Grant
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She had been caught. Not suspected. Not accused. Caught. Dragged from wherever she was, through the streets, thrown into the dirt before a crowd—and before Jesus. The law was clear. The penalty was death. And the religious leaders were ready to make an example of her. But this wasn’t about justice. It wasn’t about righteousness.…
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Just yesterday, I helped a buddy unload a truckload of bark and another truckload of river rock. Or at least, I tried to help. I couldn’t lift the wheelbarrow on my own. I struggled, embarrassed, having to ask him for help when I was supposed to be there helping him. And I hated that.
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It’s not lost on me that I tend to be… reactive. We always joke with our friends J and Monica because Talacey and J are the stoic, level-headed, slow-to-speak ones. But Monica and me? Not so much. My default is to speak before I think, to let emotions get the best of me. It spills…
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Following Jesus is easy when He’s handing out miracles. But what about when He’s leading us through something harder?
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It’s 3 a.m. as I sit down to write this. In a few minutes, I’ll step into the shower and get ready for what will be the final general session of the last conference my company will ever execute. The final main-stage event for which I am responsible. And while the uncertainty remains—while I still…
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I’ve never wished for Egypt. But I have wished the injury had been cleaner. Maybe if the saw had taken my fingers completely, the pain wouldn’t have lasted this long. The therapy wouldn’t be this difficult. The recovery wouldn’t feel never-ending. The two surgeries to come wouldn’t have to come at all.
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It was New Year’s Eve. J and Monica came over to ring in the New Year with us. Their daughters ran off to play with Sophia, and the four of us settled in—a charcuterie board on the counter, drinks poured, laughter filling the house as we waited for the ball to drop. Then Monica said…
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Jesus never asks pointless questions. And the one he asks the paralytic by the pool? It seems almost cruel… until I ask it of myself.
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It’s nearly midnight. My alarm is set for 4 a.m. And after a day that started before the sun and stretched nonstop into the night, I’m running on empty.
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The slow, corrosive poison of hiding. It festers. It eats away at the soul. And what remains is shame, fear, and a growing chasm between us and God.
