Gravel and Uncertainty
Finding Balance When Nothing Feels Steady
If potholes jar you, gravel just unnerves you.
Every cyclist knows the feeling. You roll onto a stretch of loose gravel and suddenly your bike has a mind of its own. The tires skitter. The handlebars wobble. You grip tighter, slow down, and pray you can keep your balance. Even the smoothest ride can turn into a nerve-wracking shuffle when the ground beneath you won’t hold.
Life has those stretches too - - the seasons when nothing feels steady.
- When the GPS of your life suddenly says, “Recalculating…”
- When the bills keep coming but the paycheck doesn’t.
- When the path you thought was smooth suddenly shifts under your feet.
Gravel moments leave you wondering if you can hold it together.
When your road bike hits gravel and starts to slip, the key is to stay relaxed. Tensing up and overcorrecting almost guarantees a crash. The trick is to let the bike move slightly under you, maintain your momentum steady, and make subtle shifts in body weight until you regain your balance.
Life asks for the same thing. When the ground feels unsteady - - when the diagnosis isn’t clear, when the job is shaky, when the future feels uncertain - - the temptation is to panic, to overcorrect, to grab the bars of life with a white-knuckle grip. But that only makes the wobble worse. What helps is loosening your grip just enough, trusting that balance can come back, and moving through the uncertainty one steady breath at a time.
I once hit a patch of gravel on a bayou bike trail - - a trail I thought I knew well. One second, everything felt fine, the next, I was wobbling like a circus clown. My instinct was to clamp down on the bars until my knuckles hurt. Somehow, I stayed upright. Looking back, I must have looked ridiculous - - half praying, half growling, all nerves. But I made it through. Slowly. Carefully. One shaky pedal stroke at a time.
And here’s the thing: gravel often shows up in the most unexpected places. A shoulder you thought was smooth, a bike lane that looked clear - - suddenly it’s loose, unstable, sketchy. One second you’re cruising, the next you’re praying you don’t slide out. Life feels the same way. The uncertainty sneaks up when you least expect it.
I’ve felt that same wobble in life. When I was first diagnosed with Sjögren’s Disease, it was like the pavement turned to gravel overnight. The routines I counted on didn’t work the same way. Energy came and went unpredictably. Plans had to be adjusted or abandoned. My instinct was to muscle through. But the harder I pushed, the shakier I felt.
And the truth is, it doesn’t matter which part of your life hits the gravel - - your health, your career, your relationships, or your finances. The wisdom is the same: slow down, breathe, and do whatever you can to stay upright.
That’s also why I’m writing this. On group rides, gravel isn’t just your problem. If you see it up ahead, the right thing to do is point it out so the riders behind you don’t get caught off guard. A quick finger to the ground, a small gesture - - it’s a way of saying, “Heads up, this could take you down if you’re not ready.”
Ride enough shoulders and bike lanes and you learn quickly: loose gravel is everywhere. Calling it out isn’t about being polite - - it’s about keeping people safe.
Life works the same way. When you’ve been through uncertain seasons - - health scares, job shifts, grief, or change - - you can point them out for the people coming behind you. Not to scare them, but to say, “You’re not crazy. This road is rough. Slow down. Keep your balance. You’ll get through.”
That simple act of looking out for each other? That’s its own kind of grace.
Gravel also exposes our illusion of control. On solid asphalt, I can trick myself into thinking I’m in charge. On gravel, I’m reminded just how fragile balance really is. Life’s uncertainties do the same thing. They peel back the illusion and force me to admit: I never had as much control as I thought.
And maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe that’s the place where trust grows - - not on smooth pavement, but in the loose stones where I learn to lean on something bigger than myself.
The good news?
Gravel doesn’t last forever. Eventually, the road smooths out. You breathe a little easier. The tires hum again. And when you get there, you don’t take it for granted. You savor it.
Life’s uncertainties are like that too. They teach us to slow down, to pay attention, to trust that the uneven stretch won’t last forever. And when stability comes back, we see it as the gift it is.
For me, even gravel becomes an
Unlikely Altar. It’s where I learn to loosen my grip, to slow down, to breathe. It’s where my prayers sound less like sermons and more like whispers: “God, just get me through this stretch.”
And often, that’s enough.
The road may still feel shaky, but grace shows up in the very act of staying upright.
Every December, the argument returns like a familiar carol sung a little too loud. Is Die Hard a Christmas movie? Some folks hold tight to their cocoa mugs and say, “ No way. ” Others smile the way you smile when the argument is already settled in your heart. I’ve come to believe the debate survives because it isn’t really about explosions or one-liners. It’s about where Christmas actually finds us. When I was preaching, Christmas was rarely quiet. Four or five services on Christmas Eve. Programs to assemble. Bulletins to proof. Candles to count. Microphones to fix. Holy night by way of logistics. I loved the people. I believed the message. But if I’m honest, there were years when I was just muscling through it all, trying to sound joyful while quietly counting the hours until December 26th. Not because I didn’t care. Because I was tired. Christmas had become something I delivered more than something I received. And then, late. After the sanctuaries were dark. After the last “ Merry Christmas ” was said. After the robe was hung back up. Die Hard would sometimes flicker onto the screen. No sermon. No sanctuary. Just a tired preacher on a couch watching a tired man crawl through air ducts, barefoot, scraped up, and refusing to quit. That’s when Christmas found me. First, the setting. Christmas Eve. Office party. Tinsel, teddy bears, and awkward small talk. The soundtrack includes sleigh bells and gunfire, which feels honest if we’re being real about the season. Love arrives on a plane. Redemption arrives barefoot. Second, the plot. A man flies across the country to fix a marriage. He brings a gun, sure, but mostly he brings humility. He learns to say the right name. He learns to ask for help. He learns that reconciliation costs something. If that’s not Advent, I’m not sure what is. Third, the theology of it all. Christmas, at its heart, insists that hope shows up where it shouldn’t. In a stable. In a cubicle farm. In a high-rise named Nakatomi. Grace breaks in during a holiday party and doesn’t bother to RSVP. This is why Die Hard feels like an altar to me. Not a cathedral altar with candles and quiet. An Unlikely Altar . The kind you stumble into while holding snacks. The kind that surprises you with meaning between explosions and one-liners. Because the movie isn’t really about violence. It’s about stubborn love. It’s about a man who keeps crawling through ducts because quitting would be easier, but it would be less faithful. It’s about choosing a relationship over pride. It’s about saying, “ I was wrong, ” and meaning it, even when the building is on fire. And yes, there is a Christmas miracle. Snow falls in Los Angeles. Paper snow, but still. A family is restored. A villain falls. A limo driver gets a tip. The season delivers what it always promises: not perfection, but presence. So, light the tree. Pour something festive. Put Die Hard on the screen and let it preach. Let it remind you that Christmas shows up loud and sideways, that love sometimes limps, and that grace can absolutely wear a tank top. An Unlikely Altar. A Holy night. Yippee-ki-yay, AMEN! 🎄💥
I don’t know your name, but I know this moment. You opened the conversation. You hesitated. And then life stepped in. You know, that happens more often than you might think. I’ve sat at kitchen tables where someone said, “ We meant to do this .” I’ve stood beside families who whispered, “ They kept saying they’d get to it. ” I’ve watched love carry grief—and then watched grief carry bills, decisions, and questions that felt impossibly unfair. This isn’t a letter written to rush you. It’s written because I’ve seen what happens when no one ever circles back. I once stood with a family the morning after a death. The house was quiet in that way only grief can make it. Coffee untouched. Phones buzzing with questions no one wanted to answer yet. Someone finally asked, “ Is there anything in place? ” But there wasn’t What followed wasn’t just sadness. It was scrambling. Credit cards. Awkward conversations. A weight added to a moment already heavy with love and loss. But there are those times when I have seen another scene. I’ve been with families where one small thing was already taken care of. Not everything. Just enough. And in those rooms, grief was still heavy—after all, love always makes it heavy—but it wasn’t tangled up with panic or uncertainty. That’s why this matters to me. Not because I sell final expense insurance. But because I’ve watched what happens when love prepares the way—and when it doesn’t get the chance. If you paused because the conversation felt heavy, I understand. If you paused because life got loud, I understand that, too. If you paused because you told yourself, “ I’ll come back to this ,” I’ve heard that sentence more times than I can count. This isn’t about fear. It’s about care. It’s about peace. It’s about love. Final expense planning isn’t about planning your death. It’s about caring for the people who will still be here when you’re gone. It’s about making sure grief doesn’t have to carry more than it already will. Love will always make grief heavy. A plan simply keeps other burdens from piling on. If you never come back to this conversation, I hope you still hear the heart behind it. And if someday you do return, I hope you know the door was always open. Because this work—this quiet, unseen preparation—is one of the last ways love shows up. And that is no small gift.
The service is over. The thank-you notes have been started. The flowers are starting to fade. Most of the company has travelled home. And the casseroles are stacked in mismatched containers, names written on blue tape. This is what the day after looks like. It’s the morning when the house is too quiet. When the adrenaline wears off. When everyone else has returned to their lives, and you are left standing in the middle of a room, wondering what happens next. Because grief is heavy enough. Not only is the day after quiet, but it is also the kind of silence that invites questions. And those questions can overwhelm you. Who do we call now? What needs to be paid? Is there insurance? Where is the paperwork? What did they want? These questions don’t come because people are being practical. They come because love is trying to keep going in the middle of loss. And because grief is heavy enough, those questions can feel overwhelming. I’ve spent years standing with families in these moments. As a pastor. As a celebrant. As someone who knows that the hardest parts often come after the service ends. I’ve seen families gathered around kitchen tables, coffee gone cold, paperwork spread out in quiet confusion. I’ve also seen something else. I’ve seen what happens when one small thing is already taken care of. Not everything. Just one thing. A simple plan. A clear answer. A quiet assurance that one question does not have to be asked today. Because grief is heavy enough without financial questions layered on top of it. When that piece is in place, something shifts in the room. Shoulders soften. Breathing slows. People are allowed to be exactly what they are in that moment— sad, tired, grieving, human. Final expense planning doesn’t take away grief. Nothing does. But it can take away one weight that doesn’t belong there. Because grief is heavy enough on its own. Planning ahead is not about paperwork or policies. It’s about peace. It’s about leaving behind one less burden for the people you love. It’s about making sure the day after holds space for tears instead of tension. If you’ve ever thought, I should probably take care of this someday, you’re not being morbid. You’re being loving. Because grief is heavy enough. Love will always make it heavy. Planning ahead just keeps other burdens from piling on — so families can grieve without also having to guess. And that is no small gift. If you’d like to talk about what planning ahead could look like for your family—without pressure and at your pace—I’m always here for that conversation. Breathe peace. Marty