The Connection Corner

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

My Name Is Son

Daily Devotional, Heart of the Artist, Stories About Songs

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

June 10, 2025/by David Hall

God Likes Being With You

Daily Devotional, Lauren Kitchens-Steward

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.

June 9, 2025/by Lauren Kitchens-Steward

Breathe In His Presence

Daily Devotional, Heart of the Artist, Stories About Songs

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