#SpreadTheGospel

It’s Friday the 13th guys and if y’all thought I would miss this, you’re mistaken!

As you read this, I request for your prayers that I remain steadfast in the Lord. It’s currently “baby making weather” in Nairobi and the rains coupled with ovulation had me thinking in ways that would make Apostle Paul write me a letter…. 😵‍💫😵‍💫🥴Haha! Single ladies in the Lord, how are you holding up? 😏🤭

I have realised that some of the greatest multiplications God performs in our lives are invisible at first. A seed falls into the ground and dies, Jesus says in John 12:24, but if it dies, it produces many seeds. Before there is fruit, there is burial. Before there is increase, there is hiddenness. Before there is multiplication, there is surrender.

We want visible outcomes. We want the ring. The baby. The promotion. The vindication. But God is often multiplying character long before He multiplies anything else.

And character is formed in caves.

David was anointed king long before he wore the crown. There was oil on his head in 1 Samuel 16, but there were years of obscurity and pursuit after that. Being chosen did not exempt him from being chased. Being called did not protect him from caves. If anything, it seemed to invite the cave season.

“They spread a net for my feet— I was bowed down in distress. They dug a pit in my path— but they have fallen into it themselves. My heart, O God, is steadfast, my heart is steadfast; I will sing and make music.”
‭‭Psalms‬ ‭57‬:‭6‬-‭7‬ ‭NIV‬‬

There is something about that repetition “My heart, O God, is steadfast, my heart is steadfast…” that refuses to panic. It is as though David is preaching to himself before he addresses anyone else. He does not begin with strategy. He does not begin with revenge. He begins with posture.

And that convicts me.

Yet David, hiding in a cave, hunted and misunderstood, says, “I will sing.”

He was not singing because the lions had left. He was singing while “in the midst of lions.” There is a difference between deliverance and defiance. Sometimes praise is not celebration; it is defiance. It is a holy refusal to let bitterness take root. Hebrews 12:15 warns us to see to it that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many. Bitterness is fertile. If you water it with replayed offenses and unfiltered conversations, it will grow.

But so will steadfastness.

The daily deaths we encounter — the swallowed words, the unmet desires, the delayed promises are invitations to surrender. Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 4:10-11 that we “always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body… so that his life may also be revealed.” There is no resurrection life without some form of dying.

We love the “life of Jesus” part. We quote it. We post it. We pray it. But the “carrying around the death” part? That is less glamorous. That is the choosing silence when you could destroy someone with facts. That is the choosing purity when your body is singing a completely different worship song in this Nairobi cold. That is the choosing trust when your name is circulating in rooms you have never entered.

And still, “My heart is steadfast.”

Steadfast does not mean numb. It means anchored. Psalm 62:6 says, “Truly he is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.” Notice the language. Rock. Fortress. Not feelings. Not circumstances. God Himself is the stability of the heart that chooses Him repeatedly.

Perhaps some of you are in that in-between. You have the promise, but you are living in the process. You have the word from God, but the environment looks nothing like it. And the temptation in that space is to force what God has not yet formed.

When the weather is cold and your body is reminding you that you are, in fact, alive, it is tempting to manufacture warmth. To lower the standard. To entertain what you once rebuked. To call it companionship when it is compromise. Yet Galatians 5:24 says, “Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires.” Crucifixion is not comfortable. It is decisive.

Daily deaths.

Death to impatience.
Death to comparison.
Death to secret sin that no one would “really” find out about.

And in those deaths, something else is being born. James 1:2-4 tells us to consider it pure joy when we face trials of many kinds because the testing of our faith produces perseverance, and perseverance must finish its work so that we may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. There is a wholeness that cannot be microwaved. It must be slow-cooked through obedience.

When David says, “They dug a pit in my path — but they have fallen into it themselves,” he is not gloating. He is testifying. There is a quiet confidence in leaving justice to God. Romans 12:19 reminds us, “Do not take revenge… ‘It is mine to avenge; I will repay,’ says the Lord.” That scripture has saved me from many regrettable responses.

You do not have to defend yourself at the expense of your fragrance.

Because that is what is at stake, isn’t it? Not your reputation. Not ultimately. But your fragrance. 2 Corinthians 2:15 says, “For we are to God the pleasing aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing.” An aroma is not loud. It does not argue. It simply diffuses.

Pressure releases fragrance.

When olives are pressed, oil flows. When petals are crushed, scent is released. When Christ was crushed, salvation flowed. Isaiah 53:5 reminds us that He was pierced for our transgressions and crushed for our iniquities. Our salvation came through His suffering. We, who follow Him, should not be surprised when our own conformity to Him involves some measure of crushing.

This is not to glorify pain for pain’s sake. It is to recognise that God wastes nothing. The betrayal you endured. The engagement that did not happen. The workplace hostility. The loneliness that feels louder at night. None of it is random in the hands of a sovereign God.

Even the desires that embarrass you can become altars.

Instead of shaming yourself for longing, bring the longing before Him. Psalm 37:4 says, “Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.” That verse has often been misunderstood as a blank cheque. But I am learning that as we delight in Him, He shapes our desires. He purifies them. He aligns them. He becomes the first satisfaction, not the last resort.

So when the cold weather stirs more than just the need for an extra blanket, do not panic. Do not spiral. Pray. Fast if you must. Go for a walk. Text a godly friend instead of the almost-relationship. Steward your body as a temple, as 1 Corinthians 6:19-20 instructs. Remember that you were bought at a price. Your obedience matters.

Not because God is a killjoy. But because He is forming something eternal in you.

“My heart is steadfast.”

Say it when the email comes.
Say it when the invitation does not.
Say it when the timeline stretches.

Steadfastness is not dramatic. It is consistent. It is choosing the same God on Monday that you chose on Sunday. It is worshipping in the cave with the same sincerity you would on a platform. It is trusting that the God who sees in secret, as Matthew 6:6 assures us, will reward in His time.

The cave is not your conclusion. It is your classroom.

David left the cave. The throne eventually matched the anointing. But I suspect the throne did not form the king as deeply as the cave did. The cave taught him dependence. It taught him restraint. It taught him to sing when surrounded.

And perhaps that is the multiplication God is after in us. Not merely external increase, but internal expansion. An enlarged capacity for grace. A deeper well of patience. A quieter confidence in God’s sovereignty.

As you pray for me to remain steadfast, I am praying the same for you. That when words are twisted, your worship will not be. That when nets are spread, your faith will not be ensnared. That when pits are dug, you will stand still long enough to see the salvation of the Lord, as Exodus 14:13 declares.

We may dwell among lions for a season. We may feel the cold of delay. We may experience daily deaths that no one applauds. But if Christ is being formed in us, as Galatians 4:19 so beautifully puts it, then none of it is in vain.

“My heart, O God, is steadfast, my heart is steadfast; I will sing and make music.”

May that be our rebellion against despair. May that be our song in the cave. And may every daily death make room for a deeper, sweeter, unmistakable fragrance of Christ in us.

*********

There is something deeply instructive about the way David speaks in Psalm 57. He does not exaggerate his pain, nor does he dilute it. He names it plainly. Nets were spread. A pit was dug. He was bowed down in distress. Those are not poetic exaggerations; they are lived realities. Yet in the same breath, without waiting for circumstances to shift, he declares the posture of his heart.

“My heart, O God, is steadfast, my heart is steadfast; I will sing and make music.”

The repetition is deliberate. It feels like someone steadying their own soul. David is not performing for an audience; he is anchoring himself before God. Before deliverance manifests, before vindication arrives, before the narrative turns in his favor, he chooses worship.

That choice unsettles me in the best way.

Because when words are twisted, my instinct is often to clarify. When motives are questioned, I want to defend. When injustice surfaces, I want resolution. Yet David shows us another way — not passivity, but posture. His steadfastness is not denial of distress; it is confidence in God’s character within distress.

Psalm 57 begins with him crying out for mercy and taking refuge “in the shadow of your wings” until the disaster has passed (Psalm 57:1). That imagery matters. A shadow does not remove the storm; it provides covering within it. Refuge does not always mean immediate escape. Sometimes it means sustained preservation.

This is where the daily “deaths” begin to make sense.

Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 4:16 that outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. The Christian life contains this paradox of simultaneous dying and renewing. There are parts of us that must decrease — pride, impatience, self-reliance, uncontrolled desire — so that Christ may increase in clarity and authority within us. John the Baptist captured it succinctly in John 3:30: “He must become greater; I must become less.”

The lessening rarely feels comfortable.

It surfaces when you are misunderstood at work and resist the urge to retaliate. It surfaces when you feel the weight of loneliness and refuse to medicate it with compromise. It surfaces when your timeline does not align with your longing, yet you remain obedient anyway. These are not dramatic deaths, but they are real ones. They require surrender of self-protection and surrender of control.

Psalm 57:2 says, “I cry out to God Most High, to God, who vindicates me.” David’s confidence rests not in his ability to defend himself but in God’s capacity to act on his behalf. That distinction is crucial. Steadfastness is sustained when we trust that God is both attentive and just. Without that conviction, silence feels like weakness rather than worship.

It is easy to praise when the pit has already collapsed on those who dug it. It is harder to sing while still navigating the path where traps have been set. Yet David’s declaration in verses 6 and 7 suggests that worship is not a response to safety; it is an act of trust in the midst of vulnerability.

There is no need to embellish the scene. Scripture already tells us enough: nets, pits, distress, and deliberate praise. The integrity of the text invites us to sit with it as it is.

The question then becomes personal. What does steadfastness look like in our own caves?

Perhaps it looks like continuing to work with excellence when recognition is absent. Colossians 3:23 reminds us to work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men. When corporate politics swirl and words are misrepresented, that verse becomes more than a motivational quote; it becomes a discipline. Excellence offered to God protects the heart from being consumed by human approval.

Perhaps steadfastness looks like guarding one’s body and mind during seasons of heightened desire. First Thessalonians 4:3-4 speaks plainly: “It is God’s will that you should be sanctified: that you should avoid sexual immorality; that each of you should learn to control your own body in a way that is holy and honorable.” Scripture does not shame desire, but it does call for stewardship of it. The presence of longing does not negate holiness; it simply tests it.

Cold weather, unmet expectations, and prolonged waiting have a way of amplifying what we crave. In those moments, steadfastness is less about suppressing emotion and more about submitting it. Psalm 62:8 urges us to “pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge.” Honesty before God strengthens resolve far more than silent frustration ever could.

There is also a subtle multiplication happening beneath the surface of obedience. Jesus teaches in John 12:24 that unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it produces much fruit. The death precedes the fruitfulness. Hidden surrender precedes visible increase.

Many of us long for multiplication in tangible forms — advancement, companionship, clarity, recognition. God, however, often begins by multiplying endurance. James 1:3-4 explains that the testing of faith produces perseverance, and perseverance must finish its work so that we may be mature and complete. Maturity is a form of multiplication. A larger capacity for patience, for discernment, for mercy — these are not small gains.

When David repeats, “My heart is steadfast,” he is not declaring emotional numbness. He has already admitted distress. Steadfastness, therefore, must mean something deeper than calm feelings. It suggests a settled allegiance. Psalm 112:7 describes the righteous person whose heart is steadfast, trusting in the Lord, not fearing bad news. The stability comes from trust, not from predictable circumstances.

Trust is formed through repetition — repeated surrender, repeated prayer, repeated remembrance of God’s faithfulness. Psalm 57 later expands into exaltation: “Be exalted, O God, above the heavens; let your glory be over all the earth” (Psalm 57:5,11). The same psalm that begins in refuge and distress ends in glory. That progression reveals something profound: perspective shifts before circumstances necessarily do.

This is why we must resist the temptation to dramatize our trials or inflate the language of Scripture to make it more compelling. The Word stands sufficient. Its authority rests in its truth, not in our embellishment. Our role is not to enhance it but to submit to it.

The cave seasons — whether relational, professional, or internal — are not evidence of abandonment. Psalm 57 itself is a record of God meeting a man in hiding and teaching him to sing. The song did not erase the threat; it reoriented the heart. When the heart is oriented toward God, even unresolved situations lose their power to destabilize.

Steadfastness, then, is cultivated in private long before it is visible in public. It is forged when no one applauds restraint and no one notices obedience. It is strengthened when Scripture is chosen over impulse and prayer over reaction. Over time, these choices form a life that reflects Christ with increasing clarity.

The daily deaths remain, but so does the daily renewal. The pressures persist, but so does the promise that God “will send from heaven and save me” (Psalm 57:3). The nets may be spread, yet the Lord remains sovereign over the path. Nothing slips past His sight.

Therefore, the prayer remains simple and weighty: that our hearts would be steadfast. Not hardened, not indifferent, not defensive, but anchored. Anchored in the character of a God who vindicates, covers, renews, and ultimately exalts His glory above every earthly narrative.

“My heart, O God, is steadfast, my heart is steadfast; I will sing and make music.”

That declaration does not deny suffering. It dignifies it by placing it beneath the sovereignty of God. In that posture, even the daily deaths become instruments of deeper life, and even the hidden seasons carry the quiet fragrance of Christ.

********

Psalms 56

“When three of Job’s friends heard of the tragedy he had suffered, they got together and traveled from their homes to comfort and console him. Their names were Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite, and Zophar the Naamathite. When they saw Job from a distance, they scarcely recognized him. Wailing loudly, they tore their robes and threw dust into the air over their heads to show their grief. Then they sat on the ground with him for seven days and nights. No one said a word to Job, for they saw that his suffering was too great for words.”
‭‭Job‬ ‭2‬:‭11‬-‭13‬ ‭NLT‬‬

“Pray also for me, that whenever I speak, words may be given me so that I will fearlessly make known the mystery of the gospel,”
‭‭Ephesians‬ ‭6‬:‭19‬ ‭NIV‬‬

“And you also are among those Gentiles wh