Ryan's Ramblings

Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed by day.
—2 Corinthians 4:16, NIV

The Old Tire


As one of four, I carried a car;

On business of utmost import.

From summit to shore, I traveled afar;

All the while my time growing short.

I rolled along, till my tread was all spent;

Tossed away—thin, worn and unfit.

On the side of the road, to the ditch I was sent;

To die lying still in the pit.

But life ebbed again at the hand of a boy;

A push and a roll were my test.

I found all joy, in the guise of a toy;

These miles are some of my best.

I saw two boys at an orphanage in Bangalore, India, pushing an old tire they had found along the road. They didn’t have soccer balls, video games, or playground equipment—but they had that tire. Around and around they went, laughing and shouting, their bare feet kicking up red dust.

I couldn’t stop watching. That tire was finished—thrown to the side, discarded, worn out—but in the hands of those boys, it was reborn. Its “best miles” weren’t spent carrying the weight of a car. They were spent bringing joy.

And it struck me: even while that tire was doing what it was made to do—carrying its load, being “important”—it was wearing down. Its time was growing short with every mile.

Isn’t that us? We spend years doing what matters most—raising kids, serving others, building businesses, loving our neighbors—carrying the weight God has entrusted to us. And yet, even in those seasons of purpose, our strength runs down, our tread wears thin.

Sometimes I feel like that old tire. Maybe you do too. Spent. Worn down. Forgotten. There are days I wonder if my best miles are behind me—if the most valuable part of me has already been used up.

And it stirs something deep—that ache for what once was, for the strength we used to have, for the laughter and lightness of childhood. We hear that longing echoed in some of our most nostalgic lines of poetry:

Backward, turn backward, O time in your flight.
Make me a child again just for tonight.
—Elizabeth Akers Allen—

That longing is real—and good. It points us to something we were made for: wonder, trust, and the chance to begin again.

Jesus offers something better than turning back the clock. He says, “Unless you turn and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3, ESV).

The Kingdom life isn’t about proving we can still carry the weight of the world—it’s about learning to trust, to wonder, to play again.

Even when we feel discarded, Jesus doesn’t leave us in the ditch. He stoops down, picks us up, and rolls us into new life.

Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day (2 Corinthians 4:16, NIV).

Maybe your “important miles” are done. Perhaps that’s not a loss—maybe that’s grace. The best miles aren’t the ones that prove your strength, but the ones that reveal His.

Let Jesus pick you up. Let Him renew you. Let Him roll you toward joy again—because in Him, …the best miles are always in front of you.

“I will follow you, Lord; but…”
 —Luke 9:61, NIV

I used to be an elementary school teacher. A few years ago, I sent out an email to let my colleagues know I’d be leaving the classroom to become an associate pastor. They were all kind, supportive, and excited for me — but inside, I was feeling the weight of the moment.

I loved teaching and working with students. I’d spent a life doing it. And there’s a certain security that comes with the job — a steady paycheck, a predictable schedule, summers off, and a rhythm to the year you can set your watch by. 

Walking away from all that to jump into full-time ministry? That’s a leap.

Spencer worked in the cafeteria and delivered student breakfasts to the classrooms every morning before school. For a couple of years, he stopped by my room almost daily with three trays of food and a cheerful comment about sports, movies, or whatever holiday break was coming next.

One morning after he heard I was leaving, he came into my room and said, “So, you’re not gonna be here next year? It’s sure been great to work with you.”

And then came the line that got me: “I think this decision could turn into something really great. Sometimes you just gotta take a leap of faith.”

I laughed—not at him, but with this sense that God had just spoken to me through him. There was something innocent, almost ironic, about being told that I needed to take a leap of faith… into a job that is all about faith!

But Spencer was right. I was standing on the edge of a decision that scared me a bit — leaving the safety of the known for the wide-open unknown of what God was calling me to do.

In those months leading up to my first day at the church, I sensed God whispering, I’m preparing you. I’m using everything I’ve taught you to get you ready for what’s next. Trust Me, even when you can’t see what’s coming.

Looking back now, I can see how true that was. God has been near. He’s been faithful. And He’s used every season of my life to prepare me for this one.

Oswald Chambers put it this way:

“If you’re going to do anything worthwhile, sometimes you have to risk everything and leap.”

That’s what I did. And God caught me.

Serving as a pastor has been such a joy — more rewarding and fulfilling than I ever imagined. In the Lord, the safest way forward isn’t always the most secure. The life — and death — of Jesus show us that God’s way can be difficult, dangerous, even costly, but it’s always good.

Maybe you’re standing on the edge of something right now — a decision, a calling, a change that feels uncertain. Jesus still says, “Follow Me.” (Matthew 4:19) And He still promises, “I am with you always, even to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20, NLT).

Hebrews 11:6 reminds us that “without faith it is impossible to please God” (NIV).

Life was never meant to be lived playing it safe — not in a world as broken as this one. Real security comes from trusting that the guiding, sustaining arms of Jesus are strong enough to catch you and keep you.

Sometimes you just gotta take a leap of faith.

“Your road led through the sea, your pathway through the mighty waters—a pathway no one knew was there!”

-Psalm 77:19, NLT

In the year 155, Polycarp, the elderly pastor of Smyrna, was dragged into a Roman arena. He had been discipled by the apostle John, and he had known people who had seen the risen Christ with their own eyes. The governor pressed him to deny Jesus and swear by Caesar. Polycarp’s reply was calm and unshakable: “Eighty and six years I have served Him, and He has done me no wrong. How then can I blaspheme my King who saved me?”

His sentence was death by fire. They tied him to a stake and lit the wood. Witnesses said the flames arched around him like the sail of a great ship, refusing to consume him. When the fire would not finish the task, a blade was thrust into his side (sound familiar?).

From the outside, it looked like the end. A faithful life brought to a violent close. But Polycarp knew better. His faith was exactly what Hebrews 11:1 describes: being sure of what we hope for and confident in what we do not see. Death itself was not the end—it was a doorway into the presence of Christ.

This is how God works. In the Old Testament, it was through the sea. Israel stood trapped, water before them, Pharaoh’s chariots behind. Fear screamed that the way was closed. But then God’s breath split the waters and revealed dry ground—a pathway no one knew was there.

In the New Testament, it was through the cross. To the disciples, it looked like finality—Jesus crucified, hope buried, everything lost. Rome’s instrument of shame was meant to silence the movement once for all. But God turned that place of death into the very road to salvation. From the cross came forgiveness, resurrection, and life. A pathway no one imagined.

Henry Law once wrote, “It is our wisdom to trust when we have no skill to trace.” Isn’t that where faith lives? When God’s footprints aren’t visible. When your map runs out. When decline or disappointment whisper that the road is over. We simply must trust.

When there seems to be no way, Jesus is the way. God’s path may be hidden until the very moment you need it, but it is never absent. Sometimes it’s found in the next prayer, the next act of obedience, the next breath of trust.

The noise of fear is loud. It’s the clatter of Pharaoh’s chariots. The roar of the Roman crowd. The steady ticking clock of time reminding us of our own mortality. But greater still is the presence of the Lord, who rides across the skies, who makes roads through seas, brings victory through a cross, and life through death.

Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see (Hebrews 11:1, NIV).

In Jesus—we trust beyond trace.

He… is the Pathway.

“He gave him no answer, not even to a single charge…”
 (Matthew 27:14, ESV)

We’ve all been there—accused unfairly, talked about behind our backs, ambushed in a conversation, criticized, or “set straight” by someone who didn’t come with kindness. It wasn’t gentle correction—it was an attack. If you’re like me, you wanted to defend yourself. And maybe… you did.

These days, outrage is everywhere. From cable news feeds to coffee shop tables to social media threads, people are quick to quarrel—convinced they’re right and ready to fight. And if I’m honest—I get it. I’ve felt the pull: mind racing, gut churning, heart pounding with indignation, forming the perfect response, rehearsing what I’d say.

But then—I remember Jesus.

He stood before Pilate, falsely accused and completely misunderstood, and Matthew tells us, “He gave him no answer, not even to a single charge” (Matthew 27:14, ESV). Jesus—the only truly “right” and righteous One—didn’t scramble to defend Himself. He didn’t try to win the argument. He said nothing.

That kind of restraint is hard for me. I want to defend my honor—explain, justify, make my case, and prove I’m right. But Proverbs 20:3 redefines my definition of honor: “It is to one’s honor to avoid strife, but every fool is quick to quarrel” (NLT).

The world applauds quick comebacks and strong opinions, but wisdom sees through the noise. Commentator Derek Kidner put it plainly: “To spring to the defense of one’s honor is to do it a disservice.” When I rush to protect my pride, I often end up harming the very thing I was trying to preserve. Am I really defending truth—or just defending myself?

There’s a sacred dignity in silence. It’s not apathy—it’s anchored trust. Trust that God sees. That truth holds. That Jesus is the way.

The Lord didn’t retaliate. He bore injustice without striking back, because He knew the Father would vindicate Him. Jesus stood firm—not with clever argument, but with the strength of His identity.

This doesn’t mean we never speak up or stand for what’s right. But it does mean we don’t need to fight every fight. And when we do speak, it isn’t in anger—but with gentleness, humility, and wisdom (James 3:17).

Not every provocation deserves a reply. So the next time you’re tempted to jump into the fray, remember the old saying: “Never wrestle with a pig. You’ll both get dirty—and the pig enjoys it.”

The proverb isn’t about labeling people—it’s more about guarding your heart. You were made for peace, not petty fights.

You don’t have to prove your point. You don’t have to win the argument. You don’t even have to defend yourself. Jesus has already won the battle. He is your honor, your help, your hope—and He has the final word.

Sometimes, the most upright and Godly response… is no response.