Ryan's Ramblings

But Saul, who was also called Paul… – Acts 13:9, ESV

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,
that saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
was blind, but now I see.

You know the tune—you can probably hum it without trying. Amazing Grace has been sung for nearly 250 years, and behind those familiar words stands a man—John Newton—who was blind in ways he couldn’t even recognize. A slave trader. Hardened. Adrift. Spiritually lost… yet rescued by mercy. His story gives weight to the lyric: “was blind, but now I see.”

Blindness… it isn’t just metaphor. It’s the human condition until Jesus arrives.

And that’s exactly what we witness in Acts 13.

Paul — still introduced as Saul here — confronts a sorcerer named Elymas who is resisting the gospel and confusing the Roman governor. Paul looks him in the eye and declares—in the power of the Holy Spirit—that he will be “blind for a time” (Acts 13:11). A mist covers Elymas’s eyes, and he reaches out for someone to lead him.

It’s impossible to miss the echo.

Just a few chapters earlier, Saul had stumbled around in the same darkness. On the road to Damascus, full of fury and self-righteousness… And then a light from heaven stopped him cold. He fell to the ground, blinded and helpless, and had to be led by the hand (Acts 9:8).

His blindness was mercy — a severe kindness that saved him — from himself.

Now, standing on the other side of grace, Paul speaks a similar blindness over Elymas—not out of cruelty, but as warning. A sobering signal—mercy’s final attempt. Like Newton centuries later, Paul knew what it meant to be stopped by a blindness that saved him.

And right here—in the moment that mirrors Saul’s own story—Luke, the writer of Acts, does something quiet but seismic. He writes: “But Saul, who was also called Paul…” (Acts 13:9)

From this point on, Luke never again uses “Saul” as Paul’s active name. Any later mentions look back on his former life. This is the last time Luke applies it to the man standing before us. He lets the reader feel the shift — as if Scripture itself is drawing a line in the sand.

The Saul who breathed threats…
The Saul who kicked against the goads…
The Saul who walked in his own darkness…
That Saul is finished.

He didn’t just see differently — he was seen differently.

Sometimes God brings us to a stopping point — a blinding moment — so that an old chapter can close and a new one can begin. When Elymas is blinded, Saul steps fully into his new identity. The persecutor fades. The apostle rises. God’s grace does what it always does — it gets the final word.

Elisabeth Elliot said it plainly and beautifully: “Suffering is never for nothing.”

In the Lord, our suffering is never wasted, never pointless, never without purpose. Saul’s blindness was mercy. Elymas’s blindness was warning. And the seasons that leave us blind — the limitations, disruptions, and confusions of life — may be the very places God ends one chapter… and begins another.

Even in shadow, we’re not abandoned. That’s where God can do His deepest work. After all, it was into our darkness that the Light first came — this is the hope of Advent.

Jesus said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life” (John 8:12, ESV).

So when life leaves you in the dark, don’t panic. Look to Jesus — the source of Amazing Grace.

He sees the truest you — and in Him, you can finally say, “Now I see.”

Hi Friends,

As December begins, the lights appear — and so does the Light our hearts quietly long for. In these early days of Advent, I’m reminded how the Lord often meets us in simple, unexpected ways… sometimes as quietly as the glow of lights on a tree.

Below is a reflection from Nudgings that I pray sets your eyes and heart on the Light.

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The Light [A Christmas Reflection]

“The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light. And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow, a light has shined.”


—Matthew 4:16, NLT

I was only five years old, but I still remember the light.

It was Christmas Eve, 1971. After my dad got off work, our family — my mom, dad, baby sister, and I — all loaded into our 1969 Volkswagen Bug and headed for my grandparents’ home in Jerome, Idaho to celebrate Christmas with a house full of aunts, uncles, cousins, loving family, and fun. It was snowing and blowing when we left Boise. What was supposed to be a two-hour journey turned into a long, slow drive into a dark and snowy night.

The wind blew, and the snow swirled the entire trip, blanketing everything in white. We finally turned off the main road onto the quarter-mile lane that led to my grandparents’ farmhouse and were surprised to find that drifting snow had formed a barrier across our path. My dad, hoping to break through the drifts, accelerated the car — and I was thrilled. I remember the roar of the VW engine, the unsettling sound of snow scraping the floorboards beneath our feet, and the car slowly coming to a stop. Our headlights were buried under snow, and with the engine running we sat there in total darkness — completely stuck.

Still a long way from the house, all we could do was trek the rest of the distance on foot. It wasn’t going to be easy for my parents — trudging through deep snow with a baby, a five-year-old, and all our belongings. But then a glimmer of hope appeared in the dark night. Down the lane, a flashlight flickered and slowly moved toward us. It was my granddad, making his way through the snow to our rescue.

I was captivated by that light. It was just a flashlight, but it pierced the darkness. As it approached, the outline of the tractor chugging through the snow emerged, and then, finally, I could see the smile on my granddad’s face. He leaped off the tractor, gave us all hugs, hooked a chain to the front of the car, and pulled us home through the swirling snow. Within minutes, we were enveloped in the radiant glow of love, family, and a joyous Christmas celebration.

Where do you find yourself this Christmas? Feeling stuck? Trapped? Lost in the darkness? Here’s some good news — a glimmer of hope:

“The angel said to them, ‘Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.’” (Luke 2:10-11, KJV)

There it is — the real meaning of Christmas. A light has dawned, and the Rescuer has come to bring us home. His name is Jesus.

More than fifty years later, I still remember that Christmas Eve — the long trip, the dark night, getting stuck in the snow, my grandfather’s smile, and the joyous fun.

But most of all… I remember the light.

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Wishing you a light-filled Advent — days marked by Jesus’ nearness, His gentleness, and His steady hope.

This reflection is from Nudgings: Gentle Whispers, Holy Reminders.

I’ve been encouraged to hear from several folks who are giving the book as a simple Christmas gift this year — a quiet word of hope for someone they care about.

If the Lord brings someone to mind, please pass it along.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

Ryan

Hi Friends,

For Thanksgiving, I wanted to reach back into the pages of Nudgings and share a chapter from the book titled “I’m Thankful.”

I hope it speaks to your heart today.

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I’m Thankful

Make thankfulness your sacrifice to God.
—Psalm 50:14, NLT

The other day at work, I passed a colleague in the hall who greeted me with, “How are you?” I replied, “I’m thankful.” He stopped, smiled, and asked, “What are you thankful about?”

I thought for a moment and said, “Oh wow—lots of things. I’m thankful for the gift of today, my health, this job, my family, my students, God’s love in my life… and I’m thankful for you and the chance to work with you.”

He paused thoughtfully and said, “Hmmm… there is a lot to be thankful for.” Then we both went about our day.

When I responded with, “I’m thankful,” I meant it. I wasn’t trying to be clever or different—I was simply being real. For a long time, my default answer to “How are you?” was “good,” but eventually I realized I couldn’t honestly say “good” every time. Life isn’t always good. We all have bad days (and sometimes bad years). Life brings moments that hurt, disappoint, and even break us.

But here’s the truth that steadies me: “good” isn’t the defining factor in my life—Jesus is. And because He is good, I can be thankful.

It’s been said that the Apostle Paul wrote about giving thanks and being thankful at least forty-six times in his New Testament letters. It’s crazy, but the guy who tells us to “give thanks in all circumstances” (1 Thess. 5:18) and “give thanks always… and for everything” (Eph. 5:20) is the same guy whose story is filled with persecution, imprisonment, physical suffering, opposition, hostility, shipwrecks, peril, betrayal, and abandonment.

How can he be thankful, let alone implore us to be thankful?

It’s because thankfulness to God isn’t a feeling; it’s a choice. Asaph, the author of Psalm 50, even equates thankfulness with sacrifice—giving up something valuable for something even more important or worthy. A life of gratitude doesn’t come naturally or easily; it requires practice. It’s a discipline. Even the simple habit of praying before meals can be a powerful reminder: each time we eat, we pause to remember God’s presence and express gratitude for His care.

Ultimately, the thankfulness that Asaph describes, that Paul commands, and that I mentioned to my colleague, is rooted in Jesus. Jesus is God. He is the author of life, the giver of hope, and the source of every good thing. He is the Creator of the universe, the King of Kings, and the Lord of Lords. His very nature is one of compassion, mercy, love, and grace.

Even while we were all dead in our ingratitude, rebellion, and sin, Jesus took on flesh and blood and came to earth to save us. He died upon the cross, paid the price for the forgiveness of our sins, and rose from the grave. He is our help today and our hope for eternity. Jesus is “good,” and a friend who is always with us—even when life stinks. In Him is found joy, peace, hope, and abundant life.

So, if you ask me, “How are you?” I am going to say, “thankful,” because of Jesus.

In Him, “…there is a lot to be thankful for.”

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Before you go, please know: I thank God for you. I’m grateful we get to journey with Jesus together.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Warmly,
Ryan

The heavens proclaim the glory of God; the skies display His craftsmanship. Day after day they continue to speak; night after night they make Him known. They speak without a sound or word; their voice is never not heard.
— Psalm 19:1–3, NLT (alt. rendering)

There’s power in a pause — in a silent moment.

That moment before he asks her to marry him.
The hush before the curtain rises.
The rest in the song that makes the next note matter.

Beethoven understood that. He didn’t just write music; he wrote silence. Those rests between the notes weren’t empty — they were everything. They made the melody breathe. They gave beauty time to land.

Our lives have pauses, too. The quiet between prayers and answers. The silence between diagnosis and healing. The space between what we hoped for and what we see. Even in the pause of grief, when God seems quiet — He’s closer than we know.

We often misread silence. When someone we love hesitates — when affection meets quiet — it can sound like doubt. A pause can feel like distance or indifference.

But that’s not the nature of God. He’s never not there.

Between the final words of Malachi and the first cries of Matthew—the long stretch between what we call the Old Testament and the New—heaven went quiet for four hundred years. No prophets. No angels. No new word from God. Just stillness. The people must have wondered, Where are You, Lord?

Yet—as Fleming Rutledge reminds us—

“Through centuries of waiting, the promise did not die. The silence of God is never the absence of God.”

God had not left. He was simply pausing. And in that pause, love was gathering itself for the greatest rescue the world would ever know.

This is where Romans 8:28 becomes more than a verse — it becomes a way of seeing: “In all things God works for the good of those who love Him.” (NIV)

Even in the silence. Especially in the silence. When it seems like nothing is happening… something is happening. God is working. Even in the pause — He’s weaving, aligning, redeeming.

The silence between the Testaments wasn’t absence — it was anticipation. The stage was being set for the Word made flesh, for the cross, for the empty tomb, and for the Spirit who would come to dwell within us.

Maybe that’s where you are right now — in a pause. Nothing seems to be moving. Heaven feels still. You’re waiting for the next note.

Take heart. The same God who occupied those four hundred silent years is filling this moment, too. He isn’t absent; He’s arranging. He’s not ignoring; He’s preparing.

He lets the music rest so that when it begins again, you’ll know that it’s His song. He holds His breath so the next note can come as life itself. And that Song has a name — it’s Jesus.

He pauses… but He’s never passive. Even in the silence, He sings—for all creation tells His glory. God is never not singing (Psalm 19:3).

And because of that… so can we.

Friends,

Hard to believe Nudgings has been out for a month now. What a joy it’s been to hear how God has used it to bless people — and one moment from those early days has stayed with me.

A few days after release, I went to visit a family whose dear wife and mother was very near heaven. When I walked into their living room to sit with her husband and two adult daughters, I noticed my book on the coffee table.

Her husband said, “My daughter has been reading your book to me. We finished the introduction and looked at each other and said, ‘That sounds just like Ryan.’ But the real blessing was the poem at the beginning… that was for us.”

Then he handed me the book and asked if I would read the poem aloud.

So I did.

When I finished, all of us had tears in our eyes. Not because of anything I wrote, but because God met us there — in their grief, in their waiting, in His nearness.

Here is the poem they asked me to read:

Like grass, we rise with the
morning—yet wither so soon;
long days of summer, too few.

As wildflowers—unexpected,
resplendent, yet fading — we bloom,
beautify, blaze, and then—poof!
So good, so brief, so gone.

Nothing lasts. But wait . . .
the love of the Lord churns in the wake
of those who fear Him—
salvation reaching and rippling
to children’s children and more.

Your life matters.
Don’t toil or spin. Be faithful. Obey.
Love wholly. Live wisely.
Stand forever in Him.

(Psalm 103:15–18; Isaiah 40:8; Luke 12:27)

I walked away thinking: If that moment was the only reason this book was written, it was enough.

Their precious wife, mother, and grandmother is now with Jesus — standing forever in Him. And He is with the family as they grieve and remember… but not as those who have no hope.

I am praying for them.

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted. And He is near.

Ryan

Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—His good, pleasing and perfect will.

— Romans 12:2, NIV

All summer long I kept telling myself I’d get to that fence in the backyard. It’s rotted off at the ground, leaning just enough to be an eyesore, and one good wind away from collapse. Every time I looked out the window, I thought, “I’ll take care of it next weekend.” But weekends came and went. Now the leaves are falling, and the broken fence is still there—leaning, waiting, accusing.

That fence has company, too. Clean out the garage. Organize the files. Set up a will. The list of my falterings goes on and on. Maybe you’ve got your own list—good, practical, even necessary things that just never seem to get done.

It’s not always laziness. Often it’s that good intentions don’t include a plan.

When I taught elementary school, we used what is called backward planning. Whether it was long division or writing an essay, you don’t wing it and hope for the best. You start with the end in mind and work backward, step by step. The question isn’t, “What do I feel like doing now?” but, “Where do I need to land?”

Romans 12:2 shows us the way forward. Paul points to the destination—God’s good, pleasing, and perfect will. That’s the life we’re aiming for. But we don’t arrive there by accident; we grow into it through transformation. Only a mind renewed by the Spirit can see God’s will clearly.

Transformation doesn’t happen through more grit or another self-improvement kick. Our thinking and desires must be reshaped—not by self-help, but by the Spirit of Christ at work in us. The starting point is clear: “Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”

We must step off the wide road of conformity and onto the narrow, life-giving way of Christ.

This is exactly how Jesus lived. He came with the end in mind. The cross wasn’t an interruption—it was the plan. “The Son of Man came to give His life as a ransom for many” (Mark 10:45, NIV). You and I were His goal. Every teaching, every miracle, every step of His journey was backward-planned to Calvary.

If Jesus lived with that kind of purpose, can we do any less?

So what does that look like? How do we make our days line up with the life we say we want—with Jesus as our end goal? It begins in prayer—pausing before the day begins to look to Him and ask for help. That’s where transformation starts, as the Holy Spirit shapes our thoughts and guides us in even the smallest ways.

Each surrender becomes a step—tracing backward from the life we long for in Christ to the choices before us today.

Ironically, backward planning is the only way to move forward. When we start with Christ as the finish line, every moment becomes movement toward Him.

That fence is still out there, waiting. I’ll get to it eventually. But thankfully, God’s already at work on something deeper—in you and in me.

While we’re worrying about fences and falterings, He calls us to fix our eyes on Him. And as we do, bit by bit, He sets things right—helping us move our backward lives forward toward the end goal… 

Christ Himself.

I am the good shepherd.
— John 10:11, NIV

My daughter and son-in-law have a German Shepherd named Rio. She’s the smartest dog I’ve ever met—alert, calculating, and watchful. She doesn’t just look at you; she reads you. One glance and she seems to know whether you’re calm or anxious, confident or uneasy.

She’s not like other dogs I’ve known and loved. Most dogs are all bounce and belly rubs, chasing anything that moves and eating everything that doesn’t. But Rio? She’s selective. She’ll turn her nose up at gourmet kibble but crunch a Cheeto like it’s filet mignon.

She’s fearless when it comes to strangers in the neighborhood, yet she trembles at the sight of the vacuum. She’ll face down a Pit Bull twice her size, but you show her the little bottle of ear drops and she quakes like thunder’s rolling in.

Rio is a paradox—strong yet scared, discerning yet distracted, brave yet baffled. She’s a living reminder that courage and fear often share the same space. When I’m around her, I’m amazed—and that turns my thoughts to another amazing Shepherd, one who embodies every holy paradox.

God is a paradox. In Jesus, that paradox takes on flesh and blood—He is infinite, yet He became an infant (John 1:14). He is the Lion and… the Lamb (Revelation 5:5–6). He commands the storm with a word, yet weeps beside a tomb (Mark 4:39; John 11:35). He washes His disciples’ feet, yet holds the universe together by the power of His Word (John 13:5; Hebrews 1:3). He lays down His life as the Good Shepherd, even as He reigns as the Overseer of our souls (John 10:11; 1 Peter 2:25).

He protects with gentleness. He rules by serving. He wins by losing. He lives by dying.

Rio seems to understand more than she should—but Jesus knows us completely. He sees every fear, every failure, every fragile part of who we are. Yet His knowing doesn’t lead to judgment—it leads to mercy. The One who knows you best loves you most.

Where Rio keeps watch over gates and grounds, Jesus guards the door of our hearts (John 10:9). Where Rio trembles at ear drops, Jesus took up the cup of suffering and drank it down for love’s sake (Luke 22:42).

He is never distracted, never unsure, never afraid. The One who laid down His life is still the Author of life. So when it all feels like a contradiction—when faith feels fragile or fear feels stronger than trust—remember the paradox of Jesus: the all-powerful God who stooped low to carry you close.

In His kingdom, paradox is the pattern. Life is found in losing. Strength comes through surrender.

And in love—His love—the Shepherd became a Lamb… to lead the sheep safely home.

Wow… Nudgings: Gentle Whispers, Holy Reminders was just listed as the #1 New Release in Spiritual Meditations on Amazon!
 

I’m so grateful—for every reader, encourager, and friend who has shared these reflections, prayed, or helped spread the word.

My hope is still the same: that these pages help people slow down and hear God’s gentle whispers in the everyday.

If you haven’t picked up a copy yet (or want one for a friend), here’s the link: hsnudgings.com

Thank you again for helping spread the word.

God is speaking… are you listening?