Sunday Morning Coffee, Covenant & Grace
Most of you know this about me — I heal, dream, live, and breathe through writing. It’s how God and I talk. It’s how I work through the deep places of life. So am I surprised that, after a few days of wrestling and reflecting, He would gently lead me to open a book, read a single verse, and begin something new? Not really. But I had no idea this would be my morning.
Wrapped in a blanket, coffee in hand, I settled into my usual quiet space… and God met me there.
The last 6 to 7 weeks have been some of the hardest we have walked through. I am honestly surprised by the grace, courage, and strength God gives us to do what is necessary in the middle of a life crisis. He gives us rest in the moments we need it most, and just when we feel like we are at the end of our rope, He gives us hope that doesn’t run out.
My brother has been in the hospital, and we were told he wasn’t going to make it out. There were moments I was certain he wasn’t going to make it. His wife, my parents, and I stayed close, taking turns so that he was never alone. We sat with him, watched, waited, and prayed, holding onto hope even when we didn’t have answers.
The room felt still in a way that’s hard to explain… like time had slowed down, but your thoughts hadn’t. Every sound felt louder, every silence felt heavier. There were moments I found myself just watching his chest rise and fall, quietly counting without even realizing I was doing it… holding my breath in between.
There were four days where his body was there, but his spirit felt like it was somewhere else entirely. In those moments, I didn’t have the right words—I just kept praying.
And then, by the grace of God, everything shifted.
I walked into the room one morning and he was awake, talking, even beginning to stand again. I remember standing there for a moment, almost not trusting what I was seeing… like my heart needed a second to catch up with my eyes. It didn’t make sense in any way that we could explain—it was simply God.
He recovered enough to be discharged to a rehab facility, where he is now continuing to regain his strength and live the life God has given him.
In the middle of all of that, God gave us another gift. A new baby. Sweet, precious little Marji, perfect in His timing. It came at a moment when I could step away from the hospital and go be with my grandchildren for a few days, helping, holding them, and being present until their mom could come home.
Baby Marji is doing well, though she will remain in the NICU for a few more days, and even that has been a reminder of how tender and strong life can be all at once.
Walking through all of this, I couldn’t help but notice how the road is never what we expect. It is full of curves, full of moments that stretch us, and full of a depth of love we often don’t realize we carry until we are asked to give it. And yet, in every part of it, God is present.
This morning, sitting in church with my granddaughter beside me, I listened as the message turned to the Sermon on the Mount—Matthew 6. As the words were read, “Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth… but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven,” I realized I understood those words differently than I ever had before.
But it was the next part… the part I have read so many times before… that felt different this morning.
“Therefore I say to you, do not worry about your life…”
I’ve heard those words before. I’ve read them, believed them, and even repeated them. But the last several weeks, I didn’t just read them—I lived them.
Because when you are sitting in a hospital room, and you are told someone you love may not make it, worry doesn’t feel like a choice… it feels more like grief.
It settles in quietly at first, and then it grows. It fills the silence, it sits heavy in your chest, and it follows you even when you try to rest. It’s not just fear of what might happen—it’s the weight of what you feel like you are already losing, even while you are still sitting there… still hoping… still praying.
And yet, looking back now, I can see something I couldn’t fully see in the moment.
It didn’t take over. Not completely.
Somewhere in between the waiting and the praying, in between the long days and even longer nights, God kept meeting me there. Not all at once, not in a way that removed what we were walking through, but in small, steady ways that held me together when I didn’t feel like I could hold myself together anymore.
He gave me rest when I didn’t think I could sleep. He gave me strength when I didn’t think I could take another step. And somehow, even in the middle of it all, He gave me hope when everything around me said I shouldn’t have it.
And in one of those quiet moments, sitting there, watching and waiting, something settled into my heart in a way it never had before.
“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
I realized my heart wasn’t in trying to control the outcome. It wasn’t in figuring out what would happen next or how everything would turn out. My heart was in him… in my brother… in sitting beside him… in being there with my family and not missing a moment we were given.
And when your treasure is there, your heart follows.
And when your heart is there, something begins to shift. The worry doesn’t disappear, because you love deeply, but it no longer controls you in the same way, because you begin to understand that what matters most isn’t what you can hold together.
It’s who you love… and who you trust to hold it all together for you.
I remember sitting there with my granddaughter, close enough to lean in and whisper to her that she and her siblings were my treasures. It wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t a big moment to anyone else, but to me it felt sacred.
She looked at me for just a second… and I remember wondering what she heard in those words, and what she will understand about them one day.
Because the world they are growing up in is fast-paced and loud, constantly telling them who they should be, what they should chase, and what is acceptable. It tells them to follow their feelings, to do whatever seems right in the moment, and that everything is okay.
And the truth is, there are moments in life when we don’t even know what is right.
Moments where everything feels confusing. Where the lines feel blurred. Where what the world is saying and what God is saying don’t look the same at all.
In the world we live in now, what is called “normal” is often what the world says is okay. It’s even seen as cool to be the one who pushes boundaries, who does the very things that go directly against what Jesus says is good and right.
And the truth is, it is much harder to do what Jesus says is right. It is much easier to follow what society says, to go along with the world and what feels accepted in the moment. I have done it myself, and I carry regrets from those choices.
And without something solid to stand on, it’s easy to drift.
I think about how easy it is for them to begin believing that following the world is the path they are supposed to take, simply because it’s the loudest voice around them. And then I think about the quiet, steady truth of what it means to follow Jesus, and how different that looks.
Because choosing to live a life of honor, integrity, and morality, choosing to follow the principles of Jesus, doesn’t always look like what the world celebrates. Sometimes it means standing apart. Sometimes it means making choices that others don’t understand. Sometimes it even means feeling like you are the one who is different.
And that is the part that weighs on my heart.
Because I want them to know that choosing Jesus is not weakness. It is not missing out. It is not living a smaller life. It is choosing a life that is grounded and steady, a life that will hold when everything else begins to shift. It is choosing something eternal.
As we get closer to Easter and the sacrifice God made for us to have eternal life, something the Pastor said stayed with me. He said that we are all eternal beings, and that we will either go to heaven or we will go to hell. I had never really heard it said that simply before, but it is true.
We will go one place or the other.
And the question becomes which one we will choose.
Because we do get to choose. That is how God created us—with free will and with choice.
And when life is still simple, before everything becomes complicated, we begin making those choices. I pray she chooses well. I pray she chooses Jesus, that she knows her power is in Christ and that her value comes from Him, not from anything the world tries to tell her.
And as I sat with all of that, I couldn’t help but think about what this looks like beyond that hospital room.
Because not everyone will sit where I sat… but most of us will find ourselves in a place where something feels uncertain, where we are carrying something quietly and wondering how it will all turn out.
And in those moments, worry has a way of quietly making its way in.
It settles into your thoughts and convinces you that everything depends on you holding it all together. I have felt that.
But what I have come to understand is that maybe it was never mine to hold together in the first place.
When Jesus says not to worry, it doesn’t mean life won’t feel heavy. It means we are not alone in carrying it.
And when we begin to place those things back into God’s hands, trusting Him with the people we love and the outcomes we cannot control, something inside of us begins to steady.
Because I have learned that God doesn’t always calm the storm right away, but He will meet you right in the middle of it and give you what you need to stand there.
And sometimes, that quiet steadiness becomes the very thing that carries you through.
Journaling Prompt
Where have you seen God carry you through something you didn’t think you could walk through, and how has that shaped what you now treasure most?
Prayer
Lord,
In the quiet places of our hearts, You see everything we carry. You see the worry that feels like grief, the questions we don’t have answers to, and the moments where we are trying to hold it all together.
Thank You for meeting us there.
Thank You for being present in the hospital rooms, in the waiting, in the uncertainty, and in the moments where we don’t know what to do next. Thank You for the quiet strength You give, for the rest You bring when we are exhausted, and for the hope that somehow continues even when things feel heavy.
Lord, help us to remember where our treasure truly is. Help us to hold tightly to the people You have given us, and loosely to the things of this world. Teach us to trust You with what we cannot control, and to surrender what was never ours to carry in the first place.
For our children and our grandchildren, Lord, I pray they would know You early. That in a world that feels loud and confusing, they would hear Your voice clearly. That they would choose what is right, even when it is hard. That they would walk in honor, integrity, and truth, knowing their value comes from You alone.
And for us, Lord, when worry begins to rise, gently remind us that You are already there… already holding what we cannot.
Steady our hearts in the middle of the storm.
Anchor us in Your truth.
And draw us closer to You in every moment.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
With devotion from my quiet corner,
Marie
(When you pray this for yourself, feel free to make it your own — and sign your own name at the end as a reminder that God’s promises are personal to you.)
