Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

About

is a poet and author who writes about God, grief, hope, and the ordinary moments that shape us. is a therapist and writer who helps people slow down, tell the truth about their inner lives, and move toward healing with honesty and compassion. He is also a fantastic Instagram follow.

Together, we’re joining forces for good and creating a series of poems and reflections for the seasons that feel unfinished.

Each post begins with a poem from Tanner, followed by a guided reflection from Blake. Our hope is not to offer quick answers or easy fixes (because we don’t have answers and easy fixes usually break quickly), but to create space: space to reflect, to breathe, to grieve, to hope, and to remember that even in the unfinished parts of life, we are not alone.

This first piece is about waiting. It’s an invitation to slow down and then slow down some more to notice what feels missing, while also holding onto the possibility that peace, hope, and God’s presence have not left us.

Our structure is this:

• Read

• Reflect

• Respond

• Rest

Ready?

As You Wait by Tanner Olson

From the book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through

As you wait, make your coffee.

Move to the couch or to the chair on the porch.

Leave your phone in the other room, along with your worries.

You don’t need to busy yourself.

You can just be.

Open your hands and breathe in deep.

This is a prayer of thanks and surrender.

Fix your eyes forward on the world in front of you.

See the trees shake their leaves to the ground.

Listen as the birds sing their song for anyone who will listen.

Get lost in the rising sun and the shadows it makes.

Slow yourself down and sit with what is, even if what is feels incomplete.

There is peace, but there is also a piece missing.

Something is missing, but hope is not.
Something is missing, but peace is not.
Something is missing, but God is not.

God is here as you wait.

Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him.
— Psalm 37:7

Reflection by Blake Roberts

Open your journal and prepare to write, but before you do begin with this breathe prayer:

Inhale / The LORD is my shepherd
Exhale / I shall not be in want.

Quietly arrive in your body.

Take another slow breath. Put your phone on the other side of the room. Turn over your to-do list so it’s out of sight. Notice what your body does when there is nothing to manage for a moment.

Write: Right now, my body feels...

Sit with what is actually here.

Write: When I slow down and notice it, I feel...

Every season has loose ends and unfinished things. You don’t have to fix them right now. Just tell the truth about what feels unfinished.

Write: Something in my life that feels incomplete is...

Gently name what feels missing.

Most of us can point to a space inside that feels empty or not-yet. Naming it doesn’t make it worse. It actually makes room to breathe.

Write: What feels missing to me right now is...

Remember what hasn’t left.

Even when life feels overwhelming and you feel stretched thin, hope can be quiet. Peace can be subtle. Joy can feel faint. Love can seem distant.

Write:
The one that feels closest to me today is...
The one that feels farthest is...
This distance makes me feel...

Before you move on, use one of the following prompts to begin a prayer. Let it guide you into whatever comes next. And after you say amen, may you remember: God is not missing, and He has not forgotten you.

As I wait, I’m learning...
As I wait, I’m releasing...
As I wait, I’m trusting...

Make sure to follow Blake Roberts on Substack and Instagram.

Today’s poem came from the book Getting Through What You’re Going Through.

It’s a collection of poems, essays, and other hopeful words written to meet you where you are and gently guide you forward. Whether you’re navigating a difficult season or just need a reminder that you’re not alone, this book offers comfort, perspective, and a quiet sense of encouragement.

GTWYGT

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

Slow Down During June

If you want to slow down during June, you’ll have to let some things wait. You’ll want to turn off all notifications. You’ll need to put your out-of-office auto-reply on. You’ll want to fill your belly with fresh fruit. Wake up early enough to hear the birds before the world gets loud. Leave the porch door open a little longer. Drop your phone in the lake. Sit outside after dinner and watch the sky soften. Stop trying to turn every free moment into something productive. Choose the sunset over dishes. Water something growing. Let yourself believe you are growing too. Remember: A walk in the woods is God’s podcast. Go listen. Find a way to eat pie. Cherry. Strawberry. Key lime. Chocolate. All of the pies. Not everything needs your attention right away. Not every text needs an immediate reply. Not every evening needs to be filled. Sit in the quiet long enough for your soul to catch up with your body. Let some things stay unfinished while the fireflies come out. I know, it’s hard to believe it’s already June, but it is. Time flies. Don’t forget to look up. Breathe deep. Pay attention. July will be here before you know it. If you want to slow down during June, you’ll have to let some things wait. And it will be worth it.

It’s not a game, but I have 27 tabs open on the computer I’m typing this on. No, I do not want a trophy, because this feels like losing. To my left are two cups of coffee. One from yesterday. One from today. There’s a stack of books beside me that I keep telling myself I’m going to read. Eleven pieces of paper are scattered across my desk. Three pens. Only one has a cap.

I’m a mess.

And somehow, I keep ending up here.

Every month, I tell myself I’m going to slow down. Pull back. Be more present. Trust God with today. And every time, I find new ways to do the opposite.

I grip things tighter than I need to. I check my phone more than I want to admit. Opening social media is my smoke break and I am a chain smoker, always looking for a quick distraction only to end up wandering through an endless sea of comparison. I tell myself I’m building something meaningful, but sometimes it feels like I’m just trying to keep all the plates spinning.

The world seems to get louder every day. More distractions and invitations for our minds and bodies to hurry and leave the moment they’re in. And if I’m honest, I don’t need much encouragement to join the rush. I keep pushing forward on tired legs, convinced that if I just work a little harder, stay a little later, or answer a little faster, then maybe I’ll finally catch up.

But catch up to what?

Maybe that’s why June feels like an invitation.

An invitation to leave a few things undone. To let some emails wait. To sit outside a little longer. To listen to the birds before the noise starts. To remember that my value is not measured by my productivity, my platform, or how quickly I respond to a text message.

Maybe this June, God willing, I’ll slow down.

Maybe you need to as well.

Here is to slowing down this June.

With hope,

Tanner

I hear poetry helps us slow down …

Grab a copy of Getting Through What You’re Going Through today.

It’s a collection of poems, essays, and other hopeful words written to meet you where you are and gently guide you forward. Whether you’re navigating a difficult season or just need a reminder that you’re not alone, this book offers comfort, perspective, and a quiet sense of encouragement.

GTWYGT

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

Let’s Try Again

10 years ago I blew out my left calf.

That’s not the technical term for what happened, but I am not a doctor.
It happened in the fourth game during an afternoon of pickup basketball in a middle school gym in Austin, Texas.

I was 27, which is old if you’re comparing yourself to 17, but still young if you’re comparing yourself to anyone with a child in college and a drawer full of ibuprofen.

Two hours in, I went up for a layup, and something in my calf said, “We are done.”

I landed and couldn’t put any pressure on my leg.

Lying on the hardwood floor, I messaged Dr. Google, “Something in my calf just exploded, what do I do?”

It told me to seek immediate medical attention if I experienced:

• A loud “pop” sound or sensation.

• Inability to put weight on the leg.

• Severe swelling or bruising.

• Significant numbness or tingling in the foot or calf.

Check, check, check, check.

A few guys helped me to my car and I drove to the ER. When I got there, I called the front desk and asked if someone could come help me inside. They said I’d need to call 9-1-1.

“I’m… right here,” I told them. “Like, next to the ambulance.”

“Yes,” they said, kindly but firmly. “You’d still need to call an ambulance.”

“I can see you! I’m waving. I’m the one in the car,” I said.

“I understand sir, but you’ll need to call 9-1-1,” she repeated.

It would have cost a few thousand dollars to travel about 50 feet from my parking space to the entrance.

I took a deep breath and did what felt both heroic and pathetic: I hopped on one leg into the hospital.

“Hi,” I said at the desk, trying to sound casual—not like I was in the worst pain of my life. “I’m Tanner. I was just waving to you from my car. I’m the one whose calf stopped working.”

And in a way, something else stopped working too.

Since then, I’ve been careful. Careful in the way people are when they have learned something the hard way. Careful in the way people are when they are trying not to feel that kind of pain again.

But what I am starting to see is that careful is often just a polite word for afraid.

Afraid of pain or being sidelined again. Afraid of that unfortunate betrayal when your body decides it has limits you never agreed to.

The few times I’ve tried to get back on the court, I’ve hopped off early, feeling that familiar pain in my calf and hearing the same thought on repeat:
See? This is why we don’t do this anymore.

Injuries don’t just live in your body. They take up space in your mind. They whisper about what might happen. They rehearse worst-case scenarios until you believe they are inevitable. Worst of all, injuries quietly narrow your life by a few degrees at a time until you don’t notice how small the circle has become.

And my circle had become small.
Smaller than I realized.

But then, a few months ago I was added to a group chat with a few guys from church. Every Sunday at 6 PM, they play basketball.

After blowing it off for weeks, I finally went.

And I haven’t stopped thinking about the night since.

Before I had the dream of being a writer, I dreamed of being in the NBA.

Most of my childhood happened on a basketball court. If I wasn’t at youth group, I was in a gym somewhere, pretending I was Michael Jordan or Steve Nash.

And then, after a knee surgery and a few other injuries my junior year of high school, I stopped playing organized basketball.

I handed the coach my jersey and never looked back, except for every day since.

When I stopped playing, I slowly stopped recognizing myself.

That’s when the fog rolled in. I felt distant. Unmoored. Like I was watching my life instead of living it. I missed the sweat, the rhythm, the way your lungs burn and your mind goes still. I missed the camaraderie, the sacred language of “I’ve got you” and “ball up” and “one more.”

I missed falling down.

I missed getting back up.

I played intramural basketball in college, and a few pick up games in the years following college, but since that day in that Austin middle school gym, I haven’t been myself.

Until the other night, at a YMCA in East Nashville with 7 other thirty and forty something year old guys.

Somewhere in game 3 or 4, I channeled my inner Steve Nash and whipped a perfect pass to a teammate cutting to the hoop.

He floated it in and yelled, “Good pass, Tanner!”

One sentence.

That’s all it took.

Suddenly I was back in a high school gym. Before injuries. Before the fog. Before depression. Before my calf quit. Before waving to the ER receptionist from the parking lot.

And underneath that voice, I could hear my dad from the bleachers:

“Good pass, Tanner!”

It’s strange how memory works. It just shows up. Sometimes through a smell, a sound, a phrase, and for a moment, the past and present come together.

Our culture seems to have a love for nostalgia, but for something to become nostalgic means you’ve moved on. You cannot be nostalgic for what is, only for what no longer is; without time, without life lived in-between.

And I’ve lived a lot of life these last 10 years.

And maybe what I’ve been needing to hear is someone tell me, “Good pass, Tanner!”

I’m not entirely sure why I’m telling you all of this.

Maybe I’m reminding myself that fear is a poor foundation for a life.

Maybe I’m remembering that the things we love don’t always disappear, they just continue to invite us to show up again.

Maybe I’m learning that healing isn’t about returning to who you were at 17, but about becoming someone who’s willing to try again, even if it’s slower, even if it’s messier, even if you have to stretch for twice as long and ice afterward and pray endlessly that injury will not find you.

Maybe healing looks less like going back and more like stepping forward with a limp and a little courage.

Maybe I’m just saying this:

Say yes to the thing that scares you.

Something happens when I have a basketball in my hands.

Something I have forgotten.

It’s the same thing I feel when I’m writing a poem, or holding my son’s hand, or laughing over a date night with my wife, or singing on a Sunday morning, or standing at the edge of the ocean as the sun clocks out for the day.

It’s that quiet, inviting sense that I am alive.

Not who I used to be. Not who I thought I would be. But here and alive.

In some ways, it’s a beautiful glimpse of heaven on earth, and you cannot convince me I won’t play basketball in heaven.

But for now, it feels like enough to lace up my shoes on a Sunday night, step onto the court, and let myself chase the wonder of my youth.

Where life once shouted, We are done, it might, by grace, learn to say, Not yet. Let’s try again.

—

And good news!

I did not blow out my calf.

… but it does appear I tore my meniscus.

Funnnnn.

Grab a copy of Getting Through What You’re Going Through today.

It’s a collection of poems, essays, and other hopeful words written to meet you where you are and gently guide you forward. Whether you’re navigating a difficult season or just need a reminder that you’re not alone, this book offers comfort, perspective, and a quiet sense of encouragement.

GTWYGT

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Hello!

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

Today you can listen to the poem, Reminders for Living, on all streaming platforms (Spotify, Apple Music, etc). Over the next few months I’ll be releasing a handful of poems set to music. Make sure to follow Tanner Olson wherever you stream music.

Listen

Look for God. He is Everywhere.

There’s a kind of exhaustion that comes from living with open hands stretched toward everything you keep ignoring. I only know this because it’s how I have tried to live my life.

Why do I have such a hard time being still?

Why do I have such a difficult time believing that this life, the one already unfolding in front of me, is the adventure I’ve been looking for?

So often I forget that I am allowed to be right where I am

Not reaching toward another city, another season, another version of myself.

Just here with roots down and eyes open.

Something unexpected tends to happen in the stillness.

You start to see.

Daily bread keeps arriving.
Mercy comes with the sunrise.
Kindness sneaks in at the grocery store.
Hope refuses to leave.

Stillness changes our perspective and invites us to spend our time looking for God.

Maybe that’s why stillness feels so uncomfortable to me sometimes.

Because stillness removes the illusion that fulfillment is waiting somewhere else.

In another city.
Another task checked off the to-do list.
Another version of my life that I haven’t woken up in yet.

But the more I slow down, the more I realize how God is with me in the ordinary.

The poem “Reminders for Living” was born out of my tendency to rush past my own life while looking for something more meaningful.

But what if this is meaningful?

What if the life in front of us is already full of wonder, mercy, beauty, and the presence of God?

This poem became an invitation for me before it ever became one for anyone else.

An invitation to stop reaching so far ahead or believing I’m behind.

It has led me to stop treating rest like weakness and ordinary moments like obstacles between me and “real life.”

After all, real life is here.

In this Wednesday morning.
In the prayers whispered half awake before coffee.
In the people God has already placed around us.

Maybe the invitation is not to escape our lives, but to wake up to them, believing God is here.

These days, I’m trying to live what I write.
To slow down long enough to pay attention.
To look for God.

And to remember that this life, the one already unfolding in front of me, is a gift.

Reminders for Living

From my book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through

You cannot live every life you want to live.
You can live only the one precious life you have been given.
This gift is more than enough.
And once you realize that, then and only then can you live a deep adventure.

With this in mind, empty your hands and put down roots.
The temptation is to leave home and live everywhere,
but you can see the world without ripping up the soil you’ve been watering.

In this short life you are allowed to be right where you are supposed to be, so be all there.

Open your hands and ask God for daily bread and watch as He exceeds your every need.

Speak peace to every room you enter.
Hug a little bit longer and sing a little louder.
Grieve as deeply as you love and love as deeply as you grieve.

Keep trying and failing, but get back up and try again, this time softer.

Before you talk, listen and then wait.
This is a good way to pray too.
Be steady and faithful and dream beyond what you can see.
Leave fear far behind and cling to the goodness of mercy.
Always remember hope is not a trap and love is not a liar.

Take care of the earth and yourself and the people around you and let them take care of you.

You are not beyond help.
You are never beyond help.

Give grace, for you’ve been given an unending amount of it.
Trust you are loved regardless of what you do or what you have done.

Bless everything and everyone.
Look for God.
He is everywhere.

Grab a copy of Getting Through What You’re Going Through today. It’s a collection of poems, essays, and other hopeful words written to meet you where you are and gently guide you forward. Whether you’re navigating a difficult season or just need a reminder that you’re not alone, this book offers comfort, perspective, and a quiet sense of encouragement.

grab a copy

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

Hope in Their Hands

Getting Through What You’re Going Through has been out for almost 3 months!

It was written while wrestling with some of the hardest questions of my life:

Will I make it through this?
Where is God in all of this?
What now?
Why is life like this?

The essays and poems in this book were born from those questions. They became a place for me to process grief, uncertainty, faith, healing, and hope.

What I’ve come to realize is this: we’re all asking these questions in one way or another.

When I was in high school and college, I assumed everyone else had life figured out. I thought I was the only one struggling internally. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve learned that we’re all doing the best we can with what we know. Everyone is carrying something.

That realization is what inspired Hope in Their Hands.

My dream is simple:
to place 7,000 copies of this book into the hands of students.

Not because I have every answer.
Not because this book magically fixes pain.
But because I want young people to know that what they’re going through matters, that they are not alone, and that they have the strength to endure.

Hope in Their Hands is about giving hope, language, and courage to a generation searching for a way forward.

Already, we’ve begun to see this vision come to life.

Up to this point, we’ve already distributed 2,500 copies of the book because of generous supporters.

We were able to send 50 copies to Birmingham, Alabama, where they were distributed to college students during an event where I had the opportunity to perform and share my story.

More recently, we sent 15 copies to a juvenile detention center and are getting ready to ship another 50 copies to high school students in Michigan and 25 copies to college students in Nebraska.

These moments remind me why this matters so much.

There are students everywhere silently carrying pain, fear, loneliness, confusion, anxiety, and hopelessness. Many of them simply need someone to remind them that they are seen, valued, loved, and capable of making it through.

I want to continue getting this book into the hands of students who may not otherwise have access to it.

Below is a video from my trip to Birmingham and some moments spent with the students there.

If you’d like to support Hope in Their Hands, you can make a tax-deductible donation at the link below.

Thank you for believing in this mission.

Thank you for helping place hope into the hands of a generation that deeply needs it.

Much love,

Tanner

Donate Today

How to Make it From Monday to Friday

The following is from my most recent book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through.

To get from Monday to Friday, you’ll have to get out of bed five times.

Some weeks this will seem like a lot, but most good gifts can feel overwhelming at first.

To make it to the weekend, you’ll need to do things to keep you going:

Get outside.

Take a break from screens.

Hold fast to the truth.

Eat chocolate of any kind: brownies, chocolate chip cookies, hot chocolate, cake, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups (or if you’re fancy, you can get the dark chocolate peanut butter cups from Trader Joe’s, but I am warning you, you’ll get addicted).

Make plans so you can have something to look forward to.

Leave your phone in the other room, but be sure to call your mom or dad or sibling or someone who can remind you that you are loved and seen and prayed for.

Take a minute to watch videos of dogs on the internet or watch them at the park.

Let the dirty dishes pile up before you wash them down.

Scroll through Zillow and dream.

Walk the neighborhood.

Sing with the music loud and the windows down.

Order some sort of seasonal latte.

Count your blessings. Count them again.

Give yourself moments of stillness and stretching and silence.

Spend a few nights in your favorite sweatshirt.

Speak with God. Short prayers, long prayers, morning, afternoon, and evening prayers.

Don’t forget to watch the sun rest and rise.

And as the colors mix with the sky,

remind yourself that you were made to do both:

rest and rise.

Empty your hands but keep holding on to hope.

Confess your sins and go forward with grace.

To get from Monday to Friday, you’ll have to get out of bed five times.

What a gift.

Grab a copy of Getting Through What You’re Going Through. It’s a collection of poems, essays, and other hopeful words written to meet you where you are and gently guide you forward. Whether you’re navigating a difficult season or just need a reminder that you’re not alone, this book offers comfort, perspective, and a quiet sense of encouragement.

GTWYGT

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Hello!

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

It’s Mother’s Day again.
And I am not a mother.
Just a guy who writes about what I see.
And from what I see …

Motherhood is a beautiful and complicated role, where joy and grief, love and loss, sit side by side, often in silence. It is something we can never fully understand, no matter how close we stand. A heart that beats outside the body. A tenderness that never turns off. And yet, a quiet war that fights against time, against doubt, against the moments we cannot control.

On this day, we are invited to celebrate.
But we must also remember that not all mothers feel celebrated.
Not all mothers are where they thought they’d be, or who they thought they’d become.
Not all little girls grow up to become mothers.

Today, many are grieving.
Many are waiting.
Many are carrying burdens no one else sees.

This poem is for the mothers whose love is worn down by the weight of it all, whose stories go unnoticed, whose hearts hold more than they could ever say.
It is for those who don’t feel like they have it all together and are tired of trying to be someone they aren’t.
For the mothers with scars, stretch marks, and stories.
For those whose journey is still unfolding.
For the mothers who are hoping and praying.
For the mothers who cannot believe this is their life.
For the mothers who beg God for time to slow down.
For the mothers who have lost, who are waiting, or who wrestle with fear and exhaustion in the quiet hours.
It is for those who feel loved, seen, and celebrated.
It is for those who feel forgotten, overlooked, and alone.

Take your time with this poem.

Share it with a mom in your life.

Sit with the tension of hope and grief, joy and uncertainty.

Pray for the mothers in your life.

With Hope,
Tanner

To the Mothers

To the mothers we love.

To the mothers who are about to be.

To the mothers who hope to be.

To the mothers who will one day be.

To the mothers who will adopt and foster.

To the mothers who we will never know.

To the mothers who open their homes and their hearts.

To the mothers who carry scars, stretch marks, and stories too deep for words.

To the mothers who had to say goodbye and those still waiting to say hello.

To the mothers who haven’t slept in years and are up all night wrestling fears.

To the mothers who raise more than their own and remind us we are not alone.

To the mothers who feel forgotten.

To the mothers who are overlooked, overwhelmed, and unseen.

To the mothers who are exhausted and stressed and need a minute or month to rest.

To the mothers who are doing this alone.

To those whose children won’t pick up the phone.

To the mothers who feel like they’ve lost everything for everyone.

To the mothers who feel like they’ve bitten off more than they can chew.

To the mothers who have become grandmothers,
And the grandmothers who have become great-grandmothers,
Passing down more than just stories,
But strength, grace, and love.

Here is to you.

To you we owe more than one day.

We see you.

We thank you.

We love you.

All the Things I Say to God

I recently released my first children’s book, All the Things I Say to God: Learning to Pray Anytime, Anywhere.

All the Things I Say to God

There is also a (free) two week family prayer guide to go along with my children’s book, All the Things I Say to God! Download the guide for free.

Get the family prayer guide

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

Get Out of Bed

A reflection

And in the morning, before the sun has found the sky, get out of bed and go sit with God. Do your best not to look at your phone for as long as you can. The emails will still be there. Instagram can wait. The quiet cannot. Give your morning to stillness and silence. Sit with God. Remember, He is sitting with you. Let your conversation be slow, but honest. Ask for strength. Ask for patience. Ask for a miracle, and remember you’re living one. Tell Him about what is bothering you. Tell Him about the people you love and even the ones you struggle with. Tell Him about the dreams that feel distant in your heart and the fears that seem to grow. Tell Him about the beautiful things you cannot imagine living without. Tell Him what you think, what you know, what you need, what you have done, and what you hope to do. Be still and listen. Do you hear Him? Speaking mercy. Speaking grace. Speaking love. Before you move on, hold fast to the wonder. Ask Him to lead you away from noise and distraction, to open your eyes so you can see clearly and live fully, so you do not miss the beauty and awe of another new day.

God, I Don’t Know. Amen.

The following is from my most recent book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through.

“God, I don’t know. Amen.”

I’ve been saying this prayer for years, and I’m sure I’ll be praying it for the rest of my life.

It’s a prayer I am only beginning to understand.

It’s a short prayer.

A simple prayer.

An honest prayer.

How does God respond to such a prayer? If we listen carefully, I think we always hear Him answer, saying something along the lines of:

Be not afraid or I am with you.

I’m learning that saying we don’t know isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s a sign of trust and surrender.

With these simple words, I am asking for help, and asking for help has never been a sign of weakness, but of strength.

These days it’s difficult to find the right words.

Between the uncertainty in my own life, the ongoing pain of this world, and the constant news of hate and hurt, I am often left speechless.

It’s no different when it comes to prayer.

Some days my mouth is empty.

I give God my most honest exhale.

I open my hands and say, “Here.”

I close my eyes and remind myself that Jesus has died for my sins and the tomb is empty and this is not the end.

In my silence I am reminded that God makes sense of my groans, and He knows what I say when I confess, “I don’t know.”

Because I don’t know.

But He does.

How beautiful it is not to know, but to trust that He does.

He knows the reason behind our worries.

He knows the truth behind our questions that begin with who, what, how, when, and why.

For all I do not know, I hold close to what I do:

In all that is heavy, there is hope.

Yesterday is over, today is here, and tomorrow has yet to come.

Grab a copy of Getting Through What You’re Going Through today. It’s a collection of poems, essays, and other hopeful words written to meet you where you are and gently guide you forward. Whether you’re navigating a difficult season or just need a reminder that you’re not alone, this book offers comfort, perspective, and a quiet sense of encouragement.

GTWYGT

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

When You Have No Words Left

One year ago, I released my first children’s book, All the Things I Say to God: Learning to Pray Anytime, Anywhere, About Anything.

When I first set out to be a writer, I never imagined I would write children’s books. If I am honest, it was not even on my radar.

But grief changes everything.

When grief disrupts your life, a divide forms. It creates a barrier between who you were and who you are becoming. It reshapes how you navigate the world and how you process the life in front of you. I am learning that grief is not something you “get over,” and it isn’t something you leave behind. It is something you learn to carry, a constant companion, something you walk with as you slowly and faithfully move forward.

Grief is universal. It comes to each of us in different ways. For us, it came in a way we never expected.

It entered our story when my wife and I were diagnosed with unexplained infertility.

Our dream of becoming parents became uncertain.
Expand on the emotional side of this.

I once heard grief described as “love that has nowhere to go.”

That felt true for us.

All we wanted was to be parents. We wanted to take the love we carried and give it to a child, to a family. Instead, we found ourselves holding that love with no clear place to put it.

As we walked through the heaviness of infertility, we watched friends become parents. We were genuinely happy for them, and at the same time, deeply sad for ourselves. It is exhausting to celebrate others while quietly grieving what you are still praying for.

Waiting only deepened the ache. It stretched our hope thin and made each day feel heavier than the last, like carrying something invisible that never quite lets up.

Praying became difficult.

God remained faithful, but frustrating. Everything felt exhausting, the daily surrender to a life we hadn’t chosen, the tension of trusting while still longing for something different. Trusting that something more was happening, when on the surface it seemed nothing was happening. I did not have the energy to pray. My mind was buried. The words were gone. I did not know what to say or how to say what I wanted to say.

Most of my prayers became simple:
“God, help. Amen.”
“God, please. Amen.”

Some days, it was just an honest exhale, a breath that carried more emotion than words ever could.

Other days, I stood in the backyard, saying nothing at all, just aware that I was not alone. That quiet awareness became its own kind of prayer.

I missed the days when prayer felt like conversation. Long walks, honest words, a steady connection. I missed the ease of it.

And yet, even in the silence, God was present.

Slowly and kindly, God led us toward adoption. It is a longer story, one we hold close, but what I can say is this. There was a peace that pointed us in a new direction. And we have not looked back.

Around that same season, I sat down one morning to write, and once again, I had no words. That had become common in grief. No energy. No language. And for a writer, that is a hard place to be, to feel something deeply but be unable to express it.

After a while, something began to form on the page. Not all at once, but little by little.

I began thinking about what I wanted to share with the children in my life and the future children in my life.

What was the most beautiful thing I could share with them?

I’ve never been more hesitant to start a project, mostly because of the weight of placing a book into the hands of children. Their minds are like sponges. They don’t miss a thing.

I recently heard a line that has stayed with me. “What gets in early, gets in deep.”

And maybe, in some small way, this book was born out of that belief and out of my own lack of words. Out of a season where all I had were simple prayers.

I wanted to give children language for their young faith, to remind them of what I was working to remind myself: God hears us when we pray. Anytime, anywhere, about anything.

Four years ago I wrote the book.

Now the book has been out for a year.

I’ve heard thousands of stories about how this book has become part of bed time routines, inspired children to pray like Abby, and has shifted the culture of homes.

I look back on that day I sat down to write the book.

The grief. The uncertainty. The uneasiness. The hope.

I like to believe that my grief has not been wasted. That somehow, God has used it for good. That this season of suffering and submission has shaped something meaningful, not just in me, but for others.

But that is often how God works. Not always with direct answers, but with unexpected ones. Surprising ones. Better ones, even when they come differently than we imagined.

Life looks nothing like I thought it would when I began writing this book back in 2022.

An answer to prayer.

These days I get to read All the Things I Say to God with my son, Judah. He wishes there were more excavators and dinosaurs in the book, but he loves Abby, the main character.

Throughout the book Abby discovers how to express her gratitude, ask questions, pray for others, and use silence to talk with God. Led by her own curiosity, she finds out that you can pray for anything and everything.

Recently Judah has been asking to pray like Abby, which immediately makes me want to weep.

I do not know much.

But I do know this.

God is good at being God.

Nothing is wasted.

Something more is happening than we can see.

And God hears us when we pray.

Even when all we have are a few simple words.

Even when all we have is silence.

One year later, I am reminded that this book was never really about having the right words.

It was about believing that God continues to meet us right where we are.

In the waiting.
In the grief.
In the uncertainty.

Because God is not love with nowhere to go.

He is Love that comes to us.

A Note:

Thank you to everyone who has picked up a copy of All the Things I Say to God! Over the past year, I have been deeply moved by the way this book has been received. It even won an award, which is how I learned that books win awards at all. Still, that is not what matters most. What matters is offering something honest and hopeful for children and families to share. A story that opens the door to curiosity, connection, and conversation with God.

My prayer each day is that this book continues to be a quiet gift in homes. A companion in small, meaningful moments. A starting place for hearts learning to speak, listen, and grow in their relationship with God.

Click the link below to grab a copy of All the Things I Say to God, and my latest book of poems and essays, Getting Through What You’re Going Through.

All the Things I Say to God

GTWYGT

:)

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

When the Room is Empty

The other night, I was scheduled to do a book reading in Franklin, Tennessee, at a local bookstore.
The event began at 6:00 PM, but no one was there.
It was just me and the staff, kind and patient, but still not who I had hoped for.

Because when it comes to the book world, I am pretty much a no name.

My books are not in every store.
I do not have a popular podcast.
I have never dated a Kardashian.
Tanner Olson is not a name people recognize.
I am not someone you stumble upon and say, “Oh yeah, I’ve heard of him.”

I am the kind of writer you have to be looking for.

So I sat there.
And I waited.
And I prayed, just for someone, anyone, to walk through that door.

Then, finally, someone did.

My heart lifted.

When they walked in, the staff member asked,
“Are you here for the poetry reading with Tanner Olson?”

They paused.

“Who?”

Exactly.

And just like that, the room felt small again.

That familiar feeling crept in.
The quiet kind of defeat that doesn’t punch, but jabs.
The kind that tries to convince you this doesn’t matter.
That you don’t matter.

I could feel it pulling at me, trying to drag me away from the belief that this life is a gift, that this work is worth it, that everything is going to be okay.

Because I have been here before.

Early in my writing career, over ten years ago, I sat in a room just like this.
Chairs set up.
Notes ready.
Heart open.

And no one came.

Just me, sitting in the silence, wondering if I had gotten it all wrong.

For a moment, I wondered if this night would end the same way.

The room felt empty and the unwanted thoughts did not hesitate to fill it.

They came quickly and loud.

Telling me this did not matter and I did not matter.
Whispers of the word failure grew loud.
I got lost in the isolating feelings of inadequacy and anxiety.

Fun stuff, you know?

If I am honest, this is one of the reasons why I wrote Getting Through What You’re Going Through.

For feelings like this; moments when the room feels empty and hope feels just out of reach.

I sat in the silence for a few minutes, trying to hold fast to the quiet truth:
You are loved because you are loved because you are loved.
Not because of the work you do.
Not because of how many people come to this event.
Not because of success.

But just because.

And then, a few moments later, the door opened again.

And someone else walked in.

She told me she had found out about the event on Substack.

We talked for a bit.

She is a barista and creative and probably reading this right now (Hi!).

I nervously warned her that it might just be the two of us for the event, but then two more people sat down, a mother and daughter.

They said they could only stay for a few minutes because they were on their way to see a play.

So we began.

The staff cut off the music, and then it was just me.

I read “Come Back to Yourself,” on page 57 of Getting Through What You’re Going Through.

It is one of my favorites in the book, one that reminds me to slow down and be present whenever I read it.

And then just as I was finishing the poem two more people sat down.

I read another poem.

And then the mother and daughter left and we said goodbye.

They both bought a copy of the book and said they wish they could stay.

I read another.

And then two more came and sat down.

The five of us chatted for the next hour as I shared selected poems and essays from Getting Through What You’re Going Through.

They asked some questions, and I did my best to give a good answer.

I did not know what I was getting myself into when I said yes to this event.

Being a writer comes with miles of unknown territory.

Most days, you live in that space with your hands open, learning to trust, sometimes steady and sometimes trembling.

You show up with words you hope make a difference, not knowing who will hear them or how they will land.
You offer something personal and real in a world that often measures worth by numbers.
You step into rooms like this one and pray for something good.

When you sit down to write, the outcome is hidden, waiting to be discovered, and you trust that something meaningful will find its way forward.

So you begin.

Thought by thought.
Word by word.
Line by line.

The picture slowly becomes clearer as you write, as the words begin to make sense.

And somewhere along the way, you realize this too is part of it.

There is beauty in the slow unfolding.

Coming into the event my mind dreamed of what the night could look like.

In my mind I saw a packed room and a long line at the signing table.

And that was not this.

But it was everything I needed it to be.

What I needed was something real.

And this was real.

It was five people choosing to be there.

Five people who listened, laughed, and stayed in the moment.

I learned their names and stories, and they learned mine.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it, something shifted.

The room did not feel empty anymore.

It felt full and settled.

Full of stories and connection.

And I realized something I do not want to forget.

This is why I do it.

Not for the crowds or recognition or for my name to be known.

But for moments like this.

For the chance to sit in a small room with a handful of people
and offer something human, something honest, something that might stay with them long after they leave.

That’s the same hope I have for the words I write.

Something human.
Something honest.
Something that quietly reminds someone to keep going.

After the event a friend texted, asking how the event went.

“A success,” I replied.

Success is not always loud.

Sometimes it sounds like quiet laughter and a heartfelt thank you.

Maybe the work is not about being widely known,
but about showing up with something honest you created, giving what you have, trusting that the right people will find their way into the room.

So I will keep saying yes.

Even when the room might be empty.
Even when someone asks, “Who?”
Even when it feels small or defeating.

Because small is not the opposite of meaningful.

Small is where meaning has room to breathe.

And if five people show up, I will look them in the eye, I will give them my full thankful attention, and I will offer them everything I have.

Because I am learning this, slowly but surely.

Hope doesn’t let the room remain empty.

Come Back to Yourself

a poem from Getting Through What You’re Going Through

Put down your phone, that lifeline-turned-leash.

Step outside, shoes off, bare feet on welcoming ground.

Let the grass preach peace to your skin.

Let the air touch your face like it’s trying to tell you you’re still alive.

You are.

Come back to yourself.

You’ve been somewhere else, haven’t you?

Buried under lists, lost in endless headlines,
suffocating under the pace of it all.

Let yourself breathe
slower,
slower still,
and then slower again,
because rushing won’t resurrect you.

Drop the weight your shoulders are carrying.

It’s heavy, isn’t it?

This whole thing—living,
waiting
enduring,
trying to hold it all together
when you hardly know what “together” means anymore.

Silence the noise—not
just outside, but in.

Turn the volume down on the fear
on the “what-ifs,”
on the “not enoughs.”

Cut through the static and listen.
Listen.

Do you hear it?
The birds, the wind,
the whisper in the leaves,

They’re singing something ancient,
something holy.

Creation hasn’t forgotten how to worship.

Maybe we just forgot how to listen.

Remember:
Not your failure, not your fear.

But these:
faithfulness,
love,
forgiveness,
heaven,
the empty tomb,
grace upon grace upon grace.

Look around.

Goodness, right there beside you.

Mercy, moving in the margins.

Life is still happening, still unfolding,
even here, especially here.

So be still in the silence—not
because you’re stuck,
but because stillness is sacred.

Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.

Speak like God is listening, because He is.

Listen like God is answering, because He is.

Be still like God is with you, because He is.

//

Feeling Tired?

Life doesn’t come with a roadmap, but it does come with words that help us keep going.

If you’re feeling stuck, tired, or overwhelmed, Getting Through What You’re Going Through is a hopeful companion for the journey.

Grab your copy today.

Amazon

Other Stores

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

What Am I Going To Write About?

That’s the question that comes to mind immediately after I see my latest Substack post has been published. It’s another story and a poem. Pretty typical for me. For the last few months I’ve been trying to share one new piece of writing each week. It’s not much, but it’s something—it’s all I seem to have time for these days.

It’s Wednesday morning.
9 AM.
I just dropped Judah off at preschool.
We did our kiss, hug, high five goodbye before I got in the minivan and then I drove to a coffee shop full of people pretending to be alone together.

Everyone is looking at screens.
We have all agreed this is normal.
There is this pitter patter of fingers on keys floating through the air.
I open my laptop and join them, because I am nothing if not committed to belonging.

I open a blank document and watch the cursor play hide-and-seek—blink, blink, blink.

What am I going to write about?

This is what I get to do for a living.

I get to sit here and ask myself what matters enough to be written down. There are worse ways to make a living. There are also more reliable ones.

Some people fix things. Some people teach. Some people keep other people alive.

I get to be a writer (mostly because a few of you have been generous enough to become a paid subscriber—thank you!).

But today, I do not know what to write about.

Again.

Which makes me feel more like a professional sitter than a writer.

But the words will come.

I trust they will.

I’ve been here before.

In the wondering.
In the middle.
In the waiting.

The place where nothing is happening, which is usually where something is about to happen, although you have to be patient.

That’s the trick to waiting.

But at least it’s nice out.
The sun is shining and I’ve missed it.
Winter tried to get the best of me, but spring arrived when I needed it most.
Today is sunny, breezy, and highs are in the 80s.

Inside, there is a man with his face two inches from his computer trying to figure out how to turn the audio on his zoom call as he says, “Can you hear me?” over and over again.

There is a young woman on the phone giving all of her information. All of it. I do not know how to steal someone’s identity, but I think this is how one would start.

There is a mom and her daughter sharing a cookie. It’s 9:07 in the morning, and I am sure the mother did not see the day beginning this way.

I open a document for a poem titled “Life Wasn’t Supposed To Go This Way,” one I’ve been working on for the last few weeks.

I make a few tweaks.
I change the poem from third person to first person back to third person.
I remove lines I no longer love.
I add new lines I will probably one day no longer love.
This is the work.
Planting, pulling, trimming, watering.
It’s all steps forward and back, but this dance eventually leads home.

After three hours at this coffee shop, I have mostly gone to the bathroom, over-caffeinated myself, and questioned my life choices.

So I do what any serious writer does.
I go to the grocery store.

Last night I went out with two friends, both dads. We met up after all our kids were asleep, right when we were ready to be asleep. This is when we get to hang out—when everything is over and just about to start again.

It was too nice out to be inside, so we sat outside at a Mexican restaurant in East Nashville and caught up. We ordered a pitcher of margaritas and sipped our way through stories, rants, and the occasional moment of honest vulnerability. We talked about parenthood and God and how rare it is that guys like this get together.

When I got home, my wife asked, “You had a margarita without me?”

There was nothing in our wedding vows about margaritas.

I don’t often pick up on cues, but I knew at that moment that I needed to make it up to her.

So today I have a grocery list that includes making amends.

Tonight, we will have a margarita, watch Survivor, and celebrate making it through another today.

After a quick shop, I leave the grocery store, roll down the windows, and turn on Sticks & Stones, one of my all-time favorite albums by New Found Glory. It’s a perfect album. No skips. No misses. From the opening note I am transported back to high school. I am once again a collection of hormones and confidence and awkwardness and good skin. I am angsty. I am insecure. I am a hopeless romantic. I am a class clown. I am a mess. I am me, a kid who doesn’t know what’s to come.

He has no idea he will become a poet and write books and speak around the country and get to drink margaritas with the same girl he gets to kiss in a house that they own in a town he’s not yet been to.

I think about high school Tanner a lot these days.

I never thought I’d write this next part, but he is proud of me.

Slightly confused.
Still insecure.
Forever bummed we never made it to the NBA (we didn’t even get close).
But proud.

My next stop was Home Depot. If you had asked high school Tanner which was more likely—making it to the NBA or going to Home Depot on a Wednesday afternoon—he would have said the NBA, no question.

Bless his heart.

I drove past the restaurant where I sat last night with the guys, noticing someone else sitting in the seat I was in 12 hours earlier. There is a poem in there somewhere, but I can’t find it right now. I heard about a mulch sale—five bags of mulch for $10. This sounds like a good deal for our yard, but a bad deal for the trees. Honestly, I am not sure what mulch does, but whatever it does, it’s about to do that at our house.

I feel out of place at Home Depot. I am just a pencil in a world of hammers. I am not handy. I do not have a green thumb. I don’t like measuring things, saws scare me, and why does everything either smell or need to be so loud?

Take me back to the coffee shop.

But everyone is friendly at Home Depot, maybe because of the mulch sale or maybe because it’s nice out. I load up 10 bags of mulch and put them in the back of the minivan. Yes, high school Tanner, we drive a minivan. The scent is strong and the windows go back down. New Found Glory continues to play as I make my way back to Judah’s preschool for pickup. I’ll be one of the first there, but I don’t mind sitting in the parking lot, waiting.

I’m learning that most of life is waiting.
Waiting for the barista to hand you your coffee.
Waiting for one season to pass and another to arrive.
Waiting for an idea to arrive.

And that’s when it hits me: this is what I should be writing about.

This small, simple, slightly chaotic, deeply human day.

The ordinary, but extraordinary.
The nothing, but something.
The mundane, but meaningful.

It’s all right in front of us.
Do you see it?
For so long I missed it.
The moments that whisper quietly.
The beauty that holds still.
The invitations that stretch our way gently.

High school Tanner was all over the place, constantly missing what was right in front of him. It took me almost 15 years to slow down and open my eyes, to look up and see it all unfolding right in front of me.

Lately, I’ve been telling myself, “This is a poem.”

It sounds a little ridiculous, which is usually a good sign.

But when I say it, everything slows down and softens.
I stop trying to improve the moment.
I let it be what it is.

A messy house.
A long line.
A tired body.
A blank page.
A life.

This is a poem.

All of what is right in front of me.
All of what is behind me.
All of what is within me.

This is a poem.

Tonight we will put Judah to bed. We will read a book or two, say our prayers, and do our kiss-hug-high five before he falls asleep. We will turn on Survivor and sip on margaritas. Who knows? I might even get out some popcorn. Things can get pretty crazy over here. I’ll be asleep by 9, ready to do another version of this day, this poem, again tomorrow.

If high school Tanner asked me if I was living the dream, I would probably say no.

But I might tell him this:

It’s not a dream.
It’s something better and also harder to explain.

It’s a life you have to show up for.

It’s a life that only makes sense if you pay attention.

It’s a life that, if you squint just right,

looks a lot like a poem.

Look around.

This is a poem.

Become a paid subscriber

As You Wait 🍊

A writing from my book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through

As you wait, make your coffee.

Move to the couch or to the chair on the porch.

Leave your phone in the other room, along with your worries.

You don’t need to busy yourself.

You can just be.

Open your hands and breathe in deep.

This is a prayer of thanks and surrender.

Fix your eyes forward on the world in front of you.

See the trees shake their leaves to the ground.

Listen as the birds sing their song for anyone who will listen.

Get lost in the rising sun and the shadows it makes.

Slow yourself down and sit with what is, even if what is feels incomplete.

There is peace, but there is also a piece missing.

Something is missing, but hope is not.

Something is missing, but peace is not.

Something is missing, but God is not.

God is here as you wait.

//

Grab a copy of the book today

Amazon

Other Stores

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

I Gave Up Lent for Lent.

It is the week after Easter and the tomb is still empty.
I think about this every Easter.
Jesus is not going back in the tomb.
It is finished.

Next year, on Good Friday, we will put him back in the grave, but he is not really going back in, we are only remembering, because it is finished. He’s not going back.

On Easter Sunday I woke up at 5 AM and watched the sunrise from the couch.
Beautiful colors moved across the sky like a quiet reminder of new mercies.
But I also wondered what that first morning felt like for Jesus.

Was he sore?

Was he tired?

What filled his mind?

His mother?

His friends?

How His hands looked different?

Breakfast?

An airplane cut across the colors as I thought about the very first Easter, the morning that changed everything for everyone, and still changes everything for us.

Grief met by surprise.
Fear met by joy.
Separation met by love.
Darkness met by light.

We went to church and before the service began ate a donut.
I like to think Jesus loves that we eat donuts to celebrate His resurrection.
Judah chose a donut with white frosting and star-shaped sprinkles, the same colors that had filled the sky that morning.

There were flowers and balloons.

People took photos and said, “Alleluia.”

Pink and blue and teal were everywhere.

Everyone smiled, except for a little girl who dropped her chocolate donut with sprinkles.

Hope was in the air.

Which sounds like something Hobby Lobby would put on a sign, but it’s true. I could feel it. Hope is always present, but sometimes you just know when it’s present. You do not have to reach for it. It finds you. It sits with you. It holds you. I can’t explain, but there isn’t much about Easter I can explain, except maybe the donuts.

During the service we sang, and I cried, which has become one of my Easter traditions.
We prayed.
We reflected.
We celebrated.

And once again I was reminded of new life and grace and a life and world to come because of that grace, a future already breaking into the present.

I’ll never grow tired of hearing the story of Easter.
Something in me just believes it all to be true, even when I cannot explain why.

There was a season when I tried to not believe it, but I still did.

You cannot take this hope out of me.

I believe Jesus is who He says He is and that He did what the Scriptures say He did.

The One who turned water into wine, who raised Lazarus from the dead, who gave the blind sight, who fed the hungry, who loved the lost, who walked on water, also walked out of the grave.

I told my wife the other day that I think I gave up Lent for Lent.
I wasn’t trying to give it up, I just didn’t pick it up this year.
I didn’t lean into this season like I have in the past.

For most of my life I have observed Lent.
You cannot be good at Lent, but I tried.
Some years I fasted.
Some years I gave up social media or chips or candy or cursing or all the above.
That was a difficult Lent, no need to send a trophy.
Some years I read Scripture morning and afternoon and night.
Some years I spent long stretches in silence and prayer.

But this year, I don’t know what happened.

One moment we were ringing in the New Year and the next Jesus was back in the tomb.

Maybe it was the launch of my latest book the day before Ash Wednesday.
I underestimated how consuming releasing a book can be.
I will forget this just long enough to release another book.

Maybe it was the travel that followed.

This book has taken me all over the place, often flying home on Sunday mornings.

Maybe it was a few personal things I am not ready to share.
Or maybe things I will tell you about someday.

Maybe it was that I forgot my own advice and failed to slow down and lean in.

Part of me feels ashamed for letting Lent slip by.
Part of me feels free for simply arriving at Easter.
Part of me feels ashamed for feeling free.

Have I mentioned I am good at overthinking?

On Easter Sunday I asked my wife why people wear a cross on Easter Sunday? Isn’t it a little too soon? I was trying to make a joke and she told me it wasn’t funny. And it wasn’t, which is why I am going to give up trying to be funny next Lent.

When I see the cross, I see both death and life.

I see the worst thing humanity could do and the greatest thing God could redeem.
I see suffering and I see love that refused to stop.
I see the deepest sorrow and the greatest hope.
I see an ending that became a beginning.

I also see what was done for us out of perfect love.
A love we do not deserve and cannot earn, even if we observe Lent.
A love that is a gift, meeting our sin and our death with grace.

Lately, I have been thinking about death more than usual.

Not because I am afraid to die, but because I am not ready.

I want to see what the next fifty years hold.

I want to grow old with Sarah.
I want to see what Judah does with his life.
I want to see how our family grows and changes.
I want to grow in grace and live out this hope for as long as I can.

I am in no hurry to reach eternity, because I trust that Jesus is already with me here.

Easter reminds me to look death in the face and remember it does not get the final word.

Death gives, takes, and changes so much of our lives, but it does not get the final word.

All of this will pass, and because of Jesus, every ending becomes a beginning.

Grief met by surprise.
Fear met by joy.
Separation met by love.
Darkness met by light.

So whether or not I kept Lent the way I intended, the tomb is still empty.
Jesus is alive.
Grace is still being given.
Donuts are still being eaten.
Hope is still breathing.

The same hope I felt in the room, the kind I could not explain but knew was there, is the same hope that walked out of the grave.

All of this will pass.

But Hope will not.

And we will be made new by the One who walked out of the grave, the One who continues to walk with us and guide us home.

Hope Walks With Us

a poem

Three days can turn endings into beginnings,
can rewrite everything we thought was final.

On Friday, we crucified Christ.
On Saturday, we sat in silence.
On Sunday, He rose,
and silence became a song.

It has been 2,000 years,
and the tomb is still empty
and I’m still remembering what happened
as I drink coffee
and watch the sky slowly wake,
colors offering new mercies,
endless light washing over yesterday’s shadows.

Hope is in the room,
quiet and true,
like it always is,
finding us as we are,
not waiting for us to change,
or get it all together,
or be better,
or different,
or perfect.

Hope stays.

I have tried
to be better,
to get it right,
to meet God halfway,
but He keeps coming all the way,
reminding me with certainty that
death whispers,
but does not win
or speak the final word.

Because Hope
speaks life into the darkness,
refusing to run,
it remains.

Hope is here,
in the ordinary,
in the quiet,
in the moments we overlook.

Hope walked out of the grave
and is still walking with us.

//

Feeling Tired?

Life doesn’t come with a roadmap, but it does come with words that help us keep going.

If you’re feeling stuck, tired, or overwhelmed, Getting Through What You’re Going Through is a hopeful companion for the journey.

Grab your copy today.

Amazon

Other Stores

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

Ready to Cry

A friend asked if I could record a video of me reading Ready to Live, a page from my latest book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through.

So I did.

I sat in the parking lot of a Starbucks in Des Moines, Iowa, and hit record.
But something came over me while I was reading, and I caught it on video.

I’m no stranger to big or unexpected feelings.
It’s one of the things that helps me as a writer and speaker.

I used to think it was something to hide, something to change.
Now I know it’s something to embrace and harness, to welcome instead of show the door.

My emotions come like a wave, rising out of nowhere.
Most of the time, my eyes just gloss over, no waterfalls.

Holiday commercials get me every single time.
When my son grabs my hand out of nowhere.
Small, quiet moments on the couch with my wife after a long day.
Anytime I think about Pancake not being here.

Almost every Sunday, it happens.
A wave of emotion falls over me and I get washed away.

Last Sunday at church, while singing How Deep the Father’s Love for Us, I turned and saw a man with a red face and watery eyes. His tears were quiet waterfalls. Mine were misty and full.

It wasn’t the first time I’ve seen him.
He sits in the same seat every Sunday, about ten chairs away on the other side of the aisle.

We’ve never spoken.
We’ve never shaken hands or shared the peace of the Lord.

But we’ve made eye contact.
Two men, tears in our eyes, nodding to each other from ten chairs apart.

There is no shame in crying.

Recently, Judah, our 2.5-year-old, and I have been talking about it a lot.
There are a few things he currently hates: brushing his teeth and putting on clothes.

I get it. They’re not fun.
I don’t wake up thinking, I can’t wait to brush my teeth and get dressed.

It’s always more fun not to brush your teeth.
And when you’re 2.5, you’re not concerned about hygiene, you’re concerned about fun.

Fun is everything.

So we talk about crying.
I tell him it’s good to cry.
I tell him it’s okay to cry.

But I also remind him that there are some things we just have to do, and we don’t have to do them with tears.

Last night, I was watching Alone.
One of the contestants said he had only seen his father cry twice, once when his father died, and once when their dog was struck by a car.

Judah won’t be able to say that about me.

One day, he might say something like,
“My dad was always crying, always moved to emotion.”

And I’m okay with that.

Because maybe he’ll also say that I wasn’t afraid to feel, that I didn’t run from what was happening inside me, that I was fully me in every moment.

That I let joy move me.
That I let grief move me.
That I let love move me.

Because when it comes to living, really living, crying is part of it.

For me, it tells me something matters.
It tells me I’m paying attention.
It tells me I’m still here, still alive.

So if the tears come, let them.

Not because you’re weak, but because you’re here, alive.

Ready to Live 🍊

A writing from my book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through

Something inside me cannot settle. I don’t know what it is. Maybe I’ve been drinking too much coffee and not enough water. Maybe it’s because I look at my phone more than the sky. Maybe it’s because I’m stuck in the past and forget to be in the present.

Some days I feel like nothing’s wrong, but something just isn’t right. Some days I feel like a glass half full, but the wrong glass. Some days I feel like there isn’t much more to the story, but I’m not even halfway through the book.

My head is a loud place that’s always moving. It’s a carnival ride, and I’m sick to my stomach.

When people ask me how I’m doing, I tell them I’m keeping busy. I used to believe that was the right answer, but these days I’m beginning to think it isn’t. Maybe the way things are isn’t the way they’re supposed to be.

The other day I sat in my car before going into the grocery store. I was trying to find the energy and mental space to cross another thing off my to-do list. Sometimes life feels like one long to-do list. I sat in the quiet of my car, but somehow the quiet felt loud.

I watched an elderly man walk out of the grocery store. He loaded up his Jeep Cherokee and pushed his cart to the return spot. Then he gathered a couple of shopping carts scattered around the parking lot. He wasn’t checking his phone or looking for someone to thank him. He just saw what needed to be done and did it. I watched him pick up a piece of trash and throw it away. He smiled at people as they walked out of the store. He waved to a little girl as she held her mother’s hand, and she waved back. He stopped in the middle of what he was doing to watch a flock of birds fly above and away. He pointed to a plane, and the little girl looked up. She said, “Wow!” and they waved goodbye.

I wonder when this man figured it out. I wonder if he ever felt how I feel. I wonder if he sat in his car one day and wondered if there was more to life than crossing things off a to-do list. I wonder if he watched someone older than him put shopping carts away and wave to children and stop to watch the birds fly above and away. I wonder when he decided he was ready to live.

Because I will remember exactly where I was when I decided.

//

Grab a copy of the book today

Amazon

Other Stores

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

The Practice of Paying Attention

“Pay attention.”
That’s what I told a group of high school students in Missouri.
They asked for my best writing advice, and that’s all I’ve got.
Truthfully, it’s my best advice for living, too.

I’ve had my head down for the last few months, working to launch Getting Through What You’re Going Through.

But I’m back to writing—back to paying attention, back to jotting down notes as I go. I’m on the road, speaking and performing at churches and schools, traveling through airports and coffee shops.

The other week, I traveled from Nashville to St. Louis to Phoenix before returning home. For the entire trip, I kept my eyes open for stories. They are everywhere—if you’re paying attention. People are the best stories, and it turns out they’re everywhere, too.

I met a high school student who was tired of being asked what was next.

I met a wife whose husband passed away unexpectedly.

I met a man who owned a toy store.

I met a mother who was carrying more than one person should ever be asked to carry.

I met a man who was the brother of one of my elementary school teachers—a woman who changed my life. Her name is Mrs. Nowicki. She was my 3rd grade and 5th grade teacher. She was the kind of teacher you don’t fully appreciate until years later, when you realize you’re still carrying what she gave you.

She helped me slow down and be still in a world that never seems to stop moving.

She made me feel seen.
She made me feel loved.

Mostly, she taught me how to pay attention. Not just to words on a page, but to the world around me: the way people speak, the way they pause, the things they don’t say.

The quiet things. The little things. The beautiful things.

And somehow, it seems I’m still doing homework for her, paying attention as I walk through this gift of a life.

I met a high school boy who called everyone “bro.”

I met a man who was tired of what life had become and wondered how to take the next step forward.

I met a grandmother who told me all she wants for her grandchildren is to know the love of the Lord.

I met a man who didn’t believe in divorce, but that didn’t stop his wife from walking away.

I met a daughter who wanted to make her parents proud, but also wanted to go to college in California.

I met a man whose tongue was taken by cancer and somehow replaced with joy.

I met a twenty-something who was ready for retirement.

I met a ninety-something who was ready for heaven.

I met a seven-year-old who missed his grandfather and carried his memory like it was his calling.

I met a fifty-something who was dating a thirty-something.

I met a high school student who had their future mapped out, and I didn’t tell them that God sometimes laughs at the plans we make.

I met a father wearing a shirt that said, “Best Dad Ever,” and he wore it with joy, walking hand in hand with his two daughters.

I don’t feel like the best dad ever.

I am hundreds of miles from where my son sleeps in his crib, surrounded by a few stuffed animals. A cross nailed to the wall, next to a framed photo of a dog wearing a cowboy hat. He is probably dreaming about Winnie the Pooh or Lightning McQueen or Mimi. His belly is full of milk and pizza, because Friday night is always pizza night at the Olson house.

I finish my final poem and step off the stage, and there is a small sadness that finds my soul. It is the sadness that comes from missing bedtime. The kind of dull ache that sneaks in and settles deep in your chest.

I want to be in two places at once. I want to be here, in this room full of faces and stories and open hearts, and I want to be there—reading stories to my son, whispering goodnight after we say our prayers.

I imagine the weight of his small body leaning into mine, the way his eyes fight sleep just to stay awake a little longer.

You can’t be everywhere, but you can be right here.

That’s what I remind myself as I take a deep breathe with two full hands: the joy of being here and the ache of not being there.

I stand by a table of my books and sign them for strangers who now know me. Or at least, know parts of me—the parts I’ve shared from the stage.

I meet a young girl who wants to be an author. I tell her she can do it, and she smiles. I sign a book to her: “Future Author, I cannot wait to read your book.” She smiles again.

I meet a man who slips me a $20 and tells me it is for a late-night Taco Bell run. I want to wrap my arms around him, but he is already walking away—the way a Good Samaritan does, so he doesn’t have to be thanked the way he deserves.

I meet a woman twice my age who told me I was doing what God had created me to do. It’s like she I was wondering why I was here tonight, if what I was doing mattered, because I was. She spoke with confidence, like God had told her to tell me this. Her words stayed with me. She told me again, placing her hand on my shoulder like it was the button that released the tears. She spoke something deep into the sadness of my soul—words I didn’t know I needed.

I meet an elderly woman who keeps calling me Tyler. This is my brother’s name. No one here knows that I have a brother named Tyler, but everywhere I go, I get called Tyler. I text him: “It happened again. This time in Missouri.” He sends back a laughing emoji.

I meet a mother who shows up with tears in her eyes. She has become all too familiar with loss. She says that God has overlooked her—but not tonight, she adds. “You saw me tonight with your words,” she says. She grabs me by the forearm the way people do when your hands are full. She thanks me, then wraps her arms around me.

My son doesn’t know what I do for work, not yet. He sees my bags at the door and says, “Daddy go bye-bye.” And I do. But I am going to see people—or hopefully remind people that they are not forgotten, but seen.

That they matter. That their story matters.

Because someone once told me to pay attention.

And now, I can’t help but do exactly that.

With hope,

Tanner

As You Wait

A page from Getting Through What You’re Going Through

As you wait, make your coffee.

Move to the couch or to the chair on the porch.

Leave your phone in the other room, along with your

worries.

You don’t need to busy yourself.

You can just be.

Open your hands and breathe in deep.

This is a prayer of thanks and surrender.

Fix your eyes forward on the world in front of you.

See the trees shake their leaves to the ground.

Listen as the birds sing their song for anyone who will

listen.

Get lost in the rising sun and the shadows it makes.

Slow yourself down and sit with what is, even if what is feels

incomplete.

There is peace, but there is also a piece missing.

Something is missing, but hope is not.

Something is missing, but peace is not.

Something is missing, but God is not.

God is here as you wait.

Looking for something to read?
Check out my latest book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through.

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Hello!

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

Behind the poem

In 2017, just a few weeks before my grandmother went home to be with the Lord, I asked her a simple question that I didn’t realize would stay with me for the rest of my life. I asked her if she could give me five pieces of advice, five things she believed were most important to carry forward. She didn’t rush her answer. She spoke with the calm wisdom and kind humility of someone who had walked with God through many seasons of life. What she gave me were not complicated instructions, but simple truths that had guided her faith, her decisions, and the way she loved people.

Grandparents often leave us more than memories. They leave us lessons and words that echo long after they’re gone. The poem below was written around the five things my grandmother told me that day—five pieces of wisdom that continue to shape the way I try to live.

She told me:
1. Know the Lord
2. After you pray you gotta listen for the answer
3. Be obedient
4. Be patient
5. Be an example for others

These five lessons were simple, but they carry a lifetime of faith within them.

This poem is my way of honoring her voice, her faith, and the wisdom she passed down—wisdom that I hope continues to guide not only my life, but the lives of others who hear it.

I had the chance to read it at Grandparents Day, an event at a Christian elementary and middle school in St. Charles, Missouri. And here is what I shared with them …

Grandma’s Wisdom

Grandma sat in the quiet
like the evening does
when the sun knows
it has done enough for the day.

The room smelled like coffee
and an ink-stained Bible,
marked up, underlined,
notes crowding the margins,
reminders of hope and heaven.

There was bread baking in the oven
filling the house with the smell of warmth and welcome.

There was a kind of peace
that only comes
after a long life
of trusting God
through things
that didn’t make sense yet.

A few weeks before heaven
became her home
I asked her a question.

“Grandma, what advice would you give us?”

She didn’t rush.
Wisdom never does.

She looked at me
the way only grandparents can,
like they see
both the child you were
and the person
God is still growing,
past the starting line, but far from the great arrival.

Then she gave me five things, five seeds to hold.
Seeds to plant, to water, to tend.

She said,

Know the Lord.

Not know about Him.
Not just Sunday songs.
Not only the stories and sermons.

Know Him
the way a tree knows rain,
not as information,
but as life.

The way a son knows his father,
not as inheritance,
but as home.

Then she said,

After you pray
you gotta listen
for the answer.

Because prayer
isn’t just talking.
It isn’t just rambling a list of requests.

It’s quieting the noise of hurry
and fear
and a thousand loud opinions
so the still
small
voice of Love
can be heard.

Sometimes the answer
comes loud like thunder
or soft as a feather.

Sometimes it comes like a presence,
something like Psalm 23.

A note written from home
found in your pocket
further down the road.

But you won’t hear it
if you only talk.

Then she said,

Be obedient.

Because a life
that trusts God
walks where He leads
even when the road
looks unfamiliar.

Obedience practices the way of Jesus
even when the way feels uncertain.

Even when temptation tries,
Even when heaviness arrives,
Even when the truth
is surrounded by a long list of lies.

Then she smiled
like someone remembering
a lifetime of waiting,
of knowing something good
grows after the storm has passed.

And she said,

Be patient.

Because God
is not in a hurry
the way we are.

Seeds take time.
Healing takes time.
Love takes time.
The garden of faith grows
at it’s own pace.

The prayers you whisper today
may bloom
in a far away season,
in a far away place.

Then finally she said,

Be an example for others.

Not perfect.
Just faithful.

Let your hands give,
Let your love live.

Let your kindness preach.
Let your forgiveness teach.

Because sometimes
the most beautiful sermon
is simply a life
that looks like walking with Jesus.

Grandma left
five small seeds
spoken in a quiet room
that echo longer
than a lifetime.

And maybe one day
when someone asks me
for wisdom

I’ll simply pass them on
the way she did,
like bread
still warm
from heaven’s table.

Looking for something to read?
Check out my latest book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through.

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Hello!

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

Dear Judah

Dear Judah,

We are living in a wild, beautiful season.
You’re getting closer to two and a half years old, which somehow feels impossible and exactly right at the same time.
Mom is neck deep in work and holding down the house.
I just released a new book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through, and with the release came a book tour, which sounds glamorous until you’re standing in an empty hotel room eating Taco Bell at 1 AM knowing you have to be up in 4 hours.

This means, I’ve had to do the last thing I want to do: say goodbye to you and mom.
Before I close the door behind me I tell you I love you.
You wrap your arms around me and pull your face close to mine.
I ask you quietly, “How much does dad love you?”
And you throw your arms wide and yell, “So much!”
I whisper back to you, “I love you so much. I’m already almost home.”
Which is both a promise and a prayer.
And then I give you a high five and off I go.

You go back to playing trains and cars and as I close the front door I hear you tell mom, “Daddy be home soon.”
And it’s true.

These days, I am living torn.

There is a part of me that wants to freeze time, to sit on the living room floor and watch you build train tracks and magnet tiles. To press pause on the clock. To memorize the way your voice sounds right now. To catch every new word, every new expression, every small change that proves you are growing faster than I’m ready for.

I hate missing things. Even small things. Especially small things.

But I also want to set an example for you. To show you what it looks like to chase dreams and follow God, at least for me. Not everyone has to leave home for this. Not everyone is asked to walk it this way, but this is the road I feel invited to walk right now.

And I don’t always walk it bravely. Sometimes I shuffle or drag my feet and question why. Sometimes I argue with God a little. Sometimes a lot.

I want you to see a father who listens when God nudges.
A father who works hard.
A father who doesn’t bury his gifts out of fear.
A father who is imperfect and still shows up and gives what he has.

I want to live out what I believe God has called me to do.

After the shows, people line up and wait.
They tell me their stories in low voices, like they’re handing me something fragile.

Couples who have prayed for years for a baby and are still waiting.
Marriages hanging on by threads.
Divorces that shattered more than just paperwork.
Cancer diagnoses.
Parents whose arms ache because they are empty.
Unexpected funerals.
Faith that feels thin and tired.
Dreams that didn’t survive.
People wondering if they’ve been forgotten.

I look into their eyes and see heartbreak. Exhaustion. Deep pain. People trying so hard to believe that God still sees them, that he loves them so much.

And in those moments, I get to remind them that God does.

I get to wrap my arms around them and offer comfort. I get to tell them that their pain is not invisible. That their story isn’t over. That there is still hope. That Christ is still near to the brokenhearted. That one day everything is going to be okay, even if everything isn’t okay today.

Judah, I have to believe this matters.

It matters that when someone is grieving the loss of a child, they hear that God is close.
It matters that when a marriage feels beyond repair, someone reminds them that resurrection is what God does.
It matters that when faith feels like a spark instead of a flame, that a spark is more than enough to keep a fire burning. God has always been good at growing something small.

That is why I go, even when part of me wants to stay.

I go because love compels me.
I go because I believe words can carry light into dark places.
I go because I want to provide for you, not just financially, though that matters too, but spiritually. I want you to grow up watching a man who believes that obedience is worth something and comfort is not the goal.

Though I will admit, comfort is very tempting.

There will be a day when I travel less, but for now, I have to go.

And wherever I go, I bring you with me.

When I sit alone in a quiet hotel room, I scroll through photos and videos of you playing in the sandbox.
When I walk onto a stage, I get to tell a room full of audience members that I get to be the dad of the sweetest little boy.
When I pray with my head on a random hotel pillow, I say your name to God, thanking Him for the gift you are.

I ask Him to grow you into a man who is kind and brave and tender.
I ask Him to protect your heart, soul, mind, body, and strength.
I ask Him to give you mentors and friends who cling to the faithfulness of God.
I ask Him to place dreams in your heart.

You are not competing with this calling.

You are part of it.

I want you to know something very clearly: you are never second to my dream.

One day you will have your own calling. Your own invitations from God. Your own tension between comfort and courage. And when that day comes, I’ll tell you about this wild, beautiful season.

I hope you remember that your dad loved you fiercely and loved the people he was sharing with.
I hope you see that faith is not always convenient. That obedience often costs something. That loving people well requires showing up, even when it’s hard.

And I hope you know that every mile between us has always been temporary.

I’m already almost home.

And when I get home, I will hold you close.

I love you.

So much.

Dad

Reach Out to God

A page from my brand-new book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through — a collection of poems and essays.

Order from Amazon

Help

If you’ve already received your copy of Getting Through What You’re Going Through, please leave a kind review on Amazon! Thank you :)

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Hello!

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

Getting Through What You’re Going Through has been out for three weeks.

Three weeks is long enough for the adrenaline to settle.
Long enough for the congratulations to slow down.
Long enough for the book to drop in Amazon rankings.
Long enough to start seeing things clearly.

Here is what I’ve learned.

1. Writing the book is hard. Releasing the book is even harder.

Writing requires discipline. It asks for solitude, focus, and honesty. It forces you to confront your own thoughts before anyone else ever sees them.

Your pour yourself out and then try to put the puddle into understandable thoughts with appropriate punctuation.

When it’s all said and done you have a book.

It’s beautiful and you are proud and scared and hopeful and exhausted and overwhelmed.

You think you’ve reached the finish line, but really you’ve just entered into a brand new game, because there is no finish line.

Releasing your book requires something different than writing a book.

When you write, the work is still yours. When you release it, it belongs to the world. People can misunderstand it. Critique it. Ignore it. Be moved by it. Misuse it. Treasure it.

You can prepare for writing. You cannot fully prepare for being seen.

I thought finishing the manuscript would feel like the hardest part. It was not. Letting it go was.

2. You cannot control what people do with your words.

Once your words leave your hands, they no longer operate under your intentions.

Some people will read your heart correctly. Others will project their own experiences onto your pages. Some will skim. Some will study. Some will disagree.

You do not get to stand beside every reader and explain what you meant.

You do not get to reply to Amazon reviews and share your side of the story.

That realization is freeing and humbling at the same time.

Your responsibility is faithfulness, not control.

3. Numbers are not worth chasing.

Before publishing, I told myself I would not obsess over numbers.

Then, I obsessed over numbers.

Rankings. Reviews. Screenshots. Comparisons. Refreshing dashboards. Wondering why Tuesday was better than Wednesday.

The most surprising part is this. Even “good” numbers did not feel as good as I thought they would. And “bad” numbers did not hurt as long as I expected.

Metrics are loud. Meaning is quiet.

Numbers are not our identity. They are data.

Should you care about numbers? Sure.
Should you learn from them? Sure.
Should you let them determine your worth or your peace? Absolutely not.

A single thoughtful message from someone who was helped by the book carries more weight than a chart ever will.

Numbers inform strategy. They should not control your soul. They are tools, not masters.

4. You can only give what you have.

You cannot write from wisdom you do not possess.
You cannot offer healing you have not walked through.
You cannot manufacture depth.

All you can do is give what you have right now.

Not what you wish you had.
Not what someone else has.
Not what would impress more people.

Just what you have.

Getting Through What You’re Going Through is the book I wish I had written 10 years ago, but it would have been impossible for me to write, because I hadn’t lived through what I hadn’t gone through.

I did not yet carry the scars.
I did not yet carry the perspective.
I did not yet have the words.

5. What you have is not for everyone.

This one is hard to accept.

Not everyone will resonate.
Not everyone will understand.
Not everyone will support.

And that is not failure.

Trying to be for everyone dilutes what you were meant to say. Specificity reaches deeper than general appeal ever could.

The book is not meant to reach everyone, but someone.

That shift changes everything.

It replaces pressure with purpose.

6. There is no finish line.

I thought releasing the book would feel like arrival.

It does not.

It feels like stewardship.

This book is something for me to take care of, offer to the world.

To nurture, to speak about, to continue standing behind.

The work continues.
Conversations continue.
Writing continues.

Publishing is not a conclusion.
It is a continuation.

Like the best things in life, it is wonderfully exhausting.

7. Get ready to be overwhelmed with thankfulness.

I am stunned by the number of you who ordered a copy of the book.
The messages.
The texts.
The calls.
The online posts.

How do I thank you enough?
I cannot.

This is part of the gift of releasing a book.

You spend months alone with the work, wondering if it will matter.
Then you begin to hear from people it has touched.

Every message has been a gift.

Your kindness is not wasted.

Thank you.

8. Glory to God Alone

At the end of all of this, this is what matters most.

Not rankings.
Not validation.
Not visibility.

If the book helps someone endure.
If it points someone toward hope.
If it reminds someone that Jesus is with them always.
If it encourages them to rest in God’s grace.

Glory to God Alone.

Johann Sebastian Bach, a prolific eighteenth-century composer, would write SDG at the end of his compositions.

SDG is shorthand for a Latin phrase, Soli Deo Gloria, which means, “Glory to God Alone.”

The music was not to bring glory to the performers or the conductor (or even to Bach, as the composer). This music was crafted for the glory of God.

This is why I do what I do.

This was never about building a platform.

It was about being faithful with what was placed in my hands, to point others to the love and grace of the Creator.

Three weeks in, I am grateful.
Grateful for the lessons.
Grateful for the stretching.
Grateful for the reminder that obedience matters more than outcomes.

Last thing I’ll say:
The book you write will matter.
But the person you become while making it will matter more.

Publishing is not about arrival.
It’s about becoming.

And the work continues, just like the writing continues, just like the loving continues, just like the faithfulness continues.

Line by line.
Day by day.
Prayer by prayer.

SDG.

Tanner Olson

Order from Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Here’s a page from my brand-new book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through — a collection of poems and essays.

Help :)

If you’ve already received your copy of the book, please leave a kind review for Getting Through What You’re Going Through on Amazon! Thank you.

Order from Amazon

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Hello!

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

One Week of GTWYGT

I’m writing this from Fort Wayne, Indiana.

I’ve been on the road for about a week, standing on stages and sharing poems and stories from Getting Through What You’re Going Through.

Last night I had the chance to do so again at a church filled with friends.

Standing there and sharing these words out loud reminded me why I wrote this book in the first place.

I wrote this book because I need the reminders of hope. I need words that can meet the heaviness. I need stories that point me back to the faithfulness of God. I need words that hold both the heavy and the light.

It has been out for a full week now, and I am wonderfully overwhelmed by your kindness. Truly. Your encouragement, your messages, and your willingness to share this book with others have meant more than I can say.

I love hearing from readers who started the book and immediately ordered another copy for a friend because they knew someone else needed this kind of honest hope. What a gift that is.

I have a few events coming up, and I would love to see you. You can find all the details here. I would be so grateful for the chance to thank you in person.

To everyone who has ordered a copy, thank you. I am beyond grateful. Your support means more than I can put into words.

Here is to getting through whatever you’re going through.

Forever thankful,

Tanner

Order from Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Today’s post comes from my brand-new book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through — a collection of poems and essays.

What Today Will Bring

Once again, the morning arrives with new mercies.

God takes His pointer finger and swirls the colors in the sky for us to see.

Slow down and stay awhile, I think He whispers.

I’m with you, I know He says.

It’s as if God understands the day is about to groan loud.

Sides shout, fingers point.

To-do lists pile up and grocery prices rise.

Someone says something awful, and someone else says something worse.

Division works every angle to pull us apart.

Lies are told, truth is wrestled.

Noise fills our ears, weight rests on our chests.

Anger finds and fills our veins, anxiety sneaks in, all while hope fights back.

Hope is good at fighting back—even these days.

These days—We wonder if everything will be okay.

We forget God tells us everything will be okay.

We forget what we want to remember and remember what we’ve tried to forget.

Distraction and destruction demand our attention, and before we know it, we’ve wasted another day staring at screens.

We question almost everything, but God never questions if He loves us.

He does.

So—We hold fast and continue to bless those who curse us and pray for those who hurt us.

We continue to confess our shortcomings and ask God for forgiveness.

We continue to turn up our hands and show the world all that God has given us.

We endure with mercy, hope, and love.

We try to put our phones down and look up to see the colors God has swirled in the sky.

We try to remember we can slow down and stay awhile with the One who is with us.

Because for all we do not know, we do know this:

God is with us.

Help :)

If you’ve already received your copy of the book, please leave a kind review for Getting Through What You’re Going Through on Amazon! Thank you.

Order from Amazon

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Hello!

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

Today’s post comes from my brand-new book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through — a collection of poems and essays.

To everyone who has ordered a copy, thank you. I am beyond grateful. Your support means more than I can put into words. I’ve already started receiving messages from readers who began the book and immediately ordered another copy for a friend — because they knew someone else needed this kind of honest hope. What a gift.

Below are two of my favorite pieces from the book. I shared them the other night at the launch event, and I wanted to share them here with you as well.

Much love,

Tanner

Ready to Live

Something inside me cannot settle. I don’t know what it is. Maybe I’ve been drinking too much coffee and not enough water. Maybe it’s because I look at my phone more than the sky. Maybe it’s because I’m stuck in the past and forget to be in the present.

Some days I feel like nothing’s wrong, but something just isn’t right. Some days I feel like a glass half full, but the wrong glass. Some days I feel like there isn’t much more to the story, but I’m not even halfway through the book.

My head is a loud place that’s always moving. It’s a carnival ride, and I’m sick to my stomach.

When people ask me how I’m doing, I tell them I’m keeping busy. I used to believe that was the right answer, but these days I’m beginning to think it isn’t. Maybe the way things are isn’t the way they’re supposed to be.

The other day I sat in my car before going into the grocery store. I was trying to find the energy and mental space to cross another thing off my to-do list. Sometimes life feels like one long to-do list. I sat in the quiet of my car, but somehow the quiet felt loud.

I watched an elderly man walk out of the grocery store. He loaded up his Jeep Cherokee and pushed his cart to the return spot. Then he gathered a couple of shopping carts scattered around the parking lot. He wasn’t checking his phone or looking for someone to thank him. He just saw what needed to be done and did it. I watched him pick up a piece of trash and throw it away. He smiled at people as they walked out of the store. He waved to a little girl as she held her mother’s hand, and she waved back. He stopped in the middle of what he was doing to watch a flock of birds fly above and away. He pointed to a plane, and the little girl looked up. She said, “Wow!” and they waved goodbye.

I wonder when this man figured it out. I wonder if he ever felt how I feel. I wonder if he sat in his car one day and wondered if there was more to life than crossing things off a to-do list. I wonder if he watched someone older than him put shopping carts away and wave to children and stop to watch the birds fly above and away. I wonder when he decided he was ready to live.

Because I will remember exactly where I was when I decided.

Order from Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Don’t Skip to the End

It’s hard to sit with what is
when what is
is not what you want it to be.

But let’s not skip to the end.

Sit with what is
and continue to let
the light pour in.

Some days I want to jump to the good parts.
I want to skip the line and get on the ride.
I want to hop on the highway and fly through the red lights.
Give me the chance to cut a corner, and I’ll take it.
Even if I know I’ll regret it.

It’s hard to be where you are
when where you are
is not where you want to be.

But I have to believe there is something for us
in the here and now.

In the waiting.
In the praying.
In the trusting.

Maybe I won’t see what that is until I look back.
Most days I cannot wait to look back,
but today I’ll just be right where I am.
I won’t try to hit fast-forward
or skip to the end.

I’ll exhale and wait.
I’ll look up and pray.
I’ll hold fast and trust.
I’ll sit with what is
because even in this
the light is pouring in.

Order from Amazon

With the launch of the book comes a tour.

For more information, visit and RSVP at writtentospeak.com/tour-dates. All are welcome. Each night will feature a singer-songwriter, along with poems from the book, a few stories, and—hopefully—you’ll leave feeling a little more hopeful. I’d love to meet you.

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

Getting Through What You’re Going Through

Today is release day!
Which feels a little surreal to type.

Getting Through What You’re Going Through is officially out in the world.

The countdown is over.
I no longer have to say the words pre-order.
It’s here.

This book began quietly. Not with a big idea or a clever angle, but with a realization that I didn’t have the words I needed when life felt heavy, and neither did a lot of people around me. I kept hearing the same questions from friends, students, church members, and honestly from my own heart:

Is it okay to not be okay?
Am I behind?
Is God still near when nothing makes sense?

I wrote this book for the in-between seasons. For the waiting rooms, the late nights, the long drives, the unanswered prayers, and the quiet and slow hope that refuses to leave even when everything feels uncertain. I didn’t want to rush anyone to a solution or tie pain up with a bow. I am not a teacher or pastor, but a poet and writer. I wanted these poems and essays to sit with you, to breathe with you, to remind you that God’s faithfulness is still present in ordinary moments and unfinished stories.

This book is for anyone who is tired of “just getting through it” and wants permission to actually go through it—with honesty, gentleness, and hope.

Releasing a book is strange. You spend years writing in solitude, and then one day you hand the whole thing over and say, Here. I hope this helps. Today feels full of gratitude, joy, relief, nerves, and a quiet prayer that these words find the people who need them most.

If you’ve been meaning to grab a copy, today’s the day.

And if you’ve already read or ordered your copy, one of the most meaningful ways you can help is by leaving a short review on Amazon. Reviews help this book find its way into more hands, homes, and hearts.

Thank you for getting a copy.

Thank you for sharing this book with your friends and online communities.

Thank you for posting and reposting and liking.

No author can release a book alone and I have all of you to thank.

Thank you for reading, for sharing, for supporting, and for walking alongside me through this work. I don’t take it lightly—not for a second.

Wherever you are today, whatever you’re carrying, I hope this book reminds you that you are not alone, you are not behind, God is with you, and hope is still here.

With love and hope,

Tanner Olson

PS If you’ve ordered a copy, please tell me in the comments so I can thank you!!

Order from Amazon

Barnes & Noble

The Secret to Living

I have found the secret to living a full life.
It begins with slowing down
and breathing deep
and giving thanks.
And it involves pulling another chair to the table
and remembering hope remains
and saying yes to another slice of cake.

With the launch of the book comes a tour.

For more information, visit and RSVP at writtentospeak.com/tour-dates. All are welcome. Each night will feature a singer-songwriter, along with poems from the book, a few stories, and—hopefully—you’ll leave feeling a little more hopeful. I’d love to meet you.

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now

Hello!

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Subscribe now

We are so close.

We’re so close to Getting Through What You’re Going Through finally being out in the world. This season of talking, sharing, and waiting is almost over—and I cannot wait for you to have this book in your hands.

If you haven’t preordered your copy yet, I’d love for you to do so today.

You’d not only be supporting this book, but helping a long-held writer’s dream take one brave step closer to becoming reality. A bestseller? Who knows.

I truly believe there is something in these pages for you, and for the people you love. A word of hope. A word of encouragement. A word of truth. Words that meet you exactly where you are and gently remind you that you’re not alone.

Getting Through What You’re Going Through is a collection of poems, essays, and reminders for hoping, healing, and becoming.

Give yourself a gift. Preorder your copy today—and thank you for walking this journey with me.

Below is one of my favorite poems from the collection.
You can listen to it on all streaming platforms, too.

Come Back to Yourself

Put down your phone, that lifeline-turned-leash.

Step outside, shoes off, bare feet on welcoming ground.

Let the grass preach peace to your skin.

Let the air touch your face like it’s trying to tell you you’re still alive.

You are.

Come back to yourself.

You’ve been somewhere else, haven’t you?

Buried under lists, lost in endless headlines,
suffocating under the pace of it all.

Let yourself breathe
slower,
slower still,
and then slower again,
because rushing won’t resurrect you.

Drop the weight your shoulders are carrying.

It’s heavy, isn’t it?

This whole thing—living,
waiting
enduring,
trying to hold it all together
when you hardly know what “together” means anymore.

Silence the noise—not
just outside, but in.

Turn the volume down on the fear
on the “what-ifs,”
on the “not enoughs.”

Cut through the static and listen.
Listen.

Do you hear it?
The birds, the wind,
the whisper in the leaves,

They’re singing something ancient,
something holy.

Creation hasn’t forgotten how to worship.

Maybe we just forgot how to listen.

Remember:
Not your failure, not your fear.

But these:
faithfulness,
love,
forgiveness,
heaven,
the empty tomb,
grace upon grace upon grace.

Look around.

Goodness, right there beside you.

Mercy, moving in the margins.

Life is still happening, still unfolding,
even here, especially here.

So be still in the silence—not
because you’re stuck,
but because stillness is sacred.

Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.

Speak like God is listening, because He is.

Listen like God is answering, because He is.

Be still like God is with you, because He is.

Order from Amazon

Barnes & Noble

With the launch of the book comes a tour.

For more information, visit and RSVP at writtentospeak.com/tour-dates. All are welcome. Each night will feature a singer-songwriter, along with poems from the book, a few stories, and—hopefully—you’ll leave feeling a little more hopeful. I’d love to meet you.

Website | 📚 Books | On Instagram | On Facebook | ⭐️ Online store

Subscribe now