PresbyMusings

“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson

This week in the Daily Devos, we're going to explore what I call the Quiet Virtues — practices that are often undervalued in the culture we inhabit but are essential to living a life filled with meaning and purpose.  

Today, we're going to focus on the Quiet Virtue of Patience, which for many of us (including me) is one of the more difficult to master.  

I'm reminded of an old adage that I've heard many times over the years about patience that goes something like this: "Be careful when you pray to God to give you patience, because God will teach you patience by giving you all kinds of situations where you have to learn it the hard way." 

I'm not entirely sure that it works that way, to be honest.  But I do believe that there are countless opportunities for us to have our patience tried and tested all around us, all the time.  

Even a simple trip to the grocery store can provide us with plenty of patience-testing moments. The drivers who cut us off or sit on their phones when the light turns green come to mind.  The slow pedestrians or indecisive drivers in the parking lot can try your patience something fierce.  

And then there are the folks who take forever at the self-checkout and can't seem to understand the concept of bar codes and scanners to save their lives.  

As you can see, patience is something I struggle with a tad.  

The fact is, patience is not a virtue that receives much attention in our culture.

We celebrate speed, efficiency, and immediate results. We want quick answers, rapid progress, and instant solutions. Waiting often feels like wasted time. Delays frustrate us. Uncertainty unsettles us. We would much rather arrive than linger along the way.

Yet Scripture consistently presents patience as a sign of spiritual maturity.

In Galatians 5, patience appears among the fruits of the Spirit. It is not merely a personality trait or a natural disposition. It is something God cultivates within us over time. Patience is less about passively enduring delays and more about learning to trust God's timing when life unfolds more slowly than we would prefer.

Abraham waited years for the fulfillment of God's promise. Joseph endured imprisonment before his circumstances changed. The Israelites wandered in the wilderness for decades. Again and again, the people of Scripture discover that growth often occurs in seasons of waiting.

Emerson's observation about nature offers wisdom worth considering. Trees do not rush their growth. Rivers do not hurry toward the sea. Seasons unfold gradually. Much of what is beautiful in creation emerges slowly.

The same is true in the spiritual life.

Character develops over years, not days. Healing often comes in stages. Relationships deepen through steady faithfulness. Wisdom accumulates gradually through experience.

Patience teaches us to live with unfinished stories. It reminds us that not everything must happen immediately. Sometimes God's work is occurring beneath the surface long before we can see evidence of it.

The quiet virtue of patience invites us to stop measuring life solely by progress and productivity. It encourages us to trust that God remains active even during seasons when little seems to be happening.

Not every delay is an obstacle.

Sometimes it is preparation.

And sometimes what feels like waiting is actually growth.

Prayer

Patient God, teach me to trust your timing when life feels slow or uncertain. Help me resist the urge to rush ahead and give me the grace to remain faithful in seasons of waiting. May patience grow within me as I learn to trust you more deeply. Amen.

Reflection Questions

What area of your life currently requires patience?

How do you typically respond when things do not happen as quickly as you would like?

“Faith is taking the first step even when you don't see the whole staircase.” — Martin Luther King Jr.

Twenty-five years ago, I found myself at a crossroads. I was on a path to become a British history professor and was just finishing a semester at Christ Church College in Oxford, England.  

I was tasked by my major professor to spend the next eight years of my life earning my Master's degree, then a PhD, focused on an obscure 17th-century Presbyterian parliamentarian about whom very little was written.  

The weight of that mind-numbing and soul-sucking task had taken all the joy out of what I thought I wanted.  As much as I loved British history, I found myself wishing I'd stuck with a Creative Writing major. 

All I knew was that the life I'd been planning for wasn't going to be the life I lived, and I didn't know what to do.  

One of the most difficult aspects of grieving the life we thought we would have is that we rarely know how the story ends.

We stand in the middle of the chapters.

We see what has been lost, but not yet what may emerge.

We understand our disappointment, but not always God's larger purposes.

And so we wait.

The writer of Hebrews describes faith as “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1). Faith does not require complete understanding. It requires enough trust to keep moving forward.

That trust can feel difficult when life has not unfolded as expected.

Yet Scripture is filled with people who lived precisely in that tension.

Abraham journeyed without knowing where he was going.

Moses led the people through the wilderness without seeing the Promised Land.

Mary accepted a calling without understanding all it would require.

Again and again, God's people learned to trust the story as it unfolded.

Martin Luther King Jr.'s words capture this beautifully. Faith is often less about seeing the entire path and more about taking the next faithful step.

The wisdom of grief is that it teaches us humility. We discover that we do not control the narrative, but we also discover that God is still present within it.

The life you imagined may not be the life you received, and that loss deserves to be acknowledged.

But your story is not finished. God is still writing, and there are still chapters ahead.

Still opportunities to love.

Still moments of joy.

Still reasons for hope.

The invitation of faith is not to know how everything will turn out.

It is to trust that God remains faithful as the story continues.

In the years that followed that existential moment of dread in Oxford, I was drawn more into church work and eventually approached by leaders in the Presbytery about the possibility of attending seminary.  

I had never once imagined that I would spend my life serving as a minister. 

But God did, thanks be to God. 

You never know what is possible on the other side of losing the life you thought you would live.  

Prayer

Faithful God, help me trust you with the unfinished parts of my story. When I cannot see what lies ahead, give me the courage to take the next step. Remind me that you are still present, still guiding, and still bringing hope into places of disappointment and grief. Amen.

Reflection Questions

What part of your story feels unfinished right now?

How do you respond when the future feels uncertain?

“Although no one can go back and make a brand-new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand-new ending.”— Carl Bard

When I was serving a church in Florida some years ago, I had a wonderful church member who lost her husband after a prolonged illness.  She had been his primary caregiver for several years, devoting herself to his care.  

In the end, she was exhausted, filled with grief over his loss, and spiritually drained from all that she had been through.  

All of the dreams they'd had of how they would spend their retirement together were dashed, and I remember talking to her about what might come next, and she was too weary to even think about it.  

For years, all of her energy had been focused on her husband, and after he was gone, she couldn't seem to think about anything else.  

Grief has a way of narrowing our vision.

When we focus on what has been lost, it can become difficult to imagine what remains possible. The future begins to feel smaller. Hope feels fragile. Possibilities seem distant.

Yet throughout Scripture, God repeatedly creates new beginnings from unexpected endings.

Abraham leaves everything familiar.

Ruth begins again in a foreign land.

Joseph rises from imprisonment.

Peter recovers after failure.

The resurrection itself emerges from what appeared to be complete defeat.

God has a remarkable habit of creating new possibilities where none seem to exist.

This does not mean every loss is replaced.

Some losses remain losses.

Some dreams remain unrealized.

But God's grace often opens doors we never anticipated.

Isaiah records God saying, “I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:19).

That question is worth pondering.

Do you perceive it?

Grief naturally focuses our attention on closed doors. Hope invites us to notice the ones that are opening.

Carl Bard's observation points toward a profound truth: while we cannot rewrite the past, we can still participate in shaping what comes next.

The sacred journey forward begins not with certainty but with openness.

Openness to surprise.

Openness to healing.

Openness to possibilities we never expected.

My former church member experienced this in abundance.  

She began going to the gym on the regular and became interested in weight lifting. Then she began competing in deadlift competitions and eventually became a nationally ranked competitor. 

The change that came over her was remarkable.  

She found joy, grew more lighthearted, and poured herself into service to the church and community.  Her smile lit up a room when she entered it.  

She discovered a new way forward that she had never dreamed would be possible.  

Sometimes the life we eventually come to cherish is not the one we originally planned.

And sometimes God's most meaningful gifts arrive through roads we never intended to travel.

Prayer

God of new beginnings, help me remain open to possibilities I cannot yet see. When grief narrows my vision, remind me that your grace continues creating pathways forward. Give me courage to embrace whatever new thing you may be doing in my life. Amen.

Reflection Questions

Have you ever experienced an unexpected blessing after a disappointment?

What possibilities might you be overlooking because of grief?

“Acceptance doesn't mean resignation; it means understanding that something is what it is and that there's got to be a way through it.” — Michael J. Fox

When life doesn't turn out the way you thought it would, there is typically a fair amount of grief that goes along with it.  

As I mentioned in my previous Devo, I  experienced this after my mom passed away, which carried an enormous amount of grief in itself, but then her passing was followed by a realization that the life I'd planned so carefully in my mind wasn't going to unfold. 

What followed were years of struggle with the sadness of it all, and I didn't face it all that well, to be honest.  

I found myself trying to bury the sadness in all sorts of unhealthy and unhelpful ways.  I spent too much money, ate and drank whatever I pleased, didn't take care of my mental health very well, nor my physical health, for that matter.  

The greatest challenge I faced throughout it all was learning to accept how things turned out and to find a new way forward into what God ultimately had in store for me.  

I spent five years going to therapy, Al-Anon meetings, working with a Life Coach, and doing anything else I could think of to find my way.  But in the end, it came down to surrender, acceptance, and making peace with what had happened before I could move forward.  

One of the hardest spiritual tasks is learning to accept what cannot be changed.

Acceptance is often misunderstood. Many people hear the word and think it means giving up. But acceptance is not surrendering to despair. It is acknowledging reality honestly enough that healing can begin.

As long as we insist that life should have unfolded differently, we remain trapped in a battle with the past.

The Apostle Paul understood this tension. He carried his own disappointments, hardships, and unanswered prayers. Yet he eventually wrote, “I have learned to be content with whatever I have” (Philippians 4:11).

Notice the word learned.

Contentment did not arrive automatically.

It emerged through experience, struggle, and trust.

Michael J. Fox's insight reminds us that acceptance is not passive. It is active engagement with reality. It is the decision to stop fighting what cannot be changed so that we can focus on what still remains possible.

The wisdom of Scripture often points in this direction. Again and again, God's people face circumstances they would never have chosen. Exile. Loss. Uncertainty. Waiting.

Yet within those circumstances, God continues working.

Acceptance creates space for grace.

It allows us to stop measuring our lives solely against what we expected and begin appreciating what is actually present.

This does not erase grief.

But it does prevent grief from becoming permanent captivity.

The sacred work of healing often begins when we stop asking, “Why didn't life turn out differently?” and start asking, “How can I live faithfully now?”

That question opens the door to hope.

And I can honestly say that what God had in store for me was something I could never have imagined when I was in the midst of struggle.  I have rediscovered love, peace, and joy. 

I've also learned to hold on to hope because there is more on the other side of the grief and sadness.  

So much more.  

Prayer

God of grace, help me accept the realities I cannot change. Give me wisdom to distinguish between what must be released and what can still be transformed. Teach me to live faithfully in the life I have, rather than remaining trapped in the life I expected. Amen.

Reflection Questions

What reality are you finding difficult to accept?

How might acceptance differ from giving up?

“We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us.” — Joseph Campbell

When I first moved to Austin nearly ten years ago, I arrived with so many hopes and dreams about how life would unfold.  

My parents moved in with us, and my oldest son transferred to the University of Texas, which meant my entire immediate family was under one roof in a house where we could all live.  The plans we had talked about for months were coming into view right before my eyes.  

I was incredibly happy in the work I was doing at my new church, and family dinners and activities abounded. It felt like my dreams were all coming true.  

And then my mom passed away.  Then my oldest boy got married and moved to Chicago. In the coming years, my dad got remarried and moved out.  My marriage eventually fell apart.  My middle son went off to college, and my youngest went to live with his mom in Florida. 

I was left alone in a massive house with a cat, who eventually ran off and was never seen again.  I'm not kidding.  Even the cat. 

I was left with the grief of all of those endings, and also the end of a dream that I mourned along with them. Hope slowly drained from me over those years, and it was one of the lowest points in my life.  

Among the most poignant words in Scripture are those spoken by the disciples on the road to Emmaus:

“We had hoped...” (Luke 24:21).

In those three words, an entire world of disappointment is revealed.

We had hoped.

We had hoped the marriage would survive.

We had hoped the treatment would work.

We had hoped the opportunity would come.

We had hoped life would unfold differently.

Every person eventually speaks some version of those words.

Hope is beautiful because it opens us to possibility. But when hopes are dashed, grief often follows. We mourn not only what happened but what might have been.

The disciples believed Jesus would transform their world in a particular way. Instead, they witnessed his crucifixion. Their expectations shattered. Their future seemed uncertain.

Yet what is remarkable about the Emmaus story is that Jesus walks beside them in their disappointment long before they recognize him.

That detail matters.

God's presence is not dependent on our ability to perceive it.

Even when we are confused, angry, heartbroken, or disillusioned, Christ walks with us.

Joseph Campbell's words speak to the difficult work of letting go. Not because our dreams were foolish, but because clinging to a vanished future can keep us from embracing the life that still lies ahead.

This does not happen overnight.

Grief rarely works on a schedule.

But gradually, healing creates space for new possibilities.

The sacred journey of faith is not about pretending losses do not matter. It is about trusting that God can still meet us in the midst of them.

The disciples' story did not end with “We had hoped.”

Neither does yours, and neither does mine.  

I have new dreams now.  I have new hope for the future.  I am discovering just how much there is to live for on the other side of the grief I experienced.  

I now understand more fully what Resurrection means and what it feels like to be steadfast in our hope for tomorrow.  

Your story isn't done. 

Hold on to hope. There is much more to be written.  

Prayer

God of the Emmaus road, walk beside me in my disappointments. When I find myself mourning what might have been, help me trust that you are still present and still at work. Give me the courage to release the future I imagined and remain open to the future you are unfolding. Amen.

Reflection Questions

What hopes have you found yourself grieving recently?

How do you typically respond when expectations are not met?

“Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans.” — Allen Saunders

This week in the Daily Devos, we will be exploring how to remain resilient and hopeful when life deals us a lousy hand, when things fall apart, and when the plans we have made are shattered.  

We have all had moments in life when the things we have planned go awry.  Each of us has had unexpected interjections into our carefully laid-out blueprints for how we want things to be, sending us spinning.  

Most of us carry a vision of how we expect our lives to unfold.

We imagine careers that will flourish, relationships that will endure, dreams that will materialize, and futures that seem almost certain. We make plans. We set goals. We tell ourselves stories about where life is heading.

Then something happens.

A diagnosis arrives. A relationship ends. A career changes unexpectedly. A loved one dies. A door closes that we were sure would open. The future we imagined suddenly disappears, and we find ourselves grieving something that never actually happened.

This kind of grief can be difficult to name.

After all, how do you mourn a life you never lived?

Yet it is real grief nonetheless, and this kind of grief can take a toll on us, emotionally, physically, and spiritually.  We might find ourselves so filled with regret and remorse that we can't find a way forward.  

But there is always hope on the other side of our grief over what might have been.  

In Proverbs 16:9, we read, “The human mind plans the way, but the Lord directs the steps.” That verse is often quoted as a source of comfort, but it also acknowledges a difficult truth: our plans and God's unfolding reality are not always the same.

The disciples experienced this kind of grief. They envisioned a Messiah who would overthrow Rome and restore Israel's fortunes. Instead, they found themselves standing beneath a cross, watching their hopes collapse. On the road to Emmaus, they confessed their heartbreak: “We had hoped...” (Luke 24:21).

Few phrases carry more sorrow than those words.

We had hoped.

Yet the Emmaus story reminds us that endings are not always what they appear to be. What seemed like the death of a dream was actually the beginning of something larger than the disciples could imagine.

Still, before resurrection comes grief.

Before new possibilities emerge, we must often acknowledge the pain of what has been lost.

Faith does not ask us to pretend disappointment isn't real. It invites us to bring that disappointment honestly before God.

Sometimes healing begins by admitting that we are grieving the life we thought we would have.

If this is where you are today, know that you are not alone.  There are undoubtedly people in your life who know what you are going through that you can lean on when you need them.  

And above all, God is with you, making a new way, providing glimpses of a hopeful future, and inviting you to move forward in joy.  

Prayer

Compassionate God, you know the dreams I have carried and the disappointments I have endured. Help me acknowledge my grief honestly and trust that even when plans change, your presence remains. Walk with me through the losses I struggle to name and guide me toward hope. Amen.

Reflection Questions

What dream or expectation have you had to let go of?

How have you responded to life's unexpected turns?

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves... Live the questions now.” — Rainer Maria Rilke

Years ago, I had a crisis of faith that shook me to the core, and left me reeling over what to believe about God, the Bible, Christianity, and the Church.  

All of the certainty that I had felt about my beliefs came apart seemingly overnight.  It was one of the most disorienting times of my life, especially as a pastor who had to keep preaching every Sunday.  

What I learned during that season of deconstructing and then reconstructing my faith was that certainty was something that had actually kept me from growing spiritually.  

I also learned that living with questions, maintaining an openness to change, and embracing curiosity were challenging and scary, but also created a spiritual path that drew me closer to the Divine.  

Most of us prefer answers.

Answers feel secure. They provide clarity and direction. Questions, by contrast, can feel uncomfortable. They expose uncertainty and require patience.

Yet some of life's most important questions cannot be answered quickly.

Questions about purpose.

Questions about suffering.

Questions about love.

Questions about God.

Questions about what comes next.

Rainer Maria Rilke's famous counsel invites us into a different relationship with uncertainty. Rather than rushing toward resolution, he encourages us to "live the questions."

This idea is echoed throughout Scripture.

Abraham leaves home without knowing exactly where he is going.

The disciples follow Jesus without understanding everything he is doing.

Even after the resurrection, questions remain as the Gospel accounts reveal that after seeing the risen Christ, "some doubted."

Faith is not certainty about everything.

Faith is trust amid uncertainty.

Curiosity as a spiritual practice teaches us to remain open to growth. It reminds us that some truths unfold slowly over time. Some lessons can only be learned through experience.

The Apostle Paul writes, “For now we see only a reflection, as in a mirror” (1 Corinthians 13:12). Human understanding is finite. We do not see the whole picture.

And yet God remains faithful, loving, and full of grace.

The wisdom of curiosity is that it allows us to keep growing. It keeps us from becoming rigid or closed-hearted. It invites us to trust that God can meet us not only in answers, but also in questions.

Some questions may accompany us for years.

That is not a failure of faith; it may be part of how faith grows.

And perhaps the goal is not to solve every mystery.

Perhaps the goal is to walk faithfully with God through them.

Prayer

God of wisdom and mystery, teach me to trust you in seasons of uncertainty. Give me patience with unanswered questions and help me remain open to growth, discovery, and deeper understanding. Amen.

Reflection Questions

What question are you currently living with?

How do you typically respond to uncertainty?

Children, be curious. Nothing is worse (I know it) than when curiosity stops. Nothing is more repressive than the repression of curiosity. Curiosity begets love. It wed us to the world." - Graham Swift

Have you ever been in a conversation with someone and suddenly realized they aren't listening to a thing you are saying and are just waiting for you to pause so they can say what they want to say instead?

It's annoying, right? 

You can feel dismissed, ignored, diminished, and all manner of negative things in those moments, and it can lead to a conversation becoming an argument very quickly. 

Here's a tough question for all of us: Have you ever been that person — the one not listening and waiting to interject? 

Many of us have.  I know I've been that person before.  It's not that hard to slip into a non-listening mode when you feel that what you have to say is more important and on point than anything you are hearing.  

Which is why embracing curiosity as a spiritual practice is so important.  

One of the greatest gifts curiosity offers is the ability to listen.

Too often, conversations become opportunities to defend our views rather than understand another person's experience. We listen for flaws, disagreements, or points to challenge. Curiosity invites a different posture.

It asks:

Tell me more.

Help me understand.

What has shaped your perspective?

Jesus excelled at this kind of curiosity.

Consider his encounter with the Samaritan woman at the well (John 4). Rather than dismissing her, Jesus engages her in conversation. He asks questions. He listens. He treats her as someone worth knowing.

The result is transformation.

Curiosity creates space for connection.

In a divided world, this practice is desperately needed. We often assume we understand people based on labels, appearances, politics, theology, or background. Yet every person carries a story we do not know.

When we approach others with genuine curiosity, we become more compassionate.

We learn.

We grow.

We discover common humanity.

This does not mean abandoning convictions. It means holding them with enough humility to recognize that we do not possess complete understanding.

James 1:19 offers timeless wisdom: “Let everyone be quick to listen, slow to speak, slow to anger.”

Listening itself can become a spiritual discipline.

Every conversation becomes an opportunity to learn something about another person—and perhaps something about God.

The sacred practice of curiosity helps us remember that every person we meet bears the image of God.

And every story deserves to be heard.

Prayer

God of relationship, teach me to listen with curiosity and compassion. Help me approach others with humility rather than judgment and give me ears to hear the stories and experiences that shape their lives. Amen.

Reflection Questions

Who in your life might you understand better if you listened more deeply?

What assumptions do you tend to make about people?

“Enjoy every step you take. If you're curious, there is always something new to be discovered in the backdrop of your daily life.” - Roy T. Bennett One of the great moments in the TV series Ted Lasso comes when Ted wins a game of darts against the villainous ex-owner of the soccer team Ted is coaching.  He gives a speech about how people always underestimated him, but a quote from Walt Whitman kept the doubters from getting to him.   The quote was simply this:  "Be curious, not judgmental."   That scene has lived rent-free in my head for a long time, and I've watched it probably ten or more times as I've reflected on it.  

Curiosity begins when we become willing to see the world differently. When we drop our judgments and jaundiced ways of seeing the world, we open ourselves up to curiosity and to wonder.  

Most of us move through life on autopilot. We make assumptions about people, situations, and even God. Over time, those assumptions become so familiar that we stop noticing them altogether. We see what we expect to see.

Yet Jesus constantly invited people to look again.

When others saw a tax collector, Jesus saw a disciple.

When others saw a blind beggar, Jesus saw a beloved child of God.

When others saw five loaves and two fish, Jesus saw abundance.

Again and again, Jesus challenged people to see beyond their assumptions.

In Mark 8, Jesus heals a blind man in stages. At first, the man sees only partially. Then gradually his vision becomes clear. The story serves as a powerful metaphor for spiritual growth. Learning to see is often a process.

Curiosity helps us remain open to that process.

It allows us to ask questions such as: What am I missing? What assumptions am I making? How might God be present in ways I have not yet considered?

One of the greatest barriers to spiritual growth is the belief that we already know everything we need to know. Curiosity keeps our hearts open. It reminds us that every person has something to teach us and every experience contains the possibility of insight.

The world is filled with opportunities for wonder if we are willing to pay attention.

The sunrise. The laughter of children. The resilience of those who have suffered. The beauty of creation. The stories of people whose lives are different from our own.

Curiosity transforms ordinary moments into opportunities for encounter.

And often, those encounters reveal God in unexpected places.

Prayer

God of revelation, open my eyes to see beyond my assumptions. Help me remain teachable, attentive, and willing to learn from the people and experiences you place before me. Amen.

Reflection Questions

What assumptions about God, yourself, or others might need reexamining?

When have you been surprised by what you discovered after looking more closely?

There are seasons in life when the world feels unsteady—when headlines unsettle us, when uncertainty lingers in our personal lives, and when anxiety hums quietly beneath the surface of our days. In those moments, it can be tempting to withdraw, to turn inward, to convince ourselves that we can carry it all alone. And yet, it is precisely in these moments that the presence of a faith community becomes not just helpful, but essential.

From the very beginning, God has called people not only into relationship with Him, but into relationship with one another. The early church understood this deeply: “They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers” (Acts 2:42). Their shared life was not an accessory to faith—it was the very environment in which faith took root and flourished.

When the world feels dark, faithfully showing up to be with others—singing, praying, serving, and simply being present—is a quiet but powerful act of resistance. It is a way of declaring that fear does not have the final word. Every time you walk through the doors, every time you take your place among others who are also seeking hope, you are pushing back against isolation, despair, and disconnection.

Nadia Bolz-Weber captures something profound about this in her reflection: “I don't know if I want to call it stubbornness or faithfulness because both of those tend get twisted up in my mind a little bit. Like I think that faithfulness is a form of stubbornness... that I can get behind.”

There is something beautifully honest in that tension. Faithfulness doesn’t always feel heroic. Sometimes it looks like stubbornly showing up when you don’t feel like it. It looks like sitting in the pew when your heart is heavy, singing when your voice feels weak, or reaching out when it would be easier to retreat. This kind of “stubborn faithfulness” becomes a lifeline—not only for ourselves, but for others who are drawing strength from our presence even when we don’t realize it.

Hebrews reminds us of this shared calling: “Let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together… but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching” (Hebrews 10:24–25). In uncertain times, gathering is not optional—it is formative. It shapes us into people who can endure, hope, and love.

So if you have drifted, if the habit of showing up has waned, consider this your gentle invitation back. Not because you must, but because you need not walk alone. Your presence matters. Your voice matters. Your story matters.

And together, in small and steady ways, we become a light that no darkness can overcome.

Prayer Faithful God, when the world feels uncertain and our hearts grow anxious, draw us back into community. Give us the courage to show up, even when it is hard. Strengthen us through one another, and make us bearers of Your light in a weary world. Amen.

Reflection Questions

When life feels uncertain, what tends to pull you away from community—and what might help you return?

How have you experienced encouragement or strength from others in your faith community?

Last night I was more tired than I have been in a very long time.  My entire house was (mostly) moved to my new house, and with the rain and some unforeseen complications, it took nearly 10 hours. 

Then, after all was said and done, I had to go back to my old house to get all my bedding and a bunch of other things, so I fully loaded my Ford Bronco once more, and then trudged another thousand steps or more to get it unloaded. 

By the time my bed was made and I  was ready to climb in it, I was so exhausted that the thought of getting up and writing a Devo seemed like an impossible task.  I told my fiancée about this, and she said, "Why don't you write about that?"

So I did.  Only this morning I'm rested, clear-headed, and about to drink my second cup of coffee because at the last minute I remembered to bring my coffee maker over last night.  And I've been thinking about the power of rest, and how infrequently most of us allow ourselves to embrace it. 

When we are weary—truly weary in both body and soul—it can feel as though rest is a luxury we cannot afford. There is always more to do, more to fix, more to carry. Yet the deeper truth is this: rest is not a reward for finishing everything; it is a gift that makes life itself sustainable.

The writer Anne Lamott once said, “Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you.” Her words carry a gentle wisdom. We are not designed to run endlessly. Like any good creation, we require pause, renewal, and stillness in order to function as we were meant to.

Scripture echoes this truth again and again. In Psalm 46:10, we hear the invitation: “Be still, and know that I am God.” Stillness is not inactivity—it is sacred awareness. It is the quiet space where we remember who we are and whose we are. Jesus himself extends a tender call in Matthew 11:28: “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” Notice that he does not say, “Come to me once you have finished everything,” but simply, “Come.”

Rest is an act of trust. It requires us to loosen our grip on the illusion that everything depends on us. It asks us to step away from the tyranny of the urgent—the endless noise of what demands our attention—and to return to what truly matters. When we rest, we declare that our worth is not measured by productivity, but by being beloved children of God.

In a restless world, choosing rest is a quiet form of resistance. It is a way of saying that your soul matters, your body matters, and your life is more than a checklist of accomplishments.

So carve out space. Breathe deeply. Sit in silence. Take a walk without rushing. Turn off the noise for a while. In that sacred pause, you may discover that God has been waiting—not in the urgency, but in the stillness.

Prayer Gracious God, when I am weary and burdened, help me to come to you. Teach me to rest without guilt and to be still without fear. Restore my body, renew my spirit, and remind me that I am held in your care. Amen.

Reflection Questions

Where in your life are you feeling the greatest weariness right now?

What practices might help you create intentional space for rest this week?

I'm moving today.  More specifically, movers are coming today to move all my furniture to a different house.  The moving process has been underway for some time, and I've got the aches and pains to prove it.  

I've taken 14 loads of donations to Goodwill in the past week and a half, and at least 12 loads to my new house over the past couple of weeks.  I got rid of a bunch of furniture through Facebook Marketplace, all of which has happened over the last few days. 

Last night, I looked around the house, and was struck by the empty spaces and the piled-up boxes.  I felt a twinge of dread.  It hit me that it was the last night I would spend in the place where my kids grew up, my mother passed away, and where I have spent the last three years remaking my life.   

I had a hard time falling asleep with all the memories swirling around in my mind. It turns out, even the change we have longed for can be difficult when it becomes a reality.  

Change has a way of unsettling us. Even when it brings possibility, it often arrives wrapped in uncertainty. We cling to what is familiar because it feels safe, predictable, and controllable. Yet life itself tells a different story—one where change is not the exception, but the rule.

Author Heraclitus once wrote, “The only constant in life is change.” While simple, this truth carries deep wisdom. To live is to move, to grow, to evolve. Resisting change, then, is not just resisting circumstance—it is resisting the very nature of life that God has woven into creation.

Scripture reminds us that change is not something to fear, but something God can use for good. Through the prophet Jeremiah, God speaks words that have comforted generations: “For surely I know the plans I have for you… plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope” (Jeremiah 29:11). Even when we cannot see the full picture, we are invited to trust that God is at work within the transitions we face.

Consider also Isaiah’s promise: “See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:19). God is always creating, always renewing, always inviting us into something new. And in Romans 8:28, we are reminded that “in all things God works for the good of those who love him.” Change, then, becomes not a threat, but an opportunity—an opening through which God’s purposes can unfold.

Embracing change is, at its core, an act of hope. It is a declaration that we trust God more than we trust our fear. It is a willingness to step forward, even when the path is unclear, believing that God walks with us into every unknown.

So when change comes—and it will—do not shrink back. Release your grip on fear. Trust the One who holds your future. Step forward with courage, knowing that the same God who has carried you this far will not abandon you now.

Prayer Gracious God, when change unsettles me, anchor me in your promises. Help me to trust your plans and to walk forward with courage and hope. Remind me that you are with me in every new beginning. Amen.

Reflection Questions

What change in your life are you currently resisting, and why?

How might trusting God’s promises reshape your perspective on this change?

Finding and pursuing your purpose in life is one of the greatest and most intrinsic longings that we humans have.  Each of us longs to live a life that matters, no matter what we might believe about God and God's direction for us.  

Those of us who believe in Divine plans might call this "doing God's will," or something to that effect, but the desire to fulfill that longing to find purpose and meaning in the life we've been given is shared by all of us. 

The problem we all face, however, is that we have so many conflicting suggestions about how to pursue purpose and meaning, and it is often difficult to discover why we've been put on this earth in the first place.  

We spend so much of our lives looking ahead—toward the next goal, the next achievement, the next stage where we believe life will finally feel meaningful. Purpose, we assume, is waiting for us somewhere “up there,” just beyond our current reach. But what if purpose isn’t found at the summit? What if it is discovered in the very place we are standing?

Author Shannon Adler writes:

“I am convinced that the jealous, the angry, the bitter and the egotistical are the first to race to the top of mountains. A confident person enjoys the journey, the people they meet along the way and sees life not as a competition. They reach the summit last because they know God isn’t at the top waiting for them. He is down below helping his followers to understand that the view is glorious where ever you stand.”

There is a quiet truth in these words that echoes throughout Scripture. Again and again, we see that God is not confined to some distant destination. 

In Psalm 139, the psalmist proclaims that there is nowhere we can go where God is not already present. In Matthew 6, Jesus reminds us not to worry about tomorrow, for today holds enough of God’s presence and provision. And in Philippians 4, Paul speaks of learning the secret of contentment in every circumstance—not because life is perfect, but because God is near.

Purpose is not something we earn by climbing higher or achieving more. It is something we awaken to when we become fully present to where we are. It is found in the conversations we might otherwise rush through, in the ordinary moments we are tempted to overlook, in the sacred “now” that we so often trade for an imagined “later.”

When we slow down enough to notice, we begin to see that God is already here—meeting us in the middle of our lives, inviting us to live deeply rather than hurriedly. The view is, indeed, glorious wherever we stand, not because everything is ideal, but because God is present.

So wherever you find yourself today—whether on the climb, in the valley, or somewhere in between—pause. Breathe. Look around. You may discover that purpose has been quietly waiting for you all along, right where you are.

Prayer Gracious God, help me to be fully present in this moment. Quiet my restless striving and open my eyes to your presence here and now. Teach me to find purpose not in reaching the summit, but in walking faithfully with you each step of the way. Amen.

Reflection Questions

Where in your life are you rushing ahead instead of being present to where you are?

What might change if you believed that God is fully present with you in this moment?

I was thinking this morning about Jesus' command to love our enemies, and I realized I didn't like the notion of having any.  The fact that there might be people out there who considered me an enemy, or an opponent was disconcerting. 

I like to imagine that I'm not the kind of person who someone would despise, but I know there are probably a few folks who do, for whatever reason.  

The truth of the matter is, most of us do have people in our lives who don't care for us.  And maybe these same people have said or done things to hurt us. We might be able to get our heads around the idea of forgiving these people, because we don't want to walk around filled with bitterness about it.  

But loving them?  That seems like a bridge too far, doesn't it?  

Loving our enemies may be one of the most difficult teachings Jesus ever gave us. In the Sermon on the Mount, he says plainly, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (Matthew 5:44). It sounds beautiful in theory, but in practice, it can feel almost impossible—especially when the wounds are deep.

Few stories capture this struggle more powerfully than that of Corrie ten Boom. Years after surviving the horrors of a Nazi concentration camp, Corrie found herself face-to-face with one of the guards who had once tormented prisoners. The man, now a Christian, approached her and asked for forgiveness.

Corrie froze. The memories came rushing back—the suffering, the loss, the injustice. She knew what Jesus commanded, but her heart resisted. In that moment, she prayed a simple but honest prayer: “Jesus, I cannot forgive him. Give your forgiveness.”

What happened next surprised even her. As she reached out her hand, she felt a surge of love—real, tangible love—for the man she once considered an enemy. It was not something she manufactured; it was something she received.

Reflecting on that moment, Corrie later wrote: “And so I discovered that it is not on our forgiveness any more than on our goodness that the world's healing hinges, but on [Jesus's]. When he tells us to love our enemies, he gives along with the command, the love itself.”

This is the heart of the Gospel. God never asks us to do something and then leaves us to figure it out on our own. When Jesus calls us to love beyond our capacity, he also supplies what we lack. As Paul reminds us, “God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit” (Romans 5:5).

Loving our enemies is not about excusing harm or pretending pain doesn’t exist. It is about opening ourselves to a love that is greater than our wounds—a love that heals, restores, and transforms.

Today, whatever burden you may be carrying, consider praying Corrie’s prayer. You don’t have to force forgiveness. You only have to be willing to receive it.

Prayer Gracious God, when forgiveness feels beyond me, give me your love. Fill my heart with what I cannot create on my own, and teach me to love as you love. Amen.

Reflection Questions

Who in your life feels most difficult to forgive right now?

What would it look like to pray honestly for God’s help in loving them?

I once had a friend tell me that if everyone in my congregation agreed with me, I probably had created a cult and not a church.  I find a small amount of comfort in that when I have seasons when the critics come out of the woodwork. 

Churches that aren't willing to pursue some holy imagination tend to lose their ability to dream, and when that happens, death follows.  We change or die, according to the poet Wendell Berry, and it's not always warm and fuzzy as we do it.  

But not everyone embraces change easily, and when people become anxious, they often channel that anxiety into criticism, some of which can be pointed and hurtful.  

Winston Churchill once wrote:  

“Criticism may not be agreeable, but it is necessary. It fulfills the same function as pain in the human body; it calls attention to the development of an unhealthy state of things. If it is heeded in time, danger may be averted; if it is suppressed, a fatal distemper may develop."

There is a hard wisdom in those words. Criticism, like pain, is rarely welcome—but it can be deeply instructive. It has a way of exposing blind spots, challenging our assumptions, and inviting us to grow. 

Scripture echoes this truth: “Let the righteous strike me—it is a kindness; let them rebuke me—it is oil on my head” (Psalm 141:5). When we receive criticism with humility, it becomes a tool that refines us rather than diminishes us. It keeps our egos in check and reminds us that we are always becoming, always learning.

But not all criticism is created equal. Some voices are not seeking to heal, but to wound. Some critics speak of fear, misunderstanding, or even resentment. Jesus himself encountered this kind of opposition. In Matthew 11, he is criticized both for fasting and for feasting—proof that some people are less interested in truth than in tearing down what they cannot control or comprehend.

This is where spiritual maturity calls us to be self-differentiated—to know who we are in God, regardless of the noise around us. The apostle Paul writes, “It is a very small thing that I should be judged by you or by any human court… It is the Lord who judges me” (1 Corinthians 4:3–4). Paul is not dismissing accountability; rather, he is rooted in a deeper center. He listens, he learns, but he does not lose himself.

So we are invited to do the same. Listen for the truth in criticism—there may be something there that can help you grow. But do not surrender your calling to every loud or careless voice. Stay grounded. Stay faithful. If you believe you are doing the good work God has placed before you, then continue with courage.

Let criticism refine you, not define you.

Prayer Gracious God, give me the wisdom to hear what is true, the humility to grow where I need it, and the courage to remain steady in the work you have called me to do. Guard my heart from bitterness and my spirit from fear. Help me walk faithfully in your truth. Amen.

Reflection Questions

When have you received criticism that ultimately helped you grow?

How can you discern the difference between helpful critique and harmful negativity?

The last four years of my life have been filled with heartbreak, disorientation, loss, grief, battles with depression, and struggles to hold on to faith in the middle of despair.  

Thankfully, there were also plenty of good things, too.  

I've learned some invaluable lessons over the past few years.  I've learned to focus more on what matters most, and that love is the most powerful force in the universe.  I've learned that you can find peace in the middle of some of the worst things if you are willing to surrender your outcomes.  

And I've learned that when everything shatters, there is beauty in the brokenness that can be remade and become something even more beautiful than you could have ever imagined.  

It's not an easy process to pick up the pieces of what was broken, mind you.  I'm still learning as I go, but there was a quote I read at some point in the middle of all of the mess I was surrounded by that has stuck with me: 

“If your heart is broken, make art with the pieces.” — Shane Koyczan

There is something deeply holy about this kind of resilience. It does not deny the breaking. It does not pretend the pain never happened. Instead, it gathers the fragments and dares to believe that something meaningful can still emerge.

Scripture reminds us that God does some of God’s most profound work in the places where life feels shattered. The psalmist writes, “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted, and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). Not after the healing, and not once everything is put back together. Right there—in the breaking—God draws near.

Resilience is not simply the ability to endure hardship; it is the sacred capacity to be transformed by it. The apostle Paul speaks to this mystery when he says, “We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed… struck down, but not destroyed” (2 Corinthians 4:8–9). There is a quiet defiance in those words—a refusal to let suffering have the final say.

And perhaps that is where hope begins: in the realization that brokenness is not the end of the story.

Think of the resurrected Christ, still bearing the scars of the cross (John 20:27). The wounds were not erased; they were redeemed. They became testimony. They became meaning. In the same way, the pieces of our own brokenness can be shaped into something that speaks—something that heals—something that gives life to others.

Resilience teaches us that even the most painful chapters can become part of a larger, more beautiful story. It invites us to trust that God is at work, even now, weaving together what feels irreparably torn.

So take the pieces. The disappointment. The grief. The questions that still linger. And begin, however slowly, to make something new. Not because it is easy, but because it is possible—with God.

Let this be your encouragement: your story is not finished. There is still beauty to be created, still purpose to be discovered. Ask God to awaken in you a holy imagination—one that can see beyond what has been lost and envision what might yet be.

Prayer God of broken and beautiful things, draw near to us in our pain. Gather the scattered pieces of our lives and shape them into something new. Give us the resilience to endure, the courage to create, and the hope to imagine a future filled with your grace. Amen.

Reflection Questions

What “pieces” of your life feel broken right now, and how might God be inviting you to reimagine them?

Where have you experienced resilience in the past, and what did it teach you about hope?

Yesterday, I started the long drive from Austin to Florida, driving my dad's car as part of his moving back there after nearly ten years in Texas.  I left after church and had a hard time driving through torrential downpours, traffic accidents, road work, and other obstacles. 

At one point, the rain near Houston was so bad that I couldn't see beyond a hundred yards or so in front of me, and could barely see the lane markers on the road.  It was a disorienting and tense experience that left me exhausted. 

I was reflecting on that experience this morning, and it occurred to me why so many of us long for certainty in our lives, and why it's so difficult when uncertainty threatens to blur our vision for the way forward in life's journeys.  

When our long-held beliefs, plans for our lives, and our understanding of meaning and purpose are turned upside down, the uncertainty that follows can be as disorienting and exhausting as driving through blinding, driving rain.  

I recall a quote from Richard Rohr, who wrote about the path toward spiritual awakening amid uncertainty: “Enlightenment is not about knowing as much as it is about unknowing…”  

He then goes on to say that letting go of what we thought we knew is often the most important step toward surrendering our control to God and trusting that God has got us.  

In a culture that prizes certainty, achievement, and accumulation, these words feel almost upside down. Yet, at the heart of the spiritual life is not a grasping for more, but a releasing of what we think we already know.

Scripture echoes this paradox again and again. In Proverbs, we are told, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5). Trust requires a kind of unknowing—a willingness to admit that our perspective is limited. Likewise, the Apostle Paul writes, “Now we see in a mirror, dimly” (1 Corinthians 13:12), reminding us that clarity is not something we possess, but something we grow into as we surrender to God’s mystery.

Even Jesus invites us into this posture of letting go. “Those who want to save their life will lose it,” he says, “and those who lose their life for my sake will find it” (Matthew 16:25). The path to awakening is not about constructing a more certain faith, but about loosening our grip—on our assumptions, our need for control, even our images of God.

Spiritual awakening happens when we stop trying to master God and instead allow ourselves to be held by God. It is found not in arriving at perfect answers, but in entering more deeply into the sacred unknown. Like Moses before the burning bush, we are invited to take off our sandals—to recognize that we are standing on holy ground we cannot fully comprehend (Exodus 3:5).

There is a quiet freedom in this kind of surrender. When we release the pressure to have it all figured out, we make space for wonder, for humility, for transformation. We begin to see that God is not a problem to be solved, but a presence to be experienced.

So today, let yourself loosen your grip just a little. Let go of the need to be certain. Trust that God is at work in the mystery, gently awakening you to a deeper, richer life than certainty alone could ever offer.

Prayer Gracious and mysterious God, teach me to let go of what I think I know. Lead me into deeper trust, deeper wonder, and deeper surrender. Awaken my heart to your presence in all things. Amen.

Reflection Questions

What beliefs or assumptions might you need to “unlearn” in order to grow spiritually?

Where in your life are you being invited to trust God beyond your own understanding?