God’s led me on a long road — maybe eight or ten years now. The first few miles were shadowed by so much doubt, disruption, and mistrust. I didn’t set out to “deconstruct” — things just weren’t sitting right, and I leaned in.
The big question — “what if they’re wrong?” — posed at the entire church, our history. It became an invitation. It led me through dark places, where I felt like a spiritual orphan. And yet, even there, God was with me. Gentle. Patient. Speaking through memory of our journey together.
What I came back to wasn’t a list of answers, but a few truths I could hold tightly too:
▀ Yahweh — My tender Father. ▀ The Holy Spirit, near and persistent. ▀ Jesus Christ, whose death and resurrection mysteriously changed everything for me. ▀ And the communion of the Trinity — this love I’ve been invited into.
Everything else? I hold it loosely.
I no longer feel the need to build or defend a systematic theology.
I have let go of the fear of unorthodoxy.
Evangelical isn’t the right word anymore. Born-again doesn’t quite fit either — even if both are true at some level. I’ve stopped needing to define it all. But if I were to describe myself now, I’d say this:
I’m some kind of Christian. A contemplative. A mystic. Maybe you are too. Or maybe you want to be.
I’m learning to believe that God is always speaking — but His voice is quiet, and the world is loud. Contemplation invites a slow, prayerful life — one that resists urgency and performance. It teaches me to make space. To listen. To wait.
For me, that sometimes looks like silence. Solitude. Letting the Scriptures just be what they are — soaking in Word and presence. It’s asking questions without rushing toward answers. It’s practicing a way of living that’s slow enough to notice, to hear, to delight.
At least, I’ve come to recognize a holy ache in me — a longing that doesn’t go away. A hunger for more of God, beyond what can be measured or explained. Not secret knowledge, not strange experiences — but presence. Communion. Love.
There have been moments — not every day, not every season — where I’ve known God in ways I can’t put into words. Through tears. In the woods. In a whisper so personal it makes me catch my breath.
Spirit keeps drawing me into something rooted in experience and mystery, not just belief. It’s not linear. It’s definitely not transactional. But it’s real.
If your heart has been restless — if you’ve found yourself quietly asking, “Is there more?” — I just want to say: yes. Yes, there is more.
You are not alone. Asking that question, maybe even walking away from those safe traditions, doesn’t make you broken. It may be the voice of God Himself, calling you further in. Further up. Into a life that’s wild with love and full of wonder. 🌿