Day 138

2 Samuel 1–2 | Acts 27:1–6

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There’s something powerful about being seen.

Not just noticed.

But celebrated.

When your heart is known.

When your presence is honored.

When someone else’s joy is found in making your joy complete.

That’s what I witnessed last night.

My daughter Sophia turns 13 this week, and her vision was clear:

A masquerade dinner party.

With elegance. With sparkle. With cheese fondue and sequined shoes.

And thanks to her mom, that vision came to life.

Talacey orchestrated it all. Monica prepared the fondue for the hors d’oeuvres hour. Jason, at Sophia’s request, made vodka cream sauce from scratch. Julian—Monica’s cousin—and I played our parts in matching tuxedo T-shirts, refilling Shirley Temples in champagne flutes, taking dinner orders, clearing dishes, hauling tables back inside… and enduring a full critique of our service from a table of 13-year-old girls who insisted we’d be getting one-star Yelp reviews. (Honestly, it’s fair.)

But what I’ll remember most wasn’t the effort.

It was the look in Sophia’s eyes.

The joy of being celebrated.

The light of being cherished.

The deep breath of a heart that feels safe, chosen, and loved.

Because when someone is celebrated, they stand taller.

They believe they’re worth the effort.

And that’s the kind of love that heals something deeper than words.

The King Who Mourned

In 2 Samuel 1, David receives news that Saul and Jonathan are dead.

And he weeps.

He doesn’t dance on Saul’s grave or boast in his rise to the throne.

He tears his clothes.

He grieves with reverence.

He writes a lament.

Because even when power changes hands, David never forgets what it means to honor someone else’s story.

And in chapter 2, when Judah anoints David king, the narrative shifts.

But David’s posture doesn’t.

He begins his reign by showing honor.

By inquiring of the Lord.

By remembering what matters most: not conquest, but calling.

Not domination, but devotion.

The Servant in the Storm

In Acts 27, Paul is on a ship headed for Rome.

The winds are rising. The storm is forming.

But Paul isn’t panicking—he’s serving.

He warns. He encourages.

He cares for souls, not just survival.

Because Paul knows something the sailors don’t:

He may be in chains, but he is still God’s messenger.

And when you know you’re sent—

When you know you’re held—

When you know the King has seen you, called you, and celebrates you as His—

You serve differently.

You endure storms differently.

You carry peace that outlasts the wind.

Seen by the King

That’s what I want my daughter to know as she steps into 13.

She is seen.

She is chosen.

She is celebrated—by her friends and family, yes.

But even more by her God.

Not because she’s earned it.

But because He delights in her.

And that’s what I need to remember, too.

Because sometimes it’s hard to believe that God celebrates us as we are.

That He doesn’t just tolerate us—He treasures us.

That He’s not waiting for us to measure up—but moves toward us in mercy.

And maybe that’s why nights like this matter so much.

Because even a grown man can forget what it feels like to be loved without earning it.

And watching his daughter receive that kind of love?

It loosens something inside him.

It reminds him that grace is still the only ground worth standing on.

Because there’s something healing about a Father who doesn’t just rescue us—He rejoices over us.

Who doesn’t just endure our presence—He prepares a place for us.

Who doesn’t just meet our needs—but takes joy in doing it.

Because when you’re celebrated not for your performance but for your presence, it changes you.

It roots identity in grace.

It rewrites worth around love.

And that’s exactly what the gospel does.

We serve a King who doesn’t just commission us.

He celebrates us.

Not for our strength, but for our surrender.

Not for our résumé, but for our relationship with Him.

And when we’re loved like that…

We stand taller.

We walk stronger.

We serve more joyfully.

Even when we’re just refilling drinks at a masquerade party.

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Lord, thank You for the quiet glimpses of Your love that show up in sequins and dinner plates, in laughter and laments, in shipwrecks and birthdays. Thank You for seeing us. For celebrating us. For rejoicing over us with singing, even when we don’t feel worth celebrating. Teach me to serve like Paul. To honor like David. And to love my daughter with the same delight You show to me. Amen.