Blown Away

Imagination running wild—it’s the way I’ve always been. The kind of soul that colors outside the lines, not to be rebellious, but because life has always felt too beautiful to stay inside the edges. I’ve always believed that faith should be lived with that same kind of wonder—open, curious, uncontained. There’s something sacred about letting your heart and your head work together, about listening for that still, small voice inside that says, “Look up. Look out. There’s more.”

And when I do—when I stop long enough to notice the stars scattered across the night sky, I can’t help but start naming them, even though I lose count every time. There are too many to keep track of, too many glimmers of light stretching into eternity. But that’s what amazes me most: that the God who made all of that knows who I am. He knows my name, my heartbeat, my laughter, my fears. The same hands that hung galaxies in place are the same hands that have caught my tears. And that realization never stops taking my breath away.

Oh, I pray I’m always blown away. I pray that I never get used to grace, that I never stop marveling at mercy, that I never lose my awe for a love that deep. Because there’s something holy about wonder—it keeps faith alive. It keeps gratitude burning bright, even when life feels dim. The moment I stop being amazed is the moment I stop truly seeing. And I never want to lose sight of the beauty that’s been holding me all along.

When you finally see what it means to be free—to really, truly be free—you begin to understand just how extraordinary life is. Free from guilt. Free from shame. Free from the need to earn what’s already been given. Freedom doesn’t mean there are no struggles; it means the struggles no longer own you. It’s standing in the light, remembering your life—the messes, the miracles, the mistakes—and realizing that through it all, grace never let go.

And when that hits you, you can’t help but be speechless. Every single time.

Because how do you describe a love that big? How do you put into words what it feels like to be known completely and loved completely, at the same time? The older I get, the more I realize that I can’t fully comprehend it—and maybe that’s the point. God’s love isn’t meant to be understood; it’s meant to be received. It’s meant to leave you in awe, standing still with tears in your eyes, whispering, “Thank You.”

Because this love—this unrelenting, unexplainable, unconditional love—is what changes everything. It’s what turns fear into faith, sorrow into strength, and doubt into devotion. And though I may never wrap my mind around it completely, I don’t have to. I just have to keep running toward it.

So I run to Jesus—like a champ. Not because I have it all figured out, but because I know where my hope comes from. I run, even when I’m tired, even when I stumble, even when the path ahead feels uncertain. I run because I know who waits for me at the finish line—not a judge, but a Savior. Not condemnation, but compassion. Not disappointment, but delight.

Every time I fall, He’s there to lift me. Every time I doubt, He reminds me who I am. Every time I lose sight of what matters, He gently tilts my chin upward, whispering, “Look up. Look out. There’s more.”

So I keep my imagination running wild—not for fantasy, but for faith. I keep coloring outside the lines—not out of defiance, but because His love always spills beyond the boundaries I try to draw. I keep looking up at the stars, losing count, letting awe take over. I keep praying that I’ll never grow numb to the wonder of being known and loved by the Creator of the universe.

And when the weight of the world makes it harder to believe, I’ll remember the child I once was—the one who saw God everywhere, who believed without needing proof, who thought love was magic because it is. I’ll remember that even as I grow older, I can keep my faith young, wide-eyed, and wild.

Because the truth is, no matter how many years pass, no matter how much I learn or forget, I will always have reason to be amazed. The God who spoke galaxies into being still speaks my name with affection. The One who commands oceans still calms the waves inside me. The One who paints sunsets still colors my days with grace.

So yes, I’ll run to Jesus—every time, every season, every storm. I’ll run not because I have to, but because I get to. Because I’ve seen enough to know that His arms are the safest place in the world.

And maybe that’s the secret to faith—to stay amazed. To never stop looking up. To keep naming stars, even when you lose count. To live like a child of wonder, in awe that the God of everything knows your name and still calls you beloved.

That’s freedom. That’s grace. That’s joy.

And that’s the kind of faith I want to live out—for the rest of my life.