Tag: Jimmie A. Kepler

Today, Yes, This One

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Morning By The Window

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

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

But this morning would not be that kind of morning.

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

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

The Weather Changed

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

This one did not.

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

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

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

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

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

The Verse That Met Me

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

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

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

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

It says, “This is the day.”

This one.

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

This day.

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

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

And that is what I needed this morning.

The Gift of This Day

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

That steadies a man.

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

This is the day.

Not yesterday.
Not tomorrow.
This day.

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

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

Thank You, Lord, For One More Day

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

That too is rejoicing.

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

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

Not yesterday.
Not tomorrow.
Today.

And rejoice.

Love and Grace,
Jimmie Aaron Kepler

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

The Beginning

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1.1 
The Beginning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Artwork: by Jimmie Aaron Kepler

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

Boxy Lady

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Boxy Lady
By Jimmie Aaron Kepler

(A Prime-time parody in the spirit of electric midnight and cardboard dreams)

You know you’re a fast-click heart-taker
You know you’re a late-night deal-maker
Hey…

You got that blue glow in your eyes
And that Amazon Prime logo by your side

You say, “It’s just one more thing, maybe three…”
But tomorrow there’s a cardboard mountain where the hallway used to be

Oh mercy, Boxy Lady
Stacked up to the ceiling, drivin’ me crazy

I see you there in the midnight light
Scrollin’ and swipin’ through the endless night

Your fingers fly like a runaway train
Every tap brings another cardboard rain

You whisper, “It’s on sale, I can’t say no…”
But the porch keeps groanin’ under every load

Oh lawdy, Boxy Lady
Brown paper towers, callin’ you baby

Closets full and the garage ain’t free
Still that homepage calls your soul to sea

Oh sweet Boxy Lady
Amazon Prime keeps callin’, and you answer daily

You got the drivers memorized by name
They just smile, say, “See you again…”

The doorbell rings like an electric six-string cry
Another box comes walkin’ inside

I said hey now… Boxy Lady
You got the whole house drownin’ in maybes
Yeah yeah… Boxy Lady
Cardboard kingdom, and you’re the queen, baby

Here comes another one now…

I hear that truck again.
You say not buying might be a is a sin

Your credit card earns 5% cash back on online purchases from Amazon
And Whole Foods too

Free delivery
Welcome to my cardboard zoo.

Oh my sweet Boxy Lady

Boxy Lady
The cardboard queen
Of the Amazon Prime Scene

What Does a Vine Tattoo Mean?

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This morning found me right where most of my mornings begin — sitting in my usual chair at Starbucks, the one looking out the window where you can watch the world wake up one car at a time.

My tall blonde roast sat beside me, steam rising slow, like the day itself wasn’t in any hurry.

Leah was working the drive-thru. She always moves with that quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly who she is, even if the rest of the world is still figuring itself out. At twenty-two, she carries herself with more purpose than most people twice her age. She has that Scandinavian super model look — tall, posed, graceful and blonde — but it’s her work ethic that tells the real story. She shows up fully present, which is rarer than people realize. She has that rare combination of being both beautiful and brilliant … and I’m not sure she realizes she has either. She’s that humble.

After a bit, she stepped away from the window and walked over to the register where I stood waiting for a refill.

She glanced at my cup and smiled that familiar smile.

“You need a refill of your tall blonde?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, sliding it toward her like a man accepting a small mercy he didn’t earn.

That’s when I noticed it.

Her right arm, from wrist nearly to shoulder, was wrapped in a vine tattoo. Not loud. Not flashy. Just clean and intentional. The vine wound upward like it was growing in real time, like it had somewhere to be.

It hadn’t been there last week.

I nodded toward it.

“That’s new,” I said. “It looks great.”

Her whole face lit up.

“Thank you,” she said. “I got it because it reminds me of my favorite Bible verse. John 15:5.”

Now it was my turn to smile. I thought back to her sharing she was a recently Believer in Jesus Christ.

I didn’t have to look it up. Didn’t have to think about it.

“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.”

For a moment, the noise faded. The grinders. The espresso machines. The milk steaming. The low conversations. All of it drifted into the background.

Just two people.
Two believers.
One ordinary morning made meaningful.
A common faith in Christ Jesus.

At twenty-two, that tattoo isn’t just ink. It’s identity, her testimony. It’s a quiet statement in a loud world. Her generation expresses faith differently than mine did. We wore crosses around our necks in the 1970s as part of the infamous Jesus movement. They write it into their story — sometimes into their skin. But the message hasn’t changed.

Stay connected.

Branches don’t survive by trying harder. They survive by staying connected to the vine.

I’ve lived long enough to know what happens when I try to do life on my own strength. Things dry up. Peace gets thin. Purpose gets blurry. You can stay busy, but something inside feels disconnected.

But when you stay close to Him — really close — something changes.

You don’t have to force it.

Strength returns.
Clarity returns.
Life returns.

Not because you earned it.

Because you stayed connected.

This morning, that truth was written in ink on a twenty-two-year-old barista’s arm.

And written again, quietly, on my heart.

“I am the vine, ye are the branches.”

For any age — twenty-two or seventy-two — that’s enough. And this morning she was my muse for this article.

“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

Grace and Peace,
Jimmie Aaron Kepler

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

When the Past Pulls Up a Chair at the Breakfast Table

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1. When Yesterday Walks In Uninvited

Some mornings the past comes calling before the coffee’s even done.

It doesn’t knock, doesn’t clear its throat, doesn’t wait to be invited. It just eases on in, pulls up a chair like it’s paid rent there for years, and starts flipping through old photo albums like it owns the place.

Old roads. Old regrets. Old memories. Old chapters that still know your name and say it out loud, slow and familiar.

I’ll be standing there at the kitchen counter, waiting on the kettle to whistle, and all at once I’m ten years back or maybe twenty, and sometimes even fifty or more. I’m remembering how things used to be. Remembering how I used to be. The man I was becoming, the man I thought I was, the man I didn’t yet know I’d outgrow.

2. The Weight and the Sweetness of Memory

Sometimes it’s the hard stuff that shows up first. 

The mistakes I can still feel in my chest. Words I wish I’d caught before they ever left my mouth. Decisions I made without enough wisdom and paid for with time. Those memories have weight to them. They settle in heavy if you let them.

Other mornings it’s the sweet stuff. 

The good old days. Seasons when life felt simpler, lighter, less complicated by clocks and calendars and losses. I think about old friends who shared the road with me for a stretch. I find myself reflecting on the people who laughed with me, taught me things, walked alongside me until our paths quietly bent in different directions. I remember them kindly, grateful for what we were to each other in that season.

And yes, there are faces tied to love too. 

The beautiful souls where tender chapters were written softly and meant to be remembered that way. Not with regret. Not with boasting. Just with a gentle respect for what was so real and with all of my heart in its time. People who mattered. People who shaped me. People who deserve to be remembered with dignity, not dragged into the light of retelling. Amazing people that I still remember fondly, honestly still love, and have more respect for than I know how to say. And yes, even miss.

Those memories don’t ask to be relived. They just want to be acknowledged, then set back on the shelf where they belong.

Because every one of those chapters, both the joyful and the painful, did its work. They taught me something. They carried me forward. And then, quietly, they let go.

3. Why God Says, “Don’t Dwell There”

The kettle eventually whistles. The coffee gets poured. 

And I’m reminded that today is its own morning, asking to be lived on its own terms. It’s not haunted by yesterday, not overshadowed by it, but informed by it and free to move on.

That’s usually when Isaiah wanders into my thoughts, like an old friend who’s seen a few miles himself and knows when to speak up.

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”
Isaiah 43:18–19

Now, Isaiah isn’t telling us to get amnesia. God isn’t asking us to pretend yesterday never happened. He’s not asking us to erase our history or deny our scars. No, sir.

What He’s asking us is not to pitch a tent there. Not to live there. Not to keep setting an extra place at the table for regret.

Because regret has a way of overstaying its welcome.

It’ll convince you that your best days are behind you, that the road ahead can’t possibly hold anything as good as what’s already gone. It whispers that if you’d just done one thing differently, life would’ve turned out cleaner, smoother, more respectable.

But regret is a liar. A smooth one, maybe, but a liar all the same.

God says, “Don’t dwell there.”
Not in the old failures.
Not in the old wounds.
And not even in the old victories.

We do a funny thing with the “good old days.” We polish them until they shine brighter than they ever actually did. We forget the hard parts. The uncertainty. The prayers we prayed back then asking God to rescue us from the very season we now romanticize.

Nostalgia can be just as paralyzing as regret if we let it convince us that God only worked back then.

But God says He’s doing a new thing.

4. Learning to Walk Forward With Open Hands

New doesn’t mean flashy. It doesn’t mean easy. It doesn’t mean comfortable. 

New usually feels awkward at first. Like boots that haven’t been broken in yet. Like a road that doesn’t show up clearly on the map. Like standing in a place where you don’t quite know the rules yet.

If today feels unfamiliar, don’t rush to label it wrong.

New ground always feels that way at first.

I’ve learned that forgiveness is part of this too. That includes both forgiving others and forgiving yourself. You can’t walk forward freely while dragging old grudges behind you like a sack of rocks. Letting go isn’t weakness. It’s obedience. It’s trust. It’s believing that God knows what He’s doing even when the path curves out of sight.

And living in the now; well, that’s holy work. Paying attention to the moment you’re in. Enjoying the small mercies. The quiet mornings. The unexpected conversations. The new opportunities that don’t look impressive yet but carry promise if you’ll give them time.

God says the new thing is already springing up. The question is whether we’re still staring backward, missing it.

So today, I’m trying to drink my coffee while it’s hot.

Trying to loosen my grip on yesterday, both the good and the bad, while still honoring the lessons and cherishing the memories.

Trying to trust that the road ahead has something worth walking toward. Because the God who carried us through then is still very much at work now. And I don’t want to miss what He’s doing today by living in yesterday.

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

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

Coffee, Ice, & a World Thawing Out

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Coffee, Ice, and a World Thawing Out

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

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

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

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

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

The Morning the Ice Let Go

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

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

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

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

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

Old Questions, New Weather

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

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

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

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

Not flashy success. Not Instagram success. Good success.

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

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

Success isn’t comparison. It’s character.

Paul’s Kind of Success

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the Ice Finally Melts

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

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

A Few Takeaways From a Frozen Week

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

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

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

Reflections on Being Sick

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When the Road Gets Rough, Love Shows Up

Posted in @jimmiekepler, Ancient Wisdom for Today, Bible, Blog, Christian Living, Christian Writers, Jim Kepler, Jimmie A. Kepler, Jimmie Aaron Kepler, Jimmie Kepler, jimmiekepler.com, Poet, Poet's Life, Poets, Writer's Life, WritingLeave a comment

When the Road Gets Rough, Love Shows Up

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

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

Proverbs 17:17

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

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

A Friend Who Loves Without a Clock

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

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

Born for the Hard Days

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

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

When Adversity Tells the Truth

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

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

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

Grace and Peace,
Jimmie Aaron Kepler

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

Making It Through December

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Making It Through December
December 19, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to Get Forgiveness of Sin

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

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

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

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

1 John 1:9 King James Version

Confession isn’t poetry

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

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

Forgiveness

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

Cleansing

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

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

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

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

Grace and Peace
Jimmie Aaron Kepler

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