There was a season when words saved my life. During one of the darkest periods I’ve known, a stranger handed me a note. Just a few sentences, nothing dramatic, but it reminded me that God saw me when I felt invisible. I kept that note for years. Eventually, I felt called to start writing my own. Now, wherever I go, I leave small handwritten notes behind: in library books, grocery carts, waiting rooms, and coffee shop tables. I don’t sign my name. I don’t explain myself. The notes say things like: “You are not alone.” “God sees you.” “This moment won’t last forever.” I pray over every note before I leave it. I ask Jesus to place it exactly where it’s needed. Sometimes I never know what happens next. Other times, someone finds me and says, “That was for me.” And I don’t need more than that. Jesus used words to heal, to comfort, to restore hope. I believe our words still carry that power when they’re offered with love. People underestimate how heavy a heart can be when no one notices. A single sentence can interrupt despair long enough for someone to breathe again. I don’t assume what people believe, I don’t preach. I just offer encouragement freely, and trusting God to do the rest. Writing these notes keeps me attentive: to pain, to humanity, to the quiet ways Jesus moves through ordinary places. I think faith often travels through small acts that never make headlines. A note. A moment. A reminder. And if even one person feels less alone because of a few handwritten words, then that’s enough for me.… Read More
How Everyday People Live Out Their Christian Faith
Illustrating how men and women display their love for Jesus in their day-to-day lives.
Little things that may have an eternal impact. Might these stories motivate you to use your talents?
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For so long, I was resentful toward Christians because I went nearly my entire life without hearing the truth of the Gospel, without someone sharing the Good News of Jesus with me. Now I use that experience to make sure that I’m the believer who takes every opportunity I can to share Jesus with those in front of me—whether that’s a telemarketer, a homeless person, a hotel clerk, or a mom at the grocery store. So many have yet to hear the Good News, and I want to be sure no one escapes my presence without encountering His. I didn’t get saved until I was 29 years old in what I call a “Carny to Christ conversion.” I was a carny, traveling the country with my husband, Al, and living my life aimlessly. My husband was the epitome of a nomad, and by default, I was, too. Life wasn’t all bad. I have had so many rich experiences, like visiting many national parks (Al’s bucket list) and making ends meet by whatever means necessary. At the height of my darkest seasons, I began attending a metaphysical school and became involved in transcendental meditation, yoga, and other occult and new-age practices. Through that, I became demon possessed. But God. He always had a plan to rescue me from the clutches of darkness and convey me into His marvelous light! In Natchez, Mississippi, I encountered the One who had pursued me my entire life, even when I was utterly unaware of His love, grace, mercy and power. I was encouraged by a friend to read the book of… Read More
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I know it sounds silly, but I had a coat I just couldn’t bring myself to part with. It wasn’t expensive. It wasn’t fancy. But it carried memories: long walks with my kids, coffee runs with friends, and even a season of my life when God carried me through more than I realized at the time. Every time I cleaned out my closet, I would stop at that coat, run my hand along the sleeve, and think, “Not this one. Not yet.” But one morning while I was praying, I felt that unmistakable tug. Soft, steady, but persistent. Give it away. I argued with God like He hadn’t already seen me do it a hundred times. “Lord, anything but that, I don’t know why it matters to me, but it does.” Still, the nudge wouldn’t leave. A local ministry was collecting winter clothing for people experiencing homelessness, so I drove over with a trunk full of things: scarves, gloves, sweaters. But that coat sat in the passenger seat, staring at me the whole ride like it knew the assignment before I did. I sighed, grabbed it, and placed it in the donation bin. I whispered, “Okay, Lord. If You want it, it’s Yours.” A few weeks later, the ministry posted photos online from one of their outreach days. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but then I froze. There she was a woman wearing my coat. Smiling. Warm. Her arms wrapped around herself like she was holding on to comfort for the first time in a long while. Something in me broke open. Not grief. Not regret. Relief. A deep knowing that obedience had done something… Read More
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When I was entering the 9th grade, I went to a back-to-school party. It wasn’t a wild party at all. I remember getting a Coke and taking a couple sips a few minutes later. I didn't know it at the time, but the drink was spiked with a drug. That was the last thing I remember. My next memory is being back at my house, sitting alone on the back porch the next morning at 3:00 am. I had no idea how I got there. I went inside my house and went to sleep. When I woke up the next morning, I still had no idea what had happened the night before. But I had intense pain between my thighs. I had issues when I went to the bathroom. This was a completely strange feeling, and since I was a virgin, my mind started to wonder whether something awful had taken place the night before. I didn’t want to tell my mom. I was embarrassed. And the harder I tried, I just couldn’t remember a thing. At that time in my life, I didn’t have a lot of close friends. So no one told me anything that had taken place. Two months later, I had a bad pain in my stomach. My mom took me to the gynecologist. We didn’t know what might be causing the pain, so the doctor took an ultrasound. And that’s when my life changed. She announced that I was pregnant. I was just 15. My mom was stunned. I was in shock. Adding to this, the gynecologist started calling me names and judging… Read More
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I used to think faith was for people who needed something to hold on to. I wasn’t against God. I just didn’t feel connected to Him. Life felt safer when I stayed in control, kept my expectations low, and handled everything myself. But everything changed the moment I decided I wanted a baby. The first time I got pregnant, I let myself hope in a way I never had before. I bought tiny socks, whispered dreams into the quiet of my room, and imagined names. For the first time in years, I believed something beautiful could finally be mine. And then, I lost the baby. I didn’t know how to handle the pain. I tucked the socks away, told everyone I was “fine,” and kept moving, though something in me cracked. Still, I tried again. Then again. The second pregnancy slipped away, then a third, then another. Each loss felt heavier. My body felt foreign, and I avoided baby showers, social media, even people I loved. I couldn’t explain a grief that kept repeating itself. After the last loss, I locked myself in the bathroom and slid down the wall. I didn’t scream or pray. I just sobbed from the deepest part of me. And out of pure desperation, not faith, then I whispered, “God, if You’re real, please see me.” I didn’t expect anything. But that night, I felt something I couldn’t explain. A stillness. A gentleness. Almost like a quiet whisper saying, "I’m here." A few days later, a friend invited me to church. I normally would’ve said no, but I went and… Read More
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Our house is loud: three kids, two dogs, homework battles, and a schedule that feels like it’s held together with duct tape and prayer. For years, we tried teaching our kids about Jesus through bedtime talks and Sunday devotionals, but honestly, most of it went in one ear and out the other. One day, after an especially chaotic week, my husband and I looked at each other and said, “They’re not going to learn love from lectures, they’re going to learn it from life.” So, we started something we call Saturday Serve Days. Every Saturday morning, we gather in the kitchen and pick one small act of kindness we can do together. Nothing complicated. Nothing glamorous. Just something that blesses someone else. One week we mow an elderly neighbor’s yard. Another week we deliver a meal to a single mom. Sometimes we write cards for the nursing home, or pick up trash at the park, or visit a widow who just needs company. At first, the kids complained. Loudly. But something shifted. One Saturday, after delivering a meal to a family going through a hard time, our middle child said, “I like how this makes my heart feel.” That’s when I knew it was working. Not because we were teaching them, but because God was shaping them. Our motto became: Serving others keeps our hearts connected. Connected to God. Connected to each other. Connected to the world outside our front door. The more we served, the more we noticed our kids changing; fewer arguments, more awareness, more compassion, more joy, and honestly, my husband and I changed, too. We stopped rushing through life and started seeing… Read More






