Daniel Dryden never saw the sunrise that morning.
Everything about the day before had been normal: a meeting with the banker about expanding his grain business, phone calls to suppliers, one argument with his teenage daughter (too many shoes on the front step again), and a late-night Netflix binge with a half-empty pizza box. Normal. Ordinary. Predictable.
Until it wasn't.
Sometime around 3:17 a.m., Daniel's heart stopped beating. There were no farewells, no whispered prayers. Just a silence that felt too sudden, too final.
That night, all the things Daniel had placed his confidence in—his growing savings account, the new retirement plan, the recent market successes—meant nothing. The carefully organized calendar, the looming vacation to Santorini, the future wedding of his oldest son—all left behind.
Scripture doesn’t tiptoe around this kind of ending. Hebrews 9:27 reads: “Just as people are destined to die once, and after that to face judgment.”
It goes on whether we’re ready or not.
Jesus also told a story once, about a man a lot like Daniel: “The ground of a certain rich man yielded an abundant harvest... He thought to himself... ‘I will tear down my barns and build bigger ones...’ But God said to him, ‘You fool! This very night your life will be demanded from you. Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?’” (Luke 12:16–20)
That last line always shudders through me like cold wind through an open window: “Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?”
Maybe you’ve felt that too—the unease of wondering what really matters in the end. You climb the ladder, take the deal, update the portfolio…but beneath it, a still voice haunts the late hours: What will remain when the lights go out?
This isn’t about being rich or poor. Jesus never condemned wealth—He condemned confusing wealth for worth. He wasn’t against full barns. He was against empty hearts.
Because eternity isn’t a scare tactic. It’s a reality. A heartbeat from now, we step into forever.
If that feels frightening—you’re not alone. But hear the compassion in Jesus’ words: “This is how it will be with whoever stores up things for themselves but is not rich toward God.” (Luke 12:21)
Not “bad people.” Not “selfish hoarders.” Just people who never made room for the One who gave them everything.
Rich in achievements? That’s falling dust. Rich in memories? Beautiful, but temporary. Rich in God? That shines on when galaxies crumble.
I remember sitting at my grandfather’s funeral. The pastor didn’t list his job titles or his investments. He told stories of how Grandpa loved quietly, forgave often, and believed Jesus could rebuild anything—especially broken people. No one applauded his bank account. They wept over his kindness.
Sometimes I forget: no spreadsheet measures a soul. No accolade assures a legacy. At the end of it all, there will just be Jesus—and the condition of your heart.
Friend, what are you preparing today that will matter tomorrow?
When the curtain falls, when the breath slips quiet—what will follow you into eternity?
That’s the only question Jesus is asking in this story. And maybe, like the man with barns full of grain, you and I have done our share of planning, dreaming, preparing…
But let’s not forget our souls. Let’s not forget God.
Because no one regrets trusting Him too much.
If you’re breathing, there’s still time to re-center your life. Still room to listen for the whisper of grace. Still hours to become rich toward God.
And when your dawn comes—or mine—we won’t run into a dark unknown. We’ll fall into the arms of the One whose love outlasts every sunset.
Daniel Dryden never saw the sunrise that morning.
Everything about the day before had been normal: a meeting with the banker about expanding his grain business, phone calls to suppliers, one argument with his teenage daughter (too many shoes on the front step again), and a late-night Netflix binge with a half-empty pizza box. Normal. Ordinary. Predictable.
Until it wasn't.
Sometime around 3:17 a.m., Daniel's heart stopped beating. There were no farewells, no whispered prayers. Just a silence that felt too sudden, too final.
That night, all the things Daniel had placed his confidence in—his growing savings account, the new retirement plan, the recent market successes—meant nothing. The carefully organized calendar, the looming vacation to Santorini, the future wedding of his oldest son—all left behind.
Scripture doesn’t tiptoe around this kind of ending. Hebrews 9:27 reads: “Just as people are destined to die once, and after that to face judgment.”
It goes on whether we’re ready or not.
Jesus also told a story once, about a man a lot like Daniel: “The ground of a certain rich man yielded an abundant harvest... He thought to himself... ‘I will tear down my barns and build bigger ones...’ But God said to him, ‘You fool! This very night your life will be demanded from you. Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?’” (Luke 12:16–20)
That last line always shudders through me like cold wind through an open window: “Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?”
Maybe you’ve felt that too—the unease of wondering what really matters in the end. You climb the ladder, take the deal, update the portfolio…but beneath it, a still voice haunts the late hours: What will remain when the lights go out?
This isn’t about being rich or poor. Jesus never condemned wealth—He condemned confusing wealth for worth. He wasn’t against full barns. He was against empty hearts.
Because eternity isn’t a scare tactic. It’s a reality. A heartbeat from now, we step into forever.
If that feels frightening—you’re not alone. But hear the compassion in Jesus’ words: “This is how it will be with whoever stores up things for themselves but is not rich toward God.” (Luke 12:21)
Not “bad people.” Not “selfish hoarders.” Just people who never made room for the One who gave them everything.
Rich in achievements? That’s falling dust. Rich in memories? Beautiful, but temporary. Rich in God? That shines on when galaxies crumble.
I remember sitting at my grandfather’s funeral. The pastor didn’t list his job titles or his investments. He told stories of how Grandpa loved quietly, forgave often, and believed Jesus could rebuild anything—especially broken people. No one applauded his bank account. They wept over his kindness.
Sometimes I forget: no spreadsheet measures a soul. No accolade assures a legacy. At the end of it all, there will just be Jesus—and the condition of your heart.
Friend, what are you preparing today that will matter tomorrow?
When the curtain falls, when the breath slips quiet—what will follow you into eternity?
That’s the only question Jesus is asking in this story. And maybe, like the man with barns full of grain, you and I have done our share of planning, dreaming, preparing…
But let’s not forget our souls. Let’s not forget God.
Because no one regrets trusting Him too much.
If you’re breathing, there’s still time to re-center your life. Still room to listen for the whisper of grace. Still hours to become rich toward God.
And when your dawn comes—or mine—we won’t run into a dark unknown. We’ll fall into the arms of the One whose love outlasts every sunset.
