These Human Bodies: Just Passing Through

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"Animula, vagula, blandula
Hospes comesque corporis
Quae nunc abibis in loca
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis iocos.

Little soul, you charming little wanderer, my body’s guest and partner,
Where are you off to now?
Somewhere without colour, savage and bare;
Never again to share a joke.”

Friday, October 16, 2026.

It’s around 4:30 in the morning, and I’ve been awake all night.

Again.

My neck hurts. My back hurts. My body is stiff, and I’m exhausted. For months now, I’ve been dealing with pain that has affected practically every aspect of my life. My ability to work, sleep, move around, concentrate, and sometimes even think clearly.

And then there’s the dizziness.

I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to explain what I’m feeling to somebody. Sometimes I don’t even know how to explain it to myself.

My father was getting ready for work, and I asked him if he could help me with my back. He still had about an hour and a half before he needed to be there, and his workplace was only about five minutes away.

But he wanted to have his coffee and get to a particular area of work before it was closed off.

He declined.

I was hurt by that.

Here I am, his son, in pain, asking for a little help. And in my mind, coffee and getting to work early shouldn’t have taken priority over somebody who’s suffering right in front of you.

I told him how I felt.

I thought about my mother. I thought about how she would have responded. I thought about how I would respond if somebody I loved were asking me for help.

But then I had to consider something else.

My father is human.

He’s not me. He doesn’t think exactly the way I think, and he doesn’t always recognize a situation the way I do. Sometimes he realizes afterward that he could have handled something differently.

And I’m not perfect either.

I can spend the rest of the day holding on to my disappointment, or I can acknowledge what happened, forgive him, and move forward.

Around nine that morning, I finally left for Corpus Christi. I’d been awake for hours, hurting, and I had appointments ahead of me.

Before continuing, I stopped at my father’s workplace.

I apologized. I forgave him. We hugged.

That mattered to me.

I didn’t want to carry that resentment around all day, especially when I already had enough weighing on me.

Looking back, that was probably one of the first lessons of the day.

Not everything needs to become a battle.

Sometimes we can acknowledge that something hurt us without continuing to fight it long after the moment has passed.

We can forgive.

And we can keep moving.

Trying to Get Better

I arrived at the clinic about thirty minutes early for my ten o’clock appointment.

I was scared.

I was hopeful.

I was desperate for some relief.

My neck, back, and head had been giving me so much trouble. The stiffness, the limited mobility, the dizziness, the strange sensations. There were moments when I wondered what was happening inside my body and whether I would ever feel normal again.

While I was there, I went into the restroom and called the medical coordinator at my new attorneys’ office who had been helping arrange my treatment.

I started crying.

I told her what I’d been going through. I expressed my gratitude for what she was doing, but I also let out a lot of the fear, frustration, and emotion I’d been carrying.

I needed somebody to hear me.

After the call, I gathered myself and returned to the lobby.

When I finally saw the doctor, he listened.

He consoled me and told me he would do his best to help me. Counseling was offered, and I accepted.

I don’t think people always understand what prolonged physical pain can do to a person’s mind and spirit.

It’s not just the discomfort.

It’s the uncertainty. The interrupted sleep. The loss of independence. The financial consequences. The fear of doing something that might make the pain worse.

It’s waking up and wondering what kind of day your body is going to allow you to have.

The doctor worked on me with deep muscle compressions and spinal adjustments.

At first, I didn’t notice much.

But afterward, as the day continued, I began feeling little changes.

Some areas started releasing. I felt popping and crackling. Parts of my neck and back seemed to move more freely. The pain in my head, neck, and back began easing somewhat.

The dizziness was still there.

But something felt different.

And after everything I’d been experiencing, even a small improvement meant a great deal to me.

There was also the matter of medication and pain management. More help was being considered, but I couldn’t see the pain-management physician until my imaging results were available.

So I had to keep moving through the day.

Another Stop, Another Frustration

My new attorneys had been trying to obtain my case file from my previous attorneys, but they weren’t getting anywhere.

Calls weren’t being answered.

I called the former firm’s San Antonio office myself. They tried reaching my former attorney and case manager, but neither was supposedly available.

So I went to the office in person.

I rang the doorbell.

And who answered?

My former attorney and case manager.

They looked surprised to see me.

I was told that my file had been mailed to me and to my new attorneys. But I left without obtaining it.

The whole situation felt questionable to me, especially considering the difficulty everyone had been having trying to get a response.

I relayed what happened to my new attorneys.

Another situation I couldn’t immediately resolve.

Another thing I could have spent the entire day obsessing over.

But I still had an MRI appointment ahead of me, and I needed to eat.

I stopped at El Gavilan Pollero for some chicken and continued with my day.

A Little Encouragement Goes a Long Way

At some point, I reached out to two brothers in Christ, Benjamin and Hunter.

I needed encouragement.

Sometimes you don’t need somebody to solve your problems. You don’t need a long speech or an elaborate explanation.

You just need somebody to remind you that you’re not alone.

Benjamin responded first, and his words helped.

That simple human connection made a difference.

I continued to notice small improvements in my neck and back throughout the day.

I was originally expecting imaging of several areas, but only two were imaged. The doctor was taking a more conservative approach.

Of course, part of me wanted everything examined immediately. I wanted answers. I wanted somebody to tell me exactly what was happening and what needed to be done.

But I was also grateful that the process was moving forward.

I hoped the MRI would reveal something useful.

I hoped it would help the doctors understand what I was experiencing.

And I hoped we were getting closer to a solution.

I also received a much-needed massage that day.

My body had been holding so much tension for so long that I was trying to give it whatever reasonable opportunity I could to relax.

Eventually, I picked up some fast food for my loved ones and headed their way.

No Boat. No Helicopter.

Throughout all of this, I’ve been thinking a great deal about God.

I’ve been praying, studying Scripture, and trying to understand what it really means to have faith.

And one question kept coming back to me.

Am I putting my faith in God, or am I putting my faith in the things I hope God will use to help me?

I thought about medication.

I thought about treatment.

I thought about healing.

And I prayed about whether I should take medicine or simply trust God to heal me.

I kept returning to this thought:

No boat. No helicopter. No pills. Just Him.

That was how I was expressing my desire for a direct relationship with God, rather than making the things around me the foundation of my faith.

As of Saturday afternoon, I hadn’t taken the medicine.

That’s where I was in my personal struggle with the question. I’m still learning how to distinguish trusting God from trying to dictate how He should help me. Treatment and medication aren’t necessarily in opposition to faith, and I know that accepting help can be part of moving forward.

But I was asking myself something deeper.

If everything I was relying on disappeared, would I still trust Him?

Would I still believe?

Would I still turn to Him?

I don’t want my relationship with God to depend entirely on whether I’m comfortable, whether I’m healed tomorrow, or whether life is going the way I want.

I want to know Him.

Not just His blessings.

Him.

And throughout the day, as I noticed those small changes in my body, I kept thanking Him.

God was working.

God is working.

I don’t know exactly what tomorrow will bring, and I don’t have all the answers about my condition.

But I can recognize the little moments of relief and be grateful for them.

Music, Home, and Finally Some Sleep

I also shared an original song I’d written to exalt God with my friend Chris.

Chris is like a brother to me.

He liked what he heard and wanted to be involved.

The song was already written, but I welcomed the possibility of him putting his own touch on it, remixing it, or contributing creatively.

I’m hoping to record it soon as part of my music project, My Human Xperiment, at MyHumanXperiment.com.

Music has always been one of the ways I express what I’m experiencing.

And lately, with everything that’s happened, I’ve been finding more reasons to direct that creativity toward God.

By the time I finally made it home, it was around 10:30 at night.

I shared the encouraging news about my treatment and the little improvements I’d been experiencing with my father.

He helped me with my back for a few minutes.

And then I went to lie down.

I fell asleep almost immediately.

At one point, I woke up long enough to send a text, but I couldn’t even stay awake waiting for a response.

I was that exhausted.

Saturday morning, I began waking up around 4:30.

Then 5:30.

Then 6:30.

It seemed like I was waking up every hour.

Eventually, I managed to sleep more solidly.

After months of interrupted sleep and physical suffering, I needed every bit of rest I could get.

Saturday, October 17

By about 1:30 in the afternoon, I was still drained.

I’m in bed.

Less dizzy. Aches and pains minimal.

But I’m so drained.

Like life kicked my ass.

I’m in my mother’s bed.

I haven’t stopped sleeping or returning to it for rest.

I’ve received positive words from both Benjamin and Hunter, and I’m grateful for that.

I’m not suddenly healed. I’m not full of energy. I’m not ready to jump up and conquer the world.

I’m tired.

And I need to rest.

Maybe I’ll do a little light stretching. Maybe I’ll spend some time studying the Bible or working on my online Bible college lessons. Maybe I’ll write some music.

I’m also thinking about possibly attending church on Sunday and getting another massage.

But I’m not going to force myself to do everything.

For once, maybe resting is exactly what I need to do.

And being here in my mother’s bed brings something else to mind.

She’s gone.

That reminder just pops up.

But it’s also a reminder that she’s fine.

Well, from what I recently learned.

My Mother’s Room

I’ve been spending a lot of time in my mother’s room.

This is the last place I saw her alive.

This is where I tried to save her.

This is where I witnessed moments surrounding her death that, to me, felt like I was seeing something behind the veil of this physical world.

You would think that being in this room, lying in this bed, might make me uncomfortable.

But it doesn’t.

She’s my mother.

I loved her.

I still love her.

And this room carries a part of her memory.

Of course, there’s sadness.

There are things that happened here that I will never forget.

But there’s also something about being here that makes me reflect on life, death, and what happens after we leave these bodies.

I’ve been attending Bible college online and have learned some very important information that I needed to acquire.

Of course, I’m piecing that information together with the information I already possess.

One of the greatest concerns I’ve carried isn’t even about my own eternal destination.

It’s about my mother.

Where has she gone?

Will I see her again?

Is she fine?

When you love somebody, you worry more about them than yourself.

And with what I’ve recently learned, I’ve been able to find comfort in my understanding of God’s promises.

That she’s fine.

That I’ll see her again.

I can’t physically reach over and speak to her the way I once could.

I can’t bring her back into this room.

But I can love her, remember her, and continue seeking God.

And that brings me to something I’ve been thinking about.

These human bodies.

What exactly are they?

And who are we inside them?

These Human Bodies

We are a spirit having a human experience.

The spirit, or soul if you prefer, is eternal.

Where we spend that eternity is ultimately on us.

Our choice.

The body is a motel. We’re here temporarily.

It dies.

And once it does, we are either instantly with God or the not-so-savory place.

H-E-L-L.

Where we stand with God at the moment we die determines our immediate eternal destination.

And I've been thinking about an interesting way to explain that.

It's almost like writing something on a computer.

With Windows, traditionally, you write something and then press Save.

On a MacBook, many applications automatically save your work as you go.

Now, of course, a MacBook can also have an undo feature or version history. You can go back and change things while you're still working.

But imagine that automatic saving with one final, irreversible cutoff.

That's how I picture our time here.

We're writing our lives as we go.

Making decisions.

Choosing what we believe.

Choosing how we live.

And as long as we're here, there's still time to make changes.

But when we die, that's it.

The document closes.

Whatever was written at that moment becomes the final version.

There's no reopening it to make corrections.

No going back to delete something.

No undo.

It's written.

Our time in this body is over, and where we stood with God at that moment determines our eternal fate.

Heaven or hell.

That's why what we choose while we're here matters so much.

We check into these bodies.

We occupy the room.

We experience whatever comes with that particular accommodation.

Some rooms are comfortable. Others have problems. Things wear out. Things break. Repairs become necessary.

Sometimes we spend an enormous amount of time trying to get the room functioning properly.

I can certainly relate to that right now.

But regardless of how wonderful or difficult our stay becomes, one thing remains true.

We aren’t staying forever.

At some point, we check out.

And whatever happens to the physical body, I believe the spirit continues.

That’s why Hadrian’s poem struck me.

He’s speaking to that little wandering soul, the guest and companion of the body, wondering where it will go when it leaves.

The body and the soul have shared this experience together.

But the stay comes to an end.

And that raises the question that matters far more to me than how comfortable the motel room is.

Where do we go afterward?

The Eternal Part of Us

While we are in these bodies, we must come to Christ.

And there are items we must instill, which, when I share them with people, I call the bare minimum.

That’s how I explain the fundamentals to others. It’s not how I measure the importance of salvation or my relationship with Christ.

It gets you on the other side of that door that enters into the good place.

Accept Christ.

Recognize He was born through immaculate conception.

That He died for our sins.

That He rose from the dead.

And He now sits at the right hand of God.

Bare minimum.

You’re in.

At this point, you are saved.

But that doesn’t mean the relationship ends there.

That’s where an entirely different part of the experience begins.

Because the Holy Spirit becomes your bunkmate in this motel room.

Think about that.

You’re never alone.

And you’ve got something divine to tap into and feed, to grow and build, to become closer to God.

The Holy Spirit isn’t just some religious phrase we repeat. I believe He’s a living presence we can develop a relationship with, listen to, and draw upon as we grow closer to God.

We have to nurture that relationship.

Feed our spirit.

Spend time in prayer.

Study the Word.

Practice what we’re learning.

And learn to recognize the difference between feeding our flesh and feeding our spirit.

You have a new tool to navigate this wicked world and also a weapon against evil.

You are also given authority to blast out demons and all evil by using the name of Jesus.

It’s that simple.

Not authority that originates from our own greatness.

Authority through Jesus Christ.

That matters to me.

Because if I’m temporarily occupying this body in a world where spiritual battles are real, I don’t want to spend my time here spiritually defenseless.

I want to understand what God has given me.

I want to know how to use it responsibly.

I want to strengthen that relationship while I’m here.

And I want to live in a way that reflects the One I claim to follow.

Are You Saved? ♥

Before going any further, I want to share something important about faith in Jesus Christ.

If you've ever wondered what it means to be saved, or how to begin a relationship with God, I invite you to take a moment with these two recordings.

Are You Saved? ♥ — A Prayer of Salvation

Understanding Salvation Through Jesus Christ

Listen to the narration

If you'd like to read more, visit my Are You Saved? ♥ page.

What Happens After Checkout?

Now, from this point on during salvation, you are judged by what you do.

This is the judgy stuff that happens during Judgment Day in Revelation.

The ones who went before us go first.

Then we do.

Our little ball-of-energy selves are then rejoined with our fallen bodies, which are restored and become divine heavenly bodies.

Not these deteriorating human bodies that need constant maintenance.

Restored bodies.

Heavenly bodies.

I find that extraordinary to think about.

We are judged on what we did after accepting Christ.

Hopefully, we did well.

We are then given roles in our new kingdom.

And we’re fine with them.

We’re with God.

All is good.

There are details I’m still studying, and I know Christians have different understandings of some of these events.

But what stands out to me is the thought of being with God.

Of no longer being separated from Him by all the limitations we experience here.

And then there’s the other side of eternity.

If we’re atheist?

Written out of the Book of Life.

Evil?

Written out.

Agnostic?

Written out by default.

If you’re not with Him, you’re against Him by default.

No wishy-washy here.

That’s how I’ve come to understand the seriousness of accepting or rejecting Christ through my studies.

Oh, and that bad place is where the bad ones go.

It’s not good.

We cannot even fathom how horrific it is.

I’ve been reflecting on the book of Job and the reality that there are things about suffering, evil, and God’s authority that are far beyond my understanding.

I’ve been thinking about how God keeps us at a distance from the darkest things, and how the dark ugliness we do experience might barely even be the tip of the iceberg.

And then I started imagining something.

What if the evil and suffering we encounter in this world represent only a tiny fraction of how terrible evil can be?

Let’s say, purely as an illustration, 0.2 percent.

Not a biblical statistic. Just a number I’m using to picture the difference.

Now imagine the full 100 percent.

No restraint.

No relief.

No escape.

If the suffering I’ve experienced here is already enough to bring me to tears, enough to make me question how much more I can endure, I don’t even want to imagine an eternity completely separated from God.

I needed to know what happens to us.

Where my mother has gone.

If I’ll see her again.

If she was fine.

More so than worrying about myself.

When you love someone, you worry more about them than yourself.

But with this useful information, I’ve been able to establish, through my faith and understanding of what I’ve learned, that she’s fine.

And I’ll be fine if I stay on the right path.

Which I will.

Who would want to go to that bad place knowing that the most horrific things I’ve gone through or experienced have barely been anything compared with the big picture?

I experienced 0.2 percent of evil.

In hell, that’s 100 percent.

To hell with that.

I choose distance.

I choose God.

I want to stay on the path that leads toward Him.

Not because I’m perfect.

Not because I have everything figured out.

But because I recognize how much I need Him.

Did I Even Sign Up for This?

At some point, I found myself crying.

I was thinking about this entire human existence.

Being here.

Existing.

Having a human experience.

And I remember thinking:

Did I even sign up for this?

Seriously.

Here we are, thrown into this enormous experience called life, trying to figure out who we are, what we're supposed to do, why things happen, and where we're going.

And then, while I was in the shower, with the water hitting my head, I started envisioning life as a video game.

One of those old 16-bit video games.

You're navigating the world, making decisions, encountering obstacles, choosing directions.

Some decisions help you.

Others lead you into trouble.

And all the while, there's something much bigger at stake than simply getting through the next level.

Then I started envisioning something else.

A metallic sphere.

A little ball traveling through an enormous maze.

The maze is moving.

Spinning.

Turning.

Pathways are opening and closing.

The sphere rolls through one passage, approaches another opening, and suddenly drops into an entirely different area.

Sometimes it's moving through a green, cloudy liquid.

Then another color.

Another environment.

Another passage.

It keeps traveling, sometimes rapidly, sometimes falling, sometimes being redirected by the movement of the maze itself.

And somewhere in this enormous structure, there are exits.

But there are also passages that lead toward a dark abyss filled with black liquid.

I kept picturing that little sphere moving through it all.

And then I started thinking about life.

About us.

About how we move through one experience and into another.

We enter situations we never expected.

We encounter people.

We make choices.

We experience love, grief, pain, happiness, disappointment, fear, and hope.

And sometimes we become so consumed by the particular passage we’re in that we forget there’s more beyond it.

We start believing that the place we’re currently occupying is the entirety of our existence.

But it isn’t.

We’re passing through.

Flowing With Less Resistance

This is where something I’ve been thinking about for a while started connecting.

What if part of getting through this experience is learning to flow with less resistance?

I began thinking about how much of my own energy I’ve spent resisting things.

Resisting pain.

Resisting uncertainty.

Resisting circumstances.

Resisting the reality that people don’t always respond the way I think they should.

Resisting the fact that I can’t control everything.

And I wondered how much easier some of this journey might become if I stopped treating every experience as something I had to fight.

That doesn’t mean surrendering to suffering.

It doesn’t mean ignoring problems.

It doesn’t mean refusing treatment, medication, rest, or help.

Sometimes accepting those things is exactly how we move forward.

It means learning not to let suffering consume our spirit.

I can feel pain without becoming the pain.

I can experience a storm without becoming the storm.

I can receive blessings without becoming dependent on them.

I can recognize a difficult situation without making that situation my entire identity.

And I can keep my heart directed toward God through all of it.

Think about what happened with my father.

I could have carried that resentment through the entire day.

But I went back.

I apologized. I forgave him.

We hugged.

The situation didn’t need to follow me everywhere I went.

I could let it pass.

Think about my treatment.

I was afraid.

I was hurting.

I cried.

But I still showed up, spoke to the people trying to help me, and allowed myself to recognize the improvements I was experiencing.

And now, on Saturday, I’m exhausted.

Instead of forcing myself to accomplish a dozen things, I can rest.

Sometimes flowing means taking action.

Sometimes it means accepting help.

Sometimes it means forgiving.

Sometimes it means being still.

Less resistance doesn’t mean doing nothing.

It means learning when to act and when to stop fighting what I cannot control.

Thoughts, Feelings, Frequencies, and Faith

There’s another idea I’ve been exploring, too.

The quantum field.

Energy.

Frequencies.

The relationship between our thoughts, feelings, and the reality we experience.

I’ve been interested in the idea that maintaining positive thoughts and feelings, even while going through a horrible period in life, can help us move beyond that experience.

What if, even while passing through a difficult environment, I continue cultivating gratitude, hope, compassion, patience, love, and peace?

What if I refuse to allow my present circumstances to dictate every thought and feeling I carry?

When I talk about maintaining a positive frequency, that’s the experience I’m trying to describe.

I’m exploring spiritual and manifestation ideas often associated with the quantum field, though I understand that quantum physics itself hasn’t established that thoughts emit a frequency that automatically changes external circumstances.

For me, the meaningful question is how the state I cultivate within myself affects the way I travel through life.

Because if I continually feed fear, resentment, hopelessness, and negativity, what kind of experience am I creating for myself internally?

And what happens when I begin feeding something different?

Gratitude.

Hope.

Patience.

Compassion.

Peace.

I may still be in the same difficult circumstances.

My body may still hurt.

The legal situation may still be unresolved.

My finances may still be uncertain.

But my entire inner world doesn’t have to become a reflection of those problems.

And perhaps, as I continue moving, taking action, recognizing opportunities, accepting help, and maintaining that positive direction, I eventually find myself somewhere different.

Beyond that particular environment.

I don’t necessarily know how everything is going to happen.

And maybe I don’t need to know every detail of the how.

That doesn’t mean positive thinking guarantees a particular outcome or that people are responsible for the suffering they experience.

It means I don’t want to abandon hope simply because I can’t yet see the way out.

And that’s where my thoughts about positive energy connect with my faith.

I see a distinction between the two.

Positive energy can describe the attitude I choose to cultivate.

Faith is the foundation beneath that attitude.

Because I can choose gratitude and still have a difficult day.

I can try to remain hopeful and still cry.

I can pray and still feel afraid.

I can believe God is with me and still wonder why something is happening.

Faith doesn’t mean I have to feel good all the time.

It means trusting God even when circumstances give me very little reason to feel positive.

Second Corinthians 5:7 speaks about walking by faith rather than by sight.

And that speaks directly to this idea of not needing to know every detail of the how.

I can’t predict every turn life will take.

But I can continue seeking God as I move forward.

The Storm Isn’t the Whole Story

Romans 5:3–4 teaches that suffering can produce perseverance, character, and hope.

I’ve been thinking about that.

Not because I enjoy suffering.

I don’t.

I would gladly welcome relief from the physical pain I’ve been experiencing.

But if suffering is part of what I’m going through right now, what can I learn while I’m here?

Can I develop more patience?

More compassion?

More understanding?

Can I become less attached to things I once believed were essential?

Can I grow closer to God?

Philippians 4:11–13 also speaks about learning contentment in both abundance and hardship.

That interests me because contentment isn’t the same thing as having everything I want.

It’s learning how to remain grounded regardless of the circumstances.

And that’s difficult.

Especially when your body hurts.

Especially when you’re worried about money.

Especially when you’ve lost somebody you love.

Especially when you don’t know what’s going to happen next.

But maybe that’s exactly why it matters.

Don’t resist every storm.

Don’t chase every moment of sunshine.

Learn to walk faithfully through both.

Because sunshine doesn’t last forever either.

We can become so attached to pleasant experiences that we spend all our energy trying to keep them from ending.

And we can become so afraid of painful experiences that we exhaust ourselves trying to prevent every possible difficulty.

But life keeps moving.

And we’re still passing through.

I don’t have to be positive every moment.

I don’t have to understand everything.

I don’t have to be strong every day.

I’m allowed to be human while growing spiritually.

I can cry.

I can grieve.

I can hurt.

I can question.

And I can still trust God.

Spiritual growth isn’t measured by how much suffering I can endure.

It’s reflected in how I learn to love, trust, forgive, and live.

And I don’t want to become so focused on trying to figure God out that I forget to have a relationship with Him.

I can study all day long.

I can learn about salvation, prophecy, judgment, eternity, and spiritual authority.

But I also need to pray.

Listen.

Love people.

Forgive people.

Be present.

Live what I’m learning.

Less attachment.

More gratitude.

Less fear.

More faith.

Less ego.

More love.

The Motel and the Journey

The more I reflect on all of this, the more I recognize how temporary this experience really is.

The body is our temporary accommodation.

And the journey is our human experience.

We’re passing through physical circumstances.

We’re passing through emotional experiences.

We’re passing through relationships, seasons of life, victories, disappointments, and losses.

And eventually, we’re passing out of these human bodies.

That doesn’t make the experience meaningless.

If anything, it makes the time we have here more important.

We don’t get to hold on to every moment.

We don’t get to keep every possession.

We don’t get to prevent every loss.

We don’t even get to keep these bodies in their present condition forever.

But while we’re here, we can choose how we live.

We can love.

We can forgive.

We can learn.

We can help somebody.

We can create.

We can grow.

We can develop our relationship with God.

And when life becomes difficult, we can remind ourselves that the particular situation we’re experiencing isn’t necessarily where we’ll remain.

I don’t know exactly how I’m going to get through every challenge ahead of me.

I don’t know when my body will feel normal again.

I don’t know how every financial or legal concern will be resolved.

I don’t know what tomorrow is going to bring.

But I don’t need to solve the entire future today.

I need to keep moving in the direction I believe God is calling me.

And when I need to rest, I can rest.

When I need help, I can ask for it.

When I need to cry, I can cry.

When I need to forgive, I can forgive.

I don’t have to turn every difficult experience into a permanent residence.

I can flow through life, through the pain, rather than constantly fighting against everything I experience.

Faith isn’t about controlling life’s circumstances.

It’s about trusting God through them.

Just Passing Through

Earlier today, I spent time reflecting on what it means to have this human experience.

And afterward, I returned to my mother’s bed.

Here I am.

In the room where I last saw her alive.

In a body that’s been giving me so much trouble.

Exhausted from another long stretch of pain, appointments, emotions, questions, and reflection.

But also grateful.

Grateful for the little improvements.

Grateful for the people who encouraged me.

Grateful for the doctor who listened.

Grateful that my father and I could embrace.

Grateful for another opportunity to learn about God.

And grateful for the time I’ve been given.

My mother had her time here.

Now I’m living mine.

And one day, my time in this body will come to an end, too.

I don’t say that because I want to leave.

I say it because I want to understand what it means to be here.

I want to live this experience with purpose.

I want to stop wasting so much energy fighting things I cannot control.

I want to learn how to move through difficult circumstances without allowing them to consume everything inside me.

I want to appreciate the good moments without desperately clinging to them.

I want to recognize God’s blessings without confusing the blessings with God Himself.

And above all, I want to keep growing in my relationship with Him.

I still have so much to learn.

I’m still dealing with physical pain.

I’m still trying to recover.

I’m still trying to understand how everything fits together.

And I still have days when I feel overwhelmed by the entire experience.

But maybe I don’t need to know exactly how every situation will resolve.

Maybe I need to keep my heart directed toward God, do what I can with what’s in front of me, and allow myself to move through the rest.

Feel the pain without becoming the pain.

Experience the storm without becoming the storm.

Receive the blessings without becoming dependent on them.

Keep the faith, even when the feelings fluctuate.

And remember that wherever I happen to be in this journey, the place I’m currently occupying isn’t the whole story.

These human bodies are temporary.

These circumstances are temporary.

This earthly life is temporary.

But I believe the spirit continues.

And I want to make the most of the time I’ve been given here.

One day at a time.

One experience at a time.

With less resistance, more gratitude, and my faith directed toward God.

Because after everything I’ve been thinking about, everything I’ve been experiencing, and everything I’m continuing to learn, one thought keeps coming back to me.

We’re just passing through.

A moment of faith. An invitation to know Christ.

Are You Saved? ♥