Dear reader,
It's been a little while since I last sat down to write to you. Not because there's been nothing to say. Quite the opposite, actually. Life has been rather full these past couple of months, and I've found myself wanting to live some of it before trying to put it into words.
There have been conversations around tables, opportunities I hadn't anticipated, plans made and reconsidered, moments of laughter, a few late nights, and some wonderfully ordinary days that I wouldn't trade for anything. And somewhere amongst it all, I've been thinking about how little of life we really see coming.
I'm someone who has spent much of his working life helping people plan. Budgets, forecasts, strategies, business plans, cash flow projections. I've always enjoyed understanding where things are heading, identifying what needs to happen next, and helping people find a sensible way forward. There's comfort in a good plan, and I still believe that. But I've also lived long enough to know that some of the most important things in life never appeared in one.
The people who arrive unexpectedly. The conversations that change something inside us. The doors that close and, much later, turn out to have been a kindness. The opportunities that come along when we've finally stopped trying to manufacture them. And sometimes, the quiet restoration of something we thought we'd lost.
I've been thinking about that word quite a bit lately. Restoration. It's an interesting word because we tend to imagine it means getting back what we once had, returning to the way things used to be, putting everything back where it belongs. But I'm beginning to think that God's restoration often looks rather different. Sometimes He doesn't return us to the old life at all. Sometimes He gives us the courage to live a new one.
I've been reminded of that in the simplest moments recently. Sitting with Maria, talking about our future. Imagining a home filled with family, laughter, people coming and going, perhaps grandchildren running around one day. Talking about gardens, trees, somewhere to sit outside in the evening, and the sort of life we want to make room for. Nothing particularly extraordinary about any of that, I suppose, except that there have been seasons of my life when I couldn't have imagined those conversations taking place. And now they do.
Not as some grand declaration that everything is perfect. Life is still life. There are relationships I continue to pray over, things I don't understand, questions without answers, and parts of the story that remain unfinished. But there is peace, and there is hope. Perhaps that's what restoration looks like sometimes. Not the absence of everything difficult, but the return of something good in the midst of it.
I've also noticed something changing in my relationship with work. I still love business. I love meeting people, hearing their stories, understanding what they've built, and helping them see possibilities they might have missed. Some fascinating opportunities have appeared recently, and I've genuinely enjoyed the conversations surrounding them. But I'm less interested than I once was in being busy simply because there's something to be done.
I'm learning that an opportunity can be good without necessarily being mine to pursue, that I can contribute something meaningful without needing to control everything that follows, and that sometimes the wisest thing I can bring to a conversation isn't an answer, but a question. Perhaps that's one of the quieter gifts of getting older. You begin to realise that experience isn't just about accumulating knowledge. It's also about recognising what matters, what doesn't, and what no longer deserves quite so much of your attention.
I've been trying to make more room for that distinction. More room for the people I love, for prayer, for conversations that don't have an agenda, for writing, for encouraging others, and for listening to what God might be asking of me in this particular season. And perhaps most importantly, more room for things that don't need to become anything other than what they already are.
A good evening, a shared meal, a walk, a conversation that carries on longer than expected, or a quiet moment of gratitude. It's funny, isn't it? We can spend years trying to build a life in which we'll finally have time to enjoy those things, only to discover that they were the life all along.
That doesn't mean ambition is wrong. I don't believe it is. There are things I still want to build, people I want to help, places I want to visit, and ideas that I'm excited to bring into the world. But I want those things to grow out of a life that's already worth living, rather than becoming the conditions upon which I allow myself to enjoy it. There's a difference, and I suspect it's one I needed to learn.
A few months ago, when I first began imagining this little place called The Front Porch, I wasn't entirely sure what it would become. I knew I wanted somewhere to write, to reflect, to share some of the things life had taught me, and perhaps to offer a little encouragement to someone walking through a difficult season. I imagined a couple of chairs, an open view, and the freedom to have conversations without needing to turn them into something productive.
What I didn't fully appreciate then was how much I needed that invitation myself. To sit, to notice, and to be grateful for what's in front of me rather than constantly reaching for what might be around the next corner.
I'm still learning, of course. There are mornings when my mind is racing ahead before I've even finished my coffee. There are days when the old instinct to organise, fix, build and push forward is very much alive. But increasingly, I'm able to recognise those moments and smile a little, because I don't have to get everything done today. I don't have to understand every part of the story, and I certainly don't have to know exactly what the next chapter will look like. I just need to be faithful with the part that's been placed in front of me.
Perhaps that's what these past couple of months have been teaching me. Not that life is becoming easier, or that everything is finally falling neatly into place, but that there's a great deal of beauty in the things we didn't see coming. And that sometimes, when we stop trying quite so hard to write the story ourselves, we begin to recognise the hand of the One who has been writing it all along.
So, wherever this finds you today, I hope there's something in your life that makes you quietly grateful. It might be something you've waited years for, something you never expected, or something so ordinary that you nearly missed it. Whatever it is, perhaps give yourself a moment to notice. I'll be doing much the same.
The coffee's still on, and there's a chair here whenever you need one.
— Kyan
P.S. Has something happened in your life recently that you didn't see coming? Good or difficult, I'd love to hear about it. Sometimes the stories we least expected are the ones most worth sharing.
