Crepuscular Rays, Sirens, and the Weight of Folly

Yesterday brought a rare, beautiful moment of rest out on the water with a friend. When the day was winding down, I caught a sunset just minutes before it dropped below the horizon, sending stunning crepuscular rays shooting across the sky. I had never really known what they were called before, but they are essentially shadows cast across the clouds when the sun hits something on the horizon. It was breathtaking.

The Lord has been speaking to me so clearly in the quiet moments, often through palindrome numbers. I woke up today at exactly 7:17 AM in St. Pete Beach. As I got up to start my day, I felt a heavy, beautiful conviction: give God the absolute first fruits of the morning. No coffee, no thinking about business, no checking the phone. Just going to the bathroom, getting a glass of water, and going straight to the Word. I want to show the Lord that He gets the first and the best, with zero distractions.

I walked out onto the porch to sit in the quiet. I usually begin by asking the Lord to speak, telling Him that His servant is patiently listening. But this morning, the quiet was violently interrupted. One by one, cop cars came speeding over the bridge. Seven of them in total.

The sirens instantly triggered a flood of agonizing memories. I thought about the day Cash was murdered. I thought about the police cars and the ambulances rushing to a scene that would shatter my universe. As the cars sped over the bridge today, I felt the overwhelming weight of knowing someone, somewhere, was about to enter their own nightmare. Instead of giving in to the urge to pull out my phone and Google what was happening, I held my boundary. I gave the moment to God, praying fiercely for whatever emergency those sirens were rushing toward.

It is a profound struggle to hold that boundary—to shut off the flesh, ignore the demands of the agency, and just stop. But as I walked back inside, I felt Cash's hand on my shoulder, and I heard his voice as clear as day: "You can get through this, Micah." Between Cash's beautiful spirit and the Holy Spirit, I know I can build this habit of true surrender.

As I opened my reading plan for today, covering Proverbs 13 through 18, one specific word kept jumping off the page: Folly.

I felt a sharp, immediate conviction. It is so easy for me to play the part of the constant jokester—a Will Ferrell type, always ready with a punchline, sometimes regardless of who it hits. Sure, 80% of it is genuinely funny, but that other 20% hurts people.

It reminded me of a hard lesson Cash learned in the eighth grade. He made a joke that he thought would be funny, but it ended up being a very harsh critique of someone's life. That person turned all of Cash's friends against him. It broke his heart, but Cash learned from it. He continued to be a funny, joyful boy who made everyone laugh, but he became incredibly careful never to make fun of anyone again. His heart was so pure.

I need to learn the lesson my son learned. I need to be careful that my humor doesn't cross the line into folly.

When you feel that familiar urge to crack a joke that might cross the line into that 20%, what is one mental pause or "filter" you can practice putting in place to ensure your words bring life instead of folly?