestry. March, April…surely it would be completed by Easter! I mean, the life journey had gone from the birth of Jesus to his death and resurrection…but it still wasn’t finished.

My wife Carol was beginning to wonder if I was waiting until next Christmas. Our dining room table continued to be partially “Christmas-tized.” Finally…finally, in the first week of June…it was done!

Wait a minute! All the pieces had found their rightful fit, but, what’s this…there is a missing piece…but there aren’t any other pieces! I had form-fitted 1,999 pieces. 1,999 had found their purpose for existence, but one piece…one piece had become non-resident.

I searched the floor. I went to where I was eye-level with the surface of the puzzle, hoping that my color-blindness was hiding the final solution. I searched under the living room furniture, under the curtains, and in the heating vents on the wooden dining room floor. There is something self-defeating about working a 2,000 piece puzzle that is only 99.95% complete.

Carol came up with another suggestion. Just by chance, maybe the robotic vacuum we have sucked it up. I highly doubted it, but let’s check. We took the bag that it discards its debris into after it gets back to its docking station. I thought back to the vacuum cleaners my parents had that gave you a workout, moving them, carrying them, unplugging and plugging, and the limited amount of sucking power they had.

But…let’s look. We took the bag outside (Smart idea…but not mine!) and held it over the garbage can, where we slowly emptied the massive amounts of hair, dust, more hair, crumbs, and then a quarter, more hair, and a penny. The bag was almost empty, but we were twenty-six cents ahead.

And then just as I was about to give up sifting through the dust and hair, there it was! Piece number 2,000, hiding underneath some cracker crumbs and something else that no longer resembled am item that once had purpose.

Piece #2,000! Just like the lost coin of Jesus parable, the search and more searching…and Carol’s perseverance, produced what had been missing. It’s amazing how one puzzle piece, in essence 0.05% of the picture, produced satisfaction and a change in my demeanor.

How much more do the angelic hosts sing praises over one lost person who finds the Way?

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Approaching Grace

Posted July 12, 2026 by wordsfromww
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” Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.” (Hebrews 4:16)

In the midst of the valley of loss, I’ve been walking through, I came face-to-face with a road sign that said “Grace Ahead. Approach with Confidence.” The small print beneath the bright gold sign bore the words of Hebrews 4:16 in spectacular cursive curls and swirls.

The news of what lay ahead and, actually, had already been traveling in, slowed my pace and lifted my chin from its stare at my feet. Jesus had been waiting. Like a Kansas Interstate roadside rest stop, he had been awaiting my realization of the need to pull to the side, to stop for mercy, to find the welcome of grace.

Receiving mercy is not an easy thing for me. It’s a humbling indication of my stumbling humanness, a reminder that the “S” on my T-shirt doesn’t stand for Superman, but rather one of many other “S” words like stupid…and stupid…and simply stupid. In fact, I have a T-shirt that says pretty much the same thing. “S” doesn’t stand for Superman.

Receiving mercy is the promise of our Father, and yet, I too often speed by the offer, thinking that getting on with the journey is more important than a quiet encounter with my Creator.

Today, the gift of discoverable grace has so overwhelmed me that I’ve given up the fight of holding back the tears. It is my time of need, my time of stillness. The road sign from Hebrews reminds me that I don’t need to cringe in doubt and fear, that, like the story of Jesus welcoming the children, there are open arms extended for me.

I am not suddenly exiting the valley of loss, but I am assured of a traveling partner Who is incredibly comforting and understanding.

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Things That Perplex Me

Posted July 10, 2026 by wordsfromww
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I have random thoughts that just come…kinda like finding a penny on a walk around the block and thinking, “This is valuable! King Soopers doesn’t even give these out anymore at the store when they give you your change.”

Random…momentary light bulbs with suspect wattage.

Like…the email I got today from Red Lobster informing me that “Endless Shrimp Would be Ending Soon!” How does something that is endless…end?

Here’s another thought that came to me last week as I watched a vehicle change lanes back and forth like the road was a slalom course. “I wonder if he changes churches that quickly; doesn’t like something in this place so he hops to the next building, and then the next, and then the next.” Lane hoppers are like church hoppers. They can’t stay the course.

Or what about the screaming kid in the grocery store, who is pushing his parent to buy that bag of candy? Why doesn’t my wife let me have what I want when I scream, fall to the ground, and kick my feet? Why does she just walk away and leave me there?

Why has my mailbox been filled with political postcards that hammer away at the evil, out-of-touch, under-qualified, overly arrogant person who is running for some elected position, while whoever sent the postcard appears in an almost angelic pose?

And… why do I get the same postcard again the next day? Are the senders trying to say something about my memory?

Whose bright idea was it to allow motorcycles to come up between two lanes at a stoplight? They are the new entitled citizens, as they sprint from the light and zoom away from us poor vehicle-driving smucks.

And now we have e-bikes that are going 30 miles an hour…on the sidewalk, passing poor Mildred, trying to take her poodle for a walk. Pretty soon, pedestrians will be walking on the grass like it’s the normal thing to do.

Why do my knees ache every time I come down the stairs in the morning…and my hips…and my lower back…and my toes…and…

Why do I feel guilty if I don’t leave a tip for the pimply-faced sixteen-year-old at the fast food establishment even after a third of my three-item order never made it into the bag? Is it my lifelong existence in Baptist congregations that causes the guilt response of a twenty percent tip?

If I decided to get a full-sleeve tattoo on my left arm, would I still be able to see the goosebumps? (I’m not, in case you’re wondering! I can barely endure my four-year-old grandson putting a sticker on the back of my hand!)

Why do ripped jeans cost more?

Why does the entertainment industry, more often than not, portray clergy persons (pastors and preachers) as doofuses, allergic to laughter, and not people you would want to have conversations with?

Random thoughts. I can’t help it. Hey! There goes a squirrel! I wonder if squirrels work eight-hour shifts and then go home to their squirrel recliners? I wonder if squirrels leave a tip for other squirrels?

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Grief Coaching

Posted July 1, 2026 by wordsfromww
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“Jesus wept.” (John 11:35)

My coaching buddy and friend, Joe Miller, passed away about a week and a half ago. I wrote about it in my last blog post.

Briefly summarizing, he collapsed at the end of the kids’ basketball camp session we were doing at the high school, and he could not be revived. We did CPR, got the paddles of the AED device ready, but he was gone.

Our high school girls’ basketball players were there helping with the camp for young kids. For most of them, before they were quickly ushered out of the gym, the last scene they unfortunately had to take with them of their coach was him laying on the gym floor. It’s a memory that will be difficult to heal from.

So, the last few days have had me coaching them, not in basketball, but in dealing with their grief. Grief coaching is similar to basketball coaching in that the person never reaches a point where you don’t have to work on it. Like practicing your jump shot, it’s a constant journey, an ongoing part of the game of basketball that must be worked on.

Grief is like that. It is a continuing journey that will never reach a point of finality. There will always be moments of reflecting, struggles with keeping emotions under control, and battles of isolation and inappropriate behavior. It’s a journey, a hard journey, peppered from time to time with laughter and storytelling.

Sometimes in coaching, the coach has to let the team, or an individual, work through it. He figures out when to get involved and when to sit outside the goings-on. My grief coaching mirrors that. Sometimes I need to explain, and sometimes the grievers must be allowed to go through the fires. Since grief is different for each person, as a coach, my sensitivity to the situation dictates my response. I look for the one who pulls to the side because the moment is too painful, and I look for the one who dominates conversations instead of being part of them.

Honestly, my soul is weary, and I recognize my need to grieve as part of them, but also by myself… quiet moments in the steps of long walks.

But, like with my players, it’s a journey.

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Missing Joe

Posted June 21, 2026 by wordsfromww
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My friend and coaching buddy, Joe Miller, had a medical emergency at our kids’ basketball camp Friday morning, and, despite giving him CPR and having the EMT’s come and continue working on him, he could not be revived.

Two days later, I’m just beginning to come out of “crisis mode”, where your focus is on the situation, and then our players and Joe’s family, figuring out who needs to be contacted next. Coming out of crisis mode means the impact of the loss hits you in the gut and your emotions play havoc with your reactions that usually don’t cause a reaction, your need for alone time that, at a moment’s notice transitions to a need for together time, and also your own mortality that you realize is as fragile as that glass vase you’ve been afraid will be accidentally knocked off the counter and shatter into a thousand pieces.

This was my third year as an assistant for Joe on the Liberty High School girls’ basketball staff. We worked well together, enjoyed the humor of situations, shook our heads at the weird things that happened, and the out-of-control people we would sometimes encounter at games. When you’ve shared history, you cherish the retelling of shared experiences.

Both of us were from southern Ohio, he from Lucasville and I from Ironton, two towns less than an hour’s drive apart. We knew similar stories from our neck of the woods. I bought him a book last year about the professional football days of Southern Ohio, when Portsmouth had a team, and Ironton had the Ironton Tanks. Those were pre-NFL days, and we enjoyed the history of the ancient past.

For me to write this blog about Joe is part of my dealing with the grief. I needed to put it into words. It may not be read by many folk, but the “number of readers” has no connection to my walk with his loss.

Pray for the Liberty Lancer girls who were there when he collapsed. The painful ache they are experiencing reveals the specialness of their relationships with their coach. Pray for his family, his wife and three children who are in their young adulthood.

What drew me to join Joe in coaching the Lancers was his character and integrity. I had coached his son back in middle school, so we had a long history of knowing each other and respecting each other. There are coaches who know the game but are tyrants to their players, and there are coaches who have solid relationships with their players but can’t teach the game to save their players. Joe knew the games, loved his players, and was loved by his players. That’s why I said yes when he asked me to join him. And it’s why the pain is intense right now. I don’t have my friend to retell the shared stories with. He’s not there for me to say, “Remember when…”

He will, however, always be remembered.

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The Challenge of Newness

Posted June 14, 2026 by wordsfromww
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“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!” (2 Corinthians 5:17)

It is a summer of newness. New basketball players who are new, or almost new, to the sport. Like me appearing on the beach after a winter of wearing warm clothing, my skin so white it hurt the eyes to see me, I have basketball players who are completely untanned from any exposure to the game of basketball.

One new player doesn’t understand the differences between a zone defense and a man-to-man defense. When we play zone, she chases another player around the court like she’s trying to catch a rabbit, and when we play man-to-man, she’s as immovable as a stone statue.

Four other players believe it is mandatory that they dribble the basketball with their right hand when they get it! I’m taking the air out of the basketball for practice! My guess is that most of them will still try to dribble it.

New ventures have their bumps and oops. No one is a natural basketball player. The fundamentals need to be understood and taught in order for the new player to see how the basics all fit together to make the student into a player.

The same principle could be applied to new believers in Jesus. No one on their own understands the grace of God, the cross of Christ, or the forgiveness of sin. To a new follower of Jesus there needs to be discipling, teaching, modeling, and coaching.

When I put a new basketball player on the court without instruction or guidance, chaos is likely to happen. They could be playing defense when we’re on offense, run with the ball instead of dribbling it, shoot at the wrong basket, throw to the wrong team, stand in the wrong place, decide to go to the restroom even though they are new of the players in the game. Weird things happen when new players try to function in a game they don’t quite understand yet.

New followers of Jesus can end up creating their own understanding of the gospel as a result of not being discipled in the true gospel. They may have done some watching of how people who say they are Christians act, what they do, and the words they say. In other words they may be able to learn the language of Christianity, the actions of the Christian faith, and the looks of the faith, but not understand the reason for the Christian faith. They might understand parts, but not the whole.

When you come to think about it, that was a problem that was evident in the early churches to which Paul wrote his epistles. The Galatians had their Judaizers who didn’t understand grace. The Corinthians…well, they had a lot of warts that they didn’t seem to see, resulting in a theology that was more warped than that old record album that was left too close to the fire. The Colossians needed some guidance on the divine nature of Jesus, and the Thessalonians needed some clarification on what happens to people who have died.

Newness needs shaping. I’d better say that, but better. Newness needs grace-filled shaping. There’s a new person who has been created through Jesus. Who they have been is being redefined by who they now are. In many ways, they are the same people, but they now have a new purpose, a new understanding of who they are and why they are.

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