Kurt Bubna

Still

The birds still sing through falling rain,
though heavy clouds stretch wide with pain.
They do not wait for skies to clear
before they lift their song to hear.

The sun still rises, sure and bright,
behind dark clouds and out of sight.
Though shadows hide its steady flame,
the dawn still comes just the same.

The roots grow deeper through the cold,
through winter’s silence, stark and old.
Though nothing blooms for eyes to see,
new life is forming quietly.

And so it is when sorrow stays,
when night seems longer than our days.
When answers fade and hope feels thin,
and fear grows loud enough to win.

There is a work we cannot see,
a quiet shaping patiently.
A hand still moving through the night,
preparing what will come to light.

The rain will pass. The clouds will break.
The sleeping earth will stir awake.
What now seems buried, still and deep,
is gathering strength beneath its sleep.

So do not let the darkness say
this hidden season is decay.
Some things grow strong where none can see,
becoming what they’re meant to be.

Keep singing through the falling rain.
Keep trusting through the silent pain.
For just beyond what clouds conceal,
the light is rising.

And it is real.

Sometimes the thing that blows my mind most about God isn’t WHAT He does, it’s WHO He wants.

God wants a relationship with me.

Let that sink in for a second.

Me. The guy who still stumbles over the same sins he swore off last week.

Me. The one who argues with God, who doubts, who drifts, who gets distracted by shiny objects and nonsense.

Me. Broken, stubborn, inconsistent, foolish, sinful me.

And yet… He still wants me.

Not my cleaned-up version. Not my Sunday smile. Not my Instagram highlight reel.

Just me.

That’s what wrecks me in the best way. The Creator of galaxies doesn’t need me. But He longs for me. Not because I’ve earned His love, but because His heart beats for relationship.

Grace like that consistently amazes me and sends me to my knees in tears.

We despair when people cancel us and get lost in self-pity. We chase people who barely text back, but God keeps calling even when we ghost Him. That’s love on another level.

“See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are.” 1 John 3:1

If that doesn’t stir something in you, check your pulse.

By the way, God’s not looking for perfection. He’s looking for presence.

Yours.

Time moves quietly.

It doesn’t knock before entering.
It doesn’t announce its arrival
or warn us how quickly it will go.

It slips gently through ordinary mornings,
through familiar routines,
through laughter around tables
and seasons we assume will always return.

And then one day
you catch your reflection,
notice the silver
and the lines around your eyes,

And you wonder
how so many years
could pass so silently.

It is strange, really.

How life can move
with such quiet speed.

How one day
you are making plans
for some distant future,

and the next
you wake to realize
you are living in the very years
you once thought were far away.

And yet while time moves forward,
pain does not always move with it.

Unhealed sorrow
does not wrinkle with age.

It does not simply fade
because enough birthdays have passed
or enough pages have turned.

Left untouched,
pain can remain startlingly present.

Still hurting.
Still waiting.
Still asking to be seen.

That is one quiet deception of time.

It can make us believe
that passing years
are the same as healing.

They are not.

Time may create distance,
but only courage creates freedom.

Only honesty opens the door.

Only stepping toward what hurts
allows grace
to do its slow, sacred work.

So if there is pain
you have simply learned to live beside,
do not mistake survival for healing.

Do not assume
that silence means peace.

Time moves quietly, yes.

And before we know it,
we wake up older
than we ever imagined.

So while there is still breath,
still grace,
still mercy,
still this sacred invitation called today,

move toward healing.

Name what aches.

Bring into the light
what has lived too long
in the shadows.

Because while pain
may not wrinkle with age,
it does not have to remain.

It can loosen its grip.
It can surrender its claim.

And what once felt permanent
can, by grace,
become the very place
where healing begins to bloom,

where broken ground
gives way to beauty,

and the soul remembers
how to rise toward the light again.

People sometimes ask why I keep posting about mercy and grace.

Why not more about spiritual discipline?
Why not more about biblical correction?
Why not another list of what people should do better?

Fair questions.

But here’s my answer.

Most of us have already heard all of that.

We’ve sat through enough sermons.
Read enough books.
Heard enough voices (including our self-talk) telling us where we’ve fallen short, what we’ve messed up, and how we need to get our act together.

Trust me, broken people usually don’t need more reminders that they’re broken or what they need to do better.

We already know.

The woman drowning in shame knows.
The man stuck in addiction knows.
The person replaying their worst failure at 2 a.m. knows.

The issue usually isn’t a lack of information.

It’s the crushing weight of believing your failures now define you.

That’s why I keep coming back to grace.

Because shame has had the microphone for far too long.

Guilt has preached plenty of sermons.

Condemnation has written enough headlines across people’s hearts.

What many people have not heard nearly enough is this…

You are not beyond redemption.

You are not disqualified.

Your worst chapter does not get the final word.

Real change rarely happens because someone was shamed into trying harder.

It happens when grace gives them enough breathing room to stop hiding.

It happens when they finally believe they are fully known and still deeply loved.

That kind of love changes people.

That kind of grace rebuilds people.

So if you’re wondering why I keep talking about grace, it’s because the world has no shortage of voices announcing your failure.

I’d rather spend my life reminding people that God’s mercy is new EVERY morning and still greater than all our sins.

All.

God spoke this through Isaiah to Israel after failure, loss, and exile.

“See, I am doing a new thing… I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” Isaiah 43:19

This wasn’t written to people on a winning streak.

These were people who had watched their life fall apart. Land gone. Stability gone. Identity shaken.

The real context? God is speaking to Israel who had:

* failed God repeatedly
* been judged and sent into exile
* lost their land, identity, and stability

So this isn’t written to people on a mountaintop. It’s written to people who felt like everything had fallen apart.

Right before this passage, God reminds them of the Exodus. The parting of the Red Sea. The kind of miracles they built their identity on.

Then He says something surprising when you know the context: “Forget the former things… I am doing a new thing.”

Not because the past didn’t matter, but because God wasn’t finished.

Here’s the tension.

This is not a promise that everything will turn out the way you want.

It’s a promise that God is still working… even when your life feels like a desert.

Wilderness and wasteland are not poetic language.

They represent:

• Dry seasons
• Confusion
• Loss
• Silence

And God says, “That’s where I move.”

Not after you escape it.
Right in the middle of it.

But here’s the part that challenges me: “Do you not perceive it?”

Sometimes God is already doing something new, and we miss it because we’re still staring at what we’ve lost.

There are seasons where life feels dark and hopeless.

Where nothing looks promising.

Where hope feels more like memory than reality.

This verse doesn’t ignore that; it speaks into it.

God’s work is not always clear.
Not always fast.
Not always obvious.

Sometimes it starts small.

A shift in perspective.
A new opportunity.
A quiet strength you didn’t have before.

A stream… before it becomes a river.

So, if you’re in a season that feels dry right now.

Don’t fake optimism.
Don’t deny the weight of it.
Don’t assume God is absent either.

He may already be doing something new.

The question: Will you see it?

I have “Psalm 31” tattooed on my right bicep.

Let me tell you why…

Life hasn’t always been easy.
I haven’t always been strong.
And I have definitely not always gotten things right.

So I carry Psalm 31 because it is brutally honest.

David doesn’t sound polished or untouchable in that passage. He sounds exhausted. Betrayed. Afraid. Ashamed. Overwhelmed.

Honestly… I can relate.

He talks about grief wearing him down.

Hateful people surrounding him and whispering behind his back.

He’s feeling forgotten and broken.

And yet somehow, right in the middle of all that chaos, he keeps coming back to this truth:

“But I trust in You, Lord.”

That verse has carried me through some dark nights.

Cancer.
Heart issues.
Failure.
Divorce.
Loss.
Shame.
Disappointment.
The kind of seasons where you smile in public but feel like you’re unraveling privately.

Psalm 31 reminds me that faith is not pretending everything is okay.

Faith is choosing to believe God is still your refuge when life is absolutely not okay.

That tattoo is more than ink to me; It’s a reminder.

God has not abandoned me in my worst moments. And He hasn’t abandoned you either.

Psalm 31:24 — “Be strong, and let your heart take courage, all you who wait for the Lord!”

Yep.

Hold on.
Wait.
Even when it’s hard.
Especially then.

I wish I could give you “three pain-free steps to family healing.” Sorry, I can’t.

I strive to have hope. I need to believe restoration is possible.

But there is no easy path to rebuilding a broken relationship after divorce. Especially when children are hurting too. Especially when words were said, trust was fractured, and everybody carries scars from the fallout.

However, I do believe there is a place to begin.

A humble, honest prayer.

One of the most repeated prayers of my life comes from the final verse of the Old Testament:

“God, restore the hearts of my children to me and my heart to theirs.”

I have prayed those words hundreds of times. Quietly. Tearfully. Sometimes desperately.

And honestly, there were moments I wondered if anything was changing at all.

That last chapter in Malachi is interesting. It talks about Elijah, judgment, and apparently well-fed cows frolicking in a field. Not exactly the ending you would expect from the Old Testament.

But tucked into that final promise is something powerful:

“He will turn the hearts of the fathers to their children, and the hearts of the children to their fathers...” Malachi 4:6

God still cares about restoring hearts inside families.

Not just behavior.
Not image management.
Not pretending everything is fine.

Hearts.

Sometimes restoration happens quickly.
Sometimes it takes years.
Sometimes progress looks painfully small.

A returned phone call.
A softer conversation.
A hug that lasts a few seconds longer than before.
A wall coming down brick by brick.

Healing rarely arrives all at once.

But never underestimate what God can do in places that feel hopeless and painfully broken.

I know some parents, like me, carry enormous regret.
I know some children carry deep wounds.
I know some families feel one hard conversation away from giving up completely.

But as long as people are breathing, grace still has room to work.

So, keep praying and loving.
Keep showing up humbly.
And when needed, keep apologizing.

The story isn’t over yet.

It wasn’t a headache or just a bad day. Paul called it a thorn that he said came from the enemy.

In 2 Corinthians 12:7, he describes it as a “messenger of Satan.” Something that harassed him. Pressed him. Wouldn’t leave.

And here’s the part most of us don’t like.

God didn’t remove it.

Paul asked. More than once.
But nothing changed.

Instead, God answered him with this: “My grace is sufficient for you.”

That’s probably not the answer Paul wanted. And if I’m honest, it’s not the one I want either.

We want relief.
God offers His strength.

We want easy.
God gives His presence.

We want the pressure gone.
God teaches us how to stand under it.

Even the battles that come straight from the enemy are not outside God’s reach.

That matters.

Because it means this…

The thing that feels like it’s breaking you, God can use to shape you.

The struggle you’ve prayed would disappear might be the place you learn dependence in a way you never would have chosen.

I’ve had my own version of a thorn.
Not small. Not short-term. Not optional.

And I’ve asked God to take it.

He didn’t.

But He met me in it.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped asking, “Why won’t this go away?” and started seeing, “He hasn’t left me here alone.”

That changes things.

Not perfectly.
Not overnight.

But enough to keep going with hope.

What do you do when you’ve been a severe disappointment to people you love?

How do you move forward when you’ve gotten far too good at breaking trust and letting others down, and you’re not even sure how to begin rebuilding what you destroyed?

I have literally spent countless hours wrestling with these two questions.

I wish I could tell you there’s a simple formula to make it all right—three easy steps, a quick prayer, mixed with a handful of Christian clichés, and all is well. But it doesn’t work that way.

I broke before I began to heal.

When I fell, and I failed miserably, I didn’t just disappoint myself. I hurt people who once looked to me for leadership, guidance, and love. And it crushed me. I didn’t know how to face them, or myself, or God.

Disappointment turns into discouragement. Discouragement when left to rot festers into despair. And despair, left unchecked, leads to death, not always of the body, but often of the soul.

That’s where I found myself, deep in a pit I dug with my own hands.

I replayed conversations. I obsessed over what I should’ve done differently.

I kept thinking, “If I could just make everyone believe I’m sorry enough, maybe they’d forgive me.” When you’ve built your life around pleasing people, their disapproval can feel overwhelming.

It took me months, and a lot of counseling, prayer, and honest reflection, to realize something simple but hard: You can’t undo what’s been done.

You can’t force anyone to forgive you. And you can’t live your life begging for validation from those who may never give it again.

What you can do is tell the truth, take responsibility, and begin again. Not perfectly. Not pain-free. But with humility.

I’ve learned that God meets us in the ruins. Not when we’ve cleaned everything up, but when the mess still surrounds us. Grace doesn’t erase the consequences, but it refuses to let the story end there.

As Charles Spurgeon once said, “God never wastes a wound.” I’ve found that to be true.

The very places that broke me have become the places where I now see His mercy most powerfully.

Scripture says, “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9). And that word all means all. Not just the small sins, or the respectable ones, but the ugly, humiliating failures that make us want to run and hide.

If you’re stuck in that dark pit of despair, wondering if you’ll ever climb out, hear me: you’re not beyond redemption. You’re not too far gone.

The very fact that your failure breaks your heart is proof that something sacred is still alive in you. (A dear friend reminded me of that last statement, and it infused incredible hope into my soul.)

So, don’t rush the process. Don’t chase approval. Don’t drown in shame. Sit with the pain. Learn from it. Let God use it.

I can’t promise the people you disappointed will come back around. (I have people, once very close to me, who are still far from me emotionally and relationally.)

But I can promise that if you stay honest, humble, and open to grace, you’ll find your way back to peace, and maybe even to purpose.

Because I did.

There’s something I’ve learned after nearly seven decades on this planet and forty-plus years as a pastor: every person you meet has hidden scars.

Some scars came from sins we committed. Others from sins committed against us.

But all of us—every single one—carry something we hope no one ever finds out.

All. Of. Us.

The kindest, holiest, most awesome, and most “put-together” person you know has a story they’ve never told. A wound they’ve never confessed. A moment they wish they could rewrite.

I’ve sat across from people who seemed flawless. Successful. Godly. But once trust opened the door, the truth spilled out. Shame. Guilt. Fear. And the quiet belief that maybe they were too far gone for grace to reach.

So what do we do with that? How do we unhide what we’ve buried for so long?

It begins with honesty with God, with ourselves, and with at least one safe person who will listen without judgment.

Healing never happens in the dark, but grace and mercy grow wild and free in the light.

When we bring our sin into the open, something sacred happens. The power of shame begins to break. That’s why John wrote, “If we walk in the light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus purifies us from all sin” (1 John 1:7).

When you finally face what’s been haunting you, you’ll find something incredible waiting there: a God who isn’t disgusted by your story but determined to redeem it.

The same God who sees it all still calls you beloved.

Hold on to that hope. It’s stronger than your secrets and shame.

Do I need to ask for forgiveness for my sins continually?

That question stirs up more fear, confusion, and quiet exhaustion in Christians than many people realize.

Let me be clear:
I absolutely believe in repentance.
I believe in humility.
I believe we should confess sin honestly before God.

But I do not believe believers live in a constant cycle of trying to re-secure God’s forgiveness every time they fail.

From a grace perspective, the cross actually worked.

Completely.

When Jesus said, “It is finished,” He did not mean, “Mostly finished… as long as you keep apologizing enough for the rest of your life.”

I think many sincere Christians live spiritually exhausted because they feel like they’re constantly moving in and out of God’s acceptance based on their performance.

That’s not freedom.
That’s spiritual anxiety wearing a church outfit.

Years ago, after one of the hardest seasons of my life, I remember sitting alone, feeling like I needed to “get right with God” all over again. Not because I had stopped believing in Christ, but because shame had convinced me I was now living on probation.

Maybe you’ve felt that too.

Like God loves you… cautiously and conditionally.

Like heaven reluctantly stamped your paperwork, but is still keeping an eye on you.

But Scripture says we were forgiven through Christ’s sacrifice. Past, present, and future sins were paid for at the cross.

That does not make sin meaningless.

It makes grace overwhelming.

I still confess sin.
I still repent.
I still grieve things in my life that dishonor God or hurt others.

But I do not confess as a terrified orphan trying to get back into the family.

I confess as a son already loved.

That changes everything.

Sin affects fellowship.
It affects intimacy.
It affects peace, joy, and closeness.

But for the believer, it does not cancel relationship.

The Christian life is not about repeatedly getting re-forgiven.
It is about learning to live from a forgiveness already secured by Jesus.

And honestly? For people crushed by shame, that is not dangerous theology.

That is oxygen.