Want more posts like this in your life? Join the Tiny Buddha list for daily or weekly insights.

“I searched for God and found only myself. I searched for myself and found only God.” ~Rumi

There’s a particular kind of heartbreak that happens when you realize some of your prayers are going nowhere.

There’s a painful silence that follows unanswered calls. Yet, despite the ache, I can still feel the pull to pray to the God outside of myself—that old reflex to place faith in something bigger, some invisible force in the sky, who, apparently, can make things happen magically here on Earth.

But it doesn’t always go that way, does it?

I prayed my cancer would go away. It didn’t.

I prayed the world would heal from climate change. It didn’t.

I prayed my business would make enough to live on. It didn’t.

I prayed my book would reach thousands. Still hasn’t.

I prayed for peace in the world. It’s getting worse.

So, I stopped. Stopped praying. Stopped hoping in that way where my heart is wide open and a little desperate.

It didn’t feel brave. It felt hollow. But in the silence that followed, something shifted within me. When the noise of asking subsided, a quieter truth emerged.

For a long time, I thought my discomfort came from out there. From God. From other people. From difficult situations. Blaming something outside myself gave me a sense of control—a story to hold onto. But no matter how convincing that story was, the ache inside remained.

It took time, but eventually I saw it: the root of my suffering wasn’t external at all. It was internal.

When I finally stopped waiting for life to bend to my will and turned inward, I came face-to-face with something uncomfortable—my attachment to control.

What I discovered was a mind conditioned to grasp, to fix, to be right, to judge, to compare, to push. And most of the time, that’s where the struggle began—when reality didn’t match my expectations. I’d get caught in loops of thought, unable to see clearly, tangled in ego and forgetting the essence of my being—my heart.

The heart is where our whole, compassionate selves live. We feel it. We recognize what Howard Thurman called the sound of the genuine. That’s who we are—at our core.

So, it’s not that I lost faith entirely. It’s that I relocated it. I remembered the genuine within.

Now, I have faith that life will unfold as it will, and sometimes, that’s painful. Life doesn’t often match the visions we hold. It burns plans to the ground. It humbles. It disappoints.

And still, I have faith.

I have faith in the goodness of the human heart. I have faith that we can hold grief in one hand—the image of the life we imagined—and, with the other, steady ourselves enough to rise and take the next step forward.

I have faith in our ability to choose compassion over entitlement. To sit with discomfort and still reach for the just response. To place our hand on our chest, close our eyes and choose to respond—not from the head, but from the heart.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what God actually is.

Not some white-bearded man in the sky. Not a distant savior. But the part of us that knows how to return—not to the mind’s spirals, but to the body. To the breath. To the quiet pulse of the heart.

What if we—all of us, even world leaders—stopped looking to the God outside and, instead, returned to the one within?

Because the God within doesn’t need to be right. The God within doesn’t dominate or divide. The God within creates peace. Is peace.

And maybe that’s the kind of faith we need now.

Because when faith in something outside of us falls away, what’s left?

We are.

About Lara Charles

Lara Charles is an Australian writer exploring the deeper threads of life through thought-provoking personal essays and memoir. Her work has appeared in national and international publications. She is the author of the Substack newsletter Deeper Threads and a teacher on the global cancer support platform Thrivers Ark. Her debut memoir, Joy, Regardless, is a powerful reflection on illness, identity and self-discovery. Discover more about her work at laracharles.com.

See a typo or inaccuracy? Please contact us so we can fix it!

“Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.” ~Martin Luther King Jr.

My grandmother passed away a few years ago after a long battle with cancer. Even as her health deteriorated, she never lost her spirit. She’d still get excited about whether the Pittsburgh Steelers might finally have a decent season after Ben Roethlisberger’s retirement. She’d debate the Pirates’ chances with the kind of passionate optimism that only comes from decades of loyal disappointment.

But what I remember most are the afternoons she’d spend napping in her favorite chair with my son curled up against her. He’d drift off clutching some random object, like a wooden spoon or random toy from my parent’s basement. She’d just smile and close her eyes too. Even when she was tired, even when the treatments were wearing her down, she found joy in those stolen moments.

In her final years, she lived with my parents, but she brought her faith with her.

Her rosary beads found new homes on nightstands and windowsills. Her worn Bible sat open on the end table, bookmarked with a picture of her husband. The little curio cabinet filled with angels followed her too, a portable shrine to stubborn hope. Wherever she was, the air around her carried that same indefinable quality that I later realized was simply peace.

My grandmother had the kind of faith that could part emotional storms with a single glance. She didn’t need to preach it. She lived it. You could feel her belief before you even stepped through the front door. She believed in prayer, in miracles, in second chances. In the Steelers. And in Diet Pepsi.

After she was gone, I expected to feel completely untethered. Instead, I discovered something surprising. Things seemed to hold together. The sadness was real and deep, but underneath it was something solid. A foundation I’d never realized she’d built in me.

My mother always said I “lived with my head in the clouds,” and it wasn’t until after Grandma passed that I understood where that came from. While I was raised in the Catholic church and spent years as an altar boy, my faith had always been fuzzier than hers. Less certain. More questions than answers.

But it was there, hidden under the surface, because of her. I’d been benefiting from her quiet influence in ways I never fully understood or appreciated until she was gone. Her faith hadn’t just surrounded me. It had somehow taken root in me, even when I wasn’t paying attention.

Learning to Recognize What Was Already There

The months after her death weren’t filled with the existential crisis I expected. Instead, I found myself noticing things. How I naturally looked for the good in difficult situations. How I held onto hope even when logic suggested otherwise. How I moved through the world with a kind of quiet optimism that I’d never really examined before.

I was still a professional overthinker, still a card-carrying worrier. But underneath all that mental noise was something steadier. Something that whispered, “This too shall pass,” even when I wasn’t consciously thinking it.

It took time to understand that this wasn’t something I needed to build from scratch. Grandma hadn’t just modeled faith for me; she’d been quietly cultivating it in me all along. Through her example, through her presence, through those countless afternoons when she’d choose hope over fear, even when the odds were stacked against her health and her beloved sports teams.

Discovering My Own Messy Version

What I came to realize was that my faith was never going to look like Grandma’s. Hers was rooted in tradition, in ritual, in the comfort of centuries-old prayers. Mine was more scattered, cobbled together from different sources and experiences.

My faith, I discovered, is held together with hope, a healthy dose of skepticism, and about six different kinds of sticky notes. It’s not the neat, organized kind. It’s more like a spiritual junk drawer full of useful things, but you’re never quite sure where anything is.

I believe in second chances and fresh starts. I believe in the power of afternoon sun to reset your entire day. I believe that kindness is contagious and that sometimes the universe sends you exactly what you need, even if it arrives late, confused, and covered in cat hair.

Some days, my faith is a whisper: “Maybe things will get better. Maybe I’m not alone. Maybe I can try again tomorrow.” Other days, it’s louder: “This is hard, but I can handle hard things. I’ve done it before.”

My faith doesn’t look like Grandma’s, but it carries her DNA. It’s messier, less certain, but it has the same stubborn core, a refusal to give up hope, even when hope seems foolish.

The Science of Belief

Here’s what I wish I’d known during those dark months: You don’t have to be religious to benefit from faith. Science shows that belief in something greater than yourself can be a powerful tool for mental and emotional well-being.

Faith literally reduces stress. Studies show that people who report a strong sense of meaning or spiritual belief have lower levels of cortisol, the hormone associated with stress. Translation? Faith helps your brain pump the brakes on panic.

It improves emotional regulation by activating the brain’s prefrontal cortex, which helps you pause before spiraling. It builds psychological resilience by reminding you that you’re not at the center of every catastrophe. Whether you believe in God, the universe, karma, or cosmic duct tape, faith acts as a buffer against hopelessness.

Acts of spiritual reflection can trigger the same brain regions involved in feelings of safety and joy. And faith often leads to rituals or conversations with others, building the connections that are crucial for well-being.

Here’s the kicker: You don’t have to get it right. Wobbly faith counts. Uncertain, whispered-in-a-closet faith is still valid. Half-hearted “Okay, Universe, I trust you… kinda” mutterings are welcome here.

The Power of Micro-Faith

Big transformations feel great in theory but hard in practice. That’s why I’ve learned to embrace what I call “micro-faith,” these small, digestible moments of intentional belief. Like appetizers for your spirit.

Today, try believing in something small:

• The possibility of a good cup of coffee
• The strength hiding inside your own weird little heart
• The fact that what you need might already be on its way
• The idea that this difficult season won’t last forever
• The chance that tomorrow might feel a little lighter

Faith doesn’t have to be grand or glowing. Sometimes it’s just showing up anyway, even when you’re not sure why.

What Grandma Taught Me

Years later, I realize Grandma didn’t just give me faith; she showed me how to live it. She taught me that faith isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about trusting that you’ll find your way, even in the dark.

She taught me that belief can be quiet and still be powerful. That faith isn’t a destination but a traveling companion. That sometimes the most profound act of faith is simply getting up and trying again.

Most importantly, she taught me that faith isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up. Showing up to your life, to your relationships, to your own healing, even when you feel completely unprepared.

I carry pieces of her faith with me now, mixed in with my own messy, imperfect beliefs. Some days I feel like I’m floating through life with my head in the clouds. But thanks to Grandma, and a whole lot of trial and error, I’ve learned to float up here without getting totally fried by the sun.

If your faith feels fractured, fuzzy, or faint, you’re not doing it wrong. You’re just human. Faith isn’t a finish line. It’s a floating device. It won’t always steer you straight, but it might keep you above water long enough to find the shore.

So go ahead and believe in something today. Even if it’s just the idea that the clouds will eventually clear… and the coffee won’t taste burnt this time.

About Jason Hall

Jason Hall is a writer, mental wellness advocate, and professional overthinker who believes in the power of imperfect faith, a well-timed joke, and the occasional snack-fueled epiphany. He writes about finding light in the messy middle of life and the small, stubborn joys that help us float through. You can find him at chilltheduckout.com, where he shares stories about stress, hope, growth, and how to chill the duck out one microjoy at a time.

See a typo or inaccuracy? Please contact us so we can fix it!

Dear Dreamers,

Howdy. How’s it going? As for me, I’m happy to report that the fugue, dread, and other various spiritual delights that have been plaguing me for weeks now are slowly lifting. I folded a bunch of towels. I tried to concentrate on various French autofictional novels. I worried my mother. I worried the cats, who think if I sleep past seven o’clock in the morning that I have surely died in the night. I also, perhaps against my better judgment, redownloaded the apps.

It’s not that I felt I had to, not really. It was more that I was bored, and sad, and wanted to feel like I was good at something. My non-hindbrain said: I don’t think that your way out of this obvious clinical depression is to get into someone else’s bed to which I smiled benignly and went on my merry way… for a few days, at least.

When I matched with B., it felt like the answer to my predicament. We had a great conversation, funny and quick, and I felt good, too, about the clarity of our arrangement. Casual, easy, built on pleasure. I wanted to leave the state by the following year, they had just gotten out of a six-year relationship. We can still be nice to each other, I always say, but nobody has to get married, and they agreed, though they did, eventually want marriage. That’s great, I replied. I probably never want to settle down.

I shouldn’t have said probably, I know, but it seemed less harsh, and I had already made it very clear that serious was not in the cards for me, so when I went over the following evening and made B. come a few times, smiled and said hey, thanks, this was fun, I thought I had fulfilled my end of the bargain. Delivering orgasms as a way to, what? Think of something other than how a genuinely lucky person could be so miserable? Delay writing another sad essay? I didn’t know, but I felt marginally more like a person who left their house. Fast forward to a mere day later — what are you even looking for? they say. What are you feeling?

I lay on my bedroom floor on the yoga mat and text Stef. I’ve got to stop [REDACTED] on a first date, I say, and they laugh and laugh.

Sending you your own way out of a funk,
Cowboy

A Queer Question for the Tarot

I am in love with someone (reciprocal) who is not my 9-year partner with whom I share a child (adult), and in another country: do I need to let it go or give it a chance, bulldozing my life in the process?
– Lost Little

Dear Lost Little,

Thank you for the gift of your question, and your vulnerability in asking it. It is a difficult thing to answer, to be sure, but I hope this reading will offer you at least a little clarity.

First, of course, we must address the practical before the spiritual — to begin, your child is an adult, which means that while things might fracture there if you do make a life-altering decision, you are not in a place where their needs (i.e., you being physically present) are as pressing, giving you some freedom. This is good, but it also adds more levels to your quandary. Secondly, we must address the person you are in love with. You mentioned in your note to me that you are not speaking, and that you have no plans on going back to where they live, but that you can’t get them out of your head. But they, too, have a say in this. This love is reciprocal. Before you make plans, or take action on my reading, you must speak to them, and see where they are. This is my biggest recommendation, so long as it doesn’t violate any rules that you have with your current partner.

Now, this is what the cards have for you. For this reading I did my general cleansing ritual, and then divided my deck (my harshest deck, for reference) into two piles. One pile representing the life you are currently living, and the second pile representing a life you may have with your lover.

The card I drew from you from the first pile is the FOUR OF CUPS, REVERSED, symbolizing a path away from your ennui, sadness, stagnation. You are sad and scared most of the time. You feel that there is a way out, but it is impossible for you to reach it. But you must remember that this card tells us there is an END to this stagnation, and the great possibility of a fresh start. Is it the fresh start you imagine? Perhaps. As a clarifying card I drew THE HIGH PRIESTESS who emphatically told me to tell you to trust your intuition on this one. Your gut.

The card I drew from you from the second pile is the THREE OF CUPS which speaks to me of enjoyment, of a relationship of happiness… but also can be interpreted as the cheating card. Thankfully, the deck cleared this up for me in the form of the TWO OF CUPS (auspicious) which represents the deep well of love between people, the flow of it back and forth. Equal and balanced, this love is obviously reciprocal.

Well then, Little Lost. I can’t tell you what to do, but I do hope you find happiness in your choices. Keep me updated.

See you on the Other Side,
CC

Another Queer Question for the Tarot

Should I get back together with my ex? Lol!
– Zuzuspetals

Dear Zuzuspetals,

Thank you for the gift of your question. It is important for us to note here that this is not an out of the blue question, but rather one courted by your ex — they say they are still in love with you, but also they have a new girlfriend… a mere two weeks after your break-up.

That doesn’t mean I’m saying no to your question, simply that we must keep this in mind as we let the cards do their work. After cleansing my deck, lighting my candles, and shuffling, I divided the cards into two piles for two questions.

PILE ONE: What if we do get back together?

The first card I drew from Pile One was the THREE OF PENTACLES, REVERSED, which signifies that, as a unit, you and your ex may have a hard time reviewing old lessons. The past often repeats itself, but only with new clarity can we redirect the harms that once were inflicted upon us, and that we inflicted. This card warns not to fall back into old habits just because they are comfortable. The clarifying card I pulled for you is the EIGHT OF SWORDS which tells me if you do get back together, there may be quite a bit of mental anguish. Trust issues really abound here, and you need to interrogate the sadness, pain, guilt, and anxiety that plagued you during the relationship, and its aftermath.

PILE TWO: What if we don’t get back together?

The first card I drew from Pile One was the FIVE OF CUPS, REVERSED which tells you that you have recently experienced a personal setback (the break-up) but that there are still treasures to be had. Not your ex, to be clear, but instead, when we remove them from the equation, what remains. You, your dignity, your vibrance. To clarify, I pulled the QUEEN OF CUPS who assures us that while emotional depth may remain in one place (in your relationship), it is not the only place that it can be found. It also points towards a type of healing, though it feels to me (spiritually speaking) like an inner healing instead of an outer one.

I hope this helped. There are no “wrong” choices here, but there are ones that could cause you further pain. Be careful with your heart.

See you on the Other Side,
CC

The Lovers Tarot Card IS Gay

When discussions about “queering” the Tarot, or “queering” mysticism come up, I always feel slightly bamboozled. Yes, I know intimately the systems when we exist in, but there is nothing more liberatory to my sexuality, or my gender, than those modes of the Beyond. Everything exists in the gray, there is nothing that cannot be bent, and the clarity I have after giving a ready or sticking my hand in the ether certainly doesn’t feel straight, or heteronormative, etc etc.

So, in my forever quest to make everything a gay thing, I offer you a few thoughts to mull over next time you pull The Lovers.

The Lovers is a card that says what it is on the tin. It evokes sex, yes, but it is ultimately a card full of choices. It asks us: IS this actually the life you want to be living? Are you closing yourself off emotionally? Have you looked at yourself lately, I mean really looked at yourself? The Lovers insist we interrogate, but they do so warmly, for our own good.

The Lovers also have a special meaning in the ~community~. It bodes well for your orgy or polyamorous entanglement, it tells you to seek pleasure wherever you find it and check out a bodice ripper from the library. Though its representation comes in the form of a “man” and “woman” it also reminds us that, at the end of the day, we make our own love, and we do so in the face of a thousand less dangerous things. Still, we seek it.

Cowboy’s Corner

Reading: Various French autofictional texts, like this one. My dear friend Eliana’s truly fantastic debut novel about Cherokee history, ambition, and, of course, love. Ansel Adams: Letters, 1916 – 1984 (for a project). This very cool newsletter about living near friends.

Listening: This song the Youtube algorithm rec’d to me because I’m an ambient music freak and they don’t know what to do with me. “Sienna” by The Marias. “Forever” by Ok Cowgirl. “Ur Heart Stops” by fantasy of a broken heart.

Consuming: Jaws: The 50th Anniversary in theaters (my treat to myself). The same three or four episodes from the early seasons of Sex and the City. These sugar-free Liquid I.V.s. One of these popsicles literally every evening. [REDACTED].

Before you go! Autostraddle runs on the reader support of our AF+ Members. If this article meant something to you today — if it informed you or made you smile or feel seen, will you consider joining AF and supporting the people who make this queer media site possible?

Join AF+!

I see my soul, my essence, as grounded in oneness with something larger than myself. I most often call that “something greater” God or the Divine. Yet there’s a whole range of other words that fit too—like Source, Oneness, God, Allah, Great Spirit, the Infinite Field, love or Love, universal energy, a higher power, the quantum field. The vast range of religious and spiritual traditions across the world all have different names for this something greater, and each name speaks to a particular understanding of it. (If you find discord with this last thought, look up the term religious pluralism, another eye-opening concept I learned about in graduate theology school.) Each of these terms might be accurate, but each is also limited. It reflects just one perspective, one aspect, or one kind of experience of the greater something. The more I walk with people who are exploring their faith, meaning, and purpose and wanting to feel more fully alive, the more I think our words can only begin to touch on what that something greater is like. The whole of it is ultimately unnamable.

Anything you polish with attention will become a mirror. Anything to which you give yourself fully, vest all your strength and risk all your vulnerability, will return you to your life annealed, magnified, both unselved and more deeply yourself. It can be a garden, or a desert, or a hare. It can be, perhaps most readily, a place. “Place and a mind may interpenetrate till the nature of both is altered,” the Scottish mountaineer and poet Nan Shepherd wrote in her stunning love letter to a mountain long before neuroscience found the seat of personhood in the hippocampus — the brain’s compass for navigating space. Places can become part of us, can imprint themselves on the soul like people we have loved. Because every place is part of a larger landscape, a cell in the body of the world, to fall in love with any one place — to contact its beckoning beauty, its vulnerability, its variousness — is to come to love the world itself more deeply.

That is what Ann Zwinger (March 12, 1925–August 30, 2014) invokes in Wind in the Rock (public library) — her breathtaking 1978 account of falling in love with Utah’s rocky canyons, finding a microcosm of the world in their desolate Martian landscapes threaded with cattle trails, touching both the immediacy of life and the size of time in their elemental majesty.

She writes:

There is an enchantment in these dry canyons that once roared with water and still sometimes do, that absorbed the voices of those who came before, something of massive dignity about sandstone beds that tell of a past long before human breathing, that bear the patterns of ancient winds and water in their crossbeddings.

That enchantment only comes at the price of tremendous courage, for encountering the canyons is no picturesque excursion — Grand Gulch divides the plateau in half, its walls a menacing vertical drop of fifty feet cascading downward into a series of undercut steps nearly impossible to descend on foot except with razor caution. But impossible is just what we call the limits of our courage and imagination. One night after dinner, Zwinger sets out to climb the talus slope above her camp, four hundred feet straight up into the gloaming sky. When she finally reaches the top, crowned with a narrow pillar of rock, she sits down to write in her notebook until the last light fades, capturing the moment in what may well be a prose poem:

The wind is fierce… but somehow it’s the right wind. Up here it is fitting that there is wind, keeping open the slot in the wall, charging through, honing the air, taking voices away. The moon sharpens and brightens, bringing Saturn with it, rising in an open quadrant of sky. I absorb the strength of the earth through feet rooted in the rock. If I could raise my arms high enough I could garner thunderbolts and grasp them like a bouquet of crackling light.

She descends back to camp in the darkness — “a declivity of mind and feeling” — and when she looks up at the slope the next morning, it seems impossible that anyone could climb down in the dark. She reflects:

Perhaps when one scratches the underside of heaven one is granted a special grace. But the euphoria remains, and I can still call back that feeling of being astride the world and what it was like to be charged with the energy of the universe. Perhaps one true gift of these canyons is that they become so deeply imprinted on the psyche that they can be invoked at will, bringing back their particular charge of serene energy whenever needed.

Over and over, Zwinger discovers what we all do if we live with maximum aliveness — that we fathom our depths only by pushing against our limits. She writes:

When I crawl across a foot-wide ledge with nothing below, nearly nauseated with fear; when I claw up a sandstone wall, plastered against its abrasive curve; when I heave myself onto the top rim to see a view of such splendor that wonder washes away all my apprehension about getting back down; when I do what I knew I could not do — then I have a taste of glory.

Over and over, her stubborn courage is recompensed with something beyond beauty, beyond gladness — a rush of pure being:

When I wake up to eternity I’d prefer it to be just like this: under a venerable cottonwood just leafing out, sunlight sliding down the canyon wall, the soft rustle of dried cottonwood leaves on the ground, a canyon wren caroling, and then the silence of an April morning.

Eternity, however, is always menaced by entropy — Zwinger finds herself trying to reconcile the ancient Indian cultures embedded in the canyons with the oil drilling now scarring the face of the mountain with the pockmarks of so-called civilization. She wonders:

Will those who come after me know what it’s like to wake up in one of these canyons, hear the tentative murmurs and scratchings, feel the sixth singing sense of quickening heartbeat of hunted and hunting, of life that shuttles and scuttles and plods and leaps, leaving tracks to tell who went where and sometimes why, and the wind erasing them so that it is only the cool sand that one ever remembers?

But one does remember, for such places embed themselves in the marrow of memory, become part of knowing ourselves, a map to the terra incognita of who and what we are. As she prepares to leave the canyons, she reflects on what these austere rocks have taught her about being alive:

Darkness comes so softly now. The cliffs seem to retain the last light of day as they retain the heat of the sun and give it back at night. The willows are in silhouette but rose and tan and gray still glow on the cliffs, silver still shimmers on the river. Stars appear slowly, only the bright tones, and then galaxies of flights flood this clamshell-horizoned sky.

I don’t think I’ve ever sat and watched for so long, hypnotized with the splendor of this time, this place, this sense of being. It is enough to know why I came here: to breathe in the solitude and the silence. I simply accept what I’ve been learning in these canyons, finding resources I didn’t know I had, stretching, accepting that there are times when one has no options, and I sit here in peace because of that. I know that I will never be content without risk and challenge and the opportunity to fail, to know pain, the chance to test my endurance, unwrap my horizons, know physical stress and the blinding satisfaction of coming through. If the cost is great, the rewards are greater. And I sit here in peace because of that.

In a sentiment evocative of Willa Cather’s splendid definition of happiness as being “dissolved into something complete and great,” Zwinger adds:

And then, in that star-dark lightness, I shake open my sleeping bag and stretch out to watch the stars. A parure of ten stars lies in precise alignment against the eggshell curve of the canyon wall. They stand time still, in poised perfection, before wheeling on to other appointments.

In the quiet, the air is singing.

Mountains are some of our best metaphors for the mind and for the spirit, but they are also living entities, sovereign and staggering. I remember the first time I saw a mountain from an airplane — forests miniaturized to moss, rivers to capillaries, the Earth crumpled like a first draft. It is a sublime sight in the proper sense of the word — transcendent yet strangely terrifying in its vantage so unnatural to an earthbound biped, so deliriously and disquietingly godly.

Even from ground level, mountains overwhelm our creaturely frames of reference, confuse our intuitions of scale and perspective, belie the illusion of stability with which we walk through the world. Mary and Percy Shelley, crossing Europe on foot and on mule in their runaway love, one of them with a sprained ankle and the other pregnant, could barely comprehend the Alps when they first emerged from the horizon. “This immensity staggers the imagination,” they wrote in their joint journal, “and so far surpasses all conception that it requires an effort of the understanding to believe that they are indeed mountains.”

A generation later and a landmass over, the explorer John Charles Frémont (January 21, 1813–July 13, 1890) set out for the American West, fabled land of peril and promise, his eye most keenly fixed on the continent’s most majestic mountain: the Rockies, “of which so much had been said that was doubtful and contradictory.”

In the last year of his twenties, a decade after he was expelled from college for skipping class to roam the marshy forests of Charleston and a decade before he narrowly lost the presidential election by being too overtly feminist and abolitionist, Frémont traveled hundreds of river miles and traversed a thousand miles of prairie to bow at the foot of the Rockies. He gasped:

Though these snow mountains are not the Alps, they have their own character of grandeur and magnificence, and doubtless will find pens and pencils to do them justice.

And so he did. Frémont spent a decade recounting the fourteen-month adventure in his Report of the Exploring Expedition to the Rocky Mountains, Oregon and California (public domain), replete with lyrical renderings of nature and its feeling-tones that no photograph could ever capture. (This is why Instagram will never make poets obsolete.)

In an exultant entry from the 10th of August, after a night so cold his water froze, Frémont writes:

The air at sunrise is clear and pure, and the morning extremely cold, but beautiful. A lofty snowy peak of the mountain is glittering in the first rays of the sun, which have not yet reached us. The long mountain wall to the east, rising two thousand feet abruptly from the plain, behind which we see the peaks, is still dark, and cuts clear against the glowing sky. A fog, just risen from the river, lies along the base of the mountain… The scenery becomes hourly more interesting and grand, and the view here is truly magnificent; but, indeed, it needs something to repay the long prairie journey of a thousand miles. The sun has shot above the wall, and makes a magical change. The whole valley is glowing and bright, and all the mountain peaks are gleaming like silver.

Yet over and over the beauty keeps exceeding itself in a living reminder that nature’s imagination is always greater than our own, for we are part of the imagined:

Winding our way up a long ravine, we came unexpectedly in view of a most beautiful lake, set like a gem in the mountains. The sheet of water lay transversely across the direction we had been pursuing; and, descending the steep, rocky ridge, where it was necessary to lead our horses, we followed its banks to the southern extremity. Here a view of the utmost magnificence and grandeur burst upon our eyes. With nothing between us and their feet to lessen the effect of the whole height, a grand bed of snow-capped mountains rose before us, pile upon pile, glowing in the bright light of an August day. Immediately below them lay the lake, between two ridges, covered with dark pines, which swept down from the main chain to the spot where we stood. Here, where the lake glittered in the open sunlight, its banks of yellow sand and the light foliage of aspen groves contrasted well with the gloomy pines… Proceeding a little further, we came suddenly upon the outlet of the lake, where it found its way through a narrow passage between low hills. Dark pines which overhung the stream, and masses of rock, where the water foamed along, gave it much romantic beauty.

Having so rendered the romance of the mountain with a poet’s sensibility, Frémont returns abruptly to science — our other language for reverencing reality — when his most valuable instrument shatters during the outlet crossing:

The current was very swift, and the water cold, and of a crystal purity. In crossing this stream, I met with a great misfortune in having my barometer broken. It was the only one. A great part of the interest of the journey for me was in the exploration of these mountains, of which so much had been said that was doubtful and contradictory; and now their snowy peaks rose majestically before me, and the only means of giving them authentically to science, the object of my anxious solicitude by night and day, was destroyed. We had brought this barometer in safety a thousand miles, and broke it almost among the snow of the mountains. The loss was felt by the whole camp — all had seen my anxiety, and aided me in preserving it. The height of these mountains, considered by many hunters and traders the highest in the whole range, had been a theme of constant discussion among them; and all had looked forward with pleasure to the moment when the instrument, which they believed to be as true as the sun, should stand upon the summits, and decide their disputes. Their grief was only inferior to my own.

But in that singular way nature has of lifting the spirits by quieting the self, Frémont soon transcended the all-consuming smallness of his personal disappointment by returning to the grandeur around him, of which he too was a part. He began seeing not just the variousness of the mountain’s beauties but their interdependence. A century after Alexander van Humboldt observed while roaming another mountain that “in this great chain of causes and effects, no single fact can be considered in isolation,” thus formulating the modern conception of nature half a century before the word ecology was coined, Frémont writes:

We heard the roar, and had a glimpse of a waterfall as we rode along, and, crossing in our way two fine streams, tributary to the Colorado, in about two hours’ ride we reached the top of the first row or range of the mountains. Here, again, a view of the most romantic beauty met our eyes. It seemed as if, from the vast expanse of uninteresting prairie we had passed over, Nature had collected all her beauties together in one chosen place. We were overlooking a deep valley, which was entirely occupied by three lakes, and from the brink to the surrounding ridges rose precipitously five hundred and a thousand feet, covered with the dark green of the balsam pine, relieved on the border of the lake with the light foliage of the aspen. They all communicated with each other.

Couple with Scottish mountaineer and poet Nan Shepherd’s classic meditation on mountains, then revisit Darwin’s exultant account of his spiritual experience atop a mountain and pioneering plant ecologist Edith Clements’s drawings of Rocky Mountain flowers.

Life is full of challenges, but it’s how we respond to them that determines our future. The key to transforming any aspect of our life is not just wishing things will get better, but actively seeking solutions. In his insightful message, Apostle Joshua Selman teaches that in order to break free from cycles of failure, we must force things to work by applying knowledge, responsibility, and prayer. Below are the key principles that can help you push through obstacles and experience real transformation.

1. Recognize What’s Not Working

Before you can fix a problem, you must first identify it. Apostle Selman emphasizes the importance of self-examination—finding out what is not working in your life is the first step toward change. Whether it’s a health issue, financial struggle, or a spiritual battle, knowing the root cause of your challenges is half the battle. Just like a consultant or a doctor diagnoses a problem before offering a solution, we must diagnose the issues in our lives before seeking answers.

2. Embrace Brokenness for Restoration

One of the most powerful lessons is the role of brokenness in transformation. When we come to God with humility, brokenness, and a willingness to change, we invite His power to restore what has been lost. Apostle Selman explains that brokenness isn’t about condemnation but about surrendering fully to God, acknowledging our weaknesses, and realizing that only He can help us overcome them. This state of brokenness attracts God’s mercy, which is crucial for any restoration to take place.

3. Take Responsibility for Your Life

We often find ourselves blaming circumstances or people for our situation, but the truth is, that taking responsibility for where you are right now is essential for moving forward. Apostle Selman challenges us to stop making excuses and take ownership of our lives. The moment you take responsibility is the moment you begin to move toward solutions. Whether it’s a financial issue, health problem, or relationship struggle, you can’t change what you don’t acknowledge.

4. The Power of Knowledge

To force things to work, you must constantly seek higher levels of knowledge. Whether it’s through reading books, attending conferences, or listening to teachings, knowledge is a tool that empowers us to solve problems and overcome limitations. Apostle Selman stresses that knowledge is the key to unlocking the potential in every situation. For example, if you’re struggling financially or facing health issues, don’t just pray for a miracle—seek the knowledge that will help you understand and overcome the problem.

Knowledge is power, and when you invest in learning and expanding your understanding, you prepare yourself to deal with life’s challenges effectively. This principle applies to every area of life, from finances to health to personal growth.

5. Stop Making Excuses and Act

We often wait for the right moment or for a divine intervention before we take action. Apostle Selman encourages us to stop waiting and start taking practical steps now. Whether it’s pursuing knowledge, seeking guidance, or making changes to your habits, action is crucial. God is always ready to help those who help themselves. The key is to stop making excuses and force things to work through the power of your own decisions and actions.

6. Address Key Life Areas: Finances, Health, and Spiritual Warfare

In his message, Apostle Selman identifies three major areas where many believers struggle: finances, health, and spiritual warfare. These areas often require deep knowledge, dedication, and prayer.

• Finances: Financial stability is vital for personal growth, the advancement of God’s kingdom, and the well-being of our families. Don’t allow poverty to dictate your life. Seek financial knowledge and apply biblical principles to break the chains of poverty.
• Health: Our bodies are the temples of the Holy Spirit, and we are called to take care of them. Apostle Selman highlights that more and more young people are suffering from health problems that were once reserved for older generations. Taking care of your health through proper nutrition, exercise, and spiritual intervention is essential.
• Spiritual Warfare: As believers, we are in a constant battle against unseen forces. Knowledge about spiritual warfare and how to protect yourself from demonic influence is necessary for living a victorious Christian life.

7. Pray the Prayer of Restoration

Restoration is an essential part of the process. Apostle Selman teaches that there is a specific prayer of restoration for believers who have experienced setbacks, losses, or challenges. God promises to restore the years that the locusts have eaten (Joel 2:25). If you feel like you’ve lost time or opportunities, pray for restoration. Cry out to God for His intervention and believe that He can bring back what has been stolen.

The story of the Prodigal Son illustrates this point well. When the son returned to his father in a state of brokenness, the father didn’t question him about his past mistakes but welcomed him back with open arms. This act of restoration shows that when we return to God with a repentant heart, He will restore us.

8. Mercy and Surrender: The Key to a Miraculous Breakthrough

Mercy is the doorway to restoration. When you come before God with a broken and contrite heart, He is faithful to meet you at the point of your need. As Apostle Selman explains, surrendering to God and acknowledging that you have no other options left opens the door to miracles. Once you’ve reached that place of brokenness, God’s mercy can move mountains in your life.

9. Persistent Prayer and Action

In times of crisis, persistent prayer is the key to a breakthrough. Apostle Selman encourages believers not to be passive in their struggles. When you notice something is wrong, don’t wait for it to get worse—pray! The power of persistent prayer, combined with action, can bring about restoration. Just like in Acts 12, where the church prayed without ceasing for Peter’s release, consistent prayer can shift the course of events in your life.

Final Thoughts: Force Things to Work

The principles outlined in this message are powerful tools for anyone who wants to experience change and restoration. Self-examination, brokenness, taking responsibility, seeking knowledge, and persistent prayer are all crucial steps in transforming your life. By applying these keys, you can overcome the obstacles in your life and start moving toward the restoration God has promised you.

Remember, restoration isn’t just about fixing what’s broken—it’s about receiving back what has been lost and pushing forward to a better future. Don’t wait for things to get better on their own. Force things to work by taking action and seeking God’s wisdom, and you will see transformation in every area of your life.

Are you ready to force things to work in your life? Start today by seeking knowledge, praying for restoration, and taking responsibility for your journey.