It started as a password. It became a prayer.

It began as a small act of defiance against my own cynicism during a particularly difficult summer. I changed our family computer password to “GodIsGood”—just three words I needed to type (and believe) a dozen times a day. Some mornings, those keystrokes felt like the only prayer I could manage—a staccato heartbeat against the static of doubt.

Then one day, I walked past my daughter’s room and saw it: the same three words scribbled on a yellow sticky note, stuck to her door where she’d see it every morning. No conversation. No announcement. Just her quiet way of carrying the truth with her.

That’s when I realized: the holiest things often grow in the most ordinary places.

Now it’s our family’s unspoken liturgy. Even the kids who’ve moved out still know the password. If someone forgets, a chorus of “God is good!” rings through the kitchen. On my grumpiest days, it pulls me back to joy.

And that sticky note? It’s still there, ink slightly faded, taped to her door like a gentle banner of hope.

The world gives us enough lies—why not let your keyboard preach truth?