Category: Hope & Perseverance

I Hate Waiting

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Photo by Chu Chup Hinh

I hate waiting.

Any kind of waiting. Even waiting for good news. I just want to skip to the end—get to the “stuff,” whether it’s good, bad, or somewhere in between. I’m the person who picks up a new book and reads the ending first to decide if it’s worth the emotional investment. If the ending is sad or unresolved, I won’t read it. I’m the friend who wants to know how the movie ends. I love spoilers. Tell me the ending—if it’s good, I’ll still watch; if it’s sad, at least I’ll be prepared. Honestly, I prefer it that way.

This is one of the areas where God and I often come to blows. And I never win. No matter how hard I try to rush to the ending, it never works.

Right now, I’m sitting in front of my computer in one of those seasons where I can’t see the resolve in so many areas of my life.

I just got off the phone with a dear friend and sister in Christ who is facing the end of her sister’s life—another dear friend of mine. We’re waiting for her triumphant entry into eternity with Jesus…waiting.

My mom just moved from her home of almost 50 years to be closer because she was diagnosed with a rare terminal cancer…waiting.

My husband is waiting for a board vote to see if he’ll have a position next year.
My son is waiting to hear about scholarships.
I’m waiting for a prodigal child to return.
Waiting through middle school with my youngest.
Waiting through hormones with my middle son.
Waiting for my broken foot to heal.
Waiting for cars to be fixed.
Waiting.

And yet, I’m aware—very aware—that even in this season of waiting, I am blessed. Blessed to walk with my friends in their grief. Blessed that my mom has the means to move closer so I can walk with her through this part of her journey. Blessed that if my husband doesn’t have a position next year, we’ll be okay. Blessed that my son not only wants to continue his education but is qualified for scholarships. Blessed for the experiences my younger children are having, and blessed that my prodigal is reaching out.

I’m not grateful for a broken foot, but I am grateful for good insurance, for the ability to work from home, and for the fact that the injury—though painful—has been more inconvenient than devastating.

Writing that last sentence is convicting.

I don’t like waiting because it interrupts the flow of life I prefer. I’ve always fancied myself a bit of an adventurer—taking chances, trying new things, leaping before I look. But I’m realizing my impulsiveness is often just a response to my aversion to waiting. I don’t like uncertainty. I don’t like the discomfort of not knowing. I don’t like the anxiety of unclear paths. So I change direction. I detour. I divert. I try to skip to the end.

And God says, “Wait.”

“Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him.”
Psalm 37:7

It’s in the waiting that God forms us.

Yesterday was Resurrection Sunday. I shared the Gospel—God’s redemptive work accomplished in His Son Jesus. The sacrifice Jesus made to assure our salvation and restoration. I shared how the work He began in us will continue until we go to meet Him or He returns.

“He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”
Philippians 1:6

Until we go to meet Him or He returns…waiting.

There is a pattern in how God forms His people:
It’s in the waiting.

When the future feels uncertain, God is doing His deepest work. What do we learn when everything is going our way? How do we grow when life is predictable and smooth? Do roots grow deep when water is plentiful on the surface?

No. Deep roots grow in drought, in heat, in wind, in harsh conditions.

I know this from my own life—and because I grow roses in the desert.

Photo by Damla Kırçiçek

When I place a new rosebush in the ground in early spring, I won’t know if it will make it until it survives at least two Tucson summers. If it can make it through that, it will thrive. My citrus trees take up to five years of soil cultivation, deep watering, pruning, and terrible fruit before they’re established. And during those years, I keep tending them—watering, fertilizing, pruning.

I take better care of my plants than I do my own heart.

I get frustrated with my growth and want shortcuts. I want to avoid the long winters and burning summers. I want shade and refreshment. But in trying to escape the discomfort, I often end up worse off than if I had stayed where God planted me—letting deep roots form through the hard seasons.

On the day after Jesus was crucified, the disciples were lost, broken, uncertain, afraid, and confused. A drought season if there ever was one. They weren’t just grieving Jesus—they were grieving their own failures. They fled. They hid. They denied. The world went silent, and there was nothing they could do.

The Sabbath came and went.
They waited—not with hope, but with despair.
Not with expectation, but with fear.

But they waited together.

And into that shared fear, shared grief, shared uncertainty—Jesus appeared.

“Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’”
John 20:19

You and I never have to wait the way they did. We know how the story ends. We’ve read the last chapter. Our waiting is temporary, and it is anchored in hope.

“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.”
Hebrews 6:19

We can live with confident expectation that our waiting will end—and that in the process, God is forming us into the people He created us to be.

Peter was formed into the rock on which Christ built His church (Matthew 16:18).
John was formed into the disciple who would receive Revelation (Revelation 1:1).
Every person in that room—tired, crushed, desperate—was being formed for kingdom work.

Most of us don’t like waiting. We don’t like uncertainty or fear or confusion. But what if that is exactly where God does His best work? What if our weakest moments are where He grows the deepest roots? What if our waiting is preparation for the work He is sending our way?

Paul talks about finding joy in suffering, and I struggle with that. Who finds joy in suffering? But maybe Paul wasn’t joyful about the suffering. Maybe he was joyful because he could look back and see what God had formed in him through it.

“We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance; and endurance produces character; and character produces hope.”
Romans 5:3–4

I’m not suggesting we “get over” impatience. We’re human. But maybe we can start to see waiting as an opportunity—a season where God is cultivating deep roots, forming us into people who can help others grow deep roots too. People He will use to bring peace, restoration, and reconciliation. People equipped to make disciples.

I still don’t like waiting.
But I’m choosing to look at it differently.

Instead of “Why me, Lord?” I’m learning to ask, “What are You doing, Lord?”
Instead of “Why must I endure this?” I’m learning to ask, “What do I need to learn?”

Whatever God has in mind for these uncomfortable, inconvenient, painful seasons, I know He will use them to grow me, grow others, and grow His kingdom—all while glorifying Himself.

And if that’s the ending, then the waiting is worth it.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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Come back and visit at ListenLearn.Live Ministries

The God Who Cannot Be Absent

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Photo by cottonbro studio

There are moments in life when the silence feels louder than God’s voice. When the weight of what we’re carrying makes us whisper the same question people have asked for thousands of years: “Where are You, God?”

It’s not a question of doubt. It’s a question of being human. And the Bible doesn’t hide that question. It gives us the words for it. It shows us people who felt the same way we do — even though God had never left them.

Psalm 31 is one of those places. It’s honest and unfiltered. The writer feels abandoned, overwhelmed, forgotten. But underneath all of that emotion is a truth he keeps coming back to: God is present, even when we can’t feel Him. That tension — between what we feel and what is true — is part of the life of faith.

The psalmist says things like, “I am forgotten as though I were dead” (Psalm 31:12). “My strength fails” (Psalm 31:10). “I am in distress” (Psalm 31:9). These aren’t the words of someone who has lost faith. They’re the words of someone trying to hold onto it. And then, right in the middle of all that fear, he says, “But I trust in You, Lord… My times are in Your hands” (Psalm 31:14–15). He’s basically saying, “I don’t feel You, but I know You’re here.” That’s the tension most of us live in.

This morning I woke up because the wave machine I sleep with suddenly shut off. The silence was so loud it startled me awake. I didn’t realize how much I’d gotten used to the steady sound of waves until it disappeared. And as I lay there, it hit me: this is exactly what God’s silence has felt like in some seasons of my life. Not that He left. Not that He stopped caring. Just that the “sound” of His nearness felt harder to sense. The silence was real. But the absence wasn’t. Psalm 31 gives us permission to name that feeling without confusing it for truth.

We use the word “omnipresent” in church, but most people don’t use that word anywhere else. So here’s the simple version: omnipresent means God is always present everywhere. Not sometimes. Not when we feel it. Always. Everywhere. All the time. It’s not something God does. It’s who He is. Which means the idea of God being absent, silent, or checked out isn’t just painful — it’s impossible. If God could step away from us, even for a moment, He would stop being God. His presence isn’t a mood. It isn’t a reward. It isn’t something we earn. It’s His nature.

Photo by molochkomolochko:

The Bible doesn’t just say God is “around.” It says something much deeper. From the very beginning, God breathed

His own life into us (Genesis 2:7). That breath wasn’t a one‑time moment — it’s the breath that keeps us alive. Paul puts it this way: “In Him we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28). We don’t just live near God. We live in the God who holds everything together.

And Jesus makes it even clearer: “He lives with you and will be in you” (John 14:17). “We will come to them and make our home with them” (John 14:23). “Remain in Me, as I also remain in you” (John 15:4). Jesus isn’t describing a God who pops in and out. He’s describing a God who has made His home in us. A God whose presence is the very thing that keeps us alive. So when we say “God feels far,” we’re talking about our feelings, not His location.

Psalm 31 shows us a God who sees and stays, but Scripture goes even further: God is not just present — He is active. Jesus said, “My Father is always at His work” (John 5:17). Paul reminds us that God is working “in all things” for our good (Romans 8:28), and that He is working in us to shape our desires and actions according to His purpose (Philippians 2:13). And long before that, Isaiah declared that God “works for those who wait for Him” (Isaiah 64:4). God is not a passive observer of our lives. He is moving, shaping, sustaining, redeeming, and working in the very places where we feel most alone.

When Jeremiah was terrified of what God was asking him to do, God didn’t give him a pep talk. He simply said, “Do not be afraid… for I am with you” (Jeremiah 1:8). God’s presence is His answer. His nearness is His reassurance. His character is His promise. And Jesus echoes the same truth: “I am with you always” (Matthew 28:20). Always.

Psalm 31 gives us the language of fear and trust, of feeling abandoned and choosing to cling to God anyway. But the psalmist’s feelings are not the foundation of our hope. God’s nature is. Our emotions may shout, but they do not define reality. God does.

And Scripture tells us who He is:
The God who breathed life into us (Genesis 2:7).
The God in whom we live and move and have our being (Acts 17:28).
The God who makes His home in us (John 14:23).
The God who works in all things for our good (Romans 8:28).
The God who cannot deny Himself (2 Timothy 2:13).

This is the God who holds us.

So here is the truth we stand on: God’s absence is impossible. Not unlikely. Not rare. Not “mostly untrue.” Impossible. Because if God could be absent — even for a moment — He would stop being omnipresent. He would stop being faithful. He would stop being holy love. He would stop being who He is. But He cannot deny Himself.

So even when we feel abandoned, we are held. Even when we feel forgotten, we are seen. Even when we feel alone, we are surrounded. Even when we hear silence, we are not without Him.

This is not wishful thinking. This is not emotional comfort. This is not “God will show up eventually.” This is the unchanging reality of the God who is always present, always active, always sustaining, always working, always God. Anything less would violate His nature.

Psalm 31 begins with trembling hands reaching for help. But the final word does not belong to our trembling. The final word belongs to the God who cannot leave.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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When Being Right Can Still Be Wrong

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Photo by Nathan Marcam

Most of us know what it feels like to be wronged. Sometimes it’s small and annoying. Other times it hits so hard it rearranges your life. And when that happens, something rises up in us — a need for justice, for fairness, for someone to finally say, “What happened to you wasn’t okay.” The world tells us that if we don’t fight back, if we don’t make the person who hurt us feel it, then we’re weak. Or worse — we’re letting them win. “For their own good,” the world says, “you have to hit back harder.” This is the air we breathe — a world that treats payback like wisdom.

But Genesis 50:19–20 pulls us into a different way of seeing things. A way that doesn’t come naturally. A way that doesn’t come from fear or self‑protection. A way that only makes sense if God is actually involved in our stories. Joseph looks at the very brothers who sold him into slavery, who ripped him out of his home and his childhood, and he says, “Do not be afraid. Am I in the place of God? You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good…” (Genesis 50:19–20).

Joseph isn’t sugarcoating anything. He’s not pretending it didn’t hurt. He’s not pretending it didn’t change him. He says it straight: you intended to harm me. But he refuses to let their intention be the final word. Joseph is looking at his life through a different lens — not the lens of what people did to him, but the lens of what God is doing in him and through him. And because of that, he refuses to sit in the judgment seat. He knows that seat belongs to God, not him.

His words hit harder when you remember what he lived through. He wasn’t just picked on. He was betrayed by his own brothers — violently, intentionally, and without remorse. He was sold like property. He lost his freedom, his identity, his safety. He was falsely accused when he did the right thing. He was thrown into prison and forgotten. He was overlooked even when he helped others. Joseph’s life wasn’t a series of unfortunate events. It was a series of deep, life‑altering injustices.

And yet — when he finally has power, when the tables have turned, when he could have made them pay — Joseph doesn’t cling to his right to be right. He doesn’t weaponize his pain. He doesn’t demand repayment. He chooses relationship over revenge. He chooses mercy over payback. He chooses to see God’s hand where others only see human harm. That’s what makes his words so shocking: “What you meant for evil, God used for good.” (Genesis 50:20). He’s not saying the evil was good. He’s saying the evil didn’t get the last word.

And Joseph doesn’t pretend otherwise. He doesn’t rewrite the story or soften what happened. He says plainly: “You meant evil against me.” (Genesis 50:20). And it wasn’t just their intention — they actually did harm. Their choices changed the entire direction of his life. Their actions caused real pain, real loss, real trauma. Joseph lived with the consequences for years. And yet — even as he names the evil honestly — he refuses to sit in God’s place. “Am I in the place of God?” (Genesis 50:19).

Joseph gets something we often miss: naming the harm doesn’t give us permission to become judge, jury, and executioner. He tells the truth about what happened, but he trusts God with what happens next. He holds all three truths at once: you meant evil; you did evil; but God used it for good — to accomplish His purposes. The evil was real — but it wasn’t the end of the story.

Photo by Çağdaş Birsen

And we need to say this out loud: Joseph’s words are not a command to stay in harmful situations or to quietly endure abuse. Scripture never asks us to tolerate violence, injustice, or danger. Holiness is not passivity. Joseph didn’t go back to the pit. He didn’t pretend the abuse was acceptable. He named the harm, he lived in safety, and he made wise choices to protect himself and his family. What he refused to do was let the harm define him or turn him into someone he didn’t want to be. The message isn’t “accept evil.” The message is “don’t let evil shape who you become.” God can redeem anything — but He never asks us to stay where we’re being harmed. He asks us to walk in wisdom, truth, and safety while trusting that He can use even the darkest chapters to accomplish His purposes.

This is where Paul’s words in Romans land with weight: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him…” (Romans 8:28). Paul isn’t saying everything that happens is good. He’s saying God refuses to waste anything — even the things shaped by human evil. Joseph lived this long before Paul wrote it. He didn’t pretend the evil was good. He just refused to let the evil be the final word.

Most of us live with a “why is this happening” reflex. When something painful hits, we want answers. We want fairness. We want the world to make sense. But Joseph’s worldview is different. He doesn’t ask why. He asks what now. What is God doing in this moment? That shift changes everything. It moves us from trying to control the outcome to trusting God’s character. It moves us from payback to redemption. It moves us from fear to participation in what God is doing.

Jesus teaches this same posture when He says, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” (Matthew 5:44). That’s not a call to ignore injustice. It’s a call to break the cycle of retaliation. It’s a call to trust that God is doing something bigger than the harm done to us.

Paul echoes this when he writes, “Do not repay anyone evil for evil… Do not take revenge… for it is written: ‘It is mine to avenge; I will repay,’ says the Lord.” (Romans 12:17–19). Paul isn’t telling us to be passive. He’s telling us to get out of God’s chair. Joseph understood this long before Paul wrote it. He understood that trusting God isn’t a theory — it’s a way of living.

One of the most counter‑cultural truths in Scripture is that God consistently prioritizes people over proving a point. Not because truth doesn’t matter — it absolutely does — but because truth in God’s kingdom is always expressed through love, humility, and a willingness to repair what’s broken. Joseph models this beautifully. He was right. His brothers were wrong. But Joseph refuses to use his correctness as a weapon. He chooses relationship instead.

Jesus reinforces this when He teaches, “If you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother has something against you… first go and be reconciled.” (Matthew 5:23–24). Being right with God can’t be separated from making things right with others.

Paul sharpens the point when he writes, “If I… understand all mysteries and all knowledge… but do not have love, I am nothing.” (1 Corinthians 13:2). You can be right and still be wrong. And in one of the most jarring statements in the New Testament, Paul tells the Corinthians, “Why not rather be wronged? Why not rather be cheated?” (1 Corinthians 6:7).

Paul is not endorsing injustice.
He is exposing what it really means to follow Jesus.

Your witness matters more than your win.
Your unity matters more than being proven right.
Your relationships matter more than your rights.

This is the same posture Joseph takes with his brothers.

If anyone had the right to demand justice, it was Jesus. Betrayed by a friend. Abandoned by His followers. Condemned by religious leaders. Executed by the state. And yet, on the cross, Jesus says, “Father, forgive them…” (Luke 23:34). The cross is the ultimate Genesis 50:20 moment. Humanity intended harm. God intended salvation. Humanity tried to end the story. God wrote resurrection.

So what does it look like to live this way? We refuse to sit in God’s seat. We tell the truth about the harm. We ask, “God, what are You doing in this moment?” We trust God with what we can’t control. We choose hope over retaliation.

Genesis 50:19–20 isn’t comforting until we let go of our need to control the outcome. But once we do, it becomes a doorway into freedom. Joseph’s story isn’t just ancient history. It’s a picture of the kind of life Jesus invites us into today — a life that trusts God with justice, values people over being right, and believes God can redeem what others meant for harm. This isn’t easy. But it is the way of Jesus. And it is the way that leads to life.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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Come back and visit at ListenLearn.Live Ministries

El Emet — The God Who Does Not Move

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There is a name for God in Scripture that has been pressing on my heart: El Emet — the God of Truth, the God who is faithful. Not faithful because life is easy, or because we are strong, or because we always stand firm. God is faithful because it is His nature. His promises come from who He is, and who He is does not change.

And that matters, because we change. Some days our faith feels steady; other days we feel afraid, tired, or unsure. Some days we obey quickly; other days we hesitate or hide. But God does not shift the way we do. He does not move with pressure or bend under fear. He remains who He is.

Scripture says, “If we are faithless, He remains faithful, for He cannot deny Himself.” God does not become more faithful when we are strong or less faithful when we are weak. He is constant. Jesus said, “I am with you always.” Not sometimes. Not only when we feel brave. Not only when life is peaceful. Always. His presence is not fragile. His nearness is not conditional. His faithfulness is not based on our performance. He is with us because He promised to be — and He keeps His word.

The name El Emet appears in Psalm 31:5, where David prays, “Into Your hand I commit my spirit; You have redeemed me, O LORD, El Emet.” David did not pray this from a safe place. He prayed it while running for his life. King Saul wanted him dead. David hid in caves, moved from place to place, and lived with fear, betrayal, and uncertainty.

Psalm 31 shows us his reality: “Terror on every side.” “My strength fails.” “I am forgotten like a dead man.” And yet — in the middle of danger — David says, “I trust You with my life because You are El Emet. You are steady. You are true. You do not change.” David trusted God not because life was stable, but because God was.

Psalm 31 was written about 1,000 years before Jesus. A full millennium. And then Jesus — fully God and fully man — hangs on the cross and says, “Father, into Your hands I commit My spirit.” Jesus is quoting David’s prayer. But He is not simply repeating it — He is fulfilling it.

David trusted God while fleeing Saul. Jesus trusted the Father while giving His life for the world. David was a man after God’s heart. Jesus is the heart of God revealed. David trusted God with his life. Jesus trusted the Father with His life, His death, and His resurrection. Jesus is the living proof that God is El Emet — the God who keeps His promises across generations.

Following Jesus looks different in every part of the world, but the cost is real everywhere. For some, the pressure comes from the outside — from family expectations, cultural resistance, or environments where faith is misunderstood or unwelcome. For others, the struggle is quieter — the slow pull of distraction, the weight of loneliness, the fear of disappointing people, or the battle inside the heart.

But no matter where we live or what we face, one truth remains: God’s faithfulness is not limited by circumstance. His presence is not blocked by pressure. His promises are not undone by suffering. El Emet is steady when everything else shakes.

Most of our lives are lived in small, hidden moments — a quiet prayer, a decision to forgive, a choice to hope, a moment of courage no one else sees. These moments matter deeply to God. Faithfulness in hidden places is still faithfulness. And in those places, God meets us — not with distance, but with nearness; not with fear, but with strength; not with uncertainty, but with truth.

Scripture says, “The One who calls you is faithful, and He will do it.” God does not call us and then leave us alone. He calls, and He carries. He leads, and He protects. He begins, and He completes.

God’s faithfulness invites a response from us — not to earn His love, but to walk in it; not to prove ourselves, but to trust Him; not to impress Him, but to follow Him. So here is the invitation, simple and real: take one step of faith. Trust Him with what you fear. Say yes where you have been hesitant. Obey where you have delayed. Walk forward even if the path is narrow. Choose Him over comfort. Choose truth over fear. Choose life over what looks safe.

Not because you are strong, but because He is faithful. Not because you know the outcome, but because you know His character. Not because the road is easy, but because He walks it with you.

When everything shifts, God does not. When everything feels uncertain, He remains steady. When everything around you changes, His faithfulness does not move.

El Emet — the God of Truth — is faithful. And because He is faithful, you can trust Him with your next step.

Please help me share the good news of Jesus and how He can change your life, and our world!

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Come back and visit at ListenLearn.Live Ministries

Reading God’s Story Together This Year: A Chronological Journey Through the Bible

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As we close out one year and step into another, I’ve been thinking about how much can change around us — and how quickly. Circumstances shift. Seasons shift. Our own hearts shift. But God does not. His truth does not. His Word does not.

At our year‑end celebration at Tucson Community Fellowship, we spent time remembering God’s faithfulness — the ways He has carried us, provided for us, and stayed close in both the loud and quiet moments. And woven through all of it was one of our core pillars: we are a people dedicated to God’s Word. Not because it’s the only thing we value, but because it’s the foundation under everything else. God’s Word shapes how we live, how we love, how we grow, and how we walk with Him into whatever comes next.

Scripture says, “The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God endures forever.” (Isaiah 40:8)
When life feels uncertain or unstable, God’s Word remains steady. It doesn’t shift with culture or circumstance. It stands.

And because God is faithful, He keeps inviting us back — back to Himself, back to His presence, back to His Word.

There’s something about this time of year that makes that invitation feel especially clear. Not because a new calendar has power, but because our hearts are paying attention. We’re looking back at what was. We’re looking ahead at what could be. And in the middle of all of that, God gently says what He has always said: “Return to Me.”  (Joel 2:12)

Not with guilt.
Not with pressure.
Not with performance.
But with trust.

The psalmist wrote, “Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” (Psalm 119:105)
A lamp doesn’t light the whole road — just the next step. And sometimes that’s exactly what we need. God’s Word doesn’t just give information; it gives direction. It steadies us when everything else feels unsteady.

This year, I want to invite you to take that next step with us.

Beginning this week, we’re launching a daily Bible‑reading vlog — a simple rhythm where we read through the entire Bible in one year together. And we’ll be reading it in chronological order — the story of God as it unfolded in history, not just as the books appear in our Bibles. This helps us see the bigger picture: God’s faithfulness across generations, His patience, His promises, and His heart for people.

You’ll see Pastor Kayte Sanford, myself, and other leaders from our Tucson Community Fellowship family. Each day’s reading will end with one reflection question — something practical and honest, something that helps you pause and let God’s Word settle into your heart.

And we want this to be a conversation, not a one‑way message. If you have questions about anything in the day’s reading — a verse, a theme, something that felt confusing, or something that stood out — you’re invited to ask. You don’t need to know the Bible well. You don’t need to have the “right” words. You don’t even need to be sure what you believe yet. You are welcome here.

Every Friday, we’ll gather the questions that came in throughout the week and share our responses. Not as experts, but as fellow learners — people walking the same road, listening to the same Scriptures, and trusting the same faithful God.

This isn’t about perfection.
It’s about presence.
It’s about showing up.
It’s about letting God’s Word shape us again.

Paul wrote, “Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly.” (Colossians 3:16)
That’s the invitation. Not to rush. Not to skim. But to let God’s Word take root — to let it form us from the inside out.

My prayer is simple: that as we read together, God will steady us. That His truth will anchor us. That His voice will become familiar again. And that our faith — quiet, imperfect, growing — will begin to live in new ways.

If you’ve been wanting to reengage with Scripture, this is a good time.
If you’ve been longing for direction, this is a good time.
If you’ve been feeling the pull to return to God’s Word, this is a good time.

Not because the calendar changed.
But because God is faithful.
And He is inviting you.

Let’s walk this year together — one day, one chapter, one step of faith at a time.