Questions

What is a blog without words? Who is an author without publications? What is a Christian without community? Aren’t the questions without immediate answers the ones that haunt us the most? Do we forget them, or do we replace them? Do we forsake what we know to be right for what is popular? Do we ignore our needs because attaining them feels far-fetched?

A question is a sentence — an undecided statement. By definition, a question is “a sentence worded or expressed to elicit information” (Oxford Languages). The information may seem essential, but it could just as easily be the distraction. The question itself is complete. The extra is appreciated but not necessary. The answer, whether an opinion, a thought, or even a fact, doesn’t change the standing of the question.

I remember hearing that answers vary depending on your location. Depending on your location, variety adapts. Depending on your location, what you see becomes debatable. So then, what is true? And more importantly, why does it matter?

There are constants, and there are variables. Opportunities arise at any given moment, and decisions are made at your own pace. I’m learning that. I’m learning that the questions often matter more than the answers. I’m learning that my questions reflect my faith — what I believe in that moment. Always in God, sometimes in people, never in doubt. Doubt diminishes faith. It diminishes hope, the future, and the need to believe in more than what I see. It diminishes the trust in His heart when I can’t see His hand.

I’m learning that I don’t need to know why. I need to trust. I need to make room. I need to forgive. I need to cast my net. I need to follow Him. I need to quiet the noise and breathe — inhale, then exhale, in that order. And don’t stop. Don’t give up. Stay focused.

This will be the year of questions and noting how you respond. So respond by holding each other close. Respond by inhaling and exhaling. Respond with dancing and singing. Respond to the threat of distraction with meditation and peace. Be forgiving. Forgive — because this year, you’ll need it.

And always ask this question: are you fishing, or are you letting go?
Anita, you’re not a fisherman. Always let it go.