Rose Unplugged

Throughout history, people have looked to their leaders for strength, wisdom, and direction. But here's a question worth asking: who do our leaders look to?

Our Founders understood something that seems almost forgotten today. They believed rights came from God, not government. That's why the Declaration of Independence speaks of our Creator. The idea was simple but profound: if our rights come from God, then government cannot legitimately take them away.

For most of American history, if your job title was President of the United States, then securing the free exercise of religion wasn't a side issue — it was part of the job description.

From the very beginning, George Washington understood that. Washington spoke of Divine Providence and believed the success of the nation depended on something higher than human ambition. In 1790, he assured a Hebrew congregation in Newport that the government "gives bigotry no sanction" and "persecution no assistance." He set a tone that religious liberty would not belong to one group but would be protected for all.

John Adams carried that same conviction forward. He warned that nothing was more dangerous than the government meddling with religion. For Adams, liberty and morality were inseparable, and freedom without virtue could not survive.

Thomas Jefferson, who was often misunderstood, insisted that rights come from our Creator, not government. And when he spoke of a "wall of separation between church and state," he was arguing for protection of faith from government interference — not the removal of faith from public life.

James Madison, the Father of the Constitution, went even deeper. He believed conscience itself could not be governed — that no authority on earth had the right to control what a person believes before God.

‍

So, when we talk about religious liberty in America, we're not talking about a modern idea or a political talking point. We're talking about something woven into the foundation of this country. And that thread continues through American history.

Abraham Lincoln, in the midst of national crisis, turned repeatedly to prayer and spoke openly of God's sovereignty over the nation. His Second Inaugural Address reads less like a political speech and more like a sermon on accountability before God.

Even later presidents carried this understanding forward. Benjamin Harrison, a devout Presbyterian elder, lived his faith openly and led prayer meetings long before and during his time in leadership. His convictions were part of how he governed and how he lived.

William McKinley, a lifelong Methodist who once considered entering the ministry, leaned heavily on his faith during moments of national decision, including times of war and uncertainty. He understood leadership as stewardship under God.

And Ronald Reagan, in the modern era, put it plainly when he said, "Freedom prospers when religion is vibrant, and the rule of law under God is acknowledged." He believed, simply, that without God, democracy cannot endure.

Now, none of these men were perfect. That's not the point. The point is that across centuries, from Washington to Reagan, there has been a consistent recognition: leadership is strongest when it is humbled by something greater than itself.

One worldview says authority begins and ends with man. The other says authority ultimately comes from God. And that difference shapes everything — from how a nation defines freedom, to how it protects conscience, to how it understands human dignity.

That's why the conversation about faith in the public square still matters today. Not because government should replace the church, but because leaders, like the rest of us, are shaped by what they believe about truth, authority, and God. It isn't really about politics. It's about whether faith still has a place in the public square. It's about whether moral truth exists beyond political power. And it's about whether leaders should seek wisdom from sources greater than themselves.

A Pastor Who Stood at the Crossroads of Faith and Power

There is one man who quietly stood at the intersection of faith and power for more than half a century. Not a president. Not a politician. But a pastor. And that was Billy Graham.

Graham once said that whether the story of Christ is told in a huge stadium, across the desk of a powerful leader, or shared with a golfing companion, it satisfies a common hunger. He understood something most people in power eventually discover -- fame, authority, and success don't silence spiritual need. They reveal it.

Over the course of American history, that truth played out in remarkable ways. Every U.S. president from Harry Truman to Barack Obama met with Billy Graham while he was alive. Republican or Democrat, conservative or liberal, when presidents faced crisis, war, scandal, or personal decisions, many of them asked for one thing: prayer and counsel.

It began simply with Harry Truman. In 1950, a congressman called Billy Graham and asked if he'd like to meet the president. Without any briefing on protocol, he agreed and went in with three colleagues to speak with President Truman, who told Graham that he lived by the Sermon on the Mount. Before he left, the two prayed together. Years later, Truman warmly received Graham at his home in Independence, Missouri.

Dwight Eisenhower invited Graham's counsel during moments of military and national tension, once calling him "an ambassador of heaven." Graham later said Eisenhower was the first president who really asked his counsel in depth, when he was sending troops into Little Rock. Just before Eisenhower died, Graham was invited to see him at Walter Reed Hospital. After talking again about assurance of salvation, the two men prayed.

John F. Kennedy spent time with him just before taking office, reflecting on the moral condition of the nation.

And Lyndon Johnson — perhaps one of the presidents closest to him — invited Billy Graham into the White House repeatedly. Graham later recalled that whenever he said, "Let's have a prayer," Johnson would kneel beside him.

Richard Nixon and Billy Graham had known each other since 1950, and over the years they developed a real personal friendship. While Nixon was often seen as private and complicated in public life, Graham experienced something different behind the scenes — he found him warmer and more compassionate than the public image suggested.

Nixon was also shaped by his Quaker background, and in private moments he would often ask Graham to pray with him and read Scripture when they met. But during the final year of his presidency, as Watergate intensified, those meetings stopped. It was later reported that Nixon didn't want Graham drawn into the scandal, or "tarred with Watergate."

Gerald Ford defended their friendship publicly, saying Graham's visits were "get-togethers of old friends" with no political agenda. Jimmy Carter called his reputation "above reproach."

Ronald Reagan credited Billy Graham with deepening his own prayer life, especially after the assassination attempt in 1981, when Graham immediately came to pray with the Reagan family. Reagan said it was through Billy Graham that he found himself praying even more than daily, and that in the position he held, his prayers increasingly were for the wisdom to make decisions that would serve God and be pleasing to Him.

George H.W. Bush said no one could be president without understanding prayer, and credited Graham with helping him understand that truth. Bill Clinton remembered hearing him preach as a boy in Arkansas and later described his ministry as always completely private, always completely genuine. George W. Bush said a private conversation with Billy Graham in Maine planted the spiritual seed that led to his own faith renewal. Barack Obama visited him in North Carolina and prayed with him privately. And even Donald Trump met him during a celebration honoring his ministry legacy.

Different eras. Different politics. Different personalities. But a consistent pattern: when the most powerful leaders in the world needed grounding, many of them turned to a pastor.

Billy Graham never accepted political appointments, even when presidents like Johnson and Nixon offered them. He refused every time — because he understood his role was not to govern, but to point people back to God. And maybe that's why presidents trusted him. He wasn't there to manage policy. He was there to remind them of something higher than policy. Something higher than power. Something higher than themselves.

In a culture where leadership is often measured by influence, Billy Graham quietly reminded us that true leadership is measured by humility. And that raises a question worth sitting with: if some of the most powerful men in the world needed spiritual counsel, what does that say about the rest of us?

Because whether you're in the Oval Office or living an ordinary life, the truth remains the same. We all need wisdom beyond ourselves. We all need grounding beyond politics. And ultimately, we all need a foundation that doesn't shift with the times.

That preserves the author's wording from the uploaded article exactly while adding links only to direct quotations for which the supplied sources provide support.

In August 2026, Massachusetts Governor Maura Healey signed the Prioritizing Patient Access to Care Act, removing the state's remaining gestational limits on abortion and giving health care providers broader discretion to perform the procedure later in pregnancy without legal consequence. The room applauded. Hard
to believe, I know. Massachusetts now stands alongside nine other states and the District of Columbia in permitting abortion up to the moment of birth.

Healey framed the law as protection for families facing devastating medical news late in pregnancy, and as a shield against a more restrictive national climate. But protection is not the word for it. What this law actually does is strip away the last legal limit on when a child's life can be ended — clearing the way for abortion up to the very moment of birth. Pro-life advocates have rightly called this what it is: the United States is now one of only a handful of countries on earth with no gestational limit on abortion whatsoever, and laws like this one expose late-term children, who can feel pain, who can survive outside the womb, to the most violent procedures medicine performs.

An entire room stood and applauded that.

There's something our culture rarely talks about, something this signing makes impossible to ignore: the faces we can see. The lives that are here.

I'm talking about the people who survived abortion attempts.

For decades, abortion in America has largely been discussed through politics, court decisions, and ideology. But behind all of that — there are human beings. And some of those human beings survived.

They are alive today. They have names, stories, families, and voices. You can look into their eyes and hear them tell you what happened. And that changes the conversation. Because suddenly abortion isn’t theoretical or abstract. It’s personal.

There are documented cases of babies surviving abortion procedures in the United States. Survivor organizations have worked to bring visibility to those stories. Survivors have spoken publicly about living with physical injuries, emotional trauma, and the lifelong reality of knowing someone once tried to end their life before they were even born.

‍

One of the most well-known survivors is Melissa Ohden, who survived a saline infusion abortion and has spent years speaking publicly about her experience and advocating for the born alive.

And even actor Sylvester Stallone spoke recently about being told by his mother that an attempted abortion failed before he was born. He has stated that his mother told him, "The only reason you're here is because the hanger didn't work.

Think about that for a moment. These are not "hypotheticals." These are people. People who laugh. Who love. Who contribute to the world. People made in the image of God.

And Scripture could not be clearer about the value of life.

Psalm 139 says: "For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in mymother's womb."

And Jeremiah 1:5 says: "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you."

That means human worth is not determined by circumstance. Not by convenience. And not by whether a life was planned, expected, or even wanted by others.

Value comes from God. Because God is the author of life.

And when we hear the stories of abortion survivors, we are forced to confront a reality our culture often tries to avoid: What happens when the child survives? What happens when the life everyone was told would never matter... is standing right in front of us? With a face, a voice, and a testimony?

And maybe that is why these stories are so powerful. Because they remind us that every life carries purpose. Every life — not some, not only the easy or convenient lives. Every life.

Now I also know this conversation touches a deep pain for many people. There are women — and men — who carry grief, regret, and wounds connected to abortion. And the Christian message is not that forgiveness is impossible. It’s the opposite. There is grace through Christ. There is healing through God. And there is most assuredly
redemption at the cross.

But truth still matters. And the truth is that these survivors exist. They are living proof that what is in the womb is not potential life. It is life.

Make Your Life Count

There are moments when we are reminded just how fragile life really is. Hearing the voices of people who survived abortion attempts, looking into the faces of people who were never expected to live — it changes something. It forces us to remember that every single life carries value.

Not because society assigns it value, or because government recognizes it. And not because culture approves of it. But because God created it.

Every life.

And maybe that's the deeper message in all of this. Not just that life should be protected — although it absolutely should. But that life should mean something. That our lives should count for something greater than ourselves.

Ephesians 2:10 tells us: "For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them."

Think about that. Prepared beforehand. That means your life is not random. It is not accidental. And it is never without purpose. Not the child in the womb, the struggling mother, or the survivor whose story seemed impossible. Not you.

We are told that we were created for good works — that we have nothing to do with — God already prepared those good works for us before we were even born. All we need do is to walk in them.

God wastes nothing.

And the truth is, none of us knows how long we've been given here. But we do get to decide what we do with the time we have.

Will we use our lives to protect what is vulnerable? To stand for truth when it's unpopular? To bring light into places that have grown dark? Will we make our lives count and walk in good works?

Because one day, titles won't matter. Politics won't matter. Fame won't matter. What will matter is whether we lived with courage, loved well, stood firmly in truth, and whether we pointed people toward God.

That is a life that counts.

And maybe the people who survived what should have taken their lives understand that better than most. Because when someone survives what should have taken their life, they tend to understand something very deeply: life is a gift. A sacred gift. And gifts from God are never meant to be wasted.

So wherever you are today — whatever your story may be — remember this: you were created on purpose. By God. For a purpose. Because of that we should commit to live courageously, stand faithfully, and love boldly. And dedicated in love to the One who created you to make your life count.

‍
This subject was explored in depth on an episode of Rose Unplugged on Real Life Network; “Choice is a Person”.

These reflections first aired as part of an episode of Rose Unplugged on Real Life Network.

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about how my life and responsibilities have changed. In a good way. A very good way. Maybe it's because I'm a grandmother now. Watching my son and daughter-in- law with their toddler has a way of pulling me backward and forward at the same time. It's made me think about my early days as a mom and the joys and challenges that came with that responsibility. And let's be honest, parenting really is the best job in the world… but it is also a very intense job.

And I've been thinking about the difference — the very real difference — between moms and dads. In fact, this is exactly what they're meant to do — be different. When a man lays his head down on the pillow at night, he's out. Just like that. He sleeps, he gets up, and he goes back out the next day to care for his family in his own steady way.

But when women lay their heads down at night? Our minds are still running. It takes us a while to fall asleep. Because every single day, as a mom, you are carrying around more information than anybody else on the planet. You know exactly where your child is. You know his schedule by heart. You know he has study hall sixth period. You know what he's going to have for lunch — not just today, but tomorrow. You know the school lunch menu better than the cafeteria does.

Moms know how to handle doctor's appointments. We know how to get them seen when they're sick. We know what soothes our children, what worries them, and what they're not saying out loud. Why? Because we're moms. And that's the job. But I also know the men in our audience — they are there, engaged. They work hard. That's why families work best when both roles are honored.When strong families are built intentionally.

And thinking about that strong family unit brought back a memory for me. Years ago, when my son was about five, I wrote a letter to my dad. I don't remember every word, but I remember the heart behind it. Even then, I understood that while Mom was holding the details of our days together, Dad was the foundation.

I remember going fishing with him. I don't remember if we caught a single fish — but I remember the ham and capicola sandwich, and the cold can of Coke we packed for lunch. I remember how excited I was to just have that time alone with him. I remember the sacrifices. I remember the day he had to sell the car he loved when the steel mills began shutting down in Pittsburgh. He owned a design business that had worked with many of them, and when that industry faltered, so did his livelihood.

After he sold the car, I can still see him counting the cash out on the table. I think he sensed how badly we felt watching him give up something he really enjoyed. So, he suddenly tossed the money into the air, just to make us laugh. I was sad for him — but relieved when he did that. He did what he had to do for us. And because he was a resilient man, he redirected, rebuilt, and his business thrived until the day he retired.

Aristotle explained: “A multitude of great events if they turn out well will make life happier … while if they turn out ill, they crush and maim happiness … Yet even in these — nobility shines through, when a man bears with resignation many great misfortunes, not through insensibility to pain but through nobility and greatness of soul.”

I remember hard moments, too. Sitting in the front seat as he drove me to the hospital after I fell down a hill. I was crying, asking if I was going to die. Yeah — I was always dramatic. Dad answered with such calm assurance — even though I could see the worry in his eyes. And that's the thing about fatherhood. So much of its impact is quiet. You don't always see it in the moment — you feel it later, when you realize how much of what steadied you was simply someone showing up day after day.

And there's another memory that shaped me just as deeply. I remember sitting at my mother's bedside as she was dying from non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. I was the oldest of four — all of us rather young; heck, she was young. Only 48 years old. I told her I was so sorry for all the trouble I caused her as a teenager — and let me tell you, I caused plenty. I was rebellious, strong- headed, and well — a bit wild.

Do you know what she said to me? She said, “Do you think I don't know how teenagers are?” That moment was grace. It was forgiveness without a lecture. It was a salve to my spirit. And what's remarkable is that years later, as I was parenting a teenager myself, I heard her words again — steadying me, softening me, reminding me what love looks like in hard seasons. Because parenting is a long game. I remember when my own five-year-old once said, “I don't like you, Mom,” after I had to discipline him. It hurt. But then I thought about my parents. And I realized something — children don't always understand love in the moment. But they remember it over time.

I remember far more now than I did then. And I honestly believe I wouldn't have the joy, the home, the fulfillment I have today without my parents — and without God's faithfulness woven through it all. That's what I want to dig into here — the mother's heart, the father's role, and the strength of the family unit. There is a poem written by Maureen Hawkins called The Miracle of Life, and there's a line I read while I was pregnant that has never left me: “Before you were conceived, I wanted you. Before you were born, I loved you. Before you were here an hour, I would die for you. This is the miracle of life.”

It truly is the miracle of life — a truth every mother recognizes, deep in her bones, long before she ever has the words for it. While preparing for my show on parenting, I was reminded of Jochebed — Moses' mother. She's mentioned only briefly in Scripture, yet her obedience and courage changed history. Her love didn't just save a child — it contributed to leading a nation out of slavery.

There was a new king of Egypt who didn't have the relationship with Joseph that the previous king had. As a result, over time the Israelites were no longer favored guests in their land. The Pharaoh began to imagine them as the enemy, and as a people to be feared should they rise or join forces against Egypt. Out of fear and growing hatred of the Israelites, Pharaoh first enslaves them then commands the death of male children. Exodus 1:15-21 reads: “The king of Egypt said to the Hebrew midwives, whose names were Shiphrah and Puah, ‘When you are helping the Hebrew women during childbirth on the delivery stool, if you see that the baby is a boy, kill him; but if it is a girl, let her live.’”

The midwives couldn't bring themselves to obey Pharaoh's command. When they were questioned, they answered with remarkable courage and wisdom. They said in their defense that the Hebrew women gave birth so quickly the babies were already born before the midwives arrived. I love that. Very clever. You must admire their boldness — their cleverness, their reverence for life, and their fear of God. And Scripture tells us that God honored their faithfulness by blessing them with families of their own.

During the time that Jochebed gave birth to her son Moses, Pharaoh ordered all Hebrew boys thrown into the Nile. So, she hid her baby for three months. When she could no longer keep him safe, she did the unthinkable — she placed him in a waterproof basket and set him among the reeds. Can you imagine the heaviness of her heart? Keeping him meant certain danger. Letting him go meant uncertainty. But one choice offered a chance at life. That's what mothers do — risk everything for their children.

God honored that trust. Moses was discovered by Pharaoh's daughter, and through Jochebed's daughter Miriam's quick thinking, Jochebed was chosen to nurse her own son — was even paid to do so. God allowed Moses to be loved by both his biological mother and his adoptive mother. What compassion. What grace. Especially towards Jochebed.

Moses is remembered for leading a nation out of bondage. But behind that story is a mother who trusted God with what she loved most. Jochebed's story is really a story of surrender. Of trusting God to take an impossible situation and turn it into something miraculous. I remember the day Iplaced my fears for my son into God's hands.

I had given my son my very best. I raised him up in the way he should go, I loved him, sacrificed for him. But there comes a moment when we must do what Jochebed did. We must entrust our children to the One who loves them even more than we do. I remember telling God: I love my son so much — but however much I love him I realize that my love cannot possibly compare to the love that you have for him.

Setting our children free to be what God intended them to be is, at some point in their lives, the right thing to do — the only thing to do. Setting our children free to become who God created them to be isn’t easy — but it is right. And like Jochebed, that act of trust becomes part of our own story too.

I began with a quote about a mother's love. But it also echoes the heart of God toward each of us: “Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you; before you were born, I set you apart.”

Women — we must trust our child's life to the One who gives life. And that same God still holds our children — and us — in His hands.

For more content like this, visit Real Life Network.

This piece grew out of a recent episode of Rose Unplugged, where I  sat down with decluttering expert Joshua Becker to talk about the surprising overlap between our need for control and the clutter we hold onto. Here's some of what I shared with viewers that day. 

This is about relinquishing control to God — and about organizing and uncluttering our homes, our lives, and our faith. It's a subject I explored recently. 

Let's start with control: 

Last year someone very close to me experienced serious complications after surgery. What should have been a recovery turned into a two-month hospital stay, and ultimately, his passing. 

I was carrying the deep sadness of watching someone I loved slowly  fade away. There's no way to prepare yourself for that — for sitting  next to a hospital bed, hoping for improvement while quietly realizing the outcome may already have been decided. 

And naturally, during seasons like that, lessons surface. Growth happens — even when we resist it. Because if I'm being honest with  myself — and it took me some time to get there — I realized this  wasn't just about grief. It was about control. 

As my friend was dying, I was forced to come face-to-face with something I've struggled with my entire life: and that is-- I can't control everything. 

But I am a fixer. That's what they called me at home for years. You've got a problem? I can fix it. And most of the time — I did. I was good at it. Not only did I believe I could fix things — my family and friends  believed it too.  

If friends or family found themselves tangled in circumstances they couldn't sort through — I was there. Not just with a solution, but with a really good solution. I took pride in that.

I think when someone grows up surrounded by a lot of chaos — a lot  of distressing moments — that child learns early how to create order wherever they can. As they are growing into an adult that person will find ways to create their own order. Or essentially, control situations because growing up they felt things were so very out of control. 

That was me. 

‍

‍

But the problem with being a fixer is that it doesn't always leave room for God to do what only He can do. 

During my friend's time in the hospital, I learned — painfully — that  there were things I simply couldn’t do. I didn't understand what was happening to his body. I couldn't make it better. I couldn't fix it. I had  to let go. And I had to let God finish a work He had already begun. 

Not everything is up to me. Not everything can be fixed by me. And  learning that — really learning it — changed me. And once that truth settled in, I began to look honestly at my own  life — and I realized just how many ways I exerted control. 

Now understand, my control came from a desire to help. But  underneath that help was often an inner turmoil — a constant hum of responsibility. Constantly asking myself, how do I make this better? What else can I do? What am I missing? 

But even in the midst of turmoil, God calls us to rest in Him. 

There were many times I did. But if I'm honest, there were just as  many times I did not. Or I would give a situation to Him — only to  take it back. We do that, don't we? Hand it over in prayer, then quietly reclaim it the moment things don't move fast enough or look the way we want them to. 

When you really think about it, it's arrogant. How in the world do we convince ourselves that we can control outcomes? Especially as Christians. We should know better. 

Proverbs 19:21 reminds us, "Many are the plans in a person's heart, but it is the Lord's purpose that prevails."

And here's the part that stopped me cold: God was calling His child — my friend — home. To eternal life with Him. And if I'm being completely honest, I was almost working against that. Think about it. I felt like I needed to be part of the process that saved his earthly body, and yet all the while God was preparing to receive it. 

When you sit with that for a moment — you realize that's awfully presumptuous. 

During that time of awakening, I was reminded of something Oswald Chambers wrote in “My Utmost for His Highest”. In a July devotion, he talks about what he calls "calculating without God." He references Psalm 37:5: "Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him; and He shall bring it to pass." 

Chambers wrote, "Don't calculate without God. God seems to have a delightful way of upsetting the things we have calculated on without taking Him into account… Haul yourself up a hundred and one times a day in order to keep your heart from being troubled, until you get into the habit of putting God first and calculating with Him in view." 

That hit me. I decided I needed to stop managing God and start truly trusting Him. Trusting Him entirely. And I couldn’t do that with conditions and backup plans. But with open hands. And an open heart. And that surrender, real surrender, was the hardest lesson of all. 

It was a lesson that carried me through the rest of 2025. And it's one I hope to continue deepening as I move forward. 

I spent years believing peace came from holding everything together – from tightening my grip. But I've learned that peace isn't found in managing more – It's found in letting go, making room for God and trusting Him with the outcome. 

And all of that was on my mind when I interviewed Joshua Becker about a few of his books; “Becoming Minimalist”, “Uncluttered Faith”,  and “Clutter Free with Kids”. 

Long before "minimalism" became a trend, Christian leaders were preaching the power of decluttering our lives. John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, emphasized extreme simplicity and faithful stewardship. In his sermon “The Use of Money”, he urged believers to "gain all you can, save all you can, and give all you can," warning  that accumulating luxuries was a burden that "chokes" the spiritual  life.  

Wesley himself lived with very few possessions; he considered it a crucial part of living a holy life and therefore freeing his heart for God's work and for helping others. 

And here is a story that really struck home for me about Wesley:

Wesley had just finished hanging and admiring some artwork he had purchased for his room when one of the chambermaids came to his door. It was a very cold winter day, and he noticed that she had only a thin linen gown to wear for protection against that cold.  

He immediately reached into his pocket to give her some money for a coat and realized he had very little left after his purchases. It struck him then that the Lord was not pleased with how he had spent his money. He asked himself: "Will Thy Master say, 'Well done, good and  faithful steward?' Thou has adorned thy walls with the money that might have screened this poor creature from the cold! O justice! O mercy! Are not these pictures the blood of this poor maid?" 

I can’t stop thinking about that. When we engage in excess, there is little left for those in need. 

And that raises an uncomfortable but necessary question: are we conducting our lives, our choices, and our spending, in a way that reflects stewardship, or self-indulgence? 

This isn't about luxury for luxury's sake. It's about whether our appetites have quietly replaced our accountability. Because every dollar, every resource, every moment we consume beyond what we  need is something that can no longer be offered to someone else. 

In a culture that celebrates more, faster, bigger; restraint has  become radical. But restraint is also where compassion lives. And maybe the measure of a life well lived isn't what we accumulate, but being mindful of making room to give. 

I shared initially in that program with Joshua Becker about control and then segued into reducing clutter which, when accumulated, is really a type of control.  

And here's the thing — we don't usually call it control. We call it  being responsible. Prepared. On top of things. But let's be honest, sometimes it's not organization we're after but reassurance. 

Most of us aren't trying to control life because we're bossy or rigid. We're doing it because life feels loud and unpredictable. And when the world feels uncertain, control feels comforting. That's where clutter sneaks in. Because clutter isn't always about having too much stuff. Sometimes it's about holding onto options, just in case. Just so we don't feel caught off guard. 

So, we keep the extra bins and the backup supplies. The things we might need someday. Even when what we're really doing is trying to manage our anxiety with labels and shelves. 

I do want to point out that order is not the enemy. God is a God of order. But order without trust can leave us exhausted. Because while control promises peace… it never actually delivers it. 

Scripture reminds us that peace doesn't come from managing every outcome. Jesus told us not to worry about tomorrow, not because tomorrow doesn't matter, but because we aren't meant to carry it. 

Sometimes the most freeing thing we can do isn't organize more, it's loosening our hold. And maybe the goal isn't a perfectly controlled life, but one where we trust God enough to release what we don't need to carry. One where we make space — not just in our  homes, but in our hearts.

For more content like this, visit Real Life Network.