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  • The Final Word

    The Final Word

    [A brief word before you read: This reflection is not my usual weekly Nudging. It’s a quiet response to a recent public disclosure involving a well-known Christian voice—one that has stirred grief, questions, and reflection for many. I offer it not as commentary or conclusion, but as a quiet reflection—shared in humility and hope.]


    The Final Word


    I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry.
—John 6:35, NIV

    Most of us know the raven before we ever meet it in Scripture.

    It comes to us through literature—black, inky, elegant, and eerie. Perched above a grieving man’s door, answering every question with a single word: Nevermore. In The Raven, the bird does not rage or argue. It simply echoes what sorrow already says.

    The raven has come to symbolize finality—the quiet suspicion that loss, failure, or regret will have the last word. But long before Edgar Allan Poe gave the raven a voice of despair, Scripture had spoken.

    After the flood, Noah sends out a raven. It does not return, moving back and forth over a world not yet made whole. In drought, ravens bring bread and meat to the mighty prophet Elijah—what once circled carrion was entrusted with holy provision. Solomon, sage and poet, dares to liken raven-black hair to beauty.

    Scripture refuses to issue a single verdict on the raven.

    It appears in places of death and in moments of provision. It lingers where endings are visible, and it arrives where sustenance is needed.

    And then there is the creature itself.

    Ravens are brilliant. Curious. Drawn to sparkle—foil, glass, coins, anything that catches the light. They explore. They gather. They fixate. Often associated with transition, sorrow, and death, they are also noted for fidelity and hope. They mate for life, giving their attention to one alone. A single eye. A fixed devotion.

    Contradictions, held in contrast.

    Which is why the story eventually turns toward us.

    Because the truth is, we recognize something of ourselves here. We know what it is to be attentive and distracted at the same time. To desire faithfulness, yet feel the pull of lesser things. To be capable of devotion, and still drawn to what catches the light. To want depth, but settle for what is close at hand.

    We are not just observers of the raven.

    We are the raven.

    Not evil.

    But human—and hungry.

    In other words, ravenous. At its root is the word raven. A raw, impatient appetite. Not always for sinful things—but for closeness, affirmation, intimacy, relief, meaning, and satisfaction. We are gifted. Intelligent. Capable of beauty and devotion. And still, drawn to what glitters. Still tempted to live on what sustains us just enough, rather than what restores us fully.

    Scripture has a name for this kind of hunger.

    “Watch out for the Esau syndrome,” Hebrews warns. “Trading away God’s lifelong gift in order to satisfy a short-term appetite” (Heb. 12:16, MSG).

    Esau wanted the blessing back later—but the moment had passed. Tears could not undo what hunger had already chosen.

    Hunger rarely announces its cost in advance. This is the danger Scripture names—not hunger itself, but appetite left unattended. A loss we never meant to choose. A kind of Nevermore that arrives quietly, one small decision at a time.

    Recently, a story surfaced that many of us wish we had not read. A story in the news and on social media that carries grief, not gossip. A failure measured not in moments, but in years—where wonder slowly gave way to wandering, and a covenant was broken. It unsettles us. Disillusions us. And reminds us—again—that spiritual language, wisdom, and calling do not cancel appetite.

    It is tempting, in moments like these, to read critically—but from a safe distance. To imagine the story points outward at another, even as it quietly turns and points back at us. And it is there—without accusation—that Scripture speaks.

    Scripture does not shame our hunger. It questions our substitutes.

    “Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy?” (Isa. 55:2, NIV)

    God asks—not to scold, but to invite. Sparkle is not bread.

    Jesus never rebukes the hungry. He feeds them. “I am the bread of life,” He says—not a distraction, not a glittering substitute, but nourishment. What sustains. What satisfies. What is essential.

    The raven survives on what it finds. Jesus offers us what we actually need.

    And when the haunting voice of the raven whispers again—

    that failure is final,

    that hunger defines us,

    that brokenness has the last word—

    the gospel answers without spectacle or force:

    Amazing grace.

    God is our strength and our portion. He feeds the ravens, and He Himself is our food. He invites us to come—not to what sparkles, not to Nevermore, but to Jesus, the Bread of Life—bread enough for today.

    Where grace—not hunger—gets the final word.

  • Let Them Pray

    Let Them Pray


    Sadly, many of us would not pray if we weren’t driven to our knees.

    — Ben Patterson


    I’ve walked with the Lord for more than forty years. I share that not as a credential, but as context.


    I felt called into ministry in my twenties. I was ordained. I preached and taught. I led worship, opened Scripture through both spoken word and written reflection, officiated weddings and funerals, dedicated babies, baptized believers, prayed with people in hospitals, led groups, discipled others, and encouraged people—again and again—to trust God with their lives.


    Prayer was always part of my vocabulary and my practice. It just wasn’t always part of my dependence—and I didn’t know it.


    That realization came as a surprise.


    In the years leading up to 2019, my health began to unravel in ways I couldn’t explain. At first, it seemed manageable. I adjusted. I compensated. I told myself this was just aging, stress, life.


    That’s what capable people do.


    But the symptoms worsened. My thinking grew foggy. My body failed me without warning. I got lost on familiar roads. I said things that didn’t make sense. There were moments when I couldn’t move or respond at all.


    Eventually came the diagnosis: a rare pancreatic tumor—an insulinoma. No medication. No simple fix. My body was undermining me from the inside.


    And somewhere in that unraveling, something else came into focus.

    I realized I had been enduring the situation—but not entrusting it to God. I was functioning on experience, resilience, and self-reliance, while anxiously carrying a burden I was never meant to carry alone.


    James writes,


    “Consider it pure joy whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.” (James 1:2–3, NIV)


    Testing has a way of revealing what our faith is actually resting on. It strips away the illusion of control and exposes how easily competence can masquerade as trust. And when testing turns into trouble, prayer becomes less of a discipline and more of a necessity.

    James later writes:


    “Is anyone among you in trouble? Let them pray.”

    (James 5:13, NIV)


    Let them pray. Not analyze. Not manage. Not push through.


    Pray.


    That verse finally found me—not as a teaching point, but as a mirror. I had prayed for others in their trouble and encouraged them to ask for prayer. I had seen God act. And yet, I had not named my own need.


    So I did.


    I asked for prayer. I let others carry me when I could not carry myself. Healing was not immediate—but peace was. And with it came a deeper, quieter faith—one shaped not by strength, but by surrender, and by the steady awareness that Jesus had not stepped back from my suffering, but had drawn near within it.


    Patterson is right. Sadly, many of us would not pray if we weren’t driven to our knees.


    But when trouble finally tells the truth about us, graciously, God is willing to meet us there. And Scripture tells us what to do next:


    … Let them pray.

  • The Real Music

    The Real Music


    [On this New Year’s Eve, I wanted to share a piece I wrote years ago. May it be an encouragement as you step into the new year.]


    My heart is steadfast, O God; I will sing and make music with all my soul. —Psalm 108:1 (NIV)


    There are some things you understand early in life because someone tells you. And there are other things you understand later—not because they are new, but because you’ve lived long enough to hear them differently.


    One of those for me is a simple phrase: It’s about the music.


    That line comes from the movie School of Rock. Years ago, when our kids were younger we watched that silly movie again and again—laughing every time like it was the first. In a house of two teachers and four musicians, the story struck a familiar chord.


    In one scene, Dewey Finn—played with over-the-top brilliance by Jack Black—walks into band practice only to discover he’s been voted out of the band. His excess, his passion, his twenty-minute guitar solos no longer serve the band’s goals. They want success. Stardom. The $20,000 grand prize in the Battle of the Bands.


    Dewey is incredulous. With wild eyes and flying hair, he finally blurts out, “You guys just don’t get it. It’s not about the money… it’s about the music!”


    At the time, it was funny. Years later, it’s instructive.


    I didn’t realize how deeply those words had settled in me until I found myself repeating them to my twelve-year-old daughter, Becca, just minutes before her piano recital. She was preparing to play eight pages of Chopin—by memory, under bright lights, in front of a crowd. I could see the anxiety rising as she worried about getting it right.


    I pulled her aside and put my arm around her shoulders.


    “Becca,” I said, “you’ve done the work. You’ve practiced. You have the ability. You’ve played this beautifully at home many times. You have nothing to prove—to me, your mom, or yourself. This recital doesn’t define you. It isn’t even about you or your performance… it’s about the music.”


    Something in her softened. A small smile appeared.


    “You know the music,” I said. “Now let it flow through you. Play it from your heart. Enjoy it. Let its beauty ring out and touch the audience.”


    Only later did I realize I was speaking to myself as much as to her.


    Sitting in the audience that evening, listening to student after student play, tears surprised me. Amid Beethoven, Chopin, Schubert, and even a simple “London Bridge” from the Beginners Piano Book, I found myself hearing something beneath the notes.


    The melody I heard was the music of our lives.


    It was the sound of practice and discipline. Repetitious scales. Missed notes. Forgotten stanzas. Groans squeezed between school, chores, and homework. Made-up songs and playful detours—small escapes from the work that needed to be done.


    I looked around the room and thought about the parents and grandparents who had heard these same pieces at home—out of tempo, interrupted by missed notes and halting starts, again and again. And it struck me: this was the real music. Not the recital, but the daily, faithful playing of it.


    Watching Becca at the piano, I found myself holding my breath. My hands clenched at every falter—not in disappointment, but in hope—hoping she wouldn’t let a moment derail the whole. And as she played, I realized how much of life is lived this way: moving forward, note by note, learning not to stop when we stumble.


    In my heart, I found myself whispering encouragement—

    Keep going.

    Don’t be discouraged.

    Move through the bauble.

    Let it ring.


    When she finished, her smile said everything. And as I applauded, a quiet recognition surfaced:


    Life is rarely a single, defining performance. It is far more often a long season of practice.


    Somewhere along the way, many of us are taught—explicitly or not—that life is all about the recital. The final presentation. The flawless execution. The grand prize. But the longer you live, the more you realize how much of life happens between the performances.


    In God the Father’s eyes—or ears—it has always been about the music. The whole song. The daily faithfulness. The missed notes. The perseverance. The grace that keeps us playing even when the pages are long and the hands are tired.


    God is not waiting for the final chord to listen. He has been present for the practice all along.


    ***


    At the end of Becca’s recital, parents, students, grandparents, brothers, and sisters stayed to celebrate with punch and cookies. Congratulations were offered. The room filled with hugs, laughter, reflections, and enormous sighs of relief.


    Becca stood across the room talking with friends. In one arm she held a bouquet of roses I had given her; in the other, a cup of red punch. She was smiling—a smile of relief and satisfaction after a job well done. I made my way over, put my arm around her waist, pulled her close, and told her she had done wonderfully.


    “Thanks, Dad, but I did have a few mess-ups,” she said.


    “Yes,” I replied, “but they were practically unnoticeable—you just moved right through them.”


    Then I asked, “What was going through your mind when you were up there playing?”


    She smiled and said, “I just kept going, knowing that you and Mom were out there listening. And at one point—during one of my favorite parts—I thought, it’s not about me, it’s about the music. So I just played the music.”


    With that, she slipped away to rejoin her friends.


    Standing there alone, holding an empty plastic punch cup, I realized something I hadn’t fully named before.


    Those quiet words I had whispered in my heart as I watched Becca:


    Keep going.

    Don’t be discouraged.

    Move through the bauble.

    Let it ring.


    They were not just the words of a father to his daughter. They were the words of The Father to me. And to all of us.


    So I pray—for you and for me.


    Father, thank You for the music of life. Help me remain faithful through the hard measures. Help me enjoy the parts that still sing. And remind me—again and again—that it’s not about me. It’s about the music—Your music.


    You are the composer.

    And by grace, You are beautifully at work in the song of our lives.

  • This Tree [A Christmas Poem]

    This Tree [A Christmas Poem]


    Here is a picture of our Christmas tree,
    and it may be, that it means nothing to you,
    but to me . . .

    It was adorned by hands that I love, love, love,
    and is topped by a star of promise from above.

    The ornaments that fill the branches and boughs,
    hold stories that range from then until now.

    They are memories of God’s faithful hand in our days,
    they tell of His goodness and keep Hope ablaze.

    The lights that shine brightly into the night,
    remind us it’s time for joy and delight.

    The wondrous sight of our Christmas tree,
    calls to mind words the angel said to you and to me.

    This day is born a Savior—Jesus your Lord,
    who paid the price, that none could afford.

    So, when I look at our tree, I see Jesus in all,
    saying “Come unto me,” and I harken His call.

    That is a picture of our Christmas tree,
    and it may be, that it means nothing to you,
    but to me . . .

    Merry Christmas!

  • Worse Than Sick

    Worse Than Sick


    We have a list of Christmas shows we like to watch in the month of December, and a few days ago we watched my favorite—It’s a Wonderful Life.

    I’ve seen it scores of times. But this time, something at the very beginning caught my attention. Early in the film, when the angels are talking about George Bailey and preparing to send him help, Clarence asks a simple question: “What’s wrong with him? Is he sick?”

    The answer from the archangel comes back:
    “No. It’s worse… he’s discouraged.”

    That line lingered.

    Israel knew something about discouragement. Four hundred years without a word from God. No prophets. No fresh promises. Just silence. Waiting. Wondering if heaven had gone quiet for good. And when God finally speaks again, it isn’t to kings or scholars or priests. It’s to shepherds.

    That matters.

    Shepherds lived on the margins—out in the fields, overlooked, underpaid, and widely regarded as rough, untrustworthy, and not to be taken seriously. They worked the night shift, slept little, and carried the quiet weight of being unseen. If anyone knew discouragement, it was them.

    “And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night.” (Luke 2:8, NIV)

    That’s where the angel shows up. Not with rebuke. Not with demands. But with encouragement.

    “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people.” (Luke 2:10, NIV)

    Jesus didn’t just come to forgive sin. He came to lift hearts. To restore hope. To speak into the long discouragement of a weary world.

    The prophet Isaiah said it this way: “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.” (Isaiah 9:2, NIV)

    And that light still shines—into ordinary lives. Here’s the quiet Christmas truth: The world measures wealth by what you own. God measures it by what has been given to you—grace.

    George Bailey was discouraged—until he was shown he was the richest man in town.

    On the night Jesus was born, the richest people weren’t the ones with warm houses or full tables. They were the ones standing in a field, hearing good news—and receiving it.

    If you’re discouraged this Christmas, you’re not forgotten. Heaven has not gone silent. Help has been sent. The Child in the manger came—for you.

    And that is what makes life—not easy, not painless—but held and hopeful—now and forevermore.

    “Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift.” (2 Corinthians 9:15, NIV)

    Merry Christmas!

  • Unto You

    Unto You


    “Now I finally know the real meaning of Christmas.”


    I’ll never forget the Christmas Eve my family and I spent with our friend Jaeyoung in Daejeon, South Korea. It was a cold, snowy night—just the way Christmas Eve is supposed to be—and we walked from our apartment to Jaeyoung’s restaurant for dinner.


    The restaurant was tiny — only three tables — and packed when we arrived. Some customers were seated and eating, others stood waiting for takeout. Jaeyoung and his wife were well loved in that part of the city, known for two things: their good food and their warm friendship.


    We finally got a table, and Jaeyoung and his wife showered us with care and attention — they adored our two daughters. The meal was delicious. As the evening wore on, the crowd thinned, and before long we were the only ones left. We had nowhere else to go and wanted to linger with our Korean friends.


    Jaeyoung pulled a chair close and sat with us. Our Korean was limited, but his English was good enough for a real conversation. He was quiet for a moment, his eyes slowly scanning the room — the flashing lights in the window, the Santa picture taped to the door, the worn tree standing in the corner. His gaze lingered there before he turned back to me. And then, with a seriousness that caught me off guard, he asked,


    “What is the real meaning of Christmas?”


    I paused, letting his question sink in.


    Is Christmas all about Santa, the Grinch, Rudolph, Frosty, gifts, toys, trees, decorations, and twinkling lights? These are all part of the season as we know it, bringing joy and color, filling it with fun and festivity. But Christmas is more than that—so much more.


    I told Jaeyoung about God’s deep love for all people — how He created the universe and made us His most treasured possession. God desires a relationship with us as His children. He is love. And in love, He gave us free will — the choice to love Him back. But we chose otherwise. Our sin separated us from the Holy God.


    The whole story of Scripture is about God’s relentless pursuit of us — His call to bring us home. And in the greatest act of love, God sent His Son, Jesus, into the world. Jesus came as God in the flesh to reveal the Father’s heart, to die for our sins, and to rise again — offering us forgiveness and the hope of eternal life.


    And then, right there in that little restaurant, my mind went to Linus — standing on a quiet, dimly lit stage — answering Charlie Brown’s question:


    “Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?”


    I smiled and shared Luke 2:8–12 with Jaeyoung:


    “And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger” (KJV).


    Then I leaned in and said, “Jaeyoung, the real meaning of Christmas isn’t about Santa, gifts, trees, and lights. It isn’t even about the three wise men, Mary and Joseph, or a baby lying in a manger.


    Listen to what the angel said: “…unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior.”


    Unto you.


    Christmas is all about you and me — and God’s love for each one of us.


    John the disciple says it well: “This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him” (1 John 4:9, NIV).


    That night, in that tiny restaurant, the message broke through. Christmas isn’t just about nativity scenes or holiday traditions. It isn’t even just about God’s miraculous act. Christmas is about us — and the God who loves us.


    Jaeyoung sat quietly for a moment, taking it all in. Then his face softened, and a smile slowly spread across it. He placed his hand over his heart and said, almost in a whisper,


    “Now I finally know the real meaning of Christmas.”

  • Nothing Is Random

    Nothing Is Random


    “He withdrew to the district of Galilee.”
    —Matthew 2:22, NIV


    Matthew slips this line into the Christmas story right after Joseph brings Mary and the young Jesus back from Egypt. Warned in a dream not to return to Judea—because Herod’s son was now ruling there—Joseph takes his little family north, back to Galilee.

    Galilee.


    An ordinary place. A forgotten corner of the map. Hardly where anyone would expect God to make a point. At first glance, it reads like a travel update… a random detail tucked into the narrative.


    But it’s not random at all.


    That one quiet phrase reaches back eight hundred years to Isaiah 9, where God promised, “in the future he will honor Galilee of the nations… the people walking in darkness have seen a great light.”


    And Isaiah doesn’t stop there. He describes joy rising like harvest-time, burdens shattered like Midian’s defeat (Israel’s old enemy), oppression broken, peace promised, and then—like a drumbeat reaching its crescendo—the Child:


    “For to us a child is born, to us a son is given… Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” (Isa. 9:1-7)


    A light for them, yes. But also a light for you and for me.


    Isaiah’s promise was never finally about geography—it was about grace. Galilee was simply one more place in a long litany of places God chose to underline His message of mercy. Egypt, Bethlehem, Nazareth, Judea, Jordan, Galilee… each one a punctuation mark in the story of a God who keeps showing up.


    And here’s the remarkable thing: every one of those places had already been spoken of—named, promised, threaded through prophecy long before Jesus arrived. God kept pointing ahead through each location, as if to say, “Watch. Look here. I’m coming for you.” What He promised then, He fulfilled in Christ, and what He fulfilled then, He still fulfills for us today.


    All of it whispers the same thing:


    Don’t miss My Son. Don’t miss the Light I’m sending… not to condemn you, but to save you. (John 3:16–17)


    Two thousand years later, the world is still dark in places… and yet that same Light keeps breaking in. Sometimes through Scripture. Sometimes through a song or a memory. Sometimes simply through the familiar rhythm of the Christmas season returning again to say, “Behold… good news… He is here.”


    Because nothing in God’s story—or in God’s character—is random. There are no accidental lines. And there are no accidental people. Everything points to a Father who refuses to give up on His children—a God who will give everything, even His own Son, to bring us home.


    So as Christmas comes close, hear this holy reminder:


    Don’t miss Him.
    Not the Child in the manger.
    Not the Light in the darkness.
    Not the Savior who came for you.


    Nothing God does is random.
    Every line in Scripture, every promise, every whisper of this season—is all for one reason…


    You.


    P.S. Several friends have told me they’re gifting Nudgings this Christmas as a simple reminder that the Lord is near. To make that easier, the book is $9.99 this week on Amazon.

  • Now I See

    Now I See


    But Saul, who was also called Paul… – Acts 13:9, ESV


    Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,
    that saved a wretch like me!
    I once was lost, but now am found,
    was blind, but now I see.


    You know the tune—you can probably hum it without trying. Amazing Grace has been sung for nearly 250 years, and behind those familiar words stands a man—John Newton—who was blind in ways he couldn’t even recognize. A slave trader. Hardened. Adrift. Spiritually lost… yet rescued by mercy. His story gives weight to the lyric: “was blind, but now I see.”

    Blindness… it isn’t just metaphor. It’s the human condition until Jesus arrives.

    And that’s exactly what we witness in Acts 13.

    Paul — still introduced as Saul here — confronts a sorcerer named Elymas who is resisting the gospel and confusing the Roman governor. Paul looks him in the eye and declares—in the power of the Holy Spirit—that he will be “blind for a time” (Acts 13:11). A mist covers Elymas’s eyes, and he reaches out for someone to lead him.

    It’s impossible to miss the echo.

    Just a few chapters earlier, Saul had stumbled around in the same darkness. On the road to Damascus, full of fury and self-righteousness… And then a light from heaven stopped him cold. He fell to the ground, blinded and helpless, and had to be led by the hand (Acts 9:8).

    His blindness was mercy — a severe kindness that saved him — from himself.

    Now, standing on the other side of grace, Paul speaks a similar blindness over Elymas—not out of cruelty, but as warning. A sobering signal—mercy’s final attempt. Like Newton centuries later, Paul knew what it meant to be stopped by a blindness that saved him.

    And right here—in the moment that mirrors Saul’s own story—Luke, the writer of Acts, does something quiet but seismic. He writes: “But Saul, who was also called Paul…” (Acts 13:9)

    From this point on, Luke never again uses “Saul” as Paul’s active name. Any later mentions look back on his former life. This is the last time Luke applies it to the man standing before us. He lets the reader feel the shift — as if Scripture itself is drawing a line in the sand.


    The Saul who breathed threats…
    The Saul who kicked against the goads…
    The Saul who walked in his own darkness…
    That Saul is finished.

    He didn’t just see differently — he was seen differently.

    Sometimes God brings us to a stopping point — a blinding moment — so that an old chapter can close and a new one can begin. When Elymas is blinded, Saul steps fully into his new identity. The persecutor fades. The apostle rises. God’s grace does what it always does — it gets the final word.

    Elisabeth Elliot said it plainly and beautifully: “Suffering is never for nothing.”

    In the Lord, our suffering is never wasted, never pointless, never without purpose. Saul’s blindness was mercy. Elymas’s blindness was warning. And the seasons that leave us blind — the limitations, disruptions, and confusions of life — may be the very places God ends one chapter… and begins another.

    Even in shadow, we’re not abandoned. That’s where God can do His deepest work. After all, it was into our darkness that the Light first came — this is the hope of Advent.

    Jesus said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life” (John 8:12, ESV).

    So when life leaves you in the dark, don’t panic. Look to Jesus — the source of Amazing Grace.

    He sees the truest you — and in Him, you can finally say, “Now I see.”

  • The Light

    The Light


    Hi Friends,


    As December begins, the lights appear — and so does the Light our hearts quietly long for. In these early days of Advent, I’m reminded how the Lord often meets us in simple, unexpected ways… sometimes as quietly as the glow of lights on a tree.

    Below is a reflection from Nudgings that I pray sets your eyes and heart on the Light.


    The Light [A Christmas Reflection]


    “The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light. And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow, a light has shined.”


    —Matthew 4:16, NLT

    I was only five years old, but I still remember the light.


    It was Christmas Eve, 1971. After my dad got off work, our family — my mom, dad, baby sister, and I — all loaded into our 1969 Volkswagen Bug and headed for my grandparents’ home in Jerome, Idaho to celebrate Christmas with a house full of aunts, uncles, cousins, loving family, and fun. It was snowing and blowing when we left Boise. What was supposed to be a two-hour journey turned into a long, slow drive into a dark and snowy night.


    The wind blew, and the snow swirled the entire trip, blanketing everything in white. We finally turned off the main road onto the quarter-mile lane that led to my grandparents’ farmhouse and were surprised to find that drifting snow had formed a barrier across our path. My dad, hoping to break through the drifts, accelerated the car — and I was thrilled. I remember the roar of the VW engine, the unsettling sound of snow scraping the floorboards beneath our feet, and the car slowly coming to a stop. Our headlights were buried under snow, and with the engine running we sat there in total darkness — completely stuck.


    Still a long way from the house, all we could do was trek the rest of the distance on foot. It wasn’t going to be easy for my parents — trudging through deep snow with a baby, a five-year-old, and all our belongings. But then a glimmer of hope appeared in the dark night. Down the lane, a flashlight flickered and slowly moved toward us. It was my granddad, making his way through the snow to our rescue.


    I was captivated by that light. It was just a flashlight, but it pierced the darkness. As it approached, the outline of the tractor chugging through the snow emerged, and then, finally, I could see the smile on my granddad’s face. He leaped off the tractor, gave us all hugs, hooked a chain to the front of the car, and pulled us home through the swirling snow. Within minutes, we were enveloped in the radiant glow of love, family, and a joyous Christmas celebration.


    Where do you find yourself this Christmas? Feeling stuck? Trapped? Lost in the darkness? Here’s some good news — a glimmer of hope:


    “The angel said to them, ‘Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.’” (Luke 2:10-11, KJV)

    There it is — the real meaning of Christmas. A light has dawned, and the Rescuer has come to bring us home. His name is Jesus.

    More than fifty years later, I still remember that Christmas Eve — the long trip, the dark night, getting stuck in the snow, my grandfather’s smile, and the joyous fun.

    But most of all… I remember the light.


    Wishing you a light-filled Advent — days marked by Jesus’ nearness, His gentleness, and His steady hope.


    This reflection is from Nudgings: Gentle Whispers, Holy Reminders.


    I’ve been encouraged to hear from several folks who are giving the book as a simple Christmas gift this year — a quiet word of hope for someone they care about.


    If the Lord brings someone to mind, please pass it along.


    “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”


    Ryan

  • I’m Thankful (for you)

    I’m Thankful (for you)


    Hi Friends,

    For Thanksgiving, I wanted to reach back into the pages of Nudgings and share a chapter from the book titled “I’m Thankful.”

    I hope it speaks to your heart today.

    ***

    I’m Thankful

    Make thankfulness your sacrifice to God.
    —Psalm 50:14, NLT

    The other day at work, I passed a colleague in the hall who greeted me with, “How are you?” I replied, “I’m thankful.” He stopped, smiled, and asked, “What are you thankful about?”

    I thought for a moment and said, “Oh wow—lots of things. I’m thankful for the gift of today, my health, this job, my family, my students, God’s love in my life… and I’m thankful for you and the chance to work with you.”

    He paused thoughtfully and said, “Hmmm… there is a lot to be thankful for.” Then we both went about our day.

    When I responded with, “I’m thankful,” I meant it. I wasn’t trying to be clever or different—I was simply being real. For a long time, my default answer to “How are you?” was “good,” but eventually I realized I couldn’t honestly say “good” every time. Life isn’t always good. We all have bad days (and sometimes bad years). Life brings moments that hurt, disappoint, and even break us.

    But here’s the truth that steadies me: “good” isn’t the defining factor in my life—Jesus is. And because He is good, I can be thankful.

    It’s been said that the Apostle Paul wrote about giving thanks and being thankful at least forty-six times in his New Testament letters. It’s crazy, but the guy who tells us to “give thanks in all circumstances” (1 Thess. 5:18) and “give thanks always… and for everything” (Eph. 5:20) is the same guy whose story is filled with persecution, imprisonment, physical suffering, opposition, hostility, shipwrecks, peril, betrayal, and abandonment.

    How can he be thankful, let alone implore us to be thankful?

    It’s because thankfulness to God isn’t a feeling; it’s a choice. Asaph, the author of Psalm 50, even equates thankfulness with sacrifice—giving up something valuable for something even more important or worthy. A life of gratitude doesn’t come naturally or easily; it requires practice. It’s a discipline. Even the simple habit of praying before meals can be a powerful reminder: each time we eat, we pause to remember God’s presence and express gratitude for His care.

    Ultimately, the thankfulness that Asaph describes, that Paul commands, and that I mentioned to my colleague, is rooted in Jesus. Jesus is God. He is the author of life, the giver of hope, and the source of every good thing. He is the Creator of the universe, the King of Kings, and the Lord of Lords. His very nature is one of compassion, mercy, love, and grace.

    Even while we were all dead in our ingratitude, rebellion, and sin, Jesus took on flesh and blood and came to earth to save us. He died upon the cross, paid the price for the forgiveness of our sins, and rose from the grave. He is our help today and our hope for eternity. Jesus is “good,” and a friend who is always with us—even when life stinks. In Him is found joy, peace, hope, and abundant life.

    So, if you ask me, “How are you?” I am going to say, “thankful,” because of Jesus.

    In Him, “…there is a lot to be thankful for.”



    ***

    Before you go, please know: I thank God for you. I’m grateful we get to journey with Jesus together.

    Happy Thanksgiving.

    Warmly,
    Ryan