But we must be honest: defending our rights will never give us our heart’s deepest desire. No court ruling will cause America to honor God. No legal victory will cause His truth to stand in a nation that no longer wants it. Courts can protect space for the church to exist, but they cannot give the church power. They may restrain evil for a season, but they cannot produce repentance, revival, or obedience to God.

The danger comes when the church begins to believe that righteousness can be secured through law rather than lived through surrender to the One who holds our future. The enemy is content to let us win arguments if it keeps us from winning hearts. He does not fear a church that is loud in courtrooms but quiet in prayer. James Madison understood this when he wrote, “We have staked the whole future of American civilization, not upon the power of government, but upon the capacity of each of us to govern ourselves.” Without moral and spiritual self-governance, no system of law can hold.

The court that ultimately shapes a nation is not the Supreme Court, but the throne room of God. His judgments are eternal. His truth does not bend with culture, elections, or public opinion. When the church prays instead of postures, repents instead of reacts, and lives under God’s authority rather than demanding the world submit to it, God is honored—and only then does His truth stand.

Yes, we must defend our rights. But we must never place our hope in them. Our hope is not that judges will rule rightly, but that God would rule in our hearts, and through transformed lives bring light to a darkened nation. Laws may restrain evil for a time, but only God can redeem a people.

Ecclesiastes presses hard against that way of living and reminds me that wisdom is not formed in noise. We live in a culture that thrives on speed and reaction, yet a good life has always required something deeper and more enduring. Abraham Lincoln captured this truth simply when he said, “In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.” Looking back, I can see how easily outside events can steal attention, joy, and perspective when they are allowed to set the pace.

That is why 2026 calls for a different way of living. Not louder, faster, or more demanding—but quieter, steadier, and more grounded. Slowing down matters, but not because stillness itself produces a great life. A quieter pace only has value if it creates space for what truly matters. Tim Keller put it this way: “If you live for anything besides Jesus, it will demand everything from you and give nothing back.” If my life slows down but remains centered on myself, I have gained nothing.

A truly good life is not found in calm, balance, or simplicity alone. It is found in knowing Jesus Christ and living in a way that brings glory to Him. Slowing down is not the goal; surrender is. Clarity does not come merely from fewer distractions, but from a heart rightly ordered toward Christ.

A good life in 2026 will not be found in having more opinions, more possessions, or more certainty. It will be found in seeing clearly who Jesus is, accepting our limits, and ordering our days around His will rather than our own urgency. The world will continue to shout, divide, and demand our reaction, but we do not have to follow its pace. A quiet life centered on Christ may look smaller to the world, but it brings glory to God—and in the end, that is the only life that truly lasts.

One of those truths is simple and unavoidable: death is part of life. I don’t say that to bring sadness, but to speak honestly. Scripture tells us there is a time to be born and a time to die. From the moment we are born, we begin moving toward an appointed day. This past year reminded us of that again. The young and the old, the well-known and the unknown—lives ended, stories closed, and the world kept moving forward.

Yet death is not the end of the story. It is only a doorway.

The body grows weak and returns to dust, but the soul never dies. God has set eternity in the human heart, and what we do with Jesus Christ determines where that eternity will be spent. Jesus spoke without hesitation or fear when He said that He is the resurrection and the life, and that whoever believes in Him will live even though they die. That truth changes how we see everything. Fear loosens its grip, loss finds meaning, and hope begins to rise where uncertainty once lived.

As I’ve grown older, these truths have become clearer—not heavier. When I was young, life was about goals, schedules, and getting ahead. I measured days by accomplishment and progress. I still carry some of that drive, but something shifted this past year. I’ve slowed enough to notice more—the people around me, the quiet conversations, the beauty in ordinary moments, and the small mercies I once rushed past without seeing.

When I was young, death felt distant and unreal. In my twenties, I began thinking ahead, wondering what my life might become. By my forties, life settled into routine—working, providing, and looking forward to weekends, vacations, and holidays. Now, in this later season, my thoughts have shifted again. I think less about career and more about character, less about success and more about meaning, less about making a living and more about how a life is lived.

Moses prayed that God would teach us to number our days so that we might gain a heart of wisdom. That prayer carries weight, because wisdom comes when we understand that time is short, but eternity is long, and that our days are meant to prepare us for what lasts forever.

C.S. Lewis once wrote that if we aim at heaven, we get earth thrown in, but if we aim only at earth, we get neither. Knowing Christ gives life its true direction. Death no longer has the final word—hope does.

That is why this reflection does not end in sorrow, but in peace. The grave is not our destination. Jesus is. And because He lives, so shall we.

That is why I write—just some thoughts. Not because I have all the answers, but because each passing year helps me see more clearly what truly matters, and where real joy is found.

Habakkuk is watching his nation come apart. He sees violence in the streets, corruption in leadership, and justice twisted until it no longer resembles justice at all. Laws exist, but they no longer protect what is right. Truth is shouted down, arguments never end, and the righteous feel outnumbered and unheard. Everywhere he looks there is conflict—people angry, divided, and unwilling to listen. Habakkuk does not soften his words. He looks at God and asks how long this can go on, why evil seems unchecked, and why misery appears to be winning. It sounds uncomfortably close to the world we wake up to every day—headlines filled with outrage, neighbors divided, families fractured by politics and ideology, violence normalized, and justice questioned depending on who you are or where you stand.

Moses, in Numbers 20, is facing a different angle of the same storm. He is not watching society unravel from a distance—he is carrying it on his shoulders. His sister Miriam has just died, a loss deeply personal and impossible to separate from his calling. She was there at the beginning, watching over him as a baby, helping shape the course of his life. Before he can grieve, Moses is surrounded by nearly two million exhausted, frightened, and angry people. They are thirsty, uncomfortable, and nostalgic for a past that was never truly good. They complain loudly, accuse freely, and blame Moses for their hardship, even though God has been faithful at every step. The noise never stops. The pressure never lifts. And eventually, Moses absorbs what is around him. His anger boils over, and in one moment, frustration speaks louder than faith. God tells him to speak to the rock—but Moses strikes it instead. Water still flows, but the moment is damaged. The miracle happens, yet the opportunity to honor God fully is lost.

Both men were under immense strain. Both lived in hard times. But their responses took them in very different directions. Habakkuk brought his fear, confusion, and frustration to God and stayed there long enough to be changed. Moses carried the anger of the people until it came out through him.

By the end of his book, Habakkuk has not seen conditions improve. Violence has not vanished. The future is still uncertain. Crops may fail. Fields may sit empty. Livestock may disappear. Yet he makes a decision that redefines everything: even if nothing around him changes, his trust will not move. He declares that he will rejoice in the Lord anyway, that God Himself—not circumstances—will be his strength. The promise does not erase the pain, but it gives it meaning.

We are living in a moment much like theirs. We are surrounded by noise, division, outrage, and constant pressure to react. We are told every day what to fear, who to blame, and why everything is falling apart. It is easy to grow angry, impatient, and sharp-edged. It is easy to let the atmosphere shape our spirit. But as we step into this next year, the question before us is not whether the times will get easier. The question is whether we will respond like Habakkuk—or like Moses in that moment of exhaustion.

This year must bring a change in us. We must decide now that anger will not lead our obedience, that fear will not dictate our faith, and that frustration will not silence our worship. We must settle it in our hearts that even if the news remains troubling, even if the culture grows louder and harsher, even if answers are slow in coming, we will stand firm.

Habakkuk teaches us that faith is not denial—it is defiance. It looks at reality and still chooses God. As we move forward, let our declaration be clear and settled:

Even though the world shakes, we will rejoice.

Even though answers delay, we will remain faithful.

Even though the times are hard, the Lord is our strength.

And that is where fear often enters—the fear of the unknown. We fear what we cannot see, cannot control, and cannot prepare for. If God were to reveal every hardship ahead of time, how many of us would still accept His promises? Yet what is unknown to us is never unknown to Him. The road that troubles us has already been fully known by the Lord who made the promise.

It is in the long, difficult stretches of the journey that faith is tested and refined. The waiting wears on. Strength feels thin. Opposition increases. We begin to wonder if we misheard God altogether. “I can’t keep going,” we think. “Everything is against me.” Yet it is often in these seasons—when the future feels uncertain—that the presence of God becomes most real.

Many give up just before the promise—not because God failed, but because the weight of the journey became too heavy. But Scripture reminds us, “When I am afraid, I will trust in You” (Psalm 56:3). Fear does not cancel the promise; it prepares us for it.

When God’s promises are finally fulfilled, the trials of the journey lose their power. What once felt unbearable becomes understandable. The delays, the battles, and the pain are no longer wasted—they are redeemed. The promise does not erase the journey; it explains it. Looking back, we often see that what nearly broke us was the very thing God used to shape us for what He promised.

The promise rests securely in God’s hands. My responsibility is to remain there—not to step out by trying to accomplish His will through my own strength. I often tell my family, “You can measure a person by what it takes to stop them.” The journey reveals endurance, but the promise reveals God’s faithfulness.

As we move into the future, do not be afraid of the road ahead. The Lord already stands at the end of it. When you arrive, you will see that every trial served a purpose and every delay carried meaning. The fulfillment of God’s promise will outweigh every hardship you faced along the way.

As C.S. Lewis said, “Hardships often prepare ordinary people for an extraordinary destiny.”

So stand firm. Stay faithful. Keep walking—even when the path is unclear. Do not be overcome. Be an overcomer.

I HAVE HAD ENOUGH.

Health care in America is too expensive because no one tells the truth about what things really cost. Hospitals, drug companies, insurance companies, and intermediaries all make deals behind closed doors. Patients do not see the prices. Insurance pays the bill. The government fills the gaps. Because the real cost is hidden, prices keep going up and no one is held accountable.

Before the Affordable Care Act, health care was cheaper but dangerous. People could lose insurance when they got sick or be denied coverage. The law fixed that unfairness, but it did not make health care cheaper. It only spread the excessive costs around and used government help to hide them. The question no one answered was simple: why does this cost so much?

Prescription drugs make the problem obvious. The same medicine often costs far less in other countries than it does here. Those countries demand clear prices and fair negotiations. In America, drug prices are hidden behind insurance contracts and intermediaries. We pay more not because the medicine costs more to make, but because the system allows it.

Illegal immigration added pressure in some areas because hospitals must treat everyone in emergency rooms, even when care is not paid for. Those unpaid bills get passed on to working families. Then the Covid pandemic hit. Hospitals lost workers, costs exploded, and the government poured in emergency money to keep the system alive. That help was needed, but it hid the real cost. When the money stopped, the high prices stayed.

This did not happen overnight. It happened because prices were hidden, oversight was weak, and every problem was solved by throwing more money at it instead of fixing the cost.

The solution is simple. Turn the lights on.

Every hospital, drug company, insurance company, pharmacy, and intermediary must publicly show what things really cost, what they charge, and how much profit they make. This must be done every three months so everyone can see it. Drug companies must also show what the same drugs cost in other countries.

If a drug is cheaper in another country, insurance companies should be required to pay no more than that lower price here, plus a fair amount to operate. They should not be allowed to pay inflated prices when the truth is already known.

If any company lies or hides the numbers, there should be heavy fines, loss of licenses, and removal from government programs. Lying should cost more than telling the truth. This does not mean the government runs health care. It means honesty is required.

As one American put it, “If you want my money, you should have to show me the bill.”

Christmas is not a gentle legend or a comforting tradition—it is a divine rescue mission.

Jesus says, “I am alive. My birth was a great day, but I was born for a purpose. I was born to suffer, to die for the sins of the world, and to rise again so that sin could be forgiven and death could be conquered. Why is it so hard to believe what the prophets clearly declared in the Scriptures—that I would suffer before entering glory?”

From the very beginning, His coming was foretold. The cradle pointed to the cross. The wood of the manger foreshadowed the wood of the cross. The child wrapped in swaddling cloths would one day be wrapped in burial linens—and the grave would not be able to hold Him.

Today, hearts are gripped by fear, confusion, and despair because so many do not know Jesus. They do not know that He loves them. They do not know that forgiveness is real, that mercy is offered freely, and that eternal life is not earned—but given.

Yet the truth remains: He is alive.

He has conquered sin.

He has defeated death.

And He offers peace that the world cannot give.

If you receive His gift, your sins are forgiven.

If you know Him, fear loses its power.

If you trust Him, your heart will be filled with joy, wonder, and an unshakable hope that reaches beyond this life into eternity.

This is the true story of Christmas.

And it changes everything.

Somewhere along that road, I asked my son a question that has followed me for years: Will God ever give you more than you can bear?

We believe many of the same things and see the world much the same way, so this was not an argument. It was an honest search for truth. In the church today, there seem to be two ideas. One says God will never give you more than you can handle. The other says God often gives you more than you can handle so that you will learn to rely on Him. As I thought through that question, several men from Scripture came to mind.

First was Moses. For forty years, he lived as a prince in Egypt. He had power, education, and comfort. Then everything changed. He fled into the desert, running for his life, unsure where he was going or what lay ahead. Yet it was there, over another forty years, that God shaped him. The desert did not break Moses; it prepared him to lead a nation out of slavery and into freedom.

Then I thought of Joseph. As a young man, he was favored and full of dreams. Within a short time, he was betrayed, sold into slavery, falsely accused, and forgotten in prison. None of it seemed fair. Yet those years formed his character and prepared him to stand before Pharaoh and govern Egypt. What Joseph could not bear alone, God carried him through.

David came next. He was anointed king while still a shepherd, but the throne did not come quickly. Instead, David spent years hiding in caves, running for his life. God used the wilderness to shape his heart before placing a crown on his head.

Then there was Peter. A fisherman with strong hands and bold confidence. He followed Jesus closely yet denied Him when fear took hold. That failure crushed him. But it did not end him. God used it to humble him, strengthen him, and prepare him to become a pillar of the early church.

When I look at these men, the answer becomes clear. God knows exactly how much we can bear. He knows us better than we know ourselves. What feels like too much to us is never too much to Him.

God is not trying to overwhelm us. He is teaching us. He allows difficult seasons, so we learn to lean on Him. He allows weakness so we discover where real strength comes from. Scripture says, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Cor 12:9).

Every challenge becomes a lesson. Every heavy moment has a purpose. God is shaping us, growing us, and preparing us for what lies ahead—even when we cannot yet see it.

So, when life feels heavy, the question is no longer, “Can I handle this?” The better question is, “What is God teaching me right now?” He is near. He is faithful. And He will carry us through.

Strength does not come from having it all together. Strength is born in weakness.

Those men believed some things were worth more than staying alive. They understood their deaths could give others a future they would never see. Jesus described that kind of sacrifice plainly: “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13).

That thought followed me into a more personal place, because death is no longer an idea to me. It is a reality I live with. I am old now, and I feel how close it is. I notice it in my body, in the slowing down, in the way time feels smaller. I no longer think in years the way I once did. I think in seasons.

Later, I watched another program where two older people spoke quietly about death. There was no fear in their voices, only honesty. They talked about preparation and acceptance. I saw myself in them. Death comes for all of us—slowly or suddenly—but when you reach a certain age, you stop pretending it is far away.

Death hurts the ones left behind. I know that. I have seen empty chairs and quiet rooms. I have watched families change when someone is gone. Nothing replaces a person who is no longer here. Loss is real, and it cuts deep.

It hurts because love was real. Something good is interrupted, not erased.

That is where faith speaks. Jesus said, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in Me will live, even though they die” (John 11:25). Those words do not remove the pain, but they give it meaning. Death is no longer the end of the story. It is a crossing.

I do not walk toward death without fear. But I do walk toward it. And my hope is that when I meet it, I meet it with assurance—not because of who I am, but because of who God is.

I know this may be hard for my loved ones to read. Loss is always hardest for those who remain. I write this out of love, not sadness. I want them to know my heart is settled. I want them to remember that my life has been full, love has been real, and God has been faithful. This is not a message of fear or goodbye, but of peace and trust.

Death is for all of us. No one escapes it. It does not matter who we are, what we have done, or how long we live. Every life comes to the same moment. The only question is not whether we will die, but where our trust rests when that day comes.

Preparation for eternity is found in one place alone: trusting in God. Not good works. Not a good life. Not good intentions. Eternal life is not earned or achieved. It is given to those who place their faith fully in Him. Nothing else prepares us. Nothing else saves us.

D. L. Moody once said, “One day you will read in the papers that D. L. Moody is dead. Don’t you believe a word of it. At that moment I shall be more alive than I am now.” That is the confidence of a life placed fully in God’s hands.

That is why I do not ignore death, and I do not run from it. I walk toward it honestly, knowing this life will end. And I walk with peace, knowing that for those who trust in God alone, death is not the end.

It is the doorway into eternal life with Him.

David understood this, even when it was painful. God had already told David that he would be king, but God did not tell him when. The promise was certain, but the timing was hidden. Before David could wear the crown, he had to learn how to carry it. When danger closed in, David ran to the cave of Adullam. That cave was not a failure of faith. It was preparation.

Men began to gather around him there—men who were in trouble, in debt, and discontented. They were not strong men or successful men. They were broken men. Yet they came because David offered something rare: direction rooted in faith. He did not push them forward with fear or force. He led them by example. He trusted God in the darkness. He waited when shortcuts were available. He obeyed when compromise would have been easier.

A great man leads; he does not push. There is a difference between movement and direction. When you push a car from behind, it may move, but no one is steering. There is effort, but no guidance. When you pull a car from the front, progress may be slower, but there is direction. Someone is guiding where it goes. Leadership works the same way. A great man goes ahead. He sets the pace. He shows the way.

This is why men followed David. Not because he forced them, but because they trusted his direction. Broken men became strong men because they were led with faith, patience, and humility. What began as a cave filled with the wounded became the foundation of a kingdom.

The same truth applies today. Men are under pressure, discouraged, and often told that strength is dangerous and conviction is outdated. They are urged to push harder, move faster, and take shortcuts. God calls men to something different. He calls them to stand firm, walk faithfully, and lead with humility. Direction matters more than speed. Character matters more than recognition.

Scripture reminds us, “The Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart” (1 Sam 16:7). And again, “Humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you at the proper time” (1 Pet 5:6).

Oswald Chambers wrote, “God gives us the vision, then He takes us down into the valley to batter us into the shape of the vision.” That is what the cave did for David, and that is what God still does today.

A great man in God’s eyes is not one who forces outcomes, but one who follows God fully and leads others by example. He allows the cave to refine him, not define him. He waits without quitting, leads without pushing, and trusts God when the timing is unclear.

What the world calls broken, God calls ready.