Some of the best advice I ever received came wrapped in words I did not want to hear. Get over your grief, they said when I was seventeen and had no idea how the death of my first love was supposed to be survived. Instead, Spend the Summer in Switzerland, they said when I didn’t speak German and needed the comfort of family and friends.
Go to college, they said when all I really wanted was an MRS degree and a life that felt settled.
Years passed. Babies came. Advice sounded less like wisdom and more like warning. You’ll be sorry if you divorce, they said, when I knew deep down I was saving my life and the lives of my children.
Move into an apartment, they said, when my boys needed the breathing room of a small house.
Don’t marry again, they said, when I had already met the love of my life.
Don’t move away, they said, when we were not running from something, but moving toward the life waiting for us.
Advice comes from everywhere in life. Family, friends, neighbors, church people, strangers in grocery store lines, and occasionally people who knew almost nothing about the road I was walking. Most meant well. Some were speaking from love. Some were speaking from fear. Some were remembering their own wounds and handing me directions that belonged to their map, not mine.
Even Oliver has offered unwanted advice, usually with one eyebrow raised and a look that clearly says, Mom, this is a terrible idea. His advice is considered from time to time.
And later, after loss had done its awful work, the advice came again.
Some of it was loving. Some of it was fear wearing a sensible coat. But I’d lived long enough by then to know the difference between advice meant to protect me and advice meant to keep me small.
Not every word of advice was right. Not every warning was wrong. But every piece of it forced me to listen for the quieter voice underneath—the one God had been teaching me to recognize all along.
That voice encouraged me when it said, LIVE.
It cheered when it said GO!
The voice comforted me and said, BEGIN AGAIN.
These golden messages were quieter. Holier. Easier to miss. The Holy Spirit has never shoved, scolded, or demanded center stage. It has usually come as a whisper, a nudge, a strange peace, or a sudden knowing I could not explain. Too often, that still small voice was outshouted by the advice of mere mortals, including my own. But when I look back, the guidance that saved me most was rarely the loudest voice in the room. It was the one that stayed after all the other voices finally grew quiet.
These days, I listen carefully when people offer advice. There is wisdom to be found in those who love us, and I would be foolish to believe I have all the answers. But I have also learned not every opinion deserves equal weight.
The advice most treasured is the quiet counsel of the Holy Spirit. His voice has never shouted over the crowd. It has simply waited…patiently…until I was willing to listen.
Looking back, I don’t regret the times I ignored the loudest voices. I only regret the times I ignored His.
If there is one piece of advice I would gladly pass along, it is this:
When everyone else is telling you what to do, be still long enough to hear what God is saying. His whisper has never led me wrong.
