The Long Way Home

 “Love endures all things.” ~ 1 Corinthians 13:7

When twenty-something Samuel left town, he didn’t say goodbye.

He was young, restless, and certain of being misunderstood. Every conversation with his father felt like a quiet correction, well-meant, but heavy to a son desperate to be his own man.

Henry, his father, believed in patience, in steady, proven paths. Samuel burned for motion, for risk, for a life he could claim as his own. What Henry called wisdom, Samuel heard as doubt.

Their argument hadn’t been loud, which almost made it worse. It ended in unfinished sentences and a long silence. With pride clenching his heart, Samuel walked out. He told himself that leaving was necessary; that distance would prove his strength. Success would justify any wounds he caused.

What Samuel never admitted, not even to himself, was that he left out of fear. Fear of failing beneath his father’s expectations. Fear that if he stayed, he would never discover who he was apart from the man who raised him.

So he chose the road instead of his father’s table, independence instead of reconciliation. There would be time later, he reasoned, after the anger cooled, after he proved he was right. But years passed, and by the time he learned that pride was a poor substitute for peace, the silence had grown heavier than the apology he spoke out loud.

Henry had always kept Samuel’s room unchanged. Not because he expected his son to return, but because love, once given, doesn’t know how to revoke itself.

Years later, a letter arrived in his son’s handwriting. “Dad, I don’t know how to come home. I just know I should never have left like that.”

Henry read it twice, hands untroubled and relieved. Its postmark came from the next town over, the one whose bus arrived just before dusk. Waiting had taught him to notice such things.

He folded the letter, checked the clock, whispered a prayer, and put on his coat. There was a chance, just a chance, that Samuel would be on the evening bus. Hope rarely offers certainty.

That night, Samuel stepped off the bus, eyes lowered, rehearsing apologies he feared would never be enough. When he looked up, he saw his Dad - breathless from the walk, eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I don’t deserve this,” Samuel said.

Henry shook his head gently. “Forgiveness isn’t something you earn,” he replied. “It’s something I chose long before you asked.”

They walked home together, slowly. Not everything was repaired that night. Trust would take time. But the greatest distance, that space between resentment and mercy, had already been crossed.

Later, Samuel noticed his bedroom light glowing. “You left it on for me?” he asked. Henry smiled. “No,” he said. “I left it on for myself. Hope needs light, too.”

Father God,  You see the roads chosen and the tables left behind. Teach us to choose love over pride, patience over distance, and hope over fear. Give us hearts that forgive before requested and the courage to return when Grace calls. Amen

His Thawing Heart

 “This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be grateful for it.” ~ Psalm 118:24

Everyone on Front Street knew Leo Pike as the guy who hated January almost as much as he loathed cheerfulness. He complained about the cold. He scoffed at resolutions. He muttered at neighbors who dared to wish him “Happy New Year.” January, to him, was just a long sigh between Christmas glitter and the first crocus of spring.

On the third Tuesday in January, one of those slate-colored days where the sky seemed to have misplaced the sun, Leo trudged outside to collect his mail, wrapped in an old wool coat that wreaked of pipe tobacco and stubborn resolve. He grumbled as usual. The sidewalk was icy. The wind blew steadily. Even the birds seemed to have given up.

Then he saw it… and something inside him hesitated.

Two young girls were putting the final touches on a snowman in Mrs. Delaney’s yard. With his carrot nose tilted skyward, charcoal eyes sparkling, and a grin bursting with delight, he seemed to glow with the fearless joy of childhood itself.

Underneath it stood a little sign on a popsicle stick: “Please smile at him. He’s doing his best.” Leo snorted! Ridiculous he thought, while a small grin snuck onto his face before he could stop it.

On his way back inside, he noticed children dragging sleds up the hill, rosy-cheeked and laughing. Their joy wasn’t loud or flashy; it simply existed, persistent as an ocean tide. One waved at him. He lifted two fingers in return, then realized waving wasn’t really his thing.

The next day, he found a flyer taped to his door - “January Warmth in a Bowl,” the village’s monthly soup night. Normally he’d toss it away. He read it twice, then he muttered, “Ridiculous!” and set his alarm anyway.

So he went. Leo sat at a long table among strangers. He tasted potato soup far better than expected. He listened. He chuckled cautiously, like laughter might crack if pressed too hard. Someone asked if he would come back. He surprised himself by saying, “Maybe I will.”

By the last week of January, the weather was still. He still believed the sky could try harder. But now, from his window, he noticed warm lights glowing in nearby homes. He felt the rhythm of life around him. The snowman stared back at him, leaning more, but still smiling as if hopeful.

Leo smiled back. January had not changed. He had. The month that once felt endless now felt quietly blessed, alive with God’s presence, a reminder that joy can be found even in grayest days. For the first time in years, he felt lighter, freer, and grateful for the everyday miracles around him.

Heavenly Father, thank You for seasons that teach us to notice Your goodness, even in quiet and ordinary days. Melt what has grown cold in us. Help us see warmth, hope, and joy wherever You place it. May our hearts awaken to Your presence. Amen

The Town Under One Roof

 “Just as each body part has a distinct function, every believer has a specific role.” ~ Romans 12:4-5

Nestled along the cold, steel-blue edge of Prince William Sound, Whittier, Alaska, looks like the kind of place you might miss if you blinked. An hour south of Anchorage, it serves as a gateway to glaciers, fjords, and breaching whales. But the spectacular setting has its peculiarities and lives by rules all its own.

There is only one way in or out: a single-lane tunnel bored through solid rock, opening in alternating directions every half hour. When it closes at night (10 p.m. in summer, 5 p.m. in winter), Whittier is tucked in, sealed off from the world. No exceptions.

Most of Whittier’s 214 full-time residents live together in Begich Towers, a fourteen-story concrete giant originally built for military families. Today, it functions like a vertical village.

The complex offers a convenient and secure place for people to live and access essential services under one roof. In addition to apartments, there’s a school, post office, medical clinic, café, grocery store, church, and municipal offices.

Rush hour isn’t measured by traffic lights, but by how long you wait for an elevator.

Begich is actually three connected towers, separated by narrow gaps, allowing them to sway during fierce winds or earthquakes. Bears sometimes wander into the maze of tunnels below. Yet the residents stay.

Even when snow piles nine feet high and wind chills plunge toward forty below, Mayor Daniels walks to work in sandals and a short-sleeved shirt. His apartment, decorated in cheerful Hawaiian style, overlooks the bay and the Chugach Mountains. “We keep binoculars by the window,” he says, smiling. “You can watch the whales breach.”

Locals like Traci wouldn’t trade this place for anything. “God’s little acre,” she calls it. “We live really close together, but we’re warm with one another. We look out for each other. I’ve learned they need me… and I need them.”

Whether sharing coffee downstairs or gathering for community meetings, the “Whittiots,” as they call themselves, have learned something essential: life works better together.

Scripture echoes that truth. We need each other! Just as a body depends on many parts working in harmony, the church is formed by believers united in Christ. It’s within community that our gifts are nurtured, our faith is renewed, and Christ’s love is reflected to the world.

God forms His church not from isolated parts, but from hearts united in Him. He never intended for us to walk alone. Alone, we weaken. Together, we thrive.

We become what none of us could be apart – many members, one body, sustained by grace and guided by Christ. It’s within community that our gifts find purpose, our faith deepens, and Christ’s love becomes visible - one life, one role, one body at a time.

Father God, thank You for allowing me to be a part of something dynamic, powerful, and eternal. Please help me find and use my special gifts and abilities for the good of Your people and to glorify Jesus, in whose name I pray. Amen

The Minefields

 "Stand still and see the saving power of God’s work for you.” ~ 2^nd Chronicles 2:17

As World War II raged across Europe during the brutal winter of 1944, 1^st Lt. Vernon Baker commanded a weapons platoon of the 92nd Infantry Division (a segregated, all-Black division known as the "Buffalo Soldiers"). In mid-January, amid the thunder of war and the frozen French countryside, he received a letter from his mother in Iowa.

She usually managed a letter every other month, and he hadn’t heard from her since just before Christmas. Her letter began strangely: “Do you remember where you were on Thanksgiving Day?” she asked. It seemed an odd question from thousands of miles away.

He remembered instantly. How could he ever forget that day!

At dawn, Vernon had been ordered to scout a crossroad rumored to hide an enemy strongpoint. Normally, he would’ve had his men spread out, using the trees for cover as they advanced. But that Thanksgiving morning, something made him pause. Something inside him hesitated, locked in a desperate struggle between military training and a Divine warning he couldn’t name.

The Germans were experts in deception. They hid anti-personnel mines in forests, along roads, near bridges - everywhere vital movement occurred. They created false tire tracks to lure Allied troops. Made of Bakelite or wood, these insidious weapons were impossible to find with magnetic or acoustic mine detectors.

Defying every rule he’d ever been taught, Vernon led his men straight down the middle of the road, fully exposed by the widening glow of morning light.

No shots were fired. The crossroads lay eerily silent and unoccupied. So they returned the way they came. 

Only then did they see it.

Nailed to the hidden side of the trees, where only the Germans would have noticed, hung weathered signs warning of “MINEN” (mines).

The forest had been a deathtrap laced with explosives. One step into the trees and his entire platoon would have been reduced to smoke and splinters.

Vern continued reading his Mom’s letter. She described waking in the middle of the night before Thanksgiving, what would have been sunrise in France, seized by an overwhelming fear that Vern was in grave danger. "When I reached for my Bible, a single verse from Second Chronicles 20:17 leaped off the page.” It promises us to: “Stand still… and see the saving power of God.”

Many of us are walking through emotional, spiritual, and cultural minefields with paralyzing fear. Instincts fail us. The path forward feels uncertain. Yet, the path through these challenges is shaped by where we anchor our trust. When our hearts rest in God, He steadies us. His steady presence carries us safely through dangers we don’t see. He’ll never fail us when we need Him the most.

Heavenly Father, thank You for going before me, shielding me, and fighting battles I cannot face alone. When fear and discouragement rise, teach me to stand still and trust You. Help me walk boldly, confident that victory belongs to You. Amen

Unpolished Faith

 “His mercies never end; they renew every morning.” ~ Laminations 3:23

Her city counted down the final minutes of 2025 with laughter, fireworks, and bubbling flutes lifted skyward. From her living room window, Tamika watched its glow reflect against the cold glass, feeling as though she stood between two worlds - the year that had bruised her and the unknown one waiting on the other side of midnight.

Her phone buzzed with “Happy New Year!” messages. Social media filled with highlight reels - promotions, vacations, and smiling families in coordinated pajamas. Tamika was genuinely happy for them… but her story didn’t look that glossy. Hers had been part miracle and part mess.

There were days she rose with purpose, others when heaviness pinned her to the pillow. She laughed in kitchens and cried in parking lots.

If asked her to summarize her year, she wouldn’t have a neat answer. It wasn’t entirely successful. It wasn’t all sorrow, either. It was… human. Holy in parts. Heavy in others. Still unfinished.

As the clock crept toward midnight, the familiar pressure whispered: You should be happier. More grateful. More “together” by now. But something inside her resisted the urge to pretend.

So Tamika prayed something far more honest: “God… this year was beautiful and painful. Some things healed. Other things still hurt. But, I’m still here - still healing and learning. And through it all… You remained faithful.”

The honesty felt refreshing, like brilliant sunlight breaking through a storm-darkened sky.

She realized God never asked for a polished testimony. He welcomed her honesty. And in that stillness, something gentle settled over her heart: God is not only at the finish line. He stands with us in the hallway between what was and what will be.

As fireworks crackled across the night and the year shifted forward, Tamika felt something deeper than celebration—hope. Not because her story was finished, but because God was still writing it. It wasn’t perfection that gave her peace; it was His presence. She wasn’t stepping into the future alone. She was moving forward with courage, not pretending to be whole, but confident that God would never abandon her.

And that… was enough!

Friends, Happy New Year to each of you. May you know you don’t have to be perfect to be deeply loved. May you feel God’s nearness in your questions, His comfort in your wounds, and His joy in your victories.

May this new year bring brave steps forward, deeper healing, steady growth, and unexpected laughter. Whether you walk into 2026 with confidence or trembling fear, remember - you aren’t alone, your story matters to God. Never doubt His steadying grace.

Lord God, thank You for being faithful through every joy and every struggle of this past year. I don’t bring You perfection—I bring You my honest heart. Carry me into the new year with Your mercy, Your strength, and Your presence. Amen

The Whisper of Love

 “Love’s endurance has no limits; its hope never fades.” ~ 1 Corinthians 13:7-8

They’d both enjoyed successful careers. After 12 years of marriage, their five grown children had already left the nest. Lisa and Peter were nearing early retirements in favor of travel, golf, and relaxation when Peter’s diagnosis shattered their plans - Early-onset Alzheimer’s disease.

At just 53, Peter stepped away from his executive role, no longer able to carry the weight of responsibilities he’d once handled with ease. When it became unsafe for him to stay home alone, Lisa retired too, trading professional goals for the sacred work of caregiving. Their world narrowed, shaped by doctor visits, financial adjustments, and the slow unraveling of memory.

As the disease tightened its grip, Peter lost names, faces, and eventually even Lisa, the woman who’d walked beside him through every joy and sorrow. Yet somehow, deep beneath the fog,  where memory could no longer reach, love waited like an ember that refused to die.

One day, while watching a wedding scene unfold on TV, Peter grinned like a boy with a secret. He turned to Lisa, unaware of their already shared history, and asked, “Do you want to get married?”

Love instantly rose again! “When the person you deeply love chooses you twice,” Lisa later said, “how could you possibly say no?” By morning, the proposal had slipped away, lost in the haze of dementia. But Lisa carried it forward, asking nothing in return, not clarity, not permanence, only grace for the moment she’d been given.

With help from their daughter, they renewed their vows six weeks later, surrounded by family and close friends. Lisa wore the same dress from their beach wedding years before, adorned with jewelry Peter had once carefully chosen for her.

Fighting back tears, Lisa thought of Peter as she approached the altar. Her heart trembled with unanswered questions. Did he understand? Was he happy? Was he nervous like the first time?

When Lisa arrived at the altar, a confused Peter asked, “Who are you?” Then, leaning close, he whispered, “You look great.”

They kissed, and for a few hours, everything in the universe seemed to align perfectly.

Peter laughed and danced, joy returning like a long-lost melody. Photos later showed a beaming groom, hands wrapped tightly around his bride, as if love itself had steadied him. Deep memories stirred. “A piece of him came back to us. It was both heartbreaking and heartwarming,” Lisa shared.

Even though she tries to stay positive and focus on one day at a time, Lisa knows that the day will come too soon when she must put Peter in long-term care. Until then, she walks faithfully beside him, sharing their precious storybook memories, as if he’s hearing them for the first time.

While Alzheimer’s steals so much, love is almost always the last to go.

Almighty Lord, walk with all who watch someone they love slowly fade. Strengthen weary hearts. Guard us from despair. Teach us to see beauty even in loss, and draw us closer to You through every challenge. Amen