[The following is my fledgling attempt at historical fiction, sparked by my recent study and sermon on Joshua 2. Scripture tells us that two unnamed spies were sent into Jericho—and while their identities remain a mystery, my imagination couldn’t help but wonder: Could one of them have been Caleb, the faithful warrior who knew the land? And what about Salmon—the man who would later marry Rahab and become the father of Boaz, named in the genealogy of Jesus? This retelling takes creative liberty while remaining rooted in biblical truth. It’s not meant to rewrite Scripture, but to help us wonder, reflect, and trace the scarlet thread of redemption woven through it all.]

The Scarlet Thread

“Tie this scarlet cord in the window through which you let us down…” (Joshua 2:18, ESV)

Caleb was tired of waiting. Forty years had passed since he and Joshua had torn their robes in frustration—begging the people to trust God and take the land. But the people listened to the ten, and the two of them spent the next forty years digging graves for a faithless generation.

But now… it was time to enter the Promised Land. Joshua was in charge, and he turned to Caleb and said, “We need eyes on Jericho.”

Caleb nodded. “I have someone.”

Salmon was young, but not green. He was the kind of man who listened more than he spoke. He walked with God, moved like a shadow, and carried a quiet discernment that set him apart. He was a rising warrior from the tribe of Judah—and one of Caleb’s finest protégés.

When Caleb approached him that morning, Salmon stood, spear in hand, dressed and ready. Caleb smiled. “We’ve got work to do.”

Jericho loomed—massive and imposing, but not invincible. They entered the city under cover of dusk, blending in with a caravan of merchants at the gate. Caleb kept to the shadows while Salmon scouted ahead. They knew they were being watched.

Then came a whisper—“This way.” And they followed. The voice belonged to a woman. Her name was Rahab. She led them up a narrow staircase, into a room of thick curtains, colorful linens, and strong perfume. “I know who you are,” she said. “Everyone in Jericho does.”

Then came the pounding at the door—loud, urgent. It was the king’s men, and she acted quickly. She hid the men under a pile of flax on the roof and spun a tale of travelers who had been there but had already fled the city. Her ruse worked.

That night, under the stars, she spoke quietly:

“We’ve heard about your God—how He dried up the Red Sea. How He gave you victory over Egypt. Everyone here is terrified…but I believe. I believe your God is the true God.”

Salmon stared at her. Not with suspicion—but with wonder. She wasn’t like anyone he’d met before. Her faith was raw, desperate,…real. Caleb watched him watching her. And he knew.

The spies made a promise. Rahab had saved them—and they would save her. Before they slipped into the hills, they turned to her one last time. “Tie this scarlet cord in your window. When we return, it will be the sign.”

The scarlet cord was a symbol of mercy—the thread of salvation. So Rahab let them down through the window, and she left the cord tied in place. The spies vanished into the hills, and three days later they stood before Joshua.

Salmon reported, “The Lord has surely given us the land.”

Caleb didn’t speak of Rahab. But later, he looked the young man in the eye and said, “Go get her.” Salmon did, and years later, their son would be named Boaz. He’d be a man of kindness. A redeemer. A beautiful strand in the patchwork of redemption. And when the family line was recorded, Boaz was named—and so was his mother, Rahab: a former outsider, now woven into the story of salvation.

Generations later, another child would be born—and the scarlet thread would continue. Not through a rope, but as a promise. In a person—Jesus.

Refreshment

“Then times of refreshment will come from the presence of the Lord.” (Acts 3:19, NLT)

It’s one of my greatest joys to lead a weekly Bible study with a group of sharp, faith-filled young professionals. These guys are in their mid-twenties—walking with God and hungry to grow in their faith. We’re working our way through the book of Acts, and recently we came to the moment in chapter 3 when Peter and John encountered a man who had been crippled from birth. He was expecting coins from them—but what he got was healing.

It was a miracle, and a crowd gathered—full of questions.

Peter—never one to miss a moment—pointed straight to Jesus and said, “You handed Him over. You denied the Holy and Righteous One. You killed the Author of life, but God raised Him from the dead.”

The people hadn’t understood who Jesus really was—not then, but now they did. And Peter extended the invitation:

“Now repent of your sins and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped away. Then times of refreshment will come from the presence of the Lord” (Acts 3:19, NLT).

That last line caught us.

One of the guys said, “I’ve heard of peace and joy. But I’ve never heard of… refreshment.”

Another nodded. “Yeah. What exactly is that?”

We all sat with it for a moment—curious, amazed, longing. We let it sink in. We knew that feeling—or maybe more honestly, we knew our need for it. Not just peace or joy, but something deeper—something we hadn’t had words for until now.

Refreshment. Not a break. Not a pause. But a real, soul-deep restoring. Like water on dry ground. Like catching your breath after a hard workout.

That Bible study conversation stayed with me. A few days later, still thinking about what refreshment really means, I bumped into this line in Jeremiah 45:5:

“I will give you your life as a reward wherever you go” (NLT).

That’s a promise spoken to the scribe Baruch, at a time of chaos, in a culture crumbling at the edges. God wasn’t promising ease. He was promising something better—Life. Real life. Whole life. A life that doesn’t rise and fall with the headlines, the markets, or the mood of the day.

And it hit me—that is refreshment. Not escape from trouble. Not the absence of struggle. But the presence of God in it all. When we surrender to Him—truly let go of control, fear, and our sin—we don’t just survive. We breathe again. We live—fully, freely… refreshed.

Hundreds of years after Jeremiah and Baruch, Jesus said,

“I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” (John 10:10, NIV)

Let that sink in today.

Peter made it clear to the crowd then, and to you and me now: Jesus, the One who was crucified and raised—the One who heals, forgives, and restores—is still inviting us to come, to repent, and to receive… refreshment.

A Goad of Grace

“When the blood of your martyr Stephen was shed, I stood there giving my approval and guarding the clothes of those who were killing him.” (Acts 22:20, NIV)

There’s that one thing.

You know what it is—and I do too. The moment you wish you could rewrite. That thing you did—or stood by and let happen. Sometimes it haunts us. Other times, we almost forget—tucking it under the pile of “good” we’ve done. Time and distance help us rationalize it and we move on... sort of.

But then comes the poke. A word. A memory. A moment that left a mark. And we feel it—deeply. It presses and prods. It won’t let you stay where you are.

That’s what a goad does.

Goad is not a word we use much anymore, but in the ancient world, it was a pointed stick used by a farmer to prod an ox in the right direction. If the animal resisted—if it kicked back—it only ended up hurting itself more.

That’s the image Jesus used when He addressed Saul on the road to Damascus:

“Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me? It is hard for you to kick against the goads.” (Acts 26:14, ESV)

Goads aren’t just painful—they’re persistent. They dig, prod, and poke. They’re not meant to destroy—but to guide. You know that sting of conviction? That holy discomfort that won’t leave you alone? It might not be punishment—it just might be a goad of grace.

For Saul, I wonder if one of those goads was the face of Stephen—the first Christian martyr. Saul was there when he died—approving of his murder. But Stephen didn’t curse. Instead, he forgave. He looked up to heaven and prayed for the very ones throwing the stones.

That kind of love leaves a mark.

Maybe that image was seared into Saul’s mind. Maybe it played on repeat in his soul. Here’s the truth: God doesn’t waste anything—not even our worst moments. The very thing the Enemy meant to use as shame, God can use as a holy irritation, a divine haunting—a goad—not to condemn, but to call us closer.

Jesus didn’t die on the cross to let our past have the last word. He’s holy—and the pain and guilt we carry didn’t come from Him. But in His mercy, He takes it on and transforms it. He loves us with a relentless love, and that nudge in your spirit, that ache of regret, that tension you can’t shake—it’s not an interruption. It’s an invitation.

He goads us—not to shame us, but to save us. Not to punish, but to pursue. Until we find our peace in Him we’ll keep feeling unsettled—not because He’s far off, but because He’s drawing near. Pressing in. His grace won’t let us go.

That’s what happened to Saul. The goads became grace. The one who tried to silence the church became Paul—the gospel’s most passionate preacher. Sometimes the most merciful thing God can do is make us uncomfortable. His loving conviction might feel like a sharp prod in the ribs, but it’s actually His kindness—leading us to repentance (Rom. 2:4).

So if something’s poking at you, don’t kick against it. Don’t run away. Lean in—and listen to Jesus.

It might just be a goad of grace.

God’s Enough

"If you find honey, eat just enough—too much of it, and you will vomit." (Proverbs 25:16, NIV)

I have a problem.

Actually, I have several: all-you-can-eat buffets, my wife’s gluten-free chocolate chip cookies, and chips and dip—especially chips and dip. I love them… and then I hate myself about an hour later. I eat past the point of fullness and end up writhing in discomfort, can’t sleep, and feel awful.

And here’s the thing—my wife sees it coming. With love in her eyes and a hand on my arm, she’ll say, “You better stop.” Or, “That’s enough.” She’s not trying to shame me. She’s trying to help me. She knows how I’ll feel later. And when I actually listen—when I stop while I’m still feeling good—it’s a gift. I feel fine. I sleep well. No regrets. But I don’t always listen. I ignore her wisdom and keep eating… and it’s not pretty. 

Eugene Peterson wrote a great book called A Long Obedience in the Same Direction. It’s about the steady, faithful path of following Jesus over time. That’s how we want to live. But too often, we find ourselves drifting toward its opposite—a long disobedience in the same direction.

This path rarely looks like rebellion. More often, it looks like indulgence. It starts with something good—harmless, even deserved. But then we keep going. We reach past “enough,” blow past wisdom, ignore the quiet whisper of God’s Spirit—and eventually, we’re sick.

Derek Kidner put words to this deception: 

“Beyond God’s enough lies ecstasy—not nausea.” 

You might want to read that again. It’s a lie. It’s the same one the serpent whispered in the garden. The same distortion that pulled King Solomon off course. That more will finally satisfy. That God is holding out on you.

But Jesus didn’t fall for it.

In the wilderness, when the enemy tempted Him with bread, power, and glory, Jesus said, “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” He trusted the Father. He lived within God’s enough.

It’s a theme that runs throughout Scripture: When God gave manna in the wilderness, it was enough for the day—never for the week. No stockpiles. No hoarding. Just trust. Jesus taught us to pray, “Give us this day our daily bread”—not a warehouse full. Even Paul, tormented by a thorn, heard these words from Jesus: “My grace is sufficient for you.” It’s enough. 

Disobedience doesn’t always show up in defiance. Sometimes it looks like just one more bite, one more scroll, one more purchase—one more step away from trust. It starts sweet, but ends with a sour stomach.

Is there something in your life right now that you’re chasing past “enough”? Something that started as a gift… but is quietly becoming a god? A long disobedience that’s subtly pulling you in the wrong direction?

Maybe it’s time to listen to the Voice that says, “You’ve had enough.” It’s not because God is stingy. Not because He’s some kind of killjoy. But because He loves you. Because He sees what’s coming and He wants better for you. The world preaches scarcity, but Jesus offers sufficiency. In Him, we avoid regret and find rest.

He is God’s Enough.

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A father is a man that has two or more souls to save or lose. —Austin O’Malley

That line stops me in my tracks.

It speaks to the weight of influence that a father carries—not just over his own soul, but over the souls entrusted to him. His children. His household. His legacy.

But it’s not just fathers. Every one of us carries influence. Every life touches others. Whether you're a parent, a teacher, a spouse, a mentor, or a friend,—someone is watching. Someone is following.

A person may think their choices are their own, that their actions and their faith are a private matter. But that’s never quite true. The ripple effects of a life don’t stay contained—they resonate. They shape hearts. They echo into the future—for good or for ill.

The esteemed pastor Robert Murray McCheyne once said, “The greatest need of my people is my personal holiness.” I believe the greatest need of a home, a friendship, a community—is the same. We need people who are holy. Not perfect, but earnest. Not proud, but humble. People willing to pause and reflect, to examine their lives—to grow, to lead, and to become who God is calling them to be.

When I was fourteen, my dad woke me up one Sunday morning and said, “Get up—we’re going to church.” It came out of nowhere. We weren’t a churchgoing family. But that morning, my dad, my mom, and my sister went to church—and I went with them. That decision changed my life. My parents gave their lives to Jesus Christ, and a few months later, so did I. That was over forty years ago, and Jesus has been my King, my help, and my portion ever since (Psalm 119:57–58).

Not long ago, I asked my dad what led him to get us all up that Sunday morning and take us to church. He said, “It hit me—you were heading into high school, and I realized I only had a few years left with you under my roof. And I had failed to give you the most important thing in life. Your mom and I weren’t living for the Lord, but deep down, I knew better. I knew—from the faith of my mother and grandmother—that God was what mattered most. So, we went to church.”

My dad thought about it and he took action. He turned to God, and it changed everything.

That’s what happened to the Prodigal Son. Broken and starving in a pigpen, he came to his senses, remembered his good father, got up, and went Home (Luke 15:17).

That’s what happened to Zacchaeus. He climbed a tree to see Jesus—but Jesus saw him first, locked eyes with him, and called him by name. Zacchaeus responded—and became a new creation (Luke 19:1–10).

And then there’s God the Father. He saw the brokenness of His children. He made a choice and sent His Son to die on a cross for the world. And it changed everything.

A holy life—and holy choices—matter. Immensely.

Joshua put it plainly:

“Choose this day whom you will serve” (Joshua 24:15, ESV).

The moment you choose to reflect and turn toward God doesn’t just shape your story—it shapes the stories of those around you. My dad made one decision. And it saved my life. The choice you make today may rescue more than just your own soul.

Think about it—and turn to Jesus.

Are You Water or Wine?

“The wine supply ran out during the festivities…” (John 2:3, NLT)

Jesus’ first miracle was turning water into wine. That wasn’t random—it meant something.

I used to teach fifth graders the difference between living and non-living things. It sounds simple—until it isn’t. Without getting too deep into the weeds, we’d define the difference like this: living things can sustain and reproduce life. Non-living things can’t.

Then we’d start sorting examples:

Trees, animals, humans, bacteria, mushrooms—living.

Rocks, air, their desk, pencil, and plastic water bottle—non-living.

And then we’d get to water… and things would get murky. I’d explain that water is non-living. And without fail, my students would push back: “But water moves! Fish live in it! It helps plants grow! It’s so important for life!”

And they’re right—water is essential for life. But it isn’t alive.

Water is a simple, inorganic compound—just hydrogen and oxygen. No carbon chains. No cells. No metabolism. No life processes. It doesn’t grow, reproduce, or change on its own. It can hold life, but it doesn’t possess life.

Wine, on the other hand, is the result of fermentation. It’s made through a living process—one that uses microscopic, living organisms called yeast to convert sugar into alcohol and carbon dioxide. The liquid literally changes at the molecular level and it becomes something new. Wine is organic. Complex. Alive.

And for Jesus’ first miracle, He turned water into wine.

He didn’t just add flavor or sparkle to the liquid in those water jars. He didn’t drop in some electrolytes or mix up a batch of ancient Kool-Aid. No—He turned what was non-living into something living. He took what was dead and made it alive. It was more than hospitality. It was resurrection. It was a miracle—and a metaphor. That’s what Jesus does.

The wine shortage at the wedding in Cana wasn’t just a party problem. It was a sign—a glimpse of the gospel and the Kingdom to come. Where Jesus is present, lifeless things don’t stay that way.

The wedding celebration was about to fall flat, and Mary, Jesus’ mother, nudged Him to do something. She knew who He really was. He told her His time hadn’t come.

But then… it did. And Mary told the servants: “Do whatever He tells you.”

They followed His instructions—fill the jars with water, draw some out, take it to the master—and somewhere in the midst of their obedience, the miracle happened. The water became wine. The dead became living.

That’s the way the Kingdom works. Paul says it clearly in Ephesians 2:1:

“You were dead in your trespasses and sins” (CSB).

We all start there. Like water, we are moving, present, even helpful—but frankly, dead. And then Jesus steps in—not just to improve us, but to transform us. Not to give us a better version of ourselves, but to make us alive.

Are you water or wine? Let Jesus do His work in you. Listen for His voice. Do what He says.

And watch the miracle unfold.