Editor’s Note

Happy New Year!

As 2026 begins, I want to take a moment to name something you’ll notice as you read today’s issue.

Bigger Than Me is entering a more focused season.

Over the last year, we’ve explored practical compassion, Christian identity and spiritual authority through story, parables and reflection. Those themes aren’t going anywhere. In fact, they’re the foundation for what comes next.

After a lot of prayer, I’ve become convinced that God is inviting Bigger Than Me to center more intentionally on healing, not as a niche topic but instead as the practical expression of Christian compassion and spiritual authority in everyday life.

I believe healing is for every believer. And I also believe many of the reasons we don’t step into it have less to do with faith and more to do with fear, pressure, and inherited ideas that quietly shut us down.

Moving forward, Bigger Than Me will continue to tell stories and confront lies the way it always has, but each issue will now do so with a clearer aim: removing the obstacles that keep ordinary believers from stepping into healing without pressure or performance. My hope is that this new format doesn’t just help you understand healing but helps you actually step into it.

As always, thank you for being here. I’m grateful to walk this road with you.

God bless,
Addison.

“Why is this so difficult?!” I finally said out loud.
“I know You can heal people. I’ve seen it. I know I could help. Why can’t I just do this?”

I kept my eyes shut, replaying the last few weeks.

Two weeks earlier, I’d gone out with Eddie and prayed for people for the first time. I’d watched God heal strangers right in front of me: real, undeniable moments that took what I believed out of theory and dropped it into real life.

But this time, Eddie wasn’t with me.

This time I was sitting alone in my car, in the middle of that same Home Depot parking lot, weighed down by guilt, shame, and anxiety.

I’d spent the last hour wandering the aisles, forgetting what I was even there to buy.

I’d turn down one aisle and notice someone rubbing their neck.
Down another, a guy leaning hard on his cart like his back wasn’t cooperating.
Standing in line, that familiar nudge again.

Pray for them.

I ignored it every time: too shy to step in, too uncomfortable to stay near them once the guilt set in.

Every moment I didn’t respond, nervous energy turned into guilt:

You know this works.
You’ve seen it happen.
Why are you backing out now?

I finally left the store to clear my head, but sitting in my car only brought condemnation:

You screwed this up.
You were given something and you’re wasting it.
You’re always handed things on a silver platter and you still don’t measure up.

I prayed something small. Desperate.

“Please… just give me one more person, Lord. One more chance.”

Then I opened my eyes.

Through the windshield, everything felt slow.

To my left, a couple loading up their truck.
To my right, an older man getting into his sedan.
And straight ahead, a metal shopping cart rolling directly toward my car.

I didn’t think.

I jumped out, grabbed the cart just before it slammed into my door, and wheeled it back to the couple, who had only just noticed it drifting away.

They looked startled.
Then relieved.
Then embarrassed.

“Oh my gosh! Thank you so much. I’m so sorry,” the woman said.

And I knew.

That was it.

Gratitude. Eye contact. A natural opening.

All I had to do was ask.
All I had to do was say one sentence.

But I froze.

Unable to get anything else out, I said a quick “You’re welcome,” turned around, and got back into my car.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

From that point on, healing stopped feeling like something God was inviting me into.
It started feeling like something the enemy could use against me.

Every opportunity carried weight.
Every nudge felt loaded.
Every person I passed with a cast, brace, or limp felt like evidence.

The joy drained out of healing.

What had started as wonder slowly turned into obligation, then avoidance.

For two years, something that should have been one of the most life-giving parts of my walk with God became one of my biggest spiritual growth blocks.

Not because I doubted God.

But because I believed I was responsible for the outcome.

It was mine to give, not to finish

Healing didn’t stop because I doubted God.

It stopped because I quietly took responsibility for the outcome.

That pressure sounded spiritual.
It felt mature.
It even felt responsible.

But it wasn’t faith.

It was doubt saying I had to finish something Jesus had already done.

Once I believed healing depended on me—
my boldness,
my technique,
my execution—
every opportunity became a test.

A test I would fail as fear of inadequacy froze me in my tracks.

The irrevocable call

I lost sight of the fact that Jesus doesn’t give authority conditionally.
He gives it completely.

Authority isn’t something you earn by succeeding.
And it isn’t something you lose by hesitating.

It’s given.

Freely.

The same way Christ gave us healing to begin with.

Fear doesn’t revoke authority.
Failure doesn’t cancel Christ’s sacrifice.
And hesitation doesn’t disqualify sons.

Healing was never meant to be an obligation I carried.

It was always meant to be something I gave from the overflow of Christ in me.

What I should have prayed then

I’ll leave you today with a prayer I wish I had known then.

Until next time,
Addison