Day 140

2 Samuel 5–6 | Acts 28:1–31

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Some people steady you just by showing up.

They don’t fix everything. They don’t quote clichés. They don’t offer platitudes.

They simply stand near. Speak truth. And remind you that you’re not as alone—or undone—as you feel.

They’ve known darker storms than yours.

They’ve seen loss that rearranged their entire world.

And still… they show up for you.

That’s grace. And that’s what I’ve been given.

Strength I Don’t Deserve

In Acts 28, Paul finally reaches shore. The shipwreck didn’t kill him. The storm didn’t crush him. The viper didn’t take him out.

And now, he’s met by strangers who build a fire.

They offer warmth. Shelter. Kindness.

People who didn’t know him—now helping him heal.

That’s what God does.

He doesn’t just protect us from the wreckage.

He provides people who help us walk out of it.

I’ve seen that lately more than ever before.

If you’ve followed my posts for long, you know Jason and Monica often reappear. That’s because their steadiness isn’t just part of my life—it’s part of how God keeps showing up in it.

And what humbles me is this: they put their lives on the line for others every day when they go to work—and somehow still show up to help hold mine together when I’m unraveling.

Then there’s Kathy—who descended dozens of smoke-filled flights in the World Trade Center on 9/11, not knowing if she’d make it out alive. Still, she checks in on me. Still, she encourages.

Daryl has buried two wives. Two. And still he buys me breakfast—just to ask how I’m doing.

Kirsten lost her son Ivan in a tragic accident. Lost her job in the 2008 collapse, just like I’m losing mine now. And still she texts me regularly, with tear-stained strength: you will get through this.

As Kirsten reminded me, God doesn’t promise calm seas. Just safe harbor.

These are a few of the people He’s used to steady me.

Who have every right to say, “You think this is hard?”

But instead say, “I’ve been there. And you’re not alone.”

They’re not spiritual superheroes. Just ordinary believers, empowered by grace—proof that God can use any of us to steady someone else.

David’s Steady Rise

In 2 Samuel 5–6, David finally becomes king over all Israel.

It’s been years since Samuel anointed him. Years of betrayal, exile, false starts.

But now, God’s promise is fulfilled.

Not all at once. Not cleanly. Not without grief.

And what does David do?

He inquires of the Lord.

He gives God the glory.

He brings the ark back to Jerusalem and dances before the Lord with all his might.

David doesn’t arrive at this moment unscarred.

He’s weathered division, death, and delay.

But now—he worships.

Because sometimes, deliverance doesn’t look like getting out of the hard thing.

It looks like surviving it.

Being shaped by it.

And finally seeing that God was steadying you all along.

The Fire and the Future

Acts 28 ends Paul’s journey—not with a martyr’s death, but with an open door.

He’s in Rome. Preaching. Boldly. Unhindered.

He’s been shipwrecked, stoned, bitten, betrayed—and still, the gospel goes forward.

Not because Paul was strong.

But because God kept sending people to steady him. Even this Apostle who wrote half the New Testament needed others to carry him.

Strangers with firewood. Brothers with faith.

Companions who risked everything just to remind him of what mattered.

So today, I don’t want to look at what I’ve lost.

I want to look at who God’s given me.

Because the people in my life have suffered far worse than I ever have.

They’ve known betrayal deeper, valleys darker, grief heavier.

And still—they show up for me.

So who am I to complain?

Who am I to worry?

I am held.

I am carried.

I am warmed by a fire I didn’t build—and our faithful, Most High God keeps sending selfless people to tend it for me.

Not because I’m worthy.

But because He’s that kind.

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Lord, thank You for the people You keep sending to steady me. For the ones who’ve walked through fire and still sit beside me in mine. For the ones who hold up my arms when I can’t. Let me not idolize my suffering. Let me see it clearly—but frame it rightly. Thank You for Jason. For Monica. For Kathy. For Daryl. For Kirsten. For every voice You’ve used to speak peace into my storm. Give me eyes to see the harbor when all I can see are the waves. And make me, in time, the kind of person who steadies someone else.

Amen.