What If This Is the Adventure?

It's January 1st, and I'm doing what everyone does—looking back, taking stock, even thinking about resolutions I'll maybe keep for a week or two.

But here's what I can't figure out: I remember last year's moments perfectly, but the lessons? Those are starting to blur. I remember laughing at puffins dropping like rocks. I remember crying while watching Long Nose Bear with her cubs. I remember getting stuck in Alaskan mud while a bear watched with what I swear was amusement. But what they taught me? That's slipping away.

And here's what is bothering me: what if I spend 2026 relearning what 2025 already tried to teach me? What if next December I'm looking back at another year of profound moments, asking the same questions, realizing I've just been going in circles?

You ever feel like that? Like you're collecting moments that somehow are not sticking?

I was staring at last year's photos—those puffins and bears and mustangs who had been teaching me about life—trying to hold on to their lessons, when something shifted.

Wait a moment!

Every single one of these moments—I wasn't alone.

The kit foxes playing fearlessly because their mother stood guard. God was there.

Long Nose Bear, loving her cubs with a fierceness forged in loss—given a second chance after catastrophic failure. God was there. Me, stuck in mud, focused on what I thought needed fixing instead of where I actually was. When I was pulled free, it hurt worse than staying stuck—but that pain wasn't punishment. It was extraction. The living God met me there.

The mustang, examining my heart with those ancient eyes, and somehow—somehow—choosing me. Not because I was perfect, but because when Love looked into my heart, He found Jesus there. Yes. God was there.

The spoonbills carrying burdens too big for their size. The duck teaching me God's definition of beauty has nothing to do with my narrow expectations. The rats in the darkness reminding me that what we abandon doesn't stay empty. In every awkward, beautiful, broken moment—God was there.

David knew this impossible-to-escape truth:

"Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts." (Psalm 139:7-8, 23)

Oh! Wait another moment—I've been asking the wrong question entirely. I have been trying to master these lessons, holding them so tight I'm missing what actually matters. It's not about the lessons. It's about WHO was there teaching them.

"Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith." (Hebrews 12:1-2)

Fixing my eyes on Jesus—not on remembering perfectly, not on mastering last year, but on the One who was there when the foxes played, when Long Nose Bear got her second chance, when I was stuck in mud, when the mustang examined my heart. In a ghost town at midnight teaching me to see in the dark.

Every single encounter was Him—authoring and perfecting my faith. These creatures weren't just teaching me lessons—they were living parables, acting out truths I needed to see. God speaking through His creation the way Jesus spoke through stories of seeds and sheep and prodigal sons.

And if He was faithful in all of THAT—in the mess and the awkward and the ridiculous—then what am I so worried about? Yet, I realize something uncomfortable: even with God faithful in all of my adventures, I have been holding myself back. I've been waiting to be perfect before I practice. Waiting to embrace my awkwardness until I feel put-together. Waiting for broken parts to be fixed before I believe I can be used.

That is completely backwards. The puffins don't wait until they look graceful—they just drop like stones, and those ridiculous wings somehow carry their football bodies to 55 mph. Long Nose Bear didn't wait until her scars healed—she loved fiercely, carrying wounds only she could feel. They just live. Awkwardly. Brokenly. Beautifully. And God is there. In all of it:

"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." (Psalm 147:3)

Which is exactly what happened to me. I started doing wildlife photography later than most—worked hard from a young age, practical, responsible. Never dreamed of traveling to Alaska or lying in mud photographing bears. But then I picked up a camera and started showing up—awkwardly, imperfectly—and something unlocked.

It wasn't the destinations. It wasn't the perfect shots. It was the whispers of God in creation. Learning His character through His creatures. Seeing myself in the animals I photograph. Discovering that He speaks everywhere—if you're listening.

And here's what I want you to know: you don't need Alaska or expensive gear or to wait until you're ready enough. You just need to stop waiting. Because that's what I almost did. I almost waited because I thought I was too old, too late to the game, not a "real" photographer. I almost let those lies talk me out of the greatest adventure of my life.

But what if I had waited for perfect? I would have missed the puffins. The bears. The mustangs. Every single God whisper that transformed how I see Him, how I see myself, how I see the world. I would have missed the adventure.

And sitting here on January 1st, looking at a year's worth of moments that were slipping away—I realize something. Maybe I'm not supposed to master every lesson. Maybe God is building them into the foundation of who I'm becoming, brick by brick, encounter by encounter.

And if God was building in 2025, what is He building in 2026? I'm not worried anymore. I'm excited. Because the adventure isn't about mastering lessons or getting it right. The adventure is discovering that God is there—in whatever I encounter. And He's already gone ahead of me:

"For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." (Jeremiah 29:11)

What if this whole year ahead is full of awkward, ridiculous, beautiful moments I haven't even imagined yet? Creatures I haven't met, places I haven't been—all of them waiting to show me more of who God is? What if instead of clutching last year's lessons, I release them to Him—trusting that the One who was faithful in 2025 will be faithful in 2026?

Here's what I'm doing, and I'm inviting you to join me:

I'm going to watch less doom and gloom this year. Less consuming the world's fear. Instead, I'm going to spend more time looking for His whispers in creation. Looking for the treasure in difficulties. The light in darkness. The ridiculous grace in awkward moments.

I'm going to dive like an osprey. Play like kit foxes under His protection. Trust that getting stuck sometimes is how I learn where the solid ground is. And I'm going to do it with anticipation instead of anxiety. Because look what God already did. If He was faithful in all my past adventures, what is He going to do THIS year?

"See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland." (Isaiah 43:19)

So here's my question for you: What are you putting off until you feel perfect enough? What adventure are you postponing because the timing isn't right or you're not qualified enough? What if God is already there, waiting for you to show up awkwardly so He can meet you in it?

That's the thread from last year: God is always there with me through whatever I encounter.

"And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age." (Matthew 28:20)

That truth makes whatever I face this year not just okay. It makes it THE ADVENTURE!

Will you join me?