I simply can’t look into the heavens on a crisp starry night and somehow bring myself to believe that the gaping expanse that engulfs the whole of me is the product of chance happenstance. And neither can I believe that the gaping expanse that rests within me is anything less.

If I think that what I need are the things that my hands craft, I will miss the fact that what I need are the hands of the God who crafted me.

Timeless principles never age, and truth is as young as the day it was spoken into existence.

Too often, my vision stops at what I’ve become rather than what I was created to be.

Hope is not some thin thing that is subject to the winds of fate, but it is crafted hard by the hands of God.

Who in the world would walk into the very things that we created in order to save us from what we created by dying right in the middle of what we created? God did it by creating something called Christmas.

Why is it that none of the things I construct ever make me feel safe? The answer lies in the fact that safety can’t be created. It can only be found. And the only thing I've found that’s never been created is God.

Nearly everyday life leans over and says, ‘Come on down!’ But standing at the bottom looking up, it’s finally dawned on me that it’s not these invitations that have dug this hole. Rather, it’s the fact that I accepted them.

When I read the ghastly lines of tragedy darkly penned into my life, I turn and notice that the pen in my hand is wet.