heep aren’t known for their brilliance. They wander, panic, and get stuck. They don’t fend off wolves or find their way home.
It was late, dark, and quiet—the kind of quiet that made up every night before. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a regular night. I had prayed, locked the doors, and turned off the lights. The room was sealed like a tomb (as it always was), and I lay down, ready for the sweet mercy of sleep. But what came that night was something else entirely.
“God with us.” Three words that turn the universe on its head. Not God above us, not God near us, or God watching us. But God with us.
The darkness has no choice but to flee. It trembles at His presence, scatters at His name. Christ is the light that no shadow can overcome.
Faithfulness is neither flimsy nor sentimental. It’s not something you embroider on a pillow or stick on a card. It’s forged. Relentless.
God stitches promises into the sky, etches them in the words of prophets, and wraps them in the cries of newborns. The story of Christ’s coming wasn’t a last-minute rescue plan—it was carved into the bones of time before the first star burned.
This is a continuation of our series on Biblical Hermeneutics. God, it seems to me, enjoys puzzles. Not in a malicious way, as though He’s
Sin is no light thing. It clings like a shadow you can’t outrun, pressing down harder than stone, heavier than mountains. It slithers in with whispers, wraps itself around your heart, and chains you to its lies.
Stop. Just for a moment. Stop the madness of schedules, the scramble for perfection, the spinning plates. This world loves to pile weight on your shoulders—your job, your family, your failures, your fears.
Lift your eyes. Higher. No, higher still. Beyond the rooftops, the towers, the clouds. Lift them past the highest peaks until your neck strains and the weight of your world begins to fall away. There, on the mountain that does not crumble, stands the King.
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