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Do you ever see a bible verse so often, printed on mugs, plastered on peoples instagram feeds or posted on Facebook, it almost loses its power?
Jeremiah 29:11 was one of those for me.
It’s one of the few bible verses where I remember the first time it really spoke to me. I was probably 15, and it was the word I needed at that exact moment in time. But that was years ago. And honestly, I’d become desensitized to it.
I think God looks for those moments.
Those places in our hearts were a truth from His word has become something we’ve begun to overlook. Maybe it’s overuse or misuse of the verse, or because the life you’ve lived seems to disagree with the promise in His word. Whatever the reason I think He looks for those opportunities to shine a new light on a verse we’ve known for years.
For I know the plans I have for you… It’s a great promise, but after a year of incredible change in our lives, it seemed, distant.
Almost one year ago exactly my wife and I went on a walk and uttered words, only weeks prior, we would never have dreamt would come out of our mouths. After 8 years in St. Louis, and without any lead-up, we both felt very strongly that we were being called to a new city, a new state, to move closer to her family. To pickup our lives, say goodbye to a church that was home, to friends that were closer than family, and a life-group that absolutely gave us life.
Only weeks before this early-July conversation, we’d said goodbye to two very good friends who were embarking on their own relocation journey. And on the way home from sending them off, I can distinctly remember telling my wife how grateful I was that we had no plans to move anywhere. We had no plans.
For I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and give you hope… in the following 8 weeks, all that changed. A walk through the neighborhood quickly became conversations with our pastors, trips to Lowes for moving supplies, and 3 months later we said our own goodbyes.
For nearly the last year, we’ve lived in a new city, a new state, a new place we’re leaning to call home.
I’d be lying if I said it had been easy.
It’s not.
We’ve been here almost 10 months and we’ve still not found our circle. We’ve been praying for the place we fit, the place we’ll call home, and the new friends we’ll make…. but it hasn’t happened yet.
Yes, the Lord has been incredibly faithful, but we’ve felt… alone.
It wasn’t until last week, in my bible-reading, that I realized something about Jeremiah 29:11.
Something I’ve missed for decades.
Jeremiah 29:11 isn’t written for just anyone. That chapter is a letter written to a specific people group. The prophet Jeremiah wrote to the children of Israel who had been carried into exile.
Merriam Webster defines exile as the state or a period of forced absence from one’s country or home. We found ourselves strangers in a strange land, alone, exiles. And suddenly this entire portion of scripture made so much more sense.
v4: Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile…. The Lord Himself, the God of Angel Armies, says to those WHOM HE SENT into exile.
Are you feeling alone? Have the last 6 months or a year completely rocked your world? Is everything different this year? If you look back at July 2025, did you know you’d be where you’re currently at? Or has everything shifted?
Maybe, just maybe, He’s sent you on this path.
v5: Build houses, settle down, live in them, plant gardens and enjoy their fruit. Get married, have babies, multiply, and do not decrease. Did we want to move to Oklahoma? No. But we were called to do so. So we’re not just moving here, we’re leaning in. We’re learning what it looks like to make this new place, home.
v7: Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare. Seek the welfare, the goodness, the betterment of the city that He has carried us into. Our prayers look different now. We’re praying for Oklahoma. We’re looking for small businesses to support. We’re praying for the education system, the industry, its churches and leaders and government. We’re actively seeking the goodness of the place the Lord sent us to. Because He tells us to. And because when the city prospers, we prosper.
And while all those things are good, and worthwhile, and beautiful in their own way, it was the simple reality that this verse was written originally to a people who were far from home, far from what they knew, and were clinging to the goodness of the God who had sent them there, that has had the biggest impact.
No one wants to talk about moving to a place they never wanted to go. No one wants to think that one of the greatest promises in the bible wasn’t originally written for graduation cards, but to those in exile. But that’s the reality of this promise.
Is Oklahoma our home?
Not yet. But it’s getting there.
v11: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,” declares the Lord, “and will bring you back from captivity. I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you,” declares the Lord, “and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile.”
The promise in chapter 29 covers a period of 70 years. His promise to bring his children back from exile isn’t instant, there is a long timeline attached, but He didn’t leave His children without a plan, a purpose, and a promise. And while we still find ourselves in Oklahoma, and while we don’t know what the timeline looks like or what the future holds, He hasn’t left us alone either. He’s given us:
The plan: Build houses, move in, live where He has planted us.
The purpose: Pursue the betterment of our new community. Pray for it. Seek its blessing for its blessing is our blessing.
The promise: He still has plans for us. And He still has plans for you.
It may not look like what you thought, but that’s ok. Because it is His plan. And He is trustworthy.
Each year my wife and I make all these grandiose plans to do ALL THE CHRISTMAS THINGS. And I promise myself I’ll have every gift purchased and in the mail much earlier than I ever do.
And each year, that never happens.
Maybe it’s because I’m not a kid anymore. Maybe it’s because the last few months of this year had a lot of big, adult things to deal with. Maybe it’s because of the state of the world. Maybe it’s all of the above.
But this year more than any other, it felt like it was September, I sneezed, and Christmas was somehow only a few days away.
One of those big things we faced a few weeks ago was a possible cancer diagnosis. Erin had a routine checkup and one hormone level came back very elevated. So elevated that her Doctor asked her to come in the very next day for additional testing.
The few days waiting for the results, and finally hearing the news that all was OK and that she was fine, were disquieted days.
If I’m honest, I wasn’t sure how to feel. I’m still not. I had to be brave for her. I had to be present, which was one of the hardest parts of this. I couldn’t just ignore the scary feelings. I couldn’t just pretend there were no hard parts. I had to sit in the mess and face some hard emotions and scary questions..
Last weekend, I finally had some time to decompress and begin processing all that had gone on over the last few weeks. I ended up stumbling upon my all time favorite Christmas TV Special, The Little Drummer Boy. It’s always been my favorite, but somehow I’ve not found it on TV in probably 20 years, which makes this all the more special. Because while I remember the overarching story (as I’m sure you do), I had totally forgotten the details.
Spoiler alert — if you’d prefer to watch it and not have the story spoiled, skip to the bottom.
Our little drummer boy (Aaron) had a great childhood. His parents loved him tremendously and he cared greatly for the animals on their little farm. His parents gifted him a little drum and out of the abundance of love in that gift, anytime the little boy played his little drum, the animals would dance.
Then it gets dark.
Thieves break in and burn the farm to the ground. They kill his father. And just before his mother is murdered, she hands him the little lamb and his drum and tells him to run.
Like I said, dark.
What was once a carefree, cared for little boy becomes a jaded, wounded and broken young man who finds himself leading his few remaining animals (including the little lamb) through the desert trying to survive. But Aaron still plays his drums, and the animals still dance.
It was the dancing animals that piqued the interest of a Ben Haramed, traveling entertainer/con-man. Ben immediately desires the dancing animals and essentially kidnaps Aaron and forces him to perform. Throughout their journeys they cross paths with the three Wise Men who, in need of a camel, inquire about buying Aaron’s camel. Ben Haramed, ever interested in getting rich, sees the predicament of the Wise Men and without telling the Wise Men of his greed, sell a camel he doesn’t own…. giving Aaron only a pittance of the money earned.
Our little drummer boy is able to break free and he, his little lamb and donkey then give chase, trying to find the Wise Men in an attempt to free their camel.
They finally catch up to the Wise Men in Bethlehem. Where, during the the crowds and commotion of the shepherds coming to see the newborn king and the excitement brought to the little town of Bethlehem because of the arrival of these Wise Men, the little lamb gets trampled and injured severely.
The Little Drummer Boy is heartbroken. He knows his most precious possession is is gravely wounded, and he knows he’s unable to do anything to fix it. But he has hope, for the Wise Men may know how to save his little lamb.
So the Little Drummer Boy pushes his way through the crowds, searching for and finally finding one of the Wise Men. He begs for help. The Wise Man looks at the little lamb and knows he’s unable to do anything, for the lamb is too gravely wounded. The Little Drummer Boy exclaims “But I don’t understand, you are a king?!“
And the Wise Man responds and says, “A mortal king only…. but there is a King among Kings who would save your little friend”.
The Little Drummer Boy doesn’t understand and the Wise Man tells him he doesn’t need to understand. But to just go to the babe.
Our Little Drummer Boy lays down his lamb, approaches the new born king, and worships. And he plays his drum.
I’d forgotten that part of the story. Of course I knew the song. But over time I’d forgotten the story and I filled in those gaps with assumptions. I assumed the little boy wanted to worship, I assumed he wanted to bring something to the newborn King. But it wasn’t that at all. It wasn’t that the Little Drummer Boy wanted to bring a gift to the Christ because he was the Christ, it wasn’t that he’d journeyed to Bethlehem to give the honor due…
No, his story was simpler, more human. Our Little Drummer Boy had a need he knew he could never fulfill.
It was that need, that love for his little lamb, that drove him to seek out the Wise Men. And it was the Wise Men who pointed him to Christ.
And it was Christ who had what our Little Drummer Boy needed. What I needed.
Healing for his little lamb, and healing for his heart.
This weekend always brings a flood of emotion to Erin and I. A weekend of celebration, and rightfully so, for so many. A weekend where we celebrate our moms, grandmothers, aunts and the moms we adopted along the way.
But if you’re the 1 in 15 of couples who struggle with infertility, this weekend is different.
If you’re the 1 in 100 that has lost a child, this weekend is different.
This weekend may not be one of celebrating.
Maybe you didn’t go dress shopping for a new outfit. Maybe you won’t go to church this Sunday. Maybe you smile and celebrate with your friends while putting on a brave face that hides a desire long unfulfilled.
Maybe this weekend is more questions than answers.
Maybe this weekend will be different, because things are different.
My wife and I have walked this infertility journey for a decade. The entirety of our marriage. We have felt alone. We have felt lost, and we have felt loss. And I’ve not always handled it well. My wife would tell you that for a long time I didn’t want to be a dad.
For most of my life, I was terrified of making the same mistakes my father made. So in my late teens, I came to the conclusion that I’d simply never have kids. It was simple, I could not mess up that which I do not have. I am incredibly grateful for the healing I’ve experienced since those days, I’m not that person any longer.
But still. Different.
It’s different when the very first question anyone asks is ‘do you have any kids?’. It’s different when you’re on a first name basis with your dog’s physical therapist but have never met a pediatrician. It’s different when you’ve made new friends, but you struggle to invite them over because you don’t have kids for their kids to play with, you don’t have a kids room they can play in.
It’s just, different.
But if I could say one thing to my wife, and to anyone who resonates with our story, it would be this.
Yes, things are different.
Circumstances are different. Hard and painful questions exist that do not have answers.
Yes, this weekend will be different.
But you are not different.
You not broken.
You are not forgotten.
Your story is not over.
You are not different.
2019 begins in little more than 24 hours when I write this. 24 hours and 8 minutes to be exact.
A lot of people take the turning of the calendar as an opportunity to create lists of resolutions; things they want to change about themselves or things they want to accomplish.
I have never done that.
Two decades worth of new years as an adult and I honestly cannot recall ever having a resolution.
I just figured out why.
For me, a resolution is not worth the paper it is written on simply because “wanting” something never brings it about.
Wanting to lose weight does not shed pounds. Wanting to read more does not put a book in my hands. Wanting to have more friends does not make them available via Amazon Prime.
Wanting, for me, never solved anything. Because I never quit the core issue.
This year, I am no longer just wanting.
This year, I am breaking up with you.
Dear Fear – we are through. You have controlled too many of my choices for far too many years. I never want to see you again.
Self-Doubt – we are over. Move out. I am no longer going to listen to your voice.
Inadequacy – it feels like you have been around the longest. So, I may have to say this more than once.
So I will.
Get the hell out.
2019 is mine.
I will own who I become in 2019. Not you. Take fear and self-doubt and never come back.
I know you.
You will return.
Now that I have called you out, now that I have made this public, you will do everything you can to stop me.
Bring it on. With all the conviction I can muster, I will remind you every. single. time.
You no longer own me.
Not because we recently moved and are still looking for a church to call home. Not because we’re not feeling well (we feel great). And not because it’s late and we’ll sleep in (we won’t).
Tomorrow is Mother’s Day.
For millions of people, that means a day full of cards, flowers, brunch and FaceTime or phone calls or actual face-to-face time.
For us, for my wife, that means it’s the one day we absolutely do not go to church.
Why?
Because more than anything, she wants to be a mom.
I don’t type those words lightly.
She has 100% of the desire. And 0% of the results.
It’s been years. We’re both healthy. The doctors have no diagnosis. The answer is just “no”. And we don’t know why.
I don’t speak often of infertility. It’s not something that most people are comfortable speaking about. We either hear the jokes about “not doing it right” or folks already have a family. When you’re 38, most of your friends have kids. Lots of them. And you’ve got a dog.
For my wife, that means she’s different, or somehow ‘less-than’ other women. Think about it – what happens when a bunch of moms get together to hang out? Their children rule the conversation. When the topic is potty-training little Tommy, sharing stories about your rescue dog just makes you look weird.
So tomorrow, we don’t go to church. We avoid social media. We celebrate our moms and the moms in our lives, and Maple (our four-legged child) gives “Mom” a Mothers Day Card. But we don’t go to church.
Because it hurts my wife too much.
If you know someone like my wife, someone who’s kids have fur, then take a moment tomorrow to send her a note. Wish her a Happy Mothers Day.
You’ll never understand what it might mean.
So, tomorrow? Tomorrow, I will love my wife. I’ll continue to support her, to be a father to our pup, a husband to her, and I will remind her in every way she can that she is 100% a woman and 100% a mom, even if our kids have four legs.
I believe a lie.
Unintentionally.
Or, maybe even intentionally.
I believe a lie.
Some part of me has accepted as eternal what I know is only temporary. Some part of me has assumed that life would always be the way it is right now. Or the way it was a little more than 4 weeks ago.
I know, a lot of folks would look at the death of a pet as just that, the death of a pet. Rarely however, do we know the whole story of another’s life.
When you’ve been trying to get pregnant for the better part of 2.5 years and have had no success, when you see your wife go through month after month perfectly healthy cycles, when the doctors prognosis is “unexplained infertility”, a pet may take on a little more meaning.
4 weeks ago our world was turned inside out.
What was the two of us and our beautiful Bailey working through this thing called infertility became just the two of us navigating unexpected and uncharted waters.
It’s not been easy.
And it’s been harder on my wife.
She’s fought so hard to keep a positive attitude even when it seemed like every couple we knew were cranking out kids like I sneeze around cats, that losing our “little girl” hit her hard.
There have been lots of tears. Lots of “why?”. Lots of trying to understand how my wife, who wants to love a child with all her being would have the closest thing we have to a child taken so suddenly.
It doesn’t make sense.
But it does make me love her more.
5 years ago this month I asked her to marry me, and I can say without any doubt that I wouldn’t want to walk this road with anyone but her.
She is strong. She is brave. She is passionate. She is powerful and beautiful and caring. She is an amazing woman and an amazing mom to our four-legged daughter. And it angers me to know I cannot fix what is now wrong.
Time doesn’t heal wounds.
Yes, it takes time for us to understand what broke, to deal with the emotions, to talk through and work through the mess, but time is nothing more than the road traveled on the path to healing.
I don’t know what lies next on the road ahead of us. But I do know my wife will never walk it alone.
5 years ago I said “I Do”. And I mean those words now more than I ever have.
I do love you with all my heart. I do promise to be there through thick and thin. I do think you’re cute even when you’re angry at me about something. I do believe that God is still good and good will come of this. I do know you’re so much stronger than you think. I do know you’ve got a bright future. I do want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life because
I do know we’re inseparable.
And with all the unknowns in life, I’m going to cling to what I do know.
I know I love you. I know you love me. And I know God loves us.
So wherever, whenever, anytime, anyplace
I do.
I never seem to know exactly what words will flow when I put finger to keyboard. So, rarely do my posts begin by immediately typing the title.
Today is different.
While scrolling through my Facebook feed this afternoon, two words caught me.
Uncommon Courage.
And I realized that I think it is a myth. I do not believe uncommon courage exists today.
Not anymore.
Because I think any courage today, is uncommon courage.
Today it is common to shout until you are heard or at least shout loud enough so no one else can hear the other guy. Uncommon courage is to disagree with someone and allow them to speak.
It is common to disrupt and protest using violence. It is uncommon courage to demonstrate peacefully.
It is common to become offended, declare loudly that someone is intolerant and while being just as intolerant, attempt to silence those who hold opposing views. It is uncommon courage to be so certain of your beliefs that when someone disagrees, you are not insulted or offended.
It is uncommon courage to admit you were wrong, admit you need help, admit you are imperfect or flawed.
It is uncommon courage to admit you need a savior, that you struggle with fear or lust or worry or insecurity. It is uncommon courage to stay faithful to your spouse, to provide for your family, to be a good parent. It is uncommon courage to stand up for what is right simply because it is right.
Our world does not suffer from a lack of uncommon courage, it suffers from a lack of courage.
We traded a deep knowing of who we are for the shallow security of what other people think. And in doing so, we gave away our courage.
We are no longer certain of our beliefs, so we defend when someone disagrees. We are no longer certain of ourselves or that we are good, so we flee when things get difficult. We are no longer certain we are loved, so we chose physical intimacy to numb the ache. And we are terrified to be alone so we jump from relationship to relationship to fill the void.
We wandered away from knowing who HE is. And we lost who we are.
The solution, as most are, is simple but not easy.
Vulnerability. Being real with ourselves first and our friends and family second. Being honest about our shortcomings, and our need of a savior. And being humble enough to allow Him to come in and change our hearts.
I am not there yet. I am still flawed. I still care about what others think about me, I am insecure, I struggle with fear and lust and pride and worry and… the list goes on.
No, I am not as courageous as I want to be. But I am more courageous than I was last year, and I will be more courageous next year.
I will be a good husband. I will love and provide for my wife. I will follow the Heart of the One who courageously created beings with free will. I will do the right thing just because it’s right.
And I will be courageous.
There are moments in life where it seems all my efforts and hard work can be boiled down to balancing spinning plates or juggling for pocket-change from passerby’s.
I should be saving more.
I should have read all the fine print.
I should be working out.
I’m not working hard enough.
Balls. Plates. Me.
Juggling, dancing, balancing, trying desperately to not let another plate drop.
Why am I so afraid of failing? Of the sound of a plate crashing to the floor? Am I still clinging to the foolish notion that somehow my efforts are what make me valuable?
Is that what life was meant to be like? Is that what God envisioned when He painted the first sunrise? 7 billion people running around trying to balance plates? Was that the dream in His heart?
Is it the dream in ours?
No one is born dreaming of TPS reports, P&L statements or business plans. We dreamed of being the hero, or being rescued by one. We dreamed of finding love and of changing the world. We dreamed of being someone. Of having stories to tell.
We dreamed of fulfilling our purpose on purpose.
But at some point, we stopped dreaming those dreams. We didn’t necessarily give up , we just allowed these dreams to be replaced. Now we wonder if we were we really designed to order our lives around being productive.
Do we really think He looks down from above and hopes we do not drop the ball? That His biggest dream for all humanity is that we get satisfactory marks on our yearly performance reviews?
Was that really what God thought when He carved the Grand Canyon?
Or when He created you?
Or is it possible that He dreams bigger dreams?
Is it possible that this God of love, who created us in love, created us to love?
Is it possible that the artist who paints the sky each morning an evening only to throw away the canvas and start afresh the next day is somehow challenging us to let a few plates drop? To not be so focused on performing and give ourselves permission to actually experience the life He wants for us? Is it possible that this eternally creative being challenges us to be creative?
Is it possible that the passion in your heart, the artistry, creativity, and the wonder that is you was placed there on purpose?
“Remember these things, O Jacob.
Take it seriously, Israel, that you’re my servant.
I made you, shaped you: You’re my servant.
O Israel, I’ll never forget you.
I’ve wiped the slate of all your wrongdoings.
There’s nothing left of your sins.
Come back to me, come back.
I’ve redeemed you.”
(Isaiah 44)
I made you, shaped you.
You are His creation, created to create. You are loved, loved to love. You are unforgettable.
So yes, it is possible.
Let a few plates drop. Make room in your life to pursue your dreams, create, love and live.
It’s why you’re here.
My wife and I went through a big disappointment recently.
I don’t get disappointed.
I don’t – because I don’t allow myself to hope, at least not too much.
Sure, I hope it’ll be sunny tomorrow, and I hope that package I’m expecting comes soon. And I hope traffic isn’t bad tomorrow and that lunch is tasty. But I don’t hope for the big things.
I don’t hope for friends.
For more.
I don’t hope for the relationship David shared with Jonathan.
I don’t hope for things to be really, really amazing.
Do I want those things? Yes! But do I allow my heart to get involved? No.
But this disappointment, I thought this was a sure thing. I didn’t think there was any way it wouldn’t happen. I hoped. And when it failed, I was heartbroken. I got physically sick, twice. I hurt.
I had opened my heart.
And it broke. Again.
So, I don’t hope. If I don’t hope, I don’t have to worry about heartache. Because, quite simply, my heart isn’t in it.
My wife says I’m a hard-sell, difficult to impress or sway. She says I’m suspicious of things that seem to be too good to be true. 
And she’s right. I am. Cynical. Closed off to keep the pain of the world out. And to protect the pieces of my heart.
It is not a sad thing, it just is what it is. I learned when I was very young that I was responsible for my happiness, so I found joy and peace in things I could control. And many years later I learned that relationships were just another package that disappointment came in. So I gave up on them.
I hit pause. Found my happiness in what I could control, and survived.
My wife is a queen.
Because she was there when we ran into these walls I created. She peeked over the top, and she didn’t run screaming after. She was patient as I began to pick them apart. She is supportive, understanding, and she has shown me the me she sees. And because of that, I like me more. And I love her more.
We all run from things. Sometimes those things chase us. And sometimes our running is the decision to stand still and let things pass us by.
I don’t want to run any more. No, I’m not suddenly an extrovert just dying to spend hours and hours in a large group of people. But, I’m also no longer alone inside my walls. And my wife did that.
She loved me through my walls
She was Jesus when I wouldn’t let Jesus in.
I have hope. And I will never be the same.
Martin Smith – Angel:
It seems each year it I find it just a bit harder to slow down and really experience this thing we call “Christmas Spirit”.
Black Friday starting on Thursday, Local Saturday and Cyber Monday have overtaken giving thanks, celebrating a meal with family and friends and enjoying each others company while making memories.
Now, we’re all buried in our digital devices looking for sales, deals and the next thing to buy.
And in the midst of doing, we lose something.
I had a few moments this evening to slow down and it hit me that Christmas is only a week away. My wife and I have talked several times this year about how fast this season is passing by and about how hard it’s been to get into the spirit.
And in the silence of the moment, something whispered to me about the first Christmas.
Maybe Christ chose a manger, shepherds and barnyard animals to tell us something. Maybe, in the midst of a census decreed by the king that required everyone to journey to their hometown, maybe Christ was telling us that Christmas would be chaotic.
Maybe in the stress of tens of thousands of people travelling all at the same time, in the craziness of sold out hotels and no room left in the inn, we’re supposed to see something.
Maybe we’re supposed to notice the simplicity and the beautiful restraint we see when we look at the arrival of the King of Kings not heralded by men, not surrounded by the best doctors money can buy and crowds of newscasters outside, but instead encompassed by the love of a mother and father, watched over by angels and announced to simple shepherds.
Maybe we’re supposed to realize that in the chaos of the season, we need to make time for those moments of silence. We’re supposed to actually remember the birth of the One we sing about. And maybe we’re supposed to remember that the birth of this little baby is simple.
We needed a savior.
Our loving God sent one.
And the earth stood still.
For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
Of the greatness of his government and peace there will be no end.
Isaiah 9:6-7
Future of Forestry – The Earth Stood Still
FindingTheCourageToDream.com 