God Is Not Dead — And Neither Is Hope

There is something quietly powerful about the God’s Not Dead movies.

Not because they offer easy answers, or because they pretend faith is simple or without struggle—but because they dare to say, in a world that often grows louder and colder by the day, that belief still matters. That conscience still matters. That choosing courage over comfort still matters.

At their heart, these films are not really about debate halls, courtrooms, or headlines. They are about people—ordinary people—standing at crossroads where silence would be easier, safer, and more socially acceptable. They are about the cost of conviction, and the quiet strength it takes to say, I still believe, even when belief comes with consequences.

What God’s Not Dead understands is something our world often forgets: faith is not about winning arguments. It’s about living truthfully.

The characters we meet are flawed. Afraid. Uncertain. They wrestle with doubt, rejection, grief, and the fear of being misunderstood. And yet, again and again, they are asked a simple but terrifying question: Will you stand when it would be easier to sit down?

That question feels especially relevant now.

We live in a time when faith is often mocked, dismissed, or pushed into the shadows—treated as something private, inconvenient, or outdated. And yet, millions still cling to it not because it is easy, but because it is anchoring. Because it gives meaning when life fractures. Because it offers hope when circumstances say there should be none.

The films don’t deny suffering. In fact, they acknowledge it boldly. Loss, injustice, anger, and pain are not brushed aside. Instead, they are woven into the story, reminding us that belief does not protect us from hardship—but it can carry us through it.

What makes God’s Not Dead resonate is its insistence that love must remain at the center.

Not self-righteousness.

Not superiority.

Love.

The kind of love that listens even when it disagrees. The kind of love that speaks truth without cruelty. The kind of love that refuses to dehumanize others, even when beliefs clash. The films remind us that faith without compassion is hollow—and that conviction without grace can become its own kind of darkness.

There is a quiet courage in choosing kindness in hostile spaces. In refusing to return mockery with bitterness. In believing that hearts can still be softened, and lives can still be changed—not by force, but by example.

Perhaps the most powerful message in these movies is not that God is undefeated—but that He is present.

Present in hospital rooms.

Present in courtrooms.

Present in classrooms, living rooms, and broken places where people feel forgotten.

God is not dead because hope still flickers in exhausted hearts. Because forgiveness still appears where bitterness should have won. Because people still choose to stand for truth even when it costs them relationships, careers, or comfort.

And maybe that’s what the world needs right now—not louder arguments about belief, but quieter lives that reflect it. Not walls built in the name of faith, but bridges built because of it.

God’s Not Dead doesn’t ask us to be perfect believers. It asks us to be faithful ones. To stand when it’s hard. To love when it’s inconvenient. To trust that light still matters—even when darkness feels overwhelming.

Because as long as people are willing to choose compassion, courage, and hope…

God is not dead.

And neither is the good still waiting to rise.

The Magic We’re Forgetting

There’s a reason Harry Potter still matters.

Not because of spells or castles or flying broomsticks, but because it tells a truth we keep forgetting: the greatest danger to the world is not darkness itself—it’s fear, division, and the willingness to dehumanize one another in the name of power.

The wizarding world was never as different from ours as it seemed.

It was a place where people were sorted into groups and told those labels defined them. Where blood status mattered more than character. Where fear was used as a weapon and truth was bent until it served whoever was loudest. Where people convinced themselves that cruelty was justified if it kept them “safe.”

Sound familiar?

Voldemort wasn’t terrifying because he was powerful. He was terrifying because he believed some lives were worth more than others. Because he stripped people of names and reduced them to categories. Because he taught others to fear difference instead of understanding it.

And the most chilling part?

He didn’t rise alone.

He rose because people stayed silent. Because they told themselves it wasn’t their problem. Because they chose comfort over courage and obedience over conscience. Because it was easier to look away than to stand up.

Harry Potter was never the strongest wizard in the room. He didn’t win because he was smarter, more talented, or more ruthless. He won because he loved. Because he valued friendship over fear. Because he believed people were worth protecting—even when it cost him everything.

That is the magic we’re losing.

Right now, the world feels fractured into houses of its own making. Lines drawn deep and sharp. People reduced to labels instead of stories. Anger traveling faster than empathy. Certainty drowning out curiosity. We’re being taught—subtly or loudly—that compassion is weakness and that caring too much makes you naïve.

But Harry Potter reminds us otherwise.

It reminds us that bravery isn’t loud. Sometimes it looks like standing alone. Like saying, “This isn’t right,” even when it would be easier to blend into the crowd. It looks like defending someone everyone else has decided is disposable. It looks like refusing to let fear decide who deserves dignity.

Hermione teaches us that knowledge without empathy is dangerous. That rules matter—but justice matters more. Ron reminds us that loyalty isn’t flashy, but it’s everything. Neville shows us that courage can bloom slowly, quietly, and unexpectedly—and that the softest people often become the bravest when it matters most.

And Dumbledore reminds us of one of the most important truths of all:

“It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”

Not our beliefs.

Not our labels.

Not our side.

Our choices.

Every day, we choose whether to see each other as enemies or as humans. Whether to harden our hearts or keep them open. Whether to repeat what’s loud—or protect what’s right.

The world doesn’t need more power.

It needs more Patronuses.

More light summoned from memory, love, and hope. More people willing to face the darkness without becoming it. More reminders that even in the bleakest moments, kindness is not foolish—it is revolutionary.

Harry Potter endures because it tells us this: the world is saved not by the perfect, but by the faithful. By those who choose love again and again, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

Magic was never about wands.

It was about standing together when everything tries to pull us apart. It was about believing that no one is beyond redemption, and no one is beneath compassion. It was about choosing humanity over fear.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s the spell we need most right now.

The Word That Became Life

In the beginning, before the first sunrise ever painted the sky, before the stars took their place in the endless night, before time itself began to turn—there was the Word. The Word was not an idea or a sound or a fleeting thought. The Word was God. Infinite, eternal, and full of glory. He spoke, and light tore through the darkness. He breathed, and life took shape. Every mountain, every ocean, every heartbeat was born through that Word. Creation itself was His masterpiece—every whisper of wind, every song of the earth echoing His voice.

“In the beginning, the Word was with God, and the Word was God Himself.” These words remind us that the story of redemption didn’t begin in a manger or even on a cross—it began long before, in the heart of the Creator who already knew He would one day step into His creation. From the very start, love was the plan. Grace was the thread. And even as humanity stumbled into sin, even as the world grew cold and distant, that Word—the voice that spoke light into being—kept speaking.

“There in the shadows, a whisper of light, and the veil of darkness fell.” What a beautiful image of hope. Even in our deepest darkness, God never stopped shining. When the world could no longer hear His voice through the prophets, He sent the Word Himself—not as a sound from heaven, but as a heartbeat in human form. “The Word became flesh.” That’s the mystery that never ceases to move me: the Creator became part of His own creation. He traded the infinite for the fragile, the divine for the dust, the glory of heaven for the humility of human skin.

He didn’t come as a king to rule from afar, but as a servant to dwell among us. The Word who spoke galaxies into existence came not with armies or thunder, but with compassion and truth. He wept, He laughed, He touched, He healed. The hands that shaped the stars washed the feet of sinners. The voice that commanded the sea to still whispered forgiveness to those the world had cast aside.

“Traded the heavens to come wash our feet, living water here with us.” Every word He spoke, every step He took, was a love letter written in flesh and blood. He didn’t just tell us who God is—He showed us. Through His kindness, we saw God’s heart. Through His tears, we saw God’s pain for a broken world. Through His sacrifice, we saw a love so deep that it reached through eternity to redeem us.

And all of it—every miracle, every act of mercy, every nail that pierced His hands—was “for a world He loved.” That line undoes me every time I read it. Because it’s not just a story about long ago. It’s about us. That love still burns as fiercely now as it did when He walked the earth. The same Word that spoke creation into being still speaks over us today: forgiven, chosen, beloved.

“The Word was, the Word is, the Word will be forever and ever.” There’s power in those words. Everything else in this world fades—kingdoms fall, promises break, lives change—but the Word remains. His truth doesn’t waver with culture or time. His love doesn’t expire when we fail. His grace doesn’t weaken under the weight of our sin. The same Word that hung the stars still holds your story.

We live in a world where words are cheap. People speak carelessly, promises are broken easily, and truth feels slippery. But the Word—the Word—remains steady. When your heart feels uncertain, when life feels chaotic, His Word is the anchor. When fear whispers lies, His Word still says, “Peace, be still.” When shame tells you you’re too far gone, His Word says, “You are mine.”

From Genesis to Revelation, from the dawn of creation to the end of time, His Word weaves one unbroken story—a story of redemption, of grace, of love that refused to give up on us. The Word that began everything will also finish it, restoring what sin tried to destroy, making all things new.

And that’s the miracle we live in today: the same Word that became flesh still dwells among us through His Spirit. He’s not distant. He’s not silent. He’s as near as your next breath, as faithful as your next heartbeat.

When you open Scripture, you’re not just reading history—you’re encountering the living Word. When you pray, you’re not speaking into the void—you’re conversing with the One who spoke light into being. And when you worship, when you whisper “thank You” through tears or sing praise through joy, you’re joining in the eternal chorus that began before the world began—the Word was, the Word is, the Word will be forever and ever.

So let this truth sink deep into your soul today: the Word that made you, loves you, and redeems you still speaks. Still moves. Still reigns.

He was there in the beginning.

He is here right now.

And He will be forevermore.

The Ache I Carry, The Hope I Hold

My heart is broken, and it is lonely in ways words struggle to hold. There are days when the silence feels heavier than any noise ever could, when memories echo louder than the present moment. I tried—so deeply and sincerely—to be a good mother. I loved with everything I had, even when I didn’t always know the right way to show it. I know I made mistakes. I know there are moments I wish I could reach back into and hold differently, speak more gently, love more wisely. That truth lives with me, and it humbles me.

But God, in His endless mercy and greatness, found me not when I was strong—but when I was shattered. He met me right in the middle of my brokenness, when I had nothing left to give and no strength left to pretend. And He healed me. Not all at once, not without tears, but faithfully and tenderly, piece by piece. He reminded me that I am not defined by my failures, but by His grace.

Life has tried its hardest to break me since then. Loss has come in waves, grief stacking upon grief, each one testing the foundation beneath my feet. I miss my children with an ache that never truly leaves. I miss my siblings, my grandchildren, and the laughter that once filled rooms that now feel too quiet. And the deepest pain—the one that settles into my chest and takes my breath away—I miss my daughter and her child, a precious soul I have never met but already love beyond measure. That absence is a wound without words.

Still, I remain grounded in my faith. Not because life has been kind, but because God has been faithful. When everything else feels uncertain, He is my anchor. When my heart feels too heavy to carry, He carries me. I believe—no, I trust—that He will bring us through this. That somehow, in ways I cannot yet see or understand, He is still working. Still restoring. Still redeeming what feels lost.

I hold onto the promise that this is not the end of the story. That there will be light beyond this darkness. That on the other side of this pain, we will stand brighter, stronger, and shining—not because we were unbroken, but because we were held. And until that day comes, I will keep believing, keep praying, and keep placing my broken heart into the hands of the One who has never let me go.

Even here, even now, God is still writing something beautiful.

Valentine’s Day, and the Quiet Kind of Love

Valentine’s Day is often dressed in red and wrapped in ribbon. It arrives with roses that lean toward excess, cards that promise forever in glittered ink, and expectations that love should be loud, visible, and effortless. But I have learned that the truest love rarely announces itself that way.

The love that lasts is quieter.

It shows up in the ordinary hours—the ones no one photographs. It lives in the pauses between conversations, in the shared silence that feels safe instead of empty. It is found not in grand gestures, but in steady presence.

Valentine’s Day, to me, is no longer about the rush of romance. It is about the choosing.

Choosing to stay when life becomes complicated.

Choosing patience when answers don’t come quickly.

Choosing tenderness when exhaustion would be easier.

It is the love that sits beside you when words fail. The love that holds space instead of demanding solutions. The love that understands that seasons change—and that commitment is not about escaping the winter, but learning how to survive it together.

There is something deeply sacred about that kind of love.

It does not sparkle for an audience. It does not need to prove itself. It is resilient, worn-in, and deeply human. It knows disappointment, fear, and grief—but it also knows how to return, again and again, to hope.

Valentine’s Day reminds me that love is not fragile. It bends. It stretches. It carries scars. And still, it chooses to remain.

Love is in the morning routines that continue even when hearts are heavy. It is in the way one person learns the rhythms of another—when to speak, when to wait, when to simply sit nearby. It is in forgiveness offered quietly, without tally or triumph. It is in faith that whispers, we are not done yet.

I think we do love a disservice when we limit it to a single day or a single expression. Love is not only romance—it is loyalty, compassion, and grace. It is the courage to stay open in a world that so often teaches us to protect ourselves by closing off.

This Valentine’s Day, I am honoring the love that has endured storms. The love that has learned how to breathe through uncertainty. The love that has been reshaped, not broken, by hardship.

I am honoring the love that does not rush to fix, but faithfully accompanies. The love that understands that healing is not linear and that togetherness does not require perfection.

And I am honoring love in all its forms—the love between partners, families, friends, and the quiet love we are still learning to give ourselves.

Because love is not always a celebration. Sometimes it is simply staying.

And that—more than roses or chocolates or carefully chosen words—is the most beautiful Valentine of all.