Author: JJ Puccio

Lately, I feel like God has been teaching me a lesson that I thought I already understood: trust.

It is easy to say that I trust God when things are going well. It is easy to believe that He is in control when the future looks predictable, the plans make sense, and I know what tomorrow is going to look like. But lately, I have been reminded that real trust is tested when I don’t have all the answers.

The changes happening within State Farm have brought some of that to the surface for me. I have spent years building my agency, my career, and my life around things that, at least to some degree, I could understand and control. I could work hard. I could make good decisions. I could serve my customers well. I could lead my team. I could plan for the future.

But there are things I cannot control.

The contract changes are one of them. I can have an opinion about them. I can prepare for them. I can choose how I respond to them. I can work hard to make the most of the opportunities in front of me. But ultimately, I don’t get to decide what the contract looks like or what changes come next.

And then there is losing my health insurance.

That one feels different because it is personal. It is one thing to talk about trusting God in an abstract way. It is another thing when something affects your own sense of security and you find yourself asking, “What am I going to do?”

Maybe that is exactly where God is trying to meet me.

I have always believed that God is faithful. But perhaps He is teaching me that believing God is faithful and actually living as though He is faithful are two different things.

Trust means I don’t have to know how everything is going to work out before I move forward.

Trust means I can acknowledge that some of these changes are uncomfortable without allowing them to convince me that God has somehow lost control.

Trust means I can make wise decisions, plan carefully, work hard and still recognize that my ultimate security cannot come from any contract, company, career, income, insurance policy or position.

Those things can provide stability, but they were never meant to carry the weight of my trust.

I think that is part of what God has been showing me through all of this. I have spent a lot of my life trying to build security around myself, and there is nothing inherently wrong with that. We should be responsible. We should plan. We should work hard. We should steward what God has given us well.

But there is a difference between being responsible for what God has entrusted to me and believing that I am ultimately responsible for my own security.

I am not.

God has been reminding me that my job is faithfulness, not control.

I don’t know exactly what the future of my career will look like. I don’t know how every contract change will affect me. I don’t know what losing my health insurance will ultimately mean. And if I am honest, there is a part of me that wants to know all of those answers right now.

But maybe I don’t need to.

Maybe the question God is asking me is not, “Do you know how this is going to work out?”

Maybe He is asking, “Do you trust Me even when you don’t?”

That is a much harder question.

It is also a much better one.

Scripture tells me, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.” I have read that verse countless times, but perhaps I am being given an opportunity to actually live it.

Because leaning on my own understanding feels very natural. I want to analyze the situation, anticipate every possibility, protect myself from every potential problem and figure out the solution before I have to face the problem.

God keeps inviting me to something different.

Trust Me.

Do what you can do. Be wise. Work hard. Make the phone calls. Ask the questions. Prepare for what is ahead. But don’t confuse preparation with control.

I am reminded again that my identity is not found in what I do. I am not ultimately a State Farm agent. I am not my contract. I am not my income. I am not my benefits. I am not my accomplishments or my position.

My identity is found in being a child of God.

That doesn’t mean these things don’t matter. They do. Losing something I’ve depended on is still difficult. Uncertainty is still uncomfortable. I don’t have to pretend otherwise.

But it does mean that none of these things can determine whether I am secure in the deepest sense of the word.

Maybe this season is less about God changing my circumstances and more about God changing me.

Maybe He is loosening my grip on the things I have used to create a sense of security and teaching me to hold them with open hands.

I don’t know what the next chapter looks like.

But I know who will be there when I get there.

And for now, maybe that is enough.

Lord, teach me to trust You when I cannot see the whole picture. Help me to be faithful with what You have placed in front of me, without believing that I have to control the outcome. Give me wisdom to do what I can, courage to face what I cannot change, and faith to remember that my security has never ultimately been found in a contract, a career, or a benefit. It has always been found in You.

I have always been a worrier, and if I am being honest with myself, finances are one of the easiest things for me to worry about. Right now, there is plenty of fuel for that worry. I am in the middle of paying for a wedding, while at the same time trying to navigate the uncertainty of a new contract at work. My base pay is going down, and my expenses are going up because I am no longer covered by a group health plan through my company. When I look at all of it at once, it is easy to start wondering how everything is going to work out.

That is exactly why something happened at church a few Sundays ago has stayed with me for weeks. Our praise team sang a song called “You’ve Already Won,” a song that reminds us that while we may be fighting battles here on earth, God has already won the ultimate battle. There was one simple line in that song that seemed to reach directly into the middle of everything I have been worrying about: “Manna for today.”

Those four words have become a quiet reminder to me that I do not need to figure out how everything is going to work six months from now, much less six years from now. God has not asked me to live six months from now. He has asked me to live faithfully today. And today, He has provided me with everything I need.

I think about the Israelites wandering through the wilderness and how God provided manna for them day after day. He did not give them forty years of food all at once. He gave them what they needed for that day, and then He did it again the next day. Their provision was not a warehouse they could stare at and feel secure about. It was a daily reminder that they had to trust the One who provided it.

Maybe that is what God is teaching me right now.

I keep wanting to see the entire road ahead before I am willing to take the next step. I want to know how the new contract will work out, how the increased expenses will affect me, how everything will look months from now, and whether I will have enough. But God keeps bringing me back to today. Manna for today.

Today, I have what I need. Today, God has provided. Today, I have work, a home, food on the table, people I love, and countless blessings that I can easily overlook when I become consumed with what might happen tomorrow. And when tomorrow arrives, God will already be there waiting for me with whatever manna I need for that day.

There is something incredibly freeing about realizing that I do not have to solve tomorrow today. My job is not to stockpile enough faith, enough money, enough answers, or enough certainty to carry me through the next six years. My job is to trust God with today and believe that He will still be God when tomorrow comes.

That simple phrase, “Manna for today,” has given me a peace of mind that surpasses my own understanding. It does not mean that my circumstances have changed. The wedding still needs to be paid for. My contract is still changing. My income is changing, and my expenses are increasing. The uncertainty is still there. What has changed is where I am looking.

Instead of staring at everything I might not have tomorrow, I am trying to be grateful for everything God has given me today.

And today, I have enough.

That is good enough for me.

Tomorrow will bring its own needs, its own challenges, and its own manna. I do not need tomorrow’s provision today. I simply need to trust the God who has never failed to provide what I need.

Manna for today.

Maybe that is all the faith I need for now.

Psalm 139:23-24 says: “Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. Point out anything in me that offends you, and lead me along the path of everlasting life.”

I’ve been thinking about this verse today, and it hits differently when you think a little deeper about what it’s asking from God.

He doesn’t need to “search” my heart to discover something new about me…He is Almighty God.

He already knows every corner, every hidden motive, and every unspoken thought before I even open my mouth. The search isn’t for His information; it’s for my transformation.

Left to my own devices, I am remarkably good at self-justification. I can rationalize my attitude, excuse my impatience, or gloss over pride without giving it a second thought. My heart has blind spots that I simply cannot see on my own.

When I ask God to search my heart, I am asking Him to hold up a mirror to my soul. I’m asking Him to illuminate the areas where unconfessed sin, quiet resentment, or misplaced priorities have taken root without me noticing. It takes humility to pray this because it means opening myself up to conviction. Not to be condemned by it, but to be set free from it.

He uncovers the dark places in my heart not to push me away, but to heal me. He points out what offends Him so that I can confess it, leave it behind, and walk more closely with Him.

My Prayer Today

Lord, search my heart today.

Don’t let me live in the comfort of my own blind spots. Shine Your light into the hidden corners of my mind and heart. Reveal the subtle sins I’ve overlooked, the anxious thoughts I’ve tried to control on my own, and any attitude that isn’t honoring to You.

Gently show me where I’ve strayed so I can align my steps with Yours. Forgive me, cleanse me, and lead me in the path of everlasting life.

Amen.

One of the most important questions we can ask ourselves is also one of the most difficult: Who am I?

Most of us answer that question by describing what we do. We talk about our careers, accomplishments, responsibilities, and the roles we carry. We introduce ourselves by our professions, our successes, and the things we have spent years building.

But those answers only describe what we do. They do not fully answer who we are.

The danger comes when we allow our work, our achievements, or our titles to become the foundation of our identity. Those things are meaningful, but they were never meant to define us. Careers change. Circumstances change. Recognition fades. The things we spend years building can eventually become memories.

A question worth asking ourselves is this:

What if everything you have today suddenly disappeared? Your career, your accomplishments, your possessions, even the titles you have worked so hard to earn. Who would you be?

Scripture gives us a different foundation.

That question is not meant to focus on loss. It is meant to reveal what truly defines us. It helps us separate who we are from what we do and reminds us that our identity cannot be built on things that are temporary.

Genesis 1:27 tells us that we are created in the image of God. Before we accomplish anything, earn anything, or achieve anything, we already have value because we belong to Him.

Ephesians 2:10 reminds us, “For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.”

We are not valuable because of what we accomplish. We accomplish things because we already have value. Our purpose is not to prove ourselves but to faithfully use the gifts God has given us.

This does not mean our work is unimportant. Quite the opposite. Our work is one of the ways we honor God and serve others. The question is not whether our work matters. The question is why we work.

Are we working to prove our worth, or are we working because we understand our worth has already been established by God?

Colossians 3:23 says, “Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men.”

That verse changes everything. Our jobs, businesses, responsibilities, and daily tasks become more than obligations. They become opportunities to glorify God. Whether we are leading others, serving customers, building something new, or quietly doing work that few people notice, we can do it with excellence because our ultimate purpose is to serve the Lord.

The older I get, the less interested I become in building an impressive résumé and the more interested I become in building a faithful life.

There is a difference.

A résumé records accomplishments. A faithful life reflects character.

Jesus modeled this perfectly. Despite having every reason to seek recognition, He chose humility and service. In Mark 10:45, Jesus said, “For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve.”

If Jesus viewed greatness through the lens of serving others, then we should do the same.

The apostle Paul understood this truth. In Philippians 3:8, he wrote that he considered everything a loss compared to knowing Christ. Paul had accomplishments, education, and influence, but he realized none of those things could compare to the identity he found in Christ.

That is the challenge for all of us. Can we pursue excellence without allowing achievement to define us? Can we appreciate the blessings God gives us without allowing those blessings to become our identity?

Our identity was never meant to be found in what we achieve.

It was meant to be found in who we belong to.

At the end of the day, our careers will end, our titles will be passed on, and our accomplishments will become part of history. But the way we served, the way we loved, and the way we honored God through our lives will leave a lasting impact.

Who I am is not what I do.

What I do is simply an opportunity to faithfully serve the One who created me.

There’s something about the story of David that keeps coming back to me lately.

David was chosen by God to be king long before he ever wore a crown. God had already called him, already set him apart, already destined him for something greater. But before David ever sat on a throne, he had to stand in a valley facing a giant.

God could have handed David the crown immediately. Instead, He handed him Goliath.

And David isn’t the only example. Moses spent forty years wandering in the wilderness before leading people into freedom. Joseph sat in prison before stepping into the palace. So many people in scripture were shaped in difficult places long before they stepped into the purpose God had for them.

Maybe that’s because God is more concerned with refining us than rewarding us. We want crowns, but God often starts with giants.

Lately, I’ve been walking through a season of doubt. Questions. Fear. Uncertainty. The kind that keeps your mind racing late at night. And maybe, just maybe, this season is my Goliath. Not something sent to destroy me, but something God can use to shape me.

I don’t know what waits on the other side of this season. I don’t know if there’s some earthly reward coming. Honestly, there may not be, and that’s not easy to accept. We naturally want the pain to lead to promotion, recognition, or visible blessings, but faith teaches us something deeper than that.

Sometimes the reward is not a crown you can wear here on earth. Sometimes the reward is becoming the person God is calling you to be. Stronger. Wiser. More dependent on Him. Less consumed with control and more anchored in trust.

And there is peace in knowing this:

Even when I stand in front of my Goliath, I do not stand there alone. God stands with me.

He fights battles I cannot see. He strengthens me when I feel weak. He reminds me that giants do not have the final word. Fear does not have the final word. Doubt does not have the final word. God does.

So, maybe this season is not punishment. Maybe it is preparation.

Prayer:

God, sometimes I do not understand the valleys You allow me to walk through. I do not always understand the giants standing in front of me or the seasons of doubt that weigh heavily on my heart. But even in my uncertainty, help me trust that You are still working.

Refine me in this season. Shape my heart, strengthen my faith, and teach me to depend on You more than I depend on my own understanding. When fear grows loud, remind me that You are greater. When doubt creeps in, remind me of Your promises. And when I feel weak, remind me that I never face these battles alone.

Help me remember that You are not only the God of the crown, but also the God of the wilderness, the valleys, and the battles in between. Give me the courage to keep walking faithfully, even when I cannot yet see the purpose behind the struggle.

And if this season is preparation for something greater, then prepare me well.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

There is a quiet truth most of us live with but rarely say out loud. On any given day, we are carrying more than we were ever meant to carry alone.

Some burdens are loud. Stress from work that hums in the background like a generator that never shuts off. Financial pressure that tightens its grip a little more each month. Family struggles that sit heavy on the heart long after the conversations end.

Others are quieter, almost hidden. Anxiety that whispers worst case scenarios. Depression that drains color from things that once felt bright. And sometimes, there is the weight we try hardest to conceal. A private sin. A lingering habit. A thought pattern we hope no one ever discovers. These are the stones we tuck into our pockets, thinking we can manage, until we realize we are exhausted from carrying them.

Into all of this, Jesus speaks with remarkable simplicity in Matthew 11:28-30:

“Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

He does not say, “Fix yourself first.”

He does not say, “Carry it a little longer.”

He says, “Come.”

There is something deeply personal about that invitation. It is not a system. It is not a checklist. It is a relationship. Jesus is not asking you to manage your burdens better. He is asking you to bring them to Him.

When He tells us to take His yoke upon us, it can sound strange at first. A yoke was a wooden beam placed over two animals so they could pull a load together. It was a tool of work, not rest. But that is exactly where the beauty lies.

Jesus is not removing purpose from your life. He is changing how you carry it.

To take His yoke means you are no longer pulling alone. You are now joined with Him. The weight that once crushed you becomes something shared. The direction that once confused you becomes guided. He sets the pace. He steadies your steps. And unlike the burdens we create or collect, His yoke is described as easy and His burden as light.

Not because life suddenly becomes simple, but because you are no longer alone in it.

So today, whatever you are carrying, the visible and the hidden, the heavy and the quietly draining, you do not have to white knuckle your way through it. You can hand it over. Not once, but as often as needed.

Rest is not found in having no burdens. It is found in knowing who is carrying them with you.

Prayer:

Lord,

You see everything I am carrying, even the things I try to hide. The stress, the worry, the pain, and the weight of my own struggles. I am tired of trying to handle it all on my own.

Today, I come to You. I lay these burdens at Your feet and ask You to take what I was never meant to carry alone. Teach me what it means to walk with You, to trust Your pace, and to lean on Your strength instead of my own.

Give me Your rest. Quiet my heart. And remind me that I am not alone.

Amen.

James 2:1-13

There is something in me that wants to be seen in the right rooms with the right people. If I am honest, there is a quiet calculation that can start running in my heart. Who makes me look successful? Who might raise my standing just by standing next to me?

James does not tiptoe around this. In James 2:1-13, he paints a scene that feels uncomfortably familiar: A wealthy man walks in wearing fine clothes and a poor man enters in worn garments. The temptation is immediate. Offer the good seat to the one who looks impressive and tuck the other away where he will not be noticed. James calls this what it is, partiality and favoritism. A betrayal of the law to love our neighbor as ourselves.

If I am seen with certain people, others may assume I am important. If I am seen with the least of these, I fear it may cost me my reputation, influence or social status. This reveals something sobering: Sometimes I don’t value people for who they are, I value them for what they may can do for me.

That is not how Jesus lived.

The life of Jesus did not orbit around influence. He walked toward the ones who were overlooked, He touched lepers and ate with tax collectors. He spoke to women others ignored and despised. He never considered how someone could improve His image.

In the book of Ephesians, Paul pleads for unity. One body, one Spirit, one Lord. Oneness is not a slogan, it’s a reality that was purchased by Christ. For me, though, oneness breaks the moment I begin sorting people into tiers of people who are worthy of my time, people who are important and unimportant.

When I divide people into social categories, I rebuild the walls Jesus died to tear down.

James reminds me that mercy always triumphs over judgment. The ground at the foot of the cross is level. The wealthy and the poor stand in the same need of grace. The visually polished and the internally broken are equally dependent on mercy. If I truly believe that, then my posture toward others should reflect it.

I do not want to love strategically, I want to love obediently.

Today’s wisdom is not complicated, but it is confronting and challenging. If I only move toward people who elevate me, I am not walking in the way of Christ. Real faith refuses to play favorites. Real faith sees the person, not the platform.

Prayer

Father, search my heart and expose any partiality that hides there. Forgive me for the ways I have valued people based on what I thought they could offer me. Teach me to see others the way You see them, as men and women created in Your image and worthy of love. Break down any pride in me that chases status and ignores the overlooked. Create in me the heart of Jesus, who welcomed all without calculation. Help me pursue true oneness with my brothers and sisters, not dividing by social standing but united in Christ. Train my eyes to see people with your eyes, for who You created them to be, not for the status they carry. In Jesus’ name, amen.

Read James 1:19-27

James does not let faith stay theoretical. He presses it into the grind of everyday life and reminds us that listening alone can become a comfortable substitute for obedience. We can hear the Word preached, read it daily, even agree with it deeply, and still walk away unchanged if we do not put action to what God has spoken.

There is danger in being familiar with truth. Familiarity can dull urgency, and urgency is what obedience needs in order to move. James calls us to action by showing us that faith is proven in actions, not intention. The Word of God is not a mirror we glance at and forget, but one that lingers long enough to notice what needs to change and then creates the courage to respond.

Being a doer of the Word means allowing Scripture to interrupt habits, challenge reactions, and reshape priorities. It means forgiving when it feels impossible, serving when it feels inconvenient, and trusting God when clarity seems out of reach. Obedience is rarely loud or dramatic, it is steady, quiet, and deeply transformative over time.

Today’s wisdom is simple but demanding. Do not settle for just hearing what God says. Let His Word take root in how you speak, how you love, and how you live. Real faith shows up after the amen, when the day begins and the choice to obey is placed gently but firmly in front of us.

Sin is not just a bad habit or a poor decision. Scripture paints sin as a disease that infects the soul. Like any disease left untreated, it spreads, weakens, and eventually leads to death. Not only physical death, but spiritual death. Separation from God. Numbness to His voice. A slow fading of joy, peace, and purpose.

Many of us underestimate sin because we compare it to the sins of others. We label some sins as small and others as serious, but disease does not work that way. Infection does not care how it started. Left untreated, it always leads to the same end.

The result of sin is death. Not always immediate, but often slow and subtle. It kills our intimacy with God, it kills clarity, and it kills hope. Romans tells us plainly that the wages of sin is death. That is the diagnosis.

But God never reveals a disease without also offering a cure.

That cure is repentance.

Repentance is more than asking for forgiveness. Asking for forgiveness is acknowledging that we did something wrong, but true repentance is turning away from what is killing us and turning back toward the One who gives life. Forgiveness is a moment. Repentance is a posture. Forgiveness says I am sorry. Repentance says I am changing direction.

We often want forgiveness without transformation. We want relief from consequences without surrender of behavior. But repentance is not about feeling bad, it is about becoming new. It is a daily decision to walk away from sin and toward holiness. It is choosing obedience even when it is uncomfortable.

When we practice true repentance, we experience the cure. And the result of the cure is grace and mercy.

Grace and mercy are related but they are not the same. Mercy is God not giving us what we deserve. We deserve judgment, but He withholds it. Grace is God giving us what we do not deserve. We do not earn favor, but He lavishes it anyway. Mercy removes the penalty. Grace restores the relationship.

Mercy pulls us out of the grave. Grace teaches us how to live again.

Sin also produces something else inside of us: guilt and shame. These two are often confused, but they come from very different places and lead to very different outcomes.

Guilt comes from the Holy Spirit. It is a loving conviction meant to draw us back to God. Guilt says I did something wrong. It points to behavior. It invites correction. It leads us to repentance and healing.

Shame comes from the enemy. Shame says I am something wrong. It attacks identity. It whispers that we are broken beyond repair, unworthy of love, and disqualified from grace. Shame does not lead us to God. It drives us away from Him.

Shame is dangerous because it distorts how we see ourselves and how we believe God sees us. It convinces us that our sin defines us. But Scripture says otherwise. In Christ, we are forgiven, redeemed, and made new. Shame tries to name us by our failure. God names us by our redemption.

The enemy wants us stuck in shame because shame keeps us hiding. God uses guilt to bring us into the light. One damages the soul. The other heals it.

Today, examine your heart. Are you merely asking for forgiveness, or are you practicing repentance? Are you listening to guilt that leads you back to God, or shame that tells you to stay away? The disease leads to death, but the cure leads to grace and mercy. And grace and mercy always lead to life.

Choose the cure.

Finding Peace

Today I need to admit something honestly and without polishing it first. I need to say it out loud to myself, to God, and maybe one day to others: finding peace has been hard. Not just the situational kind of peace that shows up when a problem resolves or a storm finally passes, but the deeper peace that settles into the soul and stays steady even when everything else around me shakes. I have wanted that kind of peace for a long time. I have prayed for it, searched for it, and even convinced myself at times that I had it. Yet more often than not, it feels like it slips right through my hands.

I think part of the struggle is that life is relentlessly noisy. My mind rarely rests, crowded with memories I wish I could rewrite and worries about what tomorrow might bring. The world moves at a pace that leaves little room for stillness, and even when I slow my body down, my thoughts keep racing ahead. There is always some weight pressing in, something unfinished, something disappointing, or a quiet fear of being misunderstood or falling short.

On a very human level, peace also feels elusive because I keep trying to create it on my own. I try to manage outcomes and control details, believing that if I can just get everything lined up correctly, peace will finally arrive. Instead, the opposite happens. The tighter I grip, the more anxious I become. It feels like trying to calm an ocean with my own hands, draining my strength while accomplishing nothing.

At times I wonder if I have confused numbness with peace. I tell myself that if I avoid what hurts or stay distracted long enough, the discomfort will fade. But that is not peace at all, it’s only postponement. Real peace is not found by dodging the storm but by knowing that I am not alone in the middle of it.

That’s where God’s Word has begun to speak more clearly to me. Jesus says in John 14:27, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.” Those words land heavily because I have been troubled and I have been afraid. Yet Jesus makes it clear that His peace operates differently. It is not dependent on circumstances. It is not something I earn or maintain through effort. It is a gift, and it belongs to Him.

Paul echoes this promise in Philippians 4:6–7 when he writes, “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” That peace that surpasses understanding is what my heart longs for. Not a peace that makes sense when life is calm, but a peace anchored in something greater than what I can see. A peace that stands guard over my heart and mind when everything else feels uncertain.

I am still learning. Some days peace feels close, and other days it feels far away, but I am beginning to believe that peace is not something I find through effort or striving, it is in the person of Jesus. Period. The more I lean into Jesus, the less I will feel the need to control and the more I will learn to rest. Maybe peace does not begin with success at all, but with surrender.

God, I am asking You again to quiet the storm within me. Be my peace when I cannot seem to find it anywhere else.