Tag: Friends

The Better Choice

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The Better Choice

Rachel had the whole weekend mapped out before her old college friends even packed their bags. Linens washed, flowers cut, a dinner planned down to the last dish. She wanted it perfect, the way she wanted most things.

Her sister Amanda showed up to help and got handed a list before she’d shed her coat.

Then the women arrived, tired from the road and loud with laughter, and something in the living room shifted. Nicole told stories nobody remembered right. Jennifer pulled up old photographs. Melissa talked about aging parents and marriages that had worn thin in places and dreams that hadn’t died, just gone quiet. Marie shared how her husband had left her for a younger woman.

Amanda set her phone face down on the table and stayed.

Rachel ran the kitchen alone. Sauce boiling over, a missing ingredient, her phone buzzing like a hive. She could hear the laughter over the kitchen island. She could see her sister sitting easy among the guests, and something hard and tired rose up in her.

She came out in her apron, spoon in hand, and said what tired people say.

The room went quiet. Nicole touched Amanda’s arm and told Rachel gently that nobody came for a perfect table. Jennifer offered to order pizza. Melissa already had the schedule on her phone. Marie smiled.

Rachel looked at the room. The meal unfinished, the list still long, and four women she’d loved for twenty years sitting right there, telling the truth to each other.

She took off the apron. Silenced the phone. Sat down beside her sister.

Dinner came late and simple. Nobody minded.

Scripture

“But one thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her.” Luke 10:42, KJV from the story of Mary and Martha found in the Bible, the gospel of Luke (Luke 10:38–42), where Jesus visits the home of two sisters in a village.

Reflection

Rachel wasn’t doing anything wrong. Martha wasn’t either. Jesus never scolded her for the work. He named what the work had cost her: she’d grown worried, distracted, resentful. The serving had eaten the peace right out of her.

That’s the trouble with good things. They don’t announce themselves as thieves. They just quietly take the seat meant for something better.

Mary chose to sit down and listen. That choice still costs something now. A phone left face down. A few dishes left in the sink. The nerve to believe the world won’t end if the list stays unfinished a while longer.

There’s always another task waiting like a dog at the door. But some moments only pass through once. A friend across the table. An evening with family. A quiet minute with God. The better choice isn’t doing more. It’s stopping long enough to notice who’s already in the room.

Prayer

Heavenly Father,
My days fill up fast with tasks and noise, and even my good work can turn to worry in my hands. Teach me to set it down when it’s time. Let me be as present with You and with those I love as I am busy for them. Give me the sense to choose peace over perfection, and never let my serving crowd out the sitting still. 

In Jesus’ name, 
Amen.

When Money Promises More Than It Can Give

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The Life Jessica Thought She Wanted

I have known Jessica since she was a girl of four, barefoot in her mama’s yard, telling anybody who’d listen about the house she was going to have one day. Biggest one on the block, she said. A pool shaped like the state of Texas and a car with a name too fancy for a child to pronounce right. Most kids dream in crayon. Jessica dreamed in blueprints.

She grew up and went and got it too. The right school, the right sorority, a young lawyer for a husband who’d passed the bar the same summer she did her hair different for the wedding photos. But when he took a job defending folks who couldn’t pay him, she looked at him different. Called it a lack of ambition. Filed the papers before the ink dried on their first anniversary card.

Two years later she married a cardiologist, a good man raising two kids from a marriage that hadn’t worked out either. “He can provide,” she told her sister, like she was reading off a spec sheet. “I like him fine. Reckon I’ll grow to love him over time.”

For a stretch of years it looked like she’d won. The mansion sat up on the hill like a promise kept. The car in the driveway caught the morning sun just right. She had a membership card that opened doors most people never even see.

Then somewhere past forty, the process server showed up at that big front door with papers in his hand. Her husband had found somebody younger, thirty years old, and decided the vows were negotiable after all.

The mansion went the way mansions go when the marriage does. Jessica found herself in a little apartment, dusting off a resume ten years old, doing arithmetic on the kitchen table late at night. Car lease. Rent. Club dues she was too proud to cancel. A trip to the resort at St. John in the US Virgin Islands already paid for that she couldn’t back out of without everybody asking why.

Everything she’d built her peace on turned out to be sand the whole time. She just hadn’t waded out far enough yet to feel it move.

Scripture for Today

“Let your conversation be without covetousness; and be content with such things as ye have: for he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.” – Hebrews 13:5 (KJV)

The Trap of Trusting in Wealth

Now I want to be careful here, because money itself never asked to be the villain. It puts groceries on the table and a roof over a family and it can do a world of good in a hurting world if you let it. The trouble starts when money quits being a tool and starts being an identity. When it’s not just what’s in your pocket anymore but what you think you’re worth.

That kind of hunger never eats a full meal. There’s always a bigger house down the road, a S-class to replace your E-class Mercedes in somebody else’s driveway, a neighborhood with a nicer yard art. You can chase that horizon your whole life and die still running toward it.

And here’s the cruel joke of it. The very things we buy for comfort end up costing us our rest. We lie awake guarding what we own instead of enjoying what we’ve been given. What was supposed to set us free starts locking the doors from the inside.

Money can buy a lot of comfort. It has never once bought permanence. It cannot promise a marriage will hold, or a heart will heal, or a person will stay through the hard seasons. Only one voice in this world has ever made that promise and kept it.

The Wealth That Cannot Be Taken Away

Hebrews doesn’t just tell us to quit coveting like that’s some kind of discipline we can white-knuckle our way through. It hands us the reason underneath it. God said, “I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.” That’s not a suggestion for better living. That’s bedrock.

Being content doesn’t mean you stop working or stop dreaming or stop trying to do better for your family. It means your joy quits living and dying by what’s sitting in your driveway or your bank account.

A small apartment with peace in it beats a mansion with dread creeping through every hallway. A modest car driven without fear of losing it beats a luxury one that’s really just a nice cage.

Real wealth is knowing Somebody stays when everything else packs up and leaves. Jobs end. People we love disappoint us, sometimes on purpose. Money comes in like the tide and goes right back out again just as fast. Possessions wear thin, the money for international dream vacations runs out, and the invitations stop coming eventually, every single time.

But God stays. That part never changes.

Peace shows up the day we stop asking dollars to do a job only the Lord was ever built to do. When we trust Him instead, we find out what freedom actually tastes like. Contentment that isn’t for sale, and can’t be repossessed either.

Three Takeaways

  1. Ask yourself honestly what your peace is really standing on. Is it God, or is it your paycheck, your title, your address?
  2. Practice thanks today, right where you are. Don’t wait for the next thing to arrive before you’re grateful for what’s already in your hands.
  3. Remember what can’t be taken. Houses burn, cars wreck, and marriages sometimes end even when we did our best. God’s presence and His promises are the one inheritance nobody can repossess.

Prayer

Father,
Forgive me for the times I put my trust in money and things instead of You. Teach me gratitude for what I already hold in my hands. Remind me, on the hard nights especially, that You promised never to leave me nor forsake me, and that Your word has never once come back void.
Amen.

 

Finding Peace in the Right Now

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The Woman Who Was Waiting for Tomorrow

There is a particular kind of tired that has nothing to do with sleep. Addy knew it well. She sat at her desk one afternoon with a spreadsheet glowing in front of her, numbers lined up neat as tombstones, and she could not have told you a single figure on it. Her mind had wandered off somewhere down the road, chasing a life that had not happened yet.

She ran the list the way folks do when they are dissatisfied and do not quite know why. The job paid too little and asked too much. The apartment had grown smaller every year without changing size. The savings account looked thin under the light. Friends who used to know her secrets now only knew her weather, fine, busy, hanging in there. And the man she loved, the one whose coffee she still made every morning, had gone quiet on the subject of forever.

She had a sentence she repeated to herself so often it had worn smooth, like a stone carried in a pocket. If I could just get the promotion. If we could just move somewhere better. If he would just ask me to marry him. When I finish my MBA. Then I could be happy.

Happiness kept its address just around the next corner. It always does, for people like Addy. For people like most of us.

The Cross-Stitch on Grandma’s Wall

One evening she drove out to see her grandmother, the way she did every few weeks out of duty more than desire, if she was honest. The house smelled the way it always had, coffee and cedar and something like the past. On the wall hung an old cross-stitch, the fabric gone the color of weak tea, the thread soft with fifty years of dust. The words had not faded, though. Words like that rarely do.

Her grandmother had lived in that same small house through every kind of weather life can throw at a person. She had buried a husband. She had counted out grocery money at the end of hard months. She had outlived most of the friends who once sat at her table. And yet there was something steady in her, something Addy had been hunting for in all the wrong corners of the future. A quiet joy that did not depend on the circumstances lining up right.

Her grandmother’s life had never been perfect. Her peace had never asked it to be.

Addy sat with that a long while, longer than she meant to. She began to see that she had spent years chasing a mirage, waiting for her circumstances to get good enough before she would allow herself to feel grateful. While she kept her eyes fixed on some better tomorrow, she had been walking right past the mercies God had already laid at her feet today.

Contentment, she came to understand, was not a place you finally arrive at once every piece falls into line. It was a choice you make in the room you are standing in right now.

God may still change things. He may open doors nobody expected, mend what has been broken, or carry a person into a whole new season. But we are not required to put our peace in storage until He does. We can trust Him with the waiting and still live wide awake in the present.

What Scripture Says

Paul wrote from a prison cell, of all places, when he said:

“Not that I speak in respect of want:

for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.”

Philippians 4:11, KJV

A man in chains, teaching the rest of us about freedom.

Three Things Worth Carrying With You

Contentment is learned, not handed to you. Paul did not say he was born easy in his own skin. He said he learned it. Contentment is not a lucky temperament some people are dealt at birth like a good hand of cards. It is a discipline, built one day at a time by trusting God through whatever season you happen to be standing in. You practice it the way you practice anything, by noticing His goodness on purpose, by saying thank you before you feel like it, and by refusing to let what is missing drown out what has already been given.

Your circumstances do not get to run the show. Real contentment is not pretending the hard things do not hurt. It is refusing to hand those hard things the keys to your peace. Whether the season is full or lean, whether you are surrounded or you are lonesome, the deepest kind of joy does not come from how things are going. It comes from knowing whose you are.

The word “next” will wear you out if you let it. The next promotion. The next relationship. The next move, the next milestone, the next answered prayer, and then, finally, you tell yourself, you will be happy. But there is always another next waiting behind the one you just reached. That road does not end. Peace begins the day you quit postponing your life and plant your feet in the ground you are standing on right now.

You may not have everything you are asking God for. But He has not left the room. His grace has not run dry. His goodness has not clocked out for the day.

Do not miss today while you are busy waiting on tomorrow.

A Prayer for Contentment

Dear Lord,

I confess I have been restless more often than I would like to admit, dissatisfied with the very ground You have set me on. I have let worries about my work, my money, my relationships, and my future steal a peace that was never theirs to take.

Forgive me for keeping such a careful count of what I lack, and such a poor one of what You have already given.

Teach me the secret Paul knew from that cell. Help me trust Your timing instead of my own impatience. Help me see Your goodness even in the plain, unremarkable middle of an ordinary day. Let my satisfaction rest in You, not in whatever changes I am still hoping for. Give me the sense to keep working toward what is good without making my joy wait on the outcome.

Help me live grateful and faithful in the life You have actually given me. Not the one I keep imagining. This one, right here, right now.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

#ContentmentInChrist #PeaceInThePresent #TrustGodsTiming

Written by Jimmie Aaron Kepler, Ed.D. Shared under a Creative Commons Attribution (CC BY) license. You are welcome to share or adapt it provided proper credit is given to the author.

Are You Lonely?

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 Never Truly Alone

There’s a bench outside the old courthouse in a county seat town I won’t bother naming, because it could be any town, and you have probably passed one just like it. It sits under an oak that’s seen more funerals than weddings, and for years it was the busiest seat in the county. Four or five old boys would gather there most every afternoon. Coffee in paper cups. Complaints about the heat. Arguments settled that never needed settling in the first place. It was church without the steeple, and confession without the booth.

Then time did what time does. It took its cut.

One man moved off to live near his daughter. Another got sick and stopped coming, and then stopped altogether. A couple of them are buried now, out past the edge of town where the grass grows a little wilder. The rest got swallowed up by grandchildren and doctor’s appointments and the slow drift that happens to everybody sooner or later.

So there came a day when the last one of them sat on that bench by himself. Alone with the empty spaces where his friends used to be.

A young preacher walked by one afternoon and stopped, the way young preachers do when they see an old man sitting still. “Doesn’t it get lonely,” he asked, “sitting here by yourself?”

The old man looked down the bench at all that nobody sitting beside him. He took his time answering, the way a man does when he’s already made peace with the question.

“Some days it surely does,” he said. “But every morning before I leave the house, I ask the Lord to walk with me. Folks don’t always have the time to sit down next to an old man. But God has never once failed to show up.”

 The Promise Underneath the Silence

I keep coming back to that man on the bench, because I think most of us know exactly what that empty seat feels like.

Sometimes people leave all at once, with a slammed door or a hard word. More often they just fade, the way a radio station fades the further you drive from town. The calls get shorter. The invitations quit coming. A message sits there unanswered long enough that you stop expecting a reply. Folks who once swore they’d stand by you get busy standing somewhere else.

Scripture doesn’t dress this up or pretend it away. It just answers it plain. Hebrews 13:5 puts the promise in words simple enough for a child and deep enough to hold a grown man up: 

“I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.” Hebrews 13:5

God never promised us that people would stay. He never promised that every friendship would hold its shape or that every chair at the table would stay filled. What He promised was bigger than any of that. He promised Himself. Not the fair weather kind of presence, but the kind that sits down next to you in the empty places and doesn’t get up.

When the house goes quiet in a way it never used to, He’s there.

When the phone stops ringing the way it once did, He’s there.

When your own family looks at you like they can’t quite make sense of what you’re carrying, He’s there.

Loneliness has a voice, and it likes to whisper that nobody’s coming. But the old promise answers back quieter and steadier every time: “I am still here.”

You won’t always feel it. Feeling isn’t the measure of it. The same God who carried you through yesterday’s grief is the one waiting in today’s silence, and He’ll be the one walking you into tomorrow, whether you can feel His footsteps or not.

People come, and people go. That’s just the nature of a life lived among other broken folks doing their best. But God stays. That part never changes.

 Three Things Worth Carrying Home

  1. Your loneliness is not proof of abandonment. A quiet season isn’t the same as an empty one. God does some of His deepest work in the silence, teaching a man to listen for a presence he’d stopped noticing.
  2. People will fail you. God’s faithfulness won’t. Don’t let another person’s absence set the measure for God’s love. His word doesn’t bend just because a relationship did.
  3. Your lonely season might be somebody else’s answered prayer. Once you’ve sat on that bench by yourself, you start noticing who else is sitting there too. A phone call, a short message, an open seat at your table, these things carry more weight than we ever give them credit for.

 A Prayer for the Quiet Places

Heavenly Father, 

Some days this loneliness sits heavier on me than I know how to carry. I confess I’ve let the silence of other people convince me I’d been forgotten.

Thank You for the promise that You will never leave me nor forsake me. Help me feel Your presence in the quiet rooms of my life. When friends or family drift further than I’d like, remind me that my worth was never tied to who stays and who walks away. Heal whatever’s been wounded in me by rejection and by disappointment.

Give me courage enough to reach toward somebody else. Give me the wisdom to build relationships that can bear real weight, and the eyes to notice the ones sitting alone on their own version of that bench. Walk with me today, Lord, close enough that even in the silence, I know You’re there.

In Jesus’ name, 
Amen.

Written by Jimmie Aaron Kepler, Ed.D. This original inspirational thought is shared under a Creative Commons Attribution (CC BY) license. You are welcome to share or adapt it for the purpose of spreading God’s message, provided proper credit is given to the author.

Keep Pressing Forward

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The Street She Didn’t Choose

She walked alone down a street slick with rain, the kind of evening where the whole city turns to glass. Storefronts bled gold and red into the puddles. A trolley wire hummed somewhere overhead, and a bus rolled by throwing light across the wet stone like a slow firework going off in reverse. She had her khaki colored raincoat pulled close, umbrella pointing into the wind and rain, not for the rain exactly, but because a woman walking through a city at dusk learns to hold herself like she means it.

Nobody watching her would have known what kind of day she’d had. The mistake she was still carrying. The habit she thought she’d broken again showing back up like an old debt. The conversation she’d rehearsed and still botched. From the outside she just looked like a woman walking. Inside, she was doing the harder thing. She was choosing, step by step, not to quit.

That is most of what faith looks like once you strip away the stained glass and the hymnals. It looks like putting one foot after the other on a street you didn’t choose, in weather you didn’t ask for, with no guarantee the next block will be any easier than the last.

What Paul Knew About Unfinished Roads

Paul knew that walk. He said flat out he hadn’t arrived yet. Man had seen visions, planted churches, been knocked off his horse by the Almighty Himself, and he still said, “I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it.” What he had, though, was a direction. Forgetting what’s behind. Reaching for what’s ahead. Not because the past didn’t happen, but because the past doesn’t get to drive.

That woman on the wet street isn’t pretending the day went well. She isn’t rewriting what happened. She’s just refusing to let it be the last word. There’s a difference between denial and forward motion, and most of us confuse the two until life teaches us better.

The Light Further Down the Block

Maybe today your progress feels like nothing more than a few damp footprints on a sidewalk nobody’s watching. A whispered prayer while you wait on a light to change. A kindness offered when you had every excuse not to. One temptation turned down in a moment you figured you’d fail. It doesn’t look like much from a distance. It rarely does.

But grace has a long memory for the small things. It counts what you can’t see yourself counting. The woman doesn’t need applause from the street. She needs only to keep walking toward the light further down, however far off it seems, however many blocks of rain stand between here and there.

Paul said it plain:

“Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal.” Philippians 3:13 to 14.

Paul hadn’t arrived either. He just refused to let yesterday drive.

Don’t measure tonight by how far the street still stretches. Measure it by how far grace has already walked you.

Three Takeaways

  1. Release the past. Say it out loud to God if you have to. Let it be forgiven, and let it stop steering.
  2. Recognize your progress. Name one place, however small, where you’re further along than you were.
  3. Take the next step. Pick one plain act of faith you can do before the day closes out.

Closing Prayer

Heavenly Father, thank You for walking with me through every mistake, delay, and disappointment. Forgive me for dwelling on the past and comparing my road to somebody else’s. Help me remember this journey is in Your hands, not mine to measure. Give me courage to rise when I stumble, patience when the going is slow, and faith enough to keep pressing toward the purpose You’ve set ahead of me. Fix my eyes on Jesus and steady my steps down whatever street You have me walking tonight. In Jesus’ name, amen.

Written by: This original inspirational thought written by Jimmie Aaron Kepler, Ed.D. is shared under a Creative Commons Attribution (CC BY) license. You are free to share and adapt it for the purpose of sharing God’s message, provided proper credit is given to the author. 

Come and Rest

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Come and Rest

I know a man who used to fall asleep sitting up in his recliner, television going, boots still on, and wake up three hours later more tired than when he sat down. He’d tell me about it like it was a mystery he couldn’t crack. “I slept,” he’d say, “but I didn’t rest.” There’s a difference, and most of us have lived inside that difference longer than we’d like to admit.

You can lie down in a quiet house and still hear the noise. Bills stacked on the counter. A diagnosis you haven’t told anybody about yet. A grown child who won’t call back. The mind keeps working the night shift even after the body’s clocked out. I’ve laid there myself, staring at a ceiling fan going around and around, doing the math on troubles that don’t add up no matter how many times you run the numbers.

Jesus knew about that kind of tired. Not the kind a vacation fixes.

He said it plain, in Matthew 11:28:

“Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
Matthew 11:28

He didn’t say straighten up first. He didn’t say solve it, then come. He just said come, the way you’d call a dog in from the rain, not caring how muddy he is.

An Invitation, Not a Chore List

There’s something almost scandalous about how simple that invitation is. We’re used to being told to earn our rest, to work ourselves into deserving it. But Jesus doesn’t hand out a checklist. He doesn’t ask what you’ve done to deserve the load being lifted. He just opens the door and says come as you are.

That’s personal. Not a philosophy, not good advice from a wise teacher. He’s not selling a technique. He’s offering Himself, the way an old friend offers his shoulder without asking you to explain the whole story first.

Whatever you’re hauling around, the health scare, the money that won’t stretch far enough, the decision you keep circling like a buzzard that won’t land, the grief that shows up uninvited at strange hours, He’s not asking you to set it down somewhere else before you walk toward Him. Bring it. Bring all of it.

Rest That Doesn’t Wait for the Problem to Leave

Now here’s the part folks get wrong sometimes. They think rest means the trouble disappears, poof, like a magic trick. Sometimes it does. More often, in my experience, it doesn’t work quite like that. His rest shows up as peace sitting right in the middle of the unresolved thing. It shows up as just enough strength for the next step, not the whole staircase. It shows up as a quiet knowing, somewhere down in your chest, that you’re not hauling this alone anymore, even if the load itself hasn’t gotten lighter yet.

I think of a fella carrying a heavy suitcase through an airport, and somebody comes alongside and takes the other handle. The suitcase weighs the same. But it doesn’t feel the same. That’s closer to what this rest is. You don’t have to pretend you’re strong today. You don’t have to fix your face before you come. You just have to come.

Takeaways

  1. Come to Jesus as you are. Don’t wait until you’ve got yourself sorted out. Bring the weariness, the confusion, the fear, the questions nobody’s answered yet, straight to Him, muddy boots and all.
  2. Release what you were never built to carry alone. Some weights belong in God’s hands, not balanced on your own back. Prayer is where we let go of the handle and trust Him with where the road leads.
  3. Receive His rest one day at a time. He may not show you the whole map. But He’ll give you enough light for today’s stretch of road, and that’s usually all a tired traveler really needs.

Prayer

Heavenly Father,

I come to You today weary from the load I’ve been carrying. You already know every worry, every fear, every duty, every quiet ache tucked down in my heart where nobody else can see it.

Forgive me for trying to shoulder it all myself. Help me let go of what I was never meant to control, and trust You with what I can’t understand.

Lord Jesus, still my racing thoughts and fill that space with Your peace instead. Give rest to my mind, strength to my tired body, and new hope to my worn-down spirit. Remind me I’m not walking this road by myself, and that Your grace is enough for whatever I’m facing.

Teach me to walk through this day beside You, one step, one mile marker, at a time.

In Jesus’ name, amen.

 

The Brother I Never Had to Ask For

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From left to right Julia Hall, Jimmie Kepler, Les Hall, Benita Kepler. Photo taken by Shahrzad Bacon at JGs Old Fashioned Hamburgers, Dallas, Texas, USA in 2012.

The Brother I Never Had to Ask For

There’s a kind of friend the Bible calls a brother, not by blood, but by the miles he’s willing to walk beside you. I had one like that. Still do.

Where It Began

I met Les Hall back in the late 1990s, two middle-aged men fixing other people’s computer trouble on the same IT support desk, the kind of job that teaches you patience whether you want it or not. We started eating lunch together most every day, nothing fancy, just two men trading stories over a plate lunch. That’s usually how the real friendships start. Not with some grand gesture. Just showing up, day after day, until one day you look up and realize this fellow has become family.

“A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.” Proverbs 17:17 KJV

Proverbs wrote that a long time before Les and I ever sat down at a lunch counter, but it might as well have been written about him.

When It Mattered Most

When my father passed, Les was there. When my wife got sick with the cancer that would eventually take her, through the surgeries, through the long slow grief of caregiving, he stood beside me. He was at both funerals. He didn’t send a card and disappear. He stayed.

He was there through my own share of hospital hallways too. A stroke landed me in coronary care back in 2000, and a bad heart brought me right back in 2003 and 2004. When I went in for a heart catheterization, Les stayed with my wife while she waited on word. He was there when they took out my gall bladder, there for both hernia repairs, there again for the rotator cuff surgery. A man doesn’t sign up for that kind of loyalty. He just gives it, quietly, because that’s who he is.

When my daughter and her family needed to move into my house for what turned into five years, Les didn’t just wish me luck getting the place ready. He showed up in his work clothes and got to work.

When his own wife passed, I got to return the favor, just being there, the way he’d been there for me. That’s what real friendship is. It isn’t a one-way debt. It’s two men taking turns carrying what’s too heavy to carry alone.

What Endures

These days Les still helps me around the house, almost every Wednesday. Every fall when I head out on a month long or longer vacation, he watches the place like it’s his own, house sitting for me. 

We’ve traveled together, laughed together, and sat with each other through more hospital waiting rooms and funeral homes than either of us would have chosen. 

Started on an IT help desk. Turned into one of the finest gifts God ever handed me.

If you’ve got a friend like that, a Les Hall in your life, don’t wait for a funeral to tell him what he means to you. Tell him today, over lunch, the way it started.

Three Take Aways

  1. Show up, don’t just say sorry. Words of comfort matter, but presence is what people remember. Sit in the waiting room. Stand at the graveside. Let your body say what your words can’t.
  2. Keep no ledger. A friendship built on keeping score won’t last through the hard seasons. Give what you can when you can, and trust that the giving and the receiving will even out over a lifetime.
  3. Say the thank you now. Don’t wait for a eulogy to tell a faithful friend what he means to you. Tell him over a plate lunch, while he can still hear it and you can still say it.

A Prayer

Heavenly Father, thank You for the gift of a faithful friend. Thank You for the ones who show up in the hospital hallway, who sit with a grieving spouse, who show up in work clothes ready to carry a load without being asked.

Thank You for Les, for every surgery and every funeral and every ordinary Wednesday lunch that built a friendship strong enough to hold both our sorrows. Teach me to be that kind of friend to someone else. Remind me to say thank you while there’s still time to say it.

In Jesus’ name, 
Amen.

The photo is of Les and his later wife Julia, me when my hair was still workplace short and my late wife Miss Benita. The wives are seated across from us to help you recognize who’s whose.

Write It Down: Lessons for Writers from Exodus 17:14

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Write It Down: Lessons for Writers from Exodus 17:14
By: Jimmie Aaron Kepler

I don’t know about you, but there are days I sit staring at the page and wonder, Does any of this matter? Will these words ever mean anything to anybody but me?

Then I come across Exodus 17:14, and it’s like God gives me a gentle nudge:

“Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘Write this on a scroll as something to be remembered and make sure that Joshua hears it, because I will completely blot out the name of Amalek from under heaven.’”

Now, God could have just whispered to Moses, “Relax, I’ll take care of Amalek.” But He didn’t. Instead, He told Moses to write it down. To make sure Joshua knew. To leave a record.

Writing Is More Than Ink on a Page

This wasn’t about Moses doodling a few notes to himself. God wanted a testimony—something that would stand the test of time. That scroll became more than parchment and ink; it became a witness to God’s faithfulness.

That’s what we do when we write. We’re not just filling journals or typing drafts on a laptop. We’re capturing moments, truths, and reminders that somebody else may need long after we’re gone.

Every Writer Has a “Joshua”

Moses had Joshua. You and I might have children, grandkids, church friends, or even complete strangers who will stumble across our words one day.

Your “Joshua” could be a weary soul who finds your poem, story, or devotion just when they need it most. They may never meet you, but they’ll carry your words forward like a lantern in the dark.

The Weight of Words

Writers, poets, bloggers—we carry a holy burden. Not everything we write will be polished or published, but when the Lord whispers, write it down, that’s not busywork. That’s obedience.

Our words can be seeds. We may never see the fruit, but someone else might harvest it.

What It Means for Us Today

Exodus 17:14 shows us that writing isn’t just an optional hobby. It’s sacred. It matters. God told Moses to write, and I think He still tells His people today: Write it down so they’ll remember.

So, friend, don’t wait until your draft is perfect. Don’t worry if the words come out crooked. Just write. Tomorrow’s Joshua may be depending on today’s scribbles.

Takeaways for Writers and Poets

  • Writing Preserves Memory – We write to remember, to remind, to testify.
  • Writing Shapes the Future – What we write today may be the guidepost for someone else tomorrow.
  • Writing Is Sacred Work – Each word written in obedience joins the long line of witnesses before us.

Closing Thought

Next time you’re tempted to push your notebook aside or shut down the laptop, remember Exodus 17:14. God told Moses to write it down so Joshua would remember.

Your Joshua may be out there waiting on your words.

Grace and peace,
Jimmie

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Walking With the Shepherd: Living the 23rd Psalm

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Walking With the Shepherd: Living the 23rd Psalm
By: Jimmie Aaron Kepler

The 23rd Psalm is one of the most beloved passages in all of Scripture. It isn’t just poetry—it’s a picture of life with God. Each verse carries a promise, paints an image, and invites us to live differently because of who the Shepherd is. Let’s take a walk through it together.

“The Lord is my Shepherd – That’s relationship.”

God isn’t far off—He’s close, like a shepherd tending his sheep. He knows us personally, by name, and cares for us with relentless love.

I remember walking hand in hand with my dad as a boy. Even in unfamiliar or scary places, I felt safe because he was beside me. That’s what the Shepherd is like—always present, always personal.

We can lean into that relationship today. Speak to Him honestly. Trust Him as more than a distant God—trust Him as your Shepherd.

“I shall not want – That’s supply.”

When the Shepherd leads, we lack nothing essential. He may not give us everything on our wish list, but He always provides what we truly need.

I think back to lean years when the money stretched thin. Still, food made it to the table, bills got paid, and somehow we made it through. Looking back, I see God’s fingerprints in those small mercies.

Take a moment to list today’s provisions—big or small. Gratitude reveals just how richly He supplies.

“He makes me lie down in green pastures – That’s rest.”

Sheep only rest when they feel safe. In the same way, God brings us to places of rest where we can breathe, slow down, and feel secure.

For me, those “green pastures” have been an afternoon nap in a recliner, a quiet walk in the park, or even sitting at Starbucks with a blonde roast, just letting the noise fade.

This week, make space for rest. Don’t push until you break—trust the Shepherd enough to pause.

“He leadeth me beside the still waters – That’s refreshment.”

Still waters aren’t turbulent or threatening—they’re calm and renewing. God doesn’t lead us into chaos, but toward peace that restores.

I think of a Texas creek in summer, cool and steady, refreshing me just by being near it. That’s how His presence works—quietly renewing a weary soul.

Find your “still waters” this week—maybe prayer, maybe silence, maybe a favorite hymn. Let Him refresh you.

“He restores my soul – That’s healing.”

Restoration is more than rest—it’s repair. God puts broken pieces back together in ways only He can.

After grief, I’ve felt like I had nothing left. But slowly, day by day, the Shepherd mended me. Healing didn’t erase the pain, but it gave me strength to keep going.

Whatever’s hurting today, bring it to Him. Let the Shepherd begin His restoring work.

“He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness – That’s guidance.”

Life is full of decisions, big and small. God promises to guide us toward what is right—even if the road isn’t always easy.

I’ve seen it in closed doors I didn’t understand at the time. What looked like setbacks were actually God steering me toward better paths.

If you’re facing choices today, seek His wisdom. Trust that He sees the road ahead more clearly than you do.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death – That’s testing.”

Valleys are inevitable. But they’re not permanent—we walk through them. And the Shepherd is with us the whole way.

I’ve stood in hospital hallways waiting for test results, shadows looming large. Yet even there, I knew I wasn’t alone.

When shadows fall, cling to His presence. The valley doesn’t define you—the Shepherd’s faithfulness does.

“I will fear no evil – That’s protection.”

Fear is real, but it doesn’t have the final say. The Shepherd guards His sheep, and His protection gives us courage.

It’s like a child sleeping peacefully because Dad is standing watch at the door. That’s the kind of peace we have in Him.

When fear creeps in, say it out loud: “I am not alone. The Shepherd protects me.”

“For Thou art with me – That’s faithfulness.”

Here’s the heart of the Psalm: God is with us. His presence isn’t conditional—it’s constant.

I’ve felt Him in hospital rooms, at gravesides, and even in the quiet of a coffee shop. His faithfulness never falters.

Carry this truth into your day: no matter where you go, the Shepherd goes with you.

“Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me – That’s discipline.”

The rod and staff aren’t harsh—they’re tools of protection and correction. They keep sheep safe and on the right path.

In my own life, God’s “no” has sometimes been the greatest mercy. A closed door that frustrated me later became clear as His loving redirection.

When God disciplines you, receive it as care, not punishment. It’s His way of keeping you safe.

“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies – That’s hope.”

Even when surrounded by trouble, God blesses us. He sets a table right in the middle of difficulty.

I’ve had seasons when others doubted me. Yet, in those times, God poured blessings into my life—almost as if to remind me, “I’ve got this.”

Look for God’s table today. His blessings are often right in the middle of hard seasons.

“Thou anointest my head with oil – That’s consecration.”

Anointing is about being chosen and set apart. It’s a reminder that we belong to Him.

In moments of self-doubt, I’ve felt God whisper, “You’re mine.” That truth changes everything.

Today, remember who you belong to. You are chosen, loved, and set apart.

“My cup runneth over – That’s abundance.”

The Shepherd doesn’t give just enough—He overflows our lives with goodness.

I see it in the laughter of family, in friendships that endure, in music, and in simple sunrises. Blessings I don’t deserve, but receive anyway.

Count three overflow blessings today. You’ll be surprised how full your cup really is.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life – That’s blessing.”

God’s goodness and mercy aren’t occasional—they are constant companions.

Looking back, I see mercy catching me when I fell and goodness following me even when I didn’t notice.

Reflect today: where do you see His mercy trailing behind you? Give thanks for it.

“And I will dwell in the house of the Lord – That’s security. Forever – That’s eternity.”

The Psalm closes with home—not a house on earth, but eternity with God. That’s the truest security we have.

I’ve lived in many houses, but none compare to the thought of dwelling with Him forever. That’s the Shepherd’s final promise.

Live today with eternity in mind. Forever changes how we walk through now.

Application

The 23rd Psalm isn’t just for funerals—it’s for everyday living. The Shepherd doesn’t only show up in crisis. He’s there in the green pastures, in the still waters, in the valleys, and at the table. The call is simple: trust Him. Trust His supply when you feel lacking. Trust His rest when you’re weary. Trust His protection when fear presses in. And trust His presence every single day, knowing that goodness and mercy are never far behind.

Three Takeaways

  1. The Shepherd provides: You don’t walk through life empty-handed when you walk with Him.
  2. The Shepherd protects: Even in valleys, you are never alone. Fear doesn’t get the last word—He does.
  3. The Shepherd promises forever: He not only leads us through this life but welcomes us into eternity with Him.

The Shepherd is with you. Today, tomorrow, forever. And because of that, you can say with confidence: I lack nothing.

Grace and Peace,
Jimmie

Did you enjoy this article? You can find more of Jimmie Aaron Kepler’s books at Jimmie’s books available in paperback, ebook, audio, and large print 

A Clean Slate at the Coffeehouse

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This morning, I found myself back at my usual table at Starbucks. The hum of espresso machines and the soft chatter of folks waiting in line made a kind of music of its own. Some customers were smiling ear to ear, maybe catching up with a friend or just glad for that first cup of the day. Others wore faces heavy with worry, their shoulders sagging like they’d been carrying the weight of the whole wide world before the sun even rose.

I sat there, sipping my blonde roast, and watching life walk by one latte at a time. That’s when a verse bubbled up in my heart.

“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

Now, I’ll be honest, that verse hit me right between the eyes. Maybe it’s because I know what it feels like to tote guilt around. It’s like lugging a backpack that’s so stuffed full you can’t even zip it shut. Every mistake, every wrong word, every missed chance—just piled in there until you’re bent over from the load. And the thing about guilt is, it doesn’t just weigh down your shoulders; it wears out your soul.

But then, right there in line with folks ordering their macchiatos and iced coffees, I was reminded of the promise tucked into that verse. God isn’t in the business of halfway cleaning us up. He doesn’t spray a little Febreze over our sins and call it good. No, He wipes the slate clean—spotless, shining, fresh as a new morning sunrise.

That’s forgiveness soaked in grace.

Think about it: we confess, He forgives. No bargaining. No installment plans. No “I’ll forgive you halfway today, and the rest if you behave tomorrow.” It’s complete, whole, absolute. And that cleansing? It’s not just a quick rinse. It’s a deep, soul-level scrubbing. The kind where you don’t just feel a little better—you feel brand new.

I reckon that’s what a lot of us need to hear. Because maybe yesterday was rough. Maybe you snapped at someone you love. Maybe you let fear keep you quiet when you should’ve spoken up. Maybe you just plain messed up. But friend, the beauty of God’s grace is that yesterday doesn’t have to decide today.

At that Starbucks table, with steam curling up from my cup, I felt it again—that relief that only comes from knowing I don’t have to keep dragging my overstuffed backpack of guilt around. I can lay it down. You can too.

So here’s the good news: no matter what yesterday looked like, today can be brand new. That’s the kind of promise you can hang your hat on.

Forgiveness. Grace. A clean slate.

And it’s all yours if you just ask.

Grace and Peace,
Jimmie

Did you enjoy this article? You can find more of Jimmie Aaron Kepler’s books at Jimmie’s books available in paperback, ebook, audio, and large print