The Challenge of Being Still

 

There’s a large, comfy recliner in my living room that rarely gets used. Not because it isn’t inviting, it is, but because sitting still has never come easily for me. I’m usually busy doing something: tidying the house, moving from one task to the next, staying in motion. But every now and then, I feel myself running out of steam. That’s when I finally give in and sit down.

 

When I sink into that soft leather recliner, put my feet up, and let my body rest, something wonderful happens. I don’t fix anything. I don’t accomplish anything. I simply rest, and in that resting, strength slowly returns.

 

That image helps me understand the Hebrew word Rapha in a deeper way.

 

In Scripture, Rapha means to heal, restore, mend, or make whole. God reveals Himself as Jehovah Rapha, “the Lord who heals you” (Exodus 15:26). What’s striking is that healing in God’s economy often begins not with striving, but with surrender. Much like settling into a recliner, healing requires trust, trusting that we don’t have to hold ourselves up, fix ourselves, or keep pushing through.

 

Stillness, however, has always been a challenge for me.

 

Even as a child, I struggled with being still. During nap time at school, while everyone else lay quietly on their mats, something on me was always wiggling, a toe, a finger, a foot. I tried, but complete stillness felt impossible. That hasn’t changed much with age. So when I read, “Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10), I can honestly say it’s not the knowing God part I struggle with—it’s the being still part.

 

Yet the word “be still” in this verse comes from the Hebrew word raphah, the same root as Rapha. It carries the meaning of letting go, relaxing your grip, ceasing your striving. God isn’t demanding rigid stillness; He’s inviting us to loosen our clenched fists and rest in who He is.

 

Just like that recliner supports my tired body, God invites us to rest our weary souls in Him.

 

Jesus echoed this same invitation when He said, “Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). Notice He doesn’t say, “Fix yourself first” or “Work harder.” He says, come. Sit. Rest. Let Me carry the weight.

 

Healing, Rapha, often happens when we stop running long enough to be held.

 

Isaiah reminds us,

“In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength” (Isaiah 30:15).

 

Strength doesn’t always come from doing more. Sometimes it comes from doing less—and trusting more.

 

When I sit in my recliner and finally stop moving, I’m reminded that God doesn’t need me to keep everything going. He asks me to rest in Him, to let Him heal what I cannot, and to restore what feels worn thin. Even if something is still wiggling, my thoughts, my worries, my plans, He meets me there with grace.

 

Jehovah Rapha is not rushed. He heals in moments of quiet surrender. And sometimes, the holiest thing we can do is sit down, put our feet up, and let God do what only He can do.

 

Heavenly Father,

You are Jehovah Rapha, the Lord who heals and restores. You know how hard it is for me to be still, to stop striving, stop fixing, and stop running ahead of You. Teach me to rest in Your presence. Help me loosen my grip on control and trust You with what is broken, tired, or worn in me. As I come to You, weary and in need, fill me with Your peace and restore my strength. Heal my heart, my mind, and my spirit as I learn to rest in You.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

 

 

 

Scrolling Through My Life

It’s a gray, foggy day, and boredom sends me scrolling through my phone. What I didn’t expect was to scroll through my life.

More than 37,000 photos live there, tiny frozen moments of joy, pain, laughter, tears, and ordinary days I barely remember living. As I swipe, I see evidence of God’s faithfulness everywhere. Surgeries I survived. Illnesses I endured. Grandchildren taking their first breath. Holidays crowded with people I love. Smiles that came after tears. Strength that showed up when mine was gone.

Most of those moments are recorded. But many are not. Quiet prayers whispered in the dark. Fears I never spoke aloud. Battles fought only in my heart. Victories no one applauded.

That’s when my thoughts turn to God.

Scripture tells us that He keeps records too, not because He might forget, but because nothing about our lives is insignificant to Him.

“All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” (Psalm 139:16)

I wonder what heaven will be like. Will there be a moment when my life flashes before me, good, bad, and ugly, played back at a speed only eternity allows? Will God sit patiently beside me, not in accusation, but in compassion? Will I finally see how His hand was at work in moments I thought were wasted or broken?

The Bible says that one day “the books were opened” (Revelation 20:12). That can sound frightening, until we remember that for those who belong to Christ, judgment has already been settled at the cross. Any replay I might see won’t be to shame me, but to show me the depth of His mercy. Every failure covered. Every tear counted. Every act of faith, no matter how small, remembered.

Right now, we see only fragments like snapshots instead of the whole story.

“For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.” (1 Corinthians 13:12)

One day, the scrolling will stop. Time will give way to eternity. And we won’t be looking at a screen anymore, we’ll be looking at Him.

That’s why, even as I look back with gratitude, I also look forward with hope. Scripture calls us to live while “we wait for the blessed hope, the appearing of the glory of our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ” (Titus 2:13). Jesus promised He would come again, not just to review our lives, but to redeem them fully, to make all things new.

There are still many moments left unrecorded. More love to give. More grace to receive. More days written in His book. And when He comes again, the story won’t end, it will finally make sense.

Until then, I’ll keep scrolling with gratitude, living with purpose, and watching the horizon with hope.

Father God,

Thank You for being faithful in every season of my life, for the moments I remember clearly and the ones I’ve forgotten. Thank You that my days are written in Your book, that nothing I’ve lived through has been wasted in Your hands. Help me trust You with my past, walk with You in my present, and look forward with hope to the return of Your Son. As I wait for Jesus to come again, teach me to live faithfully, love deeply, and rest confidently in Your grace.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

The Anchor of Hope

There is something deeply peaceful about being on the water. Whether it’s the wide openness of the ocean or the gentle expanse of a lake, I’ve always loved the rhythm beneath a boat—the steady rise and fall, the soft lapping of water against the hull. Out there, worries seem quieter. Life slows down. Breathing comes easier.

Yet even in that calm, there’s comfort in knowing one important thing: the boat has an anchor.

An anchor is not flashy. It isn’t admired the way polished rails or a smooth motor might be. Most of the time, it’s hidden beneath the surface, unseen and unnoticed. But when the wind picks up, when the current shifts, or when you need to stay right where you are, the anchor becomes everything. Heavy. Sure. Dependable. It keeps the boat from drifting away.

My brother understood that well. After years of waiting, he finally got his pontoon boat—a dream realized. He loved taking it out on big lakes like Lake Oconee, fishing all day, enjoying the stillness and the space. The size of the boat gave a sense of stability, but even then, the anchor mattered. Without it, the boat would slowly wander, carried by forces he couldn’t control.

When we were younger, my brother and I spent time in a canoe. That boat was far less steady. We felt every ripple, every shift in weight. But even then, if we wanted to remain in one place—to rest, to fish, to simply be—we could lower an anchor. That small act made all the difference. It allowed us to stop drifting and stay grounded, even in a boat that felt vulnerable.

Scripture tells us that our hope in Christ functions the same way.

Hebrews 6:19–20 (AMP) describes hope as “a safe and steadfast anchor of the soul,” a hope that does not slip or break under pressure, but reaches beyond what we can see—into the very presence of God. This hope is not wishful thinking. It is not shallow optimism. It is anchored in Jesus Himself, who has gone before us and secured our place with God.

Life has currents. Some are gentle, others relentless. There are seasons when everything feels calm and predictable, and others when we realize just how easily we could drift—away from peace, away from trust, away from truth. Without an anchor, even the most beautiful boat will wander.

Hope in Christ doesn’t mean we never feel the movement of the water. It doesn’t mean storms won’t come. But it does mean we are not at the mercy of every wave. Our anchor holds. When we need to stay still, it keeps us grounded. When it’s time to move forward, it reminds us where our security truly lies—not in the boat, not in the water, but in what holds us fast beneath the surface.

That is the kind of hope my soul needs: heavy enough to hold, sure enough to trust, and anchored beyond what my eyes can see.

Prayer

Lord,
Thank You for being the anchor of my soul. When life feels unsteady and the currents pull in directions I didn’t expect, remind me that my hope is secure in You. Help me trust what I cannot see and rest in what You have already done. Keep me from drifting away from Your truth, Your peace, and Your presence. May my life reflect a quiet confidence that comes from being firmly anchored in Christ.
Amen.

The Crack in the Crock that Made Me Cry

 

It was such a small thing—or so it seemed.

I had recently bought a beautiful Pioneer Woman crockpot, a cheerful shade of turquoise blue that brought a much-needed pop of color to my gray-and-white kitchen. It felt like a small indulgence, a bit of joy sitting right there on my countertop. I’d only used it a couple of times when I noticed a large crack running along the bottom of the ceramic insert.

At first, I tried to convince myself it was only superficial. Surely it couldn’t be serious. But as I washed the pot, my fingers traced the line again—and again—and I realized the crack was deep. Deep enough to make it unsafe. Deep enough to mean the crockpot was destined for the trash.

I stood there at the sink, holding that broken piece, and felt tears rise unexpectedly in my eyes.

It surprised me. After all, it was just a crockpot. Yes, it had been fairly expensive. Yes, it was brand new. But my reaction felt outsized for the loss. And that’s when I realized: this wasn’t really about the crockpot at all.

That crack had touched something much deeper.

Lately, my life has felt cracked in places too. We’re facing another move—one I hadn’t planned on making at this stage of life. While my heart understands the wisdom of being closer to one of our children as we age, my spirit resists the upheaval. The realtor is coming this week. Conversations about listing the house, timelines, and next steps are looming. And then there’s the packing… again. The letting go. The learning my way around a new city. Making new friends. Finding a new church. Starting over.

It feels like too much.

I don’t like change. I never have. And when change stacks up, one small disappointment—like a cracked crockpot—can be the thing that finally opens the floodgates.

That day at the sink, God gently showed me something important: sometimes our tears aren’t about what’s in our hands, but about what’s in our hearts. The crack didn’t cause the pain—it revealed it.

Scripture reminds us, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). Not just in the big heartbreaks, but in the quiet moments when we feel overwhelmed, fragile, and worn thin.

Maybe the crack was an invitation—to pause, to acknowledge my fear, to admit my resistance, and to bring all of it honestly before God. Maybe it was a reminder that even when life feels fractured, He is still steady. Still present. Still holding me.

I don’t know what lies ahead. I don’t know how I’ll adjust or how long it will take for a new place to feel like home. But I do know this: God meets us in the cracks. He understands our tears—even the ones that surprise us. And He is patient with hearts that are learning, once again, how to trust Him through change.

---

Lord,
You see the cracks I try to hide—the weariness, the fear of change, the grief over things I didn’t expect to lose. You know how easily I become overwhelmed, and how small moments can carry great weight. Help me to release my grip on what was and trust You with what is ahead. When change feels too heavy, remind me that You go before me and walk beside me. Give me peace in the uncertainty, courage for the transition, and grace for myself along the way. Thank You for caring even about my tears over broken things. I place my heart, cracked places and all, into Your loving hands.
Amen.

---

Stay Sharp!

Pencils or pens? It all depends. If I want temporary, I'll use a pencil. If I'd rather have permanent, I'll use ink. Both writing utensils are wonderful to me because they allow me to express my thoughts anywhere, anytime. Of course, I love computers, too, but there's just something about writing out things by hand. 

This morning, I was jotting down my to do list. I usually do that in pencil because I'll often want to add to or change something - you know, it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind....right? And I do it all the time. But there's one thing that irks me - a dull pencil. I can't stand writing with an unsatisfactory nib. 

Normally, I'll use a lead pencil. They're efficient and stay sharp for longer periods of time depending on the lead quality, put those old Ticonderoga pencils need to be sharpened often and I get tired of pulling out my little battery operated sharpener to tighten up the point. 

Remember those big, fat black pencils we had in elementary school? You know, the ones without erasers? I hated those. I wanted the ability to erase when I wanted to and I didn't like having to use those rectangular pink erasers we used to have. I still have one of those callouses on my middle finger from writing all these years, although it's not as prominent now as it was then. 

Then, we graduated to the thinner number 2 pencils - the yellow ones with the pink erasers attached to the top. I loved those, but again, would get irritated when the point got dull. Thankfully, our teachers allowed us to use those hand crank sharpeners affixed to the classroom wall as long as we raised our hands and asked permission first. They were fun to use. Turning that little knob round and round gave me pleasure but if I wasn't paying much attention, I'd sharpen too much and the point would break causing me to start all over again. 

Sharpness. Why do I find it so important with pencils and not so much with life? As I've grown older, my thinker doesn't work as well as it once did. It'd be nice to be able to slip it into a machine and grind it to a fine point and why is it that I can remember things 50 or 60 years back with such ease but not so much yesterday???

Iron sharpens iron, the Bible says so. I know it to be true because when my kitchen knives get dull, I pull out a sharpening steel and give the knives a few passes over it and then they're good as new. But what does the Bible mean when it says, "Iron sharpens iron?" Well, the entire verse is found the book of Proverbs 27, verse 17: “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.” That means as believers, we can help sharpen each other by holding each other accountable, helping each other in times of need by offering love and encouragement, or reminding each other of important Biblical truths when one of us strays. 

Just like a pencil, we can get dull in our walk at times, that's why it's so important to fellowship with other believers - it's kind of like we're human sharpeners for each other. 

None of us are able to "stay on point" all the time without a little assistance. We're human. We stray. We don't always remember to lean into God. When we're weak in our faith or in our walk, we need to "rub up against" another believer who may be able to help sharpen us again. 

Strange analogy, you may be thinking, but I believe we're like pencils in a lot of ways. We work pretty well for a time and then we begin to lose our edge. That's when we need a sharp blade to shave us into readiness again. 

These days we need to be sharp all the time, especially over the next few weeks, so pay attention! If your nib is dull, talk to another believer, ask for prayer. Let them point you to Biblical truths to help get you back on track. And for heaven's sake, don't forget it's okay to forgive yourself for mistakes now and then. Just like the pencil has an eraser, God allows us to mess up. And then we can ask for His help to get up, and He cleans it up allowing us to begin again! He never keeps records of our wrongs - remember, the Bible say, in Psalm 103, "For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his love for those who fear him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us.” But we have to be willing to ask. We can't scrub the paper as hard as we can with our eraser and rub out the screw up, it will just tear a hole in the paper! Only God can take our errors and correct them forever. 

Everyday Devotionals Bonnie Annis

The Second Day of the New Year

The second day of a new year has a quiet weight to it. The excitement of midnight has settled, the calendars are still mostly blank, and here we are, waking up to a day whose details we don’t yet know. There’s something both unsettling and sacred about that. We step into the morning not knowing what conversations we’ll have, what news we’ll receive, or what unexpected turns might come our way. And when we zoom out beyond today and think about the entire year ahead, that feeling deepens. We can plan, prepare, and pencil things neatly into our calendars, but the truth remains: we don’t really know how it’s all going to unfold.

Scripture reminds us that this uncertainty isn’t something to fear, it’s something to surrender. “The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps” (Proverbs 16:9). We do our part by being faithful with what’s in front of us, but God is the One who sees the whole picture. Even when the path ahead feels unclear, we can rest in the promise that He is already there. The unknown doesn’t catch Him off guard, and the details we can’t foresee are held securely in His hands.

That’s where trust becomes more than a concept, it becomes a daily choice. Choosing to trust God means believing that, no matter how the year unfolds, He will work within it for our good. “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him” (Romans 8:28). As we step into this new year, may we loosen our grip on outcomes and strengthen our grip on faith, confident that the One who walks with us today will faithfully carry us through every tomorrow.

Lord, thank You for the gift of a new year and for this day set before me. I confess that I don’t know what lies ahead, but I choose to trust You with every unknown. Help me to walk by faith, not fear, and to rest in the assurance that You are working all things together for good. Guide my steps, calm my heart, and remind me daily that You are in control. Amen.

Everyday devotionals ©️ Bonnie Annis

A New Year!

This morning I was thinking about the home I grew up in. It was an old cinderblock home, nothing fancy, in fact it was an architect's final build in order to get his license. 

Inside that house, on the second story, inside the bottom cabinet of the bathroom, was a laundry chute. Those weren't too popular in the late 50s and early 60s, but we had one. 

My brother, sister, and I thought it was great. Though it was built for convenience, we used it for sending toys and other things down into the laundry area of our garage. 

I can still remember standing over the top of the chute, hands ready to let some precious cargo speed down the chute while yelling "Bombs away!" And I can still see the wide eyes of my sibling peering up through the chute at me, waiting to retrieve the payload. 

Those days were filled with childhood fun. We made good use of that laundry chute, but so did Mama. It made her life easier not to have to carry loads of clothing down our long flight of stairs. 

As I was thinking about that laundry chute today and our cries of "Bombs away," I thought, that's a good motto for this New Year. Instead of holding onto the past events that have traumatized us, we need, in our hearts, to be willing to let go with a proverbial “Bombs away.”

We also need to be willing to expect God to provide all we need for the New Year. 

While the Israelites were wandering through the desert for forty years, they didn't have much in the way of food. They got tired of their typical diet and begged God for something different. God heard their cries and answered, providing them with a new breakfast food called Manna. 

The manna appeared every morning. The Israelites were given specific instructions on gathering it and they were not to store it up for the following day. If they disobeyed and gathered some manna to save for the next day, it would spoil before they could eat it. 

This year, perhaps we need to wake each day looking for our manna - God's perfect provision for whatever the day holds. 

As we look for it, I hope you can envision a "heavenly laundry chute" with God at the top and yourself at the bottom eagerly looking up to see what He's going to send your way. 

I doubt seriously that you'll hear God yell, "Bombs away," like we did as children, but I imagine, if you could see His face, you'd see a huge, loving, kind smile and eager, heavenly hands ready to bless you. 

Last year was a terrible, awful, very bad year in many ways, but, if you think back, I'm sure there was some manna tucked in there, too. 

This first day of 2026, Look up! The Lord is your Provider! He is Jehovah Jireh. Let Him take care of all your worries, all your cares, all your needs. He wants to bless you. And if you keep your gaze locked on His beautiful face, nothing else that touches your life will matter because He has the manna. And He's going to make sure you have just enough for each and every day. 

© Bonnie Annis

You can read more about Manna in the Bible in Exodus 16.

The New Year and My Uncompleted Bucket List

The new year always has a way of sneaking up on me, like a cat on a screen porch—quiet, determined, and suddenly right at your feet. As I step into this next year at 68, firmly planted in the sunset season of life, I’m more aware than ever that time is no longer something I assume I have in abundance. The years don’t just pass anymore; they sprint. And yet, even with the calendar pages flipping faster, my heart is still full of hopes, dreams, and a bucket list that’s been tagging along with me since my teenage years.

I started that bucket list back when my knees were original equipment and didn’t come with screws, hinges, or weather-related complaints. Over the years, I’ve been blessed to cross off quite a few things—some planned, some unexpected, and some that only God could’ve arranged. Still, there are a handful of dreams that refuse to loosen their grip on me. Ireland and Scotland call my name every time I hear a fiddle tune. Alaska still feels like unfinished business, even though I've been there once. I want to return again, only this time, I don't want to see the inside of their cardiac care unit! And Israel, well, that place has a way of settling into your soul and demanding a return visit, too. As for completing the Appalachian Trail, I’ll admit that dream and my mechanical knee have been in ongoing negotiations. I guess I'll remain a section hiker for life. 

These days, my knee predicts rain better than the evening news, and I don’t bounce back from long walks the way I once did. I’ve learned that ibuprofen is a food group and that stretching is no longer optional; it’s survival. Still, I’m Southern enough to believe that where there’s a will, there’s a way… even if that way involves frequent rest stops, good shoes, and someone else carrying the heavy stuff. I may not hike mountains the same way I used to, but I can still chase wonder, beauty, and meaning wherever God places them.

What I’m learning, as this new year approaches, is that dreams don’t have an expiration date. They may need adjusting, slowing down, or reimagining, but they’re still worth holding onto. Maybe I won’t check every box on that old bucket list, but I can still live fully, laugh loudly, love deeply, travel wisely, and savor the goodness in each borrowed day. If the Lord gives me the strength, I’ll keep moving forward, one careful step, one hopeful prayer, and one slightly creaky knee at a time. After all, as we say down South, I may be getting older, but I’m not done yet.

Losing a Friend is Never Easy

Today a sweet friend of mine went home to be with the Lord. My heart is saddened by his passing, but I know his worn and weary body is completely healed now. 

C.G. was 97 years old and had been married to his highschool sweetheart, Earlene, for 70 years! Please keep her in your prayers. 

Both C.G. and Earlene loved their family and friends deeply, but loved the Lord most of all. 

They were simple people who enjoyed gardening and serving their community. They also were huge fans of the Georgia Gym Dogs and loved taking others to their meets. 

Many tears have fallen today because of a deep loss, but God has collected every one and stored them in His bottle. 

I take comfort knowing I'll see C.G. again one day. I'm so thankful he loved Jesus. 

The Weight We Often Need

I found this on the Internet and it resounded with my soul so I thought I'd share. I'm unsure of the author's name, but hope it will speak to you-

I used to think burdens were like a hiking pack you didn’t realize was getting heavier. You start the trail feeling good. Confident. Maybe even a little overconfident. The straps are adjusted. The view is nice. You’re thinking, This isn’t so bad.

And then a mile in, your shoulders are on fire.

You stop and check the pack like maybe someone slipped a rock in there when you weren’t looking. You didn’t agree to carry this much. You didn’t pack it intentionally. But somehow the farther you go, the more weight you feel. Every step costs more than the last.

That’s how burdens show up.

Not as some dramatic collapse. Just a steady increase in weight. A season that starts manageable and slowly becomes exhausting. A responsibility, a grief, a situation you didn’t plan for that quietly changes how you move through everything.

We tend to treat burdens like proof something has gone wrong. Like if we were doing faith correctly, the pack would stay light. Like God hands out smooth trails to the people doing it right and uphill climbs to the ones who missed something along the way.

But Scripture keeps saying things that ruin that theory.

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

Not come to Me once you’ve lightened the load. Not after you figure out why you’re tired. Just come. With the pack still on. With the straps digging in.

Which makes me wonder if burdens aren’t obstacles at all.

What if they’re bridges.

And I don’t love that idea. Because I would prefer a shortcut. Or a chair. Or for someone to meet me on the trail and say, actually, you don’t have to carry that anymore.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth. I don’t draw closer to God when the trail is easy. I do when I’m tired. I pray differently when I’m out of strength. I listen more closely when my own plans clearly aren’t enough.

Desperate prayers aren’t polished. They don’t sound impressive. They sound like, I can’t do this by myself. And somehow, those are the moments He feels closest.

Jesus didn’t say He would remove every heavy thing. He said, “Take My yoke upon you.” Which means He steps into the weight with us. Close enough to carry it together. Close enough that the load shifts.

And maybe that’s the part we miss.

The burden didn’t mean God stepped away. It meant He stepped closer.

Grief teaches you how to pray without pretending. Hard seasons strip away the illusion that you were meant to carry everything alone. The weight you never asked for becomes the place you finally stop performing and start leaning.

Bridges don’t feel safe when you’re standing on them. They sway. They creak. You can see exactly how far the drop is. But they exist for one reason. To get you somewhere you couldn’t reach on your own.

So if you’re carrying something heavy right now, maybe the question isn’t, "How do I get rid of this?"

Maybe it’s, "Where is this taking me?"

Because sometimes the very thing that brought you to your knees is the thing that brings you closer to the heart of God. And one day you realize you weren’t abandoned under the weight.

You were being carried across.

The Most Precious Book

This year, we’re not home to do our traditional Christmas morning but normally I pull out our old family Bible for devotional time. 

That Bible is falling apart. It’s held together with layers of tape so I keep it in my Grandmother’s cedar chest for safekeeping. 

I remember Mama telling me they bought it back in 1962 from a traveling salesman. They made $5 a month payments til it was paid off. 

It’s permanent place was atop an old antique mahogany library table in our living room, always opened to Luke chapter 2 during the Christmas season. Inside, a red velvet ribbon marker held the place. Over time, it’s disintegrated, but I hold tightly to the bits and pieces still hidden in my heart. 

Today, during our Christmas in the mountains, I can almost feel Mama and Daddy here.

I hope you have a special family tradition or memory that brings you joy today. Many blessings- Bonnie