All my life, I just wanted to fit in to be normal. No matter where I went, I carried the quiet ache of not belonging. I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, or sometimes I felt like I was simply too much. Even as a Christian, I often believed I would never quite measure up to the standard. Then Scripture reframed the story. Deuteronomy 14:2 says: “For thou art an holy people unto the Lord thy God, and the Lord hath chosen thee to be a peculiar people unto himself, above all the nations that are upon the earth.” For a long time, that word peculiar felt uncomfortable. But now I understand why it has always fit. To belong to God is to be His own. The word peculiar comes from the Latin peculiaris, meaning “one’s own possession.” In Hebrew, the word segullah speaks of treasured property something deeply valued. In Greek, peripoiesis means possession or something obtained at great cost. This is not the language of rejection or inadequacy. It is the language of belonging and worth. Being peculiar does not mean being strange for the sake of it. It means being set apart. Chosen. Marked for holiness and purpose. It means we no longer move with the tide of the times or the world because the life we received from God is incompatible with the world. We were given a new life the very life of God Himself through Jesus. That is why the Christian life feels different. That is why fitting in has always been difficult. We are not meant to blend in; we are meant to belong. So who wants to be normal? The world may twist the meaning of the word peculiar, but I choose God’s definition. I would rather be peculiar than normal any day, because I belong to God His treasured, chosen possession.

When I was younger, I loved reading books. I devoured them—places where I could escape the pages of my own life. My life was hard. It hurt too much. But inside a book, I could live a different story. Yet when the story ended, so did the fantasy—and I was me again. I always wanted my life to read like the stories I loved, where everything wrapped up neatly and everyone got a happy ending. I wanted my happy ending. As I look back over the story of my life, I see pages I wish weren’t there. Unwanted chapters. And more than once I thought, God, I would like a different story, please. We all have stories we don’t like—pain, memories, trauma, darkness our minds sometimes try to bury. Our stories may look different, but the pain often feels the same. But our story doesn’t end there. It doesn’t end in the past, the shame, or the hurt. As long as there is breath in your lungs, there is more still to be written. Even now, God is writing your story. He is changing the ending. He takes broken narratives and turns them into testimonies—victory rising out of adversity. Jesus said it plainly: You will have tribulation, but take heart—I have overcome the world (John 16:33). No matter your story, God is the Author, and He is able to rewrite what feels beyond repair. Whether the pain came from our own choices or from things done to us, Philippians 3:13–14 reminds us that we are not meant to live facing backwards. In Christ, we learn to leave the past behind and press forward into what He is still doing. The story of what God has done in your life makes Him real to those who hear it. Your testimony has the power to capture hearts. It may be the turning point in someone else’s story. It is not the final chapter—it is the opening page of many more to come. There is no shame in past mistakes or failures. God is writing a new story in and through you. He is the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort (2 Corinthians 1:3), and He redeems what once seemed wasted. What I once thought were the most painful and pitiful parts of my story, I now see as some of the most powerful. That’s what God does. What was meant to break us, He uses to strengthen us.

I was reflecting on 1 Kings 13, the story of the man of God sent to Bethel. God sends him with a clear word. He prophesies against the altar. The king becomes enraged and reaches out to seize him, and immediately the king’s hand is paralysed. The altar splits in two, exactly as the prophet declared. Power. Authority. Undeniable confirmation that God had spoken. The king then begs for mercy. The prophet prays, and the king’s hand is restored. Yet even after witnessing the power of God firsthand, the king does not change his ways. The prophet leaves, obeying God’s explicit instruction: do not eat or drink in that place, and do not return the way you came. And this is where the story becomes unsettling. The prophet who heard God clearly, who saw His power move so dramatically, is later deceived by another man who claims to be a prophet. This man lies, saying an angel spoke to him and gave a new instruction from the Lord. Why was he deceived? If God had changed His mind, surely He would have spoken again to the very prophet He first commissioned — not through a stranger. The prophet knew the voice of God. Yet he listened to a voice that sounded familiar, spiritual, even trustworthy. And it cost him his life. The question presses in on us today: where does this leave us? We live in a time filled with voices. Voices that sound convincing. Voices that quote Scripture. Voices that appear gentle, wise, and godly. But Scripture warns us to test the spirits to see whether they are from God (1 John 4:1). And it also reminds us that in later times some will follow deceiving spirits (1 Timothy 4:1). Not every spiritual voice is from God. This is why we must be anchored in the Word. God’s Word is truth. He does not lie. He does not contradict Himself. He does not change His nature. And He will never call us to do something that runs contrary to what He has already spoken. Sometimes the most dangerous voices are not harsh or obvious — they are sweet, familiar, and subtly invite us away from the truth we already know.

At first glance, John 1:41 and Matthew 4:18–20 can seem like they contradict each other. In John, Andrew finds Peter and says, “We have found the Messiah.” In Matthew, Jesus calls Peter and Andrew to leave their nets and follow Him. But when we slow down and look more closely, we discover they don’t compete — they complement. John shows us the first encounter. The moment of recognition. The quiet unfolding of belief as Andrew meets Jesus and brings his brother along. Matthew shows us the call. The decisive moment when Jesus says, “Follow Me,” and ordinary lives are surrendered to an extraordinary purpose. None of the Gospel writers are trying to give a minute-by-minute biography. They are bearing witness from different angles to the same unfolding reality. There’s also something gentle here: Jesus doesn’t call them to abandon everything before they’ve seen who He is. Relationship precedes surrender. Together, these passages tell a richer, more compassionate story of how Jesus calls people — patiently, personally, and purposefully. Sometimes faith begins with a conversation. Sometimes it ends with nets left on the shore. And often, it’s both.

The battle rages all around me, arrows of the enemy aimed at my heart. Pain comes sudden, stealing my breath, my mind drifting to places I did not invite. Then Your Spirit gently reminds me: the enemy cannot penetrate my heart. My heart is no longer mine — it belongs to You. He cannot steal or wound what he does not own. The pain is only a shadow, an echo of former hurts still drifting through the recesses of my heart and mind. As I remember that I belong to You, tears of healing flood my eyes. The enemy cannot take from me what I have freely given to You. Your Spirit lifts my countenance. The phantom of pain begins to fade. In Your presence I remember whose I am and to whom I belong. I am not my own. I am Yours — bought with a price. My heart, my life, my soul are Yours. Though the enemy comes like a flood, seeking to trap me in sorrow and despair, I know I am Yours. In Your presence I find peace; You quiet my soul with singing. Though the attacks come, the battle is not mine — it is Yours. My strength is found in You, in Your presence, in Your love. It may hurt for a season, but You will never leave or forsake me. You are my rock, the fortress where I run. Even when I am exhausted, You strengthen me to carry on. You are exactly what I need. Your strength sustains me.