I Don’t Believe You

I was quite surprised (pleasantly) by the response I received regarding my letter to Tim Tebow

(read Dear Tim Tebow by following this link:

https://karagreywilson.wordpress.com/2014/06/24/dear-tim-tebow/ ).

Most who read the letter were supportive of my choice to share it. But there were a few readers who found my letter to be negative and…well…wrong.

I don’t want to dwell on Tim Tebow throughout this post, and I’m not going to. But I do feel like I somehow need to respond to the responses I received as a whole. All were relevant and contained valid points that deserve more of a reply than I gave in my comments.

I have decided, however, to take an indirect approach in answering those who disagreed with my letter. I pray anyone and everyone who reads this post understands how it relates to my letter to Tim Tebow.


There’s a Garth Brooks song out there that goes like this:

“One of God’s greatest gifts are unanswered prayers.”

As romantic as this insightful phrase is, I feel like it is misrepresentative of how God really works.

Because God ALWAYS answers. Whether we hear Him or not.

“I don’t believe you.”

My heart crumbled.

What did that even mean?

How could he not believe me? ME?!

I traveled thousands of miles at the expense of a man I’d just met. I picked out the perfect song. I practiced for weeks. I prayed. I wore a great outfit. I totally nailed the audition!

“There is a house in New Orleans
They call The Rising Sun…”

I just knew it was meant to be. Two rounds of judges had already passed me on without criticism or advice. The way they looked at me… it was surreal.

I had no reason to doubt my chances of advancing further. I had impressed them. I was one of only 80 performers (out of 10,000) they felt had what it took to make it. They said I had that “IT” factor.

They all loved me.

But he didn’t believe me?

Why not?

“And it’s been the ruins of many’a poor soul

And God, I know I’m one…”

All my life, people tried to get me to pursue a career in the entertainment world.

“Take her to Nashville,” they’d say to my Mom.

“Get her an agent,” they’d say to my Dad.

And when American Idol became the new and improved Star Search

“Kara! You should try out for American Idol!”

Though everyone I knew and loved seemed to think I was wasting my talents by not selling my soul to the limelight gods, I disagreed.

Honestly, I didn’t even really like to sing that much. From age 6 to age 12, I sang at country jamborees in and around Kentucky. Old people adored me, which was sorta precious, but I wasn’t all about singing Tanya Tucker songs during the most exciting years of my life. So I retired.

And don’t even think for a second that I was gonna sing in church.

That ended around age 10. When I actually began to feel His spirit. It felt way too scary and intense. I couldn’t even think about singing in church without a massive worry wart forming in my innards – one that caused perspiration of all forms to surface on my skin, stain my clothes, and trickle down my face. I wasn’t crazy about singing, and I sure wasn’t crazy about singing for Jesus.

My family had a hard time coming to terms with my refusal to sing in church, as it had been prophesied multiple times that my destiny was to minister to the world through song.

“People will experience unique healings….and cancer will melt when you sing under the anointing of Jesus,” one prophet even said. And this was something my family reminded me of often.

But I knew they’d shut up about it eventually. They’d have to. Because I was NEVER going to sing in church.

After all. It wasn’t like I was out of church singing in some obnoxious rock band, right?


One day (possibly a Tuesday) I was randomly invited to be the lead singer of a band.

A rock band.

I was like, “Rock? ME?! Really? I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a rock singer. Heck, I don’t even have a tattoo!”

But out of curiosity, I honored the invite to be in a rock band.

And THAT is when I fell in love with singing.

Well…maybe not exactly with “singing.”

With screaming at the top of my lungs. With feeling the electric guitar pierce every nerve in my body. With becoming lost in a sensation I was convinced could only be experienced in the euphoria known as classic rock.



“I know what type of singer you are… and I don’t believe you.”

Sometimes, you meet people, and that’s just it. Nothing divine seems to come from it. They go on their merry way, and so do you.

But sometimes, you meet someone special. Someone who changes your life forever.

Gordon Johnson was one of those special people for me.

I’d never met this man before in my life. Yet, he had the faith in me – after hearing me sing only one time – to say:

“I will pay for you to go to Houston and try out for American Idol.”

I was floored.


Sure, I knew I could carry a tune. And sure, he wasn’t the first to tell me I needed to try out for AI. But when he made me that offer, I was speechless; it was the first time in my life that I actually felt respected as a singer. A vocalist.

This man had been playing guitar his whole life. He was incredibly talented and experienced in the music world. He had heard countless singers in his career as a musician, yet somehow, I impressed him.

I wasn’t some distant cousin of his whom he felt he had to pacify, some boss’s kid, or the relative of anyone with clout. I was nothing to him. Just some blonde singing Janis Joplin songs in a smoky basement.

But this man, Gordon Johnson, genuinely thought I “rocked.”


“I rock?!”

“I could sing something else? Maybe a more upbeat song? A country song?”

I wasn’t about to go home without at least somewhat of a fight. Maybe the gray-haired man would admire my gumption.

“No. I do believe I’ve heard enough.”

A British accent had never sounded so hateful to my ears. Simon Cowell had nothing on this piece of work.

“I’m afraid I know what type of singer you are…. and I don’t believe you.”

The trip back to the airport was rough. I’d never quite felt so disappointed in my life. So unworthy and fooled. My fear of failure and rejection had suffered a harsh blow, and I wasn’t looking forward to the shameful task of telling Gordy (my nickname for him) he’d basically wasted his money.

We (Mom and I) took a shuttle bus from the car rental place to the airport. When we stepped on the shuttle, gospel music filled our ears.

How strange.

“Welcome, ladies!” A chipper man saluted us as we boarded the shuttle. He was a black fella. Full of life and cheer.

We were, to my satisfaction, the only three on his bus.

I looked at his nametag. Before I could read what it said, he introduced himself:

“My name is Michael.”

Michael sang and told jokes and guffawed the whole way to the airport. Normally, I would’ve been quick to cut up with the humorous man behind the wheel. But, for obvious reasons, I wasn’t in the mood that day.

I thought I was doing a pretty good job at pretending I wasn’t heartbroken, but evidently my state of sadness was no secret. Especially not to Michael.

“Young lady. Would you mind if I prayed for you?”

I looked around, as if there was another young lady on the bus.

There wasn’t.

Are you even allowed to say “no” when someone asks you that?

Reluctantly, I nodded and listened as Michael ministered to my spirit.

With great conviction, he spoke numerous blessings over me in the name of Jesus – many that I can’t recall today. But I do remember him praying for me to be “well,” and for God’s perfect will to be my one true desire.

A stranger had never prayed over me before, so I wasn’t exactly sure of how to respond after his prayer came to a close.

“In Jesus name…”

I’d say the tears streaming down my cheeks were response enough…

When we arrived at the airport, Mom and I thanked Michael for his kindness and prayer.

“Southwest is that way, ladies,” Michael winked and pointed in front of him as Mom and I exited the shuttle.

As uncommon as our ride to the airport had been, the most curious and unexplainable part of the whole “Michael, the Jolly, Jesus-Loving Bus Driver” story was this:

Neither of us had told him which airline we were boarding.

I hadn’t thought about my trip to Houston in years. My personal American Idol experience. I hadn’t thought about the words the gray-haired, Brittish man said to me since he said them. It was a tale of failure that I’d tried to block out of my mind. So I hadn’t thought about any of it at all.

Until this past week.

“I know what type of singer you are… and I don’t believe you.”

Can you say cold chills?

How did I not get it then? It’s so obvious!

God was speaking to me through an American Idol producer three years ago, and I JUST NOW realized it?!

Those prophesies my family members held onto for so long weren’t nonsense. From day one, I was called sing for Him. And after years of running from my destiny, I have finally come back to Him.

Though God used my rock band experience to prepare me for the responsibilities I now have as a worship minister, I was never meant to be a rock singer forever. Or a country singer. Or a rapper (total stretch, but making a point here).

And THAT is why the judge knew what type of singer I was.”

THAT is why he “didn’t believe me.”

Three years ago, I was begging God for answers… only to find out (three years later) that God had given me an answer the day I asked for it.

Today, for the first time, I thank God for Michael, for I know he was an angel.

I thank God for that mean, old, British man who sent me home because he knew what type of singer I was.

And I thank God he didn’t believe me.

Dear Tim Tebow


On May 6th, I attended an event in Somerset, KY, at which Tim Tebow was the main attraction. It was a charitable function that benefitted Somerset Christian School, and my family sponsored a VIP table. It was a super sweet seat!

Before I got there, I was so excited to write about my experience, as I do about nearly every Christian event I go to. I just knew my readers would be so thrilled to read about what all Tim Tebow had to say and how wonderful he was.


After I left, I was conflicted. The message weighing on my heart was not one for my readers.

It was for Tim Tebow.

While wrestling with the decision of whether I should say/write what I was actually feeling, many thoughts and questions ran through my mind.

Who am I in this big world?

What right do I have to minister to THE Tim Tebow?


I don’t know him. We’ve never held a conversation.

He’ll never read it, anyway.

If he does read it, he’ll think I’m being a… not so nice girl.

Any of his fans that read it are going to hate me.

No. They won’t even care enough to hate me.

What does what I say matter to anyone?

What if everything I’m feeling is crazy?

Why in the world am I even considering writing this?

I’ve sat on this post for nearly two months thinking I would surely forget about it. Thinking my strange intuition to write Tim Tebow an “encouraging” letter would pass… kinda like gas.

But it hasn’t. And Esther 4:1 keeps ringing in my spirit…

So here it is.

Humbly, and a bit reluctantly, I have written…


Dear Tim Tebow,

The last place you wanted to be on May 6th was Somerset, KY.

The last hands you wanted to shake were those of adoring fans.

The last music you wanted to hear was that awkward violin music being played in the ballroom (I was with ya on this one. I mean, really? Were we at a funeral or a meet-n-greet?)

The last topic you wanted to speak about was “Finishing Strong.”

The last football you wanted to hold was a clean one with your autograph on it.

All this… you already knew. And after meeting you and seeing you speak, so did I.

So. My first question for you is this:

Why were you there?

Here’s my guess – you were there for the same reason I was there. For the same reason thousands of other people were in Somerset, KY on May 6th.

Because you’re Tim Tebow.

I didn’t attend that event expecting to witness anything more (in terms of spirituality) than a very good-looking, young, Christian athlete (former) reciting a rehearsed monologue – one delivered so many times that it was removed from spontaneity and passion by at least three years.

And since that’s exactly what I got out of the experience, I was neither disappointed nor impressed.

I think it’s ironic that you go above and beyond to catch the attention of the Bill Belichicks of the world. And your efforts are to no avail. Yet, you play it safe around the Christian crowd, careful not to make too big of a splash or branch out of your comfort zone, and they (we) praise your every move.

Can’t you see what’s happening? Can’t you feel the winds of transformation blowing you in another direction? Your fans aren’t in a stadium, anymore. A different audience needs you.

Don’t you think it’s time to let go of who you were and become who you ARE meant to be?

I do.

You were one of the best college quarterbacks in history. Really. You were. And you have a National Championship Title and a Heisman Trophy to prove it.

But what about now?

Now that you don’t have a jersey? Or a number?

Now that it’s not your job to be a locker room leader?

Now that you’re not a Gator? Or a Bronco? Or a Jet? Or a Patriot?

I know you have a slew of supportive sports fans that will disagree with me on what I’m about to say. But I’m going to say it anyway. Because it’s true.

Your days of being an evangelistic football player are OVER. And you, Tim Tebow, should come to terms with that.

At one time, you were called to be a Jesus-loving football star. One that young boys looked up to and aspired to be like. One that made a statement and stood for what was good and right. One that “Tebowed.” And you were AWESOME at it! The best!

But that time is gone. And if you don’t accept it, you’ll never be as impressive as you are supposed to be. For reasons far more meaningful than touchdowns and pretty passes.

If the world thought you were polarizing as a quarterback…

The world won’t know what to think about you once you start making the impact off the field that God created you to make. An impact like you’ve never even imagined.

The most impressive thing about your “appearance” on May 6th in Somerset, KY wasn’t witnessed… because you’ve yet to… forgive my “Frozen” reference… but LET IT GO.

And ya know what’s awesome?

Ya still helped raise hundreds of thousands of dollars in just ONE night.

That’s more than I can say I’ve ever done. And you do that, like, all the time.

Wow. What a blessing you are to this world. And you don’t even know what in the world you’re doing!

BTW – that wasn’t meant to be insulting. Far from it, actually.

Think about it this way.

Look at the difference you made in the world on May 6th – when you were in the last place in the world you wanted to be, doing the last thing in the world you wanted to be doing.

Just imagine the impact you’ll have on this world once you truly discover God’s perfect will for your life! Once you do what you’re supposed to do and stop worrying about being an NFL quarterback.

As negative as this letter probably sounds to you, I hope (if you ever read it) you realize that it is, instead, the greatest compliment I have yet to give, but look so forward to giving you one of these days.

“Before I formed thee in the belly (Timmy the Tumor) I knew thee; and before thou camest forth out of the womb I sanctified thee, and I ordained thee a prophet unto the nations.” (KJV Jeremiah 1:5)

The last place you wanted to be on May 6th was Somerset, KY.

But it was the first place I, along with thousands of others, wanted to be. All because of who you are, Tim Tebow. And who you’re going to become.

Who are you trying to impress?

And when are ya gonna do it?


Kara Grey

Mountain Climber

Preparation for this feat took place beyond the realm of my consciousness. Before my soul shed a tear in this wilderness.

I was born a mountain climber. Carved confidently. Molded by passion, strength, and endurance. My indestructible cables were handed down by champions, as were my harnesses and picks. I was presented with it all. All the tools were laid at my feet with great expectations, for those before me trudged many a mountain. Much like the monster that growls in my face this very day.

I look up into the frosted peaks, ridged with spiky stones and lifeless plants jutting out into blank breezes. Fog crushes all that is above as a black crow, cutting through the mist, cries for help – moaning peril‘s hymn. A sharp wind pierces my face and ears, which are still so vulnerable; I shutter discretely, contemplating destiny. My hands not yet callused. My feet not yet blistered. I graze my hand along the surface of this beast, and it groans. It grimaces, mocking my faith, as if my weakness was preconceived… and maybe it was.

They say that too many men do indeed push past the elements to some degree, yet claim triumphant victory somewhere in-between failure and success. These men consider almost an accomplishment. And I was told I would find those men contently dwelling in a sheltered cranny, temporarily untouched by the flames this feared dragon spouts, yet forever numb to Heaven‘s song which reigns mercifully atop this treacherous mountain. I must overlook their smiles, however, and ignore the false peace they wallow in. For one day, this mountain will crumble helplessly, and all of its tempting crevices shall be diminished – engulfed by the rocks and ice that these men once called their safe home. Yes. Many souls shall perish as debris.

I should be ready, as many times as I have knelt humbly at the foot of fate. Trembling in fear. Cursing the burdens weighing down my satchel that demand to be unleashed and dealt with. The adversary tugs my collar, smiting my potential, which has yet to bloom. I try to move, but my boots sink deeper into conviction. My limbs freeze to my sides, and I am as stone. Nothing but a statue for evil to claim, and celebrate, and mount high on a pedestal of mockery.

Today, I bow to defeat, and my journey has yet to begin.

I’m owned by the demon I have come here to slay; in spite of the pain that will surely be inflicted upon my flesh, I must tear away from the chains bounding me to Hell.

A sudden rumble quakes amidst my escape, and snow lightly drifts onto my tear-stricken cheeks to cool my emotions.

Was that a cry?
Did I witness a sob creeping from the heart of Satan’s greatest obstacle?
As I am resisting death, could this mountain be afraid of me?

The thinnest ray of sunlight, poking its glorious head through clouds hovering thick and dark, brightens the wall of my most feared endeavor. I can see Hope skipping around the extremities, waving me to higher grounds and melting the ice, which would cause me to slip. I can hear Faith singing praises off in the distance – breathing assurance on my wilted spirits.

I can be moved – inspired – and am.


I reach into my satchel and pull out my tools.

All 66 books of them.

Eagerly, I open the Holy Bible, knowing that everything I need to know about climbing this malicious mountain lies in the contents of its sacred pages.

The sun is once again hidden by toiling storms that wisp gradients of fear into my eyes, but I have the brightest light of all resting in my own two hands. Those who gave me the tools trusted I’d use them, fight with them, and never lose sight of them along my journey to become a true champion.

I was meant to persevere. I was created to excel. I was taught to ignore those blind men in the crannies.

I was, out of God’s undying mercy, born to be a mountain climber.

My PG 13 Post About Sex

The statement went something like this:

“One of the biggest problems on the rise in our nation today is this: sexually aggressive young women. It is so important that we (as parents) prepare our sons to deal with sexually aggressive young women appropriately.”

I heard a man (who shall remain nameless) discussing this issue on the radio the other day; I agreed with much of what he had to say.

Are young women becoming more and more sexually aggressive?

Should parents have open conversations with their sons about how to deal with sexually aggressive young women?

But, at the same time, I couldn’t help but think this man had an awful lot of nerve. Is he a part of the He-Man Women-Haters Club?

While listening to him warn listeners about the dangers of manipulative and seductive girls, I was like…

Does this man not know that (even despite the fact that girls have started pursuing men more than they did in the past) males are STILL more promiscuous than females???

We all know there has always been a double standard in the sex department. Generally speaking, a guy can go have sex with twenty-something women, and it’s no big deal. In fact, this “spread-your-seed” behavior is expected, and often times even encouraged with boys. But if a girl sleeps around, she’s a whore. Period.

Unfortunately, the double standard has been the barrier between women and the notion to be sexually aggressive – not necessarily Christian values. As a whole, women weren’t sexually passive out of respect for God; they were sexually passive because they didn’t want society to call them sluts.

When asked “Why do you think young girls have become so sexually aggressive?” the man responded with something like this:

“They are seeing those behaviors on TV and hearing about those behaviors in music.” So, in essence, he blamed it on the media.

He did have a point. The media does have a prominent influence on young people. But I was shocked that such an intelligent, open-minded man didn’t even consider the possibility that women may have gotten sick of being sexual victims. Of being taken advantage of sexually. He didn’t even entertain the thought of women being fed up with the sexual double standard in which men ruled mightily for centuries.

Truth: Girls are not partaking in any sexually aggressive behaviors today that guys didn’t partake in long before today. They do, however, develop the urge to get at it earlier (at a younger age than boys).

This was another “reason” the man provided for the rise of female sexual aggression. Girls reach puberty quicker than boys. He said that, when looking at a group of 6th graders, the girls look more “mature” and behave more “maturely” than the boys. And, according to this man, our helpless little boys are easy targets for evil, 6th grade Jezebels (not his choice of words, but it is how I heard it).

The nerve!

Girls have ALWAYS matured faster than boys. It’s not a new phenomenon. Yet, until VERY recently, sexually aggressive young women haven’t caused too much of a ruckus…again, according to this man.

So why does he say maturation is a factor in this “issue?” All his point tells me is that, until now, girls have harnessed their sexual interests and desires and waited for boys to catch up and start doing what they are “supposed” to do – which is pursue girls.
To be so far behind maturity-wise, guys sure are (and always have been) ahead of the game in the sexual statistic department. Which, again, refutes his argument.

Recent Stats:

On average…

Guys lose their virginity at age 16.9
Girls lose their virginity at 17.4

Only 3% of the population WAITS until they are married to have sex.

Of that 3%…

40% are guys
60% are girls

Married men cheat more often than married women…

Pardon my graphic lingo on this one… but MANY more guys masturbate than gals.

The list goes on and on… but I will end on that not-so-PG note.

I just couldn’t help it. I felt slightly offended for female-kind (obviously) throughout the duration of this radio discussion. The whole “boys are sexually victimized by girls” thing makes me laugh quite sarcastically.

Let’s just ignore the “boys will be boys” centuries that have gone by, throughout which men (yes…even Christian men) abused and dominated women sexually without much chastising from ANYONE (except maybe the feminists, who – let’s just face it – aren’t typically Christ followers) and skip straight to blaming young women for doing so on a MUCH smaller scale now that a few of them have gotten the hankering to act on the hormones they are feeling BEFORE boys feel them.

I may sound like a she-woman man-hater, but I assure you that I am not. And, as I said in the very beginning, I agreed with much of what this man said.

Girls need to STOP being so aggressive in the dating game. And that goes for girls of ALL ages.

Boys of all ages need to know how to deal with aggressive girls. For starters, they shouldn’t find the aggression attractive (though we ALL know most of them do, and who can blame them? It takes the pressure of being a strong, confident man off them).

Dear Girls, Ladies and Women of all ages:

Get a grip!

For thousands of years (whether we have gotten the credit we deserve for it or not), we females have been the saints in the sex department. We have been harder to take to bed. Our belts have had fewer notches. We have been more faithful to our spouses. Guys may not have done a great job of showing it, but they have treasured our purity and innocence.

But now… men are calling us out on being sexual aggressors. And despite how much to blame they may be, WE are the only ones who can make the decision to eliminate the grounds on which men have to call us out. WE need to be the sex saints we were meant to be. That we were in the past. Despite any and all peer pressure and/or temptation that may cripple our ability to say “no.” WE must.

1. When guys say it’s HOT for a girl to hit on them, don’t listen. It’s not.

2. When guys tell you dirty, sexual jokes, turn up your nose… & don’t laugh. They aren’t funny.

3. When guys try to touch you in places you shouldn’t be touched by anyone other than your husband, it’s more than okay to say, “Excuse me? That’s not yours.”

4. When guys talk about how sexy the act of two girls kissing is, pray for them. Don’t you dare go kiss a girl out of desperation to earn a guy’s attention.

5. When a guy says, “It’s JUST sex,” politely leave. Because he has a lot of growing in Christ to do before he can/will respect you on that level.

6. When guys fawn over breasts and booties, don’t take that as the cue to purchase a more revealing wardrobe.

And for the love of God, yourself and the world, don’t do/say ANYTHING I just mentioned that a guy could possibly do/say to you.

Because “girls will be girls” is not a saying we want going around about us.

Men should not have the opportunity to say the things that man said about girls on that radio show. As you can see, I took up for “us” as much as I could… but when it comes down to it, WE have allowed it.

Don’t be so concerned about the sexual “double standard.” After all, God doesn’t care about it. On judgment day, He is going to judge us ALL, and men will not be able to say… “But Jesus…ya see…it was okay for guys to…so that’s why I did…” Premarital sex is premarital sex – no matter what gender is the aggressor. No matter who does it.

Abstain. Not because you don’t want to be called a slut. But because you love Jesus; therefore, you will keep His commandments.

In a world full of sexual craziness and confusion, let’s be virtuous girls, ladies and women. Let’s make that man on that radio station take back everything he said about sexually aggressive young women! About how it’s such a HUGE, scary issue! About how the poor, young boys are being taking advantage of. Let’s put all of the sexual blame back in the hands of men… where it belongs.

I love each and every one of you!

Kara Grey <3

P.S. To any of my male followers:

I love you, too! And I can’t wait for you to teach young boys how to be strong, Christian men! The world needs them! I promise I will be just as hard on the young girls ;) So don’t cut them any slack! And, please, don’t give those boys the impression that MEN can ever be victimized by a woman. Because real MEN can’t. And for that, I’m so thankful.


There’s No Such Thing as “THE ONE”



The concept of “the one” has been taken the wrong way for too long, and I’m sick of it! Little girls are trained to start fantasizing about “the one” at a very young age. He’s tall, dark, handsome, funny, rich, talented, romantic, and he drives a red Ferrari.

What’s wrong with that, you ask? Sounds pretty good to me.

Here’s the problem:

Karen’s “the one” is the same as Gretchen’s “the one” is the same as Cady’s “the one” is the same as Regina’s “the one.” (Totally threw a “Mean Girls” reference in there). And as soon as the other three realize they’ll never actually end up with “the one,” they go into poor poor pitiful settle mode and decide there was never such a thing as “the one” to begin with. The failed attempt to put a ring on the finger of Mr. or Mrs. Unrealistic and Generic Expectations births pessimism and bitterness. The faith a person once invested in a vain, egocentric fantasy fades into a shadow of doubt too dark to see past.

And they’ll say…

“There’s no such thing as THE ONE.”

And God’s just up there like…

“It’s not called my PERFECT will for no reason. THE ONE was out there all along. You just didn’t want him.”

Saying there’s no such thing as “the one” is like saying there’s no such thing as “the plan.” And we ALL know that God has a special plan for each of our lives.

For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.” (Jeremiah 29:11)



Here’s the deal. In order to fulfill the perfect plan, we must walk in His perfect will.

And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.” (Romans 12:2)


Perfect (according to Dictionary.com) – exactly fitting the need in a certain situation or for a certain purpose.

Let’s rationalize just a moment. Would you not say that it would be logical to think that – within the perfect will of God – there is a man out there for whom God knows you would be the most beneficial and compatible wife? Call me an overly-optimistic, single chick, but I have a feeling that a life partner would be a pretty important part of God’s perfect will.

I would say maybe I’m wrong, but I’m not.

“God has a calling for you, and you can’t improve it. All you can do is mess it up.”
– John Bevere

Here’s what I DON’T like about NOT believing “the one” is out there:

So-So Decisions

It’s easy to say there’s no “right guy” if you don’t believe there’s a “right choice.” A “right decision.”

But Kara – I believe God has given us all a bunch of doors to walk through, and as long as we believe in Him, all is fine and dandy.

If only it were always that simple.

Ok, Noah. Here are your options: you can build an ark, or erect a very high tree house, or learn to swim really really well. But no matter what you decide to do, Imma be right beside you making sure you’re all happy and smiley. – said God NEVER

God wants us to have the spiritual confidence to make daily (hourly… minutely) decisions that ensure our operation in His perfect will. We receive this confidence by first fearing God. The fear of God then brings forth wisdom (Proverbs 9:10) – which we can cultivate by reading His Word. And though God is always in control of the overall plan, we also have to make the conscious, intentional decision to do what it takes to walk in His will. As stated in Romans 12:2, we must turn away from the world and have set our hearts on The Kingdom. Otherwise, we will NOT be in God’s perfect will, and we will NOT make the perfect choices that lead to the perfect man God intends for us to be with.

Choices should be made as if they are the difference between being in or out of God’s perfect will, because they ARE!

When we say there’s no such thing as “the one,” we are (unintentionally) downplaying the importance of our decisions. We think, “I could pick this one and get by.” Or “I could get with that one and live happily.”

And this is where our thinking is warped!

God’s not calling us to get by. He’s not calling us to decide with whom we believe we could live happily. And He’s not calling us to seek out the walking checklist of a man that the media has shoved in our faces for years and years. He has called each of us to do a very specialized task that will assist in the building of His Kingdom. One appropriate for the gifts He has given us as individuals.

And you better believe He expects us to pray for and diligently prepare ourselves for “the one” who will fit as perfectly as possible into that plan. Because when a man and a woman get married, they become one. His plan becomes yours, and vice versa.

Do not “settle down” with a man whose gifts and callings do not supplement and compliment your gifts and callings just because you’re 25, single and dying to pop out babies! Cough cough…

But what about those who are already married?

Whether you married “the one” or “one of the ones” that would “work,” you’re married, and your spouse is “the one.” Period. Your life isn’t ruined if you didn’t end up with “the one.” Instead (if your heart truly is set on Him) God will create a new perfect will experience from your not-so-perfect decision to marry outside of His perfect will. How do I know? Because all things work toward the good for those who love the Lord (Romans 8:28).

So the question “What if I married someone else’s ‘the one?’” or “What if someone else married mine?” is completely irrelevant because God won’t allow you to lose out on your blessing(s) just because another human made a mistake. He’s much MUCH bigger than that. As long as you’re doing what it takes to walk in His perfect will, He will honor your faithfulness with the blessings that He promised would be found in His perfect will. Period.

Hopeless romantics believe in “the one” because they want to daydream about landing a man that will measure up to the elaborate, fictional suitors in movies and books. And this is why people often snicker when the concept of “the one” is brought up.

I hate to break it to ya, girls. But if your idea of “the one” is Prince Charming riding in on a white horse to save you from eternal loneliness and celibacy when you just so happen to have cooperative hair, a solid tan and polished nails, then you’re out of luck. Unless you live in La La land, you’ll never find “the one.”

But it’s not because he’s not out there. It’s because you don’t truly understand what “the one” means. We must stop basing our desires on what we see; on what others tell us we should want; on our sporadic, hormone-induced, googley-eyed emotions. Because “the one” is so much better than any hunk we could dream up in our carnal mind.

His name isn’t Prince Charming either, BTW. His name is Perfect Will.

Perfect Will is not perfect, but you will find him (he will find you) in the perfect will of God, and he is perfect for you and you alone.

I know there are many people out there who say, “There’s no such thing as the one.” And everyone is entitled to believe whatever they want. After all… the Bible does not say “Thou shalt believe in “the one.”

But I can’t even fathom NOT believing in “the one.” Heck! From now on, take “the one” out and insert “Perfect Will.” And how could we ever deny that Perfect Will exists?

We can’t!

So, to those of you who were looking for a reason to continue believing in “the one” in the face of a world that doesn’t want you to believe in “the one” because it wants you to doubt the existence of God’s perfect will in the 21st century… Here’s your rebuttal!

You’re welcome ;)

Seek God’s perfect will, and He will send you Perfect Will

Be sure to check out my friend Dionna’s blog!


Timothy the Frog



I slammed on my brakes and screeched to a stop just in time to keep from running him over. With heaving breaths of relief, I watched as he safely made his way across the rain-soaked road.

That was a close one, I thought, thankful that I had just gotten new brakes put on my car.

I wondered where he was going. Where he lived. If he had a name. And I hoped he somehow knew how lucky he was to have met me on the road instead of someone else; I could think of very few people who would’ve risked sliding off the road into a ditch to spare his life.

Uncle Bill would’ve.

A bittersweet smile formed on my face as a clap of thunder shook my car and lightning flashed furiously from one dark cloud to another. There was once a time when a storm as violent s this would’ve sent my bare feet running across the field to Uncle Bill’s just as fast as they could run.

To take my mind off the howling winds, Uncle Bill would always ask me what I thought was a ridiculous, yet funny question. He’d peer sternly at me through his glasses – one bushy eyebrow raised in suspicion. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought he was serious:

“You been kissin’ on any frogs?”

Uncle Bill wasn’t really my uncle. In fact, we weren’t even kin to each other by blood or marriage. He was merely a sweet old man who lived in a basement house across the street from us when I was a young girl. We became quick friends once I learned he’d give me a Popsicle each time I paid him a visit.

“You can take ya two or three,” he said to me one day, “if you’ll be my walking buddy.”

In my eyes, our walks were exciting adventures. Strange sights, smells and sounds greeted us with each new step. We survived on peppermints and the nectar of honeysuckles, carried cattails as weapons, and avoided patches of the path that weren’t protected by the shade of the tree line.

One afternoon, as we were passing by the moat that separated us from an abandoned tool shed, I caught a glimpse of something I’d never seen before in person. Nestled in a wet wad of weeds was a large, brown, slime-covered creature with big yellow eyes and knotty skin. He was the definition of hideous, and he was staring right at me.

I froze, held my breath so not to make a sound, and tugged Uncle Bill’s shirtsleeve. When he realized what had caused me to stop, he chuckled. And then, as if the creature were a dear, old friend, he introduced us to one another:

“Timothy, meet Kara. Kara, meet Timothy.”

Uncle Bill went on to tell me that all men were frogs until their soul mate came along and kissed them.

“Even you, Uncle Bill?”

“Especially me, buddy.”

He told me that not just any ole kiss could turn a frog into a man. It had to be a kiss from a very special woman – one God created specially for that frog.

“So…Timothy… Why is he here? In the middle of nowhere?” I asked, confused. “Doesn’t he know no girl’s gunna find him out here?”

“Ah, but ya see, Kara Grey…you’re wrong,” Uncle Bill replied. And with a sly wink that only a wise old man could give, he said, “You did.”

Uncle Bill told me, “When the time is right, your paths will cross once again.”

And it is going to be really hard to kiss him if he’s splattered across that path…

So I stopped. Just in case it was Timothy.

I Stayed with My Mom in the Fantasy Suite



Our mothers go through a lot with us. Take the day you were born, for instance. Painful screams; strange men sticking their hands in strange places; gushing liquids; blood, sweat and tears. It is nearly impossible to think of a scenario that a mother and daughter might experience together that would be more shameful than the birthing experience.

Nearly impossible…

Spring Break – 2008. My mother and I shared a sickeningly awkward moment in a hotel room that deserves to be told for the sake of a good laugh. So… here it goes!

Our flight to Philly was delayed because of a seasonably rare ice storm that had swept through Nashville. By the time we got to our hotel, the hotel people had given our room away to someone else.

“Unfortunately, we have no more vacant rooms,” said the skinny gentleman working the front desk at the Radisson in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania. “Unless… you don’t mind staying in one of our suites. I can give it to you for the same price as the room you had reserved if you want it. It’s the only one we have left.”

It was a no-brainer. A suite for the same price as a regular room? The blessings had already begun to come our way!

The skinny, front desk man noticed the beaming smiles of pleasant surprise on our faces, then he added quietly, “The room available is one of our themed fantasy suites…”

A fantasy suite? Who’d ever heard of such?

Not us, that’s for sure. So, we had no idea what to expect. But, it was past midnight and we were exhausted. If we wanted any rest at all, we knew we had to take the offer on the fantasy suite.

So we did.

How bad could it be?

The front desk man wasn’t kidding when he said the rooms were themed. The door of each fantasy suite on the fantasy floor (the top floor of the 20-something story hotel) was elaborately decorated to allude to the concept a guest would be immersed by inside.

The first room I saw was a Titanic-themed room with a life-preserver hanging on the front of the metallic door that looked just like one you’d see on a ship. Such as the Titanic.




“The Cave,” “King of Prussia,” “Caesar’s Palace,” “Pharaoh’s Tomb.” All of these were themes of rooms found on the fantasy floor. And I couldn’t help but wonder what our fantasy suite would be like.

When we arrived at our room, I was puzzled by what was hanging on our door. It looked nothing like the other doors. It was quite simple. No props. No figurines. Just a painted picture of an attractive lady in a hat. But the most curious part about the whole set-up was the title of the room, as it did not seem to match the decoration on the door.


The theme of our fantasy suite (that my mother and I would be staying in together) was this:

“Leather and Lace.”

By the looks of the picture, we figured the inside of our room was going to be a burlesque-style get-up with lamps made from mannequins and feathers dangling from the curtains.

But we were wrong. Very wrong.

When we opened the door, our jaws dropped in unison at the sight. Mirrors lined the walls and the ceiling. A large, red hot tub was in the middle of our floor. Random tree branches seemed to grow along the top of the hallway leading into the bedroom. And then…we noticed the most disturbing decoration of all.

“Mom, are those what I think they are?”

“Yes, Kara,” my Mom half laughed, half gagged, half cried, “those are shackles.”

On each side of the queen-sized, red bed were prison bars, complete with chains and leather-lined shackles. And, at age 19, I was going to have to sleep between them with my mother.




If this does not take the “Most Awkward Moment with Mom Award,” I don’t know what does! To this day, nothing has even come close to making me feel more uncomfortable around my mother than that night.

If you’re ever in Philadelphia, and you’re into “that sort of thing,” check out the Radisson in Valley Forge, and ask to stay in one of their fantasy suites. You may or may not regret it!

Happy Mother’s Day! May you never experience a moment as awkward as this with your Mom!