Warmth Isn't Visible Anyway

Some of you know that outside of my faith as a Christian, my favorite tool for personal growth is my annual focus word. As each year draws to a close, I spend a few weeks reflecting on things I've learned—the ways I've grown, the changes that shape my worldview, the events I witness in the lives of the people around me. And honestly, it sounds a lot deeper than it really is. Mostly, I just try to pay attention.

Intention leads to awareness, awareness feeds observation, observation ignites pattern recognition...and suddenly your one-word theme becomes your catalyst for change.

Each year, I learn more about self worth and self respect, and these lessons form the foundation of my personal boundaries. Each year, I gain new understanding of how healthy boundaries and gentle strength show you who you are. And each year's journey shows how standing up for yourself after a lifetime of people pleasing reveals the people you're surrounded by.

This is not always easy—especially if you're still healing from trauma—and the search for safe people often requires an uncomfortable process of emotional healing that makes you wonder if it's even worth the effort. You trust someone, you open yourself up, you share something vulnerable...and the next thing you know, you're overcoming shame again. You question your progress, your spiritual growth. You see emotional safety as an unattainable fantasy. If it's really bad, you might even let cynicism hit the pause button on your healing journey.

Visible flames make flashy impressions, but fire burns. And maybe this is the beauty of crossing paths with someone just as openly burned as you are. They see you flinch, expecting judgement, and meet you with recognition instead. And then, leading by the example of compassionate faith and simple kindness, they show you why warmth reaches people in ways performance never can.

Perhaps the difference is this: while external flame burns, internal flame warms.

"I know you don't mess with witchcraft and stuff anymore but...I have a spiritual question." He said it so quietly, I almost asked him to say it again before I realized what he'd said. Before I realized what he was after.

I've noticed that non-Christians often trust God more than they're willing to admit, but they never say so because they can't bear the thought of another self-satisfied religious performance. But the first time I met this boy, he casually mentioned his Grandmother's cauldron, laughed at my surprise, then laughed some more when I teasingly threatened to anoint him with oil. And then he asked what it meant—and listened patiently as I tried to explain the protective blessing of faith in a way that would make sense to him.

He's tall and thin, with eyes shadowed by too much life and an attitude built on shame he hasn't fully recognized yet. He's got a smile that would be brilliant if depression didn't linger at the edges, and if you stand too close to him he freezes completely, wide-eyed and tight-lipped enough to make you wonder what he's been through. He's angry at the world, angry at himself. Perhaps because at sixteen, his instinct to guard and protect is bigger than he is.

But he came to me—and as he forced himself to lean back in his chair, crossed ankles hidden beneath the coffee table on my front porch, he asked about spiritual warfare. He told me about scary visions and weird noises and faceless beings that hover in corners, waiting with outspread wings. In a low drawl he thought would hide his fear, he outlined things that sound irrational in daylight, but keep your body tense and your eyes open at night. And at the end, he looked away and said, "I don't know. It's kinda scary."

Maybe he felt safe enough to talk because he's seen my youngest daughter flip me off and get away with it. Maybe he thought he'd get honest advice because when I see him with his vape, something in my face makes him smile, put it down, and leave it alone. Maybe he thought I'd have answers that wouldn't feel tinged with shock and disapproval because in my house, he's witnessed the kind of quiet faith that offers understanding.

So I did what Jesus might do, if Jesus could sit on my porch in the afternoon sun on a Saturday afternoon with a struggling teenaged boy. I frowned a little, and I nodded and quietly said, "Yeah, no shit."

And he didn't ask me for Christian encouragement. He wasn't looking for Bible-speak. In those moments, he was just a boy scared of things he couldn't make sense of, slowly finding hope in a lived faith that doesn't come with judgement. But by the time he left my house, he taught me something, too.

People don't always understand why I talk so much about growth and faith after trauma. About the power of relational ministry that doesn't always mention Jesus by name, and how those convictions lead everything I write. They don't always understand the beauty of an open story that doesn't hide from ugly things. I think sometimes, other Christians are a little afraid of me for that.

Because I don't run from darkness—I square my shoulders and walk right in. Because it's lonely in the dark. And when you've been there, you never forget the cold.

This weekend reminded me of why I'm so determined to keep my faith and my humanity at the same time. Not because I'm uncertain or ashamed. Not because I'm a lukewarm Christian. But because I still believe kindness changes people, and I don’t ever want to be so far removed from humanity that my faith makes my God inaccessible.

And I don't have to burn people to teach them about fire. I just need to show them it's warm.

*****

Christian or not, moments like this are why healing changes the way we move through the world. When you know what it's like to feel cold and alone, warmth starts to look different, and you can't help but notice the people who make room for honesty. The ones who laugh easily, listen carefully, and never bother to ask for perfection. The ones who leave others feeling lighter, rather than smaller.

The people who laugh at inappropriate jokes right there between verses, because they don't treat humanity like it's something separate from faith; they recognize that each piece is part of the other.

That's the kind of person I've been trying to become for years. Not to be louder or more impressive. Not to preach boldly or seem spiritually intimidating or make people behave a certain way. Not to walk around convinced that I have all the answers. But to feel safe enough for vulnerability, so that when someone trusts me enough to speak up, they don't walk away regretting their honesty.

Because growth after trauma teaches you something important: living things lean toward warmth, but only when they're safe from getting burned. And maybe that's what the last few years have been teaching me all along. That kindness is not weakness, gentleness is not compromise, and human connection reflects authentic Christianity better than performative faith ever could.

Maybe that's why my books have sex and violence and cuss words in them. Maybe that's why this Christian writes mainstream fiction. Maybe it's why when I write about Jesus, I usually spell it like "hope." I'm not trying to shock people or demand attention. I'm just mindful of the kind of fire I leave behind...and I hope it's the kind that reminds cold and hurting people that there is still warmth in the world.

I hope it's enough to keep the darkness from feeling so lonely. And I hope it helps my readers...