The doctor walked in, looked over to my son, and said the words I’d been holding my breath to hear: “His scan looks good. He looks good.” And just like that, we could exhale for another year.

It sounds so simple, but that moment carried the weight of two decades. The scan itself is always emotional, scary, exhausting, and nerve-wracking. But this visit brought more than just the usual nerves. It was my son’s last appointment at the Children’s hospital. He’s twenty-one now, and we are moving into a new chapter with an adult hospital. Saying goodbye to the doctors and nurses who have walked with us through so much felt like closing a book I wasn’t ready to put back on the shelf.

When I shook the hand of the surgeon one last time, the one who, with the precision of a millimeter, saved my son’s sight, I was overcome again. If his scalpel had slipped just slightly left or right, my son would never have driven a car, never have seen the world as he does now. Yet here we are, blessed with the miracle of sight, and with a boy who has grown into a man navigating the city with independence and freedom.

But the room was also complicated. My ex-husband was there. That added its own quiet storm. Sitting together felt like slipping into an old photograph, familiar but faded, not whole anymore. It was awkward, polite, strangely hollow. There was no sign from him of nostalgia for the past, no flicker of hope for change. Just formality, while I found myself caught in the tug of memory and what-ifs. It’s the kind of space where there’s no winning.  Had he been unkind, it would have hurt; had he been too kind, it would have hurt in a different way.

By the end, all three of us—my daughter, my son, and I—were wrung out. We told my ex-husband goodbye, drove home and collapsed into my tiny apartment, carrying the fatigue of too many emotions layered on top of one another.

Yet in the quiet after the storm, there was gratitude. Gratitude that rose above the awkwardness, above the fear, above the exhaustion. Gratitude for a Savior who carried us through yet another year of good results. Gratitude that my son’s life is still unfolding in front of me.

I can live without a lot of things in this world. But not him. Losing him would undo me. So tonight, my prayer is simple: Thank You, Lord. Thank You so much for one more year.

Looking forward to this week feels lighter. We walked out of the hospital with good news, and now we get to turn our eyes toward what’s ahead. For months, we’ve been meticulously planning an international trip, something I’ll share more details about in an upcoming post. We’ve watched countless YouTube videos, ordered translation earphones, and started packing. Sometimes, the dreaming and the planning is almost as fun as the trip itself. The anticipation builds its own kind of joy, a reminder that hope is alive and waiting.

And now, the day is coming. I am so, so thankful that we can step onto this journey without carrying the crushing weight of a bad diagnosis. Instead, we carry gratitude, expectation, and excitement.

I’m looking forward to time with my kids, just us, away from the noise of everyday life. I’m looking forward to time away from work, to the chance to breathe in a new rhythm. To be somewhere different. To explore something new. To meet people whose stories are different from ours. To learn a new culture. To immerse myself in a world that isn’t mine but will leave its mark on me.

Travel has a way of keeping us alive. It shakes us out of our routines, stretches our minds, and reminds us how big and yet how small this world really is.

We’ve made it through another year.  The storms of this week have calmed. And now, we get to live.

Be Still

The disciples knew storms, too, and perhaps all too well.  The Bible tells of a particular story in Mark where the disciples learned the true power of their Savior.  Theirs was not just a storm of emotion, it was a storm of wind and water, sudden and fierce.

Earlier that day, Jesus had been teaching crowds along the shore of the Sea of Galilee. The press of people was so great that He had climbed into a boat and taught from there, His voice carrying over the waves. As evening fell, He turned to His disciples and said simply: “Let us go over to the other side.” They didn’t know what awaited them, but they obeyed. They pushed away from the shore, leaving the crowd behind, trusting His word that they were going across.

At first, the night was calm. The sea stretched wide and dark under the moonlight, the gentle rocking of the boat almost lulling. Some of the disciples, seasoned fishermen, handled the sails with practiced ease. Others leaned back, tired from the long day.

Then it came. The wind rose without warning. Gusts whipped across the water, churning up waves that crashed against the wooden frame. The boat lurched violently. Rain pelted down in sheets. The once-placid sea became a monster, roaring and tossing them like a toy. Water rushed in over the sides, cold and heavy, pooling at their feet.

Fear surged through them. These were men who had spent their lives on this lake, men who had weathered storms before, but this one was different. This one was deadly. The sea was winning.

And through it all, in the stern of the boat, was Jesus. Asleep. His head on a cushion. His body at rest. The thunder cracked, the waves slammed, and still He slept.

It wasn’t that He didn’t care. It was that He already knew what they did not, that the storm would not have the final say. This night was not meant to destroy them, but to reveal Him. To show His power, and to stretch their faith.

Their voices rose, panicked, desperate. “Teacher! Don’t you care if we drown?” In that cry, their weakness was revealed, but so was their faith. Sometimes, when our hearts are as restless as the troubled sea, when our passions are unruly and our fears loud, all we have left is prayer. And prayer, even when it feels weak, reaches the ear of God.

Jesus rose. And in a voice that carried authority the storm could not resist, He spoke: “Quiet! Be still!”

Immediately, the wind stopped. The waves smoothed. The sea became like glass, as though bowing in reverence to its Creator. The silence that followed was almost overwhelming, the kind of silence that presses in after chaos, when fear drains away and awe takes its place.

Then Jesus turned to His disciples. His words were gentle, yet piercing: “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?” He was showing them what we often forget, that the antidote to fear is faith. Deep, abiding faith does not cower before the storm.

But we are human, and in this world, faith and fear take their turns in us. One moment we believe, the next moment we tremble. Yet, even in our faltering, Jesus is patient. He calms storms we cannot control. He teaches us that while fear may roar, it will not win. Faith will have the final word.

The disciples sat in the hushed stillness, soaked and trembling, their eyes wide with wonder. “Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!”

They had set out across the water simply because He said, “Let us go.” They had not known what would come in between. But that night on the Sea of Galilee, they discovered that if Jesus says you’re going to the other side, no storm in the middle can stop you from getting there.

The Other Side

This week felt like our own storm. The waiting, the scan, the weight of emotions, the awkwardness of being together-but-not-together as a family.  All of it left us weary and worn. In the moment, it felt like the waves were winning. I prayed. I wrestled. I feared.

And yet, just like on the Sea of Galilee, Jesus was there. He was never absent. He allowed the storm so we could once again witness His power. Then, when the doctor walked in with good news, when I shook the hand of the surgeon who once saved my son’s sight, I could hear it in my spirit: “Peace, be still.”

That’s the way storms work. They reveal our weakness, but they also reveal our faith. The disciples’ faith felt small, but their prayers were strong enough to wake the One who calms the sea. And ours? Our faith may falter, but our prayers are heard.

And isn’t it true that we’re almost always in the middle of some storm? My journals are full of me begging God to help me through. I’ve written some version of those words more times than I can count: “Lord, don’t You care if I drown?” And time after time, He has answered. It’s not that He always took me out of the storm; I still had to walk through the rain, still had to feel the waves.  But over and over, He calmed the seas along the way. Sometimes the storms were small, sometimes they were overwhelming. But every time, when Jesus was in my boat, I made it to the other side.

Maybe you’re there now. Maybe your storm feels endless. Hear this: if Jesus is in your boat, you will not sink. You will get through. The storm will not have the final word. Faith will. Because the One who commands the winds and the waves has promised to see you safely across.

This week, our storm gave way to peace. We exhaled, exhausted but grateful. And now, we get to live in that stillness for a little while. We get to dream, to plan, to look ahead with hope instead of fear. We get to walk forward, trusting that the same God who calms the seas will carry us wherever He leads, all the way to the other side.

It’s been five years since his last relapse, but every time I step into the hospital room, it feels like no time has passed at all. The bright white lights hum overhead, antiseptic smells linger in the air, and memories flood back. I’m transported to those waiting room days when he was only a child, sitting for hours while surgeons worked. This is my son’s annual scan, a day circled on the calendar that steals my sleep for an entire week.

He, of course, is not worried at all. He shrugs it off, tells me I shouldn’t stress, and probably he’s right. But how do you not worry when you’ve watched your child endure the unthinkable? The first time he was only seven. The second time, at fifteen, was worse than the first.  The was surgery longer, the recovery harder, the pain deeper. I tried to be strong, to care for him well, but even now I sometimes feel I didn’t do enough. 

You can imagine I didn’t love that statement. But it came from a place deep within him. He doesn’t think of himself as someone with great faith, but those around him know differently. Faith has been carved into him through valleys most never walk. When you’ve seen God bring you through the darkness, when you’ve felt His hand steady you in the fire, something shifts. Fear loosens its grip. Hope takes root.

My son lives it out, even if he doesn’t realize it. He cracks jokes about his own death, jokes his mother wishes he wouldn’t make, but they don’t come from denial. They come from peace. He said the only nerves he feels in the MRI machine come not from the scan itself, but from knowing his sister and I are wound tight with worry. His calm is genuine. His faith is unshakable.

I still lose sleep. I still feel my heart race when we walk into the hospital. But I also see the quiet strength in my son, the faith that suffering has etched into him. And I realize: this is what we all long for. A faith that knows, really knows, that no matter what the scan says, God is here. 

And that’s enough.

To Live Is Christ

The cell was dark and damp, the air heavy with the smell of mildew and rust. Chains clinked softly as Paul shifted on the rough stone floor, his wrists raw from iron shackles. A Roman guard leaned against the doorway, his spear tapping idly against the ground, watching with indifference. In the corner, the faithful Timothy sat close to the flickering glow of an oil lamp, parchment spread before him, stylus ready. He waited, as he had so many times before, to record the words of his beloved mentor.  Words born not from despair, but from a heart on fire with hope.

By every human measure, Paul’s circumstances should have been unbearable. Imprisoned, awaiting trial before Caesar, his life hung in the balance. Each day could bring a message of freedom, or a summons to execution. The uncertainty was crushing, yet Paul’s spirit was unshaken. His thoughts turned toward the Philippians, those dear believers who had prayed for him, supported him, and shared in his mission. He longed for them to stand firm in Christ, to know joy, even if he never saw them again.

So he began to dictate words that would puzzle the world but strengthen the church: “For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain.”

To the carnal, worldly man, death is the ultimate loss. It strips him of everything he loves: his wealth, his reputation, his comforts, his power. All that he clings to slips through his fingers, leaving him empty-handed. But Paul knew better. For the believer, death is not loss but gain. It is the end of weakness, of frailty, of the endless battle against sin and sorrow. Death delivers the Christian from temptation, sickness, and grief, and ushers him into the presence of Christ forever.

This is why Paul’s struggle was not between dread and hope, but between two good and holy longings. If he lived, his life would remain fruitful for Christ.  He would give himself to more teaching, more encouragement, more churches built strong in the gospel. If he died, he would enter immediately into the joy of his Lord, free at last from chains both physical and spiritual. He wasn’t choosing between two evils, but between two immeasurable blessings: living to serve Christ or departing to be with Christ.

There was no comparison in Paul’s mind between this world and the next. The world was laced with sin, sorrow, and death. Heaven was pure gain: freedom, rest, and the eternal presence of Jesus. Yet his love for the Philippians, and for all the churches, compelled him to remain if God willed it. He was torn, not because he feared death, but because he loved life when it was poured out for others in Christ’s name.

Picture the scene: the apostle in chains, Timothy leaning close to catch every word, and joy radiating from Paul’s face despite the gloom of his cell. No bitterness, no despair—only confidence. Only peace. Only Christ.

Paul lifted his head, the chains shifting as he drew a deeper breath. His voice was steady, almost gentle, yet filled with conviction as he spoke: “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.”

Timothy’s stylus hovered in the air for a heartbeat. He looked up, meeting Paul’s eyes, and the weight of the words settled over him. He had followed this man through storms and mobs, through hunger and danger, but never had the truth of Paul’s faith burned brighter. Timothy nodded slowly, his young face marked by awe, then bent again to inscribe the words with care, knowing they would carry life to the church for generations yet unborn.

From the doorway, the guard shifted. He wasn’t a believer. He had no share in these promises. Yet something in Paul’s tone made him turn his head. Death, to every Roman soldier, was an enemy to be feared or inflicted. But here was a prisoner, speaking of death not as defeat but as victory. The guard’s brow furrowed, his grip tightening on his spear, unable to understand how chains could not break a man’s spirit.

Paul’s eyes shone with something more radiant than the lamplight. He leaned toward Timothy, the chains clinking softly. “If I live,” he said, “then I live for Christ. Every breath, every step, every word, it is all His. But if I die, then I go to Him. Tell them, Timothy. Tell them there is no loss for the one who belongs to Christ.”

Timothy’s hand moved quickly now, heart pounding as he captured the apostle’s words. He could feel their weight, not just for Philippi but for himself, for the churches, for all who would one day read them. Paul’s voice, though marked by years and suffering, carried no tremor of fear. Instead, it rose in quiet triumph, the sound of a man who had already won because his life was hidden in Christ.

And in that dim prison cell, with iron and stone pressing close, heaven felt very near.

Lessons for All of Us

That also means we can finally release the crushing need for perfection. Somewhere along the way, we started believing that if we just planned well enough, prayed hard enough, worked tirelessly enough, then life would line up exactly the way we want. But perfection here on earth doesn’t exist. Our lives will never be flawless. Not every detail will go according to plan. We won’t always have the answers, the timing, or the control. And that’s okay, because control was never ours to begin with.

When Paul said to live is Christ, he didn’t mean a polished life free of weakness. He meant a surrendered life, one where even suffering, even chains, even uncertainty became places for Christ’s glory to shine. And when he said to die is gain, he declared that all the things we grasp for so tightly here, security, success, even survival, fade in comparison to what waits for us in eternity.

So we can live differently. We can take the step of faith we’ve been putting off. We can stop demanding perfect outcomes before we move forward. We can love without fear of rejection, serve without fear of failure, and rest without fear of losing control. Because for the child of God, there is no ultimate loss. In Christ, we have already won.

So live free. Love deeply. Serve joyfully. 

Because the best is yet to come.

The alarm went off at 3 a.m. this morning. I had an early flight, and as usual, I hadn’t slept well. I’m a nervous traveler, and when I know I have to get up early, I wake up and check the clock over and over, convinced I’ll oversleep.

Still, I made it to the airport on time, and before most people were even out of bed on Sunday morning, I was already in the air. I like traveling on Sundays.  Not because I want to miss church, but because God often speaks to me on long flights. When it’s just Him and me, and I can’t distract myself with the usual busyness, my mind settles in a way it doesn’t on the ground.

Somewhere over the clouds, I opened my Kindle and prayed silently, Lord, give me my Sabbath, even if it looks a little unconventional today. I began reading about God as the Good Shepherd, how He makes us lie down in green pastures. That phrase caught me. Why would anyone have to be made to lie down in a green pasture? It sounds so peaceful, wouldn’t anyone choose to lie down in a green pasture? But then I thought about our hurried world, about how quickly we fill every moment with noise. Maybe the truth is, He has to make us stop, because we won’t on our own.

Passengers continued to board onto our plane, and an older woman, probably in her eighties, took the seat in front of me. Her hair hinted that she might have once been a redhead. I caught myself wondering how long it would be before that was me. At forty-eight, I’m still young, but if I’m honest, I probably have about thirty years left on this earth. It’s a sobering thought, more years behind me than ahead, and it made the little worries of today feel so small.

A layover brought me to Idaho before noon. My hotel room wasn’t ready yet, so I wandered into a little bear-themed diner and ordered a fantastic barbecue hamburger. As I ate, I thought of my kids and how much they would have loved the place. And I found my thoughts returning to that question: What do I want to do with the time I have left? So often, I let my mind be consumed with work problems, people problems, relationship problems. But am I really focused on what matters to God’s Kingdom? Am I spending my days on the things that will matter in eternity?  Lately, the only thing that’s been on my mind is work problems, and this particular Sunday was no exception.  When will I start to worry about things that are truly important?  

Back at the hotel, my room was finally ready. I thanked the front desk clerk for getting it cleaned early and headed straight for the bed. I was exhausted from my restless night, the work stress, and the early flight. Let me tell you, the moment I laid down, I fell asleep.

Four hours later, I woke up. Four hours. I never nap like that. But today, my body simply gave in. And maybe that’s exactly what God wanted. Just like the Good Shepherd in Psalm 23, He had made me lie down in a green pasture, except mine was a quiet hotel bed in Idaho.  I got my Sabbath rest after all, just as I’d asked.  

Rest in the Wilderness

In 1 Kings 19, Elijah had just come off the most stunning display of God’s power in his lifetime. On Mount Carmel, he faced down hundreds of false prophets, called on the name of the Lord, and watched fire fall from heaven. The people had seen it. The false prophets had been defeated. God’s glory had been on full display.

But battles, even when victorious, can leave us drained. And that’s when the enemy moved in.

Jezebel, the queen of Israel and wife of King Ahab, was no ordinary opponent. She had a long history of violence and ruthless determination. When she heard what Elijah had done, she didn’t send an army. She didn’t bother with strategy. She sent a single message, a vow: that by this time tomorrow, Elijah would be dead, just like the prophets he had put to death. If her past was any indication, she meant it.

Elijah knew her reputation. This was a woman who followed through. And suddenly, the bold prophet who had stared down kings and called on heaven’s fire was afraid.

Fear is like that, it slips in quickly and, if we let it, it crowds out God. The enemy loves to sneak in when we’re exhausted, when our defenses are down. Elijah forgot to add God to the equation. Instead of remembering the God who had just proven Himself on Mount Carmel, he let Jezebel’s words loom larger than God’s power.

So he ran.

He didn’t just put some distance between them, he fled as far as he could go. Out of the kingdom. Into the wilderness. The man who had stood so strong now wanted nothing more than to disappear.

Finally, when his body could carry him no farther, Elijah stopped. Alone, exhausted, he slumped under the sparse shade of a broom tree.  A desert shrub, hardly a comfortable resting spot. His prayer was not one of hope but of surrender: “I have had enough, Lord. Take my life.”

Elijah wasn’t just physically unable to handle the journey ahead, he was mentally unable. Fear had drained his courage, blurred his perspective, and left him without the strength to even imagine moving forward.

But Jezebel wasn’t the only one who could send a messenger.  God stepped into Elijah’s isolation with something entirely different: provision. No commands. No rebuke. Just care.

An angel touched Elijah and said, “Get up and eat.” Beside him was fresh bread baking on hot stones and a jar of water. Elijah ate, drank, and fell asleep again.

This wasn’t just kindness, it was strategy. The Lord was redirecting Elijah’s path, and the first step was rest. Rest is restorative, yes, but it can also be redirection.

The angel came a second time, touching him again: “Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you.” And it was. Ahead of him lay forty days and forty nights of travel to the mountain of God. Without rest and nourishment, he could never have made it.

So Elijah ate. He drank. He rested. Within him, something began to shift. His body regained strength. His mind cleared. The grip of fear began to loosen. By the time he set out for Horeb, he was no longer running from Jezebel, he was walking toward God.

That’s the power of God-ordained rest. It doesn’t just refill our energy; it realigns our steps. It takes us from fleeing in fear to moving forward in faith.

The Rest We Really Need

God’s rest is not the same as sleep. We often confuse the two, but there’s a vast difference between a body that needs to shut down for a few hours and a soul that needs to be restored.

I remember the days after my divorce when exhaustion wasn’t just in my body, it was in my bones, my thoughts, my spirit. I could have slept twenty-four hours and still woken up tired. My body might have been motionless under the blankets, but my mind was running marathons. It never stopped, replaying conversations, reliving moments, dissecting what went wrong. The pain played on an endless loop, like a song you can’t turn off. The fear of an unknown future gnawed at me day and night. And no matter how many hours I slept, I opened my eyes in the morning just as weary as when I closed them.

That’s because the kind of rest Jesus promises is something entirely different. When He says, “Come to me… and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28), He’s not offering a quick nap or a weekend getaway. He’s offering a deep, soul-level release. The kind of rest that doesn’t just quiet your body, but silences the constant inner storm.

My afternoon in that Idaho hotel room wasn’t just an unusually long nap, it was peace. Not the kind of peace that comes when all your problems are solved, but the kind that wraps around you in the middle of them. I was alone in that room, but I knew my Savior was there. I could feel His presence as I laid down the things I’d been carrying; every worry, every fear, every piece of anxiety I had been clinging to without realizing it.

He made me lie down. Not just so my body could recharge, but so my heart could unclench and my mind could stop its restless spinning. It was the same Shepherd of Psalm 23 who leads His sheep beside still waters and restores their souls. This was His rest, an invitation to release it all into His hands.

We say we’re tired, but physical tiredness is easy to fix!  Close your eyes, get some sleep. What we’re often meaning is that we’re weary. Weary from carrying the weight of the world on our shoulders. Weary from the fears that whisper in the dark. Weary from the expectations, the deadlines, the heartbreaks, and the wounds that never seem to fully heal. That kind of tiredness runs deeper than muscle fatigue; it sits in the soul, and only God can touch it.

I’m not saying don’t seek help for anxiety, or that God doesn’t use many different means to bring rest to His children.  He does. He can use counseling, medication, healthy rhythms, community support. But there is a rest that no earthly method can provide, and it comes from the One who knows you best.

He knows the exact weight you’re carrying. He knows what you can handle and what you can’t. He sees the moments when you’re smiling on the outside but falling apart inside. And He doesn’t just watch, He invites.

Come to Me. Give it here. Rest.

When we adopted our children from Russia, the process required two trips. The first was to meet them, to hold them, to smile at them, to begin the long, uncertain journey of becoming a family. After that first visit, we wouldn’t be able to return for nearly a year to finalize everything and bring them home. It was a season marked by waiting, hoping, and praying. Nothing was guaranteed.

Before we left the orphanage, we gave our children pictures, just simple photographs of us, smiling and together. To us, they were small gestures. But to them, they were everything.

Both of our children had been abandoned. That picture was the only glimpse of a family they had. The only hint of the love they longed for. The only thread of hope that someone, anyone, was coming for them. It was more than an image. It was a lifeline. A promise. A whisper of security from the life they were trapped in.

We later found out that our daughter, who was a bit older, kept that picture with her the entire year she was waiting. She didn’t speak much English then, but later she told us she looked at it often. It reminded her that her parents were real, and they were coming back.

After we were finally home, she spotted that same picture in our house. Her eyes lit up, and in her broken English, she asked, “Can I keep this…on my…dresser?”

Of course, we said yes. She set it where she could see it every night as she drifted off to sleep; a constant reminder of the parents who had come for her once and would never leave again. She wanted that picture close, because it held her hope. During that yearlong wait, she had never let go of the belief that we were returning for her.

Aren’t we the same way with Christ?

Aren’t we all waiting for a love we don’t fully have yet? A love that can only be quenched by the One who created us?  Aren’t we longing for a home we’ve never seen, but somehow already miss? A life we’ve only dreamed of, the one He’s preparing for us?

Can you imagine that reunion?

The day we see Him face to face, the One we’ve trusted, the One we’ve loved from afar, the One who promised He was coming back.

What a party it’s going to be. What joy. What laughter. What healing.  I cannot wait to see Him when He finally comes for me, because I’m waiting.

It reminds me of Simeon and Anna in Luke Chapter 2.  Here's how I imagine it.

The Wait Was Over

Simeon’s steps were slower these days, each one measured, his back slightly bent with age. But his hope, oh, his hope was still upright and strong. For years he had risen in the early light, walked the familiar streets to the temple, and lifted the same prayer: Lord, let me see Your Messiah before I die.

It was a promise whispered to him by the Holy Spirit, and Simeon had believed it. Day after day, month after month, year after year, he had scanned the temple courts, watching the faces of strangers, wondering if today might be the day.

Then one morning, as golden light poured over Jerusalem’s rooftops, the Spirit’s voice came again: Go.  He obeyed. His heart pounded like a young man’s as he stepped into the temple courtyard. And there, just beyond the entrance, he saw them.

A young couple stood cradling a tiny child. They looked ordinary, almost unremarkable to the crowd bustling around them. But to Simeon’s eyes, they were radiant. The breath caught in his throat. Without asking, he knew.

The Promise. The Hope of Israel. Salvation itself swaddled in soft cloth.

His old hands trembled as he reached for the baby. Mary looked at Joseph; Joseph nodded. And then, after all those years, Simeon’s arms closed around the Christ.  The child was warm and impossibly small. His tiny heartbeat pulsed against Simeon’s chest, but the weight in Simeon’s arms was far greater than any child, he was holding the hope of the world.

In that moment, Simeon needed nothing more from life. The world could fade away and he would not miss it. He had seen salvation with his own eyes, touched it with his own hands. Peace with God had settled into his bones, and even death no longer cast a shadow.

“Lord,” he whispered, tears blurring his vision, “now You can let Your servant depart in peace, for my eyes have seen Your salvation.”

Joseph and Mary stood still, wonder etched into their faces. They marveled at the words this gray-haired stranger spoke over their newborn son.

From a distance, another figure had been watching. Anna, her back slightly stooped, her silver hair catching the golden light.  She was a familiar sight in the temple courts. She was a prophetess, known by name to the priests, the merchants, and the families who came to worship. Widowed as a young woman, she had chosen not to remarry. Instead, she gave her days and nights to God. For decades, she lingered here among the colonnades and stone steps, her sandals wearing grooves into the same worn paths.

The temple had become her dwelling place, and prayer her native language. Some mornings she could be found whispering psalms before the altar; other days she stood with arms raised toward heaven, fasting for the redemption of her people. She carried an unshakable expectancy that the Messiah would come, and she was determined to be here when He did.

The moment her eyes fell on the child in Mary’s arms, her spirit leapt. She didn’t need an introduction.  She knew. Tears welled and traced the lines of a face carved by both age and devotion. The years of waiting, the countless petitions, the lonely nights of intercession, all of it found its answer in this moment. Praise rushed from her lips, uncontained and unstoppable.

Then she turned to those around her, worshipers, merchants, parents with children tugging at their robes, and her voice rang out with unexpected strength: “He’s here! The One we’ve been waiting for is here!”  It was the joy of recognition.  The deep, certain knowing when the promise you’ve carried in your heart finally stands before you. 

Neither Simeon nor Anna would walk this earth much longer.  Their years had been many, and their crowns of gray were beautiful in God’s sight.  But they had lived to see the Promise kept. The wait was over. 

The Messiah had come.

The Picture and the Promise

Sometimes I think about my daughter in that orphanage; how she must have studied that picture of us over and over, her small fingers tracing the outlines of our faces. Maybe she whispered our names, trying to remember how our voices sounded. Maybe she pressed the photo to her chest when the nights felt too long.

She didn’t know the date we’d return. No calendar had a circle on it. She only had our picture and the memory of being chosen.  But that was enough.

The picture reminded her she belonged to someone now. It reminded her that love had found her and promised to come back. The promise became her anchor.

Isn’t God’s Word like that for us?

It’s the picture He left behind, not on glossy paper, but in the pages of Scripture. A living portrait of who He is: His goodness, His tenderness, His truth. It tells the sweeping story of creation and redemption, of a Savior who came once, and who’s coming again.

Over and over again, He tells us: I will return.
I will gather you.
I will take you to the home I’ve prepared.
You are Mine.

“Truly, truly,” He says, “I will come again and take you to be with Me, that where I am, you may be also.” (John 14:3)

But the waiting stretches long sometimes. Life moves fast, and eternity feels far. The longer the delay, the more the world tries to dull our memory. The picture fades at the edges. The enemy whispers, Did He really say He’d come back?

In those moments, I remember Simeon.

I picture his weathered face, eyes scanning the temple courtyard like he’d done a thousand times before. He didn’t demand a sign in the sky. He didn’t ask for proof. He simply kept showing up. Day after day. Year after year. Listening to the whisper of the Spirit. Trusting the God who had made a promise.

I remember Anna.

I see her slipping quietly into the temple before dawn, lifting her wrinkled hands in prayer. She had outlived most of her generation. She had lost her husband after just seven years of marriage, but she didn’t grow bitter. She didn’t let grief harden her heart.

Instead, she gave herself to worship. She fasted, she prayed, she served, she stayed. She filled her waiting with purpose. She taught others to hope.  The temple was her dwelling place, and her joy remained rooted in the God who saw her, sustained her, and promised redemption.

They were old. Their bodies frail. But their faith? Stronger than ever.

And then, He came.

In that sacred moment, all the waiting, all the prayers, all the lonely years were fulfilled in a single glimpse of the Messiah.

That’s what we’re doing too, isn’t it? While we wait?

We hold onto the picture.
We trust the promise.
We live in expectation.

It doesn’t mean the waiting is easy. It isn’t. Some days, it feels like He’s been gone too long. Like maybe He changed His mind. But He hasn’t.  We serve a God who cannot lie. If He said He’s coming, He’s coming.

So we keep returning to the temple, whatever that looks like in our daily lives.
We keep worshiping.
We keep praying.
We keep teaching others to hope.
We keep our faces turned toward heaven.

Because one day, we will see Him. Face to face.
The wait will be over.
And we’ll know it was worth it. Every single day.

So hold on to the picture.
Keep it close.
He’s coming.

We sat in our seats at church, waiting for the message to begin. I bought a notebook to church instead of a Bible. I probably should bring both. I guess I value taking notes more than reading along. Is that good or right? I’m not sure about all that but its what works for me.

As our pastor begins his sermon, I set my pen down. You see, earlier that morning I had finished writing a post for this very blog. It was about the Israelites in the wilderness and their desire to turn back. And there was our pastor, preaching on the exact same message. At times, he even repeated word for word sentences I had written just hours earlier.

Isn’t it amazing when God does that? When He confirms a message in multiple ways, as if whispering, “Yes, you’re hearing Me. You’re on the right track.” It makes me lean in, knowing that if God has laid this so strongly on my heart, I need to pay close attention.

I looked up at the ceiling and wondered, Who are You, that You would care enough about me, just me, to confirm Your message so personally?

When the pastor finished, I glanced at my notes, shaking my head at God’s timing. I get such a kick out of Him sometimes, at the lengths He goes to teach me, to make me smile, and yes, even to correct me. He never gives up on the truths He repeats over and over (and then over again) until they finally sink in. Still, every reminder is given with love, endless patience, and His constant presence that never leaves me.

I’ve had this happen before, on multiple occasions, when God is trying to give me a message. He repeats it through different people, different sources, and confirms it again and again. I know the critical rule: always hold what you think you’re hearing from God up against the truth of Scripture. If it doesn’t line up with the Bible, it’s not from Him. But when it does line up, when it all fits perfectly, I know He’s not only teaching me the lesson He wants me to learn; He’s teaching me to recognize His voice.

That’s something so special, so sacred, that I never want to take it for granted. I want Him to teach me more moments like this. I want to be more sensitive when He’s speaking, more ready to hear Him when He has a message for me.

I picked up on it twice this time, two moments where He spoke the exact same truth so clearly I couldn’t miss it. But I can’t help but wonder, how many times has He tried to tell me that same thing, and I didn’t see it? I want to be so sensitive to His voice that I don't miss it next time.

I have a long ways to go, and chances are that I miss most of what God puts in front of me.  But today, I got the message.  True, it was painfully obvious and really no credit goes to me for catching a ball dropped directly into my hands.  But, I celebrate it anyway.

It reminds me of the story of Samuel in the Bible (Samuel 3).  Here's how I imagine it went.

The Message

I remember that night like it was yesterday. The lamps in the temple burned low, their golden glow flickering softly against the stone walls. Eli was resting nearby, his breathing slow and steady. His health wasn’t what it used to be.  His eyesight had grown dim, and his steps were slower now. Because of that, whenever he called for me, I responded immediately. It was my honor to serve him, this man who had dedicated his entire life to serving the Lord.

I had just laid down, my thoughts quiet, my young heart content to serve in the house of the Lord.

And then, I heard it.

“Samuel.”

My eyes flew open. I knew that voice, or so I thought. I scrambled from my mat and ran to Eli. “Here I am,” I said breathlessly, “you called me.”

Eli stirred, blinking in confusion. “I didn’t call you, my son,” he murmured. “Go back and lie down.”

I felt a little foolish as I tiptoed back to bed, but before long, I heard it again.

“Samuel.”

This time I didn’t hesitate. I darted to Eli, certain that he must have called me. Again, he shook his head, gentler this time. “I did not call, my son. Go and lie down.”

By now, I was puzzled. Was I imagining things? I settled back down, heart thudding a little faster.

Then it came again, firm, clear, unmistakable. “Samuel.”

I jumped to my feet, hurrying to Eli a third time. “Here I am! You called me!”

It was then that something shifted in Eli’s eyes. A knowing look came over him. He sat up and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Go and lie down,” he said, “and if He calls you again, say, ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.’”

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why me? If God was going to speak to anyone, surely it would have been Eli. He had served the Lord his whole life. He was the priest, the one people looked to for guidance and wisdom. I was just a boy, learning what it meant to serve in the temple. And yet, the voice had called my name, not his.

What surprised me even more was Eli’s kindness in that moment. He didn’t dismiss me. He didn’t grow jealous or bitter that God’s voice had come to me instead of him. No, Eli believed me. He taught me how to respond, how to listen to the Lord and recognize His voice. That lesson would shape me for the rest of my life.

I went back and lay down again, my heart pounding in my chest. The room felt different now, holy, alive, as though the very air was expectant.

Then it happened.

“Samuel. Samuel.”

The voice wasn’t harsh or distant. It was tender, personal, like someone who knew me better than I knew myself. Trembling, I whispered into the darkness, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”

And He spoke. Oh, how He spoke. Not with the booming thunder I might have imagined, but with a voice that filled me with awe and fear all at once. He told me of things to come, of a message I would carry to Eli. I didn’t sleep much that night. How could I? I had heard the voice of the Living God.

But the message.  The message wasn’t easy.

I had always imagined that if God ever spoke to me, it would be something joyful, something exciting, maybe a blessing or a promise. But what He said that night weighed heavy on my heart. He spoke of judgment, judgment against Eli’s house.

The man who had raised me. The one who taught me the ways of the Lord. The one I had just run to in the dark.

God told me that Eli’s sons had dishonored Him and that Eli had not stopped them. He said their guilt would not be atoned for by sacrifice or offering. The words were clear, final, and filled with sorrow.

I lay there until morning, eyes wide open, unable to sleep. The sun began to rise, casting golden light across the temple floor, and I knew I had to face him. I had to face Eli.  I stayed in bed longer than I should have, afraid to move, afraid to speak. My hands were shaking. I didn’t want to tell him. Not this.

But Eli called for me. “Samuel, my son.”

I walked to him slowly, every step heavy. “Here I am.”

And then he asked, “What was it that He said to you? Do not hide it from me. May God deal with you, be it ever so severely, if you hide from me anything He told you.”

I looked into the eyes of the man who had raised me, the man who had believed in me, who had taught me to listen for God’s voice.  And I told him everything. Every word. I didn’t hold anything back. My voice trembled, but I spoke the truth.

And do you know what Eli said?

“He is the Lord; let Him do what is good in His eyes.”

There was no anger. No blame. Just acceptance. Reverence.

It struck me then, sometimes the hardest part isn’t hearing God. The hardest part is obeying Him.

That morning I learned something that would mark my entire life: when God speaks, it's not always easy. But it is always right. And if I was going to be His servant, truly His, I had to be willing not just to listen, but to act. Even when it broke my heart.

That was the day I stopped being just a boy in the temple. That was the day I began becoming a prophet.

The Obedience

The balcony outside my apartment is slowly becoming a tiny sanctuary for one of my favorite visitors: the mourning dove I mentioned in a prior post. I’m not trying to attract every bird in the neighborhood (although I wouldn't hate it if I did), just this one gentle friend who keeps stopping by. So, I found a big feeder bowl for birds on Amazon, filled it with seed, and set it securely on the railing, just for him. 

Then I waited.

It didn’t take long for him to find it. At first, he was cautious, barely landing long enough to grab a few seeds before darting away at the slightest movement. His eyes were always scanning, his wings ready to lift off at the hint of danger. But by the end of the week, he stayed a little longer. His quick pecks slowed down, and eventually, he made a major change. He grew so comfortable that he didn’t just eat, he lounged in the food bowl. Now, I wake up in the mornings and find him settled right there, as if it’s his personal recliner, quietly watching the world move far below on the street.

This past week, we had one of those storms that makes the news…the kind where phones buzz with emergency alerts, events are canceled, the wind howls like it’s trying to pull the sky down, and rain pounds against the windowsills. By morning, branches were scattered across sidewalks, people were out cleaning up debris, and there, right in the middle of it all, sat my mourning dove, perched in his food bowl, calm as ever, watching the world recover.

As I watched him, I had a thought.  He wouldn’t sit in the food bowl if he didn’t feel safe. And what does it really mean to feel safe? On this earth, feeling safe means you’re protected, it means you’re taken care of, it means you’re loved.

That little dove has gone from being afraid to knowing his needs are met. He doesn’t panic anymore. Even after a storm, he sits there, unbothered, watching the world carry on. Honestly, I think if I walked out on the balcony, I’m not even sure he would fly away.

Isn’t it amazing what happens to us when we know we’re safe? When we know we’re protected? When we know we’re loved? Fear loses its grip. We stop flinching at every sound or shadow, and we begin to rest right where we are, like that dove in his bowl of seed, knowing there’s enough, knowing there’s no need to rush or hide.

The problem is we forget we are safe on an everyday basis, that God holds us in His holy hands.  When we have forgotten, when we have spiritual amnesia, fear sneaks in where it doesn’t belong. Fear whispers that we don’t have enough. It tries to tell us we're not loved. It tries to convince us God isn’t who He promises to be.

And yet, hasn’t life proven differently? Hasn’t He always taken care of me? Haven’t I always been fed? Haven’t I always been safe? Haven’t I always been loved?

Yes, I have. I know I have. So why panic when the storms roll in?

We are the dove, the ones who can lay in the food bowl, knowing we have enough, and not worry. But it’s not just about enjoying the blessings we’ve been given. When we truly recognize the abundance we have in Christ, we become free.  Free to give ourselves to others, free to show our true selves without fear, free to live generously.

We don’t have to cling to what we have or live as if there’s not enough to go around. We can love others fully, help others freely, because we know our God always takes care of us. He keeps us safe. He is the abundance that never runs out.

It reminds me of the Israelites in the wilderness.

The Call Into The Wilderness

The Israelites came out of generations of slavery in Egypt, where chaos and fear were the norm. They didn’t know what safety was; there was no “lying in a food bowl” for a slave in Egypt. Life was harsh, unpredictable, and full of pain. Yet, through miracle after miracle, the Lord brought them out. He split the Red Sea in two, led them across on dry ground, and destroyed the pursuing Egyptian army before their eyes. They had seen God’s power firsthand.

But years of fear and oppression leave deep scars, and don’t we all know it? Trust doesn’t come overnight when your entire life has been built on surviving under the whip of an oppressor. Every day of their past life had demanded as much work as their bodies could endure, and probably even more. So even though they were physically free from Pharaoh, mentally they were still in prison. They didn’t feel safe. They were scared. They were hungry. And they didn’t know where their next meal would come from. Panic set in quickly. They grumbled, they doubted, and they accused Moses and Aaron of leading them out into the wilderness just to die.

In their desperation, they even began romanticizing Egypt. “If only we had died by the Lord’s hand in Egypt!” they cried, thinking back to the plagues that struck their captors. “There we sat around pots of meat and ate all the food we wanted, but you have brought us into this desert to starve this entire assembly to death.” Their memories were twisted by fear. Did they truly have plenty in Egypt? Likely not. But when panic sets in, even slavery can feel safer than the unknown.

Isn’t that what we do sometimes? We reach for old habits, old fears, and old ways of thinking simply because they are familiar, even if they kept us chained. But God doesn’t bring us out of bondage only to abandon us. He promises provision, and He uses the wilderness to teach us to trust Him.

So God told Moses, “I will rain down bread from heaven for you” (Exodus 16:4). And just like that, manna appeared.  Sweet, fresh, and unlike anything they had ever seen. Every morning, it blanketed the ground, waiting to be gathered. It could be ground into flour or beaten into dough, baked into cakes or eaten as it was. The people called it “manna,” which literally means “What is it?” because they had no other word for this heavenly bread.

But the manna came with instructions. They were to gather only what they needed for each day, no more, no less. On the sixth day, they were to gather enough for two days because the seventh day was a holy day of rest. Of course, some didn’t listen. Fear makes us hoard. When they tried to gather more than they needed, it rotted overnight. God was teaching them a vital truth: He wasn’t just their Savior; He was their Lord.

And He didn’t stop there. In response to their longing for meat, God sent quail into their camp. In fact, he sent so many quail they could catch them by hand! God was showing them that He could provide both bread and meat, both daily sustenance and unexpected abundance.

This wasn’t just a one-time miracle. The manna fell for forty years!  Every single day until they entered the Promised Land. It was always enough. Not too much. Not too little. Through this, God was teaching them contentment and trust. Each night, they went to sleep with no bread stored in their tents, believing that when morning came, God’s storehouse would open again, and the bread from heaven would be waiting for them.  Sweet, fresh, and exactly what they needed.

The Forward Momentum

Isn’t it fascinating how many stories in the Bible carry the same steady rhythm? Don’t look back. Don’t go back. Keep moving forward.

From the Israelites in the wilderness to the disciples leaving their nets, and even to Lot’s wife, God continually calls His people to walk away from what once held them, to stop clinging to the familiar chains of the past, and to trust Him with what’s ahead. Lot’s wife turned around and instantly became a pillar of salt, not because she glanced back with curiosity, but because her heart was still tied to what God had already called her out of. Egypt looked better in the Israelites’ memory than it ever was in reality.

And the same is true for us. How often do we long for what once was, our "Egypt", our old habits, our old ways, because they feel predictable? But God says, “No. I have something better. I will provide. I will protect. Just follow Me.” Paul understood this truth deeply when he wrote, “But one thing I do: forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 3:13–14).

The Israelites didn’t fully appreciate the miracle of their freedom. We can easily draw that conclusion, but should we ask ourselves the same question?  Do we appreciate the miracle of our freedom? Do we really understand what God has done to set us free? Yes, He secured our eternity through the cross, but He is also working to free us now, from the mental prisons, the fears, and the chains that still haunt us. He’s not just an “insurance policy” for heaven. He wants us to truly live in freedom today, trusting that He will provide and care for us just as surely as He parted the Red Sea.

It takes time to be freed mentally from the things that enslave us, our toxic habits, addictions, unhealthy relationships, fear, and shame. Freedom can feel terrifying when you’ve spent years in slavery. The Israelites knew that feeling all too well. They wanted to run back to what was familiar, even if it hurt them. And don’t we do the same? Even after we’ve seen God work miracles in our lives, we sometimes run back to the very things that once held us captive, because at least they feel familiar.

But God doesn’t call us to move on from the past for no reason. He doesn’t want anyone or anything ruling our lives except Him. He didn’t want the Egyptians ruling the Israelites, and He doesn’t want our sin ruling us. It doesn’t matter what it is.  If a toxic relationship is controlling our hearts, if addiction is chaining our souls, if we’re drowning in media that poisons our thoughts, if food, drugs, depression, or fear have us in their grip, God will always call us out.

He first freed the Israelites physically, but it took far longer to free them mentally. He went to great lengths to show them what true freedom looks like. He literally led them into the wilderness not to punish them, but to set them free, to teach them that real freedom is found in Him alone. Prisons aren’t always physical. And mental prisons, chains of shame, fear, or self-doubt, are often harder to break than iron bars. Yet God is a God of freedom. Not just freedom from Pharaoh or from slavery, but freedom from anything that dares to rule His children’s hearts.

The message is clear throughout Scripture: God doesn’t want us living in the past. He doesn’t want us ruled by fear, or stuck in shame. He wants to redefine us, to feed us, and to lead us forward, one step, one day, one manna-morning at a time.

Whether it’s a dove resting in a food bowl after a storm, or a worn-out Israelite gathering heaven’s bread in the wilderness, God’s call is the same: Trust Me. I’ve got you. You don’t need to run. You don’t need to store it all up. Just come back each day, and I’ll be there.

So what about us? What “Egypt” are we tempted to run back to, those old patterns, fears, or habits that feel safer than trusting God with the unknown? He’s calling us to let go of the past, to stop living like prisoners when He has already opened the gates. He is our Provider, our Freedom, and our Sustainer. Just as He fed the Israelites with manna each morning, He will give us what we need, grace for today, strength for this moment, hope for tomorrow. 

But we have to choose to trust Him instead of hoarding fear, instead of looking back. Like Paul, we can press on, our eyes fixed on Jesus, confident that the One who parts seas and breaks chains will lead us into the life of freedom He’s promised. It’s time to step forward, to trust, and to live as if we’re truly free.  

Because we are.

I had a quiet, beautiful birthday. No big production, just stillness, peace, and the kind of silence that I love.

When I got home that evening, I pulled out my journal, ready to spend some time with God.  I had a plan to look back over the years with a heart full of both gratitude and regret. I was bracing myself to revisit some painful memories, to apologize yet again for the ways I’ve messed up, for the seasons I wandered off course. I was ready to tell Him thank you for rescuing someone like me, someone who’s so often chosen the wrong path when I knew what was right.

But something unexpected happened.

Instead of my planned reel of past failures, my mind was suddenly flooded with memories of good. Beautiful moments. Sacred moments. Times when I had said yes to the right thing. When I showed up even though it was hard. I remembered holding my grandfather’s hand in his final days. I remembered flying overseas to be with my brother after his accident. I remembered adopting my children from Russia. The list went on and on.

It caught me off guard.

Instead of needing to be reminded of my forgiveness, I was reminded of my value. Instead of shame, I felt seen. Loved. Isn’t that just like God?  When we’re ready to lower our heads in guilt, He gently lifts our chin and says, Look again, my child. You’re more than your mistakes.

What a Father.

It’s not that God is unaware of our sin.  But in His mercy, He refuses to define us by it. In fact, He died so He wouldn't have to. That’s the staggering beauty of the cross: sacred grace, poured out on people who could never earn it.  He does not want us living trapped in the shame of our past. He’s not the God of guilt trips. He’s the God who’s always doing something new.

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!” Isaiah 43:18–19

His love is not hesitant or limited.  It is absolute, unrelenting, and defined by compassion. When we see no value in ourselves, He gently reminds us of the value He placed in us from the beginning. When we hang our heads in shame, He is already speaking over us: Look forward, not back. I’m not finished with you yet.  He is the God of new beginnings. Of unending, unfailing, infinite love.

So, as usual, things didn’t go according to my plan when it came to my birthday plans with God.

I thought it would be a quiet time of repentance and reflection, a walk through the memories of mistakes I’ve made. But instead, it turned into something unexpected, a kind of victory lap. A gentle reminder of the good I’ve brought into the world. Of the moments I showed up, stepped in, and said yes when it mattered most.

Instead of failure, He showed me value.

He also reminded me of something we don’t talk about nearly enough: doing good isn’t easy. Those memories came at a price, He reminded me.  Doing good comes at a cost. It takes effort. It takes sacrifice. It often means choosing the harder road, and He sees that. He knows. He understands the invisible weight behind every good thing we choose to do in His name.

I came away from that night reenergized. Reinvigorated. With a new resolve, not to live in the rearview mirror of my past mistakes, but to move forward. To do good. To keep becoming more of that person He sees in me.  Because really, what good does it do to sit and focus on past mistakes, when God is calling us to step into a future filled with purpose?

It reminds me of Peter. 

Breakfast On The Beach

Peter was the disciple who was ready to die for Jesus at any given moment.  He made bold declaration after bold declaration, from a love that ran deep in his heart for his Savior.  Sure, there were times Peter’s ego might’ve gotten the best of him, just like the rest of us. He famously declared to Jesus in front of others, “I’ll never deny you.” 

But then, the night came. That night.

He couldn’t have imagined the horror that was ahead of him. He couldn’t have imagined the fear that would take hold of him.  Everyone turned against Jesus. Everyone was chanting for Him to die. It’s easy to be brave in front of one or two people, but when the weight of an entire movement turns, it’s different.

Then, the exact thing Peter swore he’d never do, he did.  He denied Jesus. During His darkest hour.
The Person he loved most on earth, he denied. Not once, but three times.

It wasn’t like Jesus didn’t know. Jesus knew.  In fact, Scripture says Jesus looked at him the moment it happened, right there in the middle of His pain, right after the rooster crowed.  Peter then remembered Jesus had predicted it, and the weight must’ve crushed him.

The regret. The shame.  Imagine hurting someone you love most during their hardest hour.
Imagine betraying your child, your spouse, while they’re being tortured, and they know it. The love Peter had for Jesus was greater than a love for a child or a spouse, so we can only imagine. 

The loss of Jesus over those three days wasn’t just grief for Peter.  It was laced with the terrible truth that at Jesus’ moment of greatest sacrifice, Peter had completely failed Him.  How many times did he replay it in his mind?  How many times did he revisit every mistake, wonder if he had disqualified himself for good?  All those moments, walking on water, acts of faith, devotion...all of it felt erased in one flash of fear.

But that’s not the end of Peter’s story.  And it’s never the end of ours, either.

Our Savior refuses to define us by our worst moment.  Three days later, the most beautiful thing happened:  Jesus rose from the dead.

If that weren’t miracle enough, He went looking for Peter.  When He found him, it wasn’t to shame him. It wasn’t to demand an apology or give a lecture on loyalty.  Jesus found Peter by cooking him breakfast on the beach.

Why was Peter on the water?  Because he (and some of the other disciples) had gone back to his old life as a fisherman.  After that kind of failure, he didn’t think he was worthy of leading anyone, let alone starting a church that would be the most meaningful movement in the history of mankind.

Peter had gone back to what he knew.  After the grief, the failure, and the crushing weight of shame, he returned to the familiar rhythm of casting nets and hauling fish. His heart may have still loved Jesus, but he no longer believed he was worthy of following Him. So he fished.

Then, one early morning, while the sky was still soft with the blush of dawn, someone stood on the shoreline. The disciples didn’t recognize Him at first. But this stranger called out from the shore:

“Friends, haven’t you any fish?”

They hadn’t.

“Throw your net on the right side of the boat and you will find some.”

So they did.

Just like that first time, their nets were overwhelmed with fish, bursting, straining under the weight of grace. In that moment, something clicked.

John whispered it first: “It is the Lord.”

Peter didn’t hesitate.  He didn’t stop to pull in the net. He didn’t wait for the boat to turn around. He didn’t worry about how deep the water was or what the others might think.  He jumped.

Fully clothed, soaking his garments, heart pounding, Peter threw himself into the water. It was the second time he had stepped out of a boat to get to Jesus, but this time, it wasn’t about walking on water.  This time, it was about getting back to Him, as fast as possible.

I imagine Peter swimming hard, his arms cutting through the waves, his eyes locked on the shoreline. No more distance. No more denial. Just the overwhelming need to be near his Savior again.  When he reached the shore, there He was.

Jesus.  Not with a sword. Not with a list of grievances.  But with a fire, breakfast, and the peace and love He always brings to every encounter.

Can you imagine that moment?  The warmth of the fire. The sound of waves lapping quietly behind them. The smell of fish and bread. Peter, dripping wet, breathless, in shock, standing face-to-face with the One he thought he had lost forever.

Jesus simply looked at him.  No condemnation or shame.  Just welcome.  It was reunion.  It was restoration.  It was grace that cooked breakfast and waited patiently by the sea.

Then, Jesus asked a question.

“Peter, do you love Me?”

He asked it three times, one for every denial.  With every answer of confirmation from Peter, Jesus restored him and gave him instructions.

Feed my sheep.
Care for my people.
Follow me.

It’s as if Jesus was saying, I’m not here to relive your worst moment. I’m here to remind you of who you are, and who you’re becoming.  I’m here to give you purpose. I’m here to tell you to look forward, not backward.

God didn’t define Peter by his past.  He gave him a calling.  That’s the kind of God we serve.  The kind who meets us in the middle of our self-doubt and gently says,

“You’re still mine. I’m not finished with you. Let’s keep going.”

Jumping Off the Boat

It’s amazing how quickly we return to what we knew when we’re confronted with our own failure.  When we fail, it’s almost instinctive.  We slip back into old habits, old thought patterns, old versions of ourselves that feel familiar, even if they were never truly safe. It didn’t take Peter long to return to fishing. His Savior was gone (or so he thought) and he had failed in every way imaginable.

He had denied the One he swore to protect. The One he loved most. The shame must’ve been unbearable. Maybe, deep down, he even blamed himself for what happened. Peter, who had always seen himself as a kind of shield for Jesus, now bore the weight of powerlessness and regret.

So he went back to what he knew. Back to fishing.

But isn’t it fascinating that the moment he realized Jesus was still there, still alive, still loving him, still choosing him, he couldn’t get off that boat fast enough?  He didn’t ask for permission. He didn’t wait for the nets to be hauled in. He didn’t calculate how deep the water was. He just jumped.

Nothing else mattered more than getting back to Jesus.  And you know, the same is true for us.  We don’t lose our Savior just because we fail.

Our failure doesn’t un-resurrect Jesus.  It doesn’t send Him away.  He’s still there. Waiting on the shoreline of our hearts.  When we come to our senses, when grace breaks through the fog of shame, we have only one job: 

Jump off the boat.
Soaking wet clothes and all.
Whatever it takes to return to the One who still calls us “mine.”
The One who heals us, restores us, protects us, and speaks purpose over us again.

Temptation always tries to drag us back into our past.  It whispers about our failures and throws our memories in our face.  But Jesus is always looking forward.  He is always ready to redeem what’s been broken, restore what’s been lost, and rewrite our story with grace.

So when you find yourself drifting back into the old life:
Jump.
Don’t wait.
Swim hard.
Because your Savior is still there, cooking breakfast on the shore, ready to remind you that your story is not over.

I accidentally forgot what day my birthday was on this week.

Well, inadvertently, as did my kids. They scheduled a celebration for a different night, thinking my birthday was on a different day (because that's what I told them, since I can't seem to recall my own birthday). No big deal. We’ll celebrate together on whatever day works best. Honestly, it doesn’t bother me one bit. The truth is, the introvert in me might just be looking forward to how the day will actually unfold.

When I get home from work on my birthday this year, it’ll be quiet.  My kids won't be around.  My Mom won't be, either. Just me and God.  I can’t think of a better way to spend the evening.

No cake. No candles. No party hats. Just some stillness, a soft place to land, and a heart full of memories. I'm not trying to elevate myself or my birthday into something sacred. But I do believe, deep down, that God knows the day He decided I would enter this world. I believe He saw value in that day, even if I didn’t always see it myself.

So, this year, I want to give that day back to Him.

I want to sit with Him and walk through old memories, not all of them easy. Some of them, honestly, are painful. There have been chapters I made a mess of. Seasons where I wandered so far I’m amazed He didn’t leave me there. Times when I sat in pits I dug with my own hands and still, still, He stayed.

That’s what I want to remember.  Not the years I’ve lived but the faithfulness He’s shown.  The goodness. The mercy. The undeserved grace.

My birthday won’t be about balloons or dinner reservations this year. It’ll be about a quiet house, an open Bible, maybe a candle lit in prayer rather than celebration. It’ll be about whispered thank-yous and soul-deep gratitude. And maybe, if the weather cooperates, a walk outside where I can breathe in His presence and thank Him for every breath He’s let me take.

The truth is, I don’t feel all that worth celebrating. But He is.

Once, when I was a teenager, I was driving a black Mustang my dad had bought for $400 and lovingly fixed up for me. I had added my own flair to it (this was the '90s, after all), a bold pink lightning bolt running down the side. To me, that car was freedom and fire. On this particular weekend, a friend and I were staying with family, there to watch my cousins wrestle in a state championship.

After the match, driving back along an empty stretch of gravel road, I wanted to show off a little. I wanted to see what the Mustang could really do.

I didn’t expect to lose control.  But loose gravel has no mercy on Mustangs, even if they have a pink lightning bolt.

In an instant, two teenage girls were spinning and skidding sideways into the middle of a cornfield.  A family cornfield, no less (sorry, Uncle). I never did confess the damage we left behind. But the part that still sticks in my mind all these years later is that the car didn’t roll. It should have. We should have been hurt. Or worse.

No one would’ve found us quickly.  This was the middle of nowhere, long before cell phones were a thing. But nothing happened. Not a scratch, not a bruise. Just two wide-eyed girls in a dusty cornfield with a whole lot of “what ifs” hanging in the air.

It was mercy. Plain and simple.

That moment is just one from a long list, a very long list, of times when my own foolishness could have left permanent scars, and yet, God said no. Not today. Not her.

This birthday, I want to sit with those stories. Not out of guilt, but out of gratitude. I want to remember just how often God has stood between me and disaster. Just how often He’s spared me from the full weight of my own choices.  I want to be the ones who says thanks.

It reminds me of a moment in Scripture.  Jesus was traveling along the border between Samaria and Galilee when He encountered ten men with leprosy. They stood at a distance, outcasts, unwanted, unclean, and they called out to Him for mercy. Of course, He gave it. He told them to go show themselves to the priests, and as they went, they were healed. Ten lives transformed, ten stories rewritten.

But only one came back to say thanks.

Through The Eyes Of A Thankful Leper

I don’t remember the last time someone touched me.  Not gently. Not kindly. Not without flinching.

Leprosy doesn’t just eat at your skin. It eats at your identity. Slowly. Cruelly. It begins with numbness. You don’t feel the burn from a cooking fire. You don’t feel the rock that gouges your heel. Then the wounds come and they stay and they spread. Before long, your body becomes something people fear to look at.

I've watched pieces of myself disappear, literally. Fingers. Toes. Feeling. Dignity.  Maybe worse than what the disease did to my body was what it did to my place in the world. I had to leave my home, my family, my life. The priests said I was unclean and God had turned His face against me. I wasn’t welcome in the temple anymore.

I lived outside the city, with others like me. People who coughed in the night and cried out when their skin cracked open. We were the walking dead, untouchable, unapproachable, and unwanted. If someone came near, we covered our faces and shouted out warnings:  “Unclean! Unclean!”

You stop being a person after a while. You are, instead, a warning.

We had heard the stories about Jesus. He touched lepers.  Yes, He touched them. Who does that? Who risks being defiled, contaminated, cast out themselves? But we heard Jesus had this way of breaking every rule that needed to be broken.

And then, He came.

We saw Him approaching the village, walking along the border between Samaria and Galilee. I didn’t expect Him to come our direction. No one ever did. People kept their distance from our little patch of forgotten earth.

But He turned toward us, ten broken men standing in the dust, holding more shame than skin on our bones. 

And, He looked at us.  Not through us. Not around us.

He didn’t flinch.  He didn’t step back.  He didn’t turn His face in polite avoidance the way others did.  He saw us.  He saw me.  

That was especially surprising to me, because I was a Samaritan.  The illness had forced us together. Jews and Samaritans, people who normally wouldn’t even speak to one another, now bound by a shared suffering. In the leper colony, all those boundaries blurred. Pain has a way of leveling people.

But still,  I was used to being doubly dismissed. First for my disease, and second for my heritage. Yet Jesus looked at me, a Samaritan, and didn’t look away.

Then came the command: “Go, show yourselves to the priests.”

As we walked, skin that had rotted began to knit together. The pain dulled. Strength returned. I watched my hands come back to life in front of my eyes. Hands I hadn’t wanted to look at for years.

The others ran ahead. I don’t blame them.  They had families to return to. Priests to show themselves to. A new life waiting for them that they had been dreaming of for years. For a moment, my feet turned with theirs. My heart raced with the hope of restoration, of everything I had lost being suddenly, miraculously returned.

But then, something stirred deep in me. A force I hadn't felt before, and it was something I couldn’t ignore.

I stopped. because it wasn’t enough just to be healed.  I needed Him to know.  I needed Jesus to know what this meant. What He meant.

He didn’t have to stop that day. No one would have questioned it if He kept walking. No one ever came our way, and even fewer acknowledged us as people. I was a leper. A Samaritan. I lived with layers of rejection.

But He had seen me.  I couldn't go another step without falling at His feet to say thank You.

So I turned around.  And I ran, not from shame this time, but with tears blurring my vision and praise burning in my chest. I ran to the feet of the One who had done what no one else ever had:

He saw me.
He healed me.
He loved me.

I collapsed before Him, overwhelmed and undone.  I didn’t have fancy words. Just worship. Just awe. Just the kind of gratitude that comes from knowing you’ve been rescued in both body and soul.  So I knelt low and I worshiped.

He looked at me and said," Rise and go; your faith has made you well.”  I knew something else had happened, something more than skin-deep.  There was a second miracle that day.

The first miracle healed my body.  The second healed my soul.

In the act of returning…
In the kneeling…
In the gratitude…

Something inside me was restored. 

I came to say thank you and I walked away whole.

The Turnaround

Not everyone turns back.  Ten were healed, but one returned.

I’ve thought a lot about that moment, the decision to stop, to turn around, to go back and say thank You. It’s easy to run forward into the newness, the celebration, the freedom of healing. God knows He's done a lot of healing in me.  But,  there’s something sacred in the pause, in the remembering, in the act of gratitude.

That’s the heartbeat behind how I want to spend my birthday this year.  I want to be the one who turns around.  I want to sit with God in the quiet of my living room, Bible open, memories laid bare, and offer Him the one thing I know I can give: my gratitude. My praise. My worship.

Not because everything in my life is perfect, but because He is.

I’ve seen Him show up when I didn’t deserve it. I’ve seen Him protect me when I was reckless, provide when I was desperate, and stay when I wouldn’t have blamed Him for walking away.  I’ve been healed more times than I can count, sometimes in ways I didn’t even know I needed.

So this year, the candles and cake can wait.
But the praise? That can’t.

This is my turnaround moment.
Not away from Him.
But toward Him, again and again and again.