Mission trips are powerful—no doubt about it. They stretch us, teach us, and open our eyes to what God is doing in the world. But what happens when you’re back home, when the trip is over, and the buzz of mission work fades into the normal rhythm of life? How do you keep living on mission when you’re no longer hopping on buses or having life-changing conversations in new places?

As a new college student, I often find myself overwhelmed. Between balancing classes, building new friendships, managing responsibilities, and navigating a future full of unknowns, it’s easy for stress and anxiety to take over. In this place of feeling small and unsure, the Lord has truly been teaching me how to overwhelm what seeks to overwhelm me.

We live in a world that thrives on instant gratification. With technology, convenience, and culture constantly telling us that we can—and should—have everything we want right now, waiting feels almost unnatural. The world says, “You deserve this now. It’s at your fingertips.”

There are moments in life that shift your entire perspective, times when God plants a seed so deep it changes the trajectory of everything. For me, that moment came through my experience with Africa Freedom Mission (AFM). What started as a simple step of obedience became a pivotal turning point in my calling to missions.

Disappointment is not easy to face. It comes in many forms—failed relationships, postponed opportunities, unmet expectations, and broken dreams. As a new college student, I’ve experienced more than my share of discouraging moments.

As students, it’s easy to feel like our time is consumed by assignments, exams, and deadlines. Worship can often seem confined to Sunday mornings or quiet devotional times, but being a student can also be an act of worship. Studying, learning, and pursuing excellence in academics can serve and honor God when we dedicate our efforts to Him.

Words matter. What we say and the intention behind our words truly matter. God has been teaching me this lesson lately—about the weight of my words, the power they carry, and the responsibility I have to use them for good.

When Jesus said, “If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me” (Matthew 16:24), I wonder if we truly understand the weight of His command. In today’s world, the cross has become ritualized—a religious symbol neatly woven into our ceremonies, traditions, and jewelry.

Coming home from a mission trip is always a strange mix of emotions. One moment, I’m grateful to sleep in my own bed and take a hot shower that doesn’t involve a bucket. But then my bed doesn’t feel like mine anymore, and suddenly, I’m missing the nights spent sleeping on the floor of a cold hut, praying for fruitful ministry the next day. The next moment, I’m sitting in my room, feeling completely out of place.

Lately, as I’ve been serving as a missionary here in Zambia, I’ve been wrestling with the concept of rest. Life on the mission field can be incredibly fulfilling, but it’s also filled with long days, heavy burdens, and moments of deep exhaustion—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

Paul’s letters to Timothy are timeless encouragements to remain steadfast in the truth of the gospel amidst challenges, false teachings, and human weakness. Timothy, as a young leader, pastored a community distracted by false doctrine and empty speculations

When I first signed up for the Perspectives course, I had no idea how much it would challenge me, grow me, and ultimately change how I see God’s work in the world. I thought I already understood missions and what it meant to follow God’s call to “make disciples of all nations.” But Perspectives opened my eyes to the depth, beauty, and scope of God’s global purpose in ways I never imagined.

Fear has a way of sneaking in and taking authority where it doesn’t belong. It can slowly creep into our minds, wrap itself around our hearts, and whisper lies about our future, our worth, and our God.

The prophet Ezekiel stood in a valley filled with dry bones—dead, long gone, and scattered across the floor. From a human perspective, the situation was beyond hopeless. These bones didn’t just lack life; they represented a state of complete desolation.

This week, I began studying the book of Judges. If you’re familiar with this portion of Scripture, your reaction is unlikely to be one of joy or excitement. Judges is not a feel-good story; it is a sobering portrayal of the tragedy of sin.

Our culture often views pain and suffering through a lens of meaninglessness. In a world that believes everything is the result of chance—random events in a chaotic universe—suffering becomes nothing more than a cruel and senseless interruption.

I often find myself to be a rational and logical person. I evaluate situations, weigh the pros and cons, and look for certainty before I act. In many ways, this isn’t a bad thing—God created our minds with the ability to reason and think critically.

My sophomore and junior years of high school were a time of bold faith and unexpected growth. It all started with a simple idea: bringing the lessons we were learning at Scottsdale Bible Church to our high school. A few friends and I wanted to create a space where students could express their questions, learn about Jesus, and experience fellowship without fear of judgment or commitment. We called it “Food and Fellowship.”

For the last six years, I have battled clinical depression—a weight that felt impossible to bear, a diagnosis that consumed my identity. There were moments I couldn’t understand why God would allow me to carry this heaviness. There were years I resented Him for it.

As I was reading recently, a particular psalm caught my attention. It was written in a moment of deep confusion and sorrow—after the destruction of Jerusalem. The author, Asaph, was witnessing the complete collapse of his people’s civilization: politically, economically, socially, and religiously.