Ryan's Ramblings

[This past week, I heard from three people I don’t know who have read my book, Nudgings, and were blessed by the reflection, “Delayed, but Not Denied.” So I thought I should share it here. I pray it will encourage you too.]

 “The Lord’s unfailing love surrounds the one who trusts …”
—Psalm 32:10, NIV

In 1990 I heard a line from a grizzled cowboy in Baker City, Oregon, that’s stuck with me—probably because I’ve lived it: “If you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough.”

I’ve done things I regret—and made decisions I wish I could take back. Not because I meant harm, but because I got tired of waiting. Tired of the silence. Tired of nothing moving. Tired of praying and seeing no results.

So I acted. Took things into my own hands. Pushed forward and tried to make something happen. Sometimes we call that “taking charge” or “being courageous.” But honestly? It’s just forcing what only God can do.

And that’s dumb.

Paul knew what that felt like. He got tired of waiting on God. He ignored multiple Spirit-led warnings and pressed ahead to Jerusalem (Acts 21:4, 10–14). His motives weren’t impure—but he was stubborn. Impatient. And it caught up with him. He was arrested and ended up stuck in Caesarea for two years under a corrupt governor named Felix (Acts 24:27).

The gospel still burned in his bones. But instead of missionary journeys and new churches, he got silence and stone walls. He was in a holding pattern—no movement and no momentum. Just waiting. And it was his own fault.

But here’s the beauty: God didn’t write him off. Paul was forgiven. Still loved and still useful. But his path had shifted. He was delayed, but not denied.

This tale echoes another: the Israelites, standing on the edge of the Promised Land. They had just come through the Red Sea, made their way to Sinai—and were only an eleven-day journey from the land God had promised them (Deuteronomy 1:2). But they let fear overrule their faith. They turned back… and spent the next forty years walking in circles (Numbers 14:22–34).

They were so close. But instead of stepping forward in trust—they froze in fear and doubt. And the consequence was a detour they never expected. God forgave them. But the delay still came.

Sometimes that’s how it goes. Forgiveness doesn’t erase the consequences. But grace never leaves us there. God doesn’t walk away. He stays, and He redeems.

So if you find yourself in a long delay—maybe even one of your own making—don’t lose heart. God hasn’t benched you. He hasn’t given up on you. He still has work for you to do—and grace to carry you through. Even in the wilderness, He can use you. Even behind prison doors, there’s hope. And when the waiting ends—and it will—you’ll find He was working all along.

There’s some real truth in that old line: “If you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough.” King David knew something about that. But he also knew it wasn’t the ultimate truth. He wrote these words after doing something dumb:
 
“The Lord’s unfailing love surrounds the one who trusts in him” (Psalm 32:10, NIV).

Thankfully, in the Lord, the last word isn’t tough … it’s trust.
 
Trust in Jesus.

His way is in the whirlwind and the storm, and the clouds are the dust of his feet.
 —Nahum 1:3, NIV

Growing up in southern Idaho, the summers were sunny and hot. Most mornings began beneath a wide blue sky stretching from one horizon to the other. But Idaho weather has a way of keeping you humble. Around here people have long joked, “If you don’t like the weather, just wait five minutes.”

I remember one Fourth of July especially well. The morning parade was everything a kid could hope for—sunshine, flags waving in the breeze, the clip-clop of horses, candy tossed from floats, polished classic cars, and the excitement of knowing that later in the day our American Legion baseball team would play for the championship.

But there were clouds in the west.

At first they seemed harmless enough, drifting quietly over the landscape, but before long they covered the blue sky. The wind picked up, rain began to fall, and by the end of the second inning the infield was soaked. The bases were pulled, and the championship game was called.

As a boy, I learned what all of us eventually learn: clouds mean change is coming.

That lesson has only deepened with age.

Sometimes the clouds are a difficult phone call, a diagnosis, a lost job, a broken relationship, or a dream that slips away. We see them gathering and instinctively brace ourselves. Clouds often bring disappointment. We long for clear skies.

The prophet Nahum gives us another way to think about clouds: “His way is in the whirlwind and the storm, and the clouds are the dust of his feet.”

When clouds gather over my life, my instinct is to wonder where God is. But Nahum reminds me that He is already there. That changes everything.

Nothing surprises Him. Difficulties don’t catch Him off guard. The unexpected doesn’t send Him scrambling. God has gone before us, walking in the very places we fear to go.

Then, almost as if Nahum knows we need reassurance, he writes four verses later:

“The Lord is good, a refuge in times of trouble. He cares for those who trust in him” (Nahum 1:7, NIV).

There is the comfort. The God who goes before us is the One who knows us, cares for us, and can be trusted. Through His Son, Jesus Christ, God entered our storms. He walked through rejection, sorrow, suffering, and death itself.

I still prefer blue skies. I don’t enjoy rain delays—or any delays, for that matter. But when the clouds gather now, I see them differently. 

They are no longer merely a sign that trouble is coming. Because of the cross of Christ, I know there are no clouds so dark and no disappointment so deep that Jesus has not already entered them before me.

They are only the dust of His feet.

[The following reflection originally appeared in my book, Nudgings: Gentle Whispers, Holy Reminders.]

I have always been a big fan of Pooh, that “silly old bear.”

A.A. Milne, creator of Winnie-the-Pooh, wrote the beloved stories of the Hundred Acre Wood for and about his son, Christopher Robin. In the early 1900s, Pooh and his adventures captured hearts and imaginations, offering comfort and hope to a world reeling in the wake of World War 1.

Sometimes, life clouds our view of what truly matters. The world—and even our own reflections in the mirror—distract and overwhelm us with news, conflict, endless controversies, and the undeniable passage of time. Stories like Winnie-the-Pooh help us rise above the noise, awaken our imaginations, and remind us of things that are real—friendship, hope, love, and Truth.

In 1996, the London Times reported that Christopher Milne (the real Christopher Robin) had died at the age of 75. In response, poet Czeslaw Milosz* wrote an anecdote in the voice of Winnie-the-Pooh, reflecting on youth, aging, time, and eternity.

I love the exchange Milosz imagined between Christopher Robin and the “silly old bear.” As a child, I adored the stories of Winnie the Pooh—where toys were fast friends and the backyard was a world of adventure, limited only by imagination.

Milosz’s anecdote resonates deeply with me because it gives voice to something we all eventually discover: we live in the tension between childlike wonder and the steady pull of time.

The anecdote begins with Pooh describing the garden where he and his friends live. It is a place of peace and stability where all abide happily together. Pooh has little understanding of what lies beyond the garden, except that Christopher Robin once left for what seemed only a brief moment.

Wise old Owl explains that beyond the garden is the world of Time—an “awfully deep well.” Pooh cannot comprehend it. He does not realize that Christopher Robin’s brief “moment” was actually the span of an entire lifetime, filled with all the joys, sorrows, hopes, losses, and changes that come with growing older.

The anecdote ends with Christopher Robin returning from that strange world beyond the garden. Pooh asks him what it was like to fall into the deep well of Time. Christopher Robin describes growing older—long trousers, gray whiskers, and eventually death itself—and then quietly admits that all of it somehow seemed less real than the love and friendship they shared together in the garden.

And so Christopher Robin tells Pooh that he will not leave again… not even if called away for an afternoon snack.

That image lingers with me.

Currently, I am surprised to find that I am like Christopher Robin in his “moment.” I am beyond the garden of childhood innocence and unchecked imagination, and Time is having its way with me. I, in my long trousers and graying whiskers, am free-falling headlong into the unknown deep.

Yet, as I fall, I realize that I am even more like Pooh, a “bear of little brain.” Not because I face things I do not understand or care about, but because I so easily forget to fully embrace and appreciate what I already know. I take for granted the fact that each day—and the moments and people that inhabit them—are precious gifts.

So here I am, in the midst of my “moment.” It feels very real to me, yet I’m reminded that it is also fleeting. Scripture tells us that life is but a vapor. At this point, my imagination leads me to the only real thing—The Truth.

There is something beyond this passing life. What began in a garden long ago ended victoriously on a cross, and all my moments were redeemed and transformed in the depths of an empty tomb.

The author of the truest of anecdotes is Jesus.

In Him alone is found genuine love, forgiveness, relationship, and shared joy. In Jesus Christ is found the “only real thing”—a place where Time is no more; where there are no more tears, regrets, and goodbyes—just life together, in all of its fullness… forever.

Jesus says, “I go to prepare a place for you”—a place where we can say, along with Christopher Robin, “I won’t go anywhere, even if I’m called in for an afternoon snack.”

*Czeslaw Milosz, “Christopher Robin,” in New and Collected Poems: 1931-2001 (New York: Ecco, 2003), 656.

Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry. 

— James 1:19, NIV

Joseph Joubert once wrote, “Don’t cut what you can untie.”

Back when I was serving as a school administrator, I found myself in a situation that showed me just how true those words can be. A student had an emotional episode that began in the classroom and eventually wound its way to the nurse’s office—and then to me. 

The immediate crisis passed, but there were still questions to answer and conversations to have. It was a hectic day, and by the time I sat down with the school nurse, I had already heard several accounts of what had happened. As she began to explain the incident, I stopped her.

“I’ve already been briefed,” I said. “There’s no need to go over it again.”

Trying to be efficient, I assumed I already knew what I needed to know. We were both busy, and I didn’t see the need to revisit the details.

I was wrong.

I learned later that it hurt her. The nurse needed the simple courtesy of being heard—the opportunity to share what she had seen and experienced. And she was right.

I hadn’t cut her off out of frustration. I had cut her off out of efficiency. 

But it still cut.

James, the brother of Jesus, says, “Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry.”

Be quick to listen. Not merely to gather information, but to truly hear another person. To slow down enough to honor the one in front of us.

Most situations are not simply problems to solve. They are people to understand, relationships to nurture, and often knots to untie. And knots take time. They require patience. A willingness to stay a little longer. To hear what’s underneath the surface—not just what’s been reported, but what’s been felt.

The wisdom of Proverbs speaks directly to this: “To answer before listening—that is folly and shame” (Proverbs 18:13, NIV). The problem is not simply speaking too soon, it is reaching conclusions before we have taken the time to listen.

We’ve all done it—interrupted, assumed, and moved on too quickly. Sometimes we have even severed relationships that might have been worked through with a little patience and care. Not everything can be untied. But far more can than we think.

And then there’s Jesus.

How many times have you come to Him with something tangled—your thoughts messy, your emotions swirling, your words coming out all wrong? And He doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t say, “I already know the story—no need to go through it again.”

He listens patiently, fully, and personally. The One who knows everything still makes space for you to say it—again and again.

He doesn’t cut you off, and He certainly doesn’t cut you out. Instead, He patiently works at the knots of our lives.

Jesus says, “I am gentle and humble in heart…” (Matthew 11:29, NIV). He doesn’t rush us. He doesn’t pressure us. He stays with us long enough to sort out what is tangled. And as we walk with Him, we learn to do the same.

So today, when life gets knotted up (and it will), be patient with others and with yourself.

Before you cut, pause and look to Jesus.

And let Him help you untie it.

Then David got up from the ground. After he had washed, put on lotions and changed his clothes, he went into the house of the Lord and worshiped.
—2 Samuel 12:20, NIV

When the first Rocky movie came out, Rocky was young and I was even younger. We were each trying to figure out who we were becoming, and in the ring of life the opponents seemed daunting.

Thirty years later, Rocky and I are both a lot older. In Rocky Balboa—the last of the Rocky series—he tells his struggling adult son this:

“The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It’s a very mean and nasty place and I don’t care how tough you are, it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it.”

The longer I live, the more I know what he’s talking about.

The opponents are out there—and some of them are within—fear, regret, failure, shame, and the lingering temptation to stay down after life has knocked us to our knees.

But getting back up matters. We must keep going. We must press on.

King David knew something about that. His opponent wasn’t another man in a ring. It was his own sin. He had failed terribly—adultery, deception, murder, and a cover-up that unraveled when the prophet Nathan said, “You are the man.”

And David broke. Psalm 51 rises out of that moment—a cry of repentance:

“Create in me a pure heart, O God…” (NIV).

Life is hard, and so are the consequences of sin. The child died, and David was devastated. Lying face-down on the ground in grief, he fasted and prayed for mercy. But then comes one of the most surprising moments in all of Scripture:

“Then David got up…”

He washed himself, changed his clothes, went into the house of the Lord, and worshiped.

Getting up may be the hardest part. Most of us understand failure far better than we understand grace. We know how to replay our mistakes and sit in shame, rehearsing what we should have done differently. And our culture reinforces that mindset. We live in a world that wants to chain people to their worst moments.

Yet the gospel offers something radically different: grace.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation…” (2 Corinthians 5:17, NIV).

The past does not disappear overnight, nor do its effects. But in Christ, love and forgiveness speak a louder word than failure. The mercy of God does not erase every consequence, but it does restore the repentant heart.

And maybe that is the word some of us need today.

You have confessed it and grieved it, yet somewhere along the way shame has convinced you to stay down. You wonder if God can still use you and have begun to believe the lie that your failures have somehow disqualified you from walking closely with Him.

But God is ever inviting you back into His presence. Because of the cross of Christ, failure is never the final chapter. Wash your face, and let Him wash your heart. Then worship, serve, and live.

King David got up from the ground and walked into the presence of the Lord again. And because of Jesus, so can we.

Get up.

The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom…


— Proverbs 1:7, NIV

We were talking about “the fear of the Lord” in Men’s Bible Study recently.

That phrase can feel mysterious. Most of us understand that it involves awe, reverence, worship, and respect… but practically speaking, what does that look like in everyday life?

As we sat there discussing it, I told the guys about buying my first handgun a couple of years ago. I did not grow up around guns. Honestly, I knew very little about them. But one of my sons-in-law enjoyed pistol target shooting, and I wanted to spend time with him and connect with something he enjoyed. So I bought one and started learning.

And I quickly discovered something: people who understand firearms do not handle them carelessly.

You never casually point one at someone. You always assume it is loaded. You remove the magazine. You clear the chamber. You check it again…and again. There is attentiveness to every movement, action, and moment.

As I tried to apply this to the lesson on the fear of the Lord, I fumbled through my very amateur description of handling the firearm safely. At one point, while talking about removing the magazine, I called it “the thing that holds the bullets,” and the guys started chuckling. Several in the group know guns well. One is even a police officer. They appreciated my effort and knew exactly what I was trying to say.

And in the middle of the laughter, something deeper settled into the room.

No power in this world compares to God.

The fear of the Lord calls for caution and care. It is not panic, terror, or shrinking back from God, but a deep awareness of His holiness, His presence, His greatness, and the reality that we are continually living our lives before Him.

The fear of the Lord is not merely believing God exists. It is living carefully because He does. It is approaching each day with reverence, rapt attention, and respect for the presence and person of God.

Scripture says, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning …”

It’s not the end goal of existence, but the beginning of real life—the awakening of the soul to what is true.

Wisdom takes root when we finally understand we are not at the center of the universe. It grows as we realize God is not merely a subject to study or an idea to discuss, but the One on whom we depend and before whom we live every ordinary moment of our lives.

This kind of fear does not repel or remove us from God. It draws us nearer.

When Solomon used the word “fear,” he was trying to tell us that a wise person is not casual with God, but cautious. They live aware of grace, mindful of holiness, and conscious that every breath, every word, every choice, and every action matters in the presence of the One who made them and loves them

This is where wisdom begins.

“Seek first the kingdom of God…” — Matthew 6:33, NIV

I’ve written a lot of letters of recommendation over the years. Some for close friends, some for colleagues, and some for people I haven’t talked to in a long time—who reach out almost apologetically with… “I know it’s been a while…”

But if I know them, and there’s been any real measure of shared life—personal or professional—I don’t hesitate. I write the letter.

I do it quickly… gladly… and carefully. Because they’re not asking for something to tuck away in a scrapbook. They’re not collecting compliments. They’re standing at a threshold—a job to step into, a calling they sense but can’t yet see clearly, a place where they might belong next.

There’s weight in that moment. A quiet mix of uncertainty, vulnerability… and hope. And if I know the person—and can speak to who they are—I want to help them take that next step. 

I make myself available to them.

In a small way, I think that reflects the heart of God:

“Those who know Your name trust in You, for You, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek You” (Psalm 9:10, NIV).

If imperfect people like us respond readily to those we know and care about… how much more does God respond to you and me? He is not distant or reluctant. He knows us fully—and His heart is always available to us.

My mentor said it to me years ago, and I’ve repeated it enough that it has found its way into the lives of my daughters and others too:

“In the Lord, it’s not about your ability—it’s about your availability.”

Even our greatest strengths, talents, and efforts remain limited until they are surrendered to God. The power is found in a life placed wholly in His hands.

That line from my mentor has a way of cutting through. We spend much of our lives building skills, strength, experience, and resources. And none of that is wrong. But those things can quietly become what we lean on most.

What God is looking for is something more significant—and far more costly: a life surrendered to Him. 

You can have all the talent in the world, but if it isn’t placed in His hands, it remains limited. But an ordinary life yielded to God carries something more. Not because of the person… but because of the One they have entrusted themselves to.

He sees you, knows you, and is rooting for you.

So seek Him first. Not perfectly. Not impressively. Just first.

God is not writing letters of recommendation. He is doing something deeper—working in the lives of His children, shaping and preparing them for what lies ahead. He is available to you.

Place your whole life in His hands and trust Him.

Because in His Kingdom, it’s not ultimately about ability… but availability.

I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come?
My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.
—Psalm 121:1–2, ESV

Recently, on a podcast, I heard a well-known Christian musician paraphrase Psalm 121 this way:

“I turn my eyes to the hills from which my help comes.”

It sounds familiar, spiritual, and even poetic. And certainly the hills—the beauty and majesty of God’s creation—can draw our eyes upward. But that is not actually what the psalm is saying.

In Psalm 121, the hills are not the source of help. Instead, the psalmist looks toward the hills and asks a question: “Where does my help come from?”

And then comes the answer: “My help comes from the Lord…”

In the ancient world, those hills were often lined with shrines, altars, and places devoted to false gods. Travelers passed them constantly. People looked there for protection, prosperity, guidance, fertility, rain, and victory.

The hills represented all the places people naturally turned for help. And honestly… not much has changed. We still look around for something to save us.

We look to doctors, experts, technology, social media, the news, information, influence, and opinions. We tell ourselves we just need more answers, more certainty, and more control.

And many of those things truly can help. Doctors help people. Counselors help people. Wisdom matters. But none of them were ever meant to be our source. Because eventually, every earthly source reaches its limit.

I was reminded of that again today as I sat beside a man in the final hours of his earthly life. Hospice had been called in, and the room held a holy quietness to it. And in moments like that, people stop looking to the hills.

No one is asking what social media thinks. No one is clinging to headlines or public opinion. No one is pretending the world has the answers.

He and his family were looking to the Lord. Because deep down, we know there comes a moment when no doctor, no professional, no system, and no amount of information can offer the kind of help we truly need. Only God can do that.

“My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.”

Not the hills, not the noise, not the world—the Lord.

So today, lift your eyes a little higher. Beyond the fear, the endless opinions, and the exhausting search for security in things that cannot hold you. The world is full of voices promising help, but your soul was never meant to rest there.

Lift your eyes to the Lord Jesus.

He is where our help is found.