Eric L. Walker

Over the last month and a half, I’ve written more than forty posts here at this blog. Yesterday afternoon and evening, I sat down and read through them all. Wow! What struck me was the story they tell when placed side by side. Without planning it, I’ve been documenting a turning point in my life.

So I took some time to organize them and sift and sort for the posts that best reflect what’s going on with me.

The thread is simple, but strong.

It begins with the smallest act: keeping promises to myself. No surprise there, that was easy to identify.

Each kept promise has been a stone in the foundation of real confidence, the kind I didn’t know I needed until living out life in this time period of July, August and the beginning of September 2025.

From there, the writing shifts into something larger: being awake to my own life instead of scrolling through everyone else’s. I’m not only NOT looking at social media (at all), I’m also no longer vexing over changing careers or making this decision or that decision. I’m living the life I have. One moment all the time.

And then, almost quietly, the focus turns outward. Self-awareness becomes service. Purpose begins to rise.

None of this was written as theory. I’ve been in the trenches.

It has come out of heartbreak, raising children, working long hours, and searching for God in the middle of it all. It has come out of the long hours of sitting still with myself, wrestling with myself in that stillness, and then at times standing up a little straighter than before.

When I gathered these pieces together, I gave them a name: A Man’s Guide. This guide does not hold answers, but it gathers moments that serve as signposts toward the kind of man I am beginning to respect. Again, I didn’t know I needed this, but now that I’ve lived it I’m living it, I see these times as a turning point.

Check it out here.

This personal blog is the source material for whatever comes next. I will keep writing authentically. It’s right there in my tagline, I document my journey and commit to having a point of view, which improves my thinking, my attitude, and my trajectory.

AND…ALSO…

I feel a shift, a slow down as my gaze turns away from the daily grind of wrestling through the trenches and more toward steady reflection, That might mean writing less often, perhaps, but with a deeper calm than the urgency that has carried me these last two months.

But again, I’m so grateful for what I have to show for these last two months.

Why do I seek to trade uncertainty for control? I see this pattern again and again in myself.

An idle heart wants to make an idol of something, anything.

Yet in my shifting and unease, I am learning to lean into uncertainty. To lean into faith. To trust. To trust God.

And as I do, I feel a slowing within me. A slowing in my work. A slowing in my workouts. A slowing in my drive and motivation. None of these will disappear, but each will become more focused, more deliberate.

Whatever storm landed in me has passed. Now comes a return to calm, like the soft rain that follows a storm.

I see now that when my heart drifts idle, I turn to myself and to my labor: work, work, work, do, do, do. Perhaps that was needed in the past two months. I had to prepare myself for a landing. But now, the invitation is different. It is time to slow down. To pause for a breath. To sit still.

There is nothing left to overcome, nothing to cling to. What is lost is lost, and what is gained is gained. Now there is only wide open country, untouched. How will I traverse into this new region?

There is nothing in myself worth grasping, nothing to place my faith in except God.

And God says, You cannot control me. But you do not need to. I love you.

I can rest in that. I can sit with that reminder. I can be secure in prayer to Him. And perhaps this slowing is not a loss but a clarity. Not passivity, but trust. A way of laying down control and finding, at last, a posture of rest in God’s love.

So it shall be. Amen.

It is the season of tears.

Tears as I open my Bible.

When Abraham sends Ishmael away because of Sarah’s jealousy, and yet years later the brothers (Ishmael & Isaac) unite to bury their father. Tears because God makes straight lines out of brokenness, and that gives me hope.

Tears when Jesus fasts forty days in the wilderness. As a man, I know hunger and weakness. Tears in the beauty in how He turned temptation into proof of His strength. Tears because He did that for me.

Tears as my daughter struggles with friends and feelings. I watch her wrestle toward understanding. In the kitchen, she draws while music plays, and I do dishes just to keep her talking. I hide my tears so she will keep going.

Tears when my son runs until it hurts and then runs harder. The day he wins the meet, I see both what it cost and what it gave. I press back tears because all eyes are on us as we embrace at the finish line.

Tears listening to a friend describe leaving his daughter at college, driving home in silence. His story lingers. Tears rise in both of us as he speaks.

Tears on the drive home after working with a young man who lost his father. I see in his eyes the weight of loss, and of being lost. Tears because life can be unbearably hard.

Tears as my stepfather, 83, lets me complete forms he cannot finish alone. His thanks carries the sting of lost dignity. Tears because he has always given, and now must receive.

Tears as my Dad sits alone, unable to explain or change the unhappiness around him. His loneliness seeps into me. Tears because I remember his strength, and now all the fight is gone.

Tears when my children’s great-grandmother suffers a stroke. Their mother calls to tell me. Tears because Great-Grandma has always been steady ground in the middle of our differences. Tears because her life has been bright, and now the light begins to fade.

Tears when I shut out my mom after a breakup, unwilling to let her touch the ache I carry. Weeks later, when I finally told her everything, I wept. Not just tears, but the kind that make you a child again, cradled by your mother’s voice. More tears because my mom is a paradox: rare, fleeting, eternal. That is its own kind of sadness, and I have nowhere to place it.

Tears for love lost. For the cost of hope and the hollow ache of absence. Tears because even love that doesn’t last leaves its mark. More tears because she still lives inside of me. We’ve never been apart.

Tears of gratitude to finally know after all this time that I am capable of feeling fully.

Tears when my children return to their mother’s house, and Monday night leaves my home still humming with their absence. They were just here, and now they are gone. In the emptiness, the tears come. I have no one to love.

And tears now, as I write this. Can anyone hear me through these tears?

The crying has come in waves. Little by little, then all at once.

But tears are not only sorrow. They are the calm water by which I see my reflection. And this season, like all seasons, will pass.

Maybe the Lord gave us a year as a mercy. It was July 2024 to July 2025.

It could have been a time to reckon with how we had drifted from His design for purity. That being the line we had already crossed. When she felt convicted to step back and wait, we should have listened. We should have stopped, humbled ourselves, and taken the leap of faith into the ultimate commitment under God, or chosen to honor His design by waiting.

I could have been more supportive of her initial conviction to return to purity.

It was a sign.

Could have, should have… Didn’t.

Instead, conviction gave way to compromise, and compromise dulled us both into following the status quo we’d already established.

Now we’re no longer. The ache cuts through me like a blade, and I pour out my grief before You, God, for losing her feels like losing part of myself, but I trust that even this suffering serves Your purpose.

The message is loud and clear:

God does not want sleepwalkers. He certainly shook me awake.

Like Jonah, who fled from God’s command and then slept through the storm that followed, trying to hide from what he didn’t want to face. The sailors cast lots, Jonah lost, and he was thrown into the stormy sea. Swallowed by a great fish and delivered to shore exactly where God had commanded him to go in the first place.

I was sleeping through the storm too, hiding from whatever I didn’t want to face. Yet God would not let Jonah remain hidden, and He has not let me remain indifferent.

Please God wash me ashore to where I belonged in the first place.

I repent and pray. I repent again, and continue to pray.

My heart is no longer indifferent. I hear Him. I accept what has been revealed. That being His design for purity. I don’t see it as a burden. It’s actually a path back to life.

I pray for a second chance. I’m speaking directly about a second chance with love itself, and with the opportunity to walk rightly, following His way. To know His mercy is to be invited to begin again.

I’ve prayed for a second chance with her, too, because I love her.

I also accept what must be accepted. God’s lessons and God’s plans. He is a just God.

Every ending, no matter how painful, carries the seed of a beginning. The ending of one chapter is also the same paragraph that starts a new chapter.

If I can stay awake to that, then even in this loss I will not be lost.

My son Lucan won a big cross country invitational this weekend.

All summer, he put in the work. He trained and I was by his side. He listened, trusted, and followed through. Today when it mattered, he was the one who crossed the line first.

My heart swelled. I had to hold back tears.

Yes, the victory is so sweet, but the quiet joy of watching effort ripen into fruit is the evergreen takeaway. What lesson is more fundamental than “hard work pays off!”

I’m proud of the runner he’s become, and even more proud of the young man he’s blossoming into. My son has a lot going for him.

In walking close beside him, in the guidance, encouragement, and the act of fully witnessing, I was reminded that my influence as a father has always been about presence. I don’t ever have to wonder where the time has gone because I’m always there. I don’t miss.

Here’s the thing that chokes me up, though. The time I give him is also the time he gives me, and in that exchange we are both shaped.

Sometimes we bolt from love because the connection casts light on our partner’s hidden places, and they are not ready to face what is revealed.

Sometimes we know something they do not, and that knowing presses against our limits. We cannot explain it, only that it signals the end.

Sometimes we run because beauty itself is soft as a kitten’s nose, but as dangerous as a lion.  It’s beautiful enough to draw us close, powerful enough to destroy us. That frightens us, and fear is the one thing we have always obeyed.

Sometimes the moment will not allow us to hold that love, no matter how much we want to.

Sometimes one of us leaves because one of us is not yet strong enough to keep love safe.

And so it goes. Sometimes love, sometimes not.

The real work is not in clinging to every love as if it must last forever, but in learning how each one changes us, how each departure teaches us to love more fully the next time.

It’s about releasing our grip on guarantees while deepening our capacity for connection even especially in the hard.

For me, I pray the next time is forever this time. I don’t want to cling to permanence, I want to be ready.

A love where we’ve grown strong enough to tend to it without strangling it. Where we carry each other all the way home.  Not in refusal to let go, but in the experience of knowing how to hold on.

Now I understand you. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long.

I never knew you were the world knocking.

I shouldn’t have bulldozed through you all this time. I see now that brute force alone cannot keep you from my door. Especially in my softening.

That’s okay and we’ll both be okay, haha.

You’ve been kind, actually, never holding me up the way you have others. Yet I can see your long shadow over some of my hardest days.

Your knocking is not a wall closing in. It’s an invitation I accept. You are the threshold of a door, waiting for me to step through.

Alright, I’ll step through.

I get it now. Something wants to be made, though neither of us knows what yet. That’s all right. You are only the messenger.

I won’t try to outrun you either. I see that your signal is a healthy reminder that I am alive, standing at the edge of creation.

So knock if you must.  I’m here.

I will walk through the door and sit still in the waiting, and watch your unraveling.

With clarity,
Eric

PS. You really need a name change. “Anxiety” has a bad wrap. If they only knew the real you.

The new guy made a costly mistake. He crossed a boundary and shook the trust of the owner.

Yet he has been a breath of fresh air. He brings gratitude each day, with a skill set our greenhouse has needed. In close quarters, you notice quickly when someone adds life to the work. He has already become work family.

When he turned to me in shame, humbled and seeking advice, I had a choice.

I saw the man before me. A single dad of a child with special needs. Trying to make peace with a co-parent. Carrying the grief of a brother who ended his own life. Insecure, wandering, with a resume that tells a story of searching.

I also saw something else. He is smart. Grateful. Kind and thoughtful. He is proud that we are helping him earn his CDL, and we are grateful too, because we have needed a driver for years.

The greenhouse has always been a home for the land of misfit toys. People who never planned to end up here, but somehow did, often in a season of need. They come with stories, scars, and gifts they don’t yet see in themselves. Somehow, this place gives them space to breathe, to belong, and to grow. I’m no different.

In that moment I was reminded of how Jesus treated people. Jesus lives in my heart, and the more I read Scripture, pray, lean into church, and immerse myself, the closer I come to a way of being I admire.

So I spoke with him in compassion. I did not chastise him. I coached him. I offered insight and kindness. He already knew the weight of his mistake. What he needed was a way to walk forward in dignity, head high, free from the noose of shame. I gave him permission to do so.

Later I spoke with my boss, who is also my best friend. We agreed. Our work is not only growing flowers. It is also shepherding people. Especially those who have not been treated well in the past. Especially when they carry gifts that will benefit the needs of the greenhouse.

Our greenhouse is not just a place where flowers grow. It is a place where people grow. On my best days, that is my real work. To care for people just as we would fragile flower cuttings. With time and with light, people can take root too.

It’s official. I’m now a member of the church.

On paper, it may look like a small step. In my heart, it feels like a big one.

Yesterday I sat with the pastor for 45 minutes, and in that conversation I felt something stir. Like roots finding soil.

I’ve already fulfilled the two-hour class, completed the application packet, and now I’m signed up to help set up for an event this Sunday morning. It feels good to begin lending a hand. Simple things.

There are many ways I can grow here. Through prayer groups. Through mentorship. Through serving. Through community. Through giving. Truth is, being part of a church family is not only something I want. It is something I need in this season of life. This feels right.

One of the ways we spoke about growth was through tithing. Scripture speaks of 10 percent. To be honest, I had some concern here.

The pastor did not pressure me. He spoke instead of trust. Trusting the Lord to provide, but also growing in that trust.

I gave him a number I felt I could commit to each month. He asked me to think of it not only as a dollar amount but as a percentage of my income. That way, part of my faith journey could be learning to increase it over time.

I am starting at 2 percent. That is okay. I have room to grow.

I will begin as a greeter via the Welcome Team, and I am genuinely excited for it. To stand at the door, smile, look people in the eye, and welcome hundreds as they enter.

It feels like holy work. The kind of work that requires the thing I can give best, simply my presence.

Beyond that, I see opportunities to serve with the skills I already carry. Digital media. Communication. Even a part-time ministry program seems to be opening as a possibility.

And here is the part that amazes me. This journey started with me as a janitor, scrubbing toilets and mopping floors in this same building.

Looking back, it does not feel accidental. It feels like God’s handwriting. As if He knew the arc before I even saw the line.

There is this sentiment from the poet, Mark Nepo. “The flower does not dream of the bee. It blossoms, and the bee comes.”

Maybe that is what is happening. Maybe my work is to keep saying yes. To blossom where I am. To trust God to send what comes next.

Trust is definitely growing.

I began with a small promise. Thirty days without smoking. I kept it.

That promise grew into something greater. A decision to smoke only a handful of times each year. Once in each season. A rhythm of restraint.

In that discipline, another door opened. It was not that I had never accepted the Lord. It was that I finally understood how much I needed Him. I leaned into Him fully. I could not find a path forward without Him.

Yet in that surrender I also felt my aloneness. Not alone in spirit because God is with me, but alone as a man walking the earth without a woman by my side. I had never felt that longing so clearly before.

It has been during this heartbreak that I’ve realized what I wanted. To have a woman to share the days with.

The image returned to me of creation itself. How God took a rib from the side of man, and from it made woman, so that she would walk beside him. In that mystery I saw my own desire. To honor God not only in solitude but in companionship. To walk with a wife. To share life. To glorify Him together.

As mentioned, this realization arrived as a result of not wanting to lose someone that I love.

After asking God why, and feeling the fire of loss, I have felt His hand press and reshape me. It hurts. I cannot see what is ahead. Yet I remain committed.

I believe this is a time of preparation. My prayers remain steady. My desires remain the same. This season is not for indulgence. It is for clarity. For strength.

The den of iniquity is what I must avoid. It offers only a counterfeit of what I truly long for. I do not want pleasure without covenant. I do not want comfort without truth. Better to walk the wilderness. Better to endure the desert of waiting than to settle for less than God’s design.

This is the expectation that I hold for myself. Sure, there will be temptations and tests before me. I will stay out of that place. I will choose sacrifice. I will choose the high road.

The high road is where honor lives. My future wife expects honorable. And this honor I will give to the Lord.

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.