ANCHOR

“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.”

Hebrews 6:19

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I was driving to work this morning, inching along in bumper-to-bumper traffic, when a BMW—clearly late for something important like getting to the same red light as the rest of us—cut in front of me. There was barely room. Honestly, it was impressive. Annoying, but impressive.

And then I saw it.

On the back of the car was a bumper sticker. A cutout of an anchor and one word:

Anchor.

That’s it. No Bible verse. No church logo. No “stay salty” energy. ANCHOR.

I stared at it longer than I care to admit. Twenty-five seconds, maybe more. Long enough for that word to stop being a word and start feeling like a question.

Anchor?

As traffic finally eased up and I pulled away, I started praying. Not the polished kind. Just the quiet, half-formed kind you pray while gripping a steering wheel. And over and over again, that word kept surfacing.

Anchor. Anchor. Anchor.

What does that even mean, Lord?

And then it landed.

There are two kinds of anchors.

One kind saves you.

It steadies you. It keeps you grounded when the water gets rough and the current starts lying to you about where you’re headed. That anchor is faith. Trust. Jesus Himself—holding you fast when everything else feels like it’s shifting under your feet.

And then there’s the other kind.

The one that keeps you stuck.

The anchor that was never meant to stay down forever. The one that turns a perfectly good boat into a floating waiting room. The kind that keeps you tied to old seasons, old fears, old versions of yourself God already redeemed.

That anchor looks like:

• Fear dressed up as “wisdom.”

• Pride disguised as self-protection.

• Comfort pretending to be contentment.

• Laziness wearing the mask of “rest."

• Old wounds you keep calling discernment.

  
  

And suddenly I realized what the Lord wanted me to understand, in that moment, in my car on the 121N—I’ve dropped way too many of those anchors.

I’ve let past circumstances tell me when I’m allowed to move forward. I’ve let fear convince me it’s safer to stay still. And like a boat built to move, I’ve sat there… season after season… going nowhere.

Not because God wasn’t calling me forward.

But because I never went back to the crank and lifted the anchor.

Here’s the thing about boats: anchors are useful—but only when they’re used correctly. You don’t sail with them dragging behind you. You don’t explore while you’re still tethered to the bottom. At some point, if you want to go anywhere, you have to pull it up.

I don’t want to be anchored to what keeps me stuck.

I want to be anchored in Jesus.

In His plan.

In His grace.

In His timing

.In His truth.

Anchored so deeply in Him that I’m free to move. Free to trust. Free to obey. Free to become who He’s already called me to be.

I want to think like Him. Speak like Him. Act like Him. I want to be His hands and feet—actually moving, not just nodding along from the sidelines.

And here’s what I know now-

That moment wasn’t random. That word wasn’t a coincidence. That anchor wasn’t just a sticker on a bumper in traffic.

It was a holy interruption. Jesus was getting my attention in the middle of an ordinary morning because He already had the answer I hadn’t even fully asked yet

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He wasn’t pointing me to the anchor—I was already staring at.

He was asking me which one I was tied to.

Jesus doesn’t compete with noise. He speaks through it. He meets us in routines, in traffic, in moments we’d usually rush past—if we’re willing to pay attention.

And this morning, He reminded me of this:

When your life is anchored in Him, you’re not stuck—you’re secure. Steady enough to move. Free enough to obey. Held close enough to follow without fear.

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My Prayer:

Lord, show me the anchors I’ve allowed to keep me stuck.

The ones I’ve mistaken for safety but have quietly become chains.

Give me the courage to lift what You never meant for me to carry forever.

Anchor my soul in You alone—so I can move when You say move, trust when You say trust, and follow You without hesitation.

I don’t want to sit still when You’ve called me forward.

Teach me how to stay grounded in You while living boldly for You.

Amen