I've been chasing squirrels again.
Not literally, of course, no the squirrels I chase exist entirely in my mind, darting across the landscape of my attention with their bushy tails of possibility, their bright eyes promising something shinier, something more exciting than whatever sits directly in front of me. And like a dog who forgets every command the moment that furry distraction appears, I abandon the simplicity of obedience for the thrill of the chase.
It's embarrassing, really, how good I've become at this. Procrastination has evolved from occasional stumbling block to practiced art form in my life. I can spend hours mentally arranging the furniture of tomorrow while the Holy Spirit stands patiently beside the work He's placed at my feet today, waiting for me to simply bend down and begin. The irony isn't lost on me. I've spent years developing frameworks for focus, building systems for spiritual navigation, teaching others about the importance of following God's direction. Yet here I am, distracted by my own mental squirrels, cluttering what should be crystal clear with complications of my own making.
There's a particular flavor of spiritual restlessness that I've come to recognize in myself. It masquerades as vision, as forward-thinking, as "dreaming big for God's kingdom." It whispers that planning the next five steps is wisdom, that anticipating future ministry opportunities is stewardship, that imagining the impact of tomorrow's work is faith. But underneath all that spiritual-sounding noise, I've discovered something more honest in that I'm avoiding the simplicity of now. Because now is often mundane. Now is answering the email. Now is having the difficult conversation. Now is doing the research, making the phone call, sitting in the discomfort of not knowing what comes next. Now is trusting that the small obedience in front of me is somehow connected to God's larger purpose, even when I can't see the connection.
The Holy Spirit's guidance, I've found, tends toward shocking simplicity. It's rarely a ten-point strategic plan or a detailed roadmap stretching years into the future. More often, it's just the next right thing, the one thing. The thing that's been sitting there patiently while I've been mentally rearranging the future. "Do this," the Spirit seems to say. And my response? "Yes, absolutely! But first, let me envision how this will unfold over the next decade, and maybe sketch out some contingency plans, and perhaps dream a little about where this might lead..."
And there goes the squirrel.
I wonder sometimes what it is about the present moment that makes it so difficult to inhabit fully. Why does "what's in front of me" feel insufficient when it is, quite literally, more than ample to focus on? Maybe it's control. The future feels malleable in my imagination, subject to my planning and preparation. I can shape it, organize it, make it make sense. The present, on the other hand, simply is. It arrives with its own agenda, indifferent to my preferences, demanding response rather than planning.
Or maybe it's trust. Dreaming about tomorrow requires no faith since I'm the author of those dreams, and they can be as safe or spectacular as I choose. But doing what's in front of me today? That requires trust that this simple act matters, that it's connected to something larger than I can see, that God is indeed working all things together even when I can't trace the threads.
The past, the now, and the future are all in His hands, not mine. I know this intellectually. I've written about it, taught it, even believed it in my better moments. But there's a gap between theological assent and daily practice, and that gap is where my mental squirrels thrive. What would it look like, I wonder, to live with the singular focus of that squirrel-chasing dog? Not chasing distractions, but pursuing obedience with that same unbothered intensity? To be so fixed on the simple assignment in front of me that obstacles fade, complications dissolve, and the noise of "what if" and "what next" becomes background static I no longer hear?
I think it would look like freedom.
Freedom from the exhausting work of managing outcomes I can't control. Freedom from the pressure to figure out how today's obedience connects to tomorrow's purpose. Freedom from the need to justify simple faithfulness with complicated visions of future impact. Just do what's in front of me. Not because I've mapped out how it will lead to something impressive. Not because I've calculated the return on investment of this particular act of obedience. Simply because it's what I've been asked to do, and the One doing the asking is trustworthy.
Here's what I'm learning, slowly, clumsily, the work the Holy Spirit wants to do through me in the future is entirely dependent on my willingness to do what He's placed in front of me today. Not my ability to envision it, plan for it, or prepare for it. My willingness to be present to it. The present moment is not a launching pad to somewhere more important. It's not the means to a future end or a stepping stone to greater things. It is the location of God's work in my life right now, this moment, this task, or this conversation. The quiet prompt to do the unsexy work of simple obedience.
When I chase squirrels, those shiny objects of what could be, might be, will someday be, I'm not actually moving forward. I'm just running in circles, expending energy while the real work sits undone. The irony is that the dreams I'm chasing while avoiding today's assignment are only realized through the faithful accumulation of present moments well-lived. So I'm trying something different, when I feel that familiar pull toward mental squirrels, when I catch myself complicating clear direction with unnecessary dreaming, I'm practicing a simple thought: What's right in front of me?
Not what's on the horizon, not what I hope will be true next year, and not the impressive thing I could be doing if circumstances were different. What has God placed directly in my path today? Because that's my role. Not to manage the past or manufacture the future, but to do what's in front of me. To trust that the Holy Spirit's work through my life in the past, present, and future is in far more capable hands than mine.
The squirrels will still come. My dog-like mind will still notice them, still feel that pull toward the chase. But maybe, just maybe, I'm learning to stay focused on the simple work of faithful presence. One moment, one task, one act of uncomplicated obedience at a time. That's where the real work happens. Not in the dreaming, but in the doing. Not in tomorrow's vision, but in today's simple faithfulness.
Right here. Right now. Right in front of me.
