Day 101

Joshua 13–14 | Acts 3:11–26 | Psalm 43

He was 85 years old.

Not the age most people choose to take on giants. But Caleb didn’t ask for retirement. He asked for a mountain.

“Now give me this hill country that the Lord promised me that day… The Anakim are there and their cities are large and fortified, but the Lord helping me, I will drive them out just as He said.” (Joshua 14:12)

There’s something about that line that won’t let me go.

Caleb doesn’t ask for something easy.

He asks for something promised.

Something hard.

Something high.

When Faith Doesn’t Fade

Forty-five years earlier, Caleb stood with Joshua as the only two spies who believed God could give Israel the land. The others trembled. But Caleb trusted. And because of that, he had to wait. Decades of wandering. Burying friends. Watching others settle in.

But when his moment finally came, he didn’t ask for peace.

He asked for purpose.

He didn’t say, “I’ve done enough.”

He said, “Let me finish what God started.”

That’s the kind of faith I want.

Faith that doesn’t coast.

Faith that doesn’t cave.

Faith that holds onto the promises of God for 45 years and still burns to see them fulfilled.

When the Hill Feels Too High

Tonight I sat on a stool in Jason’s driveway while he detailed wheels for a neighbor.

We were just catching up—but when he asked how I was doing, it all kind of spilled out.

The job that’s about to end.

The surgeries coming in June and August—when I likely won’t have insurance because I won’t have a job.

My hand that still doesn’t feel right.

The weight of needing to provide for my family when everything feels up in the air.

And my daughter—my strong, smart, beautiful preteen daughter—walking through the hard middle place between childhood and womanhood that preteen daughters walk through.

And me? Just trying to figure out how to love her well. How to shepherd her heart. How to be steady when I feel anything but.

I told him I feel overwhelmed. Like the hill I’m facing is steep and I’m already limping and out of breath.

And Jason—stoic, steady Jason—looked at me and said, “I can’t pretend to know what it’s like to carry everything you’re carrying. But I believe God has a purpose in all of it.”

He didn’t try to fix it.

He didn’t pretend it wasn’t hard.

He just reminded me that I’m not climbing alone.

His words didn’t solve anything. But as I reflect on them in the quiet of my own home tonight, they remind me of something I forget far too easily: just because the hill is hard doesn’t mean God hasn’t called me to climb it.

The Hill Country Still Has Giants

Sometimes I think that if I just wait long enough, the giants will go away.

That the pain will ease.

That the struggle will pass.

That the hill I’m facing will somehow flatten out.

But that’s not what Caleb asked for.

He didn’t wait 45 years for the obstacles to disappear. He waited for the chance to face them—with God.

The giants were still there. The cities were still fortified. But so was Caleb’s faith.

He had history with God. And history breeds boldness.

The Lord Helping Me

That’s the line Caleb anchors everything to.

“The Lord helping me…”

It’s not bravado.

It’s not hype.

It’s not grit for the sake of grit.

It’s surrender.

Caleb knew this was a partnership—but God was the strength.

God was the power.

God was the One who had promised, and the One who would provide.

And so he climbed.

And so will I.

Not because I see the summit.

Not because the path is clear.

Not because the fear is gone.

But because the God who promised is still with me.

Still helping me.

Still fighting for me.

And when my legs shake and my breath shortens and I feel like I can’t take one more step—He will carry me.

He is not just the God of the promise.

He is the God of the climb.

⸻

Lord, give me the faith of Caleb. When my body feels tired and my spirit feels worn, remind me that You are still giving hill country to those who believe. I don’t want to settle. I don’t want to coast. I want to keep asking You for hard things—because You are faithful, and You are able. The giants may still be there, but so are You. And that’s enough.

Amen.