Devotional

We live in a world addicted to newness. Our culture is constructed on a foundation of distraction. Notifications blink like idols on our altars. Reels flicker endlessly before our eyes. News feeds churn minute by minute, not because the truth is changing but because our appetites demand something fresh—even if it's shallow, even if it’s empty.

Consider a bustling construction site. Cranes loom tall, steel beams clash and ring with promise, and trucks deliver endless supplies—seemingly chaotic yet orchestrated by an unseen blueprint. Initially, the site appears disorderly, messy, even frustratingly incomplete. Yet hidden within the clutter lies a meticulous design.

Life often feels like a Rubik’s Cube—scrambled, confusing, colorful but chaotic. You twist decisions. You turn through relationships. You flip perspectives. Yet the more you try to solve it without guidance, the more tangled it becomes.

Counting blessings is more than mere arithmetic. It's sacred mathematics—a heart-calculus revealing the infinite dimensions of God's grace. Each remembered blessing shifts our gaze from the fleeting to the eternal, illuminating God’s unwavering providence, His abundant provision, and His sovereign purposes.

By day, we piece together scattered clues in our work; by night, we untangle knots woven within our families. Life, it seems, is one continuous puzzle, its fragments often scattered beyond our grasp.

When God Redirects Our Plans "And they went through the region of Phrygia and Galatia, having been forbidden by the Holy Spirit to speak...

There’s a moment—quiet, almost imperceptible—when we realize we’re not driving the restoration. We never were. The weight of grace finds us not when we’re sprinting toward holiness, but when we’ve stumbled face-first into the mud of our own limitations.

We readily unsheathe swords forged from our egos, wielding words honed by frustration, disappointment, and unmet expectations. Yet how often do we pause to discern if our perceived opponent truly stands before us?

Have you ever spun a top and watched it wobble just before falling? There’s a moment right at the edge of balance—rapid rotation giving way to unsteady lurches.

A winter campfire crackles just ahead. We feel both the chill in our bones and the prickle of caution on our skin. Flames can scorch, yet frost can kill.

A porcelain cup, dropped from even a modest height, doesn’t dent—it shatters. That is the nature of brittleness: beautiful but fragile, strong in appearance but weak under pressure.

It’s one thing to be caught off guard by betrayal—quite another to see it clearly, knowing exactly who, when, and how.

Humility is the quickest solvent for arrogance—both yours and theirs.

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” – Matthew 11:28 (ESV) There's a woman down the street who...

There’s always one in the group. They speak with a certain precision, quote Scripture in full paragraphs, win every theological debate. Their prayers feel polished. Their posture is reverent. Their opinions are... scripturally backed.

We’ve all seen them—people who carry an unshakable peace, even while walking through fire. They are not loud. They do not demand attention. But their lives whisper something holy. A nurse caring for a dying spouse while singing hymns.

Life—from classrooms to corporate ladders—is steeped in meritocracy. From early childhood, we learn to believe that those who do better deserve greater recognition, better opportunities, and higher rewards.

There are moments in life when you realize you’ve changed. You walk away from the argument you would have charged into last year. You stare down a temptation—and don’t answer the door. Fear grips the room, but somehow peace clings to you like a cloak.

Imagine a father building a fire pit behind his house—not just for warmth, but for memory-making. An altar of laughter, storytelling, and late-night lessons. He warns his children gently about the nature of flame: beautiful, yes, but unforgiving when mishandled. His cautions carry love, but to young ears, they feel abstract.

He believed enough to show up. He believed enough to bring silver, gold, and royal credentials. He even believed enough to seek healing from the God of a nation he barely respected.