Ryan's Ramblings

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.

The heavens proclaim the glory of God. The skies display his craftsmanship. Day after day they continue to speak; night after night they make him known.


—Psalm 19:1-2, NLT

I went for my first bike ride of spring the other day.

It had been a while, and I loved it—riding along the river, the air, the plants, the flowers, the sounds—it all felt alive, and so did I.

When I ride, I look around. I don’t just watch the blacktop and asphalt roll away under my tires—I look. I expect to see something. Not because I know what it will be, but because I know He’s there

I’m looking for the glory of God.

That day, in the midst of my twenty-mile ride, I saw two geese standing along the bank of the Boise River. The water moved behind them, catching the light—and it was beautiful.

I hit the brakes.

Right there in the middle of the ride, I turned around, went back, got off my bike, and stood there long enough to take it in… and take a picture

Two geese. A river. A moment that could have easily passed me by. But I’m learning—it’s always there. Always something amazing—quietly drawing my attention, if I’m willing to see it

Because God is never not speaking.

Psalm 19 says the heavens declare the glory of God. Day after day they pour forth speech. But then it says this: “They speak without a sound or word; their voice is never heard.” (vs. 3, NLT

And then the footnote offers another way to hear it:
“There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard.”

That stays with me. Because it means this—creation is speaking everywhere… all the time. Not loudly. Not forcefully. Not in competition with the noise of our lives. But steadily and faithfully.

The problem isn’t silence. It’s that so much in this world works to cover His voice—phones, busyness, drivenness, distraction—and underneath it all, is an enemy who would love to steal every precious little moment before it ever settles into something more.

So we rush past it. We look down. We keep going. And glory sits there… waiting.

Lift up your eyes and look around—on purpose and with anticipation. Don’t rush past what catches your eye. Put on the brakes when something stirs in you, and don’t explain it away, because more often than we think, that’s not random.

That voice without sound is Jesus—He is never not speaking.

I believe God. It will be just as He said.
 —Acts 27:25, NLT

“All hope was gone.” It’s the kind of line you don’t want to hear—and one you never forget.

Paul and the crew were in a killer storm. They had already thrown the cargo overboard. The ship was no longer being steered, but driven—the wind was against them, waves were breaking over the sides, and the hull was beginning to splinter. For days there was no sun, no stars, and no way to find their bearings. Just the slow wearing down of body, spirit, the boat… and hope.

That’s what life feels like sometimes. When nothing’s clear, nothing’s steady, and every point of reference you used to trust has vanished.

But before the storm ever reached that point, God had already spoken. The night before, an angel stood beside Paul and told him plainly: you will make it, and everyone with you will too. Not because the storm would let up, but because God had said it.

So when Paul speaks to the sailors, soldiers, and prisoners, it isn’t wishful thinking or denial—it’s anchored confidence. “I believe God. It will be just as He said.”

He wasn’t saying the storm would stop or that it would all make sense, but that God would be faithful to His word. And then, right in the middle of it all, Luke slows everything down and writes:

[Paul] took some bread and gave thanks to God in front of them all. Then he broke it and began to eat (v.35, NIV).

It’s a simple, ordinary moment. But Luke has written this before—in an upper room… and on a road where two discouraged disciples recognized Jesus in the breaking of bread.

Same pattern… and the same Savior.

For those with ears to hear, something deeper is being said. The same God who spoke the promise to Paul is now present in the storm—and it is Jesus.

And the story begins to shift—not the wind or the waves, but the people. They’re encouraged. They eat and regain their strength. The storm hasn’t changed, but something in them has.

A little later, the soldiers cut the ropes to the lifeboat. They had a backup—a plan B, a way out if the ship didn’t hold—but they let it go. That’s what faith looks like—cutting loose the “just in case” options and lashing ourselves to the mast of the One who is faithful.

The storm does not stop. The ship does not hold. In fact, it breaks apart exactly as feared. But every single person reaches shore—just as God said.

God keeps His word. Not always by preserving what we’re in, but by carrying us through it—even in loss, even when it doesn’t turn out the way we would have chosen.

So when hope is gone and the way forward feels unclear—don’t reach for another way out or for what feels safer. Look to Jesus. He is with you.

It will be just as He said.

I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.
— John 10:10, NIV

There are different words for life.

We don’t usually notice that. In English, life is life. A pulse is life. A long life is a good life. A full calendar feels like life. We gather it all into one word and keep moving.

But Scripture slows us down. The New Testament gives us two words for life: bios and zoē. Bios—the root of biology—is life as existence. It’s breath, heartbeats, and days added to days.

Zoē is life as fullness—a life fixed on Jesus, received and returned, given away, and lived in love. It is the very life of God shared with us—beginning now and carried into eternity. Both words matter, but only one answers the deeper question—am I truly alive?

Bios can look like many things—and still miss what life was meant to be. A man works his whole life—practical, productive, responsible. He handles what’s in front of him and assumes life will open up later. Retirement is always just ahead, promising time, travel, and margin.

Then comes the diagnosis, the unraveling, and the realization that “later” isn’t coming. What lingers isn’t fear, but the weight of how much was postponed. His bios ends—a quiet tragedy. He had planned to step into life later—never realizing it was being offered all along.

Other times, it looks more like this—a good retirement, health intact, plans fulfilled, space to breathe. At first, it feels right. But over time, life begins to narrow—purpose fades, the need for you lessens, and opportunities to give yourself away grow thin. And slowly, almost without noticing, you begin to drift from a life that draws you forward. Bios continues—but life is more maintained than lived.

If we’re honest… the second story is closer to most of us. We’re walking in ordinary days with time still in front of us. It isn’t just about how life ends. It’s about whether we are truly living—today.

Near the end of his life, the apostle Paul didn’t measure his years—he named his engagement: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith” (2 Timothy 4:7, NIV). Paul didn’t celebrate the length of his life; he gave thanks for how it was lived.

In John 10:10 Jesus speaks of the life He came to give: “I have come that they may have life… to the full.” The word He used for “life” is zoē—not simply more years, but the very life of God—received, experienced, and lived out in trust, obedience, and love.

This is the vision we need. Not just life here—but life that carries us through the present and into eternity. As Proverbs 29:18 says, without vision, people lose their way. When we lose sight of eternity, we begin to settle for bios. We fill our days with existence and never quite live.

Zoē is less about the moments in our lives and more about the life in our moments. Lean into Jesus—the One who gives abundant life.

Live fully, freely, and faithfully—now and forever in Him.

Not bios. But zoē.