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

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

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

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

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 

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

 

When the Coffee Just Doesn’t Taste Right

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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