A Grief Revisited

Posted on May 4, 2026 by Joe Chambers

In A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis shares his profound feelings of despair as he witnessed his wife’s gradual passing from cancer. He begins the book with the poignant reflection: “Nobody ever told me.”

Let me tell you something about grief.

I spoke at my wife’s aunt’s memorial service yesterday, just one week before Mother’s Day. That stirred up subterranean emotions. And I have been slightly askance for the last day or two. With apologies to Flannery O’Connor, I write so that I can read what I know or feel.

We honor our grief by remembering. This loss requires a careful examination. We must hold on to it long enough for its full impact to resonate within us. In today’s fast-paced society, we are often urged to move on and find quick fixes. However, biblical tradition and history illustrate that grief deserves time and space. Even Jesus grieved upon learning of John the Baptist’s tragic death: “When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place” (Matthew 14:13).

Ignore those who claim that grieving indicates a lack of faith or that only the weak experience sorrow. Grief is a natural response, and God, in His wisdom, has given us a way to process our pain.

Treasure the memories. Both tears of joy and sadness will arise. A funeral service marks not the middle or the end of the grieving process, but merely the beginning.

We embrace grief by rebuilding. The swirling questions in your mind and heart—How long will this last? Why is this happening? Where is God during this time?—are entirely normal.

Grief is a stealthy emotion.

Five years ago, I faced the loss of my mother to cancer. I was invited to speak at her memorial service, a privilege that comes from being a preacher in a family dedicated to faith in Jesus.

A few months following her service, I found myself feeling unusually irritable with my dog, the cat, and even the mailman. I voiced my confusion to my wife, Lynette, lamenting my disconnection from the world. In her wisdom, she suggested, “Your mother died a few weeks ago. Why not take a walk in the woods?” In other words, “Take a hike.”

Since I always heed my wife’s advice, I went for a walk. During that time, I contemplated my mother’s passing and the sacred sorrow in my heart. I grappled initially with the question: Why, God? But as I walked, that question faded, replaced by another: Which way, God? While I received no answer to the first question, the second question found a response.

I first felt a profound gratitude for the years filled with love and support my mother provided. She had taught me that as long as life persists, we have responsibilities—not only to God but also to others. In reflecting on my mother’s wisdom, I came to know that perseverance is the most underrated spiritual discipline. Just keep going back to God…day after day after day.

No matter what.

Ultimately, I was comforted by the presence of God. He accompanied me as I traversed the lonely path of sorrow. Returning from my walk, the sadness remained deeply rooted, yet with each step toward my mountain home, I felt the warm embrace of the one who wept outside His friend’s tomb in Palestine two millennia ago. Profound sadness and loss can coexist with deep joy and incandescent hope in the same heart. Call them sacred companions, maybe.

If you feel stuck in your sorrow, I wonder if sometimes we resist moving forward because our pain is the last connection we have to what was lost.

But don’t ever say, “No one ever told me.”

I just did.

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Thoughts on Preaching

Posted on February 20, 2026 by Joe Chambers

Recently, a pastor I genuinely respect sought my opinion on whether there were any aspects of his preaching that needed improvement. It took significant humility to ask for such feedback. I appreciate his preaching; he’s a talented communicator of God’s Word, and more importantly, my wife enjoys his messages too.

This situation reminds me of a time in my thirties when I was experiencing significant success as a pastor. I asked my wife who her favorite preacher was, and she replied, “Andy.” For a moment, I felt a bit hurt, but then I realized that Andy was one of my favorites, too. Sadly, Andy is no longer in ministry; his story is one of brokenness and decline, and we have since lost touch. This experience has taught me that talent does not guarantee faithfulness.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the effectiveness of preaching. It often falls short of the impact we preachers envision. My father, also a preacher, shared an analogy with me early in my ministry that has stayed with me. He quoted Hebrews 5:13: “Anyone who lives on milk, being still an infant, is not acquainted with the teaching about righteousness.” He explained that, regardless of how profound a sermon might be, it is ultimately still milk. He likened it to how milk is produced—it starts as grass, which a cow ingests, digests, and processes to create a simpler food for calves. Eventually, these calves must learn to eat solid food independently.

Similarly, a pastor engages deeply with the Word of God, processes its teachings through their spiritual journey, and presents it in an accessible way so everyone can receive spiritual nourishment on Sundays. The hope is that congregants will use the sermon as a supplement and develop their ability to feed themselves spiritually.

While this may be a simplistic analogy, I find it insightful. In considering the components of a quality sermon, I believe it should embody three key elements: Good, Beautiful, and True.

Good: I want to feel assured that the preacher has genuinely engaged with the text. They’ve wrestled with its meaning, studied its ancient languages, and understood the context. I want to know they’ve questioned, probed, and debated the text. What challenges did they encounter? Where did it disturb or cause tension for them?

Beautiful: I desire an emotional connection when I listen to the sermon. I want to laugh, cry, and be moved—not manipulated—but truly touched. This emotional depth can come through storytelling, engaging prose, poetry, or vivid analogies. I want to feel the essence of the story.

True: Does the sermon withstand scrutiny? How can I apply its teachings to become a better person? Does it provoke thoughtful reflection? I want to walk away thinking, “I never considered that before,” or “That’s an intriguing way to articulate a truth I already understood.” After hearing the sermon, I hope to think, “What a fascinating idea!”

There are great books about preaching. My favorites include:

Biblical Preaching by Haddon Robinson.

Preaching by Fred Craddock

The Homiletical Plot by Eugene Lowery

Integrative Preaching by Kenton Anderson

These are my favorite preachers who embody what I have tried to describe:

Chuck Swindoll

Timothy Keller

Joel Gregory

Barbara Brown Taylor

Andy

Reflecting on my preacher friend who asked for feedback, I find humility to be my favorite trait in a preacher. When a preacher approaches God’s Word with humility and a mindset of “I may be wrong,” it enhances the listening experience.

One last thing: one of my first deacons told me on my second Sunday, when I was twenty-six years old, “Pastor Joe, there’s no such thing as a bad short sermon.”

So, does the sermon resonate as Good, Beautiful, and True? If so, it will provide rich spiritual sustenance until I can delve into the Bible for myself.

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Hattie’s Song

Posted on February 7, 2026 by Joe Chambers

“The kingdom of heaven is like leaven, which a woman took and hid in three measures of meal till it was all leavened.”~ Jesus

The bedraggled man sat in my office and tried to wet his lips, but his tongue was too dry. His shoulders were rounded and stooped as if he carried the world. His eyes kept flitting around from one window to the next, glancing at me furtively. Finally, he’d gathered enough spit to speak.

“Pastor Joe, your sermon yesterday on hope and leaven made me think of something that happened to me when I was a little boy. I don’t know why, but I feel as if I’m supposed to tell you this story.

“I was eight years old when my grandmother remarried a man named Bob. During the summers, my mother would take us up to their ranch in northern Texas for a visit. Grandpa Bob sat me on his knee, tussled my hair, and told me stories.  I liked Grandpa Bob. He let me drive the tractor and feed the chickens.

“They had a maid who worked for them, cleaning, cooking, and generally taking care of the house.  Her name was Hattie. She was a beautiful, large black woman. She made the best biscuits in the world, but she barely spoke. When I was in the sitting room with my mom and grandparents, I could hear Hattie in the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors and banging pots and pans.

“Don’t break all the dishes, Hattie.” Grandpa Bob would yell out to her with a grin.  Then he turned to me and said, “Hattie can’t hear a lick. She doesn’t realize how hard she’s banging stuff.”

“My mother had me stay with them at the ranch for the summer with Grandpa Bob and my Grandma. Grandpa took me everywhere with him. We went to town to the feed store. He took me to the Town Talk Café for breakfast. He took me to the courthouse, and we sat on some benches with other old men, and they told stories and laughed.

“One Friday evening, we went to a large meeting in a farmer’s field. There were lots of men there, and they had their cars and trucks all in a circle with their headlights pointing to the center. In the middle of the circle of headlights was a large oak tree.

“Grandpa Bob had a wooden box that he put in front of his truck, and he stood up on it and began to speak. Everyone listened to him. It was like he was their boss or something. I couldn’t understand everything he said, but it sounded as if he was angry. I’d never heard him speak in anger before that night. He was yelling at the black man who was being held by the arms under the tree. I was sitting in the front seat of the car, and Grandpa Bob’s back was to me, and I couldn’t make out everything he said, but then they put a rope around the black man’s neck and pulled him up in the air from a rope they had tossed over the limb of the tree. The man kicked and kicked and kicked and kicked until he didn’t kick anymore.

The man stopped, wet his lips, and wiped a tear from his eye.

“Pastor Joe, it was the most horrible thing I’ve seen in my life. I was only a boy. Who takes their grandson to something like that?” he asked.

All I could do was shake my head in sadness.

He continued, “On the way home, Grandpa Bob told me over and over again about how we needed to remind those people of their place and that if they ever started getting ideas like that black-no-good-son-of-a-bitch-preacher, King, then all of society would come unraveled.

“While he talked, I kept seeing that black man’s feet kicking and kicking and then going still.

“Later that night, I was in my bed and couldn’t keep from crying, so I sobbed into my pillow. Directly, I heard the door to my room open. I turned my head towards the door, thinking it might be Grandpa Bob coming to tell me to stop crying, but silhouetted against the hallway light was the round figure of Hattie. She sat on the edge of the bed and stroked my face. Her hands smelled of cinnamon and honey. She patted my chest with her thick black hand, and the more she was tender with me, the more I could see that man’s feet hanging from the tree, and I cried all the more.

Then I heard her softly begin to sing:

Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, let me stand
I’m tired, I’m weak, I’m lone
Through the storm, through the night
Lead me on to the light
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home

“When she was finished, she patted me on the head and quietly stepped out of the room.

“The next day, I heard a man preaching on the radio from the kitchen. When I went in and sat down at the table, I saw Hattie washing dishes, and she was listening carefully to the preacher man. She saw me come in and asked me if I wanted pancakes for breakfast.

“I must have had a shocked look on my face thinking about the song she sang to me the night before, and now she was listening to the radio because Hattie looked at me sternly and yet with a hint of kindness and said, “You can keep a secret, can’t you?” I nodded my head. She said, “I’m only pretending to be deaf so’s I can hear what Mr. Bob is planning and warn my people when I hear something’s coming that’ll bring them harm. I’m like leaven in the loaf that the Bible talks about. He don’t know I can hear, so let’s keep it that way, okay? One day, judgment run down as waters, and righteousness as a mighty stream like Dr. King say.”

“I nodded.

“Aren’t you scared, Miss Hattie?” I asked.

“Yes, boy, I’m scared. But God knows what He’s doing. I do my part, and he do His part, and all will be well one day.”

“From that day on, my step-grandfather did his best to fill my head with hate, and Hattie would fill it with love every night.

“In time, my grandparents died, and I lost track of Hattie, but in the early nineties, I went back to that community to look for her. I went to the only cemetery in town and had the hardest time finding her. Eventually, I found her in the “colored section.” The only marker on her grave was a small metal plate with the number twenty-seven. I vowed that when I could get the money, I’d get her a nice stone.

“I’ve never had enough money, but no one has marked my life like Hattie. She never spoke an ill word about my grandma or grandpa Bob. She just filled me with love whenever they weren’t around. Told me stories, smiled at me, and sang. And, Pastor Joe, she could sing like an angel, and that always gave me hope.”

He took a sip of water from the Styrofoam cup and thanked me for my time, and excused himself.

I sat in my chair—slack-jawed. But I kept humming that tune all day. I couldn’t get it out of my head.

The leaven of the gospel of the Kingdom hid its way into her life and was kneaded into Hattie’s soul, and there lay–until a little boy needed a song—and today I’m telling you their story. That’s how the Kingdom spreads.

So, get your hopes up and sing.

Somebody might be listening.

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Don’t Forget to Remember Me

Posted on January 17, 2026 by Joe Chambers

But Zion said, “The Lord has forsaken me,
    my Lord has forgotten me.”
Can a woman forget her nursing child,
    or show no compassion for the child of her womb?
Even these may forget,
    yet I will not forget you.
See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands;
    your walls are continually before me. Isaiah 49:14-16

When I write my sermons or articles for publication, I always leave the title and the introduction for last. My process is to let the theme emerge as I reflect, research, and write the sermon. Recently, I wrote in my notes, “Don’t forget to remember.”

“Don’t forget to remember”—that’s pretty good, but it sounds like a country song.

So, I googled “Don’t Forget to Remember” and discovered that Carrie Underwood has a song called “Don’t Forget to Remember Me.” Of course, there is a country song about this. There is a country song about every aspect of life, isn’t there?

According to family lore, my brother, my little sister, and I all fell asleep in the pews of the church during my dad’s sermon when I was three, my brother Jay was two, and my sister Robbie was one. When it came time to go, my parents each picked up a sleepy child and loaded them into the car to go home. They must have been visiting with late-leaving church members as they loaded their bundles of joy into the car, because when they got home to unload sleepy children, they only had two of the three. They accidentally left my little sister, Robbie, asleep on the pew in the dark, empty church. Two out of three is not a bad batting average in baseball, but it doesn’t work for parenting.

The race was on to get back to my little sister before she woke up in a dark church, and thus caused psychic damage that therapy would never be able to fix. We did, and my sister is barely messed up to this day.

So, apparently, a mother can forget a child.

Some human mothers are bad, and they abandon their children. But even some good mothers will forget you due to age-related diseases, or they will eventually die before you and abandon you.

You see, eventually, you lose your mother. Mother love seems unconditional. It seems indestructible, but it’s not because human beings aren’t indestructible.

If you ever watch a nursing mother, you see it in a way that the mother herself can’t. You see the radiance in her face. God has the audacity to say, “That’s just a dim hint of my delight in you.”

If you lived moment by moment with the bedrock certainty that a Person of that magnitude loved you with that depth—would it change you?

One of the most frustrating things about being a parent is that you’ve made sacrifices, so your whole life has changed, and yet all your sacrifices are completely invisible to the child.

When our granddaughter, Cora Lee, was a baby, we did summer daycare for her parents while Mindy and Caleb were at work. Every morning, I sat in my chair reading when Mindy drove up, brought that precious baby into our house, and sat her down in the chair next to me. Mindy stood there on one foot, then the next. She bent down and cooed at Cora, touched her face, wiped her slobbery mouth with the back of her fingers, stroked her hair, and told her at least 75 times, “I love you, Baby.”

She glanced at her watch and moved towards the door, and then, standing in the doorway, glanced back and said one more time to that little girl still strapped in her car seat, “I love you, baby.”

Let me ask you a question. When baby Cora is 14 years old and wants to wear something to school that is inappropriate, when that teenage girl named Cora wants to hang out with friends past a decent hour on a school night, and Mindy says, “No.” Do you think Cora will remember the morning routine Mindy went through when she was a baby? Do you think Cora will remember and have an inkling of the sacrifice Mindy made to care for, nourish, love, and adore that baby every day of her life?

When Cora is 14 years old, will she remember the 75 times Mama said, “I love you, baby,” standing in my house every morning in the summer of 2020? A child doesn’t understand your sacrifices, any more than a fish can understand what water is because a fish knows nothing but water. And we don’t often understand God’s great love for us on an infinitely larger scale.

So, how do I know for sure that God really loves me?

Read this out loud and slowly, “See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands.”

At first, that looks like just another lovely metaphor about His devotion. In ancient times, sometimes a master would tattoo his name on the back of a servant’s hand but never did a Master tattoo the name of a servant on His hand.

Never.

We might think, “Isn’t that beautiful? Another metaphor of God’s love.” No, it’s not a beautiful metaphor. It’s a horrible metaphor. Do you know why? It doesn’t say tattooed. It says, “… I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands…” The word inscribed is a very specific Hebrew term that means carved with a hammer and chisel or with a spike.

Why in the world would you conjure up the image of someone out of love letting people take a hammer and drive a spike right into the palm of their hands?

Would God really do that? Yes.

Where in the world did God do that? Calvary.

Every strike of the hammer on the head of the nail through the hands of Jesus showed that He knows your name, and He knows your address.

Trust God to remember you.

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One Year Older

Posted on December 18, 2025 by Joe Chambers

I am one year older today,
a fleeting whisper of time,
Reflecting in the mirror,
I see an old man,
etched with echoes of laughter
and the weight of untold stories.

The mountain wind howls,
a fierce companion reminding me
of the wilderness I’ve wandered,
the paths I’ve forged with weary feet.
In my quiet cabin,
the aroma of coffee swirls,
a warm embrace before dawn.

My wife loves me,
that soft truth, a beacon in the dark,
and I feel the joy bubbling,
anticipation of laughter
with good friends,
the sacred circles of fellowship.

Yet, amid cheer, my heart aches
for the many hurting souls,
each one a prayer,
each tear a shared burden,
as I kneel in the stillness,
lifting them with hope.

I am glad I am alive,
every breath a gift,
each moment a canvas
upon which to paint my faith.
I love Jesus,
a guide through shadows,
a light that breaks the dawn.

I long to be a better man,
to embody grace, to spread kindness,
believing deeply that I am the beloved of God,
held in gentle hands, wrapped in mercy.
Tomorrow will come,
a promise that whispers
with dawn’s tender light,
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.

I have many more miles
to travel on this sacred journey,
each step a testament,
each mile a prayer,
as I walk the path laid before me,
with faith as my compass,
and love as my map.

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Love and Summit

Posted on December 9, 2025 by Joe Chambers

It feels like I was created to love the mountains, those towering giants that stretch toward the infinite expanse, rugged and solitary, embodying the wildness of my spirit. Yet in their shadows, I find joy in the company of God’s saints, those flawed, beautiful souls who mirror my own journey. I have walked with God for over sixty years, each step a testament to faith, each breath a whisper of grace. For thirty-five years, I have served the body of Christ, a minister laboring in love, my heart an open well, ever pouring out to others in countless ways.

Blessings have rained upon me, cascading like waterfalls, too abundant to count—each moment spent with the people of God a pearl strung upon the necklace of my life. Jesus saved me first in 1965, lifting me from shadows, pulling me into light. His bride, the church, rescued me a second time in 1999, wrapping me in a warmth that promised belonging—she is the last best hope for a world aching for salvation.

Yet, even amidst this sacred fellowship, I carry my scars, wounds inflicted by some of the very hands meant to heal. Confusion knits its threads into my heart, deep disappointment staining my expectations. I trust Jesus, my anchor in the storm, but His people have not always shown the way; their missteps leaving me weary and unsure.

And yet, what do I do? Love remains a fierce ember, stubborn and undying, compelling me to embrace the people of God despite the pain. I am left to navigate this sorrow, to learn from it, to find the grace woven through the threads of my experience. In the quiet stillness of the mountains, I seek to reconcile the rugged reality of my soul with the vast love that calls me onward. I must learn that love holds both joy and sorrow, climbing higher, reaching deeper, forging a path where my heart can rest and rise anew amidst the peaks and valleys of faith.

Mount Yale

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This Hard Good Life

Posted on December 5, 2025 by Joe Chambers

You woke me with the chill
of a 3° sunrise,
its light creeping over the horizon,
a thin brushstroke of warmth,
like the soft crackling of a fire,
its glow wrapping around me.

Gentle strains of music soothe my spirit,
notes drifting through the air,
weaving a tapestry of sound,
while fine food fills my stomach,
each bite
a communion with sacred company,
laughter echoing off the walls.

You lifted me high
with the delight of my granddaughter,
her joy a beacon,
a light in this ever-turning world.
You blessed me with the breathing presence
of my old friend,
his warmth a reminder,
familiar comfort at my feet.

Wonder unfolds
as I glimpse the doe,
graceful,
treading softly through the deep snow,
her tongue dipping into white powder,
seeking refreshment
from a world draped in winter’s hush.

You quickened my pulse
with thoughts of my wife
returning home,
the promise of her smile,
while shadows gather,
reminders of sorrow,
like the story of Everett,
a Christmas tree
standing bare,
a boy killed in war,
echoing loss in the stillness.

I stand wounded,
hearing of the eleven-year-old
searching for quick ways to escape,
loss heavy in the heart,
and then I am moved to tears
by the pink glow of a shy peak,
fifty miles away,
a blush of hope on the canvas of dusk.

This day was hard and good,
woven together,
a fabric of contradiction,
a reminder to cherish the beauty
in this tangled life.

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Giving Tuesday Idea

Posted on November 29, 2025 by Joe Chambers

Perhaps a Christmas gift idea…

Sacred Journey is a ministry that has touched over 200 souls who have either been to our home or other venues. We’ve even ministered to missionaries internationally. (That was a long flight) In 2025, we facilitated four retreats in our home.

We think we have facilitated around 25 soul-care retreats called Sacred Journey. We have never charged for these retreats in the years we have led them. But that doesn’t mean they are free. Each retreat costs between $ 2,500 and $3,000. We have been able to offer these at no cost to participants due to the generosity of past participants or others who believe in Sacred Journey.

This year, ahead of Giving Tuesday, which is a movement to counterbalance the commercialism of Black Friday and Cyber Monday, I would like to ask you to consider donating to the Soul Care ministry at Mountain Heights Church. (If you give it through the church, you will receive a tax credit.)

In exchange for a suggested donation of $25 per book, I will send you a signed copy of the devotional books I have written in years past. I have also put together a journal that I will send you for a suggested donation of $10.

Each book costs me $7 to print and ship to each person. So, if I have done the math correctly, Sacred Journey will receive $18 per book.

Below is the description of each book, found on the back cover.

Walking Ancient Paths: A Daily Liturgy For The Sacred Journey

Humans create paths through erosion from footfall. These paths are called desire paths. Desire paths form when people or animals repeatedly take the same route, creating a strip of trodden earth.

The same could be said of spiritual paths. These ancient tracks can be hard to find in our modern world. But once found, the paths multitudes of saints, poets, and pilgrims have worn down through their travels well before us can show the way to fulfilling the longing underneath all longings — the heart’s great desire for God. This book is a collection of trail markers for you on your journey.

Field Notes on the Jesus Way 

The observations of a researcher engaged in hands-on work are called fieldnotes. In the case of this set of essays, they come from a flawed but determined pilgrim in a journey of obeying Jesus when he said, “Come, follow me.” Drawn from a life shaped by relationships, suffering, mistakes, and love for the wilderness, this little book will give you evidence for the phenomenon of grace and a few trail markers along the way- the Jesus way.

Thus says the Lord: Stand at the crossroads, and look, and ask for the ancient paths, where the good way lies; and walk in it, and find rest for your souls. Jeremiah 6:16

The Sacred Life Journal

The purpose of the journal is to assist you in living a more reflective and contemplative life. It is divided into two simple movements: one to reflect on a gospel passage in the morning and another to reflect on God’s work in your day.

These are variations of the classic Christian disciplines of Lection Divina, developed by St. Benedict, and the Prayer of Examen, developed by St. Ignatius. There is a full explanation for each of these practices in the journal, along with a sixty-day reading plan for the Psalms that I enjoy.

So, reach out to me at joseph.o.chambers@gmail.com if you would like a signed copy of one of the two devotionals.

You can give by making a check out to Mountain Heights Church and putting “soul care” in the memo line, and send it to me at 16120 Mt. Princeton Road, Buena Vista, CO 81211. (I’ll see to it that the church receives the money)

OR…

You can give on the Mountain Heights website, in the designated funds tab, to the sub fund called “Soul Care.”  https://www.mhbc.life/

If you choose to give online, please let me know so I can send you however many books you need.

Thanks for considering this.

Blessings,

Joe and Lynette

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Overcoming Anxiety

Posted on November 26, 2025 by Joe Chambers

When you’re sleeping, what do we call the kind of clock that’s supposed to wake you up in the morning? An alarm clock! That’s not an optimistic name. It would be nice if we called it the opportunity clock or the resurrection clock, but we don’t. The purpose of the buzz is to wake you up. Once you’re awake, you turn it off.

I want to make an important distinction between two experiences: Situational Anxiety (alarm)vs. Chronic Anxiety.

An alarm is a strong initial feeling of unpleasantness or concern designed to alert you that something’s wrong and motivate you to take action.

But imagine if a buzzer went off, you woke up, and never turned it off. You carried that buzzing sound with you all day. You go down for breakfast, it’s still going on; you drive to work, you’re not listening to the radio, the alarm is still going on. Moment by moment, hour by hour, all day long, that sound does not stop.

There are people who live with chronic anxiety eating away at their heart and soul, and it is more toxic by far than it would be to live with that annoying alarm sound all day.

What can be done? No single thing can turn off the chronic alarm and intrusive thoughts, and if it persists, you probably need to seek professional help.

But a few things have helped me:

Saint Paul reminds us,

Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:6-7)

Turn your worry list into a prayer list. Pray what is in your heart, not what ought to be in your heart.

Make gratitude a daily habit, even if it’s just listing one or two small things you are thankful for, such as a cup of coffee or a nice moment of sunshine.

Keep a journal: Writing down things you are grateful for can be a powerful way to process these feelings.

Share your gratitude: Telling a friend or loved one what you are thankful for can strengthen connections and reinforce positive feelings.

Paul’s words are helpful, but I love what the Big Fisherman said:

“…cast all your cares upon Him, for He cares for you. 1 Peter 5:7

A lady told me one time, “Joe, I could stand this if I knew it mattered to somebody–that anybody cared.” The good news of the Gospel is that it does matter to God. Now, that doesn’t mean it hurts less. That doesn’t mean that you won’t bleed, get wounded, or get sick and die. You’re exempt from nothing. But it does mean that every tear that you shed matters to God…and you can give it over to Him.

No matter how bad it gets, we have a promise from God’s Word that He will lift us up.

When I was about 5 years old, my family and I lived in Zephyr, Texas. The house that we lived in had a field out back that pastured two mean, old, gnarly rams. My brother, who was about 4, and I were forbidden to play in the field with the rams. My dad reminded us that they were mean and dangerous. My dad knew about these things, for he knew all things.

It might not be a good idea to forbid young boys from going exploring in a dangerous field. It awakens something primordial in our DNA. We will defy all thoughts of safety and boldly go where no 4 and 5-year-old has gone before. (Let it be known that I really didn’t want to go into the forbidden field. I had a reputation for obedience as a wee lad, but my little brother made me go.)

We had a blast exploring the creek that wound through the mesquite grove. We fought epic battles, defended our positions, and won the day. When our last foe was vanquished, we made our way back to the fence that bordered our backyard. In the corner of that part of the field, there were two wooden pallets that were on their edge to form a solid corner and a makeshift ladder over the fence.

After my little brother had scaled the fence, it was my turn. I had my hand on the top of the wood when I heard snorting from behind. I wheeled and saw that I was face-to-face with the old, mean, gnarly rams. They were mad. They shook their heads and blew snot out of their noses. I started to cry. For these were not pretend enemies; these were real. With his head lowered, the biggest one hit me full-on in the stomach, slamming me against the wooden corner. I screamed as if this were a dragon blowing fire into my face. The ram backed up and charged again, slamming me for a second time into the wood.

What did my brother do? Did he try to come to my rescue? Did he try to fight off the demon sheep? Did he give me advice and counsel? Did he pray for me? Did he call out for help? No. I’ll tell you what the little redheaded 4-year-old kid did; he screamed bloody murder like the four-year-old that he was.

I am smiling as I write this now, over six decades after the attack, but I will tell you I was scared out of my mind at the time. I had never been attacked by a demon sheep before. I believed I was going to die. Suddenly, in the midst of that horror, as the ram was charging in for the kill, I felt a strong hand grab the back of my collar and pull me up with such force that the ram missed me and head-butted the wood barrier instead. I saw the blue sky as I rocketed upward and then felt two strong arms squeeze me tightly until the tears stopped.

It was my father.

You and I have a heavenly father who watches over us and will come running to our rescue. Stop trying to control outcomes and trust in the strong arm of the Father.

Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he will lift you up in due time. 1 Peter 5:6

Think about what is really keeping you awake at night. Maybe it is a medical problem, perhaps your kids, or wondering if you’ll ever get married, your job, money, or whether nobody loves you. It could be anything.

Perhaps the Father is saying to you, “Child, just be still and toss those things over here and go to sleep. There’s no use for both of us staying up all night.”

Sweet dreams.

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The Silence of God

Posted on November 17, 2025 by Joe Chambers

Silence may be golden, but duct tape is silver. – Phil Meyers (deceased pastor in my last congregation)

“What has been happening in your prayer life?”

The young pastor looked up and drew in a deep breath. After a minute or two, he said, “Actually, I haven’t been hearing much from God at all in my prayer life.” He said it in such a way that made me think he was surprised to hear those words come out of his mouth.

“Do you normally hear from God in your prayer life?” I asked.

“Always!” he said.

“But what has been happening lately?” I asked.

“Stone-cold silence,” he said.

“How do you feel about that?” I asked.

“Like I am doing something wrong,” he said.

“What if I told you that I believe that God’s first language is silence?”

He just stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language.

The silence of God is not always a sign of displeasure. God is more often silent in my life than chatty. Honestly, I am a little dubious when people tell me that they hear from God all the time. When someone tells me, “God told me to tell you this.” Or “God told me to do such and such.” I find that very off-putting. How do you argue with God? The ultimate conversation stopper is when someone says, “God told me…”

I know God is close to my heart, but a constant flow of direct words and instructions? —I can count on one hand the times I was absolutely certain I heard a direct word from God.

The children of Israel were in slavery for four hundred years, and they didn’t hear a single word from God as far as we know. God speaks to Job for the first time in Job chapter 38. Job thought it was it was eternity. After the last verse of Malachi, God is silent again until the angel came to talk to a little teenage girl in Nazareth named Mary—some four hundred years later. God seems to be quite comfortable with silence.

One of my favorite artists is Andrew Peterson, and he has a song entitled “The Silence of God.” Here are a few lines from that song:

It’s enough to drive a man crazy
Or break a man’s faith
It’s enough to make him wonder
If he’s ever been sane
When he’s bleeding for comfort
From thy staff and thy rod
And the heavens’ only answer
Is the silence of God

If you have walked with God for any period of time, those words probably resonate with you. It can be frustrating not to hear from someone you love. And often it feels like God is ghosting us.

The week of Jesus’ death, he was trying to explain what was going to happen regarding his crucifixion to his disciples and others, and at one point, he just walked away from them all.

John says it like this: After Jesus had said this, he departed and hid from them. (John 12:36)

How frustrating that must have been for the crowd who were pestering him for answers to their questions.

Silence.

It has become my conviction that the deeper our love for someone, the more comfortable we are being silent in their presence.

Mother Teresa lived in complete obscurity for decades before the world discovered her. Every day during those years of obscurity, she prayed and communed before her Lord in silence. Then, when she became famous, she continued her practice of silent adoration.

She often gave away what she called her “Business Card.” On the card were these words:

The fruit of silence is prayer.

The fruit of prayer is faith.

The fruit of faith is love.

The fruit of love is service.

The fruit of service is peace.

She was interviewed once and asked whether she really prayed every day. She nodded that she did. The reporter followed up with the question, “What do you say to God?”

“Mostly I just listen.”

The reporter is growing cynical and wryly asks, “What does God say to you when you listen?”

She smiled and whispered, “He mostly listens too.”

A secure love is comfortable with silence. An insecure love needs constant reassurance. An insecure love is desperate for turn-by-turn directions to find its way in this life. A secure love walks with a deep abiding assurance that the Holy Spirit that resides within is going with you, no matter where you go, and will gently nudge this way and that along the sacred journey.

God is not Siri, Alexa, or AI—he is a real being that is constantly with us as our faithful companion. When he speaks, it is often in a whisper. That is why we need to be still and turn up the quiet in our lives.

We touch on a mystery here. Being in communion with God doesn’t always mean we are in constant communication with God. Wordless prayers are the norm for me.

When my dad was teaching me how to work, whether that was piling hay bales, building a fence, or digging ditches, there came a point in our relationship when I could see what he wanted done by watching him work, and then I could join him in his work because I knew what my father was doing. I could anticipate my role in my father’s work.

I’ve learned to sit still, open my heart, be present to the God who resides deep within, and move out into the world slowly to do what is good, beautiful, and true.

You can too.

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