Walking the Line Between Righteous Anger and Divine Peace: A Journey Through Family Conflict and Faith

There are few things more painful than feeling betrayed or abandoned by those we expect to stand by us—especially when those people are family. When the ones who should show compassion instead show cruelty or apathy, the hurt cuts deep. It stirs up a powerful and often confusing sense of anger, and as a person of faith, that anger feels especially complex. In these moments, I find myself wondering: How do I handle this? How do I honor my faith while still standing up for what is right?


The Bible is full of stories of righteous anger, a kind of holy fire that propels people to take action in the face of injustice. I’ve found strength in the story of Joshua, who courageously followed God's commands to take the Promised Land, despite the overwhelming odds and the moral weight of the mission. In my life, my family has been a constant source of tension and frustration as I try to care for my father in his time of need. Watching some of my family members turn their backs on him and treat him poorly feels not only wrong but profoundly unjust.

This isn’t just anger—it's a deep, relentless feeling that cries out for justice. It makes me want to lash out and force them to see the pain they’re causing. And yet, my faith reminds me that there's a line between justice and vengeance, one that is easy to blur when our hearts are hurting.


One of the most challenging aspects of faith is the call to leave ultimate justice to God. It’s hard to feel such strong emotions, knowing that God promises to deal with those who act with cruelty, but also requires us to forgive and find peace. This isn’t a passive peace, nor does it mean we ignore wrongdoing. Instead, it means that while we work toward justice, we release the bitterness and allow God to guide our actions.

In Romans 12:19, we’re told, "Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God's wrath." It’s a call to let go of the need to personally deliver judgment, to trust that God sees and that His justice will prevail. But this doesn’t mean silence; it doesn’t mean ignoring the pain or accepting mistreatment. Instead, it’s an invitation to choose our battles carefully, guided by love and truth.


What I’ve learned in this journey is that faith doesn’t call us to be passive or weak; it calls us to be strong in ways that often seem contradictory to the world. Choosing to trust God’s justice requires us to walk with integrity, to speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, and to defend the dignity of our loved ones. But it also requires humility, the willingness to say, "I’ll do my part, and I’ll let God handle the rest."

This doesn’t mean the anger simply fades away—it may not. Instead, I’m learning to channel that anger into action, to ensure that my father’s needs are met, and to draw boundaries that protect him. Rather than being consumed by bitterness, I’m using my energy to create change, letting God guide me through each step of this challenging path.


Just as Joshua led his people with unwavering courage, I feel called to stand up for what is right. But the weapons of this battle aren’t ones of vengeance or cruelty; they’re ones of prayer, patience, and perseverance. They’re found in creating space for honest conversations and, if necessary, separating myself from those who choose pettiness over love.

This journey isn’t about winning against those who hurt us, but about finding peace within ourselves, knowing that we’ve acted with integrity. Forgiveness, when it comes, will be a gift from God, a reflection of His grace working through me. Until then, I’ll keep praying, keep acting, and keep trusting that God’s justice will prevail.

If you’re going through something similar, know that your anger isn’t wrong. It’s a natural response to injustice and cruelty. But remember, as I’m trying to remind myself, that our faith gives us a choice. We can either let that anger consume us, or we can turn it into a force for good, a force that stands up for what is right without losing sight of God’s love and ultimate justice.

When "Not Enough" Feels Like Too Much: A Reflection on Grace and Growth

Lately, I’ve been caught in a cycle of thinking I’m not doing enough. It’s a recurring thought, a nagging voice that tells me I should be doing more, achieving more, managing better. But every time I sit down and really take stock of my life, I realize something: I am doing enough, more than enough.

I’m working a full-time job while also balancing a part-time one. I have a dog who depends on me for care and love, and tomorrow, I’ll be starting my dual master's program—a journey that will demand even more of my time and energy. On top of all that, I’m helping coordinate my dad’s care, even though he’s all the way in Honduras.

Still, that voice sneaks in, whispering, “It’s not enough.” I’ve come to realize that these lies are seeds planted by the enemy, trying to steal my peace and make me feel inadequate. The truth is, I’ve bought into those lies for too long. But there’s another truth—one that’s stronger, deeper, and more powerful.

Through all of this, Jesus has never left my side. Even when I feel overwhelmed or like I’m falling short, He carries me through. In moments of doubt, He reminds me of His grace. He’s the constant presence lifting me up when I think I can’t keep going.

As I prepare to dive into this next chapter—balancing work, school, family, and personal responsibilities—I’m learning to let go of the need to be perfect. I’m learning to trust that where I am right now is exactly where I need to be. I don’t have to strive endlessly or carry the weight of "never enough."

I am enough. Not because of anything I’ve done, but because of who I am in Him. And for that, I am grateful.

When Love Isn't Enough: My Journey in Caring for My Father from Afar

This past week has been one of the hardest in my life. My father, a man who once had so much potential, is now unable to walk, and I’ve found myself thousands of miles away, trying to care for him from a distance. It’s a heartbreaking reality, one I never imagined I’d be facing. Watching someone you love go through physical and emotional suffering, feeling powerless to change their circumstances—it’s a pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

My father has struggled with his health and his own emotional battles for a long time, but seeing him in this state—lying in his own urine and feces, his family indifferent to his situation—has broken something inside me. The helplessness I feel knowing that I can't be there with him is overwhelming. There's a part of me that wants to drop everything, sell all my belongings, and move to Honduras just to take care of him. But then reality hits: I have my own life here, my dog Akira, my responsibilities. How would I provide for us if I gave everything up?

The guilt is crushing. I feel like I should be doing more, but at the same time, I know I’ve already given so much. I’ve found a male nurse to help care for my father, and his cousin has stepped in where he can. But it’s not the same as me being there, holding his hand and making sure he’s cared for the way I know he deserves.

At times, I’ve felt angry—not just at the situation, but at my dad too. It hurts to see that he couldn’t pull himself out of the depression and unhealthy patterns that led him here. I wish things could have been different, that he could have taken the steps to live a more fulfilling life. But I’m learning that this is his journey, not mine. All I can do is love him, support him, and ask God for mercy as he navigates the path he’s on.

And yet, love alone doesn’t seem like enough sometimes. No matter how much I love him, I can’t change his circumstances, and that’s a tough pill to swallow. I’ve had to accept that I can’t fix everything. There are limits to what I can do, and maybe the hardest part is realizing that those limits are okay. I’m learning to forgive myself for not being able to do it all. I’m learning to find peace in knowing that I’m doing the best I can.

This experience has taught me so much about surrender. I can’t control every aspect of my father’s care, and I can’t carry the burden all on my own. I’m trusting the nurse we’ve hired, trusting that his cousin will continue to help where he can. It’s not easy, but I’m learning to let go, little by little.

If there’s anything I hope to share with anyone reading this, it’s that caregiving from afar is an impossible balancing act. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed, to feel like you can’t do enough, and to acknowledge that you have limits. I’m still learning this myself, but I believe that being honest about these struggles can help lighten the load—even if just a little.

I wish I could take this burden from my father, but this is his journey. All I can do is love him and trust that I’ve done all I can.