Author: Jerry & Christine ViPond

Jerry and Christine have joyfully navigated 35 years of marriage, blending traditional Christian values with their unique, progressive perspectives. Christine, armed with a Ph.D. in Cognitive Psychology, brings a deep understanding of the human mind to their partnership. Jerry, with two decades of experience managing a team, is known for his diplomatic approach and leadership. Together, they cherish their faith and believe that the essence of Christianity lies in thoughtful reflection, kindness, and a profound love for God. Their journey reflects a commitment to living a life that honors these principles.

Good Grief.

I’ve moved through my storm of anger. It burned hot, it felt righteous, it gave me the energy to rail against the injustice, the confusion, and the horrible loss of Charlie Kirk. But anger—left unchecked—will eat you alive. So often, anger is a mask for what lies beneath: fear, helplessness, grief.

But here’s the truth: We are not helpless. We do not need to fear. We are grieving.

Paul reminds us: “Be angry and do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger” (Ephesians 4:26). Anger is a signal from God and in His wisdom He warns us not to camp there.

In time, we will each move toward acceptance. Not resignation—acceptance. Acceptance is freedom. Jesus modeled this in Gethsemane when He prayed, “Not my will, but Yours be done” (Luke 22:42). That was not passive surrender. It was the hardest acceptance imaginable.

So if you’re caught in anger right now, let yourself name it. Feel it. Then ask: What lies beneath? Fear? Loss? Grief? When we bring those roots into the light, we are already stepping toward acceptance. And in acceptance, we find room to breathe, room to forgive, room to heal—and the strength to move forward.

That’s how we carry on the work Charlie started; and like Charlie, we follow the call of Jesus.

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Pick up the banner and carry it forward

There are times when the world grows quieter and my heart hurts and my mind is angry, not because it should, but because a voice has been silenced. That silence aches. It leaves me asking, who will speak now?

Charlie Kirk spoke with courage and clarity, but also with grace. He didn’t shy away from truth when it cost something. And truth always costs something. Scripture reminds us: “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32). That freedom doesn’t come from soft words or easy compromise. It comes from courage wrapped in grace.

When a banner falls, it is not meant to touch the ground. It is meant to be caught, lifted, carried forward. For the next generation of young conservatives, that is the charge. Don’t simply repeat what has been said, live it.  Don’t let fear steal your voice—season it with grace. “Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer each person” (Colossians 4:6).

This moment calls for steady hands and brave hearts. To carry the banner is to stand in the tension of truth and love, never letting one cancel out the other. Violence can take a life, but it cannot steal a legacy if those who remain choose to walk it out with strength and honor.

So pick it up. Carry it forward. With truth. With grace. With courage. With love.

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A Rough Morning

I make my own cold brew coffee in a Toddy System, and I love it—except when I drain the last pitcher and procrastinate making a new one. Then morning comes, and there’s no cold brew waiting for me. I hate these mornings.

So here I am, wishing someone would magically hand me an ice-brewed coffee, while realizing my entire day is about to feel askew.

Could I make a cup of hot coffee? Of course. But with the humidity sitting at 98%, my skin was weeping before I even brushed my teeth. Hot coffee? I think not.

Could I brew a hot cup and pour it over ice? Sure—but then I’m sipping watery coffee, ew. Maybe I should drink a hot cup in an ice-cold shower? Hmm. See how ridiculous this obsession becomes?

Or—I could actually get out of my pajamas, get in the van, drive one mile to my favorite shop, and buy a cup. They make a delicious iced brew… but it sets me back $8 (with tip). Just coffee. No flavoring, no sugar, no cream. WTH.

Sigh. I’ll just grab a bottle of water and drink it like a good girl. So, if you talk to me today, please lower your expectations…

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My Brain’s New Tenant

Recently my mornings feel like I spent the night front row at a rock concert with several shots of tequila. I promise you, I have not. And yet my brain hurts just the same.

Meet the newest thing in my life: Idiopathic Intracranial Hypertension (IIH). I swear they make this stuff up. Basically, it means: “We don’t know why, but your brain is building up too much pressure inside your skull.”

Let me try to explain how it feels: it’s as if a hormonal teenager moved into my head and is blasting vintage Metallica. Or, you know, that piercing sound that makes all moms wince—a toddler having a tantrum in a store aisle. That’s the feeling.

I didn’t invite this monster into my skull, but here IIH is. It’s absurd. And since crying only makes it hurt more, I’ll laugh. No angry teen or bratty toddler is going to break my will. I’ll fight, I’ll live, and I’ll keep laughing in the face of pain—because wit and chutzpah can outsmart anything life throws my way.

Remember: “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.” (Psalm 46:1)

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Some days, the best we can do is simply exist.

The to-do lists sit untouched, conversations feel too costly, and the world seems to demand more than we can give.

But still, we breathe.
Still, we are here.
Still, the sun moves across the sky—slowly, faithfully—whether we watch it or not.

Maybe the work of today isn’t accomplishing or producing.
Maybe it’s letting the soul rest, trusting that rest itself is holy.
Even the earth has its seasons of stillness before the green returns.

So if today feels like too much, remember: you are not failing for needing a pause.
You are simply honoring the truth that even the strongest hearts need quiet to keep beating.

“Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28
Today, let’s lay down the weight we’re carrying and lean into the arms of the One who never grows weary.

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Is This It?

There’s been a lot of movement lately—both below our feet and all around us. The Ring of Fire has been rumbling again, the news cycle is filled with reports of quakes, eruptions, and more shootings than I can emotionally register. It’s hard not to feel the earth itself groaning.

And in times like these, people start to ask: Is this it?

Is this what the Bible warned us about? The birth pains? The unraveling?

I’ve asked it too.

But then I remember: people were asking the same question in 1942, watching the world burn in real time. They asked it during the Black Plague, during the Spanish Flu, during slavery, famine, persecution. The question isn’t new.

What’s striking is not the fear—but the human pattern of forgetting that we’ve been here before.

This doesn’t mean we ignore the warnings. But it reminds me to live alert, not alarmed.

Maybe every generation is given a window to wake up. To look at the world and reckon with what we’ve built, and who we’ve become.

And maybe “the end” isn’t always about apocalypse. Maybe it’s also about invitation.

To return to God.
To bolster our faith.
To strengthen our resolve to love, to live with truth, to walk in light.

So no, I don’t know if this is it. But I know this is real. And that’s enough to live awake—and to return.

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