When You’re Tired of the In-Between
Faith that Abides
I haven’t been writing in a while.
At first, I wondered if it was because I had nothing new to say. Or maybe because I keep circling the same thoughts, returning to the same questions, saying the same things in slightly different ways.
And I don’t like that.
It makes me feel like I’m stuck.
The Weariness of Staying
I don’t like being here — this “in-between” season I’ve written so much about.
Not quite where I was.
Not yet where I thought I’d be.
Neither here nor there.
I used to believe I could make sense of this space. That if I understood it well enough, if I could name it, theologize it, write about it — it might become more bearable.
But understanding hasn’t made it easier.
If anything, it has made me more aware of the cost of staying.
I find myself sitting with the psalmists, with Qoheleth — not as literary companions but as mirrors. And lately, I’m tired of their company. Tired of the questions that don’t resolve. Tired of the honesty that doesn’t lead to immediate relief.
The Gift I Didn’t Expect to Miss
Strangely, this season has made me grateful for my Pentecostal background.
I didn’t expect that.
But I see now what it gave me:
A reflex toward hope
An instinct to expect God to move
A way of believing that the future is not closed
Without that, I suspect I might feel more defeated. More resigned. More inclined to think that what is, is all there will ever be.
There was a clarity there, perhaps even a simplicity, that I now find myself missing.
When Openness Becomes Exhaustion
There is a downside to learning how to see from multiple perspectives.
No one tells you this part.
When everything becomes worth considering, everything also becomes heavy.
There are more questions to weigh.
More angles to hold.
More tensions to manage.
Sometimes I think it would be easier to just be of one mind. To settle into a system. To stop evaluating everything all the time.
Even if it meant being wrong.
But that thought unsettles me.
Because it reveals something I would rather not admit: that sometimes, what I long for is not truth, but relief.
The God Who Is Not Tame
I find myself thinking about God’s character more these days.
How He can be both loving and just.
Not one or the other. Both.
And if I’m honest, that frightens me.
It reminds me of Aslan, the line that says he is not a tame lion.
God is not controllable. Not someone I can reduce to what I am comfortable with.
And yet, I know He can be trusted.
That tension is not easy to live with.
Because trust, in this case, does not mean things will not hurt.
Wanting a Gentler God
There are moments when I find myself wanting a different version of God.
One who is gentle, loving, and kind — only that.
Not one who allows suffering.
Not one whose justice feels severe.
Not one whose wisdom leads me through places I would not choose.
I know the theology.
I know that I am safe from His wrath.
But safety, I am learning, does not mean ease.
This life does not offer full reprieve. Not yet.
Everything will be made beautiful — but not here, not fully, not now.
And that “not yet” is harder to live with than I expected.
When Hope Feels Distant
I often look for hope in the present.
Something tangible. Something I can feel.
Sometimes it’s there. Sometimes it isn’t.
And when it isn’t, I begin to wonder:
Is hope actually present if I cannot feel it?
Or have I mistaken emotional relief for something deeper?
Perhaps hope is quieter than I thought.
Perhaps it looks less like certainty, and more like continuing.
The Limits of Understanding
There are moments when I recognize the limits of my own mind.
How can a finite being fully comprehend eternity?
How can I expect to hold together everything that God is, when even Scripture itself presents Him in ways that stretch me?
There is a point where thinking no longer resolves the tension.
And I am left with a choice:
Keep trying to understand everything
Or learn to remain without resolution
Where I Find Myself Now
Lately, I find myself returning to one place.
Not to a system.
Not to an answer.
Not even to a fully formed theology.
But to a person.
Jesus.
If I cannot hold everything else together, I can at least look at Him.
The way He moves toward people.
The way He holds both truth and compassion.
The way He reveals God without reducing Him.
I now understand why Sarah Bessey repeatedly said in her Unexpected Series, “I’d always loved Jesus” — something I wrote about as well here.
I don’t understand everything.
But I find that I am drawn to Him, and I still want to know Him more and more.
And for now, that is where I rest.