There’s a strange, beautiful comfort in know- ing the Apostle Paul—the fiery, brilliant man who helped shape the early Church—once admitted: "For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing." (Romans 7:19) He wasn't pretending. He wasn't posturing for sainthood. He was pulling back the curtain on what it really means to live a life of faith: Wrestling with yourself. Falling short. And somehow getting up again anyway. There are days when I lose to myself, too. When anger wins. When despair whispers louder than hope. When fear makes choices I swore I'd never make. And yet— The sunrise still comes. The mercy still waits. The next breath still offers the chance to fight again. Maybe that's why I recognize myself in Paul. Not because I've lived a life worthy of epis- tles and missions and altars—but because I know the long, grueling battlefield inside a single human heart. I laugh with Paul because I understand the absurd, painful, beautiful truth: Victory doesn't always look like conquering. Sometimes it just looks like surviving. Sometimes it just looks like refusing to give up, even when everything inside you screams to quit. Maybe that's what faith really is: Not never falling. But falling, falling again, and choosing to believe— against every shadow and silence—that God is still reaching for you. And that the struggle itself means you're still alive. Still fighting. Still His.