That truth struck me unexpectedly one morning in the shower. The water was a little too hot, so I reached out and turned the handle—just slightly—and the temperature instantly changed. In that small, ordinary moment, my thoughts turned to my parents, born in 1906 and 1909. I wondered what that simple convenience would have meant to them. Clean water flowing freely. Heat without effort. Control without labor. What I barely noticed would have felt like a miracle.

My parents grew up in a world without ease or guarantees. They heated water by hand, lived through the Great Depression, and endured two world wars. They watched the first airplanes rise into the sky while horses still filled the streets. And yet, through all of it, I never once heard them complain about how hard their lives were. They lived out the wisdom of Scripture long before I understood it: “Godliness with contentment is great gain” (1 Timothy 6:6).

Today, that spirit of contentment feels rare. President Theodore Roosevelt warned us plainly when he said, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” Instead of noticing what we already have, we compare ourselves to people who have more—and in doing so, we quietly lose our joy and gratitude. The media reinforces this daily, teaching us to focus on what we lack rather than what God has already provided.

Scripture speaks directly to this condition of the heart. “Why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin… Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these” (Matthew 6:28–29). Jesus wasn’t minimizing need—He was restoring perspective. He was teaching us to trust provision instead of chasing comparison.

When we pause and honestly compare our lives to much of the world, the contrast is undeniable. Clean water at the turn of a handle. Light at the flip of a switch. Food, freedom, and opportunity that millions can only dream of. These are not entitlements; they are blessings. No wonder people from every corner of the globe still come to America—not for perfection, but for possibility.

The Apostle Paul, who knew both abundance and suffering, said it best: “I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances… whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want” (Philippians 4:11–12). Contentment, Paul reminds us, is not circumstantial—it is learned, practiced, and chosen.

The water still runs. The lights still come on. God’s provision still surrounds us.

The real question is not what we don’t have—but whether we have eyes to see what we’ve been given. Because gratitude doesn’t deny hardship; it anchors us in truth. And when gratitude takes root, joy returns—not because life is perfect, but because God has been faithful all along.

I began by explaining that lies rarely succeed because they are obvious at first. More often, they succeed because they are introduced carefully and repeated consistently. I used an example often associated with Nancy Pelosi, to illustrate how persuasion and lying often work in our culture. The process is simple: a claim quietly leaks to the media, someone else says it first, it circulates, and later the coverage and public awareness are used as proof that it must be true. Once enough people repeat something, it begins to sound like fact, even when it is not. Lies require repetition to survive. They must be remembered, defended, and repeated. Truth does not work that way.

That same pattern is everywhere today. Many people now believe that repetition creates truth. But truth is not established by agreement, volume, or popularity. Scripture tells us, “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” Truth stands on its own. It does not need to be rehearsed or protected. What is right produces blessing, and what is wrong produces consequences, no matter how many people defend it.

To make this practical, I asked them a simple question. If a married person commits adultery, will that lead to blessing, or will it lead to consequences? The answer was obvious. Then we talked about something much smaller—a “little” lie. I asked, “What would the consequence be?” Without hesitation, they said, “A lack of trust.” That moment made something clear: lies always damage something. They may seem small, but they leave a trail behind them. Truth, on the other hand, stays consistent because it does not need to be remembered or managed.

From there, we talked about ideas being taught in schools today. I asked if they had heard the phrase, “I was born this way,” and they said yes. Then I asked the most important question: how do we know whether that statement is true? Do we decide the way the world does—by repetition, affirmation, and popularity—or do we measure it against something unchanging? Scripture warns us, “Woe to those who call evil good and good evil.” Truth does not shift to fit feelings. It remains steady, even when it is unpopular.

I also explained the difference between hard times and consequences, because they are often confused. You can do the right thing and still experience hardship. Hard times are part of life and often part of God’s refining work. Scripture reminds us, “For our present troubles are small and will not last very long, yet they produce for us a glory that will last forever.” Hard times are temporary. Consequences, however, remain as long as the wrong choice continues. The Bible is clear: “Do not be deceived: God is not mocked. Whatever a person sows, that he will also reap.”

The world’s way of avoiding the word wrong is to gather agreement—more voices, more headlines, more affirmation—believing that consensus can turn a lie into truth. But truth does not bend with culture. God alone defines what is right, and He does not change His standards because the crowd grows louder. Lies must constantly be explained and defended. Truth simply is.

Here is the hard reality: lies do not become true because they are repeated, and truth does not stop being true because it is rejected. A lie has to be remembered to stay alive. Truth does not. Every life eventually reveals the difference. Truth leads to freedom, clarity, and blessing. Lies always lead to confusion, bondage, and consequences. The real question is not what the world says is true, but whether we are willing to measure what we hear against what never changes.

The liberal left has perfected this routine. They push destructive policies for years, watch the consequences unfold in real time, and then point fingers at whoever tries to restore order. They burn the house down and then blame the firefighter for not rebuilding it fast enough. Gavin Newsom is just one example—not the center of the story, but the perfect illustration of liberal policy failure in action.

Under Newsom’s leadership, California became a testing ground for the liberal agenda: unchecked spending, soft-on-crime laws, suffocating regulations, open-border ideology, and cradle-to-crisis government dependency. The results were predictable. Homelessness exploded despite billions thrown at the problem. Crime surged while leaders claimed it was “overblown.” Businesses shut their doors, families fled the state, and U-Haul literally ran out of trucks. That’s why many now call him U-Haul Newsom, the governor whose policies helped more California families pack up and leave than any natural disaster ever could.

But Newsom isn’t the point—he’s just the preview. He represents the broader pattern of failure the liberal left has carried from state capitals into Washington, D.C. They weakened the border, hollowed out the energy sector, encouraged crime through leniency, crippled small businesses with regulation, and treated American manufacturing like an outdated inconvenience. Then, when chaos followed, they shrugged and insisted everything was fine—until a conservative stepped in to repair their damage. Only then did they suddenly become critics.

And now they complain that Trump hasn’t fixed everything “fast enough.” They demand instant solutions to problems they spent years creating. They attack the very policies that are reversing their failures. But while they criticize from the sidelines, Trump is bringing back the fundamentals that actually work. He is restoring strong border enforcement to stop the illegal crossings that exploded under left-wing open-border policies. He is reviving American energy independence, lowering costs, creating jobs, and ending reliance on unstable foreign governments. He is strengthening law enforcement and reinstating consequences for crime, giving communities the safety they lost. And he is reigniting economic growth by reducing needless regulations, bringing manufacturing jobs home, and empowering American workers again.

These are not theories. They are proven, results-driven policies—policies that previously delivered the strongest economy in modern history, the lowest unemployment for every demographic, secure borders, affordable energy, and rising wages across the board. The liberal left hated those policies not because they failed, but because they worked.

So when a commentator claims Trump’s promises “aren’t happening,” I can’t help but shake my head. The issues she mentioned were not born under Trump—they were inherited from the very politicians she supports. And the loudest critics today are the same voices that watched America decline under their own policies without lifting a finger to stop it.

Trump isn’t the problem. He’s the cleanup crew. The liberal left created the crisis, and now they criticize the person sweeping up their broken pieces. But America knows the truth: you cannot fix in a few months what liberals broke over many years. And the last people qualified to complain about the repair are the ones who caused the damage in the first place.

I was in my late thirties when everything seemed to collapse at once. My businesses were failing. People were blaming me for things they themselves were supposed to handle. The weight of it all built until one day it finally broke me. A phone call accusing me of failing someone pushed me past what I could carry. I came home angry and exhausted. Carol and I argued, and when she began to cry—something she almost never does—it sent me over the edge. I grabbed a vase and threw it down the hallway. The shattering glass felt like a picture of my life. I walked out, got in my truck, and left. I wasn’t going to cool off. I was walking away.

I don’t remember the drive, but I remember where I ended up: the same place where Carol and I camped for the first time, the place where I once worked through conflict with David and Frank. A place tied to beginnings, now staring me down in the middle of my breaking. Everything inside me came pouring out—anger, fear, frustration, shame. I shouted until the weight finally tore loose.

When the echoes faded, I realized I wasn’t alone. Jesus was there. Not in a way my eyes could see, but in a presence that settled the storm inside me. He didn’t rush me. He didn’t correct me. He simply stayed until the last wave of emotion passed. And then, as gently as anything I’ve ever known, He spoke to my heart: It’s time to go home.

I walked back into the house unsure of what waited for me. The moment I opened the door, four little kids ran into my arms. Carol stood behind them—hurt, but still steady, still waiting for me to return. I didn’t deserve that kind of grace, but she gave it anyway.

Every time I watch It’s a Wonderful Life, that night comes back to me. I remember how real the enemy’s lies felt. Satan is the accuser, and in our weakest moments he whispers that we are failures, that people would be better off without us, that everything we touch falls apart. Those lies sound convincing when life is heavy.

But Jesus tells the truth. He comes right into the darkest places—not to condemn, but to carry us out. He silences the accusations that try to destroy us, and He reminds us of the worth He Himself gave us. He leads us back to the people who love us. He leads us back to life.

At the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, Clarence leaves George Bailey a simple message:

“Remember, no man is a failure who has friends.”

That line has stayed with me, because it points to something even deeper. The enemy may shout that we are failures, but Jesus gives us a Friend who never leaves. A Savior who steps into our weakness. A Brother who lifts us when we fall. In Him, we are never alone, and never without hope.

And that is why the movie—and my own story—ends the same way: with the quiet strength of Christ whispering into the broken places of our lives, It’s time to go home.

Look at the leaders shaping today’s liberal movement—Jasmine Crockett, Ilhan Omar, Gavin Newsom, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, and Bernie Sanders. These are the voices guiding the cultural direction of the American left. They promote policies that weaken traditional values, expand government control, and reshape the country according to shifting political ideology rather than enduring truth.

Jasmine Crockett now seeks a Senate seat promising to “fix” America by expanding government power—stricter gun laws, weaker policing authority, larger welfare programs, looser voting rules, gender-identity mandates, and wide pathways for undocumented immigrants. Ilhan Omar attacks America harshly but remains silent when corruption and massive fraud are carried out by members of her own community—fraud that has cost taxpayers hundreds of millions and funneled money into corrupt networks overseas. Gavin Newsom lectures the nation while California collapses under crime, homelessness, addiction, and financial mismanagement. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez pushes socialism while enjoying the wealth and platform capitalism gave her. Bernie Sanders praises economic systems that have crushed nations while living comfortably under the freedoms he condemns.

This is the future the left calls “progress”—a future without order, without stability, without truth, and without God. And when everything falls apart under their policies, they simply step aside and expect someone else to clean up the damage. Through it all, they work to push God out of public life, labeling America broken while benefiting from the freedoms they diminish. They talk of unity while dividing families, communities, and entire states.

But to understand where we are headed, we must remember where we came from. This is where the old ways speak louder than ever.

The old ways placed God at the center. Not as a distant idea but as the foundation of truth, morality, and purpose. Families prayed together, lived by Scripture, and understood that without God, a nation loses its compass. Homes were built on commitment—fathers who led, mothers who nurtured, children raised with discipline and respect.

The old ways honored marriage as a covenant, not a convenience. They valued children as blessings, not burdens. They embraced hard work and responsibility—not entitlement or excuses. They respected law and order because order protects the innocent and restrains evil. They valued education grounded in truth, not ideology. They honored the flag because it represented sacrifice. They welcomed legal immigrants who came to embrace American values and contribute to its strength.

And above all, the old ways upheld truth. Right and wrong were not decided by emotion or politics; they were anchored in God’s Word.

These principles created strong families, safe neighborhoods, thriving communities, and a nation admired around the world. So, when the left says we cannot go back, the truth is this: going back is not regression—it is restoration. It is returning to the foundation God blessed, the foundation that made America strong, stable, and united.

Because the moment a nation steps away from God’s ways, it starts to lose its own. And the confusion we see today is not accidental—it is the predictable result of abandoning the foundation that once held this nation together.

As John Adams warned, “Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious people. It is inadequate to the government of any other.”

Ronald Reagan echoed the same reality: “If we ever forget that we are One Nation Under God, then we will be a nation gone under.”

And Dwight D. Eisenhower spoke the consequence plainly: “A people that values its privileges above its principles soon loses both.”

These truths are not political—they are foundational.

I have seen this in my own life. My wife’s aunt and I disagree politically on almost everything. On paper, we should be miles apart. But when we sit down together, talk openly, listen with sincerity, and speak truth without attacking each other, a different picture emerges. We find common ground. We understand each other. We discover how much we actually share. It proves what Stephen Covey once said: “Most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply.” When we stop replying and start understanding, division loses its power.

Most Americans still believe in simple, common-sense values—freedom, family, fairness, responsibility, safety, truth, and human dignity. These are not political positions. They are basic principles that built this country. And this is exactly why the media pushes division so aggressively. A united people cannot be controlled, manipulated, or misled. A united people think for themselves. As Edward R. Murrow warned, “A nation of sheep will beget a government of wolves.” Division keeps us weak. Unity makes us strong.

Politicians know this too. Many base their entire careers on stirring conflict because fear and anger keep them in power. When Americans start talking to one another instead of yelling at one another, their influence fades. That’s why they magnify our differences and bury our common ground. As Thomas Paine wisely observed, “A long habit of not thinking a thing wrong gives it a superficial appearance of being right.” And division has been their habit for far too long.

Because of this culture, people no longer listen. They react before they think and argue before they understand. Conversations turn into confrontations. Respect disappears. Truth gets lost. But truth is not found in shouting—it is found in clarity, patience, and honest dialogue. Listening doesn’t weaken your convictions; it strengthens your ability to communicate them.

If America wants healing, it begins with small, everyday actions: listening before speaking, responding with truth instead of anger, valuing relationships more than arguments, and recognizing that the person across from us is not an enemy but a fellow American. These actions require humility, courage, and discipline—but they also produce unity, clarity, and hope.

America doesn’t need new values. It needs to return to the common-sense values we already share. Strong families, responsible citizens, safe communities, honest leaders, and respect for truth—these aren’t political ideas. They are the foundation of a healthy nation. And most Americans still believe in them.

If we choose truth over noise, understanding over reaction, unity over division, and God over fear, America will not simply survive—it will rise. Booker T. Washington said it well: “A lie doesn’t become truth, wrong doesn’t become right, and evil doesn’t become good, just because it’s accepted by a majority.” The louder the lie of division becomes, the more powerful the truth must be.

Listening may seem small. It may seem ordinary. It may seem insignificant. But in a nation determined to divide us, listening becomes an act of courage. Listening becomes an act of character. Listening becomes an act of strength.

When we choose to listen, we choose to rebuild.

And in America today, that is nothing short of a revolution.

Solomon was not declaring life empty. He was declaring life without the wisdom of God empty. Until you understand why God placed you here, now, your life will feel directionless even in the midst of success. Our generation has confused knowledge with wisdom. Knowledge is everywhere, instant and overflowing, always available at our fingertips. Daniel foretold that knowledge would increase in the last days, and we now live in the very reality of that prophecy. What once took weeks to discover now appears in seconds. Yet for all our knowledge, the great question remains unanswered: Why did God put me here? What is my purpose in this time?

Knowledge can inform your mind, but only wisdom can reveal your calling. Wisdom is not information; it is revelation. It is God opening your eyes to His purpose for your life. Scripture teaches that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. This means wisdom begins the moment you recognize that your life is not an accident. God appointed your birth year. God appointed your generation. God appointed your strengths, your struggles, and your story. Paul teaches in the book of Acts that God determined the times set for each of us and the exact places where we should live.

You were placed here on purpose, for such a time as this. You carry something this generation needs. Your calling fits this moment, and your gifts match the challenges of your age. Your life was designed for impact in this chapter of history and no other.

So we return to the question that echoes through eternity: Why am I here? Why did God choose this time, this place, this season for my life? The answer is that He has a purpose for you that aligns perfectly with this moment, and only godly wisdom can reveal it.

And where do we find this wisdom? We find it in the presence of God, in the truth of His Word, and in a life that is surrendered to His Spirit. We find it when we humble ourselves before Him, listen for His voice, and walk in obedience to His calling. We find it not in the noise of the world, but in the stillness where He speaks. Wisdom is found in God, and when we seek Him with our whole heart, we discover why He placed us here, for such a time as this.

The greatest picture of this is Jesus. Scripture says, “Though He was God, He gave up His divine privileges and humbled Himself.” He had every right to demand honor, yet He chose to serve. His greatness was not displayed by lifting Himself up, but by lifting others. True greatness always flows in that direction—it gives, it sacrifices, and it helps others become who God meant them to be.

A person becomes great when they begin to truly see the people around them. Some are walking through dark valleys, carrying burdens that are too heavy to explain. What they need is someone willing to walk beside them. I once heard a man say to a friend, “You didn’t take the darkness away, but you refused to let me face it alone.” That quiet presence was greatness at work.

Others need help thinking differently, because their old thoughts have kept them stuck. Romans 12 speaks of renewing the mind, and sometimes greatness is simply offering a new way to see things—hope instead of fear, possibility instead of failure. A young woman once said, “You helped me see that I wasn’t broken, just growing.” That new perspective changed her life.

Still others are weighed down by past failures, convinced they cannot rise again. A truly great person helps them take that first step toward restoration. Not by judging them, but by believing in them until they learn to believe again. A father once said, “I became a better man because someone saw the good in me when I couldn’t see it myself.” That is the quiet power of greatness.

This stands in sharp contrast to the kind of leadership we often see today—leaders who want to be called great but live only for themselves. They measure greatness by recognition, authority, or applause. But real greatness does not need an audience. It is proven in the lives strengthened because you chose to show up, to serve, to speak life, and to stand with someone when it mattered.

Greatness is not complicated. It is simply rare. It happens when a person decides that their life will be used to build others rather than elevate themselves. It grows in humility, in sacrifice, in presence, in encouragement, and in love that expects nothing in return. The world may never notice such a person, but God does. And His recognition is the only one that lasts.

To be great is not to stand above others, but to walk with them. It is not to shout your importance, but to live in such a way that someone else whispers, “I am better because of you.” That is greatness. That is the kind worth living.

Lennon asks the world to imagine life with no heaven above us and no hell below us—no God to answer to, no eternal purpose, no absolute truth. He imagines a world without nations, without religion, without possessions, without anything that might divide people or challenge their desires. It is a world built completely on human emotion, a world that seems peaceful only because everything meaningful has been removed. It is a dream of unity that never touches the soul, a vision that comforts the feelings but leaves the heart empty.

The Bible offers a completely different picture—one not imagined by man, but revealed by God. Heaven is not a fantasy or a poetic idea; it is a real place prepared by Jesus Himself. It is a world without pain, fear, sickness, or death. Every tear is wiped away. Everything broken is restored. Heaven is full, whole, and alive. It is a place where nothing evil can enter and nothing good can be taken away. The glory of God is its light, and His presence fills every moment with joy, peace, and purpose. Heaven is the home every soul was made for, where we live forever in perfect love, perfect community, and perfect life.

Jesus also told us plainly about hell, not to frighten us, but to warn us. In the story of Lazarus and the rich man, the rich man dies and wakes up in torment, while Lazarus is comforted in paradise. What makes this story so powerful is that the rich man can see Lazarus. He sees the joy he rejected. He sees the peace he will never know. He remembers his life. He remembers his choices. He remembers his family. He begs for someone to warn his brothers. Hell is not a place of sleep or silence. It is full awareness without relief, memory without comfort, desire without satisfaction, and eternity without hope. In hell, the soul understands that heaven is real—but it cannot reach it. That knowledge, more than anything else, is what makes hell unbearable: the door to joy exists, but it will never open.

As I drove down Highway 49, with Lennon’s song fading and the autumn colors glowing around me, the contrast between man’s imagination and God’s truth became unmistakable. Man imagines a world with no heaven and no hell; God reveals a world where both are real, eternal, and unavoidable. Heaven is the fullness of life—joy, love, belonging, purpose, and the presence of God forever. Hell is the absence of God—darkness, regret, separation, and the knowledge that hope has been removed for eternity. And the difference between the two comes down to one simple choice: what a person does with Jesus. Choosing heaven is not complicated—trust Him, ask for His forgiveness, and let Him lead your life. Rejecting Him is choosing to face eternity alone. On that quiet highway, it became clear that every road in life eventually leads to one of two destinations. God has opened the way to heaven. Hell exists only when that way is refused. To choose Christ is to choose life, forever.

At the same time, the world around us feels unfamiliar and unsteady. Values that once shaped our nation seem to be fading. People of faith often feel pushed back by a culture growing louder in its opposition to the Word of God. Darkness feels bold. Fear feels near. And in moments like these, it can seem as if the ground beneath our feet is trembling.

In the middle of this heaviness, there is an ongoing debate about sorrow. Some say, “God will not give you more than you can endure,” while others insist that He does. Paul wrote, “We were burdened beyond our strength… so that we would rely not on ourselves but on God” (2 Cor. 1:8–9). The truth is deeper than either side of the argument. God never misjudges the human heart. He knows exactly where our strength ends and where His strength begins.

My own strength reaches its limit quickly. I am human and easily overwhelmed. But God is not. He lifts the weight I cannot lift. He steadies the heart I cannot steady. He carries what would crush me. Charles Spurgeon captured this beautifully when he said, “I have learned to kiss the wave that throws me against the Rock of Ages.” Even the waves that strike us can drive us closer to the God who never moves.

So what does this all mean? It means that no matter what we have faced—losing someone we love, watching someone suffer, or fearing what tomorrow might bring—God has not abandoned us. Scripture promises, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted” (Ps. 34:18). He does not stand far off. He sits with us in our grief. He walks with us through our fear. He holds us when we cannot hold ourselves together.

It also means that even though the world feels confusing today, God is absolutely in control. He sees every tear that falls in secret. He hears every prayer whispered in weakness. He knows every fear we carry. Nothing happening today is stronger than His power, and nothing is hidden from His sight. When we feel too weak to go on, He becomes our strength. When we feel too empty to hope again, He becomes our hope. When we cannot carry the weight of today, He carries us into tomorrow. As the Lord said to Paul, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Cor. 12:9).

This also means that tomorrow is not something we walk into alone. God steps into the future before we arrive. He prepares help we do not yet see and strength we do not yet feel. Corrie ten Boom once said, “Never be afraid to trust an unknown future to a known God.” That is where our courage comes from. That is where our peace comes from. That is where our hope comes from.

And what is that hope? It does not come from easier days or from our own strength or from the world getting better. Our hope comes from Jesus Christ—the One who conquered death, the One who holds our lives, the One who walks with us through every storm, and the One who will one day make all things new. Even when the night feels long, the dawn is coming. Even when the season hurts, God is working. Even when we feel empty, He remains enough.

So today, in the middle of whatever pain or confusion you are facing, remember this: God is closer than your fear, stronger than your sorrow, and faithful in every step you take. Your hope is not found in what you see. Your hope is found in the God who sees you.