gwynsday1

The Post Office and the Art of Slowing Down

I’m sure I’m not the only one who loves getting errands done fast and efficiently. And when I say that, I mean really fast. I’ll even get gas on the same side of the street as my other errands just to save a few minutes. Efficiency is my love language.

So, naturally, when I had to go to the post office to mail a package, I did my usual time-saving routine. But, as it often happens, all that time I saved everywhere else came to a screeching halt the second I stepped inside.

The line stretched back to the entrance. Everyone—except me and one other prepared soul—was completely unready. And I’ll admit it: I felt a little hangry, a little impatient, and a little “why did the world make me wait for this?”

As I stood there, silently congratulating myself for being prepared, I noticed the people around me. Not the annoying things they were doing—no, I actually looked.

There was the elderly man shuffling slowly, clearly struggling. A woman who couldn’t hear the clerk and kept repeating herself. Parents juggling kids who seemed determined to bounce off every wall in the post office. And through it all, the tired postal employees were doing their best to manage the chaos.

It hit me: here I was, irritated over a few lost minutes, while everyone else was just trying to survive a Monday. My fast-to-judgment brain got a swift reality check.

What if, instead of judging, I offered the pen that actually worked?
What if I stepped back for the older man who looked like he might collapse if rushed?
What if I distracted the kids for a moment so their mom could focus on the label?

Kindness is often just noticing what’s needed—and acting. There’s humor in it, too: I might have looked like a postal superhero, cape optional, helping strangers and winning at life.

By the time I left, I felt lighter. Not rushed. Not irritated. But quietly thrilled to have contributed a little calm in the middle of everyone else’s storm.

As I walked to my car, it struck me: maybe life isn’t about racing through errands and checking boxes—it’s about slowing down enough to see the humanity around us. Even for a few minutes.

“We can’t help everyone, but everyone can help someone.” – Ronald Reagan

And sometimes, helping someone means just passing them a pen.

Some of us love shopping. Others—like myself—not so much. But no matter which camp you fall into, at some point we all have to go to the store. We go for food, for necessities, or for things we simply want.

Have you ever thought about how life is a lot like one big store?

When we walk in, the first thing we look for is the perfect cart—the one that rolls smoothly, with no wobbly wheels and no annoying squeaks. A cart that’s big enough and easy to push so we can get everything done with ease.

As we move through this “store,” there are aisles and aisles filled with everything we could ever want or desire. Things that look perfect for us. Things we’re convinced will make us happy. We load our carts with as much as they can hold, eyes wide, hearts full, laughing and enjoying every moment of what feels like happiness.

Eventually, the shopping trip comes to an end. We get in line, unload our cart onto the conveyor belt, and our excitement grows with anticipation.

But then imagine this.

The cashier takes all the items you wanted—the ones you were so excited about—places them into a box, and sets it aside. Instead, they hand you one item. The one you didn’t really want. The one that was supposed to be good for you. Then they smile and say, “Enjoy, and have a great day.”

What would you do?

Would you accept it with gratitude and walk away thankful?
Would you argue, confused and frustrated?
Or would you hand it back and leave upset and angry?

Many of us think of God as that cashier. We believe that if God were real, or if He truly loved us, we would get everything we wanted. We would walk out with the big box—not the one small thing we didn’t ask for or understand.

But I like to think differently.

I believe God is looking out for us. He knows what is good for us, even when we can’t see it. Even when it doesn’t make sense in the moment. And when we choose gratitude for the small things, we often realize we’re walking away with more than we ever expected.

The box can wait—sometimes one small gift is enough to carry you exactly where you’re meant to go.

Running Toward What We Were Made For

On my morning walk the other day, I heard a big commotion coming from the front door of a house I was just about to pass. Curious, I looked up—and that’s when I saw her.

A very rambunctious three- or four-year-old girl was determined to get ahead of her dad and older sister. With all the speed her little legs could muster and shouting at the top of her lungs, she declared, “I’m going to win!”

And of course… she did.

She reached the car long before her family, who could have easily beaten her if they wanted to. In fact, they were telling her to slow down. But that didn’t dampen her spirits one bit. She jumped up and down in pure delight, celebrating what she already knew before she ever arrived—she had won.

Watching her made me stop and think.

How many of us still have that kind of childlike excitement? That bold ownership of good things to come. That deep-down knowing that we can do whatever we put our minds—and hearts—to.

That little girl didn’t focus on the obvious facts. She didn’t consider that her dad or sister could outrun her with very little effort. Instead, she surged forward with confidence, fully convinced of the outcome before it even happened.

Somewhere along the way, many of us lose that.

Instead of running toward possibility, we look at overwhelming odds and assume defeat. We weigh risks more heavily than hope. We quiet our voices instead of shouting, “I’m going to win!”

Maybe that’s something that happens as we age. Life has a way of wearing us down. The monotony, disappointments, and detours can leave us jaded—careful instead of courageous.

But what if we didn’t let go of that inner child completely?

What if we took our life experience, our lessons learned, and kept that childlike excitement alive? What if wisdom and wonder walked hand in hand?

There would be no stopping us.

I don’t believe you are ever too old to dream. If you have a pulse and breath still moving in and out of your lungs, why not? Why not believe again? Why not go for it?

As I was reflecting on this, I was reminded of the parable of the talents that Jesus shared in Matthew 25.

In the story, a master entrusts his servants with different amounts—each according to their ability. Two of the servants invest what they’re given and see it multiply. The third, overwhelmed by fear, hides his talent in the ground. When the master returns, the first two are praised for their faithfulness. The third is reprimanded—not for failing, but for doing nothing.

At first glance, Jesus’ response to the third servant can feel harsh. Casting him into “outer darkness” sounds extreme. But isn’t that often what happens when we leave our gifts unused?

When we bury what God has placed inside of us, we don’t just lose opportunity—we drift into despair. We begin to feel less than. Depression and hopelessness can quietly take root. To me, that is utter darkness.

I believe the One who created us knows we are meant for great things. And when we settle for less than what we were designed for, something inside of us dims. Not because God wants to punish us—but because He longs for us to live fully alive.

With a new year here, maybe this is our moment for a fresh start.

What if we decided this would be the year we fully embrace our God-given potential? The year we stop letting the naysayers—both external and internal—win. The year we stop burying our talents and instead make a run for it.

I love how Martin Luther King Jr. said it:

So run if you can.
Walk if you must.
Crawl if that’s where you are today.

Just don’t stop moving toward what you were created for.

And maybe—just maybe—shout “I’m going to win!” before you even reach the car