Tiny Matters.


“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on.” – Apostle Paul, Letter to Philippi

“If the Spirit of Him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, He who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through His Spirit who dwells in you.” – Apostle Paul, Letter to Rome


Tiny, tiny, tiny. How quick I am to make vast that which is meant to be tiny. How prone I am to be so set on what is yet to come that I fail to develop that which is. How easy it is to remember, remember, remember what was, or fantasize over what will be.

I forget that pressing on means pressing in.

Pressing in to the crazy, risky desire to relentlessly surrender all that you are for all that He is. Right now. Today. In every moment with every breath.

It’s to believe that who He is inside of you is more than you could ever be alone. It’s to acknowledge the anointing of His Spirit on your beautiful life and then to expect that to mightily impact all that happens within you.

The promise spoken by the Spirit through Paul is paramount, profound, and beyond nature. That is, that our mortal bodies will receive life forever through the Spirit that dwells within us. What was was once subject to death shall now eternally exist.

But how quick we are to limit the power within! Keeping the Spirit cooped up in our hearts like a dormant disease. Liable to return, but only if stirred.

And heaven knows you aren’t dreaming big enough to stir the power that conquered the grave.

You could dwell in what lies behind. You could make your home in yesterday and never be evicted. You could repaint the walls and change the carpet. Fix it up real nice with photos of what was neatly nailed on every wall. Spend your life thinking of all you used to do, all you used to be. You could, you could, you could.

Or you could move into what lies ahead. You could spend all of your todays waiting for tomorrow, pushing away your current to-do list and dwelling instead inside the wonder of what will someday be. But you’ll have to take down your bird feeder, because in the midst of your waiting, you’ll forget to fill it up. And your welcome mat cannot stay, because your mind will never be present enough to receive the guests that pass your home slowly, hoping for an invitation inside. You could, you could, you could.

You could live in tiny matters.

But must you? Must you forget that yesterdays are lovely to visit, but never fit to live in? Must you forget that dreaming & hoping & wishing are beautiful practices, but meaningless when disconnected from this very moment?

As you develop the confidence to let go, may it breed it the desire to dig deep. To know that what you’ve been given for this day is holy. It’s timely. It’s for you right now. It’s enough.

Do you need someone to tell you?

You are brave. You are capable of fighting anything that comes your way. You’re going to be victorious, Beloved. You aren’t fighting alone. So rally up your troops and commit to fight together. Find your home team, your 2am-phone-call team, and get a game plan.

Promise to never obsess over tiny matters.

Promise to dig deep. Promise to fight, fight, fight for Truth when the army of lies comes to ransack your liberated heart. Promise to ask hard questions, and pray bold prayers, and eat an entire gallon of moose track ice cream on days when you waved your white flag long before lunch. Memorize that game plan and wake up every morning determined to see the Son shine. Resolve to reflect it like a full moon over the Atlantic and then get to it.

You were made for this – To press on. To look up. To be the indwelling of the Spirit of Yahweh God. Don’t let it be wasted in tiny matters.

Chasing the Light.

2:06 am.

The lights were out and I was finally curled up tight under seven layers of blankets, and I was still a little cold. The winter moonlight shone through my window, just bright enough to remind me how small I am, but not too bright to keep me up. Just before I turned on my lullaby playlist to woo me into dreamland, I started coughing uncontrollably. Unexpected & unrelenting, I needed a reprieve. Although going downstairs meant braving the cold wood floors on my finally warm toes, it also meant the refreshment of water, so I sucked it up and crawled out of bed.

I subconsciously reached my hand toward my lamp to help me see, but paused just before and decided against it. I was already accustom to the darkness of my room and knew the light would hurt my eyes. I took teeny tiny baby steps and felt around with my hands to make it to the door and down the stairs. There’s a nightlight in the hallway (I guess for reasons like this? Mom thinks of everything.), and I was grateful for it as I embarked on my late night quest around the corner, down the stairs, through the dining room, and into the kitchen.

I was grateful for the just-enough-not-to-stumble light, and even more grateful for the way it refused to offend my quite-comfortable-with-the-darkness eyes. Almost as if it knew I couldn’t bear any more wattage than it was weakly providing.


As I lived it late that night, I remembered my soul sister Emily sharing a similar lesson. She told me that when she turned the light off at the door to her bedroom, she would wait a moment before climbing the ladder to the loft that held her bed. She would wait, she said, “until my eyes adjusted to the darkness.”

We marveled at the reality of our hearts and our longing to do just enough that we have a little light to see, but not enough to eradicate the darkness.

I think it’s the purity of child’s heart that encourages their fear of darkness. Little ones are terrified of what could be lurking in the unknown… in the closet, under the bed, in the hallway behind the door.

But as we grow, we see this sensitivity as a weakness and we try to acclimate to the darkness as quickly as we can. We consider it an inward victory to face darkness with unwavering confidence. No need for nightlights or Daddy’s to assure us our room is monster-free. We’re more than comfortable to be immersed in what we once found repulsive.

Like Emily climbing up the loft, we become quicker and quicker at finding our way, until without realizing it, we’re avoiding the light altogether.

But if I’m honest,

I think I’m afraid of the light.

With the lights on you can see the unpacked boxes I gave up on and shoved in the corner, the pile of clothes unfolded at the end of my unmade bed, and every pair of shoes I’ve worn in the last week, strewn carelessly across the room. You can see what I should have cleaned weeks ago, and you can see it well.

I’m afraid of what will be exposed when the light comes on. The discipline that you should find in my life but won’t. The selfish thoughts and mean-spirited comments. The impatience in tense situations and the desire to promote myself instead of Christ. And worse of all, the fear that always seems to outweigh my faith.

And for that, I like the darkness. I fight to keep my mess hidden well enough that only I can see it.

But the problem with hiding your mess is that you hide everything else too. You hide the goodness, and the joy, and the whimsy. You hide the paintings on the wall and the pictures on the nightstand. You hide the pretty quilt you searched seven stores to find and the happy yellow you chose to paint your room. You hide the glory of a brave heart, braver still for knowing it’s not invincible.

I’m learning to be brave.

& learning to chase the light.