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Dear reader,Today, I've been wrestling the difference between love and grace. It started when I was reading this morning from 2 Corinthians and John, and suddenly, these words hit me differently.I used to think love was just a feeling, something warm and fuzzy inside. But now I'm understanding it's so much more. Love isn't complete until it becomes something real, something you can actually touch and experience.It reminds me of something that happened last week. I saw a homeless man near the coffee shop, and I felt this surge of compassion. But feeling sorry for him isn't enough, is it? True grace would be buying him a meal, giving him a warm jacket, actually doing something that makes a difference.That's how I'm starting to see God's love. It's not just this abstract concept floating somewhere in the heavens. It's active. It's personal. When God's love moves from being a feeling to an action, that's grace. Jesus is the perfect example of this—not just talking about love, but living it. Sacrificing everything.The Bible says the law came through Moses, but grace came through Jesus Christ. It's like the difference between having a rulebook and actually experiencing transformation. Rules tell you what to do. Grace shows you who you can become.I'm realizing grace isn't something passive. It's dynamic. It reaches out. It transforms. It takes what could remain distant and makes it intimately personal.I want my love to be like that. Not just a sentiment, but an action. Not just a feeling, but a force that changes things.Still processing all of this. But it feels important.Until tomorrowChaplain Mark

Grace Notes: When Feelings Get Feet

A few years ago, I encountered an elderly man battling a serious illness. The moment our eyes met, he began to weep. His suffering was palpable, but what struck me most was not his physical pain, but the deep anguish of his soul.He spoke to me about his life—sixty years lived entirely for himself, with no thought of God. As death approached, he felt overwhelmed by shame. I tried to encourage him, to tell him that it wasn't too late, that God's love could reach even him. But he was resolute in his belief that he was beyond redemption.I remember sitting beside his bed, feeling a sense of helplessness. How could I convince this man that mercy was still possible? I spoke of grace, of love, but my words seemed to bounce off an invisible wall of his despair. Each conversation felt like pushing against an immovable object.In my frustration and concern, I began to pray. "God," I remember whispering, "this man cannot see Your love. He is blind to Your grace. I have no words left. Please, find a way to reach him."After that prayer, something shifted in me. I realized I had been approaching him all wrong. Instead of talking about love or grace—concepts that seemed too vast for him to comprehend—I needed to speak of something simpler, more immediate: mercy.As we spoke, I changed my approach. "Forget everything else," I told him. "Just say to God, 'I am suffering. I have no way to go on. Have mercy on me.'"The change was instantaneous. Where before he had been resistant, now he was receptive. Something in those simple words broke through his barriers. He agreed, and in that moment, I saw a spark of faith ignite in his eyes.I'm still moved when I think about this experience. It taught me that sometimes, our elaborate explanations mean nothing. Sometimes, all we need is the simplest of prayers—a raw, honest plea for mercy.God's capacity for compassion continues to humble me. In this man's most vulnerable moment, when he had nothing left to offer, mercy found him.He passed away not long after that, and I was asked to conduct his funeral and visitation. I could only offer words of solace, sharing that he passed away knowing he would be reunited with his beloved wife. His final wish was to see his family again, and in his last moments, he found peace in the hope of that reunion.

Mercy's Whisper

This week, as Advent begins, I find myself wrestling with hope in its most raw and vulnerable form. My niece's accident has become more than just a moment in time—it's a journey that's testing everything I understand about waiting, healing, and faith.She wants to be better now. I can see it in her eyes—that mixture of frustration and determination. Each day feels like an eternity for her, marked by small victories that seem insignificant to others but are monumental to her. A finger that moves a little more, a moment of less pain, a smile that breaks through the difficult days.I'm struck by how much her healing journey parallels the Advent season. Waiting. Hoping. Believing in something not yet fully realized. Just as the world waited for centuries for the promise of Christ, we're waiting for her complete restoration. And waiting is hard. So incredibly hard.This morning, I found myself in Lamentations 3, and these words stopped me in my tracks:"I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall. I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me. Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope:Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, 'The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.'"— Lamentations 3:19-24 These words. They're a lifeline. The writer acknowledges the pain—truly acknowledges it. The bitterness. The wandering. The affliction. There's no minimizing the struggle. But then comes that powerful turn: "Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope."Some moments I'm angry. Angry at the accident, angry at the slow pace of healing, angry at the pain she's experiencing. Other moments, I'm overwhelmed with a profound sense of love and hope. How can these emotions coexist so intensely?I've been reading about the first Advent—how people waited in darkness, holding onto a promise of light. My niece is living that metaphor. She's in her own kind of darkness, holding onto the promise of healing. Her spirit is remarkable. Even on the hardest days, there's this spark in her—a resilience that takes my breath away.Today, I'm learning that hope isn't about having all the answers. It's about showing up. It's about holding her hand (sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively). It's about believing in healing even when the path is unclear.Prayers feel different now. They're not eloquent. They're raw. "God, please. Help her. Heal her." Sometimes that's all I can muster.The first Advent candle—the candle of hope—feels particularly significant this year. It's not a distant, abstract concept. Hope is the gentle squeeze of my niece's hand. It's the way she tries to smile through the pain. It's the medical team working tirelessly. It's our family, standing together."His compassions never fail," the scripture says. They are new every morning. Even on the hardest days, even when healing seems slow, there is this promise of renewed compassion. Of hope that doesn't depend on our circumstances, but on something—someone—far more constant.I don't know what healing will look like. I don't know the timeline. But I know we're not alone in this waiting.This morning, as I sit in the quiet, thinking about the first Advent candle, I'm reminded that hope isn't about perfect outcomes. It's about presence. It's about love continuing to show up, day after day, no matter what.My prayer is simple: Let her feel loved. Let her feel hope. Let her healing continue, one small victory at a time.Great is your faithfulness. Even now. Especially now.Until tomorrowChaplain Mark

Healing in the Margins: A Lamentations Launchpad

Matthew 10:34 - "I did not come to bring peace, but a sword."These words echoed in my mind today as I sit with people in their ordinary struggles. Not the dramatic, earth-shattering moments. Just life. Real, raw, everyday life.Kay who is a new mom who is struggling with postpartum and anxiety. John who is in the army is navigating a difficult work transition. Sarah's struggling to balance working as a police officer and fighting with her emotions and memories of a bad relationship .The "sword" isn't always a dramatic cut. Sometimes it's just a gentle nudge of truth. A moment of clarity. A breath of understanding that separates what is from what could be.My work isn't about solving everything. It's about being present. Listening. Helping people see their experiences a little differently. Cutting through the noise of their own internal narratives. Not to wound, but to help them breathe.A sword can be compassionate. It can be a tool of precision that helps people see themselves more clearly. Today, that looked like sitting with Mrs. Thompson and acknowledging her fear. Helping John recognize his own resilience. Giving Sarah permission to feel overwhelmed.Ministry happens in these quiet moments. No grand revelations. Just human connection. Just being fully present.The sword of Christ? Maybe it's just the courage to sit with someone exactly where they are. To listen. To see. To understand.Not every day feels significant. But every day matters.

Journal: Swords, Sighs, and Everyday Survival

The house is still echoing with laughter, the remnants of our feast scattered across the table—proof of a night where friends became something more than friends. Something like family.I catch myself constantly trying to shortcut my way through life, through relationships, through salvation. It's like I'm always seeking an escape route, willing to slip through any crack. But yesterday, sitting there amid the warmth of our chosen family, I'm understanding something deeper about connection and grace.When Mary was trying to filp the ham to finish baking and made a mess on the counter, and instead of tension, we all burst out laughing—Me trying to figure out how to get the turkey out of the roaster that was literally falling off the bones, people sitting and sharing and swapping stores"—I saw something of divine grace. No judgment, just immediate, unconditional support. "The Lord is righteous in all His ways" (Psalm 145:17), and in that moment, our little community reflected a glimpse of that righteousness.These people around me—they've seen me at my worst. Nicole knows about my struggles every year. Becky has watched me fall and helped me back up.Ken and Holli have been our anchors through uncertain times. They don't love us because Becky and I are perfect. They love us, I <span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(18px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-weight: inherit; font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); background-color: rgba(249,250,251,var(--tw-bg-opacity));">realized something profound: if God's love is like this—a love that sees completely yet chooses grace—then salvation isn't about getting a quick fix. It's about transformation. Just like how our Friendsgiving isn't about a perfect meal, but about the imperfect people gathered around the table.My natural instinct is survival at any cost. "Just accept me," I want to cry. But true acceptance—both divine and human—says, "I see all of you, and I choose you anyway."The turkey might have been slightly dry (My attempt at cooking this year), the pies might have been bought, but the love? Absolutely homemade. Authentic. Uncompromising.God's love is like this gathering. Not a sterile, perfect arrangement, but a messy, beautiful coming-together. His justice and mercy aren't opponents—they're like our friends around this table, different yet perfectly connected.Note to self: Salvation—like true friendship—isn't about getting what you want. It's about experiencing something far greater. Something that looks remarkably like family.P.S. Next year, we're definitely going to do this again.

Stuffing the Soul: A Feast of Friendship and Faith

Today I've been reflecting on the relationship between God's law and grace, particularly through Romans 7:7 and Galatians 3:19. I'm struck by how beautifully these verses reveal God's wisdom in preparing humanity for Christ.The law, I'm beginning to understand, functions like a mirror reflecting our true nature - not creating sin but revealing what was already there. It's fascinating to think that God gave us the law knowing we would break it, not to trap us, but to help us recognize our need for something more.When God made His promise to Abraham, He had already purposed grace from before time began. The law that came 430 years later wasn't a deviation from this plan, but rather an essential step toward its fulfillment. It's like God was carefully preparing humanity to receive the gift He always intended to give.This changes how I see my own struggles with sin and righteousness. Rather than viewing the law as a harsh standard meant to condemn, I can now see it as part of God's loving strategy to guide us toward grace. The law shows us our need, while Christ fulfills that need - both are expressions of God's consistent love for us.What strikes me most is how personal this makes God's plan feel. He didn't just drop rules from heaven and wait for us to fail. Instead, He carefully crafted a path that would lead us to recognize our need for a Savior. The law wasn't given for us to keep perfectly, but to prepare us for the perfect gift of Christ.Romans 8:3-4 brings this all together beautifully - what the law couldn't do, God accomplished by sending His Son. There's such hope in realizing that even our failures under the law are part of God's greater purpose to bring us to grace.Question for further reflection: How does this understanding of law and grace change how I approach my daily walk with God? Perhaps it's less about striving for perfect obedience and more about letting both law and grace draw me closer to Christ's sufficiency.Prayer: Lord, thank you for your wisdom in how you've revealed yourself to humanity. Help me to see both your law and your grace as expressions of your love, guiding me toward a deeper relationship with you through Christ.

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