Ryan's Ramblings

“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.

Friends,

After months of writing, praying, and refining, Be Ready: A Man God Can Use is now live on Amazon.

This book is for men who want more than surface-level faith.

Men who want to walk with Jesus in real life—at home, at work, and in the quiet places no one sees.

Men who are ready to become the kind of men God can trust.

At the center of it all is this: God’s will is not first about what we do—it’s about who we are becoming.

And his will for our lives is holiness.

If that stirs something in you—or brings someone to mind—I hope you’ll pick up a copy or pass it along.

Warmly,
Ryan

Here is the Amazon link: https://a.co/d/0dL9vF6b

Be careful how you live. – Ephesians 5:15, NLT

I’ve come to believe something that sounds a little strange at first—one of the healthiest things a man can do is attend another man’s funeral. Not occasionally, but regularly. Because at a funeral, you hear things you don’t hear anywhere else.

Sometimes it’s an obituary—facts, dates, accomplishments. Where he worked, what he built, what he achieved. A life summarized in milestones. But every now and then, you hear a eulogy. And that’s different. It’s not about what a man did; it’s about who he was.

The word eulogy itself carries that idea—to speak well of, to bless, to give thanks for a life. And when it’s done right, you can feel it.  Not polished or forced—just true. He was steady. He was kind. He loved his wife. He walked with God. No one reaches for job titles in those moments. No one is impressed with success. They talk about the man.

I remember reading something from David Brooks—he called them two sets of virtues: resume virtues and eulogy virtues. Resume virtues are what we build most of our lives on—skills, abilities and progress. Eulogy virtues are what remain—whether you were faithful, honest, and loved deeply.

And here’s the tension—most men invest heavily in what won’t matter most. There’s nothing wrong with work, building, achieving, and growing. But if we’re not careful, we spend our lives building what looks good on paper while neglecting the kind of life that speaks for itself.

I’ve heard different mission statements for life over the years. Stephen Covey popularized the idea. One of the most honest I’ve heard came from Steve Farrar: “Don’t screw up.” It makes me chuckle—and wince. There’s something in it that cuts through the noise and brings you back to what matters.

But Scripture speaks even more clearly:

“Be careful how you live. Don’t live like fools, but like those who are wise. Make the most of every opportunity… Don’t act thoughtlessly, but understand what the Lord wants you to do” (Ephesians 5:15–17, NLT).

Be careful—not casual, not drifting, not just reacting, but intentional. Because a man doesn’t accidentally become the kind of man people speak well of. That life is formed quietly over time.

A while back, I did something that has stayed with me. I wrote my own eulogy—not for anyone else, just for me. It states the kind of husband, dad, grandad, friend, colleague, and man I want to be. And I read it every day—not as pressure, but as direction. This is who I want to become.

This kind of reflection has a way of pulling things back into place—clearing out what doesn’t belong and reminding you that today counts more than you think. 

Because one day, someone will stand and speak about your life. And they won’t talk about everything you did. They’ll talk about who you were.

So decide now—what you want them to say.

***

This week’s Nudging comes from a chapter in my upcoming book, Be Ready: A Man God Can Use, releasing April 20th at Amazon.

Friends,

The past seven months, I’ve been working on a book for men.

𝑩𝒆 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚: 𝑨 𝑴𝒂𝒏 𝑮𝒐𝒅 𝑪𝒂𝒏 𝑼𝒔𝒆

It’s a 52-week devotional for men who want to walk with Jesus and live the life He came to give.

Men who want to be ready for God’s use—set apart, available and holy—becoming the kind of men He can trust for His work in the world.

It releases April 20 on Amazon.

I’d appreciate your prayers—that God would use it in the lives of men who want to grow in Christ and draw near to Him.

Thanks,

Ryan

He will wipe every tear from their eyes…
 —Revelation 21:4, NIV

Not long ago, I tore up my shoulder—muscles, ligaments, even chipped a little piece of bone. The pain was bad enough, but what surprised me most was what came next: the bruising. It wasn’t on the outside—it was bleeding on the inside of my arm, hidden.

Over the next few days, that blood seeped down from my shoulder, pooled in my elbow, and settled into my forearm. And it was ugly. At first, it turned a deep purple, then dark blue, then a sickly yellow-green. The colors shifted day by day like some kind of slow-motion storm under my skin. 

But the pain was the real issue. It was worse than the shoulder itself. There was no injury in my elbow or forearm, yet those spots were so tender that even touching them would make me gasp.

At night, if I rolled over and bumped or brushed those bruises, the pain would jolt me awake with a searing, burning sting. Here’s the strange thing: my shoulder—the actual place that was hurt—was healing nicely. But the pain from all that pooled blood stayed with me for weeks.

And I think our hearts work the same way.

A relationship ruptures. A friend wounds us. A season of life collapses. The first wave of pain knocks us down—but it’s what follows that often lingers. The memories, the triggers, the what-ifs. We think we’ve forgiven, think we’ve moved on, then something happens and there it is again—that searing pain flaring up like it’s brand new.

That’s the thing about deep wounds: they leave residue. And sometimes, the most honest thing we can do in that place is lament. Not complain. Not rehearse the hurt. But bring it—fully and honestly—before God.

Mark Vroegop writes, “Lament is a prayer in pain that leads to trust.”

Jesus understands this. He carried not only the wound of the cross, but the ache of betrayal, denial, and abandonment. He knows how long healing can take, and He wants us to trust Him.

“Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering…” (Isaiah 53:4, NIV)

Sometimes God heals quickly. More often, He heals slowly—quietly reabsorbing the pain, like my body re-absorbed that blood. And in that slow work, He invites us close—not to rush past the pain, but to walk with Him in it.

It may look messy and feel worse before it feels better. But it is not wasted. It is healing.

So if the pain still lingers—hidden inside, where no one sees—don’t lose heart. Bring it to Jesus again and again. Tell Him the truth. Stay with Him in it. For the Great Physician is still at work.

And one day, maybe without even noticing when it happened, you’ll realize the color has faded… the tenderness is gone… and what once throbbed with pain has finally been made whole.

And every tear… wiped away.