journey – John Hargrove Seeking Truth and Reality

Will Christians Be Spared Trials? What the Bible Actually Promises

One of the quiet assumptions many believers carry—often without realizing it—is that faith should somehow shield us from hardship. When trials come, they can feel confusing or even destabilizing: If God is faithful, why am I still suffering? Scripture addresses this question directly, and its answer is both sobering and deeply hopeful.

The Bible does not promise Christians a trial-free life. What it does promise is something far better: God’s presence, preservation, and ultimate deliverance.

Trials Are Not an Accident

The New Testament is remarkably honest about the Christian life. Suffering is not presented as a failure of faith, nor as a sign of God’s absence.

Paul tells the Thessalonian church that trials should not surprise them, because “you know that we are destined for them” (1 Thessalonians 3:3). That single statement overturns the idea that hardship is an anomaly. Trials are part of the calling of discipleship in a fallen world.

Jesus Himself warned His followers that obedience would not lead to ease, but to opposition. Faith places us in alignment with God’s kingdom—and that alignment often brings friction with the world as it is.

God Knows How to Rescue the Godly

Acknowledging trials does not mean resignation to despair. Scripture is equally clear that God is not passive in the suffering of His people.

Peter writes, “The Lord knows how to rescue the godly from trials” (2 Peter 2:9). Notice what the verse does—and does not—say. It does not say God prevents all trials. It says He knows how to rescue His people from them.

That rescue may take different forms:

sustaining faith under pressure, moral protection in the midst of temptation, or final deliverance when God brings history to its appointed end.

Peter himself endured imprisonment and martyrdom, yet still testified to God’s rescuing power. For him, rescue did not mean avoidance; it meant faith preserved and hope fulfilled.

“Kept From” Does Not Always Mean “Removed”

Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger on Pexels.com

Revelation 3:10 is often quoted as a promise of exemption from suffering: “I will keep you from the hour of trial that is coming on the whole world.”

The language is important. The word “keep” in Scripture frequently means to guard or to preserve, not necessarily to remove from a situation entirely. Jesus uses the same idea in His prayer when He asks the Father not to take His disciples out of the world, but to keep them from the evil one.

In Revelation, the promise is not comfort or ease, but protection during a defined period of global testing. The emphasis is on God’s sovereignty and faithfulness, not on escape from all difficulty.

Watchfulness Assumes Ongoing Testing

Jesus’ warning in Matthew 25:13—“Keep watch, because you do not know the day or the hour”—only makes sense if believers remain engaged in a world marked by uncertainty and pressure.

If Christians were guaranteed removal before hardship, vigilance would be unnecessary. Watchfulness, endurance, and faithfulness are repeated themes precisely because trials remain part of the journey until Christ’s return.

The Pattern of Scripture Is Preservation Through, Not Removal From

When we step back and look at the whole biblical story, a consistent pattern emerges:

Noah was preserved through the flood, not taken away before it came. Israel was protected within Egypt during the plagues. Daniel was saved in the lions’ den. The early church grew stronger under persecution.

God’s people are repeatedly exposed to hardship—but never abandoned to it.

What Christians Are Actually Promised

The Bible makes these promises clear:

Christians are not promised a life without trials. They are promised God’s sustaining presence. They are promised protection from God’s final wrath. They are promised ultimate vindication, resurrection, and restoration.

Trials test the world.

Trials refine and reveal genuine faith.

A Final Word

Christian hope is not rooted in avoidance of suffering, but in confidence that suffering does not have the final word. God does not promise to keep His people from every storm—but He does promise to keep them in the storm and to bring them safely home.

Faith is not the absence of trials.

It is trust that God is faithful in the midst of them.

One Faithful Step: Filling the Jars with Water

An application from John 2:1–25

There is a quiet detail in the opening chapters of the Gospel of John that has stayed with me.

At the wedding in Cana, nothing dramatic is asked of the servants. Jesus does not tell them to pray harder, believe louder, or understand more deeply. He gives a simple instruction:

“Fill the jars with water.”

That is it.

The miracle does not begin with wine. It begins with obedience that looks ordinary.

Naming What Has Run Out

Mary does something equally simple before that moment. She names the shortage:

“They have no more wine.”

She does not fix it.

She does not explain it.

She does not manage the outcome.

She places the lack before Jesus and steps back.

That pattern matters.

My Concrete Step

Here is the one step I am choosing to take in response to this passage:

I will name what has run out in me and place it before Jesus without trying to solve it.

Practically, this looks like this:

I sit alone, quietly, with no agenda.

I write one sentence:

“Lord, I have no more ______.”

I do not explain the blank.

I do not justify it.

I do not turn it into a prayer list or a plan.

Then I stop.

I pray one short sentence:

“I place this in Your hands. I will do whatever You tell me next.”

And I leave it there.

No fixing.

No rushing.

No forcing clarity.

Why This Matters

This step resists my instinct to manage outcomes, optimize solutions, or turn faith into a project. It places me where the servants stood—faithful, available, and unremarkable.

The servants did not make wine.

They carried water.

The transformation was Jesus’ work, not theirs.

What I Am Watching For

I am not watching for a dramatic answer.

I am watching for a quiet instruction.

Something small.

Something ordinary.

Something that feels almost too simple to matter.

That will likely be my “fill the jars with water” moment.

A Closing Reflection

I am not responsible for producing abundance.

I am responsible for obedience.

When I do what I am told—without knowing the outcome—I make room for God to reveal His glory in ways I could not manufacture.

For now, filling the jars is enough.

Joy

Joy does not always come with energy or clarity. Some days it arrives quietly, alongside responsibility, fatigue, and the steady work of finishing what needs to be done. This season has been full of ordinary faithfulness—showing up, carrying what was assigned, and trusting that God is still present even when progress feels slow. I am learning that joy is not the absence of weight, but the assurance that we are not carrying it alone. That is enough for today.

Photo by Natasha Fernandez on Pexels.com

#Faithfulness
#QuietJoy
#SteadyHope
#AdventReflection
#NotAlone

Showing Up When the Work Is Quiet

There is a particular kind of weight that comes with leadership in a small rural community. It is not loud or dramatic. It does not announce itself. It settles in quietly and stays. You carry it when you unlock buildings early in the morning, when you answer questions no one else has time to answer, when you make decisions knowing there is no backup team waiting behind you. This year has been full of that kind of weight.

Photo by Quang Nguyen Vinh on Pexels.com

In rural East Texas, leadership is less about titles and more about presence. People know where you live. They know your family. They see whether you show up consistently or disappear when things get hard. Stewardship here is personal. You are not managing abstractions; you are caring for places and people with names, histories, and long memories. That responsibility can be humbling, and it can be heavy, especially when the year brings grief alongside progress.

Photo by Felix Mittermeier on Pexels.com

As an engineer, I spend much of my time working with systems, infrastructure, and technology. Fiber routes, wireless links, power systems, networks that must stay up even when conditions are less than ideal. This year reinforced something I already knew but needed to relearn: technology is never the purpose. It is a tool. It exists to serve people, not to replace presence, wisdom, or care. Infrastructure matters deeply, but only because of what it enables—connection, opportunity, safety, and dignity. When the work becomes only about equipment or metrics, something essential is lost.

There were many days this year when exhaustion and calling pulled in opposite directions. Fatigue does not always come from doing too much; sometimes it comes from caring deeply over a long period of time. There were moments when it would have been easier to step back, to delay decisions, to wait for someone else to take responsibility. But calling is persistent. It does not shout. It simply asks, again and again, whether you will show up today.

Patience has been one of the quiet lessons of this year. Progress in rural places is slow by nature, and that slowness can feel frustrating in a world accustomed to rapid change. Trust grows the same way. It is built through small, repeated acts of reliability. Showing up on time. Following through. Listening more than speaking. These habits rarely make headlines, but they form the foundation of healthy communities.

Faith has been less about answers and more about posture. There were seasons of waiting when clarity did not come quickly. In those moments, faith looked like staying present, doing the next right thing, and trusting that light does not always arrive all at once. Often it comes like morning—gradually, almost unnoticed at first, until suddenly you realize you can see farther than you could before.

Grief has been part of the landscape this year as well. Loss changes how time feels. It reshapes priorities. It has a way of stripping away what is unnecessary and leaving what truly matters. In that sense, grief has also clarified calling. It has reminded me that people are not projects, and that leadership is ultimately an act of care.

As 2026 approaches, there is plenty that could invite fear: uncertainty, resource constraints, the complexity of rural challenges. But fear is not a useful guide. Hope, grounded in faith, is steadier. It does not deny difficulty; it simply refuses to let difficulty have the final word. Looking forward, the goal is not perfection or speed, but faithfulness—continuing to build, serve, and lead with integrity, even when the work remains unfinished.

So the choice at the end of this year is a simple one. To keep walking forward. To trust that God is at work in the quiet, steady moments more than in the loud ones. To believe that showing up, again and again, is itself an act of faith. And to rest in the confidence that light, even when it comes slowly, is still light.

Photo by Frans van Heerden on Pexels.com

#FaithAndWork #RuralLeadership #Stewardship #QuietFaith #HopeForward #EastTexas

Reminder of the Light

Some days I’m reminded to go back to the starting point. “In the beginning was the Word…” That truth centers me. It reminds me that everything we’re doing—family, work, community—rests on something solid and steady.

The scriptures in the RCL today lean into that same hope.

Daniel talks about God standing with His people even in hard seasons. Psalm 16 says our security isn’t in what we build, but in the One who holds us. Hebrews encourages us to keep lifting each other up. And in Mark, Jesus tells us not to get lost in the noise or fear when the world feels shaky.

Then He brings it all home: “I came that they may have life, and have it more abundantly.”

That’s the thread that runs through it all. A reminder that real life—steady, grounded, meaningful—comes from the One who speaks light into dark places and hope into tired hearts.

So if you’re carrying a lot today, take a breath. The One who was there in the beginning is still speaking life now. We can walk forward with that.

#SteadyLight

#AbundantLife

#HopeForToday

Keeping Going When No One’s Listening?

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to do work that matters when it feels like no one cares.

For the past few years, I’ve been advocating for rural East Texas communities—places like Buna, Newton, San Augustine. I’ve built communication frameworks, written strategic plans, installed digital kiosks, organized meetings, drafted policy briefs. I’ve tried to give voice to communities that have been systematically left out of planning conversations, to help people shape their own futures instead of having decisions made for them from far away.

Most days, it feels like pushing a boulder uphill alone.

The Generational Game

I’m starting to realize this work isn’t measured in months or even years—it’s generational. The infrastructure I’m building, these communication frameworks and pilot models and community briefs, they’re seeds that may not fully mature in my lifetime. And I think I’ve been measuring success wrong.

Maybe success isn’t getting county commissioners to read every brief I send. Maybe it’s that one local leader who picks up this work five years from now and has a template to start from. Maybe it’s just that these documents exist at all—proof that someone saw what was happening, cared enough to name it, and offered solutions.

That’s not failure. That’s foundation-building.

Celebrating What’s Actually There

When the big wins feel impossible, I’m learning to notice the small ones:

A county commissioner who actually responded to a community brief
A kiosk that’s been running for six months without breaking down
One new business owner who showed up to learn about the community
The fact that I’ve created templates other rural organizers can use

These aren’t nothing. They’re evidence of progress, even if they’re not transformation yet.

Finding My People

The San Augustine meeting this year reminded me of something important. Sitting around that table with Eddie, Nancy, Tania, and Marianne—people doing similar work in their own communities—I didn’t feel alone. We shared frustrations, traded contacts, problem-solved together.

I’ve been spending too much energy seeking alignment “up”—with county officials, state agencies, foundations—and not enough building lateral relationships with peers. Those relationships aren’t just strategic. They’re sanity-preserving. They remind me I’m not crazy for thinking this work matters.

The Documentation Matters

Even when nothing changes immediately, these reports I’m writing serve a purpose:

They validate what communities are experiencing
They create a record for future organizers
They protect against institutional amnesia (“we didn’t know there was a problem”)

I need to remember that documentation is activism. Recording what’s happening, naming the gaps, proposing solutions—that’s meaningful work even when it doesn’t produce immediate results.

Letting Go of Universal Buy-In

Not everyone is going to get it. Some officials will remain indifferent. Some developers will keep ignoring community input. Some residents will stay skeptical of any change.

That’s okay. The goal isn’t to convince everyone—it’s to build enough of a coalition to create momentum. I don’t need universal support for this work to matter.

Taking Real Breaks

I’m bad at this one. I need to take actual breaks—not performative self-care, but real disengagement. Days where I don’t mention rural development. Weeks where the kiosks can wait.

This work will always be there. It’s generational, remember? Burning out doesn’t serve anyone.

What Does “Enough” Look Like?

I’m trying to get more specific about what meaningful progress would look like in the next year. Not transformation—just progress:

Three communities actually using the communication framework I built
One successful regional roundtable where rural leaders are at the table
Maybe a single rural navigator position gets funded somewhere

When I make it concrete like that, I can tell the difference between “not enough impact yet” and “actually making progress.” They’re not the same thing.

Why I Keep Going

Buna, Newton, San Augustine—these aren’t abstractions to me. They’re people who deserve to shape their own futures. The work I’m doing affirms their dignity and their right to be heard.

That has value independent of whether it produces immediate systemic change.

The fact that I keep showing up, keep documenting, keep building frameworks when no one asked me to—I don’t think that’s naivete anymore. I think it’s moral courage. Or stubbornness. Maybe both.

The question isn’t whether to keep going. It’s how to keep going sustainably, strategically, with enough support to avoid burning out completely.

I don’t have all the answers yet. But writing this helps. Naming what’s hard helps. Remembering I’m building foundations, not finished structures—that helps too.

If you’re doing similar work somewhere else—advocating for a place everyone else overlooks, building infrastructure no one asked for, showing up when it feels pointless—you’re not alone. And you’re not crazy.

Keep going. The work matters.