Category: Poet

London — Where History Still Breathes

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Big Ben taken by Jimmie Aaron Kepler

World’s most memorable destinations that I’ve visited

The first step in a grand passage through some of the world’s most memorable destinations that I’ve visited begins in a city that feels both deeply known and forever new.

London

Every great journey needs a fitting beginning, and for me this one begins in London.

There are cities that make a strong first impression, and then there are cities that seem to reach out from somewhere deeper, as if you have been moving toward them for years without fully knowing it. London has always felt that way to me. It is a city of grandeur, yes, but never the loud or showy kind. Its beauty is steadier than that. It rests in old stone, river light, Gothic towers, quiet parks, red double-decker buses, and the unhurried confidence of a place that has nothing left to prove.

London is the capital of the United Kingdom, the official name of the country, but those are only the facts of it. Facts tell you where a city sits on a map. They do not explain how it settles into the imagination.

What struck me most about London the first time I arrived in its heart was the strong and curious sense that I already knew it. Not completely, of course, and not in the way one knows a hometown or a street where one has lived. But I knew its mood. I knew something of its silhouette, its weather, its voice. I had met London long before I ever laid eyes on it. I had met it in books, in films, in history, in speeches from darker hours of the twentieth century, in old newsreels, and in stories that have shaped so much of the English-speaking world.

Literatures Impact on My Knowing London

Both as a child and in my adult reading life, London kept appearing. Sometimes it stood at the center of the story. Sometimes it appeared only for a chapter, a train platform, a street corner, a fogbound pursuit, or a scene that stayed with me long after the book was closed. The same has been true in film. Again and again, London has shown up not just as a backdrop, but as a living presence. 

London is one of those rare cities a reader can feel he already knows before ever setting foot there, and a good part of that comes from the writers who have walked us through it for years. 

Dickens gave us the London of Oliver Twist, Great Expectations, Bleak House, and Our Mutual Friend, full of fog, crowds, hardship, and human striving. 

Doyle gave us the gaslit streets and rooms of Sherlock Holmes, where Baker Street became as real in the imagination as any address on a map. 

Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray and his elegant plays opened the doors to another London altogether, polished and witty on the surface, but often hiding darker truths underneath. 

Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde gave the city a haunted double life, while Stoker’s Dracula let London become the stage where old-world evil met the modern age. 

Ian Fleming made London part of the machinery of danger and intrigue in the James Bond novels, where clubs, offices, streets, and shadows all seemed to carry the scent of espionage. 

The residence on the left is where the late Sir Sean Connery, the first James Bond lived. In the below photo you can see the front entrance of the residence of his real life neighbor, Sir Roger Moore, who also played the part of James Bond. He lived in the white residence. Their front doors were around the corner from each other. Interestingly, across the street from Connery’s from door entrance was the grounds of Buckingham Palace.

Pictures of Sean Connery and Roger Moore’s homes in London

And J.K Rowling, through the Harry Potter series, made London magical in a new way, turning King’s Cross, hidden alleys, and secret doorways into places readers would forever look at differently. 

Taken together, these writers do something special: they make London feel less like a distant destination and more like a place we have already lived in through story, long before we ever arrive. I had already stood in its drawing rooms, crossed its bridges, entered its stations, and followed its shadows. By the time I finally came to London in person, it felt less like discovering a stranger and more like meeting, at last, a place I had known from a distance all my life.

London Feels Familiar

That may be one of London’s rarest gifts. It feels familiar even when it is new.

The city carries its history with remarkable ease. Westminster gathers together monarchy, Parliament, endurance, and national memory in one sweep of the eye. The Thames moves through the middle of the city with calm authority, as if it has watched the whole long story unfold and still intends to keep its own counsel. Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, the old facades and spires and bridges—these are not merely landmarks. They are part of a living conversation between the past and the present.

And yet London never feels trapped in history. That is one of the things I admire most about it.

Live in Present Tense

For all its pageantry and weight, London lives very much in the present tense. The cafés hum with conversation. The bookstores offer refuge and invitation. The West End glows toward evening with its old theatrical magic still very much intact.

During my last stay, my hotel was in the West End which can be considered the Broadway of London.

The parks give the city room to breathe. Even the weather, with its drifting rain and silver light, seems woven into the character of the place. And the traffic—Lord bless it—moves with a stubborn, relentless determination that may be as revealing as any monument.

Look up, to linger, to notice the details

Walking through London, I found myself slowing down. Not only because a city like that deserves your attention, but because it quietly asks for it. London does not shout. It does not need to. It invites you to look up, to linger, to notice the details—a clock tower against the morning sky, the worn dignity of old stone, the movement of the river, the sudden stillness in the middle of a busy square. It is a city best received at more than a glance.

For a traveler, that makes London unforgettable. For a writer, it makes London dangerous in the very best way. It stirs the desire to take one more walk, fill one more notebook page, sit one hour longer in a café, and follow one more street just to see what waits at the end of it.

I have now been to London three official times, and each visit has met me with a slightly different mood. That is the nature of great places, I suspect. They do not stay fixed because we do not stay fixed. We arrive older, more observant, more grateful, more burdened, more hopeful, and the city seems to answer the person we are when we meet it. Yet every time I have visited London, one truth has remained the same.

History there is not dead.

It is not locked away behind museum glass or confined to plaques and guidebooks. In London, history still breathes. It moves through the streets, lingers in the architecture, rises in the bells, drifts along the river, and waits in the spaces between old stones and modern lives.

And if you slow down enough, you can hear it.

This is where the journey begins.

The picture of Big Ben was taken by me in October 2025. I also took the picture of the former residences of Sir Sean Connery and Sir Roger Moore.

Grace and Peace,
Jimmie Aaron Kepler

Across Oceans, Old Stones, and Quiet Harbors

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The Journey Behind the Journey

The organ is 550 years old at St Mary’s Church in Lubeck, Germany. In 1705 Johann Sebastian Bach came to Lübeck to hear the music and study under master organist Dietrich Buxtehude. Photo by Jimmie Aaron Kepler, taken in Lübeck Germany, October 2025.

There are some trips that do little more than stamp a passport and give you something pleasant to talk about over supper or over coffee with friends. Then there are the other kind, the ones that settle somewhere deeper down, in that inward country where memory, gratitude, and wonder all seem to live side by side. These journeys over the past five years turned out to be one of those.

Destinations

What first looked like a list of destinations on a map slowly became something else altogether. It became a gathering of moments stretched across oceans and years. It carried me over the Pacific and the Atlantic, across the Tasman Sea, the Caribbean, the North Sea, the Baltic, and even the old blue waters of the Mediterranean. It took me from island shores in Hawaii, Tahiti, and Samoa to the Caribbean islands, and onward to the Azores, Madeira, Mallorca, and Mo’orea, each place bringing its own weather, its own light, and its own way of lodging itself in the heart. It carried me through cities like London, Paris, Edinburgh, Belfast, Bergen, Copenhagen, Amsterdam, Gibraltar, Barcelona, Sydney, Auckland, Papeete, Hamburg, and Lübeck, places where the streets themselves seemed to remember what generations before had built, prayed, endured, and hoped.

Along the way there were old cities worn smooth by time, and weathered harbors where the salt air seemed to drift in carrying stories of sailors, merchants, wars, departures, and homecomings. There were quiet afternoons inside ancient cathedrals where the sunlight came soft through stained glass and laid itself across stone floors that had known the footsteps of centuries. There were island mornings washed in turquoise and gold. There were streets where history did not seem trapped behind museum glass, but alive and nearby, as if it had decided to stroll alongside you for a while and keep you company.

Churches

And nearly everywhere I went, I saw churches.

Sometimes it was a grand cathedral rising over the city square, its bells marking the hour and its spire pointing heavenward as if to remind everybody below there is something higher than commerce, traffic, or politics. Sometimes it was a small stone church tucked along a side street, plain and weathered and faithful in its own quiet way. Sometimes it was a chapel by the sea, or an old parish church standing watch over a village, or a sanctuary open in the middle of the day where a traveler could step inside, sit in silence, and feel the hush settle over him.

In city after city, island after island, there was evidence of God’s presence.

Not always in loud ways. Not always in ways that would make a headline. But there it was all the same. In the old cathedrals built by hands long gone to glory. In candles flickering before prayer altars. In carved stone crosses worn smooth by time. In sacred music drifting faintly through old naves. In the faces of strangers showing kindness. In the beauty of morning light on water. In the deep human longing that built churches in the first place and still draws people through their doors.

That may be one of the things that stayed with me most. No matter the country, no matter the language, no matter the style of architecture or the shape of the harbor, I kept finding reminders that human beings everywhere have reached toward God. They have built sanctuaries. They have prayed under vaulted ceilings and plain wooden roofs. They have lifted hymns in cities and villages and on islands far out to sea. The settings changed. The languages changed. The weather certainly changed. But the witness remained.

Every place had a voice of its own.
Some whispered.
Some sang.
Some simply stood there, quiet and sure of themselves, and let beauty do the talking.

Twenty-five Countries and Counting

Since April of 2022, I have traveled to twenty-five countries. I have not made that journey alone. Along the way I have had company from my walking stick—my cane, actually—named Virgil, as in Virgil Cane. My fiancée, she who cannot be named on the internet and who has no online presence at all, has shared much of the road with me. Friends from my writer’s group have also traveled alongside me from time to time, helping carry the laughter, the weariness, the wonder, and the occasional confusion that always seems to come with trying to find your way in a place where even the street signs look like they belong to somebody else’s story.

Travel, at least the kind worth remembering, has a way of humbling a person. It reminds you that the world is both far larger and far more intimate than you imagined. You can stand in a cathedral half a world away and feel something familiar stir in your chest. You can sit by a harbor in another country and watch the water move against old stone, and know deep down that human beings have always been longing, leaving, loving, grieving, building, and hoping. The scenery changes. The heart does not all that much.

That may be one reason I have loved these journeys as much as I have. They have shown me beauty, yes, but they have also shown me continuity. The world is wide, but there are threads that run through it all. Hospitality. Reverence. Memory. Music. Bread on a table. Light on water. The hush inside a church. The laughter of strangers. The sense, now and then, that you have stepped into a place that was waiting to tell you something if only you would slow down enough to listen.

And slowing down has been part of the lesson.

A cane will teach you that. Age will too. Travel has a way of reminding you that not every journey is meant to be rushed through as if you were checking items off a list. Some places ask for lingering. Some call for sitting still. Some deserve more than a photograph and a hurried sentence in a notebook. Some deserve your full attention.

That is what this series is about.

What follows is the story of that journey, told through the destinations that have stayed with me the most. I have ranked them not by cost or popularity, not by travel-brochure promises or online trends, but by memory, feeling, and by that harder-to-define quality of whether a place settled into my soul and decided to stay there.

These are the places that have lingered.

These are the old stones, the quiet harbors, the island mornings, the church bells, the cathedrals, and the city streets I still carry with me.

This is the journey behind the journey. I’ll be sharing the wonders of where I’ve visited in the weeks ahead.

Grace and Peace
Jimmie Aaron Kepler

Did you enjoy this article? You can find more of Jimmie Aaron Kepler’s non-fiction books at NONFICTION and his speculative fiction books written as Jim Kepler at FICTION.

Today, Yes, This One

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Morning By The Window

I had planned to meet God on the balcony this morning. Instead, I met Him at the window.

That is how this Friday began for me here in Branson, Missouri. Most mornings on this trip, I have stepped out onto the condo balcony with a cup of Earl Grey tea, my Bible, and my journal, looking out over Table Rock Lake before turning to my writing. It has become a sweet little rhythm. It’s been quiet, steady, and good for the soul. The kind of beginning that helps a man gather his thoughts and offer them to the Lord before the day starts making its demands.

But this morning would not be that kind of morning.

A cold front had moved in overnight. Before daylight had fully broken, I could already tell the whole character of the day had changed. The wind was up. The trees were restless. The lake had lost its calm. What had felt welcoming on the past few mornings now felt raw and sharp. The wind chill had dropped into the mid 40s, and instead of stepping out into the dawn, I stayed inside and stood at the balcony window, warm cup in hand, looking out at a darker, colder, more unsettled world.

And maybe that is what caught my attention most. The day I thought I was getting was not the day that came.

The Weather Changed

The last several mornings had been mild and pleasant. Cool enough to feel fresh, but not so cold as to send a fellow scurrying back indoors. The air had that clean Ozarks touch to it. The lake had looked gentle. The hills had seemed half asleep. Those mornings invited lingering.

This one did not.

This morning was dark in a different way. Not soft-dark. Not still-dark. It was a restless dark. The wind worked over the surface of Table Rock Lake until the water looked troubled. The trees along the shore bent and shifted as if the whole landscape had been stirred from sleep too roughly.

It looked, I suppose, a little like life does sometimes.

There are days that arrive warm and welcoming, and there are days that come in with a hard edge to them. Days when the spirit feels stirred up before breakfast. Days when the heart is already carrying something heavy. Days when the weather outside seems to match the weather within.

I stood there looking through the glass and thought to myself: this was not the morning I had planned.

But of course, that is often the way life goes. We make our little arrangements. We set our expectations. We imagine what the day ought to feel like. And then the Lord allows a different sort of morning to arrive.

The Verse That Met Me

It was right there, with the wind moving over the water, that Psalm 118:24 came to me:

“This is the day which the LORD hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.”

I have known that verse for a long, long time. It is familiar enough that a person can quote it without really stopping to hear it. But this morning it landed with fresh weight.

Because the verse does not say, “This is the easy day.”
It does not say, “This is the warm day.”
It does not say, “This is the bright and cheerful day when everything falls neatly into place.”

It says, “This is the day.”

This one.

The windy one.
The darker one.
The one that did not match my plans.
The one I might not have chosen for myself.

This day.

That is what makes the verse so strong and so tender at the same time. It reminds me that my peace is not to be anchored in the kind of day I wish I had received, but in the God who made the day I have been given.

Psalm 118 is a song of thanksgiving, but it is not shallow thanksgiving. It rises out of mercy, deliverance, and trouble overcome by the goodness of God. It has some backbone to it. It knows what it is to praise the Lord not only when the skies are clear, but when the heart has learned that God is faithful in every weather.

And that is what I needed this morning.

The Gift of This Day

Standing there at the window, I was reminded that before I had one thought about this Friday, God had already made it. Before I spoke my first prayer, He was already Lord over every hour of it. Before I wrote one line in my journal or one word for the page, the whole day was already resting in His hands.

That steadies a man.

The older I get, the more I think one of the great disciplines of the Christian life is learning to receive the day God sends instead of pining for a different one. That does not come naturally. We are forever looking backward with regret or forward with worry. We rehearse old sorrows. We borrow tomorrow’s burdens. All the while, the Lord keeps calling us back to the ground beneath our feet.

This is the day.

Not yesterday.
Not tomorrow.
This day.

The one in front of you.
The one in your hands.
The one under God’s rule and care.

And if that is true, then even a cold, windblown Friday morning can be received with gratitude.

Thank You, Lord, For One More Day

Let me say it plainly: rejoicing does not always look triumphant. Sometimes it is not a shout. Sometimes it is not a song. Sometimes it is simply opening your Bible when your heart feels tired. Sometimes it is taking hold of your coffee cup or tea mug, looking out at a day you did not expect, and whispering, “Thank You, Lord, for one more day.”

That too is rejoicing.

Maybe that is the mercy hidden in mornings like this. We do not have to find God only in the lovely moments. We do not have to wait for better weather, brighter light, or easier circumstances. He meets us in the day we have, not only in the day we would have chosen.

So this Friday morning, wherever you are and whatever sort of weather has found your soul, receive the day from His hand.

Not yesterday.
Not tomorrow.
Today.

And rejoice.

Love and Grace,
Jimmie Aaron Kepler

Did you enjoy this article? You can find more of Jimmie Aaron Kepler’s non-fiction books at NONFICTION and his speculative fiction books written as Jim Kepler at FICTION.

The Beginning

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1.1 
The Beginning

Before the worlds, were spoken to be,
The Liberator stood, in eternity.
His voice, a melody, His love, to set all free,
And from nothingness, came land and sea.

The heavens stretched, with a vibrant glow,
The stars awakened, their light did flow.
Each planet spun, in a rhythmic show,
A symphony sung, where life would grow.

He called forth oceans, their depths profound,
Where waves would echo, their eternal sound.
The mountains rose, the valleys wound,
His hand in all, His love unbound.

The beasts emerged, the skies took flight,
The birds rejoiced, in their morning light.
The Liberator smiled, at the wondrous sight,
Each life a reflection, of His delight.

Then from the dust, His masterpiece came,
A human form, both wild and tame.
With breath divine, He sparked the flame,
Of a soul unbroken, pure in name.

A garden He planted, serene and wide,
With rivers that flowed, and paths to guide.
Where man and woman walked, side by side,
Their hearts unburdened, their trust implied.

Yet freedom bore, a sacred test,
A choice to follow, to trust what’s best.
One tree stood tall, its fruit possessed,
The knowledge of all, a gift suppressed.

The serpent came, with whispers sly,
A cunning voice, that questioned why.
Its lies enticed, their hearts did try,
And the bond of trust, began to die.

The fruit was taken, their eyes did see,
The weight of shame, the lost decree.
Yet mercy flowed, from eternity,
The Liberator’s love, their destiny.

He clothed their shame, though exile came,
His plan remained, forever the same.
Through sorrow and trials, through guilt and blame,
His covenant endured; His love proclaimed.

Through Adam and Eve, the journey would start,
A story of grace, a mending of hearts.
Through dust and stars, His promise imparts,
The Liberator’s plan, a sacred art.

From: The Liberator’s Song: An Allegorical Retelling
of The Torah and The Pentateuch”
Book 1
1.1 – The Beginning
Poetry and Prayer Press
Copyright 2025
A Poetic Narrative by Jimmie Aaron Kepler

Artwork: by Jimmie Aaron Kepler

Did you enjoy this article/poem?
You can find more of Jimmie Aaron Kepler’s non-fiction books at
NONFICTION and his speculative fiction books written as Jim Kepler at FICTION.

Coffee, Ice, & a World Thawing Out

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Coffee, Ice, and a World Thawing Out

I’m sitting at the table this morning with a mug of coffee warming my hands, looking out the back window at a yard that’s finally starting to loosen its grip on winter. The ice didn’t leave all at once. It never does. It’s backing off slowly, stubborn to the end, dripping away like it’s mad it lost the fight.

There’s still three or four inches of sleet and snow on the ground—this is day six—but the sun has found a little confidence today. The shaded spots are still thick and hard, while the sunny places have turned slick and shiny, the kind of ice that’ll put you on your backside if you get cocky. I’ve learned this week to walk slow, take small steps, and pay attention. Turns out that’s not bad advice for life either.

It’s been a week of records—record cold, record ice, record flight cancellations. Folks still without power. Pipes frozen. Trees snapping like matchsticks. American Airlines canceling flights like they’re swatting flies. Plans all over the country tossed aside like yesterday’s newspaper.

I’ve been housebound, watching the same frozen scene over and over, like it might change if I stare hard enough. When the weather locks you in, your world shrinks. You stop thinking about next month and start thinking about right now. Heat. Water. Food. Staying upright.

That’s survival mode. And survival mode has a way of changing what you think matters.

The Morning the Ice Let Go

This morning, the ice finally decided it had overstayed its welcome. A heavy sheet slid loose from the roof and came crashing down without warning. Sounded like thunder. It scared the feral cats half to death.

They bolted in every direction, claws skittering on ice, dignity nowhere to be found. One poor cat lost all traction and slid straight into the deep end of the swimming pool. For a second, my heart just stopped. That water was cold enough to make a strong man gasp.

But that cat swam like he meant it. He paddled hard, found the edge, and hauled himself out—soaked, shaking, and very much alive. He gave the universe a dirty look, shook himself dry, and disappeared.

I stood there a long minute, coffee forgotten, thinking, Well, that about sums it up. Slipping, plunging, scrambling, surviving.

And it hit me: this whole week hasn’t been about progress. It’s been about perseverance.

Old Questions, New Weather

Success and motivation have followed me around most of my life. I’ve been chewing on those questions since my university days. What makes people move forward? What keeps them going when things get hard? What does success really look like when you strip away the trophies and titles?

Those questions followed me into doctoral work more than thirty years ago. I spent over a year buried in research and writing, wrestling with motivation theories and Scripture, eventually producing a dissertation with a title long enough to scare off casual readers. Back then, success felt like finishing, publishing, achieving.

But sitting here now, watching ice melt and coffee cool, I realized something: real life tests success in different ways.

The Bible doesn’t define success the way the world does. Joshua wrote, “This Book of the Law shall not depart from your mouth… For then you will make your way prosperous, and then you will have good success” (Joshua 1:8, ESV).

Not flashy success. Not Instagram success. Good success.

Because the usual measures don’t hold up well in a storm. It’s not how you look. Ice doesn’t care. It’s not how much you own. Power outages level the field. It’s not who you know. Connections don’t melt roads.

Paul said it plainly: “Let each one test his own work, and then his reason to boast will be in himself alone and not in his neighbor” (Galatians 6:4, ESV).

Success isn’t comparison. It’s character.

Paul’s Kind of Success

If you want a picture of real success, you don’t have to look any further than the Apostle Paul.

Paul had a sense of direction. He wasn’t wandering through life hoping things worked out. “I make it my ambition to preach the gospel,” he wrote (Romans 15:20, ESV). And again, “I press on toward the goal” (Philippians 3:14, ESV). Direction doesn’t mean ease—it means purpose.

Paul had understanding—earned understanding. “I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound,” he said (Philippians 4:12, ESV). He didn’t just know Scripture; he lived it. He prayed for hearts to be directed “to the love of God and to the steadfastness of Christ” (2 Thessalonians 3:5, ESV).

Paul lived with commitment. “I do not account my life of any value nor as precious to myself,” he wrote, “if only I may finish my course” (Acts 20:24, ESV). That’s not recklessness. That’s resolve.

And he never forgot compassion. “If I have all faith… but have not love, I am nothing” (1 Corinthians 13:2–3, ESV). He urged believers to put on “compassionate hearts” (Colossians 3:12, ESV), because success without love is empty noise.

Paul walked with enthusiastic faith. “If God is for us, who can be against us?” (Romans 8:31, ESV). “I can do all things through him who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:13, ESV). Not denial. Trust.

He lived as a servant, willing to be spent for others (2 Corinthians 12:15, ESV). And he had staying power: “Afflicted… but not crushed… struck down, but not destroyed” (2 Corinthians 4:8–9, ESV).

His secret sits in plain sight: “So we do not lose heart… For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal” (2 Corinthians 4:16–18, ESV).

When the Ice Finally Melts

I finish my coffee and look back out the window. Water is running where ice ruled a few days ago. The world is finding its footing again. Slowly. Quietly.

Maybe success looks a lot like this. Not constant motion. Not nonstop achievement. Sometimes it’s just holding on through the freeze, trusting that God is still at work beneath the ice, and knowing what matters when everything else slips.

A Few Takeaways From a Frozen Week

  1. Success isn’t what you accumulate—it’s who you become.
    Ice storms don’t care about resumes, bank accounts, or appearances. Character endures.
  2. Motivation changes in hard seasons—and that’s okay.
    Some weeks aren’t about moving forward. They’re about staying upright and faithful.
  3. Good success is measured by faithfulness, not flash.
    The kind of success God honors holds steady through cold, darkness, and delay.
  4. Don’t lose heart when progress feels slow.
    Ice melts one drip at a time. Renewal often works the same way.

The thaw always comes. And when it does, it tells you what was solid all along.

Grace and Peace,
Jimmie Aaron Kepler, Ed.D.

Reflections on Being Sick

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When the Road Gets Rough, Love Shows Up

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When the Road Gets Rough, Love Shows Up

Some verses don’t holler. They don’t raise their voice or wave their arms. They just sit there on the page like an old friend on a tailgate, telling the truth without fuss. Proverbs 17:17 is one of those verses:

A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.

Proverbs 17:17

That verse has lived a little. It’s been through weather.

I’ve learned over the years that everybody’s friendly when the sun’s out and the bills are paid. Folks laugh easy when the coffee’s hot and the road’s smooth. But life, being life, always throws a curve. Out of the blue you have an illness, a loss, a diagnosis you didn’t order, or a phone call you wish you hadn’t answered. That’s when the verse stops being ink on paper and starts breathing.

A Friend Who Loves Without a Clock

A true friend loves at all times. Not just when you’re funny, healthy, useful, or easy to be around. Real friends don’t check the calendar or the mood before they show up. They don’t disappear when things get awkward or slow or heavy. They love you when you’re at your best—and they love you when you’re tired, worn thin, and quiet.

That kind of love doesn’t make speeches. It brings soup. It sends a text that says, “I’m thinking about you.” It sits without needing to fix anything. It’s steady, not flashy, and rare. And once you’ve known it, you never forget it.

Born for the Hard Days

Then there’s the brother (or sister), either by blood or by friendship, born for adversity. That word born matters. It means this wasn’t an afterthought. When trouble comes, family steps in carrying weight they didn’t volunteer for, because that’s just how it works. They stand guard. They share the load. Sometimes they speak the hard truth. Sometimes they just stand there and take the hit with you.

Life has taught me that some people are assigned to the sunshine, and others are assigned to the storm. Brothers are storm people.

When Adversity Tells the Truth

Hard times have a way of sorting things out. Adversity is a spotlight. It shows you who’s real. And Proverbs 17:17 reminds us that God didn’t design us to face the hard things alone. He built friendship and family into the plan. They are not there as decoration, but as reinforcement.

Sometimes family doesn’t share your last name. Sometimes it shares your faith. The church, at its best, is a room full of brothers and sisters who show up when life caves in. Not perfect people. Just present ones.

When the road gets rough, love shows up. That’s the promise. And it’s one worth holding onto.

Grace and Peace,
Jimmie Aaron Kepler

Did you enjoy this article? You can find more of Jimmie Aaron Kepler’s non-fiction books at NONFICTION and his speculative fiction books written as Jim Kepler at FICTION.

Making It Through December

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Making It Through December
December 19, 2025

There’s an old country song by a late singer-songwriter I loved. He sang about December like it was a river you just had to cross. If we can make it through this month, he said, everything will be all right. He never explained how he knew. He just did. December, in his mind, was survival. Endurance. Hold on long enough, and the light comes back.

I’ve lived long enough now to believe those words penned by Merle Haggard. I’ve also lived long enough to see how God often does His deepest work in the months we are just trying to survive.

December has always kept its boots by my door. It comes knocking whether I’m ready or not, carrying memory like a sack of grain—some of it sweet, some of it heavy enough to bend your back. Looking back now, I can see that December has been a place of calling, pruning, loss, and grace in my life.

Fifty-one years ago this month, just after Christmas was in the rearview mirror, I married Benita Beatrice Breeding. December 28, 1974. We were young and sure, the way people are before they understand how much life—and marriage—can ask of them. She walked beside me for decades, through callings and careers, sermons and software, sickness and stubborn hope, bad choices, and God’s remarkable care for us and our family. She left this world on April 12, 2018. Since then, December has carried her memory differently. Each year her name returns to me like it’s written in frost on the window.

Fifty years ago this month, I sat in a room in the student union building at the University of Texas at Arlington, wearing a dress green U.S. Army officer’s uniform, listening for my name. When the university president read, “Jimmie Aaron Kepler has met the requirements for the degree Bachelor of Arts in History,” it felt like a door opening. There wasn’t a December graduation ceremony in those days, so this was mine. My wife and my parents were seated in the room, witnesses to a moment that felt small then, but mattered more than I knew.

That same December day, I was commissioned a second lieutenant in the United States Army through ROTC. I had done well enough not only to earn a commission, but to be selected for active duty. Orders in hand, bags packed, I reported to Fort Benning, Georgia just after Christmas. December didn’t ask if I was ready; it simply sent me.

Less than a week after those gold bars were pinned on my shoulders, I was assigned twenty-four-hour duty as the staff duty officer for The Infantry School Brigade (now Airborne and Ranger Training Brigade). Over the holidays, I was responsible for soldiers in Infantry Basic and Advanced Officer Leadership Courses, Officer Candidate School, Ranger School, and Airborne School. I learned quickly what responsibility feels like when it outweighs experience. God was faithful. I did the job.

Forty-seven years ago this month, December released me from active duty and pointed me toward graduate school. I traded fatigues for books and found myself asking deeper questions about God, people, and purpose. Being released from career-status active duty so I could attend seminary was nothing short of a miracle. I stayed in the Army Reserves for a few more years, but my calling was becoming clearer.

Forty-five years ago this month, I completed my Master of Religious Education at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary—sixty-nine semester hours in just twenty-three months. Another December marker. Another quiet affirmation of calling. That same month, my first full-time church called me to Decatur, Georgia.

December moved me again forty-three years ago—from Decatur to Bogalusa, Louisiana—as God led me from one church field to another. Looking back, I see how often December marked transition: endings that hurt, beginnings that frightened, and God’s steady presence in both.

In three different Decembers—thirty-two, thirty-one, and thirty years ago—I wrote the cover story for Sunday School Leader magazine. Each assignment arrived during Advent, a season of waiting. I always wrote the article a full year before publication, letting it sit, mature, and change me before it reached anyone else.

Thirty years ago this month, December closed a painful chapter when I resigned my last full-time church position. That decision carried grief and uncertainty. Letting go always does. Yet I have never doubted it was God’s will. In time, God redeemed that season, leading me to turn a long-standing computer hobby into a vocation I never anticipated.

Twenty-six years ago this month, I began what would be my last “day job” at Interstate Batteries. I retired in August 2017 as a senior applications software engineer. Only God could weave ministry, technology, obedience, and provision together that way.

That same December in 1999, I was inducted into Phi Theta Kappa after completing the core curriculum for an associate’s degree in computer science. It was a small affirmation, but a reminder that God honors faithfulness, even when the path is unexpected.

Twelve years ago this month, December delivered news that landed like a stone: my wife was diagnosed with terminal neuroendocrine carcinoid. We learned to live on borrowed time, trusting God one appointment at a time. Cancer didn’t take her then. But cancer is patient. In June 2015, she was diagnosed with melanoma, and that was the illness God used to call her home.

Eleven years ago this month, my mother passed away. I had the honor of officiating her funeral, standing firm when my heart wanted to fold. December teaches you that kind of faith—how to stand in hope while holding grief.

Eight years ago this month, Benita’s melanoma spread to her brain. Surgeons cut. I prayed. God granted us four more months—four months I would give anything to relive.

And still—still—December holds the greatest truth of all. About two thousand years ago, in this same waiting season, God came down quiet and small. A baby born in Bethlehem. No fanfare. No explanations. Just Emmanuel—God with us—light breaking into darkness.

So yes, December is a key month in my life. It’s where joy and grief sit side by side. It’s where God has met me again and again—sometimes in celebration, sometimes in loss, always in faithfulness.

And as I look back over all those Decembers—some filled with celebration, others heavy with loss—I can see a thread running through them all. It isn’t my strength. It isn’t my planning. It certainly isn’t my wisdom. It is God’s faithfulness, steady and sure, even when I didn’t understand what He was doing.

There’s an old verse from Scripture I’ve come to lean on more with every passing year, one I’ve learned not just to quote, but to live:

“Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”
Proverbs 3:5–6 (KJV)

That verse doesn’t promise an easy road. It doesn’t say we’ll understand the turns while we’re taking them. It simply calls us to trust—fully, humbly—and to stop pretending we can figure life out on our own. It asks us to acknowledge God in every season: in joy and grief, in calling and letting go, in beginnings and endings. And it promises that when we do, He will direct our paths.

I’ve learned that when you live that way—when you really trust Him with all your heart—you somehow make it not just through December, but through every month that follows. You make it through weddings and funerals, callings and goodbyes, hospital rooms and quiet mornings when the house feels too empty. You make it through the months that shape you and the ones that break you.

December still comes knocking, boots on, memories in hand. It still asks a lot of me. But it no longer feels like a river I have to cross alone.

And like that old song says, if I can make it through December, I believe—by God’s grace—I’ll be all right.

Write It Down: Lessons for Writers from Exodus 24:4

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Write It Down: Lessons for Writers from Exodus 24:4
By: Jimmie Aaron Kepler

Exodus 24:4 – “Moses then wrote down everything the Lord had said.” 

I’ve always loved how Exodus 24:4 puts it so simply: 

“Moses then wrote down everything the Lord had said.”

It’s plain. Straightforward. Almost easy to miss. But stop and think about it a second. Moses didn’t just nod along, figuring he’d remember later. He didn’t say, “I’ll get around to it when the time feels right.” He didn’t even leave it to chance. No—he wrote it down. And because he did, we still hold those words in our hands today.

Now, I don’t know about you, but that gets to me. It makes me wonder—what would’ve been lost if Moses hadn’t put pen to parchment? How much wisdom, how much truth, how much of God’s guidance might have slipped through the cracks of human memory if he’d walked away and just assumed he’d recall it later?

Friend, there’s a sermon in that for all of us who write.

Moses and the Writer’s Call

Moses wasn’t setting out to become a bestselling author. He wasn’t looking to climb the literary charts or even leave a legacy. He was just being faithful. He was obedient to capture what God had spoken, no matter how ordinary or inconvenient the task might have seemed at the moment.

That’s the call for us as writers, poets, storytellers, and dreamers. Maybe you’re wrestling with words that won’t come out right. Maybe you’re staring at a blinking cursor that feels more like a dare than an invitation. Or maybe you’ve convinced yourself nobody needs your story anyway.

But here’s the truth—your words matter. Just like Moses’s did.

Writing as Preservation

Writing isn’t just self-expression; it’s preservation. Think about all the moments you’ve lived through—joys that lit up your heart, heartbreaks that nearly undid you, lessons you learned the hard way. If you don’t write them down, who will?

I think about my own journals, scratched out in coffee shops and quiet mornings before the world got noisy. I didn’t write them thinking anyone else would read them. But every once in a while, I’ll flip back through and find a note, a prayer, or a thought that feels like a lifeline thrown across time from my younger self.

That’s what happens when we write—we preserve what God is teaching us. We anchor fleeting thoughts before they drift off. And sometimes, we leave behind a trail someone else can follow when they get lost in the dark.

Somebody’s Waiting

You may never know who your words are meant for. Could be your grandchild reading them fifty years from now. Could be a stranger on the other side of the world stumbling across your book, blog, or poem. Could be a friend sitting in the same pew, needing a reminder that they’re not alone.

But make no mistake—somebody’s waiting for your story. Somebody’s waiting for your words.

Start Where You Are

You don’t need perfect grammar, a polished manuscript, or a book deal to begin. You just need to start. Moses didn’t wait until conditions were perfect—he wrote it down as it came. And look at the difference it made.

Maybe today it’s just a sentence scribbled in a notebook. Maybe it’s a half-finished poem on your phone. Maybe it’s an essay that will one day grow into a book. Whatever it looks like, start where you are. Write what God has laid on your heart.

Because words unwritten eventually vanish. Words written can live on and on.

So next time you find yourself hesitating, remember Exodus 24:4: “Moses then wrote down everything the Lord had said.”

That wasn’t just a historical detail. It was an invitation. An example. A reminder that what we write today might be the very words someone else needs tomorrow.

So go ahead. Grab that pen. Open that laptop. Write it down.

Grace and Peace,
Jimmie

Did you enjoy this article? You can find more of Jimmie Aaron Kepler’s non-fiction books at NONFICTION and his speculative fiction books written as Jim Kepler at FICTION.

I’m Just a Believer

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I’m Just a Believer

Gazing at the morning skies,
Bible open, truth before my eyes.
Seeking wisdom, ancient and true,
Faith in Christ to carry me through.

Your Spirit whispers, calm and near,
A gentle voice that casts out fear.
Your Word’s a lamp to light my way,
Guiding me through each new day.

I’m just a Believer,
Living for Christ.
Trusting His mercy,
And walking in light.

I’m just a Believer,
Struggling each day.
But Jesus, my Savior,
Has shown me the way.

I don’t understand all the hate,
Violence, anger, fear at the gate.
Why can’t we live in brotherhood?
Touch the world with Christ for good?

He calls us now to love, not fight,
To shine His truth, to share His light.
Break every chain, the walls come down,
Till peace and mercy spread around.

I’m just a Believer,
Living for Christ.
Trusting His mercy,
And walking in light.

I’m just a Believer,
Struggling each day.
But Jesus, my Savior,
Has shown me the way.

Help me share Your Word with love,
Spirit guide me from above.
Give me courage, make me strong,
Help me lift Your Name in song.

Teach me boldness when I’m weak,
Your truth is all I long to speak.
With open hands and heart of flame,
I’ll praise forever Jesus’ name.

I’m just a Believer,
Living for Christ.
Trusting His mercy,
And walking in light.

I’m just a Believer,
Struggling each day.
But Jesus, my Savior,
Has shown me the way.

Written by Jimmie Aaron Kepler
September 9 – 13, 2005
The week of the 24th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks
and the assassination of Charlie Kirk.

 

Here is a Biblical basis for each line in the poem:
I’m Just a Believer – with Scripture References

 

Poem Line Bible Verse
Gazing at the morning skies, Psalm 19:1 – The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
Bible open, truth before my eyes. John 17:17 – Sanctify them by the truth; your word is truth.
Seeking wisdom, ancient and true, Psalm 111:10 – The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom; all who follow his precepts have good understanding.
Faith in Christ to carry me through. Philippians 4:13 – I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.
Your Spirit whispers, calm and near, Romans 8:16 – The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children.
A gentle voice that casts out fear. 1 John 4:18 – There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear.
Your Word’s a lamp to light my way, Psalm 119:105 – Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path.
Guiding me through each new day. Lamentations 3:22–23 – Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed… his compassions never fail. They are new every morning.
I’m just a Believer, Living for Christ. Philippians 1:21 – For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.
Trusting His mercy, And walking in light. 1 John 1:7 – If we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus his Son purifies us from all sin.
I’m just a Believer, Struggling each day. John 16:33 – In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.
But Jesus, my Savior, Has shown me the way. John 14:6 – Jesus answered, ‘I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’
I don’t understand all the hate, 1 John 3:15 – Everyone who hates his brother is a murderer, and you know that no murderer has eternal life abiding in him.
Violence, anger, fear at the gate. Colossians 3:8 – Put away anger, wrath, malice, slander, and obscene talk from your mouth.
Why can’t we live in brotherhood? Psalm 133:1 – How good and pleasant it is when God’s people live together in unity!
Touch the world with Christ for good? Matthew 5:16 – Let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.
He calls us now to love, not fight, John 13:34 – A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.
To shine His truth, to share His light. Matthew 5:14 – You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden.
Break every chain, the walls come down, John 8:36 – So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.
Till peace and mercy spread around. Matthew 5:9 – Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
Help me share Your Word with love, 2 Timothy 4:2 – Preach the word; be ready in season and out of season.
Spirit guide me from above. John 14:26 – But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things.
Give me courage, make me strong, Deuteronomy 31:6 – Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid… for the LORD your God goes with you.
Help me lift Your Name in song. Isaiah 12:5 – Sing to the LORD, for he has done glorious things; let this be known to all the world.
Teach me boldness when I’m weak, Ephesians 6:19 – Pray… that I will fearlessly make known the mystery of the gospel.
Your truth is all I long to speak. Acts 4:20 – We cannot help speaking about what we have seen and heard.
With open hands and heart of flame, 1 Timothy 2:8 – Therefore, I want the men everywhere to pray, lifting up holy hands without anger or disputing.
I’ll praise forever Jesus’ name. Philippians 2:9 – Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name.

Written by Jimmie Aaron Kepler
September 9 – 13, 2005
The week of the 24th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks
and the assassination of Charlie Kirk.