As Michaela finished up her high school courses, she had to write an essay on an especially significant time in her life. She chose to write about the night her brother died. I asked if I could share it here and she was willing to have me to do so. I hope it will encourage you as it encouraged me.

The night my brother died was a cold one. So cold it was that I refused to go out with my mother for our nightly walk. Instead, we stayed inside with my father. He was sitting on the floor with a bucket of smelly beige paint, while my mom and I were chattering excitedly about my brother’s upcoming trip home with his fiancée.
Then Mom got that text.
I remember her face paling as she stood up, her phone clutched in her hands. My brother had collapsed unexpectedly and inexplicably while he and his friends were playing a game of kickball at college. I remember the panic rising inside me as I watched her pace, calling my dad to come sit on the couch. Hours seemed to pass as we waited. Then my dad’s phone rang. We all stared at my dad’s phone for a moment, the rhythmic ringtone crashing through the silence in a wave of noise. My dad picked up the phone and answered in a trembling voice.
Nick’s heart had stopped, and both the students present and the paramedics had been unable to resuscitate him.
He was dead.
I remember screaming as my dad spat out the words, his shocked voice breaking. I flung myself from the chair I’d been sitting in, my feet carrying me from the living room and into the kitchen before I collapsed on the cold floorboards, begging someone to tell me it wasn’t true. My mother’s equally anguished screams echoed through the hallways as she too ran from the room. Soon after, I crawled back to my father—who sat unmoving on the couch—my entire body shaking. Why, why I wondered as I sobbed, horror buzzing through the air of my small home like an electric current.
“How could God have done this?” I cried. “How could this have been His will?”
When I heard my pastor would be driving to our house, I stood outside in the freezing night air and waited, my shaking arms wrapped around myself to conserve what little warmth I had left. My mother tried to get me to come inside—but I didn’t. The night air was fresh, the sky appearing pitch black and remarkably clear from our home in the city. Our pastor eventually arrived, alarmed to find me standing out in the cold, my breath billowing around me.
“My parents need you.” I croaked when he hugged me tight.
He didn’t hesitate to walk inside. His wife eventually managed to coax me back into the house behind him.
We sat in the warm house, and he prayed with us, asking God to be with us in this excruciatingly difficult time. His crackling voice filled the air, and my tears dripped from my chin and onto my trembling hands clasped in my lap.
I remember wondering while he prayed: how could God still be good after this?
Soon after, I was told to pack a bag. When I asked how long we would be gone for, I received no response. I wandered around my room, my mind having turned to a muddled mush. My memories turn vague and blurry for a while after that—like someone painted a foggy mist over my brain. But I do remember being strangely composed. In my shock, I packed a single black dress and shoes in my suitcase, along with other essentials. I emailed my teachers, telling them I wouldn’t be in class for a while.
The cold night consumed us as we sped off into the sky in a tiny jet toward America several hours later. The sky was clear, and as we moved away from the city, stars began to appear. Silence filled the air around me as the sound of the jet engines faded into the background. I stared out the window at the vast night sky above and all around me, tears coming to my eyes once more. I realized, suddenly, that I would never speak to him again, or get to hug him before he left for the airport. Never again would I hear his laughter in person, play soccer against him, or even have him jump out from behind a door and scare me into hysterics. Sorrow, greater than anything I’d felt before, filled me as I realized that I could no longer claim to have two living siblings.
He would never get married to his fiancée, who had been present when he collapsed. As hopeless grief filled my mind, the plane we sat in suddenly banked sideways, and a glowing light exploded through the windows. I squinted, my watery eyes taking a moment to focus before I realized what I was looking at.
It was the brightest full moon I’ve ever seen. Its blinding beauty not unlike that of the sun exploded from the night for all to see. The perfectly round shape was reflected in my father’s eyes as I glanced across the seat at him. Time seemed to pause there for a moment, the salty tears stopping their race from my eyes to the bottom of my face. In that one second, the beauty of that light astounded me. And as we sat there, rocketing away from my only home and towards the city where my brother had just died, I remarked at God’s ability to create such a spectacular thing. I realized, in a shocking moment of clarity that I have not experienced since, that a being capable of creating such beauty would never allow anything to happen outside of his control. I even smiled, thinking that God was so good to let me know this, even in my darkest of moments. I leaned my head against the cold plane window and resolved that whatever had happened, whatever would happen, I would always remember that God is good. His creation was beautiful, and his plan was perfect.
People often tell me not to let the death of my brother define me. While I would not have his death be the only thing someone knows about me, it is inevitable that it had changed me. That cold night was one where I experienced something I would not wish on my worst enemy.
But there was something else that night.
The night my brother died was a freezing one. So cold it was, in fact, that it chased all the clouds from the sky. But that revealed something far more beautiful than lacy, white-edged puffs of water ever could.
And I learned that if I ever need a reminder in my darkest days, I need only look around —night or day, cold or warm, cloudy or clear—to see the beauty, the hope, and the warm comfort of our truth.

The God of love and peace be with you today.

(Yesterday on the blog: Most To Jesus I Surrender (or Maybe Just Some))
Love Is
This is a sweet reflection on the nature of love.
Should Students Use AI for Writing Assignments?
“Can AI be used legitimately in the process of writing an academic assignment? My own institution has assembled a task force to determine what we consider legitimate and illegitimate use. In the meantime, here’s my own initial, not-yet-fully-processed take: Using AI for early research is OK. Using AI to write is wrong.” This makes sense to me.
Is Technology Causing Me to Disobey God in my Reading?
And speaking of technology: “Because reading requires serious meditation and intentional reflection, allowing technology to disrupt and distract me detracts from the purposes of reading. But it’s not just the impact on my general reading that has me concerned, but the potential influence it will have on my spiritual reading.”
What are some misconceptions of Calvinism? (Video)
This video addresses a few common misconceptions of Calvinism.
The Key To Understanding The Bible
“All through the Bible, the blessings of faith are for those who trust. The blessings of obedience are for those who obey. The generosity of God is for those who admit their need and come to him. The wisdom of God is for those who listen.”
Words Grow Wiser with Age
This is so good. “We should take care to position ourselves as experts on anything unless we truly are qualified for such a title. Instead, let’s be slow to speak, because wisdom is often found and best communicated with such careful treading, and our words will likely grow better with age.”
Flashback: Showing Mercy in A Feeding Frenzy
Far more people know their financial poverty than their spiritual poverty. Don’t we feel a deep compassion toward those who do not know Jesus and who don’t even know that they need him?

The reason God commands us to love Him with all our heart is not because He is an egomaniac! It is because He knows that anything we love more than Him will betray us. —Matt Papa

There are two ways to read the Bible. The first way to read it is as a series of stories, books, statements, and teachings that are fragmented and disjointed, that, though they have little relationship to one another, have been compiled into an errant and fallible collection. The other way is to read it as a consistent, connected, and consecutive work that tells one cohesive story. When we read it this way, we see that Genesis is as connected to Revelation as it is to Exodus, that the ending perfectly complements and completes the beginning. When we accept it like this, we understand it as it truly is.
I’d love for you to read this lovely piece of writing by Theodore Cuyler who explains how we ought to read God’s Word—how we ought to read the story of how God is at work in this world to save his people and bring glory to his name. Read it and be blessed!

Some people regard the Word of God as a mere miscellaneous collection of disjointed fragments. They could not make a greater mistake. The Bible is as thoroughly connected and consecutive a work as Bunyan’s “Pilgrim,” or Bancroft’s History. The whole composition hangs together like a fleece of wool.
It begins with the creation of the world; it ends with the winding-up of all earthly things and the opening scenes of the endless hereafter. The Old Testament is the majestic vestibule through which we enter the matchless Parthenon of the New. It is mainly the history of God’s covenant people. Through all this history of nearly forty centuries are interspersed the sublime conversations of Job, the pithy proverbs of Solomon, and the predictions of the Prophets. We hear, at their proper intervals, the timbrel of Miriam, the harp of the Psalmist, the plaintive viol of Jeremiah, and the sonorous trumpets of Isaiah and Habakkuk.
Through all the Old Testament there flows one warm and mighty current—like the warm river of the Gulfstream through the Atlantic—setting towards Jesus Christ. In Genesis he appears as the seed of the woman that should bruise the serpent’s head; the smoke of Abel’s altar points towards him; the blood that stains the Jewish lintels on the night of the Exodus is but a type of the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world; Moses and the prophets testify of Jesus. Just as the rich musical blast of an Alpine horn on the Wengern is echoed back from the peaks of the Jungfrau, so every verse of the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah is echoed in the New Testament of Immanuel.
After a silence of four hundred years, the New Testament begins—and with the genealogy of the incarnate Savior. The first four books are occupied with the earthly life and sacrificial death and resurrection and ascension of the same Personage. The four independent narratives of the evangelists—like the four walls of a church edifice—contain and enclose the complete narrative of Christ’s life. Each one has its place and its purpose. Matthew wrote for the Jews, and in his gospel Christ is represented as a king; the book describes his kingdom and its laws. Mark describes his wondrous deeds as the man of action—the Christ as a servant doing his Father’s will. Luke wrote for the Gentiles, and of Jesus as the Son of Man. John occupies his rich aromatic pages with the wonderful words of the Son of God. He defines his special object at the close of his twentieth chapter: “These are written that ye may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that believing ye might have life through his name.”
The biographies of Jesus are completed, but not his life upon earth. The next book carries it forward. He still lives by his Spirit in the chosen Apostles. The Book of the Acts written by Luke, commences with these words—“The former treatise have I made, O Theophilus, of all that Jesus began to do and to teach.” This second treatise simply continues to narrate what Christ does and teaches through his Apostles and representatives. It is devoted to the founding of Christian churches in certain great centers of influence, like Jerusalem, Antioch, Ephesus, Corinth and Rome. The churches thus founded must next be instructed in the commandments of their Lord and be indoctrinated in the practical principles of holy living. Hence arises a necessity for the Epistles. Each has its province. The epistle to the Romans is the grand argument for justification by faith. That to the Galatians treats of deliverance from the bondage of the law. The letter to the Philippians is redolent of gratitude and of joy in hours of trouble. Its motto is “gaudeo; gaudete!” The epistle to the Ephesians is the setting forth of the “heavenlies;” that to Philemon is the charter of human rights and the seed of emancipation-proclamations; the epistles to the Corinthians are manuals for personal conduct and the government of churches. When Paul wrote to Timothy and to Titus, he furnished manuals for Christian pastors. John’s epistles are all love letters—the effusive sweetness of the heart’s honeycomb. When Apollos penned the Epistle to the Hebrews (as I am inclined to believe that he did) he set forth the priestly office of Jesus and the blessings of personal faith. Peter utters the practical precepts and warnings that are needed not only by the dispersed disciples, but by all disciples to the end of time.
When the life, the death, and the mighty works and divine instruction of Christ (by his Apostles) have been completed, there bursts upon us the magnificent panorama of the Apocalypse. This is the book of sublime mysteries. But through all the apparent confusions of thrones and of armies, of thunders and lightnings, of trumpets and viols and winged angels, we can distinctly trace the progress of the final conflict between King Jesus and the powers of darkness. The long battle terminates in the overthrow of Satan, and the glorious victory of him who wears on his head the many crowns. Then comes the final resurrection of the dead, the general Judgment, the revelation of the New Jerusalem, prepared for the endless habitation of the redeemed. The Apocalypse closes with its seven-fold chorus of hallelujahs and harping symphonies.
Such is the wondrous volume which God has given to man, and which outweighs all the libraries on the globe. It contains many writings, yet is it but one book. It has many writers, yet it is all from one Author, the Almighty Spirit of God. The pure, white, spotless fleece hath throughout its connecting fibers; the fabric is divine in its origin, its unity, and its imperishable power and glory.