Scripture Focus: Genesis 1:27; 2:4–9, 15–25; 3; 5:1–2

I’ve read the story of Adam and Eve, but I recently started a more in-depth study of them. And I don’t mean just the Sunday school version we all grew up hearing, but really sitting with the weight of it. Reading these passages through the lens of grace and redemption, I found myself aching a little. Not just because of the fall, but because I saw myself in the garden too.

God created them (male and female) in His image (Genesis 1:27). He breathed life into them, gave them purpose, gave them each other. He walked with them in the cool of the day. He didn’t just give them rules; He gave them relationship. That wrecked me a little. Because how often do I focus more on what I can’t do, rather than on the gift of walking with God in the present?

When Eve reached for that fruit, it wasn’t because she hated God. It was because she doubted Him. The enemy didn’t need her to turn her back; he just needed her to question, “Did God really say…?” (Genesis 3:1). That whisper is all too familiar. It sounds a lot like, “Are you sure God is still good even though your prayers haven’t been answered?” or “Maybe you should just do it your way—God’s way seems slow.”

Where do I see God at work in their story? Everywhere. I see Him in the breath that brought them to life, in the tenderness of forming Eve from Adam’s side, in the gift of naming the animals and tending the garden. But I see Him most in Genesis 3—right after everything falls apart. That’s where grace shows up in the dirt. God comes looking for them, not to destroy them, but to cover them. He clothes them in their shame. He doesn't leave them naked in their failure.

And that’s the God I need. The one who still seeks me even when I’ve hidden. The one who makes coverings for the consequences I chose. The one who promises redemption even while the curse is still being spoken.

Their story feels painfully familiar. I’ve listened to lies. I’ve run from God. I’ve tried to fix it on my own. And like Eve, I’ve wrestled with shame that followed me out of places I was never meant to leave. But it also feels foreign. I can’t imagine a world untouched by sin, where shame didn’t even exist. A world where I walked with God face-to-face.

What I want to keep meditating on is this: even in my brokenness, God still pursues me. Even after the garden, He never stopped making a way back to Himself. The story of Adam and Eve doesn’t end with banishment—it points us toward a Savior. One who would crush the head of the serpent (Genesis 3:15). One who would undo what was done. One who would offer grace in the garden—and every moment after.

So today, I’m holding onto this truth: I am dust, yes. But I am also deeply loved dust, formed by a Creator who still comes walking toward me when I hide.

Scripture Focus: Genesis 5:28–29; 6:9–22; 7:6–12; 8:13–22; 9:1–17

Obedience sounds noble—until it feels lonely.

Noah’s story is one of quiet faithfulness in the middle of chaos. As I read through Genesis 6–9, I kept thinking about how loud the world must’ve been around him, how different he must’ve felt, how long he had to wait. And yet, Noah walked with God (Genesis 6:9). That one line hit me like a deep breath. In a generation filled with corruption, violence, and wickedness, Noah walked with God.

Where do I see God at work in Noah’s story? Honestly, everywhere. I see Him in the instructions, the patience, the covenant, the rainbow. But more than anything, I see Him in the waiting. I see Him in the long days of boat-building when rain hadn’t even been invented yet. I see Him in the 40-day storm and the months of bobbing on unknown waters. And I see Him in the gentle whisper that dried up the deep, lifted the clouds, and opened the door to dry ground.

Sometimes, walking with God means doing something that doesn’t make sense to anyone else. I connect to that. Maybe not in an ark-building way, but in the quiet, unseen places where faith means moving forward even when it feels like everyone else is living differently. I know what it’s like to keep praying for something that hasn’t arrived. To trust the whisper when the world is shouting. To obey when the outcome isn’t guaranteed.

But Noah’s experience also feels foreign to me. The kind of faith it takes to build a boat with no blueprint, no weather radar, no proof of a flood... that’s next-level trust. I can't imagine the weight he carried—the survival of his family, the preservation of creation, the hope of starting again. And yet, Noah simply did everything just as God commanded him (Genesis 6:22). No shortcuts. No complaining. Just obedience.

What I want to meditate on is this: Noah didn’t know how long the storm would last, but he trusted the One who did. That’s the posture I want in my own storms. To remember that even when the rain keeps falling, and the waiting feels like forever, God is still writing a promise into the sky. He never forgets. He always remembers. And the same God who shut the door behind Noah is the One who opened it again at just the right time.

So today, I’m reminding myself: faith may feel lonely, but I’m never alone. God remembers. God rescues. God restores.

Scripture Focus: Genesis 11:27–31; 12:1–9; 15:1–21; 18:1–15; 21:1–7

If I’m honest, I relate to Sarah more than I’d like to admit.

When God told Abraham to leave everything familiar and follow Him to a land He hadn’t even shown yet (Genesis 12:1), I imagine Sarah had questions. When God promised a son to a couple older than most grandparents (Genesis 15:4–5), I imagine she laughed… because I’ve done that too. Not an out-loud kind of laugh, but the quiet one in my heart. The "yeah, right" kind. The "but do You see how long it’s been?" kind.

Abraham and Sarah’s story is one of faith, yes, but it’s also one of waiting, doubting, laughing, trying to force the promise, and ultimately watching God do exactly what He said He would do.

Where do I see God at work in their story? I see Him in the call to go, even when the map wasn’t clear. I see Him in the covenant when He put Abraham to sleep and walked alone through the pieces of the promise (Genesis 15), saying, “I will do this. Not you. Me.” I see Him show up at their tent and repeat the promise again, this time with specificity and timing. "About this time next year…” (Genesis 18:10).

And then, when it seemed entirely too late, He came through. “The Lord came to Sarah as He had said, and the Lord did for Sarah what He had promised.” (Genesis 21:1)

That one verse makes me tear up. Because it reminds me that God does not forget. His Word doesn’t expire. His timing is not our timing, but His faithfulness is sure.

I connect so much to their experience of waiting. I’ve wrestled with God over the things I’ve longed for but haven’t seen yet. I’ve tried to speed up the process in my own strength. I’ve questioned whether I misheard Him. I’ve laughed in disbelief and cried in frustration. But what feels foreign to me is the scope of their calling. God wasn’t just giving them a baby, He was birthing a nation. He was unfolding a story that would eventually bring Jesus. And that’s humbling. Because sometimes what I’m waiting for isn’t just about me, it’s about what God is doing through me.

What I want to continue meditating on is this: God is not in a rush, but He is always on time. The waiting may feel heavy, the delay may seem permanent, but His Word never returns void. Even when we mess up. Even when we doubt. Even when we laugh. He is still the God who fulfills promises.

So today, I’m holding onto this: “Is anything too hard for the Lord?” (Genesis 18:14). The answer is no. Not then. Not now.

Genesis 16:1–16; 21:8–21

I’ve read Hagar’s story before: the servant caught between someone else’s promise and her own pain. But as I study her story more in depth, I realized how misunderstood she’s been. She wasn’t chosen by name in the beginning, yet she was seen by God in a way few others ever were.

Hagar didn’t ask for her situation. She was given to Abram by Sarai, a decision born out of human impatience with divine timing. She became a part of someone else’s plan to “help God along.” And when that plan unraveled, she carried the consequences alone. It’s easy to look at her story and see scandal, but when I read it again, I see more sorrow, survival, and grace.

When she ran into the wilderness, she wasn’t just fleeing from Sarai; she was fleeing from shame. From rejection. From being used and discarded. But that’s where God found her. In the desert. Pregnant, tired, and alone. And instead of condemning her, He called her by name.

That part always makes me feel better! Because it means that even when we’re not in the “chosen” story, when we feel like the side character or the mistake, God still comes looking for us.

“The angel of the Lord found Hagar near a spring in the desert… and He said, ‘Hagar, servant of Sarai, where have you come from, and where are you going?’” (Genesis 16:7–8).

God didn’t scold her. He saw her. He gave her direction, and He gave her promise: that her son, Ishmael, would live and become a great nation. But before she left that wilderness, Hagar did something extraordinary: she named God. “You are the God who sees me,” she said. El Roi.

And that name still echoes for anyone who’s ever felt invisible.

Later, when she found herself in the desert again, but this time watching her child fade from thirst. God came through once more. “Do not be afraid,” the angel said. “God has heard the boy crying.” (Genesis 21:17). The same God who saw her the first time heard her the second. That’s what grace looks like — seeing, hearing, and redeeming, even when life feels hopeless.

Hagar’s story reminds me that God’s promises aren’t confined to perfect people or perfect circumstances. He shows up in the wilderness, calls us by name, and reminds us we are not forgotten.

I think about that every time I feel overlooked or unsure where I fit. God still sees. God still hears. And sometimes, like Hagar, all we can do is lift our eyes and whisper through the dust, El Roi — You see me.

So today, that’s where I’m resting — not in the approval of others or the perfection of my plans, but in the simple truth that I am seen, heard, and held by the God who meets people in deserts.