Before You Ask

Jesus tells His followers that God already knows what they need before they ask.

And then, almost immediately, He teaches them how to pray.

I’ve always found that fascinating.

If God already knows our needs, why does He want us to bring them to Him?

Maybe prayer was never about telling God something He didn’t know. Maybe it was about nurturing a relationship He had already invited us into.

I think sometimes we approach prayer as though we’re presenting God with information.

We tell Him what happened.

What we’re worried about.

What we need.

What we’re hoping will change.

But none of it is news to Him.

He already knows the circumstances, our hearts, and even the things we haven’t quite found the words to express.

And yet, He still invites us to pray.

That makes me think there’s something much more personal happening in those conversations than simply asking for something and waiting for an answer.

Because there’s a difference between knowing something about someone and having them choose to share it with you.

We experience that in our own relationships.

We may already know someone is hurting, but there’s something meaningful about the moment they trust us enough to tell us.

Not because we needed the information.

Because the conversation itself matters.

And perhaps prayer is something like that.

An invitation to come before a Father who already knows everything we’re carrying, but still welcomes us to bring it to Him.

Maybe the purpose of prayer was never simply to change our circumstances.

Perhaps it was also to deepen our relationship with the One who knows us better than we know ourselves.

And suddenly, the fact that God already knows what I need doesn’t make prayer seem less necessary.

It makes the invitation to pray even more beautiful.


“Your Father knows what you need before you ask him.”

— Matthew 6:8 (NIV)

Leave Room to Wonder

I’ve been thinking about how quickly we like to arrive at conclusions.

We want answers.

Explanations.

Something certain enough to put the question to rest.

And somewhere along the way, I wonder if we begin to lose our curiosity.

We become so concerned with being right that we forget what it feels like to be interested.

To listen without preparing a response.

To ask a question without already knowing what we hope the answer will be.

To encounter something unfamiliar and simply want to understand it.

There’s a certain humility in curiosity.

It acknowledges that there are things we don’t know.

And perhaps there always will be.

I don’t think wisdom is found only in the answers we collect.

Sometimes it’s found in our willingness to keep asking.

I hope I never become so certain of what I know that I stop being curious about what I don’t.


“The heart of the discerning acquires knowledge, for the ears of the wise seek it out.”

— Proverbs 18:15 (NIV)

Just Enough Light

I keep asking God for a map, but Scripture promises me a lamp.

Those aren’t the same thing.

A map would tell me where I’m going. It would show me the turns ahead, how far I have left to travel, and how where I am now connects to where I’m eventually going.

A lamp offers something different. Its light is limited to what is close enough to see.

I’ve read Psalm 119:105 countless times:

“Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path.”

I’ve always thought of that verse as a promise that God will guide me. And it is. But lately I’ve been paying more attention to the kind of guidance it describes.

There is nothing in that verse about seeing the entire journey.

And if I’m honest, that’s usually what I want.

I want to know how things are going to work out before I have to live through them. I want certainty about decisions. I want to know where something is leading and what waits around the corner.

I want enough information that trusting God doesn’t feel quite so uncertain.

But maybe that’s exactly why the image of a lamp matters.

God doesn’t always give us clarity about everything ahead. Sometimes He gives us what we need for today.

Wisdom for the decision in front of us.

Grace for the circumstances we’re actually living.

Truth for the questions we can answer now.

And perhaps I’ve spent too much time believing I need to understand the whole road before I can trust the One leading me.

I don’t.

There will always be things I can’t see from where I’m standing.

Maybe faith isn’t about seeing farther.

Maybe it’s about trusting God with what I can’t see while being faithful with what I can.

I keep asking Him for a map.

But maybe the lamp was enough all along.


“Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path.”
— Psalm 119:105 (NIV)

The Long Drive

There’s something about a long drive that changes your sense of distance.

You can drive for hours…

and still not be there.

You’ve crossed state lines.

Passed towns you’ll probably never see again.

Watched the landscape change outside your window.

You’ve traveled hundreds of miles.

And somehow, the only thing that seems to matter is how far you still have to go.

I’ve been thinking about how often I do that with life.

I look toward where I want to be.

Who I want to become.

What I’m still praying for.

What hasn’t happened yet.

And suddenly, all I can see is the distance remaining.

I forget to look in the rearview mirror.

Not to live there.

Just long enough to notice how far I’ve already come.

The prayers I don’t pray anymore because God already answered them.

The things that once terrified me that I now know I can survive.

The lessons that used to feel impossible and now feel like part of me.

The person I was when this road began.

Sometimes we’re so focused on arriving that we mistake not being there yet for not having gone anywhere.

Those aren’t the same thing.

Maybe that’s one of the reasons Scripture tells us to remember.

Remember what God has done.

Remember where He’s carried us.

Remember His faithfulness behind us when the road ahead still feels long.

Because sometimes you need to look backward for a moment…

just to find the courage to keep going forward.

I’m not there yet.

There are still miles ahead.

And that’s okay.

God has been faithful for every mile behind me.

I have every reason to trust Him with the road ahead.


“Remember how the Lord your God led you all the way in the wilderness these forty years…”
— Deuteronomy 8:2 (NIV)

Who Are You When Nobody Needs You?

I’ve realized how much of adulthood is spent being needed.

Someone needs an answer.

Something needs to be done.

A problem needs to be solved.

A responsibility needs to be handled.

There is almost always someone or something asking something of us.

And after enough time…

being useful can quietly become part of our identity.

We start measuring good days by how much we accomplished.

Rest feels like something we have to earn.

Doing something simply because we enjoy it can somehow feel selfish.

And being needed begins to feel strangely similar to being valuable.

But those aren’t the same thing.

I wonder how much of my worth I’ve unknowingly attached to what I can do for other people.

Because eventually there will be moments when nobody needs anything from me.

Nothing to fix.

Nothing to accomplish.

Nothing to prove.

And who am I then?

Scripture tells me that before I ever did anything for God…

He loved me.

Before I could serve Him.

Before I could accomplish anything.

Before I could make myself useful.

I was His.

Maybe that’s something I need to remember more often.

My usefulness may change from season to season.

My responsibilities will too.

But my worth was never supposed to depend on either of them.

I don’t have to earn rest by becoming exhausted first.

I don’t have to accomplish something before I’m allowed to enjoy the day I’ve been given.

And I don’t have to be needed in order to matter.

Because before I am useful to anyone…

I am already loved by God.


“See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!”
— 1 John 3:1 (NIV)

There Is Still Time

I almost didn’t write tonight.

This week has been busy.

Really busy.

And by the time I thought about my blog, I was already past the time I normally like to publish.

So I thought,

I’ll just skip tonight.

And then it occurred to me…

How often do we do the same thing with God?

The day gets away from us.

We didn’t pray.

We didn’t open our Bible.

We didn’t spend the time with Him we intended to.

So we tell ourselves we’ll try again tomorrow.

But there is still time.

Time to stop.

Time to pray.

Time to open Scripture.

Time to turn toward Jesus.

It doesn’t have to be an uninterrupted hour or a perfectly planned quiet time.

A late prayer is still a prayer.

A few verses are still Scripture.

Five minutes with Jesus are still five minutes with Jesus.

Maybe today didn’t go according to plan.

That’s okay.

Don’t wait for tomorrow.

Turn toward Him now.

There is still time.


“Come near to God and he will come near to you.”
— James 4:8 (NIV)

Consider the Lilies

Jesus once told His followers to consider the lilies.

I’ve read those words before.

But lately, I’ve been wondering what it actually means to consider something.

Not glance at it.

Not admire it.

Consider it.

Look closely.

Pay attention.

So I did.

And the thing that struck me wasn’t simply that the lilies are beautiful.

It’s how little of their growing they actually control.

They don’t manufacture their own beauty.

They don’t control the rain.

They don’t command the sun.

They don’t determine the season in which they bloom.

And still…

they grow.

Jesus says,

“Look at them.”

I wonder if I’ve spent too much of my life believing that if something matters to me, I should somehow be able to control how it turns out.

So I plan.

I prepare.

I work.

I try to anticipate what comes next.

None of those things are necessarily wrong.

But somewhere along the way, responsibility can quietly become control.

Even growth can become something we anxiously measure.

Am I doing enough?

Am I far enough along?

Am I becoming who I’m supposed to become?

And then there are the lilies.

They remind me that there are things God has asked me to tend…

and things He never asked me to control.

There are things that belong to me.

Showing up.

Being faithful.

Caring well for what God has placed in my hands.

And there are things that don’t.

The timing.

The outcome.

The rain.

The season.

Maybe wisdom is learning the difference.

Maybe considering the lilies isn’t an invitation to care less about our lives.

Maybe it’s an invitation to stop believing everything depends on us.

Jesus didn’t tell us to become lilies.

He simply told us to consider them.

Maybe because creation remembers something we so easily forget:

God is responsible for things I was never meant to carry.

So today…

I’m considering the lilies.

And trusting God with the growing.


“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin.”

— Matthew 6:28 (NIV)

Yet This I Call to Mind

There is a moment in Lamentations 3 that I think I’ve read past too quickly.

Before the familiar words about God’s mercies being new every morning, there is this:

“Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope.”

I keep coming back to the word call.

Because it sounds intentional.

The writer doesn’t say hope suddenly found him.

He says he called something to mind.

And if you read what comes before it, that matters.

He’s hurting.

He’s remembering everything that has gone wrong.

His soul is downcast.

Nothing about his circumstances appears to change before the next sentence.

And yet…

“This I call to mind.”

He remembers who God is.

His love.

His compassion.

His faithfulness.

And then hope enters the story.

I think I’ve spent a lot of my life assuming hope is something I’m supposed to feel.

But maybe sometimes hope is something I have to remember.

Not because the pain isn’t real.

Not because remembering God’s faithfulness suddenly fixes what’s hurting.

But because pain has a way of narrowing our vision.

It can make this moment feel like the whole story.

Maybe that’s why remembering matters so much.

Sometimes we have to deliberately bring back into view what suffering has pushed to the edges.

The prayers God has already answered.

The places He has already carried us.

The mercy that met us yesterday.

The faithfulness that existed long before whatever we’re facing today.

And maybe that’s what I love most about Lamentations 3.

Hope doesn’t require the writer to pretend.

He can acknowledge the grief…

and still remember God.

Maybe faith looks like that sometimes.

Not forcing ourselves to feel hopeful.

Just choosing, once again, to call His faithfulness to mind.

And letting hope meet us there.


“Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope.”

— Lamentations 3:21 (NIV)

I Know Better Now

There are things I used to believe with absolute certainty.

Things I defended.

Things I thought I understood.

Opinions I would have argued for.

Choices I was convinced were right.

And now?

I see some of them differently.

I used to think changing my mind meant admitting I had been wrong.

And technically, sometimes it does.

But I don’t think that’s something to be embarrassed by anymore.

Because what is the alternative?

To learn something new and refuse to let it change me?

To experience more of life and insist on seeing it exactly as I did before?

To ask God for wisdom and then cling to the person I was before He gave me any?

I don’t want to do that.

I want to reserve the right to know better now.

To say,

I understand that differently than I used to.

I wouldn’t make that choice today.

I was wrong about that.

Not with shame.

With gratitude.

Because there should be things I see differently at this point in my life.

There should be beliefs that have softened.

Assumptions I’ve questioned.

Convictions that have deepened.

Things I’ve had to unlearn.

If I believe God is still shaping me, then I can’t also expect every version of me to think exactly the same way.

Growth should leave some old opinions behind.

Wisdom should change something.

Grace should, too.

So I’m becoming less interested in defending who I used to be.

She knew what she knew.

She did what she could with it.

And now I know more.

I hope ten years from now I can say the same thing about the person I am today.

Because maybe one of the clearest signs that we’re still growing is being able to look back occasionally and say,

I know better now.

And then live like we do.


“Let the wise listen and add to their learning, and let the discerning get guidance.”

– Proverbs 1:5

What If the Blessing Was No?

I’ve thanked God for a lot of yeses.

The prayers that were answered.

The doors that opened.

The things I hoped for that eventually found their way into my hands.

Those are easy to recognize as blessings.

But lately I’ve wondered about the noes.

The doors that stayed closed.

The plans that fell apart.

The things I prayed desperately for that never happened.

The things I was certain I needed…

and didn’t receive.

I’ve spent plenty of time asking God why.

I’ve spent far less time wondering if the answer itself was mercy.

Because I only know the life I can see.

God knows the one I can’t.

He knows what was behind the door I begged Him to open.

He knows where the road I desperately wanted would have led.

He knows what would have happened if the answer had been yes.

I don’t.

And maybe that’s one of the hardest parts of faith.

Sometimes I’ll get to look backward and understand.

I’ll see the protection.

The redirection.

The reason something had to end.

But I wonder how many times I won’t.

How many prayers will I spend my entire life believing went unanswered…

when no was the answer all along?

Not punishment.

Not absence.

Not God withholding something good from me.

Just a Father who could see farther than I could.

Maybe one day I’ll understand all the things He protected me from.

Maybe I won’t.

But I’m beginning to think gratitude shouldn’t belong only to the yeses.

Sometimes the blessing is the open door.

Sometimes it’s the one that never opened.

And sometimes faith is thanking God before I know the difference.


“For the Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord bestows favor and honor; no good thing does he withhold from those whose walk is blameless.”

— Psalm 84:11 (NIV)