Category: The Rest is Gravy

How Corrupt is It?

In 2020, I wrote An Advent for the Cosmos because I was struck—not by a new idea, but by a more complete confrontation with an old one. I had never fully grasped the depth of corruption in the cosmos as it unfolds in the story of God’s redemption. The gospel we often hear, while true, is too trimmed down: Adam and Eve sinned, that sin is now ours, and Jesus died to forgive it. That version of the story fits nicely on a flannelgraph board, but it fails to do justice to the immensity of the problem—and the glory of God’s solution.

Yes, Adam and Eve sinned. But theirs was not the beginning, and certainly not the end, of the cosmic mutiny.

There is a storied trail of rebellion against God, an escalating series of betrayals that stretch from heaven to earth. Satan rebelled before Eden, turning his back on the glory of God and dragging others with him. In the Garden, Adam and Eve aligned themselves with that rebellion, exchanging truth for a lie. Then, as if that fracture wasn’t enough, the sons of God interbred with the daughters of men—an unholy union that brought giants and grotesque evil upon the earth. Later came Babel, where mankind tried not merely to make a name for themselves, but to reclaim the heavens apart from God. Even Israel, chosen and beloved as God’s people to bring a savior into the world, hardened its heart again and again.

Each stage in this narrative isn’t just sin—it’s corruption. It’s decay set into the bones of creation. And not just human nature, but the very hierarchy of the cosmos. Paul writes in Romans 8 that “the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now.” Creation itself is not innocent in all of this—it has been warped, diseased, made complicit in the rebellion of its stewards and the spiritual powers that influence them.

Creation has earned its corruption.

That’s a sobering thought. It’s also a clarifying one.

Resting in God’s Will

Peace comes when we rest in God’s will. That’s not a trite, coffee-mug slogan about everything working out for our comfort. True rest doesn’t come from assuming that things will go the way we want—but from knowing that even when they don’t, God is still in control.

God is sovereign. At the same time, we are responsible for our actions. We should work hard, make wise decisions, pursue good goals. But when our efforts fall short or our plans unravel, we can rest—not in our ability, but in His will. We trust that He is weaving something wiser and better than we could ever design. As He says in Isaiah 55:8-9:

“For My thoughts are not your thoughts,
Nor are your ways My ways,” says the Lord.
“For as the heavens are higher than the earth,
So are My ways higher than your ways,
And My thoughts than your thoughts.”

That’s a humbling reality. And it’s the opposite of a prosperity gospel. God’s will is not always easier—but it is always better. It may not match our desires or timelines, and it may come through seasons of suffering. But peace doesn’t come from getting our way—it comes from surrendering to His way.

Psalm 127 captures this perfectly:

“Unless the Lord builds the house,
They labor in vain who build it;
Unless the Lord guards the city,
The watchman stays awake in vain.
It is vain for you to rise up early,
To sit up late,
To eat the bread of sorrows;
For so He gives His beloved sleep.”

We can wear ourselves out, chasing outcomes, worrying over results. But success isn’t produced by effort alone. It’s given by God. He may use our diligence, but He does not depend on it. When we labor within His will, He gives us rest. When we trust His timing, He gives us peace.

Of course, this doesn’t mean we stop working. It’s not laziness—it’s alignment. It’s living diligently inside the boundaries He’s provided. Sometimes, those boundaries become guardrails for discernment.

My family has experienced this firsthand. There were several seasons when we were searching for a new home—one that would serve our needs better. We had a budget rooted in God’s provision, and that budget helped protect us from foolish decisions. There were times when things didn’t make sense: we had an offer rejected, only to watch the same home sell for less than our offer. Or we’d find a promising house, but couldn’t sell our old one. It was frustrating in the moment—but we believed that if the timing wasn’t lining up, it was because God was guiding things behind the scenes.

Years later, we see it more clearly. We see His hand in getting us to where we are—not through our own strategy or success, but through rest. We didn’t force it. We trusted Him to work in the areas we couldn’t control. 

Stillness and the Great Mismatch

We have a problem with boys. Not with who they are, but with what we expect them to be.

In modern classrooms, boys are told—implicitly and explicitly—to sit still, stay quiet, and conform to an environment designed for order and compliance. For many boys, this is a daily exercise in failure. The expectation to suppress movement, emotion, noise, and energy is not just unnatural; it’s misaligned with how boys are wired. And then we wonder why so many of them fall short, act out, or struggle.

The DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual) outlines criteria for ADHD—difficulty staying seated, trouble focusing, fidgeting, impulsivity. If we’re honest, it reads like a list of traits that simply describe a normal 8-year-old boy who needs to use his energy. Have we pathologized boyhood? Are we diagnosing nature as a disorder?

The explosion in diagnoses, especially among boys, should give us pause. Maybe the real issue isn’t in their brains, but in our buildings. Boys weren’t made for fluorescent lights and rigid schedules. They were made to run, to build, to explore, to wrestle, to invent, to dig trenches and climb trees. They were made to be outside, working with their hands, burning off the enormous stores of energy God gave them.

We need to simplify boys’ lives. Fewer screens. Fewer bells and charts and test scores. More dirt under the fingernails. More time to create—whether that’s carving wood, writing stories, fixing engines, or tending animals. Boys thrive when they’re trusted with real work and allowed to live in rhythm with nature instead of against it.

Let’s stop asking boys to be something they’re not. Let’s give them space to be who they were made to be.

Imagine this: you’re alone on a patch of land. No grocery store. No doctor down the road. No Amazon truck rumbling up the driveway. You grow your own food, patch your own clothes, mend your own roof. If something breaks, you fix it—or you do without. There’s no one to call for help. No backups. No specialists.

It’s all on you.

Food. Clothing. Shelter. Medicine. Protection. Warmth. Sanity. You are the hunter, the gatherer, the seamstress, the doctor, the carpenter, the night watch. You are the sole line of defense between your family and the world.

Now imagine one other family lives a half-day’s walk away. That single relationship changes everything. You can trade eggs for potatoes, or cloth for honey. You can share tools. You can learn from each other. Suddenly you’re not alone, and that sliver of community feels like a lifeline.

That’s the value of connection when you’re truly self-reliant.
Now flip the lens.

Look at your life today. Most of us don’t grow a thing we eat. We don’t make our clothes—we probably don’t even know how. We live in houses we didn’t build, with electricity we didn’t wire, full of conveniences made by strangers in other countries. Nearly everything we rely on comes from someone else’s labor.

And we take it for granted.

Fellowship

Dietrich Bonhoeffer had a grounded—sometimes even sobering—perspective on Christian community. In Life Together, he reminds us that fellowship with other believers is a gift, not a guarantee. God does not promise we will always have it.

“It is easily forgotten that the fellowship of Christian brethren is a gift of grace, a gift of the Kingdom of God that any day may be taken from us…”

He continues:

“Therefore, let him who until now has had the privilege of living a common Christian life with other Christians praise God’s grace from the bottom of his heart. Let him thank God on his knees and realize: it is grace, nothing but grace, that we are allowed to live in community with Christian brethren.”

In essence, Bonhoeffer is saying: God doesn’t owe us fellowship. It’s not something we can demand or expect at all times. Instead, when we do experience it, we should receive it with deep gratitude, knowing it can be taken away.

This perspective carries deep weight, especially when you consider Bonhoeffer’s own story. He wrote Life Together after spending time in an underground seminary during Nazi Germany. Later, he would endure isolation, imprisonment, and ultimately execution. His words are not theoretical—they come from someone who truly knew what it meant to long for fellowship and to miss it deeply.

Bonhoeffer’s core message is this: Christian fellowship is a grace, not a right, and we should treasure it while we have it.

Bitterness rarely starts big. It usually begins with a small disappointment—someone didn’t follow through, didn’t respond the way we hoped, or failed to live up to our internal picture of what they should have done. Over time, those small moments pile up. And when the people we care about don’t meet our expectations, we often don’t just feel let down—we begin to judge them, question their motives, or quietly withdraw.

The problem isn’t always the people. Many times, it’s the expectations themselves.

The gap between what we expect and what we actually experience becomes the breeding ground for bitterness.

This plays out in friendships, marriages, parenting, workplaces—even in the church. We cling to unspoken assumptions, often without ever communicating them. We expect people to know what we need, how we feel, or what we meant—and when they don’t deliver, we take it personally. That personal offense can slowly harden into resentment. And resentment, left unchecked, becomes bitterness.

Gary Vaynerchuk put it bluntly:
“Wanna be happy? Have zero expectations of others.”

At first glance, that might sound harsh or overly independent. But the wisdom in it is freeing. It’s not about giving up on people or refusing to trust—it’s about releasing the demand that others live up to the version of them we’ve built in our minds. When we base our peace and joy on someone else’s performance, we give them control of our emotional and spiritual well-being.

Scripture warns us of what happens when bitterness takes root.
Hebrews 12:15 says:
“See to it that no one falls short of the grace of God and that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many.”

Bitterness never stays contained. It spreads—quietly, destructively. It leaks into how we see others, how we relate to God, and how we view ourselves.

So what do we do?

We let go of the need to control. We offer grace, just as we’ve received it. We communicate openly, forgive quickly, and ask God to help us see people the way He sees them—not through the lens of disappointment, but through the eyes of redemption.

That shift—grace over expectation—can be the difference between a heart hardened by unmet hopes and one softened by the love of God.

Here’s one more layer: when we place expectations on others, we actually rob them of the chance to be kind. When something is expected, it no longer feels like a gift. But when we release people from those silent demands, every act of love or service becomes a grace-filled surprise—a blessing, not a requirement.

Let go of the scoreboard. Let God be the source. And let people be people—flawed, growing, and just as in need of grace as you are.

Understanding the reality of The Gap will change the way you view life. In the following chapters, we will illustrate The Gap with different scenarios. I promise that by understanding and adjusting The Gap, you will experience more gratitude and a greater love for life. But first, let’s define what The Gap really is.

Defining The Gap

Simply put, The Gap is “the space between our expectations and reality.”

Unmet expectations often lead to frustration, bitterness, and anxiety. While some expectations are reasonable—like honesty in relationships or fair treatment at work—many of our daily disappointments stem from expectations that don’t align with reality. If you find yourself constantly frustrated with life, people, or circumstances, it may be time to examine whether your expectations are realistic.

I recently heard Dave Ramsey say, “The secret to happiness is low expectations.” That might sound cynical at first, but it holds deep truth. Even in situations where we could argue that expectations should be higher, we actually create joy (gravy) by adjusting our expectations.

For example, if you wake up expecting a perfect, problem-free day, even minor inconveniences will ruin it. But if you wake up thanking God for His promise to be with you through any hardship, your expectations shift. Instead of frustration, you find strength. Instead of disappointment, you find gratitude. This shift creates lasting joy and peace in your life.

I grew up visiting my grandparents’ farm in Southwest Missouri. They had long and storied lives, but to me, they were just Grandpa and Grandma. I loved the simplicity of their days—waking early to check on and feed the cattle, tend the chickens and gather eggs, weed the garden, and tackle the endless chores of farm life. They lived without fanfare, but their lives were thick with meaning.

They hadn’t always led such a quiet life. During the Great Depression, my grandfather hopped trains to roam the country. One night, riding atop a train to reach the next town, he slipped off his coat to use as a pillow. When he woke and sat up, the wind snatched it away—along with his wallet and every cent he had. Over the years, he fixed cars, built planes during World War II, and took on other jobs to provide for his family.

Eventually, he bought a farm and raised cattle. Cash was scarce, but my fondest memories were born there, especially during Thanksgiving. All the aunts, uncles, and cousins crammed into their small double-wide. With no spare bed for me, I’d sleep under the dining room table, drifting off to the hum of adult voices. The food was always good, but breakfast stood out. I’d wake to the smell of bacon and eggs, and Grandma’s sausage gravy—rich and perfect—tied it all together. I’d even ladle the leftovers into my bowl to eat plain. That’s how delicious it was.