Well, you all missed out this weekend. I tried something called iFLY.  It is basically indoor skydiving for those of us who like roller coasters but aren’t quite ready to fling ourselves out of a perfectly good airplane.

We decided to do it as a family to celebrate my nephew’s birthday. Naturally, I (along with my brothers and all of our collective children) agreed to participate, because who doesn't love a little competition to see who flies the best? In total, nine of us suited up and took to the skies, or at least the giant wind tunnel.

If you can’t quite picture indoor skydiving, let me help: you walk into a giant vertical tunnel powered by fans so powerful they could probably launch a cow into orbit. You assume a position kind of like you’re going through airport security, arms up and legs slightly apart, except you’re horizontal.  Then, whoosh, you’re flying! After a brief training session (which mostly consisted of "arms here" and "relax"), you even get the chance to soar up towards the top of the tunnel.

It was hilarious, it was thrilling, and yes I would absolutely do it again.  I have to say, not to brag or anything, but I actually did very well at iFLY.

When you're in the tunnel, you have an instructor with you at all times, but there's also a second instructor standing outside the tunnel, keeping a close eye on everything. Before you even step inside, they teach you a few basic hand signals, like how they'll let you know if you need to lift your head, drop your chin, adjust your arms, and so on.

And honestly? Part of the reason I was so successful is because I never took my eyes off that outside instructor unless I floated to the other side of the tunnel. Even the tiniest tilt of his head or movement of his arms, and I would mimic it immediately.  And it worked!

Before long, I was floating steady, and my in-tunnel instructor actually let go of me completely. For a few glorious seconds, I was really flying with no hands, no help, just me and the air.

But here’s the thing, the second I lost eye contact with the instructor, the second I turned around or drifted out of position, everything got harder. My arms would stiffen or my legs would sag, and just like that, I couldn’t stay steady anymore. I was off course.

Every time that happened, I had to find the outside instructor again. As soon as I did, as soon as I followed his lead, I could correct my posture and get back to flying.  That was the key to my success.  Beating my brothers at anything we might be competing in makes the day even sweeter. So all in all, it was a fantastic day.

But as I floated there, correcting and refocusing over and over, it struck me.  This wasn’t just about flying. It reminded me of a particular story from the Bible that was far more dramatic than a wind tunnel.  

Why Did You Doubt?

I cut off my hair this week. Not because I wanted a fresh new look or was feeling bold, but because I didn’t have much of a choice.  Over the past few months, I’ve been shedding hair like crazy. And not just a few extra strands in the shower.  I’m talking about losing nearly half of it. It’s one of those side effects that crept in after getting sick. I had Covid back in December, and just like the first time I had it, the aftermath hit my hair hard.

When I sat down in my stylist’s chair, my plan was to keep my length and go a little blonder for summer.  I was ready to lighten things up and get ready for a Florida vacation next month.  But, he put the brakes on that idea real quick.

“Your hair’s too fragile to bleach,” he said. “If it starts falling out more, you’re going to be mad at me.”

"I would never get mad at you for my hair falling out," I protested.

He bent down to show me he was serious, eye to eye.  "When you are staring in the mirror at your bald head, you're gonna be angry.  And it ain't gonna be at me."

He wasn’t wrong.

Then he suggested something I hadn’t planned on: “We're going to have to cut it. It'll grow back, but we need to start fresh with what’s left.”

And he was right about that too.

I’ve been through this before. When you lose half your hair and try to hang onto the long look, it doesn’t exactly turn out glamorous. It ends up looking like a weird poofy helmet on top that thins out into scraggly ends. It’s not the look I'm going for at forty-eight years of age. Or any age, really.

So we cut it. Not as a style choice, but as an act of letting go of damage, of accepting reality, and of  setting expectations.  It’s shorter than I planned, but healthier. And it’s a step forward, because now I am ready for the new growth.

And isn't that just how life works?  So often we have to let go of the past, let go of the damage, in order to set our sights on what's ahead.  My new growth isn't here yet, but I know its coming. 

It reminds me of all I've had to let go of these past few years.  My hair is just another thing, and it is easy to let go of hair.  Letting go of the past is a lot harder.  

Have you ever thought about that? How your past can sneak in, trying to shame you into believing you’re too broken, too damaged, too far gone to move forward? Maybe it’s the echo of someone who hurt you. Maybe it’s the voices of people who never saw your worth, never believed in your potential. And maybe, especially after something like divorce, you’ve carried that weight for so long it started to feel like your identity.

But here’s the truth: it’s not.

You weren’t created to live stuck. You weren’t meant to sit in the ruins of what was. Maybe, like me, you’ve wasted time letting your situation define you. You’ve settled into the pain like it was permanent. But no more.

God isn’t calling you based on your past. He’s calling you into your future. Not because of who you were or what you've endured, but because of who you are becoming.

The past? It no longer has a say when Jesus walks in the room.

Leave The Land

My two brothers and I visited our cousin this weekend and decided to stay at a hotel together. Well, we booked separate rooms because I’d rather camp on gravel during a hailstorm than share a room with my brothers.  So, together is a relative term, I suppose.  I guess it is more accurate to say we stayed in a hotel.

One of my brothers brought his son, my sweet seven-year-old nephew along.  Also in-tow was my nephew's trusty scooter, which he parked in the hotel room at night for safe-keeping.  Fast forward to the middle of the night. My brother, half-asleep and probably thinking he was still at home, got up to use the bathroom and he tripped over the scooter and, in his words, bit it hard.  

The next morning at breakfast, he repeated the story to the two of us siblings, “It was bad. I looked down and was sure my leg was gushing blood.”

These things happen to him all of the time, and he usually finds them funny and as he tells us about his latest adventure gone wrong.  Bicycle injures.  Falling down stairs.  You name it, he's done it.  

Now, this brother is the baby of the family, so naturally, his other two siblings demanded a medical review before offering any sympathy.

“Let’s see the leg,” we said.

He pulled up his pant leg with dramatic flair and revealed a scrape. Not a wound. A scrape.

“We don’t see anything,” we said.

“I know there’s not anything there,” he insisted, “but it was hurting bad. I couldn’t fall back asleep for like, forty-five minutes.”

My brother and I smiled at him, and eventually, he said “I think my pain tolerance is going down.  That shouldn't have hurt so bad.”

“A sign of growing older,” we said.  Then we offered to get him a Life Alert in case he falls in the middle of the night again, along with a helmet and knee pads.

As entertaining as this story is, at least to the two of us who didn’t fall over a scooter, I can’t help but think about how often we all trip over things in our daily lives that shouldn’t hurt as much as they do.

Maybe it’s a passing comment that lands a little too hard. A moment of rejection that feels bigger than it ought to. Someone’s tone, a glance, or a word that wasn’t meant to wound but somehow does.  It’s strange, isn’t it? How something small can strike a nerve so deep, it feels like we should be gushing blood, when in reality it is just a scrape. 

Maybe after all we've been through in life, one of the end results is our tolerance isn’t what it used to be—not for pain, not for criticism, and especially not for scooters in the dark. 

The Unexpected Weight of Little Things

A quick word that stings. A glance that feels like rejection. The silence of being overlooked. These are the scooter-in-the-dark moments of life, the ones that don’t seem worthy of grief, but still manage to steal our peace. We trip, lose our footing, and wonder why it hurt more than it should.

But here’s the truth: God cares about all of it. He doesn’t wait for our hearts to break wide open before He draws near. Even the tiniest moments of pain matter to Him.

Scripture reminds us, “Cast all your anxiety on Him, because He cares for you” (1 Peter 5:7). Not just the big, dramatic heartaches, but the subtle, quiet ones too. The emotional paper cuts we carry around. The things we’re tempted to dismiss because they don’t feel “serious enough.”  But, God reminds us we don’t have to bleed to ask for healing.

Not long after my divorce, I had lunch with some friends at a beautiful golf course. The view was stunning with rolling greens, birds chirping, and perfect weather. We sat at an outdoor table, enjoying good food and friendly conversation and I was having a wonderful time.

Then, in the middle of that tranquil moment, the friend across from me smiled and said, “I’d love to introduce you to a friend of mine. She’s divorced too and I thought maybe you two could hang out.”

It was innocent enough, I suppose. But the words hit a nerve.

Why is it that because I’m divorced, I need to be paired off with someone else who’s also divorced? Like we're part of a sad little club we never asked to join. I wasn’t looking for new friends. I didn’t want to be someone's charity project or the token “divorced lady” in someone’s social circle. And honestly, I hated the label.

A small comment, said with kindness, but it felt like a punch to the gut. Like a tiny scrape that suddenly throbbed as if it were gushing blood. I smiled politely and let the conversation move along, but the joy of that beautiful afternoon had slipped away.  It’s strange how something so little can cast such a long shadow. One sentence, and suddenly I was reminded of all the things I didn’t want to feel.  Lonely, different, labeled, wounded. 

God sees what’s beneath the surface. He knows when something small hits a tender place. And He never shames us for being human, for feeling deeply, or for coming to Him with what others might call “too small.” In fact, those are often the places where His gentleness meets us most sweetly.

So if you’ve tripped over something lately, a sharp word, a disappointment, a moment that hurt more than expected, bring it to Him. No pain is too petty for the Savior who numbers the hairs on your head and bottles your every tear.

Even scraped knees matter to a God who stoops low to bandage hearts.

I have a cousin who’s just two years older than me.  She's a vibrant soul who has faced a long, grueling battle with cancer. This week, she is in her final days. It’s heartbreaking. She’s still so young, not yet even fifty years old, with so much life and love left in her. 

As I sit here, feeling ridiculous over not feeling well on the way to meet up with friends for a concert, I can’t help but think of her. She’s been in a real fight.  Her fight requires courage, pain, and incredible strength. And now, as her journey comes to an end, those who are by her side say her faith remains unwavering. She’s facing goodbye with grace, surrounded by her husband, her sister, her father, and so many others who love her deeply.

How is it possible that after enduring so much pain, after walking through such relentless suffering with an outcome that feels so unjust, her faith isn't broken?  Instead it is strengthened. How is it possible, in these final moments, when her body is failing and her loved ones are bracing for goodbye, those beside her say her spirits are high?

What kind of God do we serve, who steps into the room at the very moment when we are most undone—when grief is heavy, when hope flickers low—and gently whispers, "You don’t have to carry this anymore. Now, you’ll walk on My strength, not your own."

It’s a sacred exchange: our weakness for His strength, our sorrow for His comfort, our last breath for His eternal embrace.

Sometimes I find myself thinking about my own final days on this earth. I don’t know how or when I’ll leave this temporary home, but one thing I know with certainty: He will be with me. In those last moments, when the world begins to fade and the veil between here and eternity grows thin, He will strengthen me.

I believe that with all my heart. 

I will be about to step into something far more real than anything I've ever known. I’ll be on the threshold of glory, about to see my Savior face to face. Heaven will open wide, and it will be more beautiful, more full of joy and wholeness, than anything I’ve ever dared to dream.  And my cousin will be there, waiting.

You know, we have a Savior who didn’t just talk about life after death, He overcame death itself. Conquered it. Walked right through the grave and came out victorious. And because of that, we can hold on to real hope, even in the midst of deep sorrow.

The Resurrection and the Life: The Story of Lazarus

Jesus said, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?”
—John 11:25–26

These words weren’t spoken in a quiet moment of reflection.  They were spoken into the middle of heartbreak. Jesus said them to Martha, whose brother Lazarus had just died. Grief hung heavy in the air. Lazarus had been in the tomb for four days. Hope, from a human standpoint, was gone.

Martha had sent word to Jesus days earlier, begging Him to come, believing He could heal her brother. But Jesus delayed, not out of neglect, but with divine purpose. When He finally arrived in Bethany, Lazarus was already dead, and Martha, full of sorrow and confusion, met Him on the road.

“If you had been here,” she said, “my brother wouldn’t have died.”

Those words held both pain and faith, tightly intertwined. Oh, Martha, Martha, Martha. She’s my soul sister. This wasn’t the first time she’d been exasperated with Jesus.

He was late. Too late, in her eyes, to save Lazarus. Just as He had been, in her mind, too unconcerned to tell Mary to help in the kitchen when the house was full and the to-do list never-ending. Jesus didn’t always move on Martha’s timeline. He didn’t bend to her expectations, no matter how urgent or practical they seemed. 

But here, in the grief-heavy aftermath of her brother’s death, she still came out to meet Him. Still brought her broken heart and confusion to His feet. She believed Jesus could have stopped death, but didn’t yet understand that He had power over it, too.

And this is where Jesus reveals something extraordinary, not just about Lazarus, but about Himself.
“I am the resurrection and the life,” He says.

Not I will be, not I can bring, but I AM. Resurrection is not an event, it’s a person. Jesus Himself is life over death, light in the darkness, hope beyond the grave.

Still, Martha couldn’t have known what was coming. No one there did. Jesus wept with them.  He felt the sting of death, the weight of human sorrow. And then, standing outside the sealed tomb, He called out with a loud voice:

“Lazarus, come forth!”

And Lazarus did. Wrapped in grave clothes, the man who had been dead walked out of the tomb alive. This wasn’t just a miracle, it was a foreshadowing of the ultimate victory that was to come. Jesus didn’t just resuscitate Lazarus. He revealed His authority over death itself.

And just days later, Jesus would prove it again, not by raising another, but by walking out of His own grave.

And isn't that the entire point? That’s the victory. That’s why we needed a Savior.
Because death had always had the final word, until Jesus came and rewrote the ending.

So when He asks, “Do you believe this?”
He’s not just speaking to Martha.
He’s asking us, too.

You’re probably tired of hearing me talk about being sick, but here I am again, still wrestling with this relentless virus. It’s been over a week, and I’m still not myself. My ears are completely plugged, the nausea just won’t let up, and honestly... I’ve been downright grouchy. 

Yesterday.

What a day that turned out to be.

We had plans. Big ones. I had taken the day off work. The idea was to pick up my daughter the very minute she clocked out, then hit the road for a four-hour drive to meet up with dear friends at a Christian concert. Everything was timed out to the minute. And if you know anything about Type A personalities (ahem), you know how well I handle delays. Spoiler alert: not very well. And being sick on top of it? Let’s just say, patience was in short supply.

My plan was simple: rest as much as possible during the day so I could rally for the evening drive and somehow enjoy myself at the concert. But rest was not in the cards. My phone rang constantly with one urgent thing after another and by mid-morning, I gave up on sleep. Since I was already up and my ears still felt like they were full of cotton, I decided to head to the doctor. That led to a prescription—which, of course, wasn’t ready yet when I showed up at the pharmacy. "Come back in an hour," they said. 

By the time I picked up the prescription and made it home, any hopes of a nap had vanished.  It was a whirlwind of packing and scrambling. We picked up my daughter right on time, then stopped for food. The wait was longer than expected. Tensions were high. I was frustrated, which made the kids frustrated. Then we ran into bad weather on the drive. On and on, one thing after another tried to throw us off course.

When we finally pulled into the concert venue, we were 45 minutes late. Sweaty, stressed, and worn down, we rushed in trying to shake off the chaos of the day. But then, everything changed.

The moment I stepped inside and heard thousands of voices raised in worship, it was like time stood still. We found our friends, took our seats, and in the sweet presence of God, all the stress melted away. My daughter turned to me and said, “All the stress is gone.” And I looked at her and said, “I know... can you believe it?”.  The kids and I gave each other fist bumps for making it through.

Every obstacle, every delay, every single exhausting moment—it was all worth it.  Because worship has a way of making the battle to get there feel like part of the blessing.

Isn’t it something—how there’s always a battle before the breakthrough?

Peace never seems to arrive quietly. It doesn’t just tiptoe into our lives, gentle and effortless. No, more often than not, peace has to be fought for. It’s a choice. A decision. A hundred little moments where we have to cling to it with white-knuckled faith, even when everything around us begs us to let go.

Jesus said, “My peace I leave with you.” A promise. A gift. But how quickly we forget. How easily we toss that gift aside the minute life gets hard. The moment plans fall apart, or sickness lingers, or stress starts climbing in through every open window, we let peace slip right through our fingers. We scramble for control, complain about the chaos, eat a bag of Cheetos (just me?) and forget the very peace that was ours to begin with.

It’s almost like we expect peace to come without resistance, as if we won’t have to choose it over and over again in the middle of the mess.  But maybe that’s the point. Maybe peace that’s fought for is peace that’s felt more deeply. Maybe it’s in the very struggle, the decisions we make to trust God anyway, that we discover a peace not of this world.  A peace that steadies our hearts even when the storm rages on.

And when we finally get to the other side—when the breakthrough comes, when the moment settles and we realize His peace held—we see it for what it truly is.

Not something fragile.

1.  It is possible to have peace in the storm. 

Jesus showed us that. Literally.

He was on a boat with His disciples in the middle of a furious storm.  Waves were crashing, winds were howling, and the boat was being tossed like a toy. The disciples were panicked, convinced they were going to die. And where was Jesus?

Sleeping.

Not pacing. Not instructing. Not worrying. Just... sleeping.

I often think about what it took for Him to be that calm. How physically exhausted must He have been to sleep through a storm like that? But, also, how spiritually anchored was He to rest so completely in the middle of chaos? That kind of rest doesn’t come from sleep alone, but from deep, unwavering trust in the Father.

That moment wasn’t just about the storm on the sea.  It was a picture of the storms we face every day. Fear. Illness. Uncertainty. Delays. Disappointment. And yet Jesus models what it looks like to carry peace inside, even when everything outside is shaking.

When Jesus awoke in that boat, He didn’t match the disciples' panic. He didn’t join their anxiety or scold them for waking Him up. He simply stood, spoke to the storm, and said, “Peace, be still.” And immediately, the wind died down and the sea was calm (Mark 4:39).

Then He turned to His disciples and asked, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?” (Mark 4:40).

That question wasn’t harsh.  It was an invitation. An invitation to trust. To believe that the same Jesus who could sleep in the storm also had the power to calm it.  Peace isn’t the absence of the storm. It’s the presence of Jesus in it.  It’s knowing Who is in the boat with you.  And it’s trusting that He isn’t just able to calm the storm around you, but the storm within you, too.  

I’ve been thinking a lot about that four-hour drive to the concert.  How different could it have been if I had simply chosen peace?

We literally drove through a storm, with sheets of rain pouring down, gray skies pressing low.  But in many ways, the real storm wasn’t outside the car.  It was inside me. The pressure of being on time, the stress of the delays, the lingering frustration from being sick... it all bubbled just under the surface. And instead of letting it go, I let it lead. I let anxiety take the front seat, and peace never even made it into the car.

But what if I had chosen differently?

What if I had trusted God in the middle of the mess? What if I had turned the rain into a reminder that He washes everything clean, including my frayed nerves and heavy thoughts? What if I had leaned into that time with my kids, those uninterrupted hours on the road, and treated it like the gift it was? We could have laughed more, connected more deeply, shared music, memories, or quiet moments. I could have made space in my heart for peace to rise instead of letting anxiety run wild.

I had the opportunity to grow peace within me. To water it, to nurture it, even while the skies outside were dark. But I let the weather dictate my mood. I let the disruptions steal what could have been sacred.

And yet, God is gracious.

Even in my flustered, frustrated state, He met me the moment I stepped into that concert. The storm didn’t win. His peace did. But still, I’m learning—peace is always an option. It doesn’t wait for perfect conditions. It’s available in the delay, in the rain, in the unexpected. It’s a choice, and sometimes a fight, but it’s never out of reach.

Next time, I want to choose differently.  I want to notice the sacred even in the stressful.  Because peace isn’t found when everything finally goes right.  It’s found when I finally surrender to the One who’s already in control.

2.  Sometimes peace requires us to unplug.

 After all the chaos of the day, after the stress and the scrambling, the concert was exactly what my soul needed. Worship was powerful. The fellowship was sweet. God’s presence felt so near. That night, we reserved a nice hotel room.  It was a little splurge, and honestly, a small miracle that it turned out to be so quiet and serene. Outside the window, the countryside stretched out in calm, rolling hills. I went to bed peaceful, thankful, and feeling completely in tune with the Lord.

But then, 3:00 a.m. rolled around.

I woke up like a match had been struck in the dark.  My heart was racing, my mind was spinning, my emotions were tangled up in a ball of frustration, anger, and what I can only describe as anxiety. It came out of nowhere. One minute I was resting, the next I was wide awake, mentally replaying every problem waiting for me at work on Monday. Keep in mind—it was still Saturday night.

I tossed and turned, trying to pray my way back to sleep. “Lord, just give me the solutions. Help me think through everything now so I can rest.” I wanted a download of answers. I wanted peace through clarity.  But what I felt instead was a whisper from the Holy Spirit:

“The solutions will come—but you must unplug.”

Unplug.

At first, I wasn’t sure if I was really hearing from God. Does this align with the way Jesus lived?

And yes—yes, it does.

There are multiple times in the Gospels where Jesus stepped away from the crowds, the demands, even His closest friends, to be alone with the Father. One of the most striking examples is found in Mark 1:35:

“Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where He prayed.”

This wasn’t a one-time moment of quiet. It was a rhythm in Jesus’ life. In the middle of miracles, teachings, and people constantly pulling on Him for healing, guidance, and attention—Jesus unplugged. He intentionally stepped away from the noise to be refreshed by communion with His Father.

If Jesus needed that space, how much more do we?

Peace doesn’t always come from having all the answers. Sometimes it comes from stepping away long enough to hear God’s heartbeat again.  From letting the to-do list go quiet.  From choosing presence over productivity.

You can be unplugged physically, and still be completely plugged in mentally.  My body was in the right place. But my mind? My heart? They were tangled in the “what ifs,” the Monday meetings, the deadlines, the weight of everything I couldn’t control. And in that moment, fear began to rise—not because of where I was, but because of where I had let my thoughts go. I was meditating on my problems instead of on the God who promised to carry me through them.

I realized then—being in the right place physically is one thing.
But being in the right place spiritually?
That’s a whole different battle.

That requires trust. That requires faith. It demands a surrender so deep that you stop clinging to the illusion of control and start leaning fully into the hands of your Father. We plan, we strive, we overthink, but in the end, every detail of our lives rests in the hands of the One who never sleeps or panics or forgets.

That night, lying in a dark hotel room with a countryside view and a tangled mind, I realized I didn’t need a spreadsheet of solutions. I needed stillness. I needed to let go of the weight I was carrying and trust that God would give me what I needed when I needed it.

Unplugging, real unplugging, isn’t about booking a spa day or finding a quiet place to sit under a tree—though those can help. It’s about refreshing our faith. It’s about reminding our souls that no weapon formed against us will prosper (Isaiah 54:17), and that the battle we're losing sleep over? It already belongs to the Lord (2 Chronicles 20:15).

When we unplug spiritually, we shift our focus.
From the storm to the Savior.
From the problem to the Provider.
From our limited strength to His limitless power.

God loves us tremendously. Not for what we produce or accomplish, but simply because we are His. Every single day is an invitation to notice that love, to see the fingerprints of His care if we’ll just look in the right place.

So the next time anxiety comes knocking at 3:00 a.m., or fear tries to invade a peaceful moment, pause and ask yourself:
Am I really unplugged? Or am I just physically present, while mentally and spiritually plugged into fear?

Because peace isn't found in our circumstances.
It's found in our connection to the One who never changes.

3: God is bigger than our worries.

Worry is such a sneaky thing. It creeps in quietly, often disguised as responsibility or preparedness, but before we know it, it’s running the show.  It runs around, controlling our thoughts, stealing our peace, and casting shadows over our days. But Jesus didn’t leave us without direction. He addressed worry head-on.

In John 14:1, Jesus tells His disciples:

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in Me.”

That wasn’t just a suggestion.  It was a loving command, and Jesus wouldn’t command us to do something that was impossible. He knew the weight this world would place on us. He knew the temptation we’d face to carry burdens that don’t belong to us. But He also knew the power of trust. Real, deep, childlike trust in a Father who never fails.

Worry often makes us live as if we’re orphans, as if we’re navigating this world alone, with no one looking out for us. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. We are not fatherless. We are not abandoned. We are children of a good, attentive, all-knowing God who takes care of us day in and day out.

He knows the number of hairs on your head.
He sees your needs before you even speak them.
And He’s already working behind the scenes in ways you can’t yet see.

Isaiah 54:17 reminds us that “no weapon formed against you shall prosper.” Not the weapon of fear. Not the weapon of anxiety. Not even the weapon of your worst-case scenario thoughts. God is already protecting you in ways you can’t measure.

The truth is, knowing we have that kind of Father, one who walks with us through the darkest valleys, one who never leaves our side, changes everything. It allows us to live a life of confidence and security, not because life is perfect, but because our Father is present.

Did you know that the Bible tells us “Do not fear” 365 times? One time for every single day of the year. God isn’t oblivious to our struggles. He knows how easily we are swept away by the chaos, negativity, and fear this world throws at us. And yet He continues to invite us back into peace.

It is possible to live free from fear.
It is possible to unplug your mind from that exhausting loop of “what ifs.”
And it is possible to live as someone who truly believes they are loved, protected, and cared for, every single day.

Because you are.

You have a heavenly Father who has never stopped watching over you, even for a second. And when that truth becomes real in your heart—not just something you say, but something you believe—it changes the way you live. It changes the way you think. It changes the way you breathe through the hard moments.

Worry may come knocking, but you don’t have to let it stay.
You can trust. You can rest.
And that kind of faith? It’s life-changing.

I’ve been under the weather this past week, and let me tell you—whatever viruses are making the rounds this year, they are downright relentless. It’s as if they’ve taken up residence and refuse to leave. Maybe it’s just me getting older, and my body doesn’t bounce back as quickly as it used to. Either way, I’ve had my fill of sniffles, sore throats, and lingering fatigue. This cold and flu season has overstayed its welcome, and I am more than ready to turn the page on it.

After three days confined to bed, I finally dragged myself back to work today. The thought alone filled me with dread. I knew what awaited me.  A mountain of unread emails stacked like a digital tower of doom. My calendar didn’t offer any mercy either. Two high-stress meetings loomed ahead, both promising uncomfortable confrontations.  Those are exactly the kind of scenarios I loathe. My body was still aching, sluggish from the lingering effects of this relentless virus. 

I whispered a prayer, my heart heavy and anxious. I asked God for help—begging Him to give me the strength I lacked, to carry me through the day that loomed ahead. I pleaded with Him to let things go smoothly, especially those two meetings that had been gnawing at my peace for days. And in the quiet of that moment, God—steadfast and endlessly loving—met me right where I was. He reminded me, as only He can, that He bestows favor on His children. I wasn’t alone. I had nothing to fear.

It’s a familiar rhythm, one that God and I know all too well. The cycle begins with me, anxious and overwhelmed, heart pounding under the weight of failure. I cry out to Him, desperate for help, fully aware that I can’t make it on my own. And then, as He always does, He steps in with quiet power and lavish grace. He smooths the path before me, grants me favor in the very places I feared would undo me, and carries me through the day with a strength that isn’t mine. By the end, I’m left in awe—again—at how everything turned out just fine. Not because of me, but because my God is endlessly good, relentlessly faithful. I often wonder how many times we’ve danced this same dance. Hundreds? No… more likely thousands.

God is, in every sense of the word, a Savior—and not just once, but continually, faithfully, relentlessly. He is always stepping in to rescue us: from the snares of the enemy, from the weight and corruption of the world, from calamities we never saw coming, and often, from the wreckage of our own making. Over and over again, He comes through—shielding, guiding, redeeming. The more I reflect on His role as Savior, the more I’m overwhelmed by the depth of His love and the power of His deliverance. Scripture is full of stories that showcase His dramatic, tender, and awe-inspiring acts of salvation. Here are three of my favorites—narratives that beautifully reveal just how far He will go to rescue those He loves.

1.  King Jehoshaphat

King Jehoshaphat stands out as one of the most compelling rulers in Judah’s history—a man of courage, conviction, and deep devotion to God. Unlike many of the kings who came before him, Jehoshaphat didn’t chase after idols or rely on political cunning. Instead, he aligned himself with the legacy of King David, passionately seeking the Lord with a whole heart. At a time when the northern kingdom of Israel had plunged headlong into idolatry and spiritual decay, Jehoshaphat chose a different path. He led Judah in a spiritual revival, tearing down pagan altars and calling the people back to the worship of the one true God.

But wholehearted devotion didn’t spare him from hardship. Far from it. In the midst of his faithful leadership, Jehoshaphat received news that shook him to the core: a massive alliance of enemy armies was marching straight toward Judah. They were vast in number—far too many for Judah to stand against. Their intentions were clear and brutal—destruction, conquest, and complete annihilation. Humanly speaking, there was no hope. Judah was outnumbered, outmatched, and facing what looked like certain defeat.  

News of the approaching armies spread quickly through the land, stirring panic and dread. Jehoshaphat could have reacted like many kings might—by scrambling to rally his forces, calling for military reinforcements, or trying to negotiate a desperate alliance. But instead, he did something far more powerful.

He called the nation to seek the Lord.

Jehoshaphat proclaimed a fast throughout all Judah. People from every town gathered in Jerusalem, standing shoulder to shoulder in the temple courtyard. Children, elders, families—they all came, eyes wide with fear, hearts aching with uncertainty. And there, in front of the entire assembly, their king stood—not in armor, not behind a war table, but with hands lifted in surrender and a voice lifted in prayer.

“O Lord, God of our fathers, are You not the God who is in heaven? You rule over all the kingdoms of the nations... We have no power to face this vast army that is attacking us. We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on You.”
—2 Chronicles 20:6,12

It was a prayer not of pride, but of raw honesty. No strategic plans. No false bravado. Just total dependence on the only One who could save them.

And God answered.

Through a prophet named Jahaziel, the Spirit of the Lord spoke words that must have sent chills down every spine:

“Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God’s.”

The next morning, instead of sharpening swords or preparing for bloodshed, Jehoshaphat did the unthinkable—he appointed singers to go ahead of the army, praising the beauty of God’s holiness. As the first notes of worship rose into the air, something miraculous happened.

God set ambushes among the enemy armies. Confusion spread like wildfire. They turned on each other in chaos and fury until not one enemy remained.  By the time Judah reached the battlefield, all they found were lifeless bodies and untouched plunder. Not a single sword had to be lifted. Not a single drop of Judah’s blood was spilled.

When the dust settled and the battlefield lay silent, Judah stood in awe of what had just occurred. Not only had God delivered them from what seemed like certain destruction, but He had turned their battlefield into a blessing field. For three days, the people gathered the spoils—riches, goods, and valuables the enemy had left behind. It was far more than they could carry. The battle they never had to fight left them more blessed than broken, more enriched than emptied.

On the fourth day, they assembled in a valley that would be forever known as the Valley of Berakah—which means blessing. There, they praised the Lord with grateful hearts and lifted voices. What began in fear ended in worship, not because of what they had done, but because of what God had done on their behalf.

From that day forward, surrounding nations heard what had happened—how the God of Judah had fought for His people. And fear fell on them. None dared attack, because it was clear that Judah's God was not just present—He was powerful, protective, and faithful.

Jehoshaphat's story isn’t just history—it's a mirror. It shows us what it means to be human and holy at the same time: to feel fear, yet choose faith. He didn’t pretend to be strong; he admitted his weakness. He didn’t hide behind a throne; he stood before God in humility. And that posture, one of surrendered trust, became the platform for a miracle.

How often do we face battles where the odds feel stacked against us? Where anxiety creeps in, and our plans seem powerless? Like Jehoshaphat, we may say, “I don’t know what to do…” But also like him, we can declare, “…but my eyes are on You.”

God still fights battles for His children. He still responds to hearts that seek Him. He still brings victory through worship, peace through surrender, and blessing through brokenness.  The same God who parted seas, knocked down walls, and scattered enemy armies is still moving today. And He’s not waiting for us to be strong.  He’s waiting for us to look up and believe.

2.  Daniel

Daniel was a man of unwavering devotion—steady, faithful, and fearless in his walk with God. Over the years, he had risen through the ranks of Babylon’s vast empire, eventually earning a place of high honor under King Darius. His reputation was spotless. He was known for his wisdom, integrity, and excellence in every task. Not even his enemies—those who watched him closely, hoping to uncover some flaw or scandal—could find a single blemish in his character.

But their jealousy burned hotter with each promotion he received, their resentment festering in the shadows. It wasn’t enough that Daniel was blameless—they wanted him gone. Silenced. Removed from the king’s favor once and for all. And since there was no fault to be found in his conduct or leadership, they turned their eyes to the one place they knew he’d never compromise: his faith. If they were going to trap Daniel, it would have to be there—at the very heart of who he was.

With careful words and cunning smiles, Daniel’s enemies approached King Darius, appealing to his pride. They proposed a decree cloaked in flattery: for thirty days, no one in the kingdom could pray to any god or human being—except the king himself. Anyone who disobeyed would be thrown into a den of lions. It sounded like a show of loyalty, a way to unite the kingdom under the king’s authority. Blinded by their praise and unaware of their true motives, Darius agreed and signed the order into law, sealing it with the weight of royal authority. It was a trap, crafted with precision, and Daniel was the target.

But Daniel didn’t flinch.

When he heard the decree had been signed, he didn’t run.  Instead, he climbed the stairs to his room, where the windows opened wide toward Jerusalem—the city of his heart. And there, in plain view, he knelt down. Not once. Not hurriedly. But three times a day, as he had always done. With steady hands and a quiet spirit, he gave thanks to his God, lifting his voice in worship and prayer.

It didn’t take long for the trap to spring.

Daniel’s enemies, lying in wait, wasted no time. The moment they saw him praying—just as they knew he would—they raced to the king, cloaking their malice in concern for the law. “O King, didn’t you sign a decree?” they asked, voices slick with false reverence. “A law stating that anyone who prays to any god or man other than you must be thrown into the lions’ den?”

The king, not yet sensing the trap, affirmed the decree. And then they sprang it.

“Daniel,” they said. “That Hebrew exile. He continues to pray to his God—three times a day.”

In that moment, realization washed over Darius like a wave of dread. He saw it—the setup, the betrayal—and worst of all, he knew he’d been outmaneuvered. He was devastated. Though Daniel was his most trusted official, the law of the Medes and Persians could not be revoked. All day long, the king tried to find a loophole, a way to save Daniel, but by sundown, he had no choice.

With a heavy heart and reluctant hands, King Darius ordered that Daniel be brought forward.

Soldiers led him through the torch-lit corridors, past the hushed whispers of onlookers. They brought him to the edge of a massive pit, the stench of wild animals thick in the air. Below, the lions stirred—restless, hungry.

As they prepared to lower Daniel into the den, the king spoke—his voice breaking with emotion:

“May your God, whom you serve continually, rescue you.” —Daniel 6:16

Then, the stone was rolled over the opening, sealing Daniel inside. The king’s signet was pressed into the wax, binding the decree. Darius returned to his palace, but sleep fled from him. He refused food, music, or comfort. His thoughts were with Daniel, tormented by the consequences of his own actions.

All through the night, the lions roamed. But Daniel did not scream. He did not perish. Because God had already stepped in.

As the first light of dawn crept over the city, King Darius rose from a sleepless night and hurried toward the lions’ den. He didn’t wait for his royal attendants or protocol—his steps were urgent, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and fragile hope.

When he reached the sealed stone, his voice rang out into the darkness, cracking with desperation:

“Daniel, servant of the living God, has your God, whom you serve continually, been able to rescue you from the lions?” —Daniel 6:20

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, rising from the depths of the den came a calm and steady voice—the voice of the very man he feared had been lost:

“May the king live forever! My God sent His angel, and He shut the mouths of the lions. They have not hurt me, because I was found innocent in His sight. Nor have I ever done any wrong before you, Your Majesty.” —Daniel 6:21–22

Relief flooded the king’s face. He immediately ordered that Daniel be lifted from the pit. As the ropes pulled him up into the light, everyone could see—there wasn’t a single scratch on him. No claw marks. No wounds. No bruises. Because Daniel had trusted in his God, and God had sent an angel to protect him through the night.

But the story didn’t end there.

King Darius, now fully aware of the wicked scheme, commanded that Daniel’s accusers—the very men who had plotted against him—be thrown into the lions’ den themselves. And this time, no divine angel stood guard. The lions overpowered them before they even touched the floor.

Then, Darius did something remarkable. He issued a new decree—not one of pride or punishment, but of praise:

“I issue a decree that in every part of my kingdom people must fear and reverence the God of Daniel.
For He is the living God and He endures forever;
His kingdom will not be destroyed, His dominion will never end.
He rescues and He saves;
He performs signs and wonders in the heavens and on the earth.
He has rescued Daniel from the power of the lions.” —Daniel 6:26–27

Daniel’s story is a breathtaking testimony of what God will do for His children. Even when the law is against you. Even when you’re thrown into the pit. Even when the night is long and the danger is real.

God does not forget His own.
He still sends angels.
He still shuts the mouths of lions.
And He still brings His people out of dark places, untouched and unshaken.

3.  Jesus

I cannot speak of God’s faithfulness to save without turning to the most extraordinary rescue narrative of all—the heart of Scripture, the center of our hope. From the dawn of time, even before the first sin stained Eden, God had already written a plan of redemption. A plan not scribbled hastily in response to our failures, but lovingly designed before the foundations of the world—a plan to send His Son.

Long before Roman soldiers drove nails through His hands or sealed His lifeless body behind a stone, Jesus had already chosen the path of sacrifice. He stepped out of heaven, not with trumpet blasts or royal procession, but in the stillness of a Bethlehem night. No crown adorned His head—just straw and swaddling clothes. The King of Kings was born in a manger, wrapped not in silk, but in humility.

He walked among us, breathing the same air, feeling the same dust beneath His feet. His hands reached for the sick, the shunned, the forgotten. His eyes saw hearts others overlooked. He spoke truth so piercing it unsettled the proud, yet so tender it restored the broken. He never sinned. Not once. And yet, with every step, He carried the weight of a mission no other soul could bear—a mission to redeem all of humanity.

But the rescue would cost Him everything.

On a dark hill outside Jerusalem, the innocent Son of God hung on a Roman cross. Nails tore through His hands and feet. Thorns crowned His head. And as He hung there, bruised and bloodied, the full weight of humanity’s sin crushed down on Him. He could have called angels. He could have stepped down. But He stayed.

“No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord.” —John 10:18

Jesus died willingly—in our place—so that we could be free.

He was nailed to rough timber, suspended between earth and sky. The crowd jeered, the sky darkened, and even the earth trembled. Every breath was agony. Every heartbeat a sacrifice. And yet, He endured it all. For us. For love.

“It is finished,” He cried—not in defeat, but in victory. The debt of sin, paid in full.
And then He gave up His spirit.

His lifeless body was wrapped and laid in a borrowed tomb. A heavy stone sealed the entrance. Roman guards stood watch. And for three days, it seemed like darkness had won.

But heaven was not silent.

On the third day, the stone was rolled away. The grave could not hold the Author of Life. Jesus rose—not as a battered victim, but as a conquering King. He defeated sin. He crushed death. He shattered the grip of the enemy once and for all.

This wasn’t just a rescue—it was the rescue. The turning point of history. The moment when mercy triumphed over judgment, and love proved stronger than the grave.

And yet, the story doesn’t end in death. On the third day, the stone rolled away, and the tomb stood empty. Jesus rose, victorious over sin, death, and the grave. The greatest rescue mission in history was complete. Through His sacrifice, God stepped in—not just to save us from temporary danger, but to offer eternal life to all who believe.

If that isn’t a Savior, I don’t know what is.

His sacrifice wasn’t a one-time act locked in history—it echoes through eternity, reaching into today, into this very moment. His love, poured out on the cross, still flows with power. It saves us now, and it will save us tomorrow. It covers every sin, every failure, every wound we try to hide.

This kind of love is otherworldly—too pure for our shadowed world, too steadfast for the shifting sands of human affection. And yet, it endures. Through every betrayal, every doubt, every broken promise, His love remains—unshaken, unyielding, unmatched.

Our God is not distant. He does not shrink from the dark corners of our lives. He steps in—boldly, lovingly—to save us from it all. From the secrets we’re too ashamed to speak aloud. From the sins that weigh us down and whisper lies. From the tragedies that threaten to steal our hope.

He doesn’t just save our souls, He restores our hearts. He meets us in the mess, walks with us through the fire, and promises that one day, every scar will be healed.

There will come a day—soon—when every tear we’ve cried will be wiped away by His own hand. A day when grief gives way to glory. When suffering dissolves into joy. When we stand face-to-face with the One who rescued us, not because we earned it, but because He couldn’t bear to leave us lost.

And we will live with Him. Forever. Whole. Free. Loved.