Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once (or twice) a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

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Judah Prays

“Thank You God for Judah.
Thank You God for Daddy.
Thank You God for Mommy.
Thank You God for Pancake.
Thank You God for everything.”

Judah wrote down his prayers after dinner.

It was as cute and adorable as you think it was.

He scribbled them on a green Post-it note, leaning over the counter on his stool. He spoke the words as he dragged the blue pen across the paper.

Sarah and I were cleaning up dinner, tidying up the kitchen just so it could be destroyed again after the next meal.

And there was Judah, writing his prayers, announcing them to the world.

We’ve been ending every night with a “family cuddle,” lying on the floor of his room together and praying to God.

“Judah, what do you want to thank God for?” Sarah or I will ask.

And he will slowly begin to rattle off the most random things that have given his heart joy.

Usually, it’s characters from the movie Cars.

“Thank You God for Lightning.
Thank You God for Bessie.
Thank You God for Mater.
Thank You God for Guido.”

It is as cute and adorable as you think it is.

I smile every time.

I wonder how big God’s smile is.

Eventually he moves on from characters in Cars.

He will name his friends from school, family members, and the occasional major food group: ketchup.

I have heard Judah thank God for noodles, ants, windows, socks, couches, and whatever else happened to catch his attention that day.

Once he asked us, “What’s that one green guy’s name at the store?”

“The cashier wearing a green vest who scanned our groceries?”

“Yeah, what’s his name?”

We didn’t know.

That wasn’t the answer he wanted.

He has thanked God for birds, grandparents, and pickles all in the same breath.

He has thanked God for pillows, cinnamon, and excavators.

He has thanked God for Jesus, dump trucks, and Mickey Mouse.

There is no hierarchy to Judah’s gratitude.

Mommy and Mater can exist in the same prayer.

Just like Jesus and Mickey can.

So can Daddy and ketchup.

I would like to believe I rank slightly above ketchup, but I’ve seen him eat french fries, which for him are mostly utensils for getting ketchup (one of God’s finest achievements) into his mouth.

All he knows is that prayer is talking with God.

In his mind, there is nothing too small or too silly or too ordinary to mention to God.

It’s all worth bringing to Him.

He just tells God what he loves and teaches me along the way.

He doesn’t edit his gratitude.

He hands it all over.

There aren’t sacred things or ordinary things or important things. There are just things he loves, and God should know about all of them.

Somewhere along the way I began to edit my gratitude. I started deciding which things are important enough to thank God for and which things are just ketchup.

Judah doesn’t know the difference yet.

I hope he never does.

Adults and children are always teaching and learning from each other. I am teaching Judah to use the bathroom, and he is teaching me how to come before the God of the universe with gratitude for everything.

I am trying to teach Judah to put his dirty clothes in the hamper, and he is teaching me to slow down, grab a pen, and write out all the things that I am thankful for.

I am trying to teach Judah shapes and letters and colors, and he is teaching me that perhaps the world does not need to be divided into things worthy of gratitude and things too ordinary to mention.

One of the gifts of raising a child is that you spend much of your time trying to teach them how to live in the world, only to realize they have been teaching you how to see it again.

The noodles.
The ants.
The socks.
The cashier in the green vest.
The people we love.
The ketchup.

Judah has learned something I have spent years forgetting:

When you love something, say thank you.

When something brings you joy, tell God about it.

And when you can’t decide what is worthy of gratitude, thank Him for everything.

With Hope,

Tanner

Looking for a book about prayer? Check out All the Things I Say to God: Learning to Pray Anytime, Anywhere. It’s such a sweet book for the littles in your life who are learning to pray and want to pray more.

We read this one with Judah all the time. He calls it “the Abby book” because Abby is the main character, and throughout the story, she learns all the different ways she can pray—and all the things she can talk to God about.

It’s currently discounted on Amazon!

🙏 ATTISTG 🙏

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once (or twice) a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

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This Car Needs An Oil Change

I am writing this from a co-working space on the south side of Nashville. Judah is at school and Sarah is at home working, while Panacke is on the couch snoozing. I’m assuming that’s what he is doing because that’s what he does. Don’t you wish you could be a dog? Me too.

I am glad God made dogs, but sometimes I wish he had made me one.

I don’t mean for that to sound depressing, but it’s how I feel.

These days, life is a lot.

Not bad.

Just a lot.

I’m feeling the tiredness creep in and the pressure to keep things going. There’s a low-grade exhaustion that comes with being a responsible adult, caring for the people you love, tending to what life requires of you, while still holding onto dreams you hope to see grow and wrestling with a past that has left you with questions, scars, and a few things you can only shrug your shoulders at.

I want to take my knotted-up self to an all-inclusive resort in Cancún for a week, where someone will bring me endless tacos and cold drinks with those little umbrellas.

But I know what I need to do.

In an hour I am going to sit down with a new counselor.

I’ve tried going to therapy in the past, but something would always happen. We’d move. They’d retire. Schedules would change. Or, more recently, they would want to talk about me.

The audacity.

Imagine going to therapy and having someone expect you to talk about yourself.

But this time I am committed.

I need to be.

Nothing is wrong.

But something isn’t right.

Maybe you know the feeling. The dashboard isn’t flashing red, but there’s a noise coming from somewhere, and you’ve turned the radio up about as loud as it will go.

And I think I’ve gotten pretty good at turning up the radio. Work. Plans. The next thing. Being useful. Making a joke. Focusing on being a person who is doing fine because, by every reasonable measurement, I am doing fine.

But doing fine and being well are not always the same thing.

I need to sort through the last few years so I can keep stepping into the tomorrows that, thankfully, continue to arrive.

Because the last few years did something to me. I’m not entirely sure what yet. That’s probably why I’m going to sit on a couch with a stranger as I process the roads that have led me to his office.

I saw some Instagram post the other day from a 50-year-old telling me that he wasted his 40s because he spent them dreading his 50s, and this felt like exactly the sort of unsettling wisdom Instagram likes to hand you while you’re sitting on the toilet.

And I recognized myself in it.

Soon I’ll turn 37.

It’s not old. It’s not young. It’s just an odd number and an odd age to be. I’m in the middle of a lot of life.

Old enough to know how quickly a decade can disappear. Young enough, hopefully, to do something with that knowledge.

Sarah and I are approaching 10 years of marriage.

Judah is getting older.

We are making plans for our family’s future.

My career is hanging steady.

I am thinking about switching to decaf coffee in the afternoons.

This may be the clearest sign yet that I am approaching middle age.

We have a lot going on.

And if this is the middle-ish of my life, I know I need to do something to keep me going strong.

Not because I’m falling apart, but because I don’t want to miss what’s happening in front of me while trying so hard to hold it together.

This car needs an oil change.

At least, that’s what I am going to tell my counselor.

I need a tune-up, to check some levels, to get some of the rust scraped off, to examine a few dents and scratches, and to look under the hood.

Maybe rotate the tires. Replace a filter. See if that mysterious rattling sound is normal or if the whole thing is about to fall apart on the highway

This metaphor is getting out of hand.

I just need to remember that this life is the gift, for all that it is.

Not the life I’ll have when everything settles down. Not the life after I figure myself out, become less anxious, drink less afternoon caffeine, or finally take that trip to Cancún.

This one.

The tired one. The beautiful one. The slightly dented one.

I am living in the gift of now.

And I don’t want to miss it.

With hope,
Tanner

The Gift of Now

Listen to the poem wherever you stream music.

I don’t want to build my home in yesterday
or get lost mapping out tomorrow.

I just want to breathe here—
in the quiet of this moment,
in the gift of now.

Let the past be a story I’ve read.
Let the future be a page unturned.

I’ll sit with the sunlight
as it lands on my hands
and remember that this—
this is the part
I don’t want to miss.

A page from my book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through.
Don’t have a copy? Now is a good day to get yours!

GTWYGT 🍊

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once (or twice) a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

All of my posts are free, but I’d love to have you support my work and ministry as a writer by becoming a paid subscriber.

Become a Paid Subscriber Today

Kinder Than I Expect

God is often quieter than I want and kinder than I expect.

I arrive carrying thoughts and requests like overstuffed bags, setting them down at God’s front door.

Most mornings, I come hoping for answers, something that points the way.

I want a map or a yes or a 5 step plan.

Instead,
I am met by small mercies:
morning light breaking through the dark,
a steady Word that has not changed,
breath and heartbeat,
a nudge to keep trusting.

I ask for certainty; God offers presence.

I ask for answers; God keeps company.

What I call silence is anything but empty.

I used to think silence meant absence.

Now I wonder if silence is simply a language I am still learning.

Because quiet moments spent with God are never empty.

It is full of invitations: to slow down and pay attention,
to remember beauty and behold mystery,
to notice grace everywhere,
to believe that Hope is not distant,
but here.

Long after Amen,
Love remains—
quieter than I want
and kinder than I expect.

A page from my book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through.
Don’t have a copy? Now is a good day to get yours!

GTWYGT 🍊

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once (or twice) a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

All of my posts are free, but I’d love to have you support my work and ministry as a writer by becoming a paid subscriber.

Become a Paid Subscriber Today

Summer 2026
Arcadia, Michigan

This summer I haven’t been able to write what I’ve wanted to write.

It’s God’s fault.

I am blaming Him.

After all, He answered my prayers.

Not all of them the way I thought He would.

Not all of them when I thought He would.

But He heard my words—spoken and thought, whispered and yelled.

And, apparently, He took them seriously.

Which has been terribly inconvenient.

Because God answering my prayers is the reason I haven’t been able to write what I’ve wanted to write all summer.

Three months before summer arrived, I sat down, longing for the sunlight, and opened up a new Google Doc and titled it, Summer Goals, filling the page with ideas and dreams that I imagined myself achieving.

I was giddy.

I planned to tie up loose ends of my novel—taking the story deeper, further developing the characters, and weaving together storylines—naturally, creating something that could rival the greatest books ever written.

I haven’t even opened the document this summer.

I saw myself completing another children’s book—an idea that I think Oprah would want to interview me for. I’d happily say yes and say something like, “It’s not every day you meet the person you did a book report on in ninth grade.” I got an A.

Sometime in late June I jotted down three sentences for a new children’s book and got stuck.

I saw myself putting the finishing touches on a manuscript for another book of poems and essays. It, too, would be the kind of book Oprah would want to interview me for.

Apparently, in my mind, Oprah was going to be very busy with me this summer.

Somehow, I was able to write a handful of poems, but nowhere near the amount I thought I would.

I was going to write countless Substack articles and Instagram posts.

Probably viral ones, too.

I managed to keep up with posting consistently, but nothing viral. I’ve actually lost Instagram followers.

Cool.

Speaking of losing, I’ve also not lost the ten pounds I was going to lose.

On top of that I didn’t get my podcast back up and running.

I didn’t read the stack of books on my nightstand.

I didn’t stay consistent with the Bible reading plan I started.

I didn’t make a fire in the firepit out back.

I didn’t update my website or re-open my online store.

I didn’t make any of the recipes I saved on my phone.

I’ve hardly had time to do laundry.

And that’s because God has answered my prayers, and His answers have changed my life.

God didn’t answer my prayers by giving me more time to write.

He answered them by giving me a life I no longer wanted to miss.

And this is not to say I haven’t tried to write this summer. I have. I’ve been waking up before the house, giving myself time and space to put words down, but the words have hidden themselves.

In the dark, quiet kitchen, I’ve spent time in silence, stillness, and prayer—the same thing that got me into this mess in the first place.

God doesn’t seem to be particularly concerned about my word count.

Or about my Summer Goals document.

But He does seem to be very interested in time spent together.

I’ve been fighting frustration with faith, clinging to the belief that this is a season that will pass, because they all do.

But for now, I am silent and still before God, wondering what in the world He is doing with my world.

I’ve been spending most of my days with Judah, our two-and-a-half-year-old son. We’ve been walking down to the park and digging in the endless sand Lake Michigan has to offer. He’s mastered his balance bike, and I’ve mastered watching him ride it while imagining every possible trip to the emergency room.

We’ve built sand castles and played with every big yellow construction truck you can imagine. I’ve never said the words “front loader” and “bulldozer” so many times in my life.

While I haven’t read the stack of books on my nightstand, I’ve read about 200 children’s books and can confidently say that I would much rather read Clifford the Big Red Dog than Thomas the Tank Engine any day. Thomas doesn’t do it for me. Sorry Sir Tophamm Hatt, but I am a dog guy.

Two or three times a day, I’ve been taking our dog, Pancake, on a walk. Both of us clear our heads, and one of us clears our bladder. I need the fresh air. I need the silence. I need time away from screens, from notifications, from Thomas and his complicated railway system.

I’ve been texting friends. Small moments of connection with the outside world. How are you? Really, how are you? Did you get the job? How can I be praying for you? Will you pray for me? How’s vacation? Can you recommend any children’s books other than Thomas the Tank Engine? Hope you’re doing well. Hopefully our paths cross soon.

These short messages sent back and forth are like little flares in the dark: I’m here. Are you there? I’m okay. I think I’m okay. Are you okay?

I’ve been trying to do my job. No matter what the schedule holds, I am still a creative entrepreneur—whatever that means. I am still responding to emails, working on deadlines, and trying to fill my speaking calendar with keynotes, poetry events, church visits, and virtual events.

Maybe even a speaking gig that lines up with a Thomas the Tank Engine event.

God forbid.

I’ve been trying to be a good husband.
Which, I’m learning, is less about grand gestures and more about paying attention.
It’s putting my phone away when she’s around. Asking how she’s doing, not out of routine, but out of love. It’s doing the small things so she doesn’t have to spend her time thinking about them. It’s remembering that the person I prayed God would give me is standing right here, in the middle of the ordinary life we’ve been gifted.

And maybe being a good husband is mostly remembering not to miss her while she’s right in front of me.

I’ve been dreaming, mostly about all the things I want to be doing. About the shape I want to get in. About what life is becoming and who I am becoming inside it.

I’ve been processing a lot lately, sitting with my thoughts and asking myself questions I’ve been ignoring for a long time. Questions about what I truly want, what I’m holding onto, what I need to let go of, and that one Mary Oliver question that finds its way back into my head every other week: What will I do with this one wild and precious life?

I don’t have all the answers yet.

And I’m starting to think that having all the answers was never the assignment.

But I do know I want to love well and spend less of this wild and precious life scrolling social media.

I’ve been calling my parents. Weekly check-ins. Not because it is required, but because I know that time continues to tick down, and there are only so many more phone calls we will get to have. The conversations aren’t long, but they are frequent and always needed.

I’ve been waiting for Special Movie Pizza Friday Night. That’s what we call it in our house. With Friday comes pizza and a movie, usually Cars. I’ve asked my wife not to tell Judah that there are Thomas the Tank Engine movies and shows. I can’t handle it. Not yet.

But what I can handle is every Friday night, eating pizza and watching a little bit of Cars with the two people I love most. I am not working. I am not writing. I am not wondering about the to-do list I have created for myself. I am just with my people on the couch, celebrating that we made it to the weekend.

I’ve been wrestling with my selfishness and looking for beauty, reminding myself that this is the gift and I don’t want to miss it.

I’ve been praying. A lot.

The same thing that got me into this mess in the first place.

But I am going to keep giving my time to prayer because it is not wasted time.

Even when nothing seems to happen. Even when I bring God handfuls of plans He seems more interested in teaching me how to open my hands, how to rest in the gift now.

I’d rather bury my life and dreams in the hands of God and watch as He grows and prunes them.

And for the record I prefer the growing over the pruning.

But if you were to ask me what I’ve been up to this summer, I’d probably say, I’ve mostly been reading Thomas the Tank Engine books to my son.

And for as much as I don’t want to, I get to.

When I was in college, a mentor encouraged me to remove “I have to” from my vocabulary and instead say, “I get to.”

Those three words can change a life.

They don’t make the hard things easy or magically turn Thomas into Clifford, but they remind me that so much of what feels like an interruption is my actual life.

The life I get to live.

I get to wake up before the rest of the house to be still and maybe, just maybe, create.

I get to sit before the sun rises and talk with God.

I get to be a dad, a husband, a writer, and a dreamer.

I get to take my dog on walks.

I get to put work aside and be with my son.

I get to talk with my friends and call my family.

I get to read Thomas the Tank Engine books with my son.

Because guess what?

One day, I won’t get to.

One day my son won’t climb into my lap with a book. One day the toy trucks will disappear from the floor. One day I will walk through a quiet house and give anything to read a Thomas the Tank Engine book.

Change is coming, and soon life will look different than it does today.

And one of these days, hopefully a long time from now, there will be no more days.

I won’t have another chance to trust God with the ordinary days or with the days that once seemed impossible.

Maybe this is what God has been trying to teach me all summer. I kept asking Him to help me make something beautiful with my life, while He kept handing me my actual life and saying, Here.

This is it.

This is the beautiful thing.

So, I’ll keep praying.

I’ll keep looking for beauty.

I’ll keep trying to write, too. The novel will still be there. The poems can wait. Oprah, too.

And I’ll even say to Judah, “Would you like to read a Thomas the Tank Engine book?”

Because I get to.

For now, I get to.

And maybe that’s what I was supposed to be writing about all along.

Before you go, here is a poem to sit with.
A page from my book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through.
Don’t have a copy? Now is a good day to get yours!

GTWYGT 🍊

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once (or twice) a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

All of my posts are free, but I’d love to have you support my work and ministry as a writer by becoming a paid subscriber.

Become a paid subscriber today

Going Away to College

Recently a few of my friends have dropped their children off at college for the first time.

I can’t imagine.

I’m sure they can’t either.

It probably seems like just the other day when they were holding them in their arms, wondering who they would become.

Where does the time go?

All I know is that it goes by fast.

I remember the day I was dropped off at college.

It was a terrible day.

I hated it.

When I think back on it, I still hate it.

I was anxious and terrified and empty.

I was falling apart while trying to hold it all together.

I was unpacking my life in a new place that felt far from home.

I did my best to put on a brave face and to take every step forward with confidence, but had you seen me that day you would know how bad I am at pretending to be confident.

The right choice had somehow started to feel wrong and I was ready to get back in the car to go home. 

The day I was dropped off at college was the same day my father and I got into an argument.

We disagreed about where we should eat breakfast or what time we should get to the school or how to load the car.

I can’t remember.

It doesn’t matter.

All I remember thinking was, “I’m mad at you because I am going to miss you.”

That day emotions were touchy, and for good reason.

It wasn’t just me who was starting a new chapter, my family was, too. 

And none of us had a clue as to what the pages would hold.

I didn’t know what I was doing and this filled me to the brim with unending fear.
I didn’t know how to put into words how I was feeling and I was feeling a lot that day.
I didn’t know how to say goodbye to my parents, because I didn’t want to say goodbye to them.
I didn’t know if I was ready or not, but ready or not it was time to begin a new adventure.

For all I didn’t know, there were a few things I knew without a doubt:
I was loved.
I had a home that would welcome me at any time.
Somehow everything would be okay.
This was the next right thing.
No matter how hard and painful and lonely it was, this was the next right thing.

So, I say all off this to say:

As you drop off your child at college, I hope it is a terrible day.
I hope you cry big, ugly tears.
I hope your shirt gets ruined and you run out of tissues.
I hope you are sad and hesitant to get in the car to drive home.
I hope you tell your child how much you love them and I hope you tell them again and again.
I hope you give them one last kiss in front of their new roommate and I hope it embarrasses them.
I hope you hide notes in their dorm room and send them a care package as soon as you get home.
I hope you have to stop on the way home and cry even bigger and even uglier tears.
And I hope you know this is not goodbye, but love.

This is love and what a love this is.

What a love it is to watch your child step into the unknown and say to them, “I love you. I’m always here for you. I’ll talk to you soon.”

And how brave it is to get in the car and drive back to a home that is missing someone who is so loved.

Go cry those big, ugly tears.

Get the college students in your life a little bit of hope.
Getting Through What You’re Going Through is available now!

Don’t have a copy? Now is a good day to get yours!

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once (or twice) a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

All of my posts are free, but I’d love to have you support my work and ministry as a writer by becoming a paid subscriber.

Become a Paid Subscriber Today

How to Spend Your Days

Spend your days watching the way the morning light continues to peek through the blinds. Let the coffee get cold because the conversation turned meaningful. Sit outside a little longer than necessary. Watch how dogs completely lose their minds when someone says the word walk or snack. You can also take a walk and have a snack if you need it. You probably need it.

Spend your days taking breaks from screens. Go become a local in your own neighborhood. Become a friend to your own neighbors. And to yourself. Learn faces and names and stories. Ask questions and break bread and endure the awkwardness long enough for it to become friendship.

Spend your days living out the Beatitudes. And the Cha-Cha-Slide. Blessed are the meek. Everybody clap your hands.

Spend your days paying attention. Pay attention to the sky. To the way God keeps painting the same sunset differently every evening. To the exhausted Amazon delivery driver. To the tired parent in the grocery store. To the person who seems like they could use a little kindness today. And maybe that person is you. Don’t you know, you do not need a reason to buy yourself flowers. Or french fries.

Spend your days interrupting the noise with short prayers.

Thank You.
Please.
Help.
Are you seeing this?
I don’t know what I’m doing.
Wow.

Spend your days walking a little slower than the world tells you to. Spend your days writing poetry, splitting wood, and playing Catan. Spend your days confessing, praying for miracles, and looking above. Spend your days walking with God, just like He has chosen to spend His days walking with you.

Please, stop staring at the comments section long enough to remember there is a real world outside your phone. Stop spending your days lamenting the good old days and start paying attention to the one you’re living in. Put down what is keeping you down and get up.

Spend your days noticing all the small ordinary things trying to remind you that your life is happening right now. The sound of laughter. The smell of coffee. The grace of God. The stars slowly lighting up the night sky. The small gifts and quiet changes that make up a life.

This is your life.

Do not rush past this.

Slow down enough to notice it.

A page from my book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through.
Don’t have a copy? Now is a good day to get yours!

GTWYGT 🍊

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once (or twice) a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

All of my posts are free, but I’d love to have you support my work and ministry as a writer by becoming a paid subscriber.

Support

A few prayers for a new school year.

I also made prints of the prayers for you to print off if you’d like.

Just tap the button below to print them off.

Enjoy!

Prayers for a New School Year

A Prayer for Teachers at the Start of the School Year

God,

We pray for the teachers beginning a new school year. Thank You for calling them to this important work. As they teach, inspire, and care for their students, help them to do it all for Your glory.

Give them patience on the hard days and joy in the good ones. When they feel tired, remind them that You are with them. When they face challenges, give them wisdom to know what to do and courage to do it.

Fill their hearts with compassion for every student who walks into their classroom. Help them to notice the quiet child, encourage the struggling one, celebrate each success, and speak words that bring hope and life. Teach them, too, through the students You have placed in their care.

Protect them and their schools. Give them peace in the middle of busy days and rest when the day is done. Remind them that You love their students even more than they do and that You are at work in ways they cannot always see.

Amen.

A Prayer for Students

God,

We place our children in Your hands as they begin another school year. Thank You for making each one of them unique and for the good plans You have for their lives.

Be with them in every classroom, every hallway, every conversation, and every challenge they face. Give them courage to try new things, wisdom to make good choices, and kindness toward everyone they meet.

Surround them with teachers who will encourage them, friends who will help them grow, and people who will remind them they are loved. Protect them from harm and give them peace when they feel overwhelmed.

When they succeed, help them to be thankful. When they make mistakes, remind them that Your love never changes and that Your grace is always enough.

Help us, as the adults who love them, to encourage them more than we pressure them, to listen more than we speak, and to pray more than we worry.

May they grow in wisdom, confidence, and faith throughout this school year, and may their lives reflect Your love.

Amen.

A Prayer for Parents Sending Their Children Off to School

God,

As we send our children into a new school year, we place them in Your hands. Thank You for loving them even more than we do.

You know the hopes we have for them and the worries we carry. When we’re tempted to hold on too tightly, help us trust that You are already with them. Go before them, walk beside them, and watch over them each day.

As they meet new teachers, make new friends, and settle into new routines, give them confidence, wisdom, and joy. When they feel uncertain, remind them they are never alone.

Give us grace as parents and guardians. Help us to encourage instead of control, to listen instead of lecture, and to trust You instead of giving in to fear. Remind us that our greatest work is not to prepare the perfect path for our children, but to faithfully point them to You.

Bless this school year with growth, laughter, learning, and opportunities to see Your faithfulness again and again.

We trust our children to Your care today and every day.

Amen.

As your family begins a new school year, I hope All the Things I Say to God helps make prayer a natural part of everyday life. It's a reminder for children—and the adults who love them—that we can pray anytime, anywhere, about anything.

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Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once (or twice) a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

All of my posts are free, but I’d love to have you support my work and ministry as a writer by becoming a paid subscriber.

Become a Paid Subscriber Today

It was a hot day at the park and we were tired. Neither of us slept well. Both of us wanted Mama, but she was working and I was struggling. The little things felt bigger than they should have, while every moment asked for more patience than I seemed to have. Also, I forgot the snacks.

This is a parenting sin.

Never forget snacks.

“I don’t know what I am doing.”

That’s what I told you while trying to prevent tears, yours and mine.

A confession in the middle of the park while tears were welling in your eyes.

You didn’t seem surprised by my statement. You just looked at me with the kind of calm acceptance that children often have. I may not know what I am doing, but I do know that it is hard to be a human being. Whether you’re 2½ or 36.

I want to be one of those parents who is honest with his children. Not because honesty is easy, but because I hope it teaches you that strength isn’t found in pretending. It’s found in telling the truth and continuing to love anyway, especially when it is difficult.

Parenthood has a way of uncovering all the places where I thought I was more capable than I actually am. Before you arrived, I imagined I would instinctively know what to do. I knew I would make mistakes, but I assumed they’d be minor—not something truly horrific, like forgetting snacks on a hot day at the park when we probably should have stayed home, playing trains in the air conditioning while eating bluberries.

Instead, most days feel like I’m behind, like I forgot to read the right parenting book or listen to the right podcast. It’s a feeling I can’t seem to shake, no matter how hard I try or how much I grow. It feels like everyone else somehow knows the secret, and I’m still trying to find the table of contents. Life often feels like a constant process of learning, failing, apologizing, trying again, and, if you remember them, snacks. Maybe that’s true of parenting because it’s true of being human.

I may not know what I am doing, but I do know I love you. That much has never been uncertain or in question. My love for you isn’t built on having the right answers or days that go smoothly. It isn’t measured by fun trips to the park, moments without tears, or remembering the snacks. Love isn’t proven by perfection. It’s shown by returning again and again, even after we’ve missed the mark.

I may not know what I am doing, but I do know a God who loves you and is with you. Long before we became family, you belonged to Him. He is, as it says in the Scriptures, “The Lord is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love.” Isn’t the beautiful? When my patience is wearing thin, His mercy is not. When we become tired and frustrated, He remains steady and kind. That’s the kind of God He is. I hope you grow up knowing that your life has always been held by hands much stronger than mine, hands that always know what they are doing.

Sure, I may not know what I am doing, but I am with you, figuring it out as I go, holding hope close as I take another step forward. Maybe that’s what being a father really is. Presence over perfection. Mercy over results. Showing up day after day with a love that comes from the Father.

I’m learning we can never go wrong with love. Showing up, even when you feel unprepared. Staying, even when you’d rather give up. Trusting that God continues to work through ordinary people who keep loving.

One day you may read this after you’ve grown older. Maybe you’ll have children of your own. Maybe you’ll simply find yourself in a season where you feel like everyone else received an instruction manual for living that somehow skipped you. If that day comes, I hope you remember this: the people who love you most probably feel that way too. We are all figuring it out as we go. We are all becoming.

So if you ever hear me say again, “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I hope you’ll also hear what I’m really saying:

“I’m here.
I love you.
And by the grace of God, we’ll figure this out together.
Also, I remembered the snacks.”

A page from my book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through.
Don’t have a copy? Now is a good day to get yours!

GTWYGT 🍊

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Hello!

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once (or twice) a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

All of my posts are free, but I’d love to have you support my work and ministry as a writer by becoming a paid subscriber.

Become a Paid Subscriber Today

One more thing …
Need a playlist to listen to while you walk or write or run errands? I put together a few poems and instrumental tracks to help you slow down and remember hope. Check it out.

Check out the Spotify playlist here.

For Apple Music click here.

Waiting and Peace
A reflection

There are seasons in life when the hardest thing to do is wait. The space between what has happened and what is still to come can feel uncertain, lonely, and filled with questions that seem to have no answers.

Yet I’ve found that growth tends to happen in the pause. Instead of rushing toward resolution, we’re invited to embrace what is (even when it isn’t what we hoped for) and trust that God is still at work, even when we can’t yet see the full picture.

Our waiting is not wasted.

At least this is what I’ve been telling myself.

Sometimes I whisper those five words and roll my eyes.

Sometimes I whipser those five words and rest.

But it’s true.

Our waiting is not wasted.

Waiting teaches us that we don’t have to understand every step to keep moving forward. Disappointment can often feel like delay, but sometimes delay is simply another invitation to depend on God. The in-between becomes a place where our faith is strengthened, our hope is shaped, and we discover that God’s presence is enough, even when all we seem to have are questions tangled with frustration.

I’m currently trying to finish a novel. And by “trying to finish,” I mean I haven’t opened the document in six months. But I’ve thought about it every single day.

I’ve thought about the characters. I’ve thought about the story. I’ve thought about what needs to change and what should stay the same.

But I haven’t written.

I’ve learned that not writing isn’t always the same as not working. Sometimes stories keep growing in places you can’t see.

One day I’ll open that document again. I’ll begin writing and rewriting, cutting pages and adding new ones, and the story will continue. This pause doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten it, and it certainly doesn’t mean the story is over. Right now, what the story needs is time. It’s in a season of waiting, not abandoned or discarded, just waiting. The story needs time. The pause isn’t punishment. It’s part of what the story needs.

Maybe our seasons are a little like that.

Sometimes it seems like nothing is happening. It can feel as though God has forgotten you, or that your life has somehow stalled. But perhaps the pause isn’t the end of the story. Perhaps it’s preparing you for what’s next.

And maybe, just maybe, we can have peace in the waiting as we trust that what God is preparing in us is just as important as what He is preparing for us.

So for now, I’ll enter the pause and let it be my prayer.

With hope,

Tanner

In the Pause
A poem

I am learning how to live in the pause

Between
what happened
and where I stand,
what broke
and what is being built.

A land of questions,
making my home in maybe,
on the street of “I don’t know”
in a city of silence
where questions knock louder than answers.

And I,
I’m just trying
to live something honest,
something solid,
that does not get washed away
by the waves of waiting.

Pause has become my prayer.

Building my life in the tension,
learning to be held
without having answers,
to trust without seeing the full picture.

Everything in me
wants resolution,
but God is teaching me
how to remain in the mystery.

Telling my heart,
stay, you’ll be okay,
don’t disappear in the delay.

A soul learning to listen to the Spirit,
a silence teaching me to speak,
a longing reminding me of faithfulness.

Expect nothing
and see that all of this is a gift.

Gratitude in the unfinished.

In the not yet,
the still becoming.
In prayers that haven’t received answers.
In dreams that lost their shape.
In steps that feel uncertain.

This in between, this ache
is a gift.

I can’t explain it,
I just trust God is making all things new,
my dreams, my tomorrow,
my hope, my sorrow,
this season, and the next.

Every prayer held,
every moment holy,
every step walked
with the One who never left.

A page from my book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through.
Don’t have a copy? Now is a good day to get yours!

GTWYGT 🍊

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once (or twice) a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

All of my posts are free, but I’d love to have you support my work and ministry as a writer by becoming a paid subscriber.

Become a Paid Subscriber Today

One more thing …
Need a playlist to listen to while you walk or write or run errands? I put together a few poems and instrumental tracks to help you slow down and remember hope. Check it out.

Check out the Spotify playlist here.

For Apple Music click here.

This week’s post is a reminder to myself, but maybe it’s for you, too.

The Life You Have Been Given

I have wasted an embarrassing amount of time waiting for my real life to begin. I keep thinking it will arrive once I get everything in order. But everything will never be in order. I think that someday I’ll wake up as the sort of person who makes the bed, moves through the day without feeling behind, and buys fresh flowers simply because they’re beautiful. But most days, I feel like I’m arriving late to my own life, answering emails I forgot to answer yesterday while trying to remember if I moved the laundry into the dryer. This, apparently, is the life I have been given.

We are tempted to overlook it. We tell ourselves the important parts are still ahead: the breakthrough, the calling, the version of us who finally gets organized and stops reheating the same cup of coffee throughout the day. Meanwhile, the ordinary keeps showing up. The neighbor waves. Someone you love asks how your day was. The dog wants out. The trash gets picked up. You buy toothpaste and paper towels and wonder how adulthood became mostly noticing that you’re out of things.

I don’t think every mundane moment is hiding a profound spiritual lesson. Sometimes a grocery list is just a grocery list. But I do think fullness requires presence. Not awe. Not squeezing significance from every inconvenience until you’re too exhausted to enjoy your own existence. Just presence. Leaning into the moment. Answer the phone call. Take the walk. Listen to the story you’ve heard before. Not looking at your phone just because you’re bored. Eat dinner at the table, or over the sink if that’s the kind of day it’s been. Laugh when something ridiculous happens. Apologize quickly. Notice the stars in the sky.

Your life is not happening somewhere else. It isn’t waiting in a bigger house or a more disciplined prayer life or a more interesting personality. It is here. In the errands and interruptions. In the people who know your middle name. In the routines that quietly shape you. This beautiful, unfinished, ordinary life. Don’t ignore it while searching for something more alive. You are already standing in it.

A page from my book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through.
Don’t have a copy? Now is a good day to get yours!

GTWYGT 🍊

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once (or twice) a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

All of my posts are free, but I’d love to have you support my work and ministry as a writer by becoming a paid subscriber.

Become a Paid Subscriber Today

I don’t think it’s possible to read Psalm 23 quickly.

And for the last few months I’ve been reading it slowly.

There are plenty of other places I could spend my time in the Bible, but lately I keep finding myself back with these familiar words. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older. Maybe it’s because life feels heavier than it used to. Or maybe it’s because some truths are so beautiful that we spend our entire lives relearning them.

At 25 years old, I was living alone in the woods of Northern Wisconsin while working at a camp. It was an incredible place. The kind of place people pay money to visit. Tall trees, quiet lakes, endless stars at night. On the surface, it seemed like the sort of setting where a person should feel close to God and grateful to be alive.

Instead, I was exhausted.

When I think back on that season now, more than a decade later, I can still feel the heaviness of it. I was physically worn out, spiritually depleted, and mentally running on fumes. It wasn’t one catastrophic event that led me to feeling this way, but a thousand smaller disappointments, losses, and struggles that compounded over time until I felt buried beneath them.

This is sometimes how life goes.

The years leading up to that season had not unfolded the way I imagined they would. I struggled through college, wrestling with depression and homesickness and endless waves of change while trying to figure out who I was becoming. After graduation I landed my first full-time job, only to be let go a few months after.

If you’re looking for a quick way to get your life uprooted, this is the way to go.

Being let go felt like confirmation of many of the fears I already carried about myself. Insecurity rose as sadness and self-doubt tightened their grip on me. I was unsure of my future, unsure of my gifts, and increasingly unsure of where God was in the middle of it all.

Naturally, after losing my job, I decided to pursue writing poetry. As everyone knows, poetry is a reliable path toward financial stability and emotional well-being.

I spent the long nights writing, trying to put into words what I was thinking and feeling. I had my questions. I had my doubts. I had my fears. But something about bringing them to the page made me feel less alone, less like I was drifting out in the middle of the sea and more like I was tied to the dock. Writing didn’t solve anything, but it gave me a way to sit with what I was carrying.

A short time later I received a call about working at camp, and I gladly accepted. In many ways it was exactly what I needed. The summers were full of energy, people, laughter, and purpose. But camp ministry has its own rhythms, and once the crowds left and winter settled in, the silence became difficult to ignore.

Northern Wisconsin winters are long. The days feel short. Darkness arrives early and lingers. The town empties to the handful of locals who love the silence and solitude. Most evenings I would read, write, spend time in Scripture, and do my best not to disappear into whatever show Netflix suggested next. Looking back, I wasn’t thriving, but simply trying to get through what I was growing through. Some days that felt noble. Most days it just felt hard.

One word kept surfacing in my prayers: disappointment.

Lately I’ve been thinking about that word a lot. Disappointment is such an ordinary part of being human that we rarely stop to examine it. Yet so much of our lives are shaped by it. We experience disappointment when our expectations collide with reality. We imagine one future and receive another. We pray for one outcome and find ourselves living inside a different story altogether.

I’ve come to think of disappointment as the place where the life we imagined meets the life we are given.

None of us escape that collision. Relationships fail. Careers stall. Dreams change. Plans unravel. People leave. Prayers seem unanswered. Health declines. Brokenness arrives. Sometimes the disappointments are dramatic and life-altering. Other times they are quiet and cumulative, arriving one small frustration at a time until we wake up one day wondering why we feel so weary.

The temptation is to avoid disappointment at all costs. We try to protect ourselves from it. We lower our expectations, keep people at arm’s length, and avoid risks that might lead to heartbreak. But a life without disappointment is also a life without vulnerability, hope, and love. If you want to live a full life, you’ll have to endure the wounds of this world.

Over the years I’ve discovered something surprising: hope grows best in the soil of disappointment.

Disappointment isn’t something we should seek out, it will find us. And when it does, it will invite us to confront what we’re placing our hope in. It strips away illusions. It reveals our limitations. It reminds us that control was never ours to begin with. Unexpectedly, disappointment can become the very thing that leads us to a deeper hope.

Eventually I left camp and got the help I needed. In the years that followed I began traveling, writing, speaking, and sharing stories about hope. What surprises me now is how often I hear echoes of my younger self in the people I meet. Whether I’m speaking at a church, a conference, or a college campus, the details of people’s stories differ, but the themes remain remarkably familiar. Depression. Failure. Exhaustion. Loneliness. Grief. And underneath all of them, disappointment.

Which is probably why I keep returning to Psalm 23.

There is a reason these words have endured for thousands of years. They speak honestly about valleys without allowing valleys to define the entire story. The writing doesn’t pretend darkness isn’t real. It doesn’t rush past suffering. Instead, it offers something deeper than escape.

At the center of Psalm 23 is a simple promise:

“For you are with me.”

Those five words meet disappointment with hope.

They remind me that God’s greatest gift is not a trouble-free life. It is His presence. The promise of Psalm 23 is not that we will avoid disappointment, grief, or uncertainty, but that none of those things will have to be faced alone.

When I was 25, I needed to hear that.

At 36, I still do.

And I’m sure I’ll need to be reminded of this every step and season along the way.

Because disappointment still shows up.

Life still surprises me. Plans still change. There are still days when the future feels uncertain and prayers feel unanswered. But I’ve learned that God’s presence is not dependent on my circumstances. He remains with me in green pastures and dark valleys alike.

And that changes everything.

Disappointment does not get the final word.

Hope does.

A page from my book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through.
Don’t have a copy? Now is a good day to get yours!

GTWYGT 🍊

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once (or twice) a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

All of my posts are free, but I’d love to have you support my work and ministry as a writer by becoming a paid subscriber.

Become a Paid Subscriber Today

In case you missed it:

One.
I released a brand new poem titled What Today Will Bring. You can listen to it wherever you steam music. Click here to hear!

Two.
I gave in and started a Tik-Tok. If you have Tik-Tok, come follow along!

Three.
I’ve been getting asked lately what my favorite poem I’ve ever written is. It’s this one. I hope you love it.

How to Slow Down During July

If you want to slow down during July, you’ll have to take a deep breath. And then another. And then probably one more. The temptation is to be everywhere and do everything. It’s hard to slow down when you’re always everywhere, doing everything all at once. Rest is not a prize you earn after doing everything; it’s a place to begin before you step forward.

Go easy on yourself as you soak beneath the summer sun. If you want to slow down, you’ll need to leave room on the calendar. You’ll want to make time to eat watermelon over the sink and fresh corn with butter dripping down your hands. Wake up early enough to feel the cool morning before the heat settles in. Stay outside after dark just because you can. Float in the lake a little longer. Read a book without checking your phone between chapters. Choose the backyard over the to-do list. Find a way to get near the water. Watch the sunset melt into a sky full of stars. Water the garden. Water your soul, too.

Water it with beauty. Ice cream. Poetry. Scripture. Prayers. Strawberries. Joy. Speak little reminders to yourself. Words like, “I’m okay,” “Thank You, God,” “What a gift this is,” and “We should probably have pie.”

Remember: Summer isn’t asking you to hurry. It’s inviting you to notice. Go barefoot in the grass. Listen to the birds before the world gets loud. Find an excuse to make s’mores. Let the dishes wait while the sky turns pink. Sit on the porch until your soul catches up with your body.

I know, it’s hard to believe it’s already July, but it is. Time flies. Don’t forget to look up. Breathe deeply. Pay attention. August will be here before you know it.

If you want to slow down during July, you’ll have to take a deep breath. And then another. And then probably one more.

Enjoy It

A page from my book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through


Enjoy it.

Those are two words my mind cannot let go of.

I am not charismatic, but I believe God placed them there.

Long ago He pulled back the dirt, planted the seeds, gave them what they needed to grow, and is now inviting me to rest with what has come to be.

To slow down.

To be where I am.

To give thanks.

To enjoy it.

God is good at giving us what we need, and I think these two words are what I’ve been longing to hear.

Enjoy it.

It’s not a command, but an invitation.

Almost as if to say life is better this way.

But it’s hard.

This morning I woke up feeling panicked.

It was like my heart and mind were playing tug-of-war and the victor was set to receive the winning prize of anxiety.

Maybe it was because I broke my rule and scrolled through social media before falling asleep last night.

Maybe it’s because I haven’t been able to write anything good for the last month or so.

Maybe it’s because my hair is falling out and I’m not ready to no longer be young.

Maybe it’s because I’ve gotten good at what I wish I was bad at: comparison.

When I start to spiral down the path of comparison, I forget all this is a gift.

I forget I am not what I do.

I forget life is not a race.

I forget goodness and mercy.

I forget comparison is a trick.

I forget I can love this life and all that comes with it.

I forget I can accept God’s kind invitation and enjoy it.

Don’t have a copy of Getting Through What You’re Going Through?
Grab one today!

GTWYGT 🍊

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once (or twice) a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

All of my posts are free, but I’d love to have you support my work and ministry as a writer by becoming a paid subscriber.

Become a Paid Subscriber Today

What Today Will Bring is a reminder that even on the hardest days, God has not gone anywhere. The world may feel loud, busy, and overwhelming, but God remains patient, loving, and constant. By noticing the beauty around us and the ordinary moments we often rush past, the poem is an invitation to slow down, breathe deeply, and remember that God's love and mercy are enough to carry us through whatever life brings.

What Today Will Bring
Page 43 of Getting Through What You’re Going Through
Listen to the poem here.

Once again, the morning arrives with new mercies.

God takes His pointer finger and swirls the colors in the

sky for us to see.

Slow down and stay awhile, I think He whispers.

I’m with you, I know He says.

It’s as if God understands the day is about to groan loud.

Sides shout, fingers point.

To-do lists pile up and grocery prices rise.

Someone says something awful, and someone else says something worse.

Division works every angle to pull us apart.

Lies are told, truth is wrestled.

Noise fills our ears, weight rests on our chests.

Anger finds and fills our veins, anxiety sneaks in, all while hope fights back.

Hope is good at fighting back—even these days.

These days—We wonder if everything will be okay.

We forget God tells us everything will be okay.

We forget what we want to remember and remember what we’ve tried to forget.

Distraction and destruction demand our attention, and before we know it, we’ve wasted another day staring at screens.

We question almost everything, but God never questions if He loves us.

He does.

So—We hold fast and continue to bless those who curse us and pray for those who hurt us.

We continue to confess our shortcomings and ask God for forgiveness.

We continue to turn up our hands and show the world all that God has given us.

We endure with mercy, hope, and love.

We try to put our phones down and look up to see the colors God has swirled in the sky.

We try to remember we can slow down and stay awhile with the One who is with us.

Because for all we do not know, we do know this:

God is with us.

Don’t have a copy of Getting Through What You’re Going Through?
Grab one today!

GTWYGT 🍊

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Hello!

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once (or twice) a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

All of my posts are free, but I’d love to have you support my work and ministry as a writer by becoming a paid subscriber.

Become a Paid Subscriber Today

He picks up a stick and his whole world changes.
He slides down the slide and comes alive.
He sucks on a lemon and loves the surprise.
He waves to the stranger and feels an instant connection.
He touches my nose and remembers he has one too.
He digs in the sand and falls in love with adventure.
He sees a bird and praises God without hesitation.
He hears the word snack and cannot contain himself.
He listens as I read a book and his imagination soars.
He trips while he runs and trusts he will be caught.
He uses a crayon and is filled with confidence.
He sees a dog and is filled with happiness.
He puts his hands in the dirt, reminding me there is something special about this life.

Judah, our 2 1/2 year old son, is teaching me to not let the little things go unnoticed, but to pay attention to this gift of a life. He is showing me that I can see the world as it is - wild, wonderful, waiting to be noticed.

Just the other day we stopped and watched ants for 5 full minutes. That is 300 seconds of ant watching. Do you know how long most people watch ants? They do not. But we did. And it was incredible.

I watched him as he watched the ants. He pointed and counted and tilted his head. He was in no hurry, but present.

His eyes light up when we do something new or when he is able to do something without help. He makes me think. He makes me slow down. He makes me want to be more like him. He makes me lean into what is happening. His wonder makes me wonder: When did the light in my own eyes go out. When did I begin taking all of this for granted? When did I trade wonder for worry? When did I become numb to beauty and call it ordinary? When did I start choosing hesitation over praise?

When did we?

Do Not Let the Little Things Go Unnoticed

From page 161 of Getting Through What You’re Going Through

Do not let the little things go unnoticed.
Look for them.
See the way the clouds move
and how the birds fly.
Notice the blooming flowers
and the leaves as they change
and fall
and spin from the tree.
Watch the sky fade before the stars begin to shine.
Listen for the laughter in the distance
and the dreams being whispered
and sung in your soul.
Hold the world with your bare hands
and be amazed by the little,
beautiful things God gives
and gives again.

Don’t have a copy of Getting Through What You’re Going Through?
Grab one today!

GTWYGT 🍊

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once (or twice) a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

All of my posts are free, but I’d love to have you support my work and ministry as a writer by becoming a paid subscriber.

Become a Paid Subscriber Today

Written June 2024

I do not know how to write what I am about to write, but here it goes.

It’s Father’s Day again.

For as long as I can remember I have always wanted to be a dad. 

When I was in 7th grade my English teacher told us we could receive extra credit if we wrote an essay. She said we could write as many essays as we wanted, which was wonderful news because I needed as much extra credit as she could give. This is how I fell in love with writing and how I passed her class. Day after day I would write essays. Some were about aliens, others were about basketball, and some were about aliens playing basketball. But most of the essays I wrote were about the life I would one day live. I pictured my future and scribbled down my dreams for my teacher to read. What should have been saved for a diary I turned in for extra credit. I wrote about the woman I would marry, the house we would live in, the car I would drive, the dog we would own, and the father I would be to the children we would have. I wrote about coaching their sports teams, helping them with their homework, and reading them stories before bed. I wrote and wrote and wrote about being a dad, because all I wanted to be was a dad.

My teacher would read these essays and return them to me with a note in red ink at the top, “What a wonderful life you’re going to have. It might be a good idea to keep a diary.”

In 2021 a doctor diagnosed my wife and I with “Unexplained Infertility.” We were shocked. This wasn’t part of the essays I had written in middle school. This wasn’t supposed to be part of my story, but it was. 

For years we walked the long, painful, complicated road of this diagnosis. I dreaded Father’s Day. I made sure to stay off social media the day before and the day after to avoid any extra grief. I wondered if I would ever get to be part of this day. I wondered if the essays I wrote would ever become true. I wondered if I should start a diary. 

It is a hard and painful thing to let go of what you thought your life would become. To say goodbye to something you never got to say hello to. 

I watched as my friends became fathers and prayed I would one day join them.

They told me how wonderful it was to be a dad. They showed me endless photos of their babies doing miraculous things like sitting and sleeping. They told me about the highs and lows of being a dad, how little sleep they got, and how on more than one occasion they accidentally touched their child’s poop while changing their diapers. It sounded wonderful to me. I have never wanted to touch poop in my life, but here I was praying to God that one day I might accidentally touch my child’s poop.

I spent years begging God to let me become a father.

My prayers were met with silence and negative pregnancy tests and waiting and wondering.

Yet, something in me continued to believe what I know to be true: God is a good father.

He knows what He is doing, but we don’t, and that is the frustrating part.

God is good at being God.

Sometimes I wish God would just give me a nod or a note or both. Instead, He stays by my side and invites me to trust and hope. The nerve. 

After a year or so my legs grew tired and God Himself pulled me down the road of infertility. I waited with God. I wrestled with Him. I yelled at Him. I cried with Him. He took it and remained by my side. The nerve. 

Throughout the day I would ask God, “Why?” and He would not answer. God is good at keeping secrets and yet his love is not one of them. I would ask again and He would just sit there with me. Years passed and my questions stacked up to the size of a mountain. A mountain He would one day move.

Eventually and thankfully, God led my wife and I to adoption. I cannot explain how, but not everything's meant to be explained. This is one lesson infertility taught me. After years of waiting and praying, we received a phone call that an incredible woman chose my wife and I to be parents to the child she had carried for 9 months.

His name is Judah and I get to be his dad.

I still don’t know how to feel about Father’s Day. I mean, I know how to feel about it. I am beyond thankful. Yet, there are no words, which is unfortunate because I am a writer and we are supposed to have words for every moment, especially moments like this. 

Moments that make you want to burst because there is so much love in you and it has nowhere else to go. Moments that end your old life and welcome you into the one you’ve been praying for. Moments that make you want to build an altar because that’s what they did in the Old Testament when God did something amazing and huge, and this feels like the only appropriate response to God’s kindness. Moments that change every bit of you forever. Your heart. Your mind. Your soul. Your prayers. Your bank account. Your joints. Your everything.

But still there aren’t any words for how I feel.

Grab the book

You’ll have to sit down across from me, look me in the eyes, and ask me how I feel to see what I mean.

This morning I woke up thinking about my friends who long to be fathers. The pain they carry. The questions they have to answer. The questions they pray. The thoughts they wrestle. The posts they see on social media. The conversations they must endure. The waiting they go through. The grief they hold.

I know the ones waiting to become fathers aren’t the only ones who have a complicated relationship with Father’s day.

There are those whose fathers have passed away. There are those who no longer speak to their father. There are those who despise their father. There are those who don’t know their father. There are those whose children have passed away. There are those who don’t get to see their children. There are those who didn’t open this post because it had to do with Father’s Day. There are those who long for healing or an apology or for the past and future to be different. 

I’m not sure how this day finds you.

Perhaps it is one of pain or grief or joy or mixed emotions.

Perhaps you have been asking why for years.

I cannot tell you what is to come, but I can tell you what I have learned from what I lived through:

God has not forgotten you. 

I can tell you He hears your prayers. I can tell you He is doing something we cannot see. I can tell you He is kind and gracious and not out to get you. I can tell you His silence isn't a punishment. I can tell you He loves you, because that’s what He does: He loves. He loves His children and you are His child. 

Perhaps one day Judah will read this post. 

Maybe we will be blessed to give him a brother or sister and they will read this, too. 

If they are reading this I want them to know what they already know: their father loves them and their Father loves them.

And I have washed my hands many, many times.

With love,

Tanner

PS
Consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support allows me to continue to write reflections like the one above and poems like the one below. Thanks!

For more writings about Adoption, Infertility, and Waiting:

• You Cannot Make God Hurry Up: A poem for the waiting

• Enjoy It: Unexplained Infertility, adoption, and a year later.

• An Invitation to Pray: The heart and Story behind All the Things I Say to God
  

The one word Prayer that has changed everything from me:

This poem can be found in my book, As You Go: Words for the Unknown.

The most powerful prayer
I've ever been encouraged
to pray was not long or poetic.
It was short.
But full.
It was quiet.
But quite loud.
Simple.
But deep.
It was one word.

Father.

One word.

A prayer of hope.
A prayer of desperation.
A prayer of surrender.
A prayer reaching with an extended and open and honest hand.
A prayer overshadowing doubt with grace.
A prayer shining like a light in the fog.
A prayer bringing peace to the silence.
A prayer of power and honesty.
A prayer that says it all.

Father.

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Knowing You

Dear Judah,

Every time I write one of these letters I am shocked at how much time has already passed. At the time I am writing this you are 2 ½ years old.

This summer we’re living in Northern Michigan because of your mom’s job. We packed up our minivan and left Nashville a few weeks ago. You and I have spent a lot of time together over the last few weeks, and it’s been a gift, because of all the things I love in life, being with you is my favorite.

I’ve watched you wake up each morning in a daze, amazed that the sun rose again. You continue to remind me that ordinary things aren’t ordinary at all. An ant crawling along the sidewalk can stop you in your tracks. A passing firetruck gets your full attention. And if there is even a faint sound of a choo-choo train, our whole day is 100x better.

The other day we were having one of those days when nothing seemed to be going right.

Neither of us slept well.

Transitions are exhausting.

The sky was gray, which always seems to make things a little harder.

At one point you were upset because I carried you when you wanted to walk, and then a few minutes later you were upset because I wasn’t carrying you.

We bounced from one frustration to the next.

And in the middle of it all, I made the decision to stop trying to figure you out.

I stopped trying to manage every emotion and solve every problem.

I stepped back from the impossible task of making everything okay.

I think I’ve spent the last two and a half years trying to understand who you’re becoming, looking for clues about which parts of you are already there and which parts are still waiting to emerge.

I think part of me believed that if I could figure you out, I could be a better father. Maybe I thought understanding you would somehow keep me from getting it wrong. And I do not like to be wrong.

But lately, I’ve realized that’s not my job.

My job isn’t to figure you out.

It’s to love you.

To faithfully show up with compassion and pay attention as you continue to grow and become.

To notice what makes your eyes light up. To laugh at the things you find funny. To ask questions. To learn your favorite songs and stories. To show you that you are loved. To remind you that God loves you endlessly. To be curious about who you are instead of trying to predict who you’ll become.

I thought part of being a father meant learning how to understand you—to decode your personality and figure out what makes you tick. But the older you get, the more I realize that you aren’t an equation to solve. You’re a person to know and love.

Plus, every time I think I’ve figured something out about you, you change. One week you’re obsessed with dump trucks. The next week it’s trains. The fears that seem big today disappear tomorrow. The foods you love become the foods you push away, except for fruit. You’re obsessed. You are constantly growing, constantly becoming.

Maybe that’s why trying to figure you out feels impossible. You’re still becoming the person God created you to be. And this becoming is an ongoing unfolding, not something you grow out of.

Knowing someone is different than figuring them out.

It’s the difference between studying a map and taking the trip.

Cars is your favorite movie right now, and I’m thankful for that because I love it too. There’s a decent chance I love it more than you do.

When I first watched Cars years ago, I thought it was a movie about going fast. But now that we’ve been watching it once a week for the last few months, I think it’s a movie about slowing down.

Lightning McQueen begins the story convinced that life is about getting somewhere as quickly as possible. Every relationship is secondary to the finish line. Every interruption feels like a delay. But somewhere along the way, he discovers that the people he meets matter more than the places he’s trying to go, and that the life he is actually living matters more than the life he imagined for himself.

For Lightning, the road he never wanted to travel becomes the place where he discovers friendship and purpose.

For me, the road I always wanted to travel, being your father, has taught me about the kindness of interruptions, the joy of letting go, and the beauty of trust.

When it comes to walking with God, I’ve noticed similarities. We ask Him to help us reach the destination we’ve chosen, while He quietly teaches us to pay attention to who is beside us. We pray for answers and open doors, while He gives us people to love, moments to slow down, and unexpected detours that shape us in ways we never could have imagined.

I like to have things figured out. I like plans. I like knowing what’s next. God knows this about me. Maybe that’s why God often meets me through interruptions. Some of the greatest gifts in my life have arrived as interruptions, unexpected detours that introduced me to people, places, and stories I never would have found if everything had gone according to plan.

More often than not, the gift isn’t waiting at the end of the journey.

It’s found on the road itself.

Which sounds cheesy, but we all know most cheesy sayings carry some measure of truth.

These days you and I aren’t trying to get anywhere in particular. We’re just learning to enjoy the road we’re already on.

We aren’t racing, just living. Embracing interruptions and calling them gifts, while singing Life is A Highway (a song I never thought I would like until we started singing it together).

It seems that God is less interested in helping me control my life than He is in helping me trust Him with it.

This is something you’ve been teaching me.

You don’t spend much time worrying about tomorrow. You don’t wake up wondering how everything will work out. We don’t need to plan out every moment. You trust that someone bigger than you is taking care of what you can’t see.

Judah, you have made me a slower person who is more willing to welcome interruptions.

And because of that, you’ve helped me see God more clearly.

I’m still trying to figure out a lot of things. I still like plans and I still get frustrated when interruptions show up uninvited.

But I’m also learning that loving someone isn’t the same thing as figuring them out.

Maybe that’s true of God too. We spend so much time trying to figure Him out when all along He has simply been inviting us to walk with Him.

Because of you, I’m re-learning something I wrote years ago:

Life is not a puzzle to solve.
It’s a gift to receive.

Life is not a race to be won.
It’s a road shared with people we love.

And God is not a problem to figure out.
He is a Father who can be trusted.

Especially because what we often call interruptions are actually invitations—to love, to be loved, and to pay attention to what matters most.

Love,

Dad

Need a new read?

Grab a copy of Getting Through What You’re Going Through today.

It’s a collection of poems, essays, and other hopeful words written to meet you where you are and gently guide you forward. Whether you’re navigating a difficult season or just need a reminder that you’re not alone, this book offers comfort, perspective, and a quiet sense of encouragement.

GTWYGT

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Confession …

I really do not know what I am doing.

I do not have a five-year plan.

I do not know what the future holds.

I cannot tell you how all of this turns out.

For all I do not know and do not have, I do have faith, a rooted hope in a God who holds all things together with love. Every day I wake up and look to God and say, “Help.” It is the kind of trust that has survived enough storms to know that morning eventually comes, not always when I want it to, and not always in the way I expect it to, but it arrives.

I’d love to tell you that I’ve mastered the art of being present, that I’ve learned how to sit still and gladly receive the day in front of me.

I haven’t.

Some days, I think I'm getting worse at this instead of better.

What I have mastered, however, is the ability to spiral when unexpected change collides with overwhelming circumstances. So if you’d like advice on how to do that, I’ll gladly create a Master Class on How to Spiral.

Most days my mind is already three conversations ahead, two weeks ahead, and ten different scenarios into a future that does not yet exist, and yet somehow still feeling behind.

On the outside I might look somewhat calm, like Winnie the Pooh, but on the inside I’m in constant motion like Tigger, bouncing, wondering, planning, worrying, overthinking, and trying to solve problems that haven’t even arrived yet. Unless it’s gray and cold outside. Then I am Eeyore.

Someone recently called me a non-anxious presence, and I appreciated the compliment. I even asked if they could hand me a certificate so I could frame it, because if I’m being honest, it has taken lots of time and prayer to step into a room with a calmness that can only come from Christ. My natural posture is not calm confidence. It is distraction and impatience. It is wanting to know how the story ends before I’ve finished the chapter I’m in.

And that’s why I wrote the poem Don’t Skip to the End.

“It’s hard to sit with what is when what is is not what you want it to be.”

This is one of the most honest lines I’ve ever written because there are parts of my life I would gladly fast-forward through. There are prayers I’d like answered, questions I’d like resolved, dreams I’d like clarified, and roads I’d like reopened.

But God has never asked us to live tomorrow’s life today.

Instead, He has given us this day, along with the love and grace we need to walk through it and, dare I say, enjoy it. That feels increasingly difficult as life unfolds, as limits become more obvious, plans change, dreams evolve, and flowers and weeds grow together in the same garden.

The older I get, the more I am learning that life is like a garden. Everything needs tending. Relationships need tending. Dreams need tending. Faith needs tending. Healing needs tending. And almost nothing grows as quickly as I want it to.

Except for the weeds.

In seasons when I want to rush ahead or abandon the present altogether, I keep coming back to this simple truth: even in this, God is here, present, loving, kind, and working in ways I cannot yet see.

There is something holy about slowing down long enough to notice the light still pouring in, to recognize God’s goodness in ordinary places, and to trust Him today before we see tomorrow.

Today may not look the way you hoped it would, but that does not mean the light has gone out.

Before you rush ahead to tomorrow, take a deep breath. Look around. Pay attention to what is growing, even if it seems small. Pay attention to what is being tended, even if it feels unfinished. One day you’ll look back and understand more than you do right now.

But today, look for the light.

Because the light is still pouring in.

Don’t Skip to the End

Listen to the poem on all streaming services here

It’s hard to sit with what is
when what is
is not what you want it to be.

But let’s not skip to the end.

Sit with what is
and continue to let
the light pour in.

Some days I want to jump to the good parts.

I want to skip the line and get on the ride.

I want to hop on the highway and fly through the red lights.

Give me the chance to cut a corner, and I’ll take it.

Even if I know I’ll regret it.

It’s hard to be where you are
when where you are
is not where you want to be.

But I have to believe there is something for us
in the here and now.

In the waiting.

In the praying.

In the trusting.

Maybe I won’t see what that is until I look back.

Most days I cannot wait to look back,

but today I’ll just be right where I am.

I won’t try to hit fast-forward
or skip to the end.

I’ll exhale and wait.

I’ll look up and pray.

I’ll hold fast and trust.

I’ll sit with what is
because even in this
the light is pouring in.

Need a new read?

Grab a copy of Getting Through What You’re Going Through today.

It’s a collection of poems, essays, and other hopeful words written to meet you where you are and gently guide you forward. Whether you’re navigating a difficult season or just need a reminder that you’re not alone, this book offers comfort, perspective, and a quiet sense of encouragement.

GTWYGT

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About

is a poet and author who writes about God, grief, hope, and the ordinary moments that shape us. is a therapist and writer who helps people slow down, tell the truth about their inner lives, and move toward healing with honesty and compassion. He is also a fantastic Instagram follow.

Together, we’re joining forces for good and creating a series of poems and reflections for the seasons that feel unfinished.

Each post begins with a poem from Tanner, followed by a guided reflection from Blake. Our hope is not to offer quick answers or easy fixes (because we don’t have answers and easy fixes usually break quickly), but to create space: space to reflect, to breathe, to grieve, to hope, and to remember that even in the unfinished parts of life, we are not alone.

This first piece is about waiting. It’s an invitation to slow down and then slow down some more to notice what feels missing, while also holding onto the possibility that peace, hope, and God’s presence have not left us.

Our structure is this:

• Read

• Reflect

• Respond

• Rest

Ready?

As You Wait by Tanner Olson

From the book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through

As you wait, make your coffee.

Move to the couch or to the chair on the porch.

Leave your phone in the other room, along with your worries.

You don’t need to busy yourself.

You can just be.

Open your hands and breathe in deep.

This is a prayer of thanks and surrender.

Fix your eyes forward on the world in front of you.

See the trees shake their leaves to the ground.

Listen as the birds sing their song for anyone who will listen.

Get lost in the rising sun and the shadows it makes.

Slow yourself down and sit with what is, even if what is feels incomplete.

There is peace, but there is also a piece missing.

Something is missing, but hope is not.
Something is missing, but peace is not.
Something is missing, but God is not.

God is here as you wait.

Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him.
— Psalm 37:7

Reflection by Blake Roberts

Open your journal and prepare to write, but before you do begin with this breathe prayer:

Inhale / The LORD is my shepherd
Exhale / I shall not be in want.

Quietly arrive in your body.

Take another slow breath. Put your phone on the other side of the room. Turn over your to-do list so it’s out of sight. Notice what your body does when there is nothing to manage for a moment.

Write: Right now, my body feels...

Sit with what is actually here.

Write: When I slow down and notice it, I feel...

Every season has loose ends and unfinished things. You don’t have to fix them right now. Just tell the truth about what feels unfinished.

Write: Something in my life that feels incomplete is...

Gently name what feels missing.

Most of us can point to a space inside that feels empty or not-yet. Naming it doesn’t make it worse. It actually makes room to breathe.

Write: What feels missing to me right now is...

Remember what hasn’t left.

Even when life feels overwhelming and you feel stretched thin, hope can be quiet. Peace can be subtle. Joy can feel faint. Love can seem distant.

Write:
The one that feels closest to me today is...
The one that feels farthest is...
This distance makes me feel...

Before you move on, use one of the following prompts to begin a prayer. Let it guide you into whatever comes next. And after you say amen, may you remember: God is not missing, and He has not forgotten you.

As I wait, I’m learning...
As I wait, I’m releasing...
As I wait, I’m trusting...

Make sure to follow Blake Roberts on Substack and Instagram.

Today’s poem came from the book Getting Through What You’re Going Through.

It’s a collection of poems, essays, and other hopeful words written to meet you where you are and gently guide you forward. Whether you’re navigating a difficult season or just need a reminder that you’re not alone, this book offers comfort, perspective, and a quiet sense of encouragement.

GTWYGT

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

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Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

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Slow Down During June

If you want to slow down during June, you’ll have to let some things wait. You’ll want to turn off all notifications. You’ll need to put your out-of-office auto-reply on. You’ll want to fill your belly with fresh fruit. Wake up early enough to hear the birds before the world gets loud. Leave the porch door open a little longer. Drop your phone in the lake. Sit outside after dinner and watch the sky soften. Stop trying to turn every free moment into something productive. Choose the sunset over dishes. Water something growing. Let yourself believe you are growing too. Remember: A walk in the woods is God’s podcast. Go listen. Find a way to eat pie. Cherry. Strawberry. Key lime. Chocolate. All of the pies. Not everything needs your attention right away. Not every text needs an immediate reply. Not every evening needs to be filled. Sit in the quiet long enough for your soul to catch up with your body. Let some things stay unfinished while the fireflies come out. I know, it’s hard to believe it’s already June, but it is. Time flies. Don’t forget to look up. Breathe deep. Pay attention. July will be here before you know it. If you want to slow down during June, you’ll have to let some things wait. And it will be worth it.

It’s not a game, but I have 27 tabs open on the computer I’m typing this on. No, I do not want a trophy, because this feels like losing. To my left are two cups of coffee. One from yesterday. One from today. There’s a stack of books beside me that I keep telling myself I’m going to read. Eleven pieces of paper are scattered across my desk. Three pens. Only one has a cap.

I’m a mess.

And somehow, I keep ending up here.

Every month, I tell myself I’m going to slow down. Pull back. Be more present. Trust God with today. And every time, I find new ways to do the opposite.

I grip things tighter than I need to. I check my phone more than I want to admit. Opening social media is my smoke break and I am a chain smoker, always looking for a quick distraction only to end up wandering through an endless sea of comparison. I tell myself I’m building something meaningful, but sometimes it feels like I’m just trying to keep all the plates spinning.

The world seems to get louder every day. More distractions and invitations for our minds and bodies to hurry and leave the moment they’re in. And if I’m honest, I don’t need much encouragement to join the rush. I keep pushing forward on tired legs, convinced that if I just work a little harder, stay a little later, or answer a little faster, then maybe I’ll finally catch up.

But catch up to what?

Maybe that’s why June feels like an invitation.

An invitation to leave a few things undone. To let some emails wait. To sit outside a little longer. To listen to the birds before the noise starts. To remember that my value is not measured by my productivity, my platform, or how quickly I respond to a text message.

Maybe this June, God willing, I’ll slow down.

Maybe you need to as well.

Here is to slowing down this June.

With hope,

Tanner

I hear poetry helps us slow down …

Grab a copy of Getting Through What You’re Going Through today.

It’s a collection of poems, essays, and other hopeful words written to meet you where you are and gently guide you forward. Whether you’re navigating a difficult season or just need a reminder that you’re not alone, this book offers comfort, perspective, and a quiet sense of encouragement.

GTWYGT

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

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Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

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Let’s Try Again

10 years ago I blew out my left calf.

That’s not the technical term for what happened, but I am not a doctor.
It happened in the fourth game during an afternoon of pickup basketball in a middle school gym in Austin, Texas.

I was 27, which is old if you’re comparing yourself to 17, but still young if you’re comparing yourself to anyone with a child in college and a drawer full of ibuprofen.

Two hours in, I went up for a layup, and something in my calf said, “We are done.”

I landed and couldn’t put any pressure on my leg.

Lying on the hardwood floor, I messaged Dr. Google, “Something in my calf just exploded, what do I do?”

It told me to seek immediate medical attention if I experienced:

• A loud “pop” sound or sensation.

• Inability to put weight on the leg.

• Severe swelling or bruising.

• Significant numbness or tingling in the foot or calf.

Check, check, check, check.

A few guys helped me to my car and I drove to the ER. When I got there, I called the front desk and asked if someone could come help me inside. They said I’d need to call 9-1-1.

“I’m… right here,” I told them. “Like, next to the ambulance.”

“Yes,” they said, kindly but firmly. “You’d still need to call an ambulance.”

“I can see you! I’m waving. I’m the one in the car,” I said.

“I understand sir, but you’ll need to call 9-1-1,” she repeated.

It would have cost a few thousand dollars to travel about 50 feet from my parking space to the entrance.

I took a deep breath and did what felt both heroic and pathetic: I hopped on one leg into the hospital.

“Hi,” I said at the desk, trying to sound casual—not like I was in the worst pain of my life. “I’m Tanner. I was just waving to you from my car. I’m the one whose calf stopped working.”

And in a way, something else stopped working too.

Since then, I’ve been careful. Careful in the way people are when they have learned something the hard way. Careful in the way people are when they are trying not to feel that kind of pain again.

But what I am starting to see is that careful is often just a polite word for afraid.

Afraid of pain or being sidelined again. Afraid of that unfortunate betrayal when your body decides it has limits you never agreed to.

The few times I’ve tried to get back on the court, I’ve hopped off early, feeling that familiar pain in my calf and hearing the same thought on repeat:
See? This is why we don’t do this anymore.

Injuries don’t just live in your body. They take up space in your mind. They whisper about what might happen. They rehearse worst-case scenarios until you believe they are inevitable. Worst of all, injuries quietly narrow your life by a few degrees at a time until you don’t notice how small the circle has become.

And my circle had become small.
Smaller than I realized.

But then, a few months ago I was added to a group chat with a few guys from church. Every Sunday at 6 PM, they play basketball.

After blowing it off for weeks, I finally went.

And I haven’t stopped thinking about the night since.

Before I had the dream of being a writer, I dreamed of being in the NBA.

Most of my childhood happened on a basketball court. If I wasn’t at youth group, I was in a gym somewhere, pretending I was Michael Jordan or Steve Nash.

And then, after a knee surgery and a few other injuries my junior year of high school, I stopped playing organized basketball.

I handed the coach my jersey and never looked back, except for every day since.

When I stopped playing, I slowly stopped recognizing myself.

That’s when the fog rolled in. I felt distant. Unmoored. Like I was watching my life instead of living it. I missed the sweat, the rhythm, the way your lungs burn and your mind goes still. I missed the camaraderie, the sacred language of “I’ve got you” and “ball up” and “one more.”

I missed falling down.

I missed getting back up.

I played intramural basketball in college, and a few pick up games in the years following college, but since that day in that Austin middle school gym, I haven’t been myself.

Until the other night, at a YMCA in East Nashville with 7 other thirty and forty something year old guys.

Somewhere in game 3 or 4, I channeled my inner Steve Nash and whipped a perfect pass to a teammate cutting to the hoop.

He floated it in and yelled, “Good pass, Tanner!”

One sentence.

That’s all it took.

Suddenly I was back in a high school gym. Before injuries. Before the fog. Before depression. Before my calf quit. Before waving to the ER receptionist from the parking lot.

And underneath that voice, I could hear my dad from the bleachers:

“Good pass, Tanner!”

It’s strange how memory works. It just shows up. Sometimes through a smell, a sound, a phrase, and for a moment, the past and present come together.

Our culture seems to have a love for nostalgia, but for something to become nostalgic means you’ve moved on. You cannot be nostalgic for what is, only for what no longer is; without time, without life lived in-between.

And I’ve lived a lot of life these last 10 years.

And maybe what I’ve been needing to hear is someone tell me, “Good pass, Tanner!”

I’m not entirely sure why I’m telling you all of this.

Maybe I’m reminding myself that fear is a poor foundation for a life.

Maybe I’m remembering that the things we love don’t always disappear, they just continue to invite us to show up again.

Maybe I’m learning that healing isn’t about returning to who you were at 17, but about becoming someone who’s willing to try again, even if it’s slower, even if it’s messier, even if you have to stretch for twice as long and ice afterward and pray endlessly that injury will not find you.

Maybe healing looks less like going back and more like stepping forward with a limp and a little courage.

Maybe I’m just saying this:

Say yes to the thing that scares you.

Something happens when I have a basketball in my hands.

Something I have forgotten.

It’s the same thing I feel when I’m writing a poem, or holding my son’s hand, or laughing over a date night with my wife, or singing on a Sunday morning, or standing at the edge of the ocean as the sun clocks out for the day.

It’s that quiet, inviting sense that I am alive.

Not who I used to be. Not who I thought I would be. But here and alive.

In some ways, it’s a beautiful glimpse of heaven on earth, and you cannot convince me I won’t play basketball in heaven.

But for now, it feels like enough to lace up my shoes on a Sunday night, step onto the court, and let myself chase the wonder of my youth.

Where life once shouted, We are done, it might, by grace, learn to say, Not yet. Let’s try again.

—

And good news!

I did not blow out my calf.

… but it does appear I tore my meniscus.

Funnnnn.

Grab a copy of Getting Through What You’re Going Through today.

It’s a collection of poems, essays, and other hopeful words written to meet you where you are and gently guide you forward. Whether you’re navigating a difficult season or just need a reminder that you’re not alone, this book offers comfort, perspective, and a quiet sense of encouragement.

GTWYGT

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