Sometimes the simplest moments carry the deepest reminders. Have you ever observed a dog shrewdly sneak beyond its own yard and then swiftly race back at the first sound of her master’s voice? This paints a picture of something we all know too well—the tendency we all have to drift and the grace that calls us home again.

My son and his family have a dog named Rooney.

Rooney is a lovable people-pleaser. She adores her family and genuinely wants to do the right thing. Yet every so often, something beyond the boundaries of the yard catches her attention—a squirrel, a scent, a passing distraction. Before long, Rooney has crossed the perimeter and wandered beyond the place she was never meant to be.

When my son realizes she has left the safety of the yard, he raises his voice and calls her back.

"Rooney! Get back in this yard!"

What's fascinating is what happens next.

Growing up in the backwoods of Louisiana, I’ve been fascinated by the Great Blue Heron. Maybe it started with my dad. Every time we spotted one standing motionless along a pond bank or lifting slow and steady from a bayou, he’d smile and say, “Look, Mark… there’s a Blue John.”

Even now, decades later, I still hear his voice when I see one.

Or maybe my fascination comes from the fact that the Blue Heron and I share a common affection: fishing. Though if I’m being honest, the heron is better at it than most folks I know.

What’s great about a fourteen mile hike is that once you’re halfway in, there’s no giving up, no wrapping up early. Once you’ve reached that seven mile mark, for better or worse, you’re in it.

I’d been hiking with my husband and my parents on a beautiful Montana summer day and within a few miles, we’d experienced every weather pattern available to the area. Clear sky and unrelenting heat, thunderous downpour, frigid wind. We even found ourselves trekking through the remnants of the previous winter’s snow.

Now, about seven miles in, the clouds had split and were scattering in watercolor patterns across the blue sky.

We’d been staring ahead as we went, chatting about everything and nothing, laughing at the mountain goats curiously wandering amongst the tourists and unintentionally scaring a few. We decided to break, and I turned my attention to the wide open valley around me.

The feeling that overwhelms me is…
I might throw up.

Somebody said to me, "I'm really going through something." And I said, "Me too. Most people are." That's why we must understand one thing: what we're walking through doesn't get the final word—Who we're walking with does.

You're not alone in the "something."

We are always in a season. Sometimes we can name it. Sometimes we just feel it. There are seasons when we feel strong—capable, productive, clear-headed, hopeful. And there are seasons when we feel weak—stretched thin, uncertain, grieving, or simply tired in places sleep doesn't fix. We tend to label one "good" and the other "bad." One "blessed" and the other "broken." One strength. One weakness.

But what if both belong to Him?

Life rarely announces itself with fireworks. Most days arrive quietly, carrying a mix of minor irritations and unexpected mercies—annoyances that nick the soul and blessings that steady it. We all live somewhere in between.

Between paper cuts and promises.

It seems like every December, I hear someone whisper like they’ve uncovered a scandal: “Did you know some Christmas traditions came from Yule?”

They say it like they’re warning me not to eat convenience-store sushi.

But the truth is a little less dramatic and a whole lot more beautiful.