I’ve never read about Paul before.

I recently joined a Bible Study where he is the focus and Philippians is the book we are dissecting. This morning during my quiet Bible time, I decided to focus on Paul's background. I found myself lingering in his words, sitting with them, and imagining the setting. Paul, chained to a Roman guard, unsure if he’d live or die, yet writing about joy, peace, and contentment.

It’s easy to admire him.

He’s bold.

Faithful.

Unshakable.

But as I read his words from that Roman prison, I saw something:

Paul wasn’t just writing for himself.

He wasn’t even just writing for the Philippians.

He was writing for the guard chained to him.

For the officials in Caesar’s palace

For the people in Rome.

For us.

For those who may not know,

Paul wasn’t always a hero of the faith.

He started off as Saul, a devout religious leader who passionately persecuted Christians. He even approved the stoning of Stephen, the first Christian martyr.

He was powerful, respected, and convinced that silencing followers of Jesus was the right thing to do.

Then everything changed.

On the road to Damascus, Jesus Himself appeared to Saul in a blinding light and asked, “Why do you persecute Me?” That divine encounter turned his life upside down.

Saul became Paul—a man who would go on to become one of the most influential voices in the Church, writing much of the New Testament.

But following Jesus came with a cost.

Paul was arrested, beaten, and imprisoned multiple times for preaching the Gospel. When he wrote the book of Philippians, he was under house arrest in Rome, chained to Roman guards, awaiting trial before Caesar. And even in that place—confined and uncertain—he wrote one of the most joy-filled, encouraging letters we have in Scripture.

What happened to me—the trauma, the pain, the things I never should have experienced—it wasn’t my fault.

I did nothing wrong.

And yet for years, I carried it like it was.

The shame.

The silence.

The ache of being unseen, unheard, and misunderstood.

But when I read about Paul in chains for something he didn’t do, I saw myself.

Not just the pain, but the choice.

Paul had every right to be angry.

To be bitter.

To cry out, “Why me, God?”

But instead, he chose to move forward.

To write.

To pour out hope.

To let his suffering become someone else’s breakthrough.

And so can I.

I look at my own life right now, and I see how true that is.

I am the sole believer of Jesus within my circle.

My husband, most of my family, and some of my closest friends do not share my faith. If they do believe, it's only on a superficial level.

And yet, God has placed me right here.

I gave up my career because I felt God tell me to stay home and homeschool our daughter.

I didn’t know what that would look like—I just knew I had to trust Him.

And because of that yes, my world has opened up in ways I never imagined.

I now have time for Bible studies.

For playdates with faith-filled moms.

For co-ops where I can pour into my daughter and also be poured into by others who love Jesus like I do.

I can either stay angry at what was done to me…

Or I can step into the calling that God’s placed in front of me—letting my life, my healing, and my faith become a living testimony of redemption.

Because when I look around at my life now, I see that God didn’t waste a single tear.

The pain didn’t disappear—but it did transform.

And somehow, in the way that only God can do,

He used it to lead me into a life I couldn’t have dreamed up on my own.

A life where I homeschool my miracle child, and get to fill her days with love, freedom, and faith.

A life where I’ve found other moms who walk with Jesus, who pray with me, who encourage me.

A life where I now have the time and presence to pursue God more deeply than I ever could before.

And it all started with a yes in the middle of the mess.

A few weeks ago, our pastor gave a sermon about how our faith isn’t just for us.

It came right after a hard conversation with a family member. I was still carrying the weight of it—the hurt, the misunderstanding, the anger. I sat in that church seat, hearing those words about being a witness and letting your life be a light… and honestly?

I felt bitter.

I was tired.

Tired of being the one who had to “keep the faith.”

Tired of suffering because of other people—their actions, their words, their silence.

Tired of doing the right thing and still feeling so alone in it.

But today, reading about Paul and sitting with his words from prison—something cracked open for me.

Suddenly, I could see it clearly.

This wasn’t just a series of random thoughts or coincidences.

This was God gently speaking, again.

Building on what He had already started in my heart.

He was showing me:

And just like that, bitterness began to turn into clarity.

Paul’s prison didn’t silence him.

And mine won’t either.

Because this—this life I’ve been called to live—is a letter.

A letter written not with ink, but with my choices.

My obedience.

My surrender.

I may not have crowds listening to my sermons, but I have something just as holy:

• A daughter watching how I respond to pain.

• A husband seeing faith lived out in gentleness.

• A family who sees light, even when they don't yet understand the source.

Just like Paul, my life is being read—even by the guards chained to me.

So when the days feel lonely, when I wonder if it’s worth it, when I ache for someone to understand—I remember: My faith isn’t just about me.

It’s about the ripple. The legacy. The people I may never even realize I’m impacting.

And if Paul could find joy in a cell, I can find purpose in this season.

Because my hope is this:

That my daughter grows up seeing a living example of faith—Not just a mom who tells her to be kind because “that’s what Jesus would do,”

But a mom who shows her what it means to lean on Jesus in pain,

To wrestle, to forgive, to obey, to rejoice even when it’s hard.

That my husband, who continues to ask questions,

Will keep searching, keep wondering,

And maybe—just maybe—one day will come to know Jesus for himself.

That my family members, who carry their own wounds,

Will find the courage to face the trauma they’ve buried for years,

And discover that healing is possible—because they saw it in me.

That friends who aren’t sure what they believe,

Will see a peace in my life that draws them to ask,

And one day want to know the Source of that peace.

That this life I’m building—this faith I’m fighting for—Will be filled with people who are seeking Jesus.

Because they saw Him in me.

Because if I can go through such deep pain,

And come out on the other side praising Jesus for it…

Just maybe, they’ll want that kind of redemption too.

A Prayer for the Mom Living in Quiet Obedience

Lord,

Thank You for calling me—even when it was costly.

Even when I felt alone.

Even when I didn’t understand why.

Help me to remember that You see it all.

The quiet sacrifices.

The whispered prayers.

The steps of obedience no one else applauds.

May my faith not be for show, but for surrender.

May it reach the ones closest to me—the ones who share my table and my name.

And may I never forget that You are using my life,

even the broken pieces,

to write a story that brings others closer to You.

Amen.

Think About It

Who might be watching your faith without you realizing it?

What has God asked you to say yes to—even when it didn’t make sense?

How has your obedience impacted others around you, even in small ways?