Kurt Bubna

Sometimes life sucks.

I am not trying to be a Negative Ned, but it’s true.

However, we are told to…

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds…” (James 1:2)

If we’re honest, that may be one of the hardest commands in Scripture (and yes, it’s a command, not a suggestion).

James is not telling us to enjoy pain. He’s not asking us to pretend that heartbreak, disappointment, betrayal, illness, loss, or unfair circumstances are somehow pleasant. He’s not suggesting we slap a happy sticker on something horrible and call it faith.

What he is saying is that we have a choice.

We may not get to choose our circumstances, but we do get to choose our attitude toward them.

And that matters because the alternative is dangerous.

When we allow ourselves to get pulled into the vortex of negativity, bitterness, resentment, anger, self-pity, and despair… nothing actually improves.

Nothing.

The problem remains, but now we’ve added misery to the situation. We become exhausted, discouraged, difficult to live with, and emotionally drained.

For the record, joy is not denial.

Joy is trust.

It is the decision to believe that God is still good even when life is not.

It is the conviction that God has not abandoned us.

It is confidence that somehow, in ways we cannot yet see, He is still at work.

As Paul wrote: “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good…” (Romans 8:28)

Not some things.

Not the easy things.

All things.

Bob Goff once wrote, “Joy is not something that happens to us. Joy is something we choose.”

That doesn’t mean we ignore reality. It means we refuse to let reality have the final word.

Sometimes faith looks less like a smile and more like a stubborn refusal to quit trusting God.

And often, that’s where joy begins.

One of the strange realities of writing a vulnerable book is this:

The people who most need the message are often the easiest audience to imagine.

And the people who know your story are often the hardest audience to face.

When you write honestly, you eventually discover that publishing a book isn’t just about putting words on paper. It’s about putting pieces of your life on display.

Readers you’ve never met may offer grace, understanding, and encouragement.

Meanwhile, the people who know your failures, your mistakes, your history, and your unfinished chapters may struggle to see anything beyond what they already believe about you.

I understand that tension more than I wish I did.

My upcoming book, Unshamed - From Failure and Shame to Fully Known, Forgiven, and Free, is not a book I could have written twenty years ago. It’s a book born from failure, divorce, consequences, grief, repentance, healing, and the relentless grace of God.

Writing it has required me to revisit places I’d rather forget. Some stories still hurt. Some chapters cost me tears. Some memories remind me of people I’ve wounded and losses I can never fully undo.

And yet, I believe those are often the stories worth telling anyway.

Not because they’re polished, or because they make us look good.

But because most people don’t need another success story. They need to know what happens after everything falls apart.

They need to know whether shame gets the final word.

They need to know if it’s possible to fail publicly, lose deeply, carry real consequences, and still find hope.

That’s why I wrote Unshamed.

I’ve learned that transparency and vulnerability always carry risk. Some people will misunderstand you. Some will judge you. Some will never move beyond your worst chapter.

But if your story can help someone else survive theirs, it’s worth telling.

Maybe that’s one of the hidden benefits of writing honestly. You don’t just invite people into your story.

You give them permission to believe their story isn’t over either.

For many people, adultery feels like a scarlet letter.

A permanent mark.
A label.
The worst moment of their life attached to their name.

And if we’re honest, shame loves to work that way.

It keeps reminding us where we failed, what we lost, and who we hurt.

But Scripture gives us a very different picture of scarlet: “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.” (Isaiah 1:18)

What if scarlet isn’t where the story ends?

What if it becomes a reminder of the blood of Jesus?

Not something to excuse sin.
Not something to wear with pride.
Not something to celebrate.

But a testimony of grace.

The enemy wants scarlet to mean condemned. He wants your worst chapter to feel like your permanent identity.

But Jesus turns scarlet into redeemed.

He steps into our mess with mercy.
He takes our shame and gives us hope.

So if you’ve spent years wearing a scarlet letter, hear this: Jesus didn’t die so you would spend the rest of your life defined by your worst moment.

He died so you could be forgiven, restored, and free.

So, scarlet used to remind me of my failure. Now it reminds me of the Savior who washed me white as snow.

Few church questions can divide a room faster than this one.
Can a divorced and remarried person ever serve as a pastor again?
Here’s the link to my latest article on Patheos addressing this issue:

Does Divorce Permanently Disqualify A Pastor? Does divorce permanently disqualify a pastor? A closer look at Paul’s “one-woman man” standard, grace, restoration, and biblical leadership.

No perfect parent exists. And while we’re being honest, no perfect adult children exist either.

That’s important to remember in a culture that often views relationships through the lens of blame rather than understanding.

When an adult child cuts off contact, walks away, or shuts the door on a relationship, the pain can be overwhelming. Few wounds cut deeper than being rejected by someone you once carried, protected, prayed for, and loved.

I’ve felt that breach personally since my divorce—one of my children has created distance that didn’t exist before. It’s a quiet kind of loss that shows up in ordinary moments, and it has forced me to reflect in ways I never expected.

But if you’re the parent, there is a question you have to ask before you ask anything else: “Where did I go wrong?”

Not because you’re automatically guilty.

Not because your adult child is automatically right.

But because, in many cases, healing begins with self-awareness.

It’s easy to spend our energy listing everything our adult children have done wrong. It’s much harder to honestly evaluate ourselves.

What could I have done better?

What wounds might I have caused?

What conversations did I avoid?

What apologies still need to be made?

Dr. Gary Chapman writes, “The strongest families are not those without problems, but those who learn how to work through them with love and forgiveness.”

Every family experiences disappointment, misunderstandings, and wounds.

The question is not whether a breach occurred.

The question is whether we are willing to honestly examine our role in it.

That’s not easy to do, but it’s necessary.

None of this means your adult child is free from responsibility.

None of this means that if you had done everything perfectly, you would automatically have a close relationship today.

People have free will. Adult children make their own choices. Sometimes they make painful ones.

But restoration rarely begins with finger-pointing. It begins with humility.

The Bible warned that family fractures would become increasingly common in the last days. Paul wrote that people would become “disobedient to their parents” (2 Timothy 3:2). Jesus spoke of households divided against one another (Matthew 10:35–36).

I believe we are seeing that reality play out all around us.

Nonetheless, if you’re a canceled parent today, don’t surrender to bitterness.

Take inventory.

Own what is yours to own.

Apologize where an apology is needed.

Leave the door open.

Keep your heart soft.

Build bridges where you can.

And when a bridge cannot yet be built, at least don’t become the one who burns it.

Remember, reconciliation requires two people.

But integrity, humility, repentance, and love only require one.

Start there.

“Moving is one of the few life events where excitement and grief can ride in the same truck.”

I read that recently and thought, Yep. That’s exactly what this season feels like.

Katherine and I are in the middle of a move right now, and at my age, that’s not something to take lightly. Thankfully, we’re only moving about an hour outside of town, not across the country. Still, moving is moving, and the boxes don’t seem to care how old you are.

Moving consistently ranks among the top stressors people experience in life, and I understand why. It’s physical and emotional.

There are boxes everywhere. Endless decisions. A to-do list that seems to reproduce overnight.

But beneath all of that is something deeper.

Every move involves loss.

You leave familiar rooms, familiar routines, familiar memories. You say goodbye to a chapter of your life that can never be revisited in the same way again.

At the same time, there is excitement. New possibilities. New adventures. New stories waiting to be written.

That’s the tension. Grief and anticipation sharing the same space.

This move has reminded me of a few things.

First, you can’t do everything at once. Take the next step. Then the next one. Most mountains are climbed one step at a time.

Second, exhaustion is real. Sometimes the most productive thing you can do is sit down, breathe, and rest.

And third, don’t neglect your soul while you’re managing your schedule.

In stressful seasons, quiet time with Jesus isn’t a luxury. It’s oxygen.

The boxes will eventually get unpacked.

The chaos will settle down.

The new place will begin to feel like home.

But the peace we need most doesn’t come from having everything organized. It comes from staying connected to the One who walks with us through every transition.

You may not be packing boxes or moving across town like some people, but if you’re carrying a heavy load, please give yourself grace

Focus on what’s right in front of you and trust God with the rest.

One faithful step at a time is enough.

Hope is one of the most powerful forces on earth.

Not because it changes our circumstances overnight, but because it gives us the strength to endure them.

I’ve sat with people whose lives had fallen apart. Adult children failing. Businesses in bankruptcy. Dreams collapsing. Health diagnoses they never saw coming.

What struck me wasn’t that their pain was different than most; it was that some still had hope.

And those who had hope kept moving.

I was once hiking in dense fog in the mountains. Visibility had shrunk to just a few yards. The trail ahead had disappeared. The valley below was hidden. The summit was nowhere in sight.

At one point, I was tempted to turn around.

Then the fog shifted for just a moment.

Only a moment.

But it was enough to reveal the next section of the trail.

Not the entire route. Not the destination. Just the next few steps.

And that was enough to keep me moving.

Hope often works that way.

It doesn’t always show us the whole picture.

Sometimes it simply gives us enough light for the next step.

Human beings are remarkably resilient when they believe there is a reason to keep going.

But when hope dies, motivation dies with it. We stop fighting. We stop dreaming. We stop believing our efforts matter.

As one writer wisely observed: “Hope is seeing a light beyond the present moment even when you’re still walking in the dark.”

I don’t know what you’re carrying right now.

Maybe you’re waiting for a relationship to heal.
Maybe you’re grieving a loss.
Maybe you’re staring at a future that looks nothing like the one you planned.

Hold on to hope.

Not because everything will magically work out exactly as you want.

But because hope reminds us that today’s reality is not necessarily tomorrow’s reality.

As long as hope remains, there is still a reason to take one more step.

And often, one more step is enough.

What if we’ve accidentally taught people that truth is only as trustworthy as the person delivering it?

That thought has been rattling around in my head for a while now, sparked in part by something Tullian Tchividjian recently wrote.

I’ve noticed a pattern over the years.

A pastor, author, or ministry leader spends decades teaching, writing, preaching, and helping people. Churches recommend their books. Small groups study their material. Sermons are shared. Lives are impacted.

Then a failure becomes public.

Sometimes it’s a moral failure. Sometimes it’s an abuse of authority. Sometimes it’s a scandal that leaves real damage in its wake.

And almost immediately, the conversation shifts from what they did to everything they ever said.

Articles disappear. Online sermons are removed. Resources are quietly retired. Entire libraries of content can be treated as though they never existed.

I remember watching this happen after the fall of Bill Hybels. Whatever conclusions people reached about his leadership and actions, there was a noticeable effort in some places to distance themselves not only from the man but also from years of teaching that had previously been embraced and promoted.

And I understand the instinct.

Nobody wants to appear supportive of harmful behavior. Nobody wants to minimize sin or excuse serious failures.

But the older I get, the more I wonder if we sometimes confuse the vessel with the message.

When we discover that a teacher has failed, should we reexamine what they taught? Absolutely.

Sometimes, unhealthy beliefs, manipulation, or distortions of Scripture show up in the teaching itself. Those things should be confronted.

But if a message was true before the failure, what exactly happens to that truth afterward?

Does wisdom cease to be wisdom because the person sharing it later fell short?

Does truth become less true?

The reality is that God has always worked through flawed people.

Abraham lied.

Moses lost his temper and killed a man.

David committed adultery and arranged a murder.

Peter denied Jesus when it mattered most.

Their failures were real. The consequences were real. God did not pretend otherwise.

Yet God still spoke through them.

Not because their sin was insignificant, but because the power of truth never rested on the perfection of the messenger.

Thank God for that.

Because if every truth spoken by an imperfect person had to be discarded, we would eventually throw away much of what we’ve gained throughout church history.

Every one of us has blind spots.

Every one of us has failures.

Every one of us has parts of our story we wish weren’t there.

Truth does not become untrue because the person speaking it turns out to be deeply flawed.

And that is good news.

Because the messengers, sooner or later, may disappoint us.

But truth stands or falls on whether it is true. Not on whether the person speaking it eventually fails us or not.

A wise person once told me that growth doesn’t require perfect conditions.

For example, plants don’t wait for pure water, perfect weather, or ideal circumstances before they begin to grow. They simply keep reaching toward the light.

Maybe there’s a lesson in that for us.

Not every word spoken over your life will be encouraging. Not every opinion will be helpful. Some people will misunderstand you. Others may see only a small piece of your story and assume they know the whole thing.

That’s okay. Your job isn’t to manage every opinion.

Your job is to keep growing.
Keep learning.
Keep healing.
Keep becoming the person God created and destined you to be.

The people who flourish in life aren’t those who never face criticism or setbacks. They’re the ones who refuse to let those things define them.

They lose jobs, endure disappointment, watch dreams fall apart, and sometimes carry the weight of mistakes they wish they could undo.

But they keep moving forward. They learn, heal, adapt, and refuse to build their identity around their worst day.

Remember, the Voice that matters most isn’t the noise around you coming from the crowd or your negative self-talk.

It’s the quiet one reminding you not to give up.

It’s the One calling you onward.

Grace does not hit a magic delete button.

It does not erase consequences.
It does not rewind history.
It does not pretend damage never happened.

Grace does something far more costly.

It stays.

Grace carries people through the consequences of their sin instead of abandoning them to be crushed by it.

That distinction matters.

One of the quiet sins of hyper-religious Pharisees is assuming they can read another person’s heart. We watch behavior. We analyze words. We measure tone. Then we issue a verdict.

But Scripture is clear. We do not know the heart. Only God does.

Maybe that is why James writes, “Mercy triumphs over judgment.”

Maybe that is why Jesus says, “Forgive as you have been forgiven.”

Not after the evidence satisfies you.
Now.

We say we believe in grace, yet we often demand proof before releasing someone from our judgment. We want visible change. We want reassurance that forgiving them will not make us look foolish.

That is not the way of the cross.

The way of the cross is the death of our need to be right, our demand for control, and our desire for vengeance.

Even from the cross, Jesus prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”

Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 13 leave little room for spiritual harshness. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love keeps no record of wrongs. That chapter was not written to romanticize weddings. It was written to correct believers who were acting cruelly in the name of being right.

This does not excuse sin.
This does not minimize harm.
This does not remove consequences.

It clarifies roles.

We are not judge and jury.

We are witnesses to grace.

Our role with the fallen is not to police repentance. It is to pray for mercy, extend grace, and forgive because we were forgiven, not because someone met our conditions.

Yes, fruit matters.

But forgiveness is not contingent on what we see.

Grace moves first.

That is the scandal of it.
That is the cost of it.
That is the way of Jesus.

And anything less might feel righteous.

But it is not love.