Snorkelling Lessons for the soul

This past week, Brian and I joined Brian’s brother and sister-in-law at their home away from home in Bonaire. The three of them are avid scuba divers. I am not.

So while they were out doing the scuba thing, I stayed back at the apartment—overlooking the ocean—preparing my Lent and Easter messages. The apartment had a dock with steps leading straight into the sea, making a swim in the ocean both easy and inviting. The water was so clear and impossibly blue that I finally decided to take a break. While the others were away, I would go snorkelling.

Fins on. Mask on. Snorkel in. And off I went.

While snorkelling, I found myself captivated by the fish—not because they were flashy or rare, but because of how they moved.

They didn’t fight the waves.
They didn’t panic when the current shifted.
They simply relaxed… and went with it.

As the water swayed back and forth, the fish moved in rhythm with it—effortless, unhurried, trusting. Watching them felt like a quiet lesson in how much energy we waste resisting what we cannot control.

It made me wonder: how often do we exhaust ourselves fighting the current of life?

We push against seasons we didn’t choose. We tense up when plans change. We struggle to hold everything together, convinced that peace comes from control. But those fish reminded me that survival—and even joy—sometimes comes from surrender, not striving.

Scripture echoes this wisdom again and again:

“Be still, and know that I am God.”
— Psalm 46:10

Stillness isn’t passivity. It’s trust.
It’s choosing to believe that God is present in the waves, not just the calm.

Jesus offers a similar invitation:

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28

Rest doesn’t mean the currents disappear. It means we stop fighting them alone.

There are seasons when God calls us to act boldly—and seasons when faith looks like floating, breathing, and letting the Spirit carry us where we need to go. Like the fish, we are not meant to live clenched and rigid. We are created to move with grace, guided by a current far wiser than our own effort.

So maybe the question isn’t, How do I stop the waves?
Maybe it’s, Can I trust God enough to move with them?

Today, if life feels choppy, take heart. Loosen your grip. Breathe deeply. Let yourself be held.

God is in the water with you—and the current, somehow, knows the way. 🌊🐟

Little by little

 There’s that old proverb: a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Some days that feels overwhelming. Other days, it feels incredibly hopeful. Because no matter how long the journey is, it always starts the same way—one step. And if you keep stepping, you’ll get somewhere.  

But here’s the sobering part: we get to where we want to be and where we don’t want to be the exact same way. One step at a time. One day at a time. Direction matters. That’s why the theme that keeps coming back to my heart is this: little by little—being too small to fail.  

When God was preparing Israel to enter the Promised Land, He didn’t hype them up with false bravado. God reminded them of reality. The nations were bigger. Stronger. Scarier. And Israel felt small. But God said, essentially, that’s the point. When you’re small, you depend on Me. And when I’m with you, you’re too small to fail.

Then God says something surprising: I’m not going to do this all at once. “Little by little I will drive them out before you.” Why? Because power is perishable. Yesterday’s faith can’t carry today’s obedience. We need God daily—daily bread, daily strength, daily trust. And also because God doesn’t give us more than we’re ready to maintain. What you obtain, you have to sustain. That’s a word for us.

So many of us have big dreams for the next five years. Learn something new. Heal something old. Build something meaningful. Become more like Jesus. But where we get stuck is that we make the steps so big that we never start—or we start strong and burn out fast.

Here’s the shift: shrink the goal. Make it stupidly small. One prayer. One page. One push-up. One kind word. One act of obedience. Something so small you’d almost be embarrassed not to do it. Because once you start moving, momentum kicks in. And even if you don’t do more than the minimum that day, you’ve still won. You showed up. And over time, those small wins stack up.

Jesus said the Kingdom works this way. A mustard seed. Tiny. Almost invisible. But planted consistently, it becomes something that gives life and shelter to others.

Don’t despise the small beginnings. Don’t quit because the progress feels invisible. God is at work in the “little by little.” And five years from now, you won’t be able to trace the transformation back to one big moment—but to thousands of faithful, ordinary steps.

So take the step. The small one. The one you can’t fail at. Because many littles really do make a great whole!

Change without a crisis

We’re in part two of our series The Future You and we’re still sitting with two simple—but powerful—questions:

Who will I be five years from now if I keep doing what I’m doing today?
And… who do I want to be five years from now?

Because momentum matters. Life is a bit like a train—you may not be steering it, but it is taking you somewhere. And if you don’t like the destination, now is the time to get off.

This isn’t about New Year’s resolutions. Twelve months is rarely enough time to become who God is shaping us to be. So instead, we’re asking a bigger question: What could God do in 60 months that one year would only begin?

That brings us to today’s theme: change without a crisis.

In 1 Kings 19, we meet Elisha—an ordinary guy having an ordinary workday. He’s plowing fields, minding his business, running a very successful family operation. Think wealth, security, and a very clear future. Shaphat Farms was thriving, and Elisha was next in line.

Then Elijah shows up.

No warning. No speech. He simply throws his cloak over Elisha’s shoulders and walks away.

And Elisha knows exactly what it means.

This is a call. A costly one.

Elisha asks to say goodbye to his parents—and then he does something wild. He slaughters the oxen, burns the plow, and throws a barbecue. Translation? There’s no going back. He chooses obedience without a crisis pushing him. No famine. No disaster. No failure. Just a quiet, courageous “yes” to God.

What follows is even harder.

Eighteen years pass.

Eighteen years of obscurity. Eighteen years of serving. Scripture tells us exactly one thing Elisha did during that time: he poured water on Elijah’s hands.

That’s it.

No sermons. No miracles. Just faithfulness.

And yet—when the moment finally comes, when Elijah is taken to heaven in a fiery whirlwind (of course he is), Elisha asks for a double portion of Elijah’s spirit. And God answers.

Here’s the encouragement for us: big futures are built through quiet obedience.

Elisha’s story reminds us that meaningful change usually looks like three things:

Drastic action.
Something has to spark the change. Burning the plow. Drawing a line. Saying, “No more half-measures.”

Steady progression.
Faithfulness over time. Small steps. Daily obedience. Just keep pouring water.

Momentum.
Eventually, the right habits, the right choices, and the right focus begin to carry you forward. What was once hard becomes natural. What felt impossible becomes sustainable.

Change doesn’t require a crisis—but it does require courage.

Five years from now, you’ll be somewhere. The question is whether you’ll arrive there accidentally—or intentionally, trusting God every step of the way.

Pray boldly. Dream faithfully. And take the next right step.

God is already at work in the future you.