I didn’t write my poem Here and Now during a spiritual awakening. There was no breakthrough moment, no softening, no quiet stirring of faith beneath the surface. I wasn’t a man on the verge of finding God. I was a man convinced I didn’t want Him.

For years I waved the atheist flag—loudly, boldly, stubbornly. Truth be told, I was more of a mad-at-God agnostic, but anger wears the mask of certainty, and I wore it well. My life at the time felt complicated and heavy. My marriage was struggling, painfully so, and inside I felt like a storm with no center. I wasn’t praying. I wasn’t seeking. I wasn’t even curious. I was simply trying to make it through the days.

And then eighteen years ago—surrounded by the wreckage of my own life—I wrote a poem. I wasn’t trying to express faith or search for beauty or reflect on truth. I was just sitting in the middle of my own unraveling when words started falling onto the page—words about time and choice, regret and surrender, breath and purpose. Words about taking someone’s hand. I didn’t see it then, but God was speaking into a life that wanted nothing to do with Him. Long before I ever called Him Papa, long before I trusted Him, long before I believed He cared, He was already speaking into my now. Planting seeds in soil I swore was barren. Sowing purpose in a heart that didn’t love Him back. Because the God of Now isn’t limited by our beliefs about Him. He speaks even when we aren’t listening, longing for the communion our hearts were made for.

And somehow, in my anger and confusion and fractured marriage, a poem poured out that wasn’t angry at all. It carried longing. Hope. Awareness. Identity. Destiny. It carried the Father’s fingerprints. Here’s that poem, with only one word changed—“loved-one’s” became “Papa’s”—because now I know whose hand the poem was waiting for all along.

Here and Now

Yesterday’s immortal, tomorrow’s yet to be
Now is but the portal, opportunity free
For in moments yet uncertain is choice the endless gift
Quivers bring hereafter, the transformation swift

Movement breeds discretion, destined we commit
Toil, intonation, or in stillness we omit
In happenstance we trust the most priceless grant of all
The sting of our quiescence, blind helplessness we fall

Transgressions now object, diversion is their sway
Hiding ways we might select, lose another day
Yet looking through the lens of pardon passage now we see
Closing doors on yesteryear, surveying what may be

Time is all immediate, ’tis gone before we know
Will we simply lie in wait, to the wind now throw
Or will we take our Papa’s hand and bask in each breath’s song
Leave regrets in our wake, tomorrows we’ll not long

When I look at those lines now, I see something my younger self couldn’t—Papa was already near. Not waiting for a better version of me. Not asking me to clean myself up. Not demanding I fix my marriage or my anger or my unbelief.

He was simply planting truth in a heart that didn’t know how to recognize Him yet. But that truth didn’t fully bloom until these last few years—when the God I once rejected became the Father I now walk with every morning. And it’s that morning rhythm that steadies me, anchors me, shapes me. Because faith in the now doesn’t happen on accident. It’s built. Chosen. Practiced.

And for me, it starts before sunrise. Nearly every morning—on the days I remember to breathe before rushing, on the days I don’t let myself get pulled into the noise—I begin with a declaration. Not to pump myself up and not to recite some spiritual mantra, but to align my now with what Papa has already spoken over me. It sounds like this.

I am Your child—sealed for eternity and empowered by the Holy Spirit. By Your unwavering grace, I will live to reflect Your image in every thought, every word, and every deed. I will walk humbly, clothed in patience, peace, purpose, kindness, and compassion—proclaiming Your truth through the life I lead.

When I miss the mark, I will not retreat in shame. I will come before You with a contrite heart, confident that I remain Yours—loved, forgiven, and restored. I walk not in condemnation, but in the righteousness granted to me through Jesus’ sacrifice. In Your eyes, I am holy—a royal priest, a reigning son in Your kingdom. I refuse to dishonor Your grace by believing less of myself than You do.

Your mercies are new every morning. Nothing can strip me of my place in Your family.

I am—and forever will be—Your beloved child.”

I don’t always feel these words. Some mornings they feel like plowing through mud. Some mornings they feel like I’m speaking truth into fog. Some mornings the old doubts still whisper. But on the mornings I skip this—when I jump straight into the day without grounding my heart—I feel the difference. I drift. I react. I forget who I am. Because faith is not a feeling—it’s alignment. It’s choosing, in this moment, to say, “This is who Papa says I am, so this is who I will live as… now.”

And slowly, breath by breath and choice by choice, the God who once whispered into my unbelieving heart now walks with me in the present I used to run from. This is the God of Now—the God who had been reaching for me long before I reached back, the God who tucked a poem into my heart eighteen years ago and let it wait for its bloom, the God who still speaks identity into my mornings, the God who calls me—and calls you—to live this moment with Him.

Reflection

When we imagine faith, we often picture something steady—calm confidence, unshakable trust, a strength that carries us from day to day. But faith rarely feels like that in the moment we’re living. The now is where doubts breathe. The now is where old wounds whisper that nothing has changed. The now is where we feel tired, distracted, anxious, or numb. And yet this is the very place where Papa does His most intimate work—not in our polished moments or our most spiritual days, but in the breath we’re living right now.

When I look back at the man who wrote Here and Now—a man who didn’t believe, didn’t pray, and felt lost in a failed marriage—I see a truth I couldn’t recognize then. Papa wasn’t waiting for my surrender. He wasn’t holding back until I improved. He was already reaching into my life, already planting truth in a heart too closed to feel it, already shaping a story I wouldn’t understand for nearly two decades.

And if He met me there—angry, confused, uninterested—He can meet you exactly where you are. Your now may feel quiet or heavy. It may feel like nothing is moving the way you hoped. But your now is never empty. Papa isn’t waiting for a better season or a stronger version of you. He is here, inviting you not into performance, but into presence.

So here’s my gentle dare for you as this year begins. Not a resolution. A dare. Dare to speak truth over your own life. Dare to begin your mornings by declaring who you are and whose you are. Borrow my words until your own rise in your chest. Write a sentence or just a few words that will help your heart remember the One who holds your present with tenderness. Trust that Papa meets you in the moment you offer Him, even if all you can give is a trembling breath.

You don’t have to feel ready or worthy or strong. You only have to be willing to say, “Here I am, Papa. Speak into my now.” And as you do, you’ll begin to sense what I’ve learned slowly and sometimes painfully—that the God of your past and the God of your future is most deeply experienced in the present you are living. The now becomes sacred. The now becomes steady. The now becomes the meeting place between your weakness and His love.

Let this be the year you stop waiting for a better season to walk with Him. Let this be the year you stop postponing faith to the future or anchoring it only in the past. Let this be the year you choose the moment in front of you—the breath you’re taking right now—and trust that Papa is already here, ready to shape it with you.

Prayer

Papa,

Thank You for meeting me in this moment. Teach me to live my faith in the now—not running ahead, not slipping back, but walking with You in this breath I’m living. When doubt rises, steady my heart. When shame whispers, remind me I am Yours—loved, forgiven, and restored. Shape my thoughts, my words, and my steps so they reflect Your heart today. Anchor me in Your presence and help me choose You again in the moments to come.

Amen.