Ryan's Ramblings

Momma Bear

“Better to meet a bear robbed of her cubs than a fool bent on folly.” (Proverbs 17:12, NIV)

Years ago my family was enjoying a sunny day at the water park, and the four of us were swimming in the lazy river. It wasn’t too deep—you could walk as easily as float—and my girls, ages eight and six, were having a blast, putting their swimming lessons to good use. People were laughing, playing, splashing around. Others lounged on tubes, and everyone seemed to be having a good time.

All was peaceful… until it wasn’t.

My youngest daughter was swimming along when suddenly she slipped under the inner tube of a high school girl who was more interested in tanning and the boy nearby, than in what was happening around her. She didn’t notice my daughter was caught underneath her tube.

My wife saw it first. Then I saw something that stunned me. My kind, gentle, soft-spoken wife—small in stature but mighty in that moment—grabbed the tube, flipped the girl into the water, and pulled our daughter up sputtering but safe. She quickly apologized, explained what had happened, and all was fine.

Right then, I felt the full weight of the phrase—don’t mess with a momma bear.

A mother protecting her child is a force to be reckoned with. But Scripture says there’s something even more dangerous: “…a fool bent on folly.” That’s saying something, because a raging bear (and trust me, a protective mom) can be terrifying. But a fool who won’t quit is worse. The wreckage never stops—dragging everything down.

When Proverbs talks about a “fool bent on folly,” it isn’t just picturing one obnoxious person—it’s describing a force that’s reckless, relentless, and harmful. And in our world, that kind of folly is everywhere. You see it in the endless scroll of social media that never stops to listen. You feel it in the constant churn of news that stirs outrage but never brings peace. You notice it in the distractions we run to that promise escape but leave us anxious and empty.

The danger of folly is this: it won’t be corrected, it won’t quit, and it won’t lead you anywhere good. It subtly pulls you under and leaves you gasping for air. The girl that day in the lazy river just got wet. But folly will drown you. We must stay alert and avoid the deadly drift.

Paul put it this way: 

“Be very careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil.” (Ephesians 5:15–16, NIV)

Avoid the fool—be wise about what you let shape you. Step away from danger and out of the current of folly. Quiet the noise. Refuse the outrage. Guard against distraction. And fix your eyes on Jesus, for He is wisdom and truth.

He alone will keep you afloat.

Delayed, but Not Denied 

“The Lord’s unfailing love surrounds the one who trusts…” (Psalm 32:10, NIV)

I once heard a line from a grizzled cowboy in Baker City, Oregon, that’s stuck with me—probably because I’ve lived it. He said, “If you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough.”

I’ve done things I regret—and made decisions I wish I could take back. Not because I meant harm, but because I got tired of waiting. Tired of the silence. Tired of nothing moving. Tired of praying and seeing no results.

So I acted. Took things into my own hands. Pushed forward and tried to make something happen. Sometimes we call that “taking charge” or “being courageous.” But honestly? It’s just forcing what only God can do.

And that’s dumb.

Paul knew what that felt like. He got tired of waiting on God. He ignored multiple Spirit-led warnings and pressed ahead to Jerusalem (Acts 21:4, 10–14). His motives weren’t impure—but he was stubborn. Impatient. And it caught up with him. He was arrested and ended up stuck in Caesarea for two years under a corrupt governor named Felix (Acts 24:27).

The gospel still burned in his bones. But instead of missionary journeys and new churches, he got silence and stone walls. He was in a holding pattern—no movement, no momentum. Just waiting. And it was his own fault.

But here’s the beauty: God didn’t write him off. Paul was forgiven. Still loved and still useful. But his path had shifted. He was delayed, but not denied.

This tale echoes another: the Israelites, standing on the edge of the Promised Land. They had just come through the Red Sea, made their way to Sinai—and were only an eleven-day journey from the land God had promised them (Deuteronomy 1:2). But they let fear overrule their faith. They turned back… and spent the next forty years walking in circles (Numbers 14:22–34).

They were so close. But instead of stepping forward in trust—they froze in fear and doubt. And the consequence was a detour they never expected. God forgave them. But the delay still came.

Sometimes that’s how it goes. Forgiveness doesn’t erase the consequences. But grace never leaves us there. God doesn’t walk away. He stays, and He redeems.

So if you find yourself in a long delay—maybe even one of your own making—don’t lose heart. God hasn’t benched you. He hasn’t given up on you. He still has work for you to do—and grace to carry you through. Even in the wilderness, He can use you. Even behind prison doors, there’s hope. And when the waiting ends—and it will—you’ll find He was working all along.

There’s some real truth in that old line: “If you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough.” King David knew something about that. But he also knew it wasn’t the ultimate truth. He wrote these words after doing something dumb:

 “The Lord’s unfailing love surrounds the one who trusts in him.” (Psalm 32:10, NIV)

Thankfully, in the Lord, the last word isn’t tough … it’s trust.

Trust in Jesus.

Press On

“I came to you in weakness with great fear and trembling.” (1 Corinthians 2:3, NIV)

Recently, I went on a five-day backpacking trip that ended with a brutal 15-mile hike out. The first three miles were straight down—no trail, just loose rock, fallen trees, boulder fields, and steep terrain that punished with every step. By the bottom, my legs felt like Jello. Then came twelve more miles on a long, winding path that seemed like it would never end. Forty pounds on my back. Blisters on my feet. And somewhere along the way, I hit my limit.

The voice in my head was shouting: “This is impossible. I can’t take another step. Everything hurts. … Help!” But I had to keep going. I wasn’t alone—I was with five others. We had miles to go, and we were in it together. There was no shortcut and no option to tap out. The only way home… was forward.

Ever had one of those moments? Not just on a trail—but in life? When the loss you never saw coming hits harder than you imagined. When the job falls through. When the diagnosis returns. When your kids drift from the faith. When the dream goes unrealized.  When you’re older than you used to be—and not where you thought you’d be. When the weight of simply keeping going feels like too much.

You’re not alone.

Paul knew that feeling. He left Athens, where his message had mostly fallen flat, and made his way to Corinth—one of the darkest, most spiritually resistant cities in the Roman world. By the time he arrived, he was completely spent. He didn’t fake strength. He said, “I came to you in weakness, with great fear and trembling.”

That wasn’t exaggeration. It was honesty. And even in that place of weakness, the gospel was still at work. People were listening. Lives were being changed. And yet… resistance continued.

Challenge and struggle don’t always come with drama. Sometimes they arrive as a slow, steady grind. A quiet voice that whispers, “This isn’t making a difference.” A heaviness that settles in and won’t let go. An ache in the silence when you pray. A moment when you start to wonder if faithfulness is even worth it.

Paul experienced this. But he didn’t quit. That’s why I hold onto his words from prison: “I press on toward the goal…” (Philippians 3:14, NIV). It’s not about pushing harder—it’s about not giving up. It’s not about having all the answers—it’s about holding onto Jesus, who is the answer.

That phrase—press on—has become a kind of sacred rhythm in my life. It’s something I say to others as they move through life with all its joys and challenges. It’s how I often close conversations, letters, and emails—not as a cliché, but as an intentional encouragement. A quiet admonition to keep going, keep trusting, and keep walking with Jesus.

In a fragile moment, Jesus spoke to Paul: “Do not be afraid… for I am with you” (Acts 18:9–10). Paul’s fear didn’t disqualify him—it drew God near. God didn’t say, “Get over it.” Or, “Just do it.” He said, “I’m here. Keep going.”

And He says the same to you and me.

So wherever you are—however heavy the pack feels, or how long the road seems—look to Jesus … and press on.

Labels

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” (2 Corinthians 5:17, ESV)

Have you ever felt labeled? Like someone sized you up, made a snap judgment, and dropped you into a category without giving you a real chance?

I have. And I didn’t like it.

We all use labels. Sometimes out loud, but often just in our heads. We’re always sorting—people, ideas, even ourselves—into boxes we can manage. It’s how we make sense of the world.

But labels can limit. And sometimes they carry more weight than they should. Labels like musical, athletic, artistic, business-minded… religious—they shape how we see people. Some come with admiration. Others come with baggage.

We know what it means when someone is musical. They don’t just hum a tune—they play, write, perform. Call someone athletic, and you don’t mean they jog on weekends. You mean they compete, move with ease, and excel physically. Say someone is artistic, and you picture creativity spilling out in sketches, color, beauty. A business-minded person sees opportunity, thinks strategically, and knows how to make money.

Each label points to a life—a rhythm, a way of being. But religious? That one often comes weighed down with ritual, judgment, rules and performance. Some prefer the word spiritual. It sounds more personal, more expressive. That’s why you often hear, “I’m not religious, but I’m spiritual.”

I find Eugene Peterson’s comment on Christians and religion interesting:

“In some ways Christians are the least religious people in town—there is so much that we don't believe! We don't believe in good-luck charms, in horoscopes, in fate. We don't believe the world's promises or the world's curses.”

Christians don’t live by formulas. We live by faith. We’re not defined by rituals or spiritual vibes—we’re defined by Jesus. And He didn’t come to make people religious or spiritual—He came to make us new.

We see this in Jesus’ encounter with Nicodemus, one of the most spiritual—and perhaps most religious—men of His day (John 3). Nicodemus was curious—maybe even a little mystical. He came in secret at night, asked thoughtful questions, and had a teachable spirit. And he was “religious” squared—a Pharisee, a leader in the synagogue and a revered teacher in Israel. If anyone could have qualified for eternal life based on tradition, education, or moral effort, it was him.

But as Dallas Willard once wrote, “Grace is not opposed to effort; it’s opposed to earning.”

Nicodemus had the résumé, the training, the reputation, but Jesus wasn’t impressed. He was after something deeper.

“Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again.” (John 3:3, NIV)

No accolades. No performance. Not more awakened. Just… “born again.” That phrase might sound dramatic—even outdated—but it’s at the very heart of the gospel.

Tim Keller put it simply: “You don’t earn being born. You don’t contribute to it. It just… happens. It’s grace.”

And so it is with salvation. Jesus didn’t offer Nicodemus a better version of his spiritual life. He offered him grace—a new life, rooted in Himself.

The Spirit’s work in us isn’t to make us impressive. It’s to make us new. And not just on Sundays, or when we pray, or do something “sacred.” Jesus is after all of it—the spreadsheets and the dishes, the wins and the losses, our time and our tears. He wants us to live a life so full of Him that it spills into everything.

That’s what it means to be a Christian. Not religious. Not spiritual. But real… alive in Him. Born again—not better behaved. New creations—not upgraded versions of our old selves.

Christian isn’t a label, a category, or a checkbox. It’s a life that points—clearly, humbly, unmistakably—to Jesus. 

I don’t like labels. But that’s one I’ll welcome.

Salt and Fight… Light

“You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world…” (Matthew 5:13–14, NIV)

Yesterday morning, I was pulling onto a busy road when I felt a nudge—literally. The car behind me bumped mine. I put my car in park and got out to check. No damage. The woman behind me stepped out of her vehicle, flustered and apologetic.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m just really stressed. I was distracted… I know that’s not an excuse.”

We talked for a moment. Nothing dramatic—just honest words exchanged between strangers. As we wrapped up, she said, “Thank you for being patient… and so kind.”

That word stuck with me: kind. She said it twice—like it surprised her. And maybe it did.

Kindness isn’t loud or flashy. It’s not a hot take or a fight to win. It’s quiet, faith-filled, and steady. And it stands out—especially in a world spoiling for a fight.

We’re living in a time when everyone seems on edge. Every conversation feels like a potential argument—about politics, church, traffic… even life itself. We’re braced for battle everywhere we go. All it took was a bumper-to-bumper thump to remind me how tightly wound we’ve all become—and how rare gentleness feels.

But Jesus calls us to something different. Listen to what He says in Matthew 5—not broken into sound bites, but as a continuous invitation and calling:

“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you. You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world…” (Matthew 5:11–14, NIV)

Did you catch that? Rejoice and be glad doesn’t come after the storm—it comes in the middle of it. Right in the midst of the bumps, bruises, persecution, insults, frustrations, and false accusations. That’s the context for salt and light.

We tend to break those verses into categories—pain over here, purpose over there. But Jesus wove them together. And He flipped everything.

We think the good life means having things go our way, living in comfort, moving with convenience, and staying in control. But Jesus says if you’re truly following Him, you may face bumps, difficulty, and resistance—and that’s where your witness matters most.

Salt doesn’t shout. It doesn’t post angry rebuttals. It seeps in quietly. It preserves what’s good. At times it may sting a little—but it also heals.

To have that kind of quiet influence, we need wisdom—not the world’s kind, but the kind that comes from above. James (the brother of Jesus) said it like this:

“The wisdom from above is first of all pure, peace-loving, gentle at all times, and willing to yield to others.” (James 3:17, NLT)

Godly wisdom doesn’t clamor for attention. It works quietly, often unnoticed.

As E. Stanley Jones put it:

“We are to be salt before we can be light. No man can shine in obviousness unless he is willing to permeate in obscurity.”

Obscurity. Insults. Weakness. They don’t mean you’re doing it wrong. They might mean you’re right where you’re supposed to be.

Look to Jesus and listen to His words. Let them steady you. Stay faithful. And when the world is itching for a fight—be kind. Because it’s not about the fight.

It’s about the light.

What Now?

“Or those eighteen who died when the tower in Siloam fell on them—do you think they were more guilty than all the others living in Jerusalem? I tell you, no.” (Luke 13:4–5, NIV)

Tragedy happens. We live in a world where car accidents steal lives, wars rage, and society fractures under the weight of conflict. These things grieve us deeply. And yet, in a broken world, where sorrow makes the news every day, we grow used to it—maybe even a little numb.

But then something happens that stops us cold. Something that feels unbearably wrong. Like twenty-seven young lives, taken in an instant—swept away by floodwaters at a church camp. And we’re left stunned. Reaching for words. And we find ourselves asking the age-old question: Why?

Jesus once pointed to a tragedy—a tower in Siloam that collapsed and killed eighteen people. The people of His day wanted to understand why. Was it punishment? Did the victims somehow deserve it? Jesus didn’t give them an explanation. He gave them an invitation. “Do you think they were worse sinners? I tell you, no. But unless you repent…” 

It may sound severe—even insensitive—but what He was doing was gently shifting the question: from Why? to What now? He was helping them see that tragedy seldom comes with a reason. Yet it always comes with a reminder—life is fragile, and our hope was never meant to rest in this world.

There’s a scene in John 11 where Jesus stands at the tomb of His friend Lazarus. He knows resurrection is coming—yet still, He weeps. But before that moment, John tells us that Jesus was “deeply moved.” The Greek word used there—embrimaomai—means a deep, guttural groaning. Anguish. Rage. Not passive sorrow, but a holy fury—directed at death itself. At the ruin and sorrow. Because this is not how it was meant to be.

God created a world of love and free choice. He didn’t create tragedy. Sin and brokenness did that. And the Enemy has had a heyday with it ever since. But Jesus came to end that reign. That’s why He stood at Lazarus’ grave. And it’s why He willingly walked toward His own. Not to escape death—but to defeat it.

He saw the grief of Mary and Martha. The tower in Siloam. The hospital waiting room. The empty crib. The centuries of names etched in tombstones. And… He saw Camp Mystic. 

He went to the cross to undo it all.

The Enemy thought death would finish us. But Jesus walked straight into the grave—and walked out again. Alive. Yet for now, even that doesn’t erase the pain. We still grieve. And the question of “why” still haunts us. But we can know this: the One who wept and groaned and raged is redeeming. Jesus is not far off. He is near. He is with us.

So—“what now?” We pray… for those who have lost the ones they love… and for ourselves, that we would hold fast to faith and not be overcome by the temptation to doubt God’s goodness. 

And we hope and trust in Jesus—the One who will make all things new.