Scars and Sovereignty

Tag: Exodus

  • A Greater Love

    A Greater Love

    Day 45

    Exodus 39-40 | Romans 8:18-39 | Psalm 20

    Today is Valentine’s Day. A made-up holiday built on sentimentality and surface-level affection. I’ve never been a fan. The world celebrates love with greeting cards and overpriced chocolate, but real love isn’t found in a bouquet of roses. It’s found in a Savior who laid down His life—not for the lovely, but for the broken.

    We don’t really celebrate Valentine’s Day in our home. Well—okay, that might be stretching the truth. This morning, Talacey gave Sophia a box of Reese’s Pieces and wrote “Love you to” above the word “Pieces.” And she hung a “love” banner above the fireplace. And placed a jar full of conversation hearts on the bookshelf. And we’ll probably order a heart-shaped pizza tonight, but only because we like pizza and don’t feel like cooking.

    Jesse, an old college pastor of mine, used to say, “Love is an action, not a feeling.” And he was right. Love isn’t just words or emotions—it’s obedience, sacrifice, and faithfulness. The world defines love as something fleeting, but Scripture defines love as something costly.

    And costly love is what we see all over today’s passages.

    Read through Exodus 39-40 and you’ll see one phrase that keeps showing up: “as the Lord commanded.” I counted—it’s repeated 24 times in these two chapters. God gave His people specific instructions, and they followed them—precisely, down to the last detail.

    And then, in Exodus 40:34-35, we see the result:

    “Then the cloud covered the tent of meeting, and the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle. And Moses was not able to enter the tent of meeting because the cloud settled on it, and the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle.”

    Moses had been intimately involved in every detail of the tabernacle’s construction. He followed God’s commands precisely. But once it was completed, it was no longer his. It belonged to the presence of God.

    That’s how I feel with these devotionals. I wrestle through the words, I fight through exhaustion, I struggle to get them right. But when I hit “publish,” they aren’t mine anymore. God takes them and uses them however He wants—in ways I may never see this side of heaven.

    I’m tired today. Exhausted, actually. Sadie, the eight-week-old puppy we welcomed into our home last week, has been a little angel when she sleeps but very energetic when she’s awake. Which usually happens in the middle of the night while the rest of the world is out cold. On top of that, I’m also battling my insurance company today, which seems to believe I’ve had enough hand therapy at 24 sessions, even though my hand, my therapist and my surgeon beg to differ. And the pressure of keeping up with these daily writings weighs on me.

    What started as an invitation from my friend and pastor, Andrei, to read through the Bible in a year has become something far bigger—an online ministry that God is using to encourage and transform His people.

    That humbles me. It overwhelms me.

    And some days, like today, I don’t have the strength to write another word. But then I remember: this is not my story to write. It’s God’s. My job is to sit down, hold the pen, and trust Him to pour the ink.

    Paul reminds us in Romans 8:18 that “the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.”

    That doesn’t mean suffering isn’t real or painful. It just means that—in light of eternity—it’s small.

    And when we feel weak? Romans 8:26—“The Spirit helps us in our weakness.”

    When we can’t see how the pieces fit? Romans 8:28—“We know that for those who love God all things work together for good.”

    When the enemy whispers lies? Romans 8:31—“If God is for us, who can be against us?”

    When exhaustion, doubt, and frustration creep in? Romans 8:35—“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?”

    Paul asks this question, and I ask it too:

    Shall tribulation or distress or persecution or famine or nakedness or peril or sword—or in my case today: insurance red tape, exhaustion, or sleepless nights—separate us from His love?

    Absolutely not.

    Because Romans 8:37—“In all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us.”

    And Psalm 20:1—“May the Lord answer you in the day of trouble.”

    He does. He will. He already has.

    Lord, strengthen me in my weakness. When exhaustion weighs me down and circumstances frustrate me, remind me that You are at work. Help me trust that You are working all things—all things—together for good, even when I don’t see it yet. And anchor me in the truth that nothing can separate me from Your love. Amen.

    —

    P.S. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been writing down my recollections of the day the table saw took my two fingers—and the days that followed. I’ve compiled it into a page that tells the full story, including a photo timeline of the healing process. I invite you to check it out here: The Day Everything Changed

  • No Condemnation

    No Condemnation

    Day 44

    Exodus 37–38 | Romans 8:1–17

    “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” (Romans 8:1)

    I’ve had a lot of time to think these past few months. More time than I ever wanted.

    When you’re stuck at home, unable to work, unable to drive, unable to do much of anything without help, your thoughts catch up to you. And when they do, they aren’t always kind.

    I think about all the ways I’ve failed. As a husband, as a father, as a friend. I think about things I should have said and things I never should have. I replay moments I wish I could take back. I feel the weight of guilt, the sting of regret.

    And then I come to Romans 8:1.

    “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”

    I need this verse today. Maybe you do too.

    Because we all have moments we’d rather forget. Words we wish we could unsay. Decisions we wish we could undo. And if we aren’t careful, the enemy will use those failures to keep us stuck—trapped in a cycle of shame, convinced that we are too broken, too weak, too unworthy.

    Because the punishment we deserved was already poured out—on Jesus.

    But Romans 8 is a declaration of freedom.

    No condemnation.

    Not less condemnation. Not occasional condemnation. None.

    If you are in Christ, there is no guilt that sticks. No past mistake that defines you. No sin that can separate you from His love.

    And yet, so often, we live as if there is.

    We keep punishing ourselves for what Jesus already paid for. We keep carrying what He has already removed.

    But why do we struggle to believe this? Why do we keep picking up the weight Christ has already taken?

    Romans 8:2 gives the answer:

    “For the law of the Spirit of life has set you free in Christ Jesus from the law of sin and death.”

    If you are in Christ, you are already free.

    That doesn’t mean sin isn’t serious. It doesn’t mean our choices don’t have consequences. It doesn’t mean we live however we want. But it does mean that we don’t have to walk in fear, in guilt, in self-condemnation.

    The cross is not just a symbol of forgiveness. It is the proof that every ounce of condemnation that should have been ours was placed on Him instead. And that’s not the only thing that happened there.

    We weren’t just pardoned. We were made righteous.

    Second Corinthians 5:21 says:

    “For our sake He made Him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God.”

    God didn’t just erase our sin—He gave us the righteousness of Christ. Every perfect, obedient moment of Jesus’s life was credited to us. That means when God looks at us, He doesn’t see a sinner barely scraping by. He sees His Son.

    And now?

    Now we walk by the Spirit (Romans 8:4).

    Now we set our minds on life and peace (Romans 8:6).

    Now we live as sons and daughters of God, not slaves to fear (Romans 8:15).

    So today, I will choose to believe it.

    I will lay down the guilt I was never meant to carry.

    I will silence the accusations that Christ has already answered.

    I will remind my heart that no condemnation means none.

    Lord, thank You for the freedom that is mine in Christ. Help me to live like someone who is truly free. When I am tempted to dwell on past failures, remind me that You have already paid for them. Let my life reflect the peace, joy, and assurance of one who belongs to You. Amen.

  • The Conflict Within

    The Conflict Within

    Day 43

    Exodus 35–36 | Romans 7 | Psalm 19

    “For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.” (Romans 7:15)

    I left therapy today frustrated.

    For weeks, I’ve been pushing through the pain, doing the exercises, following every instruction—hoping, praying for improvement.

    But the middle finger still won’t move. And I still can’t feel it. The swelling is worse today than it has been in weeks. The scar tissue keeps thickening, making the finger feel hard to the touch—not to mention immovable. When my therapist tries to bend it, there’s an unnatural pop, like something is caught. The circulation is still poor, so it turns blue and cold. There’s still a stubborn patch of skin graft that refuses to heal.

    I knew recovery would be long. I knew setbacks were possible. But this? This feels like my body betraying me. I want my hand to heal. I want my fingers to move. I want things to be like they were before.

    But no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I fight for progress, my body doesn’t cooperate.

    And when I read Romans 7 today, I realized—I’ve felt this frustration before. Not just in my hand, but in my heart.

    “For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.” (Romans 7:15)

    Paul was talking about the war within himself. The battle between the desire to live righteously and the reality of still falling into sin.

    I get that.

    I want to be patient, but I snap at my wife and daughter when I’m tired.

    I want to fully surrender to God, but I keep wrestling for control.

    I want to be content, but I still grumble about what I’ve lost.

    I want to walk in joy, but I let frustration run me ragged.

    Every day, I feel this war—the desire to honor Christ colliding with my own stubborn sin nature.

    Paul felt it too.

    “Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?” (Romans 7:24)

    This is where legalism collapses. No matter how much I try to be better, to do better, I fall short. No amount of therapy will heal my hand overnight—just like no amount of self-discipline can heal my sinful heart.

    But Romans 8:1 is coming in tomorrow’s reading and it gives the final word:

    “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”

    That’s the hope.

    Not that I will one day muster up the strength to overcome sin on my own. But that Jesus already has.

    Not that my effort will be enough. But that His grace is.

    Not that I will one day make myself righteous. But that I already stand righteous in Him.

    And so today, I will keep showing up to therapy, even when I don’t see results. I will keep stretching my fingers, even when it hurts. I will keep believing that healing is happening, even when I can’t feel it.

    And I will do the same with my faith.

    I will keep repenting, even when I fail.

    I will keep trusting, even when I stumble.

    I will keep running to Jesus, even when I feel unworthy.

    Because whether it’s my fingers or my soul, healing doesn’t happen by my effort. It happens by His grace.

    And grace will finish what it started.

    Lord, I feel the war within me—the longing to do what is right and the struggle against my own sin. Thank You that my hope isn’t in my own ability to fix myself, but in Christ, who has already won the victory for me. Keep me faithful in this fight. Keep me near to You. And keep working on my hand and my heart, even when I don’t see the progress. Amen.

  • 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 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.