I was walking with a dear friend when I admitted something I've been reluctant to put into words: I'm struggling with my spiritual practices.
This time last year, we were serving in ministry together, caring for women and sharing in the ordinary work of the church. So much has changed since then. We no longer attend the same church, and for all intents and purposes, we are no longer ministry partners.
But I would argue that our responsibility to one another hasn't changed. We are still members of the Body of Christ, still co-laborers in the Gospel, still called to encourage one another toward love and good works. Our fellowship was never meant to depend entirely on sharing a ministry calendar or a church building.
And so we walk. We talk about the things that are difficult, the things we don't understand, and the ways we are trying to remain faithful in circumstances neither of us anticipated.
For me, that meant admitting that I'm struggling.
Not with who God is. I know Him, and I know His character. Not with His goodness or His sovereignty. I remain confident in both.
I'm struggling with engaging in His Word and with His people.
There is a particular kind of grief that comes from watching Christians forget the dignity of those made in God's image. We can disagree, even strongly, without diminishing one another. Yet too often, the very people called to demonstrate the love of Christ seem willing to set it aside when faced with someone they believe has wronged them.
And I find myself grieving not only what I've experienced, but the distance between what Scripture calls the church to be and what we sometimes make of it.
The difficulty is that I cannot open Scripture without being reminded of that distance.
I read about the unity of the body, the call to bear with one another in love, the humility that ought to characterize those who belong to Christ. I know these truths. I believe them. I have spent years studying them, teaching them, and encouraging others to live in light of them.
And yet, lately, those same passages leave me undone.
I grieve what I've witnessed. I grieve what has been lost. And perhaps most difficult to admit, I recognize how that grief has begun to affect my willingness to trust others within the church.
I know that withdrawing isn't the answer. I know that belonging to Christ means belonging to His people, even when relationships are complicated and trust has been damaged. But knowing what is true and finding it easy to live accordingly are two very different things.
As we walked, my friend understood. She was navigating the very same struggles, and when I admitted how difficult it had become to engage in the practices I know are good and necessary, she asked a simple question.
"What do you do then?"
She shared how she continues trying to do what she knows is right, even when her heart isn't fully there. She chooses obedience, trusting that God is at work even when she doesn't feel particularly inclined toward the practice itself.
I told her she was doing better than I was.
Because some days, I struggle to even get that far.
But as I began explaining what my days actually look like, I realized that perhaps I hadn't been giving much thought to the ways I was still turning toward God.
I pray. Often. Sometimes several times throughout the day.
And these aren't particularly polished prayers.
I name people. I name circumstances. I bring Him my anger, my heartbreak, my confusion, and my disillusionment. I ask Him to help me understand what I may not be seeing. I ask Him to examine my own heart, to reveal where I may be wrong, where I need to repent, where I need to grow.
I ask for wisdom. I ask for guidance. I ask Him to be glorified in circumstances I would never have chosen, and I ask what my responsibility is in the middle of them.
I don't say this because prayer somehow replaces time in Scripture, corporate worship, or fellowship with the body of Christ. It doesn't. Those practices matter, and I know they matter. That is part of what makes this season so difficult.
Nor do I believe that obedience should depend on whether we feel like obeying. My friend was right to keep doing what she knows is good, even when it is difficult.
But I am learning to recognize the difference between obedience that comes from a struggling heart and the appearance of obedience that refuses to acknowledge the struggle at all.
God is not asking me to pretend.
The Psalms are a good example of this. Again and again, we encounter people who know the character of God and yet bring Him their questions, complaints, fears, and grief. Their prayers are not always composed or resolved. Sometimes they begin in anguish and end with questions still unanswered.
And yet, they are prayers directed toward God.
I'm also reminded of David's prayer in Psalm 139:23–24:
"Search me, O God, and know my heart! Try me and know my thoughts! And see if there be any grievous way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting!"
There is something both comforting and uncomfortable about that request.
It is one thing to ask God to address what is wrong around us. It is another to invite Him to reveal what may be wrong within us.
I cannot control how others conduct themselves. I cannot make people recognize the dignity of those they believe have wronged them. I cannot repair every relationship or resolve every circumstance that has contributed to this grief.
But I can ask God to search my own heart. I can ask Him to keep me from becoming what I am grieving. I can ask Him to help me love His people faithfully, even when loving them feels costly.
And I can continue taking the next step of obedience, however small or reluctant that step may feel.
I've spent considerable time thinking, studying, and writing about "Ordering Your Days," about the practices and rhythms that shape our attention and affections. I still believe deeply in their importance. And yet, here I am, struggling to engage in some of those very practices.
Sometimes grief interrupts our rhythms. Sometimes the very truths we treasure expose wounds we haven't quite figured out how to carry. Sometimes we find ourselves asking God to restore not only our circumstances, but our willingness to engage in the things we know are good.
I don't have a neat conclusion for this season. I'm still wrestling with what it means to participate fully in the life of the church when trusting others feels difficult. I'm still asking God to help me approach His Word without allowing my grief to overshadow the goodness of what He has revealed.
And I'm still praying.
As I think back on that walk, I realize there was something significant about two women who no longer belong to the same local church continuing to care for one another's souls.
We were honest about our struggles. We listened. We challenged one another. We reminded each other, perhaps without even intending to, of what it means to belong to Christ and to one another.
In a season when I have found myself grieving the life of the church, there we were, being it.
That doesn't resolve the grief. It doesn't remove the need for gathered worship or the difficult work of learning to trust again.
But it does remind me that God has not stopped working among His people.
And perhaps, for today, that is enough to encourage me to keep walking.
