A dear brother in Christ reminded me of something, and if you’ve ever cleaned a counter or wiped up a spill, you already understand a spiritual truth that keeps speaking to me: a sponge can only ring out what it has soaked up. If it’s been sitting in clean water, what comes out refreshes. If it’s been sitting in dirty water, what comes out stains and smells. There’s no mystery—pressure only reveals what’s already inside.
The same is true in our spiritual walk. When life squeezes us—and it always does—what spills out of our words, reactions, attitudes, and assumptions is whatever we’ve been absorbing all along. Stress doesn’t create our character; it exposes it. Pressure doesn’t define us; it reveals what has been forming us.
That truth has been both sobering and hopeful for me. Sobering, because I can’t blame traffic, long lines, hard conversations, or difficult people for what comes out of me. Hopeful, because it means I can choose what I soak up.
Pressure Reveals the Saturation
I’ve noticed something about myself: when I’m full of worry, I wring out worry. When I’ve been soaking in outrage, I wring out criticism. When I’ve been absorbing fear—news cycles, worst-case scenarios, old regrets—fear finds a way to leak into my tone, my patience, and my assumptions about people.
But when I’ve been soaking in the presence of God—His Word, His promises, His peace—something different comes out. I’m not always perfect, but I’m steadier. I’m slower to snap and quicker to listen. I’m more willing to give someone the benefit of the doubt. I’m more aware that the person in front of me may be fighting a battle I know nothing about.
Scripture tells us, “Guard your heart above all else, for it determines the course of your life.” (Proverbs 4:23). That’s sponge language. Guard what you soak up because eventually, life is going to wring it out.
Busyness Is Real, But So Is the Lens of the Cross
Life gets busy. Calendars fill up. Phones buzz. Responsibilities multiply. And if I’m honest, busyness has a sneaky way of convincing me that my soul can run on leftovers. I’ll tell myself I’ll pray later, read later, slow down later—when things calm down. But “later” can become a lifestyle, and before long I’m reacting to life rather than responding with the Spirit.
Yet even in the busyness, we can choose to view things and people through the lens of the cross.
The cross changes the way I interpret people. It reminds me that everyone I encounter is someone Jesus was willing to die for. It reminds me that I’m not just dealing with “an attitude” or “an interruption”—I’m dealing with a person made in the image of God, carrying joys and wounds, hopes and disappointments.
Paul writes, “Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” (Ephesians 4:32). That verse doesn’t say “be kind when your schedule is light.” It doesn’t say “be compassionate when you’re not tired.” It connects our compassion to Christ’s compassion toward us.
When I soak in that kind of mercy, I’m more likely to wring it out when life presses.
Leaving Early: A Small Practice With a Big Spiritual Impact
One practical thing I try to do—especially on days I know will be full—is leave early.
Not because I’m naturally disciplined, but because I’ve realized something: if I leave at the last possible second, then anything unexpected becomes an inconvenience. A slow driver becomes a test. A red light feels personal. A detour makes me irritated. A last-minute need from someone else feels like a threat to my timeline.
But when I leave early, I create margin. And margin changes my heart posture.
When something pops up unexpectedly—a phone call, a person who needs help, a delay I didn’t plan for—I’m less likely to react like it’s an attack on my day. I can breathe. I can stay kind. I can remember that God is not stressed about my schedule.
Leaving early is a way of saying, “Lord, I’m making room for what You might want to do.” It’s a small, simple decision that keeps me from living on the edge of frustration. It gives me space to be present instead of rushed, compassionate instead of clipped, available instead of annoyed.
And honestly? That margin feels a lot like faith. It’s me admitting, “I don’t want to be so busy that I can’t love people well.”
Jesus Walked Slowly Through the Crowd
One of the most convicting things about Jesus is how unhurried He was.
He had the most important mission in history, and yet He didn’t move through life like He was frantic. He walked. He noticed. He stopped. He listened. He touched people others ignored. He let Himself be interrupted.
Think about it: Jesus is on His way somewhere important, and a woman reaches out and touches the hem of His garment. He stops. He turns. He asks, “Who touched Me?” Not because He lacks information, but because He refuses to treat her like a faceless moment in a busy day. He calls her “Daughter.” He speaks peace over her. He makes her visible.
Or consider how He interacted with Zacchaeus. Jesus could have walked right past him and kept going. Instead, He stops, looks up, calls him by name, and chooses connection. He makes a man who feels unworthy feel seen.
Jesus walked slowly through the crowd because people mattered more than pace.
That challenges me. I can move so fast—mentally and physically—that I forget to actually see the human beings right in front of me. I can be on my way to something “important” and miss the holy moment God put on my path.
What if one of the most spiritual things we can do is slow down enough to notice?
Making People Feel Valued and Seen
There’s a phrase I’ve heard for years, and the longer I live the more I realize it’s true: people don’t care how much we know until they know how much we care.
We can have all the right theology, all the right answers, all the right opinions—but if we don’t have love, we sound like noise. If our knowledge isn’t soaked in compassion, what we wring out will never heal anyone.
When I look at Jesus, I don’t just see truth—I see tenderness. I don’t just see doctrine—I see dignity. He had time for the overlooked. He had patience with the messy. He didn’t rush people through their pain. He didn’t treat them like projects. He treated them like sons and daughters.
And that’s what I want. I want to be the kind of person who makes others feel valued and seen—not because I’m trying to look good, but because Christ first valued me. Christ first saw me.
When I’m saturated with His love, I can offer that love in practical ways:
- a genuine smile instead of a distracted nod
- eye contact instead of multitasking
- listening without rushing to fix
- a kind word that costs me nothing but could change someone’s day
- patience in moments where I’d rather be efficient
Those little choices are not little in the kingdom of God.
Groundhog Days: Ordinary Doesn’t Mean Useless
Some days feel like Groundhog Day. Same routines. Same responsibilities. Same laundry. Same commutes. Same pressures. It’s easy to think those days don’t matter much spiritually, like God is only present in the “big moments.”
But Scripture tells a different story. Jesus did some of His most powerful work in ordinary spaces—roads, homes, wells, dinners, crowds. The extraordinary often hides inside the ordinary, waiting for someone spiritually awake enough to recognize it.
Paul writes, “Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly.” (Colossians 3:16). Richly. Not occasionally. Not in emergencies only. Richly—deep saturation that turns everyday life into fertile ground for God’s presence.
When I start my day soaking in God’s presence—even briefly—I carry that saturation with me. A few moments in prayer. A few verses from Scripture. A whispered, “Lord, help me see people the way You do.” Those moments don’t remove the routine, but they redeem it.
And suddenly, even Groundhog Day can become holy ground.
Entertaining Angels: Holy Moments We Didn’t Plan For
Hebrews tells us, “Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.” (Hebrews 13:2).
That verse makes me wonder: how many divine appointments have I missed because I was rushed? How many moments could have been sacred, but I was too distracted to notice?
Hospitality isn’t just having people over. It’s an open posture of the heart. It’s living with enough margin and compassion that interruptions can become invitations—ways God might be working in and through us.
What if the “inconvenience” is actually the assignment?
Prayer:
Father,
Thank You for reminding me that I can only give away what I’ve first received. Help me be intentional about what I allow to shape my heart and mind. In the busyness of life, draw me back to Your presence. Teach me to build margin—like leaving early—so unexpected moments don’t turn me impatient or distracted. Help me walk through crowds like Jesus did: unhurried, attentive, compassionate. Give me eyes to see people, hearts to value them, and words that heal. Saturate me with Your Spirit so that when pressure comes, grace flows out. Use even my ordinary days to do extraordinary things for Your glory. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
Life-Giving Words of Hope & Encouragement 
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