Scars and Sovereignty

Tag: Genesis

  • Scars of Grace

    Scars of Grace

    Day 16

    Genesis 31–32 | Mark 6:45-7:13

    “And Jacob was left alone. And a man wrestled with him until the breaking of the day.” (Genesis 32:24)

    Jacob’s wrestling match with God is one of the most profound moments in Scripture. It’s not just a physical struggle—it’s the culmination of a lifetime of striving. He fought for position in the womb, deceived his father, manipulated his uncle, and now, in the dead of night, he grapples with God Himself. Jacob enters the night as a man desperate for control, but he leaves it limping, humbled, and renamed. No longer Jacob, the deceiver, but Israel—one who strives with God and prevails.

    In Mark 6, we see another struggle. The disciples, straining against the waves, see Jesus walking on water. But Jesus doesn’t immediately calm the storm. He lets them fight against the wind, watching as they wrestle with fear and exhaustion. And then, when they least expect it, He meets them there. His timing, as always, is perfect.

    I know what it is to wrestle with God’s purposes and timing. Eleven weeks ago, I lay in a hospital bed, three hours from home after a 60-minute helicopter flight and a five-hour surgery, in unbearable pain. The saw had taken two fingers, and I knew it had taken with them my sense of normalcy—typing, writing, woodworking, shaking hands, even brushing my teeth would never be the same. I was sad. But I was also angry.

    I texted J, my best friend, in those early days:

    “I hate how limited I am now. I hate needing help. I’m doing everything I’m supposed to, but healing is slow. I feel forgotten, like life moved on for everyone else but I’m still here, stuck in this mess. I’m grieving—not just for my hand, but for the life I had before this. I know God has a plan, but He’s asking more of me than I have to give.”

    Like Jacob, I wrestled. And like the disciples, I strained at the oars, wondering why Jesus hadn’t yet stepped in. But He had. I just couldn’t see it at the time.

    Now? I would give all ten fingers for what He’s done through the two I lost.

    Through this injury, God did what I never could have imagined. He restored relationships I thought were beyond repair. He rekindled conversations with people I hadn’t spoken to in decades. He used my family’s need to hem us into the body of Christ at our church. He used nightly family prayer to draw my wife, my daughter and me closer to each other than ever before. And my dad—who always loved me but rarely said it—began saying: “I love you.”

    God used my devastation to bring Himself the glory, and me the good.

    Jacob walked away from his wrestling match with a limp. I walk away from this injury with a fistful of scars I wouldn’t trade for anything, because they are permanent reminders of the transformative work God is still doing today.

    What are you wrestling with? What waves are you straining against? These passages remind us that God is not distant. He meets us in the struggle, shapes us as He guides us through it, and brings us something beautiful that will last for all eternity.

    Lord, I am prone to wrestle for control and to strive against the storms of life. Teach me to surrender to You. Transform my struggles and my scars into testimonies of Your grace. Amen.

  • The Legacy of Sin

    The Legacy of Sin

    Day 10

    Genesis 19–20 | Mark 3:22–4:9

    “And Abraham said of Sarah his wife, ‘She is my sister.’ And Abimelech king of Gerar sent and took Sarah.” (Genesis 20:2)

    Some lessons in life take time to sink in. Others, no matter how many times we’re confronted with them, we seem doomed to repeat. That’s what makes Abraham’s story here so unsettling.

    Despite everything God had already done for him—calling him out of Ur, protecting him, and even promising him descendants as numerous as the stars—Abraham falls into the same sin he committed years earlier. He once again tells a foreign king that Sarah is his sister, out of fear for his life. And years later, his son Isaac does the exact same thing with Rebekah, proving that our sins don’t just affect us—they ripple through generations.

    As a father, that terrifies me. I think about my 12-year-old daughter and the example I’m setting for her. What patterns of fear, doubt, or compromise might I be passing down? Will she learn from my faith, or will she inherit my failures?

    But Abraham’s story isn’t just a warning—it’s also a testimony to God’s grace. Despite Abraham’s repeated failure, God remains faithful, stepping in to protect Sarah and preserve His covenant. Abraham’s sin didn’t derail God’s plan. And that gives me hope.

    I know I will fail. I will fall short. But what I pray my daughter sees in me isn’t a man who never messes up—but a man who, when he does, turns back to God in repentance. A man who leans on grace, not on his own strength.

    Lord, forgive me for the ways I fail to trust You. Help me break sinful patterns so that my daughter inherits a legacy of faith, not fear. May she see Your faithfulness in my life and learn to trust You above all else. Amen.

  • When the Answer is ‘Wait’

    When the Answer is ‘Wait’

    Day 8

    Genesis 15–16 | Mark 2

    “And he believed the Lord, and He counted it to him as righteousness.” (Genesis 15:6)

    God’s promise to Abram in Genesis 15 is breathtaking—offspring as numerous as the stars. Abram believed, and God counted it to him as righteousness. But by Genesis 16, we see a different picture. Doubt creeps in. Abram and Sarai grow impatient. They take matters into their own hands, trying to force the fulfillment of God’s promise through Hagar. The result? Heartache, division, and consequences that outlasted their lifetime.

    Waiting has never been easy—not for Abram, not for me.

    Five months after Talacey and I got married, we packed up our newlywed lives and moved 200 miles away for my new job. We were excited. Young, ambitious, ready for the life we had envisioned. But we had no idea what was coming. My salary barely covered our apartment rent, car payment, and gas—forget about food or anything extra. Then the recession hit, and every year like clockwork, my employer cut salaries by another 2%. With Talacey working part time as a preschool teacher while pursuing her masters degree, we had nothing to fall back on.

    And then there was the isolation. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t seem to build community. We missed home. We missed our people. We prayed for God to open a door back to Fresno, begged for it at times. I applied for job after job. I updated my resume. I networked. And the silence from God stretched on.

    For six years.

    I would come home from work to find Talacey in the corner of our small apartment, weeping. “I just want to go home,” she’d sob. And I had no answers. No job prospects. No indication that anything would change. Like Abram and Sarai, I started wondering if I needed to make something happen—force the door open instead of waiting for God to move. But every attempt to take control ended in frustration.

    As I look back now, I see what I couldn’t see then: God’s faithfulness in the waiting.

    That season—though painful—shaped our faith, strengthened our marriage, and taught us to rely on God and each other when nothing made sense. Eventually, He did make a way. He led us home in His perfect timing, in a way we never could have orchestrated on our own.

    Mark 2 reminds me why this matters. When the paralyzed man was brought to Jesus, the crowd expected a physical healing. Instead, Jesus first forgave his sins. Why? Because his deepest need—and our deepest need—isn’t a change in circumstances, but a restored relationship with God. Sometimes God delays the answer we want because He is already working on the answer we truly need.

    Abram and Sarai rushed ahead of God, and the consequences were devastating. I’ve done the same more times than I’d like to admit. But Genesis 15 reminds me that faith—real, lasting faith—is trusting not just in God’s promises but in His timing.

    Lord, forgive me for the times I try to take control instead of trusting You. Help me rest in Your promises, remembering that Your ways are higher than mine. Teach me to trust Your perfect timing, knowing that You are always faithful. Amen.

  • When Healing Doesn’t Come

    When Healing Doesn’t Come

    Day 7

    Genesis 13–14 | Mark 1:21–45 | Psalm 4

    “Moved with pity, He stretched out His hand and touched him and said to him, ‘I will; be clean.’” (Mark 1:41)

    I want to rejoice when I read this verse—Jesus’s compassion and power on full display. But if I’m honest, it stings. I see Jesus heal the leper with a touch, and I wonder: Why hasn’t He healed me? Why hasn’t He restored my hand after all the prayers and tears?

    It reminds me of an episode from The Chosen, where Little James asks Jesus why he hasn’t been healed. Jesus responds with such love, explaining that James’s faith in the midst of suffering is a greater testimony than healing would be. That scene wrecks me because it feels so real.

    Maybe you’ve felt the same—watching others receive the miracle you’ve begged for, wondering why God hasn’t answered the way you hoped. But this passage reminds me: Jesus isn’t distant or indifferent. He is moved with compassion. His power and purposes go far beyond the physical. Sometimes the greater healing happens in our hearts, as He reshapes our pain into a testimony of His grace.

    In Psalm 4, David declares, “You have put more joy in my heart than they have when their grain and wine abound” (v7). True joy doesn’t come from getting what we want. It comes from knowing the One who holds all things together. That joy doesn’t erase the ache, but it reframes it—pointing us to the hope we have in Christ.

    I’m still waiting. I’m still praying. And I’m learning to trust that His plan is better than my own. My scars remind me that God’s compassion is not absent, and His purposes are still at work.

    Lord, help me trust Your purposes when the answers don’t come the way I expect. Use my weakness for Your glory. Remind me that Your compassion and power are always near, even in my waiting. Amen.

  • Citizenship in Heaven

    Citizenship in Heaven

    Day 4

    Genesis 7–8 | Philippians 3

    “I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 3:14)
    “But our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our lowly body to be like His glorious body.” (Philippians 3:20–21)

    Paul’s words in Philippians 3 remind me that life in Christ is a journey—one that moves forward, not backward. The “upward call” isn’t some vague idea of progress; it’s a fixed destination. A promise. A reality that shapes everything about how we live right now.

    But how easily do I forget where I belong? How often do I let my focus shift to what’s temporary—my plans, my comforts, my worries—when I was never meant to set my roots here?

    Paul reminds us that our citizenship is in heaven. That’s not just a theological statement. It’s an identity. It means that no matter how much this world demands my attention, it’s not my home. My Savior is coming, and when He does, He will transform this broken, frail body into one that is glorious like His. No more sin. No more suffering. No more death.

    That changes everything. It changes how I handle hardship, knowing that every trial is temporary. It changes how I pursue success, knowing that what truly matters can’t be measured in earthly terms. It changes how I endure loss, knowing that Christ Himself is my greatest gain.

    So today, I have to ask myself: Am I pressing on toward what lasts? Or am I clinging to what won’t?

    Lord, help me press on toward the prize. When I lose sight of eternity, remind me that my true citizenship is in heaven. Strengthen my resolve to live each day for Your glory, walking by faith in the promise of what is to come. Amen.

  • Walking with God

    Walking with God

    Day 3

    Genesis 5–6 | Psalm 2 | Philippians 2:12–30

    “Enoch walked with God…” (Genesis 5:24)

    There’s something about this verse that stirs a quiet longing in me—to live a life defined not by accomplishments, but by communion with God. Not a faith that’s sporadic or compartmentalized, but one marked by daily, constant closeness with the One who sustains all things.

    What strikes me about Enoch’s story is its simplicity. The Bible doesn’t list his achievements. There are no dramatic miracles, no recorded sermons, no accounts of battles won. It simply says, he walked with God. And that was enough.

    That challenges me. Because if I’m honest, I can so easily slip into measuring my faith by what I do—the prayers I pray, the knowledge I gain, the things I accomplish. But Enoch’s story reminds me that faith isn’t about performance. It’s about presence. It’s about a steady, faithful, step-by-step journey with God, even when no one is watching.

    I hope that one day it might be said of me that I “walked with God.” That despite my failures, my faltering steps, and the countless ways I fall short, my life could still point others to Him. That my legacy wouldn’t be about what I built, but about Who I followed.

    Philippians 2 echoes this reality. Paul calls us to “work out [our] own salvation with fear and trembling”—not because salvation depends on us, but because “it is God who works in [us], both to will and to work for His good pleasure” (Philippians 2:12–13). Walking with God isn’t about striving in our own strength. It’s about surrendering, daily, to the One who works in us.

    I don’t know what walking with God looks like for you today. Maybe it’s trusting Him in a season of uncertainty. Maybe it’s finding joy in simple obedience. Maybe it’s just getting up and choosing to follow Him, even when you don’t feel like it.

    But I do know this—if we walk with Him, He will lead us exactly where we need to go.

    Lord, teach me to walk with You. Not just in the big moments, but in the ordinary ones. Shape my heart to desire You more than anything else, and let my life reflect Your glory in every season. Amen.

  • Forward Motion

    Forward Motion

    Day 2

    Genesis 3–4 | Philippians 1:19–2:11

    “But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 3:13–14)

    The weight of the past can be heavy.

    Genesis 3 is a turning point in history—humanity’s fall, where sin fractures the world and leaves us grasping at fig leaves, scrambling to fix what we’ve broken. Adam and Eve lose Eden, lose their innocence, lose their unhindered communion with God. And yet—even in judgment—God moves them forward. He clothes them. He protects them. He doesn’t erase the consequences of their sin, but He also doesn’t leave them hopeless.

    Fast forward to Philippians, and Paul’s words take on even more weight. If anyone had a past to regret, it was Paul. A former persecutor of the church, he could have been paralyzed by shame. But instead, he declares: One thing I do—forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead. He isn’t saying the past is irrelevant—he’s saying it can’t hold him captive.

    I know that battle. I’ve spent nights replaying mistakes, running through scenarios of what if? and if only—especially about the woodworking accident that scarred me for life. But faith is forward motion. Sanctification and discipleship aren’t passive; they require pressing on, even when the way ahead feels unclear.

    And yet, forward motion doesn’t mean forgetting God’s grace in the past—it means using it as fuel. Just as He clothed Adam and Eve, just as He redeemed Paul, He meets us today, clothing us in His righteousness and calling us forward.

    Lord, help me leave behind what hinders and press on toward You. Teach me to trust Your purposes, even when I can’t see the full picture, and to live with hope in the prize awaiting me in Christ. Amen.

  • Imprisonment with Purpose

    Imprisonment with Purpose

    Day 1

    Genesis 1-2 | Philippians 1:1-18 | Psalm 1

    “And most of the brothers, having become confident in the Lord by my imprisonment, are much more bold to speak the word without fear.”
    —Philippians 1:14

    Pain confines. Loss restricts. Suffering isolates.

    That’s how my injury has often felt—like a prison, locking me into limitations I never asked for. Some days, it’s the physical pain. Other days, it’s the weight of knowing life will never fully go back to “normal.” Either way, it’s easy to let hardship shrink my world down to what I can’t do, what I’ve lost.

    And then I read this verse.

    Paul’s imprisonment wasn’t a roadblock to ministry—it was the very thing God used to embolden others to speak the gospel with courage. The chains that should have silenced him became the pulpit that amplified his testimony.

    It makes me wonder: What if my suffering isn’t just something to endure? What if God is using it, right now, in ways I can’t yet see?

    I’ve already seen glimpses of it. The conversations I’ve had with people who never would have opened up to me before. The way my family has drawn closer through this trial. The prayers from friends I didn’t even know were praying. My “imprisonment”—this season of pain and limitation—hasn’t been wasted.

    I don’t always feel strong enough to endure what He’s asking of me. And the truth is, I’m not. But that’s the point. His power is made perfect in weakness (2 Cor. 12:9). What I see as confinement, He sees as an opportunity to display His strength.

    So instead of asking why this happened, I’m learning to ask, “How is God using this?” How is He shaping me? How is He sanctifying me? How is He speaking through my scars?

    Lord, help me to stop dwelling on what I’ve lost and start trusting in what You’re doing. Use my pain, my limitations, and even my doubts to display Your faithfulness. Teach me to see every trial as part of Your purpose. Amen.