New Day With Jesus

“ Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres .” — 1 Corinthians 13:6–7 There are many versions of the St. Valentine story, but one enduring account centers on a Roman priest named Valentine, executed on February 14 around A.D. 270. His death occurred during the reign of Claudius II—a ruler remembered less for wisdom than for the severity that earned him the name Claudius the Cruel. Rome at the time was stretched thin by constant warfare, its armies weary and its borders unstable. Claudius believed the empire’s struggles stemmed not from strategy or strength, but from the affections of young men who hesitated to leave their families behind. Convinced that love made soldiers weak, he issued a sweeping decree: all marriages and engagements were to be outlawed. In his eyes, love had become a threat to imperial power. Valentine saw something very different. To him, the ban was not only unjust but an assau...

“ Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom .” — Psalm 90:12  Life is not something we manufacture or control; it is something we receive. Every breath we take, every beat of our hearts, every sunrise that breaks across the horizon is a quiet reminder that we are living on borrowed grace. We did not design our own existence, and we cannot sustain it by our own strength. Each new day arrives not as a payment for our efforts, but as a generous gift from a God who delights in giving good things to His children. When the sun rises, it does more than mark the beginning of another cycle of hours. It stands as a testimony to God’s unwavering faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22–23 tells us that His mercies “are new every morning.” That means every dawn is a fresh expression of compassion, a divine whisper that God has chosen to give us another chance—another opportunity to grow, to love, to serve, and to walk in the purpose He has woven into our lives. Each morning is a...

  “Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you.” — Psalm 55:22 There is a quiet freedom that enters your life when you finally recognize the difference between what belongs to you and what belongs to God. Many of us live exhausted—not because life is impossible, but because we keep trying to do God’s work with human strength. When we attempt to fix what only God can heal, control what only God can command, or carry what only God can lift, we inevitably end up anxious, frustrated, and spiritually drained. Scripture consistently reminds us that certain battles, burdens, and breakthroughs belong to God alone. This truth is woven throughout the entire biblical story, almost as if God knew how easily we would slip into the habit of managing life in our own strength. Whenever we step into roles that belong to Him—Healer, Provider, Protector, Sustainer—we pick up weights our souls were never designed to hold. There is a unique kind of exhaustion that comes from trying to m...

“Commit your way to the Lord; trust in Him, and He will act.” — Psalm 37:5   Letting go is not losing control—it is placing control where it has always belonged. When we loosen our grip, we discover that God has been holding us all along. Surrender is not weakness; it is the doorway to peace, clarity, and divine intervention. When we release our burdens, we create space for God’s peace to settle into our hearts. Peace is not something we manufacture; it is something God gives. But like any gift, our hands must be open to receive it. When our hearts are crowded with worry, fear, and the need to manage every outcome, there is little room left for the calm assurance God longs to pour into us. Letting go is not pretending everything is fine. It is acknowledging that God is greater than what we face. It is saying, “Lord, I don’t have the strength for this, but You do.” That kind of trust becomes fertile ground where peace can take root. Think of your heart as a garden. Worry is ...

“Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” — Matthew 6:27 (NIV) Overthinking is a subtle thief. It often disguises itself as responsibility, preparedness, or wisdom. But underneath, it drains peace, amplifies fear, and keeps us stuck. Scripture consistently calls us to a different way of living—one marked by trust, simplicity, and surrender. Worry never adds to our lives; it only subtracts. It shrinks our world until the problem becomes all we can see, overshadowing the God who stands above it. Worry feels productive, but it accomplishes nothing. It doesn’t extend life, improve outcomes, or solve problems. It simply exhausts us. Overthinking is like running on a treadmill—lots of motion, no progress. When worry fills our vision, everything else fades. A small object held close to the eye suddenly looks enormous, even though it hasn’t changed size. In the same way, “what ifs” distort our perspective until God’s presence feels distant.  They start as small...

As she kept on praying to the Lord, Eli observed her mouth. Hannah was praying in her heart, and her lips were moving but her voice was not heard. Eli thought she was drunk… ‘Not so, my lord,’ Hannah replied, ‘I am a woman who is deeply troubled… I was pouring out my soul to the Lord.”   — 1 Samuel 1:12–15 There are seasons when language collapses long before hope does. Times when the heart is too swollen with sorrow to form sentences, and all that rises to the surface is a trembling breath, a groan, or a tear. These are liquid prayers —the kind that bypass vocabulary and flow straight from the soul to the God who understands what the lips cannot speak. Hannah’s story in 1 Samuel 1:7–18 is one of Scripture’s clearest portraits of this kind of prayer. Year after year she carried the weight of unfulfilled longing, the sting of provocation, and the heaviness of disappointment. Her grief wasn’t a momentary sadness; it was a deep, persistent ache that shaped her days and shadowed her ...

“ Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it” -Proverbs 4:23.  A flourishing faith does not happen accidentally. Scripture paints a vivid picture of the heart as a garden—capable of bearing fruit, but also vulnerable to neglect. Flourishing faith requires intentional tending. Just as a gardener refuses to leave a garden to chance, we too must actively care for the spiritual soil of our hearts. A wise gardener doesn’t simply plant a seed and walk away—he returns again and again to remove weeds, break up hardened ground, and shield tender shoots from anything that could stunt their growth. In the same way, God invites us to participate in the ongoing cultivation of our faith. A flourishing faith requires vigilance. It means regularly checking the soil of our hearts, identifying anything that threatens spiritual health, and removing it before it takes root. When we stay alert and intentional, we create space for God’s truth to thrive—and our faith grows...

“ Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah; offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains I will show you .” — Genesis 22:2 Many of us say we want God to lead our lives, but what we often mean is something far more selective. We want God to guide us, yes — but preferably in the direction we already intended to go. We like the idea of surrender, but not the reality of it. We want His leadership, but not His disruption. We want His voice, but not His veto. We want His will, as long as it doesn’t interfere with our preferences, attachments, or carefully constructed plans. We want divine guidance without divine redirection. It’s easy to pray, “Lead me,” but much harder when that leading pulls us away from our comfort, our preferences, or our carefully crafted plans.   We prefer confirmation over transformation. Often, what we call “seeking God’s will” is really seeking validation for what we already intended to do.   If God i...

 “ And without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him .” – Hebrews 11:6 Faith does not grow by accident. It doesn’t appear fully formed, nor does it remain strong without care. Faith develops the way most meaningful things do—through ordinary, repeated choices that shape the posture of our hearts. Every moment we choose trust over fear, gratitude over complaint, or presence over distraction becomes a seed planted in the soil of our spiritual lives. Over time, these small decisions form rhythms that nourish faith, helping it take root and flourish. Just as the body requires nourishment, so does faith. A body deprived of food becomes weak, unfocused, and vulnerable. Faith responds in much the same way. When we neglect it—whether through distraction, discouragement, or the relentless busyness that crowds our days—it slowly loses its sharpness. Confidence begins to fade. Hope t...

Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God. – Phillipians 4:6 NKJV Worry is not a fleeting emotion that drifts in and out of the mind. It’s something far heavier—something that slowly erodes the heart from within. When Scripture urges us not to be anxious, it isn’t calling us to suppress our emotions or pretend that life doesn’t affect us. God never asks us to be numb. Instead, He warns us against anxiety because He knows exactly how destructive it can be to the human spirit. Anxiety places the mind in a constant state of strain. It replays the worst possibilities, magnifies every uncertainty, and robs us of the ability to rest. God understands that when we live in that mental space for too long, our emotional strength begins to drain away. We grow tired, discouraged, and overwhelmed. Our perspective narrows until all we can see is the obstacle in front of us. In that state, worry becomes so lou...

Even youths grow tired and weary,  and young men stumble and fall;  but those who hope in the Lord  will renew their strength.  They will soar on wings like eagles;  they will run and not grow weary,  they will walk and not be faint.   (Isaiah 40:30-31) As we look out at the heavy snowfall blanketing our streets, the wind carving drifts against our homes, and the towering piles of snow gathered at every corner, it’s almost impossible not to feel the weight of it all. Winter carries a presence—an authority—that slows our pace and reminds us of our limits. It forces us to pay attention, to move carefully, to acknowledge that we are not in control of everything around us. Life’s winters feel remarkably similar. There are seasons when everything familiar becomes buried under unexpected heaviness. Plans we counted on fall apart. Routines we relied on crumble. The path forward, once so clear, disappears beneath layers of uncertainty. Just as...