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There is a longing in me right now for an Ebenezer stone— the kind raised in 1 Samuel 7:12, where the people of God could finally say, “Thus far the Lord has helped us.” But I don’t have a stone yet. What I have is a garden. In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus Christ did not offer polished prayers. He offered honest ones. “If it is possible, let this cup pass from me…” And I am beginning to understand that kind of prayer. Because lately, I have cried in a way I had forgotten w

There is a table set before us. The room is dimly lit. Bread rests in rough hands. A cup is lifted. Voices murmur familiar words—ancient, practiced, sacred. This is Passover, a night of remembering deliverance, a meal shaped by centuries of storytelling. The lamb has been prepared. For generations, the people of Israel have marked this night with intention. The lamb without blemish. The blood on the doorposts. The hurried meal. The promise: death will pass over you. Dayenu-It

“Lord, I thank you for sunshine, I thank you for rain I thank you for joy, I thank you for pain It’s a beautiful day…” There’s something deeply disarming about these lyrics—simple, repetitive, almost childlike. And maybe that’s exactly the point. I imagine a child standing in the rain, not rushing for shelter, not frustrated by the inconvenience—but splashing. Laughing. Fully alive in the moment. Puddles aren’t obstacles to them; they’re invitations. Somewhere along the way,