Carried to Know Him, Not Just Serve Him

A Day in the Life

“You have seen what I did to the Egyptians, and how I bore you on eagles’ wings and brought you to Myself.” — Exodus 19:4

When I sit quietly with this passage, I begin to realize how easily I can misunderstand the purpose of God’s work in my life. The phrase “brought you to Myself” carries a depth that reaches beyond deliverance into relationship. The Hebrew expression וָאָבִא אֶתְכֶם אֵלָי (va’avi etchem elai) literally means “I brought you to Me,” emphasizing closeness, not just relocation. God did not simply remove Israel from Egypt; He drew them into communion. As I reflect on my own walk, I see how often I equate God’s activity with assignments rather than intimacy. Yet from the beginning, His intent has been relational.

This truth becomes even clearer when I look at the life of Jesus. In Gospel of Luke 10:38–42, Martha is busy preparing and serving, while Mary sits at Jesus’ feet, listening. Martha’s frustration is understandable—after all, she is doing something good. Yet Jesus gently redirects her: “Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things. But one thing is needed, and Mary has chosen that good part, which will not be taken away from her.” In that moment, Jesus reveals that relationship takes precedence over activity. I often find myself in Martha’s place, measuring faithfulness by what I accomplish rather than by how closely I walk with Him.

The pattern is consistent throughout Scripture. God delivers Israel from Egypt, not merely to give them land, but to establish covenant fellowship. Likewise, Jesus calls His disciples not first to tasks, but to Himself. In Gospel of Mark 3:14, it says, “Then He appointed twelve, that they might be with Him and that He might send them out to preach.” Notice the order: being with Him comes before being sent. The Greek phrase ἵνα ὦσιν μετ’ αὐτοῦ (hina ōsin met’ autou) underscores this priority—relationship precedes mission. As A.W. Tozer once wrote, “God is not looking for people to do things for Him; He is looking for people through whom He can reveal Himself.” That insight reshapes how I view both my calling and my daily responsibilities.

What strikes me most is how God uses circumstances—both assignments and crises—to draw me closer to Him. When I face something beyond my ability, I am reminded of my dependence. When I encounter difficulty, I am invited into deeper trust. This mirrors Jesus in the wilderness in Gospel of Matthew 4, where even in temptation, He remains anchored in the Word and in fellowship with the Father. It becomes clear that the goal is not simply endurance or success, but communion. As one commentator from BibleHub notes, “God’s acts of deliverance are always invitations into deeper relationship, not merely demonstrations of power.” That perspective reframes every trial I face—it is not an interruption, but an invitation.

There is a subtle danger in spiritual busyness. I can become so focused on doing things “for God” that I unintentionally bypass being with God. The study reminds me that activity, even good activity, can become a substitute for intimacy. Jesus Himself often withdrew to solitary places to pray, as seen in Gospel of Luke 5:16. If the Son of God needed intentional moments of communion, how much more do I? My effectiveness in ministry, in relationships, and in daily living is directly tied to the depth of my connection with Him.

As I walk through this truth, I begin to ask myself a simple but searching question: Am I allowing God to bring me to Himself, or am I staying occupied with what I think He wants me to do? The answer is not found in abandoning responsibility, but in reordering priority. When my relationship with Him is central, everything else finds its proper place. My service becomes an overflow, not a substitute.

So today, I choose to pause. I choose to sit, to listen, to be still in His presence. Because the greatest gift of salvation is not what God gives me, but that He gives me Himself.

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Where Honesty Meets Holiness

On Second Thought

“The Lord is near to all who call upon Him, to all who call upon Him in truth.” — Psalm 145:18

There is a quiet invitation woven throughout Scripture that many believers overlook—not because it is hidden, but because it feels almost too simple. God calls us not only to obey Him or worship Him, but to draw near to Him with honesty. The psalmist uses the Hebrew word “אֱמֶת” (’emet), meaning truth, faithfulness, and sincerity. To call upon God “in truth” is not to present a polished version of ourselves, but to come as we are—unfiltered, known, and fully seen. This is where intimacy with God begins, not in performance, but in authenticity.

When I read John 17:1–8, I am struck by how Jesus Himself models this closeness with the Father. This is not a distant or formal exchange; it is deeply relational. Jesus speaks openly, confidently, and intimately. The Greek word “παρρησία” (parrēsia), often used in the New Testament, describes this kind of boldness—freedom of speech that comes from trust. Jesus prays as One who knows He is heard, known, and loved. And here is the remarkable truth: through Him, we are invited into that same relationship. We are not outsiders trying to gain access; we are children already welcomed into the Father’s presence.

This reality reshapes how we approach God. Many carry the subtle belief that they must “clean up” before they come close, that certain emotions—anger, confusion, disappointment—are somehow inappropriate in prayer. Yet Scripture tells a different story. The Psalms are filled with raw expressions of human emotion, from David’s cries of anguish to his declarations of joy. God is not threatened by our honesty. In fact, honesty is the pathway to healing. As one commentator has observed, “God meets us not at the point of our pretense, but at the point of our truth.” That insight is liberating. It means that the very things we are tempted to hide are the very places God desires to enter.

And yet, there are seasons when God feels distant. We pray, but the heavens seem silent. We seek, but clarity does not come. These moments test our understanding of God’s nearness. Psalm 145:18 assures us that God is near, but our experience does not always align with that promise. This tension is not new. Even Jesus, in His humanity, experienced it when He cried out, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Matthew 27:46). The Greek phrase “ἐγκατέλιπες” (egkatelipes) conveys a sense of abandonment, yet even in that moment, Jesus addressed God as “My God.” Relationship remained intact even when understanding did not.

This teaches us something essential: intimacy with God is not dependent on our feelings, but on His faithfulness. Hebrews 13:5 reminds us, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” The strength of that promise lies in the Greek construction, which uses multiple negatives to emphasize certainty—it is as if God is saying, “I will never, ever leave you.” When we hold onto that truth, we are able to worship even when we do not fully understand. Worship becomes an act of trust, not just an expression of emotion.

But intimacy also requires exclusivity. The study reminds us to refuse competing lovers—money, fame, power. These are not merely external temptations; they are internal rivals for our affection. Jesus addressed this directly when He said, “No one can serve two masters” (Matthew 6:24). The issue is not just what we pursue, but what we love. The Father desires not partial allegiance, but wholehearted devotion. When our hearts are divided, our intimacy is diminished. But when we return to Him with undivided affection, we discover that His arms have been open all along.

So the question becomes deeply personal: Is the Father my most adored Friend? That question cuts through religious routine and exposes the condition of the heart. It is possible to know about God without truly knowing Him. It is possible to serve Him without delighting in Him. Yet the invitation remains—draw near, speak honestly, and allow Him to gather you into His presence. The image is not one of distance, but of embrace. God is not waiting to evaluate you; He is waiting to receive you.

On Second Thought

There is a paradox in this journey that often goes unnoticed. We assume that drawing close to God requires strength, discipline, and spiritual maturity—and in one sense, it does. But in another, deeper sense, intimacy with God begins with weakness. The very thing we try to overcome—our brokenness, our confusion, our emotional struggle—is often the doorway through which we encounter Him most clearly. We think we must become strong enough to approach God, but Scripture reveals that we must become honest enough. Strength may sustain the relationship, but honesty initiates it.

This creates a tension in how we live out our faith. On one hand, we are called to grow, to mature, to walk in obedience. On the other hand, we are invited to remain childlike in our dependence. The paradox is this: the closer we grow to God, the more aware we become of our need for Him. And rather than pushing us away, that awareness draws us deeper into His presence. What feels like weakness becomes the foundation of intimacy.

So perhaps the question is not, “Am I strong enough to walk closely with God?” but “Am I willing to be fully known by Him?” Because the truth is, He already knows. The issue is whether we will live in that reality. When we do, we discover that His nearness is not something we earn—it is something we embrace.

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Break spiritual strongholds and draw closer to God — discover how intimacy with Him brings freedom, healing, and victory over hidden struggles.

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Read here: https://www.lifecoachashleydwille.com/breaking-spiritual-strongholds-intimacy-with-god/

The Place God Meets You

Beyond the Gifts to the Giver
On Second Thought

There is a quiet tension in the life of faith that many of us feel but rarely articulate. We come to God with needs, desires, and expectations, and yet somewhere deep within, we sense that what He offers is far greater than the answers we seek. The psalmist in Psalm 16:1–11 captures this beautifully, declaring, “In Your presence is fullness of joy; at Your right hand are pleasures forevermore.” That phrase “fullness of joy” suggests something complete, lacking nothing. It is not found in what God gives, but in who God is. And yet, if I am honest, I often approach Him as though the gifts are the goal.

Isaiah sharpens this understanding with a remarkable promise: “You will keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on You, because he trusts in You” (Isaiah 26:3). The Hebrew phrase for “perfect peace” is shalom shalom, a doubling that emphasizes completeness—peace that is whole, settled, and undisturbed. But notice the condition: a mind “stayed” on God. The word samak conveys the idea of leaning, resting, or being firmly supported. This is not a casual glance toward God; it is a sustained focus, a deliberate anchoring of the inner life upon Him. Peace, then, is not the result of having our desires fulfilled, but of having our attention rightly directed.

Joseph Stowell’s illustration brings this into sharp focus. Like children at Christmas, we can become consumed with the gifts while forgetting the relationship behind them. I see myself in that picture more than I would like to admit. It is easy to measure God’s goodness by what He provides—answered prayers, open doors, material blessings. But intimacy with God cannot be reduced to transactions. It is relational, not transactional. When Jesus taught in Matthew 6:33, “Seek first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you,” He was not dismissing our needs; He was reordering our priorities. The Greek word for “seek,” zēteō, implies a continual pursuit, an active and ongoing desire. The pursuit itself is the relationship.

There is also a subtle deception that creeps into our thinking, often reinforced by voices that promise a faith built on outcomes. The idea that if we simply “name” something, God is obligated to provide it distorts the nature of trust. Trust is not demanding; it is yielding. It is not rooted in control, but in surrender. The inner sanctum of the heart—the place where God meets us—is not a marketplace of requests, but a sanctuary of communion. David writes, “Preserve me, O God: for in You do I put my trust” (Psalm 16:1). The Hebrew word for trust here, chasah, carries the image of taking refuge. It is the picture of drawing near, not reaching outward.

What I am beginning to understand is that God does not meet me where I am most distracted. He meets me where I am most surrendered. The “inner sanctum” is not a physical location; it is a posture of the heart. It is cultivated in stillness, in prayer, in meditation on His Word. It is formed when I slow down enough to listen rather than speak, to receive rather than request. This runs counter to the pace of our world, which constantly pulls us outward toward activity and acquisition. But God calls us inward, toward presence and relationship.

Augustine once wrote, “You have made us for Yourself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You.” That restlessness often drives us toward things we believe will satisfy, only to find that they leave us wanting more. The peace Isaiah describes is not found in accumulation, but in alignment. When my mind is fixed on God, my desires begin to shift. What once seemed essential becomes secondary. What once consumed my attention begins to lose its hold.

There is also a refining aspect to this journey. Loving God more than His gifts requires a reordering of affection. Jesus’ words in Luke 10:27 call us to love the Lord with all our heart, soul, strength, and mind. That comprehensive love leaves little room for divided allegiance. It challenges me to ask: Do I love God for who He is, or for what He does? The answer is not always comfortable, but it is necessary.

As I reflect on this, I realize that God’s greatest gift is Himself. Everything else flows from that relationship. When I seek Him first, I find that my needs are met in ways I did not anticipate, and my desires are shaped by His will. The inner sanctum becomes a place of transformation, not just provision.

On Second Thought

There is a paradox here that reshapes how I approach God. The more I focus on receiving from Him, the less satisfied I become; yet the more I focus on Him, the less I seem to need. At first glance, this feels counterintuitive. We are taught to bring our needs to God, to ask, to seek, to knock. And rightly so. But what if the deeper invitation is not to come for what He can give, but to come because He is there? What if the very act of seeking Him is the answer to the restlessness we carry?

It is possible to spend a lifetime asking God for peace, provision, and direction, all while missing the reality that these are byproducts of His presence. When Isaiah speaks of “perfect peace,” he is not describing a reward for correct behavior, but a condition that flows from proximity to God. The mind that is “stayed” on Him is not anxious about outcomes because it is anchored in relationship. This challenges a deeply ingrained habit in me—the habit of evaluating my spiritual life based on what I receive rather than how I relate.

Even more intriguing is this: God sometimes withholds what I ask for, not because He is unwilling to give, but because He is inviting me deeper. If He satisfied every request immediately, I might never learn to seek Him beyond the request. The delay, the silence, even the unanswered prayer can become a doorway into intimacy if I allow it. It forces me to linger, to listen, to remain. In that space, I begin to discover that what I truly long for is not the gift, but the Giver.

So perhaps the question is not whether God will meet my needs, but whether I will meet Him in the place where He dwells—the inner sanctum of a heart fixed on Him. And in that meeting, I may find that the greatest need I had was not for something from God, but for God Himself.

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Friendship Before Favor

As the Day Begins

“He will love you and bless you and multiply you.” — Deuteronomy 7:13

There is a tender order in this promise from Deuteronomy. Before blessing, before multiplying, before increase of any kind, there is love. Moses reminds Israel that the covenant God did not choose them because they were many or mighty, but because He loved them. The Hebrew word used here for love, ’ahav, speaks not merely of emotion but of covenant loyalty—steadfast, committed affection rooted in promise. This means that when the Lord says He will love and bless, He is binding Himself relationally before He provides materially. Friendship with the Father always precedes favor from His hand.

Many of us begin our day thinking about what we must accomplish. Yet Scripture invites us first to consider Whom we know. The goal of the believer is not simply to bear the label Christian but to cultivate communion. Jesus echoes this relational heart in John 17:3: “And this is eternal life, that they know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent.” The Greek word ginōskō for “know” implies experiential knowledge—personal, growing, intimate. God desires more than our attendance; He desires our affection. When we enter prayer in the quiet of the morning, we step into that sacred space where identity is strengthened and fear loses its voice.

Daily worship and prayer are the spiritual closet of Matthew 6:6. There, unseen by the world, our friendship with the Father becomes the bedrock of our faith. We are not performing; we are abiding. Like a child who sits at the breakfast table simply to be near a loving parent, we linger in His presence. From that nearness flows wisdom, peace, courage, and even multiplication in ways we cannot manufacture. Blessing becomes the overflow of intimacy. When friendship is central, obedience becomes natural and gratitude becomes habitual.

For further reflection on cultivating intimacy with God, see this helpful article from Desiring God: https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/how-to-know-god

Triune Prayer

Heavenly Father, You are the covenant-keeping LORD, the One who loved Israel before they prospered and who loves me before I perform. Thank You that Your affection is not earned but given. Draw me into deeper friendship with You today. Teach me to value Your presence above Your provision. Guard my heart from seeking blessings without seeking You. Let my morning worship be sincere and my gratitude honest. I open my life to Your wisdom, trusting that love from You is the greatest multiplication I will ever receive.

Jesus the Son, You have revealed the Father’s heart. You called Your disciples friends, and through Your cross You made that friendship possible. Thank You for removing the barrier of sin and bringing me near. Help me walk in obedience that reflects love rather than obligation. As I face conversations, responsibilities, and unseen pressures today, remind me that I stand in covenant grace. Teach me to remain in You, as You said in John 15, so that fruitfulness grows from abiding. Shape my heart to mirror Yours.

Holy Spirit, Comforter and Spirit of Truth, dwell richly within me. Quiet the noise that distracts me from communion. Prompt me throughout this day to return inwardly to fellowship with the Father. Convict gently where I drift, and strengthen me where I am weak. Produce in me the fruit that reflects divine friendship—love, patience, kindness, faithfulness. Let my life today testify that I am not walking alone but guided by Your steady presence.

Thought for the Day

Before you ask God to bless your plans, spend time simply enjoying His presence. Friendship with the Father is the soil where every other blessing grows.

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When Silence Becomes the Starting Line

On Second Thought

Psalm 63 has always sounded like the voice of a soul that has run out of substitutes. David cries, “O God, You are my God; early will I seek You; my soul thirsts for You.” That word “thirst” carries the Hebrew sense of deep craving, not mild interest. It is the language of survival. Pair that with Mark 1:35, where we see Jesus rising long before daylight to pray in a solitary place, and a pattern emerges: intimacy with God does not grow accidentally; it grows intentionally. Even the Son of God, in His earthly life, sought unhurried time with the Father. That alone reshapes my assumptions. If Jesus did not treat communion with God as optional, why do I so often act as though it is negotiable?

We tend to imagine that closeness with God will happen when life settles down. Yet life rarely settles. Responsibilities multiply, distractions hum constantly, and the urgent crowds out the essential. Psalm 63 was written in the wilderness, not in comfort. David’s environment was unstable, yet his spiritual pursuit was focused. That challenges me. The presence of God is not a location on a map but a posture of the heart. When the study says God’s presence is open to us any time, it reminds me that access to Him is not restricted by schedule but by attention. Still, attention requires decision. The “solitary place” Jesus sought was not found by chance; it was chosen.

There have been moments in my own weakness when I wished someone could guarantee the outcome of what I was facing. In those times, the promise of God’s nearness meant more than quick answers. In quiet prayer, I did not always receive detailed solutions, but I received steadiness. That is one of the hidden gifts of being alone with God. Wisdom grows in silence. When I pause long enough to acknowledge that God knows the needs of my heart better than I do, my perspective begins to shift. Problems that felt towering become manageable when seen from the awareness of His sovereignty. The stillness is not empty; it is relational space where trust deepens.

The instruction to begin now is both simple and searching. We often think spiritual depth requires elaborate methods, but the first step is willingness. Sitting quietly, focusing on God’s love, and asking for a greater desire to know Him is not complicated, yet it can feel costly because it requires surrender of noise and control. The paradox is that in relinquishing the rush, we gain clarity. In admitting need, we receive strength. God does not wait for polished prayers; He responds to honest hearts. The doorway to deeper fellowship is always open, but it must be entered.

What moves me most is the assurance that God waits with open arms. Intimacy with Him is not earned by spiritual performance; it is welcomed through grace. The practice of rising early or carving out quiet time is not about impressing God but about positioning my heart where I can hear Him. Over time, these moments accumulate. They shape reflexes, soften reactions, and anchor identity. The one who regularly meets God in secret carries that hidden strength into public life. Like water absorbed by roots, unseen communion produces visible resilience.

On Second Thought

It seems backward that we are told to “begin now” by doing what looks like nothing. We close our eyes, grow quiet, and step away from visible productivity. In a world that measures value by output, this feels counterintuitive. Yet the paradox is that the most influential moments of our spiritual lives often begin in stillness rather than activity. Jesus’ public ministry flowed from private communion. The One through whom all things were made chose to start His day not by organizing crowds but by withdrawing from them. That invites me to reconsider my assumptions about effectiveness. Perhaps the delay I fear in pausing is actually preparation. Perhaps what feels like lost time becomes the very source of redeemed time. When I choose to be still before God, I am not escaping reality but entering the truest layer of it. The silence exposes what I have been leaning on and reorients me toward the One who never shifts. So the call to begin now is not a demand for immediate achievement but an invitation into immediate relationship. The moment I turn my heart toward God, the journey has already begun.

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Held by Gentleness, Stretched by Grace

As the Day Begins

“Your right hand has held me up; Your gentleness has made me great.”
Psalm 18:35

The psalmist’s confession in Psalm 18:35 invites us to rethink how growth truly happens in the life of faith. David does not credit his greatness to personal strength, military success, or spiritual resolve. Instead, he locates his becoming in the steady support of God’s hand and, strikingly, in God’s gentleness. The Hebrew term often rendered “gentleness” carries the sense of humble condescension—God stooping down, adjusting Himself to our weakness so that we might be lifted rather than crushed. This is not the gentleness of indulgence, but the gentleness of intentional care. It is the careful hand of a master craftsman shaping something living, something meant to grow beyond what it currently is.

When we think about potential, most of us default to outward markers: achievement, recognition, competence, or productivity. Scripture consistently redirects us inward, toward what Paul calls “the inner person” and what the psalmists describe as the heart God desires to shape. God’s vision for growth is not constrained by the limits we often impose on ourselves. Spiritual growth, unlike résumés or reputations, is not competitive, finite, or scarce. It is relational. God’s love is boundless, and therefore the depth of relationship available to us is also boundless. The limitation is never on God’s side. It rests in our willingness to remain present, teachable, and responsive to Him.

David’s words also challenge the assumption that greatness must be forged through pressure alone. While Scripture does not deny discipline or struggle, it insists that God’s shaping work is guided by covenantal care. “Your right hand has held me up” speaks of stability and preservation. Growth happens not when we are abandoned to our own efforts, but when we are upheld. This reframes the day ahead. Whatever demands await you—decisions, responsibilities, uncertainties—you do not face them as a self-made project. You enter the day supported by the God who delights in growing you from the inside out, often through quiet faithfulness rather than visible achievement.

Spiritual intimacy develops where trust is practiced daily. Few experience it not because it is reserved, but because it requires sustained attentiveness. Like a marriage deepened through shared presence rather than occasional intensity, intimacy with God grows through consistency, honesty, and humility. Today does not require heroic effort. It invites yielded attention. Growth is already underway where God’s gentleness is welcomed rather than resisted.

Triune Prayer

Most High, I begin this day acknowledging that You are the One who holds me steady. I thank You that my life is not balanced on my own strength but upheld by Your faithful hand. You know the places where I feel small, uncertain, or limited, and You meet me there without condemnation. Teach me to trust Your gentleness, especially when I am tempted to measure myself by outward success rather than inward faithfulness. Shape my heart today so that my growth reflects Your character, not my ambition. I surrender my expectations and invite Your will to define what greatness truly looks like in my life.

Jesus, Son of Man, I am grateful that You revealed the strength of God through humility and obedience. You did not grasp for greatness but received it through faithfulness to the Father. Walk with me through the ordinary moments of this day. Help me notice where You are already at work, especially in quiet acts of obedience and unseen faith. Where I feel pressure to perform or prove myself, remind me that abiding in You is the source of lasting fruit. I ask for the grace to follow You not only in belief, but in practice, allowing Your life to shape mine.

Holy Spirit, Comforter, I welcome Your presence as my guide and teacher today. Search my heart and reveal where I resist growth out of fear or fatigue. Strengthen my inner being so that I may respond to God’s gentleness with openness rather than self-protection. Lead me into truth as I navigate conversations, decisions, and responsibilities. Cultivate patience, humility, and attentiveness within me so that my life bears witness to the quiet power of Your transforming work.

Thought for the Day

Begin today attentive to God’s gentleness. Spiritual growth accelerates not through striving, but through sustained openness to the God who already holds you steady.

For further reflection on spiritual formation and growth, see this article from The Bible Project: https://bibleproject.com/articles/what-does-it-mean-grow-spiritually/

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