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.

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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

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.

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.

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.