This morning I was reminded of something simple and steady: life isn’t measured by how busy we look or how well we function on the outside. Scripture calls some people “alive” who are exhausted and broken, and others “dead” who look successful but are far from God. I’ve lived long enough to know that’s true.
Sin always promises freedom, but it quietly tightens the chains. Jesus never promised ease, but He promises life. Not a concept. A Person. The closer I stay to Him, the clearer the signal gets. When I drift, everything starts to dry out, even if the calendar stays full.
What encourages me is this: God doesn’t wait for us to fix ourselves. He moves first. He makes us alive even when we’re worn down or wandering. That’s mercy doing the work.
So today I’m choosing to abide, not perform. To stay connected, not just productive. To remember that real life flows from staying close to Jesus, the true vine.
If you feel tired, distant, or dulled, you’re not disqualified. Come close again. Life is still being offered.
You know the moment: Young George (and later the adult George) steps up to the old countertop device, closes his eyes, crosses his fingers, whispers his grandest dream—”I wish I had a million dollars”—and then squeezes the lever. A small, reliable flame springs to life on the very first try. His eyes snap open, he grins wide, and out bursts that exuberant exclamation: “Hot dog!”
What a perfectly old-fashioned thing to say! “Hot dog!” was the 1920s–1940s equivalent of today’s “Yes!”, “Awesome!”, or “Let’s go!”—pure, unfiltered joy.
But the real magic lies in what that little device actually was: a vintage cigar lighter, a common fixture in early 20th-century drugstores and soda fountains. These contraptions were notoriously unreliable. The flint might spark weakly, the fuel might be low, or the mechanism might just be finicky. Most people had to try several times to get a flame.
So a charming piece of kid folklore sprang up: If the lighter lit on the first try, your wish was destined to come true.
Every single time George makes that wish in the movie—once as a boy full of big dreams, and again as a young man about to “shake the dust of this crummy little town” off his feet—the flame appears instantly. Hot dog! His wish is sealed. The universe has spoken.
Of course, as the story unfolds across decades of sacrifice, heartbreak, quiet heroism, and small-town love, we realize George never gets the million dollars. He never builds skyscrapers in Babylon or dances on the equator. The grand adventures stay just out of reach.
And yet… that lighter always lit on the first try.
In the end, the film whispers the deeper truth: George’s real wish—the unspoken one beneath all the million-dollar dreams—was for a life that mattered. For connection, for family, for being needed. And that wish? It came true spectacularly, flame after flame, in ways he could never have imagined as a boy at Gower’s counter.
On this Christmas Eve in 2025, with the world feeling heavy and uncertain for so many, I find comfort in that tiny, stubborn flame. It reminds me that the things we wish for most desperately often arrive in disguise. The million dollars might never show up, but the million little moments of love, kindness, and community? Those add up to something infinitely richer.
So tonight, if you’re feeling the weight of the year, maybe try this: Close your eyes for a second. Make a quiet wish—not for riches or escape, but for the things that really light up a life. Then imagine a small flame flickering to life on the very first try.
Hot dog.
Merry Christmas, May your own wonderful life be full of first-try flames, unexpected joy, and the kind of love that turns ordinary days into miracles.
And remember: You really have had a wonderful life… even if you haven’t always seen it that way.
As Jesus’ birth drew near, Bethlehem was crowded and restless. Because of the Roman census, families were arriving from every direction to register, including Joseph and Mary, traveling late in pregnancy. Homes were full, guest rooms taken, animals sheltered close to families for warmth. Shepherds were likely in the fields outside town, watching flocks through the cold night hours. Ordinary life was busy and strained, yet God was quietly bringing His promise to completion. On this day, the Messiah was not yet seen—but He was very near.
Photo by Jessica Lewis ud83eudd8b thepaintedsquare on Pexels.com
Micah Tyler’s song Directions captures a truth that has taken me most of my life to learn: doing good work, carrying responsibility, and having the best intentions does not guarantee that I am moving in the right direction.
For much of my life, I have been a builder and a fixer. I learned early how to carry weight. I took pride in competence, discipline, and responsibility. I showed up when things were broken. I stepped into gaps where systems were weak, people were tired, or leadership was absent. I believed that forward motion itself was faithfulness.
And in many ways, it was.
But the song confronts something more subtle than rebellion or failure. It speaks to the danger of self-navigation. Not running away from God, but quietly assuming I already knew where He wanted me to go.
“I thought I had the best intentions.”
That line lands hard, because intentions were never my problem. I did not lack purpose. I lacked surrender.
There is a difference between walking with God and walking ahead of Him while asking Him to bless the route. I spent years moving forward on strength God gave me, solving problems God allowed, carrying burdens I believed were mine to bear. I was not lost in chaos. I was lost in duty.
Loss and grief have a way of stripping illusions. They reveal how little control we truly have, no matter how well we plan, how carefully we build, or how faithfully we serve. They do not destroy faith; they refine it. They expose the limits of self-reliance and invite a deeper kind of trust.
The turning point in Directions is not collapse. It is awakening. The realization that effort is not the same as obedience, and momentum is not the same as guidance.
That mirrors where I am now.
I am still building, but I listen more.
I am still leading, but I hold plans more loosely.
I am still serving, but I no longer confuse calling with compulsion.
I am less interested in speed and more attentive to alignment. Less concerned with outcomes and more focused on faithfulness. I am learning to pause long enough to ask where God is actually leading, not just assume I know the road.
“I need directions.”
Not directions out of difficulty.
Not directions to comfort.
Directions toward truth, toward obedience, toward the next right step.
Scripture is full of capable people who had to relearn dependence. Moses after competence failed him. David after the throne did not satisfy him. Peter after confidence collapsed. Paul after certainty blinded him. Not weak people, but strong ones who had to discover that strength alone was never the destination.
That is the story this song surfaces in me.
My life is not a story of being lost.
It is a story of being redirected.
I walked far on strength God provided.
I carried weight He allowed me to carry.
And now, not late but right on time, I am learning that the truest direction is not knowing the map, but trusting the One who leads.
Sometimes the most faithful prayer is not “send me,” but “lead me.”
The song is often mistaken for being about despair, but it is really about endurance. It does not deny sadness. It names it, sits with it, and keeps going anyway. The blues are not a failure in the song; they are a season that must be lived through.
That feels familiar.
Much of my life has not been marked by sudden drama, but by long stretches of responsibility, waiting, and quiet persistence. There have been losses that did not resolve cleanly, burdens that stayed longer than expected, and seasons where progress felt slow and invisible. Like the song, time has often moved at a crawl, especially when love, calling, and stewardship were involved.
What stands out to me now is the song’s patience. The voice is steady, not frantic. It assumes that what matters is worth waiting for. That posture mirrors how I have lived more than I realized at the time. I kept showing up. I kept building, serving, caring, and honoring commitments even when the payoff was delayed or uncertain. I did not always feel strong, but I stayed faithful.
The song also understands that sorrow does not have to define a person. The blues are real, but they are not permanent. They are something you experience, not something you become. My own grief and disappointment have shaped me, but they have not claimed my identity. Instead, they have sharpened my empathy, clarified my priorities, and deepened my understanding of what truly lasts.
If my life has a soundtrack in this season, it is not one of resignation. It is one of resolve. I have learned how to hold the note through the ache without becoming bitter. I have learned that endurance itself carries meaning, even when answers come slowly.
That is why the comparison fits. Not because I have known sorrow, but because I have learned how to live faithfully while it passes.
Joy does not always come with energy or clarity. Some days it arrives quietly, alongside responsibility, fatigue, and the steady work of finishing what needs to be done. This season has been full of ordinary faithfulness—showing up, carrying what was assigned, and trusting that God is still present even when progress feels slow. I am learning that joy is not the absence of weight, but the assurance that we are not carrying it alone. That is enough for today.
There is a particular kind of weight that comes with leadership in a small rural community. It is not loud or dramatic. It does not announce itself. It settles in quietly and stays. You carry it when you unlock buildings early in the morning, when you answer questions no one else has time to answer, when you make decisions knowing there is no backup team waiting behind you. This year has been full of that kind of weight.
In rural East Texas, leadership is less about titles and more about presence. People know where you live. They know your family. They see whether you show up consistently or disappear when things get hard. Stewardship here is personal. You are not managing abstractions; you are caring for places and people with names, histories, and long memories. That responsibility can be humbling, and it can be heavy, especially when the year brings grief alongside progress.
As an engineer, I spend much of my time working with systems, infrastructure, and technology. Fiber routes, wireless links, power systems, networks that must stay up even when conditions are less than ideal. This year reinforced something I already knew but needed to relearn: technology is never the purpose. It is a tool. It exists to serve people, not to replace presence, wisdom, or care. Infrastructure matters deeply, but only because of what it enables—connection, opportunity, safety, and dignity. When the work becomes only about equipment or metrics, something essential is lost.
There were many days this year when exhaustion and calling pulled in opposite directions. Fatigue does not always come from doing too much; sometimes it comes from caring deeply over a long period of time. There were moments when it would have been easier to step back, to delay decisions, to wait for someone else to take responsibility. But calling is persistent. It does not shout. It simply asks, again and again, whether you will show up today.
Patience has been one of the quiet lessons of this year. Progress in rural places is slow by nature, and that slowness can feel frustrating in a world accustomed to rapid change. Trust grows the same way. It is built through small, repeated acts of reliability. Showing up on time. Following through. Listening more than speaking. These habits rarely make headlines, but they form the foundation of healthy communities.
Faith has been less about answers and more about posture. There were seasons of waiting when clarity did not come quickly. In those moments, faith looked like staying present, doing the next right thing, and trusting that light does not always arrive all at once. Often it comes like morning—gradually, almost unnoticed at first, until suddenly you realize you can see farther than you could before.
Grief has been part of the landscape this year as well. Loss changes how time feels. It reshapes priorities. It has a way of stripping away what is unnecessary and leaving what truly matters. In that sense, grief has also clarified calling. It has reminded me that people are not projects, and that leadership is ultimately an act of care.
As 2026 approaches, there is plenty that could invite fear: uncertainty, resource constraints, the complexity of rural challenges. But fear is not a useful guide. Hope, grounded in faith, is steadier. It does not deny difficulty; it simply refuses to let difficulty have the final word. Looking forward, the goal is not perfection or speed, but faithfulness—continuing to build, serve, and lead with integrity, even when the work remains unfinished.
So the choice at the end of this year is a simple one. To keep walking forward. To trust that God is at work in the quiet, steady moments more than in the loud ones. To believe that showing up, again and again, is itself an act of faith. And to rest in the confidence that light, even when it comes slowly, is still light.
Every human life, whether quietly or loudly, is shaped by a single, foundational question. Most people never stop long enough to name it, yet it governs their priorities, their decisions, and their understanding of meaning.
The question is not, “What do I want out of life?” It is not, “How can I be successful?” It is not even, “How can I be happy?”
The most important question of life is this:
What is ultimately true—and how should I live in light of that truth?
Every worldview offers an answer, whether stated explicitly or assumed quietly. If reality is accidental and impersonal, then meaning must be manufactured. Life becomes a project of self-definition, and morality becomes negotiable. Purpose is temporary, and hope rarely extends beyond the present moment.
If, however, truth is personal, moral, and purposeful, then life is not something we invent but something we receive. Meaning is discovered, not created. Responsibility matters. Love carries weight. Suffering is not meaningless, even when it is painful.
Christian faith brings this question into sharp focus through the words of Jesus Himself. When He looked at His disciples and asked, “Who do you say that I am?” He was not asking for information. He was inviting a decision that would reorder their entire lives.
That question still does the same today.
If Jesus is merely a teacher, His words may inspire but carry no ultimate claim. If He is who He claimed to be, then truth is not an abstract concept but a person to be known and followed.
Scripture consistently frames life in relational terms. Human beings are not autonomous projects but stewards of a gift. We are accountable not only for what we do, but for how we respond to the God who reveals Himself. This reframes everything: work, family, suffering, joy, justice, and hope beyond death.
The tragedy of modern life is not that people ask too many questions, but that they settle for questions that are too small. When the ultimate question is ignored, the answers we chase never quite satisfy.
Life does not become clearer when we eliminate the question of truth. It becomes clearer when we face it honestly.
What is ultimately true? And how, then, should we live?
That is the question every life answers—whether intentionally or by default.
There is a place we all visit at some point in life—the space between what was and what is. It is the place of memory, unanswered questions, regret, longing, and quiet hope. It feels like standing on the other side of something familiar, looking back through a glass that no longer opens.
Memory has weight. It carries laughter, faces, voices, and moments that shaped us. We do not remember because we are weak; we remember because love leaves an imprint. Loss does not erase connection. It transforms it. What once lived in shared time now lives within us, surfacing in silence, songs, and unexpected emotion. Grief is not the enemy of love—it is the evidence of it.
Yet alongside memory sits another ache: the realization that some connections are broken beyond repair. We reach out, hoping for understanding, reconciliation, or closure, and instead meet silence or change. That moment—when we recognize that expectations will not be fulfilled as imagined—can feel like betrayal, failure, or personal loss. It is not just about people; it is about dreams, plans, and versions of ourselves we thought we would become.
This tension defines much of the human journey. We live between remembrance and release, between longing and acceptance. Anger, regret, and sadness often surface here, and they deserve honesty. Faith does not require us to pretend these feelings do not exist. In fact, genuine faith makes room for truth, because healing cannot grow in denial.
What often surprises us is that hope does not arrive by undoing the past. It arrives by steadying us in the present. Sometimes the silence we fear is not abandonment, but invitation—an invitation to grow, to mature, to learn how to carry what cannot be fixed. Strength is formed not when everything works out, but when we discover we are still held when it doesn’t.
There is something deeply spiritual about this realization. Scripture speaks often of a God who meets people not on the mountaintop, but in the valley—near the brokenhearted, attentive to quiet prayers, present in the unanswered spaces. Grace does not always change circumstances; sometimes it changes us so we can survive them with dignity and purpose.
Hope, then, is not optimism. It is courage. It is choosing to walk forward while carrying memory instead of being trapped by it. It is trusting that love was not wasted, even when relationships end, paths diverge, or life unfolds differently than planned. It is believing that meaning can still be shaped from disappointment.
On the other side of loss, we do not become untouched—we become deeper. We learn compassion, patience, and empathy. We learn how fragile connection is, and how precious it remains. We discover that even when a call goes unanswered, we are not alone. There is a steady presence that continues to call our name, inviting us into healing, restoration, and forward movement.
And slowly, almost without noticing, we begin to live again—not forgetting, not denying, but transformed. Memory becomes a companion instead of a wound. Grief becomes softer. Hope becomes quieter but stronger. We keep walking, guided not by what we lost, but by the grace that still carries us.
You wake up carrying yesterday with you. Some memories refuse to loosen their grip. Loss. Regret. Questions that never quite resolve. You learn early that life does not hand out clean endings, only long roads and unfinished conversations. Still, you get up. Not because it’s easy, but because something inside you says you must.
You do your work quietly. You try to do it right. You learn that integrity costs more than compromise, but you pay it anyway. You discover that justice, truth, and love are rarely loud. Most of the time, they show up as persistence—showing up again when walking away would be simpler.
There are nights when the weight presses down hard. You replay moments you wish you could change. You hear echoes of people you loved and lost. You wonder whether holding on is strength or stubbornness. And yet, letting go feels like erasing part of who you are.
So you keep walking. Not because you have all the answers, but because you believe life has meaning even when it’s cracked. Somewhere along the way, you realize you are not carrying everything alone. There is a quiet presence beside you—steady, patient, faithful—bearing the heavier part of the load. The kind of presence that doesn’t rush you, doesn’t condemn you, and doesn’t leave when things get dark.
You learn that redemption is not sudden. It’s slow. It’s daily. It’s choosing truth over comfort, mercy over bitterness, and hope over despair. It’s discovering that love can meet you in broken places and still call you forward.
In the end, life is not about forgetting what shaped you. It’s about letting it refine you. You don’t let go of what matters. You carry it—transformed—into something truer.
Note on the spiritual undertones in “Can’t Let Go”
Beneath its noir tone, the song carries quiet traces of spirituality. The repeated tension between holding on and releasing mirrors a deeply human struggle found throughout Scripture—the desire to control the past versus the invitation to trust something greater than ourselves. “Can’t let go” is not just emotional attachment; it sounds like the soul wrestling with surrender.
There is an unspoken confession in the lyrics: acknowledgment of brokenness without denial, longing without easy resolution. That honesty echoes the psalms of lament, where faith is not polished but real. The song never preaches, yet it gestures toward the idea that healing does not come from erasing pain, but from being carried through it.
What makes the spirituality subtle—but powerful—is that the answer is not self-mastery. The weight feels too heavy to bear alone. That quiet recognition opens the door to grace. In Christian language, it resembles the moment before surrender, when the heart realizes it cannot save itself and must be held.
In that sense, Can’t Let Go becomes a prayer without religious language—a reminder that even in shadowed places, the struggle itself can be sacred, and that letting go is often less about loss and more about learning who is truly strong enough to hold us.
John Hargrove Seeking Truth and Reality 