Day 157

1 Chronicles 25–26 | 1 Corinthians 14:1–25 | Psalm 66

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A few days before it happened—before the saw, the scream, the severed fingers—I ordered our family Christmas card.

As usual, I chose the layout. The photos. The font. And the words from one of my favorite hymns:

Turn your eyes upon Jesus this Christmas.

Look full in His wonderful face.

And the things of earth will grow strangely dim

In the light of His glory and grace.

It felt like the right message for our year at that point. Gentle. Grounding. Worshipful.

But before we could even address the envelopes, the blade hit bone. My hand was torn apart. Everything changed.

And suddenly, the lyrics from that 1918 hymn weren’t just poetic. They were prophetic.

When Worship Comes First

In 1 Chronicles 25, David appoints men to lead worship—not after the battles, but in the middle of them. Their job is to prophesy with instruments. To declare truth and beauty in the chaos. To play the kind of music that steadies trembling hands and lifts tear-filled eyes.

They weren’t entertainers.

They were warriors with harps.

“David and the commanders… set apart… those who prophesied with lyres, with harps, and with cymbals.” (v1)

Their song was the strategy.

Their worship was the warfare.

That’s what our Christmas card would become—without us knowing it at the time.

Because three days after we printed it, I found myself in a helicopter with a mangled hand and a million questions. But the message we had already sent to the printing press was the one I was living:

Turn my eyes upon Jesus…

Not when things get better.

Not when every question is answered.

Not when healing is complete.

But now.

In the pain. In the dimness. In the uncertainty.

And the things of earth? They did grow strangely dim—not because they stopped mattering, but because He mattered more.

When Worship Becomes Witness

That’s what Psalm 66 captures so beautifully.

It begins with a shout of praise. It ends with a personal testimony.

And tucked in the middle is something familiar to every believer who’s ever lived through the dark:

“We went through fire and water—yet you have brought us out to a place of abundance.” (v12)

There’s no promise you’ll avoid the furnace. Only that you won’t be alone in it.

That’s what I wrote in the insert we slipped inside our Christmas cards—just days after the accident while we were still reeling:

A few days after we clicked ‘print’ on the enclosed Christmas card, our lives took a sudden and frightening turn when Grant suffered a traumatic woodworking accident that resulted in the loss of his right index and middle fingers. By the grace of God and through the exceptional skill of the medical team at The Buncke Clinic in San Francisco, three remarkable surgeons successfully reattached both fingers. The journey ahead will be long and challenging, and – for now – Grant remains unable to use his right hand. Yet, the lyrics we chose for our Christmas card this year hold even greater meaning for our family now, in the midst of this trial, than when we originally chose them: as we have turned our eyes upon Jesus during these difficult and painful days, the things of earth have truly grown dim as we keep our gaze on the light of His glory and grace.

I didn’t know then how many surgeries were ahead. How many sleepless nights. How many therapy sessions. How many tears.

But I knew who was still holding me, still holding my family. And I wanted others to know it, too.

“Come and hear, all you who fear God, and I will tell you what He has done for my soul.” (v16)

When Worship Isn’t Polished

That’s the tension Paul addresses in 1 Corinthians 14.

The Corinthian church loved the spotlight gifts—especially tongues. But Paul challenges them: Do your gifts build others up? Do they edify the church—or just elevate you?

Because true worship doesn’t put performance over presence.

“The one who prophesies speaks to people for their upbuilding and encouragement and consolation.” (v3)

That’s what the worship leaders in 1 Chronicles did.

It’s what Paul wanted the Corinthians to do.

It’s what we tried to do—however shakily—in our Christmas letter.

Not to impress.

But to edify.

To console.

To testify.

To be arrows who point to Christ.

Talacey and I didn’t choose that hymn knowing what was coming.

But God did.

He led us to write a message before the storm.

So we’d have a melody to cling to when it came.

And now?

Now I sing it differently.

Turn your eyes upon Jesus.

Look full in His wonderful face.

And the things of earth will grow strangely dim…

They have.

Not because I’ve escaped the fire.

But because He walked through it with me.

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Lord, thank You for the song You placed in my mouth before I even knew I’d need it. Teach me to praise You before the battle, to trust You in the fire, and to speak words that build up the weary. Let my worship reflect Your worth. Let my gifts point to Your grace. And let my eyes stay fixed on You—no matter what storm comes next.

Amen.