I WAS LOST AND NOW I AM FOUND

Based on The Gospels of Matthew 18:12-14 and Luke 15:4-7

I never expected to find God in my 30s—mostly because I didn’t even know I was supposed to be looking for Him.

I didn’t grow up in faith. I didn’t know the Bible. I didn’t understand who Jesus really was or why any of it mattered. God wasn’t something I had rejected—He was just never part of the picture.

But when I read Jesus’ parable about the lost sheep, I realised: I was the one.

The one out of a hundred who had wandered far. Not in open rebellion—but in quiet disconnection. No one would have looked at my life and called it “lost”, but deep down, I was. I just didn’t know it.

And the Shepherd came anyway.

I used to think that as long as I wasn’t against religion, I was probably okay. I wasn’t anti-God or anything—I just never really gave it much thought. It didn’t seem to matter in my everyday life. I didn’t see the need. I believed I was doing fine. But I was disconnected and completely unaware of the One who gave me life, who designed me with purpose, and who sees worth in me that I couldn’t even see in myself.

Jesus tells us in the parable that the shepherd leaves the 99 to go and search for the one lost sheep. He doesn’t shrug and say, “Oh well, it’s just one.”

No—He goes after it. And when He finds it, He rejoices.

It took time, questions, and people placed in my life at just the right moments—but slowly, the Shepherd was drawing me in. There was no dramatic rescue from disaster, no lightning bolt moment—just a deepening awareness that I had been seen, known, and sought. He found me.

I didn’t even know I was missing until He started calling me.
But once I heard His voice—once I began to understand who Jesus was and what He had done—I couldn’t ignore it.
And when I finally turned toward Him, I realised He had already been running toward me.

Transformation doesn’t happen overnight—but it happens. When that lost sheep was brought home, it didn’t become perfect. It was still the same sheep—but it was safe, loved, and restored to where it belonged.

That’s me now. I didn’t just “add faith” to my life—I was changed by it.

The way I think has shifted.
The way I understand love, forgiveness, and identity is being rebuilt.
My heart is softer. My priorities are different.
I’ve begun to care about things I never even considered before—and it’s not because I’m trying to be someone else. It’s because the One who found me is still transforming me.

Jesus said that heaven rejoices more over one lost soul who returns than over ninety-nine who didn’t wander off.

That truth undoes me.

Because I had no idea I mattered that much.
I had no idea that God Himself would celebrate over me—someone who didn’t know a single verse, had no spiritual background, and came late into the story.

But grace doesn’t care when you arrive.
It only matters that you do.

This parable is one of my favourites because it tells my story. It reminds me that I wasn’t forgotten, even in all the years I didn’t know God. It assures me that my value isn’t based on when I came to faith or how much I knew, but on God’s relentless love. I will never forget the moment I realised: I was the one He came to find—and He never gave up on me.

You don’t have to be wildly broken to be lost. Sometimes, being lost just means living without direction, meaning, or relationship with the One who made you.

And if that’s where you are now—hear this: The Shepherd is looking for you.
Not to shame you. Not to scold you. But to bring you home.

I was the one. And now I’m found.

Not because I earned it, or even because I knew to ask for it—but because He came looking for me.

THE VINEYARD

Based on The Gospel of Matthew 20:1-16

I didn’t grow up in the vineyard.

I didn’t start early in the morning like others did—those who were raised in church, who knew Scripture before they could walk, who spoke the language of faith like a second skin. I’m not one of the “early workers” in God’s story. I came later. Much later. In my thirties, with baggage, questions, and a heart still learning how to trust.

At times, I’ve looked around the vineyard and wondered if I belonged.

And reading the parable in Matthew 20, I found myself among those hired at the eleventh hour. The landowner went out late in the day and found people still standing around. When he asked why they hadn’t been working, they said, “No one has hired us.” That line struck me. Not just as an explanation, but as a kind of pain: We were waiting. We just hadn’t been invited yet.

That was me. Waiting. Searching. Not knowing how to say yes to something I hadn’t yet been offered in a way I could understand.

But then the invitation came. And I stepped into the vineyard.

What amazed me—and still humbles me—is that Jesus doesn’t use a timecard system. The landowner in the parable pays everyone the same, whether they worked one hour or twelve. That seemed unfair to the early workers. I get it. Maybe I would’ve felt the same if I had started early. I don’t know.

But as someone who came in late, this grace doesn’t feel unfair—it feels unbelievable.

The God I’ve come to know doesn’t tally hours of service like wages. He gives the same gift to all: His presence, His love, His salvation. Not because we’ve earned it, but because He’s generous.

This parable taught me that in God’s eyes, we are all equal—not because we’ve done the same work, but because He loves us the same. Those who arrived early aren’t better. Those who came later aren’t second class. There’s no hierarchy at the foot of the cross.

This truth quiets the voice in me that says, You’re too late.
It silences the lie that others deserve more because they’ve done more.

The reward is not a wage—it’s a gift. And in God’s kingdom, grace is the great equaliser.

There’s a temptation, even now, to compare. To look at others who seem more polished in faith or more knowledgeable in Scripture, and wonder if I’ll ever catch up. But then I remember: this isn’t a race to the top. It’s a call to be faithful with the time I’ve been given. And to rejoice—truly rejoice—that others are in the vineyard too. After all, that is our purpose here on earth: to bring people to the vineyard.

I’m learning to celebrate God’s generosity instead of comparing His gifts. He gave me what I needed most: a place in His kingdom, a purpose in His vineyard, and the assurance that I belong.

It’s never too late. If there’s one thing I would say to someone who feels like they’ve come too late to faith, it’s this: God is still calling. And when you step into His vineyard, there’s no second-rate welcome. You receive the full measure of His grace—not just in eternity, but right now.

I came at the eleventh hour. And I was paid in full.

Equal in grace. Equal in love. Equal in His eyes.

HE MEETS US TOO

Based on The Gospel of John 4:4–42

There’s something about this story that always stops me in my tracks.

A woman. Alone. Carrying shame. Going to the well in the middle of the day to avoid the stares, the whispers, the judgment.

And then Jesus shows up.

That line—“He had to go through Samaria” —always lingers in my mind. It reveals the heart of Jesus. He had to go, not out of obligation, but because love always moves toward the hurting. He intentionally crossed barriers and broke customs because there was someone waiting—someone weary, wounded, and thirsty for more than what a well could offer. Someone who didn’t even realise how deeply she needed Him… until He showed up.

And that someone reminds me of… me.

I read this story and I see myself. How many times have I come to Jesus carrying the weight of my own shame? How often have I tried to avoid being truly seen because I was afraid of what that might mean? How many times have I believed the lie that my past disqualifies me from His love?

But here’s what this story tells me:
Jesus meets us right in the middle of our mess. He doesn’t wait for us to have it all together. He doesn’t cross His arms and wait for us to clean up our act. He sits at the well. He starts the conversation. He sees us fully—and still speaks gently.

The woman at the well didn’t have a perfect story. She had wounds. She had baggage. She had likely been used, abandoned, dismissed. But Jesus didn’t see her as a problem to be fixed—He saw her as a soul worth saving.

And what moves me the most? This was the longest personal one on one conversation Jesus ever had with anyone recorded in Scripture. Not with one of His disciples. Not with a Pharisee. Not with a Roman ruler. But with her. A woman. A Samaritan. A sinner.

That shows me so much about who He is.

He doesn’t play by religious rules or social expectations. He doesn’t label people the way the world does. He sees through the sin and into the soul. He speaks life where there’s been rejection. He offers living water to those of us who are just so tired of trying to fill ourselves with things that never last.

This story reminds me that I don’t have to run from Jesus when I feel unworthy. I can run to Him. Because He already knows everything about me—and loves me anyway.

The woman left her water jar behind. The thing she came for suddenly didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was who she had just met. She ran back to her village—the same village that likely shamed her—and told everyone about Him. Her testimony changed lives. Her story, once a source of shame, became a tool for salvation.

And that gives me hope. If Jesus could use her story, He can use mine.
If He met her in her brokenness, He will meet me in mine.

So, if you’re carrying anything heavy today… if you’ve been believing you’re too far gone or too messy or too unworthy… sit with this story for a moment. Jesus still goes out of His way to meet people at the well. He still speaks truth with tenderness. He still offers living water to the thirsty. He still transforms shame into purpose.

And He sees you.