The Prayer Porch

Tag: Encouragement

  • Understanding Grace: A Biblical Perspective on Rejoicing

    Understanding Grace: A Biblical Perspective on Rejoicing

    Grace is not a small or quiet thing in Scripture. In Romans 5, Paul tells us that grace does more than save us – it reorients what we rejoice in.

    Because of Christ, we are no longer enemies brought near by our own effort. “While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Grace is God’s initiative, not our achievement. And because of that, our rejoicing is not rooted in self-confidence, but in His work alone.

    Paul uses a word that feels almost startling: to boast.

    The Greek word kauchēma (kow-khay-mah) means to glory in, to rejoice over, to take pride in. It’s not the loud, self-centered boasting we often think of but a settled confidence that rests in something sure. Grace gives us something holy to boast in: what Christ has done, not what we have accomplished.

    This kind of rejoicing doesn’t ignore suffering or sin. It looks directly at them and still stands firm.

    James echoes this posture when he writes, “Consider it pure joy whenever you face trials of many kinds” (James 1:2). That word joy comes from chara (khar-ah), meaning deep gladness, great joyfulness. It’s not a denial of pain, but a trust that God is present and working within it.

    James also warns of a divided heart – a double-mindedness that keeps us unstable (James 1:8). Grace invites us into wholeness. It calls us to live with one steady gaze: not fixed on the chaos of the world, but on the faithfulness of God.

    And yes – we live in a world saturated with sin, confusion, and noise. But grace is not weakened by darkness. Paul reminds us that where sin increased, grace increased all the more. Grace does not excuse sin – it overcomes it.

    For the believer today, living in grace looks like this:

    • Rejoicing without pretending life is easy
    • Boasting only in the Lord’s mercy, not our own strength
    • Choosing joy that is rooted, not reactive
    • Remaining tender-hearted without becoming double-minded

    Grace teaches us how to stand – humble, confident, and deeply anchored in a broken world.

    This is the quiet beauty of grace: it doesn’t make us loud; it makes us secure.

    Lord,
    Thank You for grace that met us when we were far off
    and continues to meet us each day where we are.
    Teach us to rejoice not in ourselves,
    but in Your mercy, Your faithfulness, and Your finished work.

    In a world filled with noise, temptation, and division,
    anchor our hearts in truth.
    Help us live with steady joy – not shallow happiness,
    but the deep joy that comes from trusting You.

    May our lives quietly boast in what You have done,
    and may grace shape how we walk, speak, and love.
    We rest in You today.
    Amen.

  • Walking with Jesus: Faith Grows Through Curiosity

    Walking with Jesus: Faith Grows Through Curiosity

    Curiosity is often where faith begins. Not with certainty. Not with all the answers. But with a quiet wondering. Who is Jesus, really? If you find yourself asking that question, even softly, you are not alone. Luke shows us that many who encountered Jesus were unsure, searching, and still learning what it meant to follow Him.

    In Luke 9, Jesus sends out His disciples with almost nothing. No extra supplies. No safety net. It’s an unsettling way to begin, especially for those of us who crave clarity before commitment. Yet Luke the Evangelist reveals something important: trust is not formed before the journey – it is formed while walking it. For those who are curious about Jesus but hesitant to fully believe, this can be reassuring. Faith is not a prerequisite for the journey; it often grows along the way.

    Later, a large crowd gathers, hungry and uncertain. The disciples see scarcity – too many people, too little food. But Jesus sees possibility. With a small offering placed in His hands, abundance follows. This moment speaks gently to those who feel they don’t have enough to offer – enough belief, enough understanding, enough goodness. Luke reminds us that Jesus does not ask for perfection. He asks for honesty. What feels insufficient in our hands can become more than enough when surrendered.

    Then Jesus asks a question that lingers: “Who do you say I am?”

    This is not a test. It is an invitation. Some answer with confidence. Others with confusion. Some are not ready to answer at all. And still, Jesus continues walking with them. Grace is present long before certainty ever arrives.

    When Jesus speaks about taking up the cross and following Him, His words can feel heavy – especially to those who have been hurt by rigid or fear-based faith. But in Luke, this call is not about losing ourselves; it is about discovering a truer way to live. Jesus invites us out of self-protection and into trust, out of control and into relationship. He never forces belief. He invites participation.

    What stands out most in Luke is Jesus’ posture. He feeds the hungry. He welcomes questions. He walks patiently with imperfect people. He does not demand immediate understanding or flawless faith. He offers presence.

    If you are curious about Jesus, you do not need to rush toward conclusions. You can linger. You can question. You can observe. You can simply stay near the story and notice what stirs in your heart. Many of those closest to Jesus began exactly there- watching, listening, wondering.

    Faith rarely begins with certainty. More often, it begins with a quiet maybe.

    And Luke reminds us that even this is enough to begin.

    If you are curious about Jesus, you are not outside the story. You are standing at the doorway of an invitation – one marked by patience, compassion, and grace. And Jesus is not asking you to have it all figured out. He is simply inviting you to walk with Him, one gentle step at a time.

    At the heart of all that happens in Luke, we are left with a quiet invitation that meets us in the everyday.

    “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me.’”
    Luke 9:23

    With love, from the porch,
    Laura

  • The Gift of Hunkering Down

    The Gift of Hunkering Down

    There is something sacred about the first real cold snap of winter.
    The kind that makes you pull your sweater a little tighter.
    The kind that sends you searching for that favorite blanket.
    The kind that whispers, slow down now.

    Winter never apologizes for asking us to hunker down. It simply arrives, quiet and insistent, and extends an invitation we didn’t even know we needed: to turn inward, to rest, to be still.

    The Quiet Permission of Winter

    Our world rarely gives us room to withdraw, to cocoon, or to let the rhythm of our days match the shorter light and longer nights. Yet winter offers this permission freely if we choose to receive it.

    When the cold settles in and the world outside grows hushed, something in us remembers an older rhythm. A rhythm that knows rest is not laziness. A rhythm that understands that some of the most important work happens in the quiet.

    What Fills the Soul in Winter

    So what do we do with these cold, cozy days? What truly nourishes us when we hunker down?

    We light candles and watch the flame dance. There is something nearly prayerful about it – how the steady glow pushes back the darkness.

    We wrap our hands around warm mugs. Coffee in the morning, tea in the afternoon, cocoa in the evening. Each one a small ceremony of comfort, steam rising like our unspoken prayers.

    We finally pull out the books we’ve been meaning to read. We get lost in stories, or found in the words of poets and wise guides.

    We cook slow meals that warm the whole home. Soup simmering all afternoon. Bread rising on the counter. Food that quietly says you are loved, you are cared for, you are home.

    We create with our hands. Knitting, drawing, writing, building – whatever allows the soul to speak without words.

    We sit in the silence and simply breathe. We hear the wind at the windows. We watch the snowfall if we are blessed with it. We let ourselves be still, without agenda or achievement.

    The Deeper Invitation

    But winter isn’t only inviting us to cozy moments. It is calling us deeper.

    It reminds us that we too are part of creation’s rhythms. That we need seasons of dormancy and rest. That sometimes growth happens underground, in the dark, where no one can see.

    Winter asks gentle questions.
    What needs to fall away?
    What needs to rest?
    What is God nurturing in you that is not yet ready to bloom?

    These cold months give permission to let some things lie fallow. To stop striving. To trust that spring will return, but for now, this stillness is exactly where you are meant to be.

    A Prayer for the Cold Days

    For the shortened days and lengthened nights,
    For the cold that sends us seeking warmth,
    For the quiet that settles over everything,
    Thank You.

    Teach us to hunker down without guilt.
    To rest without apology.
    To find You in the stillness,
    In the candle’s glow,
    In the steam rising from our cups,
    In the peace of simply being held.
    Amen.

    As the cold weather settles in around you, I hope you’ll accept winter’s invitation. Pull on your coziest socks. Light a candle. Make a slow, comforting meal. Open a good book. And remember that in the hunkering down, your soul is being tended.

    You are exactly where you need to be.

    What will you do this winter to fill your soul?

    Soul-Warming Chicken Soup

    Speaking of slow meals, here is a simple, forgiving chicken soup that fills the house with warmth. It tastes like comfort and makes the whole home smell like a hug.

    Ingredients:

    2–3 lbs bone-in chicken pieces (thighs and breasts work beautifully)- a rotisserie chicken works well too
    8 cups organic chicken broth
    3 carrots, peeled and sliced
    3 celery stalks, chopped
    1 large onion, diced
    3–4 cloves garlic, minced
    2 bay leaves
    1 teaspoon dried thyme (or a few fresh sprigs)
    1 teaspoon dried parsley
    Salt and pepper to taste
    1 ½ cups egg noodles or your favorite pasta
    Fresh lemon juice (optional, but lovely)
    Fresh dill or parsley for serving

    Instructions:

    1. In a large pot, add the chicken, broth, bay leaves, and a generous pinch of salt. Bring to a gentle boil, then reduce heat and simmer 45–60 minutes, until the chicken is tender.
    2. Remove the chicken and set aside to cool. Leave the broth simmering.
    3. Add the carrots, celery, onion, garlic, thyme, and parsley. Simmer about 20 minutes, until everything is tender.
    4. Shred the cooled chicken, removing skin and bones. Add the meat back to the pot. If you are using a rotisserie chicken, it’s a much easier process as it is already cooked and will just need shredding!
    5. Add the noodles and cook according to package directions.
    6. Taste and adjust seasoning. Add lemon juice if you like a bright finish.
    7. Serve warm with fresh herbs and crusty bread or in a bread bowl. My favorite bread bowls are from the Healing Slice website.

    A little note: it tastes even better the next day. 📖☕

    “Winter is the season when warmth comes from within.” 🕯️

    With love, from the porch,
    Laura

  • Light in the Darkness: Advent’s Message of Compassion

    Light in the Darkness: Advent’s Message of Compassion

    Advent always begins softly, arriving like a gentle breath after a long season. As we step into this time of reflection, I’ve been spending time with Howard Thurman’s book Jesus and the Disinherited. His reminder is clear and powerful: Jesus came for those with their backs against the wall. For the overlooked, the weary, the misunderstood, and the ones pushed quietly to the edges of society.

    Surprisingly, this same theme appears in the story of Wicked. Beneath the music and color is a tender message about judgment, fear and the way a person can be labeled without ever being truly known. Elphaba isn’t wicked. She is wounded and misunderstood, living in a world that never paused long enough to see her heart. She represents anyone who has carried the weight of being misread or marginalized.

    Thurman points us toward the same truth. Jesus’ life and ministry were not centered around the powerful. They were rooted in compassion for the vulnerable, the rejected and the unseen. Advent becomes a season of remembering that God chose to enter the world through humility and vulnerability. Born into a family without status, without safety and without a place to stay, Jesus came in solidarity with those who know what it feels like to have no room.

    If this season feels complicated for you, you are not alone. Many people enter December carrying grief, uncertainty, loneliness or a deep sense of not fitting into the rhythms of celebration around them. Advent speaks directly to that experience. It tells us that hope comes especially to those who feel out of place. It tells us that God draws close to the misunderstood. It tells us that the love of Christ shines gently on every heart that feels pressed against the margins.

    The stories of the disinherited and of Elphaba remind us of something important. What the world overlooks, God holds close. What the world labels, God understands. What the world wounds, God longs to heal.

    As we light the first Advent candle, may this small flame remind us that hope often begins quietly. It arrives for the weary, the searching, and the ones longing for a place to rest.

    Where in your life do you feel unseen, misunderstood or pushed to the margins?

    How might God be drawing close to you in that very place?

    Who around you might need a little extra compassion this season?

    Lord, as the season of Advent begins, meet us in the tender spaces of our lives.
    Shine Your gentle light on every place that feels misunderstood or overlooked.
    Teach us to see the quiet stories unfolding in the hearts of those around us.
    Help us offer compassion, patience and understanding in Your name.
    May this season draw us closer to Your heart and closer to one another.
    Amen.

  • Thanksgiving Reflection 🍂

    Thanksgiving Reflection 🍂

    Thanksgiving has a way of stirring up so many layers in us.
    For some, it’s a day wrapped in warmth, familiar recipes, and the comfort of gathering.
    For others, it’s a day that carries an ache – the empty chairs, the strained relationships, the quiet griefs, the memories that sit just beneath the surface.

    If this holiday feels complicated for you in any way, you are not doing it wrong.
    You are simply human.
    And your heart is welcome here.

    Today on the porch, we make room for both:
    the gratitude and the heaviness,
    the abundance and the longing,
    the laughter and the quiet tears that come when no one is looking.

    Whatever this day feels like for you – joyful, heavy, peaceful, or somewhere in between – may you know that your feelings deserve gentleness, not judgment.

    Sometimes gratitude doesn’t sound like a long list.
    Sometimes it’s just a single breath:
    “Thank You, God, for getting me through today.”
    And that is enough.

    Sometimes grace looks like stepping away from loud rooms to regroup.
    Sometimes it looks like saying no.
    Sometimes it’s choosing the smallest, kindest next step.

    Wherever you are, I pray this for you:

    God, gather us gently today.
    Hold the ones who celebrate with joy,
    and hold the ones who feel the weight of this season.

    For those who are missing someone,
    wrap them in a peace that softens the sting of absence.

    For those walking through family tension,
    give them courage, calm, and the freedom to protect their heart.

    For those who feel lonely or overlooked,
    remind them they are seen, valued, and deeply loved.

    For the ones overwhelmed, grieving, tired, or unsure,
    shine light into the places that feel dim.
    Give them rest, and show them the small mercies tucked into the day.

    And for all of us —
    teach us to slow down, breathe deep,
    and receive Your goodness in whatever way we’re able today.

    Amen.

  • God’s Promise: Life from the Valley of Dry Bones

    God’s Promise: Life from the Valley of Dry Bones

    There’s a moment in the book of Ezekiel that feels as honest as any human experience: the valley of dry bones. God leads Ezekiel into a place filled with what once had been alive – scattered remains, brittle and silent. Then God asks him, “Son of man, can these bones live?”

    Ezekiel answers the only way he can: “Lord, You alone know.”
    It’s a whisper of faith from someone staring at something that looks completely hopeless.

    We all have seasons like that.
    Times when our hearts feel tired and our purpose feels distant.
    Our prayers feel like they echo in an empty valley.

    There are days we wake up and feel hollowed out by stress, disappointment, grief, or sheer exhaustion. Moments where we feel spiritually thin – like the “us” we used to be has slipped away.

    And just like those dry bones, we wonder if anything can live again.

    But God speaks into that emptiness. He tells Ezekiel to prophesy to the bones, to call them to hear the word of the Lord. And as Ezekiel speaks, something miraculous happens:

    Bone begins to find bone.
    Sinews and flesh form.
    And finally, God breathes His Spirit – the holy breath – into them.
    And where death once lay, a living army rises.

    This story is more than an ancient vision; it’s a promise.

    🌬️ God still breathes life into the dry places.

    Into the places we’ve abandoned.
    Into the wounds we’ve tried to hide.
    Into the dreams we let go of because we were too tired to keep hoping.

    What does this look like in daily life?

    Sometimes it’s the moment you feel a spark of purpose after weeks of numbness.
    Sometimes it’s a gentle conviction “Call that person – try again – pray one more time.”
    Sometimes it’s the strength to get out of bed with a fresh sense of “maybe today.”
    Sometimes it’s tears that finally fall, clearing the ground for healing.
    Sometimes it’s a reminder that God isn’t finished with your story.

    Life returning doesn’t always come as a thunderclap.
    Most of the time, it comes as a quiet stirring.
    A small breath.
    A whisper that says, “I am with you.”

    As the world around us settles into rest, maybe we can sit on the porch with this gentle truth:

    God never leaves us in the valley.
    He meets us there.
    He speaks to the bones.
    And He breathes new life into what we thought was over.

    Lord, breathe life into the dry places within me.
    Restore what has grown weary.
    Reconnect what has been scattered.
    Revive what feels lost or forgotten.
    Help me trust that no valley is too empty for Your Spirit to fill.
    May Your breath bring strength, hope, and a fresh beginning today.
    Amen.

  • The Art of Letting Go

    The Art of Letting Go

    November settles in like a deep breath – soft light, thinning trees, the quiet hum of endings. The earth, dressed in copper and gold, begins her slow surrender. Each leaf that drifts to the ground feels like a gentle sermon on mortality. It is a reminder that even what falls can be beautiful.

    We often think of falling as failure, yet nature shows us something different. The leaves don’t resist; they release. They let go not because they’ve lost their worth, but because the season calls for rest. Their falling makes way for new life hidden beneath the soil — unseen but certain.

    This rhythm has always inspired artists – those who understand that creation and loss are often entwined. I think of Vincent van Gogh. He found holiness in the simplest things: a field, a tree, a flicker of light at dusk. His brush turned ordinary decay into something sacred, golden. “There is peace even in the storm,” he once wrote. He saw what November teaches us – that life’s beauty is brief, but never wasted.

    Maybe that’s what this month is for. It is for learning to release what no longer serves us. It is to hold our loved ones tenderly. We should trust that God’s grace carries us through each changing season. We are part of this same sacred rhythm – blooming, releasing, resting, returning.

    So, as you sit on your porch or look out at the swirling leaves, let them speak to your spirit. Let them remind you that endings are not empty, but full of God’s quiet promise.

    🍂 A Prayer for November

    Lord of every season,
    Teach us to let go with grace.
    When life changes shape or color,
    help us trust the beauty of Your design.
    May we see, in every falling leaf, a reminder
    that all things return to You — whole, holy, and loved.
    Amen.

  • Light in the Dark: A Prayerful Halloween Tribute

    Light in the Dark: A Prayerful Halloween Tribute

    As autumn deepens and the days grow shorter, we find ourselves surrounded by symbols of both mystery and play. Glowing pumpkins and rustling leaves abound. Children in costumes and flickers of candlelight dance in the dark. Halloween, often seen as a night of fright or fun, carries roots that reach deep into faith and remembrance.

    Long before modern celebrations, people referred to the night of October 31st as All Hallows’ Eve. It was the vigil before All Saints’ Day on November 1st. The Church set aside these days to honor the saints who have gone before us. It serves as a reminder that life, even in its ending, bends toward resurrection. In older traditions, families lit candles in windows to guide souls. They wanted to remind the living that death is not an end. Instead, it’s a doorway into God’s eternal light.

    The ancient Celts marked this season as Samhain. It was a threshold between summer’s end and winter’s rest. During this time, the veil between the physical and spiritual felt thin. When Christianity took root, this instinct to remember and honor those who came before was baptized with hope. Death transformed not into something to fear. Instead, it became a mystery wrapped in God’s mercy.

    Today, our culture still holds traces of that longing. Behind the costumes and candy is a whisper of truth. Light still shines in darkness. Remembrance is sacred. Even the spookiest symbols cannot overshadow the victory of life in Christ.

    So this evening, as the trick-or-treaters pass by, pause for a quiet moment on your porch. Candles flicker in carved pumpkins. Offer a prayer for those who have gone before you. Remember your parents, children, and grandparents. Honor the saints and souls in need of rest. Thank God for the gift of laughter, creativity, and community. And whisper gratitude for a faith that teaches us to walk unafraid, even when the night grows long.

    🕯️ A Simple Prayer

    Lord of light and life,
    As shadows lengthen and the world grows still,
    Let Your presence be our lantern.
    Bless the children who laugh tonight,
    The saints who watch over us,
    And the souls who rest in Your peace.
    May we carry kindness into every dark place,
    And remember that Your love conquers fear.

    Amen.

  • Listening and Love: The Heart of Nursing Home Care

    Listening and Love: The Heart of Nursing Home Care

    This morning, I sit on the porch with a warm cup of coffee. There is a chill of autumn in the air. My heart turns to the place where I spend time each month -the nursing home. It’s a space filled with quiet holiness, where God’s presence is often felt in the smallest, simplest acts of care.

    Each morning begins with a “Good morning,” a greeting that can shape someone’s entire day. Waking residents, offering a smile, and speaking with gentleness – these are sacred moments. It’s humbling to realize that the tone of your voice will be the first kindness someone hears all day.

    Throughout the day, there are stories. Memories shared by those who drift in and out of the present moment. Sometimes, words come slowly or wander into another time entirely. Yet, listening – truly listening – becomes an act of love. In those conversations, I see glimpses of who they once were. They were children who ran and played. They were young adults with dreams. They became parents who built families and people who created and loved deeply.

    The nursing home is often their final home. Some have few visitors, and holidays can feel long and lonely. But the care team – nurses, CNAs, housekeepers, therapists – they become family. Nurses move quickly, hearts steady even when their feet are weary. CNAs respond to every light above a door, carrying both patience and compassion through every shift. Housekeepers often feel unnoticed yet they bring warmth through quiet service. One lady who comes to mind, fills the halls with hymns that soften the air and lift the spirit.

    In these moments, I am reminded: this is holy ground. Each task, no matter how small, is an act of love offered to the people of God.

    Today, on my day off, I pause to give thanks. I am grateful for the privilege of serving. I appreciate the beauty in aging. I honor the sacredness of care. I thank God for the sparkle in a resident’s eyes. I am thankful for the courage of my coworkers. I am also grateful for the still, small ways His presence moves through our hands and hearts.

    May we each remember that love doesn’t need to be loud to be life-changing. Sometimes it looks like listening, holding a hand, or simply saying, “Good morning, I’m glad you’re here.”

    Lord, thank You for the gift of serving others in Your name.
    Bless every caregiver, every nurse, every housekeeper, every soul who enters those halls.
    Let our words carry comfort, our hands bring peace, and our hearts reflect Your love.
    Remind us that each act of care is sacred in Your eyes.
    Amen. 🌿

  • The Power of Small Acts of Generosity

    The Power of Small Acts of Generosity

    Generosity doesn’t always come wrapped in a donation or a grand gesture. Often, it’s found in the smallest acts.It may be a kind word. It could be a moment of patience. It might be the willingness to truly listen when someone needs to be heard. It’s the gift of presence. It’s the offering of grace when others might offer judgment. It’s the courage to give even when life feels uncertain.

    Time and attention have become our most valuable currencies in today’s world. Generosity of spirit offers both a radical and healing approach. It’s choosing to respond gently when it would be easier to react sharply. It’s offering forgiveness, encouragement, or understanding especially when no one is watching.

    Generosity begins in the heart. It’s not about giving because we have enough, but because we are enough. When we give from a place of love and faith, something sacred happens: joy multiplies. It ripples outward, transforming not just the receiver but the giver too.

    As we move through our days, may we look for small ways to live generously. Let us be generous with our time. Use our words wisely. Be attentive in our listening. Share our love freely. The world grows kinder when we do.

    Lord, teach us to give not from abundance, but from love. Let our hearts be generous with our words, our patience, and our presence. May we remember that kindness multiplies when shared.

    What’s one small way you can practice generosity today – with your time, your words, or your heart?