It was one of those tucked-away spots in Huntsville, Alabama—knock at the front door, whisper the password, and you’re inside. We were led down a narrow hallway by the hostess, through another door, and into a basement room that smelled faintly of citrus and oak. The light was warm and amber, the kind that makes everything look like a memory while it’s still happening. Bottles lined the back wall behind an expert mixologist who moved like a craftsman—measuring, stirring, creating something beautiful in slow motion. It felt less like a bar and more like an artist’s studio.

Now, I’ll confess something about myself—I’m an overprotective father. I’ve been skeptical of every man who’s ever so much as looked at my daughter, much less wanted to marry her. I’ve given that look—the one that says, Son, if you hurt her, I’ll help you meet Jesus personally. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not exactly sorry either.

But Adam—he was different. He didn’t try to win me over with charm or speeches. He just quietly, consistently, loved her well. He didn’t have to prove himself. His life did the talking. And somewhere along the way, I had to admit—the kid had passed the test.

That night, Adam and my daughter sat with my wife and me at two small round tables pushed together—two people beginning their forever and two others quietly thanking God for the journey that brought them here. We weren’t there to drink; we were there to breathe. Four believers, a couple of handcrafted cocktails, and a whole lot of gratitude for what God had done. In two days, I’d be giving my daughter away—one of those moments every father both dreads and prays for. If you’re a dad, you know. You pray for her future, you dread the goodbye, and somewhere in the middle, you try to make peace with the fact that another man will now hold her heart.

We sat there surrounded by soft jazz and low laughter, and somewhere between the stories and the smiles, the conversation turned toward theology—the real kind. Not the kind you debate to win, but the kind that makes you lean back, tilt your head, and just wonder. Because when you really know Papa, theology stops being sterile. It starts breathing.

I remember tossing out a comment about miracles—just a passing thought—and that’s when Adam leaned back, elbows on the chair arms, eyes steady. “Do you know what a miracle is?” he asked.

For a second, everything went still. The music, the murmurs, even the clinking of glass—it all seemed to fade. I looked at him, caught off guard, waiting for the punchline that never came. Then he said quietly, “It’s the faith of a mustard seed.”

And right there, heaven interrupted the conversation. I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. Because he was right—but maybe not in the way most people think. The miracle isn’t only the mountain moving. The miracle is the heart that dares to grow faith strong enough to believe it can.

A mustard seed is so small it could disappear between your fingertips, yet Jesus said that kind of faith could reshape reality. Not faith perfected by ritual or refined by religion, but faith that grows out of relationship. Faith like that doesn’t come from memorizing verses; it comes from knowing the Voice behind them. It’s the kind that grows when you’ve sat long enough with God to recognize His tone—even when He whispers.

We don’t trust people because we’ve read their résumés. We trust them because they’ve shown up—because they stood beside us when everyone else stepped back. Faith works the same way. God never asked for blind faith. Blind faith is wishful thinking. But He also never said you have to earn it through spectacular acts. You start trusting God when you’ve experienced Him in the trenches—when He carried you through nights you thought would never end, when He stayed after everyone else left, when He spoke peace into your panic.

That’s when faith stops being theory and becomes testimony.

You learn His voice the same way you learn the voice of someone you love. You notice how He talks to you—not always in thunder, but sometimes in that nudge that feels too kind to be coincidence. And after a while, you stop needing proof. You just know. Because real faith isn’t built on rules—it’s built on history. Every time He’s shown up, every tear He’s caught, every whisper that carried you through another night—it all becomes part of the foundation beneath your feet. That’s why when the next mountain shows up, your heart says, He’s done this before. He’ll do it again.

Maybe that’s what He meant when He said He would rather have us hot or cold… because lukewarm hearts offer apathetic prayers without expectation, motions without meaning, worship without wonder. Faith that doesn’t grow becomes ritual. But faith that grows through relationship becomes life. Because the smallest faith—faith that’s alive, honest, relational—invites the deepest love. It’s not the quantity that moves mountains. It’s the intimacy behind it. The miracle isn’t the result. The miracle is that Papa invites you close enough to trust Him before it happens.

Reflection

So here’s the question. Do you really want that kind of faith—the kind that grows in conversation, not ceremony? Because if you do, you have to be willing to trade comfort for closeness. You can’t hide behind perfect attendance or flawless prayers and expect something living to grow there. Those things can be good, but they’re not the soil—relationship is.

If you want mustard-seed faith, start talking with God like He’s actually in the room. In the car. In the shower. In the middle of your 3 a.m. anxiety. In the grocery line. At the ballgame. At the speakeasy. If you want to hear Him whisper, quiet the noise long enough to listen. If you want to see mountains move, trust the One who moves them more than you trust your own control. And if you truly want to know Him, risk being known—fully, honestly, unfiltered.

Because mustard-seed faith doesn’t bloom in pews—it blooms in presence. That’s where heaven still whispers, Call Me Papa. And that’s where faith finally stops pretending and starts living.

Prayer

Papa,

Thank You for showing up in ordinary places and calling them holy. For speaking through people and moments I never expect. Teach me to stop chasing religion and start knowing You. Grow in me a faith that doesn’t perform—it trusts. Let my smallest belief be enough for You to begin. Because if the miracle starts with faith, then Lord…plant it deep.

Amen.