The Hand

by Rhonda , September 18, 2025

I awoke the next morning with excitement. I couldn’t wait to get up and have a cup of Guatemalan coffee in Guatemala, sitting on the rooftop in Guatemala, looking at a volcano in Guatemala. Does it get any better than this? Multiple bucket list items all happening at once, and it was as great as I anticipated: watching the sunrise over the volcanoes, drinking my amazing cup of coffee.

Originally, I had thought this would be the day for a coffee farm tour. But God had other plans. That morning, my friend from work sent me a message: “Go to Hobbitenango. Don’t miss it.” I had seen photos online, whimsical houses built into the hillsides, oversized swings that launch you out over sweeping mountain views, and a place that looked like it had stepped straight out of Tolkien’s imagination. Still, I wasn’t sure how we would get there. It looked complicated and, if I’m honest, a little intimidating.

But we decided to try. After a few wrong turns (including an Uber driver dropping us at the wrong spot in Antigua), my son pulled out Google Maps, confidently navigated the maze of cobblestone streets, and got us to the shuttle stop. I had pictured a van or maybe a small bus. Instead, “the shuttle” turned out to be the back of a pickup truck, with boards nailed across for seats. If it rained, they’d throw a tarp over the top (and when it rained on the way back, they did indeed). My daughter, celebrating her birthday, laughed so hard as we bounced and bumped up the steep mountain road. It was probably unsafe and definitely illegal in the U.S., but in that moment, it was pure joy.

And the climb was worth every jolt. Hobbitenango is breathtaking. Perched high in the mountains above Antigua, it’s designed to mimic the Shire from The Lord of the Rings. The name itself is a playful mix: “Hobbit” plus “-enango,” a suffix from local Mayan place names. Built by dreamers who wanted to create a retreat where people could feel transported to another world, it has hobbit-hole houses carved into the hillsides, rustic wooden signs, and fantasy-themed details everywhere you look. But what struck me most wasn’t just the theme, it was the views. Rolling mountains draped in mist, volcanoes breaking through clouds, and green valleys stretching endlessly below. It felt like stepping out of this world into something enchanted.

We wandered, explored, and laughed together. My son took a ride on the massive rope swing, soaring over the valley below. We found what may have been the best milkshakes of our lives. We even paused to scratch the ears of the friendly stray dogs who made their home there. But the highlight, the thing that will forever be etched in my memory, was the hand.

It’s a giant sculpture of a hand jutting out over the mountainside, open and steady, as if inviting you to step into it. One by one, we climbed out onto the palm, stood still, and let the moment sink in. Behind us stretched a panorama so grand it almost felt unreal. To stand there, suspended between earth and sky, felt like standing inside a prayer.

When we came back down from the mountain, I texted a few photos to my friend. She responded instantly: “Oh! You found the Hand of God. I’m so glad you got to sit in it.” I hadn’t realized that’s what it was called until she said it.  I opened my journal and flipped to the notes I had written before the trip. There it was in my own handwriting: “Do not fear, you are in God's hands."

In the Hand of God

Isaiah was one of the major prophets of the Old Testament. He lived in Jerusalem during a time of tremendous upheaval, around the 8th century B.C. The people of Judah, God’s chosen nation, had drifted far from Him. They worshiped idols, made alliances with foreign nations instead of trusting God, and lived with injustice toward the poor and vulnerable. Isaiah’s calling was not easy, he was sent to deliver both warnings of judgment and words of hope.

In the first part of his book, Isaiah speaks of God’s holiness and the coming judgment that would fall on Judah for their rebellion. He even prophesied about the Babylonian exile, when God’s people would be torn from their homeland, carried away as captives, and surrounded by a culture hostile to their faith. That looming exile was a frightening prospect: the loss of land, identity, and security.

And yet, in the middle of all these warnings, Isaiah also spoke words of breathtaking comfort. He reminded the people that even in exile, even when it felt like God was far away, He had not abandoned them. Over and over, Isaiah painted pictures of God’s strength and tenderness, urging His people not to fear.

One of the most powerful promises is found in Isaiah 41. God tells His people:

“So do not fear, for I am with you;
do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you;
I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” (Isaiah 41:10)

And a few verses later:

“For I am the Lord your God
who takes hold of your right hand
and says to you, Do not fear;
I will help you.” (Isaiah 41:13)

These two verses say so much in just a few lines. God’s speech through Isaiah isn’t harsh or distant, it’s tender, like a father stooping low to reassure His child. “Do not fear,” He says. Are you weak? “I will strengthen you.” Do you feel alone? “I will help you.” Are you stumbling, wondering if you can keep walking? “I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” 

Imagine hearing those words as an Israelite staring down the reality of exile. You were about to lose everything familiar, your home, your temple, your land. But Isaiah’s words reminded you that you could never lose God’s presence. Even in the darkest places, even when the ground beneath you seemed to disappear, His hand would hold you steady.

That’s why, centuries later, those promises still land with such power. They weren’t just for Judah facing Babylon. They’re for us too, when life shifts, when the future feels uncertain, when we’re standing on the edge of something new and intimidating.

And standing in the Hand of God in Guatemala, I felt that truth in a fresh way. The physical sculpture was fun and whimsical, yes, but the reminder it carried was eternal: no matter how steep the climb, no matter how shaky the footing, I am held in the righteous hand of God.

Held in His Hand

Maybe you’re climbing your own mountain right now, not in Guatemala, but in life. Maybe the road feels bumpy and uncertain, like riding in the back of a pickup truck with nothing but wooden boards to hold you up. Every twist and turn jolts you, and you wonder if you’ll make it to the top. Or maybe you’re standing in a place that feels overwhelming, looking out at the future the way I looked out from that hand on the mountainside, beautiful, yes, but also wide and unknown.

The promise of Isaiah is this: you don’t have to find the strength on your own. God doesn’t say, “Try harder. Be braver. Figure it out yourself.” Instead, He says, “I will strengthen you. I will help you. I will uphold you.” Every fear we whisper in the dark, He already answers. Every trembling step, He already steadies. He doesn’t just tell us not to be afraid; He gives us Himself as the reason we can release our fear.

That’s what I carried home from Hobbitenango that day. Yes, the laughter of my kids on a mountainside, the milkshakes, the rope swings, and the photographs in the clouds. But more than that, I carried home the reminder that God’s hand is not carved from wood or stone. It is not a tourist attraction or a fleeting experience. His hand is living, eternal, and it holds me every single day.

It holds me when I’m on a mountaintop, and it holds me when I’m trudging through a valley. It holds me when I’m laughing, when I’m grieving, when I’m unsure of what comes next. His hand doesn’t let go. And, friend, it holds you too.

After we finished taking our photos in the Hand of God, my son headed over to ride the giant rope swing. As I stood waiting for him to finish, something caught my eye. In the mud near where I was standing, a little silver glimmer shone through. I bent down to pick it up, and there in my hand was a small silver cross.

It had been raining on and off that day, and because of the weather, the crowds at Hobbitenango were thin. I couldn’t help but think: out of all the places I could have stood, why here? Out of all the things I could have seen, why this? It felt like a quiet reminder that God is always present. He never leaves us. He never forsakes us.

I tucked the cross into my pocket, not as a lucky charm, but as a marker. Just as the Israelites once set up stones of remembrance to mark where God had shown His power, I wanted this cross to be a reminder that the same God who upheld His people through Isaiah’s time, the same God who promised to strengthen and help, is the same God who was with me on a rainy mountainside in Guatemala.

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The Volcano View

by Rhonda , September 11, 2025

The plane dipped through the clouds and touched down in Guatemala City, and I felt that familiar mixture of nerves and excitement that comes when a dream is about to unfold. I had planned this trip meticulously, down to the smallest detail, yet as the wheels hit the tarmac, I still asked myself the same question: What in the world am I doing here?

When I told people I was heading to Guatemala, I usually got the same response: Why? Is it a missions trip?  No, this wasn’t a missions trip. Guatemala had simply caught my attention through the countless YouTube travel videos I binge-watch late at night. The country looked beautiful, raw, alive, and I wanted to experience it.

Of course, there were dozens of things I hoped to see, but I had one big goal in mind: Pacaya. A volcano where the heat from the earth is so intense you can roast a marshmallow right on the rocks. That simple, quirky image lodged itself on my bucket list and wouldn’t let go. Roast a marshmallow on Pacaya. Whatever else happened, I wasn’t leaving without doing that.

But as much as I dreamed about the volcano, my heart swelled most when I glanced at my kids. My faithful sojourners. They’ve joined me on so many of life’s crazy adventures, the ones who once pulled out a Bible and read to me when my husband walked out the door. Here they were, excited, wide-eyed, ready not only to roast marshmallows but to explore something bigger: a new country, a different rhythm of life, people with stories unlike our own.

Two weeks before we left, God gave me a gift I didn’t expect. I reconnected with a coworker I had never known well until one conversation turned into another. I learned she was from Guatemala. When I told her I’d be visiting her home country, her face lit up. Within hours she sent me a long list of things to see and then asked the question I hadn’t figured out yet: How are you getting around?

I admitted I didn’t really know, probably Uber, maybe taxis. She paused. “Rhonda, let me call you back.” A few hours later, she had arranged transportation through her family friends. It was a gesture of kindness that would prove to be more valuable than I could have imagined.

So, after a trip through customs, we stepped out of the airport into the Guatemalan sun, and I heard a voice call out, “Rhonda!” Faithful indeed. Her family friend had waited over an hour for us, and just like that, our journey began.

We piled into his car, and to the kids’ delight, the backseat was full of snacks!  Chips, candies, all in flavors we’d never tried. My two food-loving adventurers tore into them while I adjusted my translating earphones. One went to me, one to our driver. As long as the cellphone signal held, we could talk freely, with words flowing in real time between English and Spanish.

Out the window, Guatemala rushed at me.  Motorcycles weaved through brutal traffic, palm trees swaying under a soft sky, women with babies strapped to their chests, street vendors walking between cars selling food to weary travelers. Everything moved to a different hum, a rhythm I couldn’t yet understand but wanted desperately to learn.

“Brother,” our driver finally said to my son after his fifth question about traffic laws and why everyone was driving so crazy, “you are in Latin America.” We all smiled.

But then, oh, the mountains. And the volcanoes. Rising out of the horizon like old storytellers, patient and powerful. More than thirty volcanoes in this country, our driver explained, three of them active. Pacaya was the one for beginners, the one I had my heart set on.

I scribbled in my journal that morning before boarding the flight: Do not fear. You are in God’s hands. In the past, trips like this had always included a husband, a protector, a buffer. Not this time. This time, I was the protector of my children. It felt different, heavier, but also strangely empowering.

And so, with prayers in my heart, snacks in the backseat, and mountains calling from the horizon, we drove toward our first stop: Antigua.

 The Pillar of God

Imagine standing in the desert with thousands of others, fresh out of Egypt’s grip. The air still smells of salt from the Red Sea, where the waters had only recently collapsed over Pharaoh’s army. Your feet are blistered from hurried travel, your heart is pounding with freedom, and suddenly, you see it.

A vast column rises before you, not like smoke from a fire or mist from the sea, but something otherworldly. By day, it stretches upward like a mighty cloud, shimmering against the sky, shading you from the harsh desert sun. By night, it burns with a glow so bright that the sand around your tent flickers orange and gold. It isn’t just light, it’s Presence. The very nearness of God wrapped in cloud and flame, moving ahead of you step by step.

The Israelites had two possible roads before them. The short way, hugging the coastline, could have brought them to Canaan in just a few days. The long way wound through barren wilderness, rocky, dry, and unforgiving. If it were up to human wisdom, the choice would have been obvious: take the short road, get there quickly. But God’s wisdom saw deeper. Along the coastal road lay the Philistines, fierce enemies Israel was not prepared to fight. God knew their weakness, and in mercy, He chose the longer way.

The wilderness became their testing ground. It peeled away any illusion of self-sufficiency and pressed them to rely completely on God. Just as the Egyptians had been swallowed by the sea, now God’s own children would be shaped in the desert. He measures every trial according to His people’s strength.  His path may not be the shortest, but it is always the surest, the one that prepares us for what lies ahead.

Still, He never left them to wander blindly. That towering pillar became their constant reassurance. It told them when to march and when to rest. When it rose, they followed. When it stayed, they camped. No debate, no confusion, no guesswork. At night, families lay down to sleep under a sky lit by the glow of divine fire. In the morning, they woke to the same faithful cloud, waiting to move. It was impossible to deny: they were being led.

The pillar pointed to a greater truth, that Christ Himself was with His people. The same Jesus who declares, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life” (John 8:12) was there in the wilderness, guiding, sheltering, protecting. And He is still with us today.

When I think about the Israelites, I try to picture the awe, the trembling joy of knowing God Himself was leading them, step by step.  I can’t help but wonder how it felt to walk into an unknown wilderness yet see proof of His presence with every move of the pillar.

Arrival in Antigua

That image was on my heart as our plane landed in Guatemala. I didn’t know what the next ten days would hold. The language was unfamiliar, the customs unknown, and the road ahead uncertain. But just as He went before His people in the desert, I believed He would go before us, too, guiding each step, each encounter, and even each detour, in His perfect way.

As we drove toward Antigua, I pressed my forehead against the window and tried to take it all in, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the feeling of being somewhere completely new. It was intimidating, yes, but it was also exhilarating. My senses came alive. The air carried hints of smoke, spices, and flowers all at once. Vendors walked between cars selling roasted corn, fruit, and bread. Motorcycles buzzed by with two, sometimes three passengers balanced together. Life moved quickly, and yet I found myself wanting to slow it down so I could absorb every detail.

I peppered our driver with questions, and through the gift of the translating earphones, he answered patiently, one by one. What did people eat here? How did school work? How dangerous was it to ride a motorcycle with a baby strapped to your chest? He chuckled at my curiosity, but he never tired of answering. By the time we arrived in Antigua, I already felt as if I had glimpsed pieces of Guatemalan life that no travel video could ever have shown me.

Our lodging was a pretty little place I had stumbled upon online and rented for a few days of our stay. The pictures had promised charm, but stepping through the doorway was better than I imagined. A small fountain bubbled softly in the courtyard, surrounded by flowering plants that seemed to spring from every crack and corner. Stone pathways wound between bright walls, and a staircase led us to the rooftop terrace.

That rooftop quickly became my favorite place. From there, the view stretched out over tiled roofs and winding cobblestone streets, reaching toward the silhouettes of volcanoes in the distance. At sunrise, the mist curled around their peaks in quiet majesty. At sunset, the sky blazed with color behind their outlines, a reminder that God paints new masterpieces every single day.

I loved everything about Antigua, the cobblestone paths that made me slow down with each careful step, the unfamiliar but mouthwatering smells wafting from open windows and street stalls, the bursts of flowers spilling color over stone walls. But none of it compared to the stillness of sitting on that rooftop and simply looking at the volcanoes.

Isn’t it amazing what happens when we pause long enough to see God’s creation without the weight of everyday stress pressing down on us? Out there, I wasn’t thinking about work emails or grocery lists or the endless cycle of to-do’s. I was just present, breathing in the beauty of a land that was new to me but ancient in His design. It felt like worship, just to sit and look at what He had made.

I spent a significant amount of time gazing at volcanoes rising like silent sentinels over the city, I felt the same truth that had carried the Israelites through the wilderness: we are never alone on the journey. God goes before us. He lights the way. Sometimes, all we need to do is pause long enough to notice the beauty He’s placed before our eyes and rest in the assurance that we are exactly where He wants us to be.

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The Pouring

by Rhonda , September 05, 2025


Our day had finally come. Months of planning, list-making, and watching YouTube travel videos had all led to this moment. At 4:00 a.m., we stumbled out of bed, groggy but buzzing with excitement. By 6:00, we would be boarding our flight to Guatemala. Tired? Absolutely. But more than that, we were ready.

Suitcases zipped, passports double-checked, we waited for the Uber I had scheduled the night before. I wasn’t about to gamble on finding a ride at that hour. Right on time, the notification came: “Your driver has arrived.”

Out front sat a minivan. A bit of nostalgia for me, my parents had carted the three of us kids around in one just like it. Inside, we met our driver, a kind woman with a warm smile and Christian music playing softly through the speakers. Immediately, I felt a spark of joy. What a perfect sign for the start of this trip. Lord, You are here already.

As we made our way to the airport, she shared her story. She was a single mother of five boys.  Two already graduated, three still in high school. Her sons were athletes, busy with football and practices, and she worked nights so she could be there for them during the day. Every night, seven nights a week, she drove that van to keep her family afloat. By morning, when most of us were starting our day, she was finishing hers. While her boys were at school, she would sleep just enough to wake up in time to cook dinner and cheer them on at their games.

Listening to her faith-filled words, hearing her softly sing along to the worship music, I felt both humbled and convicted. Here we were embarking on a wonderful trip, while she was simply fighting for daily strength and provision. And yet she radiated gratitude.

I know what it is to walk the road of single motherhood, to lean on the Lord when the weight feels impossible. Some of us single moms carry a kind of hidden superpower, the strength God gives when we’ve come to the end of ourselves. And I could see it in her. The Lord was holding her up, giving her the ability to press through nights of exhaustion and still raise her boys with faith and love.

Before we reached the airport, I left her a generous tip and lifted a prayer. I prayed God would strengthen her, carry her through, and see those boys through high school. That He would “move the immovable, do the impossible,” just as the song on the radio said.

Her legacy will be powerful.  Her sons will one day tell their children about their mother who worked through the night so they could live like ordinary teenagers, even when life was far from ordinary. Someday, they will take care of her. But for now, she leans on her God. And He will not let her fall.

As I wheeled my suitcase into the terminal, I thought: Lord, if this is how You’ve chosen to begin the journey, I can’t wait to see what else You will show us in Guatemala.

The Widow’s Oil

Centuries ago, in a small Israelite village, there lived a woman whose world had collapsed around her. She was a widow. Her husband was gone too soon, leaving her alone to carry the weight of survival. But it wasn’t just grief she carried. Her husband had left behind debts, and in those days creditors didn’t just take your possessions; they could take your children as payment.

Two sons. Her boys. Her whole world. And now the knock of a creditor at her door threatened to rip them away.

Can you imagine the heaviness in her chest as she lay awake at night, listening to her sons breathe in their sleep, wondering how long she had left with them? Every clink of pottery in the neighbor’s house, every footstep on the dirt road, must have set her heart pounding: Will today be the day they come for my children?

In her desperation, she ran to the prophet Elisha. Her voice cracked as she poured out her grief:
“My husband, your servant, is dead. And you know he revered the Lord. But now his creditor is coming to take my two boys as his slaves.”

Elisha looked at her and asked a question that must have felt almost cruel in the moment:
“What do you have in your house?”

She wanted to say “Nothing.” Because that was how it felt. Empty cupboards. Empty purse. Empty hope. But then she remembered one small thing, a jar. Her voice was soft, almost embarrassed:
“Your servant has nothing there at all… except a small jar of olive oil.”

Just a little flask. Insignificant. Hardly worth mentioning.

But God saw potential in the little. He always does.

Through Elisha, God gave some unusual instructions:
“Go around and ask all your neighbors for empty jars. Don’t ask for just a few. Then go inside and shut the door behind you and your sons. Pour oil into all the jars, and as each is filled, put it to one side.”

That last part must have caught in her ears: Don’t ask for just a few.

God wasn’t planning to scrape her by. He wasn’t going to hand her just enough to survive the day. His plan was bigger, richer, more extravagant than she could imagine. Her faith would be measured not by what she lacked, but by how many jars she dared to collect. The more vessels she gathered, the more space there would be for Him to pour His abundance.

I imagine her sons racing through the village, knocking on doors, breathless as they begged: “Do you have a jar we can borrow? A bowl? A pitcher?” Some neighbors likely shook their heads, whispering in pity. Others handed over jars with furrowed brows, thinking this was madness. But the boys kept gathering, arms full, until their little home was crowded with clay vessels of every shape and size.

Then came the moment of truth.

She lifted her tiny flask, that one “insignificant” jar, and tipped it over the first vessel. Golden oil trickled, then poured, then filled. She moved to the next jar, and it filled. Then another. And another.

Her hands trembled at first, but steadied as she realized what was happening. The oil did not stop. The room, once echoing with emptiness, now gleamed with jar after jar filled to the brim. Her sons’ eyes were wide with awe as they slid one vessel after another beneath the stream, until the house itself smelled of rich olive oil, shining in the lamplight.

And this wasn’t just any substance. Olive oil was one of the most valuable commodities in their world.  It was used for food, medicine, light in their lamps, even for worship. It was costly to press, precious to trade, and a true marker of wealth and security. God wasn’t multiplying something cheap and ordinary. He was giving her the very thing that could erase her debt, sustain her household, and even be sold for future provision.

At last, breathless and overwhelmed, she whispered, “Bring me another one.”

But her son shook his head. “There are no jars left.”

And in that moment, the oil stopped flowing. Not a drop too soon, not a drop too late. Every single jar they had gathered, and not one less, was filled.

Elisha’s words sealed the miracle:
“Go, sell the oil and pay your debts. You and your sons can live on what is left.”

Do you see it? God didn’t just erase her debt. He gave her enough to live on. Her moment of desperation became His moment of extravagance. What looked like the end of her story was only the beginning of His provision.

Modern-Day Oil Jars

As I listened to the woman in the minivan tell her story, I couldn’t help but think of that widow so many centuries ago. Different time, different culture, but the same desperate cry: “Lord, how do I make it? How do I provide for my children with so little in my hands?”

Her minivan was her jar of oil. Night after night she poured herself out, trusting that somehow there would be enough. And just as surely as God filled the widow’s jars, I believe He is filling hers.

But I realized something else on that quiet drive to the airport: her story was also my story.

I’ve known what it feels like to lose everything. I lost my husband. I lost my job. I lost the identity I thought defined me. Piece by piece, the life I thought I had built came crashing down, until all I had left was a desperate prayer: “God, help me keep a roof over my kids’ heads. Help me give them some stability.”

And in that lowest season, God placed a jar of oil in my hands. It didn’t look like much at the time, a job at a startup company. It was quick, it was flexible, and I thought it was just a temporary way to survive. But it was exactly what I needed. I could keep our home. I couldn't be there for my son as I'd hoped, as he recovered from surgery at home.  I'd have to lean on family, but I could make it through.

Then COVID hit, and the world turned upside down. For many people, it was a season of loss. But for me, working from home became a lifeline. It allowed me to care for my son, pay my bills, and survive when I wasn’t sure survival was possible.

And here’s the miracle: that “temporary” job, that little jar of oil, turned into abundance. Five years later, the company has grown. My role has grown. And from that provision, God has allowed us not only to survive but to thrive. Today we’re able to do things I never dreamed of in those dark days, like take a trip to Guatemala.

No one can convince me that God doesn’t care about the single moms, the widows, the women who feel like they’re standing at the edge of their rope. I used to believe my divorce meant I had disappointed Him, that somehow I was less worthy of His care. But it was in that very season of brokenness that He showed up. Not with just enough to scrape by, but with more than enough.

Our God loves His daughters. He has always loved them. The widow in ancient Israel, the weary Uber driver in her minivan, and the single mom sitting at her kitchen table wondering how to pay the bills. He sees us in our moments of desperation, when we feel like we have nothing left but a little jar of oil, and He steps in with a miracle. Not just enough to scrape by, but abundance. Not just survival, but provision that overflows into hope and future. That is the heart of our God, to take our emptiest places and turn them into testimonies of His extravagant love.


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The Other Side

by Rhonda , August 28, 2025


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.

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The Eternal Win

by Rhonda , August 22, 2025

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. 

The other night, while rinsing dishes at the sink, he turned to me casually and said, “You know, Mom, it ends up fine for me either way. If there’s no cancer, I stay here. If there is cancer, I get to see Jesus.”

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.

Watching him reminds me of Paul’s words: “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain” (Philippians 1:21). My son has grasped that truth in a way most adults never do. He’s not fearless because the future is certain, he’s fearless because his Savior is certain.

I guess that’s what happens when you’ve walked through the hardest valleys and found God waiting on the other side. You begin to see life differently. The fear that used to overwhelm doesn’t hold the same power anymore. You know the Shepherd who carried you before will carry you again.

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

Paul’s words echo through the centuries, and they find new life in my son’s voice. Two very different settings, a Roman cell and a modern hospital, but the same unshakable truth: life in Christ, death with Christ. Either way, the believer cannot lose.

And that truth changes everything about how we live right now. If to live is Christ and to die is gain, then fear no longer has the power to chain us. We don’t have to cling tightly to this world, to our circumstances, or to our fragile sense of control. We can live with open hands, knowing that the best is yet to come.

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.

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The Wilderness Rest

by Rhonda , August 14, 2025


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.

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The Picture Promise

by Rhonda , August 08, 2025

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.

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The Voice Heard

by Rhonda , August 01, 2025


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

Samuel’s story stays with me, not just because he heard God’s voice, but because he responded to it. He obeyed, even when the message was difficult, even when it meant speaking truth to someone he loved. That kind of faithfulness moves me.

Sometimes, like Samuel, I long to hear from God. I ask Him to speak, to guide me, to show me what He wants me to know. When He does, when He confirms a message through a sermon, a verse, or even something I’ve written in my own notebook, it fills me with joy. But also, it can come with a challenge.

The real test isn’t just in hearing God, it’s in doing what He says. And not just once. Not just when it’s obvious or dramatic. But in the quiet, unnoticed, daily moments. It’s in doing what He says consistently, in the little things, day in and day out, that I find the real struggle.

I think about what it must have cost someone like Samuel to live his whole life as a prophet. To wake up every morning and not ask, “What do I want to say today?” but instead, “What does God want to say?” To carry words from heaven that might comfort, or confront. That might bless, or break.

Then I think about my own life. How challenging it can be for me just to know and do what God wants on a regular Tuesday. To forgive when I’d rather hold a grudge. To trust when I’d rather worry. To act when I’d rather stay comfortable.

To be a prophet meant surrender. It meant saying what God wanted said, not what Samuel wanted to say. It meant doing what God wanted done, not what made sense in the moment.

Here’s something else I’ve noticed.  Samuel was at rest when he heard God’s voice. He wasn’t striving or performing. He was lying still in the quiet of night. Isn’t that interesting? Sometimes to hear God, we have to slow down, rest our body, calm our mind, make space for stillness. Rest is one of the good gifts of life. It’s not just recovery, it’s preparation. It’s where our hearts get soft again. It’s where we begin to listen.

That listening, that sacred ability to recognize and heed the voice of God, that is the beginning of kingdom work.  The Holy Spirit is always protecting, always prompting, always guiding. But we are created with free will. We get to choose: will we follow where the Spirit leads? Or will we go our own way?

You’re moving in the right direction when you’re learning to recognize His voice. And you’re growing stronger when you learn to heed it.  

Because really, isn’t that the invitation for all of us? To listen closely, follow obediently, and trust that even when it’s hard, especially when it’s hard, God’s way is always best.

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