This devotional actually began with a conversation with my oldest son, Brighton.

He came home after studying the story of David and Absalom. He mentioned how David’s love for his rebellious son mirrored God’s love for us. I had read that account many times over the years. I’d always been fascinated by David’s response. Why would he tell his commanders to “deal gently” with a son who had betrayed him? Why would he mourn so deeply for someone who had tried to take his throne?

I’d spent years thinking about David’s heart.

What I had never stopped to consider was what David’s heart revealed about God’s.

Sometimes the people we’re trying to teach end up teaching us. This was one of those moments.

Every family has moments they wish they could take back.

Sometimes it’s a harsh word spoken in anger. Sometimes it’s a slammed door, a broken relationship, or years of distance that seem impossible to repair. If you’re a parent, you’ve probably discovered that your love for your children doesn’t disappear simply because they’ve made poor choices. In many ways, it grows stronger because you desperately want them to find their way back.

The story of David and Absalom is one of the most heartbreaking accounts in Scripture. It’s a story of betrayal, regret, and unconditional love. But it also points us to an even greater Father who loved His rebellious children enough to make a way for them to come home.

As you read today’s passage, pay attention to David’s heart. Then ask yourself what it reveals about the heart of God.

Read It

2 Samuel 18:5

“The king commanded Joab, Abishai, and Ittai, ‘Treat the young man Absalom gently for my sake.’ And all the people heard when the king gave all the commanders orders concerning Absalom.”

2 Samuel 18:33

After learning of Absalom’s death. “The king was deeply moved and went up to the chamber over the city gate and wept. As he walked, he cried, ‘My son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you, Absalom, my son, my son!’

Own It

As parents, we’ve all heard words we’d rather forget.

“I hate you.”

“I wish I lived somewhere else.”

“You’re the meanest dad ever.”

The first time you hear those words, they sting. You know they probably aren’t true, but they still hurt. Most of the time those words don’t come from hatred. They come from frustration, embarrassment, or a child who just discovered that Mom and Dad aren’t changing their minds.

The funny thing is, I can’t really hold it against them.

I remember doing the exact same thing.

Growing up, my brothers Sean and Andrew and I had our share of arguments. I remember one time telling Sean that we weren’t brothers anymore. Looking back, that’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever said. You don’t stop being family because someone gets mad. You don’t erase years of love because of one heated argument.

Kids have a way of saying permanent things in temporary moments.

Now that I’m a dad, I’ve learned something.

After discipline or an argument, I usually don’t wait very long before I go back into my child’s room. I don’t want hurt feelings to have more time than they deserve. I don’t want distance to settle into a relationship that needs healing.

I usually sit down beside them, talk through what happened, and remind them of something they may not feel in that moment.

They’re still mine.

My love didn’t disappear because they made a bad decision.

In fact, moments like those probably make me want to reconnect even more.

Love and approval are not the same thing.

Some of the most loving words a parent can speak are, “I love you too much not to tell you the truth.” When my kids make choices that don’t honor God, they need me to lovingly point them back toward Him. Ignoring sin isn’t loving. Pretending wrong is right isn’t loving either.

Correction isn’t rejection.

It’s love with the courage to tell the truth.

I’ve told all four of my kids that there is nowhere they could ever be that would keep them from calling me. We even have a secret text code they can send if they ever find themselves somewhere they shouldn’t be. I’ll happily be the bad guy if it means getting them home safely. I never want fear or shame to keep them from reaching out for help. “Throw me under the bus all you want,” I’ve told them more than once.

I want them to know they can always come home.

Growing up around cattle taught me something about people too. Every now and then you’d have one that wanted to test the fence. It didn’t matter that the fence shocked it yesterday. Somehow it seemed to think today might be different. Sure enough, it would touch the fence again.

Sometimes we’re a lot like those cattle.

God gives us boundaries because He loves us, yet we still convince ourselves that maybe this time we’ll find something better on the other side. We test the fence over and over, wondering if life outside God’s design will finally satisfy us. Then ZAP!

That’s what Absalom did.

He wasn’t simply a rebellious son. He quietly stole the hearts of Israel, declared himself king, and forced David to flee Jerusalem. It wasn’t just family conflict.

It was treason. He broke the law. The big law.

By every human standard, David had every reason to protect his throne and demand justice. Instead, as his army marched into battle, David gave an unexpected command.

“Deal gently with the young man Absalom for my sake.”

That wasn’t simply the order of a king.

It was the plea of a father.

I’ve often wondered if part of David’s grief came from knowing he hadn’t always been the father he should have been. David made some painful mistakes with his family, and parents have a way of replaying those moments in their minds when relationships become strained. Whether those thoughts crossed David’s mind or not, one thing is certain.

He never stopped loving his son.

When Joab ignored David’s command and killed Absalom, David didn’t celebrate the end of the rebellion. He cried out, “My son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you.”

Every parent understands those words.

Love doesn’t disappear when your child disappoints you.

Then it hit me.

When I read this story, I’ve always imagined myself as David.

But that’s not who I am.

We are Absalom.

Every time I’ve chosen my own way over God’s, I’ve committed treason against the King of the universe. I’ve looked at His wisdom and decided I knew better.

Yet instead of abandoning me, He made a way for me to come home.

David wished he could take his son’s place.

Jesus actually took mine.

I’ve experienced a small picture of that kind of grace before.

When I was growing up, my brother Sean and I were throwing a baseball in the backyard like we had done dozens of times. It was a beautiful summer afternoon, and Sean, who was the best baseball player of the three of us, was working on scooping low throws at first base.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself. No idea honestly.

I threw one a little low. Maybe it took a bad hop. Maybe it skipped under his glove.

Either way...

The baseball rocketed straight into our sliding glass door.

It hit the bottom corner, and in an instant the entire pane turned into a giant spiderweb. There wasn’t a piece of glass bigger than a dime.

Sean and I just stood there staring at it.

Neither of us had to say a word.

We both knew exactly what we had to do next.

We walked inside, found Mama and Daddy, and told them what had happened.

We fully expected punishment.

Instead, we found understanding.

They knew we hadn’t been reckless.

It was an accident.

I’ve thought about that moment many times over the years.

How often do we approach God expecting anger when He’s already provided grace through Christ?

The difference, of course, is that my parents absorbed the cost of a broken window.

God absorbed the cost of our broken lives.

That’s why we don’t have to hide.

That’s why we don’t have to keep running.

Because Jesus already paid for what we could never fix ourselves.

Maybe that’s why I tell my own kids they can always call me.

Maybe that’s why I walk back into their room after hard conversations.

Maybe that’s why we have a secret text code if they ever need help.

I’m simply trying to reflect the heart of a Father who has spent my entire life reminding me of one beautiful truth.

Come home.

That’s the heart of our Father.

Live It

Ask yourself these questions today:

• Have I confused God’s correction with His rejection?

• Is there someone in my life who needs to know they are still loved, even while I disagree with their choices?

• Am I making it easy for my children, spouse, or loved ones to come to me when they’ve made a mistake?

• Is there an area where I need to stop running from God and simply come home?

Go Deeper

Read these passages and consider what they teach about the Father’s heart.

• 2 Samuel 18:5-33

• Luke 15:11-32

• Romans 5:6-11

• John 10:27-30

As you read, look for the ways God pursues, forgives, protects, and restores His children.

Dinner Table Devotional

Ask everyone at the table:

Have you ever been afraid to admit you did something wrong? Why?

Then ask:

How does it change the way we think about God when we realize He wants us to come to Him instead of hiding from Him?

Remind your family that discipline is meant to restore, not destroy. A loving parent corrects because they care, and our Heavenly Father does the same.

Pray

Father,

Thank You for loving me even when I have acted more like Absalom than a faithful child. Thank You that Your love isn’t based on my performance but on Your grace. Help me never confuse Your correction with rejection. Teach me to reflect Your heart in my own family so that those I love always know they can come home. And when I wander, remind me that through Jesus, Your arms are still open.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

I'd love to hear from you. What's one way you've experienced the Father's unconditional love, or what's something you've learned as a parent about grace? Share your thoughts in the comments below.

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I was finishing up mowing the backyard this week when God interrupted my train of thought.

If you mow your own yard, you probably understand what I mean. There is something about mowing that clears my head. Maybe it’s the rhythm of walking back and forth. Maybe it’s seeing the neat lines appear behind you. Maybe it’s the instant gratification of taking something that looks a little wild and making it look cared for again. Whatever it is, I do a lot of thinking while I’m mowing.

This particular afternoon, I shut the mower off and just stood there for a minute. The yard looked good. The deck looked even better. I’d finally gotten around to staining it, and it looked brand new. Karen’s gazebo was sitting on top with the lights hanging around it, the couches I’d built were in place, and the landscaping project I’d been working on was finally starting to come together. I still want to add some decorative bracing to the gazebo, but for the first time in a while, I looked around and simply enjoyed what God had allowed me to build.

Whenever something like that happens, I’ve developed a habit over the years.

I thank God.

I don’t say that to sound super spiritual. Most of the time nobody is around to hear me anyway. It’s simply become something I intentionally do. When I notice something beautiful, when I see one of God’s blessings, or when something makes me smile, I stop and thank Him.

So that’s exactly what I did.

I smiled, shook my head, looked around one more time, and quietly said, “Thank You, Lord.”

As I stood there, my mind wandered like it usually does. My newest book (Built to Last) had just released, and the response had been better than I ever imagined. New writing opportunities have been opening up lately, and every time one does, I’m reminded that none of this is because I’m especially talented. It’s because God has been incredibly gracious.

Then I looked across the yard and saw one of my kids riding his bicycle.

Like every parent, I could make you a list of things they do that get on my nerves. Four kids under one roof can make enough noise to convince you the house is being remodeled. They fuss with each other sometimes over the dumbest things, and they things that should cause a fuss are ignored for whatever reason. They eat like a plague of locusts has descended upon the pantry. They leave cups in places that seem to defy the laws of physics.

They’re kids.

But then another thought crossed my mind.

Whenever we’re out in public, people constantly tell Karen and me how respectful they are. They’ll carry on conversations with adults. They have manners. They’re genuinely enjoyable to be around.

More importantly, every one of them has trusted Christ, and each of them is growing in their faith in his or her own way. I have never had to sit them down and convince them that church matters. They want to go.

Then I thought about Karen.

Some men use mowing the yard as an escape from what’s waiting inside the house. They’ll stay outside just a little longer because the garage is quieter than the living room.

Not me.

Don’t get me wrong. I like mowing. I like working outside more than a lot of my household chores.

But I love walking back through the door.

I love my wife.

I love my kids.

I love the life God has given me.

That’s when I believe the Lord planted the seed for this article.

It wasn’t an audible voice, but the thought was so clear it may as well have been.

“Well, Maury...this home you’re leading is partly your fault.”

I laughed.

Then I shook my head again.

Because He was right.

Walking Through the Door

I stepped inside, and Christian worship music was playing through one of our speakers. Nobody had been told to turn it on. Nobody had been forced to listen to it. Somebody in our house simply wanted to hear music that pointed their heart toward Jesus.

That made me smile.

Karen was in the kitchen making banana pudding because I didn’t get much on Father’s Day.

Our locusts...I mean, our kids...had made sure of that.

I started getting hamburgers ready for the Blackstone because I’d promised everyone burgers for supper. Every one of the kids has a favorite cheese, and after all these years I know which slice belongs on which burger without having to ask. Mine is pepper jack and cheddar.

I had even timed supper so Brighton would be getting home from work just as everything was ready.

Earlier that afternoon I’d texted him and asked if he’d grab me a Coke.

When he walked through the door, he held it up and grinned.

“Do you know how much this was? Three dollars,” he said.

“I’ll pay you back.” I walked over and handed him twelve quarters.

A few weeks earlier he’d bought a video game online and paid me back the exact same way. Turnabout’s fair play.

It wasn’t really about the Coke. It was about the relationship.

I’ve realized lately that something is changing between Brighton and me. He’s still my son, but we’re slowly entering that season where we’re becoming friends too. I don’t dread my kids growing up the way some parents do. Honestly, I look forward to it. It’s like reading a really good book. Every chapter gets better than the one before it.

The house just felt...

Peaceful.

Not silent. Four kids live here.

Peaceful.

Karen eventually stepped back inside after sitting on the deck for a while and smiled.

“That backyard is my happy place,” she said. “Thank you for making it so pretty.”

I don’t think she was really talking about the deck. I think she was talking about the life we’ve built together.

Standing there with hamburger grease on my hands, I quietly thanked God again. Then another thought hit me. Maybe none of this happened by accident.

Peace Is Cultivated

Karen has a saying that I’ve heard her repeat more than once when we have led marriage studies.

“As the husband goes, so goes the household.”

The more I thought about it, the more I realized she’s probably right.

Homes don’t naturally drift toward peace. They drift toward chaos. Peace has to be cultivated.

The atmosphere inside our home didn’t magically appear one Tuesday afternoon. It has been built over thousands of ordinary moments that nobody else will ever see.

Every conversation.

Every apology.

Every prayer.

Every hug.

Every family dinner.

Every bedtime Bible reading.

Every decision to leave work at work.

Every one of those moments has quietly shaped the culture of our home.

Then it hit me.

The atmosphere inside our house is, at least in part, in fact my fault.

Not because I’m perfect. Far from it.

But because fathers are culture builders whether we realize it or not. For better or worse.

That got me thinking about the “bad side” of being a Christian husband and father.

You know...

The terrible burden of actually having to live like one.

The Bad Side #1: Somebody Has to Go First

Nobody told me that becoming a Christian father meant I’d actually have to open my Bible instead of just owning several of them.

I really do have several.

There’s the King James Bible I received for Christmas in 1989. Every Christmas Eve I still read Luke 2 from that same Bible before our family goes to bed. I have my Tony Evans Study Bible that I carry to church every Sunday. The spine is beginning to fall apart, which tells me it’s being used the way it was intended. I have other Bibles that people have given me over the years, and many of those have now been passed down to my children until they received their own.

Next to my bed is a prayer journal. It’s filled with prayers, answers, and praises. Lately God has been answering so many prayers that I almost can’t keep up with writing them down. I pray for my wife. I pray for my daughters. I pray for Brighton’s future career and for the young woman who will one day become his wife.

He hasn’t met her yet.

But Karen and I have already been praying for her.

I did the same thing before I met Karen. I’m awfully glad I did.

My kids know where that journal is. My sermon notebooks are sitting out too. In fact, my daughters eventually asked for notebooks of their own because they wanted to take notes during church just like Dad. Brighton carries a composition notebook with him every Sunday.

Nobody made that happen. Nobody was told they had to do it.

They watched.

Just today, Brighton came home excited to tell me what he’d been studying. He had been reading about David after Absalom’s death and told me how David’s grief reminded him of God’s love for us. Even after Absalom rebelled against his father, David still loved him. Brighton saw a picture of God’s heart in that story.

I never had to ask if he’d spent time with the Lord.

His excitement answered the question before I ever could.

Children rarely become what we demand.

More often, they become what they see.

The Bad Side #2: You Have to Keep Dating the Same Woman

Poor me.

I have to spend the rest of my life with the same beautiful woman.

The one who’s gorgeous, smart, funny, and somehow still likes me after all these years.

Life is rough.

Karen still comes over, grabs my arm, and throws it around her shoulder. Then she’ll smile and ask, “You still like me?”

I always answer, “I think so.”

Our kids see that. They see us hold hands. They see us hug. They see us laugh.

They also see that we’re on the same team.

Whenever one of the kids tries to play the odds by asking the other parent after already receiving an answer, the response is almost always the same.

“What did your Mama say?”

Or...

“What did your Daddy say?”

We stand together.

Karen has made me a better man. Truthfully, I think I crave her respect even more than her love. Knowing she loves me is easy. Respect has to be earned, and she respects me in a way that makes me want to become an even better husband tomorrow than I was today.

I’ve realized something else over the years.

I might be the chisel that knocks off some of the rough edges around our house.

Karen is the polisher.

She’s the one who smooths those edges until they shine.

That’s one of the greatest gifts God ever gave me.

The Bad Side #3: Somebody Has to Protect the Atmosphere

I work from home now, so technically I don’t come home anymore.

I clock out.

The funny thing is that my kids know exactly what time that happens. Within minutes somebody usually appears in the bonus room.

“Daddy...are you off?”

Usually a hug follows along with a “Yes!” Sometimes with a request.

Usually both.

I don’t mind.

Actually, I invited it.

Even when I’m writing, one or two of them are usually sitting beside me asking what I’m writing about or whether they’re in the story. They love it.

Life wasn’t always like that.

When I worked retail years ago, I had an hour commute one way. Karen had already left for work before I woke up, and by the time I got home around nine o’clock at night, she was exhausted and so was I.

We weren’t angry.

We were just tired.

We felt like two ships passing in the night.

I hated it.

Around that same time, I made another decision.

Growing up, I didn’t always enjoy when my dad brought work home emotionally. I remember how that felt.

So I decided my wife and kids would never become the dumping ground for my bad day.

If somebody at work frustrates me...

That isn’t my family’s fault.

They’re my refuge.

I want to be theirs.

My kids joke that I’m Batman.

I don’t think they’re talking about the cape.

I think they’re talking about the calm. And the fact that I have a complete Batsuit hanging in my closet, but I digress.

When something goes wrong, I want them to believe Dad has a plan. Sometimes I’m already on Plan C because Plans A and B have completely fallen apart, but they don’t need to see my panic.

They need to see my faith.

When storms come, I want my family to think, “If Daddy isn’t worried, maybe everything’s going to be okay.”

Not because I’m fearless.

Because they know I trust the One who is.

The Bad Side #4: They’re Always Watching

Children are incredible observers.

They notice far more than we think they do.

My boys know they’re called to be gentlemen, even when it’s difficult. They’ve watched me try to treat people with kindness, even when those people haven’t always deserved it.

Unfortunately, they’ve also inherited my sarcasm.

We’re still working on proper timing and audience. Progress is being made.

They’ve watched me stop to help people.

They’ve watched Karen quietly serve people.

They’ve watched us apologize to one another.

They’ve watched us forgive.

Being a Christian has never been presented as something we do on Sundays.

It’s simply who we’re trying to become.

The Bad Side #5: Sunday Has to Survive Monday

Church isn’t just somewhere we attend. It’s where we gather with other believers before going out to be the Church the rest of the week.

Prayer isn’t reserved for bedtime and meals.

Forgiveness isn’t just preached.

It’s practiced.

Serving isn’t divided into “Mom jobs” and “Dad jobs.” We simply serve each other because that’s what families do.

Our children need to see that following Jesus works just as well on Tuesday afternoon as it does on Sunday morning. Otherwise they’ll eventually notice the difference.

The Bad Side #6: You’re Building More Than a House

As I stood in the backyard that afternoon, admiring the freshly stained deck, God reminded me that I’d spent one afternoon improving a backyard.

God had spent twenty years building a home.

I spent one afternoon staining a deck.

God has spent twenty years staining a husband.

One project made the backyard beautiful.

The other made coming home beautiful.

Every prayer.

Every apology.

Every date night.

Every Blackstone burger.

Every bedtime Bible reading.

Every Coke paid back in quarters.

Every decision to leave stress at work.

Another coat.

Another layer.

Another brick in the culture of our home.

One day my children will have homes of their own. My prayer isn’t that they copy my furniture or my landscaping.

I hope they build a culture where worship music plays because someone wants to hear it.

Where husbands and wives still laugh together after decades.

Where children know they’re safe.

Where prayer is normal.

Where God’s Word is open.

Where peace has been cultivated.

Maybe one afternoon they’ll finish mowing their own yard. Maybe they’ll stop, smile, shake their head, and thank God. And maybe the Lord will whisper to them what He whispered to me.

“This home you’re leading is partly your fault.”

I hope they smile.

Because that may be one of the greatest compliments a Christian husband and father could ever receive.

So yes, there is a bad side to being a Christian husband and father.

You have to go first.

You have to pray first.

You have to forgive first.

You have to love first.

You have to protect the atmosphere of your home.

You have to build the culture everyone else gets to enjoy.

Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? Except it isn’t. It’s one of the greatest privileges God has ever entrusted to a man.

So don’t just build a nice house. Build a peaceful home. Be the kind of husband your wife is thankful to see walk through the door. Be the kind of father your kids are excited to interrupt because they know Dad is “off work.”

Leave your stress on the porch whenever you can. Your family didn’t cause your bad day. In many ways, they’re God’s gift to help you recover from it.

Be their refuge.

After all, that’s exactly what our Heavenly Father has been for us.

And if one afternoon behind a lawn mower reminds you to stop, look around, and thank God for the life He’s given you...

Don’t be surprised if He reminds you that the peace inside your home didn’t happen by accident.

It was built one faithful day at a time.

If that’s the fault God wants to lay at my feet, I’ll thank Him for it every single day.

Thanks for reading Grit & Wit. My hope is to encourage husbands, fathers, and families to follow Christ with grit, grace, and a little humor along the way.

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When I was twenty-five, I thought the answer was probably gifts.

To be fair, our church gives all the dads root beer every Father’s Day, which is a thoughtful gesture. The only problem is that I can’t stand root beer.

A few years ago, one of the families in our Life Group rented a water slide for their son’s birthday and created a new Father’s Day weekend tradition. When I say water slide, I don’t mean one of those little inflatable slides you put in the backyard. This thing is massive. It is taller than their house. It is the kind you tell your kids to be careful. They invite our group over every year.

Every year since then, Karen asks me if that’s what I want to do for Father’s Day.

Every year, I tell her yes.

She already knows the answer before she asks. She usually smiles and says, “I just want you happy.”

The thing is, I am happy.

I enjoy grilling hamburgers and hot dogs. I enjoy sitting around talking with friends. I enjoy watching my kids run around and laugh with their friends. And if I’m being honest, I still enjoy climbing up that giant water slide and racing my kids to the bottom.

What I enjoy most, though, are the moments in between.

I enjoy hearing, “Watch this, Daddy!”

I enjoy being told it’s my turn to go down the slide.

I enjoy seeing my kids look over their shoulder to make sure I’m watching before they try something new.

Maybe that sounds silly, but it means something to me. It means they still care enough to ask. It means they still want my approval. As fathers, we don’t always realize how much those little moments matter until we notice them becoming fewer and farther between.

The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized that the gifts aren’t really what matter.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate every card, every text, every hug, and every “Happy Father’s Day.” But if someone handed me a $500 gift card, I’d probably end up spending it on my family anyway.

The truth is, I don’t need much.

Knowing that Karen loves me is a gift.

Knowing my children love me is a gift.

Right now, as I type this, Grayson is stretched out beside me with his head resting on my arm.

He’s not talking.

He’s not asking for anything.

He’s just here.

At eight years old, he still thinks sitting next to Dad is a good way to spend an afternoon.

I know that season won’t last forever.

The thing about Grayson is that he’s my youngest. Brighton is the oldest, so many of the milestones in his life are the firsts. First driver’s license. First job. First graduation. First time leaving home.

With Grayson, many things will be the lasts.

The last bike rides.

The last time he asks me to watch how far he can kick the ball.

The last time he wants me to see the skid marks he made with his bike tire.

I don’t want him to stay little. That’s not how this works. He has to grow up just like the others. I want him to grow. I want him to become the man God created him to be. But I also understand that these moments don’t last forever, which is why I try to be intentional with them.

Today, we went to an arcade. Then we stopped for drinks and a treat at a local market. Years from now, he probably won’t remember whether the house was clean. He might remember spending the afternoon with Dad and getting to drink a Sun Drop in a glass bottle sitting in the front seat.

Fatherhood has taught me that very few people remember spotless floors. They remember who spent time with them.

One of the greatest blessings of getting older is seeing some of the seeds you’ve planted begin to grow.

When Brighton got old enough to work, Karen and I both encouraged him. Karen nudged. I pushed a little harder. I was the one who told him to apply at the recreation center. I was the one who encouraged him to spread his wings and learn some responsibility.

He loves it.

He loves earning his own money.

He loves the freedom that comes with it.

One thing I love is that the recreation center allows employees to read when things are slow. Brighton could have chosen anything. Instead, he chose to read his Bible. He comes home on rainy days and talks about things he’s learned from Scripture.

Brighton could have picked a novel, a video game magazine, or spent his downtime scrolling on his phone. Instead, he chose to read his Bible.

When he comes home talking about something he found in Scripture, I try not to act overly excited.

Inside, though, I’m thinking, “Lord, thank You so much.”

As a father, moments like that make you think maybe you’ve done something right.

Recently, Chloe asked us to sign her up as a crew leader for Vacation Bible School. We didn’t ask her to do it. Nobody pressured her. She simply saw a need and wanted to help.

She said she wanted to serve because the church needed her.

That makes me proud.

Sophie has a servant’s heart. If the sweet tea pitcher is empty, she’ll often make more. Before long, she’ll walk in carrying me a glass. It’s such a small thing, but kindness usually shows up in small things.

All of my children tell me goodnight before bed. The girls still kiss me on the head. Brighton doesn’t do that anymore, but he’ll still come give me a hug.

An almost eighteen-year-old boy who still hugs his dad?

I’ll take that all day long.

One of my favorite verses as a father is 3 John 1:4:

“I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in truth.”

Notice what John didn’t say.

He didn’t say success.

He didn’t say wealth.

He didn’t say influence.

He said truth.

I want my children to be successful. I want them to work hard and do well. But if I had to choose between worldly success and walking faithfully with Jesus, I wouldn’t need much time to make that decision.

All four of my children have made decisions to follow Christ. Before each of them was baptized, we sat down and had conversations. I wanted to make sure they understood what they were doing. I didn’t want them making a decision because everyone else was. I wanted them to know why they believed what they believed.

There is a joy in knowing your children are walking with the Lord that is difficult to describe. Happiness comes and goes. Joy remains.

The older my children get, the less control I have. That’s one of the hardest lessons of fatherhood.

When they were little, I could keep them safe.

Now Brighton drives around town by himself.

That can be terrifying.

He’s a good driver, but not everyone else is.

I’ve told him more than once that his head has to stay on a swivel because driving isn’t as easy as it looks when you’re sitting in the passenger seat.

At some point, though, you realize you can’t be there for every decision. You can’t ride in every car. You can’t solve every problem. You can’t protect them from every mistake.

I finally just listen for Life360 to “ding” and tell me when he arrives where he is supposed to be. It took some time.

Eventually, you have to trust God to watch over them when you can’t.

Our family has a saying that gets repeated often:

“You can only control yourself.”

I hope my children hear my voice years from now.

More importantly, I hope they hear God’s voice.

Mine should simply be an echo of His.

I once read that a father’s job is to prepare his children to live in a world without him.

That statement hits harder now than it did when I first read it.

I hated that quote the first time I read it.

Not because it wasn’t true.

Because it was.

And because one day it will be true for me.

My goal isn’t to keep my children dependent on me forever.

My goal is to help them become the people God created them to be.

Maybe twenty years from now one of my kids will call or text and say, “Dad, can I run something by you?”

Maybe they’ll tell me about a problem at work.

Maybe they’ll ask about marriage.

Maybe they’ll ask about parenting.

Maybe they’ll finish by saying, “I know I can only control myself.”

Not because they remembered my words.

But because somewhere along the way, those words became theirs.

If that happens, I’ll smile.

Because that means they were listening.

And honestly, that’s the greatest Father’s Day gift I could ever receive.

“Masters of the Universe comes out the weekend of June 5. Ya’ll want to go?”

That was all it took.

No convincing. No discussion. No debate over schedules or whether the movie would actually be any good. We were going.

To be fair, the movie was made for people exactly like us.

Back in 1987, I was around ten years old. My brother Sean was seven. Andrew, the youngest of the Wood boys, was only three. Every afternoon after school, Sean and I would settle into my parents’ bedroom to watch He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. Andrew was usually nearby, soaking it all in and learning about Eternia before he was even old enough for kindergarten.

Looking back, it was a pretty odd place to watch television.

My parents’ bedroom had maroon carpet and a waterbed with framed cross-stitched pictures of roses my Mama had created. A little 13-inch television with rabbit ears sat on top of a wooden table with folding leaves. The table itself wasn’t much bigger than the television. Wedged between the waterbed and the TV was a brown rocking chair with wicker woven into the seat and back.

That rocking chair was prime real estate.

You couldn’t sit on the waterbed because it was too far away. When He-Man was battling Skeletor, you needed to be close enough to see every detail. Nobody defends the secrets of Castle Grayskull with our friends the Sorceress, Man-at-Arms, and Orko from halfway across the room.

So we’d crowd around that little television and watch every afternoon.

Saturday mornings were different. He-Man wasn’t part of those memories. Saturday mornings belonged to cartoons in general. We’d get up early, make our way to the living room floor, and settle in front of the television while Mama cooked breakfast. Pancakes and homemade syrup were usually involved. On a good day, tenderloin and biscuits. We didn’t have chores waiting on us because our farm wasn’t where the milking happened. My grandparents’ farm was home to the milking of cows a couple of miles down the road, so Saturday mornings belonged to cartoons, breakfast, and being brothers.

At the time, it felt completely normal.

Now it feels priceless.

Our room was filled with toys. Before we eventually finished our room upstairs, the three of us shared a large downstairs bedroom with high ceilings. He-Man figures were everywhere. G.I. Joe figures. Farm toys. Baseball cards. We had a huge wooden toy box shaped like some kind of farm animal. To this day, I couldn’t tell you if it was supposed to be a horse or a cow. I just know it held enough toys to keep three boys occupied for years.

I honestly don’t remember asking for many specific toys. Mama and Daddy bought them for us or we’d receive them as gifts. We simply played with what we had.

What strikes me now is how many of those toys depended on each other.

I had He-Man because I was the oldest I guess. Sean had Skeletor, though he still insists I somehow lost it at church. To this day, that accusation remains unsupported by evidence. Sean also had Castle Grayskull while I had Battle Cat. Later, Sean ended up with the Ghostbusters firehouse while I had Ecto-1.

Looking back, it’s funny how often our toys required cooperation. By themselves, they were just pieces of plastic. Together, they became stories. You couldn’t really play Masters of the Universe without both heroes and villains. You couldn’t properly bust ghosts without both the headquarters and the car. Whether my parents intended it or not, they gave us toys that encouraged us to play together.

And we did.

A lot.

We never really acted out He-Man adventures outside. Outside was reserved for sports. We’d put baseball cards into those 9-card sleeves, build lineups, and then head into the backyard with a tennis ball and a bat. Sean always found a way to put Dale Murphy on his team. Andrew usually grabbed Dave Winfield. I often ended up with Orel Hershiser.

The rules were simple. If you picked a left-handed player, you batted left-handed. If you picked a switch hitter, even better. We took our imaginary baseball leagues very seriously.

Inside was toys.

Outside was sports.

Life was pretty simple.

I think that’s why nostalgia resonates with us. People often say they miss old television shows, cartoons, toys, and music. I don’t know if that’s entirely true. I think what we really miss is how life felt when those things were part of our days.

We miss staying outside until dark.

We miss hearing Mama call us inside for supper.

We miss building forts in the bathroom with Andrew’s cardboard bricks for our G.I. Joe vehicles.

We miss Saturday mornings before responsibilities started piling up.

Most of all, we miss the people who shared those moments with us.

Life eventually became more complicated.

My parents divorced.

Like many children whose parents divorce, we understood what was happening. That didn’t make it easy. Looking back, I think my brothers and I leaned on each other more than we realized. The relationship built through years of shared bedrooms, baseball games, cartoons, and toy boxes suddenly mattered even more.

As the years have passed, that bond has remained.

When Andrew got older, there was a season when he actually lived with me in my first house for a few years. It wasn’t something either of us thought much about at the time. That’s simply what brothers do. You show up when you’re needed. You help when you can. We got along great.

Somewhere along the way, we stopped being three boys who happened to live in the same house and became three men who genuinely enjoy being together.

That’s rarer than people think.

One of my favorite examples happened years ago during a game of Taboo. If you’ve never played, the objective is to get your team to guess a word without using certain clues listed on the card. Most teams use obvious hints.

We didn’t.

Me, Sean, and Andrew started using random references from our childhood. Old stories. Family moments. Things nobody else in the room understood.

People got frustrated.

We kept winning.

Not because we were smarter than anyone else, but because we spoke the same language. We knew each other’s stories.

That’s one of the greatest gifts family can give you. People who know the whole story. People who remember who you were before the job title, before parenthood, before the responsibilities. People who remember the rocking chair, the rabbit ears, the waterbed, and yes, the missing Skeletor figure.

When the new Masters of the Universe movie finally arrived, we met at the theater with several of our kids. Before we even went inside the theater, we stood in the lobby and talked as our kids, the cousins, caught up like they had seen each other yesterday.

Then we walked in and sat together.

What’s funny is we naturally sat in birth order. Nobody planned it. Nobody discussed it. It just happened. The kids ended up sitting around us while the three brothers settled into the middle of the row like we’d been assigned those seats decades ago.

Throughout the movie, we’d lean over and whisper observations to each other. There were references to the old cartoon everywhere, and every time one appeared, somebody noticed. The movie was packed with Easter eggs for people our age. Ordinarily, I would be worried about bothering people around us, but luckily, the theater was not that full.

The movie was good.

But if I’m being honest, the movie wasn’t the best part of the afternoon.

The best part was looking at the two seats to my right and realizing that after all these years, we still enjoy spending time together. We still laugh at the same things. We still remember the same stories. We still pick up conversations right where we left them.

When the movie ended, we stood outside talking before everyone headed home. We took a picture and told each other we loved each other.

As I stood there, I couldn’t help but notice how different life looked now. The three boys who once crowded around a tiny television had become husbands, fathers, homeowners, and taxpayers. Somehow that feels less exciting than discovering the secrets of Castle Grayskull, busting ghosts, or battling the evil Cobra Commander, but here we are.

The responsibilities were waiting for all of us the next morning. Jobs. Families. Schedules. All the things that come with adulthood.

Yet for a couple of hours, we had stepped back into a simpler season of life.

Not because of a movie.

Because of each other.

As I was driving home, my phone rang.

It was Mama.

She had already seen the pictures we’d posted.

“I’m so glad y’all got to do that together,” she said.

I knew exactly what she meant.

The older I get, the more I realize that God often does His best work through things that don’t seem important at the time. A rocking chair. A toy box. A handful of action figures. Pancakes on a Saturday morning. Three brothers learning to share.

None of those moments felt significant while they were happening.

Yet somehow, God used all of them to build relationships strong enough to survive childhood, adulthood, divorce, heartache, distance, and time.

We went to see He-Man because we loved the cartoon.

We left grateful for something far more valuable than the memories it brought back.

The toys are gone.

The cartoon ended years ago.

The rabbit ears are gone.

The waterbed is gone.

Even the little television has long since disappeared.

But Sean is still Sean.

Andrew is still Andrew.

Maury D. is still Maury D.

And I’m still thankful God let me grow up with them.

By the power of Grayskull, He-Man always saved the day.

Looking back, I think God gave me something even better.

He gave me brothers.

I’m Maury Wood. Husband. Dad of four. Writer. Former newspaper reporter. Tennessee farm kid.

Most of what I write starts with something ordinary.

A conversation with one of my kids.

Something my wife says.

A lesson I learned growing up on a dairy farm.

A moment that makes me laugh before it makes me think.

Grit & Wit is where I write about faith, family, marriage, parenting, work, and the everyday moments that often matter more than we realize.

The best way to get to know this publication isn’t through my biography.

It’s through the stories.

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If you’re new, these are a few of the stories readers have connected with most.

• The Night I Quit Dating and Met My Wife

• The Curse Word Confession

• She Came to Get Me

• The Kind of Rich You Don’t Notice as a Kid

• Don’t Save It For the Funeral Home

• When God Said No

What You’ll Find Here

• Practical faith for everyday life

• Stories with humor and heart

• Marriage and parenting reflections

• Encouragement for ordinary people

• Occasional reminders that God often shows up in places we weren’t looking

New stories arrive every Tuesday and Thursday morning.

If you’re looking for practical faith, encouragement, a few laughs, and reminders that you’re not alone in the middle of real life, I’d love to have you along.

Pull up a chair. I’m glad you’re here.

A Four-Week Journey Through Ruth

Our church is walking through the book of Ruth, and each week after the service, I’ve been sharing a companion devotional tied to that morning’s sermon. Think of this less as sermon notes and more as carrying Sunday into the rest of the week.

Because if we are honest, most of us need help connecting what we hear on Sunday morning to what we live on Monday afternoon.

This week, Pastor Sam Landrith concluded our journey through Ruth and reminded us that God’s plans are always better than ours. While we often focus on the chapter we are living, God sees the entire story.

You can watch this week’s message here:

God’s Plan is Always Better - Ruth 4 with Sam Landrith

READ IT - Ruth 4:1-22

A couple of weeks ago, I was cleaning out the garage.

As I sorted through old tools, I found myself staring at a little green toolbox that has been with me for years. My stepdad Tom gave it to me when I was in my early twenties after realizing I didn’t really have any tools of my own. Inside were a hammer, some screwdrivers, a tape measure, a level, a crescent wrench, and a few other basics.

At the time, it was exactly what I needed.

As I cleaned out my garage that afternoon, I started placing tools into that same green toolbox for Brighton. A hammer. A socket set. Some drill bits. A few Allen wrenches. Tools I know he’ll eventually need.

When I showed it to him later, he smiled and said, “Oh, that’s awesome.”

And standing there in the garage, I realized something.

My stepdad wasn’t just giving me tools all those years ago.

He was building a legacy.

That’s exactly what I thought about while listening to Pastor Sam finish our journey through the book of Ruth.

OWN IT

Pastor Sam began by walking back through the entire story.

Chapter 1 was about heartbreak, loss, and pain.

Chapter 2 was about work, waiting, and serving.

Chapter 3 was about initiating, surrendering, and trusting.

Chapter 4 was about redemption, restoration, and rejoicing.

One of his points was that the darkest hour became the defining hour.

When Ruth chose to leave Moab and follow Naomi, she had no idea where that road would lead. She was a widow leaving behind everything familiar to follow an aging mother-in-law into an uncertain future.

If you had asked Ruth in Chapter 1 what her future looked like, I doubt she would have described Chapter 4.

She probably assumed she would spend the rest of her life surviving.

Gathering leftover grain.

Taking care of Naomi.

Simply making it through another day.

But Ruth couldn’t see Chapter 4 while she was living Chapter 1.

Neither could Naomi.

That’s often true for us as well.

Pastor Sam referenced Winston Churchill and the movie Darkest Hour. During World War II, many people wanted Churchill to surrender and negotiate with Hitler. Instead, he stood firm. What looked like a hopeless moment became one of the defining moments in history.

Dark seasons have a way of stripping away our illusions of control. They remind us that our hope was never supposed to rest in circumstances. When options disappear, many of us finally do what we should have been doing all along.

We hit our knees.

We open our Bibles.

We seek God.

The darkest hour often becomes the defining hour because it is where we learn to trust Him.

Pastor Sam’s second point was that what seemed like the end was only the beginning.

One of the most beautiful parts of Ruth’s story is watching how her identity changes throughout the book.

She begins as a foreigner.

An outsider.

Someone who doesn’t belong.

Over time, she becomes a servant. Then a woman worthy of respect. Eventually she becomes a wife and part of the family.

That progression mirrors the Gospel.

We come to Christ carrying sin, shame, and brokenness. Through His grace, we are welcomed into His family. What once defined us no longer has the final word.

Ruth thought she was simply trying to survive.

God was writing a much bigger story.

That’s what I thought about while looking at that green toolbox.

When my stepdad handed it to me all those years ago, neither of us were thinking about Brighton. We weren’t thinking about grandchildren. We weren’t thinking about future generations.

Yet here I was years later, placing tools into that same box for my son.

The toolbox wasn’t really about tools.

It was about legacy and love.

Stories are one of the ways legacy gets passed from one generation to the next. Every tool in that box carries a story. Some helped repair things in our home. Others helped build things for our family. A few were used by Brighton right alongside me.

I want him to see more than tools.

I want him to see faithfulness.

I want him to see service.

I want him to see what it looks like to care for your family and help your neighbors.

Legacy has to start somewhere.

Pastor Sam’s final point was that the story ended better than anyone could have imagined.

By the end of Ruth, we are introduced to a little baby boy named Obed.

Obed later becomes the father to Jesse.

Jesse goes on to become the father of David. Yes, the shepherd David that killed Goliath and went on to become king.

And eventually, generations later, Jesus was born in the City of David, Bethlehem.

Think about that for a moment.

Ruth walked a dusty road from Moab with Naomi believing she was leaving everything behind.

She gathered leftover barley in a field just trying to survive.

Yet God was weaving her story into His redemption story for the world.

Ruth thought she was building a life.

God was building a future for generations.

Pastor Sam illustrated this by painting on a canvas toward the end of the sermon. At first, the picture made sense. Then he began adding colors and brushstrokes that seemed to make it messier. The image became harder to understand.

Life often feels that way.

We see the unexpected diagnosis.

The difficult season.

The unanswered prayer.

The disappointment.

The delay.

We focus on the paint splatters. God sees the finished masterpiece.

At the end of the service, Pastor Sam revealed a beautiful landscape with a path running through it.

The path had been there the entire time.

We just couldn’t see it yet.

LIVE IT

Most of us are staring at paint splatters right now.

A difficult season.

A relationship that feels uncertain.

A prayer that hasn’t been answered.

A dream that seems delayed.

A chapter that doesn’t make sense.

Ruth reminds us that God often does His best work before we understand what He is doing.

The masterpiece is coming.

Trust God.

Keep walking.

Keep obeying.

Keep believing.

God is always working.

Never forget that.

DINNER TABLE DEVOTIONALS

1. Have you ever looked back and realized God was doing more than you understood at the time?

2. What legacy has someone passed down to you that you hope to pass on to others?

3. Why is it difficult to trust God when we can only see part of the picture?

4. What unfinished area of your life do you need to place in God’s hands this week?

PRAY IT

Lord, thank You for being faithful even when we cannot see what You are doing. Help us trust You in the middle of unfinished stories and uncertain seasons. Remind us that You see the whole picture while we only see a small part of it. Give us the faith to keep walking, keep trusting, and keep following You even when the path ahead isn’t clear. Thank You for Your redemption, Your provision, and Your promises that never fail. Amen.

A Final Word from After the Amen

Four weeks ago, Naomi was grieving.

Ruth was uncertain.

Boaz had not yet entered the story.

The future looked anything but hopeful.

By the end, God had done more than anyone imagined.

Naomi saw loss.

Ruth saw a dusty road.

Boaz saw responsibility.

God saw a masterpiece.

Just sit back and watch the Artist work.

Grandma told stories about growing up in the kind of cold that didn’t just rattle your bones—it stuck to them. She’d describe relatives who’d wake up with snow on their quilts. Not a metaphor, literal snow, sifting in through the roof and settling right there on the bed. I have never once worried about snow making its way onto my comforter. I didn’t know then just how different her reality had been.

The barn in winter had its own atmosphere. A different smell—a mix of iodine, manure, and warmth. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. It wasn’t a bad smell; it was just the smell of a barn. When it was full of cows or calves, the barn was noticeably warmer, alive with steam and sound. You’d walk in and calves would start bawling immediately, knowing milk bottles were on the way. They’d gulp them down so fast you’d swear they were more straw than stomach. Milk frothing from their mouth dripping onto already damp hay.

The milk barn was noisy. Machines buzzing, cows shifting, clanking, lowing. But the second you stepped outside, it was quiet again. The contrast was stark. Inside was chaos and life. Outside, it was wind and silence.

Milking cows wasn’t just a chore; it was a lifeline. Sick calves meant sleepless nights. They had to be watched, doctored, fed, and sometimes dragged in. The farm didn’t clock out. If the cows weren’t okay, life wasn’t okay. That’s why Grandma talked about those midnight checks like they were as normal as brushing your teeth.

I still remember one afternoon—well before I turned sixteen—getting off the bus at Grandma and Paw Paw’s house with a friend. Back then, no notes were needed. I just walked to the front of the bus while it was moving, told the driver I was hopping off at Grandma’s today and that I had a buddy with me. Imagine that now.

We barely got in the door before Grandma said, “There’s a calf up on the hill, Maury Doyle. Go get it and bring it down.”

So I did what any farm-raised kid would do. I looked at my friend and said, “Come on.” I grabbed the keys off the hook above the sink at the backdoor and headed for the red Dodge Ram in the shed.

My friend’s eyes got real wide.

“Wait, she’s not coming with us?”

“Why would she?” I asked.

I drove us up that steep hill, found the calf, picked it up underneath it’s back legs, dropped it in the bed of the truck, and made our way back down. My buddy was white-knuckled the whole time.

Me?

Just another Thursday.

That was life on the farm.

And what’s wild is how seamlessly those habits and sayings have followed me into adulthood. These days, my version of “midnight doctoring” means checking on kids with fevers, sitting beside beds after bad dreams, or sleeping on the floor next to them when they need Mama or Daddy close by.

Parents know exactly what I mean.

The moment a child calls out in the middle of the night, you clock in.

It’s your job.

More than that, it’s your calling.

Our kids are who God gave us to care for. Sometimes those sleepless nights are reminders of how patient and faithful He is with us. We wake up worried, hurting, afraid, or needing reassurance, and He never tells us to handle it ourselves.

He shows up.

That’s what loving responsibility does.

The older I get, the more I realize Grandma and Paw Paw weren’t just teaching us how to work. They were teaching us how to be faithful.

Not in flashy ways.

In ordinary ways.

They were careful stewards. Waste was almost a foreign concept to them. Gifts were often handmade—quilts, food, crafts, things created with their hands instead of bought with a credit card.

If somebody was sick, supper showed up.

If somebody needed help, they helped.

Not because it was convenient.

Because it was the right thing to do.

And maybe the thing I remember most is how consistent Grandma was.

A few weeks ago, I was talking with one of my cousins, and Grandma came up. My cousin said something that stopped me.

“I remember your Grandma staying the same age my whole life.”

I laughed because I knew exactly what she meant.

I feel the same way.

Of course she aged. But somehow she didn’t.

Her personality stayed the same.

Her character stayed the same.

The only real change I ever noticed was that she softened when the great-grandkids started showing up.

I have a picture of her holding Brighton as a baby. She’s just staring at him. Not talking. Not posing. Just soaking him in.

That picture says a lot.

Consistency is becoming a rare thing these days. Everyone is busy. Everyone is adjusting. Everyone is chasing the next thing.

Sometimes I think we need to learn how to say no and slow down.

God’s faithfulness is what sustains us, but having faithful people in our lives is a blessing too.

You always knew where you stood with Grandma.

You knew what she expected.

You knew she would do what she said.

You knew who she was.

That kind of consistency creates security.

It builds trust.

And trust gives people room to grow.

The mud boots stayed beside the back door in a cardboard box. One of those boxes that holds a case of six-pack Cokes.

Always ready.

Not worn the whole day.

Not displayed on a shelf.

Just ready.

The work would come eventually.

A calf would need help.

A neighbor would need supper.

A child would need comfort.

When the moment arrived, you put on your boots and went.

That’s probably why I love the phrase Faith With Work Boots On.

Grandma would have understood it immediately.

The boots represented responsibility.

They represented readiness.

They represented doing what needed to be done.

And when I think about the legacy I want to leave my own children, it isn’t really about accomplishments.

I want Karen and the kids to know what I’m going to do before I do it.

I want my yes to be yes.

I want them to be able to answer questions for me when I’m not there.

I want them to know that Daddy did what he said.

No contradictions.

No surprises.

Just consistency.

Because when I look back on Grandma and Paw Paw’s life, that may be the greatest gift they gave us.

Not the farm.

Not the trucks.

Not even the stories.

The gift of knowing.

Knowing they would show up.

Knowing they would help.

Knowing they would be who they had always been.

And in a world that changes by the hour, that kind of faithfulness feels more valuable than ever.

A Four-Week Journey Through Ruth

Our church is walking through the book of Ruth, and each week after the service, I’ll be sharing a companion devotional tied to that morning’s sermon. Think of this less as sermon notes and more as carrying Sunday into the rest of the week.

Because if we are honest, most of us need help connecting what we hear on Sunday morning to what we live on Monday afternoon.

This week, our Lead Pastor Sam Landrith taught through Ruth chapter three and reminded us that God sometimes focuses on the issue as a whole instead of the symptom. Our human minds usually focus on the symptom or the immediate need.

You can watch this week’s message here:

The Ultimate Redeemer - Ruth 3 with Sam Landrith

READ IT - Ruth 3:1-18

This morning, Pastor Sam continued our journey through the book of Ruth, and one of his points immediately reminded me of a trip to the dentist that did not go according to plan.

Several years ago, I went in expecting to have a cavity filled. That was already bad enough because I’ve never exactly enjoyed dental visits. Who does? As the hygienist began cleaning around the tooth, part of it simply crumbled. Suddenly, there was a partial tooth where a whole tooth was supposed to be. She looked concerned, left me sitting there holding the little vacuum in my own mouth, and returned with the dentist.

If you’ve ever had a dentist leave the room and come back looking serious, you know that’s not encouraging. Especially, when the dentist keeps repeating, “It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be fine.” I was like, “Are you telling me or yourself?”

They patched the tooth temporarily, but eventually I needed it pulled and replaced with a bridge. I walked into that appointment believing I had one problem. The dentist discovered a much deeper one.

As I listened to Pastor Sam teach through Ruth chapter 3, I couldn’t help but think about that story.

Ruth and Naomi had already experienced God’s provision. Ruth had gathered grain. They had food on the table. Life was improving. Yet the story was moving toward something much bigger than barley. Their greatest need had not been fully addressed. What they needed was someone willing to redeem what had been lost and restore their future.

OWN IT

One of Pastor Sam’s points was that Boaz recognized Ruth’s biggest need.

By chapter 3, Ruth had already seen God’s hand at work. She had found favor in Boaz’s field and returned home with enough grain to provide for herself and Naomi for the near future. From a human perspective, the immediate problem seemed solved.

But Boaz saw beyond the immediate need.

A kinsman-redeemer had the responsibility to protect, restore, rescue, and preserve a family’s future. The role was much larger than simply providing a meal or helping someone through a difficult week. Redemption involved stepping into someone’s story and changing its direction. Essentially, it was literally life changing.

That’s what makes this chapter so powerful.

So often, we pray about the symptom while God is working on the source. We ask Him to change circumstances, remove obstacles, or solve immediate problems. Sometimes He does exactly that. Other times, He is doing something deeper than we realize.

I’ve experienced that in my own life.

There were seasons when I prayed for a different job because I was convinced a new position was the answer. Looking back, I can see that God was shaping something much bigger than my employment situation. He was preparing me for a healthier environment, teaching me trust, and positioning me where He wanted me to be. What felt like a job problem at the time was really part of a larger process that I couldn’t yet see.

I think many of us live that way.

We focus on what is directly in front of us while God sees the whole picture.

Pastor Sam also pointed out that Boaz chose redemption rather than ridicule.

That statement stayed with me.

Boaz had every opportunity to dismiss Ruth, embarrass her, or send her away. Instead, he responded with kindness, dignity, and grace. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how closely that mirrors the heart of Jesus.

Pastor Sam referenced the famous Christ the Redeemer statue overlooking Rio de Janeiro. No matter where you are in the city, you can look up and see Christ standing there with His arms stretched wide. He also connected that image to the cross, where Jesus literally stretched out His arms for us.

That picture resonates with me because it reflects how Jesus continues to respond to His people.

Many Christians spend far too much time carrying guilt from sins that have already been forgiven. Satan loves reminding us of old failures, old mistakes, and old wounds. He whispers that God is disappointed, frustrated, or finished with us.

Yet Scripture tells a very different story.

God welcomed us when we were sinners. He pursued us before we ever pursued Him. He offered forgiveness before we deserved it. Every time we repent and return to Him, His arms remain open wide. His grace has not run out. His mercy has not expired. His love has not diminished.

That truth reminded me of a moment with one of my daughters.

We had an argument one day, and neither of us handled it particularly well. Harsh words were exchanged, feelings were hurt, and eventually we went our separate ways. Later, I went looking for her and found her sitting in her closet with her arms wrapped around her knees and her head hanging down.

I sat beside her.

I told her I loved her.

I told her I was sorry.

After a while, she apologized too, and together we moved forward.

Looking back, I’m grateful that reconciliation mattered more than winning the argument.

Grace has always been an important part of our home because grace has been such an important part of my life. Relationships thrive when people are willing to pursue restoration rather than keep score.

That’s exactly what Boaz offered Ruth.

And it’s exactly what Jesus offers us.

The final point Pastor Sam made was that Boaz graciously gave from his limited resources. He sent Ruth home carrying barley, but by the time she returned to Naomi, she was carrying something else as well.

She was carrying hope.

The grain would feed them for a season, but hope gave them something even more valuable. For the first time in a long time, Ruth and Naomi could see a future unfolding before them. They could see evidence that God had not forgotten them. They could see that redemption might actually be possible.

Hope changes people.

When hope disappears, discouragement settles in quickly. Life becomes heavier. The future feels darker. Even simple tasks become harder to carry.

I’ve certainly experienced disappointment, frustration, and difficult seasons. But I have never completely lost hope because my hope has never rested solely on circumstances. It rests on Christ and His redeeming love.

Ruth approached Boaz wondering how he would see her. She may have expected to be viewed as another widow in need of charity. Instead, she encountered someone who saw her value, her character, and her future.

The grain mattered.

The hope mattered more.

LIVE IT

Most of us are carrying something into God’s presence today.

A concern.
A struggle.
A frustration.
A prayer request.

Those things matter, and God cares about every one of them.

But this week, consider asking a different question.

Instead of focusing only on what you want God to remove, ask Him what He may be trying to accomplish.

What deeper work might He be doing?

What lesson might He be teaching?

What part of your character is He shaping?

What future blessing might He be preparing?

Ruth arrived at the threshing floor believing she understood her greatest need. By the end of the chapter, God had begun revealing something much larger.

The same is often true in our lives.

God sees farther than we do. He understands needs we haven’t yet recognized. He works on both the immediate problem and the deeper issue beneath it.

God doesn’t just fix the day.

He redeems the life.

DINNER TABLE DEVOTIONALS

1. Have you ever thought you had one problem, only to discover there was a bigger problem underneath it?

2. Why do people often try to fill spiritual needs with temporary solutions?

3. What is the difference between receiving help and experiencing redemption?

4. When have you experienced grace instead of judgment from someone you love?

PRAY IT

Lord, thank You for seeing beyond the needs we recognize and addressing the needs we often miss. Thank You for Your grace, Your patience, and Your redeeming love. Help us trust You when we cannot see the whole picture. Remind us that Your plans reach beyond today’s struggles and that Your desire is not simply to improve our circumstances but to transform our lives. Thank You for welcoming us with open arms and offering us hope through Jesus Christ. Amen.

Next Sunday in After the Amen

Next week, we’ll finish our journey through Ruth and see God’s redemption story come full circle. What began with famine, loss, and uncertainty will end with a reminder that God is always working toward a greater purpose than we can see in the moment.

See you next Sunday.

Tomorrow, June 3, 2026, marks twenty years for Karen and me. Twenty years married. Twenty years together. Almost twenty-six years together total. And somehow, after all this time, we still do not like being apart.

As I am writing this, Karen has been gone since Saturday taking Sophie to Universal Studios for her eleventh birthday. When Brighton turned eleven, Karen took him and surprised him with a Hogwarts letter welcoming him to school. Chloe got her turn a few years later with me, and now it was Sophie’s turn.

That’s kind of how we’ve always tried to parent. We’d rather build memories than just amass more stuff.

While one parent goes, the other one stays home and keeps the wheels turning for the rest of the crew.

And contrary to every sitcom husband stereotype ever created, the house did not burn down while Mama was away.

Because Karen and I are not amateurs.

The rhythm was different, sure. But not less steady. Things still have to keep going. Kids still need to eat. Laundry still has to be folded and put away. We still have to go to church. Work and school continue. Life still goes on.

Marriage is not 50/50 anyway.

Sometimes it’s 60/40.
Sometimes it’s 80/20.
And on bad days, it may be 20/80.

Healthy marriages are not built on keeping score. They’re built on both people trying to make the other person’s life a little easier.

Twenty years in, that’s probably the simplest marriage advice I know.

As I spent the week holding down the fort while Karen and Sophie were at Universal, I found myself thinking a lot about what twenty years of marriage actually looks like.

Monday night, the kids requested Daddy’s BTY burgers. That stands for Better Than Yours, which sounds arrogant until you eat one. Brighton even invited a friend over for supper, which I honestly loved. Growing up, our house was always open to friends. My Mama made our home feel safe and comfortable, and I want our kids’ friends to feel the same way about ours.

Every night before bed, Karen and Sophie would video call us. The kids looked forward to it every single evening.

Honestly, so did I.

I think that’s what I missed first. Bedtime.

Not because I cannot survive on my own but because that’s usually when Karen and I talk about the day. We talk about tomorrow. We decompress a little. We laugh. We solve problems. We sit in the quiet after the chaos.

And when your favorite person is not there, you notice it.

The house had a different rhythm all week.

Not bad.
Not broken.
Just different.

One thing I realized pretty quickly was that I needed to be a little less Daddy and a little more Mama while she was gone.

Not softer exactly. Just more intentional.

When frustrations got high, I found myself thinking, “How would Karen respond to this?” Because she usually balances me well, and without her there, I had to be more mindful about how I handled situations.

I think that matters.

Our kids are always watching us.

They’re learning how husbands talk about their wives when they are not in the room.
They’re learning whether marriage looks miserable or meaningful.
They’re learning if love becomes colder or deeper over time.

And I want them to know without a shadow of a doubt that their Mama and Daddy genuinely love each other and genuinely like each other.

That part matters, too.

Today, I took half a day off work so I could get things ready before Karen got home. I cleaned the kitchen, vacuumed the floors, changed the bed linens, straightened the house, made sure there were no dirty clothes, and tried to make home feel restful again before she walked through the door.

Because nobody wants to come home exhausted from traveling and immediately step into chores and responsibilities.

You try to anticipate each other’s needs after this many years.

If I have had a rough day, Karen will cook my favorite meal or tell the kids to give me a little space to decompress.

When she is stressed, I try to take things off her plate before she even asks.

You learn each other.

Or at least you should.

Guys, you cannot wait around for your wife to hold up a flashing neon sign that says SOMETHING IS WRONG. At least in my experience, you better learn the cues.

Karen and I are wired differently, but we both work hard to make life lighter for the other person.

And honestly, I think that is what keeps a house steady.

Not perfection.
Not grand romantic gestures.
Just two people carrying the load together.

When I picked Karen and Sophie up at the airport today, I noticed something immediately.

I had a little more pep in my step.
My smile was brighter. The air was better.
My world felt right again.

Like a piece of the puzzle had come back home.

Twenty years later, I still look for her in a crowd.

I still want to tell her about the funny thing that happened during the day.

I still sleep better when she’s on her side of the bed.

And when she walks through the door, home feels like home again.

That’s a pretty good gift after twenty years.

A Four-Week Journey Through Ruth

Our church is walking through the book of Ruth, and each week after the service, I’ll be sharing a companion devotional tied to that morning’s sermon. Think of this less as sermon notes and more as carrying Sunday into the rest of the week.

Because if we are honest, most of us need help connecting what we hear on Sunday morning to what we live on Monday afternoon.

This week, our Lead Pastor Sam Landrith taught through Ruth chapter two and reminded us that God is always working and there is no such thing as a coincidence. And maybe, just maybe, your biggest pain might be your biggest ministry.

You can watch this week’s message here:

God Always Provides Ruth 2 with Sam Landrith

READ IT - Ruth 2:1-23

This Wednesday, Karen and I will celebrate twenty years of marriage. (Come back Tuesday for a Grit & Wit post celebrating that.)

Which is funny, because there was a time when I didn’t even want to go on our first date.

Back in September of 2000, a friend of mine kept trying to convince me to join a group date. I kept telling him no. I wasn’t playing hard to get. I genuinely didn’t want to go.

For about nine months, I had stopped dating altogether. I was tired of the cycle. Get dressed up. Make a first impression. Spend money. Wonder if anything would come from it. Then do it all over again.

Nah.

Every night before bed, I would pray and ask God to bring me my wife because I was finished looking for her myself.

Then a friend called and informed me that plans had already been made and I was going anyway.

So I went.

Karen and I and some other people played putt-putt and went out to eat. My first impression was that she was gorgeous. My second impression was that she was smart. Really smart. We started talking over dinner and while playing putt-putt, and I quickly realized she could keep up with my humor. She was catching my subtle jokes and firing a few back at me.

At the end of the night, I walked her back to her car. Without even thinking about it, I asked if I could call her sometime.

She said yes.

As I walked back to my car, I remember shaking my head and thinking, “What in the world am I doing?”

Twenty-six years later, I’m still glad I asked.

Looking back, there were so many moving parts that had to come together for us to meet. A cousin. A grocery store. A friendship. A fender bender. Another friendship. A group date I didn’t want to attend.

At the time, it looked random.

Now it looks like providence.

OWN IT

One of Pastor Sam’s points was simple but powerful: God always provides.

In Ruth chapter 2, Naomi and Ruth are struggling. They have no husband, no security, and very few options. Ruth goes out looking for grain and “just happens” to end up in the field of Boaz.

The problem with the phrase “just happens” is that it makes God’s work sound accidental.

It wasn’t.

Boaz was exactly where God wanted him to be.

Ruth was exactly where God wanted her to be.

And God’s provision was already waiting for her before she arrived.

It was customary for harvesters to leave grain around the edges of the field for people in need. God had already built provision into the system before Ruth ever knew she would need it.

That’s how God often works.

He knows our next steps before we do.

He prepares things before we arrive.

He provides before we even know what to ask for.

Ruth thought she was looking for grain.

God was putting her in Boaz’s field.

Ruth thought she was gathering barley.

God was gathering a redemption story.

The field Ruth walked into looked ordinary, but the extra barley was not the only provision she was about to harvest.

Pastor Sam also reminded us that provision does not mean there are no problems.

That’s an important distinction.

Sometimes we think God’s provision means He removes every obstacle, solves every problem, and smooths every rough road.

But that’s not what happened to Ruth.

And it hasn’t always happened to me either.

Years ago, I spent about eight months without a job. I remember the fear that came with that first day. How am I going to pay my bills? Am I going to lose my house? My car?

Those thoughts can get loud in a hurry.

But month after month, God provided.

He provided through odd jobs. He provided through generous people. He provided through opportunities I never expected. Somehow, there was always enough.

Not always extra.

But enough.

I continued to tithe during that season because who was I to withhold from God when He was so faithfully providing for me?

Looking back, I can clearly see God’s hand all over that season. At the time, I mostly saw the problem.

The biggest lie we believe during difficult seasons is that God has abandoned us.

He hasn’t.

The difficulty is just loud.

Another thing Pastor Sam said stuck with me all day. He quoted A.W. Tozer:

“It is doubtful whether God can bless a man greatly until He has hurt him deeply.”

I think there is truth there.

To have a Provider, you must first have a need.

If everything is always going well, it becomes easy to miss God altogether.

Some of the greatest lessons I’ve learned came from painful seasons. My parents’ divorce taught me how important it is to love my wife well and be present for my children. It also allowed me to connect with students who were walking through similar situations. I remember students thanking me simply for saying out loud that divorce doesn’t magically end when the paperwork is signed. Kids often carry those wounds long after everyone else thinks the crisis is over.

Pain is never pleasant.

But in God’s hands, it is never meaningless.

Your biggest pain might become one of your biggest ministries.

The same God who used Ruth’s hardship to position her for blessing can use our struggles for His glory too.

God always provides.

God always has a purpose.

God always keeps His promises.

LIVE IT

Where in your life are you dismissing providence as coincidence?

Maybe it’s a relationship.
Maybe it’s a closed door.
Maybe it’s a delay.
Maybe it’s a conversation.
Maybe it’s a season you don’t yet understand.

What if God is doing more than you can currently see?

Waiting on God doesn’t mean sitting still.

Ruth didn’t stay home waiting for provision to knock on her door.

She got up and went to the field.

Waiting on God means continuing to walk faithfully while staying attentive to His movement.

Keep walking.

Keep trusting.

Keep looking for God’s hand.

He is working even when you don’t see it.

DINNER TABLE DEVOTIONALS

1. Have you ever had something happen that seemed like a coincidence at first but later looked like God was involved?

2. Why do you think it is easier to see God’s provision in hindsight than in the moment?

3. What is the difference between waiting on God and doing nothing?

4. What are some ways God has provided for our family that we might overlook?

PRAY IT

Lord, thank You for being a God who provides. Help us trust You when we cannot see the whole picture. Give us eyes to recognize Your hand at work in ordinary moments and remind us that what looks like coincidence may actually be Your providence. Help us keep walking faithfully while we wait on You and trust that You are already preparing what we need before we arrive. Amen.

Next Sunday in After the Amen

We’ll continue our journey through Ruth as Boaz begins to step into his role as redeemer and we see an even clearer picture of the redemption God has been building all along.

See you next Sunday afternoon.

A few years ago, our family lost a man named Mr. Paul. He wasn’t related to us by blood, but somewhere along the way, he became family anyway.

The older I get, the more I realize men like him shaped far more of this country than they ever got credit for.

If you walked into the room, you might not have noticed him right away.

Mr. Paul was usually sitting quietly in a recliner in the corner, his black 101st Airborne hat sitting on top of his head as he simply took it all in. His eyes were always moving behind his glasses, observing, aware, present. Not nervous. Just attentive. Like someone who had spent a lifetime learning to pay attention to the world around him.

My Mama introduced him to us as “Mr. Paul,” and that’s what he became to our family. My kids called him “sir” first and foremost out of respect. Around our house, he was never “the war hero” or “the veteran.” He was just Mr. Paul.

And honestly, I think he liked it that way.

At any gathering we had, if Mama and Tom invited him, he would come. He didn’t really have a designated spot in the house, but we all knew the recliner was his. If one of the kids was sitting there when he walked in, they got up without being asked. It was just understood.

He was talkative and quiet at the same time, if that makes sense. He wasn’t a loud personality. He never made things about himself. But if you sat down beside him and asked about World War II, he would answer without hesitation. His voice sounded like someone who had lived a long life because he had. If wisdom had a tone, he had it.

I never saw him wear anything except that black 101st Airborne hat.

My youngest kids would run up to him with drawings or whatever toy they were obsessed with that week. He would take it carefully in his hands, look it over like it mattered, smile, and hand it back. Sometimes they would just grin at each other for a second like old friends.

They felt seen by him.

He was like an extra grandpa they got to have.

Karen always made sure he didn’t have to fix his own plate or carry it back to the kitchen when he finished eating. He was very mannerly and always appreciative. He would smile softly and say, “Thank you.”

That’s the picture I still see when I think about him.

Not the war stories.

Not the battles.

Just Mr. Paul sitting quietly in a room full of family, wearing his 101st hat while children showed him toys and drawings.

Then one day, my Mama and Tom started telling me more about his story.

And oh boy.

Paul Jackson was a World War II veteran in the 101st Airborne Division. After Pearl Harbor, he was stationed in California, but he felt called to do more. He requested to become a paratrooper. At the time, he was a staff sergeant, but his commanding officer denied the request.

Eventually, his former commander, General George Patton, intervened and Paul was allowed to transfer. But there was a cost. His captain stripped him of his rank.

At 21 years old, Paul willingly took a demotion from staff sergeant to corporal because he believed it was the right thing to do.

That tells you almost everything you need to know about the man right there.

He parachuted into Normandy on D-Day knowing full well it might be the last jump of his life. He fought in multiple battles across Europe and later jumped into Operation Market Garden, where he was wounded after a tank took a direct hit nearby.

Despite being injured, he climbed a hill, spotted an enemy rocket launcher team, and took out five soldiers by himself.

By himself.

Then came the Battle of the Bulge.

In the bitter cold of Bastogne, Paul was shot three times in the hip. He spent five months in the hospital before being honorably discharged from the 101st Airborne in 1945.

And yet…if you met him later in life, you would have never guessed the depth of what he had lived through.

He didn’t walk easily anymore. His movement was slow and deliberate. He got from Point A to Point B with as few footsteps as possible. Sometimes he would steady himself using furniture, or one of us would help him.

His body definitely remembered the war.

But he never carried himself like anyone owed him something because of it.

One time he bought one of those “high-tech” televisions and asked me to come hook it up for him. I went over to his apartment, which was neat, clean, and simple. There was an American flag hanging on the wall. Nothing flashy. Nothing dramatic. Just a quiet apartment where an old soldier liked watching boxing and UFC fights on television.

After I got everything connected, he pulled out his wallet to pay me.

I laughed and told him there was no way I was taking money for hooking up a TV.

But he insisted for a moment because, to him, time and effort mattered. Gratitude mattered.

That generation understood something about humility.

Paul always thanked people when they thanked him for his service. His eyebrows would raise slightly, he would shake their hand, and quietly say, “Thank you.”

Not because he wanted attention.

Honestly, I think he was uncomfortable with attention.

He was just raised to show respect.

The older I get, the more I appreciate men like that.

Today, everything feels loud. Everybody is broadcasting themselves. Everybody wants recognition. Everybody wants credit.

But the strongest men I’ve ever known usually didn’t spend much time telling you how strong they were. Men like Paul simply did the right thing because they believed it was the right thing to do.

Even when it cost them.

Even when it hurt.

Even when nobody applauded.

I think that’s one reason Memorial Day matters so much.

It’s not just a long weekend. It’s not just cookouts and mattress sales.

It’s remembrance.

Not necessarily sadness, but respectful reflection.

Because freedom has names and faces attached to it.

Sometimes it looks like a 21-year-old paratrooper jumping into Normandy.

And sometimes it looks like an old man sitting quietly in a recliner while little kids show him small car and trucks or stuff animals.

I hope my children remember that.

I hope they remember that courage is not always loud.

I hope they remember that humility makes bravery even more powerful.

I hope they remember that Mr. Paul did the right thing even when the right thing was hard.

And I hope they remember that some of the greatest heroes you’ll ever meet might simply be sitting quietly in the corner of the room, smiling at children, saying “thank you,” while carrying stories most of us could never imagine.

Sometimes the only thank you people like that may ever fully receive will be in heaven one day.

And somehow, I think Mr. Paul would have been perfectly OK with that.

If you’re new here, Grit & Wit is where I write about faith, family, humor, legacy, and the kinds of ordinary people who leave lasting marks on our lives.

A Four-Week Journey Through Ruth

Over the next four Sundays, I wanted to try something a little different here on Grit & Wit.

Our church is walking through the book of Ruth, and each week after the service, I’ll be sharing a companion devotional tied to that morning’s sermon. Think of this less as sermon notes and more as carrying Sunday into the rest of the week.

Because if we are honest, most of us need help connecting what we hear on Sunday morning to what we live on Monday afternoon.

This week, David Nasser taught through Ruth chapter one and reminded us that even in seasons of famine, loss, disappointment, and silence, God is still building redemption.

Sometimes the black velvet comes before the diamond.
Sometimes the famine comes before the harvest.
Sometimes the test comes before the testimony.

But God is faithful through all of it.

READ IT—Ruth 1:1-22

This morning at church, David Nasser walked us through Ruth chapter one, and one of the things he said immediately grabbed my attention.

He called Ruth chapter one “the black velvet before the diamond.”

I thought that was such a powerful picture.

In movies, when someone opens a bag of diamonds, the first thing you usually notice is the black velvet surrounding them. The darkness comes before the brilliance. The contrast is what makes the diamond shine even brighter.

Ruth chapter one feels like that black velvet.

Famine.
Loss.
Grief.
Disappointment.
Questions.
Silence.

But hidden inside all of that darkness, God was already building redemption.

You can watch this week’s message here:

When God Feels Quiet Ruth 1 with David Nasser

OWN IT

David also pointed out something I had never really thought deeply about before.

Elimelech left Judah during the famine and traveled to Moab searching for life and provision. Ironically, he left in order to live, yet he and his sons ended up dying there.

That hit me.

Especially when David described the famine in Judah almost as a form of pruning. During the time of the judges, God’s people were spiritually wandering. Things were messy. People were rebellious. Yet sometimes God allows pressure not to destroy His people, but to draw them back to Him.

Unfortunately, most of us do not listen very well when life is easy.

God often uses tests before testimonies.

That reminded me of a season in my own life a few years ago that I’ve shared about before here on Grit & Wit.

I applied for a job I desperately wanted. In my mind, God and I were completely on the same page. Looking back now, I realize I was mostly telling God what I wanted instead of actually asking Him what He wanted for me.

Then I did not get the job.

For a few days afterward, I was frustrated and disappointed. I remember thinking, “What the world, God?”

I felt unheard.

But eventually God opened another door that ended up being far better for me and my family. Instead of driving thirty minutes one-way every day, I now work from home in a role that actually uses not only my educational background, but also the managerial experience I had built over years in retail.

God knew what I needed better than I did.

Funny how often that happens.

One thing I love about Naomi in Ruth chapter one is this: even in her pain, she still called Him “the Lord” and “the Almighty.”

She was hurting.
She was bitter.
She was confused.

But she still knew where her hope ultimately rested.

That matters.

Because sometimes faith is not pretending everything is fine.
Sometimes faith is dragging your exhausted heart back to God anyway.

David also said something else that stuck with me:
“Loyalty reveals the character of a friend.”

Ruth stayed.

Not because it was convenient.
Not because there was something to gain.
Not because the future looked promising.

She stayed because Naomi had shown her something real about God.

That made me think about my friend Mateo.

David described “deal friends” as people connected mainly by circumstance. You work together, live near each other, or share hobbies, but when life changes, the relationship fades.

A real friend stays.

During a difficult season at work, Mateo not only stood beside me, he spoke up for me without even being asked. That is the kind of loyalty Ruth showed Naomi.

Sometimes the greatest ministry is simply being present.

Not fixing.
Not preaching.
Not having all the answers.

Just sitting beside someone in their pain with your hand on their shoulder letting them know they are not alone.

Ruth had no idea her small act of loyalty would become part of a much bigger redemption story. The beautiful part of Ruth’s story is that this grieving Moabite widow eventually becomes part of the genealogy of Jesus Himself.

Nobody in chapter one could see that coming.

Naomi could not.
Ruth could not.
The people around them could not.

But redemption was already growing long before they recognized it.

And maybe that is true in your life too.

LIVE IT

Are you walking through a difficult season right now?

Does life feel disappointing, confusing, silent, or uncertain?

Maybe what feels like a famine is actually God drawing you closer to Him.

Pay attention this week to the quiet blessings we often overlook:

• faithful friends,

• encouraging words,

• family gathered in the next room,

• daily provision,

• peace in ordinary moments.

The hard things in life tend to be loud.

But God’s blessings are often quiet.

Do not miss them.

DINNER TABLE DEVOTIONALS

1. Can you think of a rough time our family went through that later turned into something good?

2. What makes someone a real friend instead of just a “deal friend”?

3. Have you ever felt disappointed because God answered a prayer differently than you expected?

4. Why do you think God sometimes grows us most during difficult seasons?

PRAY IT

Lord, help us trust You during seasons where life feels uncertain or painful. Remind us that Your presence does not disappear during hard times. Help us recognize the quiet ways You continue providing, sustaining, and redeeming even when we cannot yet see the full picture. Thank You for always giving us what we need, even when it is not what we originally wanted. Amen.

Next Sunday in After the Amen
We’ll continue our journey through Ruth as we step into chapter two and begin to see how God often provides hope in ordinary places and through unexpected people.

Sometimes redemption starts with something as simple as showing up in the field one more day.

See you next Sunday.

“The other boys will take lessons from you one way or another. They will learn from you. We never know who is watching us and who is trying to pattern their lives after ours.”
— Grandma Pauline

When I read that part of Grandma Pauline’s letter, I didn’t just hear her voice. I heard wisdom echoing across generations.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in parenting, teaching, coaching, and just plain living, it’s this: somebody’s always watching, even when you think no one notices and even when you are alone.

As a kid, I didn’t understand what “setting an example” really meant. I just knew my little brothers followed me around like I was the second coming of Superman (sometimes), minus the cape and with significantly worse decision-making.

If I rode my bike down a hill too fast, they did too. If I jumped off the porch, they jumped farther. If I said something sarcastic, they repeated it louder.

Whether I liked it or not, I was their blueprint.

And looking back, it’s honestly amazing any of us survived childhood with all our teeth intact.

We lived in an old farmhouse with ten-foot ceilings, which apparently translated in three boys’ minds to: “Perfect indoor sports arena.” We used to play kickball in our bedroom with a foam soccer ball like we were in the seventh game of the World Series.

My mama had lamps with glass chimneys on them, and let’s just say more than one of them died in the line of duty.

To her credit, Mama eventually developed a system.

If company was coming over, the glass lamp shades went back on. The rest of the time? She removed them preemptively like a woman living in a tornado zone.

That should tell you everything you need to know about our household.

We played games that, looking back now as a father, make me wonder if our guardian angels had mandatory overtime. But mixed in with all the laughter and chaos was a truth I didn’t understand until years later:

Little brothers are always learning from big brothers.

Unfortunately, they don’t just learn the good.

One summer afternoon, we were playing baseball in Grandma and Paw Paw’s front yard. The four trees in the yard made the perfect diamond. The heat was thick enough to wear, and the sunlight angled through those trees just right.

Everything was fine until it wasn’t.

As brothers tend to do, we got into an argument. I don’t even remember what it was about now. Probably something deeply important to children and completely meaningless to adults.

Who was safe.
Who was out.
Who was being annoying.

Something like that.

But I remember exactly how I reacted.

I got mad.

And when my middle brother Sean took off toward the house, I threw an aluminum bat after him.

Let’s be clear: I didn’t toss it, and I didn’t throw it beside him. I launched it. I wanted to scare him.

But the second that bat left my hand and started spinning through the air like a helicopter rotor, I knew I had messed up. I just stood there and watched in slow motion as the bat got closer and closer to Sean.

It hit him square in the back. Sean flinched hard and yelled in pain before running toward the house.

And then the entire yard went quiet.

I just sat there thinking:

I messed up.

Grandma came outside fussing, and rightfully so. I tried to apologize, but honestly, how do you apologize for throwing an aluminum bat at somebody?

I knew it was wrong. I knew I had let my temper get ahead of my judgment.

And more than getting in trouble, I hated the realization that I had hurt somebody who looked up to me.

That moment never left me. Not because of the punishment.

Because of the weight of it.

People are watching. Especially the people who matter most.

Years later, I’ve realized that lesson never really goes away.

Now I have four kids of my own ranging from seven to sixteen, and trust me, they see everything.

The way I talk to their mama when I’m stressed.

The way I react when plans fall apart.

The way I handle frustrating emails.

The way I treat servers at restaurants.

The way I respond when I hit my hand with a hammer.

They’re always watching. And if I’m honest, sometimes they’re watching me get it wrong.

More than once, I’ve fussed at the wrong child for something I thought they did. Anybody with four kids under one roof knows that sometimes the facts get blurry in the heat of the moment.

Nothing humbles you quite like confidently delivering a lecture only to realize halfway through that you’ve accused the innocent one.

So I’ve had to learn to say something that doesn’t always come naturally to parents:

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

And strangely enough, I think those moments matter too. Because our kids don’t just learn from watching how we lead. They learn from watching how we repent.

Not that long ago, Karen asked me to help take down the greenhouse I built in our backyard a few years ago. The roof panels had started sagging, and the wood had faded into that grayish color old boards get after enough Tennessee summers.

I walked outside with my impact driver, already sweating before I ever got started.

Before I could remove the first screw, my oldest son came walking out the back door in socks with another drill in his hand.

“Where you want me to start?” he asked. He missed a few screws at first. I watched the bit skip and spin. So I stepped over and rested my hand lightly on his wrist.

“We feel for the screw and the bit to connect,” I told him. “Straight lines make the work easier. If you angle the drill, it’ll strip the screw. That’ll make things harder.”

He nodded and kept going.

There were no speeches or big life lessons, just the sound of drills whining and screws hitting the grass.

And standing there beside him, it hit me:

This is what Grandma was talking about.

Somebody’s always watching.

Not just in homes either.

Classrooms.
Churches.
Locker rooms.
Offices.
Ballfields. Again…ballfields.

Years ago, I taught sixth grade English.

Recently, I got a message from one of my former students.

He’s grown now. Married. Working as a welder. Preparing to go into ministry.

Part of what he wrote said this:

“You were set in my life as a living example of our Lord.”

And then this line:

“At the time I never even knew it.”

That message stopped me cold. Because most of the time, we have no idea who’s paying attention. We don’t know who’s watching how we respond under pressure. We don’t know who notices kindness.

Or patience.

Or consistency.

Or calm.

But somebody usually does.

Karen told me once that being married to me makes her feel safe.

Honestly, that may be the greatest compliment I’ve ever received.

To me, “safe” means she knows I’m going to protect this family emotionally, spiritually, and physically.

It means loyalty. Consistency. Calm during chaos.

I’ve always said people are either thermostats or thermometers.

You either control the environment or the environment controls you.

And as the husband and father, I believe it’s my responsibility before God to help set the tone in our home. Not perfectly, loudly, or arrogantly. Just steadily.

But I also know this:

I couldn’t do any of it without Karen.

Her support, encouragement, steadiness, and love make our home what it is.

We see marriages falling apart around us all the time now, and honestly, it just makes me want to work harder at mine.

Because somebody’s watching.

My boys are learning how to love their future wives.

My girls are learning what kind of man feels safe.

And all of them are learning what faith looks like when it’s lived out in ordinary moments.

If I’m being honest, I still struggle sometimes with wanting affirmation.

I work hard. Most people do.

And anybody who says they never want encouragement is probably lying.

But the older I get, the more I come back to that verse:

“Whatever you do, do it from the heart, as something done for the Lord and not for people.”

That changes things.

Because if we spend our whole lives chasing applause from people, we’ll always be exhausted. But if we live in a way that honors God, eventually everything else settles where it belongs.

Last night, we were driving home from a baseball game in Nashville when a song came on the radio called “God I’m Just Grateful.”

Right before the chorus, my youngest son Grayson suddenly perked up and said:

“It sounds like they’re saying my name!”

Then he started singing loudly from the backseat:

“Grayson…I’m just grateful for you!”

And we absolutely lost it.

The kids were laughing. I was laughing.
I was wiping tears out of my eyes up front because I was laughing so hard.

It was one of those moments that probably won’t matter to the rest of the world.

But it mattered to us.

And honestly, those are the moments where legacy is usually built.

Not in giant speeches, perfect parenting, or big public moments, but in car rides, late-night talks, greenhouse tear-downs, baseball games, family laughter, and quiet apologies.

That’s where the real story gets told.

Because somebody’s always watching.

And if we’re doing it right, eventually somebody learns how to live well by watching how we love well.

This is one of them.

“You have growed up in a whole different world of things than we did. Just think the good things you have. Running water and a bathroom. Flip a switch and a light will come on. Electricity. Heat. Wonder we hadn’t froze.”
— Grandma Pauline

Wood Dairy and Sons is what provided for my upbringing.

My daddy milked cows twice a day with my uncle and Paw Paw. Twice. A. Day. There were no days off, no sleeping in on the weekends. The only real breaks we had were the occasional trip to Gatlinburg in the summer, and even then, it took some serious coordination. On Christmas morning, we didn’t tear into presents at the crack of dawn like other kids. First, Daddy had to finish milking and check the furnace for wood before he came inside. That was life. And at the time, I didn’t think much of it—other than maybe feeling a little impatient while waiting. Honestly, it made Christmas last a little bit longer.

I had the kind of childhood where walking into a milk barn was normal. It was loud. It was cold in the winter and hot in the summer. It smelled like cows and we’ll just say “other stuff.” It was honest, backbreaking work that happened whether you were tired or not, whether it was Christmas or Tuesday, rain or shine. My brothers and I did not milk many cows growing up because whenever we were in the barn, the cows focused more on us then they did their job.

Before the dairy farm, my grandfather lived on his family’s land. Paw Paw used to tell stories about how the interstate cut their original family farm in half. I can still hear the aggravation in his voice when he talked about men showing up with clipboards, putting a price on land and equipment they didn’t even understand. They didn’t know the name of a single piece of equipment or how much hay that pasture had yielded last year—but they still named a price and took it.

Paw Paw would explain, “Those men said I could build new barns. I said that I liked the ones I got. Giving me prices for things that they didn’t even know what they were.” If you wanted to see the rare fire in Paw Paw’s eyes, just bring up the interstate.

So he and Grandma started over a few miles away. They bought the farm that I spent a lot of time growing up on and that my brother still lives on today and built a new life. Piece by piece. That’s when Wood Dairy and Sons really became more than a name. It was a legacy.

I grew up eating from our garden. We had a deep freeze full of beef—from hamburger to steaks—and fresh milk we didn’t have to buy in a jug. Mama only went to the store for staples. I joke now that I grew up eating organic before it was trendy. No one called it “farm to table.” It was just dinner.

I also grew up in a farmhouse almost one hundred years old that was cooled by window units. It was a bigger, older house, and in the summer, we’d have to shut the doors to rooms we weren’t using that much so we could trap the cool air in the parts we lived in. At the time, it never occurred to me that we were doing something special. That was just life. Now, I look back and see the ingenuity. The sacrifice. The quiet efficiency of making do with what you had and doing it without complaint.

Funny side-note—While we were on vacation, we would keep our hotel rooms like they were a meat locker. We took advantage of that air conditioner.

Grandma and Paw Paw gave me a piece of advice before I got married that stuck with me. They said a lot of people get married expecting to have everything their parents have, right away, without realizing it took their parents decades to build that kind of life. That wisdom didn’t fully land until I had a mortgage, bills, and a minivan with goldfish crackers and crayons buried in between the seats.

When Grandma passed away, I stood next to Paw Paw at the funeral home during visitation. He was about ninety. Frail, but still strong in the ways that matter. He had a hump in his back, the result of a barn loft fall as a kid that never healed right. He told me he was supposed to stay in bed for weeks to recover and let his spine straighten back out, but life on a farm doesn’t wait on anything. So he got up and kept going. Fences needed mending. Cows needed milking. Work needed doing.

I remember hugging him as a boy and feeling that hump in his back. I asked him about it once. Just once. After he told me the story, I never brought it up again.

That day at the funeral home, as he stood looking at the woman he’d loved for over fifty years, he said quietly, “I don’t know how people go through tough times like this without God, family and people around them.”

I didn’t have anything profound to say. I just put my arm around him, patted his back, and said, “Me neither, Paw Paw. Me neither.”

Reflection: “Want” is not evil, but it isn’t wise either.

As a kid, I didn’t get it. Not really.

The “want” in me wasn’t evil, but it wasn’t exactly wise either. I didn’t understand that money paid for everything—not just toys and fast food, but things like electricity, insurance, and gas we got regularly at the Co-Op. I didn’t understand why sometimes we had to say no. Or why Mama bought the store-brand at times. Or why Daddy worked so many hours. I had a very blessed childhood, but not one built on excess. We were comfortable. My parents took great care of me and my two brothers.

Now, as a dad, I see it differently. Completely.

When Karen and I got married, we had one of those “grocery budget” conversations early on. I remember telling her we didn’t need to buy much meat when I was younger because we always had a freezer full. That’s when it hit me—my childhood wasn’t just good. It was different. Mama bought only the essentials at the store because everything else came from the farm: garden veggies, milk, and beef. We still had to get eggs because our farm lacked chickens.

I still carry that mindset. I believe hard work gives value to what we have. If it’s handed to you, it doesn’t mean as much. Sometimes you don’t take care of it like you should.

I want my kids to know that.

It’s hard for them to imagine a world where you had to hang clothes on a line to dry or go outside to use the bathroom (I did not, but Paw Paw and Grandma did). And while I’m thankful they haven’t had to live through that kind of inconvenience, I do want them to understand the effort behind comfort.

Where I live now, my Grandma would probably say she’s very proud of me. But I still mow my own yard. I know plenty of people pay for landscaping. My brother even built a business off of it. Nothing wrong with that. But if I have the time and the energy to do it myself, I do it. I’ve said that to my kids before and gotten a few eye rolls. I just smile and keep pushing the mower or fixing whatever needs fixing at the moment.

Same thing with going to eat. These days, we’d rather eat at our own kitchen table than go to a restaurant. The food might not come on fancy plates all the time, but it’s cooked with love—and for us. One of our kids asked if we could eat supper outside recently. We did. In the middle of the meal, they looked around and said, “This is nice.”

They were right. It was.

It’s not about the convenience. It’s about the connection. The care. Karen’s cooking is amazing—not because it’s gourmet (it is the best) but because it’s made with intention. And that intention matters more than anything on a menu.

I’ve also learned how to fix a lot of things around the house thanks to my stepdad, Tom. I’m trying to show my kids how much we save as a family by installing appliances or repairing things myself. That’s money we can spend on what we need and want.

You could say I’ve traded the farm life for a house on less than an acre. But let’s be honest: you can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy. I am proud that most people can tell I grew up in a rural part of Tennessee.

These days, when I’m mowing, and I catch a whiff of fresh-cut grass, it’s about as close to the smell of hay as I get now. And when a diesel truck drives by, I think of stepping off the school bus and heading out to rake hay with Paw Paw. That smell brings it all back. The rhythm. The work. The way they helped raise me by instilling a good work ethic.

My life now is easier in a lot of ways than Grandma and Paw Paw’s ever was. But because of them, I recognize blessings differently now.

I know wealth isn’t always measured in money. Sometimes it looks like a freezer full of beef, a garden out back, parents who showed up every day, and grandparents who taught you how to work without ever calling it a lesson.

Sometimes it smells like diesel fuel and fresh-cut hay.

Sometimes it sounds like your Mama calling from the back porch that supper’s almost ready.

And sometimes, the richest parts of your childhood are the things you don’t fully appreciate until years later.

Paw Paw told me before he passed that I had a great family and to “keep it up.” That meant more to me than he probably knew. I think he and Grandma would say I’ve grown into a good man. Not because life’s been easy but because their legacy taught me how to live well, love hard, and never forget where I came from.

I want my kids to carry that with them. I think they are. They say thank you a lot. They notice when things are fixed or meals are made. They know things don’t just show up—they take effort.

And maybe one day, when my kids are raising kids of their own, they’ll look back and realize what I’ve come to know for sure:

Hard isn’t bad. Sometimes it’s just holy.

When I think about the most important mothers in my life, two words come to mind.

My Mama was foundational.

Karen is the template.

The Bible talks about a woman who “opens her mouth with wisdom and loving instruction is on her tongue.” Book of Proverbs 31:26

That’s my Mama.

She always knew the right thing to say. Not just to me, but to everyone. Our house was never just our house. It was everybody’s house. Friends came over, ate supper with us, went on vacations with us, and somehow always felt like they belonged. When they started calling her “Mama Sharon,” I remember feeling proud. I knew she was great, but hearing other people say it? That meant something.

A normal evening at our house looked a lot like a meat-and-three restaurant.

Three growing boys running around outside until the sun started going down. Then the back door would open and we’d hear, “Supper’s almost ready.” That was our cue. We’d come in hungry and sit down like kings. At least that’s what it felt like.

After supper, Mama would sit in her chair with a lamp hanging over her shoulder and cross-stitch. Night after night. Making something for someone else. That’s just who she was. Still is.

To this day, some of the things she’s made are my most prized possessions. I’ve got a Christmas tree skirt she made that means more to me than anything you could buy in a store.

She built the foundation of who I am.

I remember when I turned sixteen, she went with me to get my first car. It was a first for both of us. She had never bought one on her own either. But we figured it out together. I was proud of that car…but looking back, I’m more proud of her.

Home, because of her, felt like this quiet promise:
You’ll always have what you need.

And then there’s Karen.

Proverbs 31 says, “Her husband is known at the city gates…” and on the surface, that sounds like it’s talking about me. But if I’m being honest, the only reason I have the confidence to lead, to step out, to be known in any space I walk into…is because of her.

Karen is the engine that makes our home run.

Most of what I do is visible. What she does? It happens behind the curtain. And if I tried to list it all, we’d hit a character limit before I got halfway through.

Her brain is like a financial app. She knows prices, interest rates, terms—things I didn’t even know were things to know. I’ve learned to at least be part of the conversation, but more often than not, the right answer is, “Whatever you think, Karen.” And she’s usually right.

But what she really does is make people feel seen.

When Brighton turned 11, she started something that’s now become a tradition. Each of our kids gets a one-on-one trip to Universal Studios, complete with a Hogwarts letter to kick it off. No distractions. Just time with Mama or Daddy. And when you’re there, the whole day is simply, “What do you want to do?” or “Where do you want to go?”

It’s not just a trip. It’s a memory they’ll carry forever.

And that’s who she is.

She looks for ways to create those “wow” moments.

She surprises me with glass bottle Sun Drops. She lets me buy Batman costumes that are probably overpriced. She cooks my favorite meal when I’ve had a long day.

And then there are the things nobody sees.

She prays for me. For our kids. For our family.
She stays in her Bible consistently. And whether she knows it or not, it pushes me to stay in mine too.

You know how on an airplane they tell you to put your oxygen mask on first?

I’ve told her that applies to her too.

She just smiles and says, “I’ve got to take care of my babies first.” We don’t always agree on that part…but I understand her heart.

Because I saw that same kind of love growing up.

After my parents divorced, there were times I knew my Mama wasn’t fully appreciated. And somewhere along the way, I made a quiet decision: I wanted a wife like my Mama…but I wanted to love her the way my Mama deserved to be loved.

And God didn’t just answer that prayer.

He exceeded it.

Karen takes care of me in a way that’s obvious to anyone who watches us for five minutes. We still hold hands walking through the grocery store. We fall asleep the same way. Yes, we’re those people.

And I’m not even a little bit sorry about it. Not one bit.

My kids get the best of both worlds.

An amazing grandmother.
An incredible mother.

And I tell them sometimes, I might be the one doing a little chiseling as they grow…but their Mama is the polish. She’s the one who makes them shine.

My Mama made me shine.

Karen is doing the same for them.

If you asked my kids about my Mama, they’d say, “MeeMee is awesome.”

If you asked them about Karen, they’d say, “We have the best Mama in the world.”

And honestly…they wouldn’t be wrong.

Both of them would give their last dollar for those kids without thinking twice.

So today, I just want to say this:

Mama, thank you for the foundation you built. I see it now more than I ever did before. I would not be the man, husband, and father I am today without you.

Karen, when I prayed for a wife and a mother for my future children, I never imagined God would check every box. He not only gave me what I asked for, but He gave me what I needed.

And I’m better for it. And so are my kids.

Happy Mother’s Day to you Sharon Wiegand and Karen Wood. The world is a better place because the both of you are in it.

Especially mine.

Ephesians 2:1–5 (CSB)

And you were dead in your trespasses and sins in which you previously lived according to the ways of this world, according to the ruler of the power of the air, the spirit now working in the disobedient. We too all previously lived among them in our fleshly desires, carrying out the inclinations of our flesh and thoughts, and we were by nature children under wrath as the others were also.

But God, who is rich in mercy, because of his great love that he had for us, made us alive with Christ even though we were dead in trespasses. You are saved by grace.

OWN IT

One of the clearest pictures of “But God” in Scripture is the story of Joseph.

Joseph’s life reads like one long setback after another. He was betrayed by his brothers (Genesis 37), sold into slavery, falsely accused out of spite (Genesis 39), and forgotten in prison after helping someone who promised to remember him (Genesis 40). Years passed before he ever stepped into the role God ultimately had for him as Pharaoh’s right-hand man (Genesis 41).

Scripture doesn’t record Joseph complaining, but I find it hard to believe there weren’t moments of discouragement, confusion, anger, or loneliness. He was human. And yet, through every season, he remained faithful.

Looking back, it’s clear that God wasn’t punishing Joseph. He was shaping him. Each chapter of Joseph’s life was molding him into the person God needed him to be for what was coming next. The waiting wasn’t wasted. The delays weren’t accidental.

I’ve seen something similar play out in my own life.

There was a season when I wanted a job badly and truly believed God and I were on the same page. We weren’t. When it didn’t work out, I didn’t feel betrayed as much as I felt unseen and forgotten. It wasn’t a pit like Joseph’s, but it was a low point.

At the time, I couldn’t understand why the door stayed closed.

But God.

He eventually placed me in a much better situation. One that allowed me to be more present with my family and more aligned with what mattered most. What felt like a setback turned out to be protection and provision.

That’s one of the hardest lessons to learn.

God won’t place us in positions we aren’t ready for yet.

Growth often happens long before clarity does. It reminds me of the old hymn, “Have Thine Own Way, Lord.” Those words hit differently when you’re in the waiting.

Ephesians 2 tells us that before we ever responded to God, He was already at work. We were sinners, but God loved us anyway. We were headed for death, but God made us alive. We were powerless, but God stepped in with mercy.

Joseph eventually summed up his entire story with these words:

“You planned evil against me; God planned it for good to bring about the present result—the survival of many people.”
— Genesis 50:20 (CSB)

Those two words change everything.

Before improvement.
Before understanding.
Before effort.

But God.

And that’s where new life begins.

LIVE IT

Today, take a moment to reflect on a season of your life that felt confusing, disappointing, or unresolved.

Thank God for being at work even when you couldn’t see it. Trust that His mercy is still active in places that don’t yet make sense.

GO DEEPER

1. Where in your life do you need to remember a “But God” moment?

2. How does Joseph’s story help you trust God during seasons of waiting?

3. What does it change when you remember that grace meets you before effort ever begins?

DINNER TABLE DEVOTIONAL

1. Have you ever had something not work out the way you hoped, but later realized it was for the best?

2. Why do you think waiting is such a hard part of trusting God?

3. How can we encourage each other when things don’t make sense yet?

PRAY IT

Father, thank You for meeting me with mercy before I ever knew to ask for it. Help me trust You in the waiting and believe that You are still at work. Remind me today that my story doesn’t end in disappointment, but in Your grace.
Amen.

READ IT

Ephesians 1:7–8 (CSB)

In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace that he richly poured out on us with all wisdom and understanding.

OWN IT

When I owned my first house, I ran into a plumbing issue with the bathroom sink. The fix seemed simple enough. Just replace the water supply line. Easy job. Five minutes. No big deal.

In one of my not-so-bright moments, I decided I could just take the old line off and put the new one on real quick.

Why would I need to turn the water off?
It’s basically like a hose, right?
Some water might spray out, but that’s it.

Yeah…no.

The moment I took that line off, water shot out in a high-pressure stream about two feet from the wall. I panicked. I ran around like a tornado, grabbed a bucket, and started bailing water like a madman.

Then I did the most logical thing my flooded brain could think of.

I grabbed the phone and called my pharmacy. Why the pharmacy? I worked there on Saturdays at the time, and that was the only phone number I could recall quickly. When water is shooting out of the wall that fast, your brain tends to not work right.

Anyway, thankfully Alice answered, and I pleaded with her to call the water department and have them turn my water off. I had known Alice for a long time. When I was little, my Mama and Daddy would take my brothers and I over there to hang out after church. I was so glad she answered. She didn’t ask what I did. She didn’t lecture me. She just helped. And thankfully, the water department showed up quickly and shut my water off.

Once the water stopped, I went outside to talk to the water guy. We knew each other, so of course he asked what happened. I told him. I felt stupid. He got a good laugh and probably a good story to tell back at the department.

But I also learned something.

I never made that mistake again.

I always turn the water off before doing any plumbing work now.

Because sometimes what we think is going to be a small issue turns into a big problem really fast.

Growing up in church, I used to say my testimony was boring. I didn’t have some dramatic story with huge turning points or wild moments. But a pastor once reminded me of something I needed to hear:

Being saved by Jesus is amazing all by itself.

Redemption doesn’t require chaos to be meaningful.

Just like Alice helping me when I called her in a panic, Jesus doesn’t stop to ask where you’ve been, how you got there, or why you made the mistake in the first place. He shows up to rescue you.

So often in home improvement, we patch things or do temporary fixes. We do it because we’re in a hurry or we just need the problem handled right now. And sure, it works for a while. But eventually, that same issue comes back. Sometimes worse than before.

I’ve learned that sometimes the only real solution is to tear it down and rebuild it the right way.

That’s what redemption is like.

God doesn’t just patch our sin. He doesn’t slap on a quick fix and hope it holds. He redeems us completely and makes us new. The old is gone. A new creation takes its place.

And this time, the foundation actually holds.

LIVE IT

Today, resist the urge to patch something God wants to fully rebuild.

When shame, temptation, or regret surface, don’t rush to cover it up or minimize it. Bring it honestly to God and thank Him for already providing redemption through Jesus.

Live like the problem has been handled — because it has.

GO DEEPER

1. Where are you tempted to settle for a temporary fix instead of trusting God with full restoration?

2. Why do you think it’s easier to accept forgiveness than to believe God has truly made you new?

3. How does remembering your own redemption shape the way you respond to other people’s mistakes?

DINNER TABLE DEVOTIONAL

1. Have you ever tried to fix something quickly and made it worse? What happened?

2. Why do you think people sometimes hide their mistakes instead of asking for help?

3. What does it mean to be “made new” rather than just “patched up”?

PRAY IT

Father, thank You for redeeming me completely through Jesus. Help me stop settling for quick fixes when You offer full restoration. Remind me today that I am not defined by my past, but by Your grace. Make me new where You need to rebuild.
Amen.

READ IT

Ephesians 1:13–14 (CSB)

In him you also were sealed with the promised Holy Spirit when you heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation, and when you believed. The Holy Spirit is the down payment of our inheritance, until the redemption of the possession, to the praise of his glory.

OWN IT

When my wife was pregnant with our second child, we received the kind of news that drops your heart straight to the floor.

At a routine appointment, the ultrasound tech couldn’t find a heartbeat.

There’s no preparing for that moment.

We held hands in silence.
We prayed.
We begged.
We tried to keep breathing.

The doctor referred us to a specialist. We didn’t ask many questions. We couldn’t. The fear was too loud.

I remember the drive there, holding Karen’s hand and whatever faith I had left, repeating the same words over and over:

“God’s got this. He’s going to take care of it.”

Karen went into the small building while I waited in the car because there was not enough room in the office.

Those were the longest minutes of my life.

I sat there staring at the windshield like it had answers, praying so hard I didn’t even know what words I was saying anymore.

I’m a planner by nature. I think in checklists and contingencies. So while I waited, my mind ran through every possible outcome.

What if they don’t find the heartbeat?
What if we leave this parking lot with a hole in our hearts?
What do I say to Karen?
What should I do?

Then the door opened.

I watched her walk toward me, searching her face for any clue. She opened the car door, sat down, let out a long breath, and through tears said words I’ll never forget:

“She’s okay. They found the heartbeat. Everything’s good.”

I don’t remember what I said next.

I just remember the tears.

Tears of relief.
Tears of joy.
Tears of overwhelming gratitude.

At that moment, we knew her middle name would be Faith.

Because that’s what carried us through.
That’s what we held onto when everything felt like it was slipping away.
And that’s what we prayed she would carry with her — faith in something bigger, steadier, and stronger than anything this world can throw at her.

That day reminded me of two things I never want to forget.

Faith doesn’t always mean you’re not scared.
Sometimes it just means you trust anyway.

And the quietest sound in the world, a tiny heartbeat, can be the loudest reminder that God is good.

That’s what faith sounded like to us.

And I want to say this gently, because I know not every story turns out the same way.

What if God hadn’t answered our prayer the way we hoped?

I don’t believe that would’ve meant He wasn’t good.
I don’t believe it would’ve meant He wasn’t present.
And I don’t believe it would’ve meant we weren’t sealed.

Being sealed with the Holy Spirit doesn’t mean God promises us the outcome we want.
It means He promises us His presence no matter the outcome.

God didn’t prove His faithfulness that day by fixing everything.
He proved it by being with us in the waiting.

And that same presence holds us. Whether the answer is yes, no, or not yet.

Ephesians tells us that when we believe, we are sealed with the Holy Spirit. We are marked, protected, and claimed by God Himself. That seal doesn’t mean we won’t face fear. It means we never face it alone.

God was with us in that parking lot.
He didn’t leave us in our waiting.
He sealed us with His presence.

And He does the same for you.

LIVE IT

Today, when fear or uncertainty creeps in, pause and remind yourself:
I am not alone. God is with me.

Invite the Holy Spirit into that moment, not to erase the fear, but to steady your heart through it.

GO DEEPER

1. When have you experienced fear and faith at the same time?

2. How does knowing you are sealed with the Holy Spirit change the way you face uncertainty?

3. What situation in your life right now needs the reminder that God is present and faithful?

DINNER TABLE DEVOTIONAL

1. Have you ever been scared but trusted someone anyway? What helped you trust?

2. What do you think it means that God is always with us?

3. How can we remind each other of God’s presence when things feel overwhelming?

PRAY IT

Father, thank You for sealing me with Your Holy Spirit. When fear rises, remind me that You are near. Give me faith to trust You even when I’m scared, and peace that comes from knowing I am never alone.
Amen.

It’s not lost on me that I’m sharing this again almost a year into writing here. When I first hit publish, I didn’t know who would read it or if anyone would. A year later, I still don’t have all the answers, but I’ve seen enough to know this: God shows up in the waiting. In the quiet moments. In the prayers that don’t have polished words.

Thank you for reading, for sticking around, and for letting me share these stories with you. If you’re in a season of waiting right now, you’re not alone. He’s there too.

I was about twelve years old, riding along with a friend and her family to something in Nashville. I don’t even remember what the event was supposed to be. At the time, it sounded like an adventure. But somewhere between leaving home and pulling into that restaurant, the excitement wore off. I was out of my element, surrounded by people I barely knew. The noise, the unfamiliar conversation, and the storm outside all started to close in at once.

I didn’t want to be there anymore. I didn’t want to explain myself or make a scene. I just wanted to go home.

So I slipped away to a payphone. There were no cell phones back then, no easy way out. Just a receiver, a number, and a little bit of hope. I dialed home first, but no one answered. Then I called my grandma Pauline.

I don’t remember exactly what I said. It was probably rushed and awkward, the kind of thing a nervous twelve-year-old blurts out when he doesn’t know how to explain himself. But I remember what she said clearly. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t ask questions. She simply said, “I’ll come get you.”

I hung up and went back to my seat, still nervous and unsure, but something had shifted. I wasn’t alone anymore. Help was on the way, and that changed everything about how that moment felt.

A little while later, through the rain-streaked windows, I saw that familiar Buick with headlights on pull into the parking lot. She had come. In the middle of a thunderstorm, she got in her car and drove to get me.

I remember stepping out into the rain and climbing into her car. The door shut, and just like that, the storm didn’t feel quite as loud. Everything felt steady again. She looked over at me with a small smile and said, “You needed Grandma, didn’t you?” I shrugged and said, “Yeah,” but the truth was, I really did.

Years later, she told that story again in a letter she wrote to me when I turned eighteen. She mentioned that someone at the restaurant had asked her, “You came out in this rain to get him?” Her answer was simple.

“Of course. He needed me.”

That moment stayed with me, not just because I got out of an uncomfortable situation, but because of what it showed me. I mattered. I didn’t have to earn that ride home. I didn’t have to explain myself perfectly or justify why I wanted out. I just had to call, and she came. No questions asked.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that’s exactly how God meets us. We find ourselves in places we thought we wanted to be, situations we chose, moments that slowly become overwhelming. And when we finally admit we don’t want to be there anymore, we start to wonder if we’ve gone too far or waited too long to ask for help.

But God doesn’t respond with a lecture or questions. He responds with presence. Scripture reminds us that He is near to the brokenhearted and that He hears us when we call—not because we have it all together, but because we belong to Him. (Psalms 34:18)

That afternoon in the storm, I learned something I didn’t fully understand at the time. Being “somebody” isn’t about what you accomplish or how well you handle life. It’s about knowing that when you call, someone will come.

My grandma showed me that. And ever since, I’ve tried to live that same way—to be the kind of person who shows up, the kind of person others can call, the kind of presence that reflects the love God has shown me.

Because sometimes the most powerful thing you can do for someone is simply come get them.

No questions asked.

Not dramatic.
Just…heavier.

Bad attitudes. Short fuses. Weird tension. Technology misbehaving like it has a mind of its own. Things not going as planned.

I don’t panic when that happens.
I pause.

I believe, as Christians, we are in a battle.

Scripture is clear about that. We don’t wrestle primarily against flesh and blood. There is an enemy. There are spiritual forces at work. Ignoring that would be naïve.

But here’s the other side of the coin we don’t talk about enough:

Not everything that goes wrong is spiritual warfare.

Sometimes people are just tired.
Sometimes schedules are overloaded.
Sometimes kids are cranky because they didn’t sleep.
Sometimes life just…happens.

And if we blame the devil for every bad moment, we miss the wisdom God gives us for dealing with our own humanity.

Jesus tells His disciples to be wise as serpents and innocent as doves. That balance matters. We’re called to discernment, not paranoia.

Awareness, not obsession.

We watch ourselves without losing the purity of our spirit.

In our house, things get loud—emotionally and literally.

Four kids. Three schools. Multiple schedules that feel like they were designed to humble us. Calendars fill up fast. Sometimes too fast. And sometimes the most spiritual thing we can do is say, “No, we are not going to be able to do that.”

We’ve had to own our limitations. We cannot do everything. We were never meant to.

When we don’t sleep enough, our patience gets thin. When we’re stretched, our humanity shines a little brighter—and not always in flattering ways. That’s not the devil. That’s simply being human.

Humility forces us to look inward first.
Am I tired?
Am I overloaded?
Am I expecting more than I’m capable of giving right now?

That kind of self-examination isn’t a lack of faith. It’s maturity.

That said…there are patterns you can’t ignore.

When I’m working on something that points people toward Jesus—writing, teaching, obedience in general—things tend to get noisy. Small irritations grow teeth. The kids seem to clash more. Karen and I can find ourselves fussing over things that don’t deserve airtime.

I’ll go back to parenting.

The moment you ask your kids to do something important, suddenly they’re exhausted. Or you get a long explanation about why now isn’t the right time. Obedience has a way of revealing resistance.

Anything done for God has the potential to lead someone to Christ. Why wouldn’t the enemy want to disrupt that?

But here’s the key: being aware is healthy. Being fixated is dangerous.

If we focus too much on Satan, we miss the smaller things—and in my opinion, those smaller things can be more dangerous. Subtle division. Lingering irritation. Quiet discouragement.

It’s like I tell my kids all the time. If you look for the bad stuff, you will find the bad stuff every time.

For me, discernment starts with one simple question:

What am I doing right now?

If I’m actively working toward something Kingdom-minded and everything feels unusually heavy, I take notice. If Karen and I are both feeling off at the same time, I pause.

But I also ask practical questions:

• Am I sleeping enough?

• Am I caring for my body?

• Have I been rushing too much?

• Is this a real issue, or just life pressing in?

Then I pray.

Prayer is never the wrong response. Ever.

I ask God to protect me if it’s spiritual—and to strengthen me if it’s not. Either way, He’s present. And I lean heavily on Karen. Often, if one of us feels under attack, the other does too. That’s not accidental. We take the time to pray with and for each other.

We don’t jump to conclusions.
We pray.
We stay in Scripture.
We laugh—a lot.

Our house values humor. Inside jokes. Lightness. Grace. We believe laughter deflates fear, and grace keeps our eyes on Jesus.

We extend grace to our kids because God extends it to us daily.

If I were speaking to someone new to the faith, I’d say this gently but honestly:

You’re on the radar now.

Before, the enemy didn’t care. Now, you’re dangerous—because you can point others to Christ. Sometimes that means opposition. Sometimes it just means life gets messy.

The constant isn’t the attack.
The constant is God’s presence.

Scripture says the devil prowls like a lion. But anyone who’s spent time outdoors knows this: sometimes a twig snapping is just a twig snapping.

But sometimes…it’s not.

That’s why we’re told not to be anxious about anything—but to pray about everything. Discernment doesn’t come from fear. It comes from staying close to God.

And when you do that—whether it’s warfare or just a hard day—you never walk it alone.

A Few Scriptures That Help Me Hold the Tension

• Ephesians 6:12 (CSB)
  “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this darkness…”
  → The battle is real. Ignoring it isn’t faith. It’s negligence.

• Ecclesiastes 9:11 (CSB)
  “The race is not to the swift or the battle to the strong…but time and chance happen to them all.”
  → Not every hard thing has a spiritual villain. Sometimes life just happens.

• Matthew 10:16 (CSB)
  “Be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.”
  → Discernment without cynicism. Awareness without fear.

• 1 Peter 5:8 (CSB)
  “Be sober-minded, be alert. Your adversary the devil is prowling around like a roaring lion…”
  → Alert, not obsessed. Watchful, not anxious.

• Philippians 4:6–7 (CSB)
  “Don’t worry about anything, but in everything, through prayer and petition with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”
  → Whether it’s warfare or just a hard day, prayer is always the right move.

Because discernment is tricky—and because I don’t pretend to have a monopoly on wisdom—I asked a few trusted voices to speak into this.

Here’s what they shared.

Thomas Hamilton from The Narrow Path Collective

I really appreciated this article—especially the mention of Ephesians 6:12. Scripture is pretty clear here. There’s a spiritual battle happening, and everyone is involved, willing or unwilling.

As a father, I notice the spiritual warfare more when I’m trying to walk in obedience. And honestly… it isn’t always pleasant. Kids get cranky, emotions run high, everyone’s tired. Sometimes arguments pop up out of nowhere. So when Maury says obedience invites friction, he’s not exaggerating.

We actually worked together on an article recently titled “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.” Was Jesus being inclusive or exclusive? That piece took me longer than expected to finish. Why? Simple. The enemy does whatever he can to keep God’s Word from being shared. He knows our triggers and weak spots. And in a family household, men often feel that pressure first.

So what do we do? Maury gives solid advice: pray. Sounds simple because it is simple. But before that, the questions he asks himself really stood out to me:

• Am I sleeping enough?

• Am I caring for my body?

• Have I been rushing too much?

• Is this a real issue, or just life pressing in?

Those questions matter. Yes, God calls us to obedience—but He also calls us to care for our bodies. They’re His temples. Sometimes the most spiritual thing we can do is slow down. Staying busy for God can quietly replace intimacy with God if we’re not paying attention.

Sleep matters too…even if that’s easier said than done with kids. Prioritizing and organizing helps. Ask yourself: Can this wait? Is this really urgent? Should I pray about this first? Have I talked to God about it yet? Does this actually please Him?

I try to pay attention to the quiet nudges—the mix of the Holy Spirit and that deep internal “hey, slow down” feeling. Then I act.
If God nudges me toward rest, the articles can wait.
If He nudges me toward family, the laptop closes and the phone goes down.

Here’s the point: walking in obedience isn’t easy, and the enemy loves wearing people down and draining their energy. So prioritize, organize, pray and put on the full armor of God.

Ephesians 6:10–11
“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his might. Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil.”

Julie West Worth Remembering

For my husband and I, when we seem to be facing battles outside the home at the same time, it has often been that the Lord is preparing us for transition. In these moments, we could call for justice and demand our rights. Instead, when we’ve gotten quiet and asked the Lord to show us what He is doing, more than once we’ve discovered a door opening and a desire to leave a place we expected to be forever.

2 Chronicles 20:17

Exodus 14:14

Pete from The Apprentice Discerner

Solid, Solid piece. I absolutely agree with you on the tendency for people to attribute negative moments in their life to the enemy. The truth of course is that the world was good until the enemy brought sin into it and corrupted things. So although we are not necessarily being spiritually attacked at a particular moment. Our own sin causes the bad situations we are in. I guess I would suggest perhaps making the point that being vigilant takes energy.

When we are tired, and our reserves are low, that’s when our own humanity and the sinful nature inside of us often comes out. Our defenses are down and the enemy sometimes doesn’t need to do anything, for we do it ourselves. The cross words we say, the snapping at our kids, the lack of joy we bring to a family gathering, all usually down to our fatigue. Sure, we don’t mean it, but it is out of choices that we make, choices that perhaps we wouldn’t make if we had a clear head and a full tank. Linking this back to Romans 7:15-20 - where Paul even expresses how he does not do the things he desires to do because of his sinful nature.

The advice to pray - super solid - turning this all back to Jesus to point out the errors of “our” ways, helps us to grow and be more alert to it in the future.

Paul from The Salt & Light Daily Substack

Good job Maury on making this post relevant and relatable. While I’ve learned to watch for external patterns of resistance, I’ve found that the most vital discernment often happens right within the walls of my home. I’ve come to realize that my wife, my kids, and the Holy Spirit serve as my primary “guides,” consistently pointing out the specific areas in my heart that are in need of correction. Whether it’s a gentle conviction during everyday tasks or going to a church or ministry event, prayer or a humbling moment of tension with my family, these interactions act as a mirror for my soul. It reminds me of the wisdom in Proverbs 15:31–32: “One who listens to life-giving rebuke will be at home among the wise. Anyone who ignores discipline despises himself, but whoever listens to correction acquires good sense.” By leaning into the observations of those closest to me and staying sensitive to the Spirit’s prompting, I can distinguish between a simple bad day and a genuine call to grow in character. Often I find the Holy Spirit guiding me daily to strengthen my relationships with the Lord and with others in my own family.

Matt Mylin from On Purpose

Big idea: Words in the Home

The home is a daily classroom for wisdom. It should be a safe place where healthy relationships grow between husband and wife, parent and child, and between siblings. One of the quickest ways to build or destroy that culture is with our words. What is spoken in a home shapes trust, security, and identity.

Scripture shows us that the battle around our words is deeper than we often realize.

Revelation 12 identifies the red dragon as the ancient serpent called the devil, Satan, the deceiver. The name Satan means accuser. His strategy is to accuse and slander. He has been defeated by the death and resurrection of Jesus, yet he continues slandering God’s people continually until his final destruction.

To slander someone is to speak false or damaging statements that intentionally harm their reputation. Slander poisons relationships because trust is hard to build once it is broken.

Once of the accuser’s strategies is to tempt people to speak this way about one another. What better place to attack than inside families where relationships are closest and words carry the most weight?

Revelation 12:11 shows how the accuser is overcome. “They have overcome the accuser by the blood of the Lamb and the word of their testimony. And they did not love their lives so much that they were afraid to die.”

The cross settles the accusation of sin. Every person falls short and needs grace. When Jesus shed His blood, He answered the accusations that stand against us. Instead of living under accusation, God’s people point to what Jesus has done.

Your testimony becomes the evidence of God’s work.

This creates the foundation for relationships built on trust. Accusation loses its power when people live under the grace of Jesus.

Don’t participate in slander. That is the language of the accuser.

Answer accusations with humility.

Imagine a family where that becomes the culture. It starts with mom and dad living it first. Then that pattern becomes the environment where wisdom grows.