Today’s Always Uplifting Verse and Devotional to start your day off right!

The Day Hope Came Back

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Romans 15:13 – “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.”

“Enclosed is a check to sponsor one day of Hope. I will be mailing checks to you monthly.”

That is what Susan wrote on the card.

Hope. The word alone brought a lump to her throat.

Hope was her Cocker Spaniel. She had a coat like caramel and eyes that always seemed to understand. For years, she was with Susan for everything. Walks in the early morning. Long afternoons on the porch. The simple parts of life no one else really saw, she was there for them all.

When she passed away in January, she did not know what to do with the stillness. It was more than missing her. It was grief.

For a while, the house felt unfamiliar. She would catch herself looking for Hope and reaching for the leash. Listening for her feet on the floor.

But even in the ache, Susan noticed something. Each morning, she would turn on 88.7 The Cross. And somehow, the words that came through the speakers gave her something she did not know she needed. Not a distraction. Not a fix. Just a reminder that hope still had a place in her story.

Now, by giving she wants to share that same hope with others.

You see, real hope is not sentimental. It is a Person who shows up when life falls apart. He is present on the good days and the bad. His name is Jesus, and if you have known Him in that way, you know He is worth sharing.

Is there someone who needs the same hope that carried you? You may not know their name. But just like Susan, you can still be part of the reason they keep going.

Will you give today so someone else can experience the same hope Susan found?

Your gift makes it possible for 88.7 The Cross to be there in the quiet, in the heartache, in the moments that matter most. Just like Susan, someone is listening—grieving, searching, reaching for a reason to keep going.

And your generosity can be the reason they hear exactly what they need.

Give hope. Share Jesus. Sponsor a day—or whatever you can—because real hope is worth passing on.

GIVE NOW!

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Banjo Strings and Blessings

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Colossians 3:14 — “And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.”

There’s a kind of joy you don’t plan for. It just shows up with paper plates and a guitar. That is how it was sitting outside under the pines at one of my family’s old-fashioned pickin’ and grinnins’.

I was across the table from Uncle Benny. He was working his way through the same question for the fifth a. I kept answering him, because what would be the point in correcting him. Right?

The little ones were darting around barefoot, chasing each other with sticky fingers, dripping popsicle juice everywhere. Someone’s toddler squealed with laughter, and a cousin hollered something about fire ants. If I remember right, a few of the grown-ups rolled their eyes when somebody forgot the ice. Bless it.

The heat was doing what Southern heat does. I kept swatting mosquitoes and trying to smooth down my hair, but before I could even be bothered, the music started.

One by one, a guitar, a banjo, and eventually a karaoke machine made their way out. People gathered near the porch, clapping and singing—some on key, some not even close. It was wonderful.

I couldn’t tell you what we ate that day, probably hot dogs and potato salad, but I remember the sound of my aunt’s laugh. I remember the cold bite of watermelon, and I remember feeling so full, not from food, but from the people around me.

When I think of those “pickin’ and grinnin’” days, my heart aches a little in that sweet way. I want to go back. I want to relive the moments where everything else fell away and all that mattered were the people right in front of me.

So, today, I’m choosing to live like every day is a pickin’ and grinnin’. I won’t wait for the weather to be perfect or for someone else to bring the ice. I want to bring my own glad heart, be interruptible, laugh, and sing off-key.

There’s a lawn chair waiting. Maybe you’d like to join me?

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What Faith Sounds Like in the Dark

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Psalms 119:50 — This is my comfort in my affliction, that your promise gives me life.

No one talks about the silence after a funeral. It is the kind that wraps around your ribcage and squeezes, the kind that makes you forget how to pray.

After TobyMac’s son, Truett, died from an accidental overdose, he knew people meant well. They quoted verses and reminded him of Heaven, but they hadn’t buried their sons. They hadn’t sat on their child’s bed, with sheets still rumpled, wondering how the world could possibly go on.

There was no song to sing. No words were big enough, and no melody was brave enough. The truth was simple and terrible: his son had died, and no amount of faith could make this less awful.

Weeks passed. Then months. And when he finally walked into his first writing session since it all fell apart, he wasn’t sure why he was there. He still felt hollow.

But something happened in that room. He sat down with a few chords, a few unfinished thoughts. What poured out wasn’t polished or planned. It was raw and quiet—an ache turned into lyrics. And the song that came to life that day was called “Faithfully.”

He wrote it because he needed to. He needed a reminder of what he believed… even when he didn’t feel it.

“But when my world broke into pieces
You were there faithfully
When I cried out to You, Jesus
You made a way for me
I may never be the same man
But I’m a man who still believes
When I cried out to You, Jesus
You were there faithfully”

As the song played back, he let the tears fall. That’s when he knew. This was a gift. Not a fix, not an answer—just a lifeline. A melody for the midnight hour. He hadn’t expected “Faithfully” to become the anchor he’d need, but God did.

And maybe you’re in a place like that now. Gutted. Like your world doesn’t make sense. Like God is a million miles away. If so, let this be a hand on your shoulder.

The truth is, God loves you. And He is still holding on. Faithfully.

This is what Toby discovered in that dark stretch of road. Not all prayers get answers. Not all stories get neat endings. But even then, God is good. He won’t abandon you in your pain. If that’s all you can hold onto right now, believe me, that’s enough.

Lyrics:
It’s been a long year; it almost took me down I swear
Life was so good, I’m not so sure we knew what we had
I’ll never be the same man, I’ll never feel like I felt before
It’s been a hard year, it almost took me down

But when we my world broke into pieces
You were there faithfully
When I cried out to you Jesus
You made a way for me

I may never be the same man
But I’m a man who still believes
When I cried out to you Jesus
You were there faithfully

I’ve had a hard time, finding the blue in the skies above me
And if I’m keeping it real, I’ve been half fakin’ the happy they see
I may look like the same man, but I’m half the man I was
It’s been a hard year it almost took me down

In my darkest hour, You met me
So quietly, so gently
You said You’d never leave, and You stood by Your word

So quietly, so gently
In all my pain, You met me
You said You’d never leave, and You stood by Your word

Songwriters: Kyle Williams / Toby McKeehan

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Lessons From a Cast Iron Skillet

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Ephesians 6:2-3 — “Honor your father and mother (this is the first commandment with a promise), that it may go well with you and that you may live long in the land.”

I was standing at the stove last night, stirring a pot, when it hit me like a freight train wrapped in butter and memory. Food is my love language, you see, and it took me back.

Daddy used to come home after long days working the fields in Tallulah. He would be covered in dust and sweat and still manage to whip up the best meal you ever had. He could tickle your taste buds and your funny bone, all in one sitting. Especially with his scrambled eggs.

Saturday mornings, he would make a batch so creamy and seasoned just right, they practically melted on your tongue. They weren’t dry and crumbly like most folks make. No, these were something special, and if you were lucky, he would crack a joke while he was cracking the eggs.

I did not care one bit about learning to cook back then. I was a tomboy, all elbows and skinned knees, with no interest in the stove, but I never missed a meal. Not once. Now, years later, I find myself standing in a kitchen, doing the very thing I once ran from. Somewhere between the recipe cards and the frying pans, I came full circle.

Billy Ray Arender is not here anymore, and if this daddy’s girl could walk into that kitchen again and ask him what he was cooking, I would, a hundred times over. But I can’t. So, I like to cook. I try to remember him and honor his memory.

See, in the Bible, the fifth commandment doesn’t just ask us to obey our parents when we’re young. It teaches us to honor them with our whole lives.

If you’re still blessed to have your parents or grandparents, treasure that gift. Sit with them. Learn from them. Ask them the things you will want to remember, and if they’re already gone, honor them by how you live, how you love, and how you carry their legacy forward—one quiet, everyday moment at a time.

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When Someone Believes in You

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Hebrews 10:24 – “And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works.”

It’s in the pages of the Bible that readers first meet Mordecai—a man living in a foreign land, carrying the weight of his people’s survival on his shoulders.

He didn’t set out to raise a warrior, nor did he expect to shape royalty. All he knew was that Esther needed a home. She was his cousin by blood, a fellow Jew in Persia—exiles in a kingdom that was never truly theirs. After her parents died, he took her in, gave her a place at his table, and called her his own.

The young Jewish girl grew up with questions—about God, about suffering, about why other girls had parents to tuck them in at night and she didn’t. Mordecai did not always have the answers, but he listened. He told her what he knew to be true: that she was not forgotten, that she was made with purpose, and that her life would matter, even when it didn’t feel like it did.

Then came the day they called for all the young women. The king was looking for a new queen. And Esther—his Esther—was taken.

Mordecai could not stop it. He could not follow her inside. All he could do was pace the outer court and pray she would remember who she was when the world tried to tell her otherwise. And she did.

She remembered.

When the fate of their people hung in the balance, Esther stood before the king as a woman of courage. Every day, Mordecai stood right outside the gate so she would know she wasn’t alone. He stayed because he had seen too many young people lose their way, and he refused to let her be one of them.

And I think that is why this story matters.

Because every one of us—father figures, mom, mentors, and friends—carries a voice that shapes identity. Do not underestimate the strength it takes to stay, to believe, and to remind someone of who they truly are when the world tries to define them otherwise.

This Father’s Day, whether by birth or by choice, may we all remember the power of showing up. One day, those we’ve poured into will stand tall, and it will be our steady love that helped them rise.

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Loved. Seen. Protected.

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2 Corinthians 6:18 — “And I will be a father to you, and you shall be sons and daughters to me,” Says the Lord Almighty.

I was just trying to make it home before the storm started. The clouds were piling higher and darker by the minute when my phone rang. I didn’t have to look. I knew who it was.

“Hey,” my dad said. “Have you seen the forecast?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “It’s not looking great.”

“You fill up your gas tank today?”

There it was. Classic Dad. I’m a grown woman with bills, a job, and a baby of my own, but to my dad, I am still his kid. So, he still asks.

And I love that he does.

We talked for a few minutes, just the usual back-and-forth, but there’s something about being on the other end of that call that always steadies me. It makes me feel seen. Protected. Still someone’s daughter.

As we were wrapping up, he said, “Hey, check your glove box when you stop. Left something in there for you last week.”

I was curious. At the next light, I popped it open.

A flashlight. With fresh batteries.

I just stared at it for a second. It was such a dad thing to do.

And it said more than he realized.

Because the truth is, my dad is still fathering me—showing up, checking in, and thinking ahead. And somehow, that flashlight made me feel like I wasn’t alone in the dark.

It also reminded me why I’ve never struggled to believe in a God who loves me…because I’ve seen it modeled my whole life.

Not everybody gets a dad like mine. I know that, but the truth is—everybody does have a Father like that. The Bible tells us that this is the kind of Father God is. He is steady, present, protective, and intentional.

He is the kind of father who checks on you when the skies grow dark. He is the kind that prepares what you need before the storm even hits.

God doesn’t just claim the title of Father. He lives it. Even in this very moment—for you—and He is in it for the long haul.

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Never Stop Planting Seeds

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Galatians 6:9 – “And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.”

Jonathan always thought his grandpa saw too much. Maybe it was age, or maybe it was wisdom, but he could read right through him…especially when Jonathan was unraveling.

It had been a rough stretch. One bad decision turned into ten. He was barely staying afloat. Jonathan hated how weak that made him feel, but Grandpa never scolded or lectured. He just kept calling and kept showing up.

Then came the call: “You think you could take me to Bible study tonight? My night vision is not what it used to be.”

That night, when they pulled into the church parking lot, Jonathan left the car running and began scrolling on his phone, but Grandpa surprised him.

“You can come in, if you want. Up to you.”

There was no pressure. No lecture. There was just a door left open.

Inside, Jonathan didn’t find pews or perfect people. He found men like him telling their real stories, real pain, and real hope. No one tried to clean him up. They just thanked God for the hope they had found.

By the end of the night, Jonathan realized: Grandpa had played him. The whole “I can’t drive at night” thing was a setup.

Grandpa had spent years planting seeds: cooking breakfast, praying when Jonathan didn’t know it, holding steady when everything else shook. This was just another seed planted, but it landed deep.

And Jonathan did not walk away the same. He didn’t become perfect overnight, but he did start to heal as he invited Jesus into His life.

Years later, Jonathan still remembers the sly grin Grandpa gave him after that night. He knew what he was doing. But what stuck most was not the trick. It was the love behind it. The patience. The years of small things that added up.

Maybe someone has done that for you, or maybe you are the one doing it for someone else.

Keep going.

Your steady prayers and faithfulness matter more than you know. You may not see the change yet, but God sees. And He is not finished.

So, keep planting. God brings the growth. Always.

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My Name Is Son

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1 John 3:1 – “See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are.”

They say you can’t miss what you never had, but that’s not true. I missed my dad—even when he was standing in the same room.

I grew up on a dairy farm in southern Vermont. We worked hard. We didn’t talk much. My dad was a man of few words, and I spent most of my boyhood trying to earn one of them. I just wanted to hear that he was proud of me. That I was enough.

But silence echoed louder than any shout.

By the time I was a teenager, the ache in my chest had a name: not good enough. And I learned how to quiet it. First with small lies. Then with alcohol. Then cocaine. Numb was better than nothing. High was easier than hurt.

I wasn’t chasing a thrill. I was running from the boy who never heard the words he needed most.

From the outside, I was the life of the party. Inside, I was unraveling.

Things got dark fast. Addiction doesn’t care if you’re from a good home. It doesn’t care if your mama prayed for you. It just takes. I was burning bridges with everyone I loved, and I didn’t care. I didn’t want to feel anything anymore.

Then came 2017.

My best friend—my anchor, really—died of a heroin overdose. I remember standing at his funeral, heart cracked open, wondering how I’d made it out alive when he didn’t. That was my rock bottom.

I wanted more. I needed more, and I reached for God. It was not with clean hands or a perfect prayer but with honest weakness. To my surprise, He met me there with the kind of love I had tried to earn my whole life.

I love you. I’m proud of you. You’re my son.

It undid me. I wasn’t the addict. I wasn’t the disappointment. I wasn’t just my dad’s silence or my worst mistake. I had a new name now. A new identity. Son.

That word changed everything.

I started writing songs, not for radio play or applause, but because I needed to speak the truth out loud—about pain, about healing, about God. Every time I write, I remember what freedom feels like. And I want others to know it too.

Because here’s the truth: no matter what your dad did or didn’t say, you already have a Father who loves you. He’s not ashamed of you. He’s not withholding anything. And He’s not going anywhere.

You’re not forgotten. You’re not too far gone.

Your name is Daughter. Your name is Son.

— Ben Fuller

 

Who I Am

I stand in front the mirror, But I don’t like who’s looking back at me
Wish I could see things clearer, like who I’m supposed to be
In every trial, lift me higher
Through the fire, hold me tighter
Remind me again, I was made for more

Who I am in the eyes of the Father, Who I am His love set free
Who I was I left at the altar, I am Yours Lord, I believe

It’s who I am – I’m a child of the most-high God and the most-high God’s for me
It’s who I am – I’m a child of the most-high God and the most-high God’s for me

Everything has been changing, You haven’t left a stone unturned
Anything I’ve been facing, I’ll keep standing on Your word
In the water, take me under
Fill my lungs to, to speak Your wonder
You brought me of the darkness, I was made for more

Who I am in the eyes of the father, Who I am His love set free
Who I was I left at the altar, I am Yours Lord I believe

It’s who I am – I’m a child of the most-high God and the most-high God’s for me
It’s who I am – I’m a child of the most-high God and the most-high God’s for me

You gave up everything, for me to have everything
For all of eternity, a song in my lungs to sing

I’m a child of the most-high God and the most-high God’s for me
I’m a child of the most-high God and the most-high God’s for me

Songwriters: Ben Fuller, David Spencer, Krystal Polychronis

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God Likes Being With You

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Galatians 3:26 – “For in Christ Jesus you are all sons of God, through faith.”

Somewhere between the smell of old books and the taste of chocolate ice cream, I learned what love looked like.

I don’t remember when it started, but every Thursday belonged to Dad and me. We’d head to the library first. That old building was nothing fancy, but it felt magical.

The children’s room had this mural of Christopher Robin and Pooh Bear sitting under a tree. There, I would lose myself in books with talking animals and far-off lands while Dad read the paper.

I never once felt rushed there. If anything, it felt like the clock slowed down.

Afterwards, Dad and I would sneak off to the ice cream parlor. Two scoops each. Ever the health enthusiast, Mom was a total health nut, always filling our plates with greens and grains—but come Thursday, we staged our deliciously sweet rebellion.

As the years passed and teenage freedoms called, Thursdays still belonged to the two of us. Even when I started driving, I would rush home after school, knowing Dad would be there waiting.

Family, maybe that’s how God thinks of you, too. He is a good father after all.

Not because you perform well. Not because you pray the right way or check the right boxes. But because you are His. Because He made you. Because it brings Him joy just to be near you.

Maybe all He wants today is to be with you. No agendas. No pressure. Just His quiet, steady presence, like a dad who shows up every Thursday because he loves his kid.

But the dessert He’s bringing isn’t ice cream—it’s delight. That’s what He offers you now, Dear One. Unhurried love and the sweetness of being wanted.

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Breathe In His Presence

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2 Corinthians 3:17 “Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.”

If you had asked her, Marie would’ve said she was a wife, a friend, and a worship leader, maybe. But not a songwriter, and certainly not anyone famous.

She felt more at home in ballet studios and church pews than anywhere else. Her days were spent teaching dance, folding laundry, and loving people. Her ministry happened in bare feet and ballet mirrors. Quiet, hidden, holy.

Then came the phone call that changed everything.

Her mentor—a man she cared deeply about, who had once come to church with her— died by suicide. He left behind a note asking Marie to take over the dance studio. No warning. Just grief. And a heavy set of keys.

There was no manual for that kind of loss. No training for how to carry someone else’s legacy when your own knees feel weak beneath you. But Marie kept showing up.

She kept teaching. Pliés in the morning, worship services on Sundays, prayer when she had the words—and when she didn’t, she just whispered the name of Jesus. She didn’t need a spotlight to serve. She just needed space to breathe.

One Sunday night at the Mission Viejo Vineyard in Southern California, there was no plan—no printed setlist. Just Marie and her husband, John, leading worship as they’d done so many times before. They had just finished singing Isn’t He by John Wimber. John kept playing quietly, and in the stillness of that moment, something welled up in Marie’s spirit. It wasn’t rehearsed. It wasn’t planned.

It was just raw worship.

“This is the air I breathe
This is the air I breathe
Your holy presence
Living in me…
And I, I’m desperate for you
And I, I’m lost without you”

The congregation joined in, as if the words had been waiting in their hearts too. And even though Marie had sung spontaneous songs before, something about this one was different. People kept singing it—at home, in the car, in the grocery store. And they told her so.

The song, Breathe, soon became a regular part of their church’s worship. It brought many to tears. Even Marie could hardly get through it herself. “I think the word desperate digs deep into me,” she later said. “The longer I’m a Christian, the more desperate I am for God.”

They recorded the song for Vineyard—just another quiet offering during a season of raw worship. “We recorded the song for Vineyard, and then nothing happened,” Marie would later say. “Not that I thought anything about it, because, to me, it was just a neat thing the Lord gave to our church.”

Five years passed.

Then worship leader Brian Doerksen reached out, asking to include Breathe on Vineyard’s Hungry project. From there, the song quietly began to travel. Michael W. Smith recorded it on his 2001 album Worship. Rebecca St. James followed. But even as it began to echo through churches and concerts around the world, Marie stayed grounded in what it had always been: a prayer whispered in desperation, not a platform.

So when she was driving one day and heard Breathe playing on the radio, it wasn’t excitement that overtook her—it was awe. She pulled the car over, buried her face in her hands, and wept.

Because somehow—somehow—God had taken her lowest moment, her heartbreak, her whispered worship, and turned it into healing for strangers she’d never meet.

How could God take so much pain and breathe hope through it into kitchens and traffic jams and hospital waiting rooms? But He did. He always does. He fills the cracks and carries what we can’t.

Sometimes the Holy Spirit shows up like wind and fire. But more often, He’s as close as breath in our lungs. He doesn’t wait for us to be strong—He fills the places where we’re trembling and somehow gives us the strength to dance again.

Take a deep breath today. Let it remind you that you are not alone. Even when you’re weak, He is near—and that is more than enough.

— Inspired by the story of Marie Barnett

L Y R I C S:

This is the air I breathe
This is the air I breathe
Your Holy Presence
Living in me

This is my daily bread
This is my daily bread
Your very Word
Spoken to me

And I, I’m desperate for you
And I, I’m lost without you

Written by: Marie Barnett
Copyright © 1995 Mercy/Vineyard Songs (ASCAP) (adm at IntegratedRights.com) CCLI#1874117

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