The Seasoning of the Soul
We season our meals without thinking about where those flavors were born, yet they began as God’s living creations—plants, roots, trees. Just like love and relationships, the smallest parts of His design can transform everything. A tiny bit of faith, a gentle word, a quiet prayer. God works through the little things to bring big change.
We treat herbs and spices like convenient jars of flavor. Grab a pinch. Shake a little garlic. A dash of oregano. No thought about where it came from. Just taste.
But that little jar started as a plant. A root. A tree. Something alive. Created long before we ever mixed it into dinner. Something that grew quietly. Deep in the soil.
The tiny things that change everything.
Just like love. Just like people. Just like God’s way of working.
You don’t always need a lot to shift the whole meal. Sometimes a single clove changes the dish. One leaf of basil. One grain of salt. Same with relationships. One kind word. One act of patience. One prayer for someone who doesn’t know you’re praying for them.
God works like seasoning. Starts small. Grows naturally. Shows up simple. Changes the entire outcome.
We focus on the convenience. But the real beauty is the origin. The source. Roots that grow in places we don’t see. Relationships and love begin the same way. Built quietly. Watered slowly. Harvested later.
The jar is the easy part. The growth is the miracle.
Maybe we should treat love the way we treat rosemary. Preserve it. Store it for when it matters. Use it when life is bland. And remember it came from something living.
God gives flavor to our lives through people the same way He gives flavor to food through the smallest parts of His creation.
One tiny bit. From a plant. From His hand.
That’s enough to change everything.
“Better is a little with the fear of the Lord than great treasure and turmoil with it.”
Proverbs 15:16
The Eyes Don’t Lie
I watched grown men stare past the stage with that ghost-eye look. Tears in some. Despair in others. Wives watching their men wake up through surrender, not collapse. The eyes don’t lie. They never have.
The eyes never lie.
They can’t.
They’re plugged straight into whatever truth a person is trying to bury.
This weekend in The Woodlands, we played a show and Chad spoke from a place most men avoid. A place inside the heart where honesty feels like a blade. He talked about Charlie, about this country, and about the weight of being human in a world that keeps getting more artificial by the minute.
What I saw hit harder than the message itself.
Men staring forward, but not at the stage.
Past it.
Into something they’ve been running from.
That hollow, haunted look when a man finally feels what he usually hides.
Tears in some.
Quiet despair in others.
A strange sense of comfort in a few, like someone finally spoke their private truth out loud.
And here’s where it shifted.
The wives and girlfriends were watching their men wake up.
Not collapse.
Wake up.
There was strength in it. There was surrender in it. The kind that isn’t weakness. The kind that comes from being done with pretending.
There’s a hunger moving through people.
A real one.
Everyone is tired of acting okay.
Tired of nodding along with what doesn’t feel right.
Tired of carrying the weight of silence.
Some are finally choosing truth even when it costs everything.
Especially when it costs everything.
The eyes don’t lie.
They never have.
If you pay attention, you can tell exactly who’s awake and who’s still hiding from themselves.