As I sat next to Daniel at his grandmother’s funeral, I couldn’t help but marvel at what a legacy she left. Sitting at the front was her youngest daughter, Daniel’s mother, who she had raised in the faith. Behind her and Daniel’s dad sat me and Daniel, followed by Daniel’s sister and brother and his wife and children. Each of us, spouses and all, clinging to that same faith she taught her daughter who then taught it to them.

In those moments of trying to string words together into cohesive prayers, I came before God naked. I had nothing to show. I felt like a peasant in rags before the high king in his royal robes. Who am I Lord, to stand before you? None of my good works could carry me to his throne or make me presentable in his presence. Only Christ’s righteousness brought me there.

So many mothers struggle to breastfeed their babies. It’s crushing. For moms who already have hormones making their emotions turbulent, adding the difficulty of breastfeeding makes for heartache. Where is the hope of the gospel even in this battle with my angry baby and my engorged breasts?

We want hope that will help us persevere in the suffering that will inevitably come. But for our hope to do this, it needs to be set on something. Friend, which kind of hope do you have? Is your hope sure, or does it only lead to more pain and anxiety?