“Our identity rests in God's relentless tenderness for us revealed in Jesus Christ.”
Some days you just hit a wall. Elijah did.
Fresh off one of the boldest spiritual victories in all of Scripture—fire from heaven, false prophets defeated—you’d think Elijah would be on top of the world (1 Kings 18). But just one threat from Jezebel sends him spiraling. The next thing we read? “Elijah was afraid and ran for his life” (1 Kings 19:3). He ends up alone in the wilderness, slumped under a broom bush, completely undone. “I’ve had enough, Lord,” he says. “Take my life” (v. 4).
That’s not the image of a mighty prophet we expect. But God doesn’t scold him. No guilt trip. No spiritual lecture. Instead, God sends an angel with a warm meal and water—just simple, sustaining kindness (vv. 5–6). Elijah, exhausted and discouraged, is met not with judgment but with compassion.
Fast forward to the New Testament, and we see another kind of moment—this one seemingly small, maybe even trivial. Jesus is at a wedding in Cana (John 2), and the wine runs out. In the grand scheme of things, it’s a catering issue. But it mattered to the family and guests. So Jesus steps in. He tells the servants to fill up six massive jars with water—twenty to thirty gallons each—and then he turns that water into wine. Not just any wine, but the best they’d tasted all night (John 2:6–10).
And here’s what hits me: God cares just as much about the wilderness as He does the wedding. He’s present in despair and in celebration. He didn’t rebuke Elijah for feeling broken, and He didn’t shame the wedding guests for running out of provisions. He simply met both needs—one with heavenly bread in the wilderness, the other with miraculous wine at a feast. In both stories, we see a God who is powerful enough to command the heavens but loving enough to care about our hunger, our sadness, and our joy.
That tension—strength and tenderness—runs straight through the life of Jesus. I see it especially in His relationship with Mary, His mother. She wasn’t just part of the miracle at Cana—she was part of His whole story. From Bethlehem to Calvary, Mary was there. Her presence reminds me of the beauty of a mother’s love—flawed, human, but unwavering. The perfect Son of God was still held, fed, comforted, and loved by His very human mother. That’s not weakness—it’s a reflection of the way God works through real, tangible love.
It makes me think of how God still shows up today—not just in thunderous answers to prayer, but in the small comforts, the quiet affirmations, the people who stand by us. Whether it’s a mother’s love or an unexpected grace in a moment of need, God meets us there.
So, thank you, Father—for being both the mighty warrior and the tender shepherd. For reminding me that your glory isn’t just seen in dramatic moments, but in the gentle ones too. For showing up when I’m worn out, and when I’m celebrating. And for giving us reminders, through things like a mother’s love, that you are always near.
12“What do you think? If a man owns a hundred sheep, and one of them wanders away, will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills and go to look for the one that wandered off? 13And if he finds it, truly I tell you, he is happier about that one sheep than about the ninety-nine that did not wander off. 14In the same way your Father in heaven is not willing that any of these little ones should perish.
Matthew 18:12-14
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