There was a time when my faith hung on the wall of my office.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t pushy. It didn’t quote Scripture in bold letters or ask anyone to agree with me. It simply existed—quietly, faithfully—where anyone who walked through my door could see it.
It was a to-do list.
- Pray.
- Sing.
- Smile at strangers.
- Learn something new.
- Notice kindness.
- Eat potato chips.
- Hope.
- Count my blessings.
- Spend time with family.
- Pay attention.
Some people laughed at number six. Some paused at “Hope.” Some never said a word. And that was okay. I wasn’t trying to convince anyone of anything. I just wanted my life to point—gently—to something good.
I’ve always believed that faith doesn’t need a microphone to be real.
Later, when vision loss forced me to retire and my world became smaller, that same list came home with me. Today it hangs inside my closet. Every morning, when I reach for my clothes, it meets me there.
What once spoke quietly to others now speaks daily to me.
I’ve learned that God doesn’t remove our calling when circumstances change—He relocates it. Ministry doesn’t disappear when titles do. Witness doesn’t end when we leave the workplace. Sometimes it just moves from public spaces to private ones. And maybe that’s where it was always meant to deepen.
“Let your light thus shine before men, so that they may see your upright works, and glorify your Father who is in the heavens.” (Matthew 5:16 — Darby Translation)
Light doesn’t have to shout.
It just has to be present.
Some days, my faith looks like prayer.
Some days, it looks like hope held with both hands.
Some days, it looks like opening a closet door and remembering what matters.
I may not have a microphone anymore—but I still have a life. And by God’s grace, I intend to live it faithfully.
Restricted Vision, Unburdened Sight 