Kurt Bubna

I wonder if getting older would bother us a lot less if we had a better perspective.

Think about what happens when you’re sitting in an airplane at 40,000 feet.

Everything looks different from up there.

The traffic disappears. The houses look tiny. Mountains that seemed enormous from the ground become part of a much bigger landscape.

Perspective changes things.

Maybe we need that same 40,000-foot view when it comes to aging.

Because here’s the reality: we’re all headed in the same direction.

Nobody is getting younger. And yet we live in a culture obsessed with youth.

We fight the wrinkles, cover the age spots, color the gray, and try to disguise whatever gravity has decided to mess with.

I’m not against looking your best. Trust me, I’m hanging onto whatever hair I have left.

But when did getting older become something we’re supposed to dread?

Those wrinkles mean you’ve smiled a lot.

The gray hair means you’ve been around long enough to learn a few things.

Mark Twain said, “Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”

I’m still working a bit on the “don’t mind” part. But I don’t want to waste whatever years I have left wishing I were younger.

I want to live them.

Fully. Gratefully. With my eyes on the future.

Because from the 40,000-foot view, getting older isn’t just about having more years behind me. As a follower of Jesus, I’m also one day closer to Home.

I’m not in a hurry to get there. I’ve still got people to love, books to write, places to see, and some dreams left to accomplish.

But I’m also not afraid of where this plane eventually lands.

So bring on the wrinkles and gray hair; they are evidence I’m still here.

And someday, because of the grace of God, I’ll be There.

That’s a pretty good perspective.

Sometimes it’s little things that result in big problems.

For about 30 years, I’ve dealt with back issues on and off. Every now and then, my back decides it has had enough, blows out, and I’m pretty much incapacitated for two to five days.

About three months ago, we moved out to the country. Since then, I’ve done FAR more with my back than I probably should have. Lifting boxes. Moving furniture. Working around the property. Doing all the things a 69-year-old man probably shouldn’t be doing.

Other than some occasional tightness, my back has held up remarkably well. No major incidents. No days flat on my back staring at the ceiling and reevaluating all my life choices.

Until today.

I bent over to put on my socks and shoes…

…and POP!

Seriously. Just doing a little thing.

I wasn’t moving a refrigerator. I wasn’t lifting a 70-pound box. I wasn’t wrestling a bear. (Although we actually had a black bear wandering around our neighborhood yesterday, possibly displaced by the fires in the mountains.)

Nope.

I was putting on a shoe.

Of course, I know it probably wasn’t just the shoe. Sometimes it’s the accumulation of a hundred little stresses that finally shows up in one seemingly insignificant moment.

And I suppose that’s true about more than backs.

Sometimes we handle the big stuff surprisingly well. We get through the crisis, survive the move, carry the heavy load, navigate the hard season…

…and then some stupid little thing takes us out.

Maybe the lesson isn’t terribly profound.

Maybe it’s simply this: We’re human. We have limits. And ignoring those limits doesn’t make them disappear.

I’m reminded of Psalm 73:26: “My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.”

Sometimes the flesh fails.

Sometimes while putting on a shoe.

I don’t particularly like being reminded that I’m not 39 anymore, but humility comes in all sorts of packages. Apparently, mine came in size 11 today.

So I’ll rest. I’ll heal. I’ll get back up.

Because getting knocked down is part of life, but staying down doesn’t have to be.

I typically don’t jump on the social media bandwagon, or write about something just because it is trending.

But Dolly Parton was different. She always amazed me.

Not just because of the voice, the songs, the hair, the rhinestones, or a career that lasted my entire life.

I admired Dolly because she seemed remarkably comfortable being Dolly.

She embodied one of my favorite Brennan Manning quotes: “Be who you is, or you is who you ain’t.”

Dolly knew who she was.

She could laugh at herself. She was outrageous without apology, enormously successful without taking herself too seriously, and generous in ways that went far beyond writing a check.

And now she’s gone.

Apparently, Dolly had been ill for a while, and her battle with cancer was relatively brief. But publicly, she certainly didn’t appear to be someone nearing the end.

Just six days ago, she accepted an ACM award virtually, talked about songwriting and future projects, and said things were going well medically.

And at 80, Dolly still somehow seemed…well, Dolly. Larger than life and almost indestructible.

Maybe that’s why this one feels so shocking.

But after all the tributes fade, there’s something worth remembering.

None of us owns our next breath. Not Dolly. Not me. Not you.

Moses prayed, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” Psalm 90:12

That’s not morbid. It’s reality.

So love people while you can. Forgive sooner. Say what needs to be said. Stop putting off the things that matter most. Laugh more. Live Dolly bold.

And for heaven’s sake, quit wasting your limited days trying to become somebody God never created you to be.

Be who you is…

Because someday, sooner than any of us would like to imagine, our number will be called too.

Thank you, Dolly, for the music, the laughter, the generosity, and for reminding us that there’s something pretty wonderful about simply being yourself.

You were one of a kind.

My sin cost me a lot, but it cost Jesus everything.

My failure cost me friendships, relationships, trust, respect, opportunities, and a reputation that took decades to build.

It cost me sleepless nights, countless tears, and consequences I still live with today.

I’m not minimizing any of that.

Sin always leaves a trail of brokenness.

But here’s the beautiful truth that changed my life: At the cross, Jesus willingly paid a debt I could never repay.

He didn’t excuse my sin. He absorbed its penalty.

Because of that, I no longer have to wear the label sinner as my identity.

Yes, I have sinned.

Yes, I still fall short.

But that is no longer who I am.

I am a son.

A child of God.

Forgiven and redeemed.

Completely and absolutely loved.

As followers of Christ, we don’t pretend our failures never happened.

We don’t deny our weaknesses or excuse the ways we still need to grow.

We confess them honestly because grace has made honesty safe.

Our past may explain us, but it no longer defines us.

Our failures may humble us, but they no longer own us.

Scripture reminds us, “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” (2 Corinthians 5:17)

I live with a new identity.

As Henri Nouwen once wrote, “The great spiritual task facing me is to accept the truth that I am radically loved by God, and that nothing I do can change that love.”

If you’re in Christ today, don’t keep introducing yourself by your worst chapter.

Introduce yourself by His finished work.

Because your sin may have cost you much…

But Jesus paid for it all, and all means all.

This morning, I sat quietly and listened.

A pair of great horned owls, a male and female, were calling to each other.

Mount Hood and Mount Jefferson on the horizon, with Jefferson glowing in the early morning light.

A woodpecker stopped by the pond for a drink. Mountain bluebirds and chickadees seem to be everywhere.

A male and female jackrabbit wandered through this morning too. Life is everywhere.

Somewhere in the distance, a rooster is announcing the morning, whether anyone asked him to or not.

And after the strong winds last night, everything is almost eerily still.

I love mornings like this on the ranch.

There’s something about watching the sun rise over the mountains, listening to the birds, and sitting in the quiet that settles my soul and fills me with joy.

Especially when I remember…

My Father made all of this.

“For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities…have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made.” Romans 1:20

Sometimes worship is simply paying attention.

Sometimes the hardest part of waiting isn’t the beginning.

It’s wondering if you’ll ever get to the other side of waiting.

You’ve prayed. You’ve trusted. You’ve tried to be patient. You’ve told God, “Your timing, not mine.”

And you meant it.

But then weeks turn into months. Months sometimes turn into years. Nothing seems to change, and if you’re anything like me, eventually you start wondering, God, did You forget about this? Did I miss something? How much longer, Lord?

I’ve been there.

Actually, in some ways, I’m there right now.

Waiting for answers. Waiting for restoration. Waiting for things I can’t force, fix, or control.

And I’m not particularly good at waiting.

Isaiah wrote: “But those who wait on the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles.”
Isaiah 40:31 NKJV

Notice it doesn’t say those who wait will always get what they want, when they want it.

It says they will be renewed.

So, maybe God is doing something IN us while we’re waiting for Him to do something FOR us.

C.S. Lewis once wrote, “I am sure that God keeps no one waiting unless He sees that it is good for him to wait.”

I wish I liked that quote more than I do.

Because waiting is hard. Especially when what you’re waiting for matters deeply.

But I’m learning that faith isn’t just trusting God at the beginning of the wait. Sometimes deeper faith is trusting Him when you’re tired of waiting, and there’s still no finish line in sight.

If you’re somewhere waiting today, don’t give up.

Name what you’re waiting for. Pray about it again. Then, as best you can, open your hands and release the timetable to God.

Waiting doesn’t mean God is absent. And a delay doesn’t mean He is done.

Lamborghini built tractors before supercars.

Samsung began as a grocery trading business.

IKEA began by selling small goods, including pens, wallets, and watches, before furniture.

What’s the lesson?

Where you start doesn’t determine where you finish.

Your current situation is a chapter, not the ending.

I’ve lived long enough to know that life rarely unfolds according to plan.

There are unexpected turns, painful detours, failures, fresh starts, and seasons when you wonder if anything good can possibly come next.

But I’ve also learned this:

Never confuse where you’ve been or where you are with where you’re going.

Keep learning. Keep adapting. Keep moving forward.

And when life (or a bad choice) knocks you flat, get up again, even if getting up looks more like crawling for a while.

God has a long history of doing remarkable things with unlikely beginnings and broken stories.

Your past may explain some things about you, but it doesn’t get the final word.

Grace does.

So, what does a stepdad do when it’s 5 AM and he’s been on the phone 23 times with his twin stepdaughters because their flight is delayed and they’re definitely going to miss their connection?

Apparently, he answers the phone 23 times.

And makes more coffee.

The girls are not little kids traveling alone. But this is their first flight without us, and watching your carefully planned itinerary fall apart can be stressful at any age.

Their mom and I prayed for them before they left. We prayed for safe travel and that things would go smoothly.

They didn’t.

And there’s a lesson in that for me.

Sometimes I assume that if I pray, God should make the road smooth. Flights should be on time. Connections should work. Plans should unfold according to plan.

But life doesn’t always work that way. And neither does faith.

Sometimes the flight gets delayed. Sometimes Plan B shows up when you really liked Plan A.

This isn’t the end of the world. It’s just an itinerary that needed to change.

But little disruptions have a funny way of revealing what’s going on inside us.

My tendency can be to wonder, “God, couldn’t You have made this easier?”

Maybe. But I also have an incredibly limited perspective.

James wrote, “Consider it pure joy… whenever you face trials of many kinds.” (James 1:2)

Count it joy? Seriously, James?

He wasn’t saying the trial itself is joyful. He was saying something can happen in us through the trial.

So maybe the better question isn’t, “Why didn’t God prevent this?”

Maybe it’s, “What can I do with this?”

Maybe joy looks like being grateful the girls are safe. Thankful there are other flights. Watching two young women learn to navigate a complicated situation on their own.

And maybe it’s a stepdad answering the phone again and saying, “You’re okay. We’ll figure this out.”

Life rarely follows the itinerary we carefully planned.

Flights get delayed. Plans change. Detours happen.

And sometimes faith is simply trusting that an unexpected route doesn’t mean God has abandoned your journey.

He hasn’t. He’s got this, the twins, and us (and you too, BTW).

I’m tired of being tired.

Maybe it’s the smoke from wildfires that seems determined to make an annual appearance and turn another beautiful Central Oregon summer into something resembling the inside of a barbecue.

Maybe it’s unnecessary work stress.

Maybe it’s the backache and assorted creaks, pops, and pains that come complimentary with a 69-year-old body. Apparently, this model is no longer under warranty.

And sleep?

I slept like a baby last night.

Meaning I woke up multiple times grumpy, confused, and hungry.

But some kinds of tired go deeper than needing a nap.

I’m learning that waiting for restoration in some relationships can be exhausting. It’s hard not to become weary from the things I simply can’t fix or control, no matter how much I wish I could. And sometimes the hardest part is accepting that healing may take years, and that some things I deeply hope for may not unfold the way I want.

That’s the part that gets heavy.

So, on this Sunday morning, I’m reminding myself of something Jesus said:

“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”
Matthew 6:34

Jesus wasn’t pretending life isn’t stressful. He wasn’t saying, “Cheer up, buttercup. Everything will work out exactly the way you want.”

He was reminding us that we weren’t designed to carry tomorrow’s burdens today.

And then there are these words:

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
Matthew 11:28

Notice Jesus didn’t say, “Come to me when you’ve figured everything out.”

He said come weary.

Come tired.

Come burdened.

Come when your faith feels strong, and come when your faith is basically crawling into the room in sweatpants asking for coffee.

So that’s what I’m doing today.

I’m going to do two things.

First, I’m going to name what I can control and release what I can’t. I can’t control the smoke, other people, tomorrow, or whether someone chooses reconciliation. I can control what I do with today.

Second, I’m going to come to Jesus tired rather than waiting until I feel better.

Maybe you need to do the same.

Sometimes faith isn’t charging boldly up the mountain.

Sometimes faith is getting out of bed, taking the next right step, and whispering, “Jesus, I’m tired. Please carry what I can’t.”

And thankfully, He never asked us to be strong enough to carry everything.

He just asked us to come.

A heart in the heavens and beams of light reaching toward the earth.

Sometimes creation whispers what our souls need to remember: You are deeply loved.