Sons & Daughters was born of a dream to curate beautiful, wild, Jesus-drenched, Spirit-soaked art from the great cloud of witnesses. May the words, stories, and images collected here remind us of who we are—sons and daughters of the King, children of the Most High, a people of his own possession, heirs to a Kingdom that is both now and not yet. And may we rest in the joy of serving the one true God who is here in our midst, inviting us to walk in the fullness of his glory.
Our team often reflects on the beauty and importance of diversity in the body of Christ—the gift that comes from embracing the unique ways our lives have been crafted by our Creator. When we lean into the discipline of authentically sharing our lives with the body, we begin to see and understand the character of our heavenly Father in new, formative ways.
We began dreaming of Sons & Daughters out of a desire to create space for our people to tell their stories, bringing light to the highs and lows of our unique journeys as we seek to know and be known by the Father.
The collection of words, stories, images, poetry, and art found on the pages of this journal were brought together by people who long to walk with the Father in deeper ways—the long obedient, the faithful pursuers, the seekers, the restless.
This journal was created by and for those of us who find ourselves returning again and again, in all our imperfections, to the throne of grace. A reminder that we are His, and He is enough.
Our prayer for this inaugural volume is that the body of Christ would reflect on the beauty of serving a God who chooses to dwell among his people. In Luke 19:5, Jesus said to Zacchaeus, “Hurry and come down, for I must stay at your house today,” and He says the same to you. He is Immanuel. He is God with us.
May we keep our faces turned toward the East in all we do, watching for his return—the wind of the Spirit at our back. May we throw o all the rubbish of the past and future, seeking God in the present moment. And may we, through words and images, tell a better story than the world is telling—the kind of story told around the table, not by guests, but by family.
To Him be the glory, The Editorial Team
My siblings and I were no strangers to long drives. We had moved cross country twice and knew that summer vacations would include a long trip from wherever we lived back to Wisconsin.
As we piled in, there was the usual fighting for space, trying to figure out a way to get as comfortable as possible while sharing a seat with a sibling or a suitcase. Long road trips usually began with a hum of energy—laughter and conversation that slowly died away as reading lights were flicked on and heads rested against pillows. Eventually, the dark road, mixed with quiet talk radio, lulled us all to sleep.
We woke up in Paducah, realizing it was Christmas, and we still had a long way to drive. My siblings and I unfolded from the vehicle, rubbing sleep from our eyes, as our parents directed us into the gas station to use the restroom and grab a snack.
Waking up on Christmas at a gas station in Kentucky doesn’t scream magic. Corn nuts and gummy worms aren’t quite the same as a Christmas morning spread of cinnamon rolls and bacon.
After acquiring our Christmas morning feast, we walked back to the car, reluctantly preparing for another long stretch of road ahead. When we opened the doors, we saw our stockings—red and green, with our names stitched in white—hanging on the coat hooks. The ones we thought we left at home hanging on the mantel, the ones that screamed, "Christmas is here!" The three of us shouted with joy as we took in the unexpected wonder of Christmas happening on I-24.
Each stocking was filled with the little happies we had grown to expect. No matter which state we lived in, our Christmas stockings were the best. Candy and snacks, a gift card or two, and, that year, in mine, Garfield joke cards.
I was a gregarious child. I loved an audience and tried hard to make people smile. Joke cards were the perfect gift for a kid who just wanted to make people laugh. These stockings were hung on a Suburban car hook with care, reminding us that we were loved and delighted in. Simple gifts with so much meaning: You are seen. You are known. You are loved.
These stockings told the three of us that we belonged in our family, even if we didn’t feel a sense of belonging in Florida or Wisconsin.
Christmas at a gas station was unexpectedly magical. When my parents decided to pack the stockings, they probably didn’t expect that Christmas morning at a gas station would stick with me for the rest of my life.
Garfield joke cards weren’t meant to remind me of Immanuel. But they do.
As an adult, I still feel the same longing for home that I had as a kid in Florida, frustrated by the muggy weather and lack of friends. I still wonder if I belong. Am I seen? Am I known? Am I loved?
I am no longer a nomad. I’ve found as much permanence in Knoxville as one could. Yet still, I look for moments like Christmas at a gas station that help me plant my feet and remind me of a greater identity than a zip code could ever o er. I look for the Garfield joke cards of adulthood—maybe a song or a bird or a rainbow in the sky—that reminds me of my true home.
Immanuel, God with us, tells us that even as strangers in a foreign land, longing for a home we haven’t yet reached, we belong. In the simple moments when one of us broken humans does something spectacularly correct, like hanging stockings on a coat hook, we’re reminded of the perfectly spectacular reality that God is here. We are known. We are loved.
