Scars and Sovereignty

Category: Daily Devotionals

  • Show Me Your Glory

    Show Me Your Glory

    Day 42

    Exodus 33–34 | Romans 6

    “Moses said, ‘Please show me Your glory.’” (Exodus 33:18)

    I walked into that first therapy appointment five days after leaving the hospital, still in a full splint, still in pain, still entirely unable to do anything for myself. My mother-in-law, Sandy, a physical therapist, made a call to get me in with Lindsay—the best hand and shoulder therapist in central California.

    Lindsay, a fellow believer originally from South Africa, had no reason to clear her schedule for me. She was booked far in advance. But by the grace of God, she made room.

    So there I was, sitting in her clinic, looking at my mangled, stitched-up hand, my index and middle fingers pinned, my ring finger lacerated, my pinky covered with a foil dressing where the nail had been ripped off, my fresh skin grafts still raw—uncertain if they would even take. That day, I wasn’t there for dramatic improvement. I was there to manage expectations.

    I asked Lindsay leading questions, trying to get her to confirm what I had already decided in my mind—that at some point, my newly-reattached middle finger would probably need to be amputated. That the damage was too severe. That I needed to start adjusting to my new normal.

    Lindsay didn’t even hesitate. She looked me in the eye and, in her beautiful South African accent, said:

    “Grant, we pray for full and complete recovery—and nothing less.”

    And I sat there stunned.

    Because I came expecting limitation. But she came expecting God to move.

    I was already preparing myself for loss. She was already praying for full healing.

    I had been bracing for disappointment. She was boldly asking for more.

    And when I read Exodus 33 today, I realize—I was praying like someone who just wanted to get by. But Moses? He prayed like someone who wanted everything.

    “Moses said, ‘Please show me Your glory.’” (Exodus 33:18)

    He didn’t ask for reassurance. He didn’t ask for a miracle. He didn’t ask for comfort in the wilderness.

    He asked for all of God. As much of His presence as he could handle.

    And I wonder—how often do I come to God with small, safe prayers? How often do I ask for just enough to get through, rather than boldly asking to see His glory in full?

    We pray for survival when God offers transformation.

    We pray for relief when He wants to reveal Himself.

    We beg for breadcrumbs when He’s ready to show us the feast.

    Romans 6 reminds me why this matters.

    “For if we have been united with Him in a death like His, we shall certainly be united with Him in a resurrection like His.” (Romans 6:5)

    God isn’t in the business of making small improvements. He is in the business of resurrection. Complete renewal. Full restoration. Not just for our bodies, but for our souls.

    And yet, I pray like someone trying to negotiate a partial refund instead of someone who has been given the entire store.

    That day in therapy, Lindsay’s boldness corrected me.

    I wanted her to confirm my doubt. Instead, she challenged my faith.

    I wanted her to help me accept my limitations. Instead, she pointed me to the God who has none.

    I don’t know what the rest of my recovery will look like. But I do know this—I don’t want to live my life asking God for just enough.

    I want to pray like Moses.

    I want to expect more of God—not because I deserve it, but because He delights in revealing Himself to those who ask.

    “Please show me Your glory.”

    Lord, forgive me for praying small prayers. Teach me to seek more of You, not just what feels reasonable or safe. Give me boldness to ask, faith to believe, and the humility to trust You with the outcome. Let my life be marked by an expectation of Your presence. Amen.

  • No Room for Blame

    No Room for Blame

    Day 41

    Exodus 31–32 | Romans 5 | Psalm 18

    “And Aaron said, ‘Let not the anger of my lord burn hot. You know the people, that they are set on evil.’” (Exodus 32:22)

    Blame is the most natural response when things go wrong.

    It’s instinct. Something in us flinches at the weight of responsibility, so we pass it off—onto circumstances, onto others, onto anything that will keep it from landing on us.

    I know this firsthand.

    When I got out of the hospital after a week of surgery, pain meds, and sleepless nights, my father-in-law, Rob, drove Talacey and me the 200 miles back home. We pulled into the driveway and were greeted by my mom and sister, who had driven all the way from Arizona the night of my accident to take care of Sophia while we were in the hospital. M and her two daughters came shortly after.

    But then J showed up.

    I spent a week in that San Francisco hospital bed thinking about J. Thinking about how he might be sitting at home, wondering if I blamed him for what happened. More importantly, wondering if he blamed himself. Because we were building something for his house. Because he was the one who texted that morning, asking if we could start the project that afternoon. Because he was standing right next to me when the board kicked and sucked my hand into the saw blade.

    I remember sitting in my living room that night, looking across at J with tears in my eyes, struggling to get these words out: “J, I want you to look at me when I say this. None of this is your fault.”

    And I meant it.

    But I also knew that no matter how much I believed that, he might not be able to. That we would have to talk through it. That blame—whether from me or from his own heart—could rot what had been a solid, brother-like friendship if we weren’t careful.

    And when I read Exodus 32 today, I think about how differently things could have gone.

    Moses came down from the mountain and found the people of Israel bowing before a golden calf they created for themselves to worship—just days after pledging their loyalty to the one true God.

    And Aaron? He refused to own up to it.

    “Let not the anger of my lord burn hot. You know the people, that they are set on evil,” he said. (Exodus 32:22)

    He blames them. He shifts responsibility. He washes his hands of it, as if he hadn’t been the one who took their gold, shaped the idol, and declared, “These are your gods, O Israel!” (Exodus 32:4).

    It’s what we do when we don’t want to face the truth.

    But Romans 5 points to a better way.

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

    When blame is removed, there is room for something greater—for suffering to refine, for hardship to shape, for friendship to deepen.

    J and I have had hard conversations in the months since the accident. But by the grace of God alone, blame never had a chance to take root.

    Instead, reconciliation did.

    A friendship that could have been marked by guilt is instead now marked by deeper trust, stronger brotherly love, and a testimony to God’s faithfulness.

    I don’t say this lightly: God had a purpose in my injury. I don’t understand it fully, but I trust it completely.

    I could have blamed J. J could have blamed himself. But instead, we both chose to see God’s sovereign hand at work through my scarred one.

    And I wonder—how often do I need to do the same in the smaller moments?

    When things go wrong at home or at work, when plans fall apart, when someone lets me down—do I shift the blame, like Aaron, just to avoid the weight? Or do I let God use even the hardest circumstances to strengthen my faith, build my character, and point me to hope?

    Blame keeps us stuck in the past.

    But grace? Grace moves us forward.

    Lord, keep me from a heart that looks for someone to blame. Give me faith to trust Your hand at work, even when things go wrong. Let suffering produce endurance, and endurance character, and character hope. Amen.

  • The Sweet Aroma of Devotion

    The Sweet Aroma of Devotion

    Day 40

    Exodus 29–30 | Romans 4

    “…a pleasing aroma, an offering made to the Lord by fire.” (Exodus 29:25)

    Forty days.

    That’s how long I’ve been writing these devotionals—showing up each day, opening the Word, wrestling with it, pouring out these thoughts. Some days, the words have come easily. Other days, I’ve stared at the screen, feeling dry, feeling stretched, wondering if I really have 325 more days in me.

    But I’m reminded today that faithfulness, no matter how small, is a pleasing aroma to God.

    In Exodus 29 and 30, God gives Moses instructions for consecrating the priests—how they were to offer daily sacrifices, burn fragrant incense, and present offerings that would rise as a sweet aroma before the Lord. It wasn’t about the physical smoke or the specific spices. It was about devotion. About setting something apart for God, offering it in obedience and love.

    And that gets me thinking—what does my life smell like to God?

    I want my life to be a sweet aroma to Him. I want my worship, my obedience, my daily trust to be something that delights Him. But then I look at myself—my inconsistency, my failures, my moments of doubt—and I wonder: How could my offering ever be enough?

    Then I turn to Romans 4.

    “Abraham believed God, and it was counted to him as righteousness.” (Romans 4:3)

    It wasn’t Abraham’s ability that pleased God. It wasn’t his perfect record. It was simply his faith. His trust.

    And that’s what God still desires from me today.

    Not perfection. Not performance. Just faith. Just my daily willingness to keep showing up, to keep offering myself, to keep trusting that He is enough—even on the days when I feel like I have nothing to give.

    And yet, the God who required perfection in the altar is the same God who declares the unrighteous righteous—not by their offerings, but by faith.

    Tonight, as I sit here writing, I hear the soft breathing of a brand-new puppy curled up at my feet. My wife, my daughter, and I drove eight hours round-trip today to bring her home—a trip that, just three months ago, we weren’t sure we’d be able to take.

    Back in September, before my accident, we reserved a yellow lab from this litter as a Christmas gift for Sophia. And then November 2 happened. Suddenly, life felt like too much. I could barely take care of myself, let alone a puppy. We seriously considered canceling. The timing felt wrong. The weight of recovery felt too heavy.

    But we didn’t cancel. And now, as I sit here, exhausted from an eight-hour round trip, listening to this tiny, fragile creature breathing softly at my feet—so full of life, so dependent, so eager to please—I realize how wrong I was. I thought she’d be too much. Instead, she’s a gift. A reminder that some things don’t have to be earned—they’re simply given.

    And isn’t that how God sees me? I bring nothing but my need. No strength. No ability to contribute. Just my dependence. And yet, He delights in me—not because I have it all together, but simply because I am His.

    My prayers are not always eloquent. My obedience not always perfect. My devotion often weak. But even these small, daily offerings are—when given in faith—a sweet aroma to God.

    And that gives me the strength to show up again tomorrow—even when I feel spent.

    Lord, take my life—my faith, my obedience, my trust—and let it be a pleasing aroma to You. Even when I lose my way, remind me that You delight in my faith, not my perfection. Let my life, imperfect as it is, be consecrated to You. Amen.

  • Empty Hands

    Empty Hands

    Day 39

    Exodus 27–28 | Romans 3:21–31 | Psalm 17

    “Then what becomes of our boasting? It is excluded.” (Romans 3:27)

    I hate feeling like I owe anyone something. If I borrow a tool, I return it the next day. If someone buys me lunch, I make sure I pick up the next check. I don’t like feeling indebted.

    And if I’m honest, that pride creeps into my faith too.

    I know I’m saved by grace alone. But I still want to contribute something. I still want to prove I was a good investment. I still want to believe that my effort, my discipline, my pursuit of righteousness plays some part in why God accepts me.

    But justification doesn’t leave room for that.

    Today’s reading in Exodus is full of detailed instructions—rules for the tabernacle, descriptions of priestly garments, exact measurements for the altar. It all points to one thing: God is holy, and we don’t just stroll into His presence on our own terms. There had to be a priest. There had to be an offering. There had to be a covering.

    And then, I turn to Romans 3, and Paul spells it out plainly:

    “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” (Romans 3:23)

    “By works of the law, no human being will be justified.” (Romans 3:20)

    “We hold that one is justified by faith apart from works of the law.” (Romans 3:28)

    It’s offensive. Because it means I bring nothing to my salvation.

    That’s hard for me to swallow. I like feeling as though I’ve earned my place. Even now, after decades of walking with Christ, I still battle the feeling that I need to prove myself. That I need to work hard enough, be disciplined enough, keep myself in check enough—so God will be pleased with me.

    But Romans 3 leaves no wiggle room. Justification isn’t something I contribute to—it’s something I receive.

    And the only way to receive it?

    Empty hands.

    That’s what grace demands. That’s what the gospel requires. Not clenched fists trying to hold onto my own goodness, but open hands ready to receive His.

    And the irony is, the times I have been most physically unable—most helpless—have been the times I have understood grace the most.

    Because after the saw took two of my fingers, I learned what it’s like to be helpless.

    I know what it’s like to stare at a bottle of water, frustrated that I can’t twist the cap off on my own.

    I know what it’s like to fumble with a button on my jeans, realizing I can’t fasten it without help.

    I know what it’s like to have to ask my wife to tie my shoes—like I did this morning—because I don’t have the dexterity to tie them myself.

    I know what it’s like to sit in a hospital bed, unable to do anything to fix my own injury, while someone else’s skilled hands work to put me back together.

    And in those moments, I had no choice but to receive.

    I couldn’t contribute. I couldn’t work for it. I could only accept help.

    That is the picture of grace. Helpless, unable, yet receiving. And that’s exactly what Jesus has done for me.

    Jesus is the One who makes me righteous. Jesus is the One who intercedes before the Father, not because I proved myself worthy, but because He alone is worthy.

    So today, I’ll fight the pride that whispers I need to earn it.

    I’ll remember that my justification has nothing to do with my performance.

    I’ll open my hands.

    Because empty hands are the only hands that can receive grace.

    Lord, keep me from striving to earn what You’ve already given me. Strip away my self-sufficiency, my pride, my need to contribute. Let me rest in the righteousness of Christ alone. Amen.

  • Every Detail Matters

    Every Detail Matters

    Day 38

    Exodus 25–26 | Romans 3:1–20

    “And see that you make them after the pattern for them, which is being shown you on the mountain.” (Exodus 25:40)

    Last weekend, Sophia and I were curled up on the couch watching TV, blankets all over the place, perfectly content in our disarray—until Talacey walked in. Without hesitation, she grabbed the blankets, folded them neatly, and placed them back in their rightful spot.

    Sophia and I exchanged a look, a silent acknowledgment of our mutual eye roll. “What’s the point?” we teased Talacey. “We’re just going to unfold them and use them again later.”

    But that’s how God made her. Talacey likes order. She thrives in organization. She finds peace in things being exactly where they should be.

    And as I read Exodus today, it struck me: She gets that from her Creator.

    Because God is a God of order.

    Exodus 25 and 26 are packed with instructions for building the tabernacle—detailed, meticulous, down to specific measurements and materials, even the placement of gold rings. At first glance, these chapters feel tedious. Why all the specifics? Why does it matter if the lampstand is hammered a certain way or if the curtains are made from blue and purple yarn?

    But God wasn’t careless with His commands. Every inch of that tabernacle reflected something about Him. Every measurement, every thread, every carved cherubim was intentional—because God is intentional.

    I see that same intentionality in myself, though in a different way.

    Those who know me understand I’m obsessive about writing. I pore over every adjective, every Oxford comma, every cadence of every sentence. Writing, to me, isn’t just about getting words on a page—it’s about getting them right. It’s about crafting something that moves people, that influences, that stirs something deep in the soul. I’ve spent countless hours hunched over drafts, scribbling in red ink, reshaping phrases until they land exactly the way they should.

    And I get that from my Creator.

    Because He, too, is a craftsman. He, too, loves precision. He spoke the universe into existence with words—let there be light—and it was so. He measured out the dimensions of the seas, set the stars in their courses, wove together the complexity of the human body with deliberate care. And then, when He was finished, He stepped back and said: It is good.

    I know that feeling.

    When I build something from wood with my own (still mostly functional) hands, when I carve away the rough edges (more carefully now than I used to), when I run my fingers over the grain and step back to look at the finished piece—it is good.

    When I labor over a paragraph, when I shape and refine and finally land on the perfect phrase—it is good.

    That said, here’s the reality: While I love precision, I am far from perfect.

    Romans 3 reminds me of that.

    “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” (Romans 3:23—yes, I may have glanced ahead a couple of verses to tomorrow’s reading. Don’t judge me.)

    All the careful work in the world can’t change the fact that I am flawed. I can pursue excellence in my craft, I can seek order in my home, but I cannot—on my own—be righteous.

    That’s why the gospel is such good news.

    Because while Exodus reminds me that God is a God of order, Romans reminds me that Jesus is the One who restores it.

    I will never measure up to the standard of perfection. But Jesus did. Every law fulfilled. Every commandment kept. Every righteous requirement met—down to the smallest detail.

    And on the cross, He took my failure and gave me His righteousness in return.

    Every detail matters to God. The tabernacle mattered. The law mattered. The sacrifice of His Son mattered. And the work He is doing in me—even in my imperfect, unfinished state—matters.

    So today, as I labor over my words, as Talacey folds the blankets yet again, I will remember: Our love for order and detail is a reflection of the One who designed us.

    Lord, thank You for being a God of order and intention. Help me to see Your hand in the details, to trust that nothing is wasted, and to rest in the finished, perfect work of Your Son. Amen.

  • The Sin I Didn’t See

    The Sin I Didn’t See

    Day 37

    Exodus 23–24 | Romans 2 | Psalm 16

    “Therefore you have no excuse, O man, every one of you who judges. For in passing judgment on another you condemn yourself, because you, the judge, practice the very same things.” (Romans 2:1)

    I was lying back in the dentist’s chair yesterday afternoon, my right hand resting on my ribs, when the hygienist glanced down, saw my gnarly scars, and asked the question I’ve answered a hundred times: “What happened to your hand?”

    I gave my usual response—the quick version, the one that keeps things light. “I had a run-in with a table saw. The saw won.”

    She chuckled, like they all do, then pressed for the real story.

    So I told her. How the board kicked. How two fingers were severed and two others nicked. How, by the grace of God, three surgeons reattached them.

    And then she did what almost everyone does. She told me her own “injury” story.

    While opening a package in the kitchen one day, she accidentally poked the palm of her hand with the tip of a freshly sharpened knife.

    I nodded, made the socially-appropriate, sympathetic facial expressions, and asked polite follow-up questions. But in my mind?

    I was totally judging her.

    What I wanted to say, and what I was actually thinking: That is absolutely nothing like what happened to me. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of comparing her scratch to my amputation. I wanted to tell her she had no idea—no idea at all—what it was like to have blood pooling in the crook of my elbow as I gripped my wrist to slow the bleeding, no idea about the sheer terror of getting loaded into an ambulance while my neighbors watched, no idea about the horror in the ER when four doctors gathered around my gurney and said, “Grant, this injury is far more extensive than we can treat here.” She had no idea about the suffocating anxiety that flooded my mind and body as the flight paramedics strapped me into the helicopter. She couldn’t begin to fathom the quiet, aching depression that settled over me on the morning when—for the first time since the accident—Talacey and Sophia left me home alone as they drove off to work and school.

    No idea.

    And then, like a sledgehammer, today’s Bible reading from Romans 2:1:

    “…you have no excuse, O man, every one of you who judges. For in passing judgment on another you condemn yourself, because you, the judge, practice the very same things.”

    Conviction hit me.

    Because in that dentist’s chair, I wasn’t just recounting my story—I was exalting myself. My suffering. My experience.

    I had made myself the measuring stick, the gold standard of pain. And anyone who dared compare their lesser suffering to mine deserved to be dismissed.

    As if suffering is a competition.

    As if pain needs to be big enough before it matters.

    The irony? I was doing the very thing I accused her of—minimizing someone else’s suffering.

    But we are all guilty of it.

    We rank pain. We weigh suffering. We measure brokenness on a scale, as if some wounds warrant grace and others don’t. But the gospel doesn’t work that way.

    Romans 2 makes it clear—self-righteousness is just as damning as lawlessness. Judgmentalism is just as sinful as rebellion. And the same pride that leads one person to dismiss their need for grace is the same pride that makes me believe my pain is superior to someone else’s.

    Sin is sin.

    And I am guilty.

    But this is where grace floods in.

    Romans 2 doesn’t leave us crushed under the weight of our hypocrisy. It lifts our eyes to the kindness of God:

    “Do you presume on the riches of His kindness and forbearance and patience, not knowing that God’s kindness is meant to lead you to repentance?” (Romans 2:4)

    Repentance. That’s the only way forward.

    And so I repent.

    For the moments I have judged. For the ways I have made much of my suffering and little of someone else’s. For the lie that pride whispers: “No one understands what I’ve been through.”

    Because Jesus does.

    He is the only One who has ever truly suffered beyond comparison. The only One whose pain is immeasurable.

    And yet, He never dismissed our pain. He never belittled our wounds. He entered into them. He carried them. He took them upon Himself, so that no matter what we face—whether a splinter or an amputation, a hard day or a devastating one—we would know we are never alone in it.

    Isaiah 53:3 calls Him “a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief.” He did not minimize suffering. He bore it in full.

    So today, I will choose grace.

    Because my pain does not make me superior.

    My scars—as gnarly as they are—do not make me righteous.

    And my suffering is not the standard—Jesus is.

    Lord, forgive me for my pride. Teach me to see others’ pain through the lens of Your grace. Keep me from exalting my own suffering, and instead, let me exalt the One who suffered in my place. Amen.

  • The Weight of the Law and the Depths of Grace

    The Weight of the Law and the Depths of Grace

    Day 36

    Exodus 21–22 | Romans 1:16–32

    “You shall be holy men to Me…” (Exodus 22:31)

    I’ll be honest—today’s reading made me question what I was supposed to do with it.

    Two full chapters of case law—rules about servants, property disputes, compensation for injury, animal control. It read more like a legal document than a passage for spiritual growth. I know all Scripture is God-breathed, but as I worked through these verses, I felt… disconnected. What does this have to do with my walk with Christ?

    Then came Exodus 22:22–31, and the tone shifted. No longer about oxen and restitution, but about God’s heart—His care for the vulnerable, His demand for justice, His call for His people to be holy, set apart from the nations.

    And suddenly, the bigger picture becomes more clear.

    These laws weren’t meant to restrict life but to shape it—to mold a people who would reflect God’s justice, mercy, and holiness in a corrupt world.

    Then I turned to Romans 1, and it all clicked.

    “For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who suppress the truth in unrighteousness.” (Romans 1:18)

    Paul doesn’t soften the blow. We don’t just sin—we suppress the truth. We reject the God who created us. And in response, God gave them up. (Romans 1:24)

    That phrase—God gave them up—should terrify us.

    He didn’t give up on them—He gave them over to their sin, to the full weight of their choices, to the devastating consequences of a heart hardened against Him.

    I read that and think: That should have been me.

    Because I know my own depravity.

    I know the pride that sneaks in when I think I have my life together.

    I know the anger that flares when things don’t go my way.

    I know my maniacal desire to have the last word in arguments with my wife Talacey.

    I know how easily I put myself before my daughter Sophia—how selfishness creeps into my choices, my time, my energy.

    I know the harsh man I can be behind closed doors in my own home while the world outside sees only my smile and my cheer.

    I know the damage I’ve caused in relationships with my hurtful, passive-aggressive comments.

    And in these past 13 weeks since my saw accident, I’ve come to know too well the sinful downward spiral that I allow depression to take me down. How I let despair sit like a weight on my chest instead of turning to the God who has carried me through everything before.

    I know the sinful thoughts, the selfish desires, the countless ways my heart resists surrender. Left to myself, I wouldn’t just drift—I’d run toward destruction.

    And yet.

    “You shall be holy men to Me.” (Exodus 22:31)

    God still calls me. And His call hasn’t changed. It was the same when He spoke it to Moses 3,000 years ago. He still commands holiness. But the gospel tells me what Exodus only foreshadowed—holiness doesn’t come through law-keeping. It comes through Jesus.

    I can’t make myself holy. I can’t cleanse my own depravity. But Jesus did what I could never do. He fulfilled the law I could never keep. He took the wrath I deserved. He was given up so that I would never be.

    So yes, today’s reading was hard. But it led me here—to the sobering, terrifying reality that I deserve God’s judgment… yet I stand covered by His grace.

    Lord, help me grasp the weight of my sin so I can stand in awe of Your grace. Let me not take holiness lightly. Teach me to live set apart—not by my own strength, but by the blood of Christ. Amen.

  • Laws That Lead to Life

    Laws That Lead to Life

    Day 35

    Exodus 19–20 | Romans 1:1–15 | Proverbs 3

    “For whom the Lord loves He corrects, just as a father the son in whom he delights.” (Proverbs 3:12)

    I owned that table saw for ten years. And I remember the day, about six years ago, when I was building a birdhouse for my then six-year-old daughter to paint. The safety guards kept binding up, making it harder to slide the cedar planks across the saw. Frustrated, I took them off. Tossed them aside.

    I figured I knew what I was doing—after all, I’d used that saw a hundred times before.

    Fast forward to November 2, 2024. my buddy J and I were standing at that same saw, ripping a six-foot board to build a mantel for his fireplace. He fed the board through while I held the right edge down with my right fist—because, without the guards, it had a tendency to lift.

    Over the screaming motor, J kept yelling:

    “Move your hand! You’re gonna cut it!”

    And over the screaming motor, I kept yelling back:

    “I’ve done this a thousand times! It’s fine!”

    Then, in an instant, it happened.

    The board kicked forward. And as the blade sucked it back in, my fist went with it.

    The pain was immediate. So was the realization.

    The guards had been there to protect me. And I had ignored them—just like I ignored J’s warnings.

    I should have known better. I should have listened. But I didn’t. And it cost me.

    How much more costly is it when we ignore the commands of God?

    That’s how I think about the Ten Commandments.

    So many people treat them like a prison—a set of rules meant to restrict and confine us. But God never meant for His law to take away life. He meant for His law to protect it. To lead us into it.

    And yet, just like I tossed aside those safety guards, we toss aside His commands.

    The people of Israel did the same. When they stood at Mount Sinai and saw the fire and smoke, they were terrified. Instead of drawing near, they told Moses, “You speak to us… but do not let God speak to us, or we will die.” (Exodus 20:19)

    They misunderstood the heart of God. His laws weren’t given to destroy them but to preserve them. They weren’t prison bars—they were traffic laws, designed to keep them from wrecking their lives.

    And yet, just like I ignored the warnings from J—just like Israel resisted God’s voice—we all have broken His law. Every single one of us.

    But this is where the gospel floods in with hope.

    Because when Jesus came, He didn’t just teach the law. He fulfilled it. Every commandment we’ve broken, He kept. Every righteous requirement we failed to meet, He met. Not one law was disregarded. Not one standard was lowered. And yet, He was the One who suffered as if He had broken them all.

    We ignored the warnings. He paid the price.

    We tossed aside the safety guards. He took the injury.

    And on the cross, the One who had never sinned bore the punishment for every sin we’ve ever committed.

    That’s grace.

    I look at my still-healing scars now, and they remind me—not just of my failure, but of God’s mercy. Because I should have lost more that day. But God, in His kindness, preserved my life.

    And in an even greater way, Jesus preserves ours.

    His commands aren’t there to steal our joy. They’re there to protect it.

    His grace isn’t an excuse to break the law. It’s the reason we run to Him when we do.

    Lord, thank You for Your law and for Your grace. Help me to see Your commands not as burdens, but as gifts. And when I fail—because I will—remind me that Jesus has already fulfilled the law in my place because there’s no way I could myself. Amen.

  • The Hands That Hold Us

    The Hands That Hold Us

    Day 34

    Exodus 17–18 | Mark 16

    “But Moses’ hands grew weary, so they took a stone and put it under him, and he sat on it, while Aaron and Hur held up his hands, one on one side, and the other on the other side. So his hands were steady until the going down of the sun.” (Exodus 17:12)

    Israel’s victory in battle wasn’t about their strength. It wasn’t even about Moses’ strength. It was about dependence—on God and on the people He provided to stand beside him.

    Moses stood on the hill, staff raised, as Israel fought below. As long as his hands were lifted, they prevailed. But when exhaustion set in and his arms dropped, the enemy gained ground. So Aaron and Hur stepped in. They didn’t take over the battle. They didn’t carry the staff for him. They simply held him up when he no longer could.

    That picture of dependence hits me hard. I’ve always prided myself on being capable, strong, independent. But then came November 2. The moment the saw met my hand, my independence was gone. I couldn’t drive. Couldn’t button my own shirt. Couldn’t even cut my own dinner at Men’s Bible study on Wednesday nights—my best friend J had to do it for me. Talacey had to wash my left armpit because my right hand had to be wrapped in a garbage bag each time I showered. My cousin Carson had to take over hosting Christmas Eve because I couldn’t cook or carve the prime rib like I do every year.

    And then there was Bob, originally my boss and now a good friend, who was chomping at the bit to board a plane the moment he heard what happened. Who called or texted every single day, making sure I knew I wasn’t forgotten. He had no obligation to do that, but he did. Because that’s what God does—He sends people to hold us up when we can’t stand on our own.

    That’s what J did. What Talacey did. What Carson, M, Andrei, Bob, and so many others did. When my hands were too weak to carry what God had given me, they stood beside me and held them up.

    Moses couldn’t sustain the battle alone. Neither can we.

    Mark 16 reminds us of the ultimate victory—the resurrection of Jesus. The moment when sin and death were defeated, not by human strength, but by divine power. The gospel itself is a story of dependence: we couldn’t save ourselves, so Christ did what we never could. And now, He calls us to do for one another what Aaron and Hur did for Moses—to stand beside the weary, to lift the burdened, to remind the broken that they are not alone.

    If you’re exhausted today—if you’re trying to hold it all together but your arms are shaking—hear this: You don’t have to do it alone. God sees you. He strengthens you. And He has placed people in your life to hold you up when you can’t stand on your own.

    Lord, thank You for the people You have placed in my life to lift me when I can’t lift myself. Teach me to rely on You, to rest in Your strength, and to be that kind of support for others. Amen.

  • Daily Bread, Eternal Provision

    Daily Bread, Eternal Provision

    Day 33

    Exodus 15–16 | Mark 15:16–47 | Psalm 15

    “Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘Behold, I am about to rain bread from heaven for you, and the people shall go out and gather a day’s portion every day, that I may test them, whether they will walk in my law or not.’” (Exodus 16:4)

    In Exodus 16, the people of Israel are only one month removed from walking through the Red Sea on dry ground, and yet, they’re already grumbling. Hunger sets in, and nostalgia clouds their memory. They long for Egypt—the place of their slavery—because at least there, they had food. So God provides. Manna, bread from heaven, falls each morning, but there’s a condition: gather only what you need for the day. No hoarding. No storing up. Just trusting that tomorrow, He’ll do it again.

    And isn’t that where faith so often falters? Not in believing God can provide, but in trusting that He will—again and again, day after day.

    I see myself in Israel’s grumbling. Not for bread, but for control. I want to know what’s ahead. I want to store up security, gather extra just in case God doesn’t come through tomorrow. But He doesn’t work that way. He gives daily bread. Strength for today. Mercy for this moment. And He calls me to trust Him for the next.

    Then I come to Mark 15, where the One who called Himself the Bread of Life is broken. The Israelites were sustained by bread from heaven, but now, heaven’s true provision hangs on a cross, forsaken and starving. Jesus—the Son of God, the One who could turn stones into bread if He wished—receives nothing. No relief. No rescue.

    The people at the foot of the cross mocked Him: “He saved others; he cannot save himself.” (Mark 15:31) And they were right, though not in the way they thought. He didn’t save Himself because He was saving us. The Bread of Life was emptied so that we could be filled.

    Israel worried about tomorrow’s provision, but Jesus ensured our eternal one.

    Where am I still trying to gather more than what God has given for today? Where am I looking for security instead of trusting in His daily grace?

    God still provides daily bread. Some days it comes as encouragement, some days as endurance, some days as the strength to take just one more step. But always, He gives exactly what we need. And always, He is enough.

    Lord, help me trust Your daily provision. Teach me to rest in what You give and not fear what I lack. Let my heart not grumble, but believe. Amen.