Author Archives: Eric

Two compliments in two days warmed my heart.

The first came from a 23 year old who lost his father this past year. We were working side by side cleaning churches when he said,

“You remind me of my dad, the way you work fast and smile at the same time. My dad was like that.”

His eyes glimmered as he spoke. Later, when the work was done, he shook my hand with a depth that felt like a Thank You.

The second came from an 80 something year old man I have known for decades. He owns the health food store where I once worked in the late 2000s. Every fall he stops by the greenhouse for mums. His presence is magnetic and he calls me by name.

He is known for reading numbers, for tracing meaning in birthdays and ages. People respect him for his wisdom and the depth he carries. I don’t put my faith in numbers, my trust is in the Lord, but I’ve always found it interesting what he sees.

When he walked in this time, I asked him to tell me what my numbers mean for the year ahead. He asked for my birthday and how old I’d be. Then he looked at me and asked, “Do you want a wife?”

“I do,” I said.

“Of course you do. You have a heart to lead a family.”

Then, in a gesture rare for him, he grabbed my hand and held tight.

He said, “It’s already laid out. You don’t know how this is laid out, but it is. Trust.”

He paused, then added, “Give it 16 months or so. Something will happen.”

“One more thing…” he said.

‘What?’ I asked, feeling excited and intrigued.

“Don’t be so damn stubborn! Stay soft.” And after he said it, he winked.

I just stood there, quietly stunned. His words landed.

I wanted to believe him. Of course I did. Not in “reading numbers,” but in the hope his words carried for me. He had no idea what my previous two months have looked like.

I don’t care how he arrived at his conclusions. My heart stirred.

Two voices, one from the young and one from the old. One saw a father, the other saw a husband leading a family. Together they reminded me of my calling.

To be a good man.

Perhaps that is how life speaks. We glimpse who we are becoming through the eyes of others. Sometimes before we can see it ourselves.

“The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.”
– Exodus 14:14
. . . . .

School mornings used to be mine. I packed the lunches, sorted the clothes, checked the backpacks, and decided when the day began. It was the work of three poured into one.

Now, just like poof, they do it all.

Lunches are packed without me. Clothes move from washer to dryer on their own rhythm. Backpacks are no longer my concern. I still hold to the small joy of waking them, a brief space of love and softness before the day hardens.

The pace is theirs to set. If they stumble, the consequences are theirs to meet. They call each other out when it is time to go. Not me.

What is left for me is simpler. One good breakfast, not the short-order menu it once was. A cup of coffee. A house in motion. Their footsteps and voices weave through the rooms while I sit still.

I recall Exodus 14, when God instructed the Israelites to be still at the edge of the sea. So it is with me. This season is about letting and holding still.

They are coming of age. What I once carried for them, they now carry for themselves.

And I, still learning how to let go, still learning how to live in the in-between, find myself in the tender space between memory and unfolding.

This is where I have come to be. I never saw it coming.

Early morning, I slipped into the cold waters of Lake Michigan. The shock woke every nerve. Each breath of mine had to be drawn deeper than was comfortable. Heartbreak clung as tightly as the chill. The mornings are often like this. Here on the shore of the great lake, there was no breeze, no ripple. In the stillness, I felt a small shift. The water didn’t erase the hurt, as I was hoping it might have, but it reminded me I could carry sorrow and still move forward. Because I know that I can swim and trust my body’s strength. Because I know that each deeply drawn breath of mine is me trusting life’s return. Walking back to dry sand, I asked: For how long must I swim in the cold? For how long must I draw deeper breaths than what are comfortable? I dripped clean, but not entirely free, just willing to begin again. The sun was coming up. I answered myself: As long as I must. Then dried off to dress for the day ahead.

“You’ll be okay, and that should be enough,” he emphasized.

His rationale made sense:

I am in a good place. Possibility stretches wider than I can imagine. So wide that thinking about what isn’t possible feels small, unnecessary.

I escaped from the city. Here at the cabin was welcome comfort.

The forest wrapping around me. The lake lapping at the shore. The breeze sifting through leaves. Firelight glowing.

A day of greens, browns and blues.

Night time arrived. I made my bed on the couch. My eyes grew heavy.

I heard it again: You’re going to be alright, Eric.

There are some moments when that suffices. I looked forward to praying in the morning.

I woke and swam in cold water. There was symbolism in it for me. Clean off the old, walk into the new.

I tried to see myself as he sees me, and others have claimed the same.  Yes, I am okay. Yes, possibility is endless. Yes, the only limits are the ones I shape.

Okay…yet…

Walking out of the water, a faint thread still stirred. Hope will not fully let go.

I live between the whisper and the gavel. The whisper of all the things to come and the gavel of what has closed, final, lost. 

Promise and ache. Clouds and dirt. 

For now, I acknowledge both.  Because someday when I’m not paying attention, I won’t shudder at the gavel’s final strike, or even hear the encouraging whispers.

In collaboration and with thanks to my friend, the infamous musician on the east coast

. . . . .

I extend my hand to myself. A simple, profound handshake that is quiet but certain. A vow made with my eyes facing my inward self to honor who I am and who I am becoming.

Thumb – I will no longer smoke weed in secret. That shadowed life is behind me. I have prayed for clarity for so long, and now I’m choosing it. Full stop. And with clarity, comes the obvious: presence. My presence is strong and I will no longer dull it with weed. I step into each day without a veil. Once each season, I will return to the smoke, but not as a habit, not as an escape. I will smoke once a season as a free man marking a day on the calendar. A celebration. A ritual. A way to remember and dance with the edges that I’m a life long member of. It’s also a way to see how far I have come, and used as a reflective tool.

Index finger – I keep my word. This is more than a small promise. This is greater than a commitment. I keep my word. To myself, to others, and to God above all. He knows and sees all. A word kept is integrity made visible. It is a mirror of the divine. The man without his word drifts. I am not a drifter. I am a man who guards his word and stands rooted. Anchored. Whole. Unshaken.

Middle finger – I build muscle for life because health, appearance and confidence are three branches of the same tree. Discipline of the body becomes discipline of the soul. I eat with care. I move with purpose. I train. I rest. I return again. Chop wood, carry water. In the rhythm of this practice, I find strength, and with that strength, I give my best and make poetry – no, not “make poetry,” I am the poem, and with that, I walk in humility, laughter, encouragement and love.

Ring finger – I am a remarkable communicator. Not just “good,” but “great!” I speak with purpose. My words are seeds that I scatter into the soil of human hearts. Including my own heart. Some heal. Some guide. Some awaken. To rototill my soil, I read. I write. I listen. I think. I pause. I speak. I gather gratitude for every voice that shapes me. I can talk and listen to anyone and everyone. I’m intentional about not making noise because I want my remarkable communication to be a gift.

Pinky finger – I keep going. I keep growing. Life is long, and at 50, I have another 50 years. My journey continues. If I look back, it’s only to reflect, and gather strength to proceed on my journey because every stone on the road has been precious to me. I, forever, remain fresh, curious, awake. This is joy itself, and it’s my essence. Each morning opens with wonder and curiosity. It’s insatiable. Each night closes in prayer and gratitude. Day by precious day. Step by step. Breath by breath. I move closer to the life I dream, and nearer to the God who waits in heaven.

This is my path. This is my promise. This is my life. God, give me the strength to embody this, Amen.

A vow kept within,
roots of trust break through the soil,
life opens its hand.

. . . . .

The spirit of my aim was simple: to grow my confidence by keeping one small promise to myself. Thirty days without weed.

I knew I could do it. I had done it before. But in this season, I kept starting and stopping, talking myself in circles, failing, and beginning again. That loop was eroding my trust in myself.

When you keep a small promise, you become a person of your word, a person of your word to yourself first. That changes everything. Powerful.

Your relationship with yourself deepens. Confidence grows. And with that, your relationships with others shift too. Possibility opens.

Today marks 30 days

Coincidental sidenote: YouTube informs me that my channel is two years old today

I am a man of my word to myself. No matter what happens, I have that. And that is everything. I feel so much better now than I felt 31 days ago.

This has been the spirit of my aim. And because of it, I believe my prayers will unfold in their time. I will let them come. And so it shall be.

I want to be the man that I am now- later.
I want to be the man I want to be later- now.

In that space between, I keep learning, becoming, growing.

Today I am embracing the beautiful tension of being both complete and unfinished at the same time.

I have always been a confident person. I have always known I could keep my promises.

Yet life has its events, accidents, and situations. When they come, confidence can get shaken. Suddenly, you are not entirely sure of yourself anymore.

Bad habits work the same way. They creep in slowly, like weeds breaking through a driveway. Then one day you realize the path you are walking is cracked and uneven. You have to clear it back and repave what was meant to hold your steps.

That was me these last forty-ish days.

At first, it was about her. She was the reason. She was the why. And though she did not return, I will always honor that she was the spark that started this fire in me. I did the work, but she was the catalyst.

Day after day, one small promise, I’ve come back to myself. 30-ish days. I recorded thirty videos, and each one showed me what I mustn’t ever forget: my own strength. My own voice. My steady, original face.

It has been like walking away from a car accident. At first, the work is survival, just learning to move again. Then you notice you are not the same person who went in. Something in you has been re-made.

I see now it was never just about her. It was about me. It was about the Lord, who planted this blueprint in me before I ever knew it. He knew what I needed before I did. He knew the same for her. For that, I give thanks.

Who knows what the future holds? I’m open to all possibilities.

What I wanted was to win someone back. What I gained was winning myself forward.

One small promise has led to a greater, sturdier confidence. Now I know I can keep an even bigger promise, the ultimate promise, that being marital Love.

Now I know the Lord is with me. In a quieter, steadier way, I have greater depth of trust in myself. I fully understand now.

If God can take what is crooked, broken, and messy and still draw straight lines toward a greater good, then who am I to resist this shaping?

If Jesus has taken up residence in my heart, and has come to stay, then the work of transformation is already underway. Even in my fears, insecurities, and regretful missteps, He is renovating, remaking, reshaping me into a truer masterpiece. Closer to my best version.

So it makes sense that I feel this discomfort, that the pain comes and goes like waves. I am no different from the ones I read about in Scripture, each of their stories holding up a mirror, each life in some way reminding me of my own.

And with that, here I am, in this moment, choosing to praise first. To continue yielding. To never turn away from the hand that holds me, even when that hand presses me through fire, bends me beyond my knowing, or asks me to trust in silence without answers.

I imagine a fountain deep enough to hold all my wishes.

For each love that turned to distance, I would toss a coin.

Not to erase them, but to meet them again, fresh, unbruised, unshadowed by what we could not carry.

We would see each other the way strangers do, eyes soft, questions rising, warmth flickering between us like the first spark of a fire.

Hours of talk, the kind where time slips away. Then one kiss, so true it tells us everything.

From there, we would walk into a place untouched by regret. A place without the words we wish we had not said, without the things we cannot undo.

Only newness.

Only discovery.

It would feel like two people learning love after a long season of solitude.

And maybe it would feel like forever, starting again.

Today, in the grocery store, we paused together in aisle eleven.

Ten minutes of presence.

It struck me again, as if it surprises me every time. How life offers itself in passing moments.

We walk through our days, and suddenly, we cross paths with one another.

We speak of where we’ve been, what has happened, where our hearts still long to go, and what it might mean to arrive.

Even if we get there, though, will we ever stop striving? For each season there is a reason.

Each of us carries a weight, yet each of us also carries a light.

There is rest within reach. There is laughter to break the heaviness. There is fruit ready to be shared.

When we part, I feel the truth of it. The dark nights shape us as surely as the bright days.

These small exchanges, these touches of soul against soul, are what make the journey bearable, and beautiful.

Deep in your mind live all your memories. The smell of cookies at grandma’s house, your first day of school, that time you got scared in the dark. They sleep there, waiting. Life happens and we are reminded. Life happens and we make more memories, piling onto the heap.

When you pick up your pen or pencil and accept the invite of the blank white page something magic happens. Your brain becomes a detective, digging through boxes of forgotten things:

a joke your old friend told,

a movie that made you cry,

the way snow feels on your tongue,

the whispered secret your 7th grade girlfriend placed in your ear, and in doing so gave you your first tingle of intimacy.

It mixes them altogether like ingredients in a recipe only you can make.

Your hand moves across the paper and suddenly there it is – a thought you never knew you had, a story only you could tell.

Some folks think they’ve found a shortcut. They type commands into a computer:

“Write my story about summer vacation.”

“Make it sound sad and happy.”

“Add more details about the beach.”

The computer spits out words. Perfect words. Clean words. Words that sound like everyone and no one.

I’ve been guilty of this. I’ve used so called AI to help me write things that belonged only to me, and I regret it. That email that I thought connected the dots, or made the perfect point, was actually an undoing that dislodged everything that belonged to me. I’ll never make that error again.

So called AI can’t capture the scraped knee from falling off your bike. Or the weird dream you had last Tuesday. It can’t know of the joy and safety in your kitchen when your mom hums and cooks.

So called AI doesn’t know these things.

It can’t reach into your heart and pull out the messy, real, beautiful stuff that makes you YOU. It never felt embarrassed or excited or scared. It never had a best friend, or lost a tooth, or fell in love and lost that love. Only you have that secret treasure chest. Only you can dig deep to find the gold buried in your brain, in your heart, in a lifetime of small and big moments.

So don’t let a computer write your story.

Also, don’t be indifferent to your story. It’s yours and only yours. Pay attention to it. Cultivate it. Add to it. Change its direction. Full speed ahead. Wrestle with it on the page of life and jot down little and large pieces of it on paper. Take that paper to the keyboard and let it bleed out of your typing hands onto the digital white space. Wrestle with the words. Cross things out. Delete. Try again. Because what comes out is yours alone.

Kids, family, friends, you reading this…

That’s all I’m trying to do here. This is “Eric L Walker” [dot] com for a reason. Me. And I think it’s now more important than ever.

Why? Because an onslaught of inevitable video and text AI is upon us. Finding the others who are creating and reading plain text from their own noggin will be the equivalent of going for a quiet walk in the woods. We just have to make sure that the forests we craft on cream paper spark from our own human-ness. And as it has always been, we have to continue practicing to get the communication right.