How does experiencing salvation through Christ fundamentally reshape a person's sense of purpose and their approach to daily stewardship?

            Experiencing salvation through Christ doesn’t merely “improve” our lives; it re-centers them. I’ve found that when Christ truly saves us, He doesn’t just forgive our past; He rewrites our identity, our priorities, and the meaning of ordinary days. Scripture puts it plainly: “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new” (2 Corinthians 5:17, NKJV). That verse isn’t poetry to me; it’s a spiritual reality. We are not the same people we were, and we can’t live like we still belong to the old life. We have a new purpose, and it shifts us from our former self-directed behaviors to Christ-directed desires. 

Before Christ, even when we meant well, we tended to live as though life belonged to us, our plans, our time, our dreams, our bodies. But salvation changes our center of gravity. Paul says, “For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain” (Philippians 1:21). That doesn’t mean we stop being ourselves; it means Christ becomes the point of our life. And because “none of us lives to himself” (Romans 14:7–8), our purpose can’t remain self-contained anymore. 

I’ve learned that salvation gives us a new “why.” We’re not saved by our effort, “by grace you have been saved through faith… not of works,” but we’re saved for something: “we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them” (Ephesians 2:8–10). So our purpose becomes less about chasing meaning and more about walking in the meaning God already prepared. A key part of this, however, is that it’s a lifelong pursuit of discovery. We rarely discover what God prepared for us to walk in early in life. Some never discover it; that does not mean he or she is not saved, but it does mean we must recognize that God created us for so much more than our daily routine and the grind of just making a living. We are to walk in the abundant blessings God desires to pour out through us to others as we walk by faith, following His direction, and being good stewards of those blessings. 

One of the most practical changes salvation brings is this: we stop viewing our lives as private property and start seeing them as entrusted. In other words, stewardship replaces ownership. Scripture says we’re “not our own… we were bought at a price” (1 Corinthians 6:19–20). That truth must humble us. If Christ bought us, then our days, our health, habits, relationships, work, finances, words, and even our rest are stewardship, not entitlement. 

Consider one example. I’m writing this response to the question, and it is my heart’s desire to present the love of Christ in a way that invites others through the words I choose. I do not do this for fun; it is not a game. It is a serious matter to present the love of God to others. I do it because God first loved me, and I want to be pleasing to the Lord with my life. This is one way I can offer my life to God, in response to what He has done for me, as a living sacrifice. I do not take this lightly. To be sure, it is an act of love toward God for what He has accomplished in me, but it is also a labor of love, and I receive far more than I give through the research and study of God’s Word as I prepare these responses. 

So, in a small way, I’m trying to be a good steward of what God has entrusted to my care as a wordsmith. I probably could have become a lawyer, a script writer, or even gone into marketing with my education. But I want to do the best I can with what I have, in the time I have. Like most people, I can only do what I can. So I look forward to writing responses like these on behalf of my Lord and Savior, praying that I will be a good steward of what He has entrusted to my care. 

This is why the call of Romans 12 lands so personally with me. I am to “present my body a living sacrifice… which is my reasonable service” and “be transformed by the renewing of my mind” (Romans 12:1–2). Salvation turns daily life into worship. It means our question changes from “What do I feel like doing?” to “Lord, what honors You with what You’ve placed in my hands?” That question turns our attitude upside down, or, in the reality of our transformed lives, it turns everything right side up. 

Our mindset changes without abandoning the real world. Salvation doesn’t exempt us from responsibility; it actually sharpens it. “If then we were raised with Christ,” we are to “seek those things which are above… and set our mind on things above, not on things on the earth” (Colossians 3:1–4). That doesn’t mean we ignore earthly needs; it means we interpret them through a higher loyalty. So even ordinary work becomes spiritual stewardship: “whatever we do, we do it heartily, as to the Lord” (Colossians 3:23–24). Even ordinary choices, how we eat, how we speak, how we spend, become acts of worship: “whatever we do, we do all to the glory of God” (1 Corinthians 10:31). 

Also, grace trains us, not just pardons us. I want to say this clearly: salvation isn’t only forgiveness; it’s formation. “The grace of God that brings salvation… teaches us” to deny ungodliness and live soberly and godly (Titus 2:11–14). In other words, grace doesn’t just lift guilt; it trains our desires. And as we learn to live in that grace, we start noticing that Christ is not only saving us from sin, but saving us into purpose. That’s where Galatians 2:20 becomes more than a memory verse: “it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me” (Galatians 2:20). I’m still me, to be sure, yet the “me” at the center has shifted. Christ takes the throne, and my life starts to align with His from the inside out. 

Another point is that we steward our gifts, time, and influence with accountability in mind. Once we see ourselves as stewards, we become more intentional, not anxious, but awake. Jesus’ words about stewardship are sobering: “to whom much is given, from him much will be required” (Luke 12:42–48). Paul echoes it: “it is required in stewards that one be found faithful” (1 Corinthians 4:1–2). That accountability doesn’t crush me; it steadies me. It reminds us that our life is not random. God entrusts, God weighs, God rewards. And He calls us to use what we’ve been given, our skills, resources, and opportunities for His glory and others’ good (1 Peter 4:10–11). Like the parable of the talents, salvation makes us ask: Am I multiplying what God entrusted, or burying it out of fear? (Matthew 25:14–30). 

This weighs heavily on my heart precisely because I use words to influence others toward the Kingdom of God. Just as our parents raised us to have good manners, respect adults and our peers, and wash our hands before we eat, simple things, I know very well that it is the simple things that can go unchecked. Someone reading my words could feel offended and think of Christianity in the manner I represented it through my words. I know I am not going to save anyone; I am not the Savior of the world. However, I also know that my words can plant, water, or uproot the seeds of faith, depending on how I respond. The weight of what I do can feel heavy at times. 

In the end, my purpose is to become pleasing to Christ in all that I do. So when I speak of salvation, I also acknowledge that it has changed how I see people. This matters deeply to me because the more Christ reshapes me, the more I begin to view others differently. Another way to say this is that prayer’s purpose is not to get our will done on earth, but to change us so that God’s will is done on earth. We remember we were saved by mercy, not superiority (Titus 3:4–8). That softens my tone, and it should soften every other believer’s heart attitude as well. It must humble our heart posture, which is why it moves us toward love-driven service: “through love serve one another” (Galatians 5:13). Even our “freedom” becomes purposeful, not fuel for self, but strength to love.

If I had to summarize how salvation reshapes purpose and stewardship, I’d say it like Paul: “we make it our aim… to be well pleasing to Him” (2 Corinthians 5:9). Not to earn salvation, Christ already finished that, but because being loved like this changes what we want. And this is the hope that keeps me steady: God doesn’t call us and then abandon us to figure it out alone. “He who calls us is faithful, who also will do it” (1 Thessalonians 5:23–24). 

Is it normal to feel lonely in a marriage even when your partner is present?

Yes, based on my own experience and on walking with others, it is possible to feel deeply lonely in a marriage even when your spouse is physically present. That reality can be confusing and painful, especially because marriage was created by God to address loneliness, not merely to eliminate physical solitude. From the beginning, God said, “It is not good that man should be alone” (Genesis 2:18, NKJV). That loneliness isn’t solved simply by sharing space, but by meaningful companionship. Scripture reminds us that “two are better than one” because they lift one another up, keep one another warm, and stand together when one falls (Ecclesiastes 4:9–12). Implicit in that passage is a sobering truth: when those things stop happening—when support, warmth, and mutual care erode—loneliness can exist even within marriage. 

I’ve learned that loneliness in marriage often grows quietly. It rarely starts with betrayal; it usually begins with disconnection. When communication fades, when compliments disappear, when flirting stops, and when affection is no longer expressed, something subtle but dangerous happens. One or both spouses may begin to internalize the silence. We start asking ourselves whether something must be wrong with us, because surely, if nothing were wrong, our spouse would still see us, pursue us, and speak life into us. This is one of the reasons adultery so often begins not with lust, but with loneliness. When a spouse feels unseen or undesired for long enough, self-worth can erode. Scripture calls husbands and wives to render affection to one another and not withdraw without care and intentionality (1 Corinthians 7:3–5), precisely because emotional and physical neglect creates vulnerability. When that vulnerability goes unaddressed, someone else’s attention, someone else’s listening ear, or kind words can feel like oxygen to a starving heart. 

Biology and season of life often complicate this further, especially in long marriages. For many women, childbirth and motherhood bring profound physical changes. A husband may not intend harm, but if he stops flirting with the mother of his children, if he becomes inattentive or emotionally distant, his wife may quietly conclude that she is no longer desirable. Often, he doesn’t realize the impact of his silence, but the loneliness is still real. Men face their own quiet battles. Middle age brings changes in energy, drive, and physical confidence. When a husband begins to feel diminished, and his wife, perhaps because of her own exhaustion or unmet needs, no longer responds as she once did, insecurity can take root. Again, this is not universal, nor is it inevitable, but it is common enough to deserve honest acknowledgment. Loneliness often grows where vulnerability is met with silence instead of reassurance. 

Scripture does not excuse betrayal, but it does explain the terrain where temptation flourishes. That’s why husbands are called to love, nourish, and cherish their wives as their own bodies (Ephesians 5:28–33), and to live with them “with understanding” (1 Peter 3:7). Marriage requires intentional emotional presence, not just fidelity in action. Without that presence, two people can remain covenantally bound and still feel profoundly alone. What I’ve learned is that loneliness in marriage is often a signal, not a verdict. It points to something that needs attention, gentle conversation, renewed affection, humility, and sometimes help from outside the relationship. Scripture calls us to esteem one another above ourselves (Philippians 2:3–4), to be “swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath” (James 1:19), and to “bear with one another in love” (Ephesians 4:2–3). Those practices rebuild connection where distance has formed. 

Marriage is honorable and good (Hebrews 13:4), but Scripture is also honest that it brings struggle (1 Corinthians 7:28). The question is not whether seasons of loneliness will come, but whether we will respond to them with withdrawal or with courage, honesty, and renewed commitment to one another. So yes, it is normal to feel lonely in marriage at times, even with your spouse present. But that loneliness does not have to be the end of the story. Often, it is an invitation to turn toward one another again, to speak what has gone unspoken, and to remember that marriage is sustained not by proximity alone, but by intentional love, mutual pursuit, and daily care. 

How do you realise and appreciate the hard work your parents did to provide for you?

From a parenting and pastoral counseling perspective, I’ve learned that we don’t usually realize or appreciate our parents’ hard work all at once. My own children rarely appreciated what their mother and I accomplished for them until they were well into their late 20’s. For most of us, and I am speaking of myself here, that appreciation grows with time, maturity, and responsibility. Scripture frames this clearly: honoring our father and mother is not merely an emotional posture but an active, lifelong calling with real consequences and blessings attached (Exod 20:12; Eph 6:1–3; Deut 5:16). Honor, in the biblical sense, means recognizing the weight, value, and cost. It means acknowledging that who we are did not emerge in a vacuum but was shaped by years of unseen sacrifice. 

I’ve found that appreciation deepens when we begin to understand what our parents carried. As we step into adulthood and face bills, stress, exhaustion, and responsibility ourselves, we start to see the quiet decisions they made, working jobs they may not have loved, stretching limited resources, setting aside their own desires, and showing up day after day anyway. Scripture invites us not to discard their wisdom once we’re independent, but to bind their instruction to our hearts so that it continues to guide us, protect us, and speak to us throughout life (Prov 6:20–22). Their labor was not only about provision; it was about formation. 

The Bible repeatedly teaches that parental instruction is meant to shape character, not just behavior. A father’s instruction and a mother’s law are described as a graceful ornament and a protective chain, something that distinguishes us and guards us, not something that confines us (Prov 1:8–9). When we begin to live out those values, integrity, diligence, faithfulness, and perseverance, we are honoring the work they poured into us. In that sense, gratitude becomes embodied rather than merely spoken. 

Scripture also reminds us that appreciation does not expire when parents age or can no longer provide for their children. We are commanded not to despise our parents when they are old, but to listen, care, and show reverence even when the roles begin to reverse (Prov 23:22; Lev 19:3). Paul echoes this by teaching that caring for one’s parents is an act of godliness and something pleasing to God (1 Tim 5:4). Honoring them later in life is not repayment born of guilt; it is the natural continuation of a relationship built on love and sacrifice. 

Throughout Scripture, we see this lived out in real lives. Joseph honored his father by providing for him and his entire household during the famine, using the position God gave him to protect the one who once protected him (Gen 47:11–12). Ruth’s devotion to her mother-in-law was publicly recognized as costly, faithful love, and God honored that sacrifice (Ruth 2:11–12). These examples remind us that honoring parents often involves tangible action, not just internal appreciation. 

I’ve also learned that gratitude grows when we speak it. Saying out loud what we noticed, asking our parents about their struggles, listening to their stories, and acknowledging what they gave, even imperfectly, brings clarity and healing. Scripture warns strongly against contempt, mockery, or neglect toward parents (Prov 20:20; Prov 30:17), not because God is harsh, but because contempt corrodes the soul. By contrast, a wise son or daughter brings joy to their parents by living wisely and receiving instruction with humility (Prov 15:20; Prov 13:1). 

Ultimately, we realize and appreciate our parents’ hard work most deeply when we become the kind of people their sacrifice made possible, people who value wisdom, carry responsibility well, and pass on what we were given. Children’s children are called a crown to the aged, and a parent’s glory is seen in the lives their children go on to live (Prov 17:6). When we honor our parents in word, action, and character, we honor not only them, but the God who used their imperfect faithfulness to shape our lives. 

It’s also important for us to acknowledge, honestly and gently, that not all of us grew up under ideal or even safe circumstances. I include myself in that. Because of the abuse I experienced, my early perspective was shaped more by pain and survival than by gratitude. For a long time, I could not see my adoptive parents clearly, let alone appreciate what they had done for me. It wasn’t until I was in my mid-thirties, after significant healing and reflection, that my perspective began to change. With that change came the ability to separate sin from struggle, brokenness from intent, and failure from effort. 

As my understanding deepened, I was finally able to see my parents as whole people, imperfect, wounded, limited, yet still used by God in real and meaningful ways. I began to recognize the challenges they faced, the resources they lacked, and the burdens they carried, often without support. Even in the midst of those challenges, God was at work. In ways I could not see at the time, He was using their provision, discipline, and presence, however flawed, to shape my life toward what would ultimately be pleasing to Him. That realization did not excuse the harm that was done, but it did redeem the story. 

Because of that shift, gratitude became possible, not rooted in denial, but in truth. I can now say with sincerity that God used my parents, even through their brokenness, as His hands in forming me. For that redemptive work, I am eternally grateful.