Some thoughts don’t need a stage. They need a lamp, a quiet room, and a brave heart. This is one of those. Not a scolding—more like a mirror held gently, where you can see what’s true without flinching. Because if we’re honest, the hardest battles usually aren’t out there somewhere. They’re right here… in what we choose, what we delay, what we excuse, and what we call “not a big deal.”
Isn’t it strange how a small thing can suddenly feel enormous when it’s offered to God… yet the same thing feels light as dust when it’s spent on ourselves? A C-note. An hour. A moment. It’s not really about money, and it’s not really about time. It’s about weight—what has weight in our hearts, what we treat as sacred, and what we treat as optional.
And time… time is a quiet revealer. It tells the truth without raising its voice. An hour serving God can look huge from a distance, like something we need to gear up for. Yet that same hour disappears easily when it’s poured into entertainment, scrolling, sports, errands, and a hundred other “little nothings” that add up to a whole life. We don’t usually decide to drift. We just stop deciding to anchor.
Sometimes I think the enemy doesn’t have to convince us to turn our back on God. He only has to convince us to postpone Him. Just keep Him near enough to respect, but not near enough to rearrange anything. Keep Him as an idea, not a priority. And before we know it, we’re living with a strange kind of spiritual math: we believe a thousand things are urgent, and we treat the Eternal as though He can always be fit in later.
Scripture doesn’t call us to a faith that lives on leftovers. God calls us to be surrendered. And it’s not because He’s trying to take from us—it’s because He’s trying to restore us. The call is not merely to attend, but to abide. Not merely to hear, but to obey. Not merely to know about Him, but to be shaped by Him.
And the deeper irony is that we can become experts at religious motion while still resisting holy attention. We can sing loud and listen little. We can sit near promises and stay far from trust. We can pray in a way that keeps things general, because specifics might require change. We can say we want God’s direction, but only if it doesn’t interrupt the route we already chose.
Isn’t It Strange
A bill feels heavier
when lifted toward heaven
than when slid across a counter.
Time stretches
when offered upward,
but folds itself small
inside glowing rooms
and moving screens.
We measure devotion
with stopwatches
and call it sacrifice,
yet hours vanish
without protest
when pleasure asks.
Sacred words ask for patience.
Headlines demand none.
One is weighed,
the other swallowed whole.
We lean forward
for noise and spectacle,
and backward
when silence asks us
to listen.
Calendars fill themselves
with urgency,
but holiness waits
for an opening
that rarely comes on time.
We trust strangers
with directions home,
yet hesitate
when God asks
for the wheel.
Our prayers arrive thin,
out of breath,
while our conversations
wander freely
without restraint.
We stand on promises
only long enough
to sing them,
then sit down quickly
when belief requires balance.
We ask for mercy
with open hands
and measure justice
with clenched fists.
When sorrow comes,
we look upward.
When joy arrives,
we look inward.
And somewhere
between blame and blessing,
between singing and listening,
between today and eternity,
a question lingers—
not loud,
not mocking,
just honest:
Isn’t it strange
how easily we forget
what we say
we love most?
The goal here isn’t shame. It’s awakening. Because that question—“What do I truly love most?”—isn’t meant to condemn you. It’s meant to call you back. God isn’t standing far off with crossed arms; He’s near, steady, and patient, inviting you into something better than hurried religion: a life where your heart isn’t split into compartments.
And maybe the real shift isn’t adding more spiritual activity to an already crowded life. Maybe it’s choosing presence—learning to meet God on purpose in ordinary moments, and letting small obediences reshape the direction of your days. That’s how minutes get redeemed. That’s how drift gets interrupted. Not by grand speeches, but by quiet, repeated choices to stop postponing the One who has already been faithful to you.
Prayer:
Heavenly Father, I don’t want to love You in theory while my life is shaped by everything else. Please wake me up gently and fully. Show me where my time, my attention, and my choices have drifted, and draw me back without fear. Put a new steadiness in me—one that seeks Your Word, loves Your presence, and chooses what is eternal even when it’s quiet. Teach me to rejoice in obedience, to rest without escaping, and to live like Your kingdom is real today. In Jesus’ name, amen.
If this Fireside Chat warmed your spirit and sparked fresh resolve to live what you believe, fan that flame with Scripture—“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly” (Colossians 3:16). Pull a little closer to the Light, and carry it into the week ahead.
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Star for the Journey 
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