When Jesus Slides Into the Shadows

I’m moving out of my apartment at the end of this month. Not just my apartment, but my city. My region. My state.

I wrote about my decision in last month’s newsletter (click here [or here] to subscribe to my monthly wanderings). So, I won’t repeat myself and re-explain my decision in this post. Will simply pontificate over what I’m feeling today.

I am hopeful.

I am confused and I am devastated and I am terrified.

And yes. I am also hopeful.

It’s hard to explain to myself, let alone an audience — this hope I feel. The last year of my life has blindsided me more than any other, and hope should feel distant. Hope should be a fleeting breeze. Hope should be a whisper.

Instead, hope is close and hope is loud. Hope is here. Here in my bones, here in this same Blue Ridge that’s ripped out my heart, over and over, for thirteen months.

I’m smiling and laughing more than I have in months. Honest smiles, hearty laughter. This coming from Mr. Sad.

Maybe I’m hysterical, not the funny kind, but I don’t think so.

The things I once found myself dependent upon, I depend upon no longer. Or, rather, I’m learning not to depend on them — not solely, not primarily. Not anymore.

On Christ alone I place my hope.

Not other humans.

Not my family.

Not my friends.

Not my brothers.

Not writing or even ministry.

But Christ alone.

It sounds super Christianey. It sounds super obvious. It sounds super easy.

Oh, friend. It is not. And if you claim it to be so, I guarantee thunder on your horizon.

You haven’t lived until you’ve seen Jesus disappear.

Putting one’s hope in Christ, truly staking all in him above all else, is actually a lifelong endeavor, I’m learning. I grew up in a Christian home and a Christian school and went to church every week, and you’d think this “Keep Jesus First” mantra would have stuck after all these years.

But then a pet dies.

And then money shrinks.

And then friends abandon you.

And then you abandon friends.

And then you embrace pornography and promiscuity.

And then a friend dies.

And then a family member dies.

Unexpectedly.

And then more lust.

And more death.

And more anxiety and doubt and calculated coping.

And more rot and ruin and brokenness.

And Jesus . . . well, before you even know it, Jesus slid into the shadows long ago. You thought he was still there. Like he’s always been. Like he always will be . . . right?

But if we don’t intentionally keep Jesus atop our bookshelf . . . I think the Father is willing to let us turn other pages. To let us wander without for a bit. To learn about life without him.

To ache with return for him.

I realize now that I’ve let Jesus slide into the shadows since my #RunningTo road trip started five years ago. Since I made it my life ambition to find home, a return to Eden.

I thought I found it in Charlotte.

And then I thought I found it in Asheville.

And now I’m realizing my life’s ambition is not about rediscovering home. What a fool’s errand.

I could live alone in Iowa and have Jesus and be filled with extraordinary hope.

I could work at 7-Eleven and have Jesus and be filled with extraordinary hope.

I could sell zero more books and have Jesus and be filled with extraordinary hope.

And I could also find community, build readership — but, above all, have Jesus. And be filled with extraordinary hope.

I never lost Jesus over the last five years. But I did misplace him. And now that I’m putting him back on the top bookshelf . . .

Well, yeah. I’m smiling.