Tag: Friendship

More Than the Well Could Hold

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More Than the Well Could Hold

There was a well on my grandfather’s place that everybody said had gone dry. Old timers would drive past it and shake their heads. The pump handle had rusted stiff. The trough beside it had cracked in the sun until it looked like a dry riverbed shrunk down to the size of a man’s outstretched arms.

My father didn’t believe it was dry. He believed it was just tired of being asked for so little.

He primed that pump with a coffee can of water he carried from the house, worked the handle slow and steady, cussed at it some under his breath, and prayed a little too, though he never would have called it that. After a long while the pipe coughed, sputtered, and then the water came. It came clear and cold and it came like it had somewhere to be. That well gave water to two families and a herd of cattle for another eleven years. It had never been dry. It had just never been asked for enough.

I think about that well every time I read the words Paul wrote to the church at Ephesus. He said, “God is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that worketh in us.” Read that slow. He is not able to do a little more than we ask. He is not able to match our biggest prayer with an equal answer. He is able to do exceeding abundantly above it. He is able to do more than our imagination can carry.

Scripture

“Now unto him that is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that worketh in us,” 

Ephesians 3:20 (KJV) 

God’s Power Has No Limits

We are creatures who live inside fences. We measure our faith by what we have already seen work. If the well has been dry before, we assume it will always be dry. But God’s power was never bound by what we have witnessed. It has no edge, no bottom, no place where it runs out. The limits we feel are ours. They were never His.

Beyond Our Prayers

Most of us pray like my father primed that pump, small and cautious, asking for just enough to get by. A little healing. A little peace. Enough to make it through the week. There is nothing wrong with those prayers. But they are often too small for what God intends to give. He is not looking to meet us halfway. He is looking to flood the trough.

Working Inside You

Here is the part that ought to stop us cold. This power is not stored somewhere far off, waiting on a better day. Paul says it works in us. Right now. In the tired heart, in the worried mind, in the body that feels like it has nothing left to give. The same power that raised a well from the dead ground is already working underneath whatever in your life looks finished.

Trust the Process

The well didn’t look like anything the day my father knelt beside it with a coffee can of water and a stubborn kind of hope. If you are staring at something in your life that looks dry, rusted shut, done, that is not the end of the story God is telling. He works behind the surface long before He works in the open. Trust what you cannot yet see moving.

Prayer

Dear God,

Thank You for Your great power that works in me. Forgive me when I doubt Your strength or limit what You can do in my life. Help me to trust You more each day. Open my eyes to see the amazing things You want to do.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

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.

The Umpire of Peace

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The Umpire of Peace

There was an old man who used to call balls and strikes for the youth baseball league out at the community baseball field, back before anybody paid him a dime to do it. He wasn’t fast anymore. His knees had given up on him somewhere around the first Gulf War.

But he had one gift nobody argued with, and that was his voice. When two boys collided at second base and both benches came up hollering, he didn’t run over there and referee the shouting. He just called it. Safe or out. Done.

And here’s the thing that stuck with me. Once he called it, the argument had nowhere left to live. The peace didn’t come because everybody agreed. It came because somebody had the authority to end the argument, and everybody, grumbling or not, let him.

I think about that old umpire whenever I read what Paul wrote to the church at Colossae. He tells them to let the peace of God rule in their hearts, and the word he uses there, brabeuō, is the very same word you’d use for an umpire making the call. Not a suggestion. Not a vote. A ruling.

Paul is telling us that peace isn’t supposed to be one voice shouting among many in the chaos of our own minds. Peace is supposed to be the umpire. It’s supposed to have the final say.

Most of us don’t run our hearts that way. We let fear call the game. We let the last hard conversation call the game. We let the bill we can’t pay, or the diagnosis we didn’t expect, or the grudge we’ve been nursing since summer, step up to home plate and start making the rulings.

And we wonder why we’re worn out by nine in the morning. We’ve been letting the wrong umpire work our game.

There’s another story I heard once about a fistfight that broke out at a family reunion, two grown men, brothers, over something so old and so small neither one of them could tell you how it started.

Their mother, eighty-some years old, walked out onto that lawn with a dish towel still in her hand and said one sentence. “I didn’t raise you to hate each other.” That was it. She didn’t referee the argument point by point. She made a ruling.

And it landed on both of them the same way, because that’s what real peace does. Paul says we’re called to this peace “in one body.” It’s not a private peace you keep for yourself while everybody around you stays at war. It’s a peace that has to have enough grace in it to cover the person you’re still frustrated with.

And then Paul closes the verse the way an old preacher closes a service, with something plain and something true. Be ye thankful. Because a thankful heart is a hard place for chaos to set up camp. Gratitude doesn’t argue with fear. It just quietly takes up all the space fear was hoping to use.

So here’s what I’d ask you today. When your thoughts start arguing with each other, when your heart feels like two brothers going at it on the lawn, or a collision at second base, stop and let the real umpire step in.

Let His peace make the call. Not because the noise goes quiet on its own, but because you’ve handed the authority to Somebody who has already settled the game.

Today’s Bible Verse

“And let the peace of God rule in your hearts, to the which also ye are called in one body; and be ye thankful.”

Colossians 3:15 (KJV)

Today’s Prayer

Lord, 

I thank You that Your peace is available to me right now. When my thoughts race or my heart feels troubled, help me to pause and let Your peace rule. Guide my emotions, protect my mind, and give me a spirit of true thankfulness for all You have done. In Jesus’ name, 

Amen.

Connected to the Source

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Abiding in Christ When Life Leaves Us Tired and Empty

Have you ever cut a flower from the garden and placed it in a vase?

For a while, it still looks beautiful. Its color remains bright. Its petals are open. But no matter how much sunlight you give it or how carefully you arrange it, the flower has been separated from its source of life. Before long, it begins to wilt.

Jesus used a similar picture when He spoke about our relationship with Him.

“I am the vine, ye are the branches
He that abideth in me, and I in him
the same bringeth forth much fruit
for without me ye can do nothing.”
John 15:5 KJV

Jesus is the Vine. We are the branches.

It sounds simple, but there is a profound truth here: we were never intended to live the Christian life disconnected from Christ.

Stop Striving and Start Abiding

We live in a world that celebrates activity.

Work harder.
Do more.
Accomplish more.
Push through.
Keep going.

Before long, we can begin treating our spiritual lives the same way. We try harder to be patient. We work harder at being loving. We promise ourselves we will worry less, forgive more, pray longer, and somehow become better Christians through sheer determination.

But a branch does not strain to produce fruit.

It simply remains connected to the vine.

The vine supplies what the branch cannot manufacture for itself.

Jesus invites us to live the same way.

To abide means to remain, stay, dwell, and continue. We abide in Christ when we spend time in His Word, talk with Him in prayer, trust His promises, obey His leading, and remain conscious of His presence throughout the ordinary moments of our day.

Spiritual maturity is not primarily about trying harder.

It is about staying closer.

When We Try to Be the Vine

Sometimes exhaustion is more than physical tiredness. It can be the result of trying to carry responsibilities God never intended us to carry alone.

We try to control circumstances.

We try to fix people.

We worry about tomorrow.

We replay yesterday.

We carry burdens that belong in God’s hands.

Eventually, we become spiritually dry because we have been attempting to live as though everything depends upon us.

Jesus reminds us, “without me ye can do nothing.”

That does not mean we cannot accomplish anything in life. People accomplish remarkable things without acknowledging God. But the lasting spiritual fruit Jesus describes—love, joy, peace, patience, grace, faithfulness, and eternal influence—comes from His life flowing through ours.

The branch bears fruit because it remains connected to the Vine.

Stay Connected Today

Maybe you are facing something today that feels bigger than you.

Perhaps you are tired.

Perhaps you have been carrying a burden so long that you have forgotten what it feels like to put it down.

You do not have to manufacture enough strength for everything ahead of you.

Return to the Vine.

Spend a few quiet moments with Jesus. Open His Word. Tell Him what is weighing on your heart. Release what you cannot control. Ask Him for the strength you do not have.

Then remain.

You do not have to produce the fruit.

Your responsibility is to stay connected to the One who does.

Three Takeaways

  1. Connection comes before fruitfulness. Spiritual strength grows from abiding in Christ, not from depending entirely upon ourselves.
  2. Striving cannot replace abiding. When we become overwhelmed, it may be time to stop trying to control everything and return our attention to Jesus.
  3. Christ supplies what we lack. His strength, peace, wisdom, and grace are available to us as we remain close to Him.

Reflection for Today

What part of your life are you trying to manage entirely in your own strength?

Give it to Jesus today.

Stop trying to be the vine.

Be the branch.

Stay connected, and trust Him with the fruit.

A Closing Prayer for Abiding in the Vine

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for reminding me that I do not have to carry the weight of this day in my own strength. Forgive me for the times I have tried to become my own source, running on empty while attempting to control circumstances that belong in Your hands.

Jesus, You are the Vine, and I am the branch. Today I choose to remain in You. Help me stop striving and start trusting. Let Your love, peace, patience, wisdom, and grace flow through my life.

When I become overwhelmed, worried, or spiritually dry, turn my heart back toward You. Remind me that I do not have to manufacture the fruit. I simply need to remain connected to the Source.

Thank You that apart from You I can do nothing, but abiding in You gives me everything I need for today.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

The Rhythm of Grace

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The Rhythm of Grace

The auction started at nine, but folks were parked along the fence line by seven thirty. An old man everyone called Bear had passed during this hot summer and his kids had decided to sell off the place piece by piece. The tractor went first. Then the anvil his daddy had hauled up from Waco in a wagon. Then a box of hand tools worn smooth in the handle from sixty years of gripping.

I stood near the back, hat pushed low against the sun, and watched a stranger walk off with a claw hammer that had built half the fences in that county. Nobody said much. There is a kind of quiet that settles over an auction like that, the quiet of people watching a life get folded up and carried away in the beds of pickup trucks.

An old rancher next to me spat in the dirt and said, “Everything’s got its season, son. You hold what you’re given, and then one day you don’t.”

I thought about that the whole drive home.

In Plain English

Ecclesiastes puts it plainer than most of us can stand to hear. “A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away.” 

That verse does not ask our permission. It just tells us the truth of how living works. We are handed things, for a while, and then the hand opens again.

There is a season for getting and keeping. A friendship starts. A door swings open you did not knock on. A prayer gets answered in a way you were not expecting. Those seasons deserve to be held onto with both hands, and remembered even after they pass, because the memory of what God has already done has a way of carrying a man through what is still coming.

But there is another season, and it is the one nobody wants a sermon about. The season of losing. The season of casting away. We are not built for letting go. We would rather grip something long past its time than open our hand and trust that the emptiness means something.

I have carried things too long myself. A grudge that outlived the man who caused it. A regret that kept replaying a conversation that could not be changed no matter how many times I ran it back. Weight like that does not protect you. It just tires you out.

Letting go does not mean it did not matter. It means you finally trust God enough to set it down in front of Him instead of carrying it into tomorrow.

Ecclesiastes says God makes everything beautiful in His time. Not our time. His. That is the hard part and the mercy of it both. We want the explanation before we hand it over.

Faith runs the other direction. You hand it over first, and the understanding, if it comes at all, comes later, usually quieter than you expected.

A field has to be cleared before it can be planted again. A tree lets its leaves fall before anything new can grow. The dark comes before the next morning, every time, and nobody has ever stopped it by staying up all night arguing with the sky.

Maybe that is where you are standing right now. Between an auction of your own and whatever comes after it. Not sure whether you are supposed to hold on or let go. That not knowing is not a failure of your faith. It is just the shape faith takes in the middle of a season that has not finished turning yet.

You do not have to see the whole plan. You only have to trust the One who already does.

Scripture

“A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away.” Ecclesiastes 3:6 (KJV)

A Prayer

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for walking with me through every season, the ones I asked for and the ones I did not.

Give me the wisdom to know when to hold on and when to let go. Help me cherish what You have placed in my hands without gripping it so tight that I miss what You are doing next. When something ends, give me the courage to release it without bitterness.

Take the regrets and the old hurts I have carried longer than I should have. Teach me to trust that Your plans reach further down the road than my eyes can see.

When one season closes and the next has not yet opened, remind me that You are still at work in the space between.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

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.

A Sweet Refreshing Wind

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A Sweet Refreshing Wind

There is a kind of friend who does not need to say much. He walks in, sits down, and the room settles like dust after a truck passes on a dirt road. You did not know you were carrying a weight until he took some of it off your shoulders just by being there.

I have known a few friends like that. Men and women who showed up on the hard days without being asked. Who sat across a table and let the silence do its work before either of us said a word. There is a kind of mercy in that. A kind of grace that does not announce itself.

Proverbs speaks of this. It says that perfume and incense bring joy to the heart, and the sweetness of a friend comes from honest counsel given straight from the heart. In the old world, a man did not have candles or soft music to change the feel of a room. He had oil and incense, and when they were lit, the whole place shifted. The air got lighter. The walls seemed to breathe.

A true friend does that to a life. They walk in tired and worn down, and somehow the room feels different when they leave. Not because they fixed anything. Because they cared enough to stay a while.

Jesus understood this better than any of us. He did not call His followers servants. He called them friends. He sat with them at supper tables, walked with them on dusty roads, and carried their doubts alongside His own burden. He showed us that love does not keep score. It shows up. It listens. It stays.

If you have a friend like that, someone who has been perfume and incense to your weary heart, take a minute today and thank God for them. And then ask yourself a harder question. Are you being that kind of friend to somebody else. Somebody out there is carrying more than they can hold, and they might just need you to sit down across from them and let the silence do its work.

Scripture

“Ointment and perfume rejoice the heart: so doth the sweetness of a man’s friend by hearty counsel.” Proverbs 27:9

Prayer

Dear Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the gift of friendship. Thank You for placing people in my life who bring comfort, laughter, and wise counsel when my soul feels weary. Lord, help me to be a better friend. Teach me how to listen with patience, speak with kindness, and love with Your unconditional grace. Bless my friends today, protect them, and let our connections bring glory to Your name.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

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.

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

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

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

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The God of Endless Comfort in the Middle of Scorching Heat

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This morning found me on the back porch with a mug of blonde roast warming my hands, the steam rising like a little morning offering to the sky. The sun was already climbing fast. It almost like it was in a race with the temperature and humidity to see who could reach the top first. And here in Texas in August, I can tell you, the heat usually wins.

The live oak trees out back stood like old sentinels, their wide branches draped in green, casting shadows that moved slow as a Sunday morning. Down in the grass, a row of feral cats had lined up waiting for Sunday breakfast, each one still and watchful, tails curled .

Some mornings just have a way of turning your mind toward the deeper things, and without much warning, my heart wandered to 2 Corinthians 1:3:

“All praises belong to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. For He is the Father of tender mercy and the God of endless comfort.”                   2 Corinthians 1:3

I just sat there a moment, letting those words settle in. 

“The Father of tender mercy.” 

“The God of endless comfort.” 

Ain’t that the truth?

See, life’s full of scrapes and storms. We trip over our own mistakes, we get caught in the crosswinds of circumstances we never asked for, and sometimes, like right now in the Texas summer, we get smacked with a scorching-life-sucking heat that makes even the shade feel like an oven. Struggles can wear you down.

But here’s the thing I keep finding over and over: God never leaves us in the heat without a little relief. 

He never fails to pull up a chair beside us. 

He wraps us in mercy the way a mama wraps a blanket around a child after a bad dream.

He pours His comfort into the cracks of our lives, the ones we try to patch ourselves but never quite get sealed.

I’ve known that comfort in hospital waiting rooms when the clock seemed frozen. I’ve known it on long, empty stretches of highway when I wasn’t sure I had the strength for one more mile. I’ve know it during the emptiness of the time of my late wife’s passing, as the funeral home was rolling her body out of the house and I kissed her good-bye – that heartbreaking last kiss. I’ve known it sitting in the stillness of sleepless nights when my mind wanted to run a thousand different directions.

The beauty of God’s comfort is that it’s not a “sometimes” thing. It’s not doled out sparingly like it might run out. No, His comfort is endless. Like a spring that never runs dry, it just keeps flowing. You don’t have to earn it. You don’t have to have all your problems sorted first. You only have to turn toward Him and let it in.

So if today feels heavy, or if the heat, literal or otherwise, is pressing in close, remember 2 Corinthians 1:3. 

The Father of tender mercy sees you. 

The God of endless comfort is right there with you, ready to pull up a chair and sit beside you until the shadows grow long and the air cools.

Grace and Peace,
Jimmie 

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When the Coffee Just Doesn’t Taste Right

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When the Coffee Just Doesn’t Taste Right
By: Jimmie Aaron Kepler

This morning started like most others. I shambled into the kitchen, still half-asleep. My nightshirt wrinkled. Yes, I sleep in one of those old-fashioned nightshirt. My hair was also looking like I’d wrestled a porcupine in my sleep and lost.

I poured myself a cup of that good, strong, blonde-roast coffee and stepped out onto the porch. That porch has seen a lot over the years. It’s witnessed my quiet prayers, loud laughs, and more than a few tears. It’s my little sanctuary. My holy ground with a rocking chair.

The birds squabbled at the feeder as though it were Black Friday and they were battling over the last bag of seed. The younger feral cats, brimming with energy and ideas, scrambled across the pool deck in an endless game of tag.

And there I sat, coffee in hand, knees aching like they do when the weather’s about to change, just trying to wake up in peace. Joints and bones aching, I wondered if I could stand the pain.

Then, like a thundercloud rolling in out of nowhere, a wave of emotion hit me. A creeping weight that surrounds you before you are aware. It lacked specificity. Maybe my aches and pains are just life piling up. Perhaps I realized that Social Security isn’t keeping up with my bills. Or I missed my deceased wife to the point I ached and missed the wisdom of my dead parents. Perhaps I missed my only grandchild, grown and living with my daughter in another state. Perhaps something personal, like the ache of a body that lacks resilience or feels foreign. Or my worry about the shadow of cancer hanging over a loved one who, like me, is praying it doesn’t come back. And then there’s the angst of living in a country that seems more and more divided each time I turn on the news.

And right there, in the middle of it all, I did what I’ve learned to do: I cried out.

Out loud.

Not with a fancy, polished prayer. Just these words, raw and honest:

“O God, be not far from me; O my God, make haste to help me.”—Psalm 71:12

That verse has been following me around like a stray dog looking for a home. And maybe that’s what my soul needed this morning. It needed a reminder that I don’t have to carry it all alone.

You see, I’ve lived long enough to know that strength doesn’t come from gritting your teeth and muscling through. It comes from knowing where your help lies. And friend, it evades stock market trends and long to-do lists. It’s in God who listens when we whisper or shout those desperate prayers.

Sometimes, the most powerful thing we can do is just admit we need help. No shame in it. No weakness in saying, “Lord, I can’t do this without You.” In fact, that might just be the bravest thing we do all day.

After that prayer, I sat there a while longer. The coffee still tasted a little off, my body continued aching, but my spirit? It was lighter. Not fixed, not perfect but lifted. Like God pulled up a chair beside me and said, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

So if today feels heavy, friend, don’t be scared to cry out to God. Whether you’re on a back porch like me or stuck in traffic, whether your heart is breaking or your knees just ache. He hears you.

He always has.

And He’s never far.

Grace and Peace,
Jimmie

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