It’s time to leave the beach, and I dread making the announcement.

The beach has become a reprieve for me in the busy days of parenting our three little boys. They were born within three years, so we never had time to store the stroller. I just kept squeezing them in and strapping them on—the youngest in the proper seat, the middle son curled into the fabric basket beneath it, and the oldest straddling the stroller’s canopy.

Aside from a few squabbles over the good goggles and the buckets without cracks, the boys have been happy and entertained for hours. They are slippery with sunscreen. Sand clings to every inch of their skin and sticks in the creases of their chubby arms and legs.

But now it’s time to go. I try to soften the blow, “In five minutes, we’re going to start picking up our toys.”

“Noooo!” They protest and go on digging, scooping, and filling their sandpits with scoops of water, only to watch it seep away.

I shade my eyes and scan the beach for misplaced towels and water bottles. I toss forgotten shovels and rakes into a mesh toy bag so the sand will gradually fall off and stay at the beach. Sweat trickles down my temple, and when I wipe it away, I realize I’ve swiped sand from one side of my forehead to the other.

Finally, I give the fun-squashing direction, “It’s time to leave. Go wash off in the water.”

Shoulders slump. Heads drop. Protests erupt.

I herd them toward the water to wash away the sand. If they weren’t slathered in three applications of sunscreen, the process would go faster. I remember that hogs supposedly use mud as a sunscreen, and I try to make light of this task. “You’re muddy as a little pig. This sand caked on your neck probably kept you from getting sunburnt.”

The joke goes unnoticed, and as I’m dipping them in the lake, trying in vain to flush away oily sand, the fun officially stops. I’m irritated, and I start barking commands. “Stop. Hold still. Stand up.” I wash one son and send him to put on his flip-flops, but the sand is hot and burns his toes.

“Stand on the wet sand and wait for me,” I holler. He does, but not without kneeling in the sand…again.

When I have completed our de-sanding ritual, we pile toys and towels onto the stroller, and I shove it across the beach toward the car.

For the next 30 minutes, my life goal is to keep sand out of the car, as if my salvation depends on it.

If I can just stay ahead of the chaos to stave off my kids’ meltdowns and messes, then (I falsely believed) I was doing well and pleasing God. This manic race for cleanliness reflected the striving in my heart to stay in God’s good graces.

Back then, I didn’t understand that as a believer in Jesus, my standing before God was fixed. Because of Christ’s death and resurrection on my behalf, I was already in his good graces. In fact, I was “blameless in His sight” (Ephesians 1:4) regardless of how many meltdowns I was mitigating or how many pounds of sand I had to vacuum out of my car.

But on that hot summer day at the beach, I didn’t understand that yet.

So I brush off sand, wipe hands, shake towels, and bang flip-flops together.

Then, from under the stroller, I retrieve my most important ally in my war against sand: my ice cream bucket of cool water. I set it on the pavement, and I lift each boy by his armpits and dip his feet in the bucket. They swish their little toes around, and the water turns brown.

After I buckle them in their car seats, it’s my turn to wash my own feet.

The water is dirty, and my feet don’t really fit in the bucket. I stand on top of my sandals while I try to get every last grain off. Finally, I leap from my sandals into the car. I lean out the driver’s side door and grab my sandals to bang off the sand. Then I swirl the bucket’s sludge into a watery vortex and fling it into the parking lot.

Finally finished, I look around the car to discover that somehow, we are all still covered in sand.

I am reminded that foot-washing has always been a futile chore.

During Holy Week, Jesus knelt in that upper room to wash the feet of his disciples. Their feet were covered in dirt and dung left in the streets by livestock. It was a smelly job. By the time the twelfth pair of feet was clean, the water was filthy. The basin was half-empty, and the towel was sopping and gray.

Was Jesus shaking the towel, flinging dirt, wondering how in the world he was going to keep everything tidy?

I don’t think so because Jesus’s main goal wasn’t clean feet. “You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand” (John 1:37), he told them.

“No,” said Peter, “you shall never wash my feet.” All of Peter’s bold-acting, fast-talking, hard-driving devotion to Jesus couldn’t keep him in God’s good graces. Peter didn’t understand that Jesus wasn’t as concerned about his feet as he was about his heart.

Friendship with Jesus requires a clean heart, but only Jesus can clean it up. Only he can brush away the oily sludge of angry insults we lob at people we should love. Only he can provide the solvent that cuts away the gritty sin that chafes, causes infection, and eventually brings death.

But Peter didn’t understand that yet because the cross was still to come.

Jesus would wash all his disciples’ feet that night as an example of service in a degrading and futile chore. Jesus would love them to the end. But they would still flee, deny, and betray him because a foot-washing, even when given by Jesus, doesn’t permanently cleanse the heart.

In a few short hours, Peter’s feet will be soiled again. He’ll kneel in a mudpuddle made with tears over his denial of the only Savior who could make him spiritually clean.  

At the cross, Jesus endured the punishment that Peter—and you and I—deserved. He felt the burning wrath of his Father against the sin that injures the people he loves. The futility of scrubbing away dirt to make oneself appear holy will finally be revealed for what it is: a symbol, not a solvent.

God will wring from his Son the true solvent—the only detergent that can permanently wash away the sin that clings.

A few weeks later, the Resurrected Christ will invite Peter to walk along the beach and talk. With one question asked three times—Do you love me?—Jesus will assure Peter that his place in God’s Kingdom is secured. He’s been permanently cleansed, even if there is sand stuck between his toes just now.

It’s time for him to leave the beach too. He’s got good news to share. Jesus doesn’t say, “It’s futile.” He says, “It is finished.”

Remembering Holy Week: A 5-Day Devotional

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The post Does it Seem Futile? appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

Is your Easter Sunday going to look a little different this year?

Every year on Easter Sunday, our extended family begins our resurrection celebration with a sunrise service.

At the end of a low-maintenance gravel road, 20-30 people–depending on the unpredictable spring weather—gather on the highest point in town. Strangely, or perhaps fittingly, the highest point of this village, nestled in the grasslands of the Midwest, is in the cemetery.

On the coldest mornings, we huddle beside a row of cedars that block the wind. We sing the same songs and hymns with tired, early-morning voices. No vocal warm-ups. No instruments. Just wrinkled song sheets that have circulated through the same hands year after year. Some of them are printed in purple, indicating they originated from that ancient relic called a ditto machine.

After we’ve shivered and scared off the wildlife with our singing, we drive three blocks to the church where the same group of ladies has been awake since the wee hours preparing a counter full of breakfast goodies. There are egg bakes labeled as “ham,” “sausage,” and “spicy sausage.” Cinnamon rolls and sticky buns–with raisins and without, with pecans and without—steam in their respective pans. A pile of biscuits teeters beside a crockpot of gravy. And at the end of the line, for the most discriminating and suspicious guests, there is a very safe pile of buttered toast—too much food for a few dozen people.

If that weren’t enough to make it feel like a feast, Easter grass runs down the middle of the long tables hiding chocolate eggs for dessert.

It’s a tradition I’ve done nothing to create. I’ve merely enjoyed it for the past 22 years. (Make that 21. One year, when I had a newborn, I skipped it and used my baby and the cold weather as my pass.)

But this year, like many other traditional Easter services, it’s canceled.

The village is Rural–with a capital R. Cell service is poor. Although I suspect on the cemetery hill, you might have a couple of bars. Besides that, the average age of the parishioners is…well, let’s just say they didn’t grow up with cell phones. Neither did their children. And without the grandkids home for a visit, streaming the sunrise service isn’t really an option or a priority.

I suspect there may be a few rebels who will gather there on Easter morning though. They’ve survived wars, drafts, dustbowls, and depressions. They’ve buried children, spouses, and parents, and—right or wrong—an unseen virus seems inconsequential.

We know we’re in for a different kind of Easter this year.

I think of Jesus’ disciples, though. They journeyed from Bethany to Jerusalem every day, assuming the week would culminate with their traditional Passover celebrations. They’d sing the same songs—from memory and not song sheets. They’d eat the traditional meal with the same symbolic foods—lamb, bitter herbs, sweetened apples, wine, and bread. But they would remember that evening as the most devastating night of their lives.

As Jesus was ushered to his execution by a gang swinging clubs and swords, his closest friends fled. Passover celebrations, for the disciples, were canceled.

When the arresting mob grabbed one of Jesus’ disciples by the collar, he wriggled free of his robe and escaped, naked. In deep humiliation he must have rushed through the grove hiding in the shadows of gnarled tree trunks, shocked that the night had ended like this.

Peter fled with blood from a man’s ear drying on his knife.

The rest of them hid in Jerusalem’s spare rooms and alleys.

The celebration was canceled.

But what they didn’t understand was that God was orchestrating another cancellation.

There were cosmic charges leveled against the disciples. Instead of dying with Jesus in solidarity and loyalty as they had so recently promised, they each panicked. In fear, they reasoned it would be better to live without Jesus than to die with him.

They committed cosmic treason. Denial. Desertion. Self-preservation at the expense of a loved one.

But while we–and the disciples–were making well-reasoned excuses and rationalizing sin, Jesus was crucified in our place.

The sin was ours, but he suffered for it. He accepted my sentence, endured my punishment, hung under my charges, and died in my place. And Christ’s punishment for my sin was acceptable to God.

“He canceled the record of the charges against us and took it away by nailing it to the cross” (Colossians 2:14, NLT).

Jesus said, “It is finished.” God forgave us all our sins.

At the cross, Jesus initiated an unfair trade. In exchange for my record of sin, he held out his own holy, perfect record to me and said, “Here, this is for you. Take it and claim it as your own. It’s a gift.”

God’s gift of grace to us in Christ can’t be canceled or retracted.

Such a permanent gift turns panic into preaching. It clothes naked cowards with clean linen robes. Rebels become sons and daughters. It is the reason we remember Christ’s crucifixion as “Good Friday.”

If your Easter celebrations were canceled, let it be a precious reminder that sin’s power and penalty are canceled too, but God’s gifts of forgiveness and grace continue as planned.

Get your free e-devotional for Holy Week –>Rediscovering Holy Week: A 5 Day Devotional.

The post One More Important Cancellation appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

For those who’ve grown up in church, the Easter story is a familiar one. So familiar are the words hope and doubt, death and resurrection, that the true meaning of them lose their splendor. Sometimes their familiarity in our Easter vocabulary even breeds a heart-level boredom.

So, when I was cruising through the Easter story a few years ago, I was shocked to find a verse I’d never noticed. Surely I’d read it before. At the very least I’d heard it. But I had certainly never stopped to consider it and marvel. And yet there it was, standing like an open wound on the pages of my Bible.

“Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother.”

Though I knew how the story went, it seemed an unnecessary cruelty.

If anyone had correctly placed her hope in God, Mary had. When the angel Gabriel visited her three decades earlier, her response was one of willing obedience. Her honest questions reflected the heart of a young lady eager to serve God, “How can this be?”

Gabriel’s answer? “Nothing is impossible with God.”

Less than one year later, Mary stood in the Temple watching an old man bless God and prophecy to her that someday, though she was obedient to God and blessed by Him, a sword would pierce the soul of the Messiah’s mother. (See Luke 2:35)

I wonder if she reflected over the years on that shadow of prophecy that hovered on the joyful occasion of Jesus’ arrival. Was her soul pricked when she “lost” Him in the Temple when He was 12? When His family thought He was “out of his mind” and when the religious leaders called Him a devil, Mary must have experienced the ache and anger of a mother whose child had been insulted.

But as she witnessed the crucifixion of her Son, the sword Simeon had prophesied had finally pierced. She knew her trustworthy God had fulfilled His word to her and to Israel in unexpected ways over the years. But the crucifixion of a Messiah who was promised to reign forever was unexplainable.

Imagine the wrestling of hope and certainty with doubt and fear that must have plagued Mary. What terrible questions did she ask about her role as His mother?

As I’ve pondered this scene on a hill that bore resemblance to a skull, I wonder if her question to Gabriel lingered. How can this be?

Hope based on the promises of God will never disappoint. We may stand sobbing, confused and bewildered by what we cannot understand, but God is not confined to what we can conceive.

The last time Mary is mentioned in the Bible, we find her in a large upstairs room among 120 other believers—eye witnesses to the resurrection of Jesus! When a sound like violent wind and something akin to tongues of fire rested upon those 120 believers, Mary must have sensed a holy familiarity. At some unknown moment in a little town called Nazareth, the Holy Spirit had come upon her to set His redemptive work in motion. Thirty years later, God, who formed a baby in the virgin’s womb, withdrew the foretold sword of suffering from her soul and replaced it with His Holy Spirit. Her Son and her Savior continually present, reigning in her forever—the guarantee of hope fulfilled.

And I wonder if that angelic answer from long ago echoed in Mary’s mind, “Nothing is impossible for God.” (See Luke 1:37)

Even with the gift of God’s written word, the presence of His Spirit in our lives, and the testimony of believers before us, sometimes we still tend to wobble on the edge of hopelessness, as if a few things are impossible, even for God.

But just because He hasn’t yet, doesn’t mean He can’t. We must cling to His word. It remains true even if our circumstances say otherwise. When the outcome is unimaginable, when we ask ourselves and God, “How can this be?” we can trust our God who gives more than we can imagine but rarely what we expect. And He does not disappoint

This reflection was first shared at my friend Saundra Dalton-Smith’s website.

The post What was in Mary’s Heart on that Skull-shaped Hill? appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

Maybe you don’t remember, but a record album (pronounced reh-kerd al-buh-m) was in popular use shortly after the invention of the wheel and hieroglyphics–or so it seems.

A rare sighting of the turntable and stereo. Enormous speakers, not pictured.

In the late 70s my parents bought an advanced piece of music technology. A stereo. This miracle of musical machinery was ensconced behind glass doors to reiterate the fact that all the blinking knobs and dancing decibel lights were off limits to three wide-eyed children.

Half the fun of the stereo was the delicate show on the turn table. The shiny vinyl balanced on the spindle, spun, wobbled, and finally dropped onto the record player. But perhaps the most impressive feature was the set of speakers. They were protected by a distinctively smelling squishy foam, and at four feet high they were taller than me.

My sister and I would lay on the floor in front of those gigantic speakers with one ear pressed into the foam and wait for our favorite Easter song on our favorite record album. As the needle crackled, we prepared to be transported by the voice of Don Francisco to a first century scene. And there, in our mind’s eye, we saw the grieving apostle Peter.

Perhaps that sounds a bit strange. Your favorite song was about the grieving apostle? Well, not exactly. It’s just that we knew the story didn’t end there. The crescendo of the finale was coming, but it always started with a sorrowful Peter.

After contributing to the horrors of the crucifixion, Peter was terrified of arrest and crippled with shame. Don Fransisco sings Peter’s story:

The gates and doors were barred and all the windows fastened down,
I spent the night in sleeplessness and rose at every sound,
Half in hopeless sorrow half in fear the day,
Would find the soldiers crashing through to drag us all away.
Then just before the sunrise I heard something at the wall,
The gate began to rattle and a voice began to call,
I hurried to the window and looked down to the street,
Expecting swords and torches and the sound of soldiers feet,

He’s Alive by Don Fransisco

(Lyrics are here if you’d like to read instead.)

The song ends with the Peter’s encounter with the resurrected Christ. All year long, Don Francisco, my sister, and I would belt it out together: “He’s Alive!!! He’s alive, and I’m forgiven!”

Interestingly, this song was the longest-running chart single in the history of Christian radio.

What makes it so good?

Why was it our favorite?

Why do I always cry?

I think the answer lies, at least in part, in the lyric, “Everything I’d promised Him just added to my shame.”

What had Peter promised? When Jesus warned His twelve friends that they would all bail on Him, they each, including Peter, said, “Surely you don’t mean me?” Then, as if to shore up his devotion, Peter pumped his fist into the air declaring, “Lord, even if all fall away on account of you, I will not! Even if I have to die with you I will never disown you!”

I’m sure Peter meant it. He wasn’t lying to Jesus. Amidst the solemnity of the Passover meal he was earnest. He was ready for heroics! But he wasn’t ready for the humiliation of grace. He was not yet willing to let Jesus die for him.

I think this is why I love the story of Peter and perhaps why so many have loved Don Francisco’s ballad. It is a portrait of God’s grace given even to those who’ve tried to “do it right” and heroically.

I have promised Jesus big and small acts of faith in earnest: Lenten sacrifice, Christmas generosity, and everyday devotion. But everything I’ve promised points to the fact that I can’t even keep my own promises. I fudge on the sacrifice. I’m cautious in generosity. I fall short of commitments I was certain I could accomplish. How much more have I fallen short of a Christ-like generosity and sacrifice?

When we recognize our ineptitude to perfectly carry out our tiny acts of goodness,  we are finally able to receive what Christ offers: His death instead of yours. His perfect life credited to you. In the words of Martin Luther, “The Great Exchange” where Jesus is the hero.

To “celebrate” Christ’s death on Good Friday may seem cryptic or harsh.  But we know what Peter didn’t. Saturday is the grand crescendo and Sunday morning is the celebratory finale.

Happy Easter, Friends.

He’s still alive, and we can be forgiven.

Remembering Holy Week: Five Remarkable Stories of Unremarkable People
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The post An Easter Ballad for the Day In Between appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

The beach was waking up. Gulls bobbed on the water, squawking at the fishermen and diving for food. Other boats pulled up to the shore, their crews gaping at the huge catch that had already been hauled in.

When the eight friends finished eating, Jesus and Peter walked along the shore where the breeze ruffled the water and splashed into foam near their feet.

The small talk of the first reunion had passed.

Peter was still struggling with where to begin when Jesus asked, “Simon Peter, do you truly love me more than these?” He threw his thumb over his shoulder toward the dying fire and the disciples milling about the boats and baskets of fish. Do you love me in the way I have loved you–unconditionally?

The answer, Peter knew, was no. “You know I love you like a brother.”

Jesus asked again, and Peter, determined to be truthful, replied the same.

When Jesus asked a third time, Peter felt his heart breaking open. “Simon, do you just love me like a brother?”

“Lord, you know all things.” You know what I did, where I fled, how I wept. You know that’s not the kind of love You have for me. Your love is without limits. Without fear. “You know that I only love you with a brotherly kind of love.”

And with that humiliating confession, Jesus commissioned Peter to lead and care for all those Jesus called His own.

*****************************

While Peter may have been grieved, Jesus wasn’t disappointed with Peter’s honesty.

Peter confessed his flawed love for Jesus, and it didn’t change God’s plan for Peter.

It’s as if Jesus says, “Even that kind of affection is useful to me. I will use it and transform it into something you are not yet capable of. You, follow me!”

Jesus had a pattern of asking questions, but it was never because he needed information. It was always to point the person back to Himself. Back to their need, so He could show them that He would meet it

How many loaves do you have?

Who do you say that I am?

Where is your faith?

And when people answered honestly, Jesus went to work in their lives.

Jesus questions us, not because He needs an answer, but because we do. And incredibly, our honest and disappointing answers do not render us useless.

Instead, honesty with God allows Him to transform our flawed devotion, our small offering, our tiny faith into something we are not yet capable of. It renders us dependent, willing, and useful to Christ.

The post Peter’s Honest Confession appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

Peter coiled the ropes into a sloppy pile on the deck.

The man on the shore called to them again, but Peter couldn’t hear over the lapping water and sliding ropes

“What did he say?” Peter asked.

John answered, “He said, cast on the right side to find some fish.”

The rest of them stopped fiddling with nets and oars, ropes and sails. They looked from one to another, too tired to think and too cautious to hope.

Without words, John and Peter eased themselves and the net to the other side. The boat dipped low with all their weight on one side.

In one orchestrated motion they flung the net. Once again it hit the water like a smattering of rain, then went silent. They waited.

Then in unison, they pulled.

It was stuck. But moving. Suddenly two feet of rope scraped through Peter’s hands, leaving a bloody burn before he got a grip. He and John braced themselves against the drag of the net. Andrew and James dropped their gear and they all ran to help.

All seven of them maneuvered all angles of the ropes and brought it close. The boat lurched to that side, and the dark surface shattered by the splashing of tails and fins.

Then John spoke what Peter hoped, “It is the Lord!”

Peter thrust his rope toward James, grabbed his cloak from the mast, wriggled it over his head, and dove in.

*************************

Peter had been here before. Straining at the ropes of a catch he couldn’t bring in. It was the message that book-ended his ministry with Jesus. A net so full of what he had been working for, that he could not contain it.

Though it had taken years of failure and misunderstanding for Peter to finally get it, Jesus’s message had always been the same: I will generously give you what you cannot earn and do not deserve: Salvation by grace through faith.

The first time Peter saw the message illustrated, he was frightened by Jesus’s power.  “Go away from me! I am a sinful man,” he said. But three years of walking with Jesus changed his response. Instead of begging Jesus to leave, Peter’s only thought was to rush to Him. Even if it meant a morning swim.

Peter needed what only Jesus could give. And so do you and I.

We can’t earn forgiveness. We’ve undeniably done Him wrong. We can’t “make it up to him.”

We must receive what he offers in abundance: uncontainable grace.

The post Daybreak Surprise appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

It was a dreary but familiar rhythm.

Peter cast out his net and heard it slap the surface and then hiss as it sunk. Hand over hand, Peter and John drew it back in scraping ropes over the hull.

Slap. Hiss. Scrape. Nothing.

Hour after hour. All night long.

The motions had come back as naturally as breathing, but tonight he was waking muscles that had been sleeping for years. And they were angry.

Three years ago he had left this boat in a pile of fish and walked away to follow Jesus.

He cast out the net again and shook his head remembering. Loyal to the end was his plan. In his fast talking efforts to be “the rock” Jesus had called him, he had vowed to die with Jesus. Instead he had denied and deserted Him. Jesus alone had died.

Then, incredibly, He came back to life.

Peter draped the empty net over his arm again and sorted out the shadows in the boat. James and Andrew were silhouetted against the moonlight sea, working their net. He saw the dark figures of Thomas and Nathaniel slumping at the oars, and heard snoring in the bow.

He had hoped fishing would ease his mind. The others needed little convincing. They were just waiting after all. Waiting for Jesus to meet them in Galilee, as he said he would. But when? And where was He now? What was taking so long?

He shoved down his growing frustration and helped John pull up the net again. A tangle of seaweed slopped on his foot. He kicked it off.

The working, waiting and wondering. He couldn’t get his mind around it. He’d seen Jesus twice now. Alive. Each time a painful apology burned inside him. But even genuine tears seemed trite considering what he’d done. Or hadn’t done.

The sun fanned out pink on the horizon and gave enough light to see the outline of a man on the shore and the flicker of his fire on the beach. The smoke wafted onto the lake reminding Peter of his hunger. Salt in the wound of a night with no fish.

They were tired, sore, and hungry, and decide to call it a night.

When they were a short distance from shore, the man on the beach called out to them.

“Friends, don’t you have any fish?”

A night of work with nothing to show, and now they were forced to admit it.

No fish.

No breakfast.

No income.

No idea where Jesus was.

No end to the wondering.

“No,” they called back.

***************************

Peter was a broken man trying to piece it back together by doing the next thing. He’d been unable to do even the simple work of a disciple: Stay awake. He had slept. Put your sword away, after he had drawn it. Follow me. He had fled.

So he returned to his boat. But it probably did little to relieve his guilt. Only Jesus could do that. Peter would simply have to wait for Him while doing his ordinary thing.

Sometimes when you and I are waiting for God to move, act or answer, the only thing we know to do is the next thing in front of us. Make the meal, wipe the counter, water the lawn, walk the dog. Dress for work. Go fishing.

We don’t have to know exactly what God is up to. But we can know He is always up to something.

Even when we are waiting, He is working.

Even when we’re not sure what to do next, He knows His plan.

And though we may have lost sight of Him, He has never lost sight of us.

The post Frustrated Waiting appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

By Friday, they fled.

Jesus had told them their faith was small, little, even twisted, and as they ran and hid deep in the nearby olive groves, they knew it was true.

What can we do when our faith feels weak and wobbly? May I suggest two prayers? They aren’t fancy or long. Only 3 words each. In fact, they’re borrowed from Scripture.

Two Prayers for When Your Faith Feels Weak

1. Help my unbelief.

Like the man who brought his terrorized child to Jesus, we can pray, “Help my unbelief.” It’s a confession and an acknowledgment of dependence. We want to believe, but often we are so weak we can’t determine whether we believe or not. With these words, we confess our weakness and ask for His help in merely believing. Jesus answers such honest and dependent prayer. You’ll find proof of it in Mark 9 (which also happens to be the first story in my book (<~affiliate link )

2. Hold me fast.

It’s confession and request tied up in three words borrowed from Psalm 139:9-10.

If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.

He is strong to steady us. We need only to ask and depend on him.

Such prayers and concepts are cemented into hearts and minds by music. So I was delighted to learn that Glenna Marshall has written a song that combines these two prayers in a memorable melody.

The title track of her new album is “Hold Me Fast.” Even when a season starts with Hosannah! and ends with Halleleujah!, the in-between time can be confusing. I’m thankful for Glenna’s reminder that Jesus helps my unbelief and holds me fast even when my faith feels weak.

Image by India Konemann. Lyric by Glenna Marshall.

This week as we remember the pivotal moments of Jesus’s mission–to live perfectly, die sacrificially, and rise eternally–we can rest in knowing Jesus is willing to help and hold his children even when their faith is weak.

You can find out more about Glenna Marshall here.  And you can hear a little clip of “Hold Me Fast” by clicking here.
Her new album is available April 28. When you preorder, you’ll immediately be able to download the song titled “Every Sky” immediately. Sneak a listen here:

The post When Your Faith is Weak for Holy Week appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

When it comes to the events of Holy Week and the Easter story, we sometimes find ourselves in the precarious place of overfamiliarity. On the one hand, familiarity is a gift. Knowing these parts of the Bible so well helps us understand other parts that are less celebrated.

On the other hand, we live in a world that is constantly careening toward the next new thing. Continual news feed keeps us chasing the most current information. Breaking news and discoveries are only new for a matter of seconds.

As Christians, we know it is important, necessary, and good to remember and celebrate all God has done in Christ. But many of us (I’m raising my hand!) get sucked into the perpetual state of now-ness, hungering for new information. When we come upon the old, old story of Jesus and his love, we have a tendency to skim the familiar Bible story with a bulleted ticker sliding through the brain:

✓ Jesus is born
✓ gets disciples
✓ does miracles
✓ is crucified
✓ is raised
✓ glory

Yes … I’ve read that … and that. Uh-huh … yes. Yep. Nod. Next!

But for those like the apostle John—who saw Jesus, who heard him teach, who extended a hand to help him up from the ground where he sat visiting—it was more than they could possibly tell or record. John writes, “Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written” (John 21:25).

Hyperbole? Perhaps. But the point is made. “We couldn’t get it all down,” says John, “but here are the necessary parts.”

Beyond events, there are the people. Some are named in Scripture. Some are known to us by their stories, but not their names. Some appear only as “the crowd,” “a widow,” “a child,” and we don’t their names or their stories.

But we do know this: they were humans like us. They had emotions, questions, and predispositions. They were sinners who needed a Savior. At first glance their stories don’t seem so remarkable. They had worries, flaws, sin, and fear, and each of them is described in just a few verses. Some of them we don’t even know by name–the man who owned a donkey outside of Jerusalem, and the criminal on the cross. We might be more familiar with others like Joseph of Arimathea, Simon the (former) leper, and Martha the sister of Lazarus. All of them were regular people who were privileged to honor Jesus during his last days on Earth.

Times have changed, but Jesus has not. It’s good to remember the same Lord who received honor from regular, “unremarkable” people two thousand years ago still delights in the honor given to him by you and me.

I’ve written about it in a five-day devotional I’d love to share with you. It’s called Remembering Holy Week: Five Remarkable Stories of Unremarkable People. Each reading zooms in on one of these lesser-known participants in the Easter story. As you read, I invite you to place yourself in the story. Recline at the table with the guests. Gasp for breath in a fragrance filled room. Kneel in the dirt at Golgotha. Let’s look closely and think carefully about a few of the people Jesus came in contact with in his last few days on Earth—the time we commonly refer to as Holy Week.

If you glimpse yourself in these lesser-known people, be encouraged that there are no insignificant assignments, no ministry too small, no job so messy that Christ will not accept it as a gift of love from you to him.

May you find your Risen Savior more majestic this year and love him more because of it.

The post Familiar Strangers of Holy Week appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

Trying new things isn’t always easy. I’ve written before about my long bout with Tryer’s Remorse when I’ve regretted trying new things. But I’m growing up and there’s something about turning 40 (something) that helps you get over yourself a bit.

So, I’ve tried a new kind of writing centered around Bible stories.

If you’ve been around Bible stories a long time, you know that sometimes the colorful images of the Sunday school flannel graph can fade over time. Instead of reading the Bible with wonder, we tend to gloss over the words, yawn, lick our finger, and flip the page.

What if we, as adults, could be fascinated once again with the familiar?

Several years ago I heard a sermon on the story of Peter’s great catch (Luke 5). I’d heard the story many times before, but this time, something hooked me. Problem was, I didn’t know exactly why.

So I sat down at the computer and retold that story to myself.

To my amazement, writing down the story and retelling it to myself, helped me rediscover the story.

I saw in Peter a person who tried hard. He wanted to show up, work hard, excel, produce, perform, and prove.

He’d spent a lifetime learning how to fish, and had a lifetime ahead of him to work at it.

Only, on this particular night he had fished all night and caught nothing. All that good work had left him tired, hungry, and probably a little ragged.

Until Jesus stepped into the boat with a radical demonstration of His grace in terms that got Peter’s attention. In a sinking boat loaded with fish, Jesus demonstrated that He would do for Peter what Peter could not do for himself.

In my over familiarity I had missed the story’s foreshadowing of the ultimate work Jesus came to do for Peter, and for us. What we remember on Good Friday and celebrate on Easter is the radical demonstration that Jesus has done for us what we cannot do for ourselves.

In an effort to rekindle my own fascination with the Easter story, I wanted to look closely and think carefully about a few of the people Jesus came in contact with during what we now call “Passion Week.”

So I tried something new.

I researched a few Bible commentaries, drew on my own imaginations, and tried to drape the framework of scripture with the fabric of fiction to retell the stories of some lesser known people described in Scripture.

Why stories?

I like how Phillip Yancey explains it, “…stories are easier to remember than concepts or outlines.… It is one thing to talk in abstract terms about the infinite boundless love of God. It is quite another to tell of a man who lays down his life for his friends….” (The Jesus I Never Knew).

At first glance their stories don’t seem so remarkable. They were people with worries, flaws, sin, and fear. Some of them we don’t even know by name, and all of them are described in just a few verses.

But if we take a close look and imagine a few of the details, we might learn something new from the old.

So next Monday through Good Friday, (and in future weeks) you can expect an additional, new kind of post.

As we look to celebrate new life in Christ this Easter, I hope you will enjoy taking a fresh look at the familiar.

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The post A Fresh Look at the Familiar appeared first on Shauna Letellier.