Not a Reset Button

Not a Reset Button

by | Dec 28, 2025 | Daily Light

Not a Reset Button

Not a Reset Button

Listen to the Devotional

Press play… and let this settle in.

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The sun was barely up.
The water was still.

Peter stood on the shore with the others, tired in the bones.

Not long ago, he had been certain of himself. Loud. Ready.
“I’ll die with You,” he said.

But then came the night he still couldn’t shake.

A courtyard.
A charcoal fire.
A girl’s voice asking a question that suddenly felt dangerous to answer.

And Peter did the thing he swore he never would.

Three times.

“The servant girl saw him as he sat by the fire and looked intently at him and said, ‘This man was also with him.’ But he denied him…”
“And after an interval of about an hour still another insisted, saying, ‘Certainly this man also was with him…’ But Peter said, ‘Man, I do not know what you are talking about.’ And immediately, while he was still speaking, the rooster crowed.”
“And the Lord turned and looked at Peter.”

—Luke 22:56–61

After that, life kept moving—but Peter didn’t feel like he was moving forward.
So he went back to fishing.
Not because he loved it… but because it didn’t ask him any questions.

Then, a voice from the shore.

A familiar instruction.
A net suddenly heavy with fish.

When they reached land, Jesus already had a fire burning.

Not a throne.
Not a lecture.
A charcoal fire.

The same kind of fire Peter had stood beside when everything fell apart.

Jesus didn’t pretend it never happened.
He didn’t shame him either.

He fed him first.

“Come and eat.”

Only after breakfast—only after warmth and food—did Jesus ask the question.

Not once.
Three times.

“When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, ‘Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?’ He said to him, ‘Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.’ He said to him, ‘Feed my lambs.’”
“He said to him a second time, ‘Simon, son of John, do you love me?’ He said to him, ‘Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.’ He said to him, ‘Tend my sheep.’”
“He said to him the third time, ‘Simon, son of John, do you love me?’ Peter was grieved because he said to him the third time, ‘Do you love me?’ and he said to him, ‘Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Feed my sheep.’”

—John 21:15–17

Peter didn’t get a reset button.
He got restoration.

A lot of us treat the new year like a reset button.
As if God is more willing on January 1 than He was yesterday.

But Jesus met Peter on an ordinary morning—with yesterday still clinging to him.

And maybe that’s what you need to hear.

God doesn’t wait for you to become impressive.
He comes close at the place you failed.
He builds a fire there.
And He feeds you there.

Maybe you’re walking into this year carrying something you hoped would be gone by now.
A regret.
A pattern.
A quiet disappointment in yourself.

And underneath it all, a fear you barely let yourself name:

“Maybe I’ve messed this up too many times.”

Peter didn’t step back into life because he proved his strength.
He stepped back in because Jesus restored his love.

Religion says, “New year, new you—don’t mess this up.”
Jesus says, “Come and eat.”

Then, gently:

“Do you love Me?”

Not, “Did you meet your goals?”
Not, “Did you fix everything?”
Just… “Do you love Me?”

And if you do—even with trembling—
He doesn’t discard you.

He gives you your next faithful step.

This year doesn’t begin with your promises.
It begins with His invitation:

Come and eat… and follow Me.

Jesus,
I bring You what I’m carrying into this new year—
the hopes, the fear, the unfinished places.


Meet me at my charcoal fire.
Feed me where I feel weak.
Restore my love where shame has tried to hollow me out.


I don’t want to perform for You.
I want to follow You.


Give me light for the next step.
Amen.

Before you scroll—pause for a moment.


Whisper, “Jesus, I love You.”
Then ask, “What’s my next step?”


And if someone you love is walking into this year heavy…
send this to them and say, “No shame. Just come and eat.”

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For The Joy Set Before Him

For The Joy Set Before Him

by | Dec 24, 2025 | Daily Light

For The Joy Set Before Him

For the Joy Set Before Him

🎧 Listen to the Devotional
Press play to listen… or download the audio below.

Imagine for a moment…

Not Bethlehem yet. Not the manger. Not the cry of a newborn breaking the night. Imagine instead the moment before all of it.

Imagine Jesus—eternal, unbound by time—gazing upon the world He formed. The people He shaped. The humanity He once walked with in a garden long ago.

And imagine the joy rising within Him. Not only the joy of redemption. Not only the victory beyond the cross. But the joy of dwelling with us again.

He would not return in thunder or fire. Not in unapproachable glory. But in humility. As a child.

The Creator stepping into His own story—for the joy set before Him.

And then… Bethlehem.

The first breath. Lungs filling with air He Himself designed. And His eyes open.

For the first time, God looks into a human face from within humanity itself. He sees Mary—a daughter of Eve, formed through generations He lovingly oversaw.

And there is immense joy in that moment—to behold His creation from the inside, to look into human eyes not as Maker above them, but as One dwelling among them.

The One who holds galaxies together now rests His life in the hands of a young mother.

And He delights in it.

He delights in growing. In learning to walk. In ordinary days and dusty streets. In teaching at the temple at twelve. In breaking bread with friends. In walking closely with twelve young men He loved— knowing He would one day lay down His life for them.

A Father’s Joy

Like a father watching his child marvel at a butterfly— not moved by the butterfly itself, but by the wonder lighting up her eyes— so it was with Jesus. He had seen all creation… but now He could see it through human wonder.

This was the joy set before Him.

And then the garden.

He wept there—not only for the suffering ahead, but perhaps because His time of walking among us was drawing to a close.

He had come to dwell with us. And He loved being here.

Yet love carried Him forward—to the cross, to the grave, to the ultimate gift of Himself.

For the joy set before Him, He endured it all.

And now we return, year after year, to Bethlehem. We gather at the manger. We sing. We remember.

But have you ever considered Christmas from His perspective?

Not only what He gave—but what He gained. He came because He wanted to be with us. Because love always moves closer. Because seeing wonder in our eyes was worth everything.

Will you return with Him to Bethlehem this year?

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No Room for the Bread of Life

No Room for the Bread of Life

by | Dec 20, 2025 | Daily Light

No Room for the Bread of Life

No Room for the Bread of Life

Mary and Joseph were exactly where God had led them.

That’s easy to forget.

An angel had spoken. A promise had been given.
And still—so much remained unclear.

They traveled because they were forced to.
A government decree.
A political power they could not resist.

The road was long.
Mary was heavy with child.
Joseph carried a responsibility he never asked for and could not fully explain.

And when they arrived in Bethlehem, they knocked.

Door after door.
House after house.

Closed.

Not only because the city was crowded—but because of who they were.
Unmarried. Pregnant. Complicated. Inconvenient.

They were rejected.

“But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah,
though you are small among the clans of Judah,
out of you will come for Me
one who will be ruler over Israel.”
— Micah 5:2

And yet, the greatest miracle of all eternity was unfolding.

Bethlehem—the City of Bread—had no room for the Bread of Life.

Mary and Joseph did not know the words that would one day be written about that night.
They did not know how the story would echo through centuries.

They only knew obedience.
And confusion.
And silence.

They were exactly where God had led them—
and still did not understand what He was doing yet.

“And she brought forth her firstborn Son,
and wrapped Him in swaddling cloths,
and laid Him in a manger,
because there was no room for them in the inn.”
— Luke 2:7

God did not wait for understanding.
He did not wait for comfort.
He did not wait for welcome.

He came anyway.

Not to a place of honor—but to a place that would receive Him.
Not where doors were open—but where space could still be made.

And now the story slows.

Because in a very real way… you were there too.

Imagine the knock.
The interruption.
The hesitation at the door.

A young couple.
A pregnant girl.
A request that feels awkward, inconvenient, costly.

And unknowingly—
the Lamb of God stands outside.

“Here I am! I stand at the door and knock.
If anyone hears My voice and opens the door,
I will come in…”
— Revelation 3:20

Would you open the door?

Or would you quietly close it—
not out of cruelty,
but out of discomfort?
Out of fear?
Out of a life already too full?

That is the question Christmas still asks.

Because the story didn’t end in Bethlehem.

The Bread of Life still comes quietly.
Still comes humbly.
Still comes without forcing His way in.

And He still knocks.

Not asking for perfection.
Not demanding understanding.
But asking for room.

You may not understand what God is doing in your life right now.
Mary and Joseph didn’t either.

Understanding was never the requirement.

Understanding was never the requirement. Making room was.

So the question lingers—gentle, searching, unavoidable:

If you had been there that night…
would you have made room?

And now—
will you answer?

Lord,

I confess how easily my life becomes full—
full of plans, noise, and reasons.

This Christmas, I don’t want to stand safely outside the story.
I want to open the door.

Even when it’s uncomfortable.
Even when I don’t understand.
Even when it costs me something.

You are the Bread of Life.
Teach me to make room—for You, here and now.

Amen.

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Hark the Harold

Hark the Harold

by | Dec 14, 2025 | Daily Light

Hark the Harold

Hark the Harold

Returning to the night heaven sang.
Listen to the Devotional
Press play… let this settle in your heart.

Imagine for a moment that you’ve died and gone to heaven.

You’ve met Jesus—your Savior—face to face and fallen at His feet in worship. You’ve walked the streets, met the great figures of the faith: Abraham, Moses, David, Peter, Paul. And then it dawns on you—you are no longer bound by time.

You can move through it freely, the way one might cross a room.

Where would you go?

No matter the moment, God is there—quietly weaving a tapestry of perfection we could never fully see while bound to earth. Creation itself? Astonishing. The parting of the Red Sea? Magnificent. Mount Sinai? Awe-inspiring.

But there is one moment unlike all others.

The day God Himself stepped down from His throne.
The day He took on flesh.
The day heaven touched earth in the form of a child.

Bethlehem.

A small town. A borrowed stable. A feeding trough cradling the Messiah.

The shepherds saw the star. Angels tore open the sky. Glory spilled into the night.

If we could return to any moment again and again, wouldn’t it be this one? What else could cast even a shadow by comparison?

Would we sing?
Would we dance?
Would we shout?

I think we did.

I think we were already there.

Luke 2:13–14
“Suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men.’”

A multitude.

An army.

Heaven itself rejoicing.

Were you there?

I was.

And I wasn’t alone.

Maybe that’s why we return every year. Not just to remember—but to rejoin the song.

What do you think?

Will you come back with me to the manger…
and lift your voice once again?

A simple invitation
Before you scroll away, take 30 seconds and do this:

Share this post with one person who needs to remember that heaven still sings over the world—especially the unnoticed.

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