I think we’ve become a little too afraid of failure.

When I was growing up in Canada, June meant one thing: Field Day. Every student, from Grade 1 through Grade 9, was expected to participate. There were running races, high jump, long jump, relays—you name it. It didn’t matter whether you were athletic or not. Everyone gave it a go.

Back then there were clear winners. First place. Second place. Third place. By default, that also meant there were a whole lot of students who didn’t win anything.

Looking back, I think that was one of the healthiest things school ever taught us. Winning was exciting, of course, but learning to lose with grace was just as important. If you didn’t place, you congratulated the winners, picked yourself up, and came back the following year to try again. It was simply part of growing up.

The person I remember most from those Field Days wasn’t any of the First Price winners.

His name was Tom.

Tom was born with a clubfoot and had a speech impediment. He entered every event knowing full well he wasn’t going to win. In fact, he failed spectacularly. But he gave every event everything he had. By the time the competitions were over, he was bruised, sweaty, covered in dirt, and wearing the biggest grin on his face.

There was one special ribbon awarded at the end of the day: the Honourable Mention ribbon. When Tom’s name was announced, the entire school cheered.

Looking back after all these years, I don’t think anyone was cheering because Tom had a disability. They were cheering because they recognized courage when they saw it. Tom never expected anyone to lower the bar for him. He simply refused to let failure define him.

Many years later I learned that Tom had become an accomplished competitive cyclist and built a successful career in sports medicine. Field Day hadn’t defined his future. If anything, it revealed something that had always been true about his character.

Ironically, I can’t remember who won the hundred-yard dash or the long jump that year. I don’t remember most of the champions at all.

But I remember Tom.

That memory came back to me years later when I heard a senior pastor tell a story about a young leader under his care. The young man had an ambitious idea for a ministry project. It was creative, it was bold, and it came with a hefty price tag. Although the senior pastor had a few reservations, he trusted the young leader enough to give him the go-ahead.

The project was an epic failure.

The young leader came back crushed. Nothing unethical had happened. No one had sinned. The idea simply hadn’t worked, and he was deeply ashamed that he had wasted so much money.

His mentor asked him, “What did you learn?”

The young man replied, “I learned never to do anything like that again.”

The pastor drawled, “Well… that would be a tremendous waste of the money we just invested in your education.”

Failure is an opportunity for growth; but only if we refuse to see it as a permanent black mark against our character.

The senior pastor wasn’t minimizing the loss or pretending the failure didn’t matter. He simply understood that failure had become a very expensive classroom. The investment wasn’t wasted if the young leader was willing to learn from it.

As it turned out, he did. He took what he had learned, tried again, and succeeded because he had gained something he could never have learned from success alone.

I’ve found that God often works the same way with us.

We tend to see failure as a verdict on our character. God often sees it as part of our formation. He isn’t looking for reasons to disqualify us. He is shaping us, teaching us, correcting us, and preparing us for what comes next.

That doesn’t mean failure is enjoyable. Some failures are painful. Some are expensive. Some leave scars that remind us of lessons we’d rather not have learned.

But failure doesn’t have to become our identity.

“For though the righteous fall seven times, they rise again, but the wicked stumble when calamity strikes.”
Proverbs 24:16

Until next time,

©2026 Kath Walden



Social Media Links:

Facebook: http://facebook.com/katherine.walden

Tiktok: http://tiktok.com/@kathwalden
Instagram: http://instagram.com/kathwaldenig
Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@Kath_Walden

Every now and then, the Lord highlights a passage of Scripture and won’t let me move on. That happened recently with Psalm 133. I’ve read it many times over the years. I know it’s a psalm about unity, yet this time I couldn’t seem to get past the picture David uses to describe it.

“How good and pleasant it is when God’s people live together in unity. It is like precious oil poured on the head, running down on the beard, running down on Aaron’s beard…” (Psalm 133:1–2)

The invitation to ask a question came quickly and so I asked: Lord, why oil? What are You inviting me to see?

Almost before the words were outside of my mouth, I felt the Lord leading me to explore the anointing oil itself. It wasn’t made from one ingredient but from a carefully measured blend of costly spices mixed with olive oil. Every ingredient contributed its own fragrance, yet none of them represented the finished oil on their own. Only when they were brought together according to God’s design was the full fragrance released.

Then, almost immediately, I felt the Lord’s nudge to look a little further, and another layer came into view. In Aaron’s day, oil wasn’t simply associated with fragrance. Olive oil protected skin that had been exposed to the harsh Middle Eastern climate, and many of the aromatic spices God instructed Moses to use are now known to contain compounds with healing properties. The sacred anointing oil described in Exodus was reserved for consecration, but I couldn’t help noticing how beautifully those purposes intertwined in the psalm. Fragrance. Consecration. Healing. The thoughts seemed to come one after another, revealing something of God’s own heart.

That imagery began to feel less distant and much more personal. I had been asking the Lord for word of encouragement I needed for a group of volunteers I serve with for the online community of a large church. I couldn’t help but think about the way we work as a team. One person keeps an eye out for newcomers. Another prays. Someone else brings encouragement. Others gather testimonies, share resources, protect the online space, and some serve behind the scenes.

As I looked at that list of names that were on roster to serve the coming Sunday, Psalm 133 came flooding back into my mind, and I sensed the Lord asking, What if each of them carries one of the fragrances that make a fragrant offering to the Lord and are poured out as a collective healing oil?

That thought stopped me.

Every person carried something different. Different personalities. Different gifts. Different experiences. Different ways of reflecting Christ. None of them were meant to carry the whole fragrance. Each simply brought the part the Lord Himself had entrusted to them.

As I continued dialoguing with the Lord, another connection came almost unexpectedly. Aaron, Israel’s high priest, points us toward Jesus, our great High Priest. Almost immediately my thoughts went to Mary breaking open her alabaster jar and pouring its costly perfume over Jesus. The fragrance filled the whole house.

I don’t want to force connections that Scripture itself doesn’t make, but I found myself wondering if the Lord was inviting me to notice a thread that runs through these passages. Aaron was anointed with precious oil. Jesus was honoured with precious perfume. Now, as the Body of Christ serves Him together, we each bring something precious - not spices or perfume, but our worship, our obedience, our prayers, our encouragement, our hospitality, our generosity, our faithfulness. Individually they may seem ordinary. Together they become an offering that points people to Christ.

By this point, I realized the Lord wasn’t simply drawing my attention to unity. He was revealing something of the Father’s delight.

How often do we compare ourselves with someone else and conclude that our contribution doesn’t matter because it isn’t as visible as theirs? Yet the Master who designed the blend has never asked us to carry someone else’s fragrance. He delights in the one He entrusted to us.

I wondered if that’s why David described unity as both good and pleasant. Certainly it is good and pleasant for us, but perhaps it is also a delight to the Father. As I sat with Him, one scene after another came to mind. An encourager speaking hope into someone who was ready to give up. An intercessor quietly praying when no one else knew the need. A host noticing the person standing alone and making sure they felt seen. A servant setting out chairs before anyone arrived. A teacher faithfully opening God’s Word. Then my attention settled on those who are rarely noticed at all—the ones working behind the scenes so everything else can happen. I couldn’t escape the impression that the Father’s delight rested on every one of them. Each brought their own unique fragrance to the blend. That thought has stayed with me.

Perhaps one of the sweetest fragrances rising before our great High Priest today isn’t the brilliance of one extraordinary believer, but the beautiful aroma released when ordinary believers faithfully bring what God has placed within them and serve together in unity.

That, I think, is both good… and very pleasant indeed.

©2026 Kath Walden

Social Media Links:

Facebook http://facebook.com/katherine.walden

Tiktok http://tiktok.com/@kathwalden

Instagram http://instagram.com/kathwaldenig

I once watched a video of a farmer caring for his cattle in a way I’d never seen before.

The cattle had a constant problem with flies. Rather than trying to spray each animal individually, the farmer installed a simple system over the gate leading to fresh feed. A long horizontal tube held a special oil that continually soaked strips of heavy cloth hanging down over the entrance.

The oil wasn’t just to soothe irritated skin. It also contained an ointment that helped repel flies, providing ongoing protection after the cattle walked through.

The cattle, of course, weren’t interested in the oil.

They wanted the food waiting on the other side of the gate.

One by one, they walked beneath the hanging cloth. As they did, it gently brushed over their backs, leaving them coated with exactly what they needed. Even the one clever little cow that always tried to avoid the cloth eventually had to pass underneath it to reach the feed.

As I watched, I sensed the Lord whisper to my heart,

“That’s often how I minister to My people.”

Life leaves its marks on all of us.

Some wounds are significant, but many are simply the “fly bites” of everyday life—stress, disappointment, criticism, difficult conversations, discouragement, and the countless little irritations that quietly accumulate over time.

Sometimes we know we need God’s touch, yet we instinctively resist anything that feels like treatment. We want relief, but we’re not always eager for the process.

What struck me most about the farmer’s approach was his kindness.

He didn’t chase the cattle.

He didn’t force them.

He simply placed something good beyond the gate.

As they moved toward the food, they received the oil.

I couldn’t help but think of these words from Psalm 100:

“Enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise.”

God invites us into His presence, not because He wants to put us through a process, but because He wants us to enjoy His goodness.

As we worship Him, thank Him, and simply spend time in His presence, something beautiful often happens.

The Holy Spirit quietly ministers to us.

His peace soothes the places where life has rubbed us raw.

His joy brings healing to bruised hearts.

His presence strengthens us, helping to guard us against the “flies” that would otherwise keep irritating and distracting us.

I’ve noticed that God rarely says,

“Come so I can fix you.”

Instead, He says,

“Come and spend time with Me.”

As we pass through the gate of thanksgiving and praise toward the feast of His goodness, we often discover that His Spirit has been quietly covering us all along—bringing comfort to yesterday’s hurts while preparing us for whatever tomorrow may bring.

Perhaps that’s how God so often works.

While our eyes are fixed on the feast of His goodness, He quietly covers us with everything we need.

So today, let me leave you with one question:

What if the very thing God is inviting you to do isn’t to try harder—but simply to spend time enjoying His goodness?

©2026 Katherine Walden