Tag Archives: jesus

When the Wound Came from Within: Faith, Forgiveness, and Family Pain

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They say blood is thicker than water, but what do we do when the very blood that runs through our veins carries the memory of betrayal?

For many survivors of abuse, the pain didn’t come from a stranger. It came from someone within the family—someone who should have been safe. And sometimes, the deepest cut isn’t only the abuse itself. It’s what came afterward: the silence, the denial, the insistence to “forgive and forget,” to “keep the peace,” to “move on” for the sake of the family.

But what if that peace costs a survivor their voice? Their safety? Their healing?

As Christians, we often talk about forgiveness—and rightly so. Jesus calls us to forgive, just as we have been forgiven (Ephesians 4:32). But forgiveness is not the same as forgetting. And it’s certainly not the same as reconciling with someone who remains unsafe or unrepentant.

Forgiveness is an internal act between our soul and God—a releasing of bitterness, a handing over of justice into divine hands. But too often, survivors are told that forgiveness must look like restored relationship. That to “really let it go,” they must pretend the abuse never happened. This is not only unbiblical—it’s deeply harmful.

Scripture never asks us to ignore evil. It doesn’t command us to minimize harm to keep family bonds intact. In fact, Jesus said that following Him might bring division even among families (Luke 12:51-53)—not because He desires conflict, but because truth often threatens systems that are built on silence.

To the survivor who feels torn between your healing and your family’s comfort, hear this: you are not required to shrink your pain to protect someone else’s denial.

You can forgive without forgetting.

You can release bitterness without allowing abuse to continue.

You can honor God without re-entering unsafe relationships.

And if your family doesn’t understand—if they accuse you of being unforgiving, dramatic, or divisive—remember that Jesus sees the whole story. He knows what happened in the dark. He knows the tears you’ve cried alone. And He calls you beloved still.

Healing from family-based trauma is often a long, layered process. It can feel lonely at times, especially in faith communities that haven’t yet learned how to hold both justice and mercy, both grace and truth. But you are not alone. There are others walking this path with you. And more importantly, God walks with you—not demanding silence, but inviting honesty… not requiring performance, but offering presence.

So may you take the time you need.

May you listen to the wisdom of your body and the discernment of the Spirit.

May you let go of bitterness—but not boundaries.

And may you find, in Christ, the One who never demands your silence and never minimizes your pain.

You are not too much. You are not unforgiving. You are healing. And heaven is cheering you on.

More Than What You Produce: Breaking Free from Hustle Culture

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In the U.S., hustle is a badge of honor. We measure success in late nights, early mornings, jam-packed calendars, and multi-tasking prowess. “Busy” is worn like a trophy, and rest can feel like a guilty indulgence. Productivity isn’t just a priority—it’s become a measure of identity.

And many of us—especially those who care deeply, serve faithfully, or long to make a difference—get caught in this current without even realizing it. We answer emails at stoplights, fill our weekends with catch-up tasks, and wake up wondering if we’ve done enough.

Somewhere along the way, we started believing a dangerous lie:
That our worth is tied to our output.
That rest must be earned.
That slowing down is failure.
That being needed is the same thing as being loved.

But friend, God never designed us to live this way.

From the very beginning, we see a different rhythm. In the creation story, God speaks the world into being in six days—and on the seventh, He rests. Not because He’s tired or limited, but because He is showing us something profound:
Rest is holy.
It isn’t a reward for hard work—it’s part of the work.
It isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom.

God built Sabbath into the very fabric of time—not just for a day off, but as a spiritual practice of trust. It’s a declaration that we are not God, and we don’t have to be. That the world keeps spinning even when we pause. That we are held, even when we’re not striving.

But hustle culture tells us otherwise. It whispers:

“You’ll fall behind.”
“You’re only as good as your performance.”
“If you stop, people will forget you.”
“You have to earn your place.”

And those whispers can get tangled up with our deepest wounds—childhood experiences of conditional love, adult seasons of invisibility, fear of failure, or old church teachings that confused busyness with godliness. For many of us, it’s not just about doing more—it’s about trying to be enough.

But hear this:
Your value has never been up for negotiation.

You are not valuable because of what you produce.
You are valuable because you are created.
Because you bear the image of a God who delights in being, not just doing.

Jesus didn’t live a hustle-paced life. He moved slowly enough to notice people, to touch the sick, to bless children, to stop for the woman at the well. He rested. He withdrew. He even napped in a storm.

He knew His identity wasn’t tied to crowds, miracles, or outcomes.
It was rooted in this truth:

“This is my Son, whom I love; with Him I am well pleased.” (Matthew 3:17)

Before He had preached a single sermon, healed a single person, or completed His mission—He was already beloved.

And so are you.

What would it look like to live from that place?

To unhook your worth from your to-do list.
To stop measuring your days in output and start noticing your soul.
To say no without shame.
To rest without guilt.
To believe that being fully human is not a flaw to overcome—but a gift to embrace.

In Christ, you are already chosen, already loved, already worthy—not because you got it all done, but because He did.

So if you’re tired, friend—really tired—consider this an invitation. Not just to take a break, but to step into a deeper kind of freedom. A counter-cultural, gospel-shaped life where your value is not earned, but received.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)

This isn’t permission to quit everything. It’s a reminder that you don’t have to prove your worth by doing everything.

You are not behind.
You are not failing.
You are not forgotten.
You are beloved.

Maybe the holiest thing you can do this week isn’t to hustle harder.
Maybe it’s to breathe.
To pause.
To delight in something unproductive.
To believe, deep down, that God delights in you.

Not for what you do—but simply for who you are.

Called to the Light: Speaking the Truth in a Culture of Silence

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There’s a sacred ache that stirs in the hearts of those who’ve been told to stay silent in the name of peace. For those who have suffered abuse—spiritual, emotional, physical—and were then told by the Church that to speak up would be to “sow division,” that ache deepens. When spiritual authority is used to suppress truth, protect reputation, or shame the wounded into silence, we must pause and ask: whose peace are we preserving?

Too often, survivors are told that speaking out is gossip. That calling abuse what it is would damage the reputation of the Church. That naming their experience would make others “stumble.” But Scripture tells a different story.

Ephesians 5:11 says, “Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them.”
Not minimize them.
Not hide them for the sake of appearances.
Not silence them to protect a ministry.

Expose them.

This is not a call to vengeance. It’s a call to truth. Because the Kingdom of God is not built on secrecy—it’s built on light. And light cannot fellowship with darkness.

Calling out abuse isn’t gossip. It’s spiritual obedience.

Jesus Himself did not shy away from naming injustice. He flipped tables when worship was corrupted by greed (Matthew 21:12–13). He publicly confronted religious leaders who burdened others while protecting their own power (Matthew 23). He stood with the wounded and exposed the structures that caused them harm.

When we speak truth—especially the kind that risks rejection or pushes against institutional comfort—we’re not being disloyal to the Church. We’re being faithful to Christ.

Because silence protects the abuser.
But truth sets the captives free.

If your story makes others uncomfortable, it might be because they benefitted from your silence. Maybe your pain threatened the image they wanted to project. Maybe they saw your healing as a disruption instead of a deliverance. But friend, God never called you to protect image—He called you to walk in truth.

And that truth? It might tremble in your throat. It might crack your voice. It might cost you relationships or respectability. But it is holy. It is weighty with heaven’s presence. It echoes the voice of the One who said, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me… to proclaim liberty to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed” (Luke 4:18).

You were not created to carry someone else’s secrets so they can maintain control.
You were not created to be a scapegoat for another person’s shame.
You were created to bear God’s image—and to be restored to wholeness.

Let me say it plainly:
You are not divisive for naming what is true.
You are not bitter for saying, “That hurt me.”
You are not destructive for seeking justice.

You are brave.
You are rising.
You are answering the call to walk in the light.

And to the Church? May we listen. May we repent for the times we’ve asked survivors to shield us from discomfort. May we be a place where wounds are not buried but bandaged, where image is not worshiped, but integrity is, and where healing is not hindered by silence, but supported by love.

Jesus is not afraid of the truth.
And neither should we be.

From “What’s Wrong With You?” to “What Happened to You?”: A More Christlike Way of Seeing

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For much of my life, I’ve heard the question — spoken or implied — What’s wrong with you?
Why are you so sensitive? Why can’t you let it go? Why do you keep messing up?

It’s a question that shames before it seeks to understand.
It assumes flaw, not story. Brokenness, not battle.

But there’s a better question. A more faithful one.
A question that reflects the posture of Jesus.

What happened to you?

This question doesn’t excuse harm or sidestep responsibility.
But it does create space for understanding.
It honors the truth that behavior is often a symptom of deeper wounds — that anger may mask fear, that withdrawal may be a shield, that perfectionism may be the last thread someone’s holding to stay upright.

Jesus never started with, What’s wrong with you?
He touched the leper, spoke with the Samaritan woman, wept at Lazarus’ tomb.
He saw through the mess and straight into the ache.
He knew what had happened.
And He responded with compassion, not condemnation.

Isaiah 42:3 reminds us:

“A bruised reed He will not break, and a smoldering wick He will not snuff out.”

Jesus sees the bruise. He sees the wick struggling to stay lit.
And instead of scolding the fragility, He nurtures it.
He comes close. He listens. He heals.

When we adopt the question What happened to you?
—we begin to see as He sees.
We move from judgment to curiosity.
From quick labels to holy listening.
From shame to story.

And maybe, just maybe, we begin to offer to others what we ourselves most need:
The assurance that we are not broken beyond repair.
That our pain is not too much.
That we are not problems to fix, but people to love.

If you’ve been asked what’s wrong with you?
Or asked it of yourself…
May you hear another voice rising stronger:
Tell Me your story. I want to know what happened. I will not turn away.

Jesus does not flinch at the truth of our pain.
He enters in. He stays.
And from that place, healing begins.

“I Choose Love” — A Quiet Revolution of the Heart

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Inspired by the words of Max Lucado: “I choose love. No occasion justifies hatred; no injustice warrants bitterness. I choose love.”

Some choices change the course of a day. Others change the course of a life.

This is one of those choices.

Max Lucado’s words echo like a gentle rebellion in a world that often feels fueled by outrage, division, and despair. To say, “I choose love” in today’s climate is not sentimentality—it is spiritual courage. It’s a quiet revolution of the heart.

And it’s exactly what Christ modeled for us.

Jesus, unjustly accused, mocked, tortured, and crucified, did not respond with hatred. Instead, He prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). Love was not just His message; it was His method. And it’s the method we’re called to imitate.

But let’s be honest—it’s easier to talk about love than to live it. Especially when we’ve been wounded. Especially when we see injustice, betrayal, or cruelty. Bitterness feels like a shield. Hatred can masquerade as strength. And yet, the Gospel turns that thinking upside down.

“No occasion justifies hatred.”

Not even betrayal.
Not even injustice.
Not even when the world says, “You have every right to be angry.”

Because when we choose hatred, we become the very thing we despise. But when we choose love—especially when it costs us something—we reflect the heart of God. We say to the world: There is another way. A higher way. A Kingdom way.

“No injustice warrants bitterness.”

Bitterness is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to suffer. It corrodes the soul from within. But love? Love cleanses. Love releases. Love heals. Love remembers that even the one who wronged us is an image bearer in need of grace.

This doesn’t mean we ignore injustice. Love does not turn a blind eye to evil. But it refuses to let evil define the response. Love can confront with clarity. Love can say “no more” with holy fire. But it does not root itself in hatred—it roots itself in truth, and grace, and dignity.

Paul reminds us in Romans 12:21: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

This is not weakness. It’s warfare of the most powerful kind.

So today, I choose love.
Not because it’s easy.
Not because the pain is gone.
Not because the world makes it simple.

I choose love because He first loved me (1 John 4:19).
Because love is what makes me whole.
Because love is the only path that leads to peace.

May we be people who walk in that kind of love—firm, courageous, redemptive love. A love that refuses to mirror the darkness and instead becomes a light that cannot be hidden.

Where Sorrow and Beauty Meet

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I am here in Ukraine again—walking familiar cobblestone streets beneath wide Lviv skies, hearing the hum of trams and the laughter of children, watching flower stalls open and elderly women selling fresh herbs on street corners. The city is alive. It pulses with color, scent, and sound.

And yet, I carry the weight of war in my chest.

This land holds both the ache and the resilience of its people. There is trauma here that lingers in the nervous system of the nation—stories that are not mine to tell, but that I bear witness to with reverence. And still, in the very same breath, there is joy. There is worship. There is laughter over coffee. There are songs sung loudly and prayers whispered in corners. Somehow, all of it lives here together.

I find myself holding deep contrasts—safety and threat, beauty and brokenness, courage and weariness, faith and unanswered questions. One moment I am watching golden light filter through chestnut trees during our morning walk, and the next I am sitting in a room listening to someone describe the horror of displacement and fear.

It would be easier, I suppose, if the world were simple. If there were clear lines between good and bad, safe and dangerous, holy and profane. But it isn’t. The real world—the one Jesus entered—is layered and complex, filled with both pain and hope, sometimes in the same story. Sometimes in the same breath.

And I believe that’s exactly where Christ meets us.

When I walk these streets, I think of Psalm 34:18—“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Not just as a theological truth, but as something I see unfolding in front of me. God is not distant from this place or its pain. He is right here, in the middle of it—closer than breath.

So I carry it all. I don’t rush to resolve the tension. I let myself feel the sting of it and the strange, holy ache that comes when sorrow and beauty touch. And I keep coming back to the table—to listen, to learn, to offer what I can.

Jesus, too, held all the contrasts. Fully God and fully man. Lamb and Lion. He walked among the grieving and fed the hungry, healed the sick and wept over the city. He didn’t avoid the pain—He entered into it, with love.

And so I will do the same. I will keep showing up, even when I don’t have answers. I will keep honoring both the grief and the strength I see. I will hold the contrasts—not because I am strong enough, but because Christ is.

And in the holding, I am held.

When the News Feels Like Too Much: Holding Steady in a World That Hurts

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There are days when I have to brace myself before opening the headlines.

It’s as if the world is groaning—under the weight of war, injustice, corruption, and grief—and all of it somehow ends up in the palm of my hand, glowing from a screen, demanding to be read. A missile hits a city. A child is harmed. A leader lies. A people are displaced. Another story of abuse, betrayal, loss.

And sometimes I wonder: Is there any part of this world that isn’t unraveling?

There’s a particular kind of soul-tiredness that comes from hearing hard news day after day. It wears on your compassion. It pulls your focus. It makes you question if anything you’re doing is enough—or if it even matters at all.

But here’s the thing I’m learning, slowly: our hearts were never meant to carry everything, all at once. We were created as image-bearers, yes—but not as omniscient or omnipotent ones. That’s God’s role, not ours.

Even Jesus, in His earthly body, stepped away from the crowds. He withdrew to quiet places. He rested, He wept, and He prayed.

So maybe part of following Jesus in a world that’s aching is learning how to live with both eyes wide open and heart firmly rooted. We can grieve deeply without being undone. We can be present to pain without drowning in it. We can speak truth without being consumed by despair.

Because even in the flood of heartbreak, God has not left the building. He is still Emmanuel—God with us. Still the One who collects every tear. Still the Redeemer, still the Restorer, still the Risen One who defeated death and says, “Behold, I am making all things new.”

So when the news feels like too much, we can:

  • Pause and breathe. Not as an escape, but as an act of trust.
  • Lament. Cry out like the psalmists did. “How long, O Lord?” is a holy question.
  • Light candles. Pray names out loud. Send money or meals or letters.
  • Hold tight to what is still good and still beautiful.
  • Remind each other that love is not lost.
  • Keep planting seeds of peace in our little corners of the world.

And maybe, most of all, we can remember that Jesus does not look away. He sees it all. And He sees you, too—your tender heart, your exhaustion, your fierce love, your quiet prayers.

He is not overwhelmed, even when we are.

So take heart, weary one. You were never meant to carry the whole world. But you are invited to carry hope.

Even here. Even now.

The Sacred Gift of Empathy: Seeing with the Eyes of Christ

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In a world full of noise, empathy is the quiet gift that whispers, “I see you.”
It is not the same as agreement.
It is not fixing.
It is not advice.

Empathy is presence.

It is the willingness to enter someone else’s story without trying to edit it. It’s what Jesus did so often—sitting with sinners, touching the unclean, asking gentle questions, listening beneath the surface. He didn’t rush to correct their theology. He led with compassion.

And isn’t that the way love always begins?

“Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.”
— Romans 12:15

Paul doesn’t tell us to analyze with those who mourn. Or lecture those who rejoice. He says to feel with them. To let our hearts stretch wide enough to hold their joy or sorrow. That’s holy work.

In the Gospels, Jesus consistently practiced this kind of heart-deep compassion. When he saw the widow whose only son had died, He “was moved with compassion.” When Mary wept at Lazarus’ tomb, He didn’t begin with a resurrection. He began with tears.

Empathy is what gives our faith weight. Without it, our theology can become brittle—true on paper but cold in practice. But with empathy, our beliefs take on flesh and bone. They become incarnational.

To follow Jesus is to move toward others in their pain, not away from it. To sit with someone in the ashes without rushing them toward beauty. To acknowledge wounds even when we cannot mend them.

And yes, it’s costly.

Empathy requires something of us. It costs time, energy, emotional bandwidth. It means we might feel uncomfortable. It means we don’t get to stay on the surface of life. But it also means we become a living testimony to the love of Christ—a love that didn’t remain distant but stepped into our humanity.

In this way, empathy is a form of worship.

When we choose to slow down and listen—when we honor the sacred in someone’s pain—we echo the very heartbeat of our Savior.

So today, may we resist the temptation to rush in with answers.
May we listen more than we speak.
May we enter stories gently.
And may we remember that the ministry of presence is never wasted.

Because to be like Christ is not just to preach truth, but to embody grace.

“Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.”
— Galatians 6:2

Empathy is not soft. It is strong enough to carry what others cannot carry alone.
And it is sacred enough to reflect the One who always sees us—fully, tenderly, and without turning away.

Love Wears Work Boots, Not Just Wings

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When we picture love, we often imagine something soaring and effortless — like wings lifting us into joy and beauty. And sometimes, love really does feel that way. But much of the time, love is grittier. It’s kneeling low, bearing burdens, and walking through hard places. Real love doesn’t just float on good feelings; it ties on a pair of work boots and shows up, day after day. The love Christ calls us to isn’t measured by how high we soar in emotion — but by how faithfully we walk in compassion, sacrifice, and truth.

In a world that often tells us that love is a fleeting feeling — a rush of emotion, a swelling of the heart — Scripture offers us a deeper, sturdier vision. Love, at its core, is not just something we feel. It’s something we do.

Jesus didn’t say, “Feel warm affections toward one another.” He said, “Love one another as I have loved you.” (John 13:34). His love was not a passive sentiment. It was an embodied choice — a willingness to sacrifice, to serve, to show up again and again even when it hurt. His love was action in motion: bending low to wash dirty feet, forgiving failures, healing wounds, welcoming the outsider, and ultimately laying down His life.

If love were only a feeling, it would falter when emotions waver — when frustration sets in, when grief weighs heavy, when anger, disappointment, or exhaustion threaten to take over. But because love is an action, it has a steady, resilient strength. It holds fast even when feelings fluctuate.

Love is showing up when it’s inconvenient.
Love is choosing kindness when irritation is easier.
Love is speaking truth when silence would be more comfortable.
Love is forgiving when resentment feels justified.
Love is listening, comforting, sacrificing — even when there’s no applause or immediate reward.

Feelings are a beautiful part of our humanity — but they are not the foundation of Biblical love. True love is built on the sturdier ground of covenant, commitment, and Christlike service.

Paul describes it plainly in 1 Corinthians 13:
“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. … It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.” (1 Corinthians 13:4,7-8)

Notice how every description is about what love does.
Not what it feels — but how it acts.

In our friendships, marriages, families, churches — even toward strangers — we are called to love actively, not passively. Sometimes love feels sweet and light. Other times, it feels heavy, costly, even painful. Yet both are love. Both are obedience.

Love, at its truest, mirrors Christ Himself — who loved us not because it was easy or because we had earned it, but because His nature is love. And now, through His Spirit, He empowers us to love others not merely when we feel like it, but as a daily reflection of His love toward us.

Today, maybe you’re facing a relationship where the feelings aren’t easy to summon.
Maybe you’re weary. Maybe you’re hurting. Maybe you’re feeling numb.

Take heart, dear one.
Love isn’t proven by what you feel — it’s shown by what you do.
And every small, unseen act of love echoes the very heart of God.

“Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth.” (1 John 3:18)

Some days love may feel like soaring on wings; other days it feels like lacing up worn work boots. But either way, when we love like Christ, we are moving the heart of heaven into the dust of this earth.

When Kingdoms Clash: God, War, and the Politics of Our Hearts

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Before battles rage on the earth, they rage within us — in the quiet war for our hope, our loyalty, and our love.

In a world riven by war and political upheaval, it’s easy to feel caught between competing loyalties — to our nations, to our leaders, to our own wearied hopes. Every news cycle seems to sharpen the edges of division. Every war reminds us of how fragile peace can be. Every election tempts us to believe that salvation might be found in the rise or fall of a human government.

But Scripture tells a deeper story.

Our true citizenship is not of this world.
“But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ.” (Philippians 3:20)

When we lose sight of this, politics becomes an idol. Nations become idols. Power becomes an idol.
We find ourselves aligning more passionately with parties and policies than with the heart of God Himself.

And yet — God is not indifferent to the suffering of people under war and unjust rule. He is not passive toward violence, oppression, or the misuse of power.
“He upholds the cause of the oppressed and gives food to the hungry. The Lord sets prisoners free, the Lord gives sight to the blind, the Lord lifts up those who are bowed down.” (Psalm 146:7-8)

Throughout Scripture, we see that God weeps with those who suffer under violence.
He hears the cries of the war-torn.
He sees the injustice that politics often worsens, rather than heals.
And He calls His people not to be mere bystanders, but to be reflections of His justice, His mercy, and His steadfast love — even in the darkest of times.

So where does that leave us?

It leaves us in a place of both action and humility.

We are called to seek justice and peace — but not to stake our hope on political outcomes.
We are called to pray for leaders — but not to worship them.
We are called to be active in the world’s pain — but not to lose ourselves to the world’s rage.

There are times when politics must be engaged with courage, because policies can either protect or harm the vulnerable.
There are times when war must be resisted, mourned, and decried, because every human life bears the image of God.

But our highest allegiance is not to a flag, or a ruler, or a party.
It is to a Kingdom that cannot be shaken.
It is to a King whose throne is established on righteousness and justice.

“The Lord reigns forever;
He has established His throne for judgment.
He rules the world in righteousness
and judges the peoples with equity.” (Psalm 9:7-8)

When wars rage, when political climates darken, when the world feels unrecognizable —
We remember: God is not swayed by elections.
He is not unseated by tanks or tyrants.
His purposes are not at the mercy of human pride.

He remains.
He reigns.
He is at work — even in the chaos we cannot understand.

And so, we do not despair.

We lament.
We pray.
We act where we can.
We anchor our hope where it was always meant to be — not in human systems, but in the hands of a faithful, eternal God.

“The Lord gives strength to His people; the Lord blesses His people with peace.” (Psalm 29:11)

Come, Lord Jesus.
Teach us how to live in these days — with courage, with tenderness, and with eyes set firmly on You.