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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be Still

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Other Side

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s enough.

To Live Is Christ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lessons for All of Us

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

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

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

So live free. Love deeply. Serve joyfully. 

Because the best is yet to come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rest in the Wilderness

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

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

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

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

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

So he ran.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Rest We Really Need

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come to Me. Give it here. Rest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aren’t we the same way with Christ?

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

Can you imagine that reunion?

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

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

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

The Wait Was Over

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Messiah had come.

The Picture and the Promise

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

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

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

Isn’t God’s Word like that for us?

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

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

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

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

In those moments, I remember Simeon.

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

I remember Anna.

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

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

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

And then, He came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Message

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

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

And then, I heard it.

“Samuel.”

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

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

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

“Samuel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it happened.

“Samuel. Samuel.”

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

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

But the message.  The message wasn’t easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And do you know what Eli said?

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

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

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

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

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

The Obedience