Before you begin reading this issue, I want to say something plainly.
This was originally written as a paid piece.
But as I worked through it, it became clear to me that this is something more people need to hear. Not just as an idea, but as a way of understanding themselves, their relationships, and the stories they carry through the day without even realizing it.
So I made the decision to make this one available to everyone.
If you’re reading this, I hope it helps you see something a little more clearly… whether in your own life, or in someone you love.
At the same time, I want to be honest about something else.
This kind of work doesn’t just happen.
The writing, the reflection, the time spent thinking carefully about what actually helps people grow in faith, hope, and love… it’s real work. And it’s work I care deeply about continuing.
But it only continues if people decide it’s worth supporting.
If this piece resonates with you… if this publication has been a steady presence for you… I want to invite you to take a step further.
Would you consider becoming a supporting member?
Not out of obligation, but because you believe in what this is.
There are very few places offering daily, thoughtful formation… the kind that helps you process your life honestly, stay grounded in your faith, and navigate a world that often feels overwhelming.
That kind of space is worth sustaining.
If you’re able, consider joining at a paid tier.
In very practical terms, it’s about the cost of a fast food meal.
But in a deeper sense, it’s a way of saying: this matters, and I want it to continue.
Either way, I’m glad you’re here.
Now… let’s begin.
Life in the Resurrection: Issue 7
The Stories We Tell Ourselves Without Question
You notice it in the quiet.
Not silence… just a kind of distance that’s hard to name.
They’re moving through the morning, they’re answering you, doing all the normal things. Nothing is wrong in any obvious way. And yet… something doesn’t quite land the way it usually does.
You say something light, something that would normally get a smile, and it doesn’t quite get there. Not cold, not dismissive… just a little thinner than usual.
It’s small enough that you could ignore it.
And for a moment, you try.
People have off mornings. It doesn’t have to mean anything.
But something in you keeps paying attention.
You ask a question. They answer, but quickly, already moving on to the next thing. You catch yourself watching a little more closely now. Not on purpose. It just happens.
You have no idea there’s a new meeting their boss placed on their calendar with no explanation and no context. It’s been there since early morning, quietly pulling at their attention.
You don’t know any of that.
All you have is what you can see… and what you’re beginning to make of it.
By the time the morning ends, the feeling hasn’t gone away.
It’s settled in just enough to be noticeable.
Something feels off.
You don’t say it out loud. You don’t even fully decide it’s true. But the thought is there now, and once it’s there, it starts to shape everything else.
You replay a few moments without meaning to.
The tone.
The lack of eye contact.
The way they seemed somewhere else.
And slowly, almost without your permission, it begins to feel less like a passing thought…
and more like an explanation.
Maybe they’re upset.
Maybe something’s wrong.
Maybe… it has something to do with me.
The day moves on, but you carry that with you.
Meanwhile, they sit in that meeting they didn’t expect, bracing for something unclear… and instead hear something they never anticipated.
A promotion!
The kind of news that takes a moment to settle in. Relief first, then a quiet kind of excitement. By the time they leave, the morning feels very far away.
They begin thinking about how to tell you. Not over text. Not rushed. Something a little more intentional.
On the way home, they stop. Flowers. Something simple to mark the moment.
They’re thinking about you… just not in the way you imagined.
Later, you send a message.
Nothing heavy. Just a small reach. A way of closing the distance you think you felt.
The reply comes back.
“Okay.”
That’s all.
You have no idea they’re driving home early to see you. To celebrate.
You read it once.
Then again.
And something in you tightens, just slightly.
It doesn’t take much now for the story to settle into place.
They’re upset.
They’re being short.
They don’t want to say it directly.
And once that interpretation takes hold, everything begins to line up around it.
The morning makes more sense now. The tone, the distance… it all fits.
By the time you hear the door open, you’re no longer wondering.
You’re ready.
Ready to ask what’s going on.
Ready to defend yourself if you need to.
Ready, if it comes to it, for an argument.
Time goes by and they walk in smiling… holding flowers… trying to tell you something good.
And in that moment, something becomes very clear.
What you carried through the entire day… wasn’t what was actually happening at all.
It’s a small story.
But if you’re honest, it probably doesn’t feel unfamiliar.
Because this is something we do.
Not occasionally. More often than we realize.
We take a moment… a tone… a glance… a short reply… and we begin to build a story around it.
And once that story starts to take shape, it feels solid.
It doesn’t feel like a possibility.
It feels like you’ve figured something out.
There’s a name for this.
Mind reading.
Not in the sense of actually knowing what someone else is thinking… but in the quiet assumption that we do.
We fill in the gaps quickly. And once we do, we tend to trust what we’ve constructed.
And almost at the same time, something else slips in alongside it.
We make it personal.
Their mood becomes about us.
Their distance becomes about us.
Their silence becomes about us.
Even when their inner world has nothing to do with us at all.
Don Miguel Ruiz, in The Four Agreements, puts language to part of this:
Take nothing personally.
That doesn’t mean nothing matters, or that relationships are unimportant.
It means that much of what we experience in others is coming from places we cannot see… pressures, concerns, conversations happening entirely within their own lives.
When we assume everything is about us, we begin carrying weight that was never meant for us.
This isn’t just a modern dynamic.
You see it in the Gospels too.
There’s a moment when the disciples are out on the water with Jesus. It’s late. Everyone is already a little on edge. The lake is unsettled, and then a storm comes in.
Not gradually.
Suddenly.
Even the seasoned fishermen pay attention.
The wind picks up. The waves begin to rise. The boat starts taking on water. It’s no longer just uncomfortable… it’s dangerous.
And in the middle of all of it…
Jesus is asleep.
You can almost feel the tension building in them.
They’re doing what they know how to do, managing the boat, reading the water, trying to stay ahead of it.
Peter, Andrew, James, and John almost certainly know the peril they are in.
The storm keeps pressing in
And eventually, something shifts.
Not just around them… but within them.
They decide to wake Him.
And what they say is revealing:
“Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?”
Mark 4:38
That question didn’t come out of nowhere.
It came from a movement that happened quickly, almost instinctively.
He’s asleep…
So He’s not paying attention…
If He’s not paying attention…
Then He doesn’t care about us…
And if He doesn’t care…
What does that mean for us?
They don’t just experience the storm.
They interpret it.
And in that interpretation, they assign meaning to Christ Himself.
Their trust collapses.
They write a story in their minds.
“He doesn’t care about us.”
It’s not hard to recognize, if you sit with it.
Because we do the same thing.
We move from what we see… to what we think it means… to what it must say about us.
And we get there quickly.
Jesus, of course, calms the storm.
Then He turns to them.
“Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”
He isn’t dismissing what they just experienced.
The storm was real.
But so was the way they saw it.
This is where the life of faith begins to press a little deeper.
Because the struggle is not only what happens around us.
It’s how we come to understand what’s happening.
“Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind…”
Romans 12:2
That renewal is not abstract.
It touches something very concrete.
How quickly we interpret.
How easily we assume.
How often we trust the first story that forms in our minds.
The Resurrection speaks into this.
Not only as something we believe about the future… but as something that begins to take shape in us now.
A different way of seeing.
A slower way of arriving at conclusions.
A growing awareness that not every thought that presents itself deserves to be trusted.
This doesn’t mean we stop caring about what happens between us and other people.
Relationships still matter. Words still matter. There are real moments of tension, misunderstanding, even hurt.
But those moments no longer carry the same weight they once did.
They don’t define everything.
They don’t decide the meaning of the whole story.
We begin, slowly, to live with a wider horizon.
To trust that what we cannot see is often just as real as what we can.
To recognize that our peace doesn’t have to rise and fall with every passing moment, every tone, every short reply.
So when you notice that familiar movement beginning, the story forming, the interpretation settling in…
pause.
Not to shut it down.
Just to look at it honestly.
What am I assuming right now?
And do I actually know that it’s true?
And then, if you can, go one step further.
What would it look like to see this moment more clearly?
Not perfectly.
But with a little more patience.
A little more humility.
A little more openness to the possibility that there is more here than I can see right now.
This is where something begins to shift.
Not all at once.
But over time.
You become less reactive.
Less certain of your first conclusions.
Less burdened by things that may not have been yours to carry in the first place.
And in that space… something steadier begins to take root.
A kind of trust.
Not in your ability to read every situation correctly…
but in the quiet confidence that your life is held in something larger than any single moment.
May you be given the grace to slow down just enough to see more clearly…
and the freedom that comes from not having to believe every story your mind tells you.
In our next reflection, we’ll stay with this a little longer.
Because once you begin to notice these patterns, something else often becomes clear… the mind doesn’t always slow down when you want it to. The thoughts keep coming. Circling, repeating, sometimes getting louder instead of quieter.
We’ll begin to look at what to do when that happens… not by forcing the mind into silence, but by learning how to relate to it differently.
If this was valuable to you… I want you to know it’s part of something ongoing.
This isn’t a one-off reflection. It’s part of a larger journey we’re walking together, learning how to live a more integrated, grounded life of faith in the middle of everything that pulls at us day to day.
Each issue builds on the last. Slowly. Thoughtfully. In a way that’s meant to stay with you, not just inspire you for a moment and then disappear.
If this kind of work speaks to you… I want to invite you to be part of sustaining it.
Consider becoming a supporting member.
Not because you have to… but because you see the value in having a space like this. A place that helps you think clearly, stay rooted in your faith, and navigate life with a little more steadiness.
In very practical terms, it’s about the cost of a simple meal.
But what it makes possible is something much more meaningful.
It allows this work to continue… consistently, intentionally, and with the depth it deserves.
If you’re already supporting, I’m grateful.
If you’re considering it… I’d be glad to have you on the journey.
Please act today, you’ll be pleased you did.