Monday Devotional
After coming to know Jesus at the age of 33, I couldn't imagine doing anything without including my Savior. Every Sunday, we will start the week at the West TN Box Score by sharing a short devotional, and my prayer is that each person who reads it will receive a blessing.
2-22-26
Miracle A few things lined up today in the writing of this devotional. In my Sunday School lesson, we passed by a line in the book of Luke: “The labourers are few.” Then, when I got home from church, I saw that the U.S. Hockey Team had won gold. That was it. God’s providence works in peculiar ways, but I am pretty sure this is for someone. You may ask, what does hockey have to do with anything? That is a valid question, and I will attempt to explain. During the 1980 Winter Olympics, I was about three and a half years old. I do not have many memories from that age, but I do have a few. When we were kids, we would often go to Barbara and Larry’s house—my aunt and uncle’s—and the adults would play cards while we children did whatever children in 1980 did to occupy long evenings. But one of my clearest memories is of a black-and-white television and that game being on. I remember how excited the adults were. Maybe it is just the replays over the years and my mind playing tricks on me, but I will tell you this: I remember Al Michaels’ call—“Do you believe in miracles?” We are not hockey folks, and I have only watched a handful of games in my life. But that one made an impression. Growing up, the stories of that game made it seem as though a true miracle had taken place. Then, around the year 2000, Walt Disney Pictures released the movie Miracle. It instantly became one of my all-time favorite sports movies. I loved the story. I was just beginning my coaching career at that time, and it resonated with me in a deep way—the discipline, the belief, the idea of ordinary men being called to something extraordinary. To this day, one of my favorite pieces of sports memorabilia is an autographed jersey signed by the 1980 U.S. Olympic Hockey Team. One of those names is Jim Craig, the goalie on that team. A few years ago, he shared a thought in an interview that serves as the genesis of this week’s devotional. When asked about the “Miracle on Ice,” Craig gave an answer I was not ready for. He spoke of how much it agitated him that it was called a miracle. At one point, he offered this thought: “It was no miracle, we just worked harder than they did.” They being the Russian team. His words struck a chord: “We just worked harder.” As soon as he said it, my mind went straight to Proverbs 6:6–8: “Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise.” From there, I was reminded, “For we are labourers together with God.” And this morning in Luke 10: “The harvest truly is great, but the labourers are few: pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he would send forth labourers into his harvest.” We must be careful with this passage before we rush off to work; do not skip over the word “pray.” The command to labor is framed by dependence. Still, work is scriptural. When I consider that we are called to labor, old Jim Craig’s words begin to haunt me. I would say it is safe to admit that many of the things we complain about—the state of things, per se—have come to be because the devil works harder than we do. Is the devil outworking me today? I do not really want to answer that question. Almost every basketball coach keeps a copy of “The Easy and The Hard”—you can Google it if you have never read it. Life is hard. Broad (easy) is the way that leads to destruction; narrow (hard) is the way that leads to life. The path of least resistance is paved smooth, but it rarely leads anywhere worth going. Jim Craig and that 1980 hockey team have been an inspiration to me in recent years—not because of a miracle, but because I am reminded how much hard work matters. I am reminded that I need to be working for something bigger than myself. The Christian life is not lived in highlight reels or dramatic calls from the broadcast booth; it is lived in daily obedience, in unseen faithfulness, in the quiet labor of the field. I pray I will be more obedient and a better worker in that field. And perhaps, by God’s grace, when the harvest comes, it will not be because of a miracle—but because we were willing to work. -Eric Hampton
2-15-26
Just as I am. I was listening to Gospel music on YouTube the other day—using YouTube as my own little radio station has become something of a habit, almost a liturgy of its own. I came across a version of “Just As I Am” by Willie Nelson, and it carried me backward nearly twenty-five years, to a night thick with rain and memory. There was a Willie Nelson concert in Skull Bone, Tennessee—an outdoor place, a natural amphitheater cupped in the hills like a rough-hewn cathedral. A storm rolled through that night with the kind of authority only Southern weather can muster. Lightning stitched the sky; thunder spoke in long, rolling syllables. Most folks scattered for home, but the show went on. By the time Willie stepped onto the stage, the crowd had thinned to a faithful remnant. Those of us who remained pressed beneath the small pavilion near the stage, shoulder to shoulder, damp and defiant. It was really an intimate environment at this point. I had come prepared for the weather—tall rubber boots and, tucked inside them, several small bottles of Old Whiskey River Bourbon. At this particular point in my life, I was a bit more like the lyrics to a Merle Haggard song than Willie, “Despite all my Sunday learning, with the bad I kept on turning”. Needless to say, I was about out of my head by the time Willie decided to close the show with a full set of Gospel music. The o’l boy standing beside me was from Mississippi, he had made the drive north with friends to see the Red-Headed Stranger. We’d talked casually between songs, the way strangers do when music makes them kin for a night. And then, somewhere in the middle of those hymns, he broke. I mean truly broke—shoulders shaking, tears falling freely, a grown man weeping without apology. That Gospel set hit him hard, and he had gone to repenting right there on the spot. I did not. However, it did make an impression. In those days, I frequented places I had no business being, and more than a few of them would close the night with a Gospel song—as if even sin wished to end on a borrowed note of grace. Not much fazed me back then. But something about the name of Jesus always made me uneasy. It was like a tuning fork struck somewhere deep in my chest. There is power in that name. As the years passed and my soul grew restless, I told myself I wanted a convinced mind. I thought faith would arrive as an argument won, a case neatly made, doubts dismissed like witnesses with nothing left to say. But when the moment finally came—when the Holy Spirit dealt with me, when Jesus spoke softly but unmistakably to my heart—I did not receive a convinced mind - I got something so much better…I got a changed heart instead!!! “Just as I am without one plea, but that Thy blood was shed for me.” I did not come to Him polished or prepared. I came as I was—muddy boots and all. And He did not wait for me to clean myself up. He drew me. He changed me. I am thankful for Jesus. Thankful for the drawing power of the Holy Spirit. Thankful that salvation is not awarded to the well-argued but given to the surrendered. As it was written of another seeking soul: “He wanted to see God with eyes of the flesh and to confirm the vision by reason; but God is seen by the inner eye of the heart, and the vision is confirmed by faith.” — The Sinner of St. Ambrose -Eric Hampton
2-8-26
He Set Me Free My nephew recently came across some old belongings of my grandfather, and among them was the book pictured here. According to the inscription inside the cover, it was gifted to my great-great-great-grandfather, Hugh Lawson Hampton, in May of 1889. The book was written by a man named John B. Gough, who, as a bit of digging revealed, was a leading voice in the Temperance Movement. Unsurprisingly, temperance is its chief subject. Curiosity got the better of me, and I began to read. Early on, a line stopped me cold: “It is not pleasant to recall these experiences. But history has nothing to do with the pleasant or the unpleasant. It has only to tell the truth.” Nearly sixteen years of sobriety can make it tempting to forget one’s history, to tuck it neatly away like an old coat that no longer fits. But another line from the book cut closer to the bone: “He curses his misery, while he hugs the chains that bind him.” It reminded me how necessary it is to share my own struggles. For so many years, I clung to the very things that were on the verge of destroying me. In the story “The Sinner of St. Ambrose,” the main character, wrestling with Christianity, declares, “If Christ conquers, then Rome must die, and I love Rome!” That line haunted me for years because I recognized myself in it. I loved drinking. Even as it was killing me, I didn’t want to let it go. I grasped tighter and tighter. I wanted salvation and freedom from addiction, but I simply could not release what I loved. Christ calls us to die to self, to take up our cross daily and follow Him. Jesus paid the price for our sins at Calvary—He did it. There is nothing we can add, nothing we can earn, only something we can accept. And I can tell you from personal experience: you won’t miss Rome. When I finally came to the foot of the cross and let go of all I had been clinging to, my hands were at last free to receive that free gift of grace—that amazing grace that saved a wretch like me. I am free today, and the life Jesus gives is richer, finer, and eternal. If you are struggling with something today, I pray you take it to Jesus. He will set you free. God bless. -Eric Hampton
2-1-26
The Dash I was digging around in my study Bible the other day—the way one sometimes does, not searching for anything in particular, but open to being found—and I came across a poem called The Dash. Brother Derrick had shared it during a sermon a few years back. I don’t have specific notes from that day; it may have been about sanctification or something of the sort. Still, the poem stayed with me, lingering the way certain Scripture passages or half-remembered hymns do. If you know me, you also know I love studying family history. For a season, it was my absolute favorite hobby, and I still dabble in it from time to time. I’ve traced both my wife’s family and mine to what I like to call illegitimate royalty (which sounds about right, lol). I can go back at least seven generations on every branch without much doubt, backed by DNA, public records, family stories, and notes scribbled long ago in old Bibles. Over the years, studying all these people who came before me, I can’t help but ponder the dash in each of their lives. I see the history—the wars fought (Revolutionary, 1812, Civil, World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam). I see the ocean crossings (my wife has ancestors who came over on the Mayflower). I see loss—the loss of children, the loss of fortune, with the Great Depression hitting one branch especially hard. Then I start thinking about my own life and try to view it through the lens of Scripture, and something becomes clear. Man, that dash is hard. It ain’t easy—and it’s short, too. I used to know an old preacher who would always say, “There’s a broken heart on every pew.” Still, life itself is also a blessing. Lately, I’ve been asking a lot of the Good Lord in my prayers, really wanting Him to do some things for me, because this dash is hard work. Then I was reading my Bible and came across 1 Corinthians: “For we are laborers together with God.” Some versions say co-laborers. And, boy, I became ashamed of my prayers. All I could think about was the movie Where the Red Fern Grows, and that little boy who had to meet God halfway. God gave him the strength, but he still had to put in the work. So this morning I prayed for wisdom and strength, understanding that the work is up to me. The dash is work. I’ll always remember some of my grandmother’s last words: “Make sure those girls know what work is.” Both my grannies had a great dash. Below is a copy of the poem from my notes. I hope you enjoy it. God bless. I read of a man who stood to speak at the funeral of a friend. He referred to the dates on the tombstone from the beginning…to the end. He noted that first cam the date of birth and spoke the following date with tears, But he said what mattered most of all Was the dash between those years. For that dash represents all the time that they spent alive on earth. And now only those who loved them know what that little line is worth. For it matters not, how much we own - the cars…the house…the cash - What matters is how we live and love and how we spend our dash. So, think about this long and hard. are there things you’d like to change? For you never know how much time is left that can still be rearranged. If we could just slow down enough to consider what’s true and real, and always try to understand the way other people feel. And be less quick to anger and show appreciation more, and love the people in our lives like we’ve never loved before. If we treat each other with respect and more often with a smile, remembering this special dash might only last a little while. So, when your eulogy is being read with your life’s actions to rehash, would you be proud of the things they say about how you spent your dash?
1-25-26
Snow Day I woke up pretty early this morning, with a lot on my mind. If you have four kids ranging from engaged and nearly finished with college to pre-K, and a wife expecting again, you tend to carry a lot with you into the day. Prayer becomes a constant companion. You pray for your children—sometimes feeling almost selfish in how specific the prayers are—but you want them to know the Lord. You want them to have a real childhood. You want them, one day, to find Godly spouses and steady ground on which to build their lives. It’s a lot. Standing still, watching the coffee swirl in my mug in the quiet of the morning, a man can think a little. The white landscape outside my window pulls my mind immediately to Isaiah 1:18, and to that old hymn rooted in the verse—“Nothing but the Blood.” Snow has a way of doing that, of turning Scripture into something visible. But it’s another verse in Isaiah that has become a kind of snow-day tradition for me, one tied closely to a shared testimony that I have always related to. It’s the verse my family will gather around this morning, as we place our hope in the promise that “when two or more are gathered together in my name…” Isaiah 45:22 says, “Look unto me, and be ye saved, all the ends of the earth: for I am God, and there is none else.” That verse sits at the heart of a snow-day story from a Sunday morning many years ago—one whose story has stayed with me. This morning, I hope you’re all safe and warm. Days like this make me thankful for the small things, the quiet things. But most of all, I’m thankful for Jesus and what He did on the cross. I’ve shared this before on Facebook, but if you’ve never read Charles Spurgeon’s testimony in his own words, it’s well worth your time. Below is his story, born out of a snowed-in Sunday morning of his own. I hope you enjoy it. God bless. The Testimony of Charles Spurgeon in his own words: “I sometimes think I might have been in darkness and despair until now, had it not been for the goodness of God in sending a snowstorm one Sunday morning, while I was going to a certain place of worship. I turned down a side street and came to a little Primitive Methodist Church. In that chapel, there may have been a dozen or fifteen people. I had heard of the Primitive Methodists, how they sang so loudly that they made people’s heads ache, but that did not matter to me. I wanted to know how I might be saved.... The minister did not come that morning; he was snowed up, I suppose. At last, a very thin-looking man, a shoemaker, or tailor, or something of that sort, went up into the pulpit to preach. Now it is well that preachers be instructed, but this man was really stupid. He was obliged to stick to his text for the simple reason that he had little else to say. The text was—"LOOK UNTO ME, AND BE YE SAVED, ALL THE ENDS OF THE EARTH" (Isa. 45:22) He did not even pronounce the words rightly, but that did not matter. There was, I thought, a glimmer of hope for me in that text. The preacher began thus: "This is a very simple text indeed. It says, ‘Look.’ Now lookin’ don’t take a deal of pain. It ain't liftin’ your foot or your finger; it is just ‘Look.’ Well, a man needn’t go to College to learn to look. You may be the biggest fool, and yet you can look. A man needn’t be worth a thousand a year to look. Anyone can look; even a child can look. "But then the text says, ‘Look unto Me.’ Ay!" he said in broad Essex, "many on ye are lookin’ to yourselves, but it’s no use lookin’ there. You’ll never find any comfort in yourselves. Some say look to God the Father. No, look to Him by-and-by. Jesus Christ says, ‘Look unto Me.’ Some on ye say ‘We must wait for the Spirit’s workin.’ You have no business with that just now. Look to Christ. The text says, ‘Look unto Me.’ " Then the good man followed up his text in this way: "Look unto Me; I am sweatin’ great drops of blood. Look unto Me; I am hangin’ on the cross. Look unto Me, I am dead and buried. Look unto Me; I rise again. Look unto Me; I ascend to Heaven. Look unto Me; I am sitting at the Father’s right hand. O poor sinner, look unto Me! Look unto Me!" When he had... managed to spin out about ten minutes or so, he was at the end of his tether. Then he looked at me under the gallery, and I daresay with so few present, he knew me to be a stranger. Just fixing his eyes on me, as if he knew all my heart, he said, "Young man, you look very miserable." Well, I did, but I had not been accustomed to having remarks made from the pulpit on my personal appearance before. However, it was a good blow, struck right home. He continued, "And you will always be miserable—miserable in life and miserable in death—if you don’t obey my text; but if you obey now, this moment, you will be saved." Then lifting up his hands, he shouted, as only a Primitive Methodist could do, "Young man, look to Jesus Christ. Look! Look! Look! You have nothing to do but look and live!" I saw at once the way of salvation. I know not what else he said—I did not take much notice of it—I was so possessed with that one thought . . . . I had been waiting to do fifty things, but when I heard that word, "Look!" what a charming word it seemed to me. Oh! I looked until I could almost have looked my eyes away. There and then the cloud was gone, the darkness had rolled away, and that moment I saw the sun; and I could have risen that instant, and sung with the most enthusiastic of them, of the precious blood of Christ, and the simple faith which looks alone to Him. Oh, that somebody had told me this before, "Trust Christ, and you shall be saved." Yet it was, no doubt, all wisely ordered, and now I can say— "E’er since by faith I saw the stream, Thy flowing wounds supply, Redeeming love has been my theme, And shall be till I die. . ." That happy day when I found the Saviour, and learned to cling to His dear feet, was a day never to be forgotten by me…I listened to the Word of God, and that precious text led me to the cross of Christ. I can testify that the joy of that day was utterly indescribable. I could have leaped, I could have danced; there was no expression, however fanatical, which would have been out of keeping with the joy of that hour. Many days of Christian experience have passed since then, but there has never been one which has had the full exhilaration, the sparkling delight which that first day had. I thought I could have sprung from the seat in which I sat, and have called out with the wildest of those Methodist brethren . . . "I am forgiven! I am forgiven! A monument of grace! A sinner saved by blood!" My spirit saw its chains broken to pieces, I felt that I was an emancipated soul, an heir of heaven, a forgiven one, accepted in Jesus Christ, plucked out of the miry clay and out of the horrible pit, with my feet set upon a rock and my goings established . . . . Between half-past ten o’clock, when I entered that chapel, and half-past twelve o’clock, when I was back again at home, what a change had taken place in me! Simply by looking to Jesus, I had been delivered from despair, and I was brought into such a joyous state of mind that, when they saw me at home, they said to me, "Something wonderful has happened to you," and I was eager to tell them all about it. Oh! There was joy in the household that day, when all heard that the eldest son had found the Saviour and knew himself to be forgiven.
1-18-26
Behold the Man I do my best to visit the cross as often as possible, and my youngest daughter will sometimes sing the song, How Deep the Father's Love For Us at church on Sundays. There is a line, “Behold the man upon a cross.” I always glance at the statue of the crucifixion when she sings it. (In scripture, that line comes before the cross, “Behold the man” was in John 19:5 when Pontius Pilate presented a scourged and mocked Jesus, wearing a crown of thorns, to the crowd.) When I took a closer look, I thought, ah this statue has the sign, but the sign simply read INRI, and I had no idea what that meant. I’m not that smart. So I googled it, and came to find out it is the correct abbreviation for JESUS OF NAZARETH, KING OF THE JEWS. So I got to digging around a little more, and wouldn’t you know, there was more to this. Old Pilate wrote it in three different languages for all to see; he was making a political statement and sticking it to the Jews, but more importantly, it was correct. The Jews were God’s chosen people, and Jesus was the Messiah, to be rejected by men, wounded for our transgressions, by his stripes we are healed. The Jewish leaders asked Pilate to take it down, and he said, “What I have written, I have written.” Now, I’m no Bible scholar, but over the years of coaching, I have always had a pretty good feel for people. After rereading all four accounts, it seems to me that by the end, Pilate was greatly troubled by Jesus. We find him asking, “What is truth?” and then he left the room. For us, we know Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. Pilate returns and asks, “Whence art thou?” Boy, I believe Pilate already knew the answer to that question; he just didn’t want to face it (just my thoughts). That is the question we all have to answer. Jesus asked the disciples 2,000 years ago, “Who do you say that I am?” He’s still asking each heart today! That question troubled Pilate; does it trouble you today? Behold the Man, “Look unto me and be ye saved all the ends of the earth.” What is truth? “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews: “My Kingdom is not of this world!” And that last question, Jesus would not answer for him, you see, we have to confess ourselves, “Thou art the Christ, the Son of the Living God!” Dear friend, if your heart is troubled today like Pilate once was, don’t walk away, don’t wash your hands of it, don’t leave Jesus to the religious. Repent and receive the gift of eternal life through Jesus Christ! May you each have a blessed week!
1-11-26
These Hands It seems I have a love-hate relationship with the entity we know as Facebook over the years, and every time I almost delete it for good, I find something redeeming in it. One of these redeeming features is the memories that come up each day; it is worth keeping around just for the memories. We all have those people in our lives that we miss. I miss both my grandmothers dearly as they played such a role in who I am. It was five years ago in December that my Granny Hampton passed, but not before she got to meet Jacob. I treasure this picture of her hands. Just before this picture was taken, she was pointing one of those fingers at my two older daughters, telling them, if they do nothing else, learn what work is. I’ve shared some thoughts on this particular set of hands before that I thought were fitting for a devotional today. THESE HANDS.. These, these hands have hoed some tough rows and worked many fields. These hands wrote letters back and forth to a soldier during WWII, which eventually turned into a forever love. These hands have been folded in prayer for all her loved ones. These hands cooked the best food you have ever eaten, and you know you’ll never eat something that good again. These hands spanked my bottom when I did wrong. I tried to tell her she wasn’t my momma, but she just said, “I am your grandmomma,” and then those hands went to work on my rear. These hands know what work is. These hands know what love is. Oh, I’m so thankful that I got to experience These Hands firsthand. Remembering These Hands makes me so thankful for another set of hands. Jesus told Thomas, “Rich hither thy finger, and behold my hands.” The two nail-scarred hands of Jesus. Because of His hands and her love for him, I know she has entered into his kingdom. And one day, that glad reunion day, when the circle will be unbroken… Through his hands, my hands, will hold her hands again! Thanks be to Jesus! God bless, hope you each have a great week.
1-4-26
New Year I was kind of aimlessly flipping through my Bible, as I sometimes do on New Year’s—almost searching for something, but not really sure what—when I came across a highlighted passage. Romans 4:7-8, which reads, “Blessed are they whose iniquities are forgiven, and whose sins are covered. Blessed is the man to whom the Lord will not impute sin”—and beside it, a note directing me to Psalm 32:1. It seems Paul is, in essence, quoting David. The words seemed to jump off the page, and my heart felt suddenly light. I am not who I need to be, but I know what I once was, and my INIQUITIES have been forgiven!!!! Praise be to God! And Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I am blessed—not because of anything I possess in this life, but because I am forgiven; because of the promise of what is to come through faith in Jesus Christ. What a reminder to begin the New Year: a reminder that I have a new life in Christ. And so, in closing, my good ol’ Facebook memories produced a quote that seemed to walk alongside my thoughts today. For our first devotional of 2026, we’ll close with these words from Charles Spurgeon: “Take this, dear friends, for a new year’s text, both ye who love the Lord, and ye who are only looking for the first time. Christian! In all your troubles through this year, look unto God and be saved. In all thy trials and afflictions, look unto Christ, and find deliverance. In all thine agony, poor soul, in all thy repentance for thy guilt, Look unto Christ, and find pardon. This year remember to put thine eyes heavenward, and thine heart heavenward, too,” —Charles Spurgeon. “Look unto me and be ye saved, all the ends of the earth: for I am God, and there is none else.”
12-29-25
I surrender all Over Christmas, my two youngest kids received a set of Bible cards—and if you didn’t already know, I am a cardboard enthusiast—so let me just say, they are fantastic. As we worked toward completing the set, one card quickly became my favorite: Andrew’s. I’ve always loved how Andrew seemed to live for one simple purpose—bringing people to Jesus. I recognized the passage the moment I saw it. John 6. It has always been one of my favorite sections in the entire New Testament. And while bringing people to Jesus, as Andrew did, is a noble and necessary thing, Andrew is not the true focus of the card. It is the boy who holds my attention. The boy—and his lunch. “There is a lad here, which hath five barley loaves, and two small fishes: but what are they among so many?” For years I wondered why a kid would be walking around with five loaves of bread. It seemed odd to me. Later, after talking with someone who had spent time across the pond in the Holy Lands, I learned those “barley loaves” were likely about the size of a Ritz cracker, and the two small fish more like sardines. Suddenly the picture came into focus. This boy hadn’t packed a bakery—he had packed a lunch. And if I’m being honest, one of my lifelong struggles has been food. I’ve gotten better, but I can still be selfish when it comes to what’s on my plate. I used to loathe sharing French fries. If you wanted some, why didn’t you order your own? I’ve asked that question more times than I care to admit. My wife and kids have also accused me—fairly—of being what you might call a “hangry” person. We often talk about Jesus feeding the multitude, and rightly so. But the real miracle in this passage might be something else entirely: convincing a boy to give up his lunch. If I were that boy, I would have hesitated. I would have calculated. I would have guarded what was mine. But once he surrendered it, the miracle followed. God is still in the miracle business, if we’re willing to be like that unnamed lad. I struggled for years because I refused to surrender. I loved this world. There’s a book from the 1950s called The Sinner of St. Ambrose. When I left Bradford, I took it from an old stack of library books, mostly as decoration. It sat on a shelf for years until one day—by God’s providence—I felt compelled to pick it up. The story centers on a Roman struggling with Rome’s turn toward Christianity. He was a good pagan. In conversation with St. Ambrose, he says, “If Christ conquers, then Rome must die, and I love Rome.” When I read that line, I saw myself. I knew that if Christ conquered, self must die—and I loved my Rome. I fought that truth for years. But one day, at the end of my rope—lost, exhausted, and out of answers—I found myself asking the same question so many in the New Testament asked: What must I do? And no, I'm not crazy, I heard that still small voice speak to my heart as clearly as I have ever heard anything: There is nothing you can do. I have already done it. That was the moment I surrendered everything. Rome died. I gave Him my lunch, so to speak. And the miracle He worked in my life—if you had known me before—was right up there with feeding the multitude. So if you’re struggling with something today, lay it down. Let Rome die. Give Him your lunch. And just like that boy we still read about 2,000 years later, you will never regret it. I hope you all have a blessed week. -Eric Hampton
12-22-25
Good King Wenceslas Ol' Good King Wenceslas — it’s a song I’ve always known, one that seemed to hum through every December of my childhood. Still, I can’t say I ever paid it much attention. It was, in my mind, one of those “give to the poor and you’ll be blessed” kind of carols: a simple moral wrapped in a catchy tune. Everyone knows you should help those in need, right? To tell the truth, I never really sang all the words. I just hummed through it, the way most of us mumble through Hark! The Herald Angels Sing after the first verse. But not long ago, I found myself playing "Good King Wenceslas" on YouTube — one of those videos that displays the lyrics as the music plays. And somewhere near the end, the last two verses rose up and found me. They struck a chord somewhere deep in this old man’s soul. Over twenty times in the New Testament, Jesus says, “Follow Me.” One instance familiar to most of us: “Take up thy cross and follow Me daily.” It’s that daily part that gets me. Take a moment to read the carol’s final verses: Through the rude wind’s wild lament And the bitter weather, Sire, the night is darker now, And the wind blows stronger; Fails my heart, I know not how, I can go no longer. “Mark my footsteps, my good page, Tread thou in them boldly; Thou shalt find the winter’s rage Freeze thy blood less coldly.” In his master’s steps he trod, Where the snow lay dinted; Heat was in the very sod Which the saint had printed. Therefore, Christian men, be sure, Wealth or rank possessing, Ye who now will bless the poor Shall yourselves find blessing. Now, looking back over the years, I see it clearly: whenever I followed Jesus' lead, the winter’s rage froze my blood less coldly. When I stepped in His prints — not my own — even the hardest seasons softened. As Christmas approaches once again, that is my simple prayer: May I follow Him. May I stay in my Master’s footsteps. God bless, my friends.
12-15-25
As a little child This is always a hard week for me. The 21st arrives each year carrying more than a date should be asked to bear. It brings a rush of emotions, and this year—my wife expecting again—the memory of losing Isaiah feels closer, more present, like a hand on my shoulder that I did not know where it came from, but somehow understand. When it first happened, the love and prayers were a true kindness. In the weeks that followed, what stayed with us just as deeply were the stories—quiet, painful testimonies from others who had walked the same road. They did not fix anything, but they did something better: they let us know we were not alone. Isaiah, “God’s Helper,” is now home, waiting on us. Here in the present, life continues in its loud and ordinary mercy. Our living room is still full of kids. Toys underfoot. Laughter in the air. I’ve always enjoyed the Oak Ridge Boys, especially Thank God for Kids. There’s a line that has always landed softly but firmly with me: “Did you ever stop to think or wonder why, the nearest thing to heaven is a child.” Jesus once said, “Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the Kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein.” – Mark 10:15 You could argue this was an object lesson in humility (I’ve read a few Andrew Murray books, lol), but as with most of Jesus’ teaching, it endures because it is simply true. Like almost everyone I know, I carry things around with me—stresses, frustrations, bitterness, anger, selfishness—all bundled up in that shiny package we call pride. It is far from the fruit I should be producing. Yet somehow, when little Jacob comes around the corner and says, “I love you, Daddy,” or when little Josie climbs up beside me and curls into my side on the couch, all of that weight loosens and falls away. I’m not carrying it anymore. In loving them, I’m reminded—sometimes suddenly, sometimes quietly—that I have a heavenly Father who loves me like this. It makes me want to cry out, “Abba.” Christ used children as His example, and I’ve often wondered if it was because the unconditional love of a child may be the closest thing we have to understanding His love for us. “While we were yet sinners,” He came. I am thankful for a Savior who came and died for my sins, and thankful for the blessing of children. They have a way of keeping everything in its proper perspective, without ever trying to. The day we lost Isaiah, I had one of those random Bible openings—an obscure passage that met me where I was and carried peace I could not manufacture on my own: “The righteous perisheth, and no man lay it to heart: and merciful men are taken away, none considering that the righteous is taken away from the evil to come.” – Isaiah 57:1 Much as King David lamented, He cannot come to me, but I can go to him one day. And today, I am thankful for my kids. I am jamming out to the Oak Ridge Boys. I am praising my Savior. And I am living with the steady, certain hope that one day, I will see Isaiah again.
12-8-25
Few and Evil Pharaoh asked Jacob, “How old are you, bud?” Jacob tells the years of his sojourning were 130—“few and evil,” he said, “have been the days of my sojourning.” I’ve found myself lingering over that exchange more than once through the years. I could give you pages of commentary and the echoes of every scholar who has tried to untangle Jacob’s meaning. But I keep returning to a few simple truths I can’t escape—and neither can you. We are strangers passing through this world. Jacob uses the word sojourning—pilgrimage—twice. Earth is no man’s home; our time on this earth is a brief stay, like travelers who pause for a moment before continuing to the place that is truly home. “Few and evil.” Anyone past forty probably knows the weight of the few. My own years feel like a Jimmy Buffett song: “Summers and winters, scattered like splinters, and twenty more years slipped away.” Our time here is short, and evil—that’s the more challenging part. But an honest look at my own life leaves me face to face with the truth Scripture names so plainly: “The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately sick.” My old nature is not noble; it is needy. Jacob’s words may be bleak, but they ring true. Yet here, in this tension between brevity and brokenness, Christ steps in. Jesus is the only answer. “Wretched man that I am, who will deliver me from this body of sin? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord.” That’s it. Jesus. My hope and my stay. Nothing I can do—Christ has already done the work. As Paul said, thanks be to God for sending His Son—no other name. These thoughts have been sitting with me lately—the good and the evil, braided together in every life. But the good Lord always provides a way through. Have a blessed day.
12-1-25
Christmas Nativity My favorite of all our Christmas decorations is the nativity scene pictured beside this entry. After I set it up, I gathered the littles around and told the Christmas story as best I could. I showed them the angel, the star, the wise men, the shepherds, Joseph and Mary, and—most of all—the baby Jesus. I even mentioned that, according to some very smart people I’ve heard over the years, the true setting was likely a cave rather than the tidy wooden stable we arrange each December. When I finished, my sweet little Josie Claire looked up and said, “Tell me again, Daddy.” And at those words, my heart leapt straight to Heavenly Highway Hymns, No. 42—Tell the Sweet Story Again, with its line, “Jesus has died, lost sinners to save.” As we enter this season, Union Hill is once again preparing its live Nativity, and it is always a blessing. They begin with John the Baptist and carry the story all the way to the empty tomb. Every year it amazes me how the simple reenactment settles deeper into the soul, as if the familiar becomes newly tender in the cool night air. So if you’ve wandered your way to this entry and read this far, consider this an invitation: come and see. Come watch the sweet story unfold before your eyes. This Saturday, December 6, and Sunday, December 7, from 6:00 to 8:00 p.m., drive through—free of charge—at Union Hill Missionary Baptist Church, 105 Union Hill Church Rd, Reagan, TN, 38368. May the name of Jesus be lifted up. Hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving, and God bless!
11-24-25
Cats In The Cradle Funny, the things that get you thinking. I was rocking out to Harry Chapin’s version of “Cat’s in the Cradle” with Josie one morning. I liked that song when I was a kid; then, when I was a teenager, UGLY KID JOE released their version, and I rocked that one all over again. Later, when the older girls were young, we returned to Harry Chapin’s rendition—the standard, I suppose. Well, Josie really liked it, too, and was singing right along. I thought it was pretty cool because I’d always loved singing it with her sisters. But something happened while I was singing it with Josie. I started, as the Grinch says, “leaking.” Let’s be honest—it was more than a leak. I was man-crying. All those years, the song had never quite moved me that way. I understood it perfectly when I was young; I “got” the story. It wasn’t lost on me. But now that I’m older—now that my two girls in college drift through the house like travelers passing on their way elsewhere—I no longer just understand the song. I have lived it. And that living, that experience, is what brings such a response. Why? Because there is a world of difference between understanding something and experiencing it. For years, I understood the Gospel message of Jesus. I could tell you the story, recite the truths. But it did not change me until I experienced Jesus. And I fear there may be many who “understand” the Gospel but have never truly experienced it. I pray that if you haven’t, you will today. It will change your life. Have a blessed week.
11-17-25
A New Season “How can a game have such an effect on a man’s soul? The way I see it, how can it not?” This quote from the movie 7 Days in Utopia has always resonated with me. This old gym, pictured, freshly refinished, is one of my favorite places in the world. Within the next 48 hours, most West Tennessee high schools will kick off their 2025-2026 basketball seasons. I have coached in over 1,300 games. I played basketball through college and baseball through high school. My kids have played sports I didn't even know were sports. I have seen many seasons. All of these sports seasons remind me that life has many seasons…Some have been good, some have been bad, some fun, some drudgery, some you didn’t want to end, some you couldn’t wait to get over. As old age starts to set in, I am better learning to embrace the seasons; I realize they are all special and part of my sojourning here. Ecclesiastes says, “For everything there is a season.” I’ve learned these seasons are providential, “For I know the plans I have made for you” I know the seasons are fleeting, “your life is but a vapor” I know they have a purpose, “All things work together for good, for those that are called according to his purpose” Seasons can be perplexing, “he has put eternity into man’s heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from beginning to end” and in the end they are productive, “let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap if we do not give up”. Whatever season you may be in, do not grow weary; seasons change. One of the things I love most about sports is the new season: your past seasons no longer matter —they are now distant history —and you get to start over. This time of year, as so many of my close friends start their new season, I feel so thankful for my Jesus! My past seasons no longer matter; he made me anew, and when he returns one day, he will make all things anew. New seasons bring hope, they bring excitement, they bring challenges, and sometimes even heartbreak. New basketball seasons, as great as they are, come with no promises, but with Jesus, I know victory is at hand. In this life, there are really no guaranteed winners, but with Jesus, there is. “How can a game have such an effect on a man’s soul?” Wishing all my basketball coaching friends a great season, but more importantly, hoping everyone has that victory that can only be found in Jesus. God Bless.
11-10-25
Greatest Sports Day Ever Allow me to give you some background on what I call my greatest sports day ever. All the way back in the year 2001, one of my best friends (one of two groomsmen in my wedding) had just finished Ranger Training, and boom, 9-11 happened. His Ranger Battalion was the first Americans on the ground in Afghanistan. My friend is an American Hero!!! Fast forward to March of 2002, and my friend was home and invited me to go to the Final Four in Atlanta with him. There were 3 of us, plus my friend's dad, on this trip of a lifetime. Shortly into our weekend, it was known that he was an American Hero, and there was a great sense of pride in our nation at the time. Because of this, our entire group was treated like the Pied Piper all weekend long —he deservingly so —and my other buddy and I just for the fact that we were with him. I don't think I paid for a drink the entire weekend, and this was a time in my life when I would have a few (or a lot). Ultimately, it led to what I call the GREATEST SPORTS DAY EVER. We woke up early Monday morning and played 18 holes of golf at Stone Mountain, one of the nicest courses in the area outside of Augusta herself. Afterward, some folks from Rawlings gave us parking passes with the players and tickets to a Braves game, which just happened to be opening day. We sat behind the dugout on the first baseline (I remember Gary Sheffield went yard). After the baseball game, it was off to the NCAA National Championship Game that night with upgraded seats, of course. What an amazing day!!! It all happened because of who I knew. My friend, the kid we called Scooter, greatest sports day ever on no merit of my own. Many moons had passed, and I was telling this story to another friend, and it really got me thinking. In my life, I have been one sorry dog over the years. There's so much I have done that I will not list here (This is not a confessional, so let's just say I'm guilty), and I will stand guilty before God one day. But you see, when I was about 33, I met this other friend named Jesus, and that good folks, was the Greatest Day Ever period. Although I don't deserve it, I am guilty, and I will continue to be guilty, but he is going to stand with me and say, "Father, this one's with me!" Through him and what he did on that cross, I am forgiven! Nothing on my own merit, just who I know. I will never be good enough for Heaven, nor will I be too bad, for as the old saying goes, "It's not what you know but who you know", and I know Jesus. I wonder today, do you know him? If not, I pray you will, he paid the price for each of us on that old rugged cross and offers the free gift of grace. God Bless and have a great Monday.
11-3-25
2:00 A.M. Blessings A few years back, I shared these thoughts on a Facebook post but felt they would be fitting words for our first Devotional on the West Tn Box Score. Little feller was up and crying, and my wife Rachel nudges me and asked if I would get him this time, he’s being weaned and all, so what could I say. Truth is, I was a little mad, didn’t want to get up, but reluctantly I stumbled out of bed as only a 44-year-old man can. As I arrived in his room, I was met with louder cries for "MAMA!!!!!". My first thought was, “Yay!” Rachel will have to come save the day, and I’ll go back to bed, glad she didn’t. After some dad talk and a dry diaper, I started singing some hymns to the little fella. This is something I have done with all my kids (ages 0-3 seems to be the only age group that likes my vocal styling). He began to settle down and nestled right up to me in the rocker. After several songs, he got really still, so I thought it was time to close out our singing. My home church, Union Hill, has sung Amazing Grace every Sunday of my life, whether I was there or not, I knew it was being sung, and at age 33, that song took on new meaning for me. Such a special song to me, so with what I thought was a sleeping baby, I started to close my concert. When I finished the 4th verse, I went straight into the praise God version, and that is when this story takes a joyful turn. Little fella looks right at me with big awake eyes and raises his right hand just like we do at Church, make no mistake, kids watch everything we do, and you may fool the world, but they will always know if you’re the real deal or not. Tears came down my face as I continued with the praise of God, and right there at 2:00 A.M., I found myself worshipping God as purely as I have in a long time, and right there worshipping with me was this one-year-old little boy. As soon as I finished the praise God verse his little hand went down and he nestled back in, we kept the singing going and finally closed with "Just a Closer Walk with Thee". From irritated to thankful for this 2:00 A.M. wake-up call. God Bless and have a great Monday.