Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal… in Christ Jesus.
—Philippians 3:13-14, NIV
A few weeks ago my wife and I had what I can only describe as a surreal experience.
Our daughter and son-in-law lead worship at a church near us, and we couldn’t make the service that Sunday, so we did what so many of us do now—we watched the livestream on YouTube.
My wife cued it up on our TV, and there we were, sitting comfortably on the couch, worshiping from home. It felt live. Current. Present.
Or so we thought…
As we watched, we noticed a couple of things. My son-in-law had a fresh haircut. We had just been with him the day before, so we commented on his dedication—wow, he must have gone to the barber early Sunday morning. (Their service isn’t until later in the afternoon.)
Then we noticed our daughter was wearing glasses. She only does that once in a while. She hadn’t been wearing them the day before, and we found ourselves wondering why she had them on that day.
The service itself was meaningful. The music was great—they always do so well. We were engaged—emotionally, spiritually, relationally. Everything about it felt real-time…live.
The next day I went to get a haircut. My son-in-law and I share the same barber. As the barber and I talked, I mentioned how sharp Pedro’s haircut looked on Sunday. The barber looked puzzled.
He said, “I haven’t cut his hair yet. He’s scheduled for next week.”
Huh?
At first, I assumed there was some confusion. But over the course of the week, the truth slowly came into focus. The church hadn’t actually livestreamed that Sunday. My wife had unknowingly pulled up a service from a couple of months earlier—back when Pedro’s hair was shorter and our daughter wore her glasses regularly.
We thought we were watching something live. But we were living inside old footage.
When we told our kids, they laughed—hard. And rightly so. We deserved it. But after the laughter faded, the moment stayed with me. Because here’s the strange thing:
That old service shaped our present reality.
It affected our conversations. Our assumptions. Our reactions. Even our emotions. We responded sincerely—to something that wasn’t actually happening. And I wonder how often we do the same thing spiritually.
How often do we live as if the truest reality is what we can see, replay, or assume? How often are we shaped by the constant churn of headlines—current concerns, familiar fears dressed up as breaking news, old wounds reopened again and again—rather than by what God is doing now?
Scripture reminds us that the most real world is not always the most visible one.
“So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”
(2 Corinthians 4:18, NIV)
There are principalities and powers. There is brokenness and resistance. But there is also Jesus—present, reigning, interceding. There is a Father who loves us. There is heaven nearer than we think. There is hope that is not outdated.
Sometimes we live as if grace is old footage. As if resurrection power was for another time. As if the nearness of God is something we remember rather than experience. But the gospel is not a replay. Jesus is not archived. The Spirit is not delayed. The Kingdom of God is not buffering.
The truest reality is not behind us. And it’s not just on the screen in front of us. It is found in Him.
That’s why Paul could speak of letting go of what lies behind and pressing on toward what lies ahead—not because the past didn’t matter, but because it no longer defined him. Our eyes and hearts are meant to be fixed on Jesus—not as a memory, not as a concept, but as reality itself.
He is the truly live presence of God.
When our eyes are fixed on Him, we are no longer living in yesterday’s story or borrowed assumptions. He becomes our present reality. We are awake to what is actually happening. Now.
He is not merely remembered. He is encountered.
Jesus is very much alive. And in Him, so are we.
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[I’m currently working on a new book called The Best Miles, a reflection on faithfulness, aging, and the ways God continues to use our lives for His glory. The book is still taking shape, but what follows is one “nudging” from that work. Thanks for reading.]
Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.
—2 Corinthians 4:16-17, NIV
I didn’t begin my walk with Jesus until I was fourteen. But long before that—before I knew what faith was or why it mattered—my praying grandmother would take me to church whenever she could.
She attended a small, run-down Pentecostal church—the kind you might drive past without noticing, the kind that didn’t try to impress anyone.
The pastor was Brother Baker. His wife was Sister Baker. Godly people. No polish. No pretense. Faithful. Loving.
Church felt foreign to me then—the rhythms, the language, the expectation that God was present and listening. It was all new, and it left impressions I didn’t yet know how to name.
When it came time for Sunday school, the kids were sent downstairs—down thin, narrow concrete steps into a dank, musty basement. A handful of us would sit on the floor while Sister Baker, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and her gray hair pulled tight into a bun, kindly taught us about… the love of Jesus.
She used something I had never seen before.
A flannelgraph.
She would sit beside a felt-covered board, tell the story, then reach into a pile of paper figures—people dressed in Bible-time clothes, a donkey, a giant, a rock tomb, and a large plant that looked suspiciously like a coconut tree—and one by one press them onto the board until the story came to life.
She smoothed each figure with her fingers, gently but deliberately. And somehow, they stayed… most of the time.
Some figures didn’t stick very well.
Zacchaeus, for instance—we heard about him a lot—was worse for wear. The apostle Paul too. Even the figure of Jesus had seen better days.
These figures were wrinkled. Bent. Floppy. Worn thin. Some had been taped back together. They’d lost their crisp edges. Their corners curled. They slid slowly downward—or sometimes fell off altogether—no matter how carefully Sister Baker pressed them into place.
They were clearly used—and they told the best stories.
Paul was especially hard to keep in place—tattered, taped, unreliable. He leaned. He drooped. He sometimes fell.
Which I now see is fitting.
Because Paul was the one who wrote about being poured out like a drink offering. The one who spoke of being hard pressed on every side, but not crushed. The one who admitted plainly that outwardly we are wasting away, though inwardly something deeper is being renewed day by day.
Even as a child, I could feel it—not the theology, but the weight of it. These stories mattered. They carried gravity. They had been lived before they were ever told.
The figures that didn’t stick easily were the ones that had been handled the most—the ones that had been brought out again and again, the ones trusted to carry the weight of the story.
There is something about that image—about that childhood experience—that has stayed with me all these years.
Because it tells the truth.
The figures that are perfect and pristine don’t carry the same authority. The unused ones don’t hold the room. The stories that matter most are told by lives that have been handled, bent, repaired, and trusted again and again.
Age does that. So does faithfulness.
If you feel a little like one of those figures—creased by time, taped by grace, less likely to stand upright on your own—you are not diminished.
You are seasoned. Your edges tell a story. Your wear is evidence. Your weakness is not a liability—it is your credibility. You may not “stick” the way you once did. You may need a steadier hand. You may lean more than you stand.
But you carry the story.
And in the end, the ones that don’t stick easily are often the ones that stick with us—the ones that shape us, steady us, and quietly change the world.
They’ve been used.
And God is still using their lives to speak of… the love of Jesus. -
Praise the Lord! Oh give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; for His steadfast love endures forever.
—Psalm 106:1 (ESV)
That phrase—“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; for His steadfast love endures forever”—is one of the great pillars of Scripture.
It appears again and again throughout the Old Testament—spoken, sung, proclaimed, and remembered. Sometimes it rises from moments of celebration. Sometimes it’s whispered in desperation. Often it’s heard in seasons when the evidence on the ground didn’t seem to match the confession on the lips.
Which makes me wonder if the power of that line isn’t only in how often it’s repeated in Scripture, but in how often it’s meant to be repeated in us.
Because all of us live with a recurring voice. It plays in the background of our minds—a sentence that resurfaces when we’re tired, a phrase that shows up when things are hard, or when we feel small, or when we fail.
Some of those voices are harsh and defeating: You’re behind. You’re not enough. You’ll never change.
But not every recurring voice is destructive. Some are redemptive. Some are anchors. Some are gifts handed to us long before we knew we’d need them.
One of mine came from my grandad.
I grew up on a small corner of his farm, and it was my privilege to spend my childhood working alongside him—milking cows, irrigating fields, feeding cattle, stacking hay, fixing fences, picking rock from the fields, and repairing whatever broke that day. In the midst of that work, as a kid I had a bad habit of saying, “I can’t.”
I’d try to roll a heavy hay bale into place. “I can’t.”
I’d reach into a tight spot to grab a dropped bolt. “I can’t.”
I’d struggle to pound a nail straight. “I can’t.”
Every time, my grandad would look at me—never harsh, never irritated—and say the same thing:
“Aww… can’t died.”
That was it. No lecture. No shame. Just a matter-of-fact declaration. In other words, can’t didn’t live there anymore. It had no authority. It didn’t get to decide what was possible—leaving only try and can.
Decades later, when the work feels heavy, the task feels beyond me, or fear whispers that I’m incapable, that old phrase—can’t died—still comes to mind. Not as a slogan or a strategy, but as a remembered voice—steady, patient, and kind. Before I argue with fear or try to outthink it, those simple words rise up and do what they’ve always done: they make room.
Scripture is clear about the source of the voices that diminish and accuse. They do not come from the Father who delights in His children. They come from the enemy who lies and condemns.
But Scripture is just as clear about the voice God gives His people—a refrain meant to be remembered when courage runs thin:
“The Lord is good. His steadfast love endures forever.”
Not because everything is easy. Not because we are strong. But because God is faithful—and He has not left us to face the work alone.
Scripture does not speak of God’s steadfast love as a distant idea or an abstract quality. It speaks of it as something living and enduring—something that comes near. And in the fullness of time, that steadfast love did not remain only a phrase to be repeated, but it became a life to be encountered. God’s goodness took on flesh—loving, patient, and kind—and moved into the midst of our fear and failure.
Maybe that’s why Scripture repeats that line so often. Not to inform us, but to re-form us. To crowd out the voices that tell us who we aren’t with the truth of who God says we are.
So here’s the invitation: carefully consider the voice that repeats itself in you. Notice what it says when you’re tired. Listen to what it tells you when you’re afraid. And if it is not rooted in the goodness of God and the endurance of His love, it does not get the final word.
Some voices need to be challenged. Some need to be replaced. Some need to be laid to rest.
After all—can’t died.
And Jesus—the steadfast love of the Lord—is very much alive. -
[A brief word before you read: This reflection is not my usual weekly Nudging. It’s a quiet response to a recent public disclosure involving a well-known Christian voice—one that has stirred grief, questions, and reflection for many. I offer it not as commentary or conclusion, but as a quiet reflection—shared in humility and hope.]
The Final Word
I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry. —John 6:35, NIV
Most of us know the raven before we ever meet it in Scripture.
It comes to us through literature—black, inky, elegant, and eerie. Perched above a grieving man’s door, answering every question with a single word: Nevermore. In The Raven, the bird does not rage or argue. It simply echoes what sorrow already says.
The raven has come to symbolize finality—the quiet suspicion that loss, failure, or regret will have the last word. But long before Edgar Allan Poe gave the raven a voice of despair, Scripture had spoken.
After the flood, Noah sends out a raven. It does not return, moving back and forth over a world not yet made whole. In drought, ravens bring bread and meat to the mighty prophet Elijah—what once circled carrion was entrusted with holy provision. Solomon, sage and poet, dares to liken raven-black hair to beauty.
Scripture refuses to issue a single verdict on the raven.It appears in places of death and in moments of provision. It lingers where endings are visible, and it arrives where sustenance is needed.
And then there is the creature itself.
Ravens are brilliant. Curious. Drawn to sparkle—foil, glass, coins, anything that catches the light. They explore. They gather. They fixate. Often associated with transition, sorrow, and death, they are also noted for fidelity and hope. They mate for life, giving their attention to one alone. A single eye. A fixed devotion.
Contradictions, held in contrast.
Which is why the story eventually turns toward us.
Because the truth is, we recognize something of ourselves here. We know what it is to be attentive and distracted at the same time. To desire faithfulness, yet feel the pull of lesser things. To be capable of devotion, and still drawn to what catches the light. To want depth, but settle for what is close at hand.
We are not just observers of the raven.
We are the raven.
Not evil.
But human—and hungry.
In other words, ravenous. At its root is the word raven. A raw, impatient appetite. Not always for sinful things—but for closeness, affirmation, intimacy, relief, meaning, and satisfaction. We are gifted. Intelligent. Capable of beauty and devotion. And still, drawn to what glitters. Still tempted to live on what sustains us just enough, rather than what restores us fully.
Scripture has a name for this kind of hunger.
“Watch out for the Esau syndrome,” Hebrews warns. “Trading away God’s lifelong gift in order to satisfy a short-term appetite” (Heb. 12:16, MSG).
Esau wanted the blessing back later—but the moment had passed. Tears could not undo what hunger had already chosen.
Hunger rarely announces its cost in advance. This is the danger Scripture names—not hunger itself, but appetite left unattended. A loss we never meant to choose. A kind of Nevermore that arrives quietly, one small decision at a time.
Recently, a story surfaced that many of us wish we had not read. A story in the news and on social media that carries grief, not gossip. A failure measured not in moments, but in years—where wonder slowly gave way to wandering, and a covenant was broken. It unsettles us. Disillusions us. And reminds us—again—that spiritual language, wisdom, and calling do not cancel appetite.
It is tempting, in moments like these, to read critically—but from a safe distance. To imagine the story points outward at another, even as it quietly turns and points back at us. And it is there—without accusation—that Scripture speaks.
Scripture does not shame our hunger. It questions our substitutes.
“Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy?” (Isa. 55:2, NIV)
God asks—not to scold, but to invite. Sparkle is not bread.
Jesus never rebukes the hungry. He feeds them. “I am the bread of life,” He says—not a distraction, not a glittering substitute, but nourishment. What sustains. What satisfies. What is essential.
The raven survives on what it finds. Jesus offers us what we actually need.
And when the haunting voice of the raven whispers again—
that failure is final,
that hunger defines us,
that brokenness has the last word—
the gospel answers without spectacle or force:
Amazing grace.
God is our strength and our portion. He feeds the ravens, and He Himself is our food. He invites us to come—not to what sparkles, not to Nevermore, but to Jesus, the Bread of Life—bread enough for today.
Where grace—not hunger—gets the final word. -
Sadly, many of us would not pray if we weren’t driven to our knees.— Ben Patterson
I’ve walked with the Lord for more than forty years. I share that not as a credential, but as context.
I felt called into ministry in my twenties. I was ordained. I preached and taught. I led worship, opened Scripture through both spoken word and written reflection, officiated weddings and funerals, dedicated babies, baptized believers, prayed with people in hospitals, led groups, discipled others, and encouraged people—again and again—to trust God with their lives.
Prayer was always part of my vocabulary and my practice. It just wasn’t always part of my dependence—and I didn’t know it.
That realization came as a surprise.
In the years leading up to 2019, my health began to unravel in ways I couldn’t explain. At first, it seemed manageable. I adjusted. I compensated. I told myself this was just aging, stress, life.
That’s what capable people do.
But the symptoms worsened. My thinking grew foggy. My body failed me without warning. I got lost on familiar roads. I said things that didn’t make sense. There were moments when I couldn’t move or respond at all.
Eventually came the diagnosis: a rare pancreatic tumor—an insulinoma. No medication. No simple fix. My body was undermining me from the inside.
And somewhere in that unraveling, something else came into focus.I realized I had been enduring the situation—but not entrusting it to God. I was functioning on experience, resilience, and self-reliance, while anxiously carrying a burden I was never meant to carry alone.
James writes,
“Consider it pure joy whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.” (James 1:2–3, NIV)
Testing has a way of revealing what our faith is actually resting on. It strips away the illusion of control and exposes how easily competence can masquerade as trust. And when testing turns into trouble, prayer becomes less of a discipline and more of a necessity.
James later writes:
“Is anyone among you in trouble? Let them pray.”(James 5:13, NIV)
Let them pray. Not analyze. Not manage. Not push through.
Pray.
That verse finally found me—not as a teaching point, but as a mirror. I had prayed for others in their trouble and encouraged them to ask for prayer. I had seen God act. And yet, I had not named my own need.
So I did.
I asked for prayer. I let others carry me when I could not carry myself. Healing was not immediate—but peace was. And with it came a deeper, quieter faith—one shaped not by strength, but by surrender, and by the steady awareness that Jesus had not stepped back from my suffering, but had drawn near within it.
Patterson is right. Sadly, many of us would not pray if we weren’t driven to our knees.
But when trouble finally tells the truth about us, graciously, God is willing to meet us there. And Scripture tells us what to do next:
… Let them pray. -
[On this New Year’s Eve, I wanted to share a piece I wrote years ago. May it be an encouragement as you step into the new year.]
My heart is steadfast, O God; I will sing and make music with all my soul. —Psalm 108:1 (NIV)
There are some things you understand early in life because someone tells you. And there are other things you understand later—not because they are new, but because you’ve lived long enough to hear them differently.
One of those for me is a simple phrase: It’s about the music.
That line comes from the movie School of Rock. Years ago, when our kids were younger we watched that silly movie again and again—laughing every time like it was the first. In a house of two teachers and four musicians, the story struck a familiar chord.
In one scene, Dewey Finn—played with over-the-top brilliance by Jack Black—walks into band practice only to discover he’s been voted out of the band. His excess, his passion, his twenty-minute guitar solos no longer serve the band’s goals. They want success. Stardom. The $20,000 grand prize in the Battle of the Bands.
Dewey is incredulous. With wild eyes and flying hair, he finally blurts out, “You guys just don’t get it. It’s not about the money… it’s about the music!”
At the time, it was funny. Years later, it’s instructive.
I didn’t realize how deeply those words had settled in me until I found myself repeating them to my twelve-year-old daughter, Becca, just minutes before her piano recital. She was preparing to play eight pages of Chopin—by memory, under bright lights, in front of a crowd. I could see the anxiety rising as she worried about getting it right.
I pulled her aside and put my arm around her shoulders.
“Becca,” I said, “you’ve done the work. You’ve practiced. You have the ability. You’ve played this beautifully at home many times. You have nothing to prove—to me, your mom, or yourself. This recital doesn’t define you. It isn’t even about you or your performance… it’s about the music.”
Something in her softened. A small smile appeared.
“You know the music,” I said. “Now let it flow through you. Play it from your heart. Enjoy it. Let its beauty ring out and touch the audience.”
Only later did I realize I was speaking to myself as much as to her.
Sitting in the audience that evening, listening to student after student play, tears surprised me. Amid Beethoven, Chopin, Schubert, and even a simple “London Bridge” from the Beginners Piano Book, I found myself hearing something beneath the notes.
The melody I heard was the music of our lives.
It was the sound of practice and discipline. Repetitious scales. Missed notes. Forgotten stanzas. Groans squeezed between school, chores, and homework. Made-up songs and playful detours—small escapes from the work that needed to be done.
I looked around the room and thought about the parents and grandparents who had heard these same pieces at home—out of tempo, interrupted by missed notes and halting starts, again and again. And it struck me: this was the real music. Not the recital, but the daily, faithful playing of it.
Watching Becca at the piano, I found myself holding my breath. My hands clenched at every falter—not in disappointment, but in hope—hoping she wouldn’t let a moment derail the whole. And as she played, I realized how much of life is lived this way: moving forward, note by note, learning not to stop when we stumble.
In my heart, I found myself whispering encouragement—Keep going.
Don’t be discouraged.
Move through the bauble.
Let it ring.
When she finished, her smile said everything. And as I applauded, a quiet recognition surfaced:
Life is rarely a single, defining performance. It is far more often a long season of practice.
Somewhere along the way, many of us are taught—explicitly or not—that life is all about the recital. The final presentation. The flawless execution. The grand prize. But the longer you live, the more you realize how much of life happens between the performances.
In God the Father’s eyes—or ears—it has always been about the music. The whole song. The daily faithfulness. The missed notes. The perseverance. The grace that keeps us playing even when the pages are long and the hands are tired.
God is not waiting for the final chord to listen. He has been present for the practice all along.
***
At the end of Becca’s recital, parents, students, grandparents, brothers, and sisters stayed to celebrate with punch and cookies. Congratulations were offered. The room filled with hugs, laughter, reflections, and enormous sighs of relief.
Becca stood across the room talking with friends. In one arm she held a bouquet of roses I had given her; in the other, a cup of red punch. She was smiling—a smile of relief and satisfaction after a job well done. I made my way over, put my arm around her waist, pulled her close, and told her she had done wonderfully.
“Thanks, Dad, but I did have a few mess-ups,” she said.
“Yes,” I replied, “but they were practically unnoticeable—you just moved right through them.”
Then I asked, “What was going through your mind when you were up there playing?”
She smiled and said, “I just kept going, knowing that you and Mom were out there listening. And at one point—during one of my favorite parts—I thought, it’s not about me, it’s about the music. So I just played the music.”
With that, she slipped away to rejoin her friends.
Standing there alone, holding an empty plastic punch cup, I realized something I hadn’t fully named before.
Those quiet words I had whispered in my heart as I watched Becca:
Keep going.Don’t be discouraged.
Move through the bauble.
Let it ring.
They were not just the words of a father to his daughter. They were the words of The Father to me. And to all of us.
So I pray—for you and for me.
Father, thank You for the music of life. Help me remain faithful through the hard measures. Help me enjoy the parts that still sing. And remind me—again and again—that it’s not about me. It’s about the music—Your music.
You are the composer.And by grace, You are beautifully at work in the song of our lives.
-
![This Tree [A Christmas Poem]](https://ryanmroberts.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/12/tree-reduced.jpg?w=596)
Here is a picture of our Christmas tree,
and it may be, that it means nothing to you,
but to me . . .
It was adorned by hands that I love, love, love,
and is topped by a star of promise from above.
The ornaments that fill the branches and boughs,
hold stories that range from then until now.
They are memories of God’s faithful hand in our days,
they tell of His goodness and keep Hope ablaze.
The lights that shine brightly into the night,
remind us it’s time for joy and delight.
The wondrous sight of our Christmas tree,
calls to mind words the angel said to you and to me.
This day is born a Savior—Jesus your Lord,
who paid the price, that none could afford.
So, when I look at our tree, I see Jesus in all,
saying “Come unto me,” and I harken His call.
That is a picture of our Christmas tree,
and it may be, that it means nothing to you,
but to me . . .
Merry Christmas! -
We have a list of Christmas shows we like to watch in the month of December, and a few days ago we watched my favorite—It’s a Wonderful Life.
I’ve seen it scores of times. But this time, something at the very beginning caught my attention. Early in the film, when the angels are talking about George Bailey and preparing to send him help, Clarence asks a simple question: “What’s wrong with him? Is he sick?”
The answer from the archangel comes back:
“No. It’s worse… he’s discouraged.”
That line lingered.
Israel knew something about discouragement. Four hundred years without a word from God. No prophets. No fresh promises. Just silence. Waiting. Wondering if heaven had gone quiet for good. And when God finally speaks again, it isn’t to kings or scholars or priests. It’s to shepherds.
That matters.
Shepherds lived on the margins—out in the fields, overlooked, underpaid, and widely regarded as rough, untrustworthy, and not to be taken seriously. They worked the night shift, slept little, and carried the quiet weight of being unseen. If anyone knew discouragement, it was them.
“And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night.” (Luke 2:8, NIV)
That’s where the angel shows up. Not with rebuke. Not with demands. But with encouragement.
“Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people.” (Luke 2:10, NIV)
Jesus didn’t just come to forgive sin. He came to lift hearts. To restore hope. To speak into the long discouragement of a weary world.
The prophet Isaiah said it this way: “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.” (Isaiah 9:2, NIV)
And that light still shines—into ordinary lives. Here’s the quiet Christmas truth: The world measures wealth by what you own. God measures it by what has been given to you—grace.
George Bailey was discouraged—until he was shown he was the richest man in town.
On the night Jesus was born, the richest people weren’t the ones with warm houses or full tables. They were the ones standing in a field, hearing good news—and receiving it.
If you’re discouraged this Christmas, you’re not forgotten. Heaven has not gone silent. Help has been sent. The Child in the manger came—for you.
And that is what makes life—not easy, not painless—but held and hopeful—now and forevermore.
“Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift.” (2 Corinthians 9:15, NIV)
Merry Christmas! -
“Now I finally know the real meaning of Christmas.”
I’ll never forget the Christmas Eve my family and I spent with our friend Jaeyoung in Daejeon, South Korea. It was a cold, snowy night—just the way Christmas Eve is supposed to be—and we walked from our apartment to Jaeyoung’s restaurant for dinner.
The restaurant was tiny — only three tables — and packed when we arrived. Some customers were seated and eating, others stood waiting for takeout. Jaeyoung and his wife were well loved in that part of the city, known for two things: their good food and their warm friendship.
We finally got a table, and Jaeyoung and his wife showered us with care and attention — they adored our two daughters. The meal was delicious. As the evening wore on, the crowd thinned, and before long we were the only ones left. We had nowhere else to go and wanted to linger with our Korean friends.
Jaeyoung pulled a chair close and sat with us. Our Korean was limited, but his English was good enough for a real conversation. He was quiet for a moment, his eyes slowly scanning the room — the flashing lights in the window, the Santa picture taped to the door, the worn tree standing in the corner. His gaze lingered there before he turned back to me. And then, with a seriousness that caught me off guard, he asked,
“What is the real meaning of Christmas?”
I paused, letting his question sink in.
Is Christmas all about Santa, the Grinch, Rudolph, Frosty, gifts, toys, trees, decorations, and twinkling lights? These are all part of the season as we know it, bringing joy and color, filling it with fun and festivity. But Christmas is more than that—so much more.
I told Jaeyoung about God’s deep love for all people — how He created the universe and made us His most treasured possession. God desires a relationship with us as His children. He is love. And in love, He gave us free will — the choice to love Him back. But we chose otherwise. Our sin separated us from the Holy God.
The whole story of Scripture is about God’s relentless pursuit of us — His call to bring us home. And in the greatest act of love, God sent His Son, Jesus, into the world. Jesus came as God in the flesh to reveal the Father’s heart, to die for our sins, and to rise again — offering us forgiveness and the hope of eternal life.
And then, right there in that little restaurant, my mind went to Linus — standing on a quiet, dimly lit stage — answering Charlie Brown’s question:
“Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?”
I smiled and shared Luke 2:8–12 with Jaeyoung:
“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger” (KJV).
Then I leaned in and said, “Jaeyoung, the real meaning of Christmas isn’t about Santa, gifts, trees, and lights. It isn’t even about the three wise men, Mary and Joseph, or a baby lying in a manger.
Listen to what the angel said: “…unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior.”
Unto you.
Christmas is all about you and me — and God’s love for each one of us.
John the disciple says it well: “This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him” (1 John 4:9, NIV).
That night, in that tiny restaurant, the message broke through. Christmas isn’t just about nativity scenes or holiday traditions. It isn’t even just about God’s miraculous act. Christmas is about us — and the God who loves us.
Jaeyoung sat quietly for a moment, taking it all in. Then his face softened, and a smile slowly spread across it. He placed his hand over his heart and said, almost in a whisper,
“Now I finally know the real meaning of Christmas.” -
“He withdrew to the district of Galilee.”
—Matthew 2:22, NIV
Matthew slips this line into the Christmas story right after Joseph brings Mary and the young Jesus back from Egypt. Warned in a dream not to return to Judea—because Herod’s son was now ruling there—Joseph takes his little family north, back to Galilee.Galilee.
An ordinary place. A forgotten corner of the map. Hardly where anyone would expect God to make a point. At first glance, it reads like a travel update… a random detail tucked into the narrative.
But it’s not random at all.
That one quiet phrase reaches back eight hundred years to Isaiah 9, where God promised, “in the future he will honor Galilee of the nations… the people walking in darkness have seen a great light.”
And Isaiah doesn’t stop there. He describes joy rising like harvest-time, burdens shattered like Midian’s defeat (Israel’s old enemy), oppression broken, peace promised, and then—like a drumbeat reaching its crescendo—the Child:
“For to us a child is born, to us a son is given… Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” (Isa. 9:1-7)
A light for them, yes. But also a light for you and for me.
Isaiah’s promise was never finally about geography—it was about grace. Galilee was simply one more place in a long litany of places God chose to underline His message of mercy. Egypt, Bethlehem, Nazareth, Judea, Jordan, Galilee… each one a punctuation mark in the story of a God who keeps showing up.
And here’s the remarkable thing: every one of those places had already been spoken of—named, promised, threaded through prophecy long before Jesus arrived. God kept pointing ahead through each location, as if to say, “Watch. Look here. I’m coming for you.” What He promised then, He fulfilled in Christ, and what He fulfilled then, He still fulfills for us today.
All of it whispers the same thing:
Don’t miss My Son. Don’t miss the Light I’m sending… not to condemn you, but to save you. (John 3:16–17)
Two thousand years later, the world is still dark in places… and yet that same Light keeps breaking in. Sometimes through Scripture. Sometimes through a song or a memory. Sometimes simply through the familiar rhythm of the Christmas season returning again to say, “Behold… good news… He is here.”
Because nothing in God’s story—or in God’s character—is random. There are no accidental lines. And there are no accidental people. Everything points to a Father who refuses to give up on His children—a God who will give everything, even His own Son, to bring us home.
So as Christmas comes close, hear this holy reminder:
Don’t miss Him.
Not the Child in the manger.
Not the Light in the darkness.
Not the Savior who came for you.
Nothing God does is random.
Every line in Scripture, every promise, every whisper of this season—is all for one reason…
You.
P.S. Several friends have told me they’re gifting Nudgings this Christmas as a simple reminder that the Lord is near. To make that easier, the book is $9.99 this week on Amazon.
Ryan's Ramblings 