Devotional

When I read this title, global wars come to mind—Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, conflicts in the Middle East, and the immense suffering they bring. Yet the conflicts that affect me most are much closer to home: the daily arguments with those I love. At times, my marriage feels like a battlefield of recurring micro-conflicts with my wife over seemingly trivial matters. For years, I also struggled with my son. His defiance triggered my worst reactions—rage and helplessness—especially when I saw him direct my own aggressiveness toward his sister. Nothing hurts more than realizing you have passed anger and division on to those you love most.

Why do some situations trigger us so intensely while others barely disturb us? Why does my son ignoring me feel unbearable, while far bigger problems leave me completely calm? I’ve learned that the answer often lies in wounds from childhood. We all carry pain from experiences that were too difficult to process at the time. Parts of us hide that pain deep inside, outside our awareness. These unhealed parts—our “inner children”—wait to be triggered. When they are, they take over, causing harm and chaos.

As Galatians 5:17 says, “The flesh desires what is contrary to the Spirit… They are in conflict with each other.” Sometimes the “flesh” of an unhealed part dominates, leading to hostility or even violence.

So how do we bring peace into these conflicts? And what is peace? For some, peace means the absence of conflict. For others, it means mutual respect or justice. For me, peace is forgiveness, acceptance, and healing—born from a sincere desire to understand the other side. True peace requires empathy and compassion. The “other side” may be my son, my spouse, the opposing team—or even my own wounded self.

Jesus told us to love our enemies. Often, however, the enemy is within. C. G. Jung expressed this powerfully when he wrote:

Perhaps this sounds very simple, but simple things are always the most difficult. In actual life it requires the greatest discipline to be simple, and the acceptance of self is the essence of the moral problem and the epitome of a whole outlook upon life. That I feed the hungry, that I forgive an insult, that I love my enemy in the name of Christ—all these are undoubtedly great virtues. “What I do unto the least of my brethren, that I do unto Christ.” But what if I should discover that the least among them all—the poorest of all the beggars, the most impudent of all the offenders, the very enemy himself—is within me, and that I myself stand in need of the alms of my own kindness—that I myself am the enemy who must be loved?

We all have basic needs: safety, acceptance, respect, and love. When these needs are met, we experience peace. When they are not—and we don’t know how to express them—we often react in destructive ways. Marshall Rosenberg captured this truth well: “Every criticism, judgment, diagnosis, and expression of anger is the tragic expression of an unmet need.”

Scripture warns us against judging (Matthew 7:1–2) and against anger (Matthew 5:22), yet we repeatedly fall short (Romans 7:19–25). Jesus also taught that evil comes from within (Mark 7:23)—from what is unhealed, I would add.

In everyday conflict, I have learned to look for unmet needs—mine or the other person’s. When my child lashes out, I no longer see a “bad” child, but a flower in need of water. If I respond with patience instead of punishment and gently seek the fear or need beneath the behavior, reconciliation often follows. If I react defensively, the opportunity for healing is quickly lost.

Behind every hostile reaction lies an unmet need. A wise person does not battle hostility with more hostility but responds with empathy and seeks to uncover the deeper need. Behind every aggressor is someone longing for safety, dignity, or understanding. Punishment does not heal—only love does.

So what is love? John Powell offers a practical definition in The Secret of Staying in Love:

• Love esteems and affirms the unconditional, unique value of the one loved.
• Love acknowledges and seeks to fulfill the needs of the one loved.
• Love forgives and forgets the failings of the one loved.

The willingness to look beyond hostility, to seek the real needs beneath the pain, and to see the world through the eyes of another—these are the keys to carrying peace into places of conflict. This is true in our homes, our communities, and even within our own hearts.

True peace is not the absence of conflict.
True peace is the presence of healing.

There are moments in life when faith stops being a concept and becomes a matter of survival—when everything you once considered safe begins to crumble, and all you can do is whisper, “Lord… where are You?”

Through my own journey, and through years of walking with people across the MENACA region, I have learned that faith rarely grows in comfort. It grows in conflict, in the places we never planned to be.

Some time ago, I passed through one of those seasons. A storm struck my life hard, threatening my emotional and family stability. I felt hurt, misunderstood, and unsure how to keep going. There were nights when I could not pray—only cry. Yet in that silence, something sacred began to form.

In the middle of the pain, worship rose. It wasn’t joyful or polished—it trembled. Worship born through tears and broken words. But it was real. And in that raw worship, I met Christ not as an idea I believed in, but as the One who carries.

I discovered that Jesus does not only call us to carry our cross—He carries us through it. I experienced His presence not in a loud or dramatic way, but like a whisper. Like the whisper Elijah heard on the mountain, He was there—quiet, strong, and steady.

The Bible does not hide suffering. It tells the stories of people who walked through deep pain and still held on to hope—a hope that did not erase sorrow or ignore the weight of their trials, but transformed them.

Peter urges us to “rejoice” (1 Peter 1:6). James echoes the same command (James 1:2). First, because our trials are temporary when set against the future that awaits us. Second, because behind every trial there is a redemptive purpose: “your faith, much more precious than gold,” is being refined. And third, because the result of this refining is “praise, glory, and honor” when Jesus Christ is revealed.

Job lost everything, yet declared, “Though He slay me, yet will I hope in Him.” This was not blind faith—it was surrender. It was the choice to keep trusting when nothing made sense.

David, hiding from Saul, poured out his anguish in the Psalms: “Why, my soul, are you downcast? Put your hope in God.” Those words were not written from a place of comfort, but from the darkness of a cave. Faith is not pretending to be strong—it is choosing to look up when everything in you wants to give up.

And then there is Jesus, the perfect image of hope in suffering. “For the joy set before Him, He endured the cross.” Hope carried Him through the agony, and that same hope carries us.

Redemption unfolds when we allow ourselves to be carried by Christ even when everything around us gives us reasons to let go. Hope lives in that defiant decision that says, “I will not give up, because the One who redeemed me has not let go of me.”

Nothing delights the heart of God more than steadfast faith—faith in who He is and in everything He has promised.

Looking back on my own valley, I have realized something: I was not holding myself together—Christ was carrying me. His Word became my refuge. His love became my strength. Many days, all I could do was sit at the piano and weep, and with a broken voice, lift a song of worship—full of tears, but also full of truth and surrender.

That is what hope is: not the absence of pain, but the awareness of His presence within it (Romans 5:3–5).

God does not always change our circumstances, but He always changes us in the middle of them.

That is where hope grows—in surrender, in worship, in endurance. It becomes more than survival; it becomes a testimony.

Christ never carries us just to return us to where we were. He carries us so that we can grow—and so that we can carry His love to others who are hurting.

When you have tasted pain and found His comfort, you begin to see others differently. Their pain is no longer foreign—it becomes familiar. And instead of offering solutions, you offer presence: the same presence that once held you together.

Paul wrote, “We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair.” That is not theory—that is experience. Grace does not always stop the storm, but it keeps us from breaking beyond repair.

Hope is not escaping the storm; it is standing in it, knowing that the One who calmed the sea is still calming hearts.

Not a single tear is wasted. One day, we will understand how the nights we feared would destroy us were actually shaping our faith instead.

Paul called it “an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen” (2 Corinthians 4:17–18).

Until that day comes, we keep worshiping and breathing through tears and trusting the hands of the One who carries us. Because hope is not something we cling to—it is Someone who clings to us. And His name is Jesus.

Have you ever felt you were being watched by someone you didn’t know, in a setting that made it all the more unsettling?

You’re sitting at the end of an aisle in a packed school auditorium during your child’s annual Christmas play. Hundreds of parents and relatives fill the room. Your eyes drift from the stage to the aisle across from you, four rows ahead—and you notice a man staring directly at you. As soon as he realizes you’ve seen him, he quickly turns away. A few minutes later, curiosity gets the better of you and you glance back. Again, he’s staring—and again, he looks away.

Your instinct might be to jump up mid-performance, confront him, and say, “Hey, do you have a problem?” But of course, you don’t. When the play ends, he disappears into the night, and you’re left wondering why he was watching you at all.

Early in my leadership with Every Home, I once took an evening flight from Los Angeles to the East Coast for a speaking engagement. The flight had a stop in Denver for a crew change before continuing on to my destination.

I was seated in economy, about eight rows behind the galley where a curtain was drawn while a flight attendant prepared a light snack. As I glanced up from my reading, I noticed a head peeking through a small opening in the curtain—directly at me. The moment she realized I had seen her, she dropped back behind the curtain. A few moments later, it happened again. Then again. I began to feel uneasy.

Did she think I was a terrorist? My carry-on had been especially heavy, and I had struggled to lift it into the overhead compartment. Did she think it was a bomb?

About 15 minutes after the snacks were distributed and the cabin was cleaned up, I noticed the same flight attendant walking down the aisle. To my surprise, she stopped beside my row and knelt down in the aisle next to me.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said with concern on her face, “but are you a Christian?”

Startled, I replied, “Yes, I am. Why do you ask?”

“May I sit beside you and talk with you for a few minutes? It’s very important to me,” she said.

I agreed immediately. The flight was only half full, and the two seats beside me were empty.

Before I could say another word, she continued. “I almost didn’t make this flight tonight because I’ve been in deep despair for quite some time. I had decided to end my life in my hotel room in LA, but I heard a voice in my heart telling me I must take this flight.” Through tears she added, “The voice said there would be a Christian on this plane who would help me find my way out of the darkness.”

After wiping her eyes, she went on. “Since we left Los Angeles, I’ve been looking up and down the aisles, trying to figure out who might be that Christian. I didn’t even know what that was supposed to look like. But when I saw you, something inside me said, ‘That’s him.’ I was so relieved when you told me you are a Christian. Can you help me?”

Over the next 30 to 45 minutes, I had the joy of sharing with her how knowing Jesus could change her life and restore a joy deeper than anything she had ever known. When the flight landed in Denver and the crew changed, she left with peace and joy on her face.

That night taught me what it truly means to be a carrier of Christ in everyday, ordinary life. What seemed like just another routine flight suddenly became a divine appointment. The Holy Spirit transformed an ordinary moment into a life-changing encounter for someone desperately searching for hope. And that night, she found that hope in Jesus.

The Apostle Peter captures this calling simply when he writes:
“Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect” (1 Peter 3:15, NIV).

If you are a Christian, you are a carrier.
Pass it on.

“Here it’s impossible to do what you’re saying.”

I have heard those words in many countries as we took the first steps to begin EHC’s proclamation ministry. Some places truly are dangerous. I understand the risk and tension involved in serving the Lord in certain environments, but to claim that it is “impossible” is to disregard the One who has promised to be with us. Time after time, we see that as we move forward, God opens paths where none existed. The impossible is precisely the terrain where He reveals His glory.

“Shall a nation be born at once?”—this is a rhetorical question from Isaiah 66:8. On one hand, it points to the natural impossibility of birth without a process that takes time. Yet the implied answer is yes, it will happen—because God is involved in His redemptive work, and His plans move beyond the limits of human logic. When God is present, the impossible retreats. It happened in the past, and it is happening today.

In a single day, a countless multitude of slaves left Egypt as God’s people—a holy nation on their way to the Promised Land.
On the day of Pentecost, three thousand were born again and added to the newborn church—a new identity.
And today, tens of thousands around the world are passing from the bondage of sin into the glorious freedom of the children of God—a holy nation still being formed.

God has chosen us to know Him, love Him, and obey Him: “For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them” (Ephesians 2:10). Obedience is the true evidence of faith. To obey or not to obey—that is the question.

The gospel that has been entrusted to us is the power of God to save, transform, and heal everyone who receives it. We stand firm in that conviction, fully aware that the values of the Kingdom of Heaven continue to clash with the values of this world—often making us feel as though we are walking through hostile territory.

In many places, proclaiming the gospel is forbidden. In others, the growing secularization of society and the abandonment of moral values shape laws and regulations that subtly attempt to silence the Christian faith. Light always awakens resistance in the shadows. Even within our own homes, tensions may arise.

So what should we do?
Stay silent?
Step back?
Change the message?
Settle for comfort?
Seek to please people?

No.

The love of Christ compels us. He calls us to be light in the shadows and the fragrance of His presence everywhere we go. And there—when we step beyond what feels safe—we discover that we are not alone. God Himself promises not merely to visit those who love and obey Him, but to dwell in them.

“If anyone loves Me, he will keep My word; and My Father will love him, and We will come to him and make Our home with him” (John 14:23). What a promise—the eternal God making His home in a willing heart.

Our mission, then, does not arise from human effort, but from the love of God poured into our hearts. Remaining in that love gives us strength to persevere, courage to speak, joy to serve, and faith to step into the impossible.

This is why, where others see impossibilities, we see opportunities for God to be God.
Where others say, “It cannot be done,” we hear the Spirit whisper, “Go forward; I am with you.”

Yes—it can be done.

May our lives be a living declaration that the impossible trembles when God is present. And may He find us faithful, brave, and full of His love as we carry His light to every corner of the world.

“You are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, His own special people, that you may proclaim the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into His marvelous light—who once were not a people but are now the people of God, who had not obtained mercy but now have obtained mercy” (1 Peter 2:9–10).

The word carry appears 83 times in the Old Testament and 10 times in the New Testament. In Greek, it means to bear, bring forth, endure, continue, lead, move, or be driven. From three New Testament uses of this word, I would like to share three simple lessons that can help us carry Christ more effectively to everyone, everywhere, and in every generation.

1. Paying the Price to Carry Christ

We are sometimes carried to places we would not choose (John 21:18).

“Most assuredly, I say to you, when you were younger, you girded yourself and walked where you wished; but when you are old, you will stretch out your hands, and another will gird you and carry you where you do not wish.” (John 21:18)

Our Lord Jesus told the Apostle Peter that a time would come when he would be carried to a place he would not choose—ultimately, his death on the cross. In the same way, those of us who serve in ministry often find ourselves carried into places we would never choose by preference. These may be places of danger, persecution, suffering, or even imprisonment.

Carrying Christ makes us deeply aware that one third of the world will be reached through sweat, another third through tears, and the final third only through blood. To be carried where we would not naturally go requires that we set aside personal comfort and embrace the cost of obedience. It is the willingness to pay any price to ensure that the Gospel reaches those who have never heard.

2. Trusting the Lord as Our Only Source While Carrying Christ

We are called to carry neither money nor bag along the road (Luke 10:3–4).

“Go your way; behold, I send you out as lambs among wolves. Carry neither money bag, knapsack, nor sandals; and greet no one along the road.” (Luke 10:3–4)

This instruction to “carry nothing” is a profound call to dependency. It speaks of carrying Christ without relying on earthly security. We are deeply thankful for the Lord’s provision through generous donors and faithful stewards, which allows us to focus fully on taking Christ to the nations.

Yet to be truly effective in carrying Christ to everyone, everywhere, and every generation, we must also be willing to carry Him with or without provision. Carrying Christ with provision is a blessing. Carrying Christ without provision is faith.

The willingness to go with nothing reveals determination and total commitment to the mission. It declares that our confidence is not in resources but in Christ alone. With so little, God has allowed us to accomplish much. With nothing, may we now attempt the impossible with Him.

3. Praying That People Will Be Carried to Christ

We carry Christ so well that others begin carrying people to Him (Mark 6:54–56).

“And when they had come out of the boat, immediately the people recognized Him, ran through that whole surrounding region, and began to carry about on beds those who were sick to wherever they heard He was… And as many as touched Him were made whole.” (Mark 6:54–56)

We have carried Christ to places even governmental leaders will not go. We have brought Him to the remotest corners of the earth and, at times, into the most dangerous regions.

Yet our greatest prayer is that what happened in the New Testament will happen again in our day—that people will begin bringing others to Christ because they recognize Him. We long for the moment when the world will seek Christ not only because we bring Him, but because His presence is so evident in us that people run to Him on their own.

May the Lord work with us and through us, revealing Himself as the Savior, the Healer, the Provider, the Deliverer, and the Answer to humanity’s deepest needs. May people bring the broken, the sick, and the lost to the Christ who is living in us. And may the day come when our labor of carrying Christ to the people results in them immediately recognizing Him and carrying others to the Christ who dwells within us.

May God help us remain faithful in carrying Christ to everyone, everywhere, and in every generation—by paying the price, trusting Him as our only source, and praying relentlessly for the day when people will be carried to the Christ within us.

As I reflect on this theme, there is no better Scripture to stand on as the foundation of this reflection than Matthew 16:24:
“Then Jesus said to His disciples, ‘If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, take up his cross, and follow Me.’”

Jesus spoke these sacred words in the context of Peter’s refusal to accept His suffering and eventual death at the hands of the chief priests and teachers of the law. It is striking that this same Peter—who, only moments earlier, had declared under divine revelation that Jesus was the Christ, the Son of the living God—was now being strongly rebuked by Jesus. Jesus had just affirmed Peter for his spiritual insight, yet within minutes Peter “switched off,” revealing how fragile the human condition can be.

We cannot entirely blame Peter for his reaction. What he said came from good intentions. He wanted to protect Jesus from harm. Any loyal friend would likely do the same. But Peter’s refusal to accept Jesus’ suffering was not aligned with the will of the Father. Had he fully understood the revelation he had just received—that Jesus was indeed the Messiah—he would have also understood that suffering was an essential part of that mission.

The word Messiah simply means Savior. If Jesus is our Savior, what exactly is He saving us from? The penalty of sin. And for that to happen, a perfect sacrifice was required—one that only Christ could offer. He alone could be the sacrificial Lamb on the altar. This was the ultimate price He paid to fulfill the will of God.

Jesus carried that cross to Golgotha because He had already counted the cost. He knew what had to be done, and He did it for our sake. Without His death on the cross, He could not have fulfilled His mission as our Savior. He paid dearly with His life so that we could be saved—and so that we might now carry Him to the world through our words and deeds.

What does this mean for us?

To carry our cross means, we are willing to go to any length and do whatever it takes to fulfill God’s will for our lives—even if it means suffering or loss. The cause of Christ becomes more important than our own comfort, reputation, or even our lives. This kind of surrender flows out of passionate love for Christ and deep compassion for the lost.

To carry the cross is to be willing to go anywhere, do anything, and become whatever is necessary for the sake of the Gospel. The Apostle Paul captured this commitment when he wrote:
“I have become all things to all people, that I might by all means save some” (1 Corinthians 9:22).
Paul was willing to lay aside personal rights and preferences in order to remove any obstacle that might keep others from responding to Christ.

Denying self means dying to self. It is a sacrifice we willingly make so that Christ may be glorified through us. It is when our desires become fully aligned with the will of God. We may not always understand what God says or where He leads, but understanding can wait—obedience cannot.

I have learned that when God speaks and we do not yet understand, we simply obey. Obedience eventually brings understanding. Some things about God can only be understood after obedience.

Years ago, I was a high school teacher when God called me through a dream. At first, I did not fully understand what it meant. But when I had the exact same dream again one week later, it unsettled me deeply. I knew God was calling me into full-time ministry—and I hated the idea. I told no one, not even my wife. The reason was simple: I had already made plans to pursue law, and I was fully prepared for that future. For God to interrupt those plans so directly felt like a shock.

One morning over breakfast, my wife looked at me and said she wanted to share something. I told her to go ahead. What she said shook me to the core.

“You are disobeying God,” she said bluntly.

I immediately responded, “Disobeying God in what?”

She said, “God is calling you into full-time ministry, and you are resisting it.”

I was stunned. “How do you know?” I asked.

She replied simply, “God showed it to me in a dream.”

Then I asked her, “If I resign, are you ready for that?”

Without hesitation, she said, “If you say yes, it’s already a yes for me.”

I wrestled with God for two years over this calling before I finally surrendered. And I learned a powerful truth: you cannot wrestle with God and win. When I gave up teaching, I had no idea what lay ahead. I had stepped into completely uncharted waters. But I was convinced that God had called me—and if He had called me, He would also carry me.

It was a giant step of faith into the unknown. That season stripped me of pride and deeply humbled me. I learned to trust God daily for provision—for food, transportation, my children’s education, and even our mortgage. It was a real struggle at times, but there was no turning back. I had surrendered everything and was ready to go wherever God would lead.

Now, looking back more than 25 years later, I have never once regretted that decision. It has been 25 years of carrying Christ to the nations. And there is nothing more fulfilling than knowing that a perfect God can still use an imperfect person like me.

God can use anyone, anywhere, at any time. What He looks for is not our ability—but our availability. Are we willing to place our lives in the palm of His hands and say, “Here am I, Lord—send me” (Isaiah 6:8)?

To carry the cross daily is costly. But it is also infinitely worth it—because in losing our lives for His sake, we discover the true life only Christ can give.

Every year, we ask the Lord for a word—a single truth that can shape us, anchor us, and carry us into deeper obedience. This year, the word the Lord has given us is simple but weighty: Carry. It’s a word that reminds us not only of what we do, but who we bear within us. We carry Christ. We carry His heart, His posture, His mission, and His hope into every place we go.

When I think about what it truly means to carry Christ, my mind goes to moments in the Gospels where Jesus Himself showed us how to do it. These aren’t abstract ideas—they are living pictures of who He is. And as His people, we are invited to embody Him in the same way.

When Matthew writes that Jesus looked at the crowds and “had compassion on them” (Matthew 9:36), he wasn’t describing a passing emotion. He was revealing the inner life of the Savior—the heartbeat of the One we carry. Jesus sees people who are hurting, helpless, confused, wandering—and He is moved to action. Charles Spurgeon captures it so well: “The compassion of Jesus is the wellspring of all our hopes.”

If we’re going to carry Christ into our world, we must begin by carrying His compassion in our hearts. Not strategy. Not an obligation. Compassion. In all we do as a ministry, this remains the motive behind everything—because it was the motive behind everything Jesus did.

But compassion doesn’t remain internal. It moves. It sees.

One of my favorite pictures of Jesus comes from the moment He approaches the town gate of Nain. A widow walks in a funeral procession for her only son. She’s surrounded by a crowd, but she’s utterly alone in her grief. And then Scripture says this: “When the Lord saw her, His heart went out to her.”

This is where carrying Christ truly begins—when we see others. Not glancing. Not passing by. Seeing. Buechner once wrote, “Before doing anything else, we must see our neighbors—with our imagination as well as our eyes.”

Carrying Christ means slowing down. It means allowing interruptions. It means allowing our hearts to be pierced by the people in front of us—not just by their actions but by their burdens. Jesus saw a grieving mother, and that vision moved Him to raise her son from the dead. This is the pattern of Christ: He sees, He feels, He acts.

And that brings me to the next truth: we carry Christ not only when we see others but when we show love in tangible, costly, inconvenient ways.

Think about Jesus and the man with leprosy. This man didn’t just need healing; he needed dignity. He had lived years without touch, without acceptance, without belonging. But Jesus—full of compassion—reached out His hand and touched him. Before He healed him, He loved him. Before He restored his body, He restored his worth.

Jesus let Himself be interrupted.
Jesus touched the untouchable.
Jesus dignified the outcast.

This is what it means to carry Christ. We don’t just feel compassion—we demonstrate it. John Wesley said it beautifully: “Do all the good you can… as long as ever you can.” That is carrying Christ. It is love that moves from sentiment to action, from theory to presence, from words to touch.

But carrying Christ doesn’t end with compassion, sight, or even love. There’s another dimension—perhaps the most needed in our world right now: we carry Christ when we speak hope.

In one of the most powerful moments in the Gospels, a woman caught in sin is dragged before Jesus. The religious leaders demand judgment. They ask Jesus, “Now what do you say?” And the world is still asking us the same question today.

Jesus’ response is astonishing. He does not condemn. He does not shame. He does not crush. Instead, He speaks hope: “Neither do I condemn you.”

In a world overflowing with anger, accusation, and condemnation, carrying Christ means becoming people whose words reflect His mercy. Words that lift instead of destroy. Words that heal instead of wound. Words that open a future instead of closing it.

Hope is not naïve. It’s powerful. It’s the language of Christ’s Kingdom. And in many cases, it may be the only Gospel some will ever hear.

So, when I think about the word Carry, I’m not thinking about what we carry in our hands—but what we carry in our hearts and our lives.

To carry Christ is to be a people whose compassion mirrors His.
To carry Christ is to see people as He sees them—fully, deeply, honestly.
To carry Christ is to show love that costs something.
To carry Christ is to speak hope in a world drowning in fear and condemnation.

This is our calling for the year ahead—and for every year after.

My prayer is that this word doesn’t simply become an idea or a theme, but a way of life for all of us. May we become a people who carry Christ so clearly, so consistently, that those around us cannot help but experience Him through us.

May compassion be our motive.
May seeing be our posture.
May love be our action.
May hope be our message.

This year let’s carry Christ well—into every home, every conversation, every nation, every heart.

Carry, Him. Carry, His heart. Carry, His mission. Carry, His hope.

And may the world see Jesus because we chose to carry Him into it.