On September 11, 2025, the day after the Charlie Kirk assassination, I journaled about my intention to stay off social media as much as possible. The instant prophesying, the bickering in the comments, the ultimatums — it all felt like gas tossed onto a fire that was already burning too hot. 

I noted that the wisest thing for me to do in that emotional national moment would be to read something in a longer-form— books, essays, and other published works that had been fleshed out and edited, words that had been thought about for more than the minute or two they took to pound it out on an iPhone. 

I was tempted to turn to first reactions, but what I really needed were ideas that had been tested by time — words that carried the weight of revision rather than the immediacy of impulse, words that invited me to slow down instead of react.

When the world feels tricky (which is much of the time), I am too often guilty of searching for answers in the wrong places. I am admittedly uncomfortable with the way my brain has become strangely wired for scrolling, dangerously drawn to that hypnotic screen in my hands. 

But because my intentions are a battle rarely won outright, my journal entry the next day returned to social media — though this time, to reflect on a post that offered me a glimmer of the wisdom for which I was yearning. Jeff Chu, author and minister in the Reformed Church in America, shared some photos on Instagram from Nashville, where he was on tour for his new book, Good Soil: The Education of an Accidental Farmhand. Chu wrote of needing a “dose of wonder and perspective,” and going to watch thousands of purple martins passing through the city on their way to their winter homes.

Several paragraphs simply described the evening Chu spent watching, listening, directing his attention to these birds, and then, in an aside, as a postscript, he shared the words that most encapsulated how I was feeling.

Social media seems to have tempted many of us into the belief that we have to have something public to say about every event, every tragedy, every moment. I do not. You do not. We do not. Sure, sometimes you might have something helpful to share, but often, the best and wisest place to hold our thoughts, whatever they might be, will be in our close circles of trust or in our hearts and prayers.

I am an advocate for messy, first drafts. The journal entries mentioned above are a result of a daily journaling practice I recommitted to earlier this summer, not because a journal’s empty pages are where I do my best writing, but because it’s a secure and reliable place for processing. For the safekeeping of those half-formed ideas that might someday take flight or quietly burn out. Because on paper, with a pen in my hand, I can give my brain room to roam, and give the Spirit some space to nudge me. 

But not all my first draft thoughts – whether spoken or jotted — deserve a place within the permanency of the internet. There is a time and place to speak up, to say something loud enough for others to hear, and there are also times when I need to find wiser places to wrestle with my gut reactions than on a public forum. 

And by the time words reach the page in print, the hope is that they’re written not from an open wound, but from a scar — tempered by time, perspective, and a bit of grace.

As Chu noted, it’s healthy and valuable to have small circles of trusted friends for the same purpose: experimenting with ideas, wrestling with our beliefs — not for the purpose of broadcasting them, but in order to discover how we feel and how we might chart a path forward. This is the fine line between vulnerability and oversharing. 

When the world has me turned upside down, I try to remind myself that if I’m truly following the way of Jesus, it would only make sense that I feel out of sync, occasionally off-balance. The way of Jesus flips the script and should mess with the usual assumptions about value and reward: the first will be last, and the last first; it is better to give than to receive; turn the other cheek; love our enemies.

In a world that demands quick answers, the kingdom invites a slower, more deliberate rhythm. Less reaction, more reflection. 

My husband is 6’ 7” and I’m 5’ 4”. His stride is much longer than mine and so I’m used to walking fast, to getting places with purpose. Now that all my sons are closer to his height than mine, I often myself rushing to keep up. This summer on a family hike through the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, I began to wonder what we were missing as bounded down the trail as quickly as possible. If I’m moving too fast, I’m not only more adpt to stumble, I’m also more apt to miss the beauty for which we set off into the woods to encounter.

Like hiking too fast, there is danger in rushing to react, rushing to say too much too soon. The purpose of hiking is not its destination, but the journey along the way, and in the same way,  navigating the emotional terrain of our lives can be perilous if it’s done too hastily. Much of our figuring out needs to be done quietly, steadily, finding our footing, and then discerning the next best step. 

It may be true that what is written on the internet can never be truly erased, but perhaps the meaningful conversations we have face-to-face, the powerful narratives we encounter on the pages of a novel, the sorting of thoughts in our heads or in the blank pages of a journal, also endure — not as a permanent record, but in the lasting ways they shape us, expand us, and nurture wisdom. 

Perhaps our first-draft thoughts are most powerful not when they are immediately shared publicly, or fueled by the instant gratification of likes or shares, but when they are given quieter, healthier spaces to take root or be gently weeded away. 

Header photo by Jan-Niclas Aberle on Unsplash