My father didn’t have a name until he was several weeks old. He was the youngest of 10 children, and everyone just called him Izzie. “Izzie wet? Izzie hungry?” Finally, he was named Joe, not even Joseph.

Joe’s parents, my grandparents, were farmers and sugarmakers from Ohio. I can still see and smell the maple syrup bubbling in large vats in their sugarhouse, but let me not meander as that’s not what this story is about.

This story happened in the early spring of 1928 in Bellepoint, Ohio, when my father toddled off, unnoticed, after his three older sisters, Ester, Florence, and Daphne, who were on their way to bring the cows back from pasture. When they returned, the family discovered their two-year-old was nowhere to be found.

The temperature dropped near freezing that night as the community searched the woods and pastures for Joe, who was wearing just a shirt and pants. Then began the dragging of the Scioto River.

Joe had been lost all night.

My grandmother had not left her praying spot in the kitchen when, suddenly, there were shouts to call Dr. Robinson. My grandfather, Fred, burst through the kitchen door, Joe in his arms.

Incredibly, Joe seemed to be just fine, and the doctor soon confirmed that he had no signs of any problems, not even pneumonia, even though he had been found lying on the cold ground in a field five miles away. In fact, Joe had crossed five barbed-wire fences trying to find his way home before he finally collapsed, his little body exhausted, in a sheep pasture.

Joe’s brother Mick had found him, spotting a little lock of blond hair peeking up from a mound of sheep and lambs that had snuggled around Joe.

That was the day my father, the child, was saved by lambs.

My father, the man, was also saved, not by a flock of lambs but by just One, the Lamb of God.

The first time, Joe had been lost in the cold and dark, with no way to find his way home. He had wandered too far and was too small to save himself.

The second time, my father realized he was just as lost, with no way to save himself—but this time, it wasn’t just his body that needed saving. It was his soul.

This time, lambs didn’t lie down beside Joe—the Lamb of God had already laid down His life for him in order to bring him back to God. My father repented of his wanderings and put his faith in the Lamb.

Years later, as my father lay in bed at the end of his life, he raised his hands, crying, “Home! Home!” Then his faith became sight as the Lamb of God welcomed him home forever.

Saved, once in a field, and once at the foot of the cross.

Some moments in life call for big, dramatic courage—a giant to face, a mountain to climb, a hard truth to speak out loud.

But most days aren’t like that.

Most days are quieter:

A choice to tell the truth in love when a half-truth would be easier.

A chance to help when you’d rather stay comfortable.

A conversation to start, an apology to offer, a task that’s been put off for too long.

But these daily choices are the small hinges that swing the big doors of your life.

Bold Moments is about our everyday decisions to trust God in the moment when fear or comfort wants the final word. It’s about taking small, bold steps—again and again—that build our faith so that we can stand strong when storms come. Because bold faith isn’t something you switch on when crisis comes. It’s a habit that grows in you every time you say yes to a small, bold step in faith.

Bold Moments can also be your weekly spark for family faith conversations, no matter how busy your schedule looks. It can help you build a family culture of courage and trust in God and can turn ordinary moments into bold moments.

However it fits, let it meet you where you are—in your real, everyday life.

Welcome to your own bold moments. May they help you shape a faith that stands strong, no matter what comes.