There are seasons in life when I want more than the next step.

I want the full map. I want clarity about where I am going, how things will unfold, and reassurance that I am not wandering in the dark. I want God to show me the whole road at once. But so often, He does not.

Instead, “He gives light.”

That is why Psalm 119:105 has been resting so deeply on my heart:

“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.”

Lately, I have been sitting with this verse through verse mapping, slowly breaking it apart, tracing the meaning of the words, reflecting on its context, and letting it speak into my own life. I have even used AI to help me organize parts of that study, and surprisingly, it has been useful in helping me slow down and pay attention. Not because it replaces anything sacred, but because it can help me see the structure more clearly.

Still, I have had to remind myself again and again: AI is a tool, not an authority.

It can help me gather observations. It can help me organize notes. It can help me ask better questions. But it cannot breathe life into the Word. It cannot convict my heart. It cannot guide my soul. Only God can do that.

And maybe that is part of what this verse is teaching me.

God’s Word is not a floodlight for my entire future. It is a lamp for my feet. A lamp is small. It is close. It gives enough light for the ground right in front of me. Enough to keep walking. Enough to keep trusting. Enough to obey even when I cannot see very far ahead.

That truth both comforts me and humbles me.

Because if I am honest, I often want certainty more than dependence. I want answers more than nearness. I want a detailed plan when what God offers me is His presence and His Word for today.

As I studied this verse, I found myself asking a question I could not avoid:
Am I really letting God’s Word guide me, or am I still trying to lead myself?

That question lingered.

There are so many voices competing for my attention. So many opinions, pressures, and distractions. Even helpful tools can become too loud if I let them. But Scripture has a different kind of voice. It is steady. Clean. True. It does not rush me, flatter me, or confuse me. It lights what is real. It reveals where I am. It shows me where to place my feet.

And sometimes that is enough.

Actually, it is always enough.

I may not know what is coming next. I may not understand the road. I may not see very far beyond today. But I do not walk without light. God has not left me to guess my way forward. He has given me His Word, and through it, He is still faithful to guide.

So I keep returning to the page.

Not for perfect notes. Not for polished study. Not even for clarity on every question. I return because I need the light. I return because I need truth that steadies me. I return because, somewhere in the reading and reflecting, I find that God is not only showing me the path — He is meeting me on it.

And maybe that is the deeper gift.

Not that I get the whole map.
But that I do not walk alone.

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Resources:

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Lost on the Journey is the creative work of Betsy A. Pudliner, PhD. All original writing, reflections, and creative materials shared here belong to the author unless otherwise noted. Please do not reproduce or distribute content without permission. Some materials may reference collaborative or organizational work used with consent.

© 2026–2040 Betsy A. Pudliner, PhD. All rights reserved.

I kept thinking about where to begin.

Not in a big, abstract way—but in a very practical one.

If this idea of a personal curriculum is real… if it’s something I’m actually going to do and not just think about… then it has to start somewhere concrete.

Not everything at once.

Just one place.

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I’ve done this before, without really naming it.

Picking up a book and sitting with it longer than I planned to. Taking notes, coming back to the same page, trying to understand something that didn’t quite land the first time.

But I’ve also done the opposite.

Starting five books at once. Jumping between ideas. Feeling like I should be making progress, but not really staying with anything long enough for it to matter.

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So this time, I’m doing it differently.

I’m choosing one book.

Not because it’s the perfect book. Not because it solves everything. Just because it gives me something to return to.

Something to stay with.

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There’s something about narrowing it down that feels almost too simple.

Like it shouldn’t be enough.

But the more I think about it, the more I realize that most of the depth I’m looking for doesn’t come from adding more—it comes from staying longer.

Letting something unfold.

Letting questions take time.

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So this is where I’m starting.

One book.
One notebook.
One place to return to.

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I’m reading Knowing God.

Not quickly. Not to get through it.

Just to sit with it.

To see what stands out. What doesn’t. What I understand. What I don’t.

To write things down, even if they’re incomplete.

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There’s no real structure to it yet.

No system I’m trying to follow.

Just the decision to begin—and to keep coming back.

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That feels like enough for now.

I’ve been thinking about this for a while now.

Not in a structured way. Not as a plan. Just something that keeps coming back.

Most of what has shaped me didn’t come from a syllabus. It didn’t come from a course outline or a clearly defined path. It came from things I returned to. Books I kept picking back up. Ideas that stayed with me longer than I expected.

And I started wondering if that’s actually the real curriculum.

Not the one assigned to you—but the one you build over time.

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I don’t think I ever set out to create anything like this.

If anything, I’ve always leaned toward structure. Outlines. Systems. Clean ways of organizing ideas. It’s how I teach. It’s how I design courses.

But when I look at how I actually learn… it doesn’t look like that.

It looks like a notebook.
Half-finished thoughts.
Questions written in the margins.
Pages I come back to weeks later because something still isn’t settled.

It’s slower than I want it to be sometimes. Less clear. But it’s also more honest.

---

So this idea of a personal curriculum started to take shape.

Not as something formal. Not something I need to map out completely before I begin. Just a way of naming what’s already happening.

A way of being more intentional about it.

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I think a personal curriculum is made up of small things.

A book you decide to stay with a little longer.
A question you don’t rush to answer.
A notebook you keep returning to, even when you’re not sure what you’re trying to figure out.

There’s no real endpoint to it. No moment where it’s finished.

It just builds.

Quietly.

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That’s what this is.

Not a course. Not a system. Not something polished.

Just a place to work through ideas as they’re forming.

To read, to write, to reflect, and to see what begins to connect over time.

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I’m starting with one book.

Not because it’s the perfect place to begin, but because it’s a place to begin.

And that feels like enough.