My father first locked eyes on my mother at a party in London. Next he gate-crashed a second party, then organized a third, just to see her again. Finally, he asked Mum out for a country drive, picking her up in his old Rover sedan—his treasured possession.

Mum and dad became sweethearts, but there was a problem. Mum was about to move to Peru to become a missionary. Dad took her to the airport, then five months later arrived in Peru himself—to propose to her. And the best part of the story? He’d sold his beloved Rover to pay for the plane ticket.

If you would’ve asked Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, what her most treasured possession was, she’d have shown you a precious bottle of “expensive perfume” (John 12:3). And if you’d have been at the party she and Martha threw for Jesus (v. 2) and watched her lavish that bottle’s contents on his feet, you’d have known just what Jesus meant to her. He was that precious, that valuable.

For my mother, Dad selling his car wasn’t just about a plane ticket. It was a sign of how much he valued her. And Mary’s actions had deeper meaning too—she was preparing Jesus for His burial (v. 7). Like her, when we sacrifice for God what we treasure most, we take part in His redemptive work by echoing His great sacrifice for us.

In the classic film Citizen Kane, Charles Foster Kane amasses wealth and power by building a newspaper empire. In a story reminiscent of Ecclesiastes 2:4-11, Kane spares himself no pleasure, building a castle with grand gardens full of artistic treasures.

Like other tycoons, what Kane really wants is adulation. He bankrolls his own political career and, when it fails, he blames the defeat on voter “fraud” to save face. He builds his wife an opera house and forces her into an ill-suited singing career to make him look good. Here too Kane’s story echoes Ecclesiastes, where wealth is found to harm those who chase and horde it (9:10-15), leaving them eating “in darkness, with great frustration” (5:17). By the end of his life, Charlie Kane lives in that castle alone, isolated, and angry.

Citizen Kane ends with the revelation that Charlie’s pursuits have been driven to fill a void in his heart—the parental love he lost as a child. I can imagine the author of Ecclesiastes agreeing. Our Father God has set eternity in our hearts (3:11), and life can only be enjoyed with Him (2:25). Charlie Kane’s cautionary tale speaks to us all: don’t seek spiritual fulfilment through wealth and power, but through the one who pours His love into our hearts (Romans 5:5).

Richard Griffin was Queen Elizabeth II’s personal police officer for fourteen years. Accompanying her on a picnic in the hills near Balmoral Castle one day, they met two American hikers. “Have you ever met the Queen?” they asked, not recognizing the monarch in plain dress. “I haven’t,” the Queen quipped, “but Richard here meets her regularly!” Thrilled to meet someone close to royalty, the hikers then handed the Queen their camera, posed with Richard, and asked her to take a photo!

It isn’t the first time someone has been in the presence of an important person unawares. “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I was not aware of it,” Jacob said after encountering God in a dream at Bethel (Genesis 28:16). And when Philip asked Jesus to show the disciples the Father, Jesus replied, “Don’t you know me, Philip, even after I have been among you such a long time? Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father” (John 14:9). Like the hikers, the disciples had been ready to hand Jesus the camera, not recognizing He was the One to zoom in on (vv. 10-11).

Like the Queen that day, Jesus hasn’t always been recognized for who He really is. Beyond a “wise teacher” or “great moral leader,” He’s God in the flesh and King of the world (1:14; 18:36). What a revelation it is when we discover it!

Aristotle said that no one can be friends with a god. Why? Because friendship requires equality, and what god would step down from their heavenly status to become equal with lowly human beings?

I wonder what Aristotle would’ve done if he’d been present at the Last Supper (Matthew 26:26-28). For there, Jesus—the Creator of all, who left His heavenly status to become a lowly human being (Colossians 1:16; Philippians 2:6-8)—told His disciples He no longer called them servants, but friends (John 15:15).

Aristotle would’ve been surprised too, at who sat at that table. There was Matthew, the Roman-friendly tax collector; and then Simon, the Roman-denouncing Zealot (Matthew 10:3-4); along with James and John, the “sons of thunder” (Mark 3:17) sitting with quiet Philip. I imagine Aristotle watching quizzically as Jesus described some bread and wine as His “body” and “blood,” broken and poured out for the “forgiveness of sins” (Matthew 26:26-28). What god would die for mere mortals, even those who’d soon abandon Him (v. 56)?

That’s one reason the Lord’s Supper or Communion is so profound. Through Jesus, God became friends with humans, and enabled friendships between those with political and temperamental differences. As we eat and drink at the Lord’s Table, we celebrate the one who rewrote friendship’s rules, human and divine.

“Who can you call at midnight when everything has gone wrong?” This question shook me when I first heard it years ago. How many of my friendships were strong enough that I could impose on them in my hour of need? I wasn’t sure.

Scripture has much to say about friendship, describing a friend as someone who keeps confidences (Proverbs 16:28), shares advice (27:9), and respects boundaries (25:17). But perhaps no one defined friendship more powerfully than Jesus. While to advertisers we are markets and to employers we are staff, to him, the Master of all, we are “friends” (John 15:15). Jesus described his kind of friendship as being built on shared love of God and personal sacrifice (vv. 13, 15)—something He himself modeled and called us to pass on (v. 12).

A couple of years after hearing that question, my wife and I suffered a significant loss. Darren, one of the few who knew what happened, traveled two hours to see me, listen to my anger and pain, and pray for me. Darren is a busy man who had plenty of other things to do with his day. But he followed Jesus’ example of sacrificial friendship. I really did have someone in my hour of need.

The question now is whether others have a “friend at midnight” in me. For there are few better ways to make more friends than to be one.

San Fruttuoso Abbey is nestled in a cove off Italy’s northwest coast. Accessible only by boat or foot, it’s a secluded gem. But even more treasure hides in its bay. As divers venture into the sea and descend fifty feet down, the figure of a man starts coming into view. This is Christ of the Abyss, the world’s first underwater statue, placed in 1954. The bronze figure depicts Jesus in the depths, His hands raised to heaven.

The depths. Maybe you’ve experienced them. “I sink in the miry depths,” Psalm 69 says, “I am worn out calling for help” (vv. 2–3). Mocked by his foes and estranged from his family (vv. 4, 7–12), the psalmist found no comfort in others (v. 20) and feared his misery would “swallow” him up (v. 15). Whether it’s sin or sadness that takes us there, the depths are life’s moments of dark despair.

Thankfully, this isn’t the last word on the depths. For while they’re cold and lonely, there is One who can be found in them (139:8). And He will rescue us from their chill waters. “I will exalt you, Lord, for you lifted me out of the depths” (30:1).

As that sculpture reminds us, when we’re sinking under the world’s weight, we’re not alone. Jesus by the Spirit is there in the depths, His hands raised high—ready to meet us and lift us out in time.

In one of his short stories, Ernest Hemingway tells a tale about a Spanish father who longs to reunite with his estranged son. He places an advertisement in a local newspaper: Paco, meet me at Hotel Montana at noon Tuesday. All is forgiven. When the father arrives, he finds a crowd waiting. Eight hundred Pacos had responded to his advertisement, longing to be forgiven by their fathers.

It’s a touching story that speaks to our own deep desire for forgiveness, and it reminds me of a story Jesus told. There, a young man leaves his father on a hunt for “wild living” but soon finds himself in trouble (Luke 15:13-14). When he “comes to his senses” and returns home (v. 17), his estranged father rushes to embrace him before he’s even had a chance to apologize (vv. 20-21). “This son of mine was dead and is alive again,” the father cries in joy; “he was lost and is found” (v. 24). In this story, the father represents God, the son represents us, and heaven’s joy is glimpsed when we too return to our heavenly Father.

Forgiveness lifts a weight off a guilty soul. But like a gift, what’s offered to us must be received. Hemingway never tells us if the father in this story finds his own Paco. Will the Father in Jesus’ story have His sons and daughters return? His arms are outstretched, awaiting our response.

The artist Degas suffered retina disease for the last fifty years of his life, switching from paint to pastel because the chalk lines were easier to see. Renoir had to have brushes placed between his fingers when arthritis made them clench like claws; and when surgery left Matisse immobile, he turned to collage, directing assistants to attach colored pieces of paper to a larger sheet on the wall. What followed in each case was a creative breakthrough: Degas’s Blue Dancers, Renoir’s Girls at the Piano, Matisse’s The Sorrows of the King, and other masterpieces. By adapting to their trial, beauty emerged from their infirmity.

In a similar way, Paul wasn’t planning to visit Galatia during his early missionary journeys. An illness forced him there (Galatians 4:13). Whether it was the illness he mentions in 2 Corinthians 12:7, an eye problem (Galatians 4:15), or something else, we don’t know. But Paul sought a different climate, wound up in Galatia and, even though he was ill, started preaching. Ironically, the Holy Spirit performed miracles through him (3:2–5) and the Galatian church was born. This surprising outcome may never have happened without Paul’s illness.

What trial have you faced, and how did it change the direction of your life? By refocusing your gifts, you too may see God bring beauty out of your infirmity.

With a crumbling kitchen and sagging floors, our house needed renovation. After large sections of it were demolished, builders began digging a new foundation. Then things got interesting.

As the builders dug, shovel loads of broken plates, 1850s-era soda bottles, even cutlery emerged. Were we built on an old garbage dump? Who knows, but as a result, our engineer said our foundations would need to be dug deeper or else cracks would appear in our walls.

Good foundations make for strong houses. The same is true of our lives. When the Israelites were shaken by their enemies, Isaiah prayed for them to stay strong (Isaiah 33:2-4). But their strength wouldn’t come from bravery or weapons, but by building their lives on God. “He will be the sure foundation for your times,” the prophet said, “a rich store of salvation and wisdom and knowledge” (v. 6). Jesus said something similar, teaching that those who built their lives on His wisdom would withstand life’s storms (Matthew 7:24-25).

A sure sign our foundations need tending is when cracks like aggression, addiction, or marriage problems appear in our lives. When we seek security where it can’t be found or follow the wisdom of this age alone, we’ll be on shaky ground. But those who build their lives on God gain access to all His strength and treasures (Isaiah 33:6).

In the novel About Grace, David Winkler longs to find his estranged daughter, and Herman Sheeler is the only person who can help him. But there’s a hitch. David’s daughter was born from David’s affair with Herman’s wife, and Herman had warned him never to contact them again.

Decades pass before David writes to Herman, apologizing for what he’s done. “I have a hole in my life because I know so little about my daughter,” he adds, begging for

How should we treat those who’ve wronged us? The king of Israel faced this question after his enemies were miraculously delivered into his hands (2 Kings 6:8-20). “Shall I kill them?” he asks the prophet Elisha. No, Elisha says. “Set food and water before them so that they may eat and drink and then go back to their master” (vv. 21-22). Through this act of grace, Israel finds peace with its enemies (v. 23).

 Herman replies to David’s letter, invites him to his home and cooks him a meal. “Lord Jesus,” he prays before they eat, “thank you for watching over me and David all these years.” He helps David find his daughter, and David later saves his life. In God’s hands, our acts of grace toward those who’ve wronged us often result in a blessing to us.