Romans 8:15 – Today’s Verse for March 22, 2025 Saturday

“For ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to fear; but ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father.“
— Romans 8:15 KJV

Reflection on Today's Verse

This verse always makes me stop and breathe. It reminds me I don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’m not a slave to fear. I’m not stuck trying to earn God’s love. I don’t have to carry shame like it owns me.

God didn’t just forgive us and keep His distance. He brought us close. Close enough to call Him “Abba,” which means Father—but in a tender, personal way. Like saying, “Dad” or “Papa.” That’s how near He wants to be. That’s how much He loves us.

The Spirit inside us confirms it. He doesn’t push us away. He draws us in. He keeps reminding us that we belong. We’re not outsiders trying to measure up. We’re children coming home.

If you’ve ever felt like you had to prove yourself to be accepted, this verse is good news. You don’t have to perform. You don’t have to hide your mess. You’re already adopted. Already wanted. Already loved.

God is not a harsh master. He’s a good Father. And you are His.

Personal Prayer

Father, sometimes I forget who I am. I slip back into fear. I start to believe I have to earn Your love or keep You happy by doing everything right. But You didn’t give me a spirit of fear. You gave me Your Spirit—the one that whispers I belong, that I’m Yours, that I don’t have to run or hide anymore.

Thank You for calling me Your child. Not just in name, but in closeness. You let me call You “Abba.” You invite me into Your arms, even when I feel like I don’t deserve it. Please remind my heart of this truth when I’m anxious, when I feel unworthy, or when I doubt. Teach me to rest in Your love like a child who knows they are safe.

I’m so grateful You’ve adopted me. Not reluctantly, but with joy. I don’t want to live like a slave anymore. I want to live like someone who’s been set free. Thank You for being a good Father. I love You. Amen.

Author

Alona
Alona Smith writes like she sketches—quick strokes, bold colors, no eraser. She ran a small-town art studio before VerseForTheDay invited her to swap charcoal for chapters, yet paint still flecks her keyboard. Dawn finds her barefoot on the porch, swirling watercolors across a travel Bible, letting sunrise seep into the margins. Neighbors wave as she bikes to the farmers’ market, basket rattling with sunflowers and Psalms scribbled on kraft-paper price tags.Alona trusts that Scripture behaves like clay: press your palms in, and a vessel appears where empty air once lived. Afternoon workshops with foster teens prove the point; they mold hope into coffee mugs, then watch steam carry it forward.Diplomas? Only framed sketches of hands lifted in worship. Awards? A dog-eared gratitude list taped to her fridge. Open her reflections when cynicism scratches—she’ll slide a brush into your grip and show you light hiding in the smear of everyday color.