WHO GOVERNS YOU?
You will eventually live under whatever you give authority to.
This photograph was taken on a quiet morning when the house was still and the first light of the day had just begun to spill across the chair where I sit most mornings to write and spend time with Papa. Moments like this slow life down. They create space to see clearly. The noise fades. The distractions loosen their grip. And in that quiet, clarity has a way of revealing something deeper. Not crisis. Governance.
You can tell almost instantly when a man knows who governs him.
Not just by what he says.
By how he steadies others.
And by what steadies him.
DEDICATION
To the opportunities God has placed beneath my feet — even the ones that looked like deep water.
To Marty — who reflects the encouragement of the Holy Spirit and steadies my vision when I drift.
To the friends who have stood with me in deep water — and to the perseverant souls God has tossed into the current for the spread of His DNA.
And to you, the reader — and to Sadie, my up-and-coming companion, who reminds me daily of the sacred responsibility of holding the other end of the leash. May you both learn whose hand holds yours.
SCRIPTURE
“You will keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on You, because he trusts in You.” — Isaiah 26:3 (NKJV)
THE HOOK
5:15 a.m.
House dark.
Coffee in hand.
A leash draped over the arm of the chair.
A cross resting on an open Bible.
A dog settling near my feet.
This is where most of my mornings begin now.
Not because I have it figured out.
Because I know which line I need to start the day attached to.
The leash in that photo doesn’t belong to me.
It belongs to Sadie.
But it might as well be mine.
Because the question it asks is the same one I’ve been learning to answer for years.
Who is holding the other end?
THE STORY
At the car wash recently, I ran into a man I hadn’t seen in quite some time.
He lit up when he saw me.
The first words out of his mouth were how good I looked.
I laughed internally for a moment — that old instinct surfaced.
You know the one.
That quiet voice that whispers:
You don’t look as good as you think.
It’s amazing how quickly we attach ourselves to that voice.
Even in something small.
For a moment I caught myself and thought:
What leash am I on right now?
The one that whispers insecurity?
Or the one that steadies me?
The easiest way I’ve learned to check myself is to remember what line I’m attached to.
We talked for a while about the trials of life.
God knows he and I have both been through them.
Consequences.
Hard lessons.
Seasons you don’t advertise.
Then he shared some of the recent ones.
Two wrecked vehicles. Both his fault.
Uber driving. In a hurry.
Consequences stacking up.
He owned it.
No excuses.
You could feel the weight of it sitting on his shoulders.
Then the conversation shifted.
Marty asked one simple question:
“How’s your walk with Jesus?”
THE MOMENT
Instant shift.
His face changed.
His posture straightened.
His eyes steadied.
Nothing about his circumstances changed.
But something deeper did.
He knew where his line was attached.
And so did we.
For a brief moment I saw it clearly in his eyes.
Not emotion.
Not performance.
Peace.
He knew where his line was attached.
And the peace on his face said everything.
THE TURN
I’ve lived long enough to recognize that look.
For forty-five years I ran a sixty-three-year legacy company my father started — Du-All Anodizing.
For decades my name wasn’t Greg.
It was Du-All.
When the phone announced “Du-All Anodizing,” my body moved before my mind did.
Responsibility owned me.
Crisis governed me.
Identity was tied to whatever demanded my response.
I used to live under whatever beeped loudest.
And now?
Everything beeps.
Phones. Watches. Smoke alarms. Cameras.
Notifications stacked on notifications.
The world is louder than ever.
But my response is different now.
Measured.
Neutral.
Because governance has shifted.
When Du-All closed, it felt like more than shutting a door.
It felt like losing a name.
Losing a legacy I had refined and kept afloat through difficult waters.
Losing something sacred.
Then life brought me to a different table.
A wire stuck in my heart.
Doctors rushing in.
Four became fifteen.
The room filled with urgency that wasn’t mine.
The first time I faced death, I begged God to spare me.
The second time, something in me had already settled the question.
I reached out and put my hand on the arm of the very doctor working on me.
He looked up.
The room went still for just a moment.
And I said,
“Whatever happens — I trust God.”
He nodded slowly.
Something passed between us that didn’t need words.
That’s when I knew something had changed permanently.
If I wasn’t afraid of death anymore —
what exactly was I afraid of?
Drifting.
THE DRIFT
There is a voice that pulls at the leash constantly.
You should be further along by now.
Look at what you’ve lost.
You don’t have what it takes anymore.
That voice sounds like assessment.
It isn’t.
Assessment builds.
This voice erodes.
There is a kind of self-examination that looks like growth on the outside —
but is just the old governance trying to reattach itself.
Measuring worth by output.
Measuring identity by reputation.
Measuring peace by circumstances.
That voice will keep a person straining at the leash —
long after the hand that holds it has changed.
I know. Because I strained at the wrong one. For years.
THE REFLECTION
Since surrendering at that table, most mornings at 5:15 I walk toward that chair in the dark.
Coffee in hand.
House quiet.
A dog settling near my feet.
And I ask,
“Lord, what do You want me to talk about today?”
Not because I know everything.
Not because I can carry the weight of the world.
But because I know where my lifeline is attached.
That same day at the car wash we had Sadie with us.
She’s training to become a service dog.
New environments still rattle her.
You could feel the nervous twitching in her body.
Everything around her was unfamiliar.
Marty was concerned.
“Oh my…”
I said, “Don’t worry. She just needs exposure. Repetition. Time.”
This is exactly when she needs to stay on the leash.
If she bolts in fear, she runs into danger.
First she has to learn she’s not going to drown.
She doesn’t understand the world yet.
But she knows whose leash she’s on.
And every time she goes out, she shakes less.
Not because the world is calmer.
Because her attachment is.
Hardship exposes what you’re attached to.
You can’t fake being anchored.
Most men don’t even realize who’s governing them.
They just feel the consequences.
WALKAWAY LINE
Pressure doesn’t create governance — it reveals it.
SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT
When the noise rises — what governs you?
MY PRAYER
Heavenly Father,
Reveal gently what governs us.
If we have attached ourselves to insecurity, urgency, pride, fear, or distraction —
loosen that grip.
Anchor our souls to You.
Teach us to respond without panic.
And when pressure rises —
let governance reveal peace.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
ABOUT G~
G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.
If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.
G~