Growing up, my sister Julie was a full-time daredevil with a part-time interest in survival. Nothing ever phased her — cliff jumping, driving way too fast, trying things that had no business being tried. One time when we were very young, she climbed to the top of our fort, grabbed a bed sheet, and jumped, fully convinced it would act like a parachute. It didn’t. Not even close.

During the summer of 1998, my friend Mathu, Julie, and I headed to Red River, NM for a weekend. My parents had already been there a few days, but I had to work or something and couldn’t go until later. The plan was just Julie and me, but I decided to invite Mathu along too. That was probably a surprise to my parents, but he was always around our house in those days. They were used to seeing him all the time, even when I wasn’t home.

One day in Red River, we decided to rent mountain bikes. It was that day my dad likely saved Mathu’s life… or at least his brain. In 1998, you could still rent a bike without a helmet, and Mathu didn’t want one. “Who actually falls off a bike?” he said. My dad made him wear it anyway. Good thing — because everything after this moment goes downhill. Literally.

It was mid-afternoon. The daily Red River shower had cooled everything off, which was great for us… except it also made the trails muddy. We were taking easy switchbacks down a mountain — nothing dangerous — until Julie spotted a shortcut straight down to the next switchback. And let me tell you… this shortcut was steep and stupid. We all stared at it. I knew immediately I wasn’t doing it. Mathu looked tempted.

Before we could talk it through, Julie was already gone — halfway down the mountain. I rolled my eyes, grateful she didn’t wipe out because I had no idea how I’d explain that one to my parents.

Mathu, however, was not going to let my little sister show him up. He took off before Julie could warn him about a rock she barely missed… and he never saw it. When he hit it, he instinctively grabbed the front brake. For those who don’t bike much, that’s the equivalent of pressing the self-destruct button.

He was going fast enough that the momentum flipped the back wheel over his head — not once, but twice. He landed directly on the helmet he didn’t even want to wear. It’s a miracle he didn’t break anything. Honestly, the rental bike came out of it better than he did. (Always better to destroy a rental than your own stuff.)

After confirming that only his pride was injured, Julie couldn’t stop laughing. I couldn’t either, but I didn’t tease him nearly as much — mostly because I’m a visual learner. I learned right then to stay on the marked path. Some shortcuts aren’t shortcuts at all. Sometimes they’re life-threatening.

Some people are natural risk-takers. Some are not. My sister takes risks constantly. People often think I’m a risk-taker too, but if the risk involves physical pain? Absolutely not. I’ll take the switchbacks every time.

Thinking back on that muddy mountain, Julie flying down the hill, and Mathu flipping over the handlebars like a human boomerang, I’m reminded of how often Scripture warns us about shortcuts.

Proverbs 3:6 says, “In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.”
Not shortcuts — paths.

The path God lays out is usually steady, faithful, and step-by-step. It’s rarely dramatic… and almost never fast. But it’s always good. And most of the time, the shortcuts we’re tempted to take — the ones that look quicker, easier, or more exciting — are exactly the places where we end up face-first in the dirt wondering what just happened.

That mountain taught me something I’ve had to learn repeatedly in life: Not every shortcut is from God. Some of them cost far more than they save. Some hide dangers we can’t see yet. And some, like that rock Julie dodged and Mathu never saw, are only avoided by God’s grace and a very mandatory helmet.

The older I get, the more grateful I am for the “switchback seasons” in life — the times God kept me on the slower, wiser path because He knew what was waiting around the corner. His way isn’t always thrilling, but it keeps us upright. And it gets us exactly where we need to be.

A long time ago, I saw a T-shirt—later a meme—that said:
“Commas save lives. Let’s eat grandma. Let’s eat, grandma.”
To this day, that still cracks me up. I’ve always been terrible at grammar. If I slow down and think, I can usually stumble my way through it. But texting, instant messages, and emails? Those have turned me into a grammatical wild animal with no rules, boundaries, or Oxford commas.

The ironic part? I grew up with fantastic English teachers. Rock solid. The best of the best. Yet I didn’t earn an A in English until my freshman year at OBU. When my professor told me my essays were some of the best she’d ever seen from a first-year student, I nearly asked her if she was sure she had the right papers. Anyone who saw my junior high or high school essays would’ve thought a red pen had exploded on the page. I’m convinced Mrs. Parham had to tag-team with a second pen just to survive grading my work.

As painful as it was to get those blood-red papers back, the “no sugar-coating” approach paid off. College was much easier because of it.

Did I magically turn in flawless papers in college? Absolutely not. But my grammar and spelling rarely got me in trouble. Now my content… that’s a different story. But while my classmates were adjusting to professors who expected accurate grammar, I’d already lived through years of English-teacher boot camp.

I had excellent teachers all through school. I wasn’t a problem student—just a lazy one who enjoyed griping about homework like it was a competitive sport. The issue was that my parents never let me gripe for long. Their expectations then are the same message I’ll pass along now:

If you’re one of those people who complain that a teacher has “high expectations”… STOP. Stop it NOW.
Your child getting a B or C does not mean the teacher is bad. It might mean the teacher knows exactly what will be expected in college, in a job, or anywhere else in the real world. Honestly, I learned more from the B’s and C’s I earned than from the A’s. And yes, I had a few A’s. I wasn’t a complete disaster.

So here’s a much-deserved shout-out to the teachers who taught me grammar (or valiantly tried to):

• Mrs. Moore (3rd–4th grade)

• Mrs. Tipton (5th grade) — I still know all my prepositions.

• Mrs. Grove (6th grade)

• Mrs. Parham (7th & 9th grade) — She apparently didn’t get enough of me in 7th grade and followed me to high school. She also taught me yearbook for a year. Pray for her.

• Mrs. Brooks (8th & 11th grade) — She too came back for more. Thanks to her, I read almost as many books in Honors English as I did in Western Civ at OBU.

• Mrs. Hill (12th grade) — I was late to her class more than I care to admit. Every time I’m late today, I still hear her threatening Saturday school.

• Mrs. Roberts — Not my English teacher, but three years of yearbook under her taught me a lot about spelling, grammar, deadlines, and stress eating.

Disclaimer:
The spelling and grammar in my blog should in no way reflect the excellent education I received. I was taught exceptionally well. But grammar is like a muscle—you have to use it consistently or it melts away like ice cream on pavement. I’ve been out of high school for 25 years and college for 21, and except for grad school, I haven’t had much practice writing since. So yes… I’ve gotten lazy.