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How To Turn on the Light When Fear Is Swooping
I have a confession to make: I am afraid of things that don't exist.
Not ghosts or monsters under the bed. I outgrew those...mostly. No, I'm talking about the imaginary monsters I construct out of thin air whenever I face a new deadline, a hard conversation, or an unexpected season of life. I can build something terrifying out of nothing, and sadly, I'm quite good at it.
Turns out, I'm in good company. Not just with other anxious humans, but with ancient settlers who looked up into the twilight sky and panicked over a little bird called the nighthawk.
By name alone, the nighthawk sounds ferocious. Something with hawk in the title ought to have razor-sharp talons, a hooked beak, and zero patience for your nonsense. Early observers watched it swooping through the dusk and slapped the most fearful label they could find on it: Hawk. Done.
The terror only grew worse from there.
Do I Really Belong at the Throne of Grace?
Recently, Jason and I took a trip to Corby, England, to fill in for a pastor over the weekend. On the way, we dropped Tess off with a friend. I expected at least a little hesitation. You know, a cautious sniff, a glance back over the shoulder, maybe a dramatic "Mamma, how could you?" sort of look.
Nope.
Our friend opened the door, and Tess walked right in as if she paid the mortgage.
She didn't stand on the porch wondering if she was welcome. She didn't wait for a second invitation. She didn't ask if she was interrupting anything. She just trotted in, looked around, and started making herself at home. Meanwhile, I stood there thinking, Well, apparently she's settled. Glad we cleared that up.
As funny as it was, the whole thing stirred something in my heart when I realized that Tess did what many of us struggle to do spiritually. She walked in as if she belonged there.
You Don’t Need Their Apology To Be Free
One of the hardest conversations I've had recently was with a woman who had been deeply hurt by someone she loved. The betrayal was real. The pain was justified. And when I gently suggested that forgiveness might be part of her healing journey, she looked at me with exhaustion and said, "But they've never apologized. They've never acknowledged what they did. How can I forgive someone who doesn't even think they've done anything wrong?"
That question haunts me because it's so honest. It reveals the confusion we've created around forgiveness. The idea that forgiveness requires reconciliation. That it demands the other person's participation. That it can't happen unless we're both willing to work toward restoration.
But that's not what biblical forgiveness actually is.
We've tangled two separate things together: forgiveness and reconciliation. They sound similar. They're often discussed in the same breath. But they're not the same thing at all, and understanding the difference might be the key that unlocks our freedom.
Fixing Your Eyes on the Risen Christ
Okay, real talk. Easter Sunday has come and gone. The ham has been eaten, the Easter lilies are wilting on the windowsill, and the chocolate eggs are gone (or maybe that's just at my house). The decorations are back in the bin, and life has rudely resumed its regularly scheduled programming, complete with the bills, the aches, the worries, and that one news headline that makes you want to go back to bed and pull the covers over your head.
And somewhere in the middle of all that ordinary Monday-ness, you might be wondering: Was Easter just a Sunday? Or does it mean something for right now, when my circumstances are anything but hopeful?
Oh, friend. Peter has something to say about that.
The Apostle Peter wasn't writing from a cozy armchair. He was writing to believers who were scattered, suffering, and facing very real persecution.
Your Easter Sunday Is On Its Way
I want you to do something for me. Close your eyes for a moment and imagine it's the darkest stretch of days the world has ever known. The sky went black in the middle of the afternoon. The earth shook. The temple veil ripped right down the middle. And the Man they had called the Son of God took His last breath on a Roman cross.
The days that followed were devastating. The disciples huddled together in a locked room, trembling behind closed doors. Peter was a wreck. John had nothing to say. The women were weeping. And two shell-shocked followers shuffling down the road to Emmaus were kicking the dust with heavy feet and mumbling to each other about how they had hoped He was the One. Past tense. Had hoped.
They had followed Him. Believed in Him. Left everything for Him. And now He was dead, sealed behind a borrowed stone, and their hope was buried right along with Him.