Make Noise for God!

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1 All together now - applause for God! 2 Sing songs to the tune of his glory, set glory to the rhythms of his praise. 3 Say of God, "We've never seen anything like him!" When your enemies see you in action, they slink off like scolded dogs. 4 The whole earth falls to its knees - it worships you, sings to you, can't stop enjoying your name and fame. 5 Take a good look at God's wonders - they'll take your breath away. 6 He converted sea to dry land; travelers crossed the river on foot. Now isn't that cause for a song? 7 Ever sovereign in his high tower, he keeps his eye on the godless nations. Rebels don't dare raise a finger against him. 8 Bless our God, O peoples! Give him a thunderous welcome! 9 Didn't he set us on the road to life? Didn't he keep us out of the ditch? 10 He trained us first, passed us like silver through refining fires, 11 Brought us into hardscrabble country, pushed us to our very limit, 12 Road-tested us inside and out, took us to hell and back; Finally he brought us to this well-watered place. (Psalm 66:1-12 The Message Bible)

I don't know about other states, but Texas on Friday nights is the noisest night of all nights. And Saturday is a close second. There are crowds and noise, noise and crowds. There's bright lights and music, streamers, sometimes flowers as mums, sashes, bands, halftime entertainment, and cheers! Lots of cheers, so much so that they have leaders of cheers! At least in the autumn of the year. Sunday morning, while still being, for the most part, the most segregated hour of the week, and of course, it depends where you happen to find yourself on any Sunday morning, tends to be quiet and reserved; some places are exceptions, but for the most part, quiet and reserve is the norm of most places on Sunday. It's all based on who's playing and who's winning. Am I right? If it's your team up against your rival, them the sound is amped up. And nothing anyone or anything can do will quiet you down.

The psalmist knows about crowds and noises; and he knows real battles, having battled everything from wolves, lions, bears and giants, and countless Jebusites, and Philistines; he also knows God, to Whom he says, "All together now - applause for God!"

His call is for all the earth is summoned to make noise for God, to celebrate His glory with songs and applause. This isn't quiet, reserved, proper religion. This is full-throated, hands-clapping, joy-erupting praise. But what drives this kind of exuberant worship? The psalmist answers by pointing to God's track record of doing the impossible—parting seas, preserving His people through dangers, and ultimately bringing them through to freedom. The psalm invites us to look back at what God has done and let that history fuel our present worship.

But then the psalm takes a surprising turn into difficulty: "He trained us first, passed us like silver through refining fires, brought us into hardscrabble country, pushed us to our very limit, road-tested us inside and out, took us to hell and back." This is honest acknowledgment that God's deliverance often comes through, not around, suffering. God doesn't always remove obstacles—sometimes He walks us through them. The refining fire isn't punishment; it's purification. The hardscrabble country isn't abandonment; it's training. The road-testing isn't cruelty; it's preparation for something better. God permits difficulty not to destroy us but to develop us, burning away what's false and strengthening what's real.

The psalm's climax comes with stunning relief: "Finally he brought us to this well-watered place." After the fires and the hell-and-back journey, God doesn't leave us in the wilderness. He brings us through to abundance, to a place of refreshment and provision. This is the pattern of God's redemptive work throughout Scripture—through the Red Sea to the Promised Land, through the cross to resurrection, through death to life. The difficulties aren't the destination; they're the path to something far better. Our trials have a terminus. Our testing has a purpose. Our pain has a payoff.

What does this mean for us today? It means we can worship even in the middle of hardship because we know the character of the God who's leading us. He's the God who "didn't turn a deaf ear, he stayed with me, loyal in his love." It means our current struggles aren't evidence of God's absence but often evidence of His refining presence. And it means we can trust that the God who brought others through fire to freedom is the same God who will bring us through. Our job isn't to understand every step or enjoy every moment—it's to keep walking, keep trusting, and keep our eyes fixed on the One who specializes in bringing people to well-watered places after desert journeys.

PRAYER: Loving God, when we're in the refining fire and hardscrabble country, help us trust that You're not leaving us there—You're leading us through to a well-watered place, and every difficulty is part of Your faithful plan to bring us to abundance. Grant us deep joy for praise, for You are worthy; in Christ Jesus' strong name we pray, amen.

Have a great and blessed day in the Lord! OUR CALL TO ACTION: This week, look back at a past difficulty in your life and thank God specifically for how He brought you through it, letting that memory fuel your trust in whatever challenge you're currently facing. And also, make noise!

I love you and I thank God for you! You matter to God and you matter to me! Make your life count as you make noise for God!

Pastor Eradio Valverde, Jr.

Plant a Garden; Stay Awhile

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1 These are the words of the letter that the prophet Jeremiah sent from Jerusalem to the remaining elders among the exiles, and to the priests, the prophets, and all the people, whom Nebuchadnezzar had taken into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon. 4 Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: 5 Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce. 6 Take wives and have sons and daughters; take wives for your sons, and give your daughters in marriage, that they may bear sons and daughters; multiply there, and do not decrease. 7 But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare. (Jeremiah 29:1, 4-7 NRSV)

A friend who also writes a daily devotional, today wrote where most of us do not have an idea what it's like to be exiled. To be moved to a new place without say. I felt a sudden sadness and I emailed him simply, "Our kids do." I have shared how the first call I had to make as a newly sworn-in district superintendent to a pastor letting him know he was moving, when I hung up I cried. In my mind I played out the entire scene of him telling his wife and then trying to think of a way to tell his children they were being uprooted from this place they had called home for x-number of years and going to a completely new place. I thought of the many places they would think might have usable boxes with which to pack their belongings, and wonder for how long would this new place be theirs? And I thought about the times our babies had to pack up and move because Daddy had been moved. They didn't understand the word or concept of promotion and better opportunities; they knew this was saying goodbye to old friends, and the fear of finding new ones. It meant Mommy would have to find yet another job teaching in yet another new school. Well deserved tears flowed.

Jeremiah writes to exiles in Babylon who are desperate to go home, clinging to false prophets promising a quick return to Jerusalem. But God's message through Jeremiah is stunning: don't just survive in exile—thrive there. Build houses, plant gardens, raise families, seek the city's welfare. This isn't resignation to defeat; it's a radical call to faithfulness in unwanted circumstances. The exiles wanted to hold their breath until they could return home, but God tells them to exhale, settle in, and invest in the very place that feels like punishment.

This challenges our instinct to put life on hold when circumstances aren't what we hoped. We often think faithfulness means waiting for better conditions—the right job, the ideal location, the perfect situation—before we fully engage. But God's instruction to the exiles reveals a different way: faithful presence wherever we are. The call isn't to love Babylon or pretend exile is home, but to live fully and invest deeply even in places we didn't choose and situations we'd rather escape.

The most countercultural command comes at the end: "Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare." God doesn't just ask them to tolerate Babylon—He calls them to work for its flourishing. The exiles' wellbeing is tied to Babylon's wellbeing, even though Babylon destroyed their temple and carried them away captive. This is the radical ethic of enemy-love before Jesus preached it—blessing those who harm you, praying for those who oppose you, seeking good for the place that feels like captivity.

What does this mean for us? It means faithfulness isn't conditional on favorable circumstances. Whether we're in jobs we didn't want, cities we didn't choose, seasons we wouldn't have picked, or situations that feel like exile—God calls us to build, plant, invest, and seek the welfare of the place where we find ourselves. Our flourishing and the flourishing of our community are intertwined. We're not called to withdraw, complain, or wait for rescue, but to live as people who bring blessing wherever God has placed us, even when that place feels far from home.

PRAYER: Lord, help us embrace faithful presence in the places we didn't choose, investing deeply and seeking the welfare of our communities, trusting that as we bless others we'll discover our own flourishing in unexpected ways. Bless and protect especially our children who sometimes make the bigger sacrifices; let them flourish and prosper; in Christ Jesus we pray, amen.

Have a great and blessed day in the Lord. OUR CALL TO ACTION: This week, take one concrete action to contribute to the welfare of your community—whether through volunteering, supporting a local cause, or simply being a better neighbor—treating where you are as a place worth investing in rather than enduring.

I love you and I thank God for you. You matter to me and you matter to God. Find someone who needs to hear an uplifting word and make it matter to them.

Pastor Eradio Valverde, Jr.

Chained to Jesus

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8 Remember Jesus Christ, raised from the dead, descended from David. This is my gospel, 9 for which I am suffering even to the point of being chained like a criminal. But God’s word is not chained. 10 Therefore I endure everything for the sake of the elect, that they too may obtain the salvation that is in Christ Jesus, with eternal glory. 11 Here is a trustworthy saying: If we died with him, we will also live with him; 12 if we endure, we will also reign with him. If we disown him, he will also disown us; 13 if we are faithless, he remains faithful, for he cannot disown himself. 14 Keep reminding God’s people of these things. Warn them before God against quarreling about words; it is of no value, and only ruins those who listen. 15 Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth. (2 Timothy 2:8-15 NIV)

THE AUDIO STARTS WITH MISSING PARTS; THE MINISTER IN THE STORY WAS NOT ME BUT A FRIEND OF MINE. AND THE MONTH FOR THIS DEVOTIONAL IS NOT AUGUST BUT OCTOBER!

Paul's motivation in suffering is striking: "I endure everything for the sake of the elect, that they too may obtain the salvation that is in Christ Jesus." He endures because his faithfulness creates space for others to encounter Jesus. This shifts how we view our own hardships and challenges. When following Jesus brings difficulty, when faithfulness requires sacrifice—we're not just enduring for ourselves. Our perseverance becomes part of how God's word spreads to others. Paul quotes an early Christian saying: "If we died with him, we will also live with him; if we endure, we will also reign with him." This is the rhythm of Christian life—death leads to life, suffering leads to glory, endurance leads to reigning. Faithfulness through difficulty reveals and refines genuine faith.

Paul's instruction to Timothy is clear: "Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth." This isn't about earning God's approval through performance but about living with integrity, studying Scripture carefully, and representing God's message accurately. Paul contrasts this with those who quarrel about words and engage in godless chatter that spreads like gangrene. Not all religious talk is helpful. Arguments that don't build up, debates that don't lead to truth, disputes that don't produce love—these are destructive. The call is to be workers who focus on what matters: knowing God's word deeply, living it authentically, and sharing it clearly.

Paul's message from chains echoes across centuries to us today. Whatever limitations we face—whether health challenges, family struggles, financial constraints, cultural opposition, or personal weakness—God's word is not chained by our circumstances. The gospel we carry has power beyond our personal capacity to deliver it. Our faithfulness in small things, our endurance through hard things, our integrity in daily things—all of this becomes part of how God's unchained word spreads in the world. We may feel restricted, limited, insufficient. But the message we carry breaks through every barrier. Our job isn't to be perfect or powerful. Our job is to be faithful—to remember Jesus, to endure with purpose, to handle truth carefully, and to trust that God's word accomplishes what we cannot.

PRAYER: Lord, when we feel chained by our circumstances and limited by our weakness, remind us that Your word is never bound and Your purposes cannot be stopped—use our faithfulness, however small, to spread Your unchained gospel. This we pray in Christ Jesus' strong name, amen.

Have a great and blessed day in the Lord! OUR CALL TO ACTION: Identify one area where you feel limited or restricted in your faith or witness, and ask God to show you how His word might work powerfully through that very limitation rather than in spite of it.

I love you and I thank God for you! You matter to God, and you matter to me. Make someone matter to you by showing them love and kindness.

Pastor Eradio Valverde, Jr.

One Came Back

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11 Now on his way to Jerusalem, Jesus traveled along the border between Samaria and Galilee. 12 As he was going into a village, ten men who had leprosy[a] met him. They stood at a distance 13 and called out in a loud voice, “Jesus, Master, have pity on us!” 14 When he saw them, he said, “Go, show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went, they were cleansed. 15 One of them, when he saw he was healed, came back, praising God in a loud voice. 16 He threw himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him—and he was a Samaritan. 17 Jesus asked, “Were not all ten cleansed? Where are the other nine? 18 Has no one returned to give praise to God except this foreigner?” 19 Then he said to him, “Rise and go; your faith has made you well.” (Luke 17:11-19 NIV)

Friend, may the Lord watch over me and thee; this day and all. Grant us your stength to keep us fully in service to Thee and Thine; in Christ Jesus we pray, amen.

This is not the favorite text for squeamish people on Thanksgiving; something about skin diseases and turkey and dressing do not mix well. I've shared how one Thanksgiving Day (Yes, kids, there were once upon a time, churches that held Thanksgiving Day worship on the actual, real day of Thanksgiving! It's in the history books, well, those that haven't been redacted yet). But I was a campus minister and I had been asked to fill in for my mentor pastor who had been injured. It was as I sat down in the pulpit chair to await the service to begin that a woman came up to where I sat and handed me a note that said for me NOT to preach on this text as it would make her mother lose her appetite for the important meal of the day. Gulp. I already had prayed and prepared a sermon and felt led by God to preach it, which I would.

In biblical times, leprosy was considered a terrible disease, which it is; but not to the extend of limited scientific understanding available today; but those who were diagnosed as being afflicted with the disease were considered as good as dead and relegated to go and live among the tombs, away from the living for fear of the spread of the disease. Thus the phrase, "They stood at a distance." As Jesus walks by these ten men, they cried to Him, "Jesus, Master, have pity on us!" Jesus simply replies, "Go, show yourselves to the priests," meaning you are healed now and ready to join the living; and as they moved towards where they could find the priests, they were made clean of this disease. It was yet another miracle performed by Jesus, removing the death curse and replaced it with life. Make that the fullness of life, for now they would return to their wives, their children, perhaps mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, and start life again. What joy filled their hearts!

Yet, the point of this passage, in my opinion, is that only one of the ten, when seeing he was healed, returned back to Jesus to thank Him. Actually, as he saw the newness of his skin, praise filled his mouth and he praised God in a loud voice. The man threw himself at Jesus' feet and thanked him. The Bible makes it clear to us that his man was a foreigner, a not-always-welcome kind; who took the initiative to give thanks to God in a very loud way. Remember, all ten are healed. Every single one. The miracle isn't partial or selective—it's complete and comprehensive. Their skin is restored. Their strength returns. Their identity as outcasts is over. They can go home. They can embrace their families. They can worship again. They can rebuild their lives.

For ten desperate men, this is the answer to years of prayers. This is the miracle they've been begging God to provide. This is everything they've been longing for.

But something stunning happens in verse 15: only one turns back.

One man—and significantly, he's a Samaritan, a foreigner, someone doubly marginalized—realizes that healing without thanksgiving is incomplete. He doesn't wait until after he's seen the priest, doesn't delay until he's properly certified as clean, doesn't postpone his gratitude until it's convenient. He turns around immediately, praising God at the top of his voice, and throws himself at Jesus' feet.

Jesus' response is telling: "Were not all ten cleansed? Where are the other nine?"

This isn't petty scorekeeping. Jesus isn't wounded by their ingratitude in a personal sense. Rather, he's pointing out a profound spiritual reality: the nine received healing, but only one received wholeness. The nine got what they asked for; the one got something more—he got relationship with the Healer.

The nine were content with the gift. The one came back for the Giver.

How often are we like the nine? We cry out to God in our desperation. We plead for help when life falls apart. We make promises about what we'll do if God comes through for us. And when the answer comes—when the job appears, when the relationship heals, when the diagnosis is good, when the crisis passes—we simply move on with our lives.

We're grateful, in a general sense. We might even acknowledge that God helped us. But do we return? Do we interrupt our schedule to say thank you? Do we make worship and thanksgiving a priority, or just a pleasant addition when it's convenient?

The Samaritan shows us that gratitude isn't primarily about good manners—it's about recognizing the source of every good gift and maintaining relationship with the One who gave it. It's about understanding that God's blessings aren't just transactions to meet our needs; they're invitations into deeper connection with Him.

Jesus' final words to the Samaritan are crucial: "Rise and go; your faith has made you well." Wait—hadn't all ten been made well? They were all cleansed of leprosy. But the Greek word here for "made well" is sozo—it means not just physical healing but wholeness, salvation, complete restoration.

The ten received physical healing. The one received something more comprehensive—a healing that touched not just his skin but his soul, not just his body but his relationship with God. His faith wasn't just faith that Jesus could heal; it was faith that led him into grateful worship and relationship.

This is the difference between using God and knowing God. The nine used Jesus to get what they needed and moved on. The one returned to establish relationship with the One who had given him everything.

In our microwave culture of instant gratification and constant forward motion, the Samaritan's return is countercultural. He stopped. He turned around. He retraced his steps. He made thanksgiving a priority even when he had legitimate reasons to keep moving forward toward his destination.

Gratitude requires intentionality. It means stopping our forward momentum to acknowledge where our blessings came from. It means making space in our busy lives for worship even when—especially when—we've received what we asked for and could easily just move on to the next thing.

The question isn't whether God will continue to bless the nine who didn't return. The question is whether we want to settle for blessings alone or whether we want the fuller relationship with God that comes through the practice of grateful return.

Where are we in this story? Are we like the nine, blessed but moving forward without looking back? Or are we like the one, who understood that the greatest gift wasn't the healing itself but the relationship with the Healer?

PRAYER: Jesus, help us be like the one who came back—not just receivers of your blessings, but returners in grateful worship who recognize that knowing you is better than anything you might give us. And this we pray, in full faith, in Christ Jesus' strong name, amen.

Have a great and blessed day in the Lord! OUR CALL TO ACTION: This week, identify three specific blessings in your life and intentionally take time—interrupting your normal schedule if necessary—to thank God not just for the gifts but for His presence as the Giver.

I love you and I thank God for you! Remember, you matter to God and you matter to me. Bless someone today with a blessing!

Pastor Eradio Valverde, Jr.

The Geography of Grief

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1 By the rivers of Babylon— there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion. 2 On the willows there we hung up our harps. 3 For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying, "Sing us one of the songs of Zion!" 4 How could we sing the Lord's song in a foreign land? 5 If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither! 6 Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth, if I do not remember you, if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy. 7 Remember, O Lord, against the Edomites the day of Jerusalem's fall, how they said, "Tear it down! Tear it down! Down to its foundations!" 8 O daughter Babylon, you devastator! Happy shall they be who pay you back what you have done to us! 9 Happy shall they be who take your little ones and dash them against the rock! (Psalm 137 NRV)

So from the banks of Tranquitas Creek to the bayous of Houston I was transplanted. The first few months in Houston were filled with tears and longing for the "good old days" of living in a small South Texas town. We knew the reality; there was no work in K-town for my Dad and Houston had been feeding us even before we moved there. Thank God we were not held captive there with captors who asked us to sing nor torture us. Our move was voluntary and very much needed.

The psalmist is sharing his honest recollection of his experience as a Prisoner of War, carted off by force from Zion to this new place in Babylon. He ia honest in asking how he could possibly sing the songs of the Lord in a strange land?

This is more than physical exile—it's spiritual dislocation. These are worship leaders with nothing to worship, musicians with no stage, people of God in a godless land. Their harps hang silent on the willow trees, instruments of praise now monuments to grief.

We all know what it's like to find ourselves in places we never intended to be—not just geographically, but emotionally, spiritually, relationally. Perhaps you're sitting by your own river of Babylon today, wondering how you ended up so far from where you thought you'd be. Sometimes the hardest part of suffering isn't the suffering itself but having that suffering misunderstood or mocked by others. When people treat your sacred losses as trivial, when they ask you to perform spiritually for their satisfaction, when they don't understand why you can't just "get over it" and move on—that compounds the pain.

"How could we sing the Lord's song in a foreign land?" This isn't defiance—it's devastation. It's the cry of people whose hearts are so broken that song feels impossible. How do you worship when everything feels wrong? How do you praise when you're in pain? How do you sing about God's faithfulness when His promises seem distant?

This question gives us permission to acknowledge that sometimes worship is hard. Sometimes praise doesn't come easily. Sometimes the gap between what we believe about God and what we're experiencing in life feels too wide to bridge with a song.

The psalm doesn't condemn this struggle—it names it. Faith isn't always expressed in singing. Sometimes faith looks like sitting by a river and weeping, like hanging up your harp because you can't play it right now, like honestly admitting that worship feels impossible.

Despite their inability to sing, the exiles make a fierce commitment: they will not forget. Even if they can't worship right now, they won't abandon their identity as God's people.

This is the paradox of faith in crisis—you might not be able to sing, but you refuse to forget the songs. You might not feel God's presence, but you won't deny His reality. You might be sitting in Babylon, but you won't pretend it's home. You might hang up your harp, but you won't throw it away.

There's a profound faithfulness in this refusal to forget. When everything in you wants to move on, to assimilate, to just accept your new reality and stop grieving what was lost—choosing to remember is an act of resistance, a declaration that your displacement is temporary, that Babylon is not your destiny.

Remember, O Lord, against the Edomites the day of Jerusalem's fall, how they said, 'Tear it down! Tear it down! Down to its foundations!' O daughter Babylon, you devastator! Happy shall they be who pay you back what you have done to us! Happy shall they be who take your little ones and dash them against the rock!"

These final verses are jarring, uncomfortable, even shocking. The psalm moves from grief to rage, from sadness to a desire for revenge so violent it's hard to read. Many modern readers want to skip these verses or explain them away.

But here's what's remarkable: this raw, unfiltered anger is in Scripture. God included these words in His Word. This suggests that God makes space for our rage, that He can handle our most honest, ugly emotions, that He doesn't require us to spiritualize our pain or sanitize our feelings before bringing them to Him.

While the psalm ends with anger, it doesn't end there in the larger story. The exiles eventually returned to Jerusalem. The harps came down from the willows. The songs were sung again. Babylon was not the final word.

This suggests that seasons of silence and grief are real, but they're not forever. The fact that you can't sing today doesn't mean you'll never sing again. The truth that worship feels impossible now doesn't mean it will always feel impossible. The reality that you're sitting by rivers of Babylon doesn't mean you're staying there permanently.

God is big enough to meet you in your anger, patient enough to wait through your silence, and faithful enough to bring you home again when you're ready.

PRAYER: Lord, when we find ourselves in places we never intended to be, when singing Your songs feels impossible and our harps hang silent, help us to remember who we are and whose we are. Give us permission to grieve honestly, to struggle authentically, and to bring our whole selves—including our rage and confusion—into Your presence. Thank You for making space for our pain and for the promise that exile isn't forever. Sustain us until we can sing again. In Jesus' strong name we pray, Amen.

Have a great and blessed day in the Lord! OUR CALL TO ACTION: This week, if you're in a season where worship feels impossible, give yourself permission to be honest with God about your struggle while making one small act of "remembering"—perhaps journaling about God's past faithfulness, reviewing old prayers He's answered, or simply declaring out loud, "I may not be able to sing right now, but I refuse to forget."

I love you and I thank God for you! You matter to me and you matter to God; now go and make your witness matter!

Pastor Eradio Valverde, Jr.

Once Glorious, Now Abandoned

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View devo: https://bit.ly/46xOWTr

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1 How lonely sits the city that once was full of people! How like a widow she has become, she that was great among the nations! She that was a princess among the provinces has become a vassal. 2 She weeps bitterly in the night, with tears on her cheeks; among all her lovers she has no one to comfort her; all her friends have dealt treacherously with her, they have become her enemies. 3 Judah has gone into exile with suffering and hard servitude; she lives now among the nations, and finds no resting place; her pursuers have all overtaken her in the midst of her distress. 4 The roads to Zion mourn, for no one comes to the festivals; all her gates are desolate, her priests groan; her young girls grieve, and her lot is bitter. 5 Her foes have become the masters, her enemies prosper, because the Lord has made her suffer for the multitude of her transgressions; her children have gone away, captives before the foe. 6 From daughter Zion has departed all her majesty. Her princes have become like stags that find no pasture; they fled without strength before the pursuer. (Lamentations 1:1-6 NIV)

Wonderful Wednesday! As we pray today, please pray for Mr. Juan Rodriguez, of Austin. He's the husband of Ms. Julia Chapa Rodriguez, a longtime friend and member of the church I served in Mission for eleven years. Juan has been battling cancer for a year and is now in hospice care. He is unresponsive but resting comfortably at Christopher House in Austin. May God have mercy on Juan and grant him peace and share with Julie and daughter Paloma, comfort and strength during this difficult time.

The prophet Jeremiah, yes, the "weeping prophet" we love so much, is believed to be the author of this Old Testament book. According to what is known about the years Jeremiah lived, coincide with the year that the city of Jerusalem was destroyed. We as a nation, thank God, have never lost a city in the same way that Israel lost Jerusalem. We have come close in our history due to wars we have fought and the most recent was the 9/11 attack on New York City, but we were spared. The reality is that, if we are not careful, might bring that destruction upon ourselves. We pray not. But in keeping with the reality that was the Old Testament, Israel continued to sin against God, inviting God to judge against them. They were blinded by their greed or desires and not led by the Spirit; soon they were losing everything even in spite of Jeremiah's calls to repent and return to God. It sounds like our story, for we have all been there before. It may not have been a temple we have lost but we have lost relationships, family members, friends, jobs, et al because of our blindness to sin.

This isn't just historical lament—it's a mirror for our own experiences of loss. We all know what it's like to look at something that used to be vibrant and see it diminished. Whether it's a relationship that has cooled, a dream that has died, a ministry that has struggled, or faith that has dimmed—we understand the ache of "how." Just as the prophet began his passage in verse one; "How?"

"Bitterly she weeps at night, tears are on her cheeks. Among all her lovers there is no one to comfort her. All her friends have betrayed her; they have become her enemies." The image of Jerusalem weeping alone at night is haunting. In her moment of greatest need, those she counted on have abandoned her.

There's a particular pain in being alone during suffering, in discovering that people you thought were friends disappear when times get hard. The word "lovers" here refers to political allies who proved unreliable, "friends" who became enemies when loyalty became costly.

This speaks to the isolation that often accompanies crisis. When your world falls apart, you discover who really stands with you. Sometimes the greatest pain isn't the loss itself but the loneliness that accompanies it—the realization that you're weeping alone while others have moved on.

This is where the lament becomes uncomfortable for us. It's one thing to grieve losses that come from circumstances beyond our control. It's another to face losses that stem from our own choices. Sometimes our "how did this happen?" must give way to "I know exactly how this happened—through my own decisions."

Yet even in acknowledging responsibility, the lament continues. Confession doesn't eliminate grief. Understanding why something happened doesn't make it hurt less. The writer of Lamentations holds both truths: Jerusalem's suffering is deserved, and it still breaks the heart.

Lamentations doesn't rush to comfort or quickly move to hope. It sits in the ash heap and weeps. It names the loss, describes the pain, and refuses to minimize the devastation. This is important because honest grief is part of healing, not an obstacle to it.

In our quick-fix culture, we're uncomfortable with prolonged sadness. We want to move people from lament to praise as quickly as possible. But Lamentations shows us that God gives us space to grieve, permission to be devastated, freedom to say "how" without immediately having to say "hallelujah."

If you're in a season of loss—if something that was once vibrant is now desolate, if your "splendor has departed," if you're weeping alone at night—these verses give you permission to acknowledge that reality without pretending it's not as bad as it feels.

While this passage is heavy with grief, it's not without hope. The very act of writing these words, of forming thoughts about the pain, represents a step toward processing and eventually moving through the loss. Lament isn't the destination—it's the pathway.

By honestly naming what's been lost, by acknowledging the pain without minimizing it, by sitting in the devastation without rushing past it, we create space for genuine healing rather than superficial recovery. We honor what was good about what we've lost while facing the reality of its absence.

This is how we eventually get from "how deserted" to "how faithful is God"—not by skipping the grief but by walking through it with honesty and faith.

The passage also challenges us to examine our own role in our losses. While not all suffering is consequence of sin, some is. Sometimes our "why me?" needs to become "what did I do?" Sometimes our lament over consequences needs to include confession of causes.

This isn't about heaping shame on ourselves when we're already down. It's about the freedom that comes from taking responsibility where responsibility is due. When we acknowledge our part in creating our pain, we also acknowledge our ability—with God's help—to make different choices moving forward.

PRAYER: Lord, when we find ourselves in seasons of desolation, when splendor has departed and we're left asking "how," help us to grieve honestly without losing hope, to take responsibility where we've contributed to our pain, and to trust that You remain present even in the ruins. Give us courage to sit with our losses without minimizing them, wisdom to learn from our mistakes, and faith to believe that Your mercy makes restoration possible. In Jesus' strong name, Amen.

Have a great and blessed day in the Lord! OUR CALL TO ACTION: Bring one area of loss or regret to God in prayer today, asking Him to begin His work of restoration there.

I love you and I thank God for you! You matter to God and you matter to me! Find someone who matters to you and let them know it!

Pastor Eradio Valverde, Jr.