You’ve heard the flight attendant’s line a thousand times: “Put your own oxygen mask on first, then help others.” Some Christians bristle at that—doesn’t Scripture call us to deny ourselves and serve? Others sense that running on fumes can’t be what God intends.

The good news: the oxygen-mask analogy has a firm biblical footing—not as self-centered self-care, but as stewardship of your body and soul for the sake of faithful love. Below is a deeper look you can use for your own heart and to counsel others.

I’ve always thought a lot about home—and wrestled with it. I was born in New York City. “New Yorker,” “American”—those labels once felt like bedrock. But when I moved to Canada at seven, the ground shifted. New country, new city, new language (French). And because my father had already rejected me at two, home was tangled up with acceptance. If what felt stable could be taken, how could any place be home?

Christians don’t start with techniques—we start with God. Marriage is a covenant before the Lord, and our communication flows out of worship: truth in love (Eph 4:15), gracious speech that builds up (Eph 4:29), slow anger and self-control (Jas 1:19–20; Gal 5:22–23), confession and forgiveness (Jas 5:16; Eph 4:32). The Bible doesn’t just tweak tone; it names the heart (Jas 4:1–3), calls sin “sin,” anchors hope in the gospel, and supplies power by the Spirit. When couples speak as worshipers—praying, confessing, forgiving, bearing with one another—their words become instruments of grace, not weapons of self-protection.

When the covenant trust of marriage is shattered by infidelity, it can feel like your whole world implodes. Confusion, anger, grief, shame, and despair often swirl together in a storm too big to name. It can feel like you’re dying on the inside.

God sees you. He grieves with you. He is near to you. And He does not blame you for what someone else has done.

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”

—Psalm 34:18

This is a sacred kind of suffering. It is not your fault. And it is not too much for Jesus.

How do we care on mission? Our desire to live as Christ’s ambassadors often stalls without handles, which is why a simple, biblical framework is so helpful—it translates conviction into practice. Scripture gives the contours: “admonish the idle, encourage the fainthearted, help the weak, be patient with them all” (1 Thess. 5:14), “stir up one another to love and good works” (Heb. 10:24), and “bear one another’s burdens” (Gal. 6:2). Paul David Tripp’s Love–Know–Speak–Do distills these movements—Christlike posture, careful listening, wise words, and tangible action—into a usable pathway for ordinary believers in ordinary places. For years it has served lay counselors and church leaders as a trusted map for everyday care. Think of it not as a script, but as a gospel-oriented compass that keeps us aligned with Jesus while we walk with people He loves.

Grief touches every life. Some of us express it with tears and words, others through busyness, silence and withdrawal. In seasons of loss, it’s common to wonder: Am I grieving the “right” way? Does my response honor the Lord?

Scripture gives us a beautiful, nuanced picture of grief. Two men—Aaron the high priest and Job the sufferer—show us very different ways to respond to devastating loss. Both responses were faithful. Together, they form a spectrum that gives believers permission to grieve as led by the Lord.

Then the Parable of the Unmerciful Servant jolted me awake. The servant’s inability to receive the master’s generosity led straight to his abuse of others. I saw the parallel: when I refuse to accept God’s daily mercies, I’m more likely to be harsh, anxious, or withholding with the people I’m called to love.

By God’s grace, I’m growing out of that cramped view. Learning to expect—and humbly receive—my Father’s everyday kindness has softened my soul and enlarged my ministry. Now I can help others discern what God is offering, receive it with gratitude, and pass it on in love.

As a biblical counselor, much of my work involves truly getting to know a person—their life history, major events, both joyful and traumatic. In the counseling process, knowing someone deeply is essential. But there’s an assumed trust and a shared goal in that context. I recognize that this likely shapes my expectations. It’s what I do, and it’s incredibly rewarding. So naturally, I find myself wondering: why wouldn’t others want to take the time to know me?

What do you do when you can’t fix things anymore?

When your child is no longer under your roof or your rule, and your influence feels painfully small—what does love look like then?

For Christian parents of adult children, the answer is twofold: love unconditionally and pray continually.

As our children grow up, our role as parents must grow too. When they were small, we taught and directed. As teens, we advised and corrected. But as they enter adulthood, our influence must become more relational than directive—shaped not by our authority, but by our example.

Scripture makes clear that parental authority is real—but not absolute. In Genesis 1:28, God gives humanity delegated authority—stewardship, not ownership. The same applies to our role as parents.

“Fathers, do not provoke your children, lest they become discouraged.”

— Colossians 3:21

In other words, nagging, controlling, guilt-tripping, or rescuing too quickly may discourage more than help. Our job now is to offer invitation, not interrogation.

Even Jesus didn’t override people’s choices. When the rich young ruler walked away (Mark 10:17–22), Jesus let him go—grieved, but respectful. He didn’t force faith. He spoke truth, loved well, and allowed agency.

In ministry, leadership, and caregiving roles, we often enter the work with high hopes, strong convictions, and a genuine desire to serve others in Jesus’ name. But over time, even the most faithful hearts can begin to feel drained, numb, or quietly resentful. This is burnout — and it doesn’t only affect the overcommitted or unorganized. It affects the faithful. The sacrificial. The sincere.

Sending your adult child into the world is a bit like a church planting another church.

When a church plants a new congregation, it doesn’t mourn the departure—it celebrates the multiplication.

It prays for, supports, and trusts that the new church will flourish—independent but connected.

And yet… we need Him. Not just His gifts or His blessings—but Him. His presence is our life (Psalm 16:11). That tension—needing what we cannot survive—runs through the entire Bible. It’s what makes the cross of Christ so staggering. In Jesus, God Himself veils His glory in flesh (John 1:14), so that instead of being destroyed by His holiness, we are healed by it (Isaiah 6:7).

‘The Lord is my Shepherd’ (Psalm 23:1) is a heart posture. It is a declaration that Jesus is my caretaker and my king. My whole person is arranged under His care and rule. When we declare ‘The Lord is my Shepherd’ we are acknowledging that we have submitted our entire person to the care of the One who cares for us best. My family is not my shepherd, my intellect is not my shepherd, my principles or values are not my Shepherd, a human leader is not my shepherd, a government system is not my Shepherd, my goal or dream is not my shepherd, my own effort is not my shepherd. Jesus is. Jesus is the One who directs me. Jesus is the One who I submit to. I trust Him for my care. Completely.

Needs-based counseling, is fundamentally anti-biblical because it frames marriage as a contract of demand and fulfillment rather than a covenant of grace and self-giving love. By teaching that spouses are obligated to meet each other’s “top needs” or risk infidelity, it subtly nurtures entitlement and shifts the goal of marriage from Christlike sacrifice to personal satisfaction. The suggestion that a wife consider plastic surgery to maintain her husband’s interest is a troubling example of this distortion—it reflects not the heart of Scripture, but the values of a pornified culture where women’s bodies are commodified and intimacy is reduced to visual gratification. In contrast, biblical love does not demand or manipulate, but lays itself down for the good of the other (Ephesians 5:25).

As biblical counselors and counselees, we are fellow pilgrims—called to walk not by sight, but by faith (2 Corinthians 5:7). We cling not to the illusion of control, but to the cross of Christ and the Word of God. Whether we see change in a moment or wait a lifetime, we rest in the truth: the righteous live by faith. And that faith is not in our outcomes, but in our God.

As a biblical counseling ministry, we are committed to providing Christ-centered guidance to those seeking freedom from pornography. To support the aims of biblical counseling, we recognize that practical tools can serve as guardrails in the battle for purity. That’s why we have chosen to be an affiliate of Covenant Eyes—an accountability and filtering software designed to help people overcome pornography and walk in holiness.

What did Jesus mean when he told us that the first and greatest commandment is to Love God with all that we are?

When I think of this command, I visualize the vertical beam of the cross. This beam represents an ‘I-You’ relationship. It is the longer of the two beams and it connects me to God: it is grounded in the earth and points to heaven.

Snow, is a gift from God. Job 37:6 declares, “For to the snow he says, ‘Fall on the earth,’ likewise to the downpour, his mighty downpour.” The Lord commands the snow, and it obeys. No weather app, no government plow schedule, no desperate prayer for an early spring can alter its course. It falls precisely as the Lord ordains.