Chapter One: Introduction
What began as a memoir turned into something more—a genre-defying, spirit-filled calling reflecting the twists, turns, and divine surprises of my life. God’s Not Finished Yet: A Call to Discipleship is part historical narrative, part spiritual adventure, and wholly a reflection of how grace shows up—whether in remote mission fields, local jails, or in countless untold tales finally ready to be revealed.
You’ll encounter sacred moments across continents, comedic brushes with the law, and a deeply personal exploration of what happens when discipleship refuses to follow a straight line. It’s an unconventional how-to for youth ministry and spiritual formation, a mystery threaded with redemption, and a retirement fantasy—but not the golf-course-and-sunset kind. Think second acts, wild detours, and callings that keep you on your toes.
And if there’s a true candidate for sainthood here, it’s my wife—my partner of fifty-eight years - whose patience, grace, and grit deserve her own chapter in heaven.
So come laugh, reminisce, reflect, and maybe wrestle a bit with a God who never gives up. Because believe me: God Isn’t Finished Yet
Chapter Two: The Resume of an Introverted Entrepreneur
I grew up on a Brooklyn rooftop—not exactly the leafy playground most childhoods are made of, but it was mine. The tar-covered surface doubled as a racetrack, a ballfield, and occasionally, a waterpark when we dragged a kiddie pool up through the kitchen window. Early life taught me creativity and grit. I didn’t know it then, but I was learning how to problem-solve, hustle, and observe the world without needing to be the loudest voice in the room.
As a kid, I wore a lot of hats - literally and figuratively. I was a son, a grandson, a brother. A Cub Scout, then a Boy Scout. I delivered newspapers at dawn, mowed lawns on Saturdays, stocked groceries, and cleared dishes as a teenage busboy. Every job - no matter how small -left its mark. I liked work. I liked the rhythm of it. And even then, I was already starting to build things—businesses, ideas, trust.
In high school, after a family move to New Jersey, I started testing the waters of independence. I sold things before I had them built, convinced friends to let me paint their houses, and somehow turned a weekend project into a summer enterprise. I didn’t call it entrepreneurship—I called it survival, with a side of curiosity. Somewhere in those years, I realized I wasn’t just learning to earn. I was learning how to lead.
College followed -less about academic degrees and more about degrees of discovery. I waited tables, hung wallpaper, ran a small business, and—against all odds—became fraternity president. I traveled through Europe on a budget that barely covered bread. I also met the woman who would become my wife. I proposed before I figured out how to pay rent. Reckless, yes—but rooted in hope and love. I’ve learned since then that some of life’s best moves are made with a little fear and a lot of faith.
The years after college were filled with roles I never auditioned for but grew into anyway: husband, father, teacher, coach, non-profit founder, youth leader, speaker. We moved to Maryland, then Ohio, and each chapter unfolded in surprising ways. I built boats and furniture, ran marathons and retreats, mentored teens, and restored old homes. I stumbled into leadership, then leaned into it. I learned to sit with doubt, to lead through listening, and to say yes to opportunities before I felt fully ready.
Somewhere along the way, I became a consultant, world traveller, and a storyteller—though the last one took the longest to admit. For most of my life, I was the guy behind the clipboard, in the church basement, or off to the side during group photos. I didn’t need a microphone. I preferred the quiet work. But after decades of projects, partnerships, and pilgrimage-level mission trips, the stories started piling up. Eventually, I realized they weren’t just mine to keep.
This isn’t a résumé you’d hand to a hiring committee. But it’s mine - a mosaic of movement, mistakes, meaningful work, and a persistent sense that even in the chaos, God was scripting something bigger than me. Something that keeps unfolding.
Because the truth is—introverted or not, planned or not - God Isn’t Finished Yet.
Chapter Three: Table of Contents
1. Introduction
2. My Resume 3
3. Chapters 5
4. Proceed With Caution 6
5. Truths That Shaped Me 8
6. Just Say Yes! 21
7. Local Initiatives 24
8. Idea Factory 33
9. Young Women of Distinction 42
10. Sacred Encounters 50
11. Sacred Immersions 63
12. Appalachia 83
13. New York City 96
14. Words That Shaped Me 99
15. Mexico 112
16. Jamaica 125
17. Encore vs. Retirement 137
Chapter Four: Proceed With Caution
Before you dive into these mostly factual, occasionally embellished, but always heartfelt pages, I owe you a few disclaimers—or maybe just a handful of explanations.
First things first: I take no responsibility for the precise accuracy of everything you’re about to read. Memory is tricky—selective, emotional, and yes, often a bit fuzzy (especially mine). This is my version of my journey in faith and life. If yours looks different? Perfect. That’s exactly how it should be. You’ve got your own story to tell.
This is the story I avoided telling for a long time - not because it isn’t true, but because it’s sometimes messy. It’s full of joy and awkward moments, holy surprises, and leadership lessons I mostly learned the hard way.
This isn’t an autobiography. It’s more like a scrapbook—snapshots of people, places, and moments that shaped me. Not always in obvious ways. Not always right away. And definitely not in chronological order.
It’s also not a self-help book. But if something here sticks with you? Wonderful. If it doesn’t? No pressure. I won’t know.
This is about discipleship - the kind that sneaks up on you. The kind that happens while you’re leading, doubting, trying, or just showing up.
It’s also about adventure. The kind that shows up around the corner, across the country, and sometimes across oceans. Because following God rarely leads where you think you’re going.
Mostly, though, this is about the sacred - not the polished, stained-glass kind, but the kind that hides in ordinary places. A conversation. A decision. A person who believed in you. A moment that changed everything.
So maybe read this page twice. Then read the book however you like. But know this: you’re stepping into the story of a dreamer, a discipler, a risk-taker - and someone still learning to see the world through the lens of possibility, grace, and hope.
Chapter Five: Truths That Shaped Me
Leadership and discipleship, for me, has never been about titles or techniques - it’s been about presence. The truths I’ve come to live by weren’t pulled from textbooks or seminars, but from real people in real moments: teammates, students, mentors, and friends. These lessons were shaped in the everyday - on foot, in classrooms, in conversations, and often in silence. Over time, they became more than principles; they became a way of being. And somehow, they caught on. The people I walked beside didn’t just follow - they began to lead with the same conviction, grace, and grit. What started as influence quietly became a movement, rooted in shared values and lived out in everyday faithfulness.
Running With Coach
If I had to name one person who shaped my thinking, principles, and actions more than anyone else, it would be Coach Ed Mather my high school cross-country coach. His teams didn’t just win races—they dominated them. State championships weren’t the goal; they were the expectation. I was 14 when I joined his team—a freshman just trying to survive his workouts, which I loved and hated in equal measure. But his voice still echoes in my mind. Believe it or not, the best way to introduce him is through his obituary:
In the early years of his cross-country dynasty, Coach Mather became adept at discovering and nurturing promising young runners. He often recruited short boys—those too small for basketball or football—because many came with something to prove. His runners said: The enthusiasm and camaraderie of the team were unsurpassed. Coach made us believe we could do anything... His love of running was clearly an inspiration, as he trained nearly as much as we did. Coach Mather’s success was 90 percent psychological, 10 percent training.
That was my world for four years. We raced barefoot across golf courses, ran until our legs burned, and packed buses with classmates cheering us on. Even the football team stopped practice to watch. Coach often ran beside us during workouts, shouting encouragement and daring us to dig deeper. At the time, I didn’t realize how much it was shaping my thinking. By my sophomore year, I knew I wanted to be a teacher and a coach. But I didn’t yet understand that Coach Mather’s gift—his relentless belief in human potential—would become the foundation of everything I’d build my life on. He taught me to dream bigger, take risks, and make a path where there wasn’t one.
It feels right to begin this memoir here—with the man who helped shape me.
Every Place I Set My Foot
After years of walking beside Moses, Joshua finally hears God speak directly to him—no burning bush, no middleman. Just these words: I will give you every place where you set your foot, as I promised Moses…Be strong and courageous. Joshua 1:3
When I first heard that passage, I couldn’t stop turning it over in my mind. Every very place where you set your foot. Every place? Really? In my early days of ministry—when I was being discipled and just beginning to disciple others—those words moved from a nice idea to a lifeline.
My story isn’t anchored to one church, one city, or even one calling. It’s been a journey of movement: new places, new people, new unknowns. I’ve had to walk into rooms where I didn’t know if I belonged, and lead when I wasn’t sure anyone would follow.
And in those moments—when fear whispered, Will this work? Who’s going to love this idea? Who is going to hate this? I kept going back to that promise. If it was true for Joshua, maybe it could be true for me. So I made a choice: every place my foot landed, I would believe God had purpose there. Not always comfortable. Not always easy. But always intentional. One faithful step at a time.
When God said Every Place - for me, that turned out to mean classrooms and church basements, muddy mission fields and microphone stages. It meant the track, the Idea Factory, Clubhouse, Dayton, Mexico, Jamaica, Haiti, even across oceans. It meant 3rd graders to senior citizens, small groups and large crowds, work boots and flip charts.
Many reading this have travelled with me to at least one of those destinations—some to many. The names of these chapters are more than just titles; they’re reminders of where faithful people dared to believe impossible places could become sacred ground. And they did - usually with far more grace than strategy, and more than a few holy coincidences that looked suspiciously like God’s sense of humor.
He wept
Nehemiah wasn’t a city builder. He was a cupbearer - tasked with protecting the king from poison, not leading construction crews. But when word reached him that Jerusalem’s walls were in ruins, he didn’t just nod solemnly and move on. He broke. He wept. Quietly. Deeply. And then - he acted. The Bible tells it like this:
Early the following spring, in the month of Nisan, during the twentieth year of King Artaxerxes’ reign, I was serving the king his wine. I had never before appeared sad in his presence. So the king asked me, Why are you looking so sad? You don’t look sick to me. You must be deeply troubled. Then I was terrified, but I replied, Long live the king! How can I not be sad? For the city where my ancestors are buried is in ruins, and the gates have been destroyed by fire. (Nehemiah 2:1–3)
That moment - raw, honest, terrifying - wasn’t the end. It was the beginning. Nehemiah prayed. He made a plan. And he began rebuilding what was broken. That’s where I see myself.
I’m not much of a crier, at least not in public. I don’t often show it—but I’ve lived with a quiet ache most of my life. I feel it when I see injustice, inequality, poverty, racism, systems that fail, people who hurt. Sometimes it catches in my throat when I speak or teach, and maybe you’ve noticed. But what you may not have seen is that under all of that - under the doing and building and leading, there’s a sorrow that never fully goes away.
That ache isn’t weakness. It’s fuel.
God speaks through Scripture, yes. But also through the burden you can’t shake. Through the story you can’t forget. Through the need that makes you restless.
Like Nehemiah, I’ve rarely felt qualified. But I’ve seen how God turns tears into blueprints, sorrow into strategy, grief into grit. And I’ve tried to live that way—refusing to look away, refusing to let others look away. I’ve spent my life creating opportunities for people—especially young people—to see what’s broken in the world, not to discourage them but to equip them. Because once you see, you can’t unsee. And once you feel, you’re called to respond.
I’ve learned that’s what compassion really is: not just feeling sorry, not just offering prayers - but showing up. Serving. Giving. Building. Not alone - but together.
Some have joined me for a week. Some a year. Some for a lifetime. But across every city, country, neighborhood, and school, the same truth remains: Unqualified individuals become qualified through God’s grace. And holy tears - when we let them fall - can become the very foundation we build upon.
So if I find myself weeping? I’m not disqualified. I might just be at the beginning.
Different on Purpose
My friend Roger and I were deep into one of our usual goal-setting conversations when he paused, looked up from his coffee, and said, Mike, I think you should come work with me. Join our human resources team. You’d be perfect. I didn’t have to think long, I hate sales, I said—emphatically. I wasn’t interested in persuading people to do things they didn’t already want to do.
Roger just smiled and leaned back. Mike, you’re one of the best salesmen I know. I laughed. You’re kidding. He wasn’t. Anyone who can get teenagers to follow an invisible figure like you do(God), You could sell anything.
At first, I didn’t know whether to be insulted or impressed. But what he said stuck with me. He wasn’t really talking about sales. He was talking about influence. And that hit closer to home than I expected.
Truth is, I’ve spent most of my life doing something that looks, from the outside, like leadership. People follow me. I take that for granted sometimes—not out of pride, but out of honest confusion. I don’t always know why they do. I’m not the loudest voice in the room. I don’t ararly quote the chapter or verse of scripture. I don’t chase titles or platforms. But for whatever reason, people have followed.
And not just people of faith.
One of the biggest surprises in my life has been how often I’ve found myself trusted by people far outside of traditional faith circles. My approach doesn’t fit the mold of most Christian books - or Christian leaders, for that matter. I don’t force religion. I don’t lead with doctrine. I don’t try to win people over with polished answers. I just try to live a life that makes people ask questions - not about me, but about what’s different.
I’ve worked hard to stay in spaces where belief is not assumed. I’ve spent decades in public domains - schools, community rooms, boardrooms - places where faith must be lived, not preached. And I’ve learned that people don’t need to be convinced as much as they need to be accompanied. If I stay long enough - if I serve and show up and stay steady - people start to notice. They ask questions. Sometimes silently. And over time, they begin to believe. Often more deeply than before.
I have found that my influence isn’t about convincing someone I’m right. It’s about living in such a way that they trust you’re real. To some, that makes me seem unholy - or at least unconventional. I don’t defend myself when that happens. I don’t need to. I’ve learned to put it in perspective and keep moving.
Because at the end of the day, I’m not here to sell faith.
I’m here to live it. And if I do that well enough, people might just catch a glimpse of something different – Not because I told them to.
But because they saw it for themselves.
Why Are They Listening?
The church I served for decades was a mile from my house. Every Sunday night, I’d drive home after speaking to a room packed with junior high and high school students shoulder to shoulder, sitting on a hard floor, snacks and games long gone. And almost every week, I’d have the same conversation with myself on the drive home: Why do they show up?
Why would teenagers voluntarily show up for this? No fog machines. No lasers. No celebrity speaker. Just me—a guy in his thirties, forties (and later, fifties and sixties)—standing in front of them, talking about God, life, failure, hope, and whatever else seemed worth saying that night. I wasn’t flashy. I wasn’t famous. I didn’t graduate at the top of my class. I wasn’t a standout athlete. No letters behind my name. Just me - trying to live the faith I claimed to believe.
And still… they showed up. Week after week. Month after month. Year after year. Eventually, I stopped asking why they came and started noticing what they were coming for. They weren’t there for entertainment. Not for games or gimmicks, free food or pizza. They were showing up for something much harder to package:
Truth was what they wanted.
Not the sugar-coated kind. The kind that makes you squirm a little. The kind that says: Here’s what’s right. Here’s what’s broken. And here’s what might just redeem it all.
They didn’t want to be coddled - they wanted to be challenged. They didn’t need someone to make it easy. They needed someone to make it matter.
They wanted to know how to live generous lives. How to make peace with a painful past or uncertain future. How to show up in the world with courage and kindness. How to live out faith in a world that didn’t always make that look cool—or even reasonable. They didn’t need me to be perfect. (Thankfully) They just needed me to be honest.
So that’s what I tried to be. Week by week. Month by month. And year after year. No smoke. No mirrors. Just stories. Questions. And a few hard-won truths from a guy still figuring it out, too. Sometimes it got real quiet. Sometimes we wrestled with questions that didn’t have clean answers. But always—we did it together. And somehow, that was enough.
Turns out, students weren’t looking for a show. They were looking for a mirror. And a path. And by some miracle, they let me walk that path with them.
I Took Off My Shoes
Lenten Week, 1987. She wasn’t really our aunt, but everyone called her Aunt Lena. She was in her late eighties or maybe nineties by then—a tiny, faithful widow and one of the matriarchs of a small rural church we were attending. Sherri and I were the young couple in a congregation of about seventy-five. On our first visit, Aunt Lena found a long-unused key, unlocked the dusty nursery door, brushed off an old rocking chair, and invited us to bring our three-year-old son, Adam, during worship to be with her. That simple gesture turned into something much bigger.
Week after week, Lena invested in us. There were quiet conversations, heartfelt welcomes, introductions to the rhythms of this new congregation, and her consistent presence at weekly potlucks in the church basement. She never brought extravagant dishes—just a jar of pears canned last summer, peaches from her backyard, or homemade jam. Nothing fancy. Just gifts from the heart, shared without fanfare. We began to understand what it meant to give, not out of abundance, but from a place of deep love.
And then came Holy Week.
That Thursday evening, about twelve of us gathered in the basement, seated in metal chairs in a circle on the cold tile floor. The pastor quietly explained the plan for the evening: we were to take turns, in prayerful silence, washing the feet of the person beside us. At age thirty, I had never heard of such a thing —let alone experienced it. Honestly, I was a little anxious. The ritual felt too intimate, too unfamiliar.
And then it got complicated. Aunt Lena was going to wash my feet.
My heart didn’t stop, but it definitely stumbled. This woman we had come to love and admire - this humble soul who welcomed us before we even had a place—was about to kneel at my feet. I had read the story of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet, of course. But I’d always read it like a historical moment—a metaphor from long ago. Suddenly, it wasn’t a metaphor. It was sacred, real, embodied love.
When she knelt, then her frail hands gently held mine and she washed my feet, I nearly cried. But I felt it—a deep, quiet undoing. Her act of humility and grace opened something in me that no sermon ever had. No words were needed. The room was full of presence. Of something holy – of something sacred. I went on to wash the feet of the person next to me, and so it continued around the circle. But something had shifted in me.
That evening taught us more than doctrine ever could. It was about faith made visible—through touch, through presence, through service. We experienced humility. Gentleness. Grace. Faithfulness. Love without a sermon.
That night, all I had to do was take off my socks and shoes—and suddenly, I saw faith in a whole new light.
Discipleship Takes Time
Saying I spent four years of high school with Coach Mathers may not sound extraordinary - but it was. Those years shaped me in ways I didn’t fully recognize until much later. Through daily routines, hard practices, wins, and setbacks, I gained more than just athletic discipline. I learned to think like a winner. I learned how to push through pain, value teammates, lead with purpose, laugh through exhaustion, and - quite literally - run beside someone headed in the same direction.
There is no substitute for time.
We often point to Jesus and His disciples—three years of walking, eating, and serving together. But look at Moses and Joshua: forty years. True discipleship isn’t rushed. It’s through time that values, habits, and attitudes are transferred—not through pressure, but proximity. Legacy is built one step, one season, one conversation at a time.
When I look back on my own journey, I see friendships and mentoring relationships that have lasted twenty, thirty, even fifty years. That’s not a program - that’s a life. That’s discipleship. And it never really ends. Neither do its fruits.
But if time is the soil, intentionality is the water.
Discipleship isn’t about logging hours or checking a box. It’s about showing up - consistently, curiously, and compassionately. It’s asking the right questions, celebrating progress, and sitting with someone in both their pain and their purpose. Not every conversation needs a spiritual agenda. But when you’re paying attention, meaning almost always finds its way in.
The Ten Balloons: Principles of Leadership, Life, and Love
I started teaching what would eventually become The Ten Balloons in my thirties - long before it had a name. It wasn't a Bible study. It wasn’t a sermon. It was simply a framework for conversation - real, honest, practical, personal. Ten areas of life: family, career, education, finance, health, adventure, mental wellness, primary relationships, friendships, and hobbies.
Over time, it became a heartbeat. A compass. A discipleship tool I used everywhere - over McDonald’s breakfasts, on mission trips, after school, during retreats, on long walks, even mid-run. We didn’t always start with Scripture or the term Ten Balloons—we started with life.
Not how’s school? But How are you- really? Not What’s your three year plan? But what do you think God wants from you right now?
That question – God, what do you want from me? became the thread that ran through it all. Sometimes whispered. Sometimes wrestled with. But never forced. It created space for honesty, for reflection, and for God to move.
Some have told me it’s not religious enough. But I’ve found most people don’t need more religion—they need someone to walk with them through all areas of life. And I’ve always believed God is interested in the whole story: our wins and wounds, our dreams and doubts, our daily choices—not just how often we attend church or volunteer for ministry.
God walks with us through transitions, through breakthroughs, through burnout and beginnings. That’s what The Ten Balloons became: a way to walk with people - faithfully, patiently, wholly - without needing a clipboard or a microphone.
Discipleship, at its core, is presence. It’s about showing up—not just for the Sunday version of someone, but for the whole person. It’s not a twelve-week course, a weekend retreat, or an event on a calendar. It’s a lifestyle. And at the center of that lifestyle is one holy, unsettling, beautiful question: God, what do You want from me?
The Big Lie
I’ve been lying to people for decades—young and old. Not intentionally. Not to be polite, or to avoid conflict. I didn’t even realize it was a lie. The question was always the same:
Of the Ten Balloons, which one is the most important?
And I had a polished, respectful answer: That’s up to you. It’s your life. You decide what matters most. People nodded. It felt empowering. And I believed it—until I didn’t – until I did no more.
Not long ago, I had what I can only call a God Moment. The truth hit me: the Ten Balloons had worked for me all these years not because I treated them all equally—but because I had always, even unknowingly, prioritized one. Only one, week after week and year after year. It had become my rhythm – my way of life.
It goes back to when Roger and I began setting goals in every area of life. Each week—every Sunday or Monday—I’d pause to reflect. I didn’t just deal with what was urgent (like career, finances, or parenting). I made space to think about everything: the fun, the forgotten, the hard, and the holy.
That simple rhythm—checking in, setting goals, noticing what mattered—changed everything. Not to be perfect, but to stay present. That thinking time was where alignment happened. Awareness happened. Growth happened. And suddenly I realized: I’ve been giving people a partial truth. I’ve been downplaying the one thing that kept the other nine balloons in the air.
It’s not selfish to prioritize the Mental Balloon.
It’s not indulgent. It’s essential.
Because without it, we drift. We hustle. We put out fires. We win in one area and bleed out in others. We live accidentally, not intentionally. We seem to always be busy – always making excuses. So I’ve stopped giving the old answer. I’ve stopped pretending that every balloon carries the same weight by default. And I now tell people the truth: Your Mental Balloon matters most.
Make time for yourself first. Take inventory of the good and bad from the week before. Create space for honest reflection—not just once a year, but once a week. Because when you think clearly, you live more wisely. You love deeply. You remember that the people and responsibilities God has entrusted to you deserve the best version of you—not the burnt-out, reactive, scattered version.
So to those I misled with a half-truth: I’m sorry. And to everyone else: Think deeply. Lead intentionally. Don’t just exist - live your life.
My Honest Confession
This is the story I never expected to write. Maybe it’s been sitting inside me for a long time, waiting for this memoir to be released. Maybe it’s God’s gentle nudge, reminding me that honesty is part of life—and maybe even faith.
I didn’t do so well in Latin class my freshman year of high school. I never understood why I’d need it. But I still remember one phrase from my altar boy days that stuck with me: Mea Culpa. Loosely translated: Through my fault. It’s more than an apology - it’s an admission. A reckoning. A laying bare of the truth.
And in recent years, I’ve started offering a few Mea Culpa’s - to God, to myself, and maybe even to the people I disappointed along the way.
When you spend decades in ministry, you collect a lot of feedback—some of it warm and encouraging, and some of it… not so much. Early on, as a young youth leader, a couple walked into my office unannounced. I thought it was a friendly visit. It wasn’t. In just a few minutes, they delivered what felt like a spiritual gut punch – or two, or three.
They told me – plainly - that I would fail in ministry. That if I didn’t wake up every morning and have Bible study with my wife…If I didn’t pray loudly, boldly, and publicly…Then clearly, I didn’t love God enough…And I would fail.
They walked out. But the seeds of doubt stayed lingered in my mind.
Over the years, others questioned my prayer life - or what they assumed was a lack of one. There was often a subtle (or not-so-subtle) tone of judgment: You’re not doing it like we do!
And I’d smile. I’d nod. I didn’t argue.
But inside, I wondered if they were right. Then I got older. And old—if the Bible’s right—is where wisdom sometimes sneaks in. And it hit me. For more than fifty years, nearly every Sunday or Monday morning for an hour or so, I’ve had a quiet rhythm. I take out a journal. (Or my laptop) I reviewed the week ahead.
And I’d ask, God, what do you want from me this week? Then I’d walk through each of the Ten Balloons - intentionally and possibly whispering out loud. Every area. Every time. All Ten.
No spotlight. No public performance. No kneeling dramatically by the bedside. Just a quiet, consistent conversation with God. And I always got answers. Sometimes they were encouraging. Sometimes a long time in coming. Sometimes convicting. Sometimes hilariously inconvenient. But they always came.
And then I saw it clearly, I realized: This was prayer. This is prayer.
Not the loud kind. Not the polished, platform-ready kind. But the honest kind. The listening kind. The kind that says, Not what I want – what you want.
And that, I realized, is a prayer life I don’t need to apologize for.
Let the critics talk. I don’t owe everyone an explanation. But I do owe yourself the truth.
About Truth
Truth doesn’t usually arrive in a single voice or verse - it comes in waves: through Scripture, through strangers, through the silence between questions. What I’ve shared here is a mosaic of ancient wisdom, personal missteps, and everyday grace, shaped more by listening than arriving. My journey with God in discipleship has never been about perfection, but about paying attention—and learning that clarity often begins with stillness. The Ten Balloons, like much in life, didn’t fall from heaven—they were gathered slowly, through trial, reflection, and the quiet spaces where God speaks.