Day 54

Leviticus 18-19 | Romans 16

For six years after we got married, Talacey and I lived in Sacramento. When we learned Sophia was on the way, we moved back to Fresno to raise her around family. And for the next 11 years, we were ninja Christians.

Slip into church.

Sit through the service.

Slip back out before anyone could notice.

No connection. No commitment. No real community. And we were fine with that.

Until we weren’t.

Because when you’re disconnected from the body of Christ, you don’t really notice what you’re missing—until the day comes when you desperately need it.

When God Knits You In

Then J invited me to men’s Bible study at Trinity.

In the 18 months since then, God has hemmed us into the fabric of that church.

And we love it.

The people. The preaching. The laser-sharp focus on Christ. The way my preteen daughter—as soon as we get in the car after Sunday service—is already saying she can’t wait for youth group on Thursday night. And then, on the way home from youth group, she can hardly stand that she has to wait until Sunday to go back again.

Not because of the building.

But because of the people.

Because of the God we praise when we’re together.

And now, looking back, I can see it so clearly.

God was already weaving the threads of community around us before we even knew we’d need them.

Because He knew what was coming.

He knew that—in a matter of months—I would fight a table saw and lose. He knew Talacey, Sophia and I would need a church family to hold us up. To serve us when we couldn’t serve ourselves.

The Power of Christian Community

God is the one who sustains us. He alone is our refuge, our provider, our strength in suffering. But one of the ways He works is through His people—His church, His hands and feet, meeting real needs in real moments.

Romans 16 is Paul’s closing words in his letter to the church at Rome. And if you read it, it’s not just theological.

It’s personal.

Paul starts listing names—over 30 of them. He didn’t just list these names for the sake of friendship. These people were co-laborers in the gospel. Their love, their service, their sacrifices—all of it was possible because of what Christ had done for them first.

They were ordinary believers. People who had encouraged him, supported him, risked their lives for him. Some had been like a mother to him. Some were new in faith. Some were longtime companions.

And by reading what he wrote about them, it’s clear Paul knew something we often forget:

We are not meant to walk alone.

I felt that firsthand when I came home from the hospital.

Before Talacey and I even walked through the front door, Monica had already mobilized an entire army. I wrote about it in The Day Everything Changed—how the body of Christ surrounded us before we even knew what we needed.

I fully realize you don’t know these names below, and that’s okay. Because I do. And like Paul’s list in Romans 16, these names mean the world to me:

• J repaired my garage door. And put air in my daughter’s bike tires. And cut each bite of my dinner at church on Wednesday nights. And did the little things—again and again—that I never had to ask for but always needed.
• Kirsten sent me a balloon with flowers in a smiley face mug.
• Nate fixed the valve when the pool was overflowing.
• Richard brought us groceries. Twice.
• Candace made a tray of homemade enchiladas.
• Sabrina roasted a whole chicken.
• Justin’s wife made albondigas soup.
• Andrei and Samantha delivered the best brisket I’ve ever eaten—and a beautiful prayer to go with it.
• J and Monica cooked lasagna. And soup. And smash burgers. And pasta with vodka sauce. And so much more.
• Rob and Sandy invited us into their home for dinner more times than I can count.
• Kathy, Samantha, and Samuel all live far away, but they sent gift cards for DoorDash and Uber Eats.
• Kari sent me shoulder slings from Amazon to keep my hand elevated above my heart.
• Even my dentist brought homemade manicotti and prayed with us when she dropped it off.

God used this army and these soldiers to fill our freezer and refrigerator—and our hearts—fuller than they ever had been before.

And then there was Mark, my former boss in Sacramento. We hadn’t talked in years. Hadn’t seen each other in even longer—12 and a half years, to be exact.

But one day, there was a knock at my front door.

There stood Mark.

He had driven 200 miles and three hours that morning, just to surprise me and take me to lunch. And then, after we ate, he got back in his car and drove 200 miles home.

No agenda. No reason. Just a brother making sure I knew I was seen.

And these are just a few of the countless examples I could give of God using His people to love on my family and shine light into our darkest season.

Why It Matters

Leviticus 19:18 says:

“You shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Lord.”

Jesus later called this the second greatest commandment. And Romans 16 shows us what it looks like in action—the body of Christ caring for one another, showing up, lifting burdens, doing life together.

We weren’t meant to do this alone.

And we weren’t meant to be ninja Christians—slipping in, slipping out, staying disconnected.

Jesus laid down His life not only to reconcile us to God—but also to one another. He didn’t just save individuals. He saved a people. A family. A body.

And that’s why Christian community isn’t optional. It’s critical. Because it’s part of the very gospel itself.

If I’ve learned anything in this season, it’s this:

The moment will come when you need the body of Christ.

As will the moment when the body of Christ needs you.

Lord, thank You for the people You have placed around me. For the hands that have served, the hearts that have encouraged, and the brothers and sisters who have walked alongside me. Let me never take them for granted. And let me be that kind of friend to others. Amen.

Day 52

Leviticus 14-15 | Romans 14:13-15:13

Leviticus 14 lays out the process for a person healed of leprosy to be restored—not just physically, but socially and spiritually. Because lepers weren’t just sick. They were outcasts.

To be a leper in ancient Israel meant total separation. No contact with family. No place in the community. No ability to worship in the temple. It was a living death—one in which the pain of the disease was matched only by the pain of isolation.

I don’t have leprosy. But I do know what it’s like to feel cut off from the world.

And the hardest part? No one really understands it.

The Loneliest Tuesday

I think back to the first Tuesday after I got home from the hospital.

Talacey went to work that morning. She dropped Sophia off at school on her way. And then, suddenly, I was alone.

And it was terrifying.

No work emails to check—my company had locked me out while I was on medical leave.

No breakfast to make—because I only had one functioning hand.

No coffee to drink—because caffeine constricts blood vessels, and I needed circulation to keep my reattached fingers alive.

No walking around the block—because I was still too unstable.

No TV to mindlessly watch—because we don’t have cable by choice, and I quickly grew tired of listening to the news.

So I sat.

In a silent house.

With nothing to do.

Nowhere to go.

No one to talk to.

And for the first time since the accident, the reality of it all closed in.

I had spent the last week surrounded by doctors and nurses. The hospital was noisy. The days were busy. So were the nights—only in a hospital do they wake a guy up to take a sleeping pill.

Then, over the weekend, family and friends came to visit.

But during the week? The silence was deafening. The loneliness, absolute.

Everyone else was at work. At school. Living life. Moving on with normal.

Everyone but me.

And that was the hardest part—because no one really understood what this new reality felt like.

The walls felt closer. The day felt longer. The isolation was suffocating.

By the time the girls got home that evening, I was desperate to see people. To move. To do something. So they took me to Costco, and we just walked around for an hour.

Not because we needed anything.

But because I was going out of my mind.

And the tightness in my chest was at an all-time high.

What Do We Do With the Isolated?

Leviticus 14 doesn’t just tell us how a leper was healed. It tells us how a leper was welcomed back.

Sacrifices were made. Rituals were performed. The priest himself went outside the camp to meet the leper where he was.

And once the process was complete, the man was restored—not just to health, but to the community.

He was seen again. Touched again. Brought back in.

And that’s exactly what Romans 15 calls us to do.

“Therefore welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you, for the glory of God.” (Romans 15:7)

People are isolated for all kinds of reasons. Sin. Suffering. Shame. Sickness. Depression.

And if we aren’t careful, we keep them there.

Not intentionally—just by not noticing.

But Christ noticed us.

He stepped outside the camp to meet us in our isolation.

He bore our shame so we could be brought back in.

He took the judgment we deserved so we could be fully welcomed.

And now, we get to do the same for others.

Who Needs You?

Who do you know that’s living in a kind of isolation right now?

A widow who eats dinner alone every night.

A single mom who never has a night off.

A neighbor who just moved to town and doesn’t know anyone.

A friend who has drifted from church and doesn’t know how to come back.

A prisoner who simply needs a letter from a brother or sister on the outside.

Who is sitting in silence, waiting for someone—for you—to notice?

Who needs a text? A visit? An invitation?

The weight of isolation is heavy.

But the love of Christ makes our burden light.

Lord, thank You for meeting me in my loneliness. Give me eyes to see those who feel unseen. Make me quick to notice, quick to reach out, and quick to welcome, just as You have welcomed me. Amen.

Day 50

Leviticus 10-11 | Romans 12:9-13:7

Yesterday, I wrote about obedience. About how Labradors—Sadie in particular—have a natural instinct to resist it. And about how, if I’m being honest, I do too.

Today, Leviticus takes obedience to a whole new level.

A deadly level.

Leviticus 8-9 describes Aaron and his sons carefully obeying every command the Lord had given them for the priesthood. Fire came from the Lord, consuming their sacrifices—a sign of His acceptance. Worship done in obedience, blessed by God.

Then, in today’s reading, fire comes from the Lord again. But this time, it’s not a blessing. It’s judgment.

Because Aaron’s sons, Nadab and Abihu, had just done the opposite.

Profane Fire and the Cost of Disobedience

Leviticus 10:1-2 says:

“Then Nadab and Abihu, the sons of Aaron, each took his censer and put fire in it, put incense on it, and offered profane fire before the Lord, which He had not commanded them. So fire went out from the Lord and devoured them, and they died before the Lord.”

They had worshiped on their own terms. They had taken something holy and twisted it into something self-made. And the result? Death.

The same fire that had been a sign of God’s presence and blessing now became an act of judgment.

The contrast is terrifying.

God is not a God to be trifled with. He is holy. He is jealous for His glory. And He will not tolerate those who come near Him in disobedience.

Holiness and the Weight of Worship

Verse 3 cuts straight to the heart of it. The Lord says:

“By those who come near Me, I must be regarded as holy; and before all the people, I must be glorified.”

I may not be a priest. But I am a child of God. And I do want to come near Him.

I want to be holy. But I know I never will be—not on my own.

And that’s where Romans 12 comes in.

Marks of True Worship

Paul shifts our focus from ritual sacrifices to the everyday realities of Christian living:

“Let love be without hypocrisy. Abhor what is evil. Cling to what is good.” (Romans 12:9)

“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” (Romans 12:21)

Aaron’s sons came near to God in disobedience, offering something He had not commanded. Their worship was self-determined, rather than God-ordained.

But true worship isn’t about doing what feels right. It’s about doing what God says is right.

And that’s where this gets personal.

Obedience in Unexpected Places

At our church this past Sunday, the executive director of a nonprofit that serves prisoners came to speak. After the service, Matthew, a brother who volunteers for this nonprofit, approached me and said:

“I know you’re a writer, Grant. And I think you should consider serving in our correspondence ministry. It’s simple. Download an app, and you’ll be matched with a prisoner who needs encouragement.”

I almost laughed as I thought about it on the drive home. A “prisoner pen pal.”

But I don’t believe in coincidences.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized: I may not be able to build anything with wood again because my hand isn’t fully functional yet—but God can still use my hand to build with words.

I can still be obedient.

And obedience doesn’t have to look dramatic. Sometimes, it’s as simple as taking the gifts God has given me and using them where He opens the door.

The prisoner I will write to—whoever he is—knows the weight of disobedience. His actions, like Nadab and Abihu’s, led to real consequences. But unlike them, he has been given an opportunity:

A chance for grace. A chance for repentance. A chance to experience the mercy of God, rather than His judgment.

And somehow, in this strange and unexpected way, I get to be a small part of that.

Fire That Purifies, Not Consumes

Romans 13:7 tells us to “give honor to whom honor is due.”

What honor does God deserve? Everything.

My life. My worship. My obedience.

Not out of fear, but out of gratitude.

The same fire that judged Nadab and Abihu now refines us instead. Because Christ has already taken the judgment in our place.

Lord, let me never forget the weight of Your holiness. Keep me from offering You worship on my own terms. Let my obedience be driven by gratitude, not fear. And let Your fire refine me—not consume me. Amen.

Day 48

Leviticus 6-7 | Romans 11:1-24

I first listened to today’s Bible reading rather than reading it myself. And as I was listening to Leviticus 6:9, when God is giving instructions about the burnt offering, what I heard was:

“It shall be from the heart.”

That captured my attention. But when I sat down with my Bible in hand, I, of course, realized what it actually says:

“It shall be on the hearth.”

Yes, I had misheard it—but maybe it wasn’t an accident.

Because it made me think: How often have I given an offering that wasn’t truly from the heart?

When Giving Felt Like a Burden

I remember being a young adult, even in college, sitting down to write my tithe check. But instead of worship, my mind was filled with anxiety.

Ten percent is just too much.

Maybe I’ll shave a little off this time.

Maybe I just won’t give this month.

And more times than I’d like to admit, I’d close the checkbook without writing anything at all.

Fast forward to today. Talacey and I have been married nearly two decades, and if there’s anything we’ve learned over those years, it’s this:

God is faithful. And we can’t afford not to trust Him.

Giving isn’t about obligation. It’s about trusting the One who provides—even when we don’t know how the provision will come.

Looking Back at God’s Faithfulness

It’s that time of year when the mailbox is full of W-2s, 1099s, and charitable giving statements. Ours from church arrived the other day—a detailed list of everything we gave last year.

It was a big number. Bigger than we expected.

Talacey and I looked at each other and could only say, “Praise God.”

Not because we’d been faithful—but because He had.

We thought back over this past year. The hospital bills that should have buried us. The ambulance and helicopter costs that should have drained us. The therapy expenses that should have stretched us.

But God.

Somehow, every bill has been handled. Somehow, we’ve lacked nothing. Somehow, His provision has never failed.

Looking at that giving statement, I didn’t regret the ten percent we did give—I felt regret that we hadn’t given more. Not because God needs our money, but because we need the reminder that He is our provider.

Don’t get me wrong: God’s provision isn’t always financial. But it does always means we are held.

An Ever-Burning Fire

Leviticus 6:9 doesn’t just say the burnt offering should be on the hearth. It says:

“The fire of the altar shall be kept burning on it.”

The fire never went out. The priests were commanded to tend it continually, night and day.

And that’s what giving—said differently: worship—is supposed to look like.

Not a once-in-a-while tithe. Not a reluctant act of duty. Not a sporadic, guilt-driven gesture. But a fire that never goes out—a life lived in worship, fueled by gratitude for the faithfulness of God.

God’s Faithfulness, Not Ours

That’s the exact heart of Romans 11.

Israel had failed. Over and over. They had turned away from God, rejected Him, sinned against Him—but He had not abandoned them. Paul reminds us:

“God has not rejected His people whom He foreknew.” (Romans 11:2)

And in verse 29, he gives this promise:

“For the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable.”

Our faithfulness wavers. His never does.

Our sacrifices fall short. His was perfect.

Our worship burns low. His mercy never dims.

A Fire That Never Fails

I once held back my offering, afraid I wouldn’t have enough. But how could I ever doubt the provision of a God who has never failed me?

In that tabernacle, fire on the altar never went out. Nor did God’s provision.

May my worship burn just as steady.

Lord, You have been so faithful. Let my giving—my worship—not be out of duty, but out of gratitude. Keep the fire burning in my heart, not just on the hearth. Amen.

Day 46

Leviticus 1-3 | Romans 9:1-29

We’ve all heard the phrase “fire and flood.” People use it to describe chaos, usually with a smirk, because it’s never literal.

Except today. Today, it was literal.

There’s an atmospheric river over Central California this week, which means rain—lots of rain. So much that I could barely see my neighbor’s house through my office window earlier today. And while I love the sound of rain, our newest family member—Sadie, that sweet and angelic little yellow lab puppy—has quickly decided she does not.

Twice today, we went outside for her to do her business. Twice, she stared at the downpour, made a hard pivot, and ran straight back inside. Twice, she left me a little surprise on the tile floor instead. And that was just the beginning.

Because then came the flood.

Two inches of rain had fallen in the last twelve hours. My backyard drains couldn’t keep up. And since the original landscaper thought sloping synthetic grass toward the house was a great idea, water was pooling on my patio—creeping closer to my back door like it had an agenda.

Then the fire.

I was sitting in my living room chair, Bible open, starting today’s reading when I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye. I looked up, and I kid you not—sparks were flying from the landscape light beneath the pomegranate tree behind my pool. Before I could even stand, flames erupted from the base of the tree.

I yelled, “There’s a fire!” as I jumped up, sprinted toward the garage for the fire extinguisher, then remembered I had left the garden hose in the pool. So I changed course and bolted outside. By the time I got there, thick smoke had filled the yard.

So there I was in the pouring rain—barefoot, in nothing but a T-shirt and basketball shorts, with only 80% of my fingers functional—trying to put out a fire that could have taken out the entire neighborhood. With a garden hose. A kinked garden hose. One that stretched across the pool, with the kink just out of reach, forcing me to yell for Talacey to unkink it before I could unleash my inner firefighter on the growing flames.

You can’t make this stuff up. It was a scene straight out of the movie Marley & Me.

And that brings us to Leviticus.

Leviticus opens with God’s instructions for burnt offerings—offerings that were required, that had to be done a specific way, and that were pleasing to Him. The fire that consumed those sacrifices wasn’t accidental. It was purposeful. Holy.

My backyard inferno? Not so much.

But it made me think—God’s fire always has a purpose. The burnt offerings in Leviticus pointed to something greater, a sacrifice that was yet to come. And that’s why Romans 9 fits so perfectly here.

Paul’s heart in Romans 9 is heavy. He’s wrestling with God’s sovereignty, with Israel’s rejection of Christ, with the hard truth that not all who are descended from Israel belong to Israel. And then he lays down these words:

“So then it depends not on human will or exertion, but on God, who has mercy.” (Romans 9:16)

Not on our effort. Not on our striving. Not on our attempts to clean ourselves up or make ourselves acceptable.

Nothing but mercy.

The fire of Leviticus was a picture of the judgment we deserved. But the cross of Christ became the final burnt offering—the perfect, once-for-all sacrifice that took the flames in our place.

And if we are in Him, we are not consumed.

We are chosen.

“I will have mercy on whom I have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I have compassion.” (Romans 9:15)

It’s all grace.

And while my backyard nearly burned down today, I am reminded: the fire of God’s judgment will never touch me. Because it already touched Christ.

Lord, thank You that my acceptance before You depends not on my efforts, but on Your mercy. When I am tempted to rely on my own strength, remind me that You have already provided the perfect sacrifice. Keep me resting in Your grace. Amen.