Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of praying. Not the kind of praying where we ask for things, but the kind that rises from a deeper place. A place where our souls speak quietly to God. And in those moments, I’ve noticed something stirring in me. A yearning. A holy ache.
My soul longs to be with Jesus.
Not in some poetic or symbolic way, but in a real, tangible, I-want-to-see-Him face-to-face kind of way. I want to be where He is. And I know, deep down, that when that day comes, I’ll finally be home. Not just metaphorically, but actually. That’s the place I was created for. That’s the relationship I was always meant to have.
And it’s made me wonder.
How many of us feel that longing too?
How many of us would drop everything if we were given the choice to be with Him today?
And how many of us, if we’re honest, still cling to the things of this world, holding tightly to treasures that will rust and decay?
Jesus once asked a question that cuts straight through the fog of all our distractions:
“For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul? Or what shall a man give in return for his soul?” (Matthew 16:26 ESV).
We can spend a lifetime collecting what won’t last. But one day, whether expected or not, we’ll stand before the One who does. And on that day, we’ll come to realize what our souls have been whispering all along. This world was never our home.
I’m reminded of what David wrote:
“As a deer pants for flowing streams,
so pants my soul for you, O God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
When shall I come and appear before God?” (Psalm 42:1–2 ESV).
That last question hits me hard: When shall I come and appear before God?
It’s not a question of dread. It’s a cry of desire. A soul that isn’t afraid of the encounter, but aches for it.
And again, David says:
“O God, you are my God; earnestly I seek you;
my soul thirsts for you;
my flesh faints for you,
as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.” (Psalm 63:1 ESV).
That’s not surface-level devotion. That’s someone who has been in the wilderness and knows the only thing that will truly quench the thirst isn’t success, comfort, or stability. It’s the presence of the Living God.
Paul understood this desire intimately. He once wrote these hauntingly beautiful words:
“For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.
If I am to live in the flesh, that means fruitful labor for me. Yet which I shall choose I cannot tell.
I am hard pressed between the two. My desire is to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better.” (Philippians 1:21–23 ESV).
Can we say that? My desire is to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better.
That doesn’t mean we wish for death. It means we long for Jesus so deeply that everything else pales in comparison.
Paul echoes this again in another letter:
“For we know that if the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.
For in this tent we groan, longing to put on our heavenly dwelling.
Yes, we are of good courage, and we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord.” (2 Corinthians 5:1–2, 8 ESV).
We groan.
We yearn.
We look ahead, not because we’re weary of living, but because we know something better is coming.
“How lovely is your dwelling place,
O Lord of hosts!
My soul longs, yes, faints
for the courts of the Lord;
my heart and flesh sing for joy
to the living God.” (Psalm 84:1–2 ESV).
The beauty of this Psalm is that it reminds us we were made to worship. Not just on Sundays, not just in passing, but eternally. Our souls faint for it. This longing to be near God isn’t weakness. It’s evidence that our hearts are rightly tuned.
And then there’s this powerful reminder from Romans:
“For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now.
And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies.” (Romans 8:22–23 ESV).
There’s a groaning in creation.
And in us.
A quiet ache that reminds us we’re still waiting for something. Still hoping. Still yearning for the day we’ll be fully restored in the presence of Jesus.
Isaiah puts it simply and beautifully:
“My soul yearns for you in the night;
my spirit within me earnestly seeks you.” (Isaiah 26:9 ESV).
Isn’t that the quiet cry of our own hearts when the lights go out and the world gets quiet? When the distractions fall away and all that’s left is the deep yearning we carry within?
But here’s where the tension comes in.
We live in a world that teaches us to grip tightly.
To build, to hoard, to protect.
To treat death like a tragedy instead of a homecoming.
So what happens when God begins to stir something deeper in us?
What happens when He invites us to long for eternity, not as an escape, but as a return?
Some of us feel that longing with joy.
Some feel it with fear.
And others feel guilty for even wishing to be with Jesus, because it feels like abandoning those we love here.
But we were never meant to live in fear of the transition. Jesus came to prepare us for it. He came to free us from its sting and fill us with peace.
So we ask the question again.
What are we clinging to?
What temporary thing are we so afraid of losing that it dulls our anticipation of being with Jesus?
Because here’s the truth that changes everything.
What we gain will make everything we leave behind seem like shadows.
We will see His face.
We will hear His voice.
We will be known completely and loved fully.
We will finally be home.
And when that day comes, every pain, every loss, every tear will fall away like mist in the morning light.
“We would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord.” (2 Corinthians 5:8 ESV).
And maybe that’s what we need to remember most.
Home is not a place. It’s a person.
And His name is Jesus.
So let’s not be afraid of the ache in our hearts.
Let’s not bury the longing.
Let’s fan it into flame.
Because when our souls long to be with Him, we are finally in step with the reason we were made.
Let that longing grow.
Let it shape how we live.
And let it remind us… that the best is yet to come.
We spend so much of life chasing what we think will satisfy us. But the deepest fulfillment doesn’t come from getting everything we want—it comes from wanting the One who already gave us everything. When we delight in the Lord, something beautiful begins to unfold in us.
I am in the book of Amos in my daily Bible reading. And I’m struck by what Amos represents—not just in his message, but in the way he delivered it.
Amos kicked off a new kind of prophetic witness—not just preaching to his generation, but writing it down for future generations. He gives us one of the earliest written glimpses of God’s justice, judgment, and deep concern for the poor and oppressed. He wasn’t the first to speak for God, but he may have been the first to write a prophetic book that bore his name.
But here’s what humbles me most:
“Then Amos answered and said to Amaziah, ‘I was no prophet, nor a prophet’s son, but I was a herdsman and a dresser of sycamore figs.
But the LORD took me from following the flock, and the LORD said to me, “Go, prophesy to my people Israel.’” (Amos 7:14–15 ESV).
Amos was a fig picker when God called him. A ranch hand. A man with no prophetic training or pedigree. And yet, God took him from the fields and gave him a message for a nation.
We don’t have to come from the right background to be used by God. We don’t have to be groomed for ministry or come from a long line of preachers. We just have to be willing. God does the rest.
The book of Amos reminds us that divine calling doesn’t always show up in church pews—it sometimes shows up in the pasture. Or the cubicle. Or the carpool lane.
God doesn’t call the qualified. He qualifies the called.
And sometimes, He chooses fig pickers to write the first words that echo across centuries.
God never wastes a surrender.
I am in the book of John in my daily Bible reading.
John opens his Gospel with some of the most majestic words in all of Scripture. He lifts our eyes to eternity past, where the Word was with God and was God. He speaks of creation flowing from Him, light shining in the darkness, and the unrecognized arrival of the very One through whom the world was made.
Then John makes a quiet, almost understated turn. One that we could easily miss:
“But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God ,who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God.” (John 1:12-13 ESV).
That’s staggering.
We didn’t earn the right. We weren’t entitled to it. And we didn’t inherit it from our parents. We were given the right to become God’s children—not by birth, not by effort, not by our own choosing—but by His.
Let’s sit with that.
We weren’t born into this family because our mom and dad were Christians. We didn’t become God’s children through our own will, apart from God’s will. And we certainly didn’t rack up enough righteousness to demand a place at His table. We were born into it—by the will of God.
There is only one way to become His child. God must do it. And the good news is—He has the power to make it happen.
“And do not presume to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our father,’ for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children for Abraham.” (Matthew 3:9 ESV).
If God can raise up children from stones, then He can raise up children from the least likely of hearts. From the stubborn. From the skeptical. From the broken. From the shamed. From people like us.
It’s not about our will. It’s about His.
And He didn’t just say He’d make us His children—He sent His Son to guarantee it.
“But when the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons. And because you are sons, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, ‘Abba! Father! ‘So you are no longer a slave, but a son, and if a son, then an heir through God.” (Galatians 4:4–7 ESV).
This is the heart of the Gospel.
We were slaves. Now we’re sons.
We were rebels. Now we’re heirs.
And it’s all because God willed it.
When God adopts us, He doesn’t just write our name in a book—He puts His Spirit in our hearts. He makes us His own in every way. And we cry out to Him—not as strangers hoping for mercy—but as children running to a Father.
John later echoes the awe we should feel:
“See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are.” (1 John 3:1 ESV).
That’s not something we whisper politely.
That’s something we shout with joy.
So let’s carry this truth into our day:
We are children of God. Not because of anything we’ve done. But because of everything He’s done.
And when God chooses to make someone His child, nothing in heaven or on earth can undo it. No one can snatch us from our Father’s hand. Only as the prodigal son can we walk away from this great gift of sonship.
Let’s live like sons and daughters of the King today—humbled by His love and secure in His promise.
God’s silence is not His absence.
I am in the book of John in my daily Bible reading.
Jesus doesn’t leave room for ambiguity.
From the very first chapter of John, the message is clear: Jesus is not merely a good teacher or a prophet with insight. He is the Son of God. He is the Light of the world. He is life itself. And He doesn’t whisper that truth—He proclaims it boldly.
And it infuriates those who aren’t willing to hear it.
“Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, ‘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).
We see it so clearly in John’s Gospel. The more Jesus speaks, the more it becomes obvious: He is not offering Himself as an option—He is declaring Himself as the only way to the Father. That’s not a subtle claim. That’s a dividing line.
And for those who had already made up their minds about Him, that kind of clarity was unbearable.
“I told you that you would die in your sins, for unless you believe that I am he you will die in your sins.” (John 8:24 ESV).
But instead of softening their hearts, they lashed out. Not because His words were confusing, but because their hearts were closed.
“The Jews answered him, ‘Are we not right in saying that you are a Samaritan and have a demon?” (John 8:48 ESV).
The ones who should have known the Scriptures best couldn’t see the One they pointed to.
“Your father Abraham rejoiced that he would see my day. He saw it and was glad.”
So the Jews said to him, “You are not yet fifty years old, and have you seen Abraham?”
Jesus said to them, “Truly, truly, I say to you, before Abraham was, I am.”
So they picked up stones to throw at him, but Jesus hid himself and went out of the temple. (John 8:56–59 ESV).
Their rejection wasn’t about evidence—it was about unwillingness.
We’re reminded of something important here: once we decide who Jesus can’t be, it becomes almost impossible to see who He actually is.
That’s why we have to stay grounded in the Word—not reading it to confirm what we already believe, but reading it to let it shape us. That’s why we need hearts that are soft and open to what God wants to show us—even if it challenges our assumptions.
We see the same thing again in John 10:
“So the Jews gathered around him and said to him, ‘How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Christ, tell us plainly.’
Jesus answered them, ‘I told you, and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father’s name bear witness about me,
but you do not believe because you are not among my sheep.” (John 10:24–26 ESV).
Their ears weren’t tuned for truth. Their hearts weren’t ready to hear. And so, even when Jesus speaks as clearly as possible, they don’t receive it.
“I and the Father are one.” (John 10:30 ESV).
They heard Him—but not with hearts open to truth.
“The Jews picked up stones again to stone him.” (John 10:31 ESV).
Jesus wasn’t ambiguous. His words were crystal clear. But clarity won’t help us if we’re not willing to listen. That’s the real danger—not misunderstanding His message, but hardening our hearts against it.
I love the book of John because we see an unambiguous Jesus come to reveal His identity to His image bearers. It is not His message that is hard to understand. It is our own hearts’ willingness to hear His words.
Let’s learn from the Jewish leaders who refused to have a heart willing to hear and make sure we are always open to what Jesus says about Him and who He is.
Otherwise, we run the risk of serving a Jesus we create in our minds. And the voice of the Jesus we create in our hearts will drown out the voice of the true Shepherd who calls to His sheep.
I am in the Gospel of John in my daily Bible reading. In Chapter 18, we read about Peter’s betrayal of Jesus. In this reading, there are some details I picked up on that I had never thought about before. I have walked myself through His shoes, trying to imagine what Peter was going through.
An hour or so earlier, Peter drew a sword and cut off the ear of the servant of the High Priest, Malchus. He was ready to fight, and die for Jesus. But that wasn’t Jesus’ plan. There was no charge to be led, no overthrow of their oppressors. Jesus told Peter to put his sword away.
Peter then watched the band lead Jesus away, bound. No fight. No defense. The enemy overtaking the one he believed to be Israel’s Messiah. Having struck the High Priest’s servant, Peter may have just signed his own death warrant. So, he ran.
But Peter was compelled to try to see what would happen to Jesus. Certainly, this could not be the end, could it?
“Simon Peter followed Jesus, and so did another disciple. Since that disciple was known to the high priest, he entered with Jesus into the courtyard of the high priest,
but Peter stood outside at the door. So the other disciple, who was known to the high priest, went out and spoke to the servant girl who kept watch at the door, and brought Peter in.” (John 18:15-16 ESV).
Whoever the other disciple was, he had connections that allowed him into the High Priest’s courtyard. After having a conversation with the servant girl, presumably to vouch for Peter, he was also let in. This is where it gets interesting.
I had always pegged Peter as a coward because he denied Jesus. Admittedly, I thought I probably would not have been much better. Things were getting real. Bloodlust was in the air. Their Master was bound and taken away.
But this is precisely why I now believe that Peter was not a coward. He was ready to fight. While the others were, who knows where, Peter had enough courage to sit in the enemy’s courtyard. But Peter was human, and he was not perfect.
Until now, Peter was just one face in the crowd. Buzz was afoot. The famed Rabbi who was the miracle worker, was in custody. The place was locked down because of the unusual circumstances of this nighttime trial. Nothing like this had happened before.
“The servant girl at the door said to Peter, ‘You also are not one of this man’s disciples, are you?’ He said, ‘I am not.” (John 18:17 ESV).
But Peter’s anonymity was starting to crack. Did he deny Jesus because he was frightened? Likely. Did he deny Jesus because he did not want to be taken away and lose the chance to keep tabs on what was happening? Perhaps.
But deny him he did. Perhaps this denial was enough to allow him to slip back into obscurity.
“Now the servants and officers had made a charcoal fire, because it was cold, and they were standing and warming themselves. Peter also was with them, standing and warming himself.” (John 18:18 ESV).
However, circumstances would not leave him alone.
“Now Simon Peter was standing and warming himself. So they said to him, ‘You also are not one of his disciples, are you?’ He denied it and said, ‘I am not.” (John 18:25 ESV).
Again, the accusation comes, and Peter denies Jesus. Did he deny Jesus because he was frightened? Likely. Did he deny Jesus because he did not want to be taken away and lose the chance to keep tabs on what was happening? Perhaps.
But then something happens that I had not noticed before.
“One of the servants of the high priest, a relative of the man whose ear Peter had cut off, asked, ‘Did I not see you in the garden with him?” (John 18:26 ESV).
Did you catch that? Who did this last interrogation come from? One of Malchus’s relatives. And not just any relative. One who was in the garden when things went down.
An eyewitness.
Things just went from Peter being someone trying to get lost in the crowd to now being identified by an eyewitness who saw him try to kill Malchus, a relative. It was at this point where an association with Jesus could cost him his life.
How does Peter respond?
“Peter again denied it, and at once a rooster crowed.” (John 18:27 ESV).
Matthew gives us more color:
“Then he began to invoke a curse on himself and to swear, ‘I do not know the man.’ And immediately the rooster crowed.” (Matthew 26:74 ESV).
Things got real when Peter was confronted by an eyewitness to his violence, so he did a very natural thing when we take our eyes off Jesus. He did what he had to do for self-preservation. In this case, he cursed and swore, something the disciples of Jesus were not known for doing.
Then, the rooster crowed. At that moment, he locked eyes with Jesus (Luke 22:61), and it all came crashing down upon him. He had done exactly what the Lord said he would do and what he vehemently said he would not do.
He denied Jesus, and went away. Not to hide from his accusers. Not to find a better place he could keep an eye on the unfolding events. Upon locking eyes with the Master and remembering His words, Peter went away to weep bitterly.
Sometimes, we will find ourselves caught in a situation that catches us off guard. Has that happened to us? We react, not as we normally would, but in the moment. But sooner or later, that moment catches up with us. We hear the rooster crow, and we lock eyes with Jesus.
And we remember.
If we are like Peter, we go away and weep bitterly. But may we also be like Peter and let that godly sorrow lead us to repentance and come back to our Lord, rather than be like Judas, who wept and let it lead him to walk away from the Lord.
Jesus is forgiving, with His arms outstretched, inviting us to return to Him no matter what we have done. From the cross, as He was in agony,
“Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” (Luke 23:34 ESV).
He said that for Peter’s sake, and He said that for our sake.
You don’t have to know the way when you know the One who does.
Today in my daily Bible reading, I was back in the book of Ruth. I found myself wondering about Naomi. What tribe was she from? What did it mean when the text called her family “Ephrathites from Bethlehem in Judah” (Ruth 1:2)?
And the more I sat with it, the more I realized this little story is far more than it first appears.
Naomi and her husband Elimelech were from Bethlehem in Judah. The reference to them being Ephrathites ties them to a specific clan from that region—one that would later be connected to King David himself. So when Naomi left Bethlehem during the famine, she wasn’t just leaving home. She was leaving her inheritance, her tribe, and the land tied to her identity.
She said it plainly:
“I went away full, and the Lord has brought me back empty” (Ruth 1:21 ESV).
To Naomi, it felt like the story was over. Her husband was dead. Her sons were gone. There were no grandchildren. No redeemer in sight. No name to carry on. No future to cling to. Just a bitter return home with a foreign daughter-in-law and a deep ache in her soul.
But Naomi couldn’t see what God was about to do.
She saw loss.
God saw a legacy.
She returned thinking her story had ended.
God was just getting started.
This is where Ruth comes in—not just as a faithful daughter-in-law, but as part of God’s unfolding plan. She was a Moabite, an outsider. But her loyalty to Naomi and her faith in Israel’s God led her into the fields of Boaz—a man of standing from the very clan of Elimelech.
Boaz didn’t just offer kindness. He offered redemption. He covered Ruth with his protection, honored her faith, and secured her future. Through their union, a son was born. His name was Obed.
Obed would father Jesse.
Jesse would father David.
And David would be the forefather of Jesus.
It’s astonishing.
This story that begins with famine, death, and emptiness ends with the lineage of the Messiah.
That’s the beauty of the book of Ruth. It’s more than a love story. It’s a kingdom story. A foreshadowing of a Redeemer who would come from Bethlehem, just like Boaz. A Redeemer who would take in the outsider, restore the broken, and turn emptiness into abundance.
Naomi had no idea. Ruth had no idea. Boaz had no idea.
But God knew.
And that’s where we find hope. Because just like Naomi, we often interpret our lives by what we’ve lost. We see what feels empty. What feels over. But we don’t see what God is about to do through it. We don’t know the legacy He might be planting through our pain.
God is not just restoring. He is redeeming.
And sometimes, through our greatest grief, He can begin to build a kingdom.
Let’s never underestimate what God can do with a faithful heart, even when everything looks lost. The story isn’t over. Not for Naomi. Not for Ruth.
And not for us.
I’m in the book of Galatians in my daily Bible reading.
It’s interesting how Paul introduces his letter. There’s an urgency to his words—a strong insistence that his authority as an apostle didn’t come from men, but directly from Jesus Christ. Right out of the gate, he says:
“Paul, an apostle—not from men nor through man, but through Jesus Christ and God the Father, who raised him from the dead—
and all the brothers who are with me,
To the churches of Galatia:” (Galatians 1:1–2 ESV).
Later, he adds:
“For I would have you know, brothers, that the gospel that was preached by me is not man’s gospel.
For I did not receive it from any man, nor was I taught it,
but I received it through a revelation of Jesus Christ.” (Galatians 1:11–12 ESV).
And again:
“But when he who had set me apart before I was born, and who called me by his grace,
was pleased to reveal his Son to me,
in order that I might preach him among the Gentiles,
I did not immediately consult with anyone;
nor did I go up to Jerusalem to those who were apostles before me,
but I went away into Arabia, and returned again to Damascus.” (Galatians 1:15–17 ESV).
Paul’s tone is unrelenting—he’s not just teaching doctrine; he’s defending his very right to teach it. He continues:
“Then after three years I went up to Jerusalem to visit Cephas and remained with him fifteen days.
But I saw none of the other apostles except James the Lord’s brother.
(In what I am writing to you, before God, I do not lie!)” (Galatians 1:18–20 ESV).
And finally:
“And from those who seemed to be influential (what they were makes no difference to me; God shows no partiality)—
those, I say, who seemed influential added nothing to me.
On the contrary, when they saw that I had been entrusted with the gospel to the uncircumcised,
just as Peter had been entrusted with the gospel to the circumcised
(for he who worked through Peter for his apostolic ministry to the circumcised
worked also through me for mine to the Gentiles),
and when James and Cephas and John, who seemed to be pillars, perceived the grace that was given to me,
they gave the right hand of fellowship to Barnabas and me,
that we should go to the Gentiles and they to the circumcised.” (Galatians 2:6–9 ESV).
All of these verses tell us something: Paul is going to great lengths—more than in any other letter—to validate his apostleship. In many of his other writings, we see him introduce himself as a “servant of Christ” or one who could command but chooses instead to appeal. (Just ask Philemon.)
So why does he come across so firm here? Why is Galatians full of such bold insistence on his authority?
Maybe it’s because Galatians was likely his first letter. Some believe it was the very first book of the New Testament ever written. (1 Thessalonians is a close contender, but both were written around the same time.)
At this point in the early church, people knew the names of the original apostles—Peter, James, and John. Paul was still earning trust. His ministry was just gaining traction, and the gospel he preached—free from the works of the Law—was already under attack. People were turning to another gospel, and Paul was doing spiritual triage.
But when we read his later letters, we can sense the growth. There’s a noticeable shift from defending his authority to modeling humility. He becomes almost reluctant to mention his apostleship—like in 2 Corinthians, where he calls it “foolish” to even bring it up. And in Philemon, he appeals not as an apostle, but as a brother in Christ.
When we compare Galatians with 2 Timothy, we see a man who has matured—not in knowledge, but in posture. He has lived out the very gospel he was inspired to proclaim. The bold, defensive tone in Galatians gives way to the gentle, grandfatherly wisdom of 2 Timothy.
And isn’t that a gift from the Spirit?
The very man chosen to deliver divine revelation was also a man who had to grow. The Spirit that inspired Paul’s pen also shaped his heart.
If the Spirit could do that for Paul, the inspired apostle, then the same Spirit can do that for us—lowly Facebook posters, weary disciples, struggling saints.
Not because of who we are,
but because of who He is.
Let’s take comfort in that divine, transformational power as we keep walking with Jesus.