🌿What the Ducks Know

“In their heart’s humans plan their course,
but the Lord establishes their steps.”
— Proverbs 16:9

I am beginning this year without a resolution.

No five-year plan.
No carefully articulated goals.
No word of the year written in a pretty font.

What I want, more than anything, is to listen.
And to follow.

That desire surprises me, because for most of my life, I was a planner.

From a young age, I knew exactly who I was going to be. I was going to be a lawyer. I followed the path faithfully—majors chosen carefully, applications submitted on time, acceptance letters received with relief and pride. And then, just before it was time to go, I realized I couldn’t do it.

Not because I wasn’t capable.
But because it wasn’t mine.

So I stepped off the path I had planned, with no clear alternative waiting. What followed was not a straight line, but something more like a winding trail—campus ministry, community organizing, education, leadership, work that mattered deeply but didn’t always make sense when viewed from a distance.

Looking back now, I can see a pattern. But living it? It often felt disorienting. There were seasons when I understood what I was doing and why. And many seasons when I didn’t. Times when the next step was obvious, and times when it wasn’t.

And yet, somehow, each step turned out to be the right one for that moment.

Which brings me, oddly enough, to ducks.

We really had no business getting ducks.

When we bought a property with a pond, the idea seemed obvious enough. Ponds have ducks. Ducks belong there. They would glide across the water, add charm to the landscape, and quietly exist in the background of our lives.

What I did not understand is that ducks don’t stay where you imagine they should.

So when my husband walked into the living room one afternoon and found four ducklings in a cage, his reaction was not delight. It was something closer to disbelief. We were already raising bunnies. How hard could ducks be?

Harder than the idea of them ever suggested.

They needed more care, more protection, more attention than we had planned for. And just when we thought we had figured things out, one of them was attacked by a hawk. Our oldest daughter saw it happen and ran outside screaming, managing to scare the hawk away—but not before it had done serious damage.

The duck survived. Barely.
But she lost her sight.

Everyone agreed that putting her down would be the humane choice. But somehow, that never happened. She adapted. She learned. She lived. The girls named her Ms. Sniffles.

By fall, through other losses we hadn’t anticipated, we were down to just two ducks: Sniffles and Goose. And that’s when we began to notice something sacred unfolding in the ordinary rhythm of their days.

Sniffles can’t see where she’s going. When she gets disoriented, Goose calls out—loudly, insistently—until she turns toward the sound. Sometimes he walks ahead of her. Sometimes behind. Sometimes he gently nudges her body back on course when she wanders too far.

Every morning, when we let them out of the coop, we watch the same pattern play out as they make their way to their water pool.

Call.
Pause.
Nudge.
Wait.

And I think: this is my life.

I have spent years trying to see clearly—trying to discern the right vocation, the right work, the right next step. I have moved forward with sincerity, but not always with certainty. There have been times when I felt confident and sure-footed. And times when I felt profoundly blind.

This past year was one of those times.

It became clear that I needed to leave a position that had given me stability, identity, and a clear sense of purpose. What was not clear was what came next. There was no replacement lined up. No logical progression. No plan that would have satisfied a spreadsheet or a well-meaning advisor.

There was only a nudge.

Quiet at first. Persistent. A pull toward creating space—toward The Gathering Table. Toward hospitality that is less about polish and more about presence. Toward work that doesn’t depend on credentials or clarity, but on showing up, making room, and trusting that something meaningful happens when people are welcomed well.

It felt impractical. Risky. Like stepping forward without being able to see the path ahead.

And yet, here I am.

As this new year begins, I find myself less interested in mapping the future and more committed to paying attention. Less focused on where I’m going and more on how I’m being led. Proverbs 16:9 has never felt more true: we make our plans, but God establishes our steps.

Sometimes I understand the plan.
Sometimes I don’t.

And I am learning that this is okay.

Day by day, we are cared for. Step by step, the water appears. I don’t have to see the whole path. I only need to listen for the call, feel the nudge, and keep moving.

I am, without question, a blind duck.

But I am not afraid.

This year, my hope is not to arrive somewhere impressive, but to walk faithfully. To trust that there is a larger story unfolding than the one I can currently see. To believe that following—however imperfectly—is enough.

The pond will be there.
The table will be set.
And the One who calls us forward is faithful.

The Gathering Table exists for moments like this—for seasons when the path is unclear but the invitation to gather feels strong. It is a place shaped by hospitality, presence, and trust, where people come together to slow down, share stories, and remember that we do not walk alone. If you are looking for a space to listen more closely and move more faithfully, you are welcome to pull up a chair. The table is open, the pace is unhurried, and there is room here to arrive just as you are.