I recently took part in a conversation where a simple question was posed:

“What advice would you give your younger self?”

As people shared their answers, two words kept surfacing—pace and grace. Those words stayed with me. They don’t just belong to hindsight; they speak directly into the way we live and move through the present. So this reflection begins with the first of the two: pace.

There is a kind of presence that sits beneath everything else we do. Whether we are caring for others, working alongside them, or simply living in community, presence matters. Real presence—attentive, unhurried, grounded presence—is one of the most meaningful gifts we can offer. And it cannot be rushed.

I can still hear my elementary school teachers calling out in the hallways: “Walk!”

There was always a pent-up energy driving us forward. We ran through corridors, took the stairs two at a time, and measured ourselves by speed rather than awareness. Faster was better. We couldn’t wait to grow up, couldn’t wait for the next milestone, the next permission, the next arrival. Hurry ruled our hearts long before it ruled our calendars.

And then life has a way of placing us in roles and seasons that teach the opposite lesson. We find ourselves waiting—on people, on circumstances, on outcomes we can’t control. Scripture reflects that same rhythm. Again and again, the invitation is to wait. It’s striking that in the Gospel stories, Jesus never seems in a hurry. He walks. Even toward moments of deep need, He moves with intention rather than urgency.

Think of Elijah. He ran from Mount Carmel to Jezreel and collapsed from exhaustion. It wasn’t until he was hidden away on the mountain of God, sheltered in a cave, that he encountered the still, small voice and heard the question:

“What are you doing here?”

That question has a way of finding us too.

For more than thirty years, before ministry shaped my days, farming did. My father, my grandfather, and the cows themselves were my teachers. Farming is built on rhythm and timing—morning and evening, feeding and milking, day after day. The schedule mattered, but the deepest learning didn’t come from the clock.

The real lessons came from slowing down. From walking quietly through the herd at an unexpected hour. From sitting on a fence and simply watching. When nothing was being forced, behaviors surfaced naturally. Presence revealed what hurry never could.

That lesson carries far beyond farming.

If our lives are only lived in scheduled moments—planned meetings, formal gatherings, expected appearances—we miss a wealth of connection. Structure has its place, but so do unscripted moments. Slowing down creates space to notice who is nearby, who is overlooked, and who might need nothing more than someone willing to be there without an agenda.

This doesn’t mean there are never moments of urgency. There are. But even then, a calm, attentive presence matters more than speed alone.

Not long ago, I found myself responding to an emergency and instinctively began to rush. Then a familiar phrase surfaced: walk, don’t run. It echoed words spoken to me years earlier—an invitation to slow down, observe, and discern where presence was most needed. Often, it’s not where the noise is loudest, but where the anxiety quietly spreads.

So if I could speak to my younger self now, I would say this:

Slow down. Pay attention. The journey is long, and the scenery is magnificent. Don’t miss it by rushing through.

Pace yourself.