Today’s Read: Luke 19: 28-44, Psalm 118:25-29, Zechariah 9:9

Truthfully, 2025 is the first Palm Sunday that I have actually participated in as an adult. As you know, I am a “baby Christian”, finding my faith again and learning to lean on God.

Palm Sunday is so bittersweet to me, even more so now that I am studying and learning exactly what Jesus did for me.

Palm Sunday is the day the crowd cheered… knowing that in just a few days, many of those same voices would turn.

In Luke 19:28–44, Jesus enters Jerusalem — not on a warhorse, but on a young donkey, just like the prophecy said in Zechariah 9:9: “See, your king comes to you, righteous and victorious, lowly and riding on a donkey…”

He wasn’t coming to conquer with force; He was coming in humility, with peace in His hands and salvation in His heart.

As He rode in, the people shouted: “Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Luke 19:38)

They waved palm branches and laid their cloaks on the road — a sign of honor, of celebration. It was a royal welcome for the long-awaited Messiah.

And in that moment, they were quoting Psalm 118:25–29, crying out: “Lord, save us! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”

But here’s the thing…
They expected a Savior to bring political freedom.
Jesus came to bring eternal freedom.

They wanted relief from Rome.
He came to offer rescue from sin.

And still… Jesus wept.

As He approached the city, He cried over it.
Not because He was afraid — but because they didn’t see who He really was.

“If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace…”
— Luke 19:42

They cheered for what they thought they wanted, but they missed the deeper miracle. How often do we do the same?

This Palm Sunday, let’s check our hearts:
Am I welcoming Jesus in with full surrender — or just asking Him to fix what I think is broken?

Am I laying down palm branches with praise and obedience — or just when it feels good?

The King is still coming.
Not just on a donkey… but one day, on clouds with glory.

And until then, may we be people who don’t just shout “Hosanna!” on Sunday —
but who walk with Him every day, even when the road leads to the cross.

Today’s Read: Mark 11:12-19, Jeremiah 7:1-11, Psalm 69:7-9

There’s a side of Jesus we don’t always talk about — the table-flipping, temple-cleansing Jesus.
But in Mark 11:12–19, that’s exactly what we see.

He walks into the temple — the place that was supposed to be holy, sacred, set apart for worship — and instead, finds it full of noise, greed, and empty religion.

“My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations. But you have made it a den of robbers.”
— Mark 11:17

He didn’t quietly rebuke.
He flipped tables. He shut it down.
Because Jesus isn’t casual about worship.
And He sure doesn’t play about the condition of our hearts.

The same message echoes through Jeremiah 7 — where God calls out His people for showing up to the temple and saying all the right things, while still living in rebellion.

“Do not trust in deceptive words and say, ‘This is the temple of the Lord’... Will you steal and murder... and then come and stand before me?”
— Jeremiah 7:4, 9-10 (paraphrased)

Whew. That one stings a little.
Because it’s easy to go through the motions — to show up to church, post a verse, say the right things — while our hearts are still far off.

Even Psalm 69:7–9 reminds us that zeal for God’s house isn’t always comfortable. Real worship costs something.

“Zeal for your house consumes me…”

So here’s the heart-check for today:

• Am I coming to God for Him — or just for a spiritual pick-me-up?

• Do I want to be changed — or just comforted?

Jesus didn’t cleanse the temple to condemn.
He did it to restore worship to what it was always meant to be — pure, passionate, and focused on the Father.

And sometimes, He still comes into our temples — our hearts — and flips a few tables.
Not out of anger… but out of love.

Lord, if there’s anything in me that’s crowding out real worship, clear it out.
Don’t just fix the surface — change me from the inside out.

Today’s Read: Luke 21, Luke 22:1-2, Daniel 7:13-14

In Luke 21, we see Jesus teaching right in the heart of the temple — bold, unshaken, full of truth. He warns His followers about what’s to come: hard days, persecution, and the signs of the end. And still, even as He’s pouring out truth and preparing hearts… some folks are already plotting to silence Him.

“Each day Jesus was teaching at the temple, and each evening He went out to spend the night on the hill…”
— Luke 21:37

Just a couple verses later in Luke 22:1–2, the chief priests and teachers of the law are already looking for a way to kill Him. It’s wild to think that the Son of God was in their midst— teaching, healing, fulfilling prophecy right in front of their eyes— and they missed it. Worse, they rejected it.

But here’s what amazes me: Jesus didn’t stop teaching. He didn’t pull back or go quiet just because He knew they were coming for Him.

He knew His identity.
He knew His authority.
He knew the story wasn’t over.

Daniel 7:13–14 gives us the heavenly side of the story — where Jesus, the “Son of Man,” is given authority, glory, and a kingdom that will never pass away.

“He was given authority, glory and sovereign power; all nations and peoples of every language worshiped him...”

The same Jesus teaching humbly in the temple is the same One who reigns forever.

So what’s that mean for us?

Sometimes you’ll speak truth and people won’t receive it.
Sometimes you’ll live out your calling and still face opposition.
But if Jesus kept showing up to the temple knowing full well what was coming… we can keep showing up too.

We don’t teach, post, or share our faith to be praised. We do it because the King is coming again — and the Word is worth telling.

Keep showing up. Keep speaking truth. Keep pointing to Jesus.

Even when it’s hard.

Even when it feels like no one’s listening.

Because your voice may not reach everyone’s heart — but it’s still heard in heaven.

Today’s Read: Matthew 26:14-16, Mark 14:3-11, Luke 22:3-6, Psalms 50:23

Jesus is just days away from the cross. And while the world around Him is bustling with Passover preparations, betrayal is already brewing.

In Mark 14, we see a woman (later identified as Mary of Bethel) walk into the room with an alabaster jar.
It’s full of expensive perfume — worth more than most of us make in a year.
And what does she do? She breaks it and pours it out over Jesus.

“She broke the jar and poured the perfume on His head.” — Mark 14:3

It was bold.
It was costly.
It was beautiful.
And Jesus knew exactly what it meant.

“She has poured this perfume on Me to prepare My body for burial.” — Matthew 26:12

She may not have understood every detail, but she knew who He was. She saw what others didn’t. And while everyone else was watching for a throne, she anointed Him for the grave.

And at the same time… betrayal was in motion.

Right after this moment of pure worship, Judas goes to the chief priests and agrees to hand Jesus over for thirty pieces of silver (Matthew 26:14–16, Luke 22:3–6).
It’s almost too much to take in — one heart fully surrendered in love, the other sold out in selfishness.

But this is the picture of Holy Week.
Worship and betrayal side by side.

Psalm 50:23 says:

“The one who offers thanksgiving as his sacrifice glorifies me.”

That’s what this woman did.
She gave her best.
She didn’t calculate the cost — she poured it out in love.

So here's the question on my mind at the end of today’s read:
Am I holding back what’s costly, or am I willing to break the jar?

Jesus doesn’t ask for perfect words or polished prayers — He asks for a heart fully His.

Let this Holy Week remind us:
Worship isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s a quiet offering.
A tearful surrender.
A costly yes.

And even if the world doesn't understand it, Jesus always does.

Mark 14:12–72 | John 16:16–24, 32–33 | Psalm 41:7–13

When I read through Mark 14, I can’t help but picture the quiet tension in the room. Jesus gathered with the disciples, breaking bread and sharing wine, knowing full well this would be His final meal with them before the cross. He knew one of them would betray Him. He knew Peter — the one who swore he'd never fall away — would deny even knowing Him. He knew the rest would scatter. And still… He stayed at the table with them. Still, He served them. Still, He loved them.

That part gets me every time.

Because if I’m honest, I think most of us would’ve gotten up and walked away. I know I would have. Who wants to eat at a table with someone who is specifically looking for a way to betray or hurt them?

Most of us would’ve confronted Judas or distanced ourselves from Peter, but Jesus? He just keeps on loving. He passes the bread to the very people who are about to break His heart, and He does it with full awareness of who they are and what they’ll do.

It brings to mind that verse in Psalm 41, where David writes, “Even my close friend in whom I trusted, who ate my bread, has lifted his heel against me.” It’s a prophecy that played out that very night, as Judas — one of the twelve, one who walked with Jesus — sold Him out for thirty pieces of silver. And still, Jesus never lost sight of the mission. He didn’t get caught up in bitterness or self-preservation. He was faithful to the very end.

Then over in John 16, we hear Jesus preparing the disciples for the sorrow ahead. He tells them it’s going to get hard, that they’ll weep and mourn, and the world will seem like it’s winning. But He also promises that sorrow won’t have the final say. He compares it to a woman in labor — the pain is real, but the joy that comes afterward makes it worth it. And then He says something that has stuck with me through so many seasons of personal struggle: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

That wasn’t just a nice sentiment. It was a promise spoken by a Savior who was hours away from being betrayed, mocked, beaten, and crucified. He knew exactly what trouble felt like. He wasn’t sugarcoating it. He was offering peace that only He could give.

When I look at the Last Supper, I don’t just see a story about bread and wine. I see the unwavering love of a Savior who stays — even when we fail. I see the kind of grace that pulls up a chair at the table for people who are broken, inconsistent, and afraid. And I realize just how much that applies to me.

I’ve had moments in my life where I’ve felt like I should’ve known better. Times when I’ve messed up or doubted or distanced myself from God. But reading this story again, I’m reminded that Jesus already knows. He sees it all. And still, He stays. Still, He invites. Still, He offers Himself fully.

If you’re feeling unworthy, ashamed, or like your heart is too heavy to sit at the table — I want you to remember this: Jesus stayed. He didn’t leave. He welcomed even the ones who would walk away… and He still welcomes you. That table is wide open, and there's a seat with your name on it.

Good Friday: The Day Grace Bled for Me

Today’s Read: Luke 23:1-53, Hebrews 10:10

There’s a holy hush over Good Friday. It’s not just another day—it’s the day that changed everything. It’s the day love was nailed to a tree and blood sealed the promise of forever. As I read through Luke 23:1-53 and Hebrews 10:10, I just sit in awe. The weight. The wonder. The mercy.

In Luke 23, we walk the dusty road with Jesus—falsely accused, beaten, mocked, and sentenced. Pilate knew He was innocent. Herod couldn’t find fault. And yet the crowd still cried, “Crucify Him!” It's a sobering reminder that even in our most unjust, broken moments—God was still working redemption.

Jesus was handed over, not because He was guilty, but because we were. That cross was mine. That punishment was ours. And yet, He bore it willingly.

The verse that grips me is Luke 23:34—“Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” That’s not just Jesus speaking to the Roman guards—it’s Him speaking to me. Every time I’ve doubted. Every time I’ve turned away. Every time I’ve chosen my way over His. He still whispers, “Forgive her.”

We watch as Jesus, stripped and suffering, hangs between two criminals. One thief rejected Christ while the other one repented and asked for mercy. And that thief got a front-row seat to paradise. Y’all, it’s never too late to say “Jesus, remember me.” That moment proves you don’t have to have a perfect past—just a surrendered heart.

Then, in verse 46, Jesus breathes His last: “Father, into Your hands I commit My spirit.” The sky goes dark. The curtain in the temple tears. Heaven is no longer distant. Access is open. Grace has stepped in.

And that leads us to Hebrews 10:10—a verse that sums up the beauty of this brutal day: “And by that will, we have been made holy through the sacrifice of the body of Jesus Christ once for all.”

Once for all. Not once until you mess up again. Not once if you earn it. Just once—and that was enough.

On Good Friday, we’re reminded that holiness isn’t something we hustle for. It’s something Jesus handed us—bloody, beaten, but victorious. The cross is the doorway to freedom. And because of it, you and I can stand clean, covered, and completely loved.

So today, let’s sit in the stillness. Let’s feel the weight of what He carried—and the joy of what we now get to walk in. The beauty of Good Friday is that even though it looked like the end, it was only the beginning.

He died so we could live.
He was pierced so we could be healed.
He was forsaken so we could be called daughters.

That’s the kind of love that turns ashes into beauty. That’s the Gospel. And that’s why we call this Friday good.

Today’s Read: Matthew 27:62-66 | Luke 23:54-56 | Psalm 130:5-8

I was sent a post from two different friends yesterday. (April 18, 2025)

The post was about Saturday - the day after the cross. Nobody talks much about Saturday.

We talk about Friday—the cross, the pain, the blood, the sacrifice.
And we celebrate Sunday—the resurrection, the empty tomb, the victory.

But Saturday?
Saturday is the space in between.
It’s quiet. It’s heavy. It’s the kind of silence that makes you question everything you thought you knew.

The disciples were sitting in that silence. Their Messiah had been buried. Hope wrapped in linen and sealed behind a stone. Matthew 27:62-66 tells us the tomb was guarded, sealed tight by Roman authority. Death looked final. From every human angle, it looked like the enemy had won.

In Luke 23:54-56, the women who loved Jesus waited. They had prepared spices to honor Him, but they obeyed the Sabbath. They didn’t rush. They didn’t try to fix it. They rested—even while their hearts were breaking.

That part got me.

Because sometimes God asks us to wait even when it hurts.
To be still in the sorrow.
To trust in the dark what He spoke in the light.

And that’s exactly what Psalm 130:5-8 reminds us of:

“I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits, and in His word I put my hope… with the Lord is unfailing love and full redemption.”

Holy Saturday reminds us that even in the silence—God is still working.
Even when it feels like nothing is happening—He is.
He always is.

We just can’t always see it from this side of the stone.

I’ve lived through some Holy Saturday seasons—maybe you have, too.
Those “in-between” moments where the promise hasn't come yet.
Where you're still grieving Friday’s loss and haven’t seen Sunday’s miracle.
Where your heart whispers, “God, where are You?”

But friend, take heart in this:
If Friday was the end of the story, Jesus would still be in the grave.
But He’s not.

And if you’re sitting in a Saturday season—He’s not done with your story either.

So what do we do while we wait?
We worship in the stillness.
We rest, even when we don’t have all the answers.
We cling to His Word, because His promises still stand.
And we trust—Sunday is coming.

Easter Sunday: The Empty Tomb That Changed Everything

John 20:1–31 | Psalm 16:9–11

I don’t know about you, but I’ve had some “dark morning” moments in my life. Days when all I could see was the brokenness. Moments when hope felt buried, prayers felt unanswered, and I wondered if God was really going to come through.

But Easter reminds me—He already has.

In John 20, we step into the garden with Mary Magdalene on a quiet morning, still heavy with grief. Jesus had died. The tomb was sealed. From where she stood, it looked like hope had been buried.

But when she arrived—everything had changed.

The stone was rolled away. The grave clothes were left behind. And the tomb? Empty.
Because Jesus wasn’t there—He was alive.

“Woman, why are you crying?” the angels asked. And then Jesus Himself echoed the question, “Who is it you are looking for?” (John 20:13–15)

Oh, friend—how many times have we stood in our sorrow, thinking all was lost, only to find that Jesus had already stepped into the middle of it?

Mary didn’t recognize Him at first, but the moment He said her name? Everything changed.

That’s our Jesus.

He doesn’t just rescue—He calls us by name. He meets us personally in the very place where we thought all hope was gone.

Later in the chapter, we see Jesus appear to the disciples and again to Thomas, who doubted. And what does Jesus do? He shows up. He meets Thomas right in his questioning and offers peace—not punishment.

“Peace be with you… Stop doubting and believe.” (John 20:26–27)

And the best part? This wasn’t just a moment for them. It’s a promise for us.

“Because you have seen Me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” (John 20:29)

That’s me. That’s you.
We didn’t see the empty tomb with our own eyes, but we believe—and that belief leads to life.

Psalm 16:9–11 echoes this same joy:

“Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices; my body also will rest secure… You make known to me the path of life; You will fill me with joy in Your presence, with eternal pleasures at Your right hand.”

Because Jesus lives, so do we.
Because the tomb is empty, our hearts don’t have to be.
Because of the resurrection, we have joy, purpose, and eternity planted deep in our bones.

This is the heartbeat of Easter:
The cross wasn’t the end—it was the beginning.
Hope wasn’t buried—it was rising.
Jesus didn’t stay in the grave—and neither do we.

If your heart feels heavy today, let Easter remind you:
The grave couldn’t hold Him.
Your story isn’t over.
And the same power that raised Jesus from the dead is alive in you.