The day that Jesus Christ died, darkness settled across the sky, not as a gentle dimming, but as a suffocating shroud that swallowed the light of day. The air was heavy. The ground groaned beneath the weight of what was unfolding. At the center of it all hung Jesus Christ, beaten, bloodied, and nailed to a Roman cross. Crucifixion was not merely an execution; it was a slow and painful suffocation. His lungs were filling with fluid, and He strained for breath; every inhale demanded agony. Each exhale cost Him strength He no longer had.

My guiltiest pleasure is simple: I like some old-school country music. Before you assume the worst, I’m not talking about songs celebrating drunken binges or bad decisions. I’m talking about the golden era. The story songs. The kind that made your mind sit still long enough to reflect on the realities of life and what their lyrics were telling us about.

In 2026, most of us would never begin a long drive to an unfamiliar destination by simply pulling out of the driveway and hoping we figure it out as we go. The days of Rand-McNally grid maps are over, and before the car even moves, we enter the destination into a GPS. We wait for it to load. We listen to the first instruction. Only then do we begin the journey. Psalm 143:8 reflects that same instinct, but for the soul. David is not asking God to redirect him after he is already lost. He is asking for guidance before the day begins.

This piece is written from a deeply personal place. One day recently, I woke up before the alarm sounded, my eyes opening to a weight I could not see but felt immediately. The room was still dark, yet my mind was already racing. Worry settled in before my feet ever touched the floor. Fear began rehearsing conversations that had not happened, outcomes that were not certain, and problems I could not ever solve alone. It felt as though a heavy cloud had followed me out of sleep and taken its place squarely on my chest.

If you are like me, you are not particularly fond of the days between Christmas and New Year’s. The decorations remain, the songs still echo faintly, but the urgency, excitement, and expectation seem to have passed. It’s like the celebration is over, and the future is now waiting to begin. We find ourselves in a sacred in-between, after the miracle, before the movement. The Bible reminds us that God often does some of His most important work in moments just like this.

It was an ordinary night outside of Bethlehem, where a handful of shepherds kept their routine watch under a quiet sky. They were men forgotten by most and noticed by few, who silently carried out one of the lowliest and most forgotten occupations. Yet in that unlikely setting, everything changed in a moment. The stillness of the night was pierced by a sudden blaze of heavenly light as an angel of the Lord appeared, illuminating the hills unlike anything earth had ever seen.

Every season of life tells a story of change, growth and God’s unshakeable purpose. Our Creator has woven a rhythm of renewal into the fabric of creation. The stillness of winter, the renewal of spring, the strength of summer and the release of autumn all serve as reminders that our hearts also experience spiritual seasons.

Like many of you, I am an avid football fan. We all know that when a football team takes the field, even the most talented quarterback cannot win the game alone! An offensive line must protect him, receivers need to catch the passes he throws, and the defense has to prevent the opposing team from scoring more points than he can help generate. Every player has a role, and victory is only possible when the whole team functions together.

I, like many others, have been profoundly affected and deeply shaken by the tragic loss of Charlie Kirk. He was a man who used his platform to express his beliefs and his unwavering passion, leaving a significant mark on the world. Now that he is gone, it is clear that he indeed made an impact. One of the recurring thoughts in the past few weeks has been that death is not just the end of a life, but also a moment to reveal a legacy. Many people around the world are taking this time to reflect and ask themselves: What will we be remembered for when our time comes?

I was only around 4th or 5th grade when a group of boys and I thought it would be funny to throw paint we had found on the side of Alice Bell Elementary School in the early 1990s. I vividly remember splashes of blue dripping down the brick like graffiti art gone wrong. The laughter died quickly when we found ourselves sitting before Dr. LeCoultre, the principal, with blue hands and a guilty look. I expected the worst and remembered feeling my heart beat through the wall of that thin 10-year-old chest wall.