Tag: Anxiety

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.

How to Get Forgiveness of Sin

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Old hands, rustic sink, sunset glow, old man in overalls.

I once watched my late grandfather wash his hands before supper. He didn’t rush it. He stood at the sink like it mattered—water running, fingers working the grit loose, dirt circling the drain. When he finished, he dried his hands slowly and said, almost to himself, “That’s better.”

That’s the picture that comes to mind when I hear John’s plainspoken promise: “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” No thunder. No courtroom drama. Just water, honesty, and a God who keeps His word.

If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.

1 John 1:9 King James Version

Confession isn’t poetry

Confession isn’t poetry. It’s more like naming the weeds in your garden. You don’t stand there admiring them. You say, There you are. I see you. And the strange mercy of God is that He isn’t shocked when you point them out. He already knows what’s growing. What He’s been waiting for is your voice.

Most of us think forgiveness hinges on how sorry we sound, how broken our voice gets, how well we perform repentance. But John doesn’t say God is emotional about forgiving. He says God is faithful and just. That’s sturdier than feelings. That’s a promise backed by character. God forgives not because we feel bad enough, but because He has already decided who He is.

Forgiveness

Justice, oddly enough, is the reason forgiveness works. Sin doesn’t just vanish like smoke—it was carried somewhere. The cross stands there, quiet and unadorned, like an old road sign you almost miss. God doesn’t sweep sin under the rug; He places it where it belongs. That’s why forgiveness doesn’t wobble. It rests on settled ground.

Cleansing

And then there’s that second gift we often overlook: cleansing. Forgiveness deals with the record. Cleansing deals with the residue. Anyone who’s lived a while knows sin leaves a film—habits, reflexes, a taste in the mouth you didn’t ask for. God doesn’t just say, “You’re free to go.” He says, “Come here. Let me wash you.”

The late singer and poet Leonard Cohen once sang about a crack in everything, the place where the light gets in. Confession is that crack. It’s the moment you stop defending the dark and let grace touch the mess. Not all at once. Not magically. But truly.

You don’t have to dress confession up. God isn’t moved by eloquence. Just honesty. Say it plain. Say it tired. Say it with dirt still under your nails. He’s faithful. He’s just. And He still knows how to clean a soul the way water cleans a pair of working hands.

“That’s better,” He says. And He means it.

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.

Merry Christmas 2025

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Below is the text of what you can hear me reading on the video —

Hey, Jimmie Kepler here. I want to tell you a quick story. I grew up a military brat. Christmas mornings found me jumping out of bed, hoping the gifts I wanted were under that tree.

But looking back, there’s something from those days that shines brighter than any present.

Before we opened a single gift, my family always opened God’s Word. Sleepy as we were, we’d read the story of that first Christmas and thank God for the greatest gift of all—Jesus.

These days, Christmas can get real crowded, and it’s easy to forget the season isn’t about what’s under the tree… but the One who came to hang on a cross. Jesus stepped outta heaven and into a manger to bridge the gap between us and God. That’s why the Christmas story is still the greatest ever told.

So this Christmas, friend, don’t just open gifts—open the Word. Why not, let the story pull you back into the wonder of what God has done.

Merry Christmas. May His hope, His joy, and His peace fill your home this season.

Silence is Golden

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The Breakfast Where My Mouth Was Frying Bacon Faster Than My Brain Could Flip It

I remember one particular morning on a trip sitting at breakfast with a female traveling companion. I have a long-term friendship with this beautiful woman, but we are not and have never been in a romantic relation.

We’re just part of this ragtag little fellowship of friends who collect museums, concerts, fine dining experiences, and long stories the way other folks collect stamps.

She’s good people. She is smart, funny, well-read, the sort who could make a grocery list sound interesting. And bless her heart, she tolerated me.

Now, I have this habit. It’s really an unholy one. I can hijack a conversation. Not meaning to, of course. It’s like my mouth starts running and forgets it’s supposed to be hooked up to my ears. I know she’s cringed once or twice, maybe thought about grabbing her coffee and making a break for it.

But that morning, as we sat at breakfast, I finally had to stop talking long enough to breathe. And she slipped in the softest little truth-telling you ever heard. She said, all grace and no malice, “I don’t need your full life story again or one of your cross-country rambles. You know what your problem is? You don’t know when not to talk. Just stay with the conversation. Don’t chase every rabbit that hops across your mind.”

Well. Yikes. Guilt as charged.

Certified Southern Champion of Talking When I Should Be Listening

I’ve always had this tendency. Someone shares something meaningful like a story, a hurt, some family drama, and instead of listening, really listening, I launch into a completely different tale about somebody else who once had something sort of similar happen. It’s rude. It’s selfish. It’s lonely, too, if I’m being honest. Mostly, it shows I hadn’t yet learned the sacred art of shutting up.

My late grandmother tried to warn me. I was barely old enough to shave when she said, “Jimmie Aaron, girls don’t much care about what you know, where you’ve been, or how many stories you can tell, unless you’re saying something sweet about them. That’s why they like the strong, silent types.”

If only I’d listened.

I talked myself off the honor roll once or twice. Not academically, but because I got dinged for “citizenship.” In school, in work, all through life, folks have said kindly but firmly, “Jimmie’s a bit too social.” Or, “Jimmie needs to tighten up his speech. He needs to talk like he writes: short, sharp, and without all the scenic detours.”

Lord Knows Grandma Tried, but My Mouth Was Louder Than Her Wisdom

And then, just recently, I stumbled across that line in Isaiah: “But they were silent and answered him not a word…” Hezekiah had told his people to keep their lips zipped while the Assyrian envoy was boasting threats at them. It wasn’t the moment for comebacks or explanations. It was a time for silence.

“But they were silent and answered him not a word, for the king’s command was, ‘Do not answer him.’”

Isaiah 36:21 (ESV)

And there have been so many times I should’ve done the same.

You see, many words tend to drag you straight into trouble. The whole proverb goes on to say something that basically amounts to: “Keep talking and you’ll make a fool of yourself.” Talk long enough and you’ll spill a secret you shouldn’t, drop a sharp word you didn’t mean, or wander into territory that never needed visiting. Lots of things in life are better left unsaid.

And when you won’t stop talking, you can’t hear anything. Not your friends. Not the people you love. Not even God.

Learning the Holy Gospel of Shush: When God Says ‘Hush Your Mouth’

I keep reminding myself God gave me two ears and one tongue on purpose, but you’d never guess it from the way I operate. The people on the wall in Hezekiah’s day listened. I wish I could say I always do.

Talking and listening can’t happen at the same time. One always elbows the other out of the way.

But there are moments, holy ones, healing ones, when silence is gold enough to buy back peace you’ve wasted. These days, I’m learning to ask God to show me those moments. When to hold my tongue. When to speak gently, if at all. When to honor someone not with a story of my own, but with my quiet attention.

Because sometimes the most loving thing a person can do is simply hush.

During the sounds of silence is when you can hear God.

Here’s a few examples from God’s word:

Proverbs 10:19 directly connects a multitude of words with making a mistake.

“When words are many, sin is unavoidable, but he who restrains his lips is wise.”

Proverbs 10:19

Ecclesiastes 10:12–14 contrasts the speech of the wise and the foolish.

“The words of a wise person are gracious and win favor, but the lips of a fool lead to their own ruin…”

Ecclesiastes 10:12–14 

Proverbs 17:28 reminds us that silence often prevents foolishness.

“Even a fool who keeps silent is considered wise…”

Proverbs 17:28

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.

Casting Cares

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You know, there’s a verse I’ve carried around in my back pocket for a long time.
It’s from First Peter, “Cast all your cares on Him, because He cares for you.”
Simple words. But they hit deep when the world starts feeling too heavy to hold.

Cast all your cares on Him, because He cares for you.
1 Peter 5:7

Life’s Tough

I’ll be honest with you, sometimes life just flat-out wears me down.
There are days when it feels like everything’s coming apart at the seams.
I’ve had those moments where I just wanted to shout, or throw my hands up and walk away from it all. Maybe you’ve been there too.

Last year about this time, I hit one of those rough patches.
First, the hot water heater gave up the ghost.
Then the car decided it wanted in on the fun and needed major repairs.
My little pile of emergency savings started looking more like pocket change.
And to top it off, my hand locked up with trigger finger. It needed surgery. And wouldn’t you know it, there were complications after that too.

Why Me Lord

I remember sitting there one night thinking, “Why me, Lord?”
Yeah, I actually said it out loud. Just me and the ceiling fan, having it out.
Ever had one of those nights? Yeah… me too.

Somewhere in the middle of that mess, I remembered that verse. “Cast all your cares on Him.”
So I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote it all down. Every worry, every frustration, every bit of that “I can’t take it anymore” feeling.
Then I bowed my head and said, “God, here. These are Yours now. I’m done carrying ‘em.
You said You care for me, so I’m holding You to it. Help me feel that care. Help me stop thinking the world’s caving in. Help me trust You.”

A Quiet Peace

And I swear to you, something shifted. It wasn’t lightning bolts or angels singing. There was just this quiet peace, like somebody took the weight off my chest.
I realized how lucky I actually was . I had enough in savings to fix what needed fixing, had good doctors and insurance, and still had people around me who cared. That realization alone felt like a miracle.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Everything didn’t suddenly turn perfect.
But the panic disappeared. The peace of God filled that empty space where worry used to live.

After that night, I started thinking about how many times I’ve tried to play Superman. As if I could muscle through everything life threw at me just by gritting my teeth and “being tough.”
That’s a fool’s game, I’ve learned. Life’s got a way of humbling you real quick.

Funny thing, though, every time I hit that breaking point, it’s like God’s been sitting there, patient as can be, waiting for me to finally hand Him the wheel.
He doesn’t barge in, doesn’t holler, doesn’t demand. Just waits till I wear myself out, then whispers, “You done yet? Let Me take it from here.”

Peace Slips In

And when I finally do… when I finally let go of that white-knuckled grip on everything…
peace slips in quiet, like the dawn easing over a country field.
It’s not dramatic, not flashy. It’s just steady. Kind of like a hand on your shoulder saying, “You’re gonna be alright.”

Since then, I’ve tried to make a little habit of it. Not just when life falls apart, but in the small stuff too.
You’d be amazed how much time we spend worrying over things that don’t deserve a tenth of our energy.
The bills, the weather, what so-and-so said at work, what might happen next week.
I catch myself spinning on all that, then I hear that verse again, “Cast your cares.”
It’s not a suggestion; it’s an invitation.

God Cares for Us

See, God doesn’t just tolerate us when we’re a mess. He cares for us. Deeply.
The same way a good father cares for his kid when they come home busted up and teary-eyed.
He’s not rolling His eyes; He’s pulling us close, saying, “I’ve got you.”

I wish I could tell you I’ve got it all figured out, that I never worry anymore, that I’ve mastered this whole “faith” thing.
But I haven’t. Some days I still fall right back into the trap. I’m once more trying to fix everything myself, forgetting the One who actually can.
But when I finally come to my senses and let go, it’s like taking a deep breath after holding it for too long.

So yeah, maybe life’s still got its potholes and flat tires.
Maybe the water heater still leaks now and then.
But I’ve learned something in all of it. Peace doesn’t come from having everything fixed.
It comes from knowing Who’s walking beside you while it’s all getting fixed.

I Remember

These days, when life starts feeling like it’s piling on again, when the phone rings with bad news, I get a text that stirs my emotions, or the bills seem taller than my paycheck;
I remember that night at the kitchen table.
The one with the piece of paper covered in worries and a coffee cup ring in the corner.
That wasn’t just me unloading my troubles. That was me learning how to live lighter.

See, faith ain’t about pretending everything’s fine.
It’s about knowing where to put the stuff that isn’t.
It’s learning that when your shoulders are tired, you don’t have to carry it all.
You can hand it over to Someone who doesn’t get tired.

I’ve come to see God not as some far-off figure, but as a friend who’s walked a lot of dusty roads with me or been with me as I’ve crossed the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans.
He’s been there when I was singing high and when I was crawling low.
When I look back over the years at the heartbreaks, the passing of my spouse Miss Benita and my parents dying, the surgeries, the empty bank accounts, the quiet nights of wondering what now, I can see His fingerprints all over it. Not always changing the situation, but always changing me.

So when Peter says, “Cast all your cares on Him, for He cares for you,”
I hear it like an old country song lyric. It’s simple, true, and worth humming through the hard times.
It’s not fancy theology; it’s just good living.

And maybe that’s what I’ve been trying to say this whole time, that peace isn’t about a perfect life. It’s about trust.
It’s about believing that the One who made the stars actually cares about your busted water heater and your broken heart.

He’s Never Failed Me Yet

So yeah, I still get anxious. I still have days when I want to holler, “Why me, Lord?”
But I don’t stay there long anymore. I’ve learned to write it down, pray it out, and hand it over.
Because He’s never failed me yet, not once.

And if you’re out there today or tonight feeling that same weight, just remember:
you don’t have to carry it alone. Cast it off, friend. Let it go.
He’s got big enough hands to hold it all.

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.