Faith Is Not Meant to Be Small

Yesterday I heard Father Mike Schmitz say:

l “Faith has to be lived, not just believed.”

And it did not land softly.

It moved through me like something ancient remembering itself.

Like cathedral bells ringing through fog.

Like tectonic plates shifting under ground I thought was steady.

Because I believe.

But do I live like I believe?

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When Something Holy Becomes Polite

Somewhere along the way, faith can become… well-mannered.

Contained.

A Sunday morning.

A song that warms your chest.

A sermon you agree with.

A prayer you say before you eat.

And then we return to the ordinary rhythm of the week as though nothing eternal just brushed against our skin.

We say, “If You can… that would be nice.”

As though we are not speaking to the One who breathed galaxies into existence.

As though heaven is not bending low to hear us.

We believe He is powerful.

But we pray like He is optional.

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Heaven Leans In

I once listened to Father Dave Pivonka speak about prayer not as a timid suggestion box, but as an encounter.

Not vague.

Not hedged.

Not “if You happen to…”

But bold.

Because when you kneel, you are not performing a ritual.

You are entering a throne room.

The King of Kings does not glance at you distractedly.

He inclines toward you.

The Creator of breath listens to your breath.

If we truly let that register —

wouldn’t we pray differently?

Wouldn’t we speak with a little more expectancy?

Wouldn’t our backs straighten just a bit?

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The Child Who Trusts the Zoo

Let me tell you what trust actually looks like.

You tell a child, “We’re going to the zoo next weekend.”

And from that moment forward, it is settled.

They will remind you on Tuesday.

And Wednesday.

And while you’re standing in the grocery store checkout line.

The cashier will ask how your day is going, and before you can answer, your child will beam:

“We’re going to the zoo next weekend!”

They aren’t being obnoxious.

They aren’t doubting you.

They are delighted.

They trust you.

You said it.

So of course it’s happening.

They don’t whisper about it.

They don’t hedge their joy.

They don’t think, “Well… if Mom’s capable…”

They live as though it is already written into the calendar of their life.

That is what reminding God of His promises looks like.

Not accusation.

Not “Don’t forget.”

But:

You said.

And I’m excited.

And I trust You.

You promised beauty for ashes.

You promised abundant life.

You promised that the valley is something we walk through — not somewhere we stay.

So here I am, God.

Not calling You out.

Calling You faithful.

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Stop Looking at the Screen

Imagine standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon.

The vastness stretching beyond what your eyes can measure.

Wind rising from somewhere ancient.

Light moving across stone that has held centuries.

Now imagine never looking up.

Only staring at your phone.

Trying to capture it.

Trying to contain it.

Trying to preserve proof that you were there.

The picture will never hold the weight of the view.

And sometimes I think that’s what we do with God.

We curate Him.

We talk about Him.

We reduce Him to something we can manage — something we can store and revisit later.

But He gives fresh manna every morning.

You do not need to preserve Him.

You do not need to capture Him.

The view will be there tomorrow.

Look up.

Let the magnitude undo you.

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Living From a Higher Register

If I truly believed:

That God is still enthroned.

That Christ is seated at His right hand.

That I am a daughter of the Most High.

I would walk differently.

Not because life is easy.

But because I would know I am safe.

I would love without gripping so tightly.

I would surrender without rehearsing worst-case scenarios.

I would pray without apologizing for asking.

Faith lived is not loud or dramatic.

It is steady.

It is waking up in the valley and whispering, “This is not my final address.”

It is bringing your ashes and expecting beauty — not because you are entitled, but because He is faithful.

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Surrender Is Not Shrinking

I am in a season of surrender.

And I am learning that surrender is not small.

It is not passive.

It is not watered-down hope.

It is living as though what He said is already in motion.

It is reminding Him — with joy — of the zoo trip He promised.

Faith is not meant to be polite.

It is meant to be alive.

Not just believed.

Lived.

—
Mary Florence