We often picture a wooden manger… but in ancient Israel, mangers were usually stone feeding troughs. So when Jesus was laid in one, it wasn’t just a cute detail—it was a sign. The shepherds around Bethlehem weren’t ordinary shepherds. They raised unblemished lambs for the temple sacrifices. When a perfect lamb was born, they would wrap it tightly in cloth to protect it and place it in a stone manger until it was safe. So when the shepherds found a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger, they knew exactly what God was saying. This child wasn’t just born. He was given. The spotless Lamb of God. The One who would take away the sins of the world. The true Bread of Life, placed in a feeding trough. God’s message was unmistakable—and it was wrapped in humility. The manger pointed to His humility, the swaddling cloths to His perfection, and His birth among sacrificial lambs to His destiny. And just as a manger held food, this moment pointed to Jesus as the true nourishment—the Bread of Life—given for the world.

Have you ever read a story in the Bible and thought, God… You could’ve picked someone else? I feel that way sometimes when I read about Lot. God knew how everything would turn out, and yet He still rescued him. And the truth is — it wasn’t because Lot was faithful. It was because God made a promise to Abraham, and He keeps His covenants even when people don’t. Lot’s whole attitude shows a man who struggled to trust God. When the angels arrived, he tried to protect them in his own strength. When destruction was coming, he lingered. He had to be dragged out of Sodom. Even after being rescued, Lot had left Sodom but Sodom wasn’t fully out of him. And yet… God was patient. Lot was told to flee to the hills, but he asked for something else — a little city called Zoar. And God, in mercy, agreed. He waited until Lot reached Zoar before judgment fell. Even then, Lot didn’t stay. Fear moved him again, and he ended up living in a cave — and the story only grows more heartbreaking from there. Lot’s journey is one ruled by fear rather than faith. Fear caused him to doubt God’s protection. Fear caused him to cling to alternatives. Fear caused him to step away from the very places God said were safe. And the consequences were devastating. But here’s what this story reminds me of: God’s patience is bigger than our fear. God’s faithfulness is stronger than our hesitation. God’s mercy reaches further than we think. Lot may not be the hero we expect… but he reveals a God who keeps His promises, even with people who stumble and struggle to obey. His story is a warning about living by fear — but also a witness to God’s relentless grace. Maybe the real question is this: Where am I still moving in fear instead of faith? And what might God be patiently rescuing me from even now?

Stars shoot across a velvet sky on display for the whole earth. They glimmer, they gleam through the cosmos, each a twinkling diamond of light. Glowing, giant, luminous spheres — great balls of fire, The light of your love that lights the way home. Energy that speaks of your power and majesty. Praise him, sun and moon; praise him, all you shining stars. Each glimmer shouts out your name in praise. The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork. Like a master craftsman, each held in place by your word — A blanket rolled out, exposing the wonders of creation. Stars that guide to treasure beyond compare, Stars that shone while the angels declared the joyous hope of your salvation. A star is a promise of a future, of a hope. The wise will shine like the brightness of the stars. Incomprehensible is the number of the stars, because you are incomprehensible. Each one you know by name. Each one you put and hold in place. You know their coming and going — And just as you know the stars… you know me. You trace my orbit with tenderness, Call me by name with the same authority that scattered light across the galaxies. In the vastness I am not lost; In the darkness I am never unseen. So I lift my eyes to the heavens you crafted, And find my hope anchored in the One Who hung the stars — And still holds my heart.

Rest has almost become a foreign concept in our world. Yet the Father longs to be in relationship with us. Through Jesus’ death and resurrection, we were brought back into a direct, intimate relationship with Him. And relationship always involves a give and a take — a sharing, a listening, a responding. Most of us are good at speaking to God. We pour out our worries, our needs, our questions. But we often forget the other side of the relationship: making space for Him to speak. If we truly desire to know God, we have to create room for Him. Scripture shows us that stillness isn’t simply an inner calm; it is a deliberate action. We are commanded: “Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him.” Psalm 37:7. Stillness is a choice — the decision to cease striving. Becoming present requires moments where we stop, reset, and realign our focus to what actually matters. How do we become present and still? By doing what 2 Corinthians 10:5 tells us: taking every thought captive and making it obedient to Christ. This is the practice of laying down every distraction and every racing thought so our hearts can settle. Jesus invites us into this rest. “Come to me… and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28. Rest is trust. It is letting go of everything else for a moment and simply sitting with Him. Psalm 46:10 whispers the same invitation: “Be still and know that I am God.” In a world that insists we must keep moving, keep producing, keep entertaining ourselves — or we’ll fall behind — the Kingdom offers something radically different. Can we choose to sit, to wait, to listen, to know? Sometimes in the silence, there is simply silence — and there is nothing wrong with that. Other times, in that same silence, you will hear His voice: calling, guiding, directing. Stillness is the doorway. Rest is the place where we learn to recognise Him. And relationship grows in the quiet we choose to make.

When you feel unseen by others — when it seems like you’re invisible or overlooked — remember this unshakeable truth: God sees you. In Genesis 16:13, Hagar meets the Lord in the wilderness, abandoned, mistreated, and ready to run. There she gives God a name that still echoes today: El Roi — the God who sees me. Not just the God who sees everything, but the God who sees me personally, intimately, compassionately. So does it really matter if others don’t see you? They don’t see what God has placed inside you. They don’t see the calling forming beneath the surface. They don’t see the quiet obedience you offer in the secret place. But He does. And He calls Himself your El Roi. As long as He sees you… as long as He knows your name… that is enough. “The Lord is on my side; I will not fear. What can man do to me?” Psalm 118:6. Do we truly need the praise of people — a praise that lasts only for this short breath of a life? Or do we long for the words that come from the mouth of God Himself: Well done, good and faithful servant. Yes, it hurts when you are not seen. Yes, like Hagar, there are moments when you feel like running away. But He sees you. He sees all you’ve carried. He sees all you’ve poured out. He sees the moments nobody else knows about — the worship, the tears, the prayers in the quiet place. You are fully known. Psalm 139:2 reminds us that He perceives every thought, every emotion, every hidden place. And the Father says: I see deeper. I see you — the whole you, not pieces of you. And I like what I see. So when you look in the mirror… can you agree with God? Can you look at the reflection He handcrafted and say, I like what I see? Anything less would be calling God a liar about His own creation. Lord, help me live as one who is truly loved — to abandon the striving, the regretting, the wishing I were someone else. Help me look deeper. Help me see You delighting in me, loving who You see. Because You are El Roi, the God who sees me. Even when nobody else does — You do.