“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 passage says we didn’t receive a spirit of slavery to live in fear—we received the Spirit of adoption. That changes everything. God didn’t just forgive us and send us on our way. He welcomed us home, signed the papers, and calls us His own. You’re not a servant trying to earn a place at the table. You’re a child who belongs there.
Fear has a way of creeping in—fear of failure, fear of not measuring up, fear that God’s love might run out. But fear isn’t your inheritance. Adoption is. And adoption means security. It means access. It means love that doesn’t flinch when you mess up.
The Spirit in you doesn’t whisper, “Try harder.” He cries out, “Abba, Father!” That’s not a distant God. That’s a close one. A Father who sees you. Stays with you. Fights for you. He’s not looking for perfect behavior—He’s building a family. You’re already in.
Personal Prayer
Father, thank You for not giving me a spirit of fear. Thank You for adopting me—not as a project, but as Your child. Sometimes I forget I belong to You. I still slip into striving, trying to earn what You’ve already given. But today, I rest in the truth: I am Yours.
Help me hear the Spirit louder than my fears. When I start to doubt, remind me that I have full access to Your love, not because I’m flawless, but because You are faithful. Teach me to walk like someone who’s been chosen, loved, and brought home for good.
Abba, I’m not afraid. I’m safe. I’m seen. And I’m so deeply grateful. Amen.
Author
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.