grace given me

“Membership has its privileges.” Most of us recognize the tagline from American Express’s iconic marketing campaign. The message was clear: belonging to this group came with unique, high-value advantages not available to everyone. Access. Benefits. A sense of security.

But there was also an implied responsibility. Membership had to be maintained. Accounts had to stay active. Let the membership lapse, and the privileges disappeared. The card still existed, but the benefits no longer flowed.

After a special and full holiday season, both of our kids have now returned to college. Once again, we find ourselves back in the familiar rhythm of empty nesting—and it’s left us feeling a little blue. Some of that is expected. The fun is over. The house is quieter. It’s back to routines and responsibilities.

But some of the ache runs deeper. It brushes up against questions of purpose.

We know our predicament isn’t unique. Maybe your transition looks different—an unexpected job change, a relational loss, a health challenge, an unfulfilled dream, or a season of waiting that feels longer than you anticipated. It’s often in these moments—when life shifts or feels unsettled—that the searching begins. We start looking for something to give our lives meaning, purpose, and direction. Many of us live with a vague inner vacuum—a quiet sense of incompleteness that no amount of productivity, success, or distraction can fully satisfy.

As a believer, I know—at least in my mind—what fills that vacuum. Only Christ can do that.

And yet, I am still flesh. Still vulnerable. Still prone to forget my God, who has been so good to me. 

I find myself dwelling on thoughts that don’t serve me: Your moment is behind you. This season is smaller. You’re less needed now. Maybe yours sounds more like: You’re behind. You’ll never be enough. If God was going to move, he would have by now. Scripture tells us that the enemy “prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:8). He doesn’t usually show up with obvious lies—he whispers distortions, planting doubt, discouragement, and fear if we give him the space.

That’s when I have to pause and ask myself an uncomfortable question: Am I letting my membership expire?

Not my salvation—that is secure. Scripture is clear: “It is by grace you have been saved, through faith… not by works” (Ephesians 2:8–9). I don’t earn my place in God’s family. But if I want to walk in abundance, peace, and hope—if I want to experience the privileges of this membership—I do have a part to play.

Jesus said, “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full” (John 10:10). That fullness doesn’t come from passive belief alone. It comes from active trust and ongoing obedience.

When I find myself swirling—overthinking, worrying, rehearsing worst-case scenarios—I’m reminded that faith requires movement. James writes, “Faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead” (James 2:17). For years, I interpreted that mostly as a call to serve. And it is. But recently, I heard a framing that shifted my perspective: without stepping out in trust again and again, faith doesn’t just stagnate—it slowly withers.

When we trust God again, we get to experience him again. 

Throughout Scripture, God’s people were instructed to remember. To build altars. To stack stones. Physical reminders of his faithfulness—markers of deliverance, provision, and presence. “Remember the wonders he has done” (Psalm 105:5). When the future feels uncertain, remembrance becomes an act of resistance.

As I look to this new year, I feel resolve building to step out again. To obey again. To expect God to move again. To trust him for another stone to stack. Not because I feel especially brave. But because I don’t want to live like someone whose membership has expired. As you look to your own season, what are you trusting God for? What stone might he be inviting you to stack?

Membership in God’s family has extraordinary privileges: peace that surpasses understanding, hope that anchors the soul, purpose that transcends seasons. I want to live like I believe that’s true. So I’m choosing to remember. To obey. To trust again. And I’m believing that when I do, I’ll experience him again—faith alive, active, and full.

Lord, you are so good and so faithful—patiently waiting for us to return to you time and again. Nothing on this earth offers greater privileges than life with you. I confess that I sometimes forget. I allow the weight of the moment to cast a bigger shadow than the reality of who you are and the greatness of your promises. Help me grow my faith. Give me the courage to trust you again. I am expectant. I am hopeful. And I am ready to stack a new stone. Amen.