E. Stanley Jones keeps the spotlight clear. Fullness of life is found in Jesus, not beside Him, not beyond Him. He pushes back on every shortcut that tries to bypass the Incarnation. God did not stay distant. The Word became flesh. In Jesus, the fullness of Deity lives bodily, and in Him we are brought to fullness. That means our real lives, minds and bodies and relationships, can be gathered into one center and made alive.

E. Stanley Jones takes us by the hand and points to a wonder. In Jesus, the whole fullness of Deity lives in a human body. Not once upon a time for a moment, but present tense, dwells. God did not flirt with matter, He embraced it. The incarnation does not despise bodies, meals, work, or relationships. It redeems them. It gives them a future and a goal.

Sabbath is not a rule to trip us. It is God sharing His own rest. Andrew Murray helps us see it with fresh eyes. In creation, God finished His work, then He rested, and He blessed that day. He invited humanity into His rest so we would enjoy His love, not strive for His approval. Rest with God, then work from God, that is the pattern.

Elijah did not schedule his departure. He did not extend his lease on life by personal authority. Scripture simply says that the Lord would take Elijah to heaven by a whirlwind. Today’s reading reminds me tenderly that our times are in God’s hands. We live as stewards, not landlords. That truth does not shrink life. It steadies it.

There is a difference between holding love and letting it flow.

I used to live like a reservoir. I wanted to love well, so I gathered everything I could—patience, kindness, forgiveness, endurance—and stored it like water behind a dam. But when life demanded more than I could give, levels dropped. The cracks showed. I felt the emptiness that comes from loving in my own strength.

The Holy Spirit is not a distant promise we keep trying to pull down. Peter’s proclamation in Acts is simple. Turn to Jesus, receive forgiveness in His name, and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. Evan Roberts presses this home like a friend at the kitchen table. We would not ask the Father to send the Son again while Jesus was standing right beside us. In the same way, we do not beg for the Spirit to come when He has already been given.

The sky tears open. Rain falls like nails on the earth. I once heard U2’s Bullet the Blue Sky as the sound of my own ache—howling wind, stinging rain, a city groaning through thin walls. The Edge’s guitar stretched a line of pain across the horizon, and Bono’s voice carried it like a lament. I thought the song was only protest. Then I learned to live from Christ within, and I heard a second layer. The same storm became a prayer.

Some thoughts lift us. Some thoughts drain us. The psalmist said he hated vain thoughts, then added that he loved God’s law. C. H. Mackintosh takes that contrast and walks it right into our Monday minds. He does not shame the believer for being tempted by mental noise. He simply points to a better way.

Some days the race of faith feels simple. Other days it feels like we are sprinting in a winter coat with pockets full of keys. Today’s page helps us name why. Stephen Kaung reminds us that there are sins to lay aside, and there are also weights that are lawful and respectable, yet heavy. They are not evil in themselves, but they slow the soul.

Rahab’s story reads like a window thrown open to the future. Her house sat on Jericho’s wall, yet her gaze turned away from the city’s noise and toward a coming rescue. She trusted the God of Israel, tied a scarlet cord in her window, and waited. Ordinary rope. Bold faith. A sign that said, I belong to the Lord when He comes.

Zacchaeus did not bargain with Jesus. Grace visited his house, and something new sprang up inside him. He stood and said he would give and repay. Not to earn a place at the table. Because the Lord had already brought salvation home. Today’s page reminds me that restitution is not a side topic. It is what love looks like when the Spirit turns us toward the people we have wronged.

Blessed are the forgiven. Psalm 32 sings it softly, then strong. Today’s page from His Victorious Indwelling reminds me that drawing others to the Lord does not begin with a sales pitch. It begins with the quiet joy of communion. Bellett says our influence rests on our own fellowship with the Lord. That lands simply. People notice when a heart is at rest in Jesus.

Prayer is not a performance. It is an adjustment of the heart to the will of God. That is how T. Austin-Sparks guides us today from James 5:16. He reminds us that our prayer moments are not for polishing ourselves by effort. They are God’s gracious invitations to align with His heart in honest confession, quiet surrender, and thankful worship.

Paul’s words land like a clear morning after rain. All things are yours, life and death, the present and the future, because you belong to Jesus, and Jesus belongs to the Father. Ray Stedman lifts our chin to see the horizon that grace opens. Not a cramped life spent guarding our little pile, but a wide country where sons and daughters walk with the Giver Himself.

Grace grows where faith leans. That is the simple thread running through Habakkuk 2:4 and Romans 1:16-17. The righteous live by faith. Paul says the good news about Jesus is God’s power to rescue anyone who believes, and in that gospel the righteousness of God is revealed from faith to faith. Bob Hoekstra draws the line clearly. Pride stands on self. Faith leans into the Lord. Grace flows where we stop carrying ourselves and begin trusting Jesus to carry us.

Jesus met fearful disciples on the first day of the week. Doors were locked. Hearts were tense. He came and stood among them with peace, then He said it again, peace. Simpson draws our eyes to that repeated blessing. There is the great settling of being reconciled to God through Jesus. Then there is the steadying quiet of His own peace flowing within us for the work He entrusts to us.

Oswald Chambers reminds us that there are things we simply cannot do. We cannot save ourselves. We cannot sanctify ourselves. We cannot purify what is unclean or make straight what has been bent by sin. That is the finished work of God through Jesus. The question he presses is simple. Do we live from what God has already accomplished, or do we keep trying to manufacture what only grace can give?

Grace sets the table. Today’s reading from Miles Stanford reminds us that the Father has placed us in His Beloved Son, and from that secure place He means for our hearts to finally rest. We are not inching our way into favor. We are carried there by grace and welcomed as family.

When I wrote, “Have you ever loved so hard you began to disappear?” while presenting my YouTube video on Janis Joplin’s Piece of My Heart, I was giving words to a particular kind of ache. Not the holy surrender that blossoms in Christ, but the approval-seeking love that drains the soul. The song captures it perfectly. Take another little piece of my heart now, baby. Give a little more. Maybe then I will be enough.

There’s a raw honesty in Janis Joplin’s voice that few singers have ever matched. When she pleads, “Didn’t I make you feel like you were the only man?” it isn’t a performance—it’s confession. Every line of Piece of My Heart throbs with the pain of someone who has given everything to be loved, only to find herself emptier than before.