Glimpses of Heaven in a Fractured World

It’s December 30, 2025—the end of another year—and I’m finally sitting down to write again. The silence here on the blog has stretched longer than I intended. Grief has a way of doing that. When we lost Charlie—yes, Charlie Kirk, that fiery voice of conviction and faith who meant so much to so many of us—it hit like a thunderclap. His sudden passing shook me deeply. I needed time to process, to pray, to let the shock settle into sorrow and then, slowly, into gratitude for the light he carried. I’m still grieving, but I’m also ready to pick up the pen (or keyboard) again, because hope doesn’t pause for our pain.

In the wake of such loss, what sustains me are those fleeting but unmistakable glimpses of Heaven that touch our heart and confirm the Love of God. In a culture that often feels like it’s unraveling—division shouted from every screen, cynicism masquerading as wisdom—there are still these moments that stop you in your tracks and make you think, “Oh Lord, how great are Your works.”

I see it when a young person stands up boldly for truth, even when it costs them friends or followers—like Charlie himself did, time and time again. I see it in small acts too: the stranger who pays for the coffee of the person behind them in line, the family that quietly adopts a child no one else wanted, the neighbor who shovels an elderly widow’s driveway before she even wakes up. These aren’t just good works. They’re previews. Little foretastes of the day when every tear is wiped away, when justice rolls down like waters, and when love isn’t the exception but the air we breathe.

Charlie Kirk spent his life pointing toward that deeper reality—that freedom is a gift from God, that courage isn’t the absence of fear but the refusal to bow to it. And even now, in his absence, the hope he defended feels more vivid. Because hope isn’t rooted in any one person—it’s rooted in the One who conquered death itself.

Stepping into the New Year, I am choosing to lean into that hope. Not the flimsy, wishful kind, but the stubborn, eyes-wide-open kind that says: even here, even now, Heaven is nearer than we think. We get to participate in it every time we choose kindness over contempt, truth over convenience, forgiveness over resentment.

So tell me—what glimpse of Heaven have you caught lately? A moment of unexpected grace? A conversation that restored your faith in people? Share it below. Let’s remind each other that the light is still breaking through.

With a heart that’s healing and still fiercely hopeful,

Christine

December 30, 2025 0

Forged by Fire, Not Fueled by Rage

Los Angeles is burning again.
Police cars overturned. Flags defaced. Crowds in the streets — not marching in protest, but surging in anger, demanding open borders and shouting down the idea of enforcement as if laws themselves were the enemy.

Watching this unfold, I feel the knot rise in my chest.

And I think of my father.

He came to this country in 1947 — not because he was poor, though he was. Not because he was afraid, though he had every reason to be. He came because the place he was from had been obliterated.

He was German.
He was Jewish.

And in post-war America, that made him suspect from every direction.
Some hated him for being German — the enemy.
Others distrusted him because he was a Jew — even though that identity had nearly cost him his life.

The war may have ended, but the distrust lingered. America was eager to move on, but not yet ready to embrace the displaced — especially not the ones who blurred the lines between categories we find easier to hate.

“Many who sought a safe haven from persecution during the 1930s and 1940s found their efforts thwarted by the United States’ restrictive immigration quotas and the complicated, demanding requirements for obtaining visas. Public opinion in the United States did not favor increased immigration…”
— United States Holocaust Memorial Museum

That was the world my father stepped into.
And it’s the world he had to navigate with quiet strength, resilience, and humility.

He didn’t sneak in.
He didn’t demand to be taken care of.
He secured a sponsor. He filed the paperwork. He paid the fees.
He arrived in New York on the USS Bremen and stood in line at Ellis Island, waiting for this country to say yes.

By 1951, he was wearing a U.S. uniform — a baker in the Korean War — feeding the soldiers of a nation still unsure if it wanted him. That’s the legacy I come from.

So when I see angry mobs insisting that compassion means erasing process, I feel that old ache and a rising frustration. I understand the longing to come here. I really do. America still shines with promise.

But I also understand the cost of doing it right. The patience. The grit. The sacrifice.

My father didn’t demand America bend to him. He bent himself toward her promise.

I believe in compassion. I believe in mercy. But mercy without structure is not mercy. It’s mayhem.

This country needs rules. Because without rules, there is no justice. And without structure, there is no sanctuary.

We owe it to those who came through the fire — not to burn down the country that gave them shelter, but to protect it for those still coming.

Not through entitlement.
Not through rage.
But through honor.

Forged by fire.
Not fueled by rage.

Reference:
United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. “Introduction to the Holocaust.” Holocaust Encyclopedia. https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/content/en/article/introduction-to-the-holocaust

June 9, 2025 0

When God Speaks in the Silence

There’s a season for pouring into others, and a season for listening to what’s been poured into you.

For many years, I walked the path of a teacher—pouring energy, compassion, and hard-earned wisdom into the lives of others. It was a calling I never questioned, until the voice inside—the one I hadn’t heard in decades—began to rise again.

That voice wasn’t telling me to stop teaching.
It was inviting me to return to something I had buried long ago: writing.

The Play I Wrote… and the One I Didn’t

In grade school, I wrote a play. Just a small story in a child’s handwriting—dreamed up with the kind of boldness only a young imagination can hold. My teacher, bless her, didn’t just pat me on the head. She made the whole class perform it.

It should have been a joyful, affirming moment.
But instead, it silenced me.

My classmates laughed. They told me I didn’t write it. Called me a liar. Made fun of the words I had so lovingly put to the page. And in that strange way childhood wounds do, I absorbed it. I believed them. I stopped sharing my writing.

Not all silence is holy.
Some of it is survival.

I learned to hide the parts of me that felt too tender for ridicule. I learned to be “smart” instead of creative. To teach instead of tell. To pour out what was expected, not what was burning inside me. And yet, even in all those years of silence, my passion burned and God never stopped listening.

A New Season

Now, I find myself in a season I never quite expected—a season of freedom and time. The kind I used to dream of but never thought would be mine. I’m no longer bound by the rhythms of survival or the need to prove my worth. Instead, I find myself sitting with that younger version of me—the girl who wrote a play—and letting her speak again.

Writing now isn’t about proving anything.
It’s about reclaiming what was always mine.
And more importantly, what God never asked me to give up.

“See, I am doing a new thing. Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?” — Isaiah 43:19

Sometimes God speaks through silence—not to quiet us, but to draw us back to our truest voice. The one He planted long before others tried to reshape it.

So here I am. Writing. Reflecting. Creating The Pondering Place not as a platform, but as a space of restoration—for me and for anyone else who has ever been silenced, softened, or shut down.

If any part of your voice has been quieted—by fear, shame, or just the busyness of life—know that God still hears it. And He may be whispering: It’s time.

What voice did you silence in yourself to feel safe, accepted, or “reasonable”?

Was it creativity?
Boldness?
Emotion?
Curiosity?

This week, ask God to speak to you in the quiet.
Not with noise, but with clarity.
Not with answers, but with invitation.

“Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus.” — Philippians 2:5

Write it down. Revisit it. And if you’re ready—let that voice speak again.

May 14, 2025 0