Ann Voskamp's Blog, page 26

When Your Holidays Really Need to Find a Way Through: Why the Withness of God Really Matters

The Farmer and I are out somewhere on an wide-open highway in the early days of Advent when I catch the phrase sprawled across a billboard:

The holidays always
find a way. *

But what sticks with me long after the billboard blurs by is the reality that:

The holy days always
find a way,
because they are about The Way Himself finding a way to actually be with us.

This is not poetic cliche.
This is cosmic reality.

Resource: Manger and Nativity 25 Christmas Advent Devotionals For the Whole Family: Unwrapping the Greatest Gift (Family Edition): 
Best Inspirational Book of the Year, CBA, 2016 Favorite Resource: Manger and Advent Wreath

This is what I keep thinking about for days:

The holy days always find a way, to do more than find some way to just get through, or just get by, or somehow just get that gift under the tree, or just get us back in touch with the people and relationships and memories and all that ultimately matters.

The holidays always find a way…
only because they’re about God finding a way to be with us, and life in His presence is our actual way of being whole.

The relief of the holidays is:

You don’t even have to come, all you faithless and tearful and hopeless, because He finds the Way to come to you. If you’re weary of the way things never seem to change, if you’re tired of trying to make your way through, Christmas is for you, because The Way comes to you.

You don’t even have to come, all you faithless and tearful and hopeless, because He finds the Way to come to you. If you’re weary of the way things never seem to change, if you’re tired of trying to make your way through, Christmas is for you, because The Way comes to you.

God Himself sets aside the glory of heaven to get inside the grit of humanity, left the status of heaven to be with all of us hurting — and ultimately the Spirit of Christmas is about leaving everything privileged, to be with everyone pining for hope.

Like the Christ Child did for us.

Every year during the holidays: Some have faith in the mind-blowing impossible, that God of the universe came as a little baby …

While others will have faith in the the mind-blowing impossible, that the whole of the universe came from a Big Bang….

Everyone gets to choose what they will have faith in, but only one kind of faith chooses to believe the mind-blowing impossible that blows the door of the heart wide-open with an explosion of Love, that God Himself is now with us.

We all get to choose our own mind-blowing faith… because we all, without exception, have faith of one kind or other —- but only one kind of faith turns toward His very real arms reaching to hold us, to be with us.

That’s the gift of the holy days —- the holy days always find a way …. a way for us to find we are in the only place that matters, the place where we get to feel the Withness and Witness of God.

And wholeness in our souls is about deeply and genuinely feeling the very Withness of God — not just merely, cerebrally, knowing about it.

Some have faith in the mind-blowing impossible, that God of the universe came as a little baby …Others have faith in the the mind-blowing impossible, that the whole of the universe came from a Big Bang…. But only one kind of faith chooses to believe the mind-blowing impossible that blows the door of the heart wide-open with an explosion of Love, that God Himself is now with us.

I keep returning to this, when I feel the flooding rush of angst about lists that keep endlessly morphing and mushrooming and mountaining — and I pause in the moment and ask my soul:

Do you actually feel how Emmanuel, the God who is with you, is firm, solid love under you, never going anywhere?

Do you actually feel how Emmanuel, God who is with you, is steeled certainty at your back, always holding you, all your sureness, all your strength, all your spine and courage?

Do you actually feel how Emmanuel, God who is with you, is muscled safe arms right under yours, Love enfolding around you, shielding you, upholding you, carrying you like swaddled hope next to the assuring, steadying beat of His heart?

Christmas proves the point:

Emmanuel, the God who is with us, doesn’t stay some lofty idea in the upper echelons of philosophy, a notion in our noggin, but Emmanuel, God who is with us, takes on a body, comes embodied, feels what it’s like to be one of us, so we can feel in our bodies the safe relief of Him being here, right here, with us, being our way for us.

The carols play, the candle light flickers around nativities… and, in the midst of everything, we pause to sit with our souls:

Is my experience of the withness of God merely a knot of knowing stuck in a rut at the back of my head — or do I feel the sureness of His withness, the breadth and expanse of His presence enveloping all of me in this moment, spreading right across the whole of me, fully feeling the safe sureness of His withness under me and around me and in me?

We don’t fully, literally know the Withness of God in our life —— until we fully feel the Withness of God literally in our body.

Because the reality that can’t be missed is the fact that: Within our body is where our trauma lives, where our fears live, where our thoughts live, where our angst lives. If we don’t feel the withness of God actually literally within us… we actually aren’t experiencing the transformative power of what it means that God is with us.

Because it’s His withness that changes our whole life experience.

“In the thin air of Advent, you may not even know how to say it out loud: “I thought life would be easier than this.”

And the presence of your God comes near and gives the gift of His very sure promise: I will provide the way.

You may not even know who to tell: “I thought it would all be different than this.”

And the presence of your God draws close gives the gift of His very real comfort: I will provide grace for the gaps.

You may not even know how to find words for it: “I thought I would be . . . more.”

And the presence of your God reaches out and holds you close in His embrace and whispers: I will provide Me.

God gives God. That is the gift God always ultimately gives.

Because nothing is greater and we have no greater need, God gives God.

God gives God, and we only need to slow long enough to unwrap the greatest Gift with our time: time in His Word, time in His presence, time at His feet…. Time with Him.”

– excerpt from the 25 Day Christmas Devotional, The Greatest Gift

The holy days always
find a way —-
to simply feel the gift of His presence.

25 Christmas Advent Devotionals: The Greatest Gift (adult edition): Best Devotional of the Year Award, Christian Retailing , 2014 Favorite Resource: Manger and Nativity Favorite Resource: Manger and Advent Wreath Pop-Up Christmas Tree with 25 ornaments and kid’s devotionals: 2019 ECPA award winner for Best Devotional, Gift Book of the Year:
The Wonder of The Greatest Gift Fave Advent Resource: 24 Candle Advent wreath

Back on a farm, far from wide-open highways, The Farmer and I prepare to light the candles for Advent, as we sit close by the fire, and the snow starts to fall.

And it kindles within…

Christmas isn’t just a warm feeling within us…
Christmas is about feeling within us — how God Himself is with us.

And the flame blows lower and our love burns higher.

especially when things are kinda messy, experience a Christmas that restores Hope again That God Himself Is Truly With You  This Advent, just as things are, Stay in the Story,
the Story the rest of your year, your family, will need. 3 Award-Winning books for the Whole Family

The Greatest Gift (adult edition): Best Devotional of the Year, ECPA, 2014

Unwrapping the Greatest Gift (Family Edition): Best Inspirational Book of the Year, CBA, 2016

 The Wonder of the Greatest Gift: Best Devotional & Gift Book of the Year, CBA, 2019

(pop-up edition with your own 14 inch tree, 25 days of readings, 25 day advent flap calendar, hiding all 25 Biblically inspired ornaments! For any age) 

Even when things are messy & hurting, we can
Stay in the Story,
Unwrap the Greatest Gift —
& still have the gift, even now, of The Greatest little Christmas

The Faith We Need for Holidays, For Ordinary Days, For Hope in Suffering Seasons

Few people radiate such joy in the present moment or hope in the promise of heaven the way Joni Eareckson Tada does. I trust Joni when she speaks of God’s comfort and peace because she is so strikingly honest about the suffering that brought her to that place of contentment. She draws me closer to the One who was also acquainted with grief. It is an honor to welcome Joni to the front porch today….

Guest Post by Joni Eareckson Tada

Suffering has a way of heaving you beyond the shallows of life where your faith feels ankle-deep. It casts you out into the fathomless depths of God, a place where Jesus is the only One who can touch bottom.

For more than half a century, my quadriplegia has taught me how to swim in the depths of God. I am not saying that I swim well. Sometimes I feel like I’m only dog-paddling. Other times I think I’ll drown in the waves of pain that crash over me. But Jesus is always my rescuer. He is my anchor, and I cling tighter to him now than ever before. It’s because I need him more. 

But pain has also melded my heart with my Savior’s. I find comfort in the Man of Sorrows who is acquainted with grief (see Isaiah 53:3). He is a better relief and rest than any pain medication. 

And it is my pain that has forced a slower pace. I now see more in God’s Word. I see him in small and great pleasures. I feel his delight in everything from sun-dappled shadows on a lawn to those breathtaking moments when a wayward soul awakens to gospel truth. Somehow, pain—and perhaps aging—has helped me appreciate life more. 

It’s why over the last year or so, I’ve gone back to my tattered copy of The Practice of the Presence of God, a little book of teachings and conversations from the seventeenth-century Carmelite monk known as Brother Lawrence.

“The worst that could happen to me was, to lose that sense of God which I had enjoyed so long.”

Lawrence’s primary job for many years was working in the kitchen of his monastic community. He faced physical pain from war wounds and described himself as so clumsy that he broke everything he touched. Yet he had a quiet faith and an unassuming approach to life that I—and millions of other readers—find profoundly meaningful.

Back in the 1960s, I read The Practice of the Presence of God because everyone was reading it. But now, in a tense post-Covid world, I started reading it again because I am drawn to Lawrence’s faith in the midst of suffering and his constant awareness of God’s presence throughout the day.

Our culture screams at us in a thousand different voices, and at times I can hardly hear my soul breathe. Lawrence speaks a quiet hope and love that lowers the volume of the world’s noise.

Lawrence exercised his faith among pots and pans, scrub buckets, toilets, and dirty floors. I exercise my faith among urine bags, bedpans, wheelchair batteries, support stockings, and an external ventilator. 

Life for both the monk and me seems filled with the mundane. But it is also filled with the splendorous majesty of our great triune God.

“… if you want to know Christ intimately, it will mean journeying through deep suffering.“

In the ordinary rhythms of life with a disability and its paraphernalia, I practice the moment-by-moment presence of Jesus Christ. I hardly have a choice in the matter; pain and disability require daily closeness to Christ.

Yet I learn from my Carmelite friend. He models a life of never rushing.  Waiting always. Enduring long. Not scorning the simple tasks of our days. Seeing God in all things.

As Lawrence wrote, it wasn’t pain of body or mind he feared: “The worst that could happen to me was, to lose that sense of God which I had enjoyed so long.”

I can’t say that I have not feared pain of body or mind. Like Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, I have asked the Father to remove my cup of suffering. Unlike Jesus, who asked only three times, I have pleaded countless times.

Yet years of pain have taught me that if you want to know Christ intimately, it will mean journeying through deep suffering.

Pain might push you to the limits, where you nearly collapse. And sometimes you do.

“Suffering brings my own emptiness and God’s fullness together.“

But remember this: Your call to suffer comes from a God tender beyond description. Do not misinterpret the ways of your loving Lord. Your pain is a private meeting place with God—a hard but personal space where you will know Christ’s most amazing love for you beyond a doubt.

My own suffering has sent me into the inner recesses of God’s heart and shut the door on the world. In that solitary get-alone-with-God place, fresh desires for Jesus start springing up in my soul. My love, my devotion, and a sober respect for my majestic Savior begin to stretch my capacity for him. I find a lively hope of heaven and a desire to live a holy life.

Suffering brings my own emptiness and God’s fullness together. I can’t imagine a better blessing.

So today, live hopefully, miraculously, and powerfully, as you practice Christ’s presence in your suffering. Hold on to the truth Christ showed us on the cross: death produces life.

Praise God that He can transform the dark soil of your pain into a place of resurrection joy.

Joni Eareckson Tada is founder and CEO of Joni and Friends, an organization that communicates the gospel and mobilizes the global church to evangelize, disciple, and serve people living with disability. Joni’s latest book, The Practice of the Presence of Jesus, weaves together wisdom from Brother Lawrence and insights from Joni’s life to remind us that experiencing God every day can transform pain into peace and the mundane into the holy. This unique weaving of Joni Eareckson Tada’s contemporary devotional insights with the timeless wisdom of seventeenth-century monk Brother Lawrence invites you to dwell in the active presence of God moment by moment.

[ Our humble thanks to Multnomah for their humble partnership in today’s devotional. ]

Only the Good Stuff: Multivitamins For Your Weekend [11.18.2023]

  Happy, happy, happy pre-Thanksgiving weekend!

Come along with us here because who doesn’t need a bit of good news?

Let yourself smile, be crazy inspired, laugh, love & really live the gift of this life

just a little bit more this weekend …

Serving up only the Good Stuff for you & your people right here:

 eberhard grossgasteigerJoel & Jasmin Førestbird Quynh Do 

They truly do make the soul sing!

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JOY is

always POSSIBLE

… embrace life’s simple wonders – a whimsical reminder at any age …

And..

it’s never too late to pursue your passions.

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We truly are …

His

Carol Aust, Embrace 35

a must read

There’s more to friendship than inside jokes and chummy activities. Prophetic friends see our quality of character and expand our capacity for virtue.

Speaking of good friends…

You won’t want to miss this feathered tale of fun and friendship – Quirky Quackers: When a Chick Dreams Big!

On the Book Stack at the Farm

Don’t miss  Ellen Wildman‘s recent guest post: Beyond Clichés: The True Impact of Faith, Hope & Love

A hummingbird hospital? In your home? With more than 50 hummingbirds being nursed back to health? Yeah, but it’s really what this woman says in the last line of this article that is absolutely everything.

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A post shared by KIND Snacks UK (@kindsnacksuk)

Could there really be a better superpower?

Gobble up some sweetness!

These Turkey Brownies are a feast for your eyes and a treat for your taste buds. Perfect for adding a playful peck of fun to your holiday table!

So so fun!

Let the little ones express their gratitude with this simple and delightful DIY project. Easy, fun, and filled with thanks!

Katie Schroeder

A heart bigger than her harvest!

What C.S. Lewis Can Teach Us

About Finding Gratitude in the Patches of Godlight

A One of a Kind Year Long Gratitude Journal

If you find yourself yearning for a moment’s pause

– a breath amidst the rush, consider this an invitation — a gentle offering.

Should you choose to, your story of gratitude can begin today, one cherished day following another. So join us, not with a click or a tap, but with pen in hand, ready to document the beauty of each and every day.

This week on the blog:

How to Find the Right Way Toward Joyfulness & Not Miss The Best (Honking) Secret to Happiness When Life’s Hard

(and if you’d like these delightful accompanying wooden ornament my son makes, you can find them )

The Wonder of the Greatest Gift

And if you would like to join us in a wonderful Christmas tradition?

This is maybe a great find!

Only $10 and the sale ends today – a perfect gift to have on hand for every family you know!

And as we start to put up the greenery

and decorate for the season

this is the one new Christmas Song I have on repeat!

That’s all for this weekend, friends.

Go slow. Be God-struck. Grant grace. Live Truth.

Give Thanks. Give Thanks Always. Give Thanks Agains

Share Whatever Is Good. 

How to Find the Right Way Toward Joyfulness & Not Miss The Best (Honking) Secret to Happiness When Life’s Hard

Right after I read the story, I go looking for an old horn to screw right to the wall.

There are things worth the proclaiming.

And after I find one, I walk around the house with the horn in hand trying to figure if it looks best on this wall? Or the back of this door? The Farmer raises his eyebrows.

“A horn on a wall?” He’s grinning boyish. Shalom and Malakai are bickering loud over a game of chess.

“Because you’re thinking it’s not quite loud enough in here yet?” he winks.

“You!” I tease, poke him in the shoulder, him broad like a beam that carries half my world.

“Whadya think? Does it look right here?”

“I think I’ve got a wall out in the barn it might look perfect on.” He winks, shields himself with his arm to fend off the next poke.

“But if you knew the story….” He nods, knowing, smiling, “Uh huh.” Stories can turn around whole hard hearts. Jesus walked backroads and spun stories and turned around lives and the axis of the cosmos.

“What if the choice in every moment always is: Doxology or dark”

I tell the story at lunch.

“So I read it a book  … True story.“ I pass down the squash. “A man drove a stretch of highway past this tattered cardboard sign that read:

“Honk if you’re happy!”

And who doesn’t roll his eyes at such naivete? As if the world is this strange hybrid of Pollyanna and Sesame Street — if you’re happy and you know it, honk, honk — when it’s really just a strange old world, broken and a mess and aching in the dark. But what if the choice in every moment always is: Doxology or dark?

Shalom offers me her glass and I pour her water.

“But there’s this one day when he drives past the sign with his little girl, and on a whim, he beeps the horn.

And every day, when he passes the sign, his daughter begs him to do it again, and pretty soon, every time he’s on this stretch of highway, this jaded man, cynical man’s anticipating the sign. Anticipating honking his horn. And do you know what he said?”

I want to make sure I get it right. I push back my chair, to get the book off my night stand.

Flip through the pages… There.

“And just for a moment… I felt a little happier than I had before — as if honking the horn made me happier…

If on a one-to-ten scale, I was feeling an emotional two, when I honked the horn, my happiness grew several points… In time, when I turned on to Hwy 544, I noticed that my emotional set-point would begin to rise. That entire 13.4 mile stretch began to become a place of emotional rejuvenation for me.”

I lay the book down on the table, reach for the water pitcher.

“The act of giving thanks — ends up giving you joy”

“See what happened to him? The sign said, “Honk if you’re happy. And he discovered that the act of honking the horn — it made him happy.”

The act of giving thanks — ends up giving you joy.

“Honk, Honk!” Malakai had grinned at the end of the table.

His mouth’s full of food.

I love him wild.

“So who puts up a cardboard sign beside a highway: “Honk if you’re happy”?”

I have to get to the rest of the story before the table erupts into a fest of honking geese.

“This man’s got to find out. So he finds a house on the other side of the trees that line the highway — and he goes up to the door and asks the folks if they know anything about the happy sign?

And the man at the door welcomes him in and says yes, yes, he made the sign.” Malakai’s grinning, his cheeks right full.

“And this is why he made the sign: Because he was sitting there everyday in his house, sitting there in a darkened bedroom with his young wife who was terminal, sitting there watching her every day, as she lay there waiting to die.

“The medicine we can give our souls on our darkest nights –is to find ways to give thanks for every glimmer of light.”

And one day when he couldn’t really take it anymore, he painted up that sign and stuck it out by the road. Because, he said —” I reach for the book again, to find the right page, to get the words right:

“I just wanted people in their cars not to take this moment for granted.  This special, never-again-to-be-repeated moment with the ones they care for most should be savored and they should be aware of the happiness in the moment.”

I look around at all their faces ringing the table, the jewel of them slipping around me in this space.

Light’s falling across the table.

Shalom’s one strand of loose hair is its own gold.

Something inside of me trumpets loud and long.

I can only whisper the end of the story.

“At first, after he put out the sign, there was only a honk here and there. His dying wife asked what that was about and the husband explained how he’d put the sign out there.  After a few days, there was more honking and more… And the husband said that the honking…”

I look down again at the book but everything’s blurring. Finally the line surfaces…

“… that the honking, it became like medicine to her. As she lay there, she heard the horns and found great comfort in knowing that she was not isolated in a dark room dying. She was part of the happiness of the world. It was literally all around her.”

The medicine we can give our souls on our darkest nights –is to find ways to give thanks for every glimmer of light.

“We give thanks — not because of how we feel — but because of who God is.”

The light of goodness, of God’s glory, was still literally all around her.

God literally aways still around us. And we give thanks, not because of how we feel — but because of who He is. And that He is always right here with us.

So much light’s falling across the table.

“I think that horn of yours, it will look best in that doorway.”

The Farmer winks again.

And when The Farmer heads out to the shop after lunch, I call after him — Remember to bring in a screwdriver! So we can hang up that horn.

And he waves back to me as he runs across the farmyard.

And when I’m standing in the kitchen, wiping off the counters, I hear it clear, from the farm pickup parked out in the laneway, out by the shop:

Honk! Honk! Honk! 

And I laugh! He’s out there honking the horn of his truck!

“Being joyful — isn’t what makes you grateful. It’s being grateful that actually makes you joyful! “

I turn to the window, laughing…. He’s happy! Happy…

And I reach for my pen laying on my open gratitude journal there on the counter.

“Honk if you are happy” is in reality: “To BE happy — honk.”

And “Give thanks if you are joyful” is in reality: 

“To BE joyful, give thanks.”

Being joyful — isn’t what makes you grateful. It’s being grateful that actually makes you joyful!

And I write it down in my gratitude journal, “The farmer honking a horn — and that grin of his.”

This has become like medicine to me. 

It’s the writing down of our thankfulness — that turns us the right way toward joyfulness.

It’s the writing down of our thankfulness — that turns us the right way toward joyfulness.

Shalom waves to the Farmer from the window. He’s waving back at her.

She sings the words quiet to him, “Honk if you’re happy!” and she knows he can’t hear.

But all the world is heaven’s clarion and even in the dark, we are surrounded by it, all the happiness of the world.

I keep the journal close, always ready to give thanks.

Because literally —

His goodness and glory is still all around us and still greater than all the dark.

What does the Christ-life really look like when your days are gritty, long — and sometimes even dark? How is God even here? My story of just that: One Thousand Gifts

Are you ready to begin—or begin again—a life-changing habit of daily gratitude? Want to reset, refresh, reboot your life and literally rewire your brain? Be one of the more than 1.5 million people who have stepped into the life-change of this experience.

It’s only in the expression of gratitude for the life we already have, we discover the life we’ve always wanted . . . a life we can take, give thanks for, and break for others. We come to feel and know the impossible right down in our bones: we are wildly loved – by God.

Let’s end the year strong in joy as we count all the ways He loves us!  Life is too short to do anything but truly savor it — to count all the ways you truly loved.

Beyond Clichés: The True Impact of Faith, Hope & Love

Ellen Wildman holds firm to the belief that everyone is a theologian. She wants to help others feel like the Bible and theology are accessible to them. Her work as the Bible publisher at DaySpring has shown her how “faith, hope, and love” run deeper than a quippy saying and can transform and encourage her walk with Christ daily. Read more of Ellen’s story below. It’s a delight to welcome Ellen to the farm’s table today…

Guest Post by Ellen Wildman

The job of a Bible publisher is no ordinary 9-5. It’s a strange, magnificent, and complicated thing when the study of faith becomes an integral part of your work.

Balancing the responsibility of delving into the Word of God as part of a daily to-do list can be a unique challenge, but it’s an honor nonetheless. In the midst of it all, my favorite part, the part of the process that really makes my heart burst with excitement, is what we call storyboarding.

At the inception of each new Bible project, typically two to three years prior to its release, I find myself in my home office with a big iced chai and my Bible, meticulously planning the arrangement of unique features. From book introductions and character profiles to devotionals and study notes, every Bible carries its own distinct offerings.

My job is to journey through all 66 books, from the Old Testament to the New, strategically placing these features where they best belong.

It’s a humbling and prayerful process, knowing that one day people just like you will purchase this Bible, eager to encounter Jesus within its pages. As I delve into chapter after chapter, my prayer every time is that my work will help readers to discover the richness and beauty of Scripture. And the experience of storyboarding the NLT Inspire Illustrating Bible was no exception.

But I never anticipated how tracing the themes of faith, hope, and love throughout the Word would fortify my own faith and renew my gratitude for God’s goodness.

“Three things will last forever—faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love.” – 1 Corinthians 13:13

“Faith, hope, and love is far more than a Christian catchphrase. It is foundational to our relationship with Christ and with others.”

I was tasked with finding 300+ instances of faith, hope, and love in the Bible, from Genesis to Revelation. As I embarked on my journey in Genesis, I must confess, I wasn’t starting from a place of deep thought. Having encountered the phrase “faith, hope, and love” countless times throughout my years in the church, it seemed a little too cliché to be life changing.

It felt like the kind of sentiment parroted at weddings, hung on a plaque in my grandma’s kitchen, and worn on a necklace of a woman at church. However, as I immersed myself in the storyboarding process, the richness of this phrase unveiled itself before me.

And in the end, I came to understand that faith, hope, and love is far more than a Christian catchphrase. It is foundational to our relationship with Christ and with others.

Unearthing profound instances of unwavering faith in even the most obscure books like 1 Chronicles, Ezekiel, and Nahum, I felt the awe-inspiring presence of God.

From Abraham to Esther, from Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego to Thomas, and from the Israelites in Joshua to the teachings of Jesus, our heritage of faith unfolded before me.

And with each story, Hebrews 11:1 resounded like an anthem: “Faith shows the reality of what we hope for; it is the evidence of things we cannot see.”

Over and over again, people in the Bible faced challenges and trials, and yet they clung to the promises of God and were propelled by His empowering presence (see Joshua 1:9 for example). They relied on God in faith, and God carried each of them through. And He is carrying you, too.

Hope naturally bubbles forth from the spring of faith, as demonstrated by those who put their trust in God and therefore found a greater hope for tomorrow.

Job maintained hope in God’s justice and mercy, believing that God would eventually restore him (Job 19:25-27).

“Throughout the Bible, we see the rejuvenating power of hope grounded by a firm foundation of faith.”

Jeremiah expressed hope in God’s faithfulness and compassion, even in the midst of Israel’s exile (Lamentations 3:22-23).

The woman with the issue of blood demonstrated hope when she reached out to touch Jesus’ cloak, believing that even a mere touch would heal her—and her faith was rewarded (Mark 5:25-34).

Throughout the Bible, we see the rejuvenating power of hope grounded by a firm foundation of faith. And that renewing, powerful hope—hope in God that will transform our perspective and instill in us a perseverant joy—is still alive and well today.

And through it all, as the famous hymn says, we find “strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow.” Our strength is undergirded by the unending and astonishingly immeasurable love of God. The entire Bible is a testament to God’s love for humanity, and stories from Ruth and Naomi, David and Jonathan, the Samaritan woman at the well, and Mary and Martha reinforce this love that is deeper and more meaningful than any love the world could give.

“The story of God is the story of love in action.”

The story of God is the story of love in action. Love is foundational to God’s character, and as those created in His image, we are called to reflect this love in our lives and relationships (see John 13:34).

The process of storyboarding showed me that the sentiment of faith, hope, and love is anything but trite. We can place our faith in God, look forward in hope to eternity with Him, and deepen our love for God and for one another while we wait for His return.

Faith enables us to trust in God’s promises and guidance, anchoring our actions and decisions in the belief that God is in control. With hope, we embrace the assurance of eternal life and a better future, finding strength and endurance in challenging times. And in the meantime, love governs our interactions as we demonstrate Christlike compassion, forgiveness, and selflessness toward all.

By integrating faith, hope, and love into our everyday lives, we cultivate a life devoted to God, enriched by deep community, and empowered to make a positive difference in the lives of those around us.

Ellen Wildman is the associate product manager for Bible publishing at DaySpring Cards. She worked with Tyndale House Publishers on the NLT Inspire Illustrating Bible, which features more than 300 ready-to-color designs throughout the Bible that are all centered around faith, hope, and love.

Linger longer in the NLT Inspire Illustrating Bible as you spend time with God. This beautiful spiral-bound, large-trimmed Bible includes center margins with space to journal or create original art, plus access to the Filament Bible app, which contains a wealth of study and devotional resources! Listen to the app’s audio Bible as you enjoy the relaxing benefits of coloring and creative journaling in your Bible. Discover more at inspirebible.com or @theinspirebible.

[ Our humble thanks to Tyndale for their humble partnership in today’s devotional. ]

How to Stay Connected through Changing Seasons

As parents, we’re tasked with nurturing and guiding our children—even as we navigate our own wonderings about faith. In the overwhelm and constant demands of life, is it possible to tend to both our own souls and our family’s flourishing? Kayla Craig believes so. With tender curiosity and contemplative wisdom, Kayla invites us parents to grow spiritually alongside our children. Blending thoughtful musings and practical resources, Kayla meets us parents right where we are, exploring how we connect with one another—and to One who holds in all—in the many changing seasons of our lives. It’s a grace to welcome Kayla to the farm’s table today…

Guest Post by Kayla Craig

Adapted from Kayla’s book, “Every Season Sacred”

The first time I drop him off at preschool, I peek inside his classroom from a picture window in the hall. He’s sheepish as he makes his way to the blocks. He looks around and catches my eye.

I blink back tears and, unsure what to do, give him a thumbs-up.

Dimples appear on his round face as he flashes a grin, confidence filling his steps as he collects an armful of primary-colored blocks from the bin and begins to play with a little girl in pigtails.

A few years later, at the end-of-the-year elementary concert, he scans the crowd. He takes his place onstage and spots me. I give him a thumbs-up, a reminder that I’m here. I see his shoulders loosen, and he shares that same dimpled smile. Years inch forward, and his cheeks get less round, but the wordless check-ins still happen—on the ball field, at the arcade for a friend’s birthday party, at the school science night.

My silly thumbs-up gesture whispers, I’m here. I see you. I believe in you. You’re doing great.

He is now in a new season of life: middle school. Through his ages and stages, we continue to share tiny moments (more discreetly now) from afar.

Our check-ins may adapt and evolve, but the intentional connection points still punctuate our days. They’re threads connecting us, parent to child, child to parent. All kids need connection points with safe, loving people. As parents, it’s our honor, privilege, and joy to be that for our families.

One of my sons prefers sending me ridiculous emojis and funny messages from his tablet. I see you. Another’s hand finds mine as the sky turns to dusk and we put away the last of the dinner dishes. I believe in you. My daughter, who is disabled and doesn’t speak, brings her hand to my cheek. You’re doing great.

“These tiny moments of seeing and being seen are the ties that bind us together.”

These tiny moments of seeing and being seen are the ties that bind us together.

As parents, we often feel pressure to perform on the big occasions and milestones, with lavish holiday celebrations or picture-perfect vacations.

But relationship is sewn together in the tiny moments: the wave at the school pickup line, the unexpected hug in the kitchen, the nod before leaving with friends.

Just as we make space for these moments with our children in the bits and pieces of our real life, God makes space for us.

This is prayer: check-ins from child to Parent, connecting in the comings and goings of our lives.

It’s easy to overcomplicate prayer.

“As a child checks in with a parent, I offer my messy, imperfect, slightly chaotic life to the One who knows my name.”

We often assume that prayer has to be done in large blocks of uninterrupted time, with just the right words, surrounded by candles and a Pinterest-worthy setting. But for most of us, especially during the busy years of parenting, the truth is that our prayers may often be small offerings given and received throughout the day.

As a child checks in with a parent, I offer my messy, imperfect, slightly chaotic life to the One who knows my name. This usually takes the form of silent, short prayers.

In the morning, as I reach for my glasses (and before I reach for my phone): This is the day the Lord has made; I will rejoice and be glad in it.

In the afternoon, as I pick up discarded gym socks and run the washing machine: God, be with me as I work.

As I fill the gas tank with climbing prices: Thank You for this privilege. Help me to share what I have.

As I end up in the long line (again) at the grocery store: Give me eyes to see You in the people around me.

As I check my inbox and realize I missed a work deadline: Jesus, help me remember I’m more than what I do.

As I doomscroll while sitting in the waiting room; as I laugh; as I cry: Be near.

Our short, straightforward offerings amid our ordinary lives are check-ins with the One who calls us beloved children.

Our seemingly simple check-in prayers fit the contours of our lives.

What a grace that God cares about the tiny parts of our days because God cares about the tiny parts that make up us. And what a grace that God not only hears but listens.

Just as you ache for your children to be able to bring their deepest aches to you, God wants to hear your concerns. God cares for you like a compassionate, caring parent who longs to lavish the deepest affection on their children.

What a grace that God cares about the tiny parts of our days because God cares about the tiny parts that make up us.

In 1 Peter 5:7, we’re reminded that no worry or anxiety is too small (or too big) to share with the One who keeps careful watch over us. As we check in with those we love, we secure our bonds and tighten our attachments.

A friend is over when my phone buzzes.

“Grab it!” she says, refilling our kids’ bowl of popcorn.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, cradling the phone on my shoulder. I pull open the sliding door to the deck, and we chat for a few minutes, catching up on work drama and family news.

I watch the first autumn leaves fall from their branches in the backyard.

Then I hear a child scream.

My dad hears it, too, and laughs. I smile and tell him I’d better go, breathing in the fresh early fall air before sliding back inside.

“Is everything okay?” my friend asks.

“What?” I ask, popping a few kernels of the kids’ afternoon snack into my mouth. “Oh, yeah, he just called to talk.”

“Does he do that a lot?” she says.

“I guess so, yeah.” I chuckle with a mouthful of popcorn.

“Wow,” she responds. “He calls like that? Just to check in? That’s pretty special. He must love you a lot.”

Maybe we never grow out of needing those check-ins.

I see you. I believe in you. You’re doing great.

O God of connection, we thank You for Your deep care. Forgive us for the ways we’ve gotten distracted and forgotten to check in with those we love—and with You, Lord. Thank You for hearing us even in our silence. Help us to communicate love and compassion to all who cross our path. Amen.

And He’s committed to leading you every step of the way until you’re safely home.

Kayla Craig’s new book Every Season Sacred is a beautiful (and highly giftable) weekly invitation for parents to ask big questions, embrace faithful rhythms, and experience God’s mysterious, loving presence together.

Every Season Sacred: Reflections, Prayers, and Invitations to Nourish Your Soul and Nurture Your Family throughout the Year includes honest & hopeful devotions for every season of the parenting journey, open-ended discussion prompts, and prayers to explore and practice as a family.

Kayla is a former journalist who brings deep curiosity and care to her writing. She created the popular Liturgies for Parents Instagram account, which Christianity Today named an “essential parenting resource.” She’s the author of To Light Their Way and also hosts the weekly Liturgies for Parents podcast. Kayla lives in a 115-year-old former convent in her Iowa hometown, where she hopes to create spaces of welcome alongside her four children, two dogs, and husband, Jonny.

[ Our humble thanks to Tyndale for their humble partnership in today’s devotional. ]

Why We Can Still Walk Forward into the Light This Christmas

Few writers can communicate the wonder of God’s Word as deeply as Nancy DeMoss Wolgemuth. For more than sixty years, she has been on a lifelong quest to know and love Jesus more deeply and has never gotten over the wonder of who He is. She finds great joy in making Him known to others, whether she’s speaking from a platform or standing in a grocery aisle. In Nancy’s new advent devotional, Born a Child and Yet a King, she invites us to listen closely to the familiar songs heard everywhere this Christmas season. They are telling a story, the story of Jesus—who He is and why He came. What a joy to welcome Nancy back to the farm’s front porch today…

Guest Post by Nancy DeMoss Wolgemuth

Adapted from Nancy’s book, “Born a Child and Yet a King”

I’ve always found it worthy of note that God’s Son arrived on the earth without much of a splash. No first-century version of a media blitz. No big publicity campaign. The choir of angels was, of course, a spectacular touch, yet God confined its audience to only a handful of shepherds. To almost everyone else, Jesus slipped into the world unannounced.

No fanfare. No light show.

Simply a dawning. The Dayspring, as we sing in a traditional carol that can be traced back to the 800s AD:

O come, Thou Dayspring, come and cheer
our spirits by Thine advent here;
disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
and death’s dark shadows put to flight.

I believe we should think of Christmas like that—like a sunrise.

Yes, the last vestiges of night remain visible, even seeming to dominate the opposite horizon, and yet they’re clearly in process of fading, of being pushed aside, their “dark shadows put to flight.”

Zechariah, father of John the Baptist, employed this same word picture in his reverie concerning the son that God had promised to him and his wife in their old age. John, he said, would be tasked with proclaiming to his generation that “the Dayspring from on high has visited us” (Luke 1:78), that the seemingly indelible stain of darkness that colored the world would soon be exposed as limited, vulnerable, impermanent.

Breakable. By the Daybreak.

The Dayspring’s visitation, Zechariah said, is meant

“To give light to those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death.

To guide our feet into the way of peace.” (v. 79)

“We for whom the darkness is dissipating have cause above all others to be cheerful.”

And His coming, the ancient carol reminds us, is cause for cheer.

We for whom the darkness is dissipating have cause above all others to be cheerful.

Now that the “sun of righteousness” has arisen before us “with healing in its wings,” we’re even rousingly invited to “go out leaping like calves from the stall” (Mal. 4:2).

“O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.” We hear in the carol’s darker keys the pangs of desperation.

And yet because our God has responded to this cry with the sunrise promise of His advent, we live today as “children of light” (Eph. 5:8). 

Emmanuel, as Matthew notated in his Gospel account, means “God with us” (Matt. 1:23), hearkening back to the prophet Isaiah: “Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel” (Isa. 7:14). (The slight spelling difference here has to do with transcribing the original Hebrew and Greek.)

God with us, not just over and above us.

“God with us, not off at a distance, forever beyond us. God with us, not just over and above us.”

God with us, not off at a distance, forever beyond us.

O come, O come, Emmanuel
and ransom captive Israel.

This is a hymn of longing—of Israel’s longing for their Messiah, for a rescuer, for a deliverer who would come and set them free. They longed to be back in their homeland, back to their temple, back to the things they’d taken for granted during those years when God had pleaded with them to return to Him, warning them of what their continual compromises with evil and idolatry would surely cost.

We sing His name—Emmanuel—because of how we ourselves came to this earth, not with sins that we could learn to overcome if we worked hard enough, but with sins that had already defeated us, destroyed us, doomed us. And this is how we would die—in eternal captivity—if not for “God with us.” 

If not for the coming of Emmanuel. 

If not for Christmas. 

And even when our life’s journey takes us through periods of darkness, we can still walk forward into “the light of dawn, which shines brighter and brighter until full day.” (Prov. 4:18)

For though Christmas is like a sunrise, it does not presage a coming sunset. This earthbound life we live is leading us to a heavenly high noon.

And how can we not be cheerful as we contemplate the joy of that day?

How grateful I am, Father, that the cheer You provide is neither superficial nor unsustainable. You have placed inside us the hopefulness of a new morning now that Your Son has dawned in our hearts and promised an end to our darkness. Make me a beacon of this light so that every place I go, others will see Your brightness shining.

Nancy DeMoss Wolgemuth is the founder and lead Bible teacher for Revive Our Hearts, a ministry dedicated to calling women to freedom, fullness, and fruitfulness in Christ. Nancy’s love for Christ and passion for His Word are evident through her writing, digital, and conference outreaches and her two daily audio teachings—Revive Our Hearts and Seeking Him.

Her books have sold more than four million copies and are reaching the hearts of women around the world. This Advent, you’re invited to rediscover your favorite Christmas hymns with Born a Child and Yet a King. Spend thirty-one days tracing the gospel through your favorite carols and discover anew the awe of this season.

Each day’s reading will help guide your prayers, thoughts, and priorities so you may enjoy a deeper intimacy with Jesus Christ this Christmas!

[ Our humble thanks to Moody for their humble partnership in today’s devotional. ]

Hurting for All the Suffering in the World? Start Here

I overheard some deeply hurting guy say it this week, that after being glued to the news for the last two weeks, after seeing bloody rage and inhumane agony that feels like we’ve somehow all lost our humanity, that he is just — out.

Sure, true, there had been decades of him being all in with God, but what’s happening in the world left him in so much disappointment and disillusionment with God — that he was walking out on the God he felt had long ago walked out on him…. on all of us.

And I wanted to crumble a bit and cry, because I get it, I feel it, and I wanted to gently touch his arm on the way out and find his eyes and whisper:

God Himself — and the ground you stand on — groans with you, even the clay beneath your feet longing to be “liberated from its bondage to decay,” and the Holy Spirt is so fluent in heartbreak, He doesn’t need words to translate all our wounds. (Rom 8:18-22).

Maybe the ultimate question to ask in suffering is: Do we want company or not? There is a God who says, “I AM — and I am God with you.”

God did more than merely make this world, He made this world to love, and He isn’t some mad scientist but He is Love Himself who is madly in love with the whole world of us, and God enters into all this world’s pain and keeps bearing all this pain, because God’s goal is to remake this world.

The God who made the wonders of the heavens, means history to be nothing less on earth as it is in heaven.

It’s true: The suffering isn’t over — but the story isn’t over.

If you wouldn’t think a book is over when there are still more pages left to turn, then why think how many painful stories of this world are over, with no surprising hope left?

If you wouldn’t walk out of a movie in the middle and announce your verdict on the whole shebang, then why walk out on God in the middle of the story of the world, when there are more than a few redemptive chapters left and the most unfathomable tragedies are already becoming undone because the Cross revolutionizes the ultimate trajectory of everything.

Don’t give up on the story just yet, because the whole story is going to be wholly redeemed in the end.

Stay in the story till the last scene: “He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever” (Rev. 21:4).

Wipe God out and do you wipe out all your tears? Erase God from your life and do you really erase all suffering — or erase all redemption of that suffering?

What do you get when you get rid of God? Banish God and how exactly do you banish pain?

Is it really better to say there is no God, which doesn’t solve the problem of pain, but rather just says there is no answer, no hope, no grand meaning, no other point but just to keep breathing until you no longer are anything more than buried bones under a heap of dirt? How does taking God out of the equation give us any solution?

You may not understand His ways — but, it’s always offered to you: you can take His hand on the way.

(What if taking God out of the equation isn’t actually about offering any solution to suffering — but is rather about our own desperate lunge to instate our own rule and authorization?)

Abolish God if you want — but there is no abolishing humanity’s road of suffering.

We still all have to walk through all kinds of heartbreak.

Thus: Maybe the ultimate question to ask in suffering is: Do we want company or not? There is a God who says, “I AM — and I am God with you.” The God who is willing to be with you, who wants to be with you, who is with you whether you realize it or not, who enters into whatever pit that is — and He offers Himself as the road under you, the arms holding you, the comfort around you, the courage within you, the hope that has your back, the whole way back Home.

You may not understand His ways — but, it’s always offered to you: you can take His hand on the way.

I don’t know where that hurting guy is right about now, but I know this beyond a shadow of a doubt:

Wherever tears run — God weeps… and runs to embrace us.

Wherever there is murder of innocents, made in the image of God – the rocks cry out.

Wherever there is massacre of souls, made in the image of God – the very earth haemorrhages.

Wherever there is the taking of terrified hostages, made in the image of God – the heavens roar.

Wherever there is oppression of generations, made in the image of God – the planet aches and groans for relief.

Wherever tears run — God weeps… and runs to embrace us.

God is not indifferent to our pain but He is literally in our pain with us, no different in feeling the depth of it than we feel in it.

The way that got us here will not get us out of here. The only way through is always a different way of being. It’s only the Cross that saves us all into a new way of being in the world.

As long as you are in this heartbreak, the heart of God beats in no other place.

Wherever you can’t get out of heart ache, He refuses to get out of it, because He refuses to leave you.

It’s why He came to the Cross and it’s the Cross that saves us all in the most holistic and thorough of ways:

It’s the Cross that saves us not only from ourselves and the unjust brokenness of our bleeding world, but it’s the Cross that saves us all into a new way of being in the world.

The way that got us here will not get us out of here.

The only way through is always a different way of being.

Instead of walking out on Him — what if we committed to walking in the Way Himself? He, the Way Himself, is the only one who holds open the door to a new way of being, for anyone surrendered to the way of the Cross.

Prayer isn’t the least we can do, it is the first thing we can do, it is the most we can do, and it is what we must do, because who of any of us in this busted world doesn’t need otherworldly help?

And the Cross is a sign that points us in the way of otherworldly Love, and of counter-cultural sacrifice, and subversive shalom and revolutionary prayer.

The way of world-changing, revolutionary peace is always first the work of bowed heads. Because prayer isn’t the least we can do, it is the first thing we can do, it is the most we can do, and it is what we must do, because who of any of us in this busted world doesn’t need otherworldly help?

The peace of the world is found in the cross of Christ – and the peacemakers are the ones who make the way of the Cross their way of life.

And ultimately? The more willing we are to live into mystery, the more God gives us eyes to see Him. A child does not know how dew falls, how mist rises, how fog comes and goes, yet a child knows how to trust in a world they do not understand if they relax into love, if they trust love is always coming to meet them, if they know love always catches them, love always holds them, love is always at work to undo sadness and violence and remake the world.

So this is the moment we come like traumatized, shell-shocked children, and we pray like disoriented children, for all the terrified and wailing children:

May all silence actually only be the sacred silence of our begging prayers to end the violence.

Lord, hear our cry: May all silence actually only be the sacred silence of our begging prayers to end the violence.

Lord, hear our cry: Move in healing, holy ways through the Holy Land to move the whole world toward wholeness.

Lord, hear our cry: You are… you are real, you are here, you are… so please come. You are just, bring justice; You are peace, bring peace; You are love, bring love; You are healer, so please, we beg You, bring healing; You are cruciform, Your cross-formed life bridging a way through this world, so please make us cruciform in all things, that we may be bridges toward all things right and good in this hurting world.

Lord, hear our cry: As the ground beneath us groans, so do our breaking hearts within us, groaning for You, the God who raised us out of dirt of the earth and who anointed the eyes of the blind man with mud, to touch our grimy eyes so we can all see the way to peace, that we all can be the way of peace.

Lord, hear our cry:

Wherever gunfire rains down, our prayers earnestly rise up.

Wherever streets burn with hate, our hearts fiercely kindle with the white-hot love of Christ.

Wherever there are signs of war, our lives surely choose the way of the Cross, the sign of reconciliation….

Wherever gunfire rains down, our prayers earnestly rise up.

Wherever streets burn with hate, our hearts fiercely kindle with the white-hot love of Christ.

Wherever there are signs of war, our lives surely choose the way of the Cross, the sign of reconciliation….

And the more we become like children, who lean not on knowing everything, but on being Love in everything, the more we become the mature in the faith, growing large in reconciling hope of the world.

I wish I could find that hurting guy and just embrace him gently in the ache… and together he and I and all of us could maybe live it:

Embrace your cloud of unknowing because this is the way you know more of the secret riches of God.

Embrace that this is a world of unknown mysteries, and you’ll be embraced by untold peace.

Embrace being peace in every word and moment and deed and you become part of the remaking of the world.

And when we come in to the presence of God… we are held in this world, embraced through this world… in a way that lets us hold out unbeatable hope and unassailable peace when we walk out into the world.

How to navigate a way through a hurting world?

How do actually practically find way to still…. to live out a life of interior stillness in the midst of all kinds of heartbreak and suffering —and stay centered on what is central to be steadied and strong?

What does it personally look like to form your mind, your days, your life, into the deeply meaningful, cruciform love of Jesus and let God love you in the ways He deems good and best?

What does it powerfully look like to have a new way of life, a new way of being that rests fully in the hesed lovingkind ways of God — especially now?

The practical tool to begin true life-transformation for a different way of life start here: WayMaker

In Transition & Brokenness: This Strange Masterpiece of Art is Always Happening in Your Life

This is a strange beauty in a broken world: 

Shards make art. 

On a sticky humid evening toward the end of one searing hot summer, I’m sitting at a table in a glorious circle of audacious friends, surrounded by blank canvases and bowls of broken glass.

We’re fingering the sharp edge of things, daring to brazenly trust all that’s broken, even at this hour, can be made into a mosaic of grace.

One friend leans lovely over bowls and picks out these particular shards of glass in greens and browns, to create a cowboy hat in glass, to crown her fearless dad for winning all her heart. 

 Another friend settles on creating a glass shard portrait of her pooch that will surely make her posse of kids all swoon happy. 

What broke us into a singular beauty we couldn’t have been any other way? 

These radiant fragments of glass move across canvases like what’s shattered can still find its place, like sharp chaos can still be shaped into some semblance of meaning. 

Then a friend to my right throws it out there, nonchalantly and brilliantly out, asking the whole table of us:

“What part of your story was …. broken…. but if it had never happened … you wouldn’t be who you are today?” 

I’m gathering blue bits of glass in my palm, like catching shards of crashing water.

You mean – What broke us into a singular beauty we couldn’t have been any other way? 

You mean — what shard of broken glass has cut us deep, and in less than a blink of a nano-second, we’d do absolutely anything to change it —- but if we had never known it, we would no longer be us?

 I open my hand and let all these indigos and cerulean blues spray across my frame. 

And I can hear it, the hushed stories of countless women who have whispered to me in hallways and church foyers just this summer alone… 

Our best selves can surface out of the worst seas.

If that shock diagnosis hadn’t razored us deep one unsuspecting Tuesday… I wouldn’t be who I am here now. 

If my father hadn’t said what he did to my twelve year old self… yet it was the catalyst that’s still powerfully shaping my 41-year-old self … 

If I hadn’t had to be the de facto parent to my little sisters when I myself was still a scared kid… nothing about me would be me now. 

Is it possible: 

Our best selves can surface out of the worst seas.

As my fingers keep moving pieces of broken glass across my canvas, I think of a granite gravestone etched with the letters of a name that I’ve run my fingers across countless times, like trying to decode the braille of heartbreak, to unlock the mysteries of pain. 

There are deeply painful lines in our stories that we’d do absolutely anything to change – but then how would that change the story in other deeply painful ways?

I whisper my lost baby sister’s name out loud, her name that means beloved. 

She’s my answer to that question – losing her is the horrific, traumatic heartbreak … that broke me into me. 

My friend who asked the question, sitting there beside me working on her own art out of shards — her eyes find mine and she grabs my hand and steadies everything, “Yes, I know…  I knew you would say that because it’s true.” 

There are deeply painful lines in our stories that we’d do absolutely anything to change – but then how would that change the story in other deeply painful ways?

The thing you never wanted, can be the thing that makes you into more than you could have been any other way. The thing you’d do absolutely anything to change, can be what changes you into someone absolutely more like Christ.

The thing you’d do absolutely anything to change, can be what changes you into someone absolutely more like Christ.

The thing you most expressly would rewrite in your life, can be what most exponentially grows your soul. 

As I slowly line up bits of the pieces of glass across my canvas, to outline the edge of the water meeting the shore, it’s another surprising outline that I see emerging: 

You outline the hand of God when you line up the worst things that ever happened in your life, and then line up the best things – and then notice how many of the worst things are what begin these connecting lines that lead to the best things. 

Holding a handful of blue shards, I pause. 

This is one of the most powerful moments of meaning in my life. 

Where evil means to disfigure us, God intervenes to transfigure us. 

Our best selves can surface out of the worst seas.

In the face of our shattering – there’s an invitation to search for meaning, search for our reshaping and our remaking — because wouldn’t the other responses of addiction, aggression or attempting to end it all leave us never finding what we are ultimately searching for? 

As I listen as each woman around the table shares about what shattered, and also powerfully shaped, and I’m struck all over again: 

The hand of God never stops working our most formative grief into future grace. 

Our hearts beat sure that the whole of our life has meaning – when we trust that especially every beat of our heartbreak holds meaning. 

As Victor Frankl wrote, “The way in which a man accepts his fate and all the suffering it entails, the way in which he takes up his cross, gives him ample opportunity – even under the most difficult circumstances – to add a deeper meaning to his life.”

Accepting even great suffering is the way we accept even greater meaning. And the way we take up our cross – determines if we’re on the way that takes us into a life of meaning. 

And around the table, as each woman is making her art, each woman shares the pain of a past life that has been part of making her present masterpiece. Without us wholly understanding, misery carries us into a holy mystery.

Of everything that anyone can tell us, suffering is the truest form of information, because it is the most formational. And suffering is the most formational because suffering and love form and inform each other.

And yet it never stops being true, what C.S. Lewis writes in The Problem of Pain: “Suffering is not good in itself. What is good in any painful experience is, for the sufferer, his submission to the will of God, and, for the spectators, the compassion aroused and the acts of mercy to which it leads.”

And when I lead the tip of my finger across the broken shards of glass painstakingly placed across my canvas, I can feel this kind mercy written in clear glass, a word hiding right where I’ve laid out the bits of glass to create a frothy white edge of waves meeting the sandy shore. 

Expect nothing, but expect the hesed-loving kindness of God to be written into everything.

In the shards of everything, for those who choose to see the hidden mystery, there is the word:  HESED. 

“Hesed is the forever covenantal, always unconditionally, unwaveringly loyal, unbelievably kind love of God.” 

And it’s right there, even when you can’t see it, written into everything, no matter what the pounding surf that is life, no matter what waves roll in, what storm hits, what shatters and breaks: 

“Expect nothing but always expect hesed.”

Expect that written deep into what hurts is the redemptive ways of the the hesed-loving kindness of God. 

Your God does not just merely let waves of sorrow give way to waves of joy – your God promises to actually  turn your ocean of ache into an ocean of grace. 

“Expect God to knock at your door, expect God to rise on your horizon, expect hope and mercy and miracles and a glass of cold water, but just don’t expect God to come looking any way you expect. Expect nothing but hesed, the lovingkindness of God—just not in the kinds of ways you’d ever dreamed. Pain will come, but name it a mystery, and find manna in it, and taste bits of miracle even in what you can hardly stand and don’t understand,” I’d written it on the pages of WayMaker, and here I am still learning to live it on the canvas of my story. 

Expect nothing, but expect the hesed-loving kindness of God to be written into everything.

I run my fingertips again across the almost invisible word,  hesed, that’s hidden in plain sight and I can feel how to decipher all the busted bits of what is our life:  

God promises nothing less than “your sorrow will turn into joy” (John 16:20). 

Your God does not just merely let waves of sorrow give way to waves of joy – your God promises to actually  turn your ocean of ache into an ocean of grace. 

I look around the table at all these faces of soul beautiful women finishing their shard art, a visible gallery of grace. Nothing changes you quite like taking the time to trace the sharded parts of your story and witness this remaking into refractions of grace. 

Because God is making into grace what doesn’t yet make any sense — you are going to make it. 

I already know right where I’ll hang my broken-glass canvas there by my desk. 

What if I dared, on my hardest days, to know there’s always the possibility to see the mystery of the hesed-lovingkindness of God hiding in every shattered, heart-breaking moment? 

Our best selves can still surface out of the worst seas.

Because God is making into grace what doesn’t yet make any sense — you are going to make it.

When I hang the piece of shard-art on the wall when I get home, sometimes the light catches just a certain way — and I catch a glimpse of how a hidden hesed is written into the edges of everything.  

How do you navigate changes and find the way through transitions…. and lean into the life you’ve always dreamed of — and trust that it’s not too late for your life to be made into a masterpiece of art?

How do actually practically find way to still…. to live out a life of interior stillness in the midst of change and whirling storms —and stay centered on what is central to be steadied and strong?

What does it personally look like to form your mind, your days, your life, into the deeply meaningful, cruciform love of Jesus and let God love you in the ways He deems good and best?

What does it powerfully look like to have a new way of life, a new way of being that rests fully in the hesed lovingkind ways of God — especially now?

The practical tool to begin true life-transformation for a different way of life start here: WayMaker

Want Wisdom? A Wise Home? Start Here

K.A. Ellis always assumed that if she asked God for wisdom, He would supernaturally impart it as He did for Solomon. It wasn’t until she found herself curled up in a ball on the bed with tears streaming down her face over an impossible dilemma, that she realized God works out wisdom for us in real time by giving us His Word, His Holy Spirit, and then real-life situations where we can exercise our muscles of discernment. In today’s reflection, K.A. Ellis reflects on the safety and rest we can find when we take up residence in Wisdom’s house. It’s a joy to welcome Ms. Ellis onto my porch today…

Guest Post by K.A. Ellis

“Get Wisdom, get understanding. “

To become wise, we must respond to Wisdom’s call—to dwell in Wisdom’s house.

Proverbs is full of practical wisdom on everyday living. and Scripture teaches that Christ Himself is our wisdom—our way back to understanding how to build and live as the Architect intended. Those who meditate on the wisdom of Christ will find themselves living in Wisdom’s house once again.

And Wisdom is not looking for just a temporary visit from those she has called. She wants all who come through the door to take up permanent residence.

Once we set foot onto the threshold of Wisdom’s house, a whole new world lies before us.

Like Dorothy opening the door from Kansas to Oz, the world we are about to enter will be drastically different from the one we knew as fools. We raise a hesitant fist; when she called aloud from the high points of the cities.

Did Wisdom really mean me? Her call was irresistible, but was it really for foolish little me?

Even before our fist raps the door, it opens.

Wisdom has been waiting for us.

Her hand reaches out to welcome us in like the father who ran to the prodigal, so glad is she to see us turn her way. The warm hand of help, truth, sincerity, and security takes us by the arm and guides us in.

Those who meditate on the wisdom of Christ will find themselves living in Wisdom’s house once again.

Stepping through Wisdom’s door may feel like walking into a foreign land, stepping from the chaotic and clanging streets of folly to a wonderland of peace, justice, and order.

What is this place? So different from the one we tolerate across the street! Is this the transition from the old man to the new? Is the threshold the margin between death and life?

At the same time, the new and unfamiliar world feels like coming Home: the capital H Home; Home to the conditions for which we were made.

Once inside, Wisdom’s door closes with a rich, velvet, and satisfying click of the latch. Security at last.

Wisdom offers us a tour.

She introduces us to her maids, symbolizing worshipful service, cooperation, and simultaneous unity and diversity we see in the character of the Trinity. The way that the body of Christ should operate on earth, unified in mission and purpose, and in the object of their adoration.

Christ has moved us from the house of bondage, the house of folly and destruction, into the house of Wisdom, the house of Life.

Our brother Paul distinguishes what we should be from what we too often are:

Now I urge you, brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree in what you say, that there be no divisions among you, and that you be united with the same understanding and the same conviction. For it has been reported to me . . .that there is rivalry among you. What I am saying is this: One of you says, “I belong to Paul,” or “I belong to Apollos,” or “I belong to Cephas,” or “I belong to Christ.” Is Christ divided? Was Paul crucified for you? (1 Cor. 1:10–17)

We know that we are welcome in Wisdom’s House, because this is where we were always supposed to be: near to the heart of Wisdom, close to the members of her household, and safely unified in Christ.

So what transforms a house into a home?

Any structure can be a house, but it’s the elements within—especially the people— and what qualities they bring that make it a home.

I’ve noticed that even the most beautifully appointed home can feel terribly hollow if the occupants I love are not there. Of course, in a busy home I enjoy the stillness and the quiet, but also because of the lingering memories of the occupants who have filled the rooms and my heart with their peace.

Some of our spiritual ancestors sang from the depths of their souls, toil, and harsh labor: “I’ve got a home in glory land that outshines the sun.”

They sang of the Home that Christ Himself has prepared—for the construction is already done, and the keys secured the moment He emerged from the grave to lead us captives to the door. He tells us that His Home has many rooms, space for all He has gathered in. In His Home, there is pleasant work.

The fragrances of perfect peace and purpose rise from every corner to bless our glorified senses. The fragrance of life reigns because He is there—the chief architect of the structure that was set stone upon stone, filling it with the safety and fulfillment of His people in mind.

Look around.

The Architect has set glimpses of this glorious Home all around for us to discover, for our delight.

The Architect has set glimpses of this glorious Home all around for us to discover, for our delight.

The psalmist saw these homes of peace and order all around him, parting tree limbs and peering into the homes of God’s tiniest creatures nestled between branches. God fashions homes for even the sparrow and the swallow, “a nest for herself where she places her young . . . near your altars” (Ps. 84:3). So safe are these little ones that they trust their young—that is, their future and their hope—to Him.

How content are the psalmist’s swallow and sparrow, more secure than in the palm of any human hand. Safe. Nestled. Protected and watched over by the Creator Himself, who reminds us today that we have a home in glory land that outshines the sun.

And as the psalmist meditates on his promised place of shalom, like Adam he names it aptly . . .he calls it lovely. So it is with Wisdom’s house.

How lovely is your dwelling place, Lord of Armies. I long and yearn for the courts of the Lord; my heart and flesh cry out for the living God. Even a sparrow finds a home, and a swallow, a nest for herself where she places her young—near your altars, Lord of Armies my King and my God. How happy are those who reside in your house, who praise you continually. (Ps. 84:1–4)

Folly destroys. Wisdom makes life.

Wisdom makes life. Folly destroys. And Satan doesn’t play fair; he hits below the belt. He doesn’t just come for us, he comes for those we love.

So how bold of Wisdom to constantly remind us of who are with Christ and who we are without. Christ has moved us from the house of bondage, the house of folly and destruction, into the house of Wisdom, the house of Life.

The Gospel’s soul mirror shows us not only as we are, but as we are supposed to be.

To become wise, we must respond to Wisdom’s call—to dwell in Wisdom’s house. Wisdom has called us. Come into this house and come to stay…

Adventure awaits.

K. A. ELLIS is the Director of the Edmiston Center for the Study of the Bible and Ethnicity in Atlanta, Georgia.

She’s passionate about theology, human rights, and global religious freedom, and her research explores Christian endurance from society’s margins, particularly in places where it’s most difficult to live the Christian life.

She is the Cannada Fellow for World Christianity at Reformed Theological Seminary, and holds a Master of Arts in Religion (MAR) from Westminster Theological Seminary, a Master of Fine Arts (MFA) from the Yale School of Drama, and is a Ph.D. candidate in World Christianity and Ethics at the Oxford Center for Mission Studies in England.

In her new book, Wisdom’s Call, K. A. Ellis shows us how to gain wisdom and invites us to experience Jesus Christ—the Wisdom on which our world rests. Learn practical wisdom for everyday living. Find rest, refreshment, and the ability to bring life to those around you-just as Christ did, when you read Wisdom’s Call.

[Our humble thanks to Moody for their partnership with today’s thoughtful reflection.]