Dear St. Andrews

Have you ever tried backing a camping trailer into a campsite with your vehicle's warning alarms blaring incessantly?

My Hyundai Santa Fe had sensors that warned me whenever I was getting too close to an obstacle. Normally, that's a good thing. The alarms tell me something needs attention. Perhaps I need to slow down, change direction, or stop altogether.

But when I attached our camping trailer, those sensors became a nuisance. Every time I put the SUV into reverse, the alarms went off. The vehicle couldn't distinguish between an obstacle I was about to hit and the trailer I was intentionally towing. And I couldn't turn the alarms off!

Stress is a bit like those warning alarms.

Stress is a normal part of life. In fact, it can be helpful. It's our body's way of alerting us that something needs attention. Sometimes we need to make a change, address a problem, or recognize that something isn't right.

But what happens when the alarms won't stop?

When stress continues over a long period, it can become a problem in itself. Chronic stress takes its toll on our physical and mental health, our relationships, our work, and even our capacity for joy. The ripples spread into more and more areas of our lives.

My medical leave has given me plenty of opportunity to reflect on this. Stress was one of the factors contributing to my illness, and, ironically, being on medical leave introduced stresses of its own! I've been learning that managing stress isn't always as simple as eliminating whatever is causing it.

Consider that trailer.

I suppose I could have disconnected it from the SUV. At least the alarms would have stopped! There were moments when I seriously contemplated moving the trailer into place by hand. But then I'd have had a different problem: a trailer sitting in the middle of the road instead of safely parked in the campsite.

Sometimes the obvious solution creates more problems than it solves.

And sometimes we simply can't change the circumstances causing our stress. We live with chronic illness. We care for people who need us. We honour commitments and vows. We navigate challenging relationships or situations beyond our control.

What then?

One answer is to make room for rest. The Christian practices of silent prayer, Sabbath, and retreat offer daily, weekly, and seasonal opportunities to step away from the noise. They don't necessarily resolve what's causing our stress, but they give our bodies and minds a chance to settle, and our souls an opportunity to be renewed in God's presence.

Another answer is to change the story we're telling ourselves.

Back in the Santa Fe, I could remind myself that the alarms weren't telling me anything I didn't already know. The sensors were detecting the trailer. That's all. There wasn't any new danger. The noise was unpleasant, but it didn't have to control my response.

The alarms kept sounding, but I didn't have to become alarmed.

I've discovered something similar in other stressful circumstances. The story I tell myself can either intensify my stress or help me respond with greater peace.

Sometimes I need to remind myself of important truths:

• I am God's beloved. My worth isn't determined by my circumstances, performance, or another person's opinion.

• Not every difficult reaction is personal. Sometimes another person's response says more about the storm they're navigating than it does about me.

• God has not been caught off guard. Even when I don't know what comes next, I can trust that God is present and at work.

• God gives wisdom to those who ask. I don't have to figure everything out on my own.

These truths don't necessarily change my circumstances, but they can change how I experience and respond to them.

I wonder if this is something of what Paul had in mind when he wrote:

"Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." (Philippians 4:6–7, NRSV)

Paul knew hardship and uncertainty. His invitation wasn't to pretend life's troubles weren't real, but to bring them into God's presence. Notice what he promises. Not that every problem will disappear, but that God's peace will guard our hearts and minds.

Peace isn't necessarily the absence of alarms. It's the presence of God in the midst of them.

Of course, sometimes we really do need to heed the alarms and make significant changes. Prayer, rest, and a different perspective aren't substitutes for addressing genuine problems. Wisdom involves discerning when to act and when to trust.

And perhaps that's part of what God has been teaching me.

I'm discovering that God's work in us isn't limited to removing the things that trouble us. Sometimes, while the alarms are still sounding, God is teaching us to become more patient, more discerning, more trusting, and more deeply rooted in his love.

The alarms may not stop. But, by God's grace, we can learn to live without being ruled by them.

With you for Christ,

Pastor Jeremy

Dear St.Andrews

Have you ever stepped into a fog and suddenly lost all sense of direction?

That’s what it felt like to find myself unexpectedly in hospital—trying to understand what was happening to me, what it meant for my life, and what I was supposed to do next.

During that time, God led me to Jim Collins’ What to Make of a Life. Collins studied hundreds of people through the cultural footprints they left behind—their biographies, books, music, art, and other artifacts. He looked for patterns in how people made their lives liveable, or didn’t, after what he describes as “going over a cliff.”

And everyone, sooner or later, goes over a cliff.

A job disappears. A dream dies. Someone we love is lost. An illness changes everything. Something happens that divides life into before and after.

Collins noticed that what people did next mattered enormously.

One of the first experiences after going over the cliff, he says, is often fog. You can’t see where you’re going. The familiar landmarks have disappeared. You don’t know how long the fog will last, and you certainly can’t see the destination.

Some people lose hope there.

But Collins noticed something among those who found their way through: they didn't need to see the whole road ahead.

They simply took the next step.

He calls it Simplex Stepping.

For me, that meant saying yes to the offer of interim pastors. It meant following the doctors' advice.  Choosing to fight the dragons rather than running away—and trust me, I wanted to run. It meant looking honestly at my own patterns and recognizing how much growing I still had to do. It meant asking myself difficult questions, including this one: Why do I keep striving for approval when God has already told me that I am loved?

Somewhere along the way, I remembered the story of a young adult who had been fishing with friends off the west coast of Vancouver Island when their boat was swallowed by a fog bank.

He reflected afterward, “All we could do was rely on the instruments and start heading in the direction they told us to go.”

They couldn't see the shore.

They couldn't see very far in front of the boat.

But they had something trustworthy enough to steer by.

Maybe faith sometimes looks like that.

Take the next step. Trust the instruments. Follow the direction you’ve been given, even when you cannot yet see the destination.

It also brought to mind an old hymn, His Eye Is on the Sparrow, based in part on Jesus’ words in Matthew 10:29–31. One line in particular has become a comfort to me in foggy seasons:

“For by His hand He leads me
Though just one step I may see.”

That feels like enough.

Not the whole journey.
Not a map of what comes next.
Not certainty about where everything will end.

Just enough light for the next step—and the assurance that the One leading us can see what we cannot.

Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 2:9 of the mind bending things “God has prepared for those who love him.” We don't yet see all that God is doing or where the road will lead. Sometimes all we can see is the next faithful step.

So when we find ourselves in the fog, perhaps that is enough.

Listen for his tender words. Trust the instruments he has given us. Place our hand in his.

And take the next step.

With you for Christ,

Pastor Jeremy