The Connection Corner
A daily source of encouragement and inspiration to connect your heart to hope and faith.
Daily Devotional
- When The Lights Went OutApril 17, 2025 - 6:30 am
- Still Wanted, Still LovedApril 16, 2025 - 6:30 am
- Changed By God’s PresenceApril 15, 2025 - 6:30 am
- Layers of LoveApril 14, 2025 - 6:30 am
- Jesus Knew and He Came AnywayApril 13, 2025 - 6:30 am
- The Courage To Follow ThroughApril 12, 2025 - 6:30 am
- Your Story Could Change A LifeApril 11, 2025 - 6:30 am
- God Is Always Cheering For YouApril 10, 2025 - 6:30 am
- When Hope Feels ImpossibleApril 9, 2025 - 6:30 am
- Bloom Where You’re PlantedApril 8, 2025 - 6:30 am
Heart of the Artist
- Your Story Could Change A LifeApril 11, 2025 - 6:30 am
- The Road Back To PeaceApril 7, 2025 - 6:30 am
- God Never Lets GoApril 1, 2025 - 6:30 am
- God Believes in YouMarch 26, 2025 - 6:30 am
- Praise in Every StormJanuary 25, 2025 - 6:30 am
Stories About Songs
- From Hardship to HopeApril 6, 2025 - 6:30 am
- Hope and Victory in JesusMarch 30, 2025 - 6:30 am
- A Deeper Experience of GodMarch 23, 2025 - 6:30 am
- Turning Pain into HopeMarch 16, 2025 - 6:30 am
- A Song of Hope in FearMarch 10, 2025 - 6:30 am
When The Lights Went Out
Daily Devotional, Linda MeyersI 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.
Still Wanted, Still Loved
Daily Devotional, Mornings with LisaCharles 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.”
Changed By God’s Presence
Bri in the Middays, Daily DevotionalWe 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.