Maybe this is because my own mom is named Teresa (and she may very well be just as saintly). Us siblings call her Mother Teresa as a nickname and always find it to be both fitting and funny.

Growing up, mom would constantly be serving and ministering to others. It is an ongoing joke in our family that when we were younger, we would look forward to a slice of her homemade bread after we got home from school.

More times than I can count, we would rush into the kitchen (the smell of warm, fresh bread wafting through the halls) expecting to find a mountain of slices with melting butter waiting for us. Instead, we would find our angel mother (still in her flour-dusted apron) laughing at how somehow, she had given away all of the loaves she had made to friends, neighbors, or people at church she felt needed extra love. She genuinely would forget to keep some for us, and instead of being upset, she would laugh.

Us kids would all fuss and complain that we also needed that extra love and we would be left to find other snacks (also usually delicious and made from her own hands). But it is one of the lessons from observing my mom that has always stuck with me.

She is one of the greatest examples of selflessness I have ever known.

So, when I read anything mentioning Mother Teresa, I instantly perk up due to my positive association with my own Mother Teresa.

I read this story a few weeks ago:

When John Kavanaugh, the noted and famous ethicist, went to Calcutta, he was seeking Mother Teresa… He went for three months to work at “the house of the dying” to find out how best he could spend the rest of his life.

When he met Mother Teresa, he asked her to pray for him. “What do you want me to pray for?” she replied. He then uttered the request he had carried thousands of miles: “Clarity. Pray that I have clarity.”

“No,” Mother Teresa answered, “I will not do that.” When he asked her why, she said, “Clarity is the last thing you are clinging to and must let go of.” When Kavanaugh said that she always seemed to have clarity, the very kind of clarity he was looking for, Mother Teresa laughed and said: “I have never had clarity; what I have always had is trust. So, I will pray that you trust God.”

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that line since. I have never had clarity; what I have always had is trust.

What I realized is that I have been praying the wrong prayer for much of my life. Before big decisions or in anticipation of good things. I don’t think it’s wrong to want to know God’s will or what things He has planned for me. But boy do I love clarity. I love knowing what to expect and when to expect it. If I order something from Amazon, I am watching the tracking number and its progress every day until it arrives.

Clarity is just control in a prettier package.

Jason Gray, a popular Christian music artist, said this: “I used to think the opposite of faith was disbelief, but I’ve come to understand the opposite of faith is something altogether different. The opposite of faith is certainty.”

Certainty and clarity are the antithesis of faith. Not disbelief!

Certainty.

We are not supposed to know! That is part of the design, not an error in it. It is not a failing on my part that I don’t have enough faith for God to reveal things clearly to me. If I just had enough faith, I could come to know God’s will for me and my life, I say to myself.

Ah, but that is not so. What I realized is that while I am genuinely seeking clarity to know God’s plan, I am rarely asking for enough faith to simply know God.

My faith should not seek to reveal His plans. My faith should seek to reveal Him.

I wonder if sometimes we feel like our prayers fall on deaf ears because we are asking to have answers that God is not interested in giving us. I can so quickly interpret His silence as His indifference. But God is not going to give me the answers to the questions I am asking when I am asking for clarity and to see several steps down the road. Not because He doesn’t love me or want my success, but because I am not entitled to God’s roadmap.

A roadmap replaces a relationship.

If I have all the steps laid out for me, I don’t need to rely on a Guide. I can do it myself.

Oh, and what does a loving Father want more desperately than a relationship with His children?

God (parenting me like He has parented all His children) will give me just enough clarity, just enough instruction, to move me in the right direction (see Isaiah 28:10). And sometimes He won’t even move me, He will simply change the direction I face. But He will not give me enough that I will feel I can do it on my own. Because I can’t and because He doesn’t want me to. We are not required to walk alone. And I don’t believe we even really want to.

Certainty and clarity allow us to rely on a plan rather than a person.

Clarity is the ultimate armor. We crave it because we want to protect ourselves from emotional exposure. We want to know, “If I invest my heart into this, will it work out?” or “If I take this leap of faith, will I land safely?” Clarity gives us the illusion that we can protect ourselves. Vulnerability is the honest admission that we cannot. It is standing before God, completely exposed to the uncertainties of mortality, hands open and empty, and saying, “I am safe because I am with You, not because I know what happens next.”

Oh, and what a very brave thing it is to sit in uncertainty. And to move forward anyway.

Here is something beautiful I found that has redefined this for me.

The Hebrew word for waiting in scripture (which is more often than not, coupled with feelings of uncertainty) is “Qavah.”

It means to intertwine.

When we shift our prayers from “Give me clarity” to “Help me intertwine with You today,” our anxiety drops. We stop demanding a map from a God who has already promised to be our Guide (see Isaiah 40:31).

If waiting (Qavah) means braiding or twisting strands together to make a rope, consider how a rope actually works. A single strand of hemp or nylon is easily snapped under pressure. That represents our human strength. But when that strand is intertwined with a massive, unbreakable strand (God’s will and goodness), the weak strand takes on the tensile strength of the strong one. There is also constant friction and tension in a rope. To braid one, the strands must be pulled tight and twisted against each other. The tension we feel in life—the often painful space between our questions and God’s silence—is the very tension required to intertwine our will with His. Without that tension, the strands stay separate. The strength of the rope comes with its dependence on the other strands. On Him.

Here is the most beautiful thing of all.

We ask God to show us where we should go.

God asks us to come to Him and He will take us there Himself.

_{a photo of my angel mother in 2009 and her abundance of homemade baked goods (which certainly were on their way out our door to serve others)}

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When I was young, my mom put me in swimming lessons and that’s about as far as I advanced (I am certifiably stuck at a 6-year-old level of mobility in H2O). While my other siblings all joined our swim team at our community pool, I volunteered to man the breakfast burrito station at the race meets and found that that assignment was far more suited to my liking.

I can float on my back and do a mean doggy paddle if the water I’m in is calm. I enjoy playing in the ocean and riding the top of the waves before they break, but catch me in the actual break or in choppy water and you may as well kiss me goodbye.

Water has never been my strong suit. I prefer solid earth beneath my feet.

Peter would probably agree with me on the fact that water is simultaneously both extremely predictable and unpredictable. Water is liquid. Water has no solid structure. Water follows the downward path and makes things wet. And I know that if I jump into water, I will sink (me in particular, but it applies across the board). Water can smooth and water can also destroy. Water can be weak and also unbelievably strong.

I think Peter and I would have been good friends. He’s a little stubborn like me, bold, passionate, loyal to a fault, and a beautiful example to me of an imperfect disciple who is striving to do his best and trust in the Savior.

Which is why I think I love this story so much.

In Matthew 14 it says:

25 And in the fourth watch of the night Jesus went unto them, walking on the sea.

26 And when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were troubled, saying, It is a spirit; and they cried out for fear.

27 But straightway Jesus spake unto them, saying, Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid.

28 And Peter answered him and said, Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water.

29 And he said, Come. And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus.

30 But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me.

31 And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?

32 And when they were come into the ship, the wind ceased.

33 Then they that were in the ship came and worshipped him, saying, Of a truth thou art the Son of God.

I love this story because Peter was an expert on water. I wouldn’t be surprised if Peter and Andrew’s dad, Jonah, had taught his boys the family business from a young, little age. He was a fisherman by trade, and from the context given to us in the New Testament, it is obvious that Peter was familiar with the Sea of Galilee (I found at least five separate scriptural accounts of Peter and the sea). That particular sea was notorious at the time for its unpredictability given the geographical location it sat in, which funneled air and could create unexpected rough conditions. Peter must have been intimately aware of this as he learned the ins and outs of the family trade. The home where he grew up and lived, Capernaum, was a town that sat on the northern shore of the Sea of Galilee, which was a major hub for fishing and commerce.

The sea, the water, was Peter’s place.

So when Christ invited him to come to Him across the water in this account, we have to realize that Peter wasn’t just any man stepping into the sea. He knew the properties of water intimately. He knew what it could and could not do. More importantly, he knew what he could and could not do on it.

And Peter, the expert, knew this one unshakable fact: people do not walk on water.

Something else to consider in this story is the historical context of the time. Context is the answer to nearly everything, I have found. Context in history and in our own lives provides us with a lens to better see the impact and profound meaning of events. I can’t even really explain how cool putting things in context is for each gospel story, but I will try for this story in particular (this may be my coolest study yet!! I have been giddy about it all week!).

During the time of the Savior’s ministry, there were two main groups: Jews and Romans. Romans believed in ancient Greek mythology or the Hellenistic tradition. Gods, demigods, fates, nature, cosmic favor, etc.

Here is the context that makes this story so significant.

The Jews as we know and speak of often, believed in one God, Yahweh. Many were looking for the promised Messiah.

But the Greeks believe in multiple gods. Gods who controlled the elements.

During this time, the sea was considered to be one of the most volatile elements, ruled by one of ancient Greek’s most volatile gods, Poseidon. Greeks would often offer sacrifices before sea faring to appease the sea god in return for safe passage.

Can you imagine the feelings of those Roman soldiers who heard reports from the disciples that not only had Jesus walked on water, He had commanded the very sea to obey Him and it did?

In Greek mythology, Poseidon’s power was absolute within his domain. If you entered the sea, you played by his rules. When Jesus walked on top of the water, he shattered the entire theological framework of the Greco-Roman world. If you walked on water, by their own rules and understanding, it meant that the god favored you or that you were a demigod. How do you think that would disrupt their belief, if this Man claiming to be the Messiah tamed the very element and the very god so many Romans feared. If Jesus could overpower the sea, He could not be the Son of a mere carpenter from Nazareth.

Christ was proving His title as immortal, all-powerful God to both cultures at the same time.

For one culture it caused rejoicing, in the other it caused sheer panic. No wonder they wanted to get rid of Jesus.

Another element of this story that makes it all the more powerful is this: the fear of dying at sea. In ancient times, the significance and fear around meeting the end of your life in this way cannot be overstated because it held catastrophic, eternal consequences for the soul.

For the Greeks and Romans, a proper burial was a strict legal and spiritual requirement for entry into the afterlife. If a sailor drowned and the body was eaten by fish or lost at sea, they could not receive the symbolic three handfuls of earth or the coin placed in the mouth for Charon, the ferryman. Without this ritual, the soul was rejected at the gates of the underworld, condemned to wander the bleak, muddy shores of the River Styx as a restless ghost for exactly 100 years before being allowed to cross. Dying at sea meant your soul lacked a fixed place. It became a wandering spirit. The fear was so intense that if a Roman soldier or sailor was lost at sea, families would build an empty tomb on land. They would call out the dead person’s name into the wind, hoping to trick the underworld deities into granting the wandering soul a resting place.

For the ancient Jews, the stakes of drowning were tied directly to covenantal identity and the hope of the future resurrection with God and loved ones. Genesis established that man was made from the dust and must return to the dust (Genesis 3:19). Jewish burial rituals were deeply sacred and necessary for the souls’ progression. Ancient Jewish burial rites focused on prompt burial, ritual purification (washing and anointing the body with spices), wrapping in linen shrouds without embalming, placing in an earthen grave, and a secondary bone collection phase once the flesh had decomposed. Your physical body was crucial to your progression in the afterlife. In ancient Judaism, a missing body or a denied burial was viewed as a tragedy and a spiritual curse.

By walking calmly on the surface of the very thing that permanently trapped human souls in both cultures of the day, Jesus demonstrated that the sea held no power over Him. He was standing on top of the ultimate ancient symbol of permanent spiritual exile.

When Jesus reached out his hand and pulled Peter up out of the water, it was a foreshadowing of the ultimate promise found later in Revelation 20:13 (discussing Christ in the Millennial reign following His Second Coming): “And the sea gave up the dead who were in it.”

This story offered a glimpse of the redemption to come. Redemption for even to those who had met their watery graves.

Physical and spiritual graves.

Understanding this provides the framework as to why it is so beautifully significant that Peter asked the Lord to bid him to come out on the water. And even more significant that the Savior simply answered, “Come.”

This event required more faith from Peter than I ever fully realized.

Peter got out of the boat – and for a moment, he did the impossible. Peter, who knew intimately the rules of water, the way it functioned, and the final consequences if he were to fall through and drown, got out of the boat and walked on water.

When Jesus said, “Come,” He wasn’t just asking Peter to take a few steps on the waves and learn something new about water. He was inviting him into a moment of revelatory surrender, where his faith had to override his familiarity, tradition, and understanding.

The very thing he thought he knew so well (both personally as a fisherman and culturally as a Jew living under Roman rule) became the platform for encountering God in a way he had never experienced.

God often meets us in the places where we feel most confident, where our identity is grounded in experience, skill, tradition, and knowledge. Not to belittle our understanding, but to show us that even in the areas we think we’ve mastered, He is still Lord.

I don’t believe He does this to humiliate us, but rather to humble us.

Humiliation is about shame. Humility is about surrender.

God doesn’t just call us to surrender our brokenness. He also invites us and commands us to surrender our expertise — to let go of those things we are so sure of, to receive something far better: His wisdom. His view. His ultimate expertise.

Is this not a holier offering, a more transformative, sanctifying sacrifice?

It is easy to hand over those things we know we need help with: our weaknesses, our shortcomings, our disappointments. I know what I don’t know. But to hand over the things that we are familiar with or proud of? Our successes, our knowledge, our expertise, those things we have worked so hard on and spent so much time with and have so many opinions and evidence on – that requires a totally different extent of faith and humility.

So often, I’ve clung tightly to my boat of experience, afraid to step out into the unknown. But that’s exactly where God meets us.

This account is also interesting to me because it also highlights the two emotions I believe most often accompany the moments when we take our biggest leaps of faith and leave our own expertise behind: fear and doubt. I believe it’s because fear and doubt are the direct antithesis of faith. Both of these emotions are highlighted a few times in only a couple short verses.

Fear seems to always come at the moment we decide to figuratively throw ourselves off the side of a boat to come towards the Savior’s infinite knowledge and expertise. It must be the most worn out tool in Satan’s tool box. We are so easily frightened.

It is easy to be afraid when we forget that God is the expert on every subject. Even the sea obeyed Him. He doesn’t ask us to deny our experience but wants us to allow room for Him to teach us something greater. To understand our place as the student, and Him as the Master Teacher. And as the Master of the elements, with power and sovereignty over the literal and figurative storms in our lives.

God doesn’t undermine our expertise, but He will often disrupt our confidence in ourselves to develop deeper confidence in Him. His response to Peter, “Wherefore didst thou doubt,” is a cry to him. Don’t you know you can place your confidence in Me? I catch the people I love immediately.

The invitation the Lord extends after almost every account where He asks a disciple to leave their own knowledge and experience behind for a moment, is the counsel to “fear not” and “be of good cheer.”

These words are sprinkled over so many scriptural stories and accounts it was hard to keep track (look for this next time you do your scripture studies). The phrase “fear not” and similar phrases appear in the scriptures over 80 times, and there are nine specific references to “be of good cheer” in the standard works. It is fascinating as well, because I have often read the words, be of good cheer, thinking they just meant that we should be happy and cheerful despite the uncertainty we face. To just slap on a smile and go on my merry way, despite the tears still falling down my cheeks, but just trust that everything will be okay.

I cannot pretend that things do not weigh on my heart. And I don’t believe God expects us to naively or falsely do this. To cry and to worry means we care. It means that we are invested in the goodness of outcomes of our lives, of people, of those things we hold closest. I don’t think God is asking us to stop feeling.

But there is a difference between carrying and caring.

He wants to carry it for us. We can still care. But He has asked us to share the burden with Him. My yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

Upon doing further research, I found that the phrase “be of good cheer” comes from the Greek word tharseó, meaning: “to have courage,” “to be bold,” or “to be confident.” This is the definition and meaning of this phrase that would have been written by Matthew during this time (also who more perfect to write this account than the disciple that had spent the most time with the Romans and understood their beliefs and deity?).

When God is telling us to be of good cheer, it’s not suggesting a superficial happy feeling but urges us to exercise courageous, bold trust in Him.

Despite still being scared. Despite not feeling super confident in the future. Despite feeling overwhelmed at the magnitude of what mortality throws at us. Stop carrying it alone.

At the beginning of this scriptural account, the disciples in the boat were understandably feeling terrified. And Christ immediately responds to them, saying, “Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid.”

Ah, this phrase.

“It is I.”

We don’t have to be afraid precisely because it is Him. It is always him. The very meaning of His name Emmanuel is God with us. He always enters the scene when we are feeling alone or fearful or discouraged, if we have the courage to trust Him and leave our own comfortable and familiar boats behind. In fact, He never even left the scene.

And where was one of the few places Christ appeared to His disciples as a resurrected, glorified Being? On the shores of the Sea of Galilee.

Not only do the waves obey Him, so does death himself.

Simon was the name of the fisherman. Of the boy who was an “expert” on water. Peter was the new name of a devoted disciple, given to him by the Savior.

Of the man who strived to become an expert on trusting the Expert.

He is the expert on water and weather. On redemption and relationships. On timing and tempests. On heartache and healing. On silence and stillness. On mountains and mustard seeds.

On faith-filled disciples and fishermen’s sons.

Isn’t it beautiful to be human and to realize we’re not so different from one another? Surely my prayer has been prayed by another. We’re not so alone here, are we?

I heard the prayer repeated again recently as I was walking the halls of the nursing home where I work. A mild, shaky voice coming from a confused older woman reciting the words of comfort to herself, unaware I was passing by her open door.

“Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread.

And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.”

I’ve been thinking about that prayer more and more. And of course, I had to do more research into why that prayer feels so special to me. And why have other human beings found so much comfort in its words too?

The thing to first be aware of here, and to recognize this prayer’s importance, is the setting in which it was given. Christ was finishing up His Sermon on the Mount. While He had spoken of prayer and being in communication with the Father, this was the first time that Christ provided His followers with some sort of template on how to pray. A prayer that both acknowledges the grace, goodness, and power of God and our dependence on Him.

Here’s where it started to get even more interesting for me.

The first thing that we are taught to ask God for after we acknowledge His holiness and sovereignty is our daily bread.

The word “bread” in scripture is mentioned over 300 times. Bread is one of the most common, ancient foods on earth. Every culture around the world has some form of bread as a staple in their diet. In Mexico, it’s tortillas. In France, it’s baguette. In India, it’s roti. In Germany, it’s rye. In my house, it’s sourdough (preferably green onion asiago flavored, but I digress). Bread is familiar. It’s relatable. God speaks to us in our own language (in ways we can understand simply because it is so ordinary). God speaks to us through ordinary things.

It’s interesting to me because Christ uses the word “bread” interchangeably to talk about Himself throughout scripture. The bread references in the Bible specifically are used to address both bread, the food, and Bread, the Son of God. When I looked into this more, the hidden details of how significant this really is started to pop up in ways I couldn’t ignore.

Guess what the city of Jesus’s birth is translated to? Bethlehem in Hebrew is translated as, “The House of Bread.” The House of Jesus. The Bread of Life.

So, in this model of prayer, the most recited in the Christian world, when we are asking God for daily bread, in a way beyond just the need for physical nourishment, we are asking for our daily dose of Jesus. A Bread that provides nourishment to the soul.

This is a story repeated throughout scripture: that God gives exactly what is necessary for today. And today only. But with the promise that it won’t stop. Think of the sparrows, the lilies in the field. The manna given to the Israelites as they wandered through the desert.

After leaving Egypt, the Israelites complained against Moses and Aaron about a lack of food in the desert, saying they would starve. They brought their concerns to God and the verses in Exodus 16 records God’s response to them:

“4 Then said the Lord unto Moses, Behold, I will rain bread from heaven for you; and the people shall go out and gather a certain rate every day, that I may prove them, whether they will walk in my law, or no.”

God promised to “rain bread from heaven.” The next morning, a thin, flake-like substance resembling frost appeared on the ground. Imagine being desperately lost, refugees in your own homeland, hungry, and tired. Feelings maybe many of us can relate to. Feelings that are deeply human.

And the next morning you wake up and there is a layer of uncooked cream of wheat outside your tent. I wonder if it would almost feel like a joke. Yet an impossible joke, because what do you mean food is falling from the sky? A miracle with confusion all wrapped up into one. God does work in mysterious ways.

The scriptures explain the manna was white like coriander seed and tasted like wafers made with honey that covered the ground where the Israelites were.

God’s provisions aren’t always glamorous.

But what I found out next, I haven’t been able to get out of my mind.

Manna translates to “What is it?”

I think so often the Lord is giving us daily provision and when we receive it, we scoop it up and stare at it and just say, “What is this?” We ask for blessings and help and miracles and sometimes when we receive them, they come in ways that look so ordinary we can feel tempted to be disappointed. But that manna, that daily provision, fell every single day for forty years. Forty. And you think He won’t provide daily grace for you? It only stopped after they entered Canaan and it was no longer needed.

How often in my life have I realized retrospectively that God was answering my prayer, daily. Even though the answer looked kind of disappointing to me. Or discouraging. Or strange. But how many of my expressions of “what is this” have turned into “thank you Lord for this.” Blessings turned holy though the sanctifying powers of time, faith, and perspective.

At the end of the chapter in Exodus 16, the Lord gives His people these instructions:

“32 And Moses said, This is the thing which the Lord commandeth, Fill an omer of it to be kept for your generations; that they may see the bread wherewith I have fed you in the wilderness, when I brought you forth from the land of Egypt.

33 And Moses said unto Aaron, Take a pot, and put an omer full of manna therein, and lay it up before the Lord, to be kept for your generations.

34 As the Lord commanded Moses, so Aaron laid it up before the Testimony, to be kept.”

Daily bread preserved in a jar for generations to witness. A reminder of a God who keeps His promises. A reminder that covenant relationships are two-way relationships. That we are not worshiping a passive God, uninvolved and uninterested in our well-being.

And what does it mean to be “laid up before the Testimony?” It means to place the jar of manna right in front of or inside the Ark of the Covenant, where the stone tablets of the Ten Commandments were kept. This sacred spot was viewed as the physical dwelling place of God’s direct presence on Earth.

The most holy place to the Israelites held two slabs of rock and a jar of bread. God turns ordinary things into the most extraordinary witnesses of His divinity.

God loves working with ordinary things.

The bread of life, our Savior Jesus Christ, knows how to give good gifts, even if when we look down at our hands we think: “What is this?” I believe it is only in hindsight that we have the ability to recognize the beauty and magnitude of ordinary looking miracles. I believe Christ was intimately aware of this. Maybe the story of the Israelites and the manna from heaven was also prepared for Christ to be able to relate to the people of His day in a way that they would understand.

In John 6, Christ is speaking to His followers. He brings up the story of the Israelites wandering through the wilderness. It says:

“31 Our fathers did eat manna in the desert; as it is written, He gave them bread from heaven to eat.

32 Then Jesus said unto them, Verily, verily, I say unto you, Moses gave you not that bread from heaven; but my Father giveth you the true bread from heaven.

33 For the bread of God is he which cometh down from heaven, and giveth life unto the world.

34 Then said they unto him, Lord, evermore give us this bread.

35 And Jesus said unto them, I am the bread of life: he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst.”

“Lord, evermore give us this bread.” Isn’t that what we’re all praying for? Our daily bread. He is a God of provision; He sees a need and supplies it. How could we not call Him abundant?

He gives us more than we hope for, and better than we think we deserve, even if that grace comes in small and simple forms that we scoop into our hands and say, “What is this?”

Trust in the Giver of good gifts.

He has lots of experience with redefining ordinary things.

You and me included.

_{We may as well, for God will certainly retain it whether we leave it to Him or not. Never, in peace or war, commit your virtue or your happiness to the future. Happy work is best done by the man who takes his long-term plans somewhat lightly and works from moment to moment “as to the Lord.” It is only our daily bread that we are encouraged to ask for. The present is the only time in which any duty can be done or any grace received.}

_{-C.S. Lewis}

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Verse 13 of John 15 says:

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.

This verse is often quoted in military or heroic contexts, and rightly so.

On the Fourth of July a few weeks ago, we went to the Stadium of Fire, and even though it was a sweltering 90 degrees, I got chills as they honored some of the service men and women who had heroic stories of kindness and bravery protecting our freedom. I admire those heroes you hear about who sacrificed their lives to protect others. Everyday citizens who laid down their hopes, and dreams so others could have theirs.

But the setting where this verse took place—during the Last Supper discourse—was intimate, not grandiose. Jesus is speaking to His friends, the disciples, hours before His death. So, this verse isn’t just about dying in a blaze of glory—it’s about loving in the mundane, in the breaking of bread, in the long obedience. And then, of course, it alluded to the ultimate sacrifice the Savior was about to perform on our behalf.

You see, I always thought of the verse as literal. Of course, I believe dying for someone is the highest act of sacrificial love.

But I had a realization today:

I am not asked to literally lay down my life, but I am asked to figuratively lay down, or put aside, my life for my friends.

My friends include my family and my friends and my coworkers and strangers. I may not be asked to die for someone, but I could be asked to bring a meal for a new mother. Maybe laying down my life looks more like making time to sit on the porch and listen to a friend as she expresses her frustrations and disappointments. Maybe it looks like stopping by the grocery store to pick up an ingredient for dinner that a family member forgot. Maybe it looks like getting up early to pick up a friend from the airport. Maybe it looks like going on a walk with my sister, even though I had plans to play pickleball. Maybe it looks like pausing my movie to take a phone call. Or listening to a grandparent repeat the same story again, and smiling like it’s the first time I’ve heard it. Like taking the long way home for a few extra minutes to talk in the car. Like genuinely smiling and being happy for someone when they get the thing I have been praying for for years. Like letting someone else take credit or praise for a team effort. Like choosing silence over the need to be right in an argument with a loved one.

Maybe it’s actually about laying down my own agenda to cater to the one. Maybe it’s about setting my own things aside. Thinking about myself less.

Laying down our lives doesn’t always mean dying, but rather it’s about daily, deliberate sacrifice.

It’s about letting the natural man die in surrender to something far greater, far more refining.

In many ways, there are people around us who “lay down their lives” for their friends. I can’t think of anyone who does this more than parents. A woman, a mother, literally breathes life into this world. She feeds and nurtures and sustains a tiny little friend who is dependent on her for everything. She often lays down her own ambitions, sacrifices her own body, to the development of these tender new souls. No one loves and sacrifices more than a mother. Then I think about fathers, who work day in and day out to provide for the friend they chose to marry and their little friends they helped to create. The ones who run to the door on soft, tiny toes when he comes through the door, exhausted and heavy from the expectations of work and fatherhood. But who goes out morning after morning, so that those same little feet can one day run around a track or walk across a graduation stage or drive a beater car as he sits terrified on the passenger side. And then there are parents who don’t have ideal situations or just have different situations and play many roles and wear many hats to keep their family functioning and healthy and happy.

You cannot tell me that being a parent isn’t amongst the most Godly, self-sacrificing titles there is. No one lays down their life for the love of a friend more than a parent. Sacrifice is etched into the very fabric of that calling.

What a holy calling.

Yet we all are asked to lay it down. “Laying down my life” is putting my own expectations, agenda, and routine to the side for a moment in order to love, and more often than not, to listen to someone else. Laying down your life is a sacrifice. It’s inconvenient. And it’s exactly what Christ has asked us to do. Laying down my life is accepting a calling that interferes with my vacations and demands more of my time and energy than I would probably voluntarily sacrifice. It is a sacrificial love that gives, not a love that earns or expects something in return, a sacrifice given even when there’s no guarantee of thanks, change, or appreciation.

What I realized is that this self-denial, this “laying down my life,” is one of the purest forms of worship I can offer God.

It’s the purest form of love I know.

We often think of worship as attending church or praying. But every time we choose another person’s good over our comfort, we’re actively worshiping. Sacrifice is worship. Worship is aligning our will with His—and He laid down His life for His friends. And sometimes the “friend” you’re called to serve is someone you’re estranged from. Or tired of. Or hurt by. Jesus laid down His life for Peter who denied Him, Judas who betrayed Him, and Thomas who doubted Him.

Jesus not only calls us to lay down our lives for our friends, but to lay down our lives to become His friend.

He wants us to lay aside our plans, our agenda, or expectations for what our life should look like. He wants us to put them on the altar. For our Friend. For Him. Sometimes I wonder, do we really comprehend how tender and careful God is with our heart? How gently He holds our plans? How much He sees us as His friends? And how He will treat us as such?

He is our ultimate Friend. He doesn’t just tolerate me. He didn’t just save me. He sits on porches. He listens through disappointments. He wakes up early and stays up late with me. He pauses for my needs. He intervenes on my behalf. He laid down His life for me in more ways than one.

And we are simply asked to do the same.

Not necessarily to die for others.

But to live for them—one small, inconvenient, sacred moment at a time.

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A large one, with four raised beds that my dad built himself when I was young.

Every year growing up our family got excited about what we were going to grow. Zucchini, squash, heirloom tomatoes, peppers, peas, and herbs being amongst the favorites. And of course, pumpkins to carve come Halloween time.

Most of my chores in the summertime when I was a kid consisted of weeding, tending to, and watering the garden. On early summer mornings, my siblings and I would be sent outside to have our “garden breakfast” to make sure we were getting in some vegetables and eating some of the abundance of food we grew. I believed in garden fairies just as passionately as I believed in Santa Clause. Both of my parents and my grandparents are avid gardeners and healthy-eating enthusiasts. My nana is a master gardener, and I have always loved sitting in her garden, watching her maneuver the watering hose, her curls sitting soft around her head like a golden halo. Curls I inherited and have come to love because they remind me of her. Curly hair, and gardening it seems, is just in my DNA.

There is something wild and beautiful about both.

I’m currently in Alma in my scripture studies. Alma 26:7-8 introduces one of my favorite titles of God that I have found in scripture:

7 But behold, they are in the hands of the Lord of the harvest, and they are his; and he will raise them up at the last day.

For me, that phrase—the Lord of the harvest—is one of the most comforting and beautiful titles for God in all of scripture.

Many scriptures refer to God as the Lord of the harvest, the Lord of the vineyard, a gardener, and the husbandman (Matthew 9:38, John 15:1, Jacob 5, James 5). I didn’t know what husbandman meant, and I grew up reading it my whole life, so I was surprised when I discovered that it didn’t have anything to do with marriage or weddings like I thought it did.

The word husbandman refers to “someone deeply involved in the care, cultivation, and stewardship of land.”

This is another reference to God being the Lord of the harvest (God is a Master Gardener too! I mean, have you seen His creations?).

Unlike hired field hands or laborers who might come and go, a husbandman owned or managed the land, had a long-term investment in the soil, the crops, and the harvest, and understood the rhythms of nature and worked with them. In this sense, calling God a “husbandman” (also seen in John 15:1, “My Father is the husbandman”) conveys the idea of someone who is not only in charge but deeply committed to the well-being and productivity of His vineyard—His people.

Me. You.

The title Lord of the harvest speaks not only to His power and sovereignty but to His patience, His nurturing hand, and His deep investment in our individual growth. As someone who was raised by gardeners and is now an aspiring gardener myself, I know firsthand one simple truth:

Nothing in a garden grows by accident.

A harvest is never random.

It is the result of excited planning, long labor, quiet work, and ongoing care. The soil must be prepared. The seeds must be chosen. The watering must be consistent and daily. Weeds must be removed gently. Sometimes, pruning is necessary—cutting away what may seem alive in order to save what is essential.

I picture the Lord of the harvest working in the garden of my own life, not in haste, but with infinite patience and perfect understanding. He knows the exact soil conditions of my life.

And yours too.

All of this is done with an eye not only to what the plant is today, but to what it can become in the right season.

Ecclesiastes 3, another one of my favorite chapters in all of scripture, declares:

1 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

2 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

5 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

6 A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

7 A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

8 A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

It is good for me to remember that these are not random fluctuations. They are divinely appointed rhythms in the garden of our lives. The Lord of the Harvest not only sees the seasons—we trust Him to set the seasons.

It also speaks to the crucial and fundamental idea of duality. God honors both. I have found that the bitter and the sweet are often presented to me hand in hand.

Duality expands my capacity to feel.

There are seasons for each and all of these and even if they are hard, they are all good. Maybe not good in a way that is comfortable but good in a way that is nourishing and soul expanding and deeply personal. Real goodness. Real growth.

Sometimes we live in spring—full of hope, opportunity, and new beginnings. Other times feel like we are set in a deep winter—barren, still, and maybe even silent. There are seasons where we feel fruit-bearing, full of purpose and visibility. And there are also times when it seems like we’re buried in the dark, like seeds underground, forgotten or unseen. But even those dark places are sacred in His timing. Maybe especially in those places. Roots grow in dark places.

Part of the lesson from the Lord of the harvest is the crucial ingredient God works and controls so well, and the key factor we often have the most difficulty with: time.

Time is the ingredient of mortality.

A garden literally cannot bloom overnight. It takes months—sometimes years—to produce the first signs of fruit. And yet a master gardener is never discouraged. He does not rush the process, nor does He neglect it because it is taking its time. He moves through the garden daily, checking every stem and bud, watering, nurturing, removing what might harm, encouraging what is growing strong. Unlike the seed, the Gardener knows what fruit grows in what season.

Sometimes I wonder if I am figuratively praying for ripe tomatoes in January. I believe God wants to give me that beautiful tomato, but He knows it is not the right season. And you know what, I would not actually like a January tomato. It would be watery and tart and gritty. A Master Gardener knows that a July tomato is what you real want, juicy and sun-ripened and sweet. He is the giver of good gifts, not mediocre ones at best.

We would be wise to remember that the Gardener knows the times and seasons of our lives, and the fruits of our labor will ripen in His perfect timing, not ours.

This is how I see my God.

He is the Lord of my Harvest, not merely a distant farmer who waits at the end of each season to hopefully collect some results. He is the Lord of a harvest, meaning He is a Lord of abundance. He’s not the Lord of new plants. He’s not the Lord of half-grown, mostly ripe fruits. He doesn’t collect sprouts and new shoots; He waits and labors until we have a full harvest, a feast, an abundance of goodness set on our tables, each in their own good season.

I know for myself that I have often feared that my seasons are late in coming. I worried that I was behind or that my growth was too slow. But I have come to recognize that no good gardener compares one plant to another. He simply gives each what it needs in its own time. In the same way, the Lord of the Harvest does not rush us or shame us for growing at our own pace. He delights in the effort. He rejoices in every inch gained. And He promises that He knows our names and remembers our efforts, saying, “Them that honor me will I honor” (1 Samuel 2:30). But we must remember, we are only the plant. We do the best we can and allow the Gardener to do what gardeners do. God does not ask us to be both the plant and the gardener.

Trusting the Master Gardener, the Lord of the Harvest, the Husbandman, is a process that can and should feel wild and beautiful in all the ways wildness and beauty can be found. Untamed and honest and raw and breathtaking, all springing from the soil of life.

In moments when we feel tired, unfruitful, or unsure, we can remember that we are still in the garden. We are still being cared for. And He is still working.

And He never misjudges the season.

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For years, like I’m sure many people, I have kept a living list in my notes app on my phone, composed of all the good one liners, funny jokes, poems, or quotes I’ve heard that I want to make sure I don’t forget.

I was flying back from California a few days ago, after the best weekend spent with friends, floating in the ocean, and eating frozen yogurt (call me crazy but the simple tart is the best one). Flying always feels like a good time to clean up and organize your phone. So I got started. Going through, deleting pictures. Reading old notes. And I came across my list again – it had been a while since I’d read it through.

Amongst my favorite lines listed there was this one from Miyah Byrd:

“Call a boy a gentleman and watch his shoulders straighten. Call a girl a lady and watch her spirit turn graceful. Humanity was brought into existence by God speaking words into the void of the universe. We tend to become what we are called.”

This is a quote I have thought of often over the past several years. Since my flight, I have been thinking about words and about humanity being called into existence through their implementation. About God and His words to me. And other people, and their words to me and mine to them.

Which led me to John 1. My curiosity was sparked as the first verse in the whole book of John mentions the word “word” repeatedly.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

John 1:1

I always have thought of that verse as oddly repetitive and honestly confusing. Never quite knew what to make of it.

But then I thought about that little quote in my phone.

The whole creation and the work of God was brought about because elements and unorganized matter were spoken to.

As I looked further into this, I realized that our ability to formulate thoughts and turn them into words is amongst our most God-given privileges, because words are tools of creation.

God did not use physical tools to create the universe. There were no hammers or nails as far as I know. No, instead He used Logos (Logos is the Greek translation for the word “word” - the same John used in his writings)—expression, reason, and speech. Because humans are made in the image of God, we are the only earthly creatures gifted with complex, rational language. When we speak or express an idea, we are exercising a fraction of the very power God used to spark the universe into existence.

Later in the chapter, in John 1:14, it says the Logos (words) “became flesh.” This is exactly what happens on a smaller scale when we use words. Thoughts are invisible, abstract, and hidden in your mind. Before you speak, your thoughts essentially exist in a private, unorganized universe. But when you do speak, you are literally executing a mini-Genesis. You take abstract “matter,” organize it using language laws, and create sound and words that have meaning.

Our words have the privilege to bring order out of chaos, to heal, to comfort, and to create light in someone else’s darkness.

Because our words carry a spark of the divine Logos, they possess the creative and ordering power of God—but they also hold destructive power if used carelessly. Corrupted words bring chaos, darkness, and emotional destruction. One of God’s most frequent cautions in scripture is about bridling unkind words, judgements, and against using a fiery tongue (read James 3 for more wisdom on this). Instead, He urges us to use words that are sweet like honey.

Pleasant words are as honeycomb, sweet to the soul, and health to the bones.

Proverbs 16:24

I have come to discover that we are never more like God than when we use our words wisely and intentionally. In sweet ways. In holy ways. When we use words to create peace, express truth, and foster deep, intimate connection. It is true for anything we attribute meaning to.

People become what we tell them they are too.

In the scriptures, whenever God wanted to change a person’s destiny, He changed their name first.

He literally changed the words He called them by.

Abram became Abraham (“father of many”); Simon became Peter (“the rock”). Calling a boy a gentleman before he acts like one is not a lie; it is a prophetic calling-forward. It is organizing the “matter” of his unformed character. When you label someone, you give them the vocabulary to understand themselves and a label by which we understand who they are (or who we think they can become).

If you call someone an “inconvenience” or “annoying” you force your mind to seek evidence to justify that title. The same goes for our ordinary lives. If you call a messy, ordinary moment a “privilege,” you force your brain to find the hidden divinity in it.

This relates to another quote I’ve come to love. On the way to work the other week, I listened to a talk titled “Eternal Marriage” by F. Burton Howard. He explained:

“If you want something to last forever, you treat it differently. You shield it and protect it. You never abuse it. You don’t expose it to the elements. You don’t make it common or ordinary. If it ever becomes tarnished, you lovingly polish it until it gleams like new.

It becomes special because you have made it so, and it grows more beautiful and precious as time goes by.”

In this context, he was talking about marriage. Relationships need the same lens of gratitude and grace in order to flourish. They also need sweet words, and lots of them. Words influence people but they also influence moments, things, and places.

This talk reminded me of the ordinary moments we often take for granted and overlook, just as quickly, if not more quickly, than bigger moments or more obvious blessings.

I believe that if you say that something is a privilege, it will become one.

I love this line again, “It becomes special because you have made it so.”

Again, people and things become to us what we tell them they are.

In Genesis, God did not just create the world; He paused at the end of each day, looked at it, and declared it “good.” The physical world didn’t change when He said it, but His spoken declaration sealed its value. We can do the same.

Maybe objects, routines, and commutes do not possess intrinsic meaning—they are simply unorganized matter. But when you use the word “privilege” to describe your morning drive or a mundane chore, you are polishing it, as Elder Howard said. You are shielding it from the elements of cynicism and boredom.

You see, expressing gratitude is the linguistic act of sanctification.

It is looking at the raw matter of a normal Tuesday and saying, “This is holy ground.”

When I have this lens, it is a privilege to give a child a bath. It becomes a privilege to enjoy a hot cup of tea on a cold day and wrap my fingers around the mug’s warmth. To go on a simple walk and talk with a friend. It is a privilege to hold someone I love in my arms and feel our breath sync up. It is a privilege to ride a bike around my childhood neighborhood. To sit next to a blazing fire. It is a privilege to do hard work. To dance in the kitchen. It is a privilege to get a call from mom. It is a privilege to hold an old person’s hand and listen to their stories, even if I’ve heard it before (maybe especially if I’ve heard it before - isn’t it a gift to have happy memories?). It becomes a privilege to make music and art, imperfect and all. A privilege to garden and tend to seeds. A privilege to love someone, and to be loved in return. A privilege to worship and pray. A privilege to bake bread and wash dishes. A privilege to have a bed. A privilege to watch my brother’s fish. A privilege to listen to chatter in the kitchen. A privilege to pull weeds in a backyard (isn’t it a gift to have a backyard!).

Everything, ordinary and extraordinary, can turn into a privilege if we say it is so. Our spoken gratitude is our offering to God. Our small act of divine creation.

“In the immense cathedral which is the universe of God, each man, whether scholar or manual laborer, is called to act as the priest of his whole life - to take all that is human, and turn it into an offering and a hymn of glory” - Paul Evdokimo

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I can’t recall the number of church lessons I’ve had centered around the idea of worthiness. But it wasn’t until recently I realized we have been missing the mark in all those lessons.

For centuries of Christianity, faithful and unfaithful followers of Christ have had their own concerns with whether they are deserving of the love, blessings, or judgment of God. This idea of worthiness as a moral compass and a determinant for God’s love and blessings has driven the actions of hundreds of thousands of men and women over centuries of devotion.

It’s woven into the cultures of the world today – worthiness seems to always be dependent on one’s ability to follow through with certain expectations and rules. It’s based on a standard of perfection (and we live in a world obsessed with the idea of perfection). The better you are at following all the rules and standards and expectations and norms, the more righteous of a disciple you must be. In our modern-day rhetoric and in the English language, “worthy” comes from the root word “worth.” We tie our own value and identity to our ability to keep up with standards, often measured in terms of perfection or completeness.

Worth is something we think we have to earn.

The English language inherits a deeply Latinized, legal, and economic worldview. In this system, worth is a transaction. You are an employee, and God is the boss. If you clock in, follow the rules, and perform flawlessly, you receive the wage of “worthiness.” Under this lens, if you sin or struggle, your worth plummets. You are left constantly trying to perform your way back into God’s good graces.

No wonder we can find it so exhausting to keep the commandments and do all the things He has asked us to do. It can feel impossible and discouraging.

While I don’t dismiss the reality of our worthiness before God as being tied to the proper use of our agency, I do think we often miss God’s grace in our endeavors to feel worthy according to the standards we improperly impose on ourselves.

Worthiness, as Christ and scriptures define it, is not necessarily the worthiness I learned growing up.

I love looking up the definitions of words I read in the scripture in Hebrew. Hebrew is such a beautifully complex language, and I have found that the definitions of Hebrew words greatly expand my capacity to understand the richness and depth of certain principles that in English sound rather simple and plain. So, here’s one of my favorite findings.

When I researched the word “worthy” in Hebrew, I found that the primary definition is “ra’uy,” meaning “to see.”

Worthiness then, according to the scriptures, is actually our willingness to be seen by God.

This turns the whole idea of worthiness on its head.

This creates a vital distinction: in English, you have to prove you deserve love; in Hebrew, God simply sees you and asks you to allow yourself to be seen by Him. The English definition states, “You Are What You Do.” The Hebrew definition declares, “You Are Whose You Are”

One is performance-based and transactional. The other is relationship-based and declarative.

Something is worthy because God sees it, acknowledges it, and deems it fit or appropriate for His purpose, not because it earned its value. That’s it.

While the English mind views worth as a wage you earn through performance, the Hebrew mind views worth as a status you inherit through Hesed.

In Hebrew, because worthiness (ra’uy) means “to be seen” and love (hesed) means “loyal commitment to the weak,” your worth is instantly decoupled from your production.

You do not, and cannot, perform to gain worth. Instead, you try to perform good deeds out of the security of already being deemed worthy. God’s hesed means He looked at your inability to save yourself, chose to love you anyway, and obligated Himself to your good.

The Hebrew ra’uy says that we are called worthy because of what Jesus did, not because of who we are in our own strength. His love does not wait for us to counterbalance the scale through good behavior. Instead, God looks past our flaws and failings, sees us through the lens of His grace, and declares us seen, fit, and worthy.

When you read scriptures about grace through this Hebrew lens, you realize that you are free from the exhausting treadmill of performance. You are seen (ra’uy), you are fiercely protected by a loyal covenant (hesed), and you are secure.

So, God does not ask me to prove myself with perfectionist standards. Actually, He asks me to exercise faith in Him and prove Him capable and perfect. We got it all mixed up.

If you try to earn your worth from God, you are accidentally insulting His character. You are trying to pay for something that is not for sale. It is a debt already paid. Understanding this then, our obedience and our willingness to follow His commandments then becomes active worship out of gratitude. Knowing this and understanding who I am to God, I will want to do my best to follow His teachings and be worthy in that way. And when anything is done out of love rather than obligation, it becomes infinitely easier (don’t you think that’s why the Savior did what He did too?).

When the Hebrew scriptures speak of God’s love, they describe a love that precedes your existence. He only asks us to allow ourselves to be seen by Him. Why wouldn’t we, when we have this understanding of His goodness and grace? There’s nothing to be afraid of there.

Worthiness is vulnerability on display before a loving Creator.

Think about any relationship you have that you value and feel closeness with – it could be a family member or a friend or a loved one. I can almost guarantee that the reason you feel close with them is because you have been vulnerable with them. You have revealed to them perhaps not the prettiest parts of yourself (but who said those parts weren’t beautiful anyways?).

They know the things you fear and the things you struggle with and the thoughts that maybe don’t escape your lips to the average acquaintance. Parts of yourself you’d maybe rather keep hidden. There is a level of trust and exposure with them. And not only that, there is a level of love and respect and acceptance reciprocated in those relationships. The love they have for you is not based on your perfection but based on your ability to be vulnerable and human. God asks us to do the same.

The best relationships are hallmarked by the individual’s ability to be seen by the other, which takes active vulnerability.

Love is active vulnerability.

It’s a choice to be allow yourself to be seen in that way. It requires you to put yourself in a position to be hurt.

I wonder if maybe that’s what we fear most?

Do we worry that our vulnerability before God will be met with harshness? With rebuke? With, heaven forbid, His disappointment in us? Do we worry that being seen by God will somehow mean that we leave feeling more hurt than when we first came to His feet?

Who put that fear in our minds? Does that come from God? Surely, it cannot come from Him who is named Emmanuel or “God with us.” Whose name is Prince of Peace. Redeemer. Light of the world. The Good Shepherd. Savior. There must be an adversary and that must be his key message to us: that God is someone to be afraid of, not someone we can be loved by. And certainly not safe to be seen by. What a good lie.

But you try to name one story in all of scriptural cannon where vulnerability before God is not met with abundant compassion and mercy. I’m not saying God does not also correct and invite His children to be better when necessary, but name one story where at the end of it all, the humble seeker was turned away by God and rejected by Him after a vulnerable encounter.

I cannot think of a single one.

God does not ever walk away from vulnerability.

The story of the prodigal son. A son in the depths of humility and despair. Met with open arms and a celebration. The story of the woman taken in adultery. Met with compassion and forgiveness. The story of Peter. Met with understanding and encouragement. The story of Adam and Eve. Met with abundance and promise. My story. Met with love and grace.

You see, the real story of worthiness and the real story about the character of God is that He requires our participation, not our perfection.

I believe perhaps the Savior’s most beautiful invitation to us as His children is the invitation to be seen.

To be seen just as we are. In all our glorious, imperfect, beautiful human nakedness and frailty.

Isn’t that what we’re all yearning for?

To be able to come out of hiding?

To be seen.

And to be loved despite it?

Or maybe even because of it?

There is nothing more refreshing or more healing to me than relaxing in hot water, surrounded by incredible pine-studded vistas, and breathing in crisp, fresh mountain air. If you’ve ever been to Strawberry Hot Springs or the hot springs in Ouray, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

Spending time soaking there always resets my physical and mental mood. I feel more relaxed, more calm, and more grounded, and the effects are almost immediate. Follow it up with a good bite to eat at Los Dos Potrillos and an inspirational sports movie, and you’ve entered my personal heaven.

Hot springs and natural pools have long been considered places of healing. I guess I’ve joined an ancient tradition that has been loved by many before me. Isn’t it beautiful to be connected to generations of humanity through simple, ordinary rituals? We’re not so alone here, are we?

Native Americans used hot springs and have deep beliefs centered around their spiritual and physical benefits. The Japanese, even in modern times, have onsens (public bath houses). And in ancient Greece and Rome, they constructed large bathing complexes across the empire.

One of my favorite miracles of Jesus took place at a poolside.

He can meet us anywhere we are – even ordinary places. Maybe especially ordinary ones.

In the gospel of John, one of the most recounted miracles of Jesus takes place by the waters of the Pool of Bethesda. The Pool of Bethesda was renowned in that region as a place where those with ailments, sicknesses, and disabilities sought healing. It was a place of “mikveh,” or ritual bathing for purification, that was used in that region by those who were sick – a long-held tradition and practice.

In John 5:3-4 it reads:

3 In these lay a great multitude of impotent folk, of blind, halt, withered, waiting for the moving of the water.

4 For an angel went down at a certain season into the pool, and troubled the water: Whosoever then first after the troubling of the water stepped in was made whole of whatsoever disease he had.

There are various ideas on what this “angel” who went down at a certain season to the pool to trouble the water is. The most common belief is that the Pool of Bethesda was either part of a natural spring that would bubble up new water every so often, or it was connected to a reservoir that occasionally emptied fresh water into the pool, depending on the flow.

We read in Luke 5:

“5 And a certain man was there, which had an infirmity thirty and eight years.

6 When Jesus saw him lie, and knew that he had been now a long time in that case, he saith unto him, Wilt thou be made whole?

7 The impotent man answered him, Sir, I have no man, when the water is troubled, to put me into the pool: but while I am coming, another steppeth down before me.”

One article I found says, “The flow of water feeding the Pool of Bethesda was intermittent giving the impression of being occasionally stirred.”

When Jesus asked this man if he wanted to be made whole, the man thought Jesus was offering to take him into the pool of Bethesda when the waters stirred.

Water becomes charged when it moves, and through electric currents and other processes, moving water essentially becomes living water.

All these people were waiting at the side of the Pool of Bethesda, hoping to be healed by counterfeit living water.

It is interesting to note that the paralytic man did come to a place with a long history of healing. He was doing the right things. He was putting himself in places that promised relief. But he had suffered for 38 years! He couldn’t walk! How many prayers do you think he prayed? How did he still hold on to such a thin string of hope, and after so long?

He came to the Pool of Bethesda wanting and seeking healing. And when asked by Jesus if he wanted to be made whole (I love the use of the word whole in place of the word healed here), He looked beyond the mark.

I wonder if he even scoffed at the question.

What do you think? I’ve been suffering for 38 years. You tell me.

But what he did not see was that the source of all living water was standing in front of him, asking him the question with the ability to provide the solution he had long been praying for. A better solution actually.

How often is Jesus standing right in front of us, asking us, “Do you want to be made whole,” and we ask Jesus, like this unknowing man did, to carry us to counterfeit living water?

It could be anything we find momentary reprieve from struggles from. It could be the one thing we don’t have yet that we think will fix everything and make us whole: a promotion, a relationship, a different living situation, reprieve from an addiction or trials, ease, freedom from sickness, anything.

We talk to Jesus as though He is the one who carries us from our problem to a solution. Who can lift us from our mat and place us in our counterfeit Pool of Bethesda.

We say in our pleas and our prayers to Him, “But Lord I have tried everything. I have tried everything I can think of, and it’s not working. It’s not enough.”

With great mercy and tenderness, I believe the Lord stands in front of our mat of troubles and asks us, “Do you want to be made whole.” And only if we have an eye of faith, do we see the Man who is the source of all wholeness. The provider of all relief.

Living water, personified in the flesh.

In John 5:3, when describing the type of people who waited at the waters of the Pool of Bethesda, he describes them as “impotent.” The definition of impotent is “unable to take effective action; helpless or powerless.”

Without our Living Water, we are merely impotent beings waiting poolside at counterfeit sources of healing. Pools that offer empty promises and thin hope. When we see Jesus not as a way to get from a problem to a solution, but as the solution itself, He becomes a personal Jesus.

He becomes my Jesus.

He is my Jesus.

The Pool of Bethesda, when translated, means the “House of Mercy” or “House of Grace.” Jesus will seek us in our own personal Pools of Bethesdas and transform them from counterfeit pools to sacred places of abundant healing and mercy.

“8 Jesus saith unto him, Rise, take up thy bed, and walk.

9 And immediately the man was made whole, and took up his bed, and walked.”

John 5:8-9

^{Dad and little me at Glenwood Hot Springs in the winter of 2000}

First, because I was taught to love Him, and then because I learned who He was through my own life experiences and all its bitter and sweet lessons. I’m sure I have yet to learn many more.

God is also my oldest friend.

I enjoy His company even when I don’t understand His silence. I love Him, yes, but I also really just like Him. I like sitting with Him in silence and in conversation. I think He’s really funny. I value His advice. I like spending time with Him and finding out what He likes and dislikes, His character, the way He feels about me and those I love. And maybe those I should love more.

Over the years, I’ve tried to dedicate more time to learning about Him, His character, and His goodness.

I also love writing. About three years ago, I began to record some of my scripture studies, both in hopes that they would be more intentional and that I would remember them. While writing may be a strong-suit and a life-long love of mine (as many friends in college can attest), my ability to remember things is certainly a weakness (which my friends could also attest to). Hence the reason I’ve had journals since I was six. Believe it or not, I have a journal entry from 2005 when my youngest brother Ethan was born. I was barely seven. That being said, most of my life has been documented, so why wouldn’t I also document my thoughts on God?

During my last semester of grad school in 2023, I created a Google Folder so I could type out my thoughts, questions, or different ideas as they popped into my head. I would then use these prompts to try to dive deep into the scriptures, look into the definitions of words in Hebrew (which has since become the most fascinating language to me), talks, and other wise religious leaders from around the world to see what I could learn. Many of my writing excerpts are compilations of the wisdom and insights of others, with some research and thoughts of my own. It all weaves together in a beautiful tapestry that allows me to see a glimpse more of my God than I maybe could before.

Since that first recorded study a couple years ago, I have ended up with dozens and dozens of gospel insights in that folder. Some are half-baked. Some have become anchors to my testimony of Jesus Christ and His goodness.

It’s been on my mind for a while now that I should share some of my thoughts with others. I don’t claim to have this vast knowledge or deep understanding of all things gospel-related, but I do love what I’ve learned and I want to share it. It has brought me a lot of peace. I think we could all use some more of that.

So I started this Substack.

It may seem a little bit cliche (isn’t this what you’re supposed to do when you’re 28 and you’ve already been to New York City and run a half-marathon? It was this or a podcast, so here we are). I hope to post a weekly insight from my studies.

I hope God can become a better friend to you through some of these insights. Whether He’s an old friend you haven’t talked to for a while, a new friend, or a friend you keep close.

And why the name “Milk and Honey?” Well, I’ll explain that a little more.

One of the best things I have discovered about God is His abundance. I found it’s all captured in the phrase, “a land flowing with milk and honey.”

“If the Lord delight in us, then he will bring us into this land, and give it us; a land which floweth with milk and honey.” Numbers 14:8

I kept encountering this phrase in my scripture studies and started to gain curiosity about why those two foods, milk and honey, were specifically used. He could have chosen “manna and wine” or “olive oil and bread” (Lord knows I would love to go to a land flowing with good olive oil and crusty bread, maybe with some feta and heirloom tomatoes? That may be the Garden of Eden for me).

Truly, I’m a foodie at heart, so it makes me laugh that my curiosity about a phrase involving food somehow transformed itself into an enriching gospel finding. Isn’t it amazing how God speaks to us in our own language and according to our understanding? He knew what I’d be paying attention to there.

So why milk and why honey? What I found is that this phrase, so often used, is a promise of covenantal abundance.

Paired together, milk and honey represent the full spectrum of both human need and human desire — both the essential and the enjoyable. In the scriptures, God isn’t just promising survival; He is promising flourishing. He gives us both what is necessary to live (milk) and what makes life delightful and enduring (honey).

Milk was a staple in the ancient Near Eastern diet. Milk during the time of the Savior’s ministry and throughout ancient scripture primarily came from goats and sheep, not cows like I usually think about it today. Isn’t it interesting that Christ is repeatedly called a lamb in the scriptures as well? And when He references milk, in ancient days, that milk came from a lamb. Who is the source of this milk referred to in scripture? The Lamb.

“He that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst.” John 6:35

Milk is one of the most nourishing foods known to man. Milk comes from a mother, and it is produced for the sole purpose of growing life in the healthiest, most natural way. It involves no violence, no death of an animal or a plant, and no special preparation instructions. It is pure and promises fattening.

Milk provided necessary nutrition — fat, protein, hydration — in a form that was sustaining, versatile, and vital to daily life. More than physical sustenance, milk symbolized the sustaining care of God. Like a nursing mother providing for her child, God promises His people steady, nourishing provision.

There are over ten references in scripture where God refers to His relationship with His children through nursing/breastfeeding. It is interesting to me that milk is what is produced and given when breastfeeding children. I wonder if when Christ invites us repeatedly to “become as little children” in the scriptures, there is some part of that invitation that is asking us to become humble enough to become like a little child who depends on their mother’s milk or the One who has given them life, for their growth and sustenance.

Milk is a food that you receive, not produce. Milk invites us to depend on God because it is not something we can create to sustain ourselves. It represents the dependable, daily grace that grounds us and nourishes us. A type of substance that is rich, sustainable, and spiritually fattening.

The best part is this:

God could have been done there. He could have said, “I’ve given my children what they need, and that will be sufficient.”

But I don’t believe in a God of bare minimums.

There’s too much evidence, and too much goodness, to suggest otherwise.

So He gives us honey. He gives us sweetness. Honey represents not what is necessary, but what is delightful. God wants us to also have joy. Honey was considered to be a prized luxury — sweet, rich, and perhaps difficult to cultivate, especially back then. In the ancient world, honey was not only a delicacy but it was also a symbol of joy, celebration, and even divine revelation. God’s Word is said to be “sweeter than honey” (Psalm 19:10).

Honey, like milk, is naturally occurring. It can not be produced by man, but rather is the result of thousands of bees making their small efforts to contribute to the hive. It is a symbol of grace, given to us. Honey was also used as a way of preserving. Pure honey never actually goes bad–its life is indefinite. God wants us to have sweetness that lasts.

A sweetness that literally never expires.

Together, milk and honey form a complete picture of what it means to live under God’s covenant blessing. Milk symbolizes the things we need to live — the essentials that sustain and strengthen us. Honey symbolizes the things we long for — joy, beauty, intimacy, and meaning. Their combination is deliberate and profound.

While milk nourishes the body, honey nourishes the soul. God wants us nourished in both body and soul. He is not a God of bare minimums, of withholding, or scarcity. He is a God who provides abundantly.

What a Father. What a Friend.

“I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.” – John 10:10

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