Psalm 77 starts, “I cry aloud to God, aloud to God, and he will hear me.” And yet, I find myself not crying aloud this time but being silent. I’m sitting silent in the pain of leaving my mom as she lives through cancer, far away from me. I’m hurting, anticipating the birth of my new niece, knowing I won’t be there to help. It’s all just too painful. It’s too sad. The pain is too loud, so I don’t want to cry aloud. I don’t really want to pray or read. I just want to cry quietly.

But I kept reading, and in verse 4 the psalmist wrote, “I am troubled and cannot speak…”

Asaph gets me. And maybe you too?

Pain is loud and can lead us to shouting or silence. It can lead us to wailing or wallowing. It can cause us to give God our outside voices or the silent treatment. But we who are in Christ have this stunning access to God either way. In our pain, we can cry aloud to Him. And we’re not just crying at the inside of a car or at a wall in our bedroom, we’re crying to God who knows and sees and cares and comforts.

As the psalmist keeps going we see, like many psalms, a change, an upward shift.

He says, “I will remember the LORD’s works” (Psalm 77:11). Remembering the Lord’s works so often works. When is the last time, while in the thick of your own suffering, you made the decision to recount the works of the Lord in your own life and throughout history? It’s a beautiful practice. It helps our hearts find the relief and rescue that comes from the faithful love of God. This rhythm of remembering isn’t denial of pain, but it can help us hold onto our hope when the enemy wants us to feel hopeless.

For me, today, I think that means turning my cries of homesickness and grief into cries of remembrance of the goodness of God. My cries of pain can become cries of gratitude for my family. My cries of sadness can become cries of surrender. Yours can too. I know it’s true, because Jesus is the ultimate work of God that we remember. And Jesus means that death and grief are not the end. Jesus means that rescue is coming. Jesus means that life is waiting. Jesus means that tears will end.

I’m not shocked to report that like anything else in this world, the cool-adjacent non-mommish bag couldn’t deliver the thrill I was seeking. When it comes to bags, it’s only a matter of minutes before Cheerios are spilled, sippy cups leak, and the shiny, new bag becomes just like every other mom-tote I’ve owned. My long-awaited package was delivered, but it couldn’t really deliver. It couldn’t live up to my expectations.

And that’s the thing about waiting in this world. It usually ends in a letdown. The thing we long for comes, but it disappoints or breaks or doesn’t last.

At Christmas, kids wait for presents. They count down the days, staring at shiny boxes. We adults wait, too, for different things. We wait for answers to prayers, for clarity about the future, for healing in our homes or our bodies.

Waiting is a part of life. And waiting is hard.

God’s people in the Old Testament knew this deeply. They waited for centuries for the Messiah. They heard the promises, they longed for the rescuer, and they passed the hope down through generations.

Sometimes it must have felt like God had gone silent. Like the waiting wasn’t working. But Galatians 4:4–7 says, “When the time came to completion, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem those under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons. And because you are sons, God 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 God has made you an heir.”

At just the right time, the waiting ended. The package arrived. It didn’t disappoint.

The angels proclaimed it in Luke 2:11, “Today in the city of David a Savior was born for you, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” The Savior had come. Hope was here. Not too soon. Not too late. Right on time.

Jesus really showed up. And He is not a letdown. He is more than anyone could imagine or expect. He is the rescuer who redeems, the King who reigns, the friend who never leaves.

I don’t know what you’re waiting for. I don’t know if it is better than a bag. But I do know THE gift has already been given.

The Savior has come, and He is more than enough.

Today in the city of David a Savior was born for you, who is the Messiah, the Lord.
—Luke 2:11

It made me laugh. Because isn’t that so much of parenting? Telling our kids (or ourselves) that everything is fine, while deep down we’re like, “IS it fine?”

We can tell our children all we want that the dark isn’t scary. But if we’re honest, the dark, in its broadest sense, is scary. We all know it. It’s the unknown. The hard things. Death. Evil. Sickness. All the things we can’t control. Most of us live our daily lives surrounded by that kind of dark while longing to rest in the warm safety of the light. Right?

Which is why the first words in the Bible are more than just an origin story.

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth….Then God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light.
—Genesis 1:1,3

And then, we flip to John and read,

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God….In him was life, and that life was the light of men.
—John 1:1,4

There was a cure for darkness long before Jesus’s birth in Bethlehem. He was in the beginning. Before mangers. Before animals. Before Adam and Eve. Even before any of the brokenness.

At the very beginning, before anything was made, Jesus was already there (John 1:2). Already present. Already powerful. Already light. Jesus is the light we crave as we look at the darkness, and from the beginning, He had a plan to rescue us from the dark and bring us into His “marvelous light” (1Peter 2:9).

Paul wrote in Colossians 1:16–17 about Jesus that “all things have been created through him and for him. He is before all things, and by Him all things hold together.”

Jesus was holding galaxies together before He ever took His first breath as a baby. Holding you together before you even existed. And He’s doing the same thing now.

As we enter the Advent season, we’re not just remembering the birth of an extra-special baby. We’re worshipping the King of kings who reigns today and always has. We’re looking to the Light of the World who stepped into the darkness—not to destroy us but to save us.

We don’t have to fake parental peace while quietly panicking. We don’t have to numb ourselves with screens and scrolling and snacks. We can be honest about the dark we see because the Light has already come. Already held. Already won. And He’s coming again.

The Light has come, and the Light is coming again. With the Light we’re safe. Even now.

“Going to a place where you’re going for a long time where you get hot walking.” —Dewy (my youngest daughter, five)

I have had that conversation saved in a phone note for the past five years. So adorable. So hilarious, listening to my children explain life to each other. But my then-five-year-old wasn’t trying to be funny. She was experiencing hiking for the first time as a three-foot human, who felt way more of the discomfort and strain of hiking and way less of the “oh, look at the beautiful rocks and sky” of it all. When you’re little and weak and the sun is scorching and you could really use a snack and a Capri Sun, hiking feels a lot more like “going to a place where you’re going for a long time where you get hot walking” than a scenic exercise experience.

Do you ever feel like that? I do. We, God’s little children, can so easily walk through this life focused on our weaknesses, on our discomforts, on the so-hot sun and the so-long feeling journey. Like a child on a lengthy, sweaty, boring hike, we might echo the psalmist David, “How long, LORD?” (Psalm 13:1).

In Revelation 6, we read about the worst things in this world: war and death and hunger. And when the fifth seal was opened, we hear the martyrs crying out from under the altar, “Lord…how long…?” (Revelation 6:10).

And then, in Revelation 7, we get a peek at what’s coming soon.

No more hunger. No more thirst. No more scorching heat. God will wipe away every tear—the ones we cried at home, in hospitals, and at grave-sides.

And that’s not just a fingers-crossed hope. Ephesians 1 says we have the Holy Spirit as a seal. We have a real promise from the God who always keeps His Word.

So while we hike, we do it with a Shepherd. And while it is long, He is leading us. Jesus is comforting us and even carrying us during this hard hot walk, to a place of peace and rest and everlasting hope.

As I looked through today’s very plant-centric Scripture passages, what stood out to me was not the plants themselves but who is responsible for their health and beauty—and what that beauty is actually for.

In John 15:1, Jesus said, “I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener.”

We are the branches. We aren’t necessary. Branches can be fruitful, or they can be pruned. A single branch can wilt or thrive. The vine is the center of attention and the gardener is in charge. The branch’s only hope is to remain connected to the vine in the gardener’s care.

But even after years of walking with the Lord, of learning that I am only healthy, alive, satisfied, and fulfilled when I’m a branch connected to the Vine (Jesus) being nurtured by the Gardener (God), I still so often long for attention from other places (which leads to sin and pride and pain and heartache).

It’s only when we are connected to the Vine that we’re able to do what we were created to do, and that is to direct attention to the goodness of the gardener, rather than try to get people to look at me. I still struggle with this. I still do things to try to make myself look impressive, as if I’m a rogue branch that thinks it can water and nourish itself.

The fruit that may come from our lives is not from us or for us. It is completely from God and designed to reflect His glory.

Lord, we pray that our “love [would] keep on growing” like ivy and that our lives would be “filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ to the glory and praise of God” (Philippians 1:9,11).

In reality, my friend’s uncle owned the company and I needed a job, so I found myself sending and receiving purchase orders for materials that construction workers needed to complete jobs. 

I didn’t know anything about what I was buying, but the boss was really passionate about his work and felt compelled to teach me the ins and outs of things like rebar and acoustical ceilings. Reading Nehemiah 3 today felt a little like listening to the speeches he gave me about the orders I was placing for drywall.

Nehemiah 3 is very tempting to skim over if you’re not into construction logs. It’s a lot of names and a lot of details that can seem cumbersome and boring at first glance. But if you slow down and think about what you’re reading, you’ll notice how beautiful it is that each name and each assignment and each gate represented a small piece in the big picture of what God was doing. 

It was not glamorous or exciting. It was tedious. It was laborious. It was obedient. It was beautiful.

They rebuilt the Sheep Gate, the gate through which the sacrificial animals would enter the city—the place where the lambs came through, the ones offered up to atone for sin. What a beautiful foreshadowing of the ultimate Lamb who would later walk through that city to be offered up for our sin: Jesus. 

If your life looks like mine, the exciting or glamorous moments are few and far between. Most days, my serving the Lord looks like what Eugene Peterson called “a long obedience in the same direction.” But even though most of life is little acts like changing diapers, organizing purchase orders, scrubbing burnt eggs off the bottom of pans, etc., all those little things are acts of faithfulness and obedience that can point to and prepare the people around us for Jesus. 

I thought the speeches my boss at the construction company gave me were boring, but they weren’t boring to him because he was involved in the projects at the job sites from beginning to end. He knew what an order of rebar meant; it meant there would be a beautiful mansion built at the end of the job. 

Similarly, Nehemiah gives us details that point to a bigger picture that we get to be part of thanks to Jesus. We are all called to serve in small ways. In small moments. Building gates. Working on walls. And God uses those moments for His Kingdom. What an honor to place a hinge on a gate for the Savior to walk through. 

My excuses? Tired, new baby, up all night, deadline looming. The pancake request felt like another thing I was failing at, and the victim of my feelings was my poor pancake requester.

I hate failing my family. When I say something or do something I need to later apologize for, there’s something in me that says that I shouldn’t have any failures after twenty-some years of being a Christian. Shouldn’t failure only exist in my before-Christ era? I can so easily get lost in a spiral of focusing on me and my performance. I wonder, standing before a risen Jesus, if Peter felt the same.

In today’s reading, Jesus asked Peter to leave His fishing boat behind and follow Him. In response, Peter dropped his nets. When Jesus walked on water, Peter stepped out of the boat to join him. When Jesus asked Peter, “Who do you say that I am?” Peter was the first to proclaim that Jesus is the Messiah. He followed fast and recognized who it was that he was following. Yay, Peter! 

But that’s just the highlight reel. We also read about Peter sinking the moment he took his eyes off Jesus. He tried to talk Jesus out of going to the cross. And of course there’s his infamous denial of Jesus (times three!), pretty much immediately after promising Jesus that he’d never deny Him.

I relate to Peter so much. Maybe you do too. I can remember my Jesus-following-highlight reel moments. But honestly, it’s easier for me to remember all the ways I’ve failed Jesus since surrendering my life to Him. The pancake moments are easy to recall. But I only get stuck there when I forget the gospel. Peter and I have many lowlights, but we also have Jesus and His saving grace.

After Jesus died for Peter’s failures (and mine and yours), He came back and He restored Peter. He came back and used Peter to build His church. He didn’t rise from the dead and return to condemn. Instead, He redeemed Peter and gave him a purpose.

At Pentecost, it wasn’t Peter’s new and improved awesomeness that changed him from a coward to a bold missionary—it was the power of the Holy Spirit. Peter’s story ends up not even being about Peter—it’s about Jesus. And the same is true for all of us. 

When we, like Peter, are able to see our Christian-highlight-reels for what they really are—the work of the Holy Spirit, and are able to see our Christian failures for what they really are—completely covered by the finished work of Jesus, we are able to walk confidently and powerfully in our purpose without shame over our past or our future failures. 

Whether or not you joyfully made pancakes today or snapped at a pancake seeker, take heart—not because you’ll do better next time but because the grace of Jesus is more powerful than your worst moments. If you’ve recognized Him as Lord of your life, like Peter did, you can rest. And you can recognize Him as Lord again tonight and tomorrow and next time a child asks you for pancakes.

You know that feeling when you are listening to someone share their suffering, but in some strange way, you’re positively affected by hearing it? Maybe you feel comforted by similar experiences, more seen in your own story, or less alone. That “I’m not the only one feeling this” feeling.

I’ve been walking through a season where I feel the weight of the curse of this world. My body has been weak, my feelings have been hurt, and some of my hopes have been dashed. Sometimes, it is easy to feel like I’m standing right in the middle of the picture of judgment in Isaiah 24. Some words and concepts from that chapter that stood out to me: stripped, plundered, mourning, withering, polluted, and cursed. Have you ever felt like that? 

Have your “joyful tambourines” ceased (Isaiah 24:8)? Has “all joy [grown] dark” (v.11)? 

I’ve suffered seasons like this before, seasons where life feels too painful, the curse weighs too heavy, and happiness is hard to come by. It happens. This world is not for the faint of heart, nor is it for those who only read chapter 24. 

Thank Jesus for the next chapter. In Isaiah 25, we move past the calamity and are reminded of our salvation. Yes, the earth groans. Yes, God will judge. But He also loves. He loves us—me, you, the people of judgment. We are full of weakness while He is full of compassion, and He has already finished the work to save us and clean us and make us new. He’s already done what it takes to undo all those words in Isaiah 24. Yes, we were stripped, but He has clothed us in “a robe of righteousness” (Isaiah 61:10). Yes, we mourn in this world, but blessed we are, for we will be comforted (Matthew 5:4). For the Christian, the truth is it is impossible to crush the hope of God’s children forever because we actually have forever. The drying of tears is always ahead. In these times, I’ve often found myself in Psalm 30, remembering that weeping may stay overnight (or over many nights) but there is joy in the morning (Psalm 30:5). 

Maybe today, you feel like I feel—a little less flourishing and a little more withering. Let’s keep walking and keep reading, remember Isaiah 25:8 as it says, “When he has swallowed up death once and for all, the Lord GOD will wipe away the tears from every face and remove his people’s disgrace from the whole earth, for the LORD has spoken.”

How beautiful.

No matter what you’re doing or feeling or suffering with today, remember that the God who is worthy to judge us has come to hold us and help us and save us. 

Written by Scarlet Hiltibidal

The original plan was for three surgeries within one year to give her a set of printed custom ears, covered in her own skin, that would last for her lifetime. But just a few months ago, she had her sixth ear surgery. One year turned to four, and three surgeries turned to six as Joy’s unique anatomy introduced complications and revisions. What we hoped might be over relatively quickly became complex and painful. At one point, earlier this year, we thought Joy would have to permanently lose one of her ears. We are praying surgery number six saves the day.

Sometimes there are things we suffer—or things we have to watch our children suffer—that don’t have solutions. You can’t always tie a pretty holiday bow around the sad thing. Sometimes, children get sick, lose body parts, lose people they love. And what is there to say in those moments, those seasons, those years? What is there to do?

During the weeks that we thought Joy would lose her ear, I remember sitting at the foot of her bed one night and crying with her because she was understandably crestfallen and I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t save her ear or protect her from the pain of the surgery or the embarrassment of the loss. But what I did have for her was the living hope I carry. Hope that the groans of this life can’t compare. What I can share is the hope of healing and wholeness that Joy will experience in glory when her painful pre-adoption past is washed away and her mind and body are made completely new. 

Joy’s journey of health and home has frequently forced our family to cling to the hope of Jesus’s second advent—the hope of Revelation 21 and 22—in a way we might not if all our plans panned out and if all our ideas of wholeness were found here on earth. I hate seeing my daughter suffer, but the beautiful depth of faith that it’s produced in her at such a young age is striking. I’m grateful that I can point my girls and my own forgetful heart to the One seated on the throne. The powerful Maker of new. The One who keeps His promises. The One whose sacrifice ended our hopelessness. The only One who can take broken things and make them over again. The only One who can make dead things alive forever. No matter what you or your family face today, look at the manger. Look at the cross. Look a little longer at the empty tomb. Look at the eternal Savior who promises, “I am coming soon.” He is. He is coming soon, and pain and death are trembling at the thought.

Mary and Wes are legitimately amazing examples of the love of Jesus. Wes is the worship leader at our church, and when he talks about Jesus, he cries. Mary is a nurse, and when she heard that my oldest daughter had a cold, a package showed up on our porch to cheer my daughter up. Guys, we’d known them for like three weeks, and yet they showed us the love of Jesus in such powerful, beautiful, proactive ways. It is undeniably impactful to experience the hospitality of Jesus through the people who love like Him.

Today’s reading points us toward our call to love others. Jesus reminds His followers that the whole law is summed up by loving God and loving others (Mark 12:29–31, Luke 10:27). These scriptures simultaneously spur us on to love people sacrificially while also providing the comfort that Jesus is the One who did and does and will do the heavy lifting of loving others through us.

I don’t consider hospitality to be a natural gift of mine, but being loved by people like Mary and Wes is a master class in loving well. It makes me want to love them back. And it’s the same with Jesus—we love because He so loved! Because He showed us mercy, we are able to be merciful. Because He welcomed us into His family, we can welcome others. Mary and Wes aren’t sinless superheroes. Neither am I. Neither are you. But Jesus’s love equips us. Because He shouldered the burden of a broken world, defeating what we couldn’t and accomplishing what we didn’t, we have seen true love. In Jesus, we know what love looks like. In Jesus, we know what love feels like. Through Jesus, we can share what we have with others.