The Debt is Dead
The phone rings. The voice on the other end is grinding stone and venom — a collector demanding payment on a debt you can't cover. He knows your name, your failures, every zero on the ledger. He's calling your boss, your mother, threatening prison. But sitting on the desk is a notarized receipt. The debt has already been paid. Every threat is a bluff. Every accusation is a lie. If your internal dialogue has ever sounded like that collector's voice, this post is for you. The accuser is a con man — and the paperwork says he's already lost.
The Myth of the Finish Line
I spent the holidays working ten-hour days, running as if starving junkyard dogs were snapping at my heels. In my frantic drive to cross a mythical finish line, I forgot the basic economic principle that everything comes with a price tag. It turns out that true productivity isn't about how late you stay up, but about trusting the One who grants sleep to those He loves.
Going Back Changed
I imagine the shepherds eventually had to leave the warmth of that stable and head back into the wind-driven cold to face the same smelly sheep they’d left behind. They returned to the exact same lives, but they went back as men forever altered by the sight of a King napping in a common cow trough. If you feel the letdown of the holiday ending, come read why the real miracle isn't found in the noise of the celebration, but in the quiet way God remakes us for the ordinary days ahead.
The Glory of the Night Shift
If you’ve ever worked the night shift, you know it’s a lonely business spent in the quiet corners the rest of the world has forgotten. It was into that same damp, frigid air that God chose to rip open the ceiling of the world and pour out His glory—not to a palace, but to a pasture full of men smelling of sheep and woodsmoke. If you feel like you’re laboring in the dark today, come read why light always breaks best exactly where polite folks wouldn't think to look.
Glory on a Grainy Screen
I stood in my parents' bedroom on Christmas Eve in 1968, watching a grainy moon slide across the screen of our Zenith television. While the world outside felt like it was unraveling with war and riots, the voice of an astronaut reading Scripture from space brought a sudden, holy hush to the room. That night taught me that even when history feels like a wreck, God is still on His throne. It is a reminder of where we need to look when our own world feels out of control.
The Manger for My Anger
There are no lights on my house this year, and truthfully, my patience often wears thinner than a cheap bath towel. Even during the season of peace, my old, selfish habits stick to me like cockleburs on a wool sock. I have realized that the manger wasn't built for people who have their lives perfectly gift-wrapped. It was built for the broken folks who need a fresh start before their morning coffee even cools.
The Twenty-Nine Cent Legacy
I remember when a twenty-nine-cent box of drugstore cherries was the height of Christmas luxury in a house where we counted every penny. I nearly fainted at the three-dollar price tag at Walmart yesterday, but it reminded me that the best things I ever received weren't actually the things at all. If you're fretting over a budget this season, come read why a grandfather’s change purse and a box of cheap chocolates are the only inheritances that actually stick to your ribs.
The Divine Wrong Turn
The entire 20th century turned on a dime because a driver took a wrong turn and a finicky gearbox stalled in front of the wrong person. We tend to think history is written by powerful men in oak-paneled rooms, but more often it’s shaped by the "accidents" we never see coming. If your life feels like a series of random stalls and wrong turns today, come read why there’s no such thing as luck when a sovereign God is moving the pieces.
The High Cost of the “Big Slipper”
I stood in the slipper aisle debating the thermal properties of memory foam until my holiday joy completely evaporated. My tendency to overthink every gift purchase makes me feel less like a wise husband and more like George Costanza having a breakdown. But this mental spinning is a spiritual issue, too, mirroring the same distraction that kept Martha from sitting at the Master's feet. It is time to trade the exhaustion of the gift aisle for the peace of the only decision that truly matters.