When The Oil is Almost......

There comes a quiet, terrifying moment when life shifts from someday to soon.

Not announced by trumpets or diagnoses alone, but by a deep, inward knowing. A slowing. A narrowing. The realization that the years ahead may now be counted not in decades, but in months… maybe a single turning of the calendar.

It is a strange thing to stand at the edge of time and look backward and forward at once.

Looking back, everything feels heavier. The good shines brighter than it ever did when it was happening—laughter around tables, ordinary mornings, the sound of voices that once filled the house. At the same time, the broken places ache louder. Regrets that once whispered now speak plainly. Words never said. Apologies delayed too long. Time wasted on things that never mattered as much as we pretended they did.

There is mourning in this reckoning.

We grieve not only what was lost, but what never came to be. The dreams that stayed dreams. The version of ourselves we meant to become. The relationships we assumed we would one day fix.

And then there is death—no longer a distant idea, but a presence. A face you must finally look at without flinching.

Surprisingly, it is not only fear that lives there.

There is also clarity.

When time grows short, false hopes lose their shine. The frantic bargaining quiets. The need to control outcomes loosens its grip. What remains is a fierce resolve: whatever time is left will not be wasted pretending tomorrow is guaranteed.

What remains is love.

It shows up in unexpected, ordinary flashes.

The sound of grandchildren laughing so hard they can’t catch their breath. Sticky fingers grabbing mine. Small arms wrapping around my neck as if I am the safest place in the world. The way their laughter feels like medicine and grief all at once—joy so full it almost hurts because I know how fast moments turn into memories.

It shows up in watching my children become adults.

I remember when I could fix everything with a kiss or a rule. Now I watch from a distance as they make choices—some wise, some painful—and learn lessons I cannot spare them from. I see their strength forming in the very places I once wanted to shield them. I see them stumble, stand back up, and become who they are meant to be without my constant guidance.

There is pride there. And heartbreak. And humility.

Loving them now means trusting what I planted, even when I don’t get to see the harvest. It means releasing control and believing that God is still writing their stories long after I am gone.

If life is narrowing, then let it narrow toward these moments. Sitting longer on the floor instead of rushing past it. Listening more than correcting. Letting laughter interrupt grief. Choosing presence over productivity.

Leaving behind not perfection, but love that was felt.

This is where faith becomes painfully real.

Scripture tells the story of a widow in Zarephath during a devastating famine. She had reached the end—just a handful of flour and a little oil. Enough for one final meal before death would come for her and her son. When the prophet Elijah asked her to give first from what little she had, it sounded unreasonable, even cruel.

But God met her at the edge.

The promise was not abundance stored away. There was no overflowing barn, no visible surplus. Instead, there was enough. Day after day. Meal after meal. The oil did not run out. The flour did not fail.

God gave her what she needed—but not more.

And maybe that is one of the hardest lessons at the end of life.

We want excess. Certainty. Extra time. Extra strength. Extra answers.

But God often offers daily provision instead of long-range guarantees. Grace sufficient for today. Strength measured for now. Hope that does not erase death, but carries us through it.

Standing here, with the oil running low, I am learning that this is not abandonment. It is intimacy.

God is still in control—even when control slips from our hands. He is still faithful—even when outcomes feel unresolved. He is still good—even when the miracle looks like endurance instead of escape.

If this is the last season, then let it be honest. Let it be gentle. Let it be generous.

Let it be marked by love poured out, not hoarded. By faith exercised, not explained away. By peace that does not come from having more time, but from trusting the One who holds time itself.

Like the widow, I may not see tomorrow’s supply today.

But I see the God who sustains it.

And for now—for this day—that is enough.

1 Kings 17:13-16 ESV

And Elijah said to her, “Do not fear; go and do as you have said. But first make me a little cake of it and bring it to me, and afterward make something for yourself and your son. For thus says the LORD, the God of Israel, ‘The jar of flour shall not be spent, and the jug of oil shall not be empty, until the day that the LORD sends rain upon the earth.’” And she went and did as Elijah said. And she and he and her household ate for many days. The jar of flour was not spent, neither did the jug of oil become empty, according to the word of the LORD that he spoke by Elijah.

One Year Later and Still Standing On the Rock

Tomorrow morning marks one year since Bruce stepped off a train and our world cracked open.

It was an ordinary morning—until it wasn’t. One step, one moment, and suddenly life divided itself into before and after. There was no warning, no time to brace ourselves. Just the shattering realization that everything we assumed was solid could change in an instant.

As this anniversary approaches, I find myself a kaleidoscope of emotions. Gratitude and grief collide. Fear lingers beside relief. There is thankfulness that Bruce is still here, and there is mourning for the parts of life that will never return to what they were. Both are true. Both exist at the same time.

Faith does not erase this tension. It doesn’t numb the ache or tidy it into something easily explained. Instead, faith gives me a place to stand inside it.

“The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge.”

—Psalm 18:2

When everything else shifted, God did not. When the ground beneath our feet felt unstable, He remained solid. I didn’t always feel brave. I didn’t always feel hopeful. But I clung to the truth that my footing was never meant to be in outcomes, diagnoses, or plans—it was always meant to be in Him.

This past year has taught me that strength is often quieter than we imagine. It looks less like courage and more like endurance. Less like confidence and more like showing up again, even when you are exhausted. There were days when strength felt completely out of reach—when prayer sounded more like silence and faith felt thinner than I was comfortable admitting.

And yet, God never asked me to manufacture strength.

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

—Isaiah 41:10

I didn’t hold everything together this year—God did. He upheld us in hospital rooms and waiting areas, in long nights and fragile mornings, in the slow and often unseen work of healing. His presence didn’t remove the fear, but it met us inside it. His strength didn’t always feel dramatic, but it was faithful.

One year later, I am still learning how to live in this altered landscape. I am learning that trusting God doesn’t mean I stop grieving. It means I grieve with my hands open instead of clenched. It means I return, again and again, to the Rock when the memories rush in and the “what ifs” grow loud.

Tomorrow will come, heavy with remembrance. And when it does, I will not pretend it is easy. I will simply remember where my refuge is.

Not in what was. Not in what might have been. But in the God who has not let go—then or now.

Dorcas in the Bible: A Portrait of Godly Womanhood in a Confused Culture

taken by Beth Herrington Kruprzak

 

As I watch the daily news and scroll through social media, I am struck by how quickly we decide which lives are worth honoring and which stories deserve to be celebrated. Headlines elevate certain individuals as heroes, while comment sections fill with praise, outrage, and carefully curated memories. In these moments of cultural upheaval, I find myself asking a necessary question: By what standard are we measuring a life well lived?

Our culture has no shortage of voices willing to define virtue, identity, and legacy. Social media investment often glorifies visibility over faithfulness, defiance over obedience, and self-expression over responsibility. A life is remembered not by the fruit it produced, but by the attention it commanded.

Yet as believers, we are called to a different standard.

Scripture reminds us that God does not measure as the world measures. He looks not at what is celebrated publicly, but at what is cultivated faithfully. The Bible offers us examples—not of perfect people—but of lives aligned with God’s design, lives that strengthened families, served communities, and quietly reflected His character.

One such life is that of Dorcas, also known as Tabitha.

When we ask where our standards come from, Scripture does not leave us without an answer. Rather than pointing us to public recognition or cultural approval, God directs our attention to lives marked by faithfulness, obedience, and service—often unseen by the world but deeply known by Him.

One such life is found in Acts 9:36–42, in the account of a woman named Dorcas, also called Tabitha. Her story does not begin with controversy or public acclaim, but with a simple description: “This woman was full of good works and charitable deeds which she did.” In a time and culture where women were rarely elevated, God ensured her life was recorded—not because she demanded to be seen, but because her faith was evident in how she lived.

Dorcas provides us with a biblical lens through which to examine both our own lives and the lives our culture so quickly chooses to celebrate.

Though her name does not appear in 1 Timothy 5, her life beautifully embodies the kind of woman the apostle Paul later describes: a woman known for good works, compassion, faithfulness, and devotion to others.

Dorcas lived during a time when women held limited social power, yet her influence was unmistakable. She was not remembered for her opinions, activism, or resistance to authority, but for the garments she made and the lives she touched. Her faith was lived out quietly, consistently, and sacrificially.

When she died, the widows gathered around Peter, not with arguments or demands, but with evidence—a testimony of love stitched into fabric. God responded by restoring her life, affirming the value of a woman who lived within His design and for His glory.

In 1 Timothy 5:9–10, Paul outlines the qualities of a godly woman worthy of honor:

Well reported of for good works; if she has brought up children, if she has lodged strangers, if she has washed the saints’ feet, if she has relieved the afflicted, if she has diligently followed every good work.

Dorcas exemplified these qualities. She understood her place within her community—not as someone seeking control or recognition, but as a servant whose life reflected obedience to God. Her identity was not self-defined but God-given. She embraced responsibility rather than resisting it, and her community was strengthened because of it.

In contrast, our modern culture increasingly encourages women to redefine themselves apart from God’s Word. Identity is often rooted in personal desire, sexual orientation, or self-expression rather than in submission to God’s design. When this happens, the natural roles God established—family, community, and lawful authority—are frequently viewed as obstacles rather than blessings.

Scripture teaches that God is a God of order, not confusion (1 Corinthians 14:33). When a woman misunderstands her place within community, she may trade service for strife, responsibility for rebellion, and obedience for self-rule. Instead of using appropriate, lawful avenues to express dissatisfaction, there can be a temptation to take matters into one’s own hands—leading to division, recklessness, and harm to both self and others.

Romans 13 reminds us that governing authorities are established by God for protection, not oppression. When authority is rejected outright, the result is rarely justice—it is disorder.

Perhaps the greatest cost of abandoning God’s design is borne by children. When a mother no longer models biblical standards, her children lose the opportunity to witness faith lived out in trust, humility, and obedience. Instead of seeing God at work through patience and perseverance, they are exposed to unrest and instability.

Dorcas left behind a legacy that caused her community to grieve and God to be glorified. A life lived outside of God’s design leaves confusion instead of clarity, brokenness instead of peace, and questions instead of faith for the next generation.

The life of Dorcas reminds us that God honors obedience, even when the world does not. A woman who embraces God’s design—who serves her family, strengthens her community, and submits her identity to Christ—becomes a living testimony of the gospel.

In a culture that celebrates rebellion and self-definition, Dorcas stands as a quiet but powerful example. Her life calls us back to the truth that identity is not something we create for ourselves, but something we receive from God.

As the world continues to argue over whose life should be honored and whose story should be amplified, believers must return to the unchanging standard of God’s Word. Scripture does not measure a life by visibility, defiance, or self-defined identity, but by faithfulness, obedience, and the fruit left behind in others.

Dorcas reminds us that a life surrendered to God may never trend on social media, yet it echoes into eternity. Her legacy was not built on protest or personal assertion, but on quiet obedience and love rightly ordered under God’s design. In a culture eager to redefine worth, may we resist the pull of popular opinion and instead ask the harder, holier question: Does this life reflect the character and design of God?

That is the standard worth returning to—and the one by which every life will ultimately be remembered.

Redeeming Hope For Daughters of Eve

Taken by Beth Herrington Kruprzak

Each winter break, I return to a familiar and beloved tradition: watching the Chronicles of Narnia films and rereading the books that have shaped my imagination since childhood. I’ll confess—I’ve likely read the series more than twenty times. And yet, with every new year and every new season of life, the stories speak again with fresh clarity.

One title in Narnia has always stood out to me: Daughter of Eve.

In Narnia, to be called a Daughter of Eve is to be named according to origin and inheritance. Eve represents both glory and fall—created good, capable of love and wisdom, yet vulnerable to deception when she steps outside of God’s truth. Woman, like man, was created for obedience to God before autonomy, for stewardship rather than domination.

As we step into a new year, full of plans, goals, and hopes, the Daughters of Eve in Narnia—and the first Daughter of Eve in Scripture—offer us a steady, hopeful vision for how to walk forward faithfully.

One of the quiet strengths of the Daughters of Eve is memory. They remember Aslan’s presence, the old stories, and the weight of the promises—even when others doubt or forget. Lucy, especially, becomes a living repository of truth. When others question what she knows to be real, she remembers anyway.  The Daughter of Eve who remembers rightly becomes a compass for others.

As women today, we are surrounded by noise—opinions, expectations, and ever-shifting definitions of success and identity. Entering a new year requires discernment. Like Lucy, we are called to remember what God has already spoken, even when it sets us apart.

Lucy’s desires are strong. She longs for Aslan, for Narnia restored, for goodness to prevail. But her desires are consistently submitted to obedience. When Aslan tells her to follow Him alone in Prince Caspian, she obeys—even when it isolates her.  Lucy models true discipleship—obedience that sharpens desire rather than suppressing it. Her leadership does not come from asserting herself, but from aligning herself with Aslan.

Susan’s story, by contrast, is more painful. Her desire shifts toward comfort, reputation, and a version of maturity shaped by the world. Susan’s tragedy is not femininity—it is forgetfulness of what the truth is.

This tension is deeply familiar as we enter a new year. When desire detaches from truth, faith slowly erodes. The Daughter of Eve who stops listening to Aslan does not become free—she becomes lost.  The Stone Table in Narnia represents foundational truth—moral law, sacrifice, and justice. In Narnia, love fulfills the law, but never without a great cost.  Lucy and Susan are present and faithful witnesses as Aslan gives His life. (I’ll admit—I am always the blubbering woman in the corner when the mice begin to chew Aslan free and we see His return.)  And the the Daughters of Eve are there to witness the return of Aslan.

When I think about the very first Daughter of Eve—Eve herself—what stands out most is this: she never struggled with identity.

Eve did not wonder who she was or why she was here. God Himself formed her with intention and purpose.

Then the LORD God said, ‘It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him. — Genesis 3:15, ESV

This verse is the very first glimpse of the gospel. From Eve’s lineage would come the Savior—Jesus Christ—who would crush the serpent’s head once and for all.

Even after the fall, Eve’s story does not end in shame, but in hope.

“The man called his wife’s name Eve, because she was the mother of all living.” — Genesis 3:20, ESV

There is quiet strength in that moment. Eve’s identity was not erased by her failure—it was redeemed through God’s promise.

As we step into a new year, we live in a world full of shifting definitions—of womanhood, truth, and purpose. Eve’s story reminds us that our identity was never meant to be found in culture, performance, or perception. It is found in our Creator.

Like Eve, we are God’s design—created on purpose, with purpose, and for His glory. Like Lucy, we are called to remember what is true. Like the faithful queens of Narnia, we are invited to lead not by control, but by obedience rooted in love.

The enemy still whispers lies—inviting us to redefine ourselves, chase fulfillment outside of God’s boundaries, or question His goodness. But each time we return to God’s Word, we hear the same truth Eve once knew before the fall: we belong to Him.

As Daughters of Eve, may we enter this new year with clear vision, submitted hearts, and steady hope—trusting the deeper magic written by God Himself, fulfilled in Christ, and alive in us today.

Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths. — Proverbs 3:5–6, ESV 2:18, ESV*

Eve opened her eyes in a perfect world, unmarked by sin or sorrow. She walked with God. She lived without comparison, confusion, or cultural noise. Her identity was not something she searched for—it was breathed into her by her Creator.

But what Eve did not yet have was experience. She had never encountered deception. The serpent’s whisper was the first lie she had ever heard. And in her innocence, she reasoned that if the fruit looked good, surely it must be good.

But the serpent said to the woman, ‘You will not surely die. For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil. — Genesis 3:4–5, ESV

 “In all probability the reptile called the serpent was a nobler creature before the Fall than now. The words of our text, so far as they literally concern the serpent, threaten that a change would be brought in him. It has been a sort of speculative opinion that the creature either had wings, or was able to move without creeping upon the earth as it now does.” (Charles Spurgeon)

Mathew Poole says the woman wasn’t surprised at the serpent’s speaking because Adam and Eve had free conversation with angelic beings that often appeared in the form of men. If this is true, it wasn’t so strange to Eve that an angelic being might appear to her in the form of a beautiful pre-curse serpent.

Eve reached for what she believed would bring wisdom and fulfillment—but instead it brought sorrow and separation. And yet, I do not see Eve as a hopeless failure. I see her as the first woman to learn what we all eventually discover: apart from God’s truth, even the most appealing choice can lead us astray.

From the beginning, Satan has tried to undermine God’s people by undermining God’s word. He can undermine just as effectively by getting us to neglect God’s word as by getting us to doubt it. Satan took God’s positive command in Genesis 2:16-17 (Of every tree of the garden you may freely eat; but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat) and rephrased it in a purely negative way: “God won’t let you eat of every tree.”   We can almost hear Adam telling Eve, “See that tree in the middle of the garden? Don’t touch it or God says we’ll die!” While this is better than saying nothing, what Adam didn’t explain made a vulnerable place where Satan could attack.  Satan drew Eve into a discussion with him and planted the seed of doubt about God’s word, and he exposed Eve’s incomplete understanding of God’s word. Now he moves in for the kill, with an outright contradiction of what God said. 

The woman saw that the tree was good for food: Eve’s perceptions were partially true and partially false. The tree was not really good for food, though Eve was deceived into thinking it was so. The fruit probably was pleasant to the eyes, though that shouldn’t mean much. And it was only true in Eve’s mind that the tree was desirable to make one wise.   Not only did Eve sin but she became the encourager of temptation for Adam. But when Adam ate, he was not deceived as Eve was. Adam sinned with his eyes wide open, in open rebellion against God.  When Adam sinned, they died. They passed from immortality to mortality; the principle of death was now introduced. It would be many more years until Adam would breathe his last, but death started working in him and Eve immediately, and they could feel it. Something was wrong, something was missing, something had to be covered up. 

Since the sin of Adam, death has completely reigned over humanity (Romans 5:17). Everyone who is born dies. No one survives. When a baby is born, it isn’t a question of whether the baby will live or die.  The only question is when. Adam and Eve must have been terrified as this once-beautiful creature called a serpent was transformed into the creeping, slithering, hissing snake we know today. They must have thought, “It’s our turn next!” 

So, Adam and Eve lied, trying to cover themselves with fig leaves.  Even in Eve’s failure, God did not abandon her. He clothed her. And He spoke a promise.

“I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and her offspring; he shall bruise your head, and you shall bruise his heel.” — Genesis 3:15

For God to see the defeat of Satan at Satan’s first attempt of victory shows God knew what He was doing all along. God’s plan wasn’t defeated when Adam and Eve sinned because God’s plan was to bring forth something greater than man in the innocence of Eden. God wanted more than an innocent woman; His plan was to bring forth redeemed Daughters of Eve.

The Turning Of Yet Another Year

 

Taken by Beth Herrington Kruprzak

Today is the first day of 2026 — New Year’s Day.
Christmas has passed, the decorations are coming down, and many hearts are settling into reflection. According to Jewish custom, it has now been about a week since Jesus’ birth — around the time of His naming and circumcision (Luke 2:21). By the end of this month, Mary and Joseph will walk into the temple to present their Son to the Lord (Luke 2:22–24).

It is there, in that sacred but ordinary place, that scripture introduces us to a woman whose name appears in only three verses, yet whose life has spoken across centuries.

Her name is Anna.

As I reflect on her story this year, I do so with fresh tenderness — realizing how closely I came to walking in her shadow this past year, alongside dear sisters who are walking that path now, having lost their husbands during 2025. Like Anna, many women today are learning what it means to move from a life of marriage into a life of altered purpose — not by choice, but by providence.

And there was a prophetess, Anna, the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was advanced in years, having lived with her husband seven years from when she was a virgin, and then as a widow until she was eighty-four.
— Luke 2:36–37a, ESV

Anna was a prophetess, a woman recognized for spiritual insight shaped by deep communion with God. She was from the tribe of Asher, one of Israel’s northern tribes that had long been scattered and largely forgotten. Even her lineage reminds us that God sees faithfulness where the world does not.

Her personal story includes both love and loss. She knew marriage — briefly — and then she knew widowhood for decades.

In first-century Jewish culture, widows were vulnerable and often overlooked. Their social standing was limited, their voices rarely amplified. Yet Anna did not withdraw into bitterness or obscurity. Instead, she anchored her life in the presence of God.

She did not depart from the temple, worshiping with fasting and prayer night and day.
— Luke 2:37b, ESV

This does not mean Anna lived possible within the temple walls, but that her life revolved around God’s presence. Worship was not a season for her — it was her posture.

She lived through:

• Personal grief
• Roman oppression
• Generations of prophetic silence

Still, she remained faithful.

Anna chose prayer when words failed her grief.
She chose fasting when pain lingered unanswered.
She chose trust when understanding never came.

She teaches us something profoundly important:
communion with God is not born from an absence of problems, but from a daily decision to fix our hearts on a faithful God.

As Paul would later write:

Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth.
— Colossians 3:2, ESV

Anna lived this truth long before it was written.

For decades, Anna waited — not passively, but prayerfully. She waited for Israel’s redemption, for God’s promises to unfold, for light to break through long silence.

Then one day, without announcement or spectacle, fulfillment arrived.

Mary and Joseph entered the temple carrying a child. Simeon took Jesus into his arms and proclaimed that he had seen God’s salvation (Luke 2:25–32). At that very moment, Anna stepped forward.

Her long years of faithfulness culminated in a single holy recognition:
the Messiah had come.

Not wielding a sword.
Not claiming a throne.
But as the Ancient of Days clothed in flesh — eternity wrapped in swaddling clothes, redemption arriving quietly.

Anna responded with thanksgiving and proclamation. She spoke to those who were also waiting — because waiting women recognize one another.

And coming up at that very hour she began to give thanks to God and to speak of him to all who were waiting for the redemption of Jerusalem.
— Luke 2:38, ESV

Anna refused to be crushed by pain, guilt, or bitterness. Instead, she was strengthened by relationship with God. That strength did not remove her circumstances — but it transformed her purpose.

Her joy was not circumstantial.
Her peace was not situational.
It flowed from intimacy with God.

Anna is not remembered for titles, positions, or visible achievements — but for a heart that remained before God even when everything seemed silent.

She trusted when she did not understand.
She prayed when grief left her wordless.
She fasted when hope felt thin.

Though Anna lived years before the church was established, her life reflects the very heart of what Scripture later calls women to be:

Older women likewise are to be reverent in behavior… They are to teach what is good, and so train the young women…
— Titus 2:3–5, ESV

Anna ministered not through formal teaching, but through faithful presence, lived devotion, and proclamation of truth. She was a spiritual mother to those waiting alongside her — modeling perseverance, reverence, and hope.

In a culture that overlooked widows, God elevated one.
In a season of silence, God gave her a voice.
In a world that discounted women’s influence, God entrusted her with announcement.

Anna’s story reminds us that purpose does not end when a season ends.

Marriage may change.
Dreams may shift.
Life may look nothing like what we imagined.

Yet God is not finished.

Waiting is not wasted when it is lived before Him.
Faithfulness is never unseen.
And devotion, quietly lived, echoes into eternity.

Anna waited — and saw redemption.
May we do the same.