When Life Gives You Hiccups

You wake up Monday morning, already behind. Your to-do list feels like a threat, not a tool. Coffee doesn’t even taste at all drinkable. Somewhere between brushing your teeth and convincing yourself to open the laptop, you wonder if what you do matters. And just like that—hiccup. A disruption. A pause. A stutter. It’s as if you’ve lost your purpose, your calling, your life’s mission.

We all want our lives to mean something. We long for our work to have a purpose. But a hidden belief, often unspoken but deeply rooted, quietly sabotages us. It whispers, “This part of your life isn’t spiritual. This task, this email, this spreadsheet, this shift—God’s not in it.”

That’s the short circuit.

It’s the faulty wiring in our faith that breaks the connection between heaven and earth, sacred and ordinary. And it’s dangerously convincing. It makes you believe God is only found in church pews, prayer closets, and mission fields—not in boardrooms, break rooms, or broom closets.

But let’s be clear: there is no spiritual-secular divide in the Kingdom of God. That divide is man-made, and when we accept it, we stop flipping the switch that keeps us connected to God’s presence in our daily work.

A short circuit doesn’t mean you’ve lost faith altogether. It just means the current isn’t flowing. You believe in God, but Monday feels godless. You believe He created work, but your work feels disconnected. You know you have gifts, but you’ve stopped seeing them as sacred.

That’s what Monday Morning Atheism looks like—not a loss of belief, but a loss of integration.

Here’s the truth: every part of your life is spiritual because every part belongs to God. Your desk is an altar. Your tools are instruments of praise. Your ideas, your spreadsheets, your customer service calls, your lesson plans, your caregiving shifts—all of it is Kingdom territory. Every moment, every task, every breath is charged with divine potential.

When your life gives you hiccups, those aren’t signs that something sacred is broken. They’re invitations. Small disruptions remind you to realign with the truth that God is already there. He’s not waiting for you to clock out before He speaks. He’s in the middle of the mess, the meetings, and the mundane.

Don’t let a short circuit steal your spark. Every moment you live, every task you do, is part of the divine story God is writing through you. Flip the switch. Let the Spirit flow into your Monday, or any day and time something isn’t flowing properly. And let the hiccups remind you to breathe—because even your interruptions belong to Him.

Devotional Prayer: Reconnecting the Sacred Flow

Dearest Heavenly Father,

Thank You for caring about every part of my life—not just the moments I label “spiritual,” but the quiet ones, the busy ones, the hiccup-filled ones too. You are present in my planning and my pauses, my labor and my longing, my strength and my struggle. Help me to see what You see.

Forgive me for the times I’ve boxed You into Sundays and shut You out of my Mondays. For believing the lie that some things don’t matter to You. For letting frustration or fatigue short-circuit our connection. Rewire my thinking, Lord. Remind me that You dwell not just in temples made by hands, but in my cubicle, my walk to work, my car, my kitchen, my conversations, and my calendar.

Today, I choose to welcome You into every moment. Let my work be worship, my interruptions be invitations, and my heart be fully available to hear Your voice—even in the smallest tasks. Turn every hiccup into a holy pause. Teach me to live with divine flow.

In the name of Jesus—who never divided the sacred from the every day—I pray,

Amen.

Pick Your Nos, and Scratch Your Buts

I have been drowning in yeses for as long as I can remember.

Not swimming. Not floating. Drowning.

The weight of agreement, of obligation, of being the person who always finds a way—it’s like chains around my ankles, dragging me under. I say yes before I even hear the request. Before I let the silence settle long enough to consider the cost.

The answer’s yes—what’s the question?

It tumbles out like a trained response, a conditioned reflex. A sickness, really. A sickness disguised as generosity, wrapped in the cheap gold foil of being useful. It spills from my lips before my brain even loads the weight of what I’ve agreed to before I measure the distance, the sacrifice, the exhaustion waiting at the end of yet another promise I should never have made.

Yes, I’ll handle it.
Yes, I can fit that in.
Yes, I’ll shift, adjust, bend, twist, contort, and erase myself to accommodate your needs.

Yes—until my lungs burn from holding my breath until my priorities shrivel in the shadow of everyone else’s demands. Until I’m stretched so thin, I could snap with a whisper, yet still, they’ll ask for more.

And they will take.

Not because they’re cruel. Not because they intend to harm. Simply because I have taught them that I will always say yes.

I’ve spent a lifetime training the world to expect my availability, my willingness, my sacrifice. A currency I hand out without checking the balance in my own account. I’ve blurred the line between kindness and obligation so thoroughly that even I can’t always see where one ends and the other begins.

But I am learning.

I am learning that no is not a failure of character.

I am learning that pausing—breathing—before I answer is not selfish; it is self-respect.

I am learning that choosing my yeses carefully does not make me less generous but more intentional.

Because the truth is, I have spent too much time believing that my only choices were between drowning in obligation or vanishing behind refusal. That if I wasn’t everything to everyone, I would be nothing at all.

But somewhere between martyrdom and withdrawal, between depletion and detachment, there is balance.

And I am determined to find it.

I will not flinch at a request and blurt out the affirmative simply because it’s what I’ve always done.

I will take the time to measure my own capacity, to check my own reserves, to ask myself a question I should have been asking all along:

“Can I say yes without betraying myself?”

If the answer is yes, I will give it freely.

And if it is no, I will let it stand, without guilt, without apology.

Because I am not here to be everything.

I am here to be whole.

And then there are the buts.

Tiny, slippery things. Harmless at a glance, but corrosive at their core.

They aren’t loud. They aren’t forceful. They don’t arrive like wrecking balls, smashing through meaning with brute force. No, buts are far more insidious. They slip in unnoticed, carving escape hatches into our sentences, letting us retreat without admitting we’re running.

They let us appear present while inching away.
They let us sound engaged while disengaging.
They let us feel righteous while withholding.

“She’s a brilliant writer, but her style is too aggressive.”
(Which means I only respect her talent when it makes me comfortable.)

“I’d love to support your idea, but I just don’t have the time.”
(Which means I have the time—just not for you.)

“That’s a great plan, but what if it fails?”
(Which means I won’t risk my comfort on your conviction.)

Buts are termites in the foundation of truth. They gnaw at sincerity, hollowing out the meaning we pretend to stand on. They are the linguistic equivalent of smiling while shutting the door in someone’s face.

For a long time, I thought only yes and no mattered. That they were the only forces shaping the trajectory of a life.

I was wrong.

Yes, no, and but—they are all weapons.

And like any weapon, if wielded carelessly, they wound.

Sometimes the world.

Sometimes ourselves.

So, I’ve started picking my Nos with intention. Not as shields, not as swords, but as doors I close with purpose.

And I scratch my Buts before they warp what I truly mean.

Because but is a subtle assassin. A single syllable that sneaks in to limit, diminish, and dismiss. It pretends to be an innocent conjunction, but it’s a scalpel, slicing away the integrity of what came before it.

I don’t say, “I’d love to help, but I don’t have time.”
I say, “I won’t be able to help this time.”

I don’t say, “He’s a good man, but he’s not successful enough.”
I say, “He’s a good man.” Full stop.

Because anything that comes after but is a silent erasure.

I refuse to lace my words with quiet contradictions. I refuse to let hesitation masquerade as wisdom. I refuse to pollute my honesty with a tiny word that lets me hedge, escape, or qualify my truth.

I scratch my buts because words shape reality. And the reality I am shaping is one of clarity, precision, and intent.

Life is not a script of rehearsed pleasantries or softened half-statements. It is a series of choices—every word, every agreement, every refusal.

And for the first time, I am choosing without disclaimers.

Without hesitation.

Without but.