Last weekend, church felt very meaningful to me. From the first note of worship to the final amen, something stirred within me. The sermon wasn’t just words—it was a call to reflection, a gentle but firm nudge to look at my life through the lens of eternity. It made me pause, made me think. Was I truly living with purpose, or had I let the weight of routine dull the significance of each day?
By the time I walked back out into the afternoon air, I felt different—renewed, challenged. It was the kind of service that reminds you that God is God, that our time here isn’t just about the daily grind. We are meant for more. We are here for a purpose. And that realization changes everything.
I arrived home to our small apartment, the familiar creak of the door welcoming me as I stepped inside. But before I could set down my keys, something unusual caught my eye. Just beyond the glass, perched on the edge of my little balcony sitting couch, sat a mourning dove.
For a moment, I stood frozen, taken aback by the sight. Birds aren’t a common presence here in the city—not like they were in the countryside, where I used to scatter seed and watch them gather. That was one of the things I had missed the most since we sold our home, the simple joy of their company.
And yet, here she was. Soft gray feathers, dark eyes watchful, her tiny body still as if she belonged there. She sat so close to the window that, for a fleeting second, it felt as though I could reach out and touch her. It was a quiet, unexpected gift—a reminder of something I thought I had left behind, finding its way back to me.
Curious, I reached for my phone and began searching. Mourning doves, it seemed, carried deep spiritual meaning. They were symbols of peace, renewal, and—most striking of all—new beginnings. Some even associated them with the resurrection of Jesus Christ.
I absorbed the significance. Just minutes ago, I had been moved by a church service that stirred something deep within me, urging me to live with greater purpose. And now, here was this gentle creature, a quiet messenger, as if to reinforce the very thing I had been reflecting on.
I sat by the window, watching that little mourning dove for more than an hour, unable to pull myself away. I wasn’t sure why, exactly. It wasn’t as if she was doing anything remarkable—just perching there, ruffling her feathers now and then, tilting her head as if she were watching me, too.
Tears welled in my eyes, not from sadness but from the overwhelming realization of just how intimately God knows me. That He would send something as simple as this—a quiet, unassuming bird—to sit outside my window, as if just for me. As if to say, I see you. I know you. I delight in you.
It wasn’t a grand miracle or a thundering revelation, but it didn’t need to be. It was a whisper of love, a reminder that I am never alone. That He is always with me, understanding me in ways no one else ever could. And in that still moment, with only the dove and my thoughts, I felt loved.
Our God is a God of love, woven into the very fabric of our lives in ways we often overlook. How many times do moments like this unfold—small, quiet happenings that we dismiss as mere coincidence? A familiar song playing at just the right time, a kind word from a stranger on a hard day, a delicate mourning dove appearing where she shouldn’t be.
But if we pause, if we look beyond the surface, we begin to see the deeper truth. These aren’t random occurrences. They are whispers of love from a God who knows us intimately, who delights in showing us He is near. They are gentle reminders that we are never forgotten, never unseen. And when we truly open our hearts to notice them, we realize—we are deeply, unfathomably loved.
(Side note - this is my daughter's YouTube channel and I thought her videos fit perfectly into my blog posts.)
With that thought, a few truths rose to the surface. Important, encouraging reminders about the nature of His love. Love that is constant, not fleeting. Love that sees us, even in our quietest moments. Love that reaches us in ways we might not expect.
1. His Love is Never-Ending
God’s love is unwavering, constant as the rising sun. It does not shift with the tides of our failures or fade with the weight of our mistakes.
Imagine being Peter in those final, heavy hours before the crucifixion. The air was thick with tension, a weight pressing down on the disciples as the reality of Jesus’ words began to sink in. For three years, Peter had walked beside Him—watching, learning, believing with all his heart that this was the Messiah. And now, Jesus was speaking of His departure, of suffering and death. It was unthinkable. Impossible.
Peter’s heart clenched as he listened. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Jesus, of standing in a world where his Savior was no longer beside him. But then Jesus turned to him, His eyes steady, His voice solemn.
"Before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times."
The words hit like a blow. Peter shook his head, heat rising in his chest. No. Impossible. Never, Lord. His loyalty was unshakable, his faith unbreakable. He would die before he denied the One he loved.
And yet, Peter could not have imagined what was coming. The chaos, the fear, the sheer terror of that long, dark night. The betrayal, the torchlight flickering in the garden, the sound of soldiers’ footsteps against the earth. He had drawn his sword to fight for Jesus—he was ready to defend Him to the death. But then, in the blink of an eye, Jesus was taken. Arrested. Bound. Led away.
And in an instant, the bravest disciple found himself swallowed by fear.
Peter had probably always imagined that if he were ever tested, it would be in some grand, defining moment—a trial before the Romans, where he would boldly stand for Jesus, unshaken, unwavering. Perhaps, if that had been the case, he would have steeled himself, ready to fight, ready to die. But the enemy is cunning, striking not with brute force, but with subtlety.
Peter’s test didn’t come in the form of a courtroom or a council of powerful men. No shackles were placed on his wrists, no blade pressed to his throat. Instead, it came in the form of a servant girl—a figure so insignificant that Peter hardly thought before he spoke.
"You were with Him, weren’t you?"
The words caught him off guard. The firelight flickered, shadows dancing on the walls. Eyes turned toward him. For the first time that night, fear curled its fingers around his throat.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about."
The words left his lips before he even realized he was saying them.
And then, again. Another voice, another accusation.
"You’re one of His disciples."
"No, I am not."
A third time. Urgent now, insistent.
"I can tell by your accent—you were with Him!"
And then, the final, crushing denial—loud, forceful, desperate.
"I swear, I do not know the man!"
And as the last syllable fell from his tongue, the night split open with the sharp, piercing cry of a rooster.
The sound must have sent ice through his veins. The words of Jesus came rushing back like a tidal wave, drowning him in shame. His shoulders slumped, his breath caught in his chest. He had done the unthinkable.
Not in battle. Not before rulers or soldiers. But in the quiet deception of an ordinary moment—just as the enemy had planned. Surely, a betrayal of this magnitude—against God Himself—should warrant the gravest punishment. High treason. Condemnation. Execution, even.
Imagine it for yourself. One of your closest friends, your most trusted confidant—the one who swore loyalty above all others—turning his back on you in your moment of greatest need. Not just once, not twice, but three times. And not under threat of torture or death, but at the mere questioning of a servant girl who posed no threat, no consequence.
"I don’t know Him."
Perhaps that’s what makes it all the more astonishing. Of all the things the angel could have said at the empty tomb, of all the names he could have mentioned, he spoke a message both specific and deliberate:
"But go, tell His disciples—and Peter—that He is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see Him, just as He told you."
—Mark 16:7 (NIV)
And Peter.
Why Peter? Of all people? The one who had failed Jesus so completely? The one who had sworn undying loyalty, only to crumble under pressure? Shouldn’t his name have been erased from the list of disciples, his place among them revoked? He had denied his Lord—not just once, but three times. If ever there was a moment that revealed a man’s true colors, surely, it was that night in the courtyard.
But we forget, this is a God whose love is never-ending.
The angel’s words weren’t a mistake. They were intentional. Jesus knew Peter’s shame. He knew the weight of regret was crushing him. And yet, instead of condemnation, He sent an invitation. Instead of rejection, He extended restoration.
Peter’s failure wasn’t the end of the story.
Because grace had the final word.
And that same grace writes our story, too. No failure is too great. No betrayal too deep. No shame too overwhelming for the love of a Savior who calls us by name, even when we least deserve it.
2. His Grace is Sufficient
If there’s one lesson God has been weaving into the fabric of my heart, it’s this: His grace is enough.
I wish I could say I embrace that truth easily, but the reality is, I’m a classic Type A personality. I thrive on structure, on schedules, on things being done the right way—the first time, every time. There’s a certain comfort in control, in knowing that everything is in its place, running on time, meeting expectations. But that same drive can be a relentless taskmaster.
I don’t tolerate imperfections in myself well. Every mistake feels magnified. Every missed deadline, every flaw, every shortcoming sits heavy on my shoulders. And it’s not just with myself. I struggle with unmet expectations in others, too. It’s a stressful way to live, always chasing a standard of perfection that was never mine to reach in the first place.
But then, God whispers: My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. (2 Corinthians 12:9)
Grace. Undeserved, unearned, freely given.
God doesn’t demand perfection from me. He doesn’t measure my worth by my productivity or my ability to hold everything together. He sees the striving, the exhaustion, the pressure I put on myself—and He offers something better.
Rest.
Freedom.
Grace that meets me in my imperfection and says, You are still loved. You are still mine. And that is enough.
Whatever the struggle, whatever the battle raging within you, God’s grace is sufficient. The enemy is relentless. He prowls like a lion, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He whispers lies, plants doubt, and sends storms meant to shake our foundation. But here’s the truth he doesn’t want us to remember: he is already defeated.
The trials you face are not just random hardships; they are calculated attempts by Satan to wear you down, to steal your joy, and to pull you away from the One who holds you steady. But there is a place where he cannot reach you—a refuge beneath the protective cloud of God’s glory and grace.
"Resist him, steadfast in the faith." (1 Peter 5:9)
Satan may roar, but he has no real power over a heart that is anchored in Christ. He can shake the ground beneath you, but he cannot break you when you stand firm in faith. He can try to wound, but he cannot destroy. Because when you keep your eyes on Jesus, when you trust in the strength of His grace, you stand under the covering of a God who never loses a battle.
So walk in faith. Rest in His protection. And know that no scheme of the enemy can ever separate you from the love and power of your Savior.
3. His Love Has No Record of Wrongs
About a decade ago, I had an idea—one that, at the time, seemed like a great way to strengthen my faith. I decided to keep a prayer checklist. I would write down every prayer request and place a little checkbox beside each one, ready to mark them off as God answered. I wanted to measure His faithfulness in a tangible way. Was He answering one prayer a week? Ten? I was determined to find out.
At first, it felt purposeful, even exciting. But before long, my time with God became more of a transaction than a relationship. Night after night, I would go through my list, reading off my requests like a grocery receipt, tallying up the ones that had been fulfilled. I’d drone through my prayers, repeating the same words, and more often than not, I’d find myself struggling to stay awake before I even reached the end of my list. If I was bored, I could only imagine how God felt.
And then, something hit me.
Who was I to keep score on God?
A prideful heart doesn’t seek the Lord. It seeks results. I wasn’t coming to God in surrender; I was coming with expectations, as if He were a cosmic vending machine meant to produce answers on my timeline. But God isn’t interested in being measured. He isn’t in the business of filling quotas or proving Himself to me like some kind of divine statistic.
Because love keeps no record of wrongs—and neither does He.
God never holds my failures against me. He doesn’t keep a ledger of my mistakes, tallying up my wrongs like some kind of divine accountant. He doesn’t weigh my worth against my achievements, waiting to see if the good will somehow outweigh the bad. His love isn’t transactional; it’s relational. It’s not about perfection. It’s about grace.
And thank goodness for that.
Because if He did keep a record, my list wouldn’t be pretty.
Cheeto addiction? Check.
Short-tempered? Check.
Unforgiving? Check.
One too many margaritas in my twenties? Double check.
And those are just the light offenses, the things I can admit without cringing. The deeper failures, the ones I’d rather not say out loud, the regrets that still sting if I think too long about them—oh, I don’t even want to imagine them written down.
But here’s the miracle: God doesn’t write them down. He doesn’t hold them over my head. He doesn’t point to my past and say, Look what you did.
Instead, He says, Look at what I’ve done for you.
Because His love isn’t about keeping score. It’s about wiping the slate clean. And without that grace, I could never survive.
For more study on these points, you can download my free study guide here.
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