July 23 – Wednesday

We often romanticise freedom—until it leaves us hungry.

When the familiar is stripped away, even bondage can start to look like security. The desert tests more than our endurance. It tests our memory, our trust, our willingness to live without guarantees.

God’s provision rarely comes in abundance. It comes in enough. Not for control, but for dependence. Manna cannot be stored, only received—daily, quietly, faithfully.

The spiritual life is like that. It invites us to live in the now, not hoarding grace but trusting it will meet us again tomorrow.

God feeds us not with what we crave, but with what we need—substance, not spectacle. And often, that grace looks ordinary. Unrecognisable even.

But in receiving it, we learn this truth: God’s care is constant, even when we complain. And faith grows best not in certainty, but in the small, sacred rhythm of daily bread.

Exodus 16: 1-5, 9-15

July 24 – Thursday

Reverence begins where control ends.

We long for a God who is close, comforting, familiar. But sometimes God draws near in thunder and cloud—not to terrify, but to awaken. Holiness unsettles before it embraces.

True intimacy with God begins in awe. Not fear as threat, but fear as trembling wonder—the kind that recognises we are standing before something infinitely larger, yet still inviting.

Preparation matters. Not because God needs it, but because we do. Sacred encounter asks us to slow down, to be intentional, to become receptive.

The mountain doesn’t move to us—we are drawn up to it. And there, in the thick cloud and shaking earth, we discover that God is not far off. God descends, not in silence, but in weight and presence.

Faith isn’t always gentle. Sometimes it startles us awake. Not to scare, but to remind us: this moment, this God, is holy.

Exodus 19: 1-2, 9-11, 16-20b

July 25 – Friday – James the Apostle

We carry light in breakable vessels.

It’s not our strength that reveals God—it’s our frailty. The cracks in our lives don’t disqualify us; they make space for grace to shine through.

Suffering, when joined to love, becomes something more than pain. It becomes participation—a sharing in the mystery of Christ, whose own wounds became the world’s healing.

We are always being given over, poured out, stretched thin. But not to be emptied. To become transparent. To show, not ourselves, but the mercy that sustains us.

Resurrection doesn’t erase death. It moves through it. And so our lives, even in hardship, speak of hope—not because we escape pain, but because grace endures within it.

To live this way is to trust that nothing is wasted. That every trial can become offering. And that in being broken open, we become bearers of a glory not our own.

Second Corinthians 4: 7-15

July 26 – Saturday – Joachim and Anne

Covenant is not a contract. It’s a surrender of the heart.

God doesn’t ask for perfection but for fidelity—a willingness to enter into relationship, even when the cost is high and the path unclear. Covenant binds not through control, but through mutual trust.

The words are important, yes, but the blood is what seals it. Not as violence, but as life shared. To belong to God means to be marked—visibly, irrevocably—by grace.

In every true commitment, there is risk. We give ourselves without knowing how we will change, how we will fail, or how often we will need to be forgiven.

But God’s promise is not transactional. It is eternal. And the divine memory does not forget us, even when we forget ourselves.

To stand in covenant is to say yes again and again, trusting that God’s mercy will always speak the final word.

Exodus 24: 3-8

July 27 – Sunday 17th week Ordinary Time

Real prayer begins not in piety, but in protest.

Abraham stands before God not with resignation, but with boldness. Not demanding power, but pleading for mercy. That’s the heart of intercession—refusing to let judgment speak the final word.

We are often afraid to argue with God. But faith isn’t passive. It wrestles. It pleads. It believes that the character of God is love, even when the world suggests otherwise.

To pray like Abraham is to hold space for the innocent. To believe that one act of goodness can outweigh a multitude of sins. That mercy is never wasted.

God doesn’t need reminding of compassion—but we do. In praying boldly, we reshape our own hearts, learning to hope not just for ourselves, but for the world.

And in that space between justice and mercy, between fear and faith, we discover that God listens—and invites us to speak.

Genesis 18: 20-32

July 28 – Monday

Holiness is always vulnerable to heartbreak.

When we give ourselves to God, we also open ourselves to the pain of betrayal—not just by others, but by our own limitations, our own impatience. We want gods we can see, touch, control. Waiting is hard. Trust is harder.

Yet God remains. Anger, yes—but not abandonment. Judgment, yes—but always in service of mercy.

Moses stands in the gap, bearing the ache of a people not yet ready for the weight of covenant. This is what leadership looks like: not distance, but solidarity. Not blame, but intercession.

We don’t grow through shame, but through being reminded—again and again—of who we are and who we belong to.

And God keeps writing the story, even when we try to take the pen. The golden calf is not the end. Grace follows—even through disappointment, even through failure—with a promise that still holds.

Exodus 32: 15-24, 30-34

July 29 – Tuesday

We long for clarity, but God offers presence.

Moses doesn’t ask for answers. He asks to see God’s glory—to know that the One who calls him will stay near. And what he receives is not a vision of power, but of goodness.

God reveals holiness not through spectacle, but through compassion. A name whispered in intimacy, not shouted in command. Merciful. Gracious. Slow to anger. Faithful.

This is what changes us—not rules or fear, but relationship. Face to face, as one speaks to a friend. That is how the soul learns to trust.

Transformation doesn’t come from striving. It comes from dwelling. Staying in the tent. Letting God write—not just the commandments, but our identity—into the hidden places of our hearts.

We become what we behold. And when what we behold is mercy, we learn how to carry that presence into the world. Gently. Boldly. Like Moses, shining.

Exodus 33: 7-11; 34: 5b-9, 28