Most mornings, I ease myself to the porch like I’ve done a thousand times before.
Same boards.
Same water bowl.
Same sun creeping up over the fence.
Same squirrels to chase.
Same mail truck to bark at
If I’m honest, I could do it all with
my eyes half closed—moving more by habit than by intention.
An old dog can live a long time on cruise control.
People do it too.
Paul’s words to the Romans have a way of tapping me on the nose when I get too comfortable:
If you confess with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved. One believes with the heart, resulting in righteousness, and one confesses with the mouth, resulting in salvation. Now the Scripture says, Everyone who believes on Him will not be put to shame, for there is no distinction between Jew and Greek, since the same Lord of all is rich to all who call on Him. For everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved
- Romans 10:9–13 HCSB
That’s not cruise control.
That’s engagement.
Cruise control is coasting.
It’s saying the right words because we’ve always said them.
It’s showing up, standing up, sitting down, bowing our heads at the right moments, all while our hearts wander off to somewhere more interesting.
It’s faith reduced to muscle memory.
I know something about going through the motions.
I can wag my tail without thinking.
I can trot to my food bowl because the clock says it’s time.
But when my human calls my name, that’s different.
That’s not habit—that’s relationship.
That’s attention.
That’s life.
Paul doesn’t talk about a faith that idles in neutral.
He talks about hearts that believe and mouths that confess.
Belief that stays locked up inside never seems to make it out the door.
Confession that never reaches the heart is just noise.
Real faith engages both—inside and out.
Calling on the name of the Lord isn’t a box to check.
It’s a cry.
It’s the sound of someone who knows they need saving and knows exactly who can do it.
No autopilot.
No half-hearted mumble.
Just honest dependence.
I’ve noticed that when my human is near, I don’t drift.
I don’t nap through the moment.
His presence wakes me up.
I listen.
I watch.
I follow.
Life off cruise control takes more effort, but it’s also where the joy is.
Maybe today is a good day to turn off the spiritual autopilot.
To let Romans 10 move from something you know to someone you trust.
To believe again with your whole heart and to confess again like it matters—because it does.
An old dog like me has learned this much:
Going through the motions keeps you moving, but calling on the Lord Ives you and keeps you alive.
And that’s worth getting up for.
Keep the Faith… Carpe Diem
