Tag: bible

A Parenting Prayer

Parenting is one of the clearest places where faith meets daily life. It calls us to humility, patience, courage, generosity, and the kind of love that stretches us far beyond what we believed we could give.

It invites us to trust God with the people most precious to us, even when the path ahead is uncertain and far beyond our view.

The prayer below is one I’ve been working on for a while. It’s a prayer for parents at every stage of life…those just beginning, and those watching their grown children take their first steps into adulthood. It’s also for those whose children are becoming parents and carrying this calling into a new generation.

It is a reminder that God accompanies us in the noise and the silence, the ordinary and the holy, the days that feel long and the years that pass so quickly.

May this prayer strengthen your heart and deepen your hope as you walk this sacred calling.

A Parenting Prayer

God, please grant me
The wisdom to guide my children with patience, clarity, and love
And the humility to grow alongside them as they grow.
Teach me to choose presence over hurry,
Trust over fear, and connection over control.

Give me the courage to admit when I am wrong
And the grace to show my children that learning never ends,
Not at 7, not at 17, not at 70.

Help me see the world through their eyes,
Eyes that understand wonder,
Eyes that welcome the new with unguarded joy.
Let their curiosity rekindle my own,
So our home becomes a place where questions are celebrated
And imagination roams freely.

Give me integrity in the quiet moments,
When my child is learning from what I do.
Give me a heart strong enough to support them
And gentle enough that they always feel safe coming to me.

Teach me to treasure the small things:
The bedtime stories,
The long drives,
The conversations over tacos,
The ordinary afternoons that turn into lifelong memories.
Remind me that these simple moments
Will matter far more than the schedules we keep
Or the outcomes we chase.

Loving God,
Free me from comparing my family to others.
You did not design my children to fit anyone’s timeline but Yours.
Help me trust the pace of their becoming
And see their strengths even when they are wrapped in struggle.

Guard me from chasing achievements that impress the world
But neglect the souls under my roof.
Let our home be defined by gratitude, peace, and laughter,
With the quiet confidence that love is our foundation.

Help me pass down what truly endures:
Character over perfection,
Kindness over victory,
Service over status,
Gratitude over entitlement.

May the stories I tell, the choices I make,
And the way I show up each day
Become part of the heritage my children carry forward.
Help me become an example worth following,
One who lives with faithfulness, honesty, and a willingness to learn.

Give me strength for the hard times
And calm for the anxious nights.
Give me a long view of parenting,
Seeing not just who my children are today
But who they are becoming by Your grace.

Teach me to listen more than I lecture,
To encourage more than I correct,
And to guide without stifling the person
You created them to be.

Grant me the courage to give responsibility as they mature
And the faith to let them walk their own path,
Even when that path stretches beyond my view.

Lord, may our home reflect Your kingdom,
A place of welcome, forgiveness, generosity, and joy.
Let my children feel seen, valued, and deeply loved,
Not for what they do, but for who they are.

I invite You into every step of this sacred calling.
Walk with me in the noise and the silence,
In the exhaustion and the celebration,
In the days that feel long
And the years that pass too quickly.

Grant me the peace that comes from Your eternal and infinite love,
Now and forever.

Amen.

Photo by Hu Chen on Unsplash

The Noonday Devil and the Lie of Boredom

Psalm 91 promises safety from dangers both visible and invisible, from “the terror by night” to “the arrow that flieth by day.”

In verse 6, we read: “Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.”

The Desert Fathers, those early Christians who left the cities around the third and fourth centuries to live in the desert, drew on this verse to describe one of their deepest spiritual struggles. They called it the noonday devil.

This devil represents an interior battle, a weariness of the soul that crept in at midday when the sun beat down, the silence grew heavy, and the temptation to abandon their prayer and vocation felt overwhelming.

They named this struggle acedia. Sometimes it’s translated as sloth, but it is much more than that.

How many kids have said to their parents, “I’m bored.” We remind them that boredom is in their heads. They can use their imagination, find a book, or play outside. And if that doesn’t land, we parents always have another cure for their boredom: chores.

It’s amazing how quickly boredom vanishes when a child is handed a rake, a shovel, or a basket of laundry to fold.

Boredom is what happens when we can’t see the meaning in what we’re doing. Acedia is boredom’s older cousin. Spiritual weariness with much deeper stakes.

It’s restlessness, a refusal to care, a loss of joy in the very things that give life meaning. It can show up as distraction or busyness. Acedia tempts us to walk away when the middle of the journey feels too long and too heavy.

I think of the countless days spent inching along in rush-hour traffic, morning after morning, just to get to work. I’d put in a full day’s work, then crawl through another hour or more of brake lights to get home. The next day brought the same routine. After a while, it was easy to think maybe the whole thing had no meaning.

That’s the noonday devil at work.

The midpoints of life test us in a similar way. Paying bills, the daily grind of a career without clear progress, responsibilities that seem to grow heavier without much relief. Our internal voice asks, “How can I escape? Should I look for something easier?”

Jean-Charles Nault’s The Noonday Devil: Acedia, the Unnamed Evil of Our Times says this ancient struggle is alive and well today. It shows up in constant scrolling, in working ourselves to exhaustion to avoid deeper questions, in chasing novelty because the present moment feels too heavy.

The Desert Fathers found the answer was to persevere through, but with far more than sheer willpower. Keep praying, even when prayer feels dry. Stay faithful to commitments, even when they feel heavy. Lean into your community rather than isolating from it. Practice humility and remember that perseverance is possible only by God’s grace.

What does this look like? When we feel the pull toward endless scrolling, we might instead text a friend or call a family member. When work feels meaningless, we can remember the people our efforts serve, even if indirectly. When prayer feels empty, we show up anyway, trusting that faithfulness itself has value beyond our feelings in the moment.

The noonday devil tempts us to think that only extraordinary lives matter. But as Oliver Burkeman points out in his idea of “cosmic insignificance therapy,” recognizing our smallness frees us to find profound meaning in ordinary acts.

The daily work of caring for children, preparing meals, or showing up for neighbors and friends carries as much weight as anything could. These acts may never make headlines, but in God’s eyes they shine with eternal value.

Persevering in small, steady commitments resists acedia and helps us discover joy in the very places where meaning often hides.

Psalm 91 carries a promise, “He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust.”

God invites us to rest beneath His wings, to trust Him in the heat of the day, and to discover joy at the very heart of our journey.

Faithfulness in the ordinary is never wasted. Under His wings, even the smallest acts take on eternal meaning.

h/t – Hallow app – Noonday Devil; Tim Ferris – Oliver Burkeman’s Cosmic Insignificance Therapy

Photo by Mauro Lima on Unsplash

Finding Hope at the Manger: A Christmas Poem

The winds arrive, sharp-edged with frost,
Carrying whispers of all we’ve lost.
Yet still, we gather where light abides,
Tracing joys where memory hides.

The manger waits beneath the sky,
Its humble wood holds heaven’s cry.
A Child is born, both meek and bold,
To mend the hearts that grow cold.

Here at the manger, shadow and light,
Joy interwoven with sorrow’s might.
A promise breathes where silence stirs:
“Fear not—for I have heard your cry.”

Words awaken, dormant long,
Noel and tidings weave their song.
Through flickering trees and spiced perfumes,
Old faces linger in quiet rooms.

Empty chairs hold stories near,
A laughter faint, a single tear.
Yet love persists where loss has tread,
Its echoes call where angels led.

Here at the manger, shadow and light,
Joy interwoven with sorrow’s might.
A promise breathes where silence stirs:
“Fear not—for I am sending my Child.”

O silverware that gleams with fire,
O fragile ornaments that inspire.
In every sparkle, a truth takes hold:
The story that’s not fully told.

For every shadow cast by light,
There burns a flame against the night.
And every sorrow, every tear,
Is met by love that lingers near.

Here at the manger, shadow and light,
Joy interwoven with sorrow’s might.
A promise breathes where silence stirs:
“Fear not—for the Child is here.”

Across the miles, through time and space,
The ties of love refuse to break.
Each prayer, each carol, each whispered word
Carries the weight of the Hope we’ve heard.

The Child has come, and so we sing,
For in His hands rest everything.
The hollow aches, the brightest cheer—
All held in grace, all gathered here.

Here at the manger, shadow and light,
Joy interwoven with sorrow’s might.
A promise breathes where silence stirs:
“Fear not—for I AM with you until the end of time.”

The bells resound with heaven’s cheer,
For Christ is born, and love draws near.
The angels sing, the nations rise,
A holy joy fills earth and skies.

O love that soars, O joy that stays,
We join the hymn of endless praise.
In manger low, our hearts proclaim:
The world redeemed by Jesus’ name.

Here at the manger, shadow and light,
Joy interwoven with sorrow’s might.
A promise breathes where silence stirs:
“Fear not—for the Child Jesus is Born.”

Photo by Mariana B. on Unsplash

The Manger and the Memories: A Christmas Story

It happens to all of us this time of year. The days get shorter, the winds grow crisper.  Something stirs within us that doesn’t quite fit the mold of any other season. There’s joy, sure—joy enough to make us believe in miracles again. But alongside that joy, like the shadows cast by twinkling lights, there’s a touch of sorrow. Like an old friend who shows up every December, pulls up a chair, and says nothing at all.

Words that lie dormant eleven months out of the year come alive at Christmas time. Jingle Bells. Rudolph. Good tidings. Noel. The Manger. Words so beautiful and strange, yet they create beautiful poetry on our hearts.  Sugarplums dancing in dreams. Mulling spices on the stove. Decorations we see only in this season but remember more fondly with each passing year—twinkles of joy at their best, empty reminders at their worst. And somehow, merriment and brightness find their way in, even when the years haven’t always been kind.

If you listen closely, you can hear hymns calling us across the cold and lonely nights:

“O come, O come, Emmanuel”

“Silent Night”

“What Child is This?”

There’s a funny thing about Christmas—it’s a season of paradox. A time for rejoicing, and a time for remembering. For celebrating, and for mourning. All in the same breath.

Every year, the world gathers around a single story. A manger in Bethlehem, where our Savior came as a child. It’s a story that whispers hope into the cracks of our broken hearts.

“Fear not, O Zion, be not discouraged!” That’s what the prophet Zephaniah said. “The Lord, your God, is in your midst.” And somehow, two thousand years later, we do believe. We light candles and sing songs of joy—because we need to. Because joy matters.

It’s funny how much effort we put into this season. Trees trimmed. Ornaments hung. Villages built. Wishes made. And when the last batch of cookies or Cornish pasties come out of the oven, we sit at tables crowded with food, and laughter, and the people we love. Sometimes we even catch a glimpse of something eternal in it all—the way the lights reflect off the fancy silverware, or how a child’s eyes light up at the first sight of presents.

But there are empty chairs. They’re harder to discuss. Maybe it’s a father, a mother, a grandparent, or a sister. Maybe it’s a friend, a brother, an aunt or an uncle who have gone far too soon. We feel their absence even more at Christmas. We see them in the lights we hang, and the hot chocolates that we make. We hear them in old songs, the ones we used to sing.

And then there are the faces we miss in another way—our family who are still with us but just too far away. The ones across states, oceans, and time zones. We think of them when we pull out the old family recipes and photo albums.  We wish they could be here to see the kids open presents, to share in the laughter over the pies that we burned, or took out too soon.  But instead, we send texts and pictures, leave voicemails, and whisper a prayer hoping they know how much they’re loved, even from so far away.

Yet even in sorrow, there’s something beautiful. Because love never really leaves us. And maybe that’s the greatest promise of Christmas—the one hidden behind all the ornaments and stockings, and twinkling lights. That the Child who came to a manger promises us something more. He promises that the story isn’t over. That one day, we’ll all sit at a table that never empties, in a place where joy knows no end.

For now, we celebrate as best we can. We bake our pies and pour our cider. We listen for sleigh bells in the distance and leave room in our hearts for joy to enter—just like it always does.

And when the night gets quiet, and the fire burns low, we remember. We remember the ones we’ve loved, the ones we’ve lost, the ones too far away to join us, and the One who came to bring us home.

That’s Christmas. A little light, a little shadow. A little merry, a little sorrow. A season that changes the very words we speak and, if we let it, changes the very hearts we carry.

So if you’re out there tonight, sipping mulled cider by the window, just know this:

You’re not alone. The Savior is here. He’s in the manger. He’s in the laughter. And He’s in the quiet, too.

And maybe—just maybe—He’s singing over you, as one sings at a festival.

The Bible verse that inspired this post when I heard it in Church last Sunday:

Shout for joy, O daughter Zion!
        Sing joyfully, O Israel!
    Be glad and exult with all your heart,
        O daughter Jerusalem!
    The LORD has removed the judgment against you
        he has turned away your enemies;
    the King of Israel, the LORD, is in your midst,
        you have no further misfortune to fear.
    On that day, it shall be said to Jerusalem:
        Fear not, O Zion, be not discouraged!
    The LORD, your God, is in your midst,
        a mighty savior;
    he will rejoice over you with gladness,
        and renew you in his love,
    he will sing joyfully because of you,
        as one sings at festivals.

– Zep 3:14-18a