You know what gets my anxiety cooking bright and early? Bloodwork. Not the actual blood draw—although I don’t love that either. It’s the whole process. The mental gymnastics before I even get in the car.
Today’s one of those days. I’ve got general tests and lab work on the calendar, and I’m already spiraling—and y’all, I haven’t even brushed my hair yet.
Because here’s how it goes:
You sit.
You wait.
You sit some more.
You wait again.
The waiting room door opens—
Not you.
Opens again—
Still not you.
Again?
Nope.
And then finally, they call out…
“Mary?”
And sweet baby Jesus, I cringe.
Now let’s be clear—I have precious people in my life named Mary. I love them.
But when I’m called “Mary” in a doctor’s office, my entire body tenses. Not because it’s an ugly name (it’s not), but because I am not Mary. I am Mary Jane. Or Jani. Or MJ.
But never just “Mary.”
Why? Because my mind immediately flashes to my Mary.
Mary Kay.
As in my mother.
(And yes, that’s a whole chapter that deserves its own blog post… just not today. Trust me. It’s coming. With snacks and seatbelts.)
So I finally get called back—by the wrong name, of course—and before I can even roll up my sleeve for the blood draw, they make me step on the scale.
For bloodwork.
Why do they need my weight to test my vitamin D?
Oh, that’s right. It’s so the pharmacy can be alerted that I’ve emotionally snacked my way through another month of midlife stress and menopausal chaos. 🙃 Also, I drank half a cup of coffee so, I am not on their favorites list today.
Now listen, I do love my NP. She’s kind, makes me feel human, and never talks to me like she’s reading off a script. She’s one of the few in healthcare that makes me feel seen, not just scanned. She makes me laugh and we chat like besties!
Still—despite all that—I’m anxious before I even leave the house.
My brain is a circus, my blood pressure is confused, and I haven’t even put on a bra yet.
So, if you’ve ever felt overwhelmed by the most basic parts of a medical check-up, hi. I see you.
We’re out here just trying to survive the healthcare system, one name mix-up and weigh-in at a time.
And no—I am not Mary.
But yes, the story behind her is coming. Just give me time and the right bottle of wine.
I will begin with this… I’m not debating or arguing with anyone. This is my opinion but also based on fact. If you opt to come at me…well, ok then. Go for it. ❤️🤍💙🇺🇸
I’ve spent the past few days watching headlines and flashbacks—thinking about Iran, terrorism, our borders, and how different presidents have handled it all. I’m not a policy expert. I’m just a woman who pays attention, reads beyond the clickbait, and knows firsthand what service and sacrifice look like. This has taken me all day and then some to put down.
See, my family’s worn the uniform for generations—all the way back to the American Revolution. Both of my granddads served. So did several cousins. And my own son was a United States Marine (is—once a Marine, always a Marine. He earned it).
So no matter where you fall politically, let me say this plainly: you support the military, or you sit down. They are the 1% standing for all of us.
Now… let’s take a look at Iran and how we got to where we are today. Because this story didn’t start with Trump—or Biden—or even Obama. It started decades ago. But for our purposes, we’ll begin at 9/11.
📜 A Quick Breakdown: U.S. Presidents & Iran (Post-9/11)
George W. Bush (2001–2009):
Bush came out swinging. After 9/11, he called Iran part of the “Axis of Evil.” Sanctions tightened. Backdoor operations started. But here’s the kicker: by invading Iraq, we unintentionally gave Iran more power in the region. They filled the vacuum we created.
Barack Obama (2009–2017):
Enter diplomacy. Obama brokered the Iran Nuclear Deal (JCPOA). Iran got billions in frozen assets released, and in return, they promised to scale back nuclear development. But their missiles? Their proxy militias? Those weren’t part of the deal—and they didn’t stop. Iran played the long game, and we mostly looked the other way.
Donald Trump, First Term (2017–2021):
Trump tore the deal up and dropped the hammer. He reinstated sanctions, squeezed Iran’s economy, and made headlines when he ordered the strike that killed Iran’s top general, Qasem Soleimani. It was bold. Some say reckless. Others—like me—call it a reminder that the United States doesn’t play around. And as a side note, keep in mind we the people have no idea what is going on 100%! Remember “Men in Black?” Part of the quote made by Tommy Lee Jones is true in real life… “the only way these people can get on with their happy lives is that they DO NOT KNOW ABOUT IT!”
Joe Biden (2021–Jan 2025):
Tried to bring diplomacy back. Reached out to restart the JCPOA, which failed. Approved the release of $6 billion in frozen funds in exchange for hostages. The money was earmarked for humanitarian use, but let’s be honest: it freed up other resources for Iran to use how they pleased. Meanwhile, Iran marched forward with uranium enrichment.
Donald Trump, Second Term (2025–Today):
Now he’s back. Stronger, louder, and more resolved. Since returning to office, he’s reimposed full sanctions, bolstered Israel’s defense, and made it clear there will be no more games with Iran. Diplomacy isn’t on the table unless Iran fully disarms its nuclear ambitions. So far, they haven’t blinked. But neither has he.
🚪 The Other Door: Border Security & Common Sense
Now here’s where my neck gets a little red, and not from the Georgia sun.
While all of this is going on overseas, we’ve allowed hundreds of thousands of people to walk right into our country—completely unvetted. We don’t know who most of them are, what they believe, or what they’re carrying. That’s not a political statement. That’s national security 101.
The truth is, not everyone who crosses our border is here to make a better life. Some of them are here to exploit our weakness. And Iran? They’ve got their hands in more pots than you think—from Central America to sleeper cells. You don’t need a tinfoil hat to connect the dots. You just need to pay attention.
🧠 Real Talk, Not Fear Tactics
Look, I support Trump. I support strong borders. I support staring our enemies in the face and saying, “Not here. Not ever.” But I also support truth over tribalism. Every president made moves that brought us here—some smart, some not. Ignoring that does no one any good.
We can’t afford to pretend everything is fine. We can’t afford to act like the military will always catch what we refuse to see. And we sure as hell can’t keep apologizing for being strong.
Final Thought:
If we’re going to fix what’s broken, it starts with being honest. About Iran. About our border. About leadership. And about the fact that our safety isn’t guaranteed—it’s protected by the few willing to fight for it.
So thank you to those who serve. The 1% holding the line for the rest of us.
Now let’s hold the line here at home, too.
XOXO, Jani
📚 Footnotes:
1. George W. Bush, “State of the Union Address,” January 29, 2002. White House Archives
2. “What the Iran Deal Accomplished,” Brookings Institution. brookings.edu
3. “What Is the Iran Nuclear Deal?” Council on Foreign Relations. cfr.org
4. U.S. Department of Treasury briefing on JCPOA and asset release. home.treasury.gov 5. 5. “Qasem Soleimani: US kills top Iranian general,” BBC, January 3, 2020. bbc.com
6. “Biden administration unfreezes $6 billion in Iranian funds as part of prisoner swap,” Reuters, September 18, 2023. reuters.com
7. “Trump to leave G7 summit early and return to Washington,” The Guardian, June 16, 2025. theguardian.com
8. “US airstrikes hit Iran’s nuclear facilities,” Associated Press, June 22, 2025. apnews.com
9. “Iran bombing raid causes ‘severe damage’ to nuclear infrastructure,” Washington Post, June 22, 2025. washingtonpost.com
10. “Tom Homan warns about border gotaways and terror risk,” Fox News, April 2025. foxnews.com
11. “Iranian Agents and the Border Threat,” Homeland Security Today, March 2025. hstoday.us
This weekend, we’re packing up the grandboys and flying off to the heart of the Midwest—Winterset, Iowa—for my husband’s family reunion. Wilson and Wyatt are beside themselves with excitement to be on a plane again. And, it never gets old to me either.
There’s something special about Iowa. Now, I know it might not make everyone’s bucket list, but Winterset is truly peaceful—rolling hills, white fences, and that small-town charm that feels like stepping into a slower, sweeter time. You breathe deeper there. Maybe it’s the cornfields. Maybe it’s just the quiet. Either way, my soul is ready for it.
Winterset isn’t just any old small town—it’s the birthplace of John Wayne and home to those dreamy, iconic covered bridges made famous by The Bridges of Madison County. And yes, I fully intend to take at least one dramatic walk across one while pretending I’m Meryl Streep waiting on Clint Eastwood to show up in his rusty pickup. (Don’t judge—every woman deserves her moment.)
The reunion is on Saturday, but the party always starts long before the official gathering. We’ll be swapping stories, playing card games that get a little too competitive (just ask my husband), and—if my prayers are answered—visiting that little winery I fell in love with the last time we were there. I’m hoping it’s still around, because nothing says “reunion recharge” like sipping wine in the middle of corn country with cousins and laughter echoing across the hills.
The main event will be held at the local park, where folks will wander in and out all day long, sharing hugs, photos, and pie recipes. I expect a solid mix of lawn chairs, barbecue, babies toddling around in the grass, and cousins chasing each other like they’ve known each other forever—even if they just met that morning. That’s the thing about family. It doesn’t take long for roots to recognize roots.
Watching the younger generation—our grandboys included—connect with their extended family fills my heart in ways I can’t quite put into words. They’re building bonds and memories that will live longer than the homemade potato salad. These are the stories they’ll tell their kids one day: “Remember when we used to go to Iowa? That little park with the swings, and the lady who made the banana pudding with Nilla Wafers…” Yep, that’s the stuff.
Life moves fast. Too fast. And reunions like this? They’re our way of pressing pause. Of reminding ourselves where we came from, and who we belong to. It’s not always perfect, but it’s ours. And that makes it worth every minute of travel, every mosquito bite, and every overcooked hotdog.
So off we go—to hug necks, tell tales, eat too much, stroll across famous bridges, and maybe tip our hats to The Duke himself while watching generations connect in the shade of big old trees.
I was sipping my coffee this morning—still in pajamas, hair lookin’ like I stuck my finger in a light socket—watching the Today Show, and they started talking about how the old-school 9-to-5 workday is slowly becoming… extinct.
I felt so seen, I nearly choked on my hazelnut creamer.
Because let’s be real: most of us check our emails before we even drag ourselves out of bed. And again before our head hits the pillow at night. And I’m not talking about scrolling for fun—I mean full-on, “work-mode” emails. Like somehow answering a message at 10:38 PM earns us a badge of honor.
“Congratulations! You’ve won the Gold Star for Total Burnout!”
I’m guilty. You’re probably guilty. We’re all guilty.
And what’s worse—we wear it like it’s a virtue. Like we’ve unlocked the next level of productivity by sacrificing every shred of our personal time.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I love what I do. Being a Travel Advisor is my calling, my creative outlet, my joy. But being “on” all the time? That’s not sustainable. I justify it by saying, “Well, my clients need me. They’re in destination, and I need to be their lifeline.” Which—sure—is true. I do want them to know they’re supported every step of the way.
But guess what? Most travel packages come with an in-destination specialist. A real-life human being who’s right there, boots on the ground, ready to help if needed. I just… forget that sometimes. Or ignore it entirely.
Even when my sweet clients say, “I know it’s after hours, don’t reply right now,” what do I do?
I reply.
With, “Oh it’s ok!”
(Insert slow, dramatic head shake here.)
You know what that is? That’s called boundary-less living …and again, it’s me not setting that boundary. And before my MS or stress or general exhaustion grabs me by the ear and reminds me who’s boss, I’m trying to get ahead of it.
Old habits die hard. Especially when you come from a background like mine in Veterinary Medicine. Back then, “emergency” meant emergency. Life or death. You had to be available. But a question about whether to pack a hair dryer? Baby, that can wait ‘til morning.
I’m trying to learn that being present where I am is a gift. And I don’t want to miss the people, the pets, the moments right in front of me because I’m too busy responding to something that can wait.
I’ll probably always be that girl who wants to be available to everyone, all the time. But I’m working on it. Slowly. Gracefully (ish). And with a whole lot of caffeine.
So here’s to unplugging just a little more. Being present a little more. And letting go of the idea that hustle equals worth.
Work smarter, not harder!
Because life isn’t meant to be lived on a screen in your lap at 11:59 PM.
And burnout? That ain’t a badge I wanna wear anymore.
Well, remember a few months ago when a rogue limb shattered my windshield like it was auditioning for a Fast & Furious stunt reel? You’d think the tree got its anger out then, right?
Wrong. So very wrong.
Today, in true “you can’t make this stuff up” fashion, half of that same tree decided to give up the ghost. Snapped right in two during one of Georgia’s signature pop-up storms and came crashing down. When I say it missed our office by literal inches, our building owner was already calculating the cost of plywood and rain ponchos.
Outside right now? It’s a full-blown lumberjack production:
Chainsaws buzzing
Ropes flying
Trucks beeping
Woodchipper grinding like it’s hungry for vengeance
And just when we thought we’d survived the fall…
BEES.
Apparently, the tree was home to a monster-sized nest, and those little winged warriors are not happy about their sudden eviction. They are swarming like we just foreclosed on their entire zip code.
To top it off? Two sweet little doves are waddling around aimlessly like they’re trying to file an insurance claim. I think that old tree was their home too. Bless it.
Meanwhile, the storms just keep popping up like bad reality TV—loud, dramatic, and no one asked for them.
So yeah, good times here at Take Time To Travel, where the trees fall, the bees rage, the birds mourn—and the beat still goes on.
If you need a break from this kind of drama—I know a girl who can plan you a peaceful escape. (Spoiler alert: it’s me.)
🧳 Thanks for reading another wild chapter of real life with me. Want a calm beach, quiet mountain cabin, or tree-free cruise? Let’s chat.
Ever find yourself staring over the fence, eyeballing someone else’s pasture like it’s the Garden of Eden and you’re stuck in the leftovers of a drought? Yeah… we all do it.
Maybe it’s your job. Your town. Your friendships. Your body. Your daily routine.
Maybe something small didn’t sit right, and before you know it, you’re fantasizing about a whole new life that probably involves alpacas, a coastal breeze, and a mysterious lack of responsibility.
Look, one minor irritation can feel huge if we let it snowball.
Next thing you know, your brain’s hollering, “Burn it all down and start fresh!”
Except you still have bills to pay, a dog to feed, and a half-eaten rotisserie chicken in the fridge that says you’re not going anywhere.
The truth is, we all get the urge to jump the fence sometimes.
To shake things up, ditch what’s familiar, and chase something greener.
But here’s the thing:
The grass over there? It might just be better fertilized.
(And not in a good way. If you catch my drift.)
We’ve all rolled right off the emotional cliff from time to time—panicking, catastrophizing, convinced that one tough moment means everything is wrong. But it’s usually not.
It’s just… a moment. And I don’t know if “catastrophizing” is even a word?
Sometimes what we really need isn’t a new field—it’s a breath.
A second to pause.
To think it through.
To talk it out—maybe with a friend, a journal, or your dog (who’s probably more invested than your group text anyway).
Because when you slow down, get quiet, and take stock?
You might find the “broken” thing was just a little out of alignment…
And your pasture, while messy, is still home.
So before you throw in the towel and launch into a whole new life plan, ask yourself:
Am I just tired? Am I reacting instead of reflecting? Did I eat today? (Seriously… low blood sugar can ruin lives.)
We all have our “jump the fence” days.
But most of the time, what we really need is to pull a few weeds, water our roots, and be kind to ourselves.
That whole “start over” energy?
It’s valid.
But don’t forget—you can begin again right where you are, too.
And for the love of everything good—don’t cut your bangs.
This whole thing popped into my head after chatting with a friend whose husband — a teacher currently working overseas — is recovering from a nasty bout of malaria. Yep. Real-life, real-scary, real-malaria. He’s doing better (praise hands!), but it got me thinking…
Do mosquitoes have any redeeming qualities?
Because honestly, if I had a dollar for every mosquito bite I’ve had living here in Georgia, I could pay off my SUV and throw a low-country boil for the whole county.
Now if you’re from around here, you already know: Georgia mosquitoes don’t play. They are big, bold, and brazen. The kind of pests that bite you through your socks, have the nerve to buzz in your ear, and still come back for seconds while you’re slapping the first one. Sometimes I think they unionized and elected a leader.
So back to my question — are they good for anything? Or are they just tiny terrorists with wings?
Well… here’s what I found (and don’t roll your eyes just yet):
🦟 Some Mosquitoes Are Pollinators
Turns out, not all mosquitoes are bloodthirsty. Only the females bite — and only because they need protein for their eggs. The fellas? They’re nectar-loving softies who help pollinate plants like goldenrods and orchids.
So basically: the dudes are chill, the ladies are hormonal and hangry. Sounds familiar.
🐟 They’re Fish Food First
Mosquito larvae live in water and are like little snacks for fish, frogs, and other aquatic critters. Adult mosquitoes feed birds, bats, spiders, and even other bugs.
In other words, mosquitoes are the drive-thru menu of the ecosystem. “I’ll take a #3 mosquito value meal with extra wings.”
🌎 They Help Keep Nature in Check
Believe it or not, their presence shapes animal behavior. Herd animals — like deer — will avoid areas with high mosquito activity, which sometimes keeps them safer from predators.
Basically, mosquitoes are the ultimate party poopers, and sometimes that’s actually useful.
🧬 They’ve Pushed Science Forward
If there’s a tiny silver lining to these itch-inducing nuisances, it’s that they’ve led to major advancements in science and medicine. We’ve made huge strides in vaccine research, disease prevention, and even gene-editing tech thanks to our efforts to fight mosquito-borne illnesses.
So in a twisted way… mosquitoes helped save lives after they tried to end some. Go figure.
But Still…
Let’s not sugarcoat it. These little devils are public enemy number one. They’re responsible for more human deaths every year than any other creature — due to diseases like malaria, dengue, Zika, West Nile, and more.
I mean, sure, they feed frogs. But so does literally anything that moves. That doesn’t make them heroes.
Final Thoughts from the Front Porch
Do mosquitoes have redeeming qualities?
Technically… yes.
Emotionally? Absolutely not.
Living in Georgia, I’m convinced these bugs have GPS coordinates, a group chat, and a vendetta. But next time I’m swatting one off my iced tea arm, maybe I’ll pause a second before cussing it into the next county.
Maybe.
Y’all stay safe, stay itch-free, and check on your friends who live anywhere tropical. And if you’re heading overseas — don’t forget the bug spray. The good kind. The kind that smells like regret and melts nail polish.
So here we go. Let’s file this one under “Real Talk I Didn’t Plan on Sharing but Here We Are.”
In just a couple of weeks—June 25th, to be exact—I’ll be walking into my doctor’s office and starting a weight loss journey. Not a juice cleanse. Not a wrap-yourself-in-plastic-and-sweat-it-out fad …I actually did post about that sausage wrap years ago. A real, medically-supported, hormone-battling, lifestyle-altering journey.
Why? Because I’ve reached an unhealthy weight for me.
And before anyone pulls out their judgment stick, let me say this: I’ve tried the things that used to work. You name it—I’ve walked, I’ve watched carbs, I’ve tracked water, I’ve done that mental game of “just try harder.”
But then…
Menopause came along.
MS came along.
Stress came along.
CHEESECAKE came along.
And suddenly, my body wasn’t playing fair anymore.
Let me be clear—I’m not doing this because I hate myself. I’m doing it because I love myself enough to finally get real about what my body needs now… not what it used to need 10, 15, 20 years ago. And, there are studies showing semaglutide can actually help with my MS.
So what’s the plan?
With heavy monitoring from my doctor, I’m starting semaglutide injections (Ozempic, Wegovy—whichever brand is right for my case). Yes, that one. And yes, I’ve already heard the whispers about how it’s “cheating.” Save it.
Because for someone like me, who practically writes love letters to cheese and has considered starting a dessert blog called “Cake Happens”, this is not a shortcut. It’s a lifeline.
You know what really feels like cheating?
A heart attack sneaking up on you because you ignored the signs. Type 2 diabetes becoming your new best frenemy. Avoiding mirrors because your self-confidence has ghosted you. Sitting down to tie your shoes and wondering if this is how it ends.
(Okay, that last one is dramatic, but I’ve definitely had moments where I needed a recovery nap after bending over.)
Here’s what to expect (besides a whole lot of TMI):
I’m going to post before and after pictures (Lord help me), my starting weight, progress updates, and the ups and downs along the way. I’ll share how I feel physically, emotionally, and maybe even spiritually—because this stuff runs deeper than just numbers on a scale.
I’ve heard semaglutide can cause nausea (and me & nausea are NOT friends).
I’ve heard it can thin your hair (please, Jesus, leave my hair alone).
I’ve heard about the dreaded “Ozempic face” (honestly, I’ll take it over the six-feet-under face, thanks).
Will it be easy? No.
Will it be worth it? That’s the plan.
But here’s the thing: I’m not doing this in secret. I’m doing it loud, raw, and maybe even a little funny—because I know I’m not the only one who’s been feeling stuck, scared, or silently slipping away from who they used to be.
If that’s you? You’re not alone.
And if it’s not you? Then maybe you’ll understand someone better because of this.
Let’s see what happens. June 25th—I’m ready.
And yes, I will mourn cheesecake a little. But I’m betting there’s something even sweeter on the other side of this.
Not everyone gets to say they’re blessed to still have their daddy.
But I do.
And not just any daddy—a real one. The kind who prays over you when you’re falling apart, who says just the right thing when your world feels upside down, and who somehow, even with the weight of the world on his back, always makes you feel like everything’s gonna be okay.
Look, I’ve never called my daddy my best friend. That’s not really his lane—and he’d probably side-eye the thought of it anyway. Daddy’s aren’t supposed to be your “bestie.” They’re supposed to be your anchor. The voice of reason. The steady hand you can count on to wrap you in truth, in strength, and in prayer—even when you don’t ask for it.
In 1983, my world cracked wide open. My daddy went to prison.
And he stayed there for 28 years.
Now I didn’t do what some might expect a “good daughter” to do. I didn’t write every week. I didn’t beg the parole board for mercy. I didn’t make regular visits. My sister did those things—and I will always honor her for that. Me? I was just out here trying to be a normal teenager. A young adult. I was trying to survive my own chaos, and that wasn’t exactly easy.
But I never gave up on him.
Not once.
I prayed for him. I prayed for his safety, his heart, and his redemption. I asked God to bring him home when the time was right. And through it all, I never once felt shame. Never once tried to hide who I belonged to. In fact, I carried his name with pride.
I am the daughter of Allan Aylsworth.
And I’ve always been proud to be that girl.
When he came home after nearly three decades, we didn’t need a grand reset—we just picked up. Life had grown us both. We weren’t the same people, but we were still daddy and daughter. Stronger. Softer. Grateful.
Today, he is the kind of man who holds the whole room in peace when he walks in. The kind of grandfather who lights up around his great-grandbabies. The kind of man who doesn’t waste words, but when he says, “I’m praying for you,” you feel that prayer down to your bones.
So yes, I am blessed.
Not in a shallow, bumper-sticker kind of way—
but in a deep, soul-honest, “God, thank You for him” kind of way.
If you’ve got a daddy like mine, hold tight.
And if you don’t, be the kind of steady someone else can look up to.
Because love like this changes everything.
Thank you, Daddy—for never letting go of who you are.
For making me proud to carry your name.
And for being my constant, even in the hardest of chapters.
This morning, I stumbled across a Facebook post from our local radio station showing photos of a peaceful protest happening right here in Cartersville. Just a small group of folks standing on a corner, holding signs, sharing what they believe.
They weren’t blocking traffic.
They weren’t shouting or rioting.
They weren’t setting anything on fire.
They were simply exercising the right we all have in this country—to speak freely and peacefully assemble. You know… that little gem from the First Amendment?
But let me tell you what nearly knocked the wind out of me:
The comments.
Comment after comment from people I know—folks who’ve smiled at me in Kroger, sat next to me in church, and posted countless scriptures and inspirational quotes about kindness and grace. Suddenly, they were online spewing hate and judgment, and all because a few people dared to stand quietly with a sign in their hand.
And the wildest part? Some of these same folks tossed Jesus into their rants like He’d high-five their behavior.
Spoiler alert: He wouldn’t.
Now don’t twist what I’m saying. I’ve made it clear that I don’t support riots, destruction, or the circus that so often erupts under the banner of “protest.” That’s not what happened here. This was a group of Cartersville citizens standing on the sidewalk. Peacefully. Respectfully. Calmly.
Do I agree with everything they believe?
Nope.
Do I think our government is overreaching the way they do?
Also no.
But you know what?
That’s not the point.
The point is—they have the right to express their opinion, just like you do. And if seeing them makes your blood pressure spike, you’ve got options. Go stand on the opposite corner. Hold up your own sign. That’s how freedom works.
But don’t you dare show up online, Bible in hand, spewing hate disguised as “righteousness.” Don’t weaponize the Gospel to shame your neighbor. Jesus didn’t do that, and you shouldn’t either.
Y’all talk a big game about grace and love, but the minute someone expresses a belief that makes you uncomfortable, out comes the judgment like it’s your spiritual superpower.
If you truly want to live out what that Good Book says, maybe start by leading with love instead of lashing out. Because your Facebook comment might
Because your Facebook comment might be the only “Jesus” someone sees today. And honey, if He’s coming across as smug, petty, and downright cruel—you might need to reread that red-letter edition.
See, Jesus didn’t cancel people.
He didn’t roll His eyes at them from across the marketplace or mock them under passive-aggressive posts.
He walked toward them. He sat with the ones society wrote off. He welcomed questions and doubters and even those with signs in their hands and anger in their hearts.
So imagine how He’d feel watching His name get dragged into internet comment sections full of sarcasm and shame. I have a feeling He’d flip more than just a few tables.
Here’s the deal: You can love your country and disagree with your neighbor at the same time. You can feel uncomfortable with someone’s message and still choose to act with grace. And you can absolutely scroll past something you don’t like without dropping a hateful comment that makes Jesus cringe.
We don’t have to agree on everything. Lord knows we won’t. But if we claim to be people of faith—if we’re gonna slap the “Christian” label on our Facebook bios and car bumpers—then we better be ready to back it up with how we treat people, especially when we disagree.
Because love isn’t loud and mean.
Love doesn’t show up in the comments section with a Bible verse and a dagger.
Love is patient. Love is kind.
(And if those words sound familiar, it’s because they didn’t come from a Hallmark card. That’s straight Scripture, friend.)
So the next time someone chooses to stand up and speak out peacefully—whether or not it aligns with your beliefs—maybe pause before jumping to judgment. Maybe try humility instead of hostility. Maybe try remembering that one day you might be the one on that corner, needing a little grace.
Because at the end of the day, I’ll say it again: Peaceful protest is not a sin. But hypocrisy? That might be.
Mic drop: Jesus didn’t come to shut people up—He came to set people free.
Journeys With Jani 