Monday, June 22, 2026
SMOKE IN THIS LIFE — June 22 Cheap night. Half a glass. She gave up every comfort—no house, no fire, nothing but God. Birds had more shelter than she did. And when deprivation wasn’t enough, she ran toward suffering like it was a doorway to Him. She threw herself into furnaces, screaming under the torture, yet walked out unburned. She plunged into the frozen Meuse for days and weeks, praying as the current dragged her into the mill wheel, bones untouched. Dogs tore her flesh as she ran through thorns, yet the wounds vanished the moment she returned. And here I sit—half a glass of wine, a cheap smoke, and the realization that holiness has never been comfortable. She stepped into fire. I avoid drafts. She let the river take her. I flinch at cold water. The point isn’t to imitate her extremes. The point is to stop pretending sanctity is soft. God still asks each of us to step into a smaller fire—the one that burns away excuses. Tonight’s question: What comfort is God asking...