What Makes This Day Different?

There are moments in history that pierce the soul of a nation. September 11, 2001, was one of those moments. We watched towers crumble, lives vanish, and an illusion of safety shatter in an instant. Yet, in those dark hours, something remarkable happened. We turned back to each other, and we turned back to God. The language of prayer filled the airwaves. Churches overflowed. Strangers became neighbors. We knew instinctively that relativism could not carry us. Feelings could not anchor us. There was only one foundation solid enough to stand on: the Word of God.

For a brief time, we remembered what mattered. Life was sacred, not because we said so, but because God said so. Good and evil were real, not cultural constructs but eternal truths. We stood united, not because our politics agreed, but because our souls recognized a higher authority. America’s heartbeat was steady because it beat in rhythm with something greater than itself.

But two decades have passed, and the drift has been unmistakable. We have turned from the Rock that held us together and wandered into the wilderness of self-worship. The authority of Scripture has been exchanged for the authority of feelings. The voice of God has been drowned out by the chorus of “what works for me.” We see people burning herbs and crystals, reaching for psychedelic experiences, and bowing to the supposed spiritual power of nature. It looks like peace, but it is hollow. It looks like freedom, but it binds the soul in chains.

The tragedy of yesterday—the violent murder of Charlie Kirk—shakes us again. It is a reminder that when a nation casts aside the moral anchors of God’s Word, chaos does not wait at the door; it floods in. Life loses its sacredness. Truth becomes negotiable. Violence becomes a language. We can mourn the loss, and we must. But we must also see the warning. This is what happens when a people forget the foundations that once steadied them.

The Psalmist asked, “If the foundations are destroyed, what can the righteous do?” (Psalm 11:3). That question is no less piercing today. We have a choice before us. We can continue chasing a spirituality of feelings, crystals, and fleeting comforts. We can keep worshiping at the altar of self. Or we can return. We can turn our eyes back to the God who does not change, to the Word that cannot be broken, to the cross where every false authority is silenced by the authority of Christ.

This is not a time for casual faith. This is not a time for sentimental spirituality. This is a time to stand on truth that will not move, even when towers fall and voices are silenced by violence. The remembrance of 9/11 calls us back to unity, but not just any unity—it calls us back to unity under God’s authority. The remembrance of Charlie Kirk’s death calls us to see the cost of abandoning that authority.

We are living in days where light and darkness are being exposed more clearly than ever. We are watching a nation choose between the Rock and the sand, between the eternal Word and the shifting winds of emotion. And the Spirit is still calling: Return. Repent. Remember.

The hope is not gone. The foundations may be shaken, but they are not destroyed. Christ is still the cornerstone. His Word is still living and active. His Spirit is still moving. But the call is urgent. Do not wait for another tragedy to awaken what you already know. Anchor yourself now. Stand firm now. Lift your eyes now.

September 11 reminds us of how fragile life is. Yesterday reminds us of how violent a world without God can become. But the cross of Jesus Christ reminds us of something greater—that death does not have the final word, that truth cannot be silenced, and that the kingdom of God is unshakable.

The time to choose is now. Will we be a people of feelings, or will we be a people of truth? Will we worship ourselves, or will we worship the living God? History will not forget our answer. Neither will heaven.

Born for This Season

There’s a soft ache in the air lately—the kind that comes at the edge of seasons. The days are getting shorter, the nights cooler. The garden that once danced with the brightness of summer is now slowly fading into stillness. And just outside my window, I’ve been watching the last of the monarch butterflies.

These aren’t the ones that flit briefly from bloom to bloom, mating and laying eggs and living short, brilliant lives. No, these are the late hatchers—the super generation. They’re born different. Built for endurance. Called to a harder path.

And in their quiet preparation, I see myself.

This year has carried a weight I didn’t expect. Things have changed—some subtly, some suddenly. Responsibilities shifted. Dreams were set down. Strength was tested. And if I’m honest, I don’t quite know what’s ahead. There’s a sadness in letting go of what once was—of a season that felt fuller, lighter. There’s grief in the passing of time, and uncertainty in the days to come.

“So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.”
— Psalm 90:12, ESV

But even in that sadness, I can’t help but be struck by the design of the monarch.

These late-season butterflies don’t live for a few short weeks like their summer sisters. They live for up to eight months—and not to stay still. They travel up to 3,000 miles to overwinter in Mexico, in forests they’ve never seen, drawn only by instinct and God’s design. Their wings are thicker. Their bodies are heavier. Their purpose is different—not lesser, not greater, just uniquely theirs.

And maybe so is mine.

“But as it is, God arranged the members in the body, each one of them, as he chose.”
— 1 Corinthians 12:18, ESV

We, too, are designed with purpose. Some of us were made for quick seasons of bloom. Others—like the late butterflies—are shaped by God for endurance. For the long path. For carrying on when others have gone before. For sustaining life through spiritual winter. For laying foundations future generations will build on.

And that takes strength. Not the kind born of ease—but the kind born of struggle.

“Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope.”
— Romans 5:3–4, ESV

I don’t feel strong every day. Maybe you don’t either. Maybe you’re weary from holding so much for so long. Maybe this year hasn’t been what you hoped it would be. Maybe you’re grieving what summer represented—joy, connection, a season that now feels lost in time.

But maybe… like the monarch… you were born for the long flight.

“Have you not known? Have you not heard?
The Lord is the everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He does not faint or grow weary;
his understanding is unsearchable.
He gives power to the faint,
and to him who has no might he increases strength.”
— Isaiah 40:28–29, ESV

The monarch doesn’t compare itself to the earlier butterflies. It doesn’t wish for a shorter, easier life. It simply flies—because it was made to.

I want to live like that.

Let me gather strength where I can. Let me feast on the goodness of God now, while the blooms remain. Let me rest in His presence before the journey ahead. And when it’s time, let me rise—wing by wing—into whatever comes next, trusting that He who designed me knows the way.

“Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith…”
— Hebrews 12:1–2a, ESV

Even as summer fades, even when the path is unknown, I will trust in the One who formed me for this season.

I am not behind.
I am not forgotten.
I am not weak.

I am simply one of the last butterflies—
and I was born for the long flight.

Keep Moving

 The hot days of summer are here again—my favorite time of year. The sun warms everything it touches, the days stretch long and bright, and the water… oh, the water becomes a place of healing, movement, and strength.

Most evenings, you’ll find me in the pool—not just floating lazily (although there’s joy in that too), but stretching, strengthening, moving in ways my body often resists on land. The water holds me up. It softens the impact, cushions the pressure, and gently allows movement where there might otherwise be pain.

And in this rhythm—slow motion beneath the surface, sunlight overhead—I’m reminded of something vital:
I need to keep moving.

“She dresses herself with strength and makes her arms strong.”
— Proverbs 31:17, ESV

Muscles, when unused, grow stiff. Weak. Brittle. And the same is true for our faith, our emotions, and our spiritual endurance. When hardship, fatigue, or aging tempt us to stay still—to retreat from the discomfort of movement—our strength quietly slips away. But when we move with grace, especially in the right environment, our strength is preserved. Even restored.

And for me, that environment has been the pool.

In the water, I can stretch longer, lift more gently, and build endurance without harming my joints. The resistance is real, but so is the support. The water itself becomes a partner in the process. It lifts where gravity pulls. It steadies where balance wavers. It creates space for growth where there would otherwise be pain.

Isn’t that exactly how God works?

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you…”
— Isaiah 43:1–2a, ESV

There are seasons where the Lord places us in environments that allow us to keep moving, even when we feel fragile. He surrounds us with support—through community, creation, His Word, and His presence. Like water, He creates space for movement without harm. He doesn’t demand sprinting, but He invites steady motion.

Keep moving, daughter of God.
Even if it’s slow.
Even if it’s small.
Even if it looks different from how you moved before.

“In him we live and move and have our being…”
— Acts 17:28a, ESV

This summer has reminded me that movement is a form of worship. Stretching these arms, lifting these legs, breathing deeply beneath the sun—it’s all a declaration: I am still alive. I am still able. I am still pressing forward.

Yes, there are seasons for rest and stillness. But there are also seasons where God gently whispers,
“Strengthen what remains” (Revelation 3:2).
Seasons when the water is His grace, and our movement—however quiet—is obedience.

So I’ll keep moving in the water.
I’ll keep stretching what’s tight.
I’ll keep building what’s weak.
I’ll keep honoring this body and this soul that He gave me.

And I’ll trust that in every small motion, He’s meeting me there.
Supporting me. Strengthening me.
And preparing me for whatever comes next.