Potholes and Setbacks
Finding Grace in the Bumps You Didn’t See Coming
If you ride long enough, you’ll eventually meet a pothole. Sometimes you see it too late and hit it head-on. Sometimes you try to swerve and still clip the edge. Either way, the result is the same: a jolt that rattles your teeth, jars your confidence, and makes you wonder if your wheels are still true.
On a bike, potholes are a given. Roads crack. Asphalt crumbles. Weather wears things down. Even the best-maintained streets have weak spots. And the thing about potholes? You almost never hit them when you’re expecting to. They sneak up on you, hiding in the shadows, waiting just past the last curve.
Life has its own potholes.
- The job loss you didn’t see coming.
- The diagnosis that drops in out of nowhere.
- The phone call that changes everything.
Setbacks jar us the same way a pothole does. They shake our sense of control. They remind us how fragile things can be. And if we’re not careful, they can throw us completely off balance.
I remember one ride in EaDo
when I let my mind wander. I was in the zone, legs spinning, enjoying the day—and then wham. My front wheel found a crater I hadn’t seen. The jolt nearly knocked me over. I pulled to the side, heart pounding, and checked my bike. The wheel held, but the hit had me rattled the rest of the ride.
That’s the thing about setbacks—they echo. After you’ve been jarred, even small bumps make you flinch. It takes time to trust the road again.
And I’ve felt that same echo in life. I’ve been blindsided before—times when everything seemed smooth and then suddenly, the bottom dropped out. Ministry shifts I didn’t expect. Friendships that cracked. Health challenges that made me feel more fragile than I wanted to admit. Just like on the bike, those potholes left me cautious, hesitant, scanning the horizon for the next crack in the road.
When I hit a pothole on the road, my first reaction is usually not very holy. I grumble about the city workers who should’ve filled it. And if the jolt is especially bad, well… let’s just say a few words come out that you won’t find in the hymnal.
But the truth is, we do the same thing in life. Something knocks us off balance, and our first instinct is to point a finger. Sometimes we turn it on ourselves, replaying the “what ifs” and “should haves” until we’re dizzy. Sometimes we turn it on others, blaming people who hurt us, failed us, or just happened to be standing too close when things fell apart. And sometimes—if I’m honest—we even point it at God, wondering why the road wasn’t made smoother in the first place.
Here’s the problem: blame never fills the hole. It doesn’t fix the wheel. It just keeps us stuck, staring at the crack in the road instead of finding a way forward. Blame feels satisfying for about five minutes, but it doesn’t heal anything. What actually helps is taking a deep breath, naming the hurt, learning what we can—and then pedaling on.
Here’s something every cyclist figures out sooner or later: if you lock your eyes on the pothole, you’re probably gonna hit the pothole. It’s like your bike reads your mind and says, “Oh, that’s where you’re looking? Great, let’s go there.” And worse, if you stare too long at what you’re trying to avoid, you might miss the car, the curb, or the rider right in front of you. Suddenly, the pothole isn’t your biggest problem anymore.
Life works the same way. If all I can see is the setback—the thing that went wrong—I’ll end up running headfirst into it again, or crashing into something else entirely. The better move is to lift my eyes, find my balance, and look for a smoother path forward. Sure, potholes sting. They can bruise your pride or even bend your rim. But they don’t have to end the ride.
Looking back, I realize potholes have taught me something important: smooth pavement is nice, but it rarely makes me stronger. It’s the potholes that remind me to stay alert, to pay attention, to appreciate the stretches of road that are even and kind. In life, setbacks can do the same. They teach us resilience, humility, patience. They remind us that perfection isn’t promised, but perseverance is possible.
For me, even the pothole becomes an Unlikely Altar.
It’s the place where frustration turns into prayer—sometimes an angry prayer, sometimes a desperate one, sometimes a simple sigh. The jolt in the road reminds me that I am not in control, but I am not alone. And somehow, grace shows up in the shaken balance, the deep breath, the steadying of hands on the bars.
The road is never perfectly smooth. Not when you’re riding a bike, and not when you’re living a life. I love to ride. My Trek Domane road bike isn’t just a machine—it’s my sanctuary on two wheels. There’s something holy about the rhythm of pedaling: lungs filling, legs burning, tires humming on the pavement. On a good day, it feels like prayer in motion. The wind in my face becomes grace I can feel. Out there, the noise of the world fades, and what’s left is rhythm, movement, and presence. But let’s be honest: every ride comes with hazards. There are potholes that sneak up out of nowhere, big enough to swallow a small child—or at least rattle your fillings loose. There’s loose gravel that suddenly turns you into a circus act, wobbling and praying you stay upright. There are dogs who seem to believe it’s their sacred duty to chase cyclists, even when they have no real plan for what they’d do if they caught you. There are squirrels with a death wish, darting across the path like my front wheel is the finish line of their personal Olympics. And there are headwinds—those invisible walls of air that make you wonder if you accidentally signed up for a spin class called Despair on Wheels. And then there are the crashes. I know this one by heart. After a winter freeze, I was riding the Braes Bayou Trail when my wheels found an ice patch. I didn’t unclip quickly enough, and in a blink, my ankle snapped. Seventeen screws and plates later, I had the kind of X-rays that could stop a conversation. For a while, all that hardware held me together. But it also caused its own complications, so eventually it had to be removed. The scars remain, both visible and invisible—a reminder that sometimes the repairs leave their own marks. Still, the bone is stronger for having been broken. And here’s why I’m writing about all this now: I’m finally back on the road. Sjögren’s Disease makes riding harder than it used to be—my body doesn’t always cooperate the way I want it to. But I’ve missed it more than I can put into words. There’s nothing like that moment when I swing a leg over, settle in, and hear the sharp click of my shoes clipping into the pedals. It’s one of my favorite sounds in the world. That little snap always makes me smile, because it means I’m moving again. It means the ride is starting, no matter what the road holds. For me, the bike has become an Unlikely Altar. Not a marble table in a sanctuary, but a frame on two wheels, carrying me down cracked asphalt and winding trails. Each ride is an offering of breath and sweat, joy and pain. The sound of clipping in feels almost sacramental, like lighting a candle or whispering a prayer. Even the hazards—the potholes, the gravel, the crashes, the scars—become part of that altar. They remind me that God shows up not only in smooth pavement, but in the rough patches too. Cyclists learn quickly: hazards are part of the ride. You can’t avoid them all, but you can learn how to face them. And the more I’ve ridden, the more I’ve realized that life works the same way. We all face hazards that throw us off balance: setbacks that jar us, seasons of uncertainty where nothing feels stable, full-on wrecks that leave us scarred, and invisible headwinds that sap our strength. Here’s the truth that keeps coming back to me: hazards don’t mean the ride is ruined. They mean the ride is real. That’s what this series is about. Over the next few weeks, I want to share what the road has taught me about life: Potholes and Setbacks – the jolts that come out of nowhere. Gravel and Uncertainty – when you have to slow down and find your balance. Crashes, Scars, and Resurrection – the wrecks that leave you marked, but not finished. Headwinds and Grace – the invisible resistance that tests your strength and teaches dependence. Cycling strips things down to the essentials. You can’t control the road, the wind, or the dog with a bad attitude. All you can do is keep your balance, keep your eyes ahead, and keep pedaling. Life’s the same way. Smooth pavement is nice, but it’s the hazards that teach us, shape us, and remind us we’re still moving forward. So clip in, take a deep breath, and join me. The road ahead won’t be perfect—but it will be full of grace, laughter, and maybe even a few good stories about dodging squirrels.
A couple of weeks ago I attended a Jewish wedding. The music was lively, the laughter contagious. But what caught my attention first wasn’t the dancing or the glass. It was the chuppah—the canopy under which the couple stands. Four simple poles, cloth stretched above, open on all sides. The chuppah isn’t just there for decoration. It is one of the most important symbols of the ceremony. It recalls the story of the Exodus, when a cloud led God’s people by day and fire by night. The Hebrew word shekinah describes that presence—not just glory, but the very dwelling of God among the people. Standing under the canopy, the couple is reminded that they are not alone in this covenant. Their love is sheltered, covered, surrounded . But the canopy carries more meaning still. Some rabbis say its four open sides recall Abraham’s tent; a home always open to strangers. In that sense, the chuppah is about hospitality—marriage as a space of welcome, a household where others are received. Others say it represents the sky itself, stretched above the couple like creation’s ceiling. Either way, the chuppah whispers that love is not private property. It is held within something larger, and it is meant to spill outward in welcome. And if the canopy over their heads spoke volumes, so did the calendar on which the day was marked. John tells us the wedding at Cana happened on “ the third day .” For first-century Jews, that wasn’t a throwaway detail. Weddings were often held on the third day of the week—Tuesday—because in the creation story, Tuesday is the only day God called good twice. A double blessing. Even today, some Jewish couples choose Tuesday for that reason. But “ the third day ” carried even more resonance. Again and again in Hebrew scripture, the third day was the day God showed up. Abraham saw Mount Moriah on the third day. God descended on Sinai on the third day. Esther put on her royal robes and went before the king on the third day. To say something happened on “the third day” was to say: expect God to arrive, expect deliverance, expect blessing. So John knew what he was doing when he set the Cana story on that day. It wasn’t just about the calendar. It was a signal: this is the kind of moment when heaven leans close. And when heaven leans close, the ordinary becomes charged with meaning. Even the wine. Wine is central at Jewish weddings, not just as refreshment but as covenant. The ceremony begins with blessings over the kiddush cup, sanctifying the marriage. Wine marks both betrothal (kiddushin) and marriage (nissuin). It’s more than a drink—it is joy, covenant, and abundance poured into a single cup. That’s why running out of wine at Cana wasn’t just awkward. Without wine, the celebration itself felt incomplete. So when the jars were filled and the steward tasted new wine, it wasn’t just about quenching thirst—it was about joy restored, covenant renewed, abundance overflowing. What I love most is that wine in Jewish tradition always carries both sweetness and seriousness. It’s laughter and gravity in a single sip. The sweetness of joy, the weight of commitment. Every toast raised holds both—celebration and promise mingled together. ( And really, it’s one of the few times in life when no one complains about being poured a second glass. ) All these details—the canopy overhead, the blessing of the third day, the wine in their hands—remind me that weddings were never just social events. They were sacred rehearsals of older stories, echoes of covenant, reminders that life itself is stitched together with meaning. Which brings me back to the wedding in Cana. John could have begun with something more dramatic: a healing, a resurrection, a thunderous sign. Instead, he begins with a wedding. A family gathering. A table that was about to run dry. It turns out he knew that the extraordinary often hides inside the ordinary. That the presence of God shows up not just in miracles, but in music and laughter, in promises and canopies, in glasses lifted high. Standing there that night, watching this couple under the chuppah, I realize the altar doesn’t have to be stone or wood. Sometimes it’s laughter under a canopy. Sometimes it’s a circle of dancers clapping to the beat. Sometimes it’s a blessing whispered in Hebrew, or a glass of wine raised in joy. And sometimes, for those who remember the old stories, it’s a promise that echoes even deeper: “I go to prepare a place for you.” Like a bridegroom building an addition onto his father’s house, love prepares room for another. That’s the heart of covenant—making space for someone else, not just in your home but in your life. A wedding. Some wine. And a promise. An unlikely altar, reminding us that love’s promise is always to prepare a place.
Lee Corso made a career out of three little words: “Not so fast!” Delivered with a grin, a wag of the finger, and just enough mischief to keep everyone guessing, it was part joke, part interruption, part blessing. When he said it for the final time on his last ESPN College GameDay , it struck me that those words might be the sermon we all need. Because if we’re honest, most of us are living way too fast. We rush through conversations, multitask our way through meals, scroll past sunsets we barely notice, and plan the next big thing while overlooking the small, holy things happening right now. We’re always sprinting toward “what’s next,” which means we rarely pause long enough to savor what is. In my work with grieving families, I hear a truth again and again: when someone we love dies, it isn’t the big occasions we miss most. It’s the little things . The way he’d whistle while cooking breakfast on a Saturday morning. The way she’d slip her hand into his during a TV show. The sound of her laugh carrying through the house. Those are the things that stick. The everyday moments we barely noticed while they were happening—until suddenly, they’re gone. And only then do we realize how sacred those little things really were. I miss my Saturday football bets with my stepdad—something we did almost every Saturday for years. It wasn’t about the money (there wasn’t much of that anyway). It was the rhythm: the calls, the smack talk, the friendly second-guessing of coaches who would never hear us. A ritual stitched together one autumn at a time. This year, I’m starting that ritual with my two grown sons. Different Saturdays, same heartbeat. Scores and spreads, sure—but mostly a reason to show up for each other. To hear their voices. To make the small thing big again. And I miss Scrabble games with my mom—the quiet competitiveness, the eye she’d give me when I “accidentally” used a questionable word. I miss her laugh most of all. That sound was its own benediction over an ordinary evening. Kids grow up too fast. Parents pass away too early. The calendar insists we keep moving. But Corso’s raspy little reminder pushes back: Not so fast, my friend. The Bible names this rhythm Sabbath—a weekly way of saying not so fast. Rest. Breathe. Remember you are more than what you produce. Jesus lived with that same unhurried attention: lilies, sparrows, children, a tax collector in a tree. He didn’t rush past them. He saw them. He made the little moments holy. I think that’s the secret inside Corso’s catchphrase. It interrupts our certainty and our speed. It creates a pocket of time where we can notice again—be it a goofy mascot head or the person sitting across the table. When we slow down, the little things become altars : The phone call that doesn’t have a “point” beyond hearing a familiar voice. The grandchild’s drawing stays on the fridge longer than the calendar says it should. The first sip of coffee before the house wakes up. A well-worn game board and a laugh that fills the room. These aren’t headlines. They’re sacraments of the everyday. And if we’re going too fast, we’ll miss them. Lee Corso’s farewell wasn’t just about football or mascot heads. It was about a life spent showing up, savoring the moment, and never taking himself too seriously. That’s what he gave us, week after week—a reason to laugh, to pause, to notice. And maybe that’s what made his catchphrase feel like a benediction. So maybe that’s the blessing we carry forward: Not so fast, my friend. Not so fast when grief feels like it should be over. Not so fast when joy seems too small to matter. Not so fast when life pushes you to hurry past the wonder of an ordinary day. Slow down. Breathe. Call your people. Place your tiles on the board. Make your silly bets. Laugh in the kitchen. The altar might already be right in front of you.