Tomorrow morning marks one year since Bruce stepped off a train and our world cracked open. It was an ordinary morning—until it wasn’t. One step, one moment, and suddenly life divided itself into before and after. There was no warning, no time to brace ourselves. Just the shattering realization that everything we assumed was solid could change in an instant. As this anniversary approaches, I find myself a kaleidoscope of emotions. Gratitude and grief collide. Fear lingers beside relief. There is thankfulness that Bruce is still here, and there is mourning for the parts of life that will never return to what they were. Both are true. Both exist at the same time. Faith does not erase this tension. It doesn’t numb the ache or tidy it into something easily explained. Instead, faith gives me a place to stand inside it. “The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge.” —Psalm 18:2 When everything else shifted, God did not. When the ground beneath our feet felt unstable, He remained solid. I didn’t always feel brave. I didn’t always feel hopeful. But I clung to the truth that my footing was never meant to be in outcomes, diagnoses, or plans—it was always meant to be in Him. This past year has taught me that strength is often quieter than we imagine. It looks less like courage and more like endurance. Less like confidence and more like showing up again, even when you are exhausted. There were days when strength felt completely out of reach—when prayer sounded more like silence and faith felt thinner than I was comfortable admitting. And yet, God never asked me to manufacture strength. “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” —Isaiah 41:10 I didn’t hold everything together this year—God did. He upheld us in hospital rooms and waiting areas, in long nights and fragile mornings, in the slow and often unseen work of healing. His presence didn’t remove the fear, but it met us inside it. His strength didn’t always feel dramatic, but it was faithful. One year later, I am still learning how to live in this altered landscape. I am learning that trusting God doesn’t mean I stop grieving. It means I grieve with my hands open instead of clenched. It means I return, again and again, to the Rock when the memories rush in and the “what ifs” grow loud. Tomorrow will come, heavy with remembrance. And when it does, I will not pretend it is easy. I will simply remember where my refuge is. Not in what was. Not in what might have been. But in the God who has not let go—then or now.
As I watch the daily news and scroll through social media, I am struck by how quickly we decide which lives are worth honoring and which stories deserve to be celebrated. Headlines elevate certain individuals as heroes, while comment sections fill with praise, outrage, and carefully curated memories. In these moments of cultural upheaval, I find myself asking a necessary question: By what standard are we measuring a life well lived?
Our culture has no shortage of voices willing to define virtue, identity, and legacy. Social media investment often glorifies visibility over faithfulness, defiance over obedience, and self-expression over responsibility. A life is remembered not by the fruit it produced, but by the attention it commanded.
Yet as believers, we are called to a different standard.
Scripture reminds us that God does not measure as the world measures. He looks not at what is celebrated publicly, but at what is cultivated faithfully. The Bible offers us examples—not of perfect people—but of lives aligned with God’s design, lives that strengthened families, served communities, and quietly reflected His character.
One such life is that of Dorcas, also known as Tabitha.
When we ask where our standards come from, Scripture does not leave us without an answer. Rather than pointing us to public recognition or cultural approval, God directs our attention to lives marked by faithfulness, obedience, and service—often unseen by the world but deeply known by Him.
One such life is found in Acts 9:36–42, in the account of a woman named Dorcas, also called Tabitha. Her story does not begin with controversy or public acclaim, but with a simple description: “This woman was full of good works and charitable deeds which she did.” In a time and culture where women were rarely elevated, God ensured her life was recorded—not because she demanded to be seen, but because her faith was evident in how she lived.
Dorcas provides us with a biblical lens through which to examine both our own lives and the lives our culture so quickly chooses to celebrate.
Though her name does not appear in 1 Timothy 5, her life beautifully embodies the kind of woman the apostle Paul later describes: a woman known for good works, compassion, faithfulness, and devotion to others.
Dorcas lived during a time when women held limited social power, yet her influence was unmistakable. She was not remembered for her opinions, activism, or resistance to authority, but for the garments she made and the lives she touched. Her faith was lived out quietly, consistently, and sacrificially.
When she died, the widows gathered around Peter, not with arguments or demands, but with evidence—a testimony of love stitched into fabric. God responded by restoring her life, affirming the value of a woman who lived within His design and for His glory.
In 1 Timothy 5:9–10, Paul outlines the qualities of a godly woman worthy of honor:
Well reported of for good works; if she has brought up children, if she has lodged strangers, if she has washed the saints’ feet, if she has relieved the afflicted, if she has diligently followed every good work.
Dorcas exemplified these qualities. She understood her place within her community—not as someone seeking control or recognition, but as a servant whose life reflected obedience to God. Her identity was not self-defined but God-given. She embraced responsibility rather than resisting it, and her community was strengthened because of it.
In contrast, our modern culture increasingly encourages women to redefine themselves apart from God’s Word. Identity is often rooted in personal desire, sexual orientation, or self-expression rather than in submission to God’s design. When this happens, the natural roles God established—family, community, and lawful authority—are frequently viewed as obstacles rather than blessings.
Scripture teaches that God is a God of order, not confusion (1 Corinthians 14:33). When a woman misunderstands her place within community, she may trade service for strife, responsibility for rebellion, and obedience for self-rule. Instead of using appropriate, lawful avenues to express dissatisfaction, there can be a temptation to take matters into one’s own hands—leading to division, recklessness, and harm to both self and others.
Romans 13 reminds us that governing authorities are established by God for protection, not oppression. When authority is rejected outright, the result is rarely justice—it is disorder.
Perhaps the greatest cost of abandoning God’s design is borne by children. When a mother no longer models biblical standards, her children lose the opportunity to witness faith lived out in trust, humility, and obedience. Instead of seeing God at work through patience and perseverance, they are exposed to unrest and instability.
Dorcas left behind a legacy that caused her community to grieve and God to be glorified. A life lived outside of God’s design leaves confusion instead of clarity, brokenness instead of peace, and questions instead of faith for the next generation.
The life of Dorcas reminds us that God honors obedience, even when the world does not. A woman who embraces God’s design—who serves her family, strengthens her community, and submits her identity to Christ—becomes a living testimony of the gospel.
In a culture that celebrates rebellion and self-definition, Dorcas stands as a quiet but powerful example. Her life calls us back to the truth that identity is not something we create for ourselves, but something we receive from God.
As the world continues to argue over whose life should be honored and whose story should be amplified, believers must return to the unchanging standard of God’s Word. Scripture does not measure a life by visibility, defiance, or self-defined identity, but by faithfulness, obedience, and the fruit left behind in others.
Dorcas reminds us that a life surrendered to God may never trend on social media, yet it echoes into eternity. Her legacy was not built on protest or personal assertion, but on quiet obedience and love rightly ordered under God’s design. In a culture eager to redefine worth, may we resist the pull of popular opinion and instead ask the harder, holier question: Does this life reflect the character and design of God?
That is the standard worth returning to—and the one by which every life will ultimately be remembered.
This season of life—stepping away from the workforce and navigating the uncertainties of long-term disability—has reminded me of how difficult it is to trust God when my expectations don’t match what is happening. I want things resolved quickly. I want clear answers. I want to fix what feels broken. Yet, the more I wrestle with it, the more I see that God is not asking me to scheme my way into security. He is asking me to trust Him.
From the very beginning, people have tried to find their own solutions apart from God. In Genesis 3, Adam and Eve reached for knowledge outside of God’s design. In Genesis 6, the people of Noah’s time lived only for themselves, ignoring God’s holiness. In Genesis 11, humanity tried to build a tower to reach heaven on their own terms. Every attempt failed—not because the desire for wisdom, safety, or unity was wrong—but because they were trying to get it without God.
We often fall into the same trap.
We work longer hours thinking if we just push a little harder, we can control the outcome. But Christ calls us to rest, not in idleness, but in His finished work. He reminds us that “apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:5).
We devise alternatives and back-up plans, convinced that God might forget us or fail us. Yet Colossians 1:16–17 reminds us that in Him all things hold together. He doesn’t need a back-up plan—He already is the plan.
Some even turn to chance, like the lottery, hoping a windfall will solve financial struggles. But God doesn’t work by luck or randomness. Romans 5:6–11 tells us His love is certain, demonstrated in Christ dying for us while we were still weak. Nothing is more sure than that.
Isaiah 40:21–26 declares that the same God who calls every star by name is the God who holds our lives. Psalm 90 reminds us that before the mountains were formed, from everlasting to everlasting, He is God. Christ Himself is the eternal anchor when our expectations fall apart.
And here is the wonder: God doesn’t just hold the universe together in raw power—He holds us in perfect love. “God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him” (1 John 4:16). His answer to our need was not a temporary fix, but His own Son.
Our schemes are exhausting. God’s way is life-giving. Our plans are temporary. God’s way is eternal.
Galatians 3:7–9 reminds us that true blessing comes by faith, just as Abraham believed God and it was counted to him as righteousness. In the same way, our hope today is not in the systems of this world, but in Christ who has already secured our future.
So when I feel tempted to overwork, to scramble for my own solutions, or to trust in chance, I remember: God has already provided the ultimate solution in Christ. If He has solved my greatest need—my salvation—I can trust Him to meet every other need in His way and in His time.
God does not want my frantic schemes. He wants my trust. And in the end, that trust is never misplaced, because He alone is faithful.
When we consider the truth that we are made in the image of God, we often go wrong in two directions. Some think too highly of themselves, acting as if they are God. Others think too little of themselves, treating life and their own worth with little respect. Yet both errors miss the heart of the matter: being created in the image of God is a gift of grace.
God did not need to create humanity. He chose to. Out of love, He gave us the dignity of bearing His image.
“Then God said, ‘Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over the livestock and over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.’ So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.” (Genesis 1:26–27, ESV)
Genesis 3 explains both our purpose and our struggle—why we are here and why we so often miss it.
The reality is that every human being—no matter age, appearance, ability, or social standing—is equally made in God’s image. This was not a gift given to some but denied to others. It is universal. It is not based on achievement, status, wealth, intelligence, or physical ability. If you are human, you bear the image of God.
“With it we bless our Lord and Father, and with it we curse people who are made in the likeness of God.” (James 3:9, ESV)
This truth should radically shape the way we view people. Children, unborn, the elderly, those born with disabilities, those from different cultures and backgrounds—all stand on equal ground in dignity and worth. There is no hierarchy here. There is no superiority. We are one human race, united by the Creator’s lavish gift.
“The rich and the poor meet together; the LORD is the Maker of them all.” (Proverbs 22:2, ESV)
Though we are not God, He gave us purpose. In Genesis, Adam and Eve were tasked with work—stewarding creation, bringing order, and living fruitfully within the framework God provided.
“The LORD God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to work it and keep it.” (Genesis 2:15, ESV)
We were never meant to sit back passively; we were given direction and patterns to follow. But we are not creators in the same sense as God. Only He creates from nothing. We are sub-creators, shaping and forming what God has already given. This both confirms our role in creation and reminds us of our limitations: we are dependent creatures, reflections of His glory, not the source of it.
I was reminded of this truth through our experience with a Luau. While visiting Hawaii, we had hoped to attend one of these cultural events—an evening filled with flowers, music, dance, and fire. Yet, the first event was cancelled because of a storm, and we never had the chance to experience it there.
But now, close to home, we’ve been given another opportunity. We will get to enjoy the beauty of this celebration—not in the islands where it began, but on the mainland. And as I think about it, that reflects something deeper.
The weaving of flowers into garlands, the rhythm of music, the movement of dance, the wonder of fire—all of it testifies to the creativity of human hands and minds. But every part of it still depends on God. The flowers, the fire, the human body itself—all are raw materials He has given. We do not create out of nothing. We shape, arrange, and craft from what the Creator has already supplied.
Even in the disappointment of the storm in Hawaii, God has given us another chance to enjoy the beauty of human creativity closer to home. And perhaps that is the point—whether in Hawaii or in our own community, the beauty isn’t ultimately about the location, but about the reflection of God’s image in human creativity. We create because He first created.
“For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him be glory forever. Amen.” (Romans 11:36, ESV)
In many ways, this reflection also connects to the celebration of our marriage. Just as the Luau is filled with music, flowers, and dance, our wedding was filled with beauty, laughter, and community. Marriage itself is one of God’s first gifts to humanity — a covenant relationship that reflects His image in a unique way.
“Therefore a man shall leave his father and his mother and hold fast to his wife, and they shall become one flesh.” (Genesis 2:24, ESV)
The joy we shared that night was not something we created out of nothing — it was the weaving together of God’s good gifts: love, companionship, family, and the blessing of shared life. Just like the Luau, our celebration reflected the truth that we create beauty only because God first created and gave.
C. S. Lewis, in The Abolition of Man, warns of the danger when a small group of people claim the authority to define what “improvement” means for humanity. What one culture calls progress, another might not. When we forget our dependence on the Creator, we risk reshaping humanity according to narrow, shifting standards—losing sight of the good of all people.
Instead, our creativity and progress must remain in submission to God, the true source of meaning and goodness.
“Know that the LORD, he is God! It is he who made us, and we are his; we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture.” (Psalm 100:3, ESV)
If we are made in the image of God, then we are not God. We derive our purpose from Him, not from ourselves.
C. S. Lewis captures this balance beautifully in Prince Caspian:
“You come of the Lord Adam and the Lady Eve, said Aslan. And that is both honor enough to erect the head of the poorest beggar, and shame enough to bow the shoulders of the greatest emperor on earth. Be content.”
To be human is both a staggering honor and a sobering humility. We are not the rulers of the universe, yet we alone bear the privilege of being made in God’s image.
“What is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him? Yet you have made him a little lower than the heavenly beings and crowned him with glory and honor. You have given him dominion over the works of your hands; you have put all things under his feet.” (Psalm 8:4–6, ESV)
As I reflect on the gift of being made in God’s image, on the beauty of human creativity, and on the joy of celebrating our marriage, my heart overflows with gratitude. Every song, every dance, every shared smile and hand held is a reminder that God has entrusted us with the privilege of co-creating His beauty in the world. Life may bring storms that cancel plans or shift our expectations, but His grace remains, allowing us to see, celebrate, and participate in His good design in ways that fill our hearts with wonder and love. Truly, every moment of creativity, connection, and celebration is a reflection of the Creator who made us for relationship, joy, and purpose.
Christina’s Carpet Bag 
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