In John 16:16–22, Jesus speaks a simple sentence that lands like a deep, wordless ache: “A little while, and you will no longer see Me… and again a little while, and you will see Me.” His friends didn’t understand it. But they felt it. They were standing at the edge of loss, and Jesus was naming the pattern every grieving heart eventually learns: absence, sorrow, and then—slowly—presence returning in a new way.

This passage isn’t a riddle. It’s a map of how love transforms. The disciples could have chosen despair, denial, nostalgia, or even violence. Instead, Jesus invited them to walk through grief until presence shifted from beside them to within them.

We know this pattern. Anyone who has lost someone and still hears their wisdom rise inside them knows it. Grief breaks us open. Love returns by another door.

In a world full of background noise, it’s easy to miss the gentle voice inside us—the one Jesus promised in John 16. This week’s reflection begins in a hearing-aid test booth and leads back into the vineyard path where Jesus told his friends, “When he comes, he will speak.” Not loudly. Not dramatically. Quietly. The challenge is not whether God speaks, but whether we can hear through the layers of noise around us—and within us. This post explores how silence becomes the birthplace of clarity, how our inherited narratives shape us more than we realize, and how God’s guidance rises slowly, like dawn, through the cracks of our stories. It’s not about throwing anything away, but understanding it more deeply. And it’s not about becoming heroes—it’s about becoming steady, gentle, honest people whose presence blesses others without effort.

We are all born into someone else’s narrative—religious, cultural, family-shaped scripts that define God before we ever ask our own questions. In John 16:7–15, Jesus tells the disciples that a new story is coming, one marked by the Spirit of Truth who guides us from within. This post explores how “when he comes” isn’t ancient language but an ongoing reality. From the collapse of inherited beliefs to the quiet emergence of deeper truth, we trace the moment when the Spirit speaks—not louder, but truer. Including my own journey through Millie’s illness, this reflection invites readers to see how truth rises when old stories break, offering liberation, clarity, and a presence that walks beside us long after the night in the vineyard.

The path hadn’t changed since Jesus’ last words: “If they hated me, they will hate you.” Same moon, same cool breeze threading through the vines, same knot of unease in the chest. As the disciples followed him deeper into the vineyard, he named a fear most of us know but rarely admit—falling away under pressure. Not because belief evaporates, but because cultural forces wear us down: embarrassment, exclusion, the ache of being unseen.

Jesus doesn’t scold or dramatize; he strengthens their roots. He teaches that identity must come before action, that external support must eventually become internal strength, and that God’s silence—so much like the silence many of us have known—can become the soil of resilience.

This reflection follows that quiet night and the warning he gave, connecting it to the pressures we face today, the moments when the world tries to shape us, and the deep roots we’re invited to grow from.
It ends as a letter to my grandchildren, and to anyone walking a narrowing path, reminding them: you come from deep roots, and nothing this world throws at you can erase that.

If you've never walked through a vineyard at night, it’s hard to imagine the quiet—the way each footstep snaps over pruned branches. Jesus let us walk in silence so that his words could sink deep: “If the world hates you, remember that it hated me first.” He wasn’t warning out of fear but preparing us for the resistance that comes when truth meets misunderstanding.

In John 15:18–27, Jesus does what every wise leader and loving teacher does: he names the storm before it arrives. He doesn’t promise comfort; he promises presence—the Spirit of Truth, rising within, guiding those willing to listen.

This post explores how grace rewrites our prayers, how division still tempts us to be “right louder than love,” and how the Spirit continues to shape us through resistance. Because the hatred isn’t proof you’ve failed—it’s the wind pressing against a ship still moving forward.

In the moonlit quiet of John 15, Jesus redefines religion as rhythm: “I am the vine, you are the branches.” The life he describes isn’t about striving but staying connected—faith as alignment, not achievement. Grace becomes the current that joins our motion, turning effort into ease. Joy, in this rhythm, is not a fleeting emotion but the steady pulse of belonging.

In this reflection, I trace how psychology’s idea of flow meets the gospel’s vision of abiding—and how both point to a life that holds together from the inside out. What I would like my grandchildren and their children to know is connection will always matter more than control. When you can’t see the next step, water what’s near you. That’s how love keeps its roots alive.

In the quiet hours after supper, Jesus led his friends into the night and stopped among the vines. What followed wasn’t a lecture—it was a living metaphor. “I am the true vine,” he said, holding both a branch and a cluster of grapes. Connection, not control, was the lesson.

This reflection explores how faith grows through rhythm and relationship, not rule-keeping. From a father’s steadying hand to the quiet art of pruning, we learn that grace joins motion and trust finds its balance when the hand lets go.

Faith that fears correction becomes brittle. Faith that welcomes it stays alive.

In the upper room, Jesus promised more than comfort—he promised partnership. “If you love me, keep my commandments,” he said, linking affection to action. The Spirit he describes is not a servant who works for us, but a helper who works with us. He strengthens our hands, steadies our hearts, and brings truth to remembrance when we’ve done the work of remembering. This is the rhythm of cooperation: God acting through us, not around us.

Peace, then, is not a gift dropped from heaven but a state discovered when our lives move in sync with reality—like breath and heartbeat finally finding the same tempo. In that alignment, we glimpse what Jesus meant when he said, “I do as the Father commanded me.” Love becomes rhythm. Obedience becomes resonance. And truth, once heard, begins to live within us.

The night before his death, Jesus told his disciples, “Let not your hearts be troubled.” They had every reason to fear. Yet he spoke of peace—not denial, but training of the heart.

In John 14, Jesus points to the slow work of trust, the faith that grows like a seed. Neuroscience calls it habit formation; scripture calls it transformation. Both describe the same process—living from a deeper stillness.

God, Jesus says, is not “up there” but “in us and through us,” waiting to be experienced. This reflection blends theology, psychology, and the rhythm of daily life, reminding us that peace is formed in the small choices that shape our character—and that the divine pulse has always been near.

In John 13, Judas and Jesus step onto two very different roads—one of survival, one of surrender. Judas followed instinct: rational, even noble-sounding at first glance. Jesus chose differently, not because he was immune to fear, but because he had practiced surrender in small ways for years. That training made obedience possible when everything was at stake.

Glory, Jesus says, comes when the hidden life within us breaks into the open—like a seed sprouting from the soil. Every choice we make plants something: seeds that grow into habits, habits that become character, character that decides which road we’ll walk when the hardest choices arrive.

Jesus gave his friends a compass: “Love one another.” Not a sentiment, but a strategy. Love is the road map for those who follow the way of surrender. The journey has no ETA, no finish line—only presence. Two roads still diverge before us. And the way we walk them becomes our life.

In John 13, Jesus begins with clarity: “His hour had come.” He did not turn away. Courage is born not in denial, but in facing reality. When our family faced Millie’s terminal diagnosis, clarity—though devastating—brought courage. The mission was simple: make her smile.

What follows in John’s Gospel is a basin and towel. Jesus strips away garments, kneels, and washes feet. No words. Only clarity expressed as service. This was not performance humility—it was obedience to his inner compass. Strength first, then service.

Jesus dismantled rank without despising role. Master and servant, messenger and sender—all are equal. Our culture overwrites this code, but it can be reinstalled with daily training: silence, noticing, applying truth instead of norm.

Too often, we put Jesus on a pedestal to admire, not follow. But discipleship is not unreachable perfection. It is training—daily, incremental improvement in clarity, courage, and love.

Belief is good, but belief alone isn’t enough. John 12:37–50 reminds us that silence may keep us safe, but it always costs something. Some believed and stayed quiet, afraid of rejection — a choice that feels as real today as it did then.

To my grandchildren and their children: you’ll face moments like this. You’ll know something in your bones, and still the temptation will be to stay quiet. But if you do, you’ll miss the richer life waiting to unfold.

Living awake means listening to the code within — your conscience, your spiritual DNA. It means realizing that consequences are already woven into your choices. It means understanding that one act of kindness or courage multiplies like candlelight passed from flame to flame.

The invitation of this passage is not to wait for life to happen but to participate in it. Let your choices ripple forward. Let your light spark light in others. This is how legacy is made.

In John 12:27–36, Jesus whispers, “Now my soul is troubled.” That single line has stayed with me. If even he could admit trouble, then I can too. Life rarely hands us the whole picture — just puzzle pieces scattered across the table. We ache for the box top, but most of the time we only hold the next piece in our hand.

Sometimes what others call thunder feels like a voice to us. Sometimes a song on the radio feels like reassurance. What matters most is not convincing others of what we’ve heard, but noticing what awakens inside us.

Trouble is not weakness. It is the threshold where light begins. Borrowed light fades when its source is gone. But we are invited to walk in our own light — children of light, carrying forward the pieces we are given.

Life often feels like putting together a puzzle without the picture on the box. We see fragments and scattered pieces, but rarely the whole. In John 12:20–26, Jesus meets the request of some Greeks who longed to see him, and he responds with a surprising image: a grain of wheat falling into the soil, dying in order to bear fruit.

At a time when Rome glorified Caesar through violence and propaganda, Jesus redefined glory as humility, justice, and service. His words invite us to imagine a different kind of peace — not enforced by domination, but grown through justice and love.

This reflection explores how Jesus’ teaching connects to our deepest human desires: the longing for connection, the need for acceptance, and the search for purpose. Like a seed planted in the ground, our lives bear fruit when we release self-interest and open our hands to love.

Every act of justice, kindness, and service becomes another piece of the puzzle. One day, when the picture is complete, we will see that our lives have planted seeds of legacy that live on.

An ordinary dinner in Bethany becomes a turning point—on love, gratitude, timing, and the quiet fragrance we leave behind.

Stillness is a spiritual technology. Silence and solitude are essential tools for tuning into our inner calling and unique path. 

A Young Man’s Question: “Is Retirement All They Say It Is?”

I was standing in my soon-to-be son-in-law's father's kitchen when a young man asked me an intriguing question: "So, how is retirement? Is it all that they say it is?” I paused for a moment before answering. 

“No," I responded. "It's different. Not better, not worse, just different.” His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open.

What does this mean for you and me? What should our children, grandchildren, and their children take away from this? Let's not just believe what Jesus believed about himself but also follow his example of how to have faith in ourselves. We should embody what is true about us, and our actions should spring from our unique identities. Easier said than done, right? 

I'm seeking insights to share with others: my children, grandchildren, and their children. Instead of contradictions, I want to provide them with truths that could enhance their lives and spark their curiosity about eternal concepts. 

For now, my only insight is the often unrecognized truth of uncertainty. We know, but don't like to acknowledge, that we live in an uncertain universe, each with an uncertain number of days. Yet here we are, with a brain that wants answers and a psyche that craves what it cannot have: certainty.

In that “lonely place," Jesus finds the courage to say, "Let's go!” As he passes by, I imagine him slowing down, looking my way, and asking, "Where is your lonely place?” Then it strikes me: withdrawal must be a conscious act, especially these days when our lives resemble an arcade’s constant noise and flashing lights more than a space of solitude. Like Jesus, I must withdraw and retreat to my own "lonely place” to hone the skill of hearing the voice within and the courage to say, “Let’s go!”