Weekly Word | June 3, 2026
Diminished Granules 

Home inspectors have a remarkable gift.

Over the weekend, I met with one at a house Amy and I recently made an offer on.

They can look at a perfectly nice house and immediately begin noticing things the rest of us would never see.

"See that?"

No.

"What about that?"

Also no.

Apparently there are entire worlds of concern hidden in gutters, attics, shingles, and crawl spaces.

A couple of things stood out as we reviewed the report.

First, the good news.

The inspector assured me no major systems were out of whack. Not exactly how he put it, but close enough.

Then came the report itself.

Page after page of observations and notes. And one word kept appearing over and over again: 

Deficiency.

Here.

There.

In places I never would have noticed if someone hadn't pointed them out.

Honestly, after a while it was all I could see. It sounded serious. Like flashing lights. Like something was terribly wrong.

What surprised me most was this same inspector had also told me how well the home had been maintained.

At first, those two statements didn't seem to fit together.

So many deficiencies? In a well-maintained home?

Some were minor.

Weather stripping that had seen better days.

A bit of caulking that needed attention.

A section of roof with diminished granules—something I had never once worried about in my entire life until that moment.

Nothing dramatic.

But there was that word:

Deficiency.

Deficiency.

Deficiency.

And yet... the inspector's overall assessment hadn't changed. This was still a good house. 

The deficiencies were real. But they weren't the whole story. And standing there with that report in my hands, I wondered if the same might be true of us.

Most of us have our own internal inspection report. We may not know where all the deficiencies are, but we have a pretty good idea where to work on a few things. 

The habit we'd like to change.

The thing we wish we hadn’t said.  

The old wound that still aches when someone brushes against it.

The fears, regrets, insecurities, and rough edges that seem to show up whenever we look closely enough.

Maybe that's why I've always loved Psalm 139.

It begins: "Lord, you have examined me and known me."

And it ends: "Examine me, God! Look at my heart."

I've often wondered how the psalmist could pray that so openly.

I don’t know about you, but I'm not always eager for inspection. I usually prefer a little distance. A little ambiguity. A little "let's not look too closely at that."

And yet the psalmist seems unafraid.

Perhaps because he already knows something important: the One doing the examining is also the One doing the loving.

Before the psalm ever asks God to inspect, it speaks of a God who surrounds us, guides us, stays with us, and holds us close.

Put another way, the inspection happens inside the embrace.

We spend so much energy trying to manage our spiritual report. Highlighting our strengths. Hiding our weaknesses. Hoping nobody notices the places that need attention.

Yet the deepest peace may come from realizing we are already fully known—and still held.

The older I get, the more I think spiritual growth is learning to look honestly at ourselves.

Not with shame. 

Not with fear. 

But with curiosity, courage, and kindness.

And that’s no small thing. 

Can I tell the truth without turning against myself? 

I don't know a single person who can boast of a life without diminished granules.

A little wear here.

A little weathering there.

Life leaves a mark. 

I’ve got a few of my own. 

But a few deficiencies don't mean the foundation is unsound. Sometimes they simply mean you’re still a work in progress.

After all, even a well-loved house has a punch list.

So does a well-lived life.
 

Much love,

Pastor Gregg