“Looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame…” —Hebrews 12:2

When the storm rises, don’t run. Lift your eyes to the crucified Christ, and let His suffering teach you how to endure and be changed. —D.

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When trouble tightens around you, when pain cuts close and the way forward seems blocked, don’t rush. Don’t fling yourself blindly into worry or effort. Instead, stop. Breathe. Lift your eyes to Christ crucified. There’s a kind of Scripture written there, not in ink, but in bruises. Not in chapters, but in wounds. His twisted limbs, the torn flesh, the weight of the wood pressing down on His back, this is your page. Your soul can read it, even when your mind can’t. It speaks louder than sermons. It teaches deeper than words. This is your example: not escape, but endurance.

When sorrow comes, when self-pity crouches near and tries to take your strength, don’t turn away from your own cross. Don’t curse it, don’t throw it down, don’t trade it for distraction. Instead, pray. Pray not to be rescued from it, but to be refined by it. Let humility guide your steps and teach your soul what it means to lose the fight for control. True strength is not found in clinging to your own will, but in the long, slow fight to surrender it into God’s hands. And when you come through that kind of prayer, emptied of pride, filled with quiet trust, your soul will feast. When you leave prayer without that surrender, you’ll come away still hungry, still chasing after what cannot feed you.

Let your soul become a house with one inhabitant: God. Let His presence fill each room. Don’t waste yourself on the constant noise, the bitterness in the air, the chatter of those who walk without direction. Bad examples will come. Cruel words will fly. The world will roar and rage, but you don’t need to take that into yourself. Be like a child, free from calculation, untouched by the shadows, walking through the chaos without being drawn into it. Let your soul pass through the noise, not be shaped by it.

Fix your gaze on Christ, on that brutal and beautiful cross. Let it anchor you. Let it clear your sight. The world will keep turning, burning, crashing in on itself. Let it. You are not held by the world. You are held by Him. Root yourself in that single, solid Truth. And when you stay there—watching, listening, trusting—you will find that your soul can pass through the fire without being burned. Not because the fire vanishes, but because Christ walks with you in its midst. And He does not leave His own.