Ryan's Ramblings

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?

The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood. We saw the glory with our own eyes, the one-of-a-kind glory, like Father, like Son, Generous inside and out, true from start to finish. 

— John 1:14, MSG

Years ago, when my wife was teaching kindergarteners, I’d stop by her classroom from time to time to say hi and visit with her students. One day I walked in her room and nearly tripped over a globe sitting right in the middle of the floor. 

A globe on the floor? 

It looked out of place. My first instinct was to pick it up and put it on a shelf. After all, that’s where globes belong—somewhere “safe” and “appropriate.”

But here’s the thing about a globe on the floor of a kindergarten classroom: it’s meant to be touched, looked at, and held. Little fingers will leave smudges. Sticky hands will spin it, bump it, scuff it, maybe even knock it over. And that’s okay. It’s not meant to stay polished or pristine — it’s meant to be experienced, up close and together, by kids who are learning about the world one fingerprint at a time.

Every mark and sign of wear on that globe tells the story of a teacher who values connection more than control. A great teacher always chooses access and engagement over perfection.

And that makes me think of Jesus.

The Creator of all things — the Word who spoke galaxies into place — moved into the neighborhood. He came into the grit and grief of our world — unguarded, vulnerable, and willing. His coming was dangerous. It was deliberate. It was love—and it cost Him everything.

The Greatest Teacher chose access and engagement over perfection.

That’s what grace does: it meets us at our level. God could have stayed exalted and out of reach. But He stepped into the dust and difficulty of our world so that we could actually know Him. Not just know about Him, but know Him. And that knowing came through suffering and a cross.

Jesus said, “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full” (John 10:10, NIV). That life came at the cost of His own life — “the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give His life as a ransom for many” (Mark 10:45, NIV).

Jesus has come close—to your neighborhood, your life, your heart. He’s ever knocking, waiting for you to open the door (Revelation 3:20). He’s not put off by the clutter, the chaos, or the imperfection. He came and gave His life to make you clean.

So go ahead—let Him in. Let Him take His place at the center of things.

That’s where real growth and life begin—in the beautiful, messy, risky place…

where God comes near.