Years ago, I was working in Washington, D.C.—surrounded by marble monuments, polished shoes, and people who carried themselves as though the world turned because they willed it. On a quiet early morning walk near Union Station, I saw a man bent over a dumpster.
He was dirty. Ragged. Forgotten.
People passed by—headphones in, coffee in hand—as though he didn’t exist. I stood there for a moment, torn. Then I reached for the crumpled $10 bill in my wallet. But something stirred. I could do more. So I walked over, invited him to McDonald’s, and we shared a meal. Nothing grand. Just hot food and an honest conversation.
I’m not going to lie—I walked out of there with that quiet, self-congratulatory feeling. That subtle pat on the back. But as I stepped again into my well-ordered world, a deeper realization hit like thunder.
In the grand scheme of eternity, stripped of illusion and distraction… I was the dumpster diver.
Most of us are. Scraping for scraps of meaning. Settling for stale affirmations. Living in digital worlds so curated and controlled we forget we’re starving for real connection. For communion. For God.
And yet, we were made in the image of the Trinity. A God who is communion. A God who is relationship. A God who kneels.
If the enemy can’t make us deny this outright, he’ll seduce us into forgetting it. He’ll make us think that survival is enough. That distraction is delight. That curated connection is community. That dim screens can replace the radiant gaze of another soul.
But the ache you feel isn’t failure. It’s a summons.
You were made to be filled. You were made to overflow.
God is not a divine filling station—He is your lifeline. The only one. And this—this—is the moment to receive Him fully.
Not just on Sundays. Not just when it hurts. But always. Constantly. Inwardly. Deeply. Because you cannot give what you do not have. And this world does not need more noise. It needs souls who burn.
Come alive.
Come alive from the digital dark. Come alive from apathy. Come alive from shame. Come alive from smallness.
The Spirit is moving again. The bones are rattling. The shadows are lifting.
Come alive.
This isn’t survival. This is resurrection. This is revival.
It’s the moment to forgive the unforgivable. To be seen again. To begin again. To believe again.
The God who stepped into your dust is still here. Speaking. Waiting. And saying again, as He did long ago:
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me… to proclaim liberty to the captives, and to let the oppressed go free.”
That’s not just a line from Scripture. That’s a lifeline with your name on it.
So come before Him. Let Him in. Let Him fill you. Let Him spill out of you—into your marriage, your parenting, your friendships, your work. Let this moment not pass as just another scroll or sigh.
Let it echo in eternity.
Come alive.
Come alive.
Come alive.
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