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

When Your Faith Becomes Real

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Matthew 10:38-39 – “And whoever does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.”

I was in college when I really began to understand, internalize, and digest what it really meant to have my identity rooted in Christ.

The reason why is that I grew up in a strong, church-life kind of family. Scriptures were ingrained in my siblings’ and my whole world. You know, I knew what the Bible said about me because my parents made sure I did.

But it wasn’t until I was out of that protective bubble, and I was around people who were different than me and had different ideologies, philosophies, values, and morals that I had to make my own choices.

Would I let the labels, expectations, and freedoms that others defined for me shape my life? Or would I choose to anchor myself in the unchanging truth of who God says I am?

And let me tell you, I didn’t always get it right. There were stumbles, bumbles, and missteps. But through it all, one thing became crystal clear: God doesn’t have grandchildren.

You don’t inherit faith. You don’t ride on the spiritual coattails of your parents, your church, or your upbringing. You are either His child by your own decision, or you are not.

Though I had been a Christian, I realized that truly living for Christ was a choice I had to make for myself. And once that truth took root in my heart, it changed everything. I discovered in that stage of life my identity as a “Christ-follower”.

That identity in Christ? That has carried me every single day since. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

— Priscilla Shirer

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Faith Is Meant to Move

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“So also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.”

James 2:17

As a baby, talking came easily to me, but I was a bit of a late walker. Believe it or not, I did not start until I was around 15 months old.

Crawling worked just fine for me, so I stuck with it. No amount of motivation from my concerned parents could change that.

That was true until one day I yelled, “Juice, mommy, juice!” My mom hurried into the kitchen as my voice echoed throughout the house. When she turned back, she was shocked to see I had stood up and followed her.

Just like that. No warmups or practicing steps. I just got up and moved.

You see, even at that age, I knew what I wanted, and I was not about to wait around. The truth is, there are some things we should wait for, but there are others we should go after.

I have often heard the advice to “wait on God,” but I have come to realize waiting is more about the posture of my heart than simply sitting still. It is about moving forward with hope and expectancy, trusting that God is guiding me.

Scripture tells us, “Faith without works is dead.” So, as a Christian, I do not want to sit passively and wish upon a star anymore. Instead, I want to actively pursue all God has put in my heart.

So now, when God places something on my heart, I don’t want to overthink it. I don’t want to hesitate. I want to step forward in faith, trusting that He will meet me there.

And I wonder—what about you? What is the thing you have been waiting for? The step you know you need to take? Maybe today is the day you stop waiting and start moving.

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Where You Cannot Be Replaced

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“The beginning of wisdom is this: get wisdom, and whatever you get, get insight.”

Proverbs 4:7

You’ll have to know a little background on my sister, Priscilla. She is a master at saying “no.” And not in a rude way—she just knows that every “yes” costs something. So, she is intentional. She prioritizes what matters most, which means she has to be just as serious about what she turns down.

One day, we were talking, and she said something profound.

She said, “You know, Anthony, when I say no to an event—whether it’s something in an arena somewhere or a women’s conference or Bible study— it is because I know that my voice in that scenario can be replaced.”

“Somebody else can step in and do that,” she continued, “but my voice at my son’s basketball games cheering them on cannot be replaced.”

I had to sit with that for a minute. Wow. That’s crazy, I thought

Because, if I am honest, a lot of us—myself included—are drawn to what looks bigger. We chase the opportunities that seem more important, more influential. We say yes to what shines the brightest, thinking that is where we’re needed the most.

But we miss what actually matters most.

The places where our voice is not just wanted—it is necessary.

So, here is the question: Where is your presence irreplaceable?

Because that’s where you need to be.

— Anthony Evans

 

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Love That Does Not Hold Back

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“Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”

Matthew 18:3

Some moments just make time stand still.

The second I step through the door, I see her. Reese is already on the move, her whole face beaming. Her little feet pound against the floor as she barrels toward me. No hesitation, no fear. Just pure, unfiltered love.

And when my daughter reaches me, she throws her arms around my neck and holds on like she never wants to let go.

I don’t know if she realizes what that does to me.

No matter how long my day has been, no matter how exhausted I feel, that moment always fills me right back up. There’s no earning it, no proving myself—just love, given freely, without hesitation.

And every time, I think: This must be how God feels about us.

It stops me in my tracks. If I, an imperfect mother, can feel this kind of love for her—how much more must my Heavenly Father feel for me? It is a love so deep and so unconditional that the thought almost takes my breath away.

But then another thought follows, and it stings. I don’t always do that with God. How often do I hold back? How often do I let fear, shame, or distraction keep me at arm’s length?

Reese never does that. She does not stop to wonder if she’s loved. She just knows.

And I wonder—what if I lived like that? What if I ran toward God with the same kind of trust, the same confidence, the same joy?

Maybe today is the day I stop hesitating. Maybe today is the day I just run straight into His arms.

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Running Toward Hope

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“He will swallow up death forever; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces, and the reproach of his people he will take away from all the earth, for the Lord has spoken.”

Isaiah 25:8

John was faster. That was clear from the start. He had always been faster. But speed did not matter to me now. My legs burned, my lungs ached, but I could not slow down. The world had turned upside down, and I had to see it for myself.

It had been just before dawn when Mary banged on the door, shaking us from restless sleep. When I flung it open, her face was pale, eyes wide with something between fear and wonder. “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have put him!” The words hit like a fist to my chest.

John and I did not think. We just ran.

Now, as we neared the tomb, I saw John hesitate at the entrance, his breath ragged. I did not stop. I could not. I rushed inside, heart pounding in my ears. And then—stillness.

The stone was rolled away. The tomb was empty. But everything was in order. The grave clothes, neatly folded. Not stolen, not ransacked—arranged with intention. It was as if He had simply awakened and set His bed in place.

John stepped in beside me. Neither of us spoke.

Jesus told us. He told me, “Destroy this temple, and I will raise it again in three days.”

I had been too blind to see it until now.

The grief that had crushed me only moments ago shifted, making way for something else. Something like hope. Real hope—the kind that does not crumble under fear.

Because if He was alive, then everything He said was true. And if everything He said was true, then hope was no longer just a word. It was a person.

And He had done exactly what He said He would do.

This is why Easter matters. Maybe for you it carries grief. Maybe it comes with painful questions? But it is not about traditions or about trying to manufacture joy in the middle of loss. I say this because there is peace for the broken. There is hope for the weary, and it is found in Him. Easter is about an empty tomb, and that changes everything.

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Trying to Stop the Unstoppable

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“God raised him up, loosing the pangs of death, because it was not possible for Him to be held by it.”

Acts 2:24

We had done everything we could.

Jesus of Nazareth was dead. A threat was removed. A problem solved.

For years, we had tolerated his disruptions—the way he twisted the people’s loyalty, defied our traditions, and embarrassed us in public. But the crowds had cheered as he hung on that cross. The Romans had driven the nails. And now, his body lay breathless in a tomb.

Finally, we could move on.

And yet, something gnawed at me.

We had all heard of his claims. “After three days, I will rise.”

Of course, it was nonsense. But the people—oh, the people—would believe anything. His radical disciples could steal the body, spread their lies, and suddenly, we would have a worse problem than before. We needed to shut this down completely.

So we took our concerns to Pilate.

The governor barely looked at us. He was done with this mess. His wife had warned him not to get involved. He had washed his hands, his conscience clear. But we had no choice.

“Sir,” I said, forcing my voice steady, “command that the tomb be made secure.”

Pilate sighed sharply.

“You have a guard,” he snapped. “Go. Make it as secure as you know how.”

So we did.

A heavy stone. A Roman seal. Armed soldiers.

It was finished. Wasn’t it?

But that was never in our control. We had done everything to stop this man. Yet even in death, he remained a problem.

We tried to lock him behind that stone, to silence his influence once and for all. But nothing we did could change what was coming.

And Christian, here is the thing. You may feel like you are living in that long, dark day between the crucifixion and resurrection —where hope is buried. It may seem like nothing will change. But God is not confined by a tomb.

We tried to control the story, but God had already written the ending.

Jesus rose.

And no matter how impossible things seem, His power is not finished in your life either.

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Healing At His Table

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But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus his Son cleanses us from all sin.

1 John 1:7

The room was packed—twenty guys crammed into my little two-bedroom rental. Some shoulder to shoulder on the couch, others cross-legged on the floor. The AC was struggling, but nobody seemed to mind.

In the middle of the coffee table sat a bottle of Great Value grape juice and a loaf of dollar-store white bread. It was nothing special. But tonight, it was sacred.

We met like this every week. Open Bibles, hard conversations, no pretense. Here, we learned how to be honest—not just with God, but with each other.

Some nights, the room was thick with laughter. Other nights, it was heavy with silence as someone finally let the truth spill out. Sin was confessed. Tears shed. Prayers were spoken. It was not rehearsed or religious. It was real.

And tonight, as I bowed my head, I thought about Jesus at the table with His disciples, the bread in His hands, and the weight in His words.

Did they understand it then? Did they feel what we felt now, sitting here in a bachelor pad full of guys just trying to get it right?

I broke off a piece of bread. It was dry and a little stale. The grape juice chased it down. I thought of His body, broken. His blood poured out.

Not just for eternity, but for today.

For the shame that still clings. For the bitterness we justify. For the sins we think we can handle alone. I swallowed and let the truth settle in my chest.

This is Christ’s invitation for all of us. An invitation to be healed. To live free. To step into real community—not the kind that just meets on Sundays, but the kind that pulls up a chair, looks you in the eye, and reminds you, You are not alone.

Jesus’ body was broken so we could be whole. And maybe part of that wholeness is found in rooms like this. And I cannot keep that to myself.

So, who needs a seat at the table?

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When The Lights Went Out

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“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” 

John 1:5

I remember the silence most of all.

It was a Maundy Thursday service, a Tenebrae — Latin for “darkness.” Sixteen candles lit the sanctuary at first, their small flames dancing in the stillness as we sang and read the story of Jesus’ final hours from the Gospel of John.

After each reading — each scene of betrayal, suffering, loneliness — a candle was extinguished.

One by one, the light faded.

As we sang, I felt the weight of each word. The sorrow of the garden. The sting of Peter’s denial. The agony of the cross. Until only one candle remained.

Then that, too, was snuffed out.

The sanctuary was completely dark. And then — a loud, jarring sound pierced the silence. It echoed like a door slamming shut. Like heaven itself had gone quiet.

We left in total silence. No conversation. No closure. Just the weight of it all. The sorrow. The sense of God’s absence. It was crushing.

That night, I felt what it means to live without the presence of Jesus. The light had gone out, and the darkness was not just around me — it was in me.

But the story didn’t end there.

On Easter morning, we entered the sanctuary again. It was still dark and still silent, like the tomb.

And then — suddenly — the lights burst on. Music erupted. Voices lifted.

Hope was not gone.

Hope rose from the dead.

That contrast — between the darkness of Friday and the light of Sunday — has changed the way I see everything.

Because even now, when life feels dim… when sorrow hangs heavy and it seems like God has gone quiet… I remember: the silence is not the end. The darkness does not win.

The light will return.

And it will burst forth brighter than before — because Jesus didn’t just bring hope.

He IS hope. Living. Breathing. Risen.

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Still Wanted, Still Loved

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Luke 19:10 “For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.” 

Charles doesn’t say much about his past these days. But every now and then, sitting quietly on the porch with his coffee, the memories come back.

And when they do, they still bring tears.

He remembers being young, too young to feel the kind of shame he carried. There were no words for it then, but he was confident: God hated him. When he looked in the mirror, he didn’t see someone broken. He saw someone unworthy. Unloved. And eventually, he made a quiet, painful agreement in his heart: If that is how God feels about me, then I want nothing to do with Him.

So, he shut the door, locked it, and threw away the key.

Then came the war.

Vietnam broke him in ways no one could see. The blood, the terror, the weight of it all—it never really left. But even harder than war was what waited for him when he got home. A country that didn’t understand, didn’t ask, and sometimes seemed to hate him for surviving.

So he turned to whatever might quiet the pain. Anything to help him forget. He was chasing peace, but all he ever found was numbness.

By Easter night in 1982, he had a plan. His life was going to end.

But it didn’t.

Because Jesus showed up.

Not as a feeling. Not a metaphor. He came in person. Charles still shakes when he talks about it.

“You’ve made some mistakes,” Jesus said, “and I am the only one who can help you.”

In that stillness, something happened. Like a jolt of electricity. Like light breaking through a locked door or a wave crashing on the shore. It was more than forgiveness. It was the feeling of being chosen. Wanted. Loved, even after everything. Charles collapsed to the floor. And in that moment, everything changed.

Now, when he wipes away a tear, he remembers who he was. But that man is gone. In his place is a husband, a father, and a man who walks in real peace. His life was rebuilt by a Savior who stepped into his darkest moment and said, “You’re not too far gone.”

And maybe, if you’ve felt dead inside for too long, his story is meant for you.

Because Easter is not just history. It is a living God who still walks into rooms and says, “I am the only one who can help you.”

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Changed By God’s Presence

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1 Peter 1:3 “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead.” 

We always looked good on Easter Sunday. My mom was all about the details—fresh relaxer, a new shade of Estee Lauder lipstick, and those perfect shoes. My dad and brother weren’t so caught up in fashion, but my mom and I? We loved it.

We always made sure to look the part. Easter was about tradition, family, and looking your best for that Sunday service. But deep down, I knew there was more to Easter than just looking good.

Like crawfish by the lake that afternoon. Like the snowball stand just down the road—my favorite part of the day. I could already picture the wooden table, spicy fingers, and the sound of cousins laughing. That was Easter to me. I knew it was about Jesus, but honestly, I looked forward to the after fun.

We pulled into the church parking lot, and I was surprised. There were cars everywhere—lined down the road, packed in the grass. Inside, it was standing room only.

When the service began, it got loud. The orchestra was extra powerful, voices were raised high, and the worship team and choir didn’t hold back. And the preacher? Well, and my pastor? Well, he must have spent extra time with the Lord that day because He walked on stage with a mission.

That morning, my friends and I sat together, but instead of playing MASH on the back of the bulletin, we were all a little quieter. Something about this service felt important. It wasn’t just the music or my pastor’s words, but something deeper. I felt the power of the Holy Spirit.

As the service came to an end, I watched in awe as people moved toward the altar. Some knelt, some lifted their hands in worship, and some just bowed their heads in prayer. There was a sweet presence in that room, and I remember looking around and thinking, This is different.

Sitting later that day, with the sweet taste of snowball syrup still on my lips and crawfish shells piling up by my side, I couldn’t shake it.

Easter wasn’t about the outfits, or the traditions, or the food. It was about what happens when people experience the hope of Jesus.

So this Easter, when you show up, take a look around. The person next to you might not be waiting for a good sermon. They might be waiting for the kind of hope only Easter can bring.

Let’s not miss that. Because Jesus is here, and His presence still changes everything.

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