Hadas Eilon and her 15-year-old daughter looked forward to a fun weekend at the family kibbutz in southern Israel. The communal farm—a small town of 900–was just three miles east of Gaza. This was the place, the home where Hadas grew up.

A red alert sounded on Saturday morning, October 7, so Hadas, her brother, mother, daughter, and niece piled into their concrete-reinforced safe room. That's when texts from their neighbors brought news of the unthinkable.

Terrorists had invaded Israel and entered their kibbutz. Designed to withstand rockets, not enemy troops, the safe rooms in these homes had no locks.

Soon came the sounds. Shouting in Arabic… gunfire...a grenade tossed at their window. Then came the pounding on their safe room door. Hadas had nothing but a steak knife to defend herself should their grip on the door handle fail.

At this point, Hadas's 15-year-old daughter hid under the bed, thinking that if the terrorists did make it in, she stood a slight chance of going undetected and might be able to rescue others.

The struggle was fierce, but the family managed to hang on to the door, and the terrorists left. For a time.

Tucked away in that safe room were five people. Five people with no electricity, no air conditioning, and no communication with the outside world as phone batteries died.

When IDF soldiers made a brief appearance, Hadas's family was allowed to get water and use the restroom. But they immediately returned to the safe room because the soldiers could not stay.

Hamas returned. More pounding and struggling with the door. More gunshots. They left. Inside the saferoom, the family lit candles, which soon died out for lack of oxygen.

Throughout a 35-hour nightmare, Hamas tried three times to break into the safe room. When a larger group of soldiers finally rescued the family, the home was severely shot up. Blood was on every bed. Sheets and towels had been used for tourniquets. IDF soldiers had knocked out kitchen windows for gun placement.

A terrorist remained hidden in the home, so a column of IDF soldiers formed a shield so the family could dive into an armored vehicle. Only later did Hadas learn that her brother, who had been fighting the terrorists, was shot and killed.

To hear this story in person as I did leaves your mouth dry. I asked Hadas about her plan for sharing this ordeal with the broader world.

Her answer: "Right now, I must be among friends. So, now that you have heard my story, I am asking YOU to be an ambassador. YOU tell the story."

Next time somebody tries to downplay the horror of October 7, tell them you have a story you need to share. Tell them about Hadas.

Rescue the weak and needy; Save them from the hand of the wicked. 

—Psalm 82:4

We are in the intensive care unit.

Attached to eight IV drips is someone we love. A machine helps him breathe.

His downward spiral has been fast and furious. But how does a simple fall at home lead to being on life support? In a meeting with the head doctor, she summarizes her medical assessment in plain English: “A lot has gone wrong in a very short span.”

Nurses chat just outside our room. Gurneys wheel patients down the hall. Overhead speakers alert doctors to health emergencies. Oddly, if you listen long enough, the sounds of controlled crises act as a sedative.

But we are abruptly awakened by the cheery entrance of a smiling hospital chaplain. After getting an update from the nurse, she introduces herself and announces she is going to pray. Would any of us like to join her?

I stand with her, and we bow our heads. The chaplain quotes phrases or entire verses from throughout the Bible, including:

• Isaiah 54:17, No weapon formed against you will stand.
• Psalm 139:16, In Your book were written all the days that were ordained for me, when as yet there was not one of them.
• Philippians 4:7, And the peace of God which passes all understanding will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

The chaplain leads us on a march through grand gospel truths that—compressed together—have the force of a spiritual karate chop.

I thank her for quoting so much Scripture, and she meekly replies, "Why should I pray my words when we have His words?”

As she disappears into the world of crash carts and caregivers, I am left to ponder. Isn’t intensive prayer the most intensive care we could offer those we love? And what if our prayers contained more of His words than our words? Welcome to the Intensive Prayer Unit!

On morning walks after the holidays, I like to smell the different Christmas trees piled out by the curb: Balsam fir, Blue spruce, and Scotch pine. (I'm so crazy about the smell; Diana makes our fake Christmas tree smell like the real deal!).

Walking by those curbside trees, I often break off a small sprig and breathe in the fragrance--my feeble attempt at hanging on to Christmas just a bit longer. Interestingly, the pine smells the strongest where the twig is broken off. That arresting aroma is not found in the luxurious green needles. But you cannot escape it at the point of the wound.

I’m learning that the same is often true spiritually. Let me explain.

I visited an elderly Christian friend whose wife now lives in a memory care unit. He misses her terribly—to the point you sense something (someone) has been torn from him. Yet, to be with him is to breathe a fragrance of kindness and warmth that can only be described as Christ-like.

Another friend is in the middle of a months-long knee replacement nightmare. Talk about broken! He is entirely immobile—but spiritually unwavering—the fragrance of Christ.

This week, I met a Christian woman who remembers Adolph Hitler's motorcade driving down her street. Not long after, her family faced the horror of the Russian occupation. She heard the screams of women raped at night, the shots of guns executing neighbors, and the incessant growl of her stomach as starvation loomed. Incredibly, she, too, had this fragrance of Christ about her.

Like the Christmas trees I sample, that fragrance is not released in seasons of comfort—the easy times. Look for it in seasons of brokenness.

My point? Someone reading this right now is at a place of great hurt. I would not minimize your pain or pretend I know all you're going through. I can only tell you what I've observed in those who refuse to turn bitter but instead cling to the Savior. When the focus is Jesus, the fragrance is Christ.

For we are a fragrance of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing.

—2 Corinthians 2:15

I do not like what COVID has done to eating out.

Apart from some upscale restaurants serving thirty-dollar steaks with baked potatoes for an additional ten bucks, almost nobody wants you in their space these days. Fast food restaurants no longer wish to be restaurants. They've become food factories: Get in line, pay in line, leave the line.

Here’s what I’ve experienced in restaurants after COVID—and maybe you can relate.

They don’t want your face. Sure, their doors are open, but their hearts aren't. Fast food places act like you've shoved a tire iron in the spokes of their wheel merely by walking in the door. Be prepared to wait and wait for someone who will wait on you. After COVID, the drive-through lane has gone from priority to deity status. And there are daggers aplenty for anyone who dares to order at the counter rather than using the kiosk. (But have you ever tried telling the kiosk you prefer a soft taco over a hard shell? No can do!). 

They don’t want your cash. Some restaurants take it, but they often give you a dirty look because you insist on using real money.

They just want your card. Swipe and get out. That’s the feeling you get in many places these days.

Touchless Times. Ironically, many restauranteurs cling to the mantra of "touchless" service. Really? But a machine didn't flip the burger. Or pull the fries. Or put the lid on your Coke. Or pack it all up in a bag. Many people have touched your meal!

May I turn this conversation toward Christ for a moment?

I'm so glad that when Jesus faced a man with an infectious disease more horrible than COVID, He didn't insist on a "touchless" encounter. Instead, He deliberately touched the leprous man and said, "I am willing" (to heal you). "Be cleansed" (Luke 5:13). 

In a world that only welcomes you when you swipe—and is oddly comfortable with touchless service—Jesus is more refreshing than ever. Don't you just love Him?

As I write this, snow is falling—enough white stuff to make me fire up the snowblower snoozing in my garage. Now, you might be a warm weather worshipper, but to me, a walk in the snow is one of God’s great gifts.

Still, as I walk, I'm constantly amazed at how quickly the pure white blanket is stained. Scarcely has the snow landed when a car spews black exhaust on it or a muddy boot stomps its dirt. To say nothing of dogs who pause long enough to…well, you get the idea.

Where are we going with this?

As followers of Christ, you and I have complete forgiveness. Spiritually speaking, we stand dressed in pure white. Yet, I'm dumbfounded at the speed with which I can muddy the robe of righteousness given to me by Christ Himself.

A careless word, a me-first thought, a clinging to myself more than my Savior—these are as dirtying and disgusting as yellow snow.

Can you relate to what I'm saying? If so, you're familiar with the guilt after the mud fest. Our enemy—often the one who has enticed us in the first place—now scorns our muddied state.

What to do?

Confess the crime. Ask forgiveness—and speak the truth. That truth is spoken with a grand and glorious eloquence in Romans 8:1.

Therefore, there is now no condemnation at all for those who are in Christ Jesus.

If you've stepped in the mud—like me—and feel defined by the filth of your failure, it's time to hear the decree of the Almighty once more:

Therefore, there is now no condemnation at all for those who are in Christ Jesus.

Hear it again. And again. But don't just hear it! Shout it aloud every time you hear the wicked whisper of guilt. It's the rightful song of everyone wearing a robe made white by the Blood of the Lamb!

P.S. If you'd like a beautiful graphic version of this verse—something to use as a bookmark or note for your mirror—email me at Jgauger@moody.edu. Just say, "I'm tired of the mud!" And I'll email you the free pdf you can print.