Barbara Jurgensen writes about a busy time in her life. She was feeling it — the gap between the life she was living and the life she wanted to live. Her days were so full, so fragmented, that a deeper Christian life felt perpetually out of reach. So one night she did something simple. She asked God to help her live more faithfully. Starting tomorrow.

The next morning, before she was even out of bed, the phone rang. Her next-door neighbor had a terrible toothache. The dentist could see her right away, but her little boy was home sick. Could Barbara help?

She got up, got dressed, walked next door, made the child his breakfast, and stayed with him until his mother returned. That was the morning.

After lunch, a friend showed up at the door — someone who had been struggling with depression, going through a very hard stretch. She had a couple of dresses she wanted to shorten. Could they work on them together? They spent most of the afternoon side by side.

Near supper, her husband came home and mentioned — a little tentatively — that he'd invited two people to dinner. A couple he'd just met. The husband had a prison record and was having trouble finding work. I hope that's okay, he said.

It was okay.

By bedtime, Barbara lay there wondering. So much had happened. So many interruptions. Where, in all of that, had there been any time for God?

And then it dawned on her. God had been there all along. In every single interruption.

We tend to think of the spiritual life as something we carve out — a quiet moment, a dedicated practice, a time set apart. And those things matter. They lay a foundation. But the life God calls most of us to is not a cloistered life. It is a life lived in the middle of things. Busy, messy, interrupted.

And it turns out, the interruptions are often the invitation.

The neighbor with the toothache. The neighbor at the door. The awkward dinner guest. These are not obstacles to living faithfully. They are what living faithfully actually looks like.

Prayer: Lord, help us to see. Help us to notice you in the interruptions — in the unexpected phone call, the neighbor in need, the person who shows up at the wrong moment. Give us eyes to recognize the opportunities you place in front of us, and hearts willing to say yes. Amen.

Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross was doing research for her groundbreaking book, On Death and Dying, interviewing patients in a hospital who were nearing the end of their lives. She went from room to room, listening, taking notes.

And after a while, she noticed something she hadn't expected.

Some of the dying patients were remarkably calm. At peace. Settled in a way that surprised her. And when she looked for what these patients had in common, she kept finding the same thing. Their rooms had been cleaned by the same hospital orderly.

Kübler-Ross tracked her down in the corridor one day.

What are you doing with my patients?

The orderly thought she was in trouble. I'm not doing anything with your patients.

No — it's a good thing, Kübler-Ross said. After you visit them, they seem at peace. What are you doing?

The orderly was quiet for a moment. Then she said:

I just talk to them. I've had two babies of my own die on my lap. But God never abandoned me. I tell them that. I tell them they aren't alone. That God is with them. That they don't have to be afraid.

She wasn't a doctor. She wasn't a chaplain. She had no credentials for this work — except the one that mattered most. She had been through the darkness herself. And she had found something there that she could not keep to herself.

There is a kind of comfort that can only be offered by someone who has known the thing they are speaking about. Not advice. Not answers. Just — I have been in that place. And I was not abandoned there. And neither will you be.

The Apostle Paul wrote that God comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort others with the same comfort we ourselves have received. That's not a theory. That's what the orderly was doing, room by room, on her hands and knees, in a hospital corridor.

Ministry doesn't always look the way we expect it to.

Think about what you have come through. The losses, the fears, the seasons when you weren't sure you were going to make it. You may not think of those experiences as gifts. But somewhere, there is a person sitting in a room who needs to hear exactly what you learned in your own darkness.

You are not alone. God has not abandoned you. You don't have to be afraid.

Who in your life needs to hear that today?

Prayer: Gracious God, we are grateful for the people who have spoken hope into our darkest moments. We remember today that our own wounds can become a source of comfort for others — that out of the ashes of our hardest seasons, something redemptive can grow. Give us the courage to show up for the people around us who are struggling. And remind us, when we feel we have nothing to offer, that sometimes all it takes is the willingness to say: I have been there too. And God was faithful. In Jesus' name. Amen.

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I have a friend named Charley Landreth. He's a retired pastor — a longtime friend of our family. About ten years ago, Charley had a stroke and lost his ability to speak. Today he lives in a skilled nursing facility.

And yet he is one of the most joyful people I know. He is deeply loved — not just by family and friends, but by all the staff. He has this inner light that is unmistakable.

How did he get there? I can tell you it didn't just happen. It was cultivated. Over the course of a lifetime, Charley was nourished on something deeper than circumstance. Something that held when everything else was stripped away.

Later in John chapter 6, after Jesus has been teaching some hard things, a number of his followers walk away. They say: this is too difficult. Who can accept it?

And Jesus turns to his closest disciples and asks: Do you want to leave too?

Peter answers for the group. He says: Lord, to whom would we go?

It's not a triumphant declaration. It's almost a shrug. But it might be one of the most honest statements of faith in the entire New Testament.

We've looked around. We've considered the alternatives. And if you don't have the words of deep, lasting life — please, someone, give us something better.

So here’s the invitation. Look around. Test the alternatives. Is it technology? Social media? Politics? The Republican Party? The Democratic Party? Is it a bigger house, a more successful career, more money in the account?

These things aren't nothing. But they will not fill this hunger. They were never made to.

Lord, to whom would we go?

Only you have what we most deeply need.

Prayer: God, we come to you again today. Not because we have it all figured out. But because we have looked around, and we keep coming back to you. Feed us. Nourish something deep in us that circumstances cannot touch. May we cultivate, over the course of our lives, the kind of joy that holds — no matter what, the kind of faith that holds - no matter what. We ask in Jesus’ name. Amen.

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Jesus said: Whoever comes to me will never be hungry. Whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.

I want to spend a moment on that word — believes. Because in our culture, belief usually means intellectual agreement. I believe it's going to rain. I believe the earth is round. But that's not what Jesus means here.

When Jesus says believe, he means something closer to trust. If I say I believe in a close friend, I don't mean I believe she exists. I mean I trust her. I'd follow her. I have confidence in her.

And here's something I find really freeing. In the original Greek, both verbs — comes and believes — imply ongoing, continuous action. A more faithful translation might be: The one keeping coming to me will never be hungry. The one keep trusting in me will never be thirsty.

Not the one who came once. The one who keeps coming back.

A few years ago, our daughter was going through a really hard time. I lost a lot of sleep. I would pray and hand it over to God — and feel genuine peace. And then, sometimes within hours, I'd realize I was holding it all again. I’d wake up at two in the morning… Anxious. Worried. 

Someone once told me: you're the pastor. You're supposed to turn it over once and be done with it.

But I don't think that's what faith actually looks like. Not for most of us. Not most of the time. Jesus is saying: keep coming. Keep trusting. When you drift — and you will — turn back. And then turn back again.

I will meet you. I will feed you.

And I've found that to be true. Maybe you have too.

Where have you drifted lately? What would it look like, today, to turn back?

Prayer: Jesus, we keep picking it back up. We keep trying to carry what we've already handed to you. Help us to turn back. Again. And again. And to trust that you will meet us there. Amen.

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Jesus had just fed five thousand people. Five loaves, two fish. One of the most stunning miracles in the Gospels.

And the crowd's response? They wanted more. They were so impressed they tried to make him king on the spot. Jesus slipped away — crossed the lake. And the crowd got in boats and chased him.

When they found him on the other side, Jesus said something that stopped them: You're not here because you saw something meaningful. You're here because you ate the bread and you want more.

Someone in my Thursday Bible study put it perfectly. She said: that's the ancient equivalent of — what have you done for me lately?

It's a little funny. And it's also very human. We want the gift. We want the problem solved, the hunger satisfied. And we will chase those things across a lake if we have to.

But Jesus says: I want to give you something more than that.

Deeper than the gift, is the giver.

New Testament scholar Dale Brunner points out that Jesus doesn't just claim to be bread here — he claims to be the bread. Not one option among many. The thing that human beings most deeply long for. The hunger beneath all our other hungers.

Augustine said it this way: Our hearts are restless until they rest in God.

I think most of us know that restlessness. We just don't always know what to do with it.

Where do you find yourself chasing the gift rather than the giver? And what might it look like today to turn toward the source itself?

Prayer: Lord, forgive us for chasing the gift and missing the giver. You are what we are really looking for — beneath all our longing, beneath all our reaching. Draw us to yourself today.  In Jesus’ name. Amen.

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