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When I sense God nudging me, and I tell myself, “I’ll deal with that later… when things calm down.” It’s not outright rejection. It’s just treating God’s invitation like background noise.

 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

If you are a parent, you probably know this scene:

I’m in the kitchen, dishes piled up, backpacks on the floor.
“Hey, can you please put your backpack away?”
Child #1, without looking up: “Okay!”

Twenty minutes later, the backpack is still right where it was.
Later, I ask Child #2: “Can you put your backpack away?”
Immediate response: “No. I’m tired.” Arms crossed. Drama.

Five minutes after that, I catch them quietly walking over, picking up the backpack, and putting it away without saying a word.

Same request.
Two different answers.
Only one actually did what I asked.

When Josh preached on the parable of the two sons in Matthew 21, it suddenly felt very close to home. One son says, “I will not,” but later changes his mind and goes into the vineyard. The other says, “I go, sir,” but never goes.

As a parent, I care about both words and follow-through. But if I am honest, I would rather have the child who blurts out “no” and later obeys, than the one who says “sure” and then does nothing. Why? Because in that little “afterward,” I can see their heart shifting. They wrestled with their attitude. They swallowed some pride. They decided to trust my voice more than their mood. And when they come back around and obey, I am not focused on replaying their original “no.” I am encouraged by their change of heart.

That is what Jesus is pointing to in this parable. The religious leaders were the “I go, sir” crowd-polite, polished, saying all the right things about God, but refusing to actually repent and obey. Meanwhile, the “I will not” crowd, tax collectors and prostitutes, were the ones who eventually turned and came.

As a parent, that reshapes how I see God: He does care about obedience. “Okay, God” without action is still disobedience. He is also patient with delayed repentance. He sees the “afterward” and welcomes it. Maybe you feel like the second child, the instant “no,” the resistant heart, the long season of walking away. Or maybe you are more like the polite “okay” child, quick with words, slow with obedience.

This parable is both a warning and an invitation. It warns us not to hide behind spiritual language. And it invites us to believe that it is not too late to turn and obey. If I, as a very imperfect parent, can feel genuine joy when my stubborn child finally picks up the backpack, how much more will our Father rejoice when we finally walk toward His vineyard? He is not only counting your “no” moments. He sees the “afterward” too.

You can hear the full sermon that inspired this reflection on our YouTube channel.

I walked into church this Sunday more tired than anything else. Time change, kids, a full week, all of it. I grabbed coffee, said the usual hellos, and found my seat. Honestly, I was mostly hoping to just make it through the morning.

Then we opened to Matthew 21, where Jesus walks into the temple and starts flipping tables.

At first it felt distant, something that happened “back then” in “their” temple. But as Jeff kept teaching, it slowly started to feel a lot closer to home. Because the more he talked, the more I realized: I’ve gotten pretty comfortable being distracted in God’s house.

I’ve made grocery lists in my head during worship.
I’ve mentally planned my week during prayer.
I’ve thought about lunch more than I’ve thought about the Lord.
None of it felt evil. Just normal. But normal and healthy aren’t always the same thing.

Jesus calls the temple “a house of prayer.” A place to be with Him. A place for people, especially the broken and the poor, to come and actually meet God without being used or pushed aside.

Meanwhile, I’ve often treated church like it’s a social stop, a habit I keep, background noise to my own thoughts.
 
And then comes the line that really got me: “The blind and the lame came to him in the temple, and he healed them.” The people everyone else kept at a distance are the ones Jesus draws close. The ones who didn’t “fit” the system are the ones He makes space for. I realized I often come to church trying to look fine, sound fine, be fine. All while Jesus is in the room healing people who are willing to admit they’re not.

Then the kids in the story start shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David,” and Jesus doesn’t shut them down. He receives their praise and says this is exactly the kind of worship God is looking for.

Simple. Honest. Undignified in the best way.

By the end of the message, I felt like Jesus had quietly flipped a few tables in me: my casual attitude toward gathered worship, my habit of hiding my real needs, and my tendency to drift through Sundays instead of arriving awake and present.

I left with a simple, uncomfortable, hopeful prayer: “Jesus, this is Your house. Start with me.”

If you’d like to sit with this passage more, you can watch the full sermon on our YouTube channel.

’ve been around Jesus my whole life.

I grew up in church, Sunday school, youth group, camps, the whole thing. I could quote verses, sing the songs, and give you the “right” answers about the gospel. If you’d asked, “Is Jesus your Savior and King?” I would have said yes without hesitation.
But somewhere in the middle of raising kids, managing schedules, and just trying to make it through the week, I realized something: I believed in Jesus, but my picture of Him was still too small.

Not wrong. Just too small.

It showed up first in how I treated Him as Savior. My prayers were constantly, “Jesus, fix this.”  

Fix this situation with my kids.  
Fix this tension in my marriage.  
Fix this financial stress.  
Fix this anxiety I can’t shake.

Again, none of that is wrong. He cares deeply about all of it. But most days, that was almost all I talked to Him about.

Then listening to Matthew 21 again, the story of Jesus riding into Jerusalem. The crowd is shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” I’d heard that a hundred times, but this time I paid attention to what “Hosanna” means: “save us now.”

They wanted rescue from Rome. I realized I mostly wanted rescue from my current pressures.

Meanwhile, Jesus was entering the city on Lamb Selection Day, the day families chose their Passover lambs. He wasn’t coming mainly to rearrange their circumstances. He was coming as the Lamb of God, to deal with sin and death.
I knew that in theory. But in practice, the cross had become the doorway I walked through a long time ago, while the “real” thing I cared about was whether He would make my week easier.

A hard question came to mind:  If Jesus never changed this situation I keep begging Him to fix, would I still call Him a good Savior?

I’m learning to let His bigger salvation reshape my smaller expectations. I still ask Him to help, but more and more I’m praying, “Jesus, thank You for saving me from sin and death, not just hard situations. Help me remember that what You’ve already done for me is bigger than what I’m asking You to do right now.”

The other place my small view showed up was in how I treated Him as King.
I would say, “Jesus is Lord,” and mean it. But when I look at how I actually make decisions, about my time, my phone, my words, my habits, it often looks like He’s more of a trusted advisor.

When His Word lined up with what I already wanted, I obeyed quickly. When it didn’t, especially in areas like forgiveness, how I talk about people, how I use my free time, what I do with my worries, I stalled, rationalized, or quietly ignored it.
In Matthew 21, the crowd treats Jesus like a king for a moment. Cloaks on the road, branches waving, loud praise. But when He doesn’t act like the kind of king they want, many of those voices go quiet.

I see myself in that.

I wanted a King who comforted me, but hesitated when He claimed authority over my schedule, my money, my relationships, my fears. There were areas of my life with an invisible sign: “Jesus, you can advise here, but I’ll decide.”

What’s changed me most is seeing *how* He comes as King.

He doesn’t storm in on a war horse, demanding tribute. He rides in on a young donkey, knowing He’s on His way to a cross. He’s not a distant ruler waiting for me to get it together; He’s a humble King who comes near, even into the chaos of my home and my heart.

That doesn’t make His authority lighter. It makes it safer to surrender to.
So I’m slowly learning to ask, “Jesus, is there any area where I’ve kept You as advisor instead of King?” And when something comes to mind, instead of just feeling guilty, I’m trying to open my hands and say, “You get this too.”

It’s not dramatic. It looks like small, everyday choices: putting my phone down to pray instead of numbing out, apologizing when I’d rather defend myself, letting go of a grudge, trusting Him with a fear about my kids’ future I keep replaying in my head.
I still get it wrong all the time. I still slip back into “fix this” prayers and “I’ll handle this part” attitudes. But Matthew 21 keeps lifting my eyes: He really is more than a problem-solver and more than an advisor.

He is my Savior, who has already dealt with my deepest need.  
He is my Champion, who has gone before me and defeated death.  
He is my King, who gently but firmly claims every part of my life.
And strangely, the bigger He becomes in my mind and heart, the less heavy everything else feels.

Reflection Questions:
1. In your prayers lately, have you mostly been asking Jesus to “fix things,” or have you also been thanking Him for what He’s already done for you as Savior?  
2. Is there any area of your life where, if you’re honest, Jesus has been more of an advisor than a King?

If this resonates with you and you want to see Jesus more clearly as Savior, Champion, and King, take some time to watch the full sermon from Matthew 21 on our YouTube channel.

Dependence sounds beautiful in theory.
In real life, it can feel like failure.

Picture this: a mom with two teenage boys and a six-year-old daughter. She works from home at the kitchen table. Her phone buzzes with emails as she packs lunches. Her teenagers argue over the chores. Her daughter wants help with a puzzle while she’s jumping on a Zoom call. In the next room, her sick mother rests, and between caring for her and raising her own kids, old wounds with her parents sit just below the surface. By the end of the day, she collapses into bed thinking, “How long can I hold all of this together?”

Then we open Matthew 20 and meet two blind men sitting by the road as Jesus passes by: “Lord, have mercy on us, Son of David!” (Matthew 20:30) The crowd tells them to be quiet. They cry out louder.  Jesus stops.  He hears. He cares. He heals.

In the sermon, Josh quoted a pastor who called prayer “expressed helplessness.” That phrase stings a little if you’re used to being the responsible one, the strong one, the one who holds it all together, for kids, for parents, for everyone.

But it’s also strangely freeing. Because most of us already *feel* helpless in some area of life:
- A relationship that keeps breaking.  
         - A parent who’s declining in health.  
         - A child who seems harder to reach.  
         - A job that drains more than it gives.  
         - Anxiety or shame that doesn’t explain itself, it just sits heavy.

We just don’t always want to *express* that helplessness. Not to people. Not even to God. It’s easier to do what our culture teaches us: power through. Fix what we can, numb what we can’t, and tell ourselves to push a little harder.

But the blind men in Matthew 20 didn’t push harder. They didn’t give a calm, composed prayer. They shouted. They begged for mercy. They refused to be quieted. They brought nothing but need. And Jesus stopped. He didn’t ask them to clean themselves up first. He didn’t tell them to be less emotional. He didn’t give them a self-help plan.
 
He asked a simple question:  “What do you want me to do for you?” (Matthew 20:32)
They answered just as simply:   “Lord, let our eyes be opened.” (v. 33)

He touched their eyes in pity.  They saw.  And they followed Him. They moved from sitting in the dust to walking behind Jesus. Their story became less about what they couldn’t do and more about who He was.

That’s the invitation sitting in front of all of us, moms, dads, students, single adults, caregivers, people quietly struggling: to bring our need, not our résumé. To let prayer become less about saying the right words and more about honest dependence:
- “Lord, have mercy on me. I don’t know what to do here.”  
- “Jesus, I am tired and scared. Help me.”  
- “God, I keep hurting the people I love. Change my heart.”  
- “Father, you see what I’m carrying. I can’t carry it alone.”

The good news of Matthew 20 is not that we finally find the strength to see, but that Jesus stops for people who know they can’t. He still stops for worn-out parents trying to juggle work, kids, and aging parents.  He still stops for young adults who look put-together but feel lost inside.  He still stops for anyone honest enough to say, “I’m blind here. I need You.”
He hears.  He cares.  He heals… sometimes bodies, sometimes relationships, sometimes the hidden places in our hearts.

He may not change every circumstance overnight, but He changes how we walk through them: not as people pretending to be strong, but as people learning to lean on Him.

Reflection Questions
1. Where do you feel most overwhelmed or “at the end of yourself” right now, home, work, family, relationships, or your own heart?  
2. When life feels out of control, what do you usually reach for first, your own strategies, distractions, or honest prayer?  
3. If prayer is “expressed helplessness,” what is one simple, honest sentence you could bring to Jesus today?  
4. Are there any areas where you sense you might be spiritually “blind” or not seeing clearly? What would it look like to ask, “Lord, let my eyes be opened”?

If this resonates with you, we’d love for you to watch the full sermon from Matthew 20 on our YouTube channel, where we walk through this story of Jesus hearing, caring for, and healing two desperate men.

Wherever you are this week, at the kitchen table, in a dorm room, at a hospital bed, or in your car between appointments, He is not asking you to be enough. He’s inviting you to cry out.

If you’d like to go deeper into this passage and hear the full message, you can watch the sermon from Matthew 20:17–28 on our YouTube channel.

By Sunday afternoon, I was exhausted.

I love our church. I love serving. But sometimes it feels like my life is a rotation of “show up early, stay late, solve the problem, answer the text, take the call, carry the weight.” No one is forcing me to do any of it, and most of the time I’m glad to. Still, there are days when it all feels heavy.

Then we sat with Matthew 20:17-28. James and John, with a little help from their mom, come to Jesus with a request: “Give us the seats at your right and left in your kingdom.” In other words: “We want to be great. We want the important spots.”

What Jesus does next is so kind. He doesn’t shame them for wanting greatness. He redirects their understanding of what greatness actually is.

“Whoever would be great among you must be your servant, and whoever would be first among you must be your slave…”

In the world, greatness is tied to visibility and power.
In the kingdom, greatness is tied to service and sacrifice.
That hits differently when you’re the one quietly cleaning up, stacking chairs, resetting a classroom, or staying late to listen to someone who’s hurting.

What struck me is that Jesus isn’t recruiting free labor when he says this. He’s revealing his heart. He goes on: “Even as the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”

He’s not asking us to do anything he hasn’t already done in a deeper way. The One who actually deserves the best seat chose instead to kneel, wash feet, carry a cross, and die in the place of sinners.

That means the hidden work matters.

• The person who rocks a crying baby in the nursery so a tired mom can sit in the service.
• The one who shows up early to run cables, test sound, and make sure the livestream works.
• The small group leader who prepares, prays, and then simply listens while others share.
• The prayer team member who stands quietly at the front and holds people’s burdens before God.
• The friend who brings a meal, sends a text, or stops to really listen in the lobby.

None of that looks “great” in the world’s eyes. But in the kingdom, that is greatness. It is Christlikeness. It is Jesus, living his life through his people.

So to all the volunteers and servants at Hope Community: thank you.

Thank you for being the “floor” others stand on, steady, strong, often unnoticed, but absolutely essential. Thank you for letting your strength be used to hold others up instead of draw attention to yourself. Even when you’re tired. Even when no one sees. Your Father sees. And he calls that great.

And for those who feel worn out or discouraged: this is not about earning God’s approval. Jesus has already given his life as a ransom for you. Your identity and worth are not based on how much you serve, how well you do it, or how “together” you feel. Service in the kingdom is a response to grace, not a way to get it.

You’re allowed to be tired. You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to say no at times. The invitation of Jesus is not, “Do more so I’ll love you,” but, “I have loved you at the cost of my own life, now walk with me, and let my love overflow through you.”

Reflect & Respond

• Where are you currently serving in ways that feel hidden or tiring? How might Jesus be gently affirming the value of that service today?
• Is there a place where you’ve tied your worth too tightly to what you do for God, rather than what Jesus has already done for you?

If you’d like to go deeper into this passage and hear the full message, you can watch the sermon from Matthew 20:17–28 on our YouTube channel.

I used to think that if I hadn't figured out my "calling" by my twenties, I had somehow missed the boat. We live in a culture that obsesses over "early success," but this week, Pastor Jeff shared a perspective from Matthew 20 that flipped that script entirely.
The Parable of the Vineyard shows us a Master who hires at the 1st, 3rd, 6th, 9th, and even the 11th hour. In God's Kingdom, the 11th-hour worker is just as valued as the one who started at sunrise. God’s generosity isn't based on how many hours we put in; it’s based on His heart for us.

But what does "answering the call" actually look like in our different stages of life?

• For the Student or Young Adult: You might feel like you’re "standing idle" because you don't have a title or a "real" career yet. But the Master is calling you now. Answering the call might look like choosing to be the friend who actually listens, or using your dorm room or first apartment as a place where the Gospel is talked about openly. Your "work" starts today, not when you graduate.

• For the Busy Parent: It’s easy to feel like your "field" is just a cycle of laundry, carpools, and chaos. You might feel like you don't have time for "real" ministry. But Jeff reminded us that your home is the Master’s field. Answering the call looks like the patient way you correct your child or the intentional way you invite a lonely neighbor over for dinner. You are on the clock for the Kingdom in the middle of the mess.

• For the "Late Bloomer" or Senior: Maybe you feel like you've wasted years, or that your season of being useful is over. Remember Grandma Bev, who found Jesus at 75, or the 73-year-old "rookie" pastor Jeff met in Jerusalem. Your wisdom is a massive asset to this church. Answering the call might look like mentoring a younger couple, serving on the prayer team, or finally saying "yes" to that ministry nudge you've felt for a decade.

If you feel like you’ve "wasted" too much time or that you're too old to be useful, remember: the Master is still walking through the marketplace, and He is still hiring. It’s never too late to put your hand to the plow.

Reflect & Respond:

1. Do you ever feel like you've missed your "window" to be used by God? How does the 11th-hour promise change that?
2. What is one way you can "put your hand to the plow" this week, regardless of your stage of life?

Want to hear more about the Master's heart for you? You can watch the full message, "The Master's Field," on our YouTube channel here:

There’s a specific moment in a check-up when the doctor taps your knee with that little rubber hammer, and your leg kicks out all on its own. You don’t have to tell it to move; you don’t have to focus or use your willpower. It’s just a reflex, a natural, involuntary response to a specific touch.

This past Sunday, we looked at generosity through that same lens. Often, we treat giving like a spiritual workout, something we have to grit our teeth through or a "have-to" that feels heavy. But what if the Gospel is actually the "tap" that creates a reflex? When we truly lean into the reality of God’s grace, the natural response isn't a clenched fist; it’s an open hand.
As we looked around the room, it was beautiful to see how that reflex of grace shows up in different seasons of life:

For the students and young professionals, it’s a brave reflex against fear. It’s choosing to trust Jesus with those first entry-level paychecks, proving that their security isn't found at the top of a career ladder, but in the hands of a Provider.

For those in the busy parenting years, it’s a reflex against the "more." It’s the intentional choice to push back against lifestyle creep, the bigger houses and newer cars, to show our kids that Jesus is a better treasure than anything we could ever buy them.

For the seniors among us, it’s a reflex sharpened by years of faithfulness. There is a quiet, steady confidence in those who have seen the "exchange rate" of Heaven prove true time and time again. They aren't just giving from a fixed income; they are investing in a Kingdom they’ll soon see face-to-face.

The truth is, we simply can’t out-give God. He owns the cattle on a thousand hills, yet He gave us His only Son. When we choose to live with open hands, we aren’t losing anything, we’re finally gaining the life He intended for us all along.

Missed the service? You can watch the full message on our YouTube Channel here.

If you asked me on Sunday morning, "Who is the King of your life?" I’d give you the right answer. I’d say, "Jesus, of course."

But if you asked me on Tuesday night while I was scrolling through Zillow looking at houses I can’t afford, or on Wednesday morning when that Amazon "Shipping Confirmation" gave me a bigger hit of dopamine than my morning prayer time, the answer might look a little different.

This week, Pastor Jeff lead us through Matthew 19 and the story of the rich young ruler. It’s a passage we often read and think, “Well, I’m not a millionaire, so this doesn't apply to me.” But Jeff flipped that script. He defined "possessions" as the stuff that makes us feel safe, valuable, or entertained.

Suddenly, the sermon wasn’t about a guy in a robe 2,000 years ago. It was about my garage. It was about my backyard. It was about the "too much good stuff" that defines life here in our corner of the world.

The Pipeline to Worship

One of the most convicting parts of the message was the "pipeline" of idolatry. It starts with something we want, which becomes something we need, then something we demand, and eventually, something we sacrifice for.

Living in the "green spaces" of the Monopoly board makes it incredibly easy to buy our way into comfort and security. We think we’re being wise or prepared, but Jeff challenged us: are these things actually making it harder for us to love Jesus? Are we serving our stuff, or is our stuff serving the Kingdom?

Right Answer vs. True Answer

We are faced with a choice. We can walk away sorrowful like the young man in the story, or we can live with open hands. Jeff ended with a "repeat after me" moment that I’m still saying to myself today: My stuff can't save me. Jesus can.

It’s easy to say. It’s harder to live. But the beauty of the Gospel is that even when total surrender feels impossible for us, with God, all things are possible. Jesus gave up the riches of heaven to pursue us; surely we can trust Him with the contents of our Amazon carts.

If you missed the service or want to be challenged by the full message, you can watch it on our YouTube channel here:

I’ll be honest: some weeks I walk into church feeling more like a babysitter than a disciple. I spend so much energy trying to manage my family's schedule, worrying about my kids' future, and wondering if I’m doing enough to "fix" the things that feel broken in our home.
This past Sunday, Ryan Wuflestad’s message from Matthew 19 met me right in that place of exhaustion.

The Parenting Myth

Ryan shared a statistic that has stayed with me all day. Research shows that the single greatest factor in whether a child follows Jesus isn’t the school they attend or the groups they join… it is whether their parents have an active, growing faith.

For a second, that felt like more pressure. But then Ryan clarified: our job isn't to start the fire in our children's hearts. We can’t do that. Only the Holy Spirit can. Our job is simply to "lay the kindling" by living out our own faith in front of them. It was a massive relief to realize that the best thing I can do for my kids is to simply pursue Jesus myself.

Trading the Map for a Passenger

The second half of the message shifted from the weight of responsibility to the freedom of trust. Ryan talked about his "Daddy Adventures," where his kids have to get in the car without knowing where they are going. They have to trust him.

I am the kind of person who wants a map. I want to see the "X" on the destination and know exactly how I am going to get there. But the Christian life isn't about following a map; it is about trusting the Person in the car with you. Ryan described following Jesus as sitting in the driver’s seat while Jesus sits in the passenger seat, telling us when to turn and when to slow down.

Who Told You?
We often lose our "childlike faith" because the world tells us we should be ashamed or self-conscious. When Ryan reflected on God’s question in the Garden: "Who told you you were naked?"... it hit home. We carry so much shame into our adulthood, thinking we have to hide our mistakes or navigate our lives perfectly to be accepted.

But Jesus stops everything to welcome the children. He invites us to trade our "maps" and our "shame" for a simple, dependent trust. We don't have to see through the fog of our future. We just have to take the next step He asks us to take. I’m learning that I can stop trying to babysit my life and my family. Instead, I’m just going to get in the car and trust the Passenger who knows the way.

If you missed the service or want to hear the full message again, you can watch it on our YouTube channel here:

Some sermons comfort you right away. Others sit heavy, and this week’s message was one of those. As Matthew 19 was read aloud, it was clear this passage touches the most personal parts of our lives: marriage, divorce, singleness, faithfulness, and forgiveness.
You could feel the weight of it in the room. Not because God’s Word isn’t good, but because it’s honest.

When Jesus is asked about divorce, He doesn't start by debating loopholes or legal permissions. Instead, He points us back to the beginning, back to God’s design and the heart behind marriage. He reminds us that while marriage was never meant to be disposable, neither were people.

The Marriage Mirror
 
One of the most relatable moments on Sunday was when Pastor Jeff spoke about his own marriage. He described his twenty years with Ashley as 240 months that haven't always been ideal. He was honest about the cold shoulders, the miscommunications, and the hard work it takes for two sinners to stay joined together.

It was a helpful reminder that hardship in a marriage doesn’t automatically mean failure. Difficulty doesn't mean God has abandoned His design. Often, it’s in the struggle, through patience, forgiveness, and humility, that the Gospel becomes most visible. When we love a spouse imperfectly, it simply points us back to the God who loves us perfectly.

A Place for Every Story
 
What I appreciated most was how the message made space for everyone listening.
For those who are single, Jesus’ words brought a different kind of encouragement. Singleness wasn’t presented as a problem to fix or a season to rush through. Instead, it was honored as a meaningful calling that allows for a unique, undivided devotion to God. In a culture that often treats singleness as "incomplete," it was affirming to hear that there are no outliers or second-class seats in this church family.

And for those carrying the weight of a past divorce or a broken relationship, the sermon didn't shy away from that brokenness. Divorce was named honestly, but it was followed by the hope of the Gospel. While divorce may be a biblical allowance in certain situations, redemption is always God’s greater story.

Defining Our Identity

We all walked into the room carrying real stories, some joyful, some painful, and many that feel unfinished. But the truth remains the same for all of us: you are not defined by your past or your relationship status. You are defined by who you are in Christ.

God’s Word doesn’t always say what is easiest to hear, but it always points us toward what is good. 

If you missed Sunday’s message, I’d encourage you to sit with it. It is a heavy passage, but a deeply hopeful one. It reminds us that Jesus doesn’t just speak into our relationships, He redeems us within them.

  If you looked at my notes app on New Year’s Day, it was a mess of ambitious "Mom-Resolutions."

  By January 4th, I was already tired. I was already failing. I felt like I was trying to manufacture enough patience and energy just to make it to Sunday, running on empty while trying to keep everyone else's tank full.

  But then Pastor Jeff shared a vision for 2026 that stopped me in my tracks.
He didn't give us a 10-step plan to be better parents or a list of "New Year, New You" habits.

  Instead, he pointed us to a statistic: 1 in 100 trillion. That’s the probability of one person fulfilling just eight of the prophecies Jesus fulfilled. And if the odds are that high, then the hope He offers isn't just a "passive wish" that my kids will grow up okay… it’s a sure future.
Jeff talked about "Abounding Hope" and showed that picture of Snoqualmie Falls in flood season. I realized that my Mom-Resolutions were all about me trying to dig a well in my backyard with a plastic shovel, while God was offering me a literal waterfall.

So, this year, I’m trading my resolutions for the 4 Mini-Goals:

1. 10 Minutes of Worship: I might not get an hour of "quiet time," but I can spend 10 minutes singing worship songs in the car after school drop-off. It’s not about checking a box; it’s about refilling my soul at the waterfall.
2. The Word: Reading the Bible daily. I need the reminder that I am a child of God before I am a "coordinator of schedules."
3. Praying for One Person: There’s a mom at the playground who I know is struggling. This year, my goal isn't just to be "nice", it's to pray for her heart every single day.
4. The Invitation: One invite a week. Maybe it’s just, "Hey, we’re heading to the 10:30 service, want to come with?"

  My resolution for 2026 isn't to be a "Perfect Mom." It's to be a Hope-Filled Mom. Because when I abound in hope, it’s not just for me, it overflows onto my kids, my husband, and my neighbors.

  The pressure is off. The waterfall is open.

Missed the service? You can watch the full Vision & Values message, "Abounding Hope," on our YouTube Channel here.

I’ll be honest: I am a planner. I like to see the whole map before I take the first step. As we approach the start of 2026, my natural instinct is to try and "stockpile" enough strength, wisdom, and resources to handle whatever the next twelve months might throw my way. I want the security of a warehouse full of answers.

But lately, God has been gently reminding me that He rarely provides a warehouse. Instead, He provides a table.

I’ve been reflecting on the story of Jehoiachin in 2 Kings 25. After thirty-seven years in a Babylonian prison, this broken king was finally invited to dine at the King’s table. But it’s the very last verse of the book that stopped me in my tracks:

Moving From the Cell to the Table

For a long time, I lived with a "prison mentality." I felt like I had to scrape for every bit of joy or peace I could find. I thought that if I didn't work hard enough or plan perfectly enough, I’d end up empty-handed. I was treating my relationship with God like a transaction I had to earn, rather than a seat I had been given.

But the beauty of the "daily allowance" is that it isn’t based on our merit; it’s based on the King’s faithfulness.

I’ve realized that when I’m anxious about 2026, it’s usually because I’m trying to solve June’s problems with December’s grace. But grace doesn't work that way. The King doesn’t give us a lump sum of strength to last a decade. He gives us exactly what we need for today.

The Relief of "Daily"

There is such a deep relief in realizing I don't have to be "enough" for the whole year today. I just have to be a guest at the table.

Jehoiachin didn't have to worry about where his meal would come from next month or next year. The text says his allowance was "regular" and lasted "as long as he lived." If the King who holds the stars in place has promised to meet my daily needs, I can stop striving. I can breathe. I can sit down.

As we cross the threshold into a New Year, I’m learning to trade my "what-ifs" for His "I am." I’m learning that even when trials are guaranteed and circumstances are hard, the King’s provision is even more certain.

Watch the Full Message If you’re feeling the weight of the New Year, I’d love for you to watch the full sermon, "Freedom From Exile." We dive deeper into how Jesus became our righteous substitute so that we could live in this unmerited favor every single day.

I have always loved the story of the angels in Luke 2, but I never thought I was actually supposed to be like one. In my mind, angels are loud, spectacular, and bold. They command attention. I, on the other hand, am the person who stays in the back of the room. I’m the one who hopes no one asks me a deep question at a party, and the thought of "evangelizing" usually makes my heart race for all the wrong reasons.

I’ve spent years thinking that sharing my faith was a "personality gift", something reserved for the extroverts, the gifted speakers, or the people who seem to have an answer for everything. Because I don't feel "exceptional" in that way, I figured my job was just to sit in the seat, love Jesus privately, and leave the "messaging" to the professionals.

But Pastor Jeff’s sermon this Sunday changed how I see my place in God's story.
He pointed out that the angel wasn’t the focus of the story; the Good News was. The angel was simply a messenger. And the most world-changing part? Pastor Jeff said, "Jesus did not come to find exceptional people... He came to find dead people to bring them back to life."

The Power of a Simple Invitation

I realized that I’ve been waiting to feel "qualified" or "bold enough" before I spoke up. But the Gospel isn't dependent on my personality. If I have been saved, I have been sent. It doesn't mean I have to stand on a soapbox or have a spectacular light show like the angels did over the fields.

It means I just have to be a channel for the mercy I’ve already received.

The "Big Ask" at the end of the sermon felt manageable for the first time. Pastor Jeff didn't tell us to go out and win a theological debate. He told us to look at our phones. He reminded us that a text message, a phone call, or even a plate of cookies can be an invitation.

A Messenger in the Mundane

I’ve been praying for a friend of mine for a long time, but I’ve always been too shy to actually invite her to church. I was afraid I’d say the wrong thing. But after hearing the story of Matt, who hated the sermon at first but was eventually changed by it, I realized that the "success" of the invitation doesn't rest on my shoulders. It rests on the power of the message itself.

Being a "messenger" this Christmas doesn't mean I have to change who I am. It just means I have to be willing to share what I know: that Jesus is the Savior who came for broken people like me.

I’m no angel. I’m just a person who was rescued, and now I’m heading into this week with a simple mission. I’m opening my contact list, I’m saying the names of my friends out loud, and I’m sending the text. Because even a quiet messenger can carry the greatest news in the world.

To hear Pastor Jeff’s full message on why you were saved to be a messenger this Christmas, you can watch the full sermon on YouTube here:

In my family, grudges are often treated like heirlooms. They are passed down, protected, and kept alive for years, defining boundaries and repeating the patterns of past generations. When a family member hurts you deeply, and when that hurt touches something chronic or generational, the first instinct is to do whatever is necessary to achieve peace. For me, that meant distance.

I have been keeping a specific family member at arm’s length for years. My decision was rooted in self-preservation: I had to guard my mental health, my energy, and the peace in my own home. My quiet reasoning was, If I keep them distant, they can’t hurt me, and I can have peace.

But Pastor Jeff’s message on Matthew 18:21–35 confronted my strategy directly. The command isn't to create distance; it's to grant forgiveness. When he said, "Unforgiveness is spiritual poison that you drink yourself," I realized my self-imposed distance wasn't protecting me at all… it was just managing the symptoms while I continued to drink the bitter cup of a refusal to truly forgive.

The Lie of Self-Protection

I had fallen into the unforgiving servant's trap: I couldn't see the tiny debt (their repeated slights, their harsh words) because the shadow of the $2 Billion debt Christ forgave me was too far from my mind.

My refusal to forgive was a profound misunderstanding of the Gospel. It said: "My peace is more valuable than my obedience, and my hurt is greater than Christ's payment."
The sermon showed me that my distance, intended to be a fence of protection, was actually a prison wall built around my own heart. The thorns of bitterness were not impacting the family member; they were only impacting me, making me rigid, defensive, and unable to fully receive the peace Christ offers.

Forgiveness as a New Inheritance

Forgiveness in this context is not a feeling, nor is it the immediate removal of all consequences. It is a costly, willful choice, a spiritual transaction that releases the debt.

The process demands humility. First, I had to acknowledge the real, deep hurt they caused, instead of minimizing it or running from it. Only then could I commit to absorbing the cost, making the conscious decision to not let them be accountable to me for this anymore, because Christ had already paid the ultimate price for all sin. And finally, I realized that while restoration might take years and healthy physical boundaries remain, I must be ready to assist in change by committing to pray for them and long for their repentance.

By choosing to forgive from the heart, I am not denying the hurt. I am choosing to break the cycle of generational bitterness and claim a new inheritance: the peace that comes from obedience. That peace is secure because it rests on the finished work of the Cross, not on the changeable behavior of my family member.

I am learning that true peace isn't found by keeping people out; it is found in the costly act of letting go.

To hear Pastor Jeff’s complete message on the necessity and cost of forgiveness in your life, you can watch the full sermon on YouTube here: