NoMoreDeadlyDoing – Learning to live by grace, not striving.

Category: Reflections

Reflections about life, faith, and spiritual works.

  • 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 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.

  • My First Step in Sharing My Faith

    This will be my first blog entry, and in all honesty, it feels like a small step toward the kind of work I hope to do for Christ. People say every journey begins with a single step, but I feel as though I’ve been walking for a long time already. My inner world has changed so completely that turning that transformation outward still feels like a struggle.

    Getting past my insecurities, my worries, and my desire for perfection are obstacles I could never overcome alone. Yet Jesus has been faithfully pruning my heart—reshaping my desires, softening my disposition, and stripping away the illusions I once clung to. And with each fallen-away sin, I see a thousand more. I know this step will be followed by endless others, and by grace, I pray to keep walking.

    More than anything, I want the faith to not just believe, but to share that belief with anyone who will listen. A fire has started in my soul—burning in my bones in a way I can no longer hold in. Everything He has removed falls into that fire, fueling it far beyond what I ever could. Even the loudest chaos cannot drown out the whisper of truth. My vision may wander for a moment, but He gently guides me back into His pasture, where I belong.

    And if my words ever feel empty, may the courage to write at all be the meaning found in them. Because even a trembling voice can still point toward Him.

    This will be my first blog entry, and in all honesty, it feels like a small step toward the kind of work I hope to do for Christ. People say every journey begins with a single step, but I feel as though I’ve been walking for a long time already. My inner world has changed so completely that turning that transformation outward still feels like a struggle.

    Getting past my insecurities, my worries, and my desire for perfection are obstacles I could never overcome alone. Yet Jesus has been faithfully pruning my heart—reshaping my desires, softening my disposition, and stripping away the illusions I once clung to. And with each fallen-away sin, I see a thousand more. I know this step will be followed by endless others, and by grace, I pray to keep walking.

    More than anything, I want the faith to not just believe, but to share that belief with anyone who will listen. A fire has started in my soul—burning in my bones in a way I can no longer hold in. Everything He has removed falls into that fire, fueling it far beyond what I ever could. Even the loudest chaos cannot drown out the whisper of truth. My vision may wander for a moment, but He gently guides me back into His pasture, where I belong.

    And if my words ever feel empty, may the courage to write at all be the meaning found in them, and remind that even a trembling voice can still point toward Him.