The Connection Corner

A daily source of encouragement and inspiration to connect your heart to hope and faith.

From Bully to Brave

Nehemiah 9:17 — You are a God of forgiveness, gracious and merciful, slow to become angry, and rich in unfailing love. You did not abandon them.

I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not once. Not even close.

My high school is in Washington State, outside Seattle, but I moved away after college. Every reunion somehow landed just out of reach. I’d be home visiting my parents weeks before or after—but never on time.

So I don’t have reunion stories of my own. But I’ve always liked the idea of revisiting where we’ve come from.

I came across a story online from a man who did attend his twentieth reunion. He didn’t romanticize it.

“In high school, I was a bully,” he admitted. “I was cruel. Mean. Hard to like.” Then he added the hardest truth—he didn’t like himself either. His home life was painful, so he hurt others so he wouldn’t feel hurt alone.

When the invitation came, he was nervous. He decided to go with one purpose: to apologize. “You’ll never address what you don’t confess,” he told himself. He knew forgiveness wasn’t guaranteed. Some people might not want to see him, and some wounds couldn’t be undone. He barely slept the night before he went.

When he arrived at the school auditorium, he sought out the people he knew he had unfinished business with. One by one, he owned what he had done—no excuses, no explanations. Just apologies.

To his surprise, most of them forgave him. Some barely remembered the details. Others remembered clearly—and still chose grace.

They told him how much his apology meant. How glad they were that he came. By the end of the night, the regret and shame that had followed him for years began to lift—not because the past had changed, but because mercy met him there.

That story reminded me of how God deals with us.

In Nehemiah, the prophet looks back over Israel’s long history of rebellion and failure and declares this truth about God:

“You are a God of forgiveness, gracious and merciful, slow to become angry, and rich in unfailing love. You did not abandon them.” (Nehemiah 9:17)

A forgiving God. Patient. Compassionate. Overflowing with love. A God who does not walk away—even when we give Him every reason to.

What those classmates offered in a crowded auditorium—God has offered us all along. Not denial. Grace. Not pretending the damage never happened, but forgiveness that restores. Mercy doesn’t erase the past, but it does free the one who receives it.

We carry our mistakes and regrets quietly, assuming it’s too late or that we’re stuck. But God doesn’t wait decades to respond. He meets honesty and repentance with mercy—every time.

So maybe today isn’t about revisiting the past. Maybe it’s about releasing it. Letting grace meet the parts of your story you’ve been running from. Freedom begins there, shaping how you live, how you love, and how you extend that same mercy to others.

A MOMENT TO REFLECT

Is there a part of your past you’ve been carrying with shame instead of surrendering to God’s mercy?
What does Nehemiah 9:17 reveal about God’s posture toward you when you fall short?
Is there an apology God may be inviting you to offer—or a forgiveness He’s inviting you to receive?
How might releasing the past change the way you live and love today?

February 5, 2026/by Jeff Connell

Holy Ground in Unexpected Places

Brenda Price, Daily Devotional

Luke 15:7 — In the same way, there is more joy in heaven over one lost sinner who repents and returns to God than over ninety-nine others who are righteous and haven’t strayed away.

The bass is thumping down the Nashville sidewalk, laughter spilling into the street, and a line of people wraps around the corner.

I know this scene. We all do. Late night. Music. A club promising escape but usually delivering regret. I almost brace myself for what I expect to find.

But step inside, and something feels… different.

It looks like a nightclub. The lights. The movement. The joy. But the air doesn’t feel heavy. No one’s performing. No one’s trying to outrun their pain or drown out their thoughts.

People are dancing because they want to. Laughing because it’s real. There’s no pressure to impress. Folks look comfortable in their own skin—and for a moment, my brain doesn’t know what to do with that.

Now stay with me. This isn’t a typical nightclub. It’s faith-based. And standing here, I realize how easily I’ve absorbed the idea that following Jesus means trading joy for discipline. That holiness and happiness can’t coexist. That somehow delight got left out of the deal.

But that idea didn’t come from Jesus.

Across the room, I hear someone praying. Hands lift—not for attention, but in worship. And suddenly it clicks why this place feels so alive.

This isn’t just a nightclub. It’s called The Cove. It was started by seven young men from Tennessee who believed joy doesn’t compete with God—it comes from Him. They believed celebration doesn’t belong to the world alone, and that a space centered on Christ could still be full of movement, laughter, and life. A place where people leave lighter than they arrived. Where fun doesn’t cost you your peace.

It reminds me of something Jesus once said—that heaven erupts with joy when one lost person turns back to God.

“There is more joy in heaven over one lost sinner who repents and returns to God…” (Luke 15:7)

Not quiet approval. Not polite applause. Joy. Celebration. Rejoicing.

You can almost picture it—heaven isn’t stiff or silent. It’s alive every time grace wins. Every time someone chooses restoration over running. That’s what I see here.

When people leave this Nashville space, they don’t stagger out hollow or ashamed. They walk out hopeful. Because when Christ is present, even dance floors can become holy ground.

And maybe that’s the reminder for this week. The world told you one thing, but love—real love—doesn’t leave you empty. There is a better joy. One that restores instead of depletes. One that lifts instead of weighs you down.

So wherever you find yourself—a coffee shop, a sidewalk, or even a dance floor—know this: when grace takes center stage, heaven still rejoices… and earth starts to look a little more like heaven too.

A MOMENT TO REFLECT

Where have you unconsciously believed that following Jesus means giving up joy?
What does Luke 15:7 reveal about how God responds when people turn toward Him?
Are there places or people you’ve written off as “unlikely” spaces for God to work?
How might your life look different if you believed joy and holiness were meant to walk together?

February 4, 2026/by Brenda Price

The Tension and The Choice

Daily Devotional, Sarah Hall

1 Corinthians 13:4-5 — Love is patient and kind. Love is not jealous or boastful or proud or rude. It does not demand its own way. It is not irritable, and it keeps no record of being wronged.

The Valentine’s aisle is a terrible place to reread a text that hurt your feelings.

I’m standing there with my cart half full, surrounded by pink balloons and candy hearts, staring at my phone. My husband David’s message wasn’t mean. It was just… short. Short enough to feel dismissive. And suddenly, in the middle of glittery cards, a knot tightens in my chest.

We love each other deeply. That’s not in question. But love doesn’t cancel friction. And in this moment, I feel like protecting myself, going quiet, and holding onto the irritation. Holding onto it feels justified, like self defense. Forgiving feels premature, like handing out a free pass before it’s earned.

As I walk past the displays, the cards start preaching at me.

“Love is patient.”
“Love is kind.”
“Love keeps no record of wrongs.”

I know those words, and I believe them. They’re straight out of 1 Corinthians. But instead of comforting me, the words irritate me. Because choosing love doesn’t feel poetic right now. It feels inconvenient. Letting this go feels like losing ground.

But I know, deep down, that love doesn’t collapse in one dramatic moment; it erodes in the simple ones we refuse to forgive. Forgiveness isn’t about being right—it’s about keeping the heart open, clearing the air, trusting God with justice, and choosing one another.

So, right there, between stuffed bears and heart-shaped boxes, I forgive him. Before apology, before explanation, before the weight can settle in. I hand the moment to God.

And the release is immediate.

The knot loosens. I let out a breath, and peace comes back faster than I expect. Later, when David does apologize—because he does—the conversation is lighter. Easier. The moment passes without leaving a scar. Love feels protected, not by my defenses, but by choosing to give grace.

That’s when it clicks for me. Forgiveness is not forgetting or pretending things don’t hurt. It’s not blindly walking back into old patterns, and sometimes it doesn’t even mean reconnection.

Forgiveness is laying down bitterness, releasing judgment, and trusting God with what we cannot control.

This Valentine’s week, love may not look poetic or like it does in your favorite Rom-com. It may look more like practicing 1 Corinthians 13 in real time: patience, kindness, and releasing small offenses before they grow. God notices every hurt, even the small ones, and He invites us to let Him carry them so love can breathe.

A MOMENT TO REFLECT

What small hurt or irritation are you holding onto right now that God may be inviting you to release?
Which phrase from 1 Corinthians 13:4–5 feels hardest to live out in your current relationships—and why?
How might choosing forgiveness before an apology change the atmosphere of your heart or your home?
What would it look like to trust God with justice instead of keeping a mental record of wrongs?

February 3, 2026/by Sarah Hall