Today is Good Friday.

And if you’re like me, there’s a weight to today. Maybe you’ve heard the story so many times, but it still stops you for a second—what Jesus walked through, what He carried, what it cost.

And at the same time… life is still happening.

The emails didn’t stop. The schedule didn’t clear. The same stress is still there. That health issue, that relationship, the financial pressure—it’s all still sitting right where it was yesterday.

And it can leave you quietly wondering:
If this is such a big, world-changing moment… why does everything still feel the same?

Because today—before the celebration, before the empty tomb—this is the hard part of the story.

This is the day where it looks like loss.
Where hope feels quiet.
Where things don’t make sense yet.

And honestly? That’s a place we know pretty well.

Because even now, 2,000 years later, life can still feel heavy. Jesus actually told us it would: “In this world you will have trouble.”

So if today feels a little heavy, or unresolved, or just… a lot—you’re not doing it wrong.

You’re standing right in the middle of the story.

But here’s what matters: this isn’t the end of it.

Good Friday reminds us that God meets us in the hard, not just after it.
That He understands suffering, not from a distance—but personally.
That when you’re carrying more than you want to admit… He’s not unaware of that weight.

And even though today feels quiet… Sunday is coming.

The resurrection hasn’t happened yet in the story—but it’s already promised.

So maybe today isn’t about trying to feel upbeat or fixed.
Maybe it’s just about staying close.

Taking a breath.
Letting Him sit with you in whatever you’re carrying.
Trusting that even if nothing looks different today… something bigger is already in motion.

Because this story doesn’t end in Friday.

And neither does yours.

When my cousin’s daughter Zoey was about five years old, she took a trip to Yellowstone National Park. When she got back, she couldn’t wait to tell everyone about what she saw—especially the buffalo.

She talked about the adorable, teeny-tiny buffalo.

Of course, the buffalo weren’t tiny at all. They’re massive. But because you have to view them from a safe distance, they looked small to her… so that’s what she believed.

Honestly, I get that.

Because sometimes, the distance between us and other people does the same thing. It shrinks them. Not physically—but in how we understand them.

I can think of more than a few times I’ve made assumptions about someone without ever really getting close enough to see the full picture. And if I’m honest, I wonder how often people have done the same to me.

It’s human nature. We fill in the gaps when we don’t have the full story.

That might be why the Bible speaks so often about judgment—not to shame us, but to gently remind us there’s usually more going on than we can see from a distance.

So maybe today isn’t about getting it perfect.

Maybe it’s just about taking one small step closer.

Choosing curiosity over assumption.
Choosing presence over distance.
Choosing to see people as more than what we first thought.

Because most of the time… they are.

107.9, and her story is just as powerful as her music. After growing up in a difficult and unstable environment, Carly’s life changed when her older brother and his wife welcomed her into their home and introduced her to Jesus. Years later, after graduating from college, she found herself wrestling with anxiety about the future and wondering what God had planned next. That season led her to write “Why Should I Worry,” a song inspired by Jesus’ words in Matthew 6 about the birds of the air and the lilies of the field—reminders that our Heavenly Father knows what we need. If your mind has been racing lately or life feels a little overwhelming, take a moment and press play on the video below. This song is a beautiful reminder that God is still the One who lifts our burdens, calms our anxieties, and stays faithful through it all.

You’ll be hearing this beautiful song on Hope 107.9—watch the video below and take a moment with it.
 

It’s called Imposter Syndrome.

It’s that quiet voice that whispers, “You don’t really belong here.”

Maybe you’ve felt it at work. Maybe in a room full of capable people where everyone else seems confident and put together.

You wonder if somehow you slipped in by accident.

And sooner or later… someone will notice.

That feeling doesn’t just show up in work or everyday life. It can creep into our faith too.

You walk into church. People seem steady. Peaceful. Confident in their relationship with God.

And you think, They’ve figured it out.

But inside, you may feel like you’re still struggling. Still learning. Still trying to grow.

The truth is, following Jesus has never meant having everything perfectly together.

The Bible is surprisingly honest about that.

Many of the people God used most powerfully were people who felt unsure of themselves. Moses doubted his ability to lead. Peter made mistakes. Even the apostle Paul openly admitted that he depended on God’s strength because his own strength wasn’t enough.

Paul wrote these words that still bring comfort today:

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
— 2 Corinthians 12:9

That means the moments when we feel imperfect, tired, or unsure aren’t disqualifiers.

They’re often the places where God’s grace shows up most clearly.

Being a Christian doesn’t mean pretending to be someone we’re not. It means learning, slowly and imperfectly, to live from who we already are in Christ.

Scripture reminds us that when we belong to Jesus, something real has changed in us:

“If anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come.”
— 2 Corinthians 5:17

We may still have struggles. We may still have days where faith feels difficult.

But those struggles are not our identity.

God sees something deeper in us — a life being shaped, renewed, and strengthened by Him.

So if you’ve ever felt like you don’t quite measure up…
like you’re still figuring out your faith…
like everyone else seems a little farther along…

You’re not alone.

And you’re not an imposter.

You’re simply someone God is still lovingly working on — just like the rest of us.

It feels personal.

That’s because it is.

Roger Tofte, the creator of Enchanted Forest in Turner, passed away peacefully on February 13, 2026, at the age of 96. What he built — quite literally with his own hands — continues to welcome families more than five decades later.

In the 1960s, Roger was simply a father of four with a dream. He wanted to create a place where his children could experience wonder. With limited resources but steady determination, he bought a wooded hillside south of Salem and began building fairy-tale scenes by hand. Evenings. Weekends. Small payments on the land. Repairing watches on the side to fund the project.

It took seven years.

When Enchanted Forest opened on August 8, 1971, just 75 people walked through the gates. Today, it remains one of Oregon’s most beloved destinations — still family-owned, still thoughtfully maintained, still carrying the handcrafted charm Roger insisted on.

What makes his story meaningful isn’t just the creativity. It’s the heart behind it.

He wasn’t chasing fame.
He was building joy for his children.

And in doing that, he created a place where countless other families would make memories of their own.

Three generations of the Tofte family now carry that work forward. Every carved figure and winding path reflects something steady and familiar — a father’s quiet devotion expressed through hard work.

And that’s a story many of us understand.

Maybe you didn’t build a theme park.
Maybe it was a treehouse.
A backyard project.
A late-night science fair display.
A costume sewn after everyone else went to bed.

Love often looks like effort no one applauds.

As we remember Roger Tofte, we honor not only the man who built Enchanted Forest — but every parent who has poured time, patience, and creativity into something meant simply to see their child smile.

If you visit Enchanted Forest this year, take a moment at the entrance. Notice the details. Remember how it all began.

And maybe whisper a quiet thank you — for the kind of love that builds things meant to last.

I love watching ice skating in the Winter Olympics. The sparkles. The drama. The way they spin like gravity is just a suggestion. I’m in awe every time.

And then there are the commentators. They’ll watch a skater glide across the ice with superhuman strength and grace… and gently note, “Mmm, slight wobble on the landing.” A slight wobble? Most of us would have fallen, taken out a judge, and needed medical attention.

I know they’re doing their job. They’re experts. They’re helping the rest of us understand the technical side of things. But sometimes it makes me think.

Because I already have a commentator in my head.

You too?

That little voice that narrates the day: “You could’ve handled that better.” “Why did you say that?” “Well, that wasn’t your best.” Sometimes I even confuse that voice with God’s voice — like He’s up there with a clipboard, rating my performance and deducting points for every imperfect landing.

Growth is good. Self-awareness is healthy. But beating ourselves up? Being our own harshest critic? That rarely produces beautiful things in our lives. It usually just produces fear.

Here’s the truth: God is not a cold, detached commentator.

“The Lord your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing.” — Zephaniah 3:17

He’s not circling your flaws. He’s delighting in you. Rejoicing over you. Singing.

The next time that inner commentator starts deducting points, pause for a moment. Ask yourself: does this sound like love… or like fear?

Friend, that’s the voice we can trust.

She had fought melanoma for nearly two years. More than a dozen surgeries. Targeted brain treatments. Scans that kept bringing news we didn’t want to hear. It spread to her lungs. It spread to her brain. One doctor told us he had never seen it move so quickly.

What made it even harder was this: just five months earlier, we believed she had beaten it. We had celebrated. We had exhaled. We thought we were stepping back into normal life.

And then everything changed again.

By that final weekend, we knew we were near the end.

The night before she passed was our oldest daughter’s winter formal.

Sherrill was already in the hospital, exhausted from treatments that had taken her strength — and her hair. But all day Saturday she kept saying one thing:

“Make sure I have my stocking hat on.”

She wanted to look like Mom when her daughter walked in.

That night our daughter came to the hospital in her dress before heading to the dance. Sherrill stayed awake for her. I truly believe the Holy Spirit sustained her for that moment. She saw her. She smiled. She gave her the best hug she could. And she watched her leave for one of those milestone nights.

About twelve hours later, she slipped into a coma.

The room was incredibly still. I could hear her mom's muffled cries down the hallway. A few days earlier, her dad had brought her hot McDonald’s French fries because she loved them. Those small, ordinary acts of love somehow felt enormous in that space.

She lay in her hospital bed, and I sat right beside her, holding her hand, just saying, “I love you.” Over and over.

Our marriage wasn’t a fairy tale. We had ordinary struggles. We disappointed each other at times. We sometimes lived out our love imperfectly. But it was a partnership. A chosen love. Built day by day.

And in that moment, none of the small stuff mattered.

What surprised me most was what I felt.

There was grief — deep grief. I was losing my wife. Our kids were losing their mom. But underneath the sorrow was something steady. A calm I can’t fully explain.

What I saw on her face was peace. Even joy.

It felt like the presence of God filled that room. Almost like heaven was close.

That evening, I wrote a social media post. It’s still one of the most raw things I’ve ever shared publicly. I typed through tears about the joy on her face… about the overwhelming comfort in my heart… about how it felt like the Spirit of the living God was preparing to bring her home.

I grew up in a Christian home. I didn’t have a dramatic story of rebellion and rescue.

But those final hours became my testimony.

I have never experienced the peace and joy of Jesus so powerfully.

The Bible talks about a peace that passes understanding. I always believed that was true. But that weekend, I lived it.

Peace didn’t remove the pain. It didn’t make the goodbye easy.

But it steadied us.

There was grief because we would miss her deeply. And there was a celebration because we knew what she was about to experience. Somehow, both were present at the same time.

If you are walking through something heavy right now — especially if you thought the worst was behind you — I want you to know this:

God is not distant in those rooms.

He is present.

And sometimes, when you least expect it, He gives a calm that makes no earthly sense.

I saw it.
I felt it.
And I will never forget it.

Scott Michaels is a husband, dad, and follower of Jesus who has learned that faith often becomes clearest in life’s hardest moments. He shares honestly about grief, hope, and the steady presence of God in ordinary life. He serves as the General Manager at Hope 107.9 and AM 790 KWIL.