Early morning light pours through the airport windows, soft and golden. I sit with a journal in my hands and a swelling sense of joy in my chest—something sacred humming through every cell of my body. That feeling of softening into the absurd abundance of life. A flow of grace so generous, so radiant, so freely given, it nearly breaks the mind.

I love being alive.

The miracles of sight, of language, of breath in my lungs.

The privilege of movement, freedom, exploring, discovering.

The way the world opens like a gift again and again—unearned, full of quiet beauty.

And lately, it’s become more and more apparent to me: nothing I do could ever make me fully “deserve” any of it.

That realization doesn’t bring shame.

It brings awe.

It brings gratitude.

It brings surrender.

Sin and Surrender

For so long, I hated the idea of “original sin.” Like many, I’d seen how that doctrine has been twisted—used to shame, control, and crush the soul. But now I’m beginning to glimpse the tender gifts of this concept — recognizing myself as a sinner — not as a condemnation, but as a doorway into deeper humility and awe.

Not as a judgment of unworthiness, but as a remembrance that my worth was never based on my performance. As an invitation to accept grace and ask for help.

I am imperfect. I get it wrong. I miss the mark. I forget.

For many years, I didn’t want to see my own imperfections. I thought I had to be already wise, already enlightened, already spiritually detached—as if that would prove my worthiness to belong. I wanted to be so surrendered that I didn’t need anything. But in trying to be perfect, I bypassed my own humanity. I ignored the tender parts of me that still struggle, still ache, still need.

And in doing that, I closed myself off from real intimacy—with God, with others, and even with myself.

I didn’t know that it’s our very need that opens the door to connection. That vulnerability is not a failure, but the place where love can finally meet us.

And still- God keeps pouring out gifts.

This, to me, is the scandal and sweetness of grace. It is not a reward for righteousness. It is not a transaction. It flows because love longs to give. Because God is generous beyond reason.

Two Fundamental Orientations

I’ve been reflecting on how we orient ourselves toward life. One way is a transactional orientation—where everything must be earned, justified, explained. Where even love is conditional and beauty must be useful. This is the logic of merit, the world of wages.

This mechanistic mindset echoes the worldview of the Pharisees in the New Testament—where holiness was measured by rules kept and sins avoided, where love was defined by law. But Jesus kept breaking open that system, revealing a God who chooses mercy over sacrifice, intimate relationship over performative righteousness, the heart’s grace over the mind's reasons.

Jesus offers us another way—a relational orientation toward the world. A way of seeing that delights in what is, without needing a reason. A way of loving for its own sake. A way where goodness is good, simply because it is. Where grace is given simply because that’s what grace does.

It is this orientation that opens the heart and makes everything shimmer.

It’s this shift—from earning to receiving, from utility to wonder—that returns us to the heart of God.

From Grace to Devotion

And yet —grace isn’t an excuse to do nothing. It doesn’t mean we stop caring about how we live.

Grace is the soil where real transformation takes root and gives rise to action truly aligned with love.

When I open myself to be fully loved by God—not because I earned it, but because love is who God is—my heart begins to shift. I move differently. Not from fear, but from freedom. Not from duty, but from delight.

As 1 John 4:19 says, “We love because He first loved us.” Divine love, once received, becomes the source of all true action.

You can do the very same thing—speak kindly, tell the truth, offer service—but everything changes depending on where it flows from. Striving seeks to prove something. Devotion simply overflows with a sense of joyful generosity.

Grace doesn’t make us complacent. It makes us wholehearted, alive, effective, and aligned.

And grace doesn’t just change our choices—it changes how we feel in our bodies. It softens the very places that have braced for shame.

I still notice this in myself sometimes. When I realize I’ve messed up, there's a part of me that braces—expecting rejection, punishment, exile. It’s a subtle vertigo, a tightening in my chest, a holding in my breath. A primal fear etched deep in cellular memory.

And yet, when I pause, when I breathe, when I speak gently to those parts—“It’s okay, love. You’re safe now.”—something shifts. My heart loosens. My breath deepens. Grace begins to move through me again.

The world becomes more vivid. I feel more connected, more alive. Grace doesn’t just restore right relationship and action—it restores presence, sensation, softness. It brings me back to life.

Peter’s Hubris and Prodigal Grace

Still, even when we long to live from that place of grace, we so often forget our need. We try to be strong on our own—and that’s when we fall.

I think of Peter at the Last Supper—when Jesus tells him, “Before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times.” And Peter, so sure of himself, replies, “Even if all fall away on account of you, I never will.”

And just as Jesus foretold, later that night—when fear and confusion were thick —Peter did deny him. Not once, but three times. “I don’t know the man,” he said, trying to distance himself from the one he loved, afraid of what it might cost him to stay close.

But perhaps Peter’s real mistake wasn’t the denial itself. It was the belief that he didn’t need help. He trusted his own strength—and that was what crumbled.

And still—after the resurrection, Jesus returns to him in tenderness.

“Do you love me?” He asks. Three times, echoing his three denials, and each time Peter answers yes, he is invited back into love and purpose. Grace doesn’t shame him. It restores him.

And then there is the younger son in Jesus’ parable—who demands his inheritance, squanders it, and then returns home broken, hungry, unworthy.

But before he can even deliver his apology, his father runs to him. Wraps him in robes. Throws a feast. Completely unearned, yet so freely given.

This is the heart of God. A love that runs toward us. A mercy that doesn’t wait for worthiness. A feast prepared not because we’ve earned it, but because we are wanted home.

Ashes and Confession

These stories remind me that grace so often meets us not at our strongest, but at our most undone.

And perhaps that’s why the rituals of repentance matter—not to wallow in shame, but to return to truth.

Just a couple weeks ago, we observed Ash Wednesday—the beginning of Lent, the season of returning and remembering. The liturgy includes a collective confession that deeply struck me. Together, we stood and spoke aloud what is true— to name our need with reverence and honesty.

We confess that we have not loved God with our whole heart.

That we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.

That we’ve harbored anger and division in our hearts.

That we’ve squandered the gifts of creation and contributed to the destruction of the earth.

That we have turned away from the call to justice, mercy, and humility.

This year, these words have felt especially raw. In the wake of my father’s sudden death, my whole family has been living inside these confessions—not as abstract prayers, but as real and aching truths. We’ve all felt the sharpness of regret, the awareness of how we could have loved more fully, how we could have been more present, how we could have seen and appreciated him more clearly while he was still here.

It has made me realize that these confessions are not just about guilt. They are about love. They are about the holy grief of seeing where we have fallen short—and the sacred invitation to live differently, now, while we still can.

Dear God, I have fallen short. Again.

I have failed to love as fully as I could.

I cannot do this alone. I need your grace. I need your help. Please.

Not because I am worthless—but because I am human.

Because I am not the source of my own goodness.

Because I was never meant to carry all of this alone.

There is such relief in that surrender. A sacred exhale. A letting go of self-sufficiency. A clearing of space in my soul.

Because it is in that open space—where illusion and striving fall away—that grace can finally rush in.

And maybe this is the gift of confession: not groveling, not guilt, but the freedom that comes when we stop pretending we’re already whole and perfect. The tenderness that arrives when we admit how much we need God. The love that finds us when we simply say: Please forgive me. Please help me.

And maybe that’s what grace has been trying to show us all along:

Imperfection isn’t a barrier to love—it’s the very threshold where love can enter in.

That is when grace overflows. Not as a reward, but as a response to our honest acceptance of truth.

Surrendering to our own need

What if our need is not a problem to be solved, but a portal into intimacy with the Divine?

What if our failures become the meeting place of love?

What if imperfection is not a flaw to fix—but an altar to kneel at?

I’m learning to live in that space.

The space where we don’t have to earn anything.

The space where we don’t have to be worthy.

The space where God is enough, and we get to receive.

And in that space—empty-handed, heart wide open—I find I have an abundance of everything I need.

Invitations to Practice

• Begin your mornings with a moment of gratitude. Let your first thought be: Thank you. I didn’t earn this day, this body, this breath—and still, it’s mine to live.

• Notice the voice of transactional thinking: What have I done to deserve this? Gently release it. Grace is not about earning.

• Ask for help. Not because your failures and shortcomings make you “bad”, but because you’re human. Recognize the fundamental goodness in your need. Let your need be a prayer.

• Read Luke 15:11–32 (The Prodigal Son) and John 21:15–19 (Peter’s restoration after denial). Notice where you find yourself in these stories. Where have you tried to earn your place? Where have you been met by grace instead of shame?

• Receive gifts and compliments without apology or explanation. Simply take a breath and say thank you. Let it soften your heart. Let it remind you of how God gives.

• Give yourself grace. Play with the idea that maybe you are inherently good, and your goodness doesn't depend on performance or perfection. Your failures, viewed with a clear and open heart, are simply invitations into deeper relationship with God.

If you’re feeling called to live in deeper surrender—rooted in trust, guided by grace—I’d love to support you. My one-on-one coaching and somatic therapy sessions offer a space to slow down, listen deeply, and align your life with what’s most sacred—so you can be more fully present in your relationships, your work, and your connection to the Divine.

This kind of inner alignment matters now more than ever. In a world caught in speed, scarcity, and striving, choosing to live from a place of grace is a radical act of love—for yourself, for others, and for the emerging world we’re co-creating.

If that resonates, you can begin the conversation here.