Grief has a way of making the world feel suddenly quieter. Familiar voices fade, routines lose their rhythm, and loneliness settles in places that once felt full. In grief, memory becomes both a wound and a refuge. We remember what was, and in that remembering we ache. Yet Scripture consistently invites us not away from remembrance, but deeper into it—because God Himself works through memory.
The call to remember in Scripture is never sentimental. It is anchoring. God tells His people to remember who He is, what He has done, and where He has met them before—not to trap them in the past, but to steady them for the present.
In seasons of loss, we often feel forgotten. Forgotten by others. Forgotten by time. Sometimes, if we are honest, forgotten by God. But remembrance in God’s economy runs in the opposite direction. Before we remember Him, He remembers us.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
Psalm 34:18
God does not stand at a distance from grief. He steps into it. He sits with the lonely. He stays when others cannot. The ache you carry is not evidence of weak faith; it is evidence of love. And love, even when wounded, still matters to God.
Hope does not arrive by erasing sorrow. It grows alongside it. Hope whispers, This pain is not the whole story. Hope says that what was lost is held by God, and what feels empty now will not remain untouched forever.
To remember, then, is not merely to look backward. It is to recall the faithfulness that carried you before and trust it will carry you again. It is to hold grief honestly while refusing to believe it has the final word.
Today, if your heart feels heavy, let this be enough: God remembers you. Your tears are seen. Your loneliness is known. And the same God who met you in love will meet you again in hope.
Remember—not because the past was perfect, but because God has always been present.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
Psalm 34:18
Devotional
There are moments in life when we discover that simply existing is not the same as living into our purpose. We move through our days functional, capable, and intact, yet unaware of the deeper work God longs to reveal in us.
Often, it is disruption that awakens us. Plans fall apart. Certainty disappears. Strength fails. What once felt solid begins to crack. These moments are not signs that God has abandoned us. Scripture consistently shows that God draws nearest when hearts are most tender.
The Gospel does not teach that God causes suffering to shape us. Rather, it proclaims that God enters the broken places we did not choose and redeems them. Jesus did not explain pain away—He stepped into it, carried it, and transformed it. Resurrection did not come by avoiding wounds, but by passing through them.
When life fractures our sense of control, something hidden often becomes visible. Compassion deepens. Pride loosens its grip. Mercy becomes more than an idea—it becomes a way of being. The light God placed within us was always there, but it becomes clearer when self-reliance gives way to trust.
If you see light in someone who has endured much, it is not because they were strong enough to survive it. It is because grace met them there. God does not waste suffering, but neither does He require it. He heals, restores, and brings beauty from places that once felt beyond repair.
Prayer
Gracious God, You see the places where my life feels fractured. You know the losses, disappointments, and wounds I carry. Meet me here—not with explanations, but with Your presence. Heal what has been broken, and let Your light shine through the work of Your grace. Amen.
Reflection
Where have you experienced disruption that reshaped your faith or character?
How might God be inviting you to trust His healing rather than fear your wounds?
Advent joy is not a sentimental feeling, and Scripture refuses to flatten it into something shallow. The lectionary readings for the third Sunday of Advent—Zephaniah 3, Isaiah 12, Philippians 4, and Luke 3—do not describe easy times. They speak to people under pressure, people who are unsettled, people who need God to step into the middle of their reality.
And it is precisely there that joy emerges.
Zephaniah promises a God who “rejoices over His people with gladness.” Isaiah sings of a salvation that becomes a well of living water. Paul—writing from confinement—reminds believers that peace and joy come because “the Lord is near.”
Then Luke offers a surprising picture. We meet John the Baptist, thundering a message of repentance. His words are sharp, his demands weighty, and his tone urgent. Yet Luke concludes by saying that John was “proclaiming the good news.”
The doorway to joy is repentance—not as punishment, but as transformation. Joy grows where God clears away what is broken. Joy takes root where honesty finally replaces pretense. Joy flourishes where hearts make room for the One who is coming.
The angels did not announce joy to shepherds because shepherds had perfect hearts—they announced joy because God had arrived to renew them.
That same renewal is still His work today.
If your life feels stretched, if your heart is tired, or if your spirit is unsettled, do not assume joy is out of reach. Advent joy does not come from pretending everything is fine. It comes from allowing Christ to step into the truth of where you really are.
Let this season be an invitation to honesty, to renewal, and to the quiet miracle of joy that follows. The Shepherds’ Candle is a reminder that joy always begins with God’s nearness—right here, right now, in the real circumstances of your life.
Advent always brings us back to the places where God enters ordinary life. This year, as we reflect on the Shepherds’ Candle—the candle of Joy—we remember that God did not first announce Christ’s birth to rulers, scholars, or people with influence. He came to shepherds working night shift on a hillside.
Their world was not comfortable. Their lives were not glamorous. They were performing necessary labor that nobody else noticed. Yet into that quiet place, Scripture says, “the glory of the Lord shone around them,” and Heaven declared, “I bring you good news of great joy.”
Joy found them.
That is the pattern of God’s work. Joy does not wait for ideal circumstances. Joy does not depend on stability, success, or visibility. Joy appears while the night is still dark.
This is why Zephaniah can command discouraged people to “Sing and rejoice,” why Isaiah can say that weary believers will “draw water with joy,” and why Paul—imprisoned and uncertain—can write, “Rejoice in the Lord always… The Lord is near.”
The shepherds remind us that joy arrives not because we have everything under control, but because God draws close in the middle of what we cannot control.
Some of us stand in fields that feel lonely—carrying responsibilities, questions, and pressures we did not choose. Yet the message of Advent is that joy does not wait for your circumstances to resolve. Joy comes because Christ has stepped into them.
This week, allow yourself to be found by joy. You may still be in the field. You may still be waiting. But the Lord who came to shepherds comes to you the same way—quietly, faithfully, and with great joy.
Peace grows when we honestly name where we are fractured. God never heals what we pretend is whole. The world brings disorder; Satan brings distortion. Christ brings clarity. Let Him show you the places where false focus steals your rest and invite Him to reorder your heart.
Some passages in Scripture whisper comfort; others stop us in our tracks. Few verses unsettle believers more than Jesus’ words in Matthew 12 and Mark 3—His solemn warning that blasphemy against the Holy Spirit “will not be forgiven,” neither in this age nor the one to come. Many read it and feel a chill. Why would Jesus, full of mercy and compassion, name a sin that seems beyond forgiveness?
To understand His warning, we must enter the moment in which it was first spoken.
Jesus had just healed a man in full public view—blind, mute, oppressed. The transformation was unmistakable. The crowd was moved to wonder. Yet the religious leaders, determined to discredit Him, stepped forward with a chilling claim: “He casts out demons by the power of Beelzebul.”
Jesus answered with gravity. They were not merely confused. They were not wrestling with belief. They were watching the Holy Spirit reveal the kingdom of God in real time and calling that holy work demonic. They were resisting the very witness God uses to draw a person to salvation. And in that defiant rejection of the Spirit’s testimony about Christ, Jesus warned them: You are approaching a line from which the heart cannot return.
This is the core of why this sin is described as “unforgivable.” It is not because God is unwilling to forgive, but because a person in that state refuses the very grace that forgives. The Spirit’s mission is to reveal Jesus, convict of sin, and open the door to repentance. When someone knowingly rejects that witness—and attributes the Spirit’s work to the devil—they close the door on themselves. They shut out the only light that can break through their darkness.
It is one thing to misunderstand Jesus; even His disciples did that. It is another to harden the heart so completely that truth is reinterpreted as evil. Jesus calls this an “eternal sin” because such rejection—if carried through life and into death—becomes a final, unchanging posture. Where repentance is refused, forgiveness cannot be received. Not because God withholds mercy, but because the heart no longer seeks it.
This warning is sobering, but it carries a surprising reassurance: the person troubled by this sin has not committed it. Concern is evidence of softness, not hardness. The Pharisees Jesus rebuked felt no such concern. Their posture was not fear—it was hostility.
At its core, blasphemy against the Spirit is not a single outburst or a passing doubt. It is a willful, deliberate, and persistent rejection of the Spirit’s revelation of Jesus Christ. It is calling the truth a lie, calling the good evil, and resisting the very One who draws us toward forgiveness.
The gravity of Jesus’ warning is meant to awaken us, not paralyze us. It reminds us that the heart can be shaped over time—toward hardness or toward openness. And it calls us to honor the work of the Holy Spirit whenever He shines light, convicts, comforts, or draws us to the Son. The Spirit never turns away a repentant heart. The danger lies only in refusing Him until the heart no longer wishes to turn at all.
In the end, this teaching is not about one terrifying exception to God’s mercy. It is about the essential doorway through which all mercy comes. To reject the Spirit is to refuse life itself. To welcome His work is to find grace waiting at every turn.
Psalm 23 is often read softly, gently, as if David were whispering comfort across the centuries. Yet beneath its peaceful language lies the heartbeat of a warrior—steady, trained, disciplined, and deeply anchored in the presence of God. When David says, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” he speaks not as a sheltered poet but as a battle-tested man who has learned to walk by faith in the harshest terrain.
A Warrior’s Pace
David does not run. He does not collapse. He does not freeze.
He walks.
The Hebrew word for walking suggests deliberate, steady progress. This is the posture of someone who refuses to let fear determine his pace. A warrior learns to regulate fear, to move purposefully in danger, and to trust the One who leads.
David’s walk is an act of courage:
“I will move forward, even here. Even now. Even in this valley.”
A Valley That Is Not a Destination
David does not walk into the valley; he walks through it.
He knows valleys are real, dangerous, and dark—but also temporary. The Shepherd never leads His people to a dead end. Every valley is a passage to a better pasture.
To walk through is to declare:
“This is not where my story ends.”
A Warrior’s Awareness
The valley is the terrain warriors study carefully—tight passes, shifting shadows, unseen threats, ambush points. David knows this land well. He does not downplay its danger. He simply refuses to exalt it.
“I will fear no evil.”
This is not denial. It is discernment. Warriors know how to distinguish between threat and defeat, between a shadow and a final blow.
A Warrior’s Trust in His Commander
David is comforted because the Shepherd carries a rod and a staff—symbols of protection, authority, and decisive action.
A warrior trusts his weapons, but more than that, he trusts his Commander. David’s confidence is not self-made. His courage flows from companionship:
“For You are with me.”
This is the center of the Psalm. The warrior is not alone in the valley. The Shepherd does not watch from a distance—He walks beside him.
A Table in the Presence of Enemies
Only a warrior-king uses the image of a banquet prepared while enemies watch helplessly. This is not hospitality language; it is victory language.
David sees his God not only as a Shepherd in the valley but as a King who vindicates after the battle. The One who walks with him through danger seats him in honor afterward.
What This Means for Us
We walk through valleys—fear, uncertainty, grief, betrayal, financial pressure, exhaustion, unanswered questions. Some valleys feel endless. Others feel fatal.
Yet the call remains: walk.
Do not retreat. Do not surrender. Do not let the shadows dictate your pace.
Your Shepherd walks beside you.
Your Commander leads ahead of you.
Your Defender stands over you.
Your Victor prepares a table for you.
You walk not as a victim of circumstance but as a warrior held by grace.
Prayer
Shepherd of my soul, teach me to walk with the courage of David—to move steadily through the valleys before me, trusting Your presence more than I fear the shadows around me. Strengthen my steps, steady my heart, and let Your rod and staff remind me that I am never alone. Lead me through, until the day You seat me in triumph at Your table. Amen.
When Paul lists “the acts of the flesh” in Galatians 5:19–21, he is not merely identifying behaviors that are morally wrong. He is describing a way of life that slowly hollows a person out from the inside. These patterns carry a spiritual, emotional, and mental cost far deeper than most people recognize when they first step onto that path.
Beneath every action in Paul’s list lies a consequence—a reshaping of the heart, the mind, and the soul. What begins as a choice eventually becomes a condition. What begins as a moment of indulgence becomes a direction of life.
This passage is not simply about what someone does; it is about who someone is becoming.
To live in the patterns Paul describes is to experience progressive spiritual disorientation. The more the soul indulges in impurity, idolatry, or self-exalting behaviors, the more muted God’s voice becomes. Over time, the heart loses sensitivity to conviction and clarity fades. Prayer becomes difficult. Scripture becomes distant. Worship feels hollow.
This is not because God withdraws His presence but because the person slowly shifts allegiance to other centers of meaning—pleasure, control, power, approval. These become false sources of security and identity. They displace trust in God. They reshape desire. They form new habits of the soul.
Paul warns soberly that those who persist in these patterns without repentance place their inheritance at risk. They are not walking toward God but away from Him.
Emotional Consequences: A Life Without Peace
Emotionally, these behaviors produce volatility. Jealousy fuels suspicion. Rage becomes a familiar visitor. Hatred and discord turn relationships into battlegrounds. Rivalries and factions leave a person emotionally depleted and relationally isolated.
The promise of pleasure or validation at the beginning is always a short-lived illusion. What initially feels empowering eventually becomes enslaving. Pleasure fades; emptiness grows. People in this condition often oscillate between guilt, shame, restlessness, and bursts of self-justification that cannot quiet the deeper ache.
Relationships suffer most. A life marked by division inevitably becomes a life marked by loneliness.
Mental Consequences: Fragmented Thinking and Inner Exhaustion
The mental impact is equally profound. Persistent sin reshapes the mind. Rationalization becomes second nature. Self-deception becomes a survival mechanism. Identity fragments as the person tries to reconcile who they wish to be with who they have become.
Addiction—whether to substances, sexual pursuits, approval, or conflict—forms mental loops that are difficult to break. Anxiety rises because secrets must be protected and consequences must be managed. Peace of mind becomes nearly unreachable.
The capacity to love and trust diminishes. The world begins to be interpreted through the lens of rivalry, comparison, and fear rather than faith, humility, and hope.
The Larger Point: A Life Coming Apart
Paul’s list is not simply about immoral behavior; it is a diagnostic of a life slowly coming undone. When the acts of the flesh define someone’s lifestyle, the result is never freedom. It is fragmentation—spiritual, emotional, and mental.
These patterns lead a person away from God, away from others, and ultimately away from themselves.
And yet, Paul does not end here. This passage prepares the way for the next one: the fruit of the Spirit. The bleakness of verses 19–21 makes the beauty of verses 22–23 unmistakable. It is the contrast between a life disintegrating under the weight of self and a life flourishing under the reign of the Spirit.
The warning is real. But so is the invitation.
We can choose which garden grows within us.
My Life Experiences That Reflect the Impacts of Galatians 5:19–21
Spiritual Experiences
Seasons of Spiritual Disconnection
Many people go through periods where spiritual clarity becomes clouded—times when God feels distant, prayer feels heavy, and inner conviction grows quiet. This reflects how persistent disorder or pressure can dull the soul’s sensitivity.
Living Through Morally Unstable Environments
Experiencing communities or systems marked by conflict, manipulation, or impurity exposes the soul to the same disorientation Paul describes. When truth is compromised, trust erodes, and spiritual foundations weaken, people feel internally displaced.
Moments of Drifting from Faith Practices
Long-term fatigue, unresolved conflicts, or competing priorities can draw a person away from spiritual disciplines. Over time, they feel untethered, as though they have lost the center of their spiritual life.
Emotional Experiences
Persistent Emotional Exhaustion
Carrying heavy responsibilities or unresolved wounds often creates emotional volatility—frustration, discouragement, resentment, or numbness. This mirrors the instability that grows in a life shaped by discord or chaos.
Cycles of Relational Strain
Many have endured environments where tension, division, jealousy, or mistrust dominate. Such settings leave emotional scars, break down confidence, and diminish the capacity for healthy relationships.
Inner Burdens of Shame or Anxiety
When life patterns conflict with one’s values, or when failures accumulate, shame can settle in. Anxiety grows as one tries to hide weakness, manage consequences, or hold everything together. Emotional peace becomes elusive.
Mental Experiences
Mental Fragmentation Under Pressure
When demands multiply—professional, relational, personal—the mind becomes divided. Focus weakens. Clear thinking becomes difficult. The person feels pulled in competing directions, mirroring the internal chaos Paul associates with the acts of the flesh.
Identity Confusion and Self-Doubt
Repeated conflict, failure, or moral tension can fracture a person’s self-understanding. They question who they are, what they believe, and whether they can change. This mental instability reflects the deeper spiritual disorder Paul warns about.
Chronic Stress and Loss of Mental Rest
Persistent conflict, moral compromise, or emotional overload trains the mind toward vigilance. Restful thoughts become rare. Peace seems out of reach. The mind becomes conditioned to survive rather than flourish.
Summary
These generalized experiences illustrate how Paul’s warning in Galatians 5 describes more than outward behavior. He is diagnosing the internal consequences of a disordered life:
Many people, at some point, walk through seasons that reflect these realities—not because they seek them, but because the pressures, temptations, and conflicts of life pull them into patterns that drain the soul.
The passage stands as a reminder that the inner life matters deeply, and that only the Spirit restores what disorder breaks apart.
Today we celebrate Robert E. Hargrove—a man who showed us that the greatest gifts aren’t found in stores, but on the banks of the Neches River.
Dad gave us something precious: a love of the outdoors and the simple joys of being together. Camp Hargrove was his classroom, and we were his eager students. We learned patience waiting for the channel cats and blue cats to bite. We felt the thrill when the ops latched onto the trotline bait and swam into view as we pulled the line from the depths. We waded through sandbars, filled minnow jars with bait, seined the shallows, and floated lazy afternoons in inner tubes, letting the river carry us.
We remember the ritual of it all—Dad pumping water from the river, later from the well he drilled with his own hands. The smell of bacon and scrambled eggs sizzling in cast iron. Biscuits that tasted like only the camp did. Coffee brewed strong in that old pot, grounds settling at the bottom, sipped slowly by the campfire as fog drifted across the water at dawn. The soft sounds of the river greeting us awake.
And every Fourth of July, Dad’s fishing became a gift to us all—fish fries for the extended family, gathered together, fed by what his hands and the river had provided.
In those moments—before the day rushed in, surrounded by sons, nephews, and grandchildren—Dad was teaching us how to live. How to slow down. How to appreciate what matters. How to pass love down through generations.
Those riverside mornings and summer days shaped who we became. Dad’s love for nature, his steady presence, his generosity of spirit—these are the catches we keep forever.
Happy Birthday, Dad. We’re still there by the river with you. 🐟🏕️💙
December 5, 1927 – September 6, 2013
ON THIS DAY
8 years ago
Glen Richbourg is feeling blessed with L.v. Hargrove and 2 others. wrote in 2013
Uncle Bob taught me the difference between a blue cat, channel cat and a mud cat. He could scull all the way around Mud Lake and not make a single splash. Made the best camp breakfasts ever and I’ve never had even a Starbucks that could match his river water coffee. Some of the best memories of my life were out in the Neches River bottom being a kid with the Hargrove boys and Uncle Bob. I learned life lessons from him about respecting the land, nature and fellow human beings that l’ve carried my entire life. He also raised the three best men you’ll ever meet. I will forever miss him.
There is a quiet river running under every heavy day, a current that refuses to stop moving. Step beside it. Listen.
Its sound is older than your sorrow, and stronger than your fear. It carries you even when you feel too tired to stand. #stillness #Jesuswalksbesideyou
John Hargrove Seeking Truth and Reality 