During our Saturday morning devotional, I told our assembled disaster response team, “Do not elevate projects over people. We’re here to serve and connect with human beings—to show them the love of Christ, to offer encouragement and hope. Although we’re cutting up a lot of trees this week, we’re not in the tree business. We’re in the people business. Downed trees are the means to the end. So, let’s focus on people.”

For once, I took my own advice. The person I would try to encourage today and, as it turns out, be encouraged by, was Stephanie Peterson of Valdosta’s Blossom Bee Removal. This amazing elementary school Ag teacher, mother, and bee expert agreed to extract a beehive from the hollow of a downed tree that our team had pulled from a roof at Georgia Christian School. Her willingness to help came with a caveat: “I’ll need someone to cut open the tree with a chainsaw… but I have an extra XL bee suit.” Yikes!

Carving up an active beehive with a chainsaw in 90-degree heat seemed high-risk and ill-advised. Sort of like climbing into the cockpit of an F-16 with a fighter pilot named “Bubba”—something I had done at nearby Moody Air Force Base 30 years earlier. Or swinging from a waterfall vine in Maui. Or walking from Georgia to Maine. Unfortunately, leaving a downed tree full of 60,000 or so bees in a schoolyard also involves risk. So, Stephanie and I agreed to meet at 11 a.m. to try to save the hive and not die in the process.

As she helped me don a suit last worn by Buzz Aldrin during the Gemini 12 mission, I worried about the gaps around my ankles. “Yeah, you might feel a few stings down there,” she said. “But it’s not too painful.” I heard those exact words from a Tucson gastroenterologist in 2017 before my first colonoscopy… I didn’t believe him either. But I otherwise trusted Stephanie—she was licensed, certified, experienced, and as sweet as… wait for it… honey. She was also gracious in fielding the scores of questions Fob W. Honeypot would throw at her throughout the day. 

As we cut open the hive, sucked bees with a vacuum, and hunted for the queen, I learned or was reminded of some things:

1. Every honeybee has a job to do, and each role is important to sustain the hive. Stephanie pointed out workers who nurse the brood and janitors who clean the hive. They serve the queen, who lays lots of eggs and produces chemical scents to regulate the unity of the colony. The drones, bless their hearts, exist for the opportunity to mate with the queen, continue eating, watch sports on TV, and then die. The queen gets most of the attention, of course, but each bee is vital to the survival of the hive. The same is true in disaster relief operations—we need leaders who provide vision and make decisions, but also our cooks, administrators, tool guys, and volunteer laborers. Together, we form a cohesive team that accomplishes the mission. The same is true for the church. In God’s eyes, the preacher is valued no more or less than the church janitor, the communion preparer, or the A/V person. In 1 Corinthians 12, Paul writes about how the various parts of the body (the church) make up a complete whole. Each has a valuable role. We don’t need the knee to be an elbow. We don’t need five ears. We don’t need the ankle to feel unappreciated, or the nose to look down on the armpit. In the church and in a honeybee colony, we just need everyone to pitch in and do their part.

2. Elderly “forager” bees are also vital to the hive’s survival. Stephanie said that near the end of a worker bee’s life, her role switches to foraging. When they are three to six weeks old, depending on the season, workers will leave the colony during daylight hours to forage for food. They’ll travel up to five miles from the hive, guided by the sun, gathering pollen and nectar. By doing so, they are not just sustaining the hive, but sustaining our ecosystem and food supply. Once foraging begins, these selfless bees are nearing the end of their life. All the flying will quickly wear out their wings and they are unable to repair damaged wing tips. In a final act of selfless service, the foragers die serving the colony. Elderly Christians, listen to me: we need you to serve your church and your community, as best you can, until the very end! While your specific roles will vary based on health and other factors, you don’t need to sit around bemoaning the fact you can’t do what you once did. Instead, do what you can. Finish strong because your colony—the church—needs you. Forage until your wings fall off and God calls you home!

3. Solutions are sometimes only revealed in our stillness. After 45 minutes of carving up the tree trunk, examining honeycomb, and siphoning bees, the hive was irate and swarming. Worse still, we hadn’t located the queen, putting our goal to relocate her and the colony in jeopardy. “Let’s take a break and sit in my air-conditioned truck,” Stephanie suggested. Dripping with sweat from every pore, I nodded and shed my protective suit. Inside the truck, she said, “They’re confused right now. We’ve turned their lives upside down. We need to give them time to reconstitute. You see, it’s all about the queen. Once they settle down and pick up her scent, they’re going to rally around her. When we return and find the crowd, we should find the queen.” Not surprisingly, Stephanie was right. Once we returned, refreshed, we located a crowd of bees on a piece of honeycomb nestled inside a cut of wood off to the side. After a few minutes of moving the pile around with her index finger, Stephanie shouted, “I found her! Yes!” Sure enough, the oversized queen with her yellow abdomen came into view, and Stephanie quickly captured her in a little bee box. Based on Stephanie’s excitement, I knew this was the most critical step. But we achieved that goal not through activity but rather momentary inactivity. We sat passively in the truck and let the colony settle. Solutions to our most pressing problems may sometimes be revealed not by working harder but rather when we take time to “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).

4. Invasive species will kill a hive. After removing a section of honeycomb, Stephanie pointed at a tiny dark object and commented, “Look, a small hive beetle. Not good.” She explained that since the bees’ stingers can’t penetrate the beetle’s shell, the best they can do is push the intruder to the outer edge of the honeycomb and hope for the best. A moment later, Stephanie examined the next layer of honeycomb and said, “Look here, this is even worse… small hive beetle larvae. They’re burrowing into the comb, eating brood, honey, and pollen. An infestation like this is going to cause the hive to “slime out” and die or at least force the bees to find a new home. We got here just in time!” Once again, I saw a spiritual application. We may be tempted to allow Satan, the intruder, to occupy a small space on the outskirts of our homes and lives. With that foothold established, he’s positioned to tempt us into more and more sin—the larvae. Our unchecked desires “give birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death” (James 1:15). Friends, we can’t allow Satan—the small hive beetle—to take occupancy in our lives and destroy our families and ourselves.

5. We serve an eternal King and are headed to an eternal home. Despite the best efforts of tens of thousands of worker bees and caring bee enthusiasts like Stephanie, the queen’s days are numbered. She will eventually die and be replaced. The beehive that she and her colony worked so hard to establish and maintain is also temporary. One day, some storm, disease, exterminator, bear, or beetle will kill it. The beehive, like everything else we can see, is temporary (2 Cor. 4:18). I’m thankful that Jesus is our eternal King, seated at the right hand of God (Col. 3:1). I’m also grateful that He has prepared an eternal heavenly home for Christians, and that one day He’s returning to take us there (John 14:2-3).

After another hour of vacuuming bees, Stephanie loaded her equipment along with the queen, her entourage, and several pieces of honeycomb. Two hours later, at her third bee extraction of the day, she called to ask if I could stop by with the chainsaw to assist her in saving another bee colony. I agreed because Stephanie is the kind of person you want to go the extra mile for. I so appreciate her enthusiasm, her love of nature, and her willingness to take me on as a chain-sawing, bee-whispering apprentice, if only for a day.

The more I learn about honeybees—their teamwork, communication, purpose, and design—the more impressed I am with their Creator. Wherever there is design in the universe, there must be a Designer. When I witness honeybees and all the other amazing creatures roaming our planet, I’m reminded that we serve an awesome, creative, wonderful God.

“Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth.” – John 3:18

In a new study published in the Journal of Experimental Psychology, researchers demonstrate the power of small acts of kindness. They conducted experiments involving different acts of kindness, such as offering someone a ride home or covering the cost of someone’s cup of coffee. In one experiment, study participants at a Chicago ice skating rink gave other skaters hot chocolate for free. Later, both parties were asked to rate how much the gesture was worth. The givers consistently undervalued how much the hot cocoa meant to the recipients. The small acts of kindness—the little things—turned out to be huge.

In a 2022 paper published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, researchers reached a similar conclusion. They found that we tend to underestimate the power of reaching out to friends, family, and colleagues. According to the authors, a quick call or text can make a big difference in the life of the recipient. Once again, the research suggests that little things are big.

My experience over the past 24 hours bears that out. Three friends of mine have done some seemingly small things. They aren’t seeking recognition, but you need to know about them. And we need to “go and do likewise” (Luke 10:37).

First up is Miss Anna, a disabled, wheelchair-bound widow from our congregation. Although I don’t know Miss Anna’s financial situation, I’m confident her heart is far larger than her bank account. Last night in the church lobby, she motioned for me. That sometimes means she’s about to get onto me for not being loud enough during a sermon or Bible class. “Use your outside voice,” Miss Anna often implores. “You know I can’t hear.” But last night, she had nothing to say. She simply handed me an envelope with cash inside and patted my hand. Miss Anna heard about our upcoming disaster relief trip to Valdosta and felt compelled to give. A big heart will do that to a person. And big, giving hearts are noticed by Jesus, as we learn from the story of “a certain widow” with two small coins in Luke 21. Little gestures—little things—are big.

This morning, another dear friend, who happens to be my oldest son, was called in to help a hospital-bound child who needed to be measured and fitted for a tricky, custom brace. The interesting part of this story is that Jason, due to an awful bout with Lyme disease, hasn’t done prosthetics or orthotics in nearly two years. He was brought “out of retirement” to advise the official provider who lacked experience to handle the intricate case. Jason interrupted day trading—his new career—to help a child in need. If you think that small act of kindness isn’t a big deal, you’ve never been a hospital-bound child needing a brace to walk. Little things are big.

Later this morning, while covering Science at a local Christian school, I wandered to the front office in search of a cup of coffee. You must understand that I love coffee. Like good books, high-end running shoes, and Jesus, coffee is essential. Without the soothing, caffeinated beverage, I operate at 40%. To survive Anatomy and Physiology this morning, I desperately needed a cup. I asked Miss Sheila, the high school secretary, if there was any chance there was a drop or two of leftovers from this morning.

“I’m so sorry, Steve, we didn’t make a pot this morning,”

“No worries,” I lied. “No big deal. I’ll be fine.” 

Truth be told, without coffee, I planned to stab my temple with an Erlenmeyer flask and crawl into a fetal position inside the biosafety cabinet. But Miss Sheila didn’t know that. I hid my desperation. Forty-five minutes later, while clutching the flask, I heard a knock on the door. I opened it to find a smiling Miss Sheila with a large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in her outstretched arms! For me! I mean, who does that? Who goes to the trouble to have coffee delivered to a lowly sub? That’s absurd! Her “small gesture” was also the highlight of my day! Little things are big.

Amit Kumar, a psychology professor at UT Austin and one of the authors of the Journal of Experimental Psychology study, says we limit our actions because we routinely misjudge their impact on others. He writes, “Not knowing one’s positive impact can stand in the way of people engaging in these sorts of acts of kindness in daily life.”

Why do little things have such a big impact? For that answer, we turn to Mymento, a seller of unique gifts. The company suggests four reasons why a small gesture feels like something big:

1. It reminds us that we’re being thought of. Whether the gift we receive is material or immaterial (e.g., time, conversation, etc.), it makes us feel important and reminds us that we mean something to someone else. Miss Anna’s financial gift will be small as a percentage of the total needs of the disaster victim who receives it. But it will come in a card with an encouraging Bible verse. The person who receives it will know that a Christian from Tennessee—someone they’ll probably never meet—is aware of and doing something about their dire situation. They are being thought of, and that realization generates hope. As prisoner Andy Dufresne put it in The Shawshank Redemption, “Hope is a good thing. Maybe even the best of things. And good things never die.”

2. It shows us that people care. The young man who received the custom brace this morning may or may not be old enough to appreciate that people care. But I bet his parents do! After this morning, they know the hospital cares. They know the orthotist cares. And if you know anything about Jason, you know he cares for people to a fault. God gave that man an XL heart.

3. It demonstrates that people are paying attention. This morning, I appreciated that Miss Sheila was paying attention. (In fact, few things inspire me to write a blog during the first NFL game of the year!) Something as simple as a cup of coffee put a smile on my face. As I blissfully sipped the warm beverage, I couldn’t help but wonder how many “small things” this big-hearted school secretary notices and addresses throughout the day. 

4. It gives us something to hold on to. I have a large collection of family Bibles. In fact, the word is out in our family that “when you die, your Bible—at least one of them—goes to Steve.” These gifts mean little to anyone outside our family. I wouldn’t get much for them on eBay. But they mean the world to me. My mom has left this world, but I have her memory and her Bible. Both are gifts I hold on to.

So, what do we make of little things? I’m beginning to think they don’t exist. What if, in God’s eyes, our little acts of kindness are huge—epic actually? What if the better measure is not the size of the giver’s act but the impact on the recipient? That changes everything.

Here’s the challenge: When in doubt, send the encouraging text. Make the phone call. Mow the neighbor’s yard. Offer the donation. Make the brace. Let the stressed-out single mom cut in line. Offer the last chocolate chip cookie to your sibling. And, if you see an old guy wandering the halls with a dazed look, clutching an Erlenmeyer flask, get that man some coffee stat! 

Little things? They’re huge!

“In all things I have shown you that by working hard in this way we must help the weak and remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he himself said, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’” – Acts 20:35

Earlier this summer, several friends and I had the opportunity to leave our comfortable, middle class American lives and return to Honduras, where 52.4% of souls live in poverty and 13.3% in extreme poverty. We hoped to make a difference, maybe change a life or two. By now I should have known, it would be our lives that would be changed.

Among various projects, we set out to build a house for Marta, a 42-year-old single mom, and Amiel, her precious 4-year-old daughter. (The name Amiel, quite fittingly as you’ll see, is of Hebrew origin and means My People Belong to God.) The young girl and her mom had been abandoned by Amiel’s biological father and were living in a small, primitive dwelling—a place you might store a riding lawnmower and a few tools. Marta struggles to make ends meet by buying and selling American clothes and cleaning people’s homes. Like many in Honduras, this family owns next to nothing.

Throughout the day, our team interacted with little Amiel, and two of our younger ladies spent considerable time with her. As the only Honduran child on the job site, she was thrilled to be the lone recipient of various toys, snacks, candy, and attention. Our loud hammering was interrupted throughout the day by the 4-year-old’s delightful cackling, as she blew bubbles and swung on a makeshift swing.

Toward the end of the build, as we were nailing the final few nails and gathering our tools, I felt a tug on my leg. Little Amiel was making the rounds, giving each missionary a calf-level hug. That alone would have been enough—just seeing a small child express appreciation for our efforts.

But Amiel wasn’t finished. She reached into her bag of goodies—pretty much everything she owned in the world—and pulled out a smaller bag of candy that had been given to her earlier in the day. She wanted me to have it. I felt a lump in my throat and wiped my eyes. Although she had, to my knowledge, little to no direct exposure to Jesus’ teachings, she was embodying the point of today’s passage. Giving something back, even though she owned so little, brought her joy—it blessed her.

Chilean author Isabel Allende writes, “You only have what you give. It’s by spending yourself that you become rich.” Though just four years old and living in poverty, Amiel discovered that day what it means to be rich, and in doing so, taught us all a valuable lesson.

Amiel, Amiel, a name so fitting—your people belong to God.

Nahum 1:7 – “The Lord is good, a stronghold in the day of trouble; he knows those who take refuge in him.”

As I turned northward onto Peterson Road on Wynne, Arkansas’ eastside, I encountered a scene out of an apocalyptic war film. To the right, three homes had been completely wiped off a ridge by an EF-3 tornado that ripped through the town on March 31^st. All that remained were driveways rising to concrete foundations. The still visible homes to the left were in shambles—barely standing among massive piles of debris. Windows were blown out. Construction material was strewn about and lodged in tree limbs as high as 40 feet. In every direction, there were gnarled tree limbs, crushed belongings, and shattered lives.

My mission that morning was to find someone to help. The organization I work with—the Churches of Christ Disaster Response Team—has volunteers from across the country, a semi-truck full of every tool imaginable, along with household supplies, construction material, and food. In a town so devastated by a natural disaster, finding someone to help would seem to be an easy task. The reality is that uninhabitable homes are vacant, and the owners of many salvageable homes are waiting on insurance claims to process before rebuilding can begin. 

As I was about to give up on finding a customer along this desolate, marred landscape, I spotted an older woman pushing a wheelbarrow full of debris across her front yard. The roof of her house was blown off and a large pile of debris rested in her front yard. Where there is manual labor underway, there is opportunity. I pulled into her driveway, approached her, and explained my purpose. The woman, Miss Kay, didn’t hesitate to respond.

“I appreciate your offer, but surely there are people in worse shape than us. We have been blessed.”

If that was her attempt to get me to leave, it didn’t work. People who think they are unworthy draw me in like a magnet. All the better that she was pushing a wheelbarrow to try to improve her situation. The Bible verse on the front of her t-shirt wasn’t required for her to receive help but added another dimension.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry this happened to you. We’re going to have some people here tomorrow morning to help you move that pile, cut down those tree limbs, and help you with anything else you need. May I ask if you were at home when the tornado hit?”

“We were. This was our new home—we’d only been in it a few months. My husband and I were inside along with one of our grandsons and his precious girlfriend. We huddled in a small coat closet and prayed out loud.”

“The tornado hit in the afternoon?”

“Yes, around 4 p.m. It came right over that ridge. Some of our neighbors lost everything. They always say a tornado sounds like a freight train and that’s what we heard. We thought this was the end for us—that it was time to join our girls.”

Miss Kay elaborated on her feelings in a Facebook post: “In the middle of all the horrible destruction we had peace. We all knew our Redeemer lives! We feel so blessed. Yes, we lost a lot but what we lost is all earthly and as we call it ‘just stuff’ and sometimes that’s what weighs us down, so we aren’t grieving the loss of our home. We are praising the Lord who sheltered us in that horrible storm. So now we should be homeless, but we have had so many people offer us shelter that our words of gratitude can’t cover what we feel for them… Yes, we are blessed much more than we deserve… There aren’t enough words to express what we feel in our hearts. Thank you is too small.”

I asked Miss Kay about joining her girls—what she meant by that. She removed her gloves and wiped sweat from her brow.

“We lived in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, back in 1991. Emily, our youngest, was 16 at the time and our oldest, Amy, was 18. I heard a sermon one Sunday in which our preacher encouraged us to talk to our kids about faith. He said not to assume that faith is real or personal to our kids just because they go to church and are ‘good kids.’ You’ve got to talk to them.”

“So, you talked to your girls?”

“Yes, I called for a little mother-daughter conference. We climbed up on my bed for a heart to heart. Emily did most of the talking. She assured me, as did her sister, that her faith was real and genuine. She wasn’t pretending.”

Miss Kay took a deep breath and sat her work gloves down on the pile of debris in the wheelbarrow.

“The next day, Emily died in a car accident.”

“I’m so sorry, Miss Kay.”

“She was a Junior at Riverdale High School. The person she normally drove home with wasn’t available that day, so she got a ride with someone else. The driver went just a little on the shoulder of the road and then over-corrected. The driver survived but Emily did not. It was a tragedy, but I’m so thankful to God for that conversation we had the night before. Those were the last meaningful words we shared together. That was a blessing. That brought me peace.”

“I’m sure it did.”

“Steve, do you have a moment? I want to show you something out on the back porch.”

“Sure.”

We walked through her front door and past broken glass, exposed ceiling, and the closet where the family had hunkered down when the tornado came through. On the back porch, she called my attention to her grill.

“Are you familiar with the Big Green Egg?”

“Yes, ma’am, my dad used to have one of those.”

“Well, when the storm hit, Phil and I had three things on this back porch: the Big Green Egg, some wicker furniture, and my daughter Amy’s swing.”

Miss Kay took another deep breath and continued.

“This is where God was at work again. Amy had some heart problems—something that runs in our family. Several years ago, prior to moving with her family, she asked if I could hold on to her swing for her. This was our family swing—a place where we would gather to talk about life and faith and watch fireflies at night. Her new home didn’t have a place for it, so I agreed to take it and put it on our back porch here in Wynne. Well, back in December of 2020, in the middle of Covid, my sweet Amy got really sick and died suddenly of a heart attack. She was 47 and left behind a beautiful family.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. Your family has been through so much.”

“We have, but God has carried us through all of it.”

“So, where does the Big Green Egg fit into all of this?”

“Good question. So, we had the Egg, Amy’s swing, and some wicker furniture on the porch. After the tornado, we found the Egg a quarter mile away in a neighbor’s yard. We still haven’t found the wicker furniture. But Amy’s swing was left unharmed, right where it sat.”

“That’s amazing!”

“Yes, and it wasn’t bolted down or anything. Aside from memories and her family, it’s really the only thing I have left from Amy. I think God spared it for us—to remind us of her.”

“So, with the tornado barreling down on you guys, you thought you’d be joining Amy and Emily that afternoon.”

“We did, and that would have been okay—a blessing, really. We miss them so much. And someday we’ll join them. But God must still have plans for us.”

“Some more family time on Amy’s swing.”

“Yes, I think so. Our God is bigger than any storm. We’re just going to put our trust in Him and keep on keeping on.”

Sometimes disaster relief is about more than just handing out food and cutting up trees. Sometimes the conversations run deep.

So, as you talk to your kids about faith… on a pew, atop a bed, or perhaps on the family porch swing, remind them of this: The tornado that hit Wynne, Arkansas, on March 31^st, 2023, was big and was devastating.

But also remind them of this: “The Lord is good, a stronghold in the day of trouble; he knows those who take refuge in him.” 

Our God is bigger than any storm.

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18

I’m around a lot of broken people. In the past two years, my in-laws who live with us have endured a combined three hip replacements, an eye surgery, a broken foot, Covid-19, shingles, pneumonia, diabetes, tremors, stage 3 kidney disease, and six falls. With all the medicines, medical equipment, and physical brokenness around us, our home feels like a hospital ward. My 89-year-old father-in-law often reminds us, “Getting old isn’t for sissies.”

I work with people going through emotional and financial brokenness. In myriad disaster zones, I’ve encountered people in shock from having lost almost everything. Many are too overwhelmed to know where to begin the recovery. They’re faced with burying loved ones, completing mounds of relief paperwork, and adjusting to life on a cot in a gymnasium full of other devastated souls. Some see their brokenness not as a temporary phenomenon but their new normal.

The prisoners and former prisoners I work with face multiple forms of brokenness. Some are in seemingly hopeless, lifelong battles with addiction. Many have destroyed relationships and lost contact with their closest friends and family. Most are in a crisis of faith, searching for a God who at times feels distant and uninvolved. Sitting across from my ministry partners and me in a cinder-block room in their gray pin-striped prison attire, they wonder how they ended up here. What will become of my broken family and my broken life? Does God have a plan for me? Is there any hope?

I feel inadequate in these situations. I don’t have the resources or training to make destitute people financially whole. I’m not qualified to offer medical advice on overcoming addiction or other physical ailments. I’m not a licensed psychologist, counselor, or attorney. My degrees in computer science and national defense aren’t all that useful when sitting next to a broken-hearted friend who, 48 hours earlier, was being administered Narcan from EMTs to save his life from another drug overdose.

Though unqualified to treat brokenness, I know a guy. I’m not referring to my doctor and dentist friends, Eddie and Jake, although they’re qualified to address many physical ailments. I’m not talking about my financial planner friend, Brook, although he’s helped various broken people get their finances back on track. 

No, the guy I know—the guy who can do the most good—is Jesus. As the Hebrews writer puts it, “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need” (Hebrews 4:5-6).                                                                  

Jesus is always on call. He understands our struggles and knows the grief of losing a loved one. He suffered unimaginable physical and emotional pain and agony on the cross. He gets us. When offering advice or encouragement to broken people, I begin with Jesus. God’s Son and God’s Word provide comfort and guidance for people going through physical, emotional, or spiritual difficulty. Our Savior provides strength for enduring the challenges of this life and, more importantly, offers hope for an eternal life. He specializes in making broken people whole. 

When I think of Jesus’ approach to broken people, I think of the Japanese’ attitude toward broken pottery. They view the scattered broken pieces not as a shame but an opportunity. When there is no way to put the pieces back together without the cracks showing, the Japanese turn to Kintsugi. This centuries-old artform uses glittering liquid gold or powdered gold-dusted lacquer to repair broken cracks.

Rather than hide the broken places, the Japanese embrace the imperfections. They leverage the scars. Using gold—one of the world’s most precious metals—they carefully join the broken pieces together to create something stronger and even more beautiful than the original. The visible flaws become an accepted part of the pottery’s history. What once was broken has been made whole again!

Are you, as the psalmist put it, brokenhearted and crushed in spirit? Has the devastating loss of a loved one, a life-altering addiction, or some other tragedy shattered your life into a thousand pieces? Are you concerned that you may never be whole again? If so, are you open to meeting a restorer who can apply pure gold to your broken pieces and create in you a new creation—a masterpiece?

If so, reach out to me. 

I know a guy.