“I am not writing today as somebody who has gotten it right. I am not coming to you as a polished, cleaned‑up example of how to do this Christian life perfectly. Before I say one word about ‘the world’ and what our culture is doing, I need to tell you the truth about me.

I am standing here as a woman who has made choices that shattered people. I committed adultery by stepping out in a previous marriage. I broke a covenant. I am not proud of that. I am not telling you that for shock value or to make my story the headline; I am telling you because if I am going to talk about sowing and reaping, about God not being mocked, then I have to start with my own field. I cannot preach about sin like it is an abstract concept “out there” somewhere when I know exactly what it looks like to sow to my flesh and then stand in the middle of the harvest.

That choice, that adultery in my previous marriage, did not just affect me. It hurt people who trusted me. It hurt people who did not get to make that choice with me but had to live with the fallout anyway. I sowed seeds that grew into pain and distrust and brokenness. I opened doors in my own heart that took posture of repentance and Scripture and the mercy of God to even begin to close. My repentance not my parents, family, or friends repenting for me, but mine alone. And I still live with some of those consequences today.

And it is not just the sin from back then. I want to be honest about the society “respectable” sin that still try to live in me right now. That isn’t respectable. I wrestle with anger. I wrestle with being hot headed and quick to anger. My fellow brother in Christ calls these Parking lot moments. There are days when my first instinct is not to bless but to snap, not to forgive but to keep score. There are words I have spoken in my home, in my car, under my breath, that did not sound like Jesus. I have nursed grudges. I have replayed arguments. I have had whole imaginary conversations in my head where I “win.” That is also sowing to the flesh. That is also pride. That is also me saying to God, “I know better than You how this should go. I will handle my own justice.

So when we open the Word and read, “Do not be deceived: God is not mocked,” I do not get to stand on my stage and talk like that only applies to certain groups or certain headlines. I have mocked God with my life before. Not with my mouth, maybe—if you had asked me in the middle of my mess, I would have still said I loved Jesus—but with my choices.

“…I mocked Him when I decided that my desire, my anger, my need to be seen and validated, mattered more than His holiness, His Word, and the vows I had made.

So I need you to hear this clearly: I am not standing above you, swinging a Bible like a hammer. I am standing beside you, holding my own sins in the light, saying, ‘This is real. This is what it cost. This is what I had to bring to the cross.’ If you have stepped out in your marriage, if you have stolen, if you have blown up your life with anger, if you have sown lies or addiction, unspoken sins, or self‑righteousness, I am not talking to you as “those people.” I am one of you. The woman in John 8, caught in adultery and thrown at Jesus’ feet while everybody clutched their stones—that could have been me.

That story matters here. The religious crowd drags her in, quotes the Law, and basically says, ‘Jesus, what are you going to do about this sinner? The Law says we should stone her.’ And Jesus kneels down and starts writing in the dirt. We are not told what He wrote, but we are told what He said: ‘Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.’ One by one, from the oldest to the youngest, the stones hit the ground and the crowd thins out. Finally, it is just Jesus and this woman. He asks, ‘Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?’ She says, ‘No one, Lord.’ And He answers, ‘Neither do I condemn you; go, and from now on sin no more.’

That is the posture I want. No stones in my hands, because I know my own record. But also, no pretending that sin does not matter, because Jesus did not say, ‘Neither do I condemn you, so go back and keep doing what you were doing.’ He said, ‘Go, and from now on sin no more.’ Mercy does not erase truth. Mercy invites us into a new way of living. Mercy says, ‘You are not crushed today, not because your sin was small or not sin, but because My grace is bigger. Now come with Me and leave that old life behind.’

And this is where our cultural moment gets so tricky. We are living in a time Isaiah 5:20 describes: ‘Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness.’ We see it everywhere—people celebrating what God calls sin, mocking what God calls holy, twisting words like “love” and “freedom” until they mean the exact opposite of what Scripture says. It is easy, in a moment like this, to climb up on a high horse and start pointing fingers. It is easy to say, ‘Look at what they are doing. Look at how they are mocking God.’ But if I do that without first dealing with the sins in my own past, the anger in my own heart, the pride that still shows up in my own reactions, I am just another Pharisee standing in the circle with a rock.

But here is where we have to be very careful: a lot of what we are seeing right now, even among believers, is people picking up stones with their words. All of this hate and speech flying around on Facebook and social media, the name‑calling, the mocking, the “gotcha” comments—those are stones. They are not loving words. They are not the way Jesus talked to sinners. When we use our keyboards to humiliate people, when we pile on in the comments just to score a point, we are standing in the crowd with rocks in our hands. We may be quoting Bible verses while we do it, but we are not reflecting the heart of the One who said, ‘Neither do I condemn you. Go, and from now on sin no more.’

“Jesus told His followers, ‘You will be hated by all for my name’s sake’ and ‘If the world hates you, know that it has hated Me before it hated you.’ So I have to settle it in my heart that agreeing with Him will not make me popular. Following Jesus means there will be people who roll their eyes, call me hateful, or push me away simply because I will not call evil good. My job is not to water down what He said so people will like me better; my job is to stay faithful to Him, even when it costs me approval.” We will be hated… but that still doesn’t give us permission to throw stones.”

Isaiah 59 says, ‘Surely the arm of the Lord is not too short to save, nor His ear too dull to hear. But your iniquities have separated you from your God; your sins have hidden His face from you, so that He will not hear.’ That is not just a word to “them out there.” That is a mirror for me. My sins separated me. My stepping out in that covenant separated.

Galatians 6:7–8 says, ‘Do not be deceived: God is not mocked, for whatever a man sows, that he will also reap. For the one who sows to his flesh will from the flesh reap corruption, but the one who sows to the Spirit will from the Spirit reap eternal life.’ That is true for the obvious, outward sins we like to point at, and it is just as true for the hidden sins we excuse in ourselves. When I stepped out of the covenant of marriage—I reap broken trust, broken homes, broken hearts. When I sow anger and malice, I reap distance, fear, and fractured relationships. When I sow pride, I reap hardness and separation from God’s presence. And when I sow mercy, repentance, humility, and obedience, I reap life and peace, even if there are still scars from what came before.

So this is not a study about how ‘they’ are mocking God out there in the world and we are the good ones in here. This is a call to remember that every sin—big or small in our eyes—is a way of saying to God, ‘I know better than You.’ That is mocking God. This is a call to put the stones down, to step out of the Facebook comment wars, to stop trying to win arguments with cruelty, and to come back to the only place any of us can stand: at the foot of the cross.

Jesus is not just my emergency bailout when I wreck my life. He is not just there to fix my finances, calm my anxiety, or clean up my reputation. He is Lord. He is Savior. He is the One who bled for every part of my story, and He cares about all of it—my body, my mind, my relationships, my past, my future, my scrolling thumb on Facebook, every ordinary Tuesday. He is not a slot machine I run to when I want something; He is the King who invites me to lay everything down and find real life in Him. And if you belong to Him, the same blood that has covered my past sins, my anger, and my pride is the blood that covers your sin too. The cross is not lighter for me and heavier for you. It is the same rugged cross, the same poured‑out mercy, offered to every single one of us who will lay down our pride and come.

And here is the hope that keeps me from drowning in all of this: Lamentations 3:22–23. ‘Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.’ If His mercies were not new, my story would have ended in my sin. If His compassion failed, my past adultery and my anger and my pride would have been the last word. But they are not. The last word over my life is the mercy of God in Christ. That is the only reason I can talk about any of this. That is the only reason I can face what I have sown and still get up and walk in a new direction.

So when I say, ‘God will not be mocked,’ I am not pointing a finger at you and shouting from a distance. I am standing beside you, pointing at the cross, saying, ‘Let us not be deceived. Let us stop sowing to the flesh. Let us lay down our pride, our stones, our social‑media hate, and come back again to the mercy that is somehow still new this morning.’ “That is not bad news; that is the best news I know—because it means today, again, I can trade in what I have sown in my flesh for what He has sown in His blood.” ☀️ Sunnye Anne

Lately it feels like the roads are getting meaner.

Headlines about road rage are everywhere, and it is no longer just statistics—it is personal. Last week on I-65, the same highway I usually drive home, a man was shot and injured in a road-rage incident. The same stretch of pavement I travel every day became the place where someone’s drive home nearly became their funeral.

Closer to home, my mom was driving yesterday when her car began breaking down with my twin boys with her. The throttle failed, and she was simply trying to get safely off the road. You would hope that in a moment like that someone might stop and ask, “Are you okay? Do you need help?” Instead, a man rolled down his window, yelled at her to get off the road, and added a few obscenities for good measure.

No compassion. No concern. Just anger.

I wish I could say I have always responded differently.

Not long ago, someone came flying up the shoulder on I-265 during rush-hour traffic and cut me off. In that split second I did not feel like offering grace. Something in me immediately flared up. The flesh was ready to take over. I did not quietly bless them in Jesus’ name. I hit the gas. I wanted to get around them. I wanted them to know exactly how wrong they were. It was a moment where I was no longer fighting the traffic but fighting my own nature.

I did not make an obscene gesture, but the thought crossed my mind. For a brief moment, my heart was no different than the rest of the world—ready to defend my little square of asphalt, ready to answer frustration with frustration. Every time someone responds to anger with anger, we are adding another layer of stone to our hearts.

When the Holy Spirit checked me in traffic and I actually listen, back off, breathe, and pray for the person, that is the heart of flesh in action, my heart. It’s the Holy Spirit at work replacing the fight with peace.

He reminded me that I was not simply fighting traffic; I was fighting my own flesh. My soul settled, I backed off, and I continued home.

That moment reminded me of something.

The roads are simply exposing what is already beneath the surface.

Impatience.

Entitlement.

Anger.

The quiet belief that my time, my lane, and my agenda matter more than everyone else’s.

Road rage may show itself through horns, hand gestures, yelling, and even violence, but underneath all of it lies something much deeper.

This is not merely a traffic problem.

It is a heart problem.

Scripture tells us that battles like these are not solved by trying harder. They are spiritual battles. They are armor-of-God battles. They are moments where we desperately need Jesus to take hold of our hearts before our emotions take control of us.

The truth is, some of us do not simply need better behavior.

We need a heart transplant.

God says in Ezekiel 36:26–27:

“And I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you. And I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit within you, and cause you to walk in my statutes and be careful to obey my rules.”

Ezekiel 11:19 echoes the same promise:

“I will remove the heart of stone from their flesh and give them a heart of flesh.”

Notice what God is saying.

He is not telling us to simply try harder.

He is promising to do surgery we cannot perform on ourselves.

If you are in a season where you feel hard, numb, angry, bitter, cynical, or simply worn down, that does not automatically mean you are disqualified. It may mean your heart is crying out for the Great Physician.

That is where we have to ask ourselves some difficult questions.

Am I drifting?

Am I slipping back into old patterns?

Am I allowing my heart to become harder one compromise at a time?

Or am I willing to let the Lord put me on His operating table and deal with what I have been trying to hide?

Pharaoh stands in Scripture as a warning.

He repeatedly heard God’s voice, repeatedly witnessed God’s power, and repeatedly hardened his own heart. Eventually, God confirmed Pharaoh in the hardness he continually chose.

Hebrews 3:15 warns us:

“Today, if you hear his voice, do not harden your hearts.”

I do not want that.

You do not want that.

None of us want to keep saying “no” until our hearts no longer recognize His voice.

This is exactly why Paul tells us in Ephesians 6:10–13:

“Be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his might. Put on the whole armor of God… For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood… Therefore take up the whole armor of God.”

Our greatest battle is rarely the driver beside us.

It is the war within us.

One of the enemy’s favorite schemes is to slowly harden our hearts—to make bitterness feel normal, cynicism feel wise, and anger feel justified until we stop noticing how far we have drifted.

But God offers something far better.

He does not ask us to white-knuckle our way into becoming softer people.

He says, “Let Me remove the heart of stone. Let Me give you a heart that can feel again. Let Me fill you with My Spirit so you actually desire to walk with Me.”

Our responsibility is not to pretend the hardness is not there.

Our responsibility is to surrender it.

If you hear His voice today, do not ignore the warning light on the dashboard.

Do not wait until your heart becomes comfortable with saying “no.”

Instead, pray:

“Lord, take this heart of stone. Give me a heart of flesh. Fill me with Your Spirit. Help me stand in Your strength instead of my own. Teach me to respond with the grace You have shown me—even in traffic.”

Because the greatest danger on the road may not be the driver in the next lane.

It may be the condition of our own hearts.

Your sister in Christ Sunnye ☀️

I am someone who has lived with chronic illness for most of my life. Some nights sleep comes easily and early. Other nights, my mind and body simply refuse to shut off. Pain lingers, thoughts race, and rest feels just out of reach. Over the years, those long nights have taught me something precious about the heart of God.

I’m a daddy’s girl, so I know the comfort of being able to crawl into my father’s arms and know I was safe. As a little girl, I remember climbing into my dad’s lap, tucking my head beneath his chin, and feeling his arms wrap all the way around me. The world could be loud, the house could be busy, and life could feel overwhelming, but in that spot everything became small and quiet. I didn’t have to explain why I was tired, scared, or sad. I didn’t have to have the right words. I just rested there, knowing I was loved and protected.

That is the picture I carry when I think about my Father in heaven.

But when I come to my Father in heaven, it goes even deeper. I am my Father’s daughter.

He doesn’t just see my face and hear my words; He sees everything. He sees the mess, the pain, the frustration, and the anger. He sees the memories I don’t talk about and the disappointments I can’t even put into words. He sees the places in me that are wounded so deeply that language fails. Psalm 139 tells us that He searches me and knows me, that He discerns my thoughts from afar, and that before a word is on my tongue, He knows it completely.

God doesn’t get impatient with me there. He isn’t frustrated that I’m not praying better or that I don’t have the perfect words. He meets me exactly where I am.

Yes, there are times when prayer should be fervent, alert, and intentional. But there is also something beautiful about reaching the end of a long day, after the prayers have been prayed and the thanksgiving has been offered, and simply drawing near to Him.

Sometimes my prayer becomes nothing more than, “Daddy… Father in heaven… can I just be with You now?”

And He never tells me no.

He never tells me now is not the time.

He welcomes me.

What follows is one of the purest acts of worship I know: surrender.

Not a surrender of defeat, but a surrender of trust. Open hands. Open heart. A willingness to place every part of myself into His care.

Full surrender is yielding every part of yourself to God—your plans, fears, desires, pain, future, relationships, successes, failures, and even your understanding—while trusting Him to lead and care for you. It is not giving up; it is giving over.

Full surrender says:

“God, Your will is more important than mine.”

“I trust You even when I don’t understand.”

“My life belongs to You, not me.”

“I will obey even when it is uncomfortable.”

“I release my need to control the outcome.”

Full surrender doesn’t mean I never struggle. It doesn’t mean I never ask questions, feel afraid, or experience pain. It means that in the middle of those things, I continue placing myself into God’s hands.

For someone living with chronic illness, surrender often sounds like this:

“Father, I don’t understand why my body hurts. I wish things were different. But whether You heal me today, tomorrow, or in eternity, I belong to You. My life is Yours. My suffering is Yours. My future is Yours. I trust You with what I cannot carry.”

Then I simply whisper:

“God, I’m Yours. I’m Yours while I sleep. If there is something in my heart that still needs to be spoken, something that needs to be brought before You, use it. Use my dreams. Use my breathing. Use this quiet moment. Here is all of me. Do with me what You will.”

That is the posture of a child climbing into her Father’s lap and saying:

“I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know how this story ends. But I know You. So I will rest in Your arms and trust You with all of me.”

This is what childlike faith looks like.

Jesus said in Matthew 18:3, “Truly I tell you, unless you turn and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”

Little children don’t overanalyze their father’s love. They don’t strive to earn their place in his arms. They simply climb up, lean in, and trust that they are safe. That is the posture God invites us into.

And on the nights when I can’t find the words—when pain is overwhelming, exhaustion has taken over, or my heart is simply too heavy—Romans 8:26-27 brings incredible comfort:

“The Spirit helps us in our weakness… the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.”

Even when my mouth is silent, heaven is not.

The Holy Spirit carries every burden, every fear, every tear, and every unspoken prayer to the Father who already knows. He intercedes when I can’t. He prays when I have no strength left.

So when I finally lay down at night, I picture myself curling up in the lap of my Father. Psalm 4:8 says:

“In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.”

I am not merely collapsing from exhaustion. I am surrendering myself into His care. I am placing every burden, every ache, every unanswered question, and every fear into His hands. I am allowing Him to hold the parts of me that are too heavy to carry one more step.

And I rest knowing that the same God who sustained me throughout the day is watching over me through the night. He guards my mind, comforts my heart, and sings over me as I sleep. Even my breathing becomes an expression of trust.

Because I am His daughter.

And I am safe in my Father’s arms.

Love your sister in Christ, ☀️Sunnye