By faith, after Moses was born, he was hidden by his parents for three months, because they saw that the child was beautiful, and they didn’t fear the king’s edict. Hebrews 11:23

Fear is one of Satan’s oldest and sharpest weapons against the children of God. Because we were not created for evil, darkness unsettles us. Cruelty feels foreign. We cannot find our way through its maze or make sense of it. No wonder Scripture says so often, Do not be afraid. God keeps repeating it because fear so easily becomes the atmosphere we breathe. I think I’m finally getting the message that I should be able to encounter evil without being moved to terror. That does not mean evil becomes less evil. It means God becomes weightier.

This small verse about Moses’ parents has escaped me. Pharaoh had issued a horrifying decree: every Hebrew baby boy was to be drowned. And yet Yocheved carried a son in her womb and did not live under the king’s edict as though it were the highest word over her life. She hid Moses after he was born, and when she could hide him no longer, she made a bold and costly plan, one that would eventually place him in Pharaoh’s own household. No wonder she is remembered for faith.

Her courage was immense in the eyes of God.Threats from the powerful can paralyze. They can create an atmosphere of dread that seeps into the bones of the weak. Yocheved teaches us what unshaken trust looks like. She hid her baby. She saw the beauty of her son. She discerned that this child’s life mattered in the purposes of God. And somewhere beneath her planning, her tears, and her risk-taking, there was confidence. The king’s decree was not ultimate. God was.

Darkness still flexes its muscles. We are not always able to tell which threats are empty and which are not. There will always come a moment that makes even the strong tremble. In that hour, faith becomes a lifeline. And whether I can trust God in the dark will depend, in large part, on whether I have learned to trust Him in the light. Faith is not improvised in the crisis. It is cultivated beforehand. The time to prepare for the dark is while the light is still shining.

I refuse to finish my life with fear winning. Keep training me. Amen

Isaac was forty years old when he took Rebekah to be his wife. And Isaac prayed to the Lord for his wife, because she was barren. And the Lord granted his prayer, and Rebekah his wife conceived.  Genesis 25:20-21

God’s chosen family stood once again under the shadow of barrenness. History was repeating itself. God told Abraham that he would father many nations, yet Sarah’s womb stayed silent for years. Then, God intervened, and Isaac was born. But when Isaac took Rebekah as his wife, the promise seemed to enter the same wilderness all over again. Rebekah was barren. The word of God hung over an empty cradle.

I know that kind of tension. There have been seasons when God clearly led me in a particular direction. He confirmed it in ways I could not deny. He opened the door and I stepped through in faith. But then, things fell apart. Prayer felt like it was falling to the ground. The life I expected did not appear. And in that silence, I was tempted to gather up all my ingenuity and force the promise to bloom. But I knew that the best I could produce was an Ishmael, not something breathed by God. Holy callings do not mature under the heat of human striving.

Perhaps you are living inside that same paradox now. God called you to something brand new. He made the way clear. You reordered your life in obedience. And now everything feels eerily barren. Dave Wilkerson called it the death of a vision. Many true callings pass through a temporary graveyard. They enter the severe mercy of apparent lifelessness, where no amount of pushing can produce fruit, and where all our small acts of self-salvation are exposed for what they are.

But maybe this, too, is part of God’s kindness. He is making sure the calling stays sacred, unpolluted by fleshly ambition. If I am standing in a place that feels dead, the wrong thing is to force a resurrection. The right thing is to return to the posture that honors Him most ~ rest, worship, and waiting that still expects Him to speak life.

Lord, today I borrow Solomon’s prayer: I am but a little child and do not know which way to go. Lord, keep me from birthing what You have not breathed. Amen

When he had received the drink, Jesus said, “It is finished.” With that, he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.  John 19:30

Jon Oswalt, an Old Testament professor from Asbury Seminary, wrote about some little-known happenings at Passover.  He said that on any given day, two lambs were slaughtered in the temple; one in the morning and one in the evening.  On Passover however, 250,000 lambs were slaughtered.  I can’t fathom it, can you?   Here’s the quote from Oswalt’s writing. 

“At Passover time, rivers of blood poured off the high altar, so much so that there was a gutter system under the altar designed to carry that blood away into the Kidron Valley.  Think about it: if Jesus waded across the Kidron on his way from the Upper Room to Gethsemane, he may have waded through blood up to his knees.”

Knowing that this would have been a yearly reality for the Jewish people, I’m surprised that they had long periods of disobedience, and subsequent captivity, given the horrific scenes they saw at each Passover.  It was visually evident how God felt about sin.  Such carnage was proof.  What must they have done to their hearts and consciences to be able to cope with the traumatic scenes each year?

Fast forward to the cross. Oh, what a moment when Jesus said, “It is finished.”  Did His mother understand the implications of His words? Did John and the few others who stood nearby? It was not mere commentary on life being over. In time, they would have a theological peg on which to hang the finished work of the cross. No more sacrifices!  No more bloodshed!

Fix my heart at the cross until I live in the freedom of what Your finished work has secured for me. Help my unbelief. Amen

I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. Galatians 2:20

Every family has its cast of characters. Mine was no exception. My parents were both quiet, but my extended family carried a very different energy. Even as a child, I could sense what mattered most to many of them. They wanted to be admired. They had to know more than anyone else in the room, to be right, to have the last word. They loved being clever, entertaining, unforgettable. They took pride in owning the nicest car, the most manicured yard, and they were quick to measure those who did not meet their standards. It did not escape me, even then, that their homes sat high in the hollows, looking down on the valley below. It felt like a parable.

As a quiet child, I watched carefully and made an inward vow. I will never be like that. But pride is subtle. It can dress itself in silence just as easily as in showmanship. So I began shaping myself in opposition to what I saw. I withheld my opinions, even when I knew the answer. I squirmed in the spotlight, not wanting to resemble those who seemed so hungry for it. I avoided arguments, not always because I was humble, but because I wanted no part in competing. I spent much of my childhood observing, evaluating, and quietly determining to be different. Yet for all my restraint, I was still revolving around myself. I was still carefully constructing a self-image.

It would take many years for Jesus to begin to free me from it. I did not need to become like the relatives I feared, nor did I need to define myself by resisting them. Both postures kept me preoccupied with myself. Jesus was inviting me into death and resurrection, the kind that frees a person from both self-display and self-protection. I began, slowly, to understand what it means to be crucified with Christ.  Not erased but possessed by the Spirit.

Jesus did not come to be admired in the way the world understands it. He did not need to dominate a room, prove His brilliance, or shame others with His wisdom. He came to call sinners home, to forgive the repentant, and to pour Himself out without vanity. He was strong without self-promotion and full of authority without the slightest trace of ego.

That is the life I want. Not loud, and not merely quiet. Not showy and not self-consciously restrained. Just free. Free enough to forget myself because I am captivated.  His beauty quiets any need to perform, compare, defend, or withdraw. Love has turned my face in a better direction. 

Jesus, how I long for your divine nature to shine through me like light through a window. Consume what is false, weak, and self-made. Amen

“Look, the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?” In response, Abraham prophesied, “My son, God will provide himself a lamb for a burnt offering: so they went both of them together”. Genesis 22:7-8

I’ve waited so very long for God to answer some prayers. So have you. We wait, sometimes for years, sometimes for generations, and the waiting tests us till it hurts. We grow tired. We question His attention. We wonder if His love has thinned in the silence of perceived inactivity.

From Abraham’s question on Mt. Moriah to the hour the true Lamb was offered, centuries passed. Heaven seemed to take its time. So today, I don’t believe we should travel first to the stable. Let’s go to the hill where the Lamb was crucified.

The long ache of Scripture was finally answered ~ not with a cradle, but with a cross. Good Friday gave its terrible, beautiful reply. to the question, “Where is the lamb?” There He was. He was not wrapped in swaddling cloths, but was stripped and wounded. He was not cradled in His mother’s arms, but lifted up on rough wood.

Abraham waited for Him. Israel longed for Him. And every restless, guilty, tormented heart has been starving for Him too. Sin has hollowed us out, leaving us shallow in our souls, We are ashamed, agitated, and unable to quiet the incessant self-condemnation. I faced an onslaught only yesterday. And most every culture across the world has conceived some ritual to try to rid themselves of their guilt in order to please the gods. We ache to be guiltless.

Good Friday was where bitterness and beauty met. The darkest hour became the holy ground. The cross stood in the shadow of every promise God ever made, and there, in blood and grief, the promise was kept. Forgiveness of sin. Peace with God.

Let the blood of My Lamb speak more loudly than my guilt, my waiting, and my fear. Amen

The next day John saw Jesus coming toward him and said, “Look! The Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world! He is the one I was talking about.  John 1:29-30

In many ways, the whole Old Testament leans forward, asking one question, “Where is the Lamb?” At the birth of Israel, God told His people to take the blood of a lamb and place it on the doorposts of their homes. He was teaching His people that rescue would come through a substitute. On Mount Moriah, the question rose again from the lips of Isaac. “Where is the lamb?” Abraham answered with trembling faith, “God Himself will provide the lamb.”

For centuries after that, lambs kept dying. The blood kept flowing. Families brought lambs. Priests offered lambs. Worshipers returned again and again because no animal sacrifice could remove sin. So when John saw Jesus approaching and announced, “Behold, the Lamb of God,” this was an earth-shaking declaration. God had reached down and provided His own Lamb.

What a moment! The long ache of Scripture, the shadow cast through Torah, the cry from Moriah, the blood on the doorposts, all of it suddenly gathered itself into one Person walking over the hill toward them. In Jesus, the whole sacrificial system reached its fulfillment. The story the prophets had carried, the story the rabbis had taught, the story Israel had rehearsed for generations, came near enough to touch. No wonder John was breathless.

And what moves me most is this ~ the Lamb of God comes near enough that each of us can say, with awe, He came for me. He is not only Israel’s promised Lamb. He is my Yeshua.

You are the One my soul had been waiting for before I even knew Your name. Amen

God thunders wondrously with his voice; he does great things that we cannot comprehend.  Job 37:5

From early December through the middle of March, I walked through a bewildering ordeal with my hands. Several fingertips began turning white, then blue, and eventually broke open into painful ulcers. The pain of exposed nerves constantly begged relief. My days narrowed to pain management—making bandages, keeping my hands elevated, keeping my fingers warm, trying to protect what felt increasingly fragile. The simplest acts became impossible: having my hands in water, cooking, washing and drying my hair, typing, playing the piano, and even design work at my computer.  No doctor or specialist could explain what they were seeing.

In that forced stillness, I began asking God whether there was a spiritual parallel, something He was trying to tell me.  And in time, He did speak. Some of what He revealed has already found its way into earlier devotionals. I yielded my voice and my pen to new things He wanted to say through me. Once I did that, the scabs and ulcers peeled up, fell off, only to reveal new pink skin underneath.  I’m watching regeneration in real time.

Lately though, I’ve been speaking to God with a bruised honesty. “I thought I walked closely to you.  I thought I listened well to your voice.  I’m struggling with how long the season was with my fingers, the level of pain, the fear of amputation, and the extent of medical expenses incurred.  Why did you have to talk to me so harshly?”  Beneath the question a trembling effort to understand the severity of His dealings with me. After many days, He was merciful to answer.

“The severity in My speech, the length of time the testing lasted, and the level of pain that accompanied it reflect the weight of the message. I wanted you to know how strongly I feel about it, so you would know how much weight and attention to give it.”

His answer gave it context. It was neither random suffering nor divine carelessness. He was pressing something weighty into me. There are times when His whispers are enough, and there are times when He speaks with a firmer hand because what He is saying must not be lightly handled.

Something in me has been altered. My voice is clearer now. My pen is yielded. And my healing fingers seem to be preaching their own sermon.  When God wounds with purpose, He also restores with tenderness.

Lord, when Your voice carries weight, give me grace to endure and to yield quickly. Amen