NoMoreDeadlyDoing – Learning to live by grace, not striving.

Author: Zack

  • The Cost of Love

    We talk about love as if it should come naturally, but without understanding what it really is—how it’s given, how it’s received, and the reality that it always has a cost—we often end up mistaking lesser things for love. Emotions, desire, or attachment can easily masquerade as love, but Christian love is something far deeper and far more costly.

    The clearest picture of love is the Cross.

    The Cross was not simply a symbolic price—it was a punishment. One that we deserved. Yet Jesus chose to take it upon Himself, not out of obligation, but out of a love that did not flinch at the cost. That love was not free. It demanded everything. And He considered us worth the highest price a life could pay.

    Jesus taught us to “give Caesar what belongs to Caesar,” but He also revealed a deeper truth: we belong to Him. Not because He forced Himself upon us, but because He bought us—through suffering beyond imagination, through a death that should have been ours. Love, for Jesus, was not sentimental. It was obedience, blood, rejection, breathlessness, and a willingness to endure.

    This reveals something about love in our own lives.

    Love will always require something of us. Sometimes its cost appears in small, quiet acts of faithfulness:

    • letting go of resentment to forgive,
    • getting up with a child when we are exhausted,
    • choosing compassion over convenience,
    • helping someone when it would be easier not to.

    These sacrifices pale in comparison to the Cross, and on our own, we could never consistently offer them. We are too weak, too wounded, too self-centered. That is why Jesus not only redeemed us—He also gave us the Holy Spirit, the very love of God living within us, enabling what we could never do alone.

    God continues to love us, moment by moment, so that we can learn to love as He loves.

    Love is costly. But the One who paid the ultimate price walks each step with us, shaping us into people who love because He first loved us—and still does.

  • The Small Deaths

    Each breath will mirror the last,
    exhaled into nothing—
    into death like the past,
    sacrificed to become
    what alone could last.

    And many more to come—
    little last gasps for air,
    for control.
    They sacrifice every care—
    leeches of life
    that cling to the soul.
    They take until
    they swallow me whole.

    They follow me everywhere;
    I run away,
    yet still find them there.

    What falls away
    was never fit for the task.
    And good riddance—be gone,
    you lingered far too long,
    stealing my focus
    from the important tasks.
    For what now is right,
    you would have kept wrong.
    So I surrendered my fight
    for a worship song.

    Search my heart,
    and remove what doesn’t serve You.
    Tear it away—
    run a spear straight through.
    Do not leave behind
    what cannot be reproved,
    nor anything that keeps
    me from what
    You’d call me to do.

    When my eyes close
    for the final rest,
    may my life return
    to Your precious breath.
    When my soul departs,
    may all the small deaths
    that came before
    have prepared me
    to praise You more—

    to strive after holiness,
    as only You can be;
    to be raised up,
    and to know You
    as the waves
    know the sea;

    to be made whole,
    now and for eternity.

  • All of These Treasures

    All of these treasures
    buried with me in the tomb
    gave way to robbers,
    leaving only rotten fumes.

    The hoarded delight
    once stole my might,
    and traded it for wisdom
    seen only in hindsight.

    Oh, what a wretched man
    I have been.
    Oh, that I found
    delight in my sin.

    Is this heart too
    late to mend?
    Or can the bruises
    further rend—
    pulling apart
    the poison
    from the heart?

    I stand above
    these empty things—
    and this is what I fought?

    My hands were full
    of useless glitter,
    and while I filled them,
    my soul did wither.

    Like the garden,
    the snake still slithers,
    and I listened
    to his whispers.

    But now the heel
    has crushed the head.
    I am alive,
    though I was dead.

    I see I made my bed,
    surrounded by
    all of these shiny things.
    Yet still You gave me another,
    and removed the pain—
    for now I lose the world,
    and count it as gain.

    The eyes deceive
    based on what
    the heart desires.
    Though they seem harmless,
    many pretty things
    lead to fire.

    My own faculties conspired
    against my soul,
    but surrender
    to my Savior
    was the only thing
    that made me whole.

    And now He gives
    many beautiful treasures—
    but none of them
    are meant to be the goal.
    No, that is left
    for only His glory to behold:
    to seek only Him
    in all things—
    I’ll no longer buy
    the lie they sold.

  • Temple of Dust

    How can I contain
    Your perfection within
    this flawed husk?
    Why have You poured
    so much love
    into one formed from dust—
    one who will return
    to dirt again?

    Why would You desire
    to call me a friend,
    when after You created me,
    I bit Your hand?
    And even more,
    to call me kin.
    I was lost,
    I spoke heresy—
    still, You waited;
    lost in the dark,
    You illuminated.

    My bones are made
    of lesser material,
    yet You breathe in me
    the spiritual—
    joining the marrow,
    creating a miracle.
    I deny the flesh,
    but cannot bear
    my cross alone.
    It slips and falls each day,
    crushes me, rolls,
    and seals the stone
    that only You remove.
    Yet faith grows stronger
    as I obey
    and You reprove.

    My failures are not
    failures at all—
    You pick me up
    each time I fall.
    You whispered,
    You waited;
    I believed once,
    then hesitated.
    Now I never will again—
    for falling short
    was, and is,
    Your way in.

    May chaos mold me,
    may suffering refine.
    May You shine through,
    and I resign.
    May there be less of me
    and more of You.
    May I silence my voice
    so Yours rings true.
    May intuition
    receive Your vision—
    until holiness
    is the only path.
    Make a temple
    from this pile of dust,
    that will for eternity last.

  • The Dragons I Once Sought to Slay

    The dragons I
    once sought to slay
    have changed their title,
    but not their embrace.

    I used to die
    for just a taste—
    and now I deny myself
    to loosen their grip,
    so I won’t give in
    when I slip.

    Their teeth look
    different now,
    and it’s strange how
    they smile at me
    the same.
    Behind them still burns
    a flame—
    not a force to tame,
    but one to avoid.

    Burn the wound,
    let it keloid;
    try not to
    open it again.
    The devil’s smooth—
    but never my friend.

    The pride feels
    different now;
    it arrives as
    righteousness abounds.
    Yet it steals my joy—
    because it takes away Yours.

    Though they did not
    die by my sword,
    they surround me
    no more.
    They submit not
    to me,
    but to the One
    I serve;
    they quickly flee.

    For no beast
    can contend
    with the mercy
    of my Lord.
    When they blew
    their fire,
    it only refined me—
    while He restored.

  • The Sickness Within: Self-Reliance

    There’s a sickness
    that lives inside.
    It doesn’t only want
    to gain wisdom,
    but to be
    known as wise—
    the quiet defilement
    of humility denied.

    I catch myself
    on the edge
    of this descent
    far too often.
    By some miracle,
    I pray my awareness softens
    what I deserve—
    and after repentance,
    that it does not return.

    Yet here I am again,
    holding hands with pride
    as if it were my friend,
    wounding my true companions.
    For they could see
    that I made myself a fool.
    I opened my mouth,
    though my eyes
    were covered with wool.

    The blood rushed
    to my head,
    and instead of pride,
    anger erupted in its stead.
    Is this innate,
    or simply what I’ve fed?
    Is it too late,
    or have I made my bed?

    No—this cannot be true.
    Because though I slip,
    I return to You.
    Though my words defile,
    You still renew.
    The shame of the past
    glorifies the sanctified present.
    Sin rose ten times,
    but my knee bent eleven.

    My flaws reveal
    what You refine;
    the fire is quenched
    by Bread and Wine,
    the Word and Spirit intertwined—
    and quickly they remind
    that I was never created equal
    to the Divine.

    And through my weakness
    is how I find
    that the need for salvation
    required seeing the fault
    to which my will inclined.
    And though I see it again,
    I know now—willpower
    is not a friend.

    For only refuge
    in my High Tower
    removes the cancer
    and brings
    my miserable self-reliance
    to an end.

  • Monsters I Forgot

    When I was young,
    I believed in monsters.
    As I grew older,
    I left those fables behind.
    I lived in misery for many years,
    and only in hindsight did I find—
    I stopped fearing the monsters in my closet,
    the ones beneath the bed,
    the ones that come in the night—
    but I forgot the ones in my head.

    In my ignorance,
    I did their bidding—
    the fears and desires
    that traded lies
    for what is true.
    The real reason
    they tortured me so
    is that the One I truly forgot
    was You.

    When I was young,
    I might have been
    wiser than I knew.
    I feared the dark
    as if it’s where evil grew.
    There are monsters—
    and they unwittingly
    shaped me into one
    trying to survive,
    while denying why
    the nails
    were driven through.

  • The Unexpected Calm I Found Through Fasting

    It still surprises me how something as basic as food—something I always believed was essential for clear thinking—can be removed, and instead of irritability, I find calm. It goes against everything I assumed about hunger and mood. But I’m beginning to learn that fasting affects far more than the body; it reaches into the deeper parts of the spirit first.

    If I were to fast simply to “try it out,” I doubt it would have the same effect. The calm seems tied to intention—the willingness to set aside something good in order to seek something better. When fasting becomes an offering, even a small one, something inside shifts. The noise lessens. The heart steadies. The spirit grows quiet enough to hear again.

    There are biological explanations, of course—studies showing that fasting can influence cellular repair, hormones, and mental clarity. But the kind of fasting I’m doing doesn’t reach those thresholds. I’m not doing extended fasts or strict schedules. Mine is simple and unplanned: skipping breakfast and lunch on days when I feel overwhelmed or disconnected from God. It usually begins as a tug—a quiet sense that I need less distraction and more dependence.

    Yet even in this small practice, the effects have been real. On the days I fast, my thoughts drift toward God without effort. I find myself praying more, reading Scripture more, and turning toward spiritual things with a hunger that runs deeper than the physical one I’m ignoring. It feels as though fasting empties just enough space inside me for God to fill it.

    I don’t want fasting to become a performance or something I try to master. I want it to remain an act of surrender—letting go, slowing down, and remembering the One who actually holds all things together. And if nothing else, fasting has become a surprising way to hand over my anxiety and regain perspective. When everything feels out of control, choosing to fast reminds me that I’m not.

    It reminds me that He is.

  • When I Forget Why I’m Here

    What am I here for?
    I know the answer—yet I forget it almost instantly the moment another question takes over: “What do I want?”

    When I’m running on little sleep and my son wakes in the middle of the night for a bottle, my first thought is rarely that I was created to serve Christ… or that my wants don’t define me anymore. Instead, it’s usually a quiet groaning inside—sometimes loud enough for others to hear. And depending on who is nearby, I’m quick to shift some (or all) of the blame onto them.

    Maybe my spouse doesn’t wake up, or doesn’t notice our son’s cries fast enough—maybe two nights in a row—and my mind seizes on it. It takes a molehill and builds a mountain out of it, then tries to tip that mountain onto her as if covering her in it would somehow excuse me.

    The worst part is how natural it feels in the moment. Pushing frustration toward her feels like pushing responsibility away from myself… as if I’m clean because she’s covered. But that lie doesn’t survive the light of Christ.

    My heart is deceitful and wicked, and too easily I forget why I am here.
    He didn’t save me so I could complain.
    He didn’t redeem me so I could assign blame.
    He saved me to serve—because He served.

    Lord, change my heart to be more like Yours.
    Teach me patience.
    And even when I’m uncomfortable, teach me to serve anyway.

  • Living the Interior Life in an Exterior-Driven World

    A Reflection with the Saints

    It has never been easier to get swept up in the noise of everyday life—so busy, distracted, or overstimulated that we ignore our inner world entirely. Many people don’t even realize this interior sanctuary exists. Until recently, I was one of them. Every stimulus provoked a reaction from me, often defiling to my heart, though I didn’t understand why.

    Lately, I’ve been reading the writings of the saints. Though I am not Catholic, their wisdom has struck me deeply. Each of them insists on the same truth: we must learn to live inwardly rather than outwardly. What follows are some of their insights that have encouraged me to cultivate this interior life—imperfectly, but intentionally.

    🏰 I. Silence and Self-Knowledge

    “The soul is like a castle made entirely of diamond or of very clear crystal…”
    — St. Teresa of Ávila,
    The Interior Castle

    St. Teresa imagines the soul as a radiant crystal castle with many rooms. At its center dwells God Himself. His presence shines outward, but sin, self-love, and distraction cloud the crystal, leaving the soul wandering in dimmer outer chambers.

    The work of the soul—always aided by grace—is to journey inward through these “mansions,” moving from surface-level living toward union with God. The closer we draw to Him, the more clearly we understand our true selves. In that clarity, peace becomes possible.

    🕊️ II. Detachment and Purification

    “To come to possess all, desire the possession of nothing…”
    — St. John of the Cross,
    Ascent of Mount Carmel

    Living interiorly requires surrendering what we cling to most: our ambitions, our comforts, our wounds, and even the spiritual consolations we secretly crave. God transforms our desires only when we loosen our grip on them.

    This isn’t a sudden change—it’s progress, one small inward step at a time.

    Jeremiah 45:5 (ESV)
    “Do you seek great things for yourself? Do not seek them.”

    Luke 22:24–26 (NIV)
    “…the greatest among you should be like the youngest, and the one who rules like the one who serves.”

    C.S. Lewis echoes this inner transformation:

    “He will not be thinking about humility: he will not be thinking about himself at all.”
    — Mere Christianity

    Detachment makes space for humility. Humility makes space for God. And God brings the peace the world keeps failing to offer.

    💛 III. Gentleness and Steadfast Devotion

    “Do not wish to be anything but what you are, and try to be that perfectly.”
    — St. Francis de Sales,
    Introduction to the Devout Life

    The interior life is not an escape from the world; it is the sanctification of it. St. Francis de Sales teaches a spirituality built on gentleness—with ourselves, with others, and with our daily responsibilities. In an age obsessed with accomplishment and comparison, holiness grows quietly through consistency.

    Luke 16:10 (NIV)
    “Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much…”

    Faithfulness in small, ordinary things creates the foundation of steadfast devotion.

    🌸 IV. Simplicity and the Little Way

    “I will seek out a means of getting to Heaven by a little way…”
    — St. Thérèse of Lisieux,
    Story of a Soul

    Our culture celebrates grand gestures, but true holiness often resides in simplicity. For years I sought the dramatic and the impressive. Slowly, I’ve come to see that the straight path to God is lined with small, loving acts: reading Scripture, praying for others, forgiving quickly, remaining patient.

    Big moments may draw attention, but the little way draws the soul inward toward Christ.

    🙏 V. Presence in Daily Life

    “The time of business does not with me differ from the time of prayer…”
    — Brother Lawrence,
    The Practice of the Presence of God

    Whenever I feel anxious or triggered, I now pause and pray. The Jesus Prayer has been especially grounding:

    (Inhale) “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God”
    (Exhale) “have mercy on me, a sinner.”

    This simple rhythm redirects my heart. Continual prayer doesn’t remove life’s chaos, but it roots the soul so the chaos loses its authority.

    🌿 VI. Solitude and Inner Rest

    “The kingdom of God is within you… Turn thee with thy whole heart unto the Lord…”
    — Thomas à Kempis,
    The Imitation of Christ

    I still catch myself turning to distractions when I’m bored or uncomfortable. Even harmless things can become idols when they replace communion with God. But the more I turn inward—toward the God who dwells within—the less power the exterior world holds over me.

    Life’s storms haven’t disappeared, but I find myself running more quickly to the One who calms them.

    ✨ Key Takeaways

    Holiness begins inwardly through silence and self-knowledge.

    Detachment and humility free the soul to love God fully.

    Steadfast devotion is formed in small, consistent acts.

    Simplicity and continual prayer cultivate inner peace.

    Rest is found within, where Christ dwells in the soul.

    Final Thought

    The saints teach that the interior life is not an escape from the world, but a journey deeper into the truth of who we are before God. It draws us toward self-knowledge, detachment, gentleness, simplicity, continual prayer, and inner rest. Living interiorly won’t make life easier—but it will make it richer, freer, and far more peaceful, even in a world that constantly pulls our attention outward.