Whispers and Wonders with Garrett Andrew

In this episode, we explore how a public park, a simple shared space, can be a profound place of spiritual discovery. Join us as we reflect on the deeper purpose of nature, community, and finding peace in the middle of a busy city.This began as an essay on my Substack: The support of paid subscribers makes most of this possible. Thank you for those of you who support me. And if this spoke to you at all, please consider subscribing, sharing it with anyone who may need it, and liking it. All of this helps others find this quiet corner of the internet.Whispers and Wonders is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe

Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe

In this episode of Whispers and Wonders, I respond to a viral post by a megachurch pastor making ten claims about Christianity and immigration. His arguments were filled with distorted Scripture, nationalist ideology, and what I can only describe as a weaponization of the Bible in service of empire.So I wrote a point-by-point rebuttal which can be found on my Substack, but now I share as a podcast.Not to shame him.Not to win a debate.But because silence in the face of such misuse would be a betrayal of the Gospel I know and love.This isn’t just about immigration.It’s about who we say God is.What kind of Jesus we follow.And whether love is still our law.You’ll hear Scripture.You’ll hear grief.You’ll hear fire.And, by the end, I hope you’ll hear hope.This is a message for anyone who believes faith should never be used as a border wall, and for anyone who’s ever wondered if Jesus is still on the side of the stranger. (Spoiler: he is.)Key themes:* Christian nationalism vs. Gospel truth* What Scripture really says about borders and belonging* Why legalism without love is cruelty* The prophetic call to stand with the vulnerableIf this episode speaks to you, share it.If it challenges you, sit with it.If it helps you find your voice, use it.Christ is still Lord.And Caesar is still not.Whispers and Wonders is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe

A few days ago, I wrote and recorded this Pentecost reflection while the first whispers of ICE raids and National Guard deployment were beginning to stir in Los Angeles.Now the streets are louder.More families have been taken.More protests have risen.And the silence from many churches has become deafening.In this episode, I return to a moment of baseball, of joy and song, to ask what Pentecost really means in a time like this. I reflect on what it means for the Spirit to speak in every language—and for the Church to listen, translate, and respond with love made flesh.This is not a political rant.It is a plea for faith that still believes in sanctuary.A meditation for those who feel powerless but not voiceless.A call for a Church that remembers Pentecost was never about control, but courage.Come, Holy Spirit.And may we have ears to hear.You can find the written piece here: Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe

Preface (revisited)This series began with a simple truth I struggled to say: I am beloved. But before I could believe that, I had to acknowledge something else: I’m wired differently. This second part is about what happened next. About how grace didn’t come through a miracle at the altar, but a prescription pad. And how I learned that pills, too, can be prayers. This is about faith, healing, and the sacredness of help.Wearing the Mask in Sacred SpacesPeople in the church told me they would pray for me. That healing would come. That hospitals were okay, sure, but mostly we were expected to be fine. We asked each other how we were, but it was perfunctory. A cultural imperative. We weren’t expected to really answer. And in the churches I served (even in progressive ones) the subtext was clear: if you were struggling, your faith wasn’t strong enough. You hadn’t prayed enough. If you were worried, something was wrong with your soul.So we learned to put on the same masks at church that we wore everywhere else. Masks of joy. Of purpose. Of faith. Even in the communities founded on vulnerability, we learn quickly when and where it’s appropriate to struggle. Not in worship. Not in meetings. One-on-one, maybe. Quietly. Discreetly.I remember once preaching a Christmas Eve sermon about grief. I wasn’t grieving. But I knew many people in my congregation were. A woman told me afterward that her son thought I might be suicidal. I wasn’t sad. I was honoring the sadness others carried. But even that was too much. Too honest. Too exposed.Cracks in the ArmorFor years, I knew I struggled. I had different masks for different rooms. One for worship. One for meetings. One for classes. I wore them all so well, until the seams began to split. When I cried in a Christian Ed meeting. When I snapped in a presbytery gathering. When I couldn’t hold it together. Some people tried to help. Most just tried to cover it up.There were times I’d leave a meeting, head still buzzing, unsure what I had even said. I’d obsess over it later, replaying conversations, wondering who I’d offended. I was constantly reading the emotional temperature of a room, but unable to regulate my own.Therapy helped. But like many with undiagnosed ADHD, it wasn’t enough. I knew I was unraveling. My mind spun and scattered. My prayers got shorter and more desperate. I couldn’t keep making it.The Risk of Asking for HelpI feared medication. Especially Adderall. I’m a recovering alcoholic. I haven’t had a drink in nearly seven years, but I’ve always known I have a propensity for addiction. Alcohol once gave me a gift: it made me feel like I belonged. It quieted my mind. Made me fun. Flirty. Able to do small talk. But when I stopped drinking, there was nothing left to numb the storm.Even as my prayer life deepened, I could feel the fraying. I was unraveling in sacred places.And still, the church told me to pray harder. Get help, sure, but the church wasn't going to help, and it didn’t want to know too much. It didn’t want the journey of healing, but the healed rejoicing.The Bible tells stories of healing, but rarely is faith alone enough. Even Paul needed someone to touch him, to guide him when he first met Jesus on the road to Damascus. The paralytic was healed not by his own faith, but by the faith of his friends who lowered him through the roof just to get to Jesus. Grace moves through people. Through community. Through presence.When Grace Comes in a Pill BottleEventually, I used an online service. I found a psychiatrist through Mindful, an online ADHD service. I met with a coach and therapist too. We tried several medications. And then: Adderall.The first time I took it, I felt it. A stimulant surge. Then—quiet. Not sedation. Not numbness. Just quiet.I could hold a thought. I could follow through on a task I used to hate. I could pray. I could breathe like someone pulled out of the water. My wife said, “You’re more present than you’ve ever been.” And I was.It was as if the constant waterfall of thoughts, crashing down all at once and scattering everything in their wake, had been turned down to a steady stream. My mind still moved, but now it was more like a bathtub filling up, slower, quieter, something I could sit in rather than drown beneath.One afternoon, I sat beside my daughter while she drew. That’s all. She was quiet, humming to herself, and I just sat there. Not looking at my phone. Not fidgeting. Not calculating my next task. I just watched her create. I watched the way her hand moved across the page and how she paused to admire her own work. I wasn’t thinking about how I’d use it in a sermon. I wasn’t analyzing. I was there. Really there.And in that moment, I realized: this is what presence feels like. This is what love can be; undistracted, undeserved, unhurried. A grace I could finally stay long enough to receive.It didn’t fix everything. But it gave me back to myself. And to God.Praying Without the NoiseBefore Adderall, prayer was a battle. Not static, just like all the radio stations playing at once. Meditation? I couldn’t stay still. My mind ran on loops. I felt like a spiritual failure. But after? I stayed. I didn’t perform. I didn’t pretend. I just was. And I swear, God whispered, “I’m so glad you’re here.”It even helped my anxiety and depression. I hadn’t realized how intertwined they were with my wiring.For so long, I treated them as separate storms; depression as heaviness, anxiety as restlessness. But they shared a common root in the structure of my mind. The overthinking, the inability to focus, the spiral of guilt and pressure. It was all connected. My brain wasn’t broken; it was simply unregulated.Anxiety, for me, was a low-grade earthquake beneath everything. The sense that something was about to fall apart—me, a project, a relationship—and it would be my fault. Depression, meanwhile, was the aftermath. The rubble. The shame that I hadn’t held it all together.When the Adderall began to work, the shaking slowed. When the Lexapro joined it later, the shame started to lift. I realized how much of my prayer life had been dominated by begging God to fix me instead of trusting that God was with me in the mess. I began to believe that being beloved didn’t mean being free from struggle. It meant being seen. Known. Still held.There are still hard days. Days when I feel like I’m too much or not enough. But the medication gave me a chance to see that those thoughts aren’t prophecy. They’re patterns. And they can change. They are changing.Running Out and Starting AgainBut then came the Adderall shortage last year. By August, I was rationing. By September, nearly out. Life threw more curveballs. Anxiety surged. Depression stalked. By November, I knew I needed help again.That shortage didn’t just test my resilience. It forced me to relearn something I’d forgotten: I still had to care for myself, even when the world around me felt unpredictable.Self-care isn’t selfish. It’s sacred. American culture judges worth by productivity. God sees worth in being. You matter because you exist.And yet it’s hard to believe that, isn’t it? When the world around us keeps whispering that we’re only as valuable as our last completed task. That unless we’re producing, fixing, helping, doing, we’re somehow failing. It’s hard to unlearn the lie that rest is laziness and asking for help is weakness.But Jesus didn’t just teach rest, he practiced it. He stepped away from the crowds. He left the demands of others unanswered. He slept in storms. He withdrew to pray and be alone. Not because he didn’t care, but because he did.There’s a reason flight attendants tell us to put our oxygen mask on first before helping others. Because if you’re gasping for breath, you can’t save anyone. If your soul is suffocating, your service becomes self-erasure.To care for yourself is not only wise, it’s faithful. It honors the breath God gave you. It keeps you tethered to your humanity. And it creates space to love your neighbor not from exhaustion, but from abundance.If you’re feeling overwhelmed, depleted, or numb, please hear this: tending to your mental health is not a detour from your faith. It might be the most faithful thing you do this season.Jesus took time away to rest. So I did too. I took leave. I started ADHD coaching. Got back on Adderall. And was diagnosed with moderate depression and severe anxiety.Lexapro and the Practice of LoveLexapro joined the mix after my depression and anxiety diagnosis.It changed me. Before, I lived in survival mode. I reacted. I shut down or over-felt. I pulled away, then panicked when I felt alone. I didn’t know how to be with people, not really. And that was the strangest part, because I’ve always been an extrovert. I’ve always been loud, eager, engaging. But even in my most sociable seasons, I was deeply anxious inside, constantly wondering what version of me people wanted, or needed, or would tolerate.Being around people felt like performance. Like I had to always be “on.” Like I had to earn my place in every conversation. It wasn’t that I didn’t love people. I did. I do. But I didn’t know how to love them from a place of rest. I didn’t know how to show up as myself, without shame humming beneath the surface.Lexapro didn’t take all of that away. But it turned the volume down. The anxiety didn’t vanish, but it no longer controlled me. I could notice it and still choose to stay. I could be in a room with others and not wonder the whole time if I was too much or not enough.Lexapro taught me how to love myself as I am. Not as a fixer-upper. Not as someone whose value depends on perpetual improvement. But as someone already worthy of care. Someone already beloved. It showed me that I can’t simply fix myself, and that I don’t have to. That sometimes, the answer to prayer really does come in pill form. And with that kind of help, I can be prayerfully present with others. And maybe, in that presence, even become an answer to someone else’s prayer.All because I finally chose to take care of myself.Nearly immediately I began to linger with my congregation after sermons. I wasn’t running away. I wasn’t scanning the room for exits.Lexapro taught me love. Adderall taught me presence. Together, they taught me to stay.Grace in the ClinicI never believed holy things only happened in church. But I’ve come to believe grace happens in clinics, too. In prescriptions. In therapy chairs. In the quiet voice of a doctor saying, “You’re not broken. This is your brain. And there’s help.”The Word became flesh. Touched lepers. Healed with spit and dirt. He put his hands on the hurting. He made mud from the ground and saliva to open blinded eyes. He didn’t stand at a distance to deliver healing. He entered into people’s pain, into their very bodies. He met them in their flesh and healed them from the inside out.So why wouldn’t grace enter through the body, too?Why wouldn’t grace use neurotransmitters and blood flow and chemical balance? Why wouldn’t grace work through the hands of clinicians and the voice of a therapist? Why wouldn’t grace whisper through the click of a pill bottle lid, through the slow unwinding of tension, through the ability to breathe again?If the incarnation means anything, it means this: the body is not too low for love to enter. The body is where love chooses to dwell. Grace doesn’t float above us like a concept; it moves through us like blood. It doesn’t wait until we’re strong to show up. It starts with touch. With breath. With brain chemistry and trembling hands.The clinic, like the cross, is a place where flesh and grace meet. And both are holy.The Body Keeps the GraceThey say the body keeps the score, and they’re right. Trauma rewires the nervous system. It embeds itself in our muscles, our hormones, even our DNA. Studies on epigenetics have shown that descendants of Holocaust survivors and enslaved people still carry the biochemical echoes of generational trauma. What we go through doesn’t vanish. It gets stored. And sometimes, it stays hidden until it becomes unignorable.The fight-or-flight response doesn’t simply live in the mind, it lives in the body. Our shoulders tighten. Our heart rate spikes. Our breath shortens. The body remembers the fear even when our conscious mind has moved on. That’s why healing has to happen in the body, too. Not just in thoughts or prayers; but in cells, in rhythms, in neural pathways that learn to fire differently over time.But if the body keeps the score, I’ve come to believe it also keeps the grace.Grace is stored in the same nervous system that once screamed danger. It’s in the steady breath that returns after panic. In the loosening of the jaw. In the softening of the shoulders. It’s in the way your feet feel grounded after a long walk. In the way tears come; not as breakdown, but as breakthrough. And it’s also in the sudden laughter that surprises you after weeks of heaviness. In the joy of singing along to a song you forgot you loved. In the warmth that floods you when a friend sees you and really sees you. Grace isn’t only what calms the storm—it’s what lets you dance again when the waters have stilled. Joy, too, is part of the healing. And when it returns, even briefly, the body remembers: grace has gotten in.Grace is in the neural pathways too. In the slow, sacred rewiring. In the regulated breath. In the moment you realize you no longer spiral after that text or shut down in that meeting. In the fact that you got out of bed today.Grace is in the brain. In the chemistry we once saw as our curse. In the serotonin that allows you to sleep. In the dopamine that helps you see beauty again. In the neuroplasticity that lets your mind slowly become a place you can live in.Grace doesn’t just dwell in doctrine. It dwells in your body. In healing. In presence. In the holy whisper: “Be still and know that I am God.”And I believe God is just as present in that stillness as in the storm. Maybe more so.Grace doesn’t wait for perfection. It gets in our bones. Our breath. Our bloodstream. Grace gets in our brain.A Benediction for the Wired and the WearyI still take my meds. I still pray. I still wrestle.But I’ve stopped treating those things like contradictions.Because some days, the holiest thing I do is take my pills and tell the truth.And the truth is: I am loved. Not when I’m cured. Not when I’m calm. But now. In this.And so are you.If you’re not sure where to begin, or you want someone to talk to, feel free to leave a comment or send a message. I’m not a therapist, but I’ve been in the wilderness, and I can point to a few paths.And if you’re in a place of deep struggle, please know this:You are not alone. Help is available.You can call or text the 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline anytime, 24 hours a day, for free, confidential support.You were made for love.Don’t suffer in silence.Let’s walk together.If this reflection meant something to you, please consider sharing, commenting, or subscribing. You never know who might need to hear it today.Whispers and Wonders is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe

O Rhythm behind all rhythms,you, who coax the earth into blooming againwithout ever forcing a single petal—you are the lull between what wasand what will be,and still i resist your tempo.this season the wind softened,the sun stopped arriving late,and the jasmine spilled its secretsto anyone who dared breathe in.and yet,i almost missed it—the season turning.it’s strange,how school ends just as summer begins,how our calendars don’t ask if we’re ready,how my child finishes middle schoolwhile i still remember the shape of her toddler laugh.how my little boy is halfway through high schooland looks more like a man than the one wholet me be named “father.”how my own heartkeeps graduating from thingsi never applied for.you know this, of course.you’ve seen lives bud and breakfor longer than memory holds.still,i want to slow the turning—or at least understand itbefore it’s done.but you,gentle God of green things and gravity,have never waited for clarity to begin beauty.you simply begin.again and again.the tides don’t explain themselves.the stars don’t ask permission.the trees let go of old leavesbefore new ones arrive—trusting the unseen choreographyyou’ve sung beneath their bark.shape in me that kind of trust.like rivers smoothing stone without a plan,like bees that carry gold dust unaware.teach me the holy art of letting a season endwithout needing a reason.remind me how to welcome joyeven while carrying a few stones of sadnessin my pocket.invite me to notice the sun today,not just for its warmth,but for the fact that it rosewithout being asked.help me honor this moment,not because it is easy,but because it is real.and if i forget again,if i clutch the past too tightly,or try to choreograph tomorrow,come like wind through the screen doorand remind me:the miracle is not that life changes—but that i can change, too.and you,wild and faithful Heartbeat of the world,will not leave me behind.you walk beside mewith dirt under your fingernails,and stars in your smile,whistling the tunei didn’t know i needed.amen.or whatever word means:yes to the turn,yes to the tide,yes to the sacred silence of now.If this prayer/poem speaks to your own changing season, please share it with someone else. I’d love to hear what this time of year is whispering to you too. Leave a comment and tell me what you hear.Whispers and Wonders is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe

Grace in the Brain: Living Faithfully With Mental HealthPreface to this SeriesIt’s not easy being a person of faith in a world where so many others of faith keep telling you to just… have more of it.Some of us were taught to be afraid of science. Afraid of anything not found in the Bible. Others were told their anxiety, depression, or ADHD was just a lack of faith. That if we prayed harder, or trusted more, we’d be fine.And we wonder too. Because doesn’t Jesus say not to worry?But if you’ve ever lived with real anxiety, the kind that presses in like a storm, that convinces you the worst is coming and you probably deserve it; you know those verses don’t help. They hurt. They isolate.This series is about that tension. About faith, mental health, and the quiet courage it takes to live with both.It’s my story. But I hope it opens space for yours, too. This isn’t a story of perfection. It’s a story of progress. A story about learning to believe in Christ. Not just as an idea, or a confession that gets you to heaven, but as a presence. A Love that tells you you are loved. And that you can love like Christ, too.Jesus said we’d do greater things than he did. I don’t know how that’s possible. But I’m starting to believe what he says about me. Not what others say. And maybe most importantly, not what I’ve often believed about myself. But what Jesus says, that I am the light of the world, and you are too.This is a story about learning to love myself. Even when I’m not very lovable. It’s about trusting I’m still beloved, even when I’m struggling. That help is holy. That grace doesn’t wait until we’re fixed; it meets us where we are.I’ve come to believe any help—therapy, medication, support—is a gift from God. And it’s taken me a long time to say that out loud.But I’m on the journey now. I have grace in the brain.If you’ve ever been told your faith wasn’t enough, or your mind was too much… this is for you.Part 1: Before I Could Say I’m Beloved, I Had to Say I’m Wired DifferentlyThis piece is available as both a full written essay and a podcast episode. Read below, or hit play to listen.The Night I Couldn’t Say YesIt happened at a monastery. A five-day silent retreat. I’d gone there needing something, I just didn’t know what. Maybe I was trying to outrun myself. Maybe I was hoping to run into God. Maybe both.One day, I decided I would spend the entire day repeating a single phrase to myself: I am the beloved. Over and over. Quietly, inwardly, prayerfully. It seemed like a good practice; something holy, something grounding. But what I didn’t know was that I had chosen that phrase because I didn’t really believe it. I was trying to convince myself.That night was the only time I locked my door.Until then, I’d slept in my little monastic cell with the door unlocked. There was no reason to be afraid. But that night, something shifted. I felt a presence, a heaviness, that terrified me. It wasn’t like other fears. It wasn’t panic or anxiety. It was as if something had come to ask a question I didn’t want to answer.Under the covers, I relived the worst moments of my life. Every shame. Every hidden sin. Every mask I’d worn so others wouldn’t worry about me. And the presence, I now believe it was God, asked me, again and again: Do you really think you are the beloved?And I knew the right answer. I knew what I was supposed to say. But something in me had to mean it this time.It wasn’t a spiritual attack. Not really. It was a spiritual unveiling. God wasn’t accusing me, God was showing me how I accused myself. How I judged myself unworthy of grace. How I believed love was for people who were better than me, stronger than me, more normal than me.And when I felt like I was asked, “Do you really think you are the beloved?” I didn’t answer yes. I couldn’t. Not yet. I answered no—quietly, maybe even unconsciously, and that only deepened my shame. It drove me further into the spiral. But it also became the turning point, the honest beginning of grace. Because sometimes grace waits for the no, so it can teach us how to say yes and mean it.But what grace doesn’t wait for is normal. Grace shows up in the silence and the shame and says, Even now. Even here. You are mine.It would take more time. There were more mistakes to come (and yet more to come I am sure). But something broke that night, and something opened.And this is where the series begins. Because if you’re waiting to be well to believe you are beloved, you’ll be waiting forever.But if you can say yes, trembling, imperfect, unready; you’ll find that grace is already there.In the brain. In the brokenness. In you.Masking and the MadnessThere’s a pattern many of us with ADHD or anxiety learn early: if you don’t want people to worry about you (and you don’t), you have to perform. You have to mask. You have to get good at pretending that everything is fine. That you’re on top of it. That you’re together. Because when you slip, people look at you differently. They lean in with concern; or worse, they step back in judgment.Masking becomes a form of survival. And in church circles, it can be even harder to peel it off. We learn early how to speak the language of spiritual success: prayer life, discernment, servanthood. We learn how to mimic “peace that passes understanding,” even when we’re coming apart inside.But masking is exhausting. And over time, it makes it harder to know who you actually are. It blurs the line between your coping mechanisms and your calling, your symptoms and your soul.For me, undiagnosed ADHD looked like laziness. Flakiness. Forgetfulness. Sudden bursts of creativity and connection too. It looked like being inconsistent with prayer, losing track of spiritual practices, zoning out in Bible study. It looked like underachievement and overcompensation at the same time. And it created this deep, gnawing feeling that I wasn’t enough; not spiritually, not emotionally, not humanly.And it wasn’t just forgetting birthdays or misplacing keys. It was interrupting people in vulnerable moments, shutting down in important conversations, impulsively spending money I didn’t have. It was saying yes to things I couldn’t handle, and then letting people down. It was misreading tone, missing cues, and making people feel unseen when I didn’t mean to. Or at least thinking that I had endlessly after interactions with people.It was slipping into addictions I swore I was done with. It was numbing myself with food, drink, or distraction. It was church meetings where I had emotional outbursts I couldn’t explain, followed by people quietly suggesting I needed medication. It was having a billion thoughts at once, chasing all of them, and realizing too late I had no idea what was happening around me. Those are the things that brought the real shame.And when I was anxious or depressed, it compounded the shame. Like many others with undiagnosed ADHD, I didn’t know that depression and anxiety often ride sidecar. In fact, studies show that up to 80% of adults with ADHD will experience at least one comorbid psychiatric condition in their lifetime; meaning another diagnosable mental health issue that co-occurs, such as anxiety or depression (Kessler et al., 2006 - https://doi.org/10.1176/ajp.2006.163.4.716).Reclaiming Scripture from ShameSo many of us grew up hearing verses that were supposed to convict us, but instead just confirmed our shame. “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.” “The heart is deceitful above all things.” “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”We heard them as judgments. We heard them as reasons we could never be enough. And when our mental health made it harder to do what others seemed to do so easily, stay organized, stay calm, stay connected, stay sane… it felt like proof. Proof we weren’t spiritual enough. Proof we were broken in ways even God couldn’t fix.But what if those verses were never meant to be clubs to beat us up? What if they were meant to open us up to mercy?“Be perfect” doesn’t mean flawless. The Greek word used, teleios, means complete, whole, mature. What if Jesus wasn’t commanding perfectionism, but inviting us into the wholeness of love? And he was. In context those verses are about loving our enemies. And for those of us who struggle with our mental health, sometimes, the greatest enemy we feel we have is the one looking at us in the mirror. The complete, whole, mature, perfection Jesus commanded, was the perfection of love no matter how good or bad someone else is. What if “the heart is deceitful” is less about original sin and more about the honest confusion of being human? About the way trauma, mental illness, and pressure can distort our inner compass, and our desperate need for grace to reorient us?And “all have sinned…” what if that’s not the end of the sentence, but the beginning of a solidarity? What if it’s not about shame, but about leveling the playing field? About remembering that grace isn’t earned by getting it all right?These verses, like our lives, need to be read in the light of love.Because love, real love, is what interprets Scripture rightly. Love is what Jesus embodied. Love is what casts out fear. And love is what brings us back to ourselves when the world, or our own minds, have made us feel unworthy.So if Scripture has been used to shame you, let grace reread it with you.Not as a weapon.But as a whisper:“You are still mine. Still worthy. Still beloved.”The Ongoing JourneyEven now, even medicated, even with tools I wish I’d had years ago, this isn’t easy. There’s no ribbon to wrap around it. No final act of healing that ties it all up. My brain still runs faster than I can follow. I still lose track of things, lose sleep, lose steam. Some days I still ask the question: Am I really the beloved?But I’ve learned to answer with something closer to yes. And even when I can’t say it fully, grace does not walk away.This series is a journey through that grace. Through diagnosis and doubt. Through Scripture and shame. Through the things we’ve been told and the truth that might still be waiting underneath.We’ll talk about the Bible and mental health. About prayer when it feels impossible. About Jesus and medication. About surviving church when your mind won’t sit still. About the holiness of neurodivergence, and the God who isn’t afraid of our wiring.Not because I’ve figured it all out. But because I’m learning not to hide anymore.So if you’re still masking, still spiraling, still wondering if there’s grace for you; there is.There always has been.Let’s walk this road together.One part, one breath, one brave yes at a time.I’d love to hear from you as this journey unfolds. What questions are you carrying? What parts of your story still need grace? Are there Scriptures or experiences you’d like me to reflect on in this series? Leave a comment, send a message, or share this with someone who might need it too. You’re not alone in this. Let’s keep walking, together.In the next part of this journey, I’ll share how I came to see my medication not as a sign of weak faith, but as a sacred act of grace. What Adderall taught me about prayer. What Lexapro taught me about love. And why I now believe some of the holiest things we do happen with therapists and in doctor’s offices, not just churches.You matter. Your mind matters. And grace was never waiting for you to earn it. If you're in a place of deep struggle, please know you're not alone. Help is available. You can call or text the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline anytime for free, confidential support. You were made for love. Don’t suffer in silence.Whispers and Wonders is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe

In this episode of Whispers and Wonders, we remember a story the early Church didn’t want us to forget. A man who was healed before he was welcomed, seen before he was understood, and loved before he believed he could be.Acts 3:1–11 tells us about the first miracle after Pentecost, but it’s more than a miracle; it’s a resurrection at the gate called Beautiful. A man left outside was lifted up not by silver or gold, but by Spirit-filled love and recognition.This isn’t a sermon. It’s a meditation. A prayer. A memory the Church should carry deep in its bones. For everyone who has ever been told they don’t belong, this one’s for you. Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe

In this deeply personal episode, we return to the night my childhood faith collapsed. At twelve years old, grieving the sudden loss of my grandmother, I stood under a dark sky and screamed at God, daring to ask for a sign.This isn’t a story of losing belief. It’s about what happens when grief dismantles what we thought was solid… and a shooting star in the silence becomes the beginning of a new kind of trust.In this episode, I explore:* How grief can undo even the most cherished childhood ideas of God* Why “rules” and tidy theology often fail us when our world falls apart* The difference between the God we’re taught and the One we meet in our most vulnerable moments* Why the cracks in our faith may actually be invitations* The quiet power of presence over answers* James Fowler’s Stages of Faith and how rupture can lead to resilient spiritual growth📖 Read the Full Post:Visit: []Referenced in this episode:* Leonard Cohen’s Anthem → []* James Fowler’s Stages of Faith → [click here]🌿 Connect with Whispers and Wonders:If this resonated with you, consider subscribing on Substack to receive future episodes and reflections. I’d love to hear your story. Comment on the full post and share how your faith has broken, changed, or deepened.Whispers and Wonders is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe

What happens when someone the Bible says doesn’t belong finds themselves at the center of the Gospel? In this episode, I reflect on the story of the Ethiopian eunuch in Acts 8—a powerful, excluded figure who dares to ask, “What is to prevent me from being baptized?” This is a meditation on radical belonging, the Spirit that goes ahead of us, and the kind of faith that still makes room for those the Church has often pushed aside. Especially as Pride Month approaches, this is a word of welcome for those who’ve been told they’re not enough. Nothing prevents you. Nothing at all.Whispers and Wonders is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe

In this episode, I share a prayer/poem called A Playful Presence, a reflection on the quiet, surprising ways God still giggles through our days, even when the news is bad and our heads are down.I talk about how I once dismissed poetry, and how a friend and a book by Ted Loder changed that for me—and changed the way I pray. These prayers aren’t meant to explain or instruct. They’re meant to help us notice. To hold space for wonder. To remember joy.If something in this episode speaks to you, I’d love to hear from you.What ordinary moment this week shimmered with something sacred?You can join the conversation, read the full poem, and leave a comment over on Substack: Whispers and WondersPlease consider sharing this with someone who might need a gentle reminder that joy is still possible—right here, right now.Whispers and Wonders is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe

Prayer is more than words.It’s longing. It’s hope. It’s trust.Even when we don’t feel worthy, even when we aren’t sure who’s listening.This episode is a prayer, one I wrote in a season where I didn’t need advice or answers.I needed to remember what love could be.Not just soft love. But strong love. Real love.Love that forgives, waits, weeps, endures, surrenders… and still dares to rise again.If you need to be reminded of what love can do,this prayer is for you.Subscribe to read more or support the work at: Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe

We remember the Road to Damascus for its light, the voice, the falling down. But what about the man who reached out his hand three days later? What about the one who dared to call Saul “brother”?This episode is a meditation on Ananias—the grace-filled disciple we too often forget, and the kind of saint we might still be called to become. Based on Acts 9:10–19.Read more reflections or subscribe at: https://garrettjandrew.substack.comIf this episode was a blessing, consider sharing it or leaving a review.Special thanks to my paid Substack subscribers—your support makes this possible.Whispers and Wonders is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe

Today I NoticedA prayer-poem about sacred attention and believing there is enough.Some days, faith isn’t about understanding more.It’s about noticing what’s already here.This reflection began as a simple writing practice.It became a prayer. A poem. A reminder.Inspired by the words of Jesus,“There will be enough.”I wrote this to name what I often miss.You can find the full written version at my Substack:garrettjandrew.substack.comIf this reflection spoke to you, consider subscribing, leaving a comment, or sharing it with someone else who needs to slow down and see what’s already holy.To my paid subscribers, thank you. You help keep this work alive.Whispers and Wonders is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe

In Acts 9, we meet a disciple named Dorcas—called Tabitha in her own tongue. She never says a word in Scripture, but her life spoke volumes.She becomes the first resurrection story in the Book of Acts, and it doesn’t happen in a temple or before a crowd, but in an upstairs room, surrounded by the ones she clothed.This reflection considers what her life means for us today—and what the Church has forgotten about the kind of life the Spirit raises up.Scripture reading: Acts 9:36–43Reflection title: She Still SpeaksIf this episode speaks to you, I’d love for you to share, rate, or leave a comment. It helps others find it too.Whispers and Wonders is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe

The written version is on my SubstackWhispers and Wonders is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe

Whispers and Wonders is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Whispers and Wonders at garrettjandrew.substack.com/subscribe