We argue with ourselves more than we realize. About whether we matter. About whether we’re enough. About whether we’ve already fallen too far behind to be worth much at all. But what if the voice you’ve trusted most about your value is the one that’s been wrong?

I’ve never been accused of being high-maintenance. I don’t care how the dishwasher gets loaded, my shoes aren’t arranged by color, and my toothbrush doesn’t need to be facing north on the counter. I’m usually pretty laid back about things. But every once in a while something catches my attention and won’t let go. A simple question about prayer did that to me, and it forced me to rethink what prayer was ever meant to be in the first place.

I have a small problem.

Actually, it’s not small. It’s just very well disguised as “being helpful.”

You know that feeling when someone shares a struggle and before they finish the sentence, your brain has already built a three step improvement plan, a backup strategy, and a color coded chart?

Yes. That.

Turns out constantly trying to fix everything might not be the same thing as loving well. I’ve been learning that the hard way.

If you’ve ever felt responsible for everyone’s problems, this one might feel uncomfortably familiar.

Full reflection over on Ashes & Ink.

The forge is rarely gentle, and almost never convenient. Yet Scripture speaks of fire not as destruction, but as refinement. This piece reflects on what rises in the heat, why it rises when it does, and what courage looks like when we stop running from the fire.

Grief does not always arrive with death. Sometimes it comes through quieter losses that never receive a name or a moment of honor. This reflection explores grief as sacred ground, not something to escape, but something that reveals what mattered and invites us to walk more deeply into life.

We are wired to get away from pain as quickly as possible. We numb it. We manage it. We pray for it to go away. But what if escaping is the very thing that keeps us stuck. What if healing begins not with relief, but with the courage to stay.

I’m a grandfather now, and watching my grandson has been unexpectedly revealing. He experiences joy, fear, and frustration without filters… reaching instinctively for comfort when the world feels overwhelming. Somewhere along the way, many of us learned to stop doing that. This reflection explores what Jesus may have meant when He called us to become like children again.

I want intimacy with Christ. Not just faith or faithfulness, but nearness.

And still, I often feel clumsy in it. Prayer wanders. Silence refuses to settle. I wonder why closeness feels so elusive.

Lately, I have been considering the possibility that intimacy is not earned, but received. Gently. Over time. Daily.

Most of what I have learned in life has come from the ashes. From moments of regret, failure, and loss, and from the slow work of grace that follows. Ashes to Ink begins with a childhood encounter with fire and traces the long and imperfect way I have learned to pay attention to what God may be doing with what remains.