I don’t remember meeting God for the first time. I don’t remember not believing in Him. Church wasn’t just a place we went — it was the air I breathed. I was born into it. Formed in it. Raised in it.

And yet, even beyond my parents’ faith, I always sensed something personal.

At a very young age, I knew life was spiritual. I was observant, yes, but it felt deeper than curiosity. I believe now it was discernment.

I think children carry that more than we give them credit for. We are made in the image of God. There is something innate in us that recognizes light from darkness, safety from danger, good from evil. Training shapes it, but the imprint is already there.

When I was seven years old, I had open-heart surgery.

The surgeon explained what he was about to do. I remember looking at him and saying,

“It’s okay. God has me.”

I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t quoting something I heard in Sunday school. I meant it. I believed it.

Years later, I still remember the way it impacted him.

In the ICU afterward, a woman down the hall had just lost her son. She was inconsolable. Chaos followed her into my room. But when she sat beside my hospital bed, I handed her a tissue and said the only thing I knew:

“He’s with God. He’s going to be okay.”

I didn’t preach.
I didn’t theologize.
I simply trusted.

And somehow, that trust brought her comfort.

That was my faith as a child — uncomplicated, unfiltered, steady.

But grief has a way of maturing what innocence once carried.

When Faith Loses Its Interpreter

For most of my life, when I had questions about God, I went to my father.

He would walk through Scripture with me. He would pray with me. He helped me untangle confusion. He was my safe place for theological wrestling.

So when he transitioned, something shifted.

Grief didn’t just break my heart.
It unlocked questions.

Questions I could no longer hand to him.
Questions I had to carry myself.

And that was terrifying.

Because in today’s world, questioning your faith feels like standing at the edge of a cliff. Words like deconstruction swirl around you. Stories of people walking away from Christianity echo loudly.

I had watched a Christian artist I admired publicly say he was no longer following Christ. I remember grieving that deeply and praying, “God, call him back.”

What I didn’t realize was that those prayers were storing up strength for my own wrestle.

Because when it was my turn to question — I was afraid.

What if I don’t land back where I started?
What if I pull one thread and the whole thing unravels?
What if grief leaves me with nothing?

The Fork in the Road

Here is what grief taught me:

I didn’t know as much as I thought I knew.
And I still don’t know as much as I wish I knew.

No one signs up to be wrong. No one wants to discover they misunderstood scripture. But when I began studying more deeply, I realized some things I had absorbed over the years weren’t actually in the Bible the way I thought they were.

That realization didn’t destroy my faith.

It refined it.

But it brought me to a fork in the road:

Was I going to serve the God of the Bible or the God I preferred?

The God of my imagination.
The God who keeps everything clean.
The God who prevents suffering.
The God who moves on my timeline.

Or the God who says:

“In this world you will have trouble.”
“I will never leave you.”
“My grace is sufficient.”

Those are very different Gods.

Checking My Appetites

Another layer of grief exposed something uncomfortable in me.

My appetites.

When I stepped outside of the church culture I grew up in, I gravitated toward environments that felt polished. Structured. Predictable. Lights. Stages. Timelines. Coffee in the lobby.

There is nothing inherently wrong with those things.

But I had to ask myself:

• Why did I crave that more than I craved the gospel?

• Was I hungry for Christ — or for comfort?

• Was I seeking truth — or an experience?

• Was I subtly placing myself in the position of evaluating God instead of surrendering to Him?

Grief has a way of stripping aesthetics and exposing hunger.

It made me examine whether I had begun relating to God like a consumer instead of a servant.

And that is a humbling place to stand.

What Survived the Fire

Here is what I know at almost 40:

I do not have all the answers.
I am okay with that.

Because what I lack in explanation, I have in experience.

Christ has been faithful.
God has been kind.
Provision has followed me.
Mercy has met me.
Grace has covered me.

Those are not theories.
They are lived realities.

Grief did not erase my faith.

It burned away what was fragile.

It forced me to decide whether I trust the God who does not promise ease, but promises presence.

And I do.

Not because everything makes sense.
Not because I solved every theological tension.
But because He has proven Himself steady in my life.

All roads really did lead me here, to a faith that is less naïve, less performative, less dependent on inherited structure and more anchored in Scripture, surrender, and lived trust.

A Question for You

If grief knocked on your door tomorrow…

Would your faith survive it?

Are you serving the God of the Bible
Or the God you prefer?

Are you building your faith on:

• Aesthetics?

• Comfort?

• Cultural Christianity?

• Or the character of Christ?

Grief has a way of revealing what we are actually standing on.

Call to Action

This week, I invite you to sit with these questions:

• What do I believe about God that Scripture does not actually say?

• Where have my appetites drifted from the simplicity of the gospel?

• If God removed the parts of church culture I enjoy, would I still follow Him?

Open your Bible not to confirm what you already think but to discover who He actually is.

Ask God to reveal:

• Where comfort has replaced conviction.

• Where preference has replaced surrender.

• Where imagination has replaced truth.

And if you find yourself at a fork in the road, questioning and unsure — don’t panic.

Sometimes grief isn’t leading you away from God.

Sometimes it leads you deeper.

Not just loss, but time. What matters. What doesn’t. What you rush. What you learn to hold.

Since my father’s transition, I’ve been learning how to live with grief instead of trying to get over it. I used to think grief was something you moved through, something with an ending. Now I understand it more like a companion, one that walks beside you, sometimes quietly, sometimes heavily, always teaching.

Before my dad, I had known loss. I had grieved people I loved deeply. One of the earliest and most formative was my father’s mother, mawmaw.

Growing up, my relationship with her felt… complicated. I believed she didn’t like me. That perception, I later learned, wasn’t formed in a vacuum, but that’s a story for another day. What I do know is that about five years before her transition, something shifted. Our relationship bloomed into something tender and real. We laughed more. We talked more. I began to see her.

And then she was gone.

I remember feeling unsettled in my grief—not just sad, but frustrated. I needed more time. Time to ask questions. Time to learn from her. Time to know her beyond the small window I had finally been given. Her death felt premature, not because of her age, but because of the timing of our connection.

As the years passed, something unexpected happened. I began to see my mawmaw through the stories of others, my dad, my brothers, my cousins. The more they spoke of her, the more she came into focus. She wasn’t just the version I experienced. She was strong, wise, bold, kind, and discerning. She was generous and deeply supportive. She was an entrepreneur before that word was fashionable. She believed in being the hands and feet of Jesus, not as a slogan, but as a way of life.

Grief expanded her for me.

Later, after I was married and had my two daughters, I found ways to honor her. We gave our oldest daughter a variation of her name as a middle name. One summer, the girls and I started a small business in her honor. Mawmaw made the best banana pudding, so we took her famous recipe and launched On Pudding.

What started as a way to remember her became something more. It taught my girls about money, work, and stewardship. It helped support our homeschooling budget for the following year. And it allowed me to turn longing into legacy.

Grief didn’t disappear, but it transformed.

When my father transitioned, grief returned in a deeper, sharper way. But this time, I recognized it. I knew its voice. And I also knew its invitation.

Grief has taught me to love steadfastly, to pour my life out before God and others, even when it hurts. It has invited me to ask questions and wait for answers… and to accept that sometimes the answer is silence. Or presence. Or time.

Grief has called my faith to the floor. It has tested what I say I believe and stripped away what I merely inherited. It has pushed me into deeper fellowship with God, not because I had it all together, but because I didn’t.

It has also begun rearranging my priorities.

What once felt urgent now feels optional.
What once felt necessary now feels heavy.
What once felt small now feels sacred.

I’m still learning how to strip away the unnecessary. Still learning how to recognize and remove idols: productivity, control, certainty, even the need to understand everything. Grief has a way of exposing what we cling to for safety instead of trust.

And yet—there is gratitude here too.

Living with grief has taught me how to carry both ache and thankfulness at the same time. To miss deeply and love fully. To honor what was without being trapped in what can never be again.

I am learning how to carry legacy forward without being stuck in longing.

As I approach 40, I’m realizing that grief hasn’t shortened my life; it has clarified it. It has slowed me down enough to notice what matters. It has taught me that time is not just something we spend, but something we steward.

And if I’m honest, grief has made me more present. More tender. More anchored.

This is not the lesson I would have chosen.
But it is one I am learning to receive.

And somehow, along all these roads leading to 40, grief has been one of my most faithful teachers.

Not just loss, but time. What matters. What doesn’t. What you rush. What you learn to hold.

Since my father’s transition, I’ve been learning how to live with grief instead of trying to get over it. I used to think grief was something you moved through, something with an ending. Now I understand it more like a companion, one that walks beside you, sometimes quietly, sometimes heavily, always teaching.

Before my dad, I had known loss. I had grieved people I loved deeply. One of the earliest and most formative was my father’s mother—my mawmaw.

Growing up, my relationship with her felt… complicated. I believed she didn’t like me. That perception, I later learned, wasn’t formed in a vacuum—but that’s a story for another day. What I do know is that about five years before her transition, something shifted. Our relationship bloomed into something tender and real. We laughed more. We talked more. I began to see her.

And then she was gone.

I remember feeling unsettled in my grief—not just sad, but frustrated. I needed more time. Time to ask questions. Time to learn from her. Time to know her beyond the small window I had finally been given. Her death felt premature—not because of her age, but because of the timing of our connection.

As the years passed, something unexpected happened. I began to see my mawmaw through the stories of others—my dad, my brothers, my cousins. The more they spoke of her, the more she came into focus. She wasn’t just the version I experienced. She was strong, wise, bold, kind, and discerning. She was generous and deeply supportive. She was an entrepreneur before that word was fashionable. She believed in being the hands and feet of Jesus—not as a slogan, but as a way of life.

Grief expanded her for me.

Later, after I was married and had my two daughters, I found ways to honor her. We gave our oldest daughter a variation of her name as a middle name. One summer, the girls and I started a small business in her honor. Mawmaw made the best banana pudding, so we took her famous recipe and launched On Pudding.

What started as a way to remember her became something more. It taught my girls about money, work, and stewardship. It helped support our homeschooling budget for the following year. And it allowed me to turn longing into legacy.

Grief didn’t disappear—but it transformed.

When my father transitioned, grief returned in a deeper, sharper way. But this time, I recognized it. I knew its voice. And I also knew its invitation.

Grief has taught me to love steadfastly—to pour my life out before God and others even when it hurts. It has invited me to ask questions and wait for answers… and to accept that sometimes the answer is silence. Or presence. Or time.

Grief has called my faith to the floor. It has tested what I say I believe and stripped away what I merely inherited. It has pushed me into deeper fellowship with God—not because I had it all together, but because I didn’t.

It has also begun rearranging my priorities.

What once felt urgent now feels optional.
What once felt necessary now feels heavy.
What once felt small now feels sacred.

I’m still learning how to strip away the unnecessary. Still learning how to recognize and remove idols: productivity, control, certainty, even the need to understand everything. Grief has a way of exposing what we cling to for safety instead of trust.

And yet—there is gratitude here too.

Living with grief has taught me how to carry both ache and thankfulness at the same time. To miss deeply and love fully. To honor what was without being trapped in what can never be again.

I am learning how to carry legacy forward without being stuck in longing.

As I approach 40, I’m realizing that grief hasn’t shortened my life—it has clarified it. It has slowed me down enough to notice what matters. It has taught me that time is not just something we spend, but something we steward.

And if I’m honest, grief has made me more present. More tender. More anchored.

This is not the lesson I would have chosen.
But it is one I am learning to receive.

And somehow, along all these roads leading to 40, grief has been one of my most faithful teachers.

I keep coming back to that sentence, not with urgency, but with gratitude. Forty feels less like a finish line and more like a settling. A deep exhale. A moment where the noise quiets enough to hear what’s actually true.

If my thirties taught me anything, it’s that growth rarely arrives loudly. It comes through subtle shifts, how you respond instead of react, how you stop explaining yourself, how you make peace with parts of your story you once tried to edit.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the woman I’m no longer trying to be.

Not with resentment—but with tenderness.

For a long time, I tried to fit myself into versions of womanhood that felt just slightly off. As a child, I leaned tomboy, not out of rebellion, but out of comfort. Pants felt safer. I liked spaces where I didn’t have to perform or compare. Where I could just exist.

As I grew older, my body changed quickly, and with that came a new awareness and a new kind of hiding. An open-heart surgery scar down the center of my chest taught me early how to cover what felt too vulnerable to explain. Development brought attention; I didn’t know how to hold. What appeared to be modesty from the outside often stemmed from shame on the inside.

It’s taken years to understand the difference.

Somewhere along the way, I learned to become agreeable. Palatable. Easy to accept. I told myself it was humility. Gratitude. Maturity. But beneath it lived a quieter belief that I should expect less, want less, take up less space.

That belief shaped more than my wardrobe or posture. It shaped my expectations. My voice. The way I measured my worth.

And now—standing on the edge of forty—I’m releasing it.

I’m no longer trying to be the version of myself that earns approval the fastest.

I’m no longer trying to keep up with who I thought I should be by now.

I’m no longer trying to shrink my story so it feels easier to carry.

What I’m learning slowly, honestly, is that it’s okay to be present while still becoming. Honoring who I am today doesn’t delay growth; it makes room for it. That God isn’t waiting on a finished version of me, He’s already at work in the unfolding.

There’s a steadiness I feel now that didn’t exist before. Not because life has been gentle, but because faith has taken root. Because love, loss, joy, and grief have all had their say– and I’ve learned to stay.

I no longer feel the need to announce who I am. I’m learning to live it. To stand in truth quietly. To let my life speak with clarity instead of urgency.

Maybe that’s what forty is really offering me; not answers, but alignment.

And the woman I’m no longer trying to be has made space for the woman I now get to live as, whole, grounded, still learning, deeply held.

June 26, 2026, I will turn 40.

What a gift. What an accomplishment.

God, I thank You that I will make it to 40.

I’ve heard people say that 40 is when you really become alive. It sounds cliché—one of those phrases that gets repeated so often it loses its weight. And yet… here I am, at the edge of this new decade, realizing that it’s true. Not because life suddenly gets easier, but because you finally get clearer.

As I prepare for 40, I keep reflecting on the quiet but profound mental, emotional, and spiritual shifts that began creeping in toward the end of my 30s. Shifts that didn’t announce themselves loudly, but instead unfolded slowly through grief, faith, loss, and a deeper acceptance of who I am.

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Becoming a Woman in My Own Way

For most of my life, I considered myself a late bloomer.

I grew up more of a tomboy, watching friends embody different versions of womanhood while I tried to understand where I fit. Over time, my interests changed. My posture softened. My confidence deepened. I stopped trying to borrow someone else’s definition of femininity and started embracing the version that felt true to me.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that becoming a woman isn’t a destination; it’s a continual unfolding. And with each passing year, I’ve learned to honor the things that make me me: my curiosity, my tenderness, my strength, my faith.

The Decade That Changed Everything

Every decade teaches you something.

But the space between 30 and 40? That decade will humble you.

It’s the decade where you’ve lived enough life to finally understand what your parents were trying to tell you. The decade where innocence gives way to experience. Where you begin to see the world as it truly is beautiful, broken, complex, and holy all at once.

There’s still naivety, of course. The older we get, the more we realize how much we don’t know. And somehow, that realization becomes its own kind of wisdom.

Preparing for 40 has surfaced that truth for me in ways I never expected.

Entering a New Decade Without My Father

If you’re new here, there’s something important you should know about me: I’ve loved deeply, and I’ve grieved deeply.

Before I turn 40, my father will have been with the Lord for a little over two years. His passing reshaped my understanding of time, faith, and legacy. I always imagined he’d live at least to 80 long enough to continue guiding me, cheering me on, and ushering me into each new chapter with his steady presence.

Instead, I’m stepping into this decade without his physical body here on earth.

And yet—so much of him lives in me.

I live now from the remnants of his life: his wisdom, his prayers, his love. Everything he poured into the first three and a half decades of my life still sustains me. While he won’t walk me into 40 the way I once imagined, he prepared me for it more than I realized.

A Faith That Had to Become My Own

Between 30 and 40, my faith was tested.

Not the kind of faith inherited from my parents, but the kind that has to be forged through experience. I had to wrestle with God for myself. I had to dig deep. I had to decide whether my trust was rooted in familiarity or in truth.

There were moments when life felt barren. Lonely. Confusing. Seasons where I felt uprooted and exposed. And yet, I learned what it truly means to be a tree planted by streams of living water.

Not because life stopped being hard, but because God remained faithful.

In this transition into a new decade, I feel closer to Him than ever before. My faith has depth now. Weight. Roots.

Rediscovering Innocence with Maturity

Something unexpected has happened as I approach 40: I’m rediscovering the innocence of my childhood, the curiosity, the wonder—but this time with maturity and surrender.

I’m learning how to hold both wisdom and softness. Strength and humility. Confidence and dependence on God.

I’m finding meaning. Purpose. A deeper awareness of who I am and whose I am.

An Introduction—Again

So maybe this is a reintroduction.

Or maybe it’s just the truest version of myself stepping forward.

My name is Angel Brantley.

I love God.

And I can’t wait to see what He has for me in this next decade.

Here I am again, ready to reveal another layer of myself to you—one that feels vulnerable, but worth sharing. Today, I’m writing about an area of my life I believe I’m good at, but I know I can be better. For me, that’s motherhood.

I have two daughters—Emi and Phenix—and I am deeply thankful for them. But if I’m honest, motherhood wasn’t something I dreamed about as a little girl. I was a tomboy. I wasn’t daydreaming about wedding colors or the songs I’d walk down the aisle to. In the back of my mind, I knew I’d marry one day, and I knew I’d have children—but I wasn’t the “I can’t wait to be a mom” type.

When Marquis and I married, we agreed to wait two and a half years before adding to our family. Around the two-year mark—maybe closer to two and a half—I brought it up. I was ready. He wasn’t. My heart sank, and it created a little tension between us. But we worked through it. And in God’s perfect timing, not long after that conversation, I was pregnant. We were both excited. The way we found out was unexpected—I had gone to the doctor for what I thought was an infection, only to discover the real reason: I was carrying our first child.

But beneath the joy, there was something else—fear.
Not because I didn’t want to be a mother, but because I knew my own relationship with my mom had left me with gaps, questions, and unhealed places. I worried I wouldn’t have what it took to give my children what I felt I missed.

Here’s what I’ve learned since then: God is faithful to meet us in those very places.
Motherhood has been one of His main tools to heal me. I’ve had to face the deficits head-on, lay them at His feet, and let Him do the work in me.

Years ago, a friend told me, “The beautiful thing about God is that He’s redemptive—He uses relationships to redeem us.” I’ve seen that up close. Somehow, God uses broken, hurting, imperfect people to walk alongside other broken, hurting, imperfect people—and through that, He heals. Not because we’re doing the healing, but because He uses us as His instruments.

That’s what motherhood has been for me. My girls have filled my cup in ways they’ll never fully know. They’ve healed me without even trying. They’ve also confronted me—pushing me to grow, to apologize, to humble myself, and to love more fully.

This season, I’m leaning in even deeper. I’m intentionally seeking out ways to connect with my daughters in ways that feel natural to them—things that fill their cups. Because the truth is, they’ve been filling mine for years.

And I know I’m not the only mom here. Maybe you’ve always dreamed of being a mother, or maybe, like me, you stepped into it with joy and a little fear. Either way, I admire you. I’ve learned from watching other women mother well, taking notes along the way.

Motherhood, for me, isn’t about perfection—it’s about being present, being healed, and being willing to be used by God in my children’s lives.

If you’ve been following me for a while, you know I’m also writing a larger story—one about what’s passed down from generation to generation. My daughters are a huge reason why I’m facing my past with honesty. I want them to see in real time what God can do when we give Him our broken pieces.

So, here’s my invitation to you:

• Think about the people God has used to heal you.

• Consider how you might be that instrument for someone else—especially the little ones watching your life.

• And if you’re on your own journey of redemption, know that you’re not alone.

I’m stitching this story in real time inside The Living Room—the members-only space of my Substack, Heard & Held. If you want to walk this road with me, that’s where I’m sharing the seams of what’s being redeemed.

Because redemption isn’t just something we read about in Scripture—it’s something we live.

What are we really putting our faith in?

I think without even meaning to, many of us have been shaped by phrases and teachings that, while well-intended, have subtly shifted our focus. Over time, we’ve built belief systems around outcomes more than God Himself.

Take, for instance, the phrase: “Whatever Jesus died for, we don’t have to take.”

It sounds powerful. Empowering, even. And in many ways, it was meant to help us stand against suffering, sickness, shame, or spiritual bondage. I don’t believe most people meant harm by it. I think it was meant to remind us that Jesus has already won.

But here’s the thing… I’m starting to see how that statement, left alone, can plant a seed in us that grows into misplaced faith.

Faith that says:

“If Jesus already paid for this, then I shouldn’t have to endure it.”

And when we do endure it—when suffering lingers, when prayers go unanswered, when things don’t change—our faith begins to wobble.

But what if that’s because we’ve placed our faith in a result…

Instead of in the Redeemer?

“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” – John 3:16 (NIV)

We are drawn to God by His love. Love that gave. Love that moved first.

And yet, Scripture also says:

“Without faith it is impossible to please God…” – Hebrews 11:6 (NIV)

Which means there is a part for us to play—an active choice to believe.

Not just to believe in God, but to believe God.

To take Him at His word. To walk with Him in relationship.

This is where the wrestle begins for me.

If Jesus’ death reconciled us back to God (and I believe it did), then what we are invited into now is not just the receiving of that gift—but the walking out of that relationship. That requires trust. That requires submitting our will, our emotions, and our expectations to the Father who already moved toward us.

We don’t use faith to get God to move.

God already moved.

He sent His Son.

He sent the Spirit.

He opened the door.

And the Holy Spirit—our Helper—is not just here to make life easier. He’s here to guide us through the process of becoming more like Jesus. That often includes fire. Testing. Discomfort. Not as punishment, but as refinement.

To shake loose our dependence on everything else but Him.

“These [trials] have come so that the proven genuineness of your faith—of greater worth than gold… may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed.” – 1 Peter 1:7 (NIV)

Faith in God doesn’t mean we won’t suffer.

Faith in God means we won’t suffer without purpose.

I think of Daniel in the lions’ den.

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the furnace.

Their faith in God produced bold action, but it didn’t guarantee safety by human standards.

Their faith was not: “God will get me out of this.”

It was: “God is with me in this. And even if He doesn’t get me out—I won’t bow to anything else.”

That’s not passive surrender. That’s spiritual grit.

That’s faith in the person of God, not just the intervention of God.

And here’s the beauty: when faith is rightly placed, the outcome becomes secondary. Because the outcome is now in the hands of a sovereign God who sees the full story. And we trust, not just that He can deliver us, but that He can shape us through whatever we walk through.

That shaping becomes evidence.

That shaping becomes testimony.

That shaping becomes worship.

Let’s Sit With This Together:

• Are there any sayings or beliefs you’ve picked up that, while well-meaning, have shifted your faith toward outcomes instead of God?

• Have you viewed faith as a way to get something or as a way to grow in relationship with God?

• What might God be shaping in you, not around you, in this current season of waiting, testing, or uncertainty?

A Call to Rebuild:

This isn’t a post full of answers. It’s a field of questions.

And I’m walking through it with you.

If any of this stirred something in you, take some time this week to journal or pray through what your faith has been built on.

Ask God to help you rebuild it, not on outcomes, but on Him.

And if you’re wrestling too, I’d love to hear from you.

Sometimes, the most powerful thing we can do is name the tension—together.

I’ve been wrestling with something for a while now, and it’s finally starting to form words. What does it really mean to have faith in God?

Not faith in things, not faith in the outcome, and not even faith in the act of believing hard enough. I mean actual faith in God—in His character, in His will, in His timing, in His wisdom.

If I’m honest, there have been plenty of times when I thought I was operating in faith, but what I was really doing was using faith like a tool to try to move God. I wasn’t aligning with God—I was hoping He’d align with me. I said I believed in Him, but what I really meant was, I believe you’ll give me what I’m asking for.

But that’s not faith in God. That’s faith in my own desires. That’s faith in my ability to pray the right way, serve hard enough, give generously, or stay spiritually consistent. That’s faith in faith.

Real faith says:

“Even if I don’t receive what I asked for, I trust that God knows what’s best.”

It’s surrender. It’s alignment. It’s submission.

“Have faith in God,” Jesus answered. – Mark 11:22 (NIV)

It’s interesting that Jesus doesn’t say “have faith that your prayers will work” or “have faith in the result.” He says: Have faith in God. Period.

The Person. Not the process.

True faith in God reshapes how we pray. It moves us from “God, here’s what I want you to do” to “God, show me what You’re doing, and align my heart with that.”

When prayer becomes an act of devotion and trust rather than a spiritual transaction, faith is no longer about control—it’s about surrender.

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.” – James 1:2-3 (NIV)

The very things we try to pray away are sometimes the things God is allowing to form us. To deepen us. To anchor our belief in Him, not in the removal of discomfort.

We say we believe in eternal life, in the return of Christ, in the invisible Kingdom of God—but then we panic when God doesn’t immediately remove the mountain in front of us.

Maybe the real miracle is not the mountain moving.

Maybe the real miracle is the person we become in spite of it—because sometimes, what looks like a mountain today becomes a molehill tomorrow. Not because the mountain changed, but because we did.

When character deepens, when wisdom takes root, when trust in God becomes steady and secure, our perspective shifts. The mountain may still be there, but it doesn’t own us anymore. And sometimes, the mountain doesn’t need to move, because we’re no longer intimidated by it.

Faith in God says:

“Even if you don’t do what I hoped, I still believe you are who you say you are.”

There’s a real spiritual tension, I think many of us are navigating. We want to live by faith, but we also want the faith life to be comfortable, predictable, and fruitful in ways that look like “wins”. But God is after fruitfulness that often comes through fire, not formula.

“And without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him.” Hebrews 11:6 (NIV)

So here’s where I am. I want my faith to be in God, not in faith itself. Not in my own formulas or expectations. I want to learn what it means to trust Him when things don’t make sense. I want to believe Him not just for things, but for truth. Not just for the outcome, but for the process. Not just for the miracle, but for the presence of the Miracle Worker.

Before You Go, Sit With These Questions:

• Has your faith been in God—or in what you want God to do?

• How would your prayers change if you were more concerned with aligning with God’s will than getting your own desires met?

• Are you measuring God’s goodness by His presence—or by your comfort?

• What if the mountain you’re trying to pray away is the very thing God is using to strengthen your faith in Him?

A Gentle Challenge:

This week, pray differently. Not harder—just differently. Ask God to reveal what it means for you to place your faith in Him, not just in what He can do. Write that prayer down. Live from that place.

And if this resonated with you, I’d love for you to share it or respond. I’m not offering answers—I’m just sharing the wrestle. Maybe you’re in it too.

In my last post, I talked about owning your growth—or even your lack of it—by becoming a student of yourself. But once you’ve done that work, there’s another question: What do you do with what you’ve learned about you?

That’s where the student-teacher cycle comes in.

Staying a Lifelong Student

Being a student of yourself means noticing what’s happening beneath the surface—your thoughts, patterns, and shifts.

• Where am I growing, even if it’s subtle?

• What keeps showing up in my life?

• Where do I feel steady, and where do I feel out of sync?

We often want people to understand us, but sometimes the truth is, we don’t yet fully understand ourselves. Like a plant that’s slowly outgrown its pot, our growth can happen quietly. And when we don’t notice it, we expect others to keep up with changes we haven’t even put into words.

The Turn: Becoming a Teacher

Here’s the thing: once you’ve studied yourself and gained understanding, there’s a next step—you have to share it.

Not by overexplaining or defending, but by patiently teaching:

• Here’s what’s shifting in me.

• Here’s what I’m learning about who I am now.

• Here’s how you can walk with me in this season.

Because people aren’t mind readers. Expecting them to “just know” us often leaves us hurt and disappointed.

Living that way is like being in a movie where everyone’s memorized their lines—except in real life, no one has the script.

Why the Cycle Matters

Living in the student-teacher cycle means holding two roles:

• As a student, you keep exploring who you are, paying attention to what’s growing, changing, or even struggling.

• As a teacher, you guide others into understanding who you are today.

Leave out one and the whole rhythm falters:

• Skip the student role, and you lose touch with your own patterns.

• Skip the teacher role, and you live frustrated that no one “gets you.”

Teaching Is an Act of Grace

Somewhere along the way, many of us lost the art of patiently teaching people who we are. We started expecting them to automatically understand.

But real connection takes both awareness and communication.

Healthy relationships grow when we:

• Know ourselves well enough to express what’s true right now.

• Give others the chance to learn us with grace.

• Offer patience while they catch up to our growth.

An Ongoing Rhythm

The student-teacher cycle isn’t about reaching some perfect version of yourself. It’s a lifelong rhythm:
observe, learn, share, adjust—and then do it again.

The more we live in that rhythm, the more grounded and connected we become—not only with ourselves but with the people around us.

A Gentle Challenge

This week, pause and ask yourself:

• Am I still studying the person I’m becoming?

• Have I invited the people in my life to learn me as I am right now?

Because when we stay students of ourselves and patiently teach others, understanding has room to grow. And where understanding grows, real connection can finally take root.

It’s not just about getting “bigger” or “better.” True growth is about overall health—being honest about where we’re thriving, where we’re struggling, and where we might not be growing at all.

Quick disclaimer: all my “plant knowledge” comes from reading and observation—I do not have a green thumb. Honestly, my thumb is closer to black. But the human work? That I’m fully immersed in. I do it with myself, and I walk with others through it, too.

Like a Plant, We Carry Signs of Our Health

We’re not all that different from plants.

A healthy plant doesn’t just shoot up taller stems or sprout more leaves. Its health is seen in the details:

• Soil: The soil is like our mind. Are we renewing our thoughts, or are we stuck in patterns that leave us dry and depleted?

• Leaves curling: Curling leaves often point to stress or missing nutrients. For us, that might look like constant tension, exhaustion, or running on empty.

• Color changes: A shift in color signals that something’s off. Maybe for us it’s a loss of joy, fading motivation, or feeling disconnected.

• Watering: Are we getting too much of the wrong things or not enough of what truly sustains us?

A lack of growth isn’t failure, it’s feedback. It’s an invitation to pause, take notice, and ask, What’s missing? What needs attention?

Becoming a Student of Yourself

Owning your growth—or lack of it—starts with being a student of yourself.

That means slowing down long enough to observe what’s really going on:

• What patterns keep showing up?

• Where do I feel alive and rooted?

• Where do I feel drained, stuck, or off-balance?

Being a student doesn’t mean staying bound to what you discover. Some things you’ll need to keep and nurture. Others you might need to throw away because they no longer serve you. Some things can be refurbished—redeemed and reshaped. And still others, you’ll have to give away—surrendering them to God because they’re not yours to fix.

Owning What You Carry

Ownership isn’t about guilt; it’s about responsibility.
When you own what’s happening inside you, you reclaim the power to decide what stays, what goes, and what needs care.

It’s like tending to a plant:

• Some leaves just need a little pruning.

• Some need a fresh pot with more room to grow.

• Some need more light or a different kind of nourishment.

Owning your growth means noticing all of it—the healthy and the unhealthy—and choosing to respond.

A Gentle Encouragement

This week, pause and ask yourself:

• Am I paying attention to the signs of my own health?

• Where am I thriving? Where am I not?

• What do I need to keep, release, or reshape?

Growth isn’t a race. It’s a rhythm—a steady practice of observing, owning, and tending to the things that shape who you are becoming.

When you own your growth (and your lack of it), you give yourself the chance to become fully present in your own life and to step into the next stage of teaching others who you are.

-Angel

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Does curiosity actually kill us… or does it free us?

I started to picture “the cat” as a stand-in for people—like you and me—who are naturally wired to wonder. To ask why and what if. And yet, so many of us have been taught that curiosity isn’t safe.

Maybe a parent told you not to ask so many questions. Maybe you learned in school, church, or even relationships that curiosity could get you into trouble.
Somewhere along the way, we got the message: it’s better not to ask.

But what if that’s not true? What if curiosity is actually the thing that opens the cage?

When Curiosity Frees Us

Curiosity can go two ways.

I can use it to chase answers that prove what I already want to believe, twisting reality to match my own narrative. And if I go looking for something, I’ll usually find it, whether it’s helpful or not.

Or I can choose curiosity that goes deeper, curiosity that seeks understanding.
And that kind of curiosity doesn’t trap us; it frees us.

The Heart Behind Healthy Curiosity

Here’s the key: real curiosity requires humility.
It means admitting I don’t know everything, and that’s okay.

It looks like pausing to ask:

• What does this actually mean?

• Why was this said?

• Is there something I’m missing here?

In our relationship with God, this means seeking Him with open hearts. Scripture reminds us, “My people perish for lack of knowledge.” Knowledge itself isn’t the goal—understanding is. And when we stop seeking, we lose the opportunity to grow.

Curiosity Builds Connection

The same is true in our relationships with others.

When I’m confused by someone’s actions or words, the gap isn’t in them—it’s in my understanding. Curiosity bridges that gap.

It sounds like:
“Help me understand your perspective.”
“Can you tell me why this matters to you?”
“What am I not seeing?”

Leading with questions instead of assumptions creates space for trust, grace, and closeness.

A Gentle Invitation

So maybe curiosity doesn’t kill the cat at all.
Maybe, when it’s rooted in humility, curiosity sets the cat—us—free.

This week, I encourage you to slow down and let curiosity lead you.
Not the kind that looks for what you already expect to find, but the kind that seeks real understanding—of God, of others, and of yourself.

Because when you approach life with that kind of curiosity, you’ll be surprised by how much freedom and connection it brings.

-Angel

The other day, I was driving home alone, my family just a few car lengths ahead. For the first stretch of the drive, everything felt perfect — the kind of weather that makes you want to roll the windows down and breathe it all in.

I even called my mom and said, “It’s such a beautiful day.” And I meant it.

Ten minutes later, I’m gripping the wheel, rain hammering the windshield. My wipers are frantic, but visibility is nearly gone. It’s like the sky flipped a switch. Thank God we changed those wipers a few weeks ago, I think, as they swish back and forth like they’re on a mission.

My destination hasn’t changed — I’m still headed home. But suddenly, the way I’m getting there looks completely different.

Instinctively, my body adjusts — spine straighter, hands tighter on the wheel, eyes straining to catch what little I can of the road ahead. The tension isn’t fear; it’s focus. A quiet urgency whispering, “Pay attention. Conditions have changed.”

I know my family is still out there, traveling the same road, but I can’t see them clearly anymore. And that unsettles me. We’re together, yet I feel the distance, trusting they’re safe even when I can’t keep them in sight.

Isn’t that life? We journey with people we love, and then a storm hits. Suddenly, visibility drops. We can’t always see where they are or how they’re doing. And in those moments, tension settles in.

But here’s what I’m learning: I have to stay steady. I can’t let fear or frustration take the wheel, because careless moves in a storm don’t just affect me — they ripple out, impacting everyone around me. My part is to stay aware and keep moving forward until the skies clear.

Because the storm doesn’t change the truth:
We’re still on this journey together. And we’re still headed home.

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Thoughts to Carry Through the Storm

• Your destination is secure. Storms may blur the road ahead, but God hasn’t moved your finish line.

• You’re never traveling alone. Even when you can’t see your people or feel God's presence, it steadies the journey.

• Trust God through the unseen. When visibility drops, lean into His guidance, not your limited view.

• Stay steady in your lane. Fear and frustration only add risk — awareness and trust keep you (and others) safe.

• Every storm has an end. The clouds will part, and you’ll see that He carried you — and those you love — all along.

I keep my eyes forward, trusting the road even when I can’t see far. The storm will pass. It always does. And home is still waiting.

Last year, on your first birthday after your transition, I started something I called Words from Daddy Pastor. I sent out two letters—one to a family member and another to a friend—sharing words inspired by you, along with books that carried a piece of your heart. It was my way of honoring your life and the legacy you left behind.

This year, I’ll send one letter again, but my second letter is this: this blog.

I was inspired by a friend, Abe, who lost his own father a few years ago. I had the privilege of being around him during that time, watching him navigate the ache of that loss while staying faithful to the work God had called him to do. Recently, Abe posted a simple “Happy Birthday” to his dad. He admitted he struggled with whether to say it, but he realized those words were really for him.

Reading that made me realize I needed to say this:

Thank you, Dad.

You were a real one—kind, loving, a lifelong student, and a covering for your family. By no means were you perfect, but you were always willing to show up as yourself. And I’m so thankful for your unwavering faith, your belief in God, and the way that belief shaped how you loved and lived.

You weren’t just committed to being authentic—you were committed to giving away everything God put inside you. You never hoarded your gifts or your wisdom. You believed that what God gave you was meant to be shared, and you poured it out freely. Because of that, so many of us carry pieces of you—your words, your lessons, your laughter, and most of all, your faith.

I never felt a “daddy deficit” because you were so present. You weren’t just a good dad. You were a good husband, a good friend, and—if I’m honest—a good uncle. I even got jealous sometimes that my cousins had you as their “good uncle” when you were my dad! But that’s who you were: a man whose kindness overflowed into every relationship.

I think about you every single day. Not with sadness, but with gratitude. You’re still here with me, woven into the fabric of my life.

You are missed, but you are not forgotten. Your legacy lives on in me, in my siblings, in our family, and in everyone, you touched.

Your life taught me that we don’t get to decide how long we’re here—life truly is a vapor. But we do decide what we leave behind. And what you left was beautiful: a legacy of faith, a belief in God that anchored you, and a life fully poured out.

Thank you for teaching me that our gifts are not ours to keep, but ours to give. Thank you for showing me what it looks like to trust God, love deeply, and live generously.

I love you so much, Dad. Happy birthday.

Have you ever felt called to something, but somehow still feel like you have no business doing it?

Yeah. Me too.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be qualified. Not in the job-description sense. Not in the degree-on-the-wall or title-in-the-bio kind of way. But spiritually. Biblically. Personally.

Because if I’m honest, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve felt God nudging me toward a dream, a project, a role, a risk, and my immediate response is, “But God, I don’t feel qualified.”

It’s wild how quickly we can disqualify ourselves. And it’s usually because we’ve started measuring ourselves against other people. We’ve confused “calling” with comparison. We assume if someone else is doing it louder, cleaner, more visibly, then maybe we got it wrong. Maybe we’re just copying.

But I’m starting to realize that obedience isn’t always original in the way we define it.

Sometimes obedience means showing up to do something that someone else is already doing, but doing it as you. With your history. Your style. Your assignment. Your voice. That’s the real originality: being fully yourself while being fully submitted to God.

Let’s be real, social media has made this especially hard. You can feel inspired one minute and completely inadequate the next. You scroll through someone else’s version of your vision and suddenly feel like there’s no room for you. So you shrink back. You second-guess. You wait… again!

But here's what I’m learning:

If we let the world or even our insecurities decide whether we’re ready, we’ll stay stuck in the cycle of always preparing and never doing.

And yes, I know there are moments when preparation matters. If God’s calling you to a field that requires training, get the training. Steward the calling well. But don’t let the need for credentials override the voice of the One who called you.

Look at Moses.
God calls him, and what’s his first response?
“But I can’t speak well.”
“They won’t listen to me.”
“Send someone else.”
Sound familiar?

And yet, despite all of Moses’ insecurities, God says, “I will be with you.”

That’s the difference.

God doesn’t promise us perfection—He promises His presence.

So I don’t know what you’ve been putting off. I don’t know what dream you’ve boxed up because you saw someone else doing something similar. I don’t know what lie you’ve believed about being “too late,” “not good enough,” or “not ready.”

But I do know this: You are not the qualifier. God is.

Stop waiting to feel perfect.
Stop looking for someone else to say you're worthy.
And stop believing the myth that if someone else is already doing it, there’s no room for you.

There is. There always has been.

Welcome back to your assignment. And thanks for joining me here on the porch.

On July 1, 2020, in the thick of a world unraveling from pandemic tension, political unrest, and cultural upheaval, my father delivered a message called Deceptive Presentation. This wasn't just another sermon—it was one that had been simmering in his spirit for years. I had heard him mention it many times before he finally felt released to share it. He believed it might one day become a book. Even now, after his transition, his words live on, and I count it an honor to carry the weight of what he carried.

Deceptive presentation, as he defined it, is the act of giving something an appearance or impression that differs from its true nature. It's a misleading offering, crafted to appeal to our desires while drawing us away from truth. My father warned that deception has been unleashed in the world—subtle, calculated, and effective. It doesn’t come in obvious forms. It shows up in the places and through the people and systems we trust: government, media, even the Church.

He began the message by tying it to an earlier teaching called Inner Compass, where he described the Holy Spirit as our guide. Without the Spirit leading us, we are left to rely on our own appetites and reasoning, which are often the very things the enemy manipulates. Desire, he explained, becomes the perfect entry point for deception when left unchecked.

He shared a practical story from his own life—his time working at Bluebell Ice Cream. He explained how they were trained to stack cartons in a way that would appeal particularly to women, using colors and placement to attract them. It was marketing psychology, yes, but it was also an example of how presentation can drive desire. Even if someone wasn’t planning to buy ice cream, the display alone could draw them in. Not inherently evil—but revealing. Because if we don’t question our appetites, we’ll find ourselves constantly responding to what looks good rather than discerning what is good.

He gave another example from his life: a time when my mother, who was battling gastroparesis, asked him to stop at Wendy's because she was so hungry. As he waited in the car, he saw an ad for a burger stacked high with bacon and dripping with sauce. It was labeled as a "healthy option." He laughed, wondering how something so obviously indulgent could be marketed that way. Lettuce and tomatoes don't make it healthy. It was a deception designed to manipulate desire.

This brought him to Eve in Genesis 3. He believed the original sin wasn’t merely disobedience, but disbelief. Eve didn’t believe what God had said. She added to it—saying, "We must not eat it or touch it," even though God had only said not to eat it. That addition was subtle, but telling. When we don’t know the Word, we embellish it. And when we embellish it, we weaken it.

My father explained that when Satan tempted Eve, he began with a question: "Did God really say...?" That question planted doubt. Doubt not only in the instruction, but in the character of God. And Eve, in her moment of uncertainty, reached for something she already had. She wanted wisdom, but she was already made in God's image. She wanted to be like God, but she already was. She just didn’t believe it.

This, to me, points to an identity crisis that still plagues many of us today. We forget who we are and begin striving for what God has already given. And when we rely on ourselves instead of the Spirit, we fall into the very deception meant to pull us away from Him. The seed of self-righteousness takes root when we believe we can accomplish godly things through human effort.

Dad reminded us that the Word is enough. When Jesus was tempted, He didn’t rationalize or overexplain. He simply said, "It is written." That was his defense. And it should be ours. But many of us don’t know what’s written. We've been in church for years, but we still fall prey to messages that twist Scripture, often unintentionally, because they sound appealing. And so, we become easily deceived. Not because we are rebellious, but because we are uninformed.

He ended the message by pointing us back to the narrow way. In a world where anything goes and every path is considered valid, God’s way remains narrow and specific. The way to life is not through rationalization or adding flair to the Gospel. It’s through surrender, humility, and reliance on the Spirit.

So today, as I reflect on that message, I ask myself—and invite you to ask as well:

• What desires in me have gone unchecked?

• Where have I rationalized disobedience because I doubted God?

• Have I trusted my own wisdom over God's Word?

My father’s message lives on because truth lives on. And while we can’t improve God’s Word, we can believe it. We can return to it. We can trust that the God who spoke is the God who still speaks—and His presentation is never deceptive. It is good, perfect, and true.

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I’ve been sharing insights over the past month, not as a way to reteach or rewrite Alicia’s work, but because I genuinely feel led by God to walk through this healing journey alongside you. Losing my dad unexpectedly in February 2024 sent me into a whirlwind of emotions. It would have been easy to run away from God and people, but instead, I made a conscious decision to run toward Him. This journey has taken many forms, and reading The Night Is Normal has been a significant part of it.

Disillusionment & Embracing Reality

One of the biggest themes from Chapter 7 is the space between illusion and reality. Alicia explains that when we are faced with reality, our illusions are exposed. Many of us unknowingly create illusions about God, ourselves, and others because we naturally want to fill in the blanks where our understanding falls short. For example, we read “God is love” (1 John 4:16) and then consciously or unconsciously add assumptions such as:

• “Which means He will protect me and my family from harm.”

• “Which means what is sincerely done in His name will always be fruitful.”

But then life happens—someone we love passes away, or a step of faith in our career doesn’t work out as planned. Suddenly, we’re left to reconcile our assumptions with what God's word says. Alicia reminds us that The Fall (in the Garden of Eden) affects us all, and we often struggle because we expect a Garden of Eden faith in a Garden of Gethsemane age.

She illustrates this with a powerful example:

• If God is love and He protects my loved one, then He is love.

• But if He does not protect my loved one, then He is not love.

This kind of reasoning gives more power to our assumptions than to the truth of who God is. It’s in these moments that we must decide—will we cling to our illusions, or will we embrace reality?

Healing for me has been about letting go of illusions and embracing reality. This doesn’t mean I lack faith in God; rather, I refuse to place my faith in my assumptions. Being disillusioned has created space for me to truly seek and study God for myself.

Alicia writes, “If we think of God as the ultimate source of reality, then our faith journey is a continual journey toward truth.” That truth can be painful. It can feel foreign and unsettling, but it is worth pursuing with God by our side. He has promised never to leave nor forsake us.

What If…?

It’s normal to want to figure everything out—to seek knowledge as a way to feel secure. But what if the very knowledge you hold onto is what’s keeping you unsettled and detached from reality? What if God is waiting to meet you in the realness of life? What if reality, rather than our assumptions, actually reveals how much greater, bigger, and more magnificent He is? And what if you were created to dwell in His presence in both the Day and the Night faith?

Takeaways

1. Illusions about God, ourselves, and others are often unintentional but can distort our faith.

2. Night faith is an invitation to trust God in uncertainty, not just when life makes sense.

3. Letting go of illusions doesn’t mean losing faith—it means deepening it in truth.

4. God’s presence is with us in both the clarity of Day and the mystery of Night.

Call to Action

I encourage you to reflect on areas where you may have unknowingly added assumptions to your faith. Ask yourself: Am I believing in my illusions, or am I seeking the truth of who God is?

Let’s walk this journey together.

With Love and Honesty,

Angel Brantley

Layered on top of this grief is the ongoing challenge of caring for my mom, who has been dealing with health issues long before my father passed. My siblings and I are doing our best to navigate these challenges, but it has been a lot—mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

I recently read Chapter 6 of The Night is Normal by Alicia Britt Chole, and whew, did it hit home. The chapter opens with three piercing questions:

1. Has God ever not been who you thought He was?

2. Have you ever not been who you hoped you were?

3. Have the people of God ever not been who you needed them to be?

I didn’t hesitate—my answer to all three was a resounding YES!

Alicia explains that all relationships go through a cycle, starting with joyful anticipation—that initial excitement when everything feels right and full of promise. When we first encounter God, relationships, or even new seasons in life, we often have high hopes and expect the best outcomes. Then, reality hits, and we enter the second stage: disillusionment. This is when things don’t unfold as we expected, and our faith, relationships, and dreams seem to fall flat. Instead of pushing through this stage, many of us—myself included—are tempted to jump straight to the third stage: bail. Alicia states that many times, we are on the threshold of spiritual growth—on the verge of gaining realities that infuse faith with depth—but we wrongfully associate the pain with failure and choose to bail. The truth is, more than a deeper faith and a greater knowing of God, we are often seeking pain-free, stress-free, challenge-free faith. We assume that the things that come easy and cause little to no pain are from God. But God isn’t just a comforter—He is also a healer. And healing requires us to first experience something painful or broken.

I remember having a dream early in my mom’s health journey. In the dream, I truly believed that I was going to help my mom get better. When I woke up, I wholeheartedly believed that God would heal her. Years passed, and while there were times of improvement, currently she still struggles with health conditions. This has been incredibly hard to process. I had to face the reality that God does not owe me the fulfillment of that dream.

While I would never have considered myself someone who viewed God as a genie in a bottle, I now recognize that some of my disappointment came from unmet expectations—that He owed me a long life for my dad and healing for my mom. But faith does not mean that God will always answer in the way we hope. I’ve had to confront the reality that while we want to make God responsible for the healing of us and our loved ones, we often forget the role of obedience in our walk with the Lord. There are many things God instructs us to do, and when we fail to obey, we hinder ourselves from receiving what He has already provided.

For example, if I purchase gifts for my daughters that they specifically asked for and place them in their rooms, then tell them to clean up, they will discover the gifts in the process of their obedience. I am not hiding the gifts—I am requiring stewardship over what they already have. Similarly, God desires to train our hearts before simply granting the desires of our hearts. Realizing that God will not just give me everything I want without preparing me has been a tough pill to swallow.

There have been moments in my life when I wanted to bail on relationships because they were not easy. One of my good friends and I fell out shortly after I got married. To be honest, I didn’t think reconciliation was possible. Yet, even in the pain, I knew God was instructing me to keep my heart right toward her. I would pray for her, even when I was angry. I would check in, even though I was hurt. The more I obeyed, the better I began to feel. Fast forward 14 years, and that same friend has been a consistent presence for me during this season of grieving. She often knows exactly what I need without me having to say a word. Our 30+ years of friendship have not been without pain, but the depth of our relationship has become a healing balm in my life. I am so thankful I did not bail.

But there have been other times when I did bail. Maybe I was supposed to, maybe I wasn’t. But I am convinced that some of the things I walked away from may have been opportunities to grow deeper in faith, understanding, and love.

So, here’s my encouragement to you:

• If you’re in a season of disillusionment, don’t rush to bail. Instead, ask God what He’s trying to teach you.

• Recognize that God is not just in the easy, pain-free moments. Sometimes, the depth of His love is revealed in the hardest seasons.

• Obedience plays a key role in receiving the blessings God has already prepared for you. Are you willing to trust His process?

Reflection Questions:

1. Where in your life have you experienced joyful anticipation that later led to disillusionment?

2. How might God be inviting you to grow in this season instead of bailing?

3. What specific steps of obedience might God be calling you to take right now?

I don’t have all the answers, and honestly, I still feel helpless at times navigating life without my dad and caring for my mom. But what I do have is trust—trust that God will give me, my siblings, and my mom daily wisdom to walk through these troubled waters. And He will do the same for you.

With love and honesty,

Angel Brantley

Even when I wanted to let go of everything, God kept His promise never to leave or forsake me. I’m in awe of how an all-knowing God pursued me, even when He alone knew the depths of my struggle. This journey has been painful but also profoundly beautiful, as He draws me closer to Him through both the darkness and the light.

What is Disillusionment?
Alicia defines disillusionment as “the painful gaining of reality.” She breaks the word down as the act of removing or negating false ideas. Reflecting on this, I’ve come to see how disillusionment has played a significant role in my spiritual journey.

Admittedly, it took time to process what disillusionment looked like in my walk with the Lord. Long before my dad’s passing, I had already experienced uncomfortable, dark times in my faith. Questions about God and humanity have lingered in my heart for as long as I can remember.

This week, I identified a few specific areas where I was disillusioned. I’ll share two with you here. My prayer is that my transparency encourages you toward self-reflection, not judgment.

1. The Idea That God “Owed” Me a Good Life
   As a child, I survived open-heart surgery at the age of seven due to a heart murmur. I always publicly acknowledged God’s hand in saving my life, but privately, I carried the belief that God “owed” me a good life because of what I had endured.

I thought the large scar on my chest hindered my ability to be fully appreciated or loved by a man. My seven-year-old self recognized God’s saving grace, but by age twelve, I began to believe He owed me for sparing my life. No one told me this—it was an illusion I created. Confronting this false belief has been humbling, yet freeing.

2. The Desire for My Dad to Have a Longer Life
   I believed my dad, a devoted husband, father, and friend, deserved a long life on this earth. I even planned what his life should look like and prayed for God to fulfill it. When his life ended sooner than I had hoped, I felt the weight of disillusionment.

The truth is, I believed God owed it to me—and to my dad—to grant him more time. Facing this reality has been one of the most humbling parts of my journey. It’s taught me to release my grip on what I think God should do and embrace His sovereignty.

Big Takeaways

• Disillusionment is Evidence of Growth: Losing illusions is not the same as losing faith. It’s a sign that we are growing spiritually and maturing in our walk with God.

• Faith is Relational, Not Formulaic: Alicia reminds us that formulas gut faith of its relational essence. Faith should not be reduced to a set of lifeless principles but should draw us into a living, active relationship with God.

• Letting Go is Freeing: Letting go of illusions—no matter how deeply held—allows us to grow closer to God. It enables us to know Him more intimately and trust Him more fully.

Friend, I’ve come to embrace that Night Faith is a holy invitation to grow spiritually. Like Job, I’ve realized that Day Faith could only take me so far. Night Faith, with its depth and rawness, invites me to grow my roots deeper into a living, active relationship with God.

This journey isn’t about knowing all the answers but about knowing God. I’m hungry to know Him in the depths of my grief, to allow Him to reshape my faith in this sacred, difficult season.

Call to Action
I invite you to reflect on your journey. What illusions might you be holding onto? Where is God inviting you to let go so that you can grow?

Ask yourself:

• Are there beliefs about God or life that you’ve created but aren’t rooted in truth?

• How might letting go of these beliefs draw you closer to Him?

Let’s embrace this holy invitation together. Night Faith isn’t easy, but it’s where we grow. It’s where we learn to know God and be known by Him in the most profound ways.

With love and gratitude,

Angel Brantley

Sometimes, the best way to start is to simply jump in. Chapter 2 of The Night Is Normal by Alicia Britt Chole was a gentle and profound reminder that God created both day and night—and He called them both good. Alicia draws on Genesis 1:14, 16, and 18, where God creates the "greater light to govern the day and the lesser light to govern the night," and reassures us that "God's night ensures that absolute darkness will not utterly eclipse us. He will always leave the light on for us, day and night."

That truth hit me deeply. I’ve always associated night with darkness, confusion, and pain. But here, Alicia invites us to see night as something God not only created but also infused with purpose and hope. As I processed this, memories of my night seasons began to surface. The night came for me in waves—years before my father’s passing, when questions about God, faith, and church started to swirl in my mind. It came again during 2020, a year that left many of us sitting still long enough to face fears, doubts, and burdens we’d been avoiding. I vividly remember one night in my closet, crying and shaking, overwhelmed by a collection of worries that stillness had forced to the surface.

And then came February 22, 2024—the night my father took his last breath. This night didn’t come alone; it brought with it a bag of lingering questions, grief, and pain I wasn’t prepared to face. Yet, in my brokenness, I experienced something unexpected. The night after my father’s passing, I was awakened by the sound of his voice asking me, “Ang, where do broken hearts go?” It wasn’t fear I felt, but peace. In that moment, God gently pointed me back to Himself.

This chapter helped me recognize that God was inviting me into what Alicia calls "Night Faith." For much of my life, I’ve lived in the safety of Day Faith, where I could see, trust, and move forward with guidance from my father, who was my constant mentor. Night Faith, however, is different—it’s raw, vulnerable, and deeply reliant on trusting God when clarity is absent.

Major Takeaways:

1. God Is Present in the Night: Even in the desert seasons, God is there, cutting away false beliefs and reshaping us.

2. Night Faith Builds Resilience: Night seasons are opportunities to grow in trust, even when answers don’t come easily.

3. The Light Always Shines: God’s promise to "leave the light on" reminds us that even in the hardest moments, His presence is constant.

A Call to Action:

Wherever you are in your journey—whether it feels like day or night—lean into God’s invitation to trust Him. Ask yourself:

• What questions am I carrying into this season?

• How can I let God’s light guide me, even when the path isn’t clear?

• Who or what has been my source of Day Faith, and how is God inviting me to grow in Night Faith?

Friend, the night is not the absence of God’s presence—it’s the space where He invites us to trust Him more deeply. If you’re navigating a night season, know that you’re not alone. God is there, leaving the light on for you.

Let’s embrace the beauty of Night Faith together.

With Love,

Angel Brantley

I am excited to share something new with you all. Recently, I felt led to share my reflections on what I am reading and learning with the hope that my journey might encourage and inspire you. Today, I’m opening my heart about a book that has already begun transforming my perspective: The Night Is Normal by Alicia Britt Chole.

A few months ago, I came across Alicia’s Instagram page and was immediately drawn to her unique way of describing the purpose of “night” in the lives of believers. As I navigated her teachings through YouTube and podcasts, I felt compelled to get her book. I started with the Audible version but quickly realized this was a book I needed to hold, underline, and wrestle with on paper. And here I am, just a few days into 2025, diving deeper into her words and the healing they’ve begun to bring.

Why This Matters to Me (and Perhaps to You)

February 2024 was a life-altering month for me. My dad, who was more than a father—a best friend, mentor, and constant source of wisdom—transitioned from this life. His passing hit me like a gut punch. I’m still recovering, and though grief has been a challenging companion, I believe part of my healing lies in sharing my journey with others. I know I’m not alone in feeling like the wind has been knocked out of me spiritually. My dad’s legacy—as a loving husband of 42 years, father, pastor, and friend—still teaches me, even in his absence.

When I came across The Night Is Normal, I sensed it could be a guide for this season of my life. The book’s structure—52 chapters and additional resources—felt like a divine invitation to walk through the year with purpose and intention. God has impressed upon me to not rush through this book but to let its lessons unfold week by week. And now, I want to invite you to join me on this journey as I share my monthly reflections and takeaways.

Facing the Storm Together — Chapter One

The first chapter of The Night Is Normal is titled "Facing the Storm Together." Alicia begins with a poignant memory of her father, who would bring her onto the porch during storms. His goal was simple yet profound: to teach her not to fear storms but to face them with him. From a young age, Alicia learned to see storms as an invitation to be in the safe arms of her dad. This imagery moved me deeply, bringing tears to my eyes as I reflected on the storms in my own life.

I’ve always been the type to sleep peacefully through literal storms, but life’s storms often leave me restless. Alicia’s story illuminated the possibility of finding peace, whether I’m asleep or fully awake, by leaning into the presence of my Heavenly Father. Her words reminded me of the powerful moment in Scripture when the disciples, terrified of a storm, woke Jesus, and He simply spoke, “Peace, be still” (Mark 4:39). Alicia writes, “Storms are survivable when we view them as relational. The nights are filled with holy invitations to grow our love for God.” This perspective shifted something in me. Storms are not to be feared or ignored; they are opportunities to draw closer to God.

Raw Reflections and Takeaways

While working through the accompanying workbook, I found myself facing some of my rawest thoughts. Here are a few:

• I don’t feel uncomfortable asking God questions; I just often avoid asking because I know His answers require waiting.

• Alicia’s statement struck a chord: “God has not changed. But our understanding of what it means to follow Him has undergone an alarming mutation from the dual toxins of mistaking emotions for devotion and viewing abundance as proof of obedience.” This convicted me as I reflected on how these toxins have infiltrated our culture, including my own thinking. I’ve begun praying for God to reveal and remove any unhealthy belief systems that do not align with His truth.

• During one of the exercises, Alicia invites readers to picture God right next to them. As I did this, God revealed that after my dad’s passing, I secretly began wrestling with my beliefs. I had suppressed these questions for years, but they resurfaced with a vengeance. What I wasn’t prepared for, however, was the undeniable peace of God that has been present through it all. His peace hasn’t come from answered questions but from His nearness.

A Call to Action

Friends, storms are inevitable. But what if, instead of running from them, we embraced them as invitations to draw closer to God? This month, I encourage you to reflect on your storms. What are the questions you’ve been avoiding asking God? Where have you mistaken abundance for obedience or emotions for devotion? Spend some time journaling your raw thoughts and asking God to meet you in the storm. You might just find His peace waiting for you there.

Thank you for allowing me to be vulnerable with you. This journey is not just mine; it’s ours. Let’s grow deeper in love with God together, even in the night of life.

Until next month, may you find His peace in every storm.

With love,

Angel Brantley