The Star that Led the Way

 

“After they had heard the king, they went on their way, and the star they had seen when it rose went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw the star, they were overjoyed.” Matthew 2:9–10 (NIV)

 

That star was more than a sparkle in the night sky. It was heaven’s own divine GPS, guiding weary travelers across deserts and danger straight to the feet of a newborn King. The Magi didn’t stumble upon Jesus by accident; they were led. Step by step. Mile by mile. Light by light.

 

The Greek word used for star in this passage is aster, the root of our modern word astronomy. Even today, when scientists use massive telescopes and advanced technology to study the heavens, they’re still tracing their work back to the same stars God flung into space with His own hands.

 

As a child, I remember sitting in the dark planetarium at Fernbank Science Center, craning my neck toward the dome as the lights dimmed and the heavens lit up above us. We learned the names of the constellations - Orion, Cassiopeia, the Big Dipper, and sat in awe of the vastness of it all. Even as children, we felt small beneath that endless sky. And yet, we were also filled with wonder.

 

The ancient world looked at those same skies, but they didn’t yet know the names of the stars as we do today. They didn’t realize the sun itself was a star. Yet long before astronomy had charts and classifications, God already knew every star by name:

“He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name.” — Psalm 147:4

 

In Babylon and Persia, the stars were often studied for messages from false gods. Sometimes, they were even worshiped. God warned His people clearly:

“Do not be enticed into bowing down to them or worshiping things the Lord your God has apportioned to all the nations.” Deuteronomy 4:19

 

And Isaiah echoed that warning:

“Let your astrologers come forward… surely they are like stubble; the fire will burn them up.” Isaiah 47:13–14

 

And yet here’s the holy mystery - God still chose to use a star to lead the Magi. Not because it was powerful. Not because it was to be adored. But because it pointed to the One who alone is worthy of worship.

 

The Magi were likely scholars from Persia or Babylon, possibly followers of Zoroastrianism, one of the world’s oldest monotheistic religions. They believed in one supreme god, Ahura Mazda, and lived by the moral code of “Good Thoughts, Good Words, and Good Deeds.” They believed in a cosmic struggle between good and evil, and in personal accountability after death.

 

Somehow, through ancient prophecy, spiritual hunger, and divine appointment, God reached across cultures, belief systems, and borders, placing a longing in their hearts to search for the true King.

They studied the skies not casually, but faithfully, persistently, and expectantly. They searched until heaven answered with light.

 

And when the star stopped, right over the place where the Child was, they were overjoyed.

 

Not impressed by the star.

 

But overwhelmed by Who it led them to.

 

The star itself was never the destination. It was only the signpost to the Light of the World.

“I am the light of the world. Whoever follows Me will never walk in darkness.” — John 8:12

 

This Christmas, we live in a world still full of glittering distractions, things that shine, things that promise guidance, meaning, or hope. 

 

But only Jesus shines with eternal truth.

 

The same God who named every star also knows your name.

 

The same God who guided the Magi is still guiding hearts today.

 

And the same Light that shone over Bethlehem still shines into dark places now.

 

We don’t worship the star.

 

We follow it until it leads us back to Jesus.

 

Lord,

Thank You for being the Light that never fades. Thank You for guiding seekers then and guiding us still today. Help us not to chase signs, but to follow Your Son. Lead our hearts, our homes, and our hopes straight to Jesus this Christmas. Like the Magi, fill us with joy when we find Him again and again. In His precious name, Amen.

The Most Amazing Night Shift Workers of All

 

“And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night.”— Luke 2:8 (NIV)

 

I’ve always wondered about those shepherds. Out there in the middle of the night. Cold. Dark. Probably tired down to their bones. While most folks were tucked in under blankets with the fire burning low, these men were wide awake—watching sheep. Not exactly the kind of résumé that lands you at the front of a royal birth announcement.

 

And yet… there they were.

 

Why in the world were they tending sheep in the middle of the night anyway? Didn’t they ever get any rest? Didn’t they have better things to do? Well, as it turns out, shepherds played a mighty important role in ancient Israel. Those sheep weren’t just for wool sweaters and Sunday roasts. They provided food, fabric, and animals for temple sacrifice—especially around Passover. Their work fed families, clothed communities, and played a role in worship itself.

 

Still… of all the people God could have invited to the grand opening of salvation, He chose the night-shift workers.

 

Then suddenly, Scripture tells us, the sky split open with glory. An angel appeared. And just like that, an ordinary work night turned into the most unforgettable moment in history.

 

I’ve often wondered what happened to the sheep when the angel appeared. Did the shepherds just drop everything and run? Did they herd those sheep toward town with a bunch of confused lambs bleating in front of them? The Bible doesn’t tell us. But it does tell us this:

“When they had seen Him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child.”— Luke 2:17

 

Whatever they did with those sheep, they didn’t let fear, responsibility, or exhaustion stop them from going to Jesus.

 

And isn’t that just like us? We worry about our unfinished tasks, our responsibilities, our schedules—our “sheep.” But heaven still calls us to come and see.

 

Years later, that baby in the manger would grow up and say something that tied it all together:

“I am the good shepherd. I know my sheep and my sheep know me.”— John 10:14

 

First the shepherds watched over sheep. Then the Shepherd came to watch over them—and all of us.

So whether the shepherds were cold, sleepy, confused, or downright startled out of their sandals, one thing is certain: God trusted them with the first public announcement of His Son.

 

Not the kings. Not the scholars. Not the wealthy.

 

The shepherds.

 

Ordinary people doing faithful work in the dark—just like so many of us.

 

And still today, the Good Shepherd calls His sheep by name.

 

Lord Jesus,

Thank You for coming to us in such humility and grace. Thank You for choosing the lowly, the ordinary, and the tired to witness Your glory. Help us, like the shepherds, to run toward You when You call, no matter what we are carrying or tending. Teach us to trust You as our Good Shepherd and to hear Your voice above the noise of this world. As we celebrate Your birth this season, may our hearts be wide open with wonder and worship.

Amen.

 

And FYI: Christmas was probably first celebrated near Passover instead of on December 25th.

Christian patriarch, Tertullian, working from gospel accounts, placed Jesus' crucifixion on 14 Nissan in the Hebrew calendar, which would have been March 25th on the Roman calendar. He then presumed Christ's birth to be exactly 9 months following which would have been on December 25th.

For nearly three centuries, Jesus’ birth wasn’t widely celebrated at all. In A.D. 336 Christian emperor, Constantine, possibly in an effort to compete with other pagan celebrations of winter, established Christmas to be observed on the date of December 25th.

The Magi

 

Every Christmas, they quietly show up on our mantels and front lawns—three finely dressed fellows riding camels, bearing gifts fit for a king. We call them the Wise Men. The Bible calls them Magi. And oh, how much deeper their story is than our neat little nativity scenes let on.

 

Long before they ever followed a star, wise men were known throughout Scripture as advisors to kings—men trained to study the skies, interpret dreams, read signs, and seek hidden meaning. 

 

In Genesis, Pharaoh called for his wise men and magicians when his troubling dream needed interpretation. In Exodus, another Pharaoh summoned wise men and sorcerers to try and duplicate the miracles God performed through Moses. In Esther, King Xerxes consulted his wise advisors to determine how to handle a defiant queen. And in Daniel, when the Babylonian king demanded the meaning of a terrifying dream, every wise man came up empty—until Daniel declared:

 

“No wise man, enchanter, magician, or diviner can explain to the king the mystery he has asked about, but there is a God in heaven who reveals mysteries.” (Daniel 2:27–28)

 

That line still gives me chills.

 

So when Matthew tells us that wise men came “from the East,” it doesn’t mean they packed up their camels and headed west from China, Japan, or Korea. In biblical times, “the East” pointed toward Persia, Babylon, or Arabia—lands rich in scholars, astronomers, and royal counselors. These were educated men. Influential men. Powerful men. And yet, they traveled hundreds of miles to bow before a child.

 

And here’s another detail we often overlook: The Bible says they entered the house and saw the child (Matthew 2:11)—not a stable, not a newborn in a manger. This tells us the Magi came later, likely when Jesus was a toddler. Herod’s dreadful order to kill all boys two years old and under confirms that timeline. The Wise Men didn’t arrive on Christmas night… but grace still led them right on time.

 

Now, we all grew up singing about “We Three Kings,” and I’ve sung it loud and proud myself—but truth be told, Scripture never tells us how many Magi there were. We assume three because of the three gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. But given their status and the dangers of travel, it’s very possible there was a whole caravan. Meaning—Mary may not have just greeted three men at her door… she may have seen a parade of foreigners coming to worship her Son. Now that would’ve made a good Southern woman drop her dish towel in surprise.

 

And that’s one of my favorite parts of this story.

 

Jesus wasn’t only worshiped by shepherds from nearby fields. He was worshiped by outsiders. Foreigners. Men from faraway lands with different accents, customs, and skin tones. Before Jesus ever preached a sermon, heaven already declared: This Savior is for the whole world.

 

“For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son…” (John 3:16)

 

The same God who used flawed kings, frightened prophets, reluctant servants, and wandering foreigners still delights in using unlikely people to accomplish eternal things. The Wise Men remind us that distance doesn’t disqualify devotion—and background never outruns grace.

 

They followed what little light they had… and it led them straight to the Light of the World.

 

And friend, isn’t that how it still works?

 

Heavenly Father, 

Thank You for the reminder that Your love reaches far beyond borders, backgrounds, and expectations. Thank You for the Wise Men—who followed a star and found a Savior. 

Help us to seek You with the same hunger, humility, and persistence. 

When we don’t have all the answers, teach us to follow the light You give. 

And may our hearts, like theirs, always be ready to bow before Jesus. 

In His holy name we pray, Amen.

Joseph

 

More thoughts on the Christmas story - today I'll focus on Joseph:

 

When we think about the Nativity, our hearts naturally go to Mary and the baby Jesus in the manger. Angels, shepherds, wise men, a star shining bright—there’s so much wonder in that holy night. And then there’s Joseph. Quiet, steady, faithful Joseph. The man who doesn’t say a word in Scripture, yet speaks volumes with his obedience.

 

Joseph was betrothed to a young girl named Mary. Their parents had likely arranged their marriage long ago—two families from the same small village where everyone knew everyone else’s business. You can almost imagine the hopeful conversations between the parents: dreams of a modest home filled with laughter, toddlers underfoot, and someday a house full of grandchildren to spoil. Everything was going just as planned… until it wasn’t.

 

Mary received a visit from the angel Gabriel and was told she would conceive a child by the power of the Holy Spirit. Try as she might to explain that to Joseph, you can only imagine what his heart must have felt when he discovered she was already expecting. Scripture says he was a righteous man, and because of that, he planned to divorce her quietly, not wanting to expose her to public shame (Matthew 1:19). According to the law in Deuteronomy 24:1, he had every legal right to do so. His heart was broken, but his character remained intact.

 

Then God stepped in.

 

An angel visited Joseph in a dream and said, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit” (Matthew 1:20). In that moment, everything changed. Joseph woke up, and instead of walking away, he leaned in. He chose faith over fear. Trust over logic. Obedience over reputation.

 

And just like that, Joseph became the earthly father to the Son of God. No pressure at all, right?

 

Joseph’s role in the Nativity is often overlooked. He doesn’t deliver grand speeches. He doesn’t receive songs from angels. But he does something just as holy—he shows up. He leads Mary on a long, uncomfortable journey to Bethlehem. He searches for a safe place for her to give birth. He stands beside her when whispers begin to circulate. He protects her honor. He respects her purity. And when the time comes, he kneels beside a manger holding a baby he knows is not biologically his—but forever entrusted to him by God.

 

Joseph knew from the angel’s message that this child was the Savior of the world. Still, he never resisted his role as the earthly father. He didn’t argue. He didn’t demand explanations. He simply obeyed. He named the baby Jesus. He raised Him. He taught Him. He loved Him.

 

One of the most remarkable things about Joseph is that he never speaks a single recorded word in Scripture. Not one sentence. Not one question. Not even a whispered prayer that we can point to on the page. And yet, his faith is loud. His obedience is bold. His love is unmistakable.

 

Joseph didn’t need a microphone to make an eternal impact. He listened when God spoke. He moved when God directed. He stayed when others might have fled. In a world that often rewards the loudest voices, Joseph reminds us that some of the strongest faith is lived silently, steadily, and faithfully—one obedient step at a time.

 

And maybe that’s where many of us find ourselves too—serving behind the scenes, trusting God without all the answers, loving without recognition. Joseph shows us that God sees quiet faith. 

 

And He uses it to change the world.

 

Joseph reminds us that obedience often happens quietly. Faith doesn’t always wear a spotlight. Sometimes righteousness looks like doing hard things without applause. Sometimes it’s choosing God’s plan when it completely rearranges your own.

 

Joseph may not have received songs from angels while he was awake—but heaven surely took notice of the man who said yes when everything in his life suddenly changed.

 

And maybe that’s the lesson for us: God still works powerfully through people who are willing to trust Him—even when the dream looks nothing like what they expected.

 

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the quiet faith of Joseph—steady, obedient, and unshakably trusting. 

Thank You for showing us through his life that righteousness often looks like showing up, even when the road is hard and the plan feels uncertain. 

Help us to trust You when our dreams change, to obey You even when we don’t fully understand, and to protect what You have placed in our care with humility and courage. 

Teach us to walk by faith and not by sight, just as Joseph did. 

We place our lives, our families, and our future in Your loving hands.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

The Christmas We Got Jesus on a Spring

It’s that time of year again—when Christmas is tiptoeing closer, and families everywhere are doing the annual shuffle of, “What are we doing for gifts this year?”

Between all of us, we’ve tried just about every system known to mankind—drawing names, setting dollar limits, rotating years, and of course, the ever-entertaining white elephant exchange. With our family still growing and most of us already blessed beyond measure, the white elephant once again won out. And that decision brings me right to the heart of this little devotional.

A couple of years back, several family members couldn’t make it home for Christmas. Since I’m one of those folks who believes Christmas is best celebrated with a houseful of people and a kitchen full of food, I invited some dear friends to join us. One of the couples was multicultural, and we explained our game plan: a big meal, lots of laughter, games, and sweet fellowship.

They kindly asked what they should bring. I told them food if they wanted—and maybe a gift for the white elephant exchange.

What I failed to realize back then was… they had no earthly idea what white elephant meant.

Christmas Day came, and the house filled with chatter, casseroles, and carried-in desserts. After we’d all eaten too much and rested just enough to catch our breath, it was time for the games. One of my daughters carefully explained the rules, and our guests caught on quickly—stealing gifts and laughing right along with the rest of us.

Then it happened.

When the gift our friends had brought was opened, every set of eyes in the room widened. Inside that little box was… Jesus. On a spring.

Yes, you read that right.

And wouldn’t you know it—I was the one who received the gift. Slowly, I lifted Jesus out of the box… and as soon as I did, He started to wiggle.

Our friends burst into laughter and explained they weren’t quite sure what kind of gift to bring, but they knew how much I loved Jesus—and they thought He’d be the perfect choice.

Standing there holding a wiggly, jiggly Jesus in front of my astonished family, I honestly didn’t know what to feel. Should I be horrified at the sacrilege of Jesus on a spring? Or should I laugh and accept their innocence and sweet intention?

Jesus was stolen a time or two before the game ended—but sure enough, He eventually made His way right back home to me. And by then, strange as it sounds, I’d grown rather fond of Him.

I noticed on the bottom there was an adhesive pad, meaning you could stick Him just about anywhere you wanted. I tucked Him away in a cabinet and wondered where in the world I’d ever put Him.

Days turned into weeks. Then one spring afternoon, I had a stroke of inspiration.

I stuck Jesus on our riding lawnmower.

I don’t rightly know why that idea tickled me so, but I figured it would give Him a front-row seat as my husband mowed the yard. The first time Phil cut the grass that season, Jesus wobbled back and forth on top of our John Deere like He was enjoying the ride. Phil didn’t notice Him at all until I pointed Him out when he pulled into the driveway.

“Don’t you like having Jesus with you while you mow?” I asked.

Phil smiled and said, “Why, yes… I do.”

A few months ago, the adhesive finally gave way, and Jesus tumbled off the mower. Phil brought Him inside, and I set Him right on the kitchen countertop. And now—every single day as I pass by—I glance at that little plastic Jesus on a spring and think what a precious, unexpected gift our friends truly gave us.

Because without even realizing it, they gave us a daily reminder of a powerful truth:

Jesus is with us wherever we go.
He sees what we do.
And He never leaves our side.

Our friends who gave us that gift are not yet saved—but they knew Jesus mattered to us. And ever since that Christmas, our jiggly little reminder has also nudged us to pray for them faithfully. Our hope is that one day they’ll come to know personally the Savior they once wrapped in wrapping paper.

So yes, that Christmas, we received Jesus on a spring.
And somehow, it became one of the greatest reminders of faith I never expected.

I hope this little story made you smile—but even more than that, I pray it made you pause and remember:

Even if you don’t have your own jiggly, wiggly Jesus, He is always with you.
You may not see Him.
You may not feel Him.
But He is near—and He loves you more than you’ll ever fully understand.

Hold on to that truth this Christmas. And if your heart gets a little heavy, just picture my Jesus bouncing along on a lawnmower… and smile.

Heavenly Father,
Thank You for the simple, unexpected ways You remind us that You are always near. Thank You for laughter, for sweet friendships, and even for the moments that catch us by surprise and point our hearts back to You. As we celebrate this Christmas season, help us to remember that the greatest gift we could ever receive is Your Son. Draw our loved ones closer to You, especially those who do not yet know You. Let Your presence be felt in our homes, our conversations, and our daily lives. May we live in a way that reflects Your love everywhere we go. In Jesus’ precious name, Amen.

Mary

 

When I think about Mary, the mother of Jesus, I often picture her as a girl not much older than my youngest granddaughter—just twelve, standing right at the edge of womanhood but still tender, impressionable, and growing. 

 

Scripture doesn’t tell us what Mary was doing when the angel Gabriel appeared, but I imagine her in her parents’ home, helping with simple chores: sweeping a clay floor, dusting pottery jars, or preparing a meal alongside her mother. In those days, young girls were expected to participate in the daily rhythms of household life just as my own granddaughter does today. Perhaps Mary was doing something perfectly ordinary when heaven stepped into her day.

 

But the Bible leaves her activity a mystery. She may have been writing on a wax tablet or quietly resting after a morning’s work. What is certain is this: when Gabriel appeared, Mary was startled—but she didn’t flee, scream, or cower. She didn’t react the way many twelve-year-olds today might react—like my granddaughter surely would, who might let out a shriek, drop the broom, and race toward her mother’s arms. Instead, Mary paused. She listened. She absorbed the angel’s greeting:“Greetings, Mary. The Lord is with you. You are highly favored.”

 

And then came the message that would change history. Gabriel told her she would conceive and give birth to a Son—One who would be called the Son of the Most High. It is no wonder Mary asked, in innocent confusion, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” Gabriel answered her with a holy mystery:

“The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you.”

— Luke 1:35

 

That word overshadow comes from the Greek episkiazo, a word associated with the shekinah glory of God Himself—the same glory that hovered over the waters of creation and filled the tabernacle. Imagine being twelve and hearing that God’s own presence would cover you. Imagine trying to understand something no one in human history had ever experienced.

 

And yet—Mary believed.

 

She trusted.

 

Her heart bowed long before her knees did.

 

I imagine her later, sitting quietly in a corner of her room, replaying the angel’s words. Wondering what she would tell her parents… what Joseph would think… whether anyone would believe her. A virgin birth had never occurred before—and would never occur again. But Mary’s faith was stronger than her fear. She knew the God who spoke through His messenger could be trusted.

 

I look at my granddaughter and imagine her hearing such news. How would she respond? Would she tremble? Would she hide? Would she run to her mama? The comparison only deepens my respect for Mary. At such a young age, she displayed a spiritual maturity far beyond her years—an openness to the will of God, even when it came wrapped in mystery and sacrifice.

 

Two people—Zechariah and Mary—received miraculous announcements from Gabriel. Both were promised sons. But their circumstances could not have been more different. Zechariah and Elizabeth, in their old age, would come together and conceive John the Baptist. Mary, untouched by Joseph, would be overshadowed by the Holy Spirit and conceive the Savior of the world. Two miracles—one natural, one supernatural—both declaring the same truth:

 

Nothing is impossible with God.

 

Mary’s story invites us to trust the Lord even when we don’t understand His plans. She reminds us that God often steps into the everyday moments of our lives—into our sweeping, our cooking, our resting—and calls us to something bigger than we imagined. She reminds us that faith doesn’t depend on age, status, or understanding. It depends on willingness.

 

Like Mary, may we learn to say: “Be it unto me according to Your word.”

 

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the beautiful example of Mary—young, humble, willing, and full of faith. As we reflect on her courage and surrender, help us to cultivate that same trusting spirit in our own hearts. 

 

Teach us to listen for Your voice, even in ordinary moments, and to respond with obedience when You call.

 

Strengthen our faith to believe that nothing is impossible with You. 

 

Guard the hearts of the young ones in our lives, like my granddaughter, and guide them into a deeper understanding of Your love and purpose for them.

 

May we, like Mary, say with confidence, “Be it unto me according to Your word.”

 

In the precious name of Jesus, Amen.

Zechariah

 

There’s something wonderfully comforting about the story of Zechariah—this elderly, faithful priest who had spent a lifetime serving God, praying for a child, and probably long since assuming the answer was “No.” Yet God had a “Not yet” tucked away in His perfect timing.

 

One ordinary day in the temple, while Zechariah was burning incense, the angel Gabriel—God’s heavenly messenger specializing in dramatic entrances—appeared beside him. “Do not be afraid, Zechariah…” Gabriel said (Luke 1:13). That’s angel-speak for: You’re about to hear something unbelievable.

 

Zechariah was told that he and his wife Elizabeth—both well past the age of baby showers—would have a son, and not just any son. This child was handpicked by God to be the forerunner to the Messiah. His name was to be John, and he would “make ready a people prepared for the Lord” (Luke 1:17).

 

Zechariah, bless his heart, responded the way many of us would: “How can I be sure of this?” (Luke 1:18). In other words—Lord, I believe… sort of… maybe… could You show me something in writing?

Because of his unbelief, Gabriel struck him mute—possibly even deaf (Luke 1:62 hints strongly at this, since the crowd had to “make signs” to him). And so began nine months of holy silence.

 

Now imagine it: Zechariah at home, unable to speak, possibly unable to hear… and suddenly the house is filled with the joyful voices of not just one pregnant woman, but two—Elizabeth and her cousin Mary. (Scripture doesn’t say if he could listen in, but if he could? Oh, those conversations must have lasted hours. Cravings. Baby kicks. Miraculous conceptions. Divine destinies.)

 

I can almost see Zechariah sitting there, nodding politely, wishing he could add a comment… or escape to the quiet of the temple. And if he couldn’t hear? Then all he could do was watch—two glowing women exchanging wonder-filled, animated conversations while he sat silently in awe.

 

Either way, God had placed him in a season where the only thing he could do was observe, reflect, and wait.

 

And isn’t that exactly how the Lord works with us sometimes?

 

When our doubts speak too loudly, God lovingly invites us into silence—not as punishment, but preparation. Not to shame us, but to shape us.

 

On the eighth day, when it came time to circumcise the child, the relatives were ready to name him after his father. But Elizabeth insisted, “No, he is to be called John.” The crowd turned to Zechariah, waving their hands to get his attention: Surely YOU want the child named after you?!

 

Zechariah asked for a writing tablet and wrote with confidence:

“His name is John.” (Luke 1:63)

And with that act of obedience—faith finally stronger than doubt—his tongue was loosed.

He didn’t complain.

He didn’t clear his throat to say, “Finally!”

He didn’t ask what he’d missed.

He praised God.

Because when God fulfills a promise—especially one you thought was impossible—you don’t waste a moment on anything else.

 

The birth of John reminds us:

• God writes the last chapter, not our age or our circumstances.

• God answers prayers long after we think the window has closed.

• God can use our seasons of silence to strengthen our obedience.

• And God keeps His word—even when our faith wavers.

 

John grew into a bold, wilderness prophet who prepared the way for Jesus. And Zechariah, once doubtful, became a man whose first spoken words were a prophecy praising the God who turns impossibility into reality (Luke 1:67–79).

 

If God can bring a prophet from the barren womb of an elderly woman…

If He can transform a doubting priest into a praising one…

Then He can surely work miracles in our lives too—right in the places we’ve quietly given up hope.

 

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the story of Zechariah—a reminder that Your timing is perfect and Your promises stand firm, even when our faith feels fragile. Teach us to trust You in our seasons of silence. Help us to wait with expectant hearts, believing that You are working behind the scenes in ways we cannot yet see. Strengthen our obedience so that when You speak, we respond with faith, not fear. Just as You brought John into the world to prepare the way for Jesus, prepare our hearts to recognize, welcome, and praise the Savior who changes everything.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.