Last weekend, my friends loaded my belongings into a couple of pickup trucks, a trailer, and backseats, and moved them roughly 500 feet away.

This move marked my third consecutive year of packing and unpacking, the fourth in the past five years. I recently counted up all the moves I’ve made in my adult life—and promptly forgot the number because it was too overwhelming! I’ve resisted many of these moves, but there are priceless lessons that God is teaching me through my nomadic adventures. These lessons go far deeper than skills in packing and unpacking.

Remember What Lasts

Every move I’ve made has also involved a trip to my local resale shop. I load my car with things that once felt impossible to live without—clothes, home decor, hobby supplies, books. Each time I unload the car, I remember something Matt Chandler once said: “The item you crave today is the stuff of tomorrow’s garage sale” (my paraphrase). I prove his point with every carload.

With each load, I have an opportunity to remember a place where moth and rust don’t destroy, thieves don’t break in and steal, and nothing is destined for the trash heap. I pause to consider what lasts and endures—the word of God and the souls of people—and I’m challenged to invest more of my time, energy, money, and affections in the eternal. Each move reminds me, “Not home yet.”

Wherever You Are, Be All There

In 1950, Jim Elliot, living in Illinois, but feeling a call to go to Ecuador, wrote in his diary: “Wherever you are, be all there. Live to the hilt every situation you believe to be the will of God.”

Moving continues to teach me to be all there, wherever I am. There have been places that have felt so temporary that I barely unpacked. I didn’t open my door to invite others in. I didn’t bother to get to know the neighbors. “I’m just passing through,” I thought.

But then I think about the eternal Son of God becoming man and coming to dwell on earth for a brief thirty-three years. I think about the One who had no place to lay his head, passing through a village, yet lingering to speak with a woman at the well. I think of the incarnational call that he’s given me—a call to dwell in this place and to be his ambassador here, regardless of the length of my stay. It causes me to embrace the significance of this place—to make it home, to invite others in, and to bake brownies for the neighbors.

Roots Run Deeper Than an Address

When I moved last year, I began to pray, “Lord, let me stay.” He answered that prayer in an unexpected way, letting me stay in the same apartment complex, but a new unit. My deeper prayer, though, was for stability. There again, he’s answered in unexpected ways.

In my mind, stability means not having to fill out a USPS change form again. It means that my people know where to send their Christmas cards each year. But the Lord has shown me that stability is about so much more than a consistent address.

It’s about being rooted in a place. It’s about belonging. It’s about being committed to a family, a church, a workplace, a community. It’s about staying. Maybe not at the same address, but staying in relationship. Staying when times are good and when times are bad, and being surrounded by people who have chosen to stay with me. When I consider stability through this lens, I see roots that run deep.

I Have a Dwelling Place

Each move reminds me of one core truth:

“The eternal God is your dwelling place, and underneath are the everlasting arms.”

Deuteronomy 33:27a

When I long for a place to call home, I’m reminded that I have a dwelling place that is secure and stable—it’s eternal. My challenge, if I’m honest, is to remember this on the days when I’m settled. On days like today when I look around at my comfortable home, I’m tempted to praise God for this gift without remembering the greater gift to which it points. He is my dwelling place. The eternal maker of heaven and earth is my refuge. I can run to him to find shelter and safety. I can turn to him when I long for the comforts of home. Home is a gift—a good gift—but the longing for home is a sweeter gift yet. That longing is fully met, not in a place, but a Person!

As I settle into my new home, I’ll continue to ask the Lord to let me stay. But I also pray that he’ll continue to remind me of these truths, seeing them as his good gifts in every one of my moves.

Ed Welch’s book, Side by Side, is a little book with a big message: you are both needy and needed. Welch is speaking of friendships within the community of the church and he encourages all believers to embrace both these realities.¹ Needy and needed—both are part of being human and being created for community.

I think of Welch’s line often: needy and needed. I work in a ministry role and my bent is that of an Enneagram Two—I find worth and significance in being helpful to others. So I embrace one side of Welch’s equation easily: you are needed. The other side, though? Well, that’s where limits come in.

You are needy.

Everything in me pushes against that reality. It’s the fence that I want to hurdle. But that fence, as we’ve seen, is the boundary line that is drawn for my flourishing. I have been designed to be needy. I was created to be dependent on God, but not only that—I was created to need other human beings. In Genesis 2:18, when God said, “It is not good that the man should be alone,” he was speaking not just of the goodness of marriage but of community. We have this limit drawn around us—it is not good for us to be alone. We need others.

Paul addresses the temptation to ignore our neediness when he speaks of the church as the body of Christ. He writes in 1 Corinthians 12:21: “The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I have no need of you,’ nor again the head to the feet, ‘I have no need of you.’” The body is made up of members that need one another. As I type these words, my body demonstrates their truth. It’s not just my fingers doing the work; isolated from the rest of my body, my fingers are limited and unable to produce these words. My entire body is working together.

There are times when we are confronted with the inescapable reality of our neediness. Our limits show up in sickness or injury, and we have no option but to rely on other people. We can humbly accept and receive the MealTrain, the rides to and from appointments, the financial gifts, and the prayers of others. Or we can resist by pridefully denying our limits. When we do, we miss the beauty of seeing the body function in health.

You are needed.

There are other times, though (more often, I’ve found) that our limits and needs are easier to overlook. Our time is limited, along with our capacity and ability to meet all the needs we see. We can justify pushing past our limits with the mantra, “I am needed,” but I’ve learned the hard way that these moments also prevent us from seeing a picture of the healthy body.

Aimee Joseph has written, “Every need is not a call.” In other words, you are neither able nor called to meet every need you see. To discern between a need and a calling requires dependence on God. It requires taking the needs of others and our limits to the Lord. We ask him to give us wisdom to discern where we are truly needed, and where he wants to use others. Make no mistake: those needs will be met in God’s providence, but he may not use the people, tools, or paths that you would choose.

You are needed and needy.

You are needed, friend. You are an indispensable member of the body of Christ. But you are also needy. You are a limited, finite human being created for dependence on God and for community within his body. May you rest in the pleasant places that fall within those two realities.

God is God and I am not. Could I say anything more elementary than that? It’s a simple statement, yet it contains two profound truths that I need to remember every day. God is God. I am not.

There are moments when my God-given limits are in the rear-view mirror. I’ve sped past them (or at least attempted to). I’ve cleared them like a hurdle, but the results are almost always the same. I’m left anxious, stressed, tired, and overworked.

These moments are usually born of forgetting the simple statement: God is God and I am not. We get it twisted, don’t we? I begin to act like I’m God—like I am the one who is all-knowing, all-powerful, ever-present, and unlimited by time. I begin to believe the lie that I am the one who holds all things together. God becomes small in this picture, virtually non-existent. I’ve fallen into what Romans 1:25 describes as the heart of our sinful condition: worshiping the creation (me) rather than the Creator (God).

These moments call me to repentance. In Colossians 3:6, Paul exhorts, “Therefore, as you received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk in him.” I received Jesus through repentance and faith, and I walk in him in repentance and faith. Day in and day out, I repeat this rhythm. I look down at my heart and repent of the sin I see there. I look up at the cross, remembering that I have been buried with Christ and raised to walk in newness of life (Rom. 6:4).

We recognize our need for repentance and faith, but my question is this: do we see clearly our sinful attempts to operate outside our limits? Too often, we are like Eve, falling into the temptation to “be like God” (Gen. 3:5). Jen Wilkin recounts Eve’s sin and its effects:

“So the finite reached to pluck the infinite from a low-hanging bough, and human history began its corrosive pattern of God-rivalry, pitting and eroding every peak and crevice of creation with the relentless repetitions of that first grasping, the long-armed reach of the human aspiring to the divine.”¹

Jen Wilkin, None Like Him:10 Ways God is Different from Us (and Why That’s a Good Thing)

There are daily, small moments that give evidence of the one I’m trusting. They clearly display when I’m attempting to hurdle the obstacles of my limits, forgetting that God is God and I am not. Consider these examples:

• Pulling an all-nighter or skipping meals in a self-sufficient attempt to do it all.

• Holding tightly to schedule and agenda from the belief that I am sovereign over all.

• Spending time in mindless laziness as if time itself were unlimited.

• Making snap judgments about other people, believing that I alone accurately see and understand.

Do I see moments like these as significant enough to call me to repentance and faith? As I repent of my misguided, sinful attempts to be like God, I am able to rest in who he is. He alone is self-sufficient, sovereign, eternal, and omniscient. I don’t need to be! Instead, I’m moved to faithful dependence on the One who alone is God. Repentance and faith are our paths through a broken relationship with our limits, back to the heart of God.

“For you are great and do wondrous things;

you alone are God.

Teach me your way, O LORD,

that I may walk in your truth;

unite my heart to fear your name.”

Psalm 86:11, emphasis added

March 2020 brought all of us face-to-face with limits. It doesn’t matter who you are; ask anyone to reflect on that spring and you’ll hear limits.

Our activity was limited. Our understanding was limited as talking heads gave ever-changing reports. Our pantries, toilet paper, finances, and social interaction were limited. Even our entertainment was limited—how many watched Tiger King out of desperation?!

We were all confronted with our mortality, as we questioned the deadliness of the virus. “Teach us to number our days,” the psalmist prays (Ps. 90:12). COVID-19 taught us to count.

In the midst of all the loss, confusion, and loneliness, a long-neglected biblical practice began to re-emerge. Slowly, the church began to talk of lament. Faced with an unprecedented experience, we turned to the ancient Psalms to learn to pray.

Several years later, many of us—forgetful people that we are—need to be reminded of lament. Limits offer us a daily opportunity to practice this discipline because lament isn’t just for suffering on a global scale. The invitation to experience the comfort of our Father’s presence is there even in our small moments of unrest.

Limits are often uncomfortable. It is sometimes painful for us to say, “The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places” (Ps. 16:6). Lament gives words to our pain. As we direct those words to the Lord in honesty, we remind our hearts of the character of God, and pray for faith to hold tightly to who he is. Lament leads us to faith—not a grit-your-teeth-and-believe-it faith, but a deep, settled trust in the goodness of God. In his book, Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy, Mark Vroegop writes,

“Lament is a prayer that leads us through personal sorrow and difficult questions into truth that anchors our soul.”

Mark Vroegop, Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy

Sorrow and difficult questions are often present in our limits. Lament invites us to speak with God about our everyday disappointments, like the flu bug that rolls in overnight and disrupts plans for a much-anticipated evening out. Lament also calls us to bring him the crippling grief of our limits—the unanswered prayers for a baby, marriage, or healing. By coming to the Lord with even the small, seemingly mundane limits, our hearts are trained to lament the earth-shattering pain.

How do we practice lament in the pain of our limits? Mark Vroegop suggests four movements to lament: “turn to God, bring your complaint, ask boldly, and choose to trust.”

Turn to God

This is the goodness of limits: they keep us near our Shepherd and dependent on him. That doesn’t diminish the pain, but it reminds us that we aren’t alone in it. So when you feel the sting of a limit, stop where you are and turn to your Shepherd.

“I cried aloud to the LORD,

and he answered me from his holy hill.”

Psalm 3:4

Bring Your Complaint

As you cry out to the Lord, give a name to the limit, its pain, and your emotions. I spoke recently with a friend who was beginning to read the Psalms for the first time. She was worried that she was reading them wrong because at times it sounded to her like the psalmist was complaining. Many of us have a similar response—to complain to the Lord feels off-limits. But that’s exactly what the psalmist models in lament. Lament doesn’t stop with complaining, but it also doesn’t stop short of it. Bring your complaint to the Lord with honesty. He knows your heart (Jer. 17:10), so you don’t need to fear shocking him with the depths of your pain or even your anger.

Boldly Ask

As you bring your complaint, boldly ask the Lord to move. Pray boldly for the desires that are beyond your control. Ask him to transform your heart through his Spirit. Ask him, as the old hymn goes, “for faith to trust him more.”

“Incline your ear to me;

rescue me speedily!

Be a rock of refuge for me,

a strong fortress to save me!”

Psalm 31:2

Choose to Trust

A dear friend once wrote, “Faith is not a feeling but a choice to take God at his word.” Our hearts move in this direction as we practice lament. We are changed as we turn to God, bring him our complaints, and boldly ask him to move. Mark Vroegop notes that throughout the Psalms of lament, there are turning points, where the psalmist says, “But….”

But I trust in you, O LORD;

I say, “You are my God.”

Psalm 31:14, emphasis added

Though our limits are painful and not what we would choose, yet we will praise him. We remember his character. We choose to remember that he is good, even when our limits feel burdensome.

Lament continually reorients our hearts. It shapes the way we see our limits. What feels restrictive, confining, or burdensome becomes the very thing that leads us nearer to the heart of God. That’s not to minimize the pain, but to illustrate the surpassing goodness of our God. He uses it all—the small disappointments and the heartbreaking grief—to draw us near, near enough to experience his comfort.

“But this I call to mind,

and therefore I have hope:

The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases;

his mercies never come to an end;

they are new every morning;

great is your faithfulness.”

Lamentations 3:21-23

There are plenty of things in life that claim to be unlimited. All-inclusive resorts, unlimited data plans, bottomless fries at Red Robin. Yet all the limitless options and plans that are a marketer’s delight will eventually reach an end. The buffet or bar at the resort will close for the night. You’ll sit at a stoplight in a dead zone, unable to refresh your Instagram feed. Heartbreakingly, you’ll see the bottom of the Red Robin fry basket.

These things must reach an end, because they’re created things—they’re finite.

So what do we have that is really, truly unlimited? The answer comes back to God, the uncreated One, the One who was before all things and in whom all things hold together (Col. 1:17). Anything that is truly unlimited is found in him, the only limitless One.

Unlimited Access

As believers, we have unlimited, free, unrestrained access to God our Father. It’s the truth of Hebrews 4:16: “Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.” We have this unlimited access and confidence to draw near because of the work of Jesus Christ. He is our great High Priest, the Son of God, tempted as we are yet without sin. (Heb. 4:15)

If we are in Christ, saved by his grace alone through faith alone, then we will never wear out our welcome with God the Father. He will never close the door on us. We have an open invitation to approach his throne, to draw near, and to dwell in his presence. And as the psalmist says,

“…in your presence there is fullness of joy;

at your right hand are pleasures forevermore”

Psalm 16:11

Not only is our access unlimited, but the Father we approach is limitless. As we come to him, we find in him everything that we need. This is the good news in our limits—they point us to our Creator, who is infinitely, exceedingly, abundantly generous! We see the full measure of his love for us on display in the gift of his Son, Jesus: “but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Rom. 5:8). Paul goes on to write, “He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things?” (Rom. 8:32).

Do you see the goodness of this unlimited access? Consider the worth of confidently approaching the Creator and Sustainer of the universe. How would it transform your days to remember, in your limitations, the attributes of the God to whom you have access?

When I Am Weak…

We can see a picture of this in 2 Corinthians 12:7-10, when Paul tells of his “thorn in the flesh.” We don’t know what Paul’s thorn was, but it’s clear that it weakened him, spiritually, physically, or both. We can relate to Paul; he was weak and dependent because of this thorn. Paul prayed that the thorn would be removed; I’ve prayed this prayer in my own life, asking the Lord to remove the limits or draw new boundary lines for me. Perhaps, like Paul, this is a prayer that you’ve prayed repeatedly. Our unlimited access to the Father means that we have the freedom to approach him often with these prayers.

But the Lord’s response to Paul wasn’t to remove the thorn. No, instead he responded, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Cor. 12:9). He had something far better for Paul than the removal of the thorn. He offered him grace. He didn’t remove the weakness, but he drew Paul near, strengthening him with his own power. Paul was able to rejoice in his weakness rather than resisting it, boldly claiming, “When I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Cor. 12:10).

Daily Reminders and Invitations

Our limits are a daily reminder of our need, our weakness, and our dependence. They remind us of what is always true—we are created beings. But as we remember that we are creatures, we also remember our Creator, who is infinitely different from us. Our limits are also a moment-by-moment invitation to come to our limitless Father. We boldly approach him because of the work of his Son, “from [whose] fullness we have all received, grace upon grace” (John 1:16). We drink deeply from the well of his grace. When we are physically weak and nearing our limit, we find strength in the One who never grows weary (Is. 40:28). When we need sleep, we entrust ourselves and those we love to the One who never slumbers or sleeps (Ps. 121:2-4). When we’re confused, perplexed, or at the end of our understanding, we ask for wisdom from the One who gives generously and without reproach (James 1:5).

When you feel the limits of your own ability, wisdom, time, capacity (or anything else that reveals you’re human), pause for a moment to consider the nature of God and the ways he is unlike you. Let your heart be moved to worship him! He is immortal, invisible, God only wise. He is transcendent and infinitely other, and yet he is Emmanuel, God with us. He beckons you to draw near, to find grace to help in your time of need. That invitation is truly unlimited!

I’ve become a broken record. The needle in every conversation is firmly stuck in the groove of limits. The more that I think about limits, the more I see them. I’m not sure if that thought is encouraging or discouraging—the answer varies daily.

My limits, though, aren’t the same as yours. That’s a simple truth, but an important one for us to embrace. I could avoid so much comparison and envy if I paused to remember that God, in his perfect wisdom and goodness, has drawn different boundary lines for you than for me. Mine aren’t good and yours aren’t bad, or vice versa. They are simply unique because you and I are unique.

So how do we discover our particular limits? How can we begin to notice the boundary lines that God has drawn? I want to put limits into tidy labeled boxes and channel my inner Home Edit with a color-coded strategy. But the beauty of limits has been found not in structure and organization, but as I’ve discovered them in conversation with my Creator, who knows my frame (Ps. 103:14).

Instead of categories, then, let me offer you some questions. They may feel scattered and random, but my hope is to give you examples to consider. These questions aren’t a checklist but prompts. Read them slowly (maybe more than once). If a question raises strong emotions, take note of them. As you read, try to identify 2-3 specific limits that apply to you today.

• In what areas do you feel stretched beyond comfort?

• What is being stretched? Your physical strength? Your capacity? Your time?

• To whom do you compare yourself?

• What are you comparing? Your ability? Your role or responsibility? Your relationships?

• What is unique about this season of your life? Do you idealize another season, whether past or future?

• Are you limited physically? Relationally? Financially?

• What makes you feel weak?

Maybe answering these questions leaves you feeling less-than. You’ve identified several limits and the walls feel like they’re closing in. You feel confined, small, and weak. You might be tempted to run away or look for affirmation that you are enough. But please stay here. Sit in the discomfort of naming your limits.

The limits that make me feel weakest are the instruments that God has used to draw me closer to him in dependence. In my weakness, again and again, his power is made perfect (2 Cor. 12:9). Like Paul, I can even boast in my weakness and limitations.

For example, I have a limited attention span. I struggle to write coherently in the evenings. I need good sleep, more hours than I usually allow myself. I’m an introvert who recharges in quiet, but I live alone and also need intentional time with friends. I am a student, which adds responsibility and limits my capacity for other commitments. I am single, which gives me a wider capacity relationally—yet not unlimited.

Some of these limits may seem trivial, but each of them causes me to need God. When I encounter these limits, there’s a moment of clarity when, by God’s grace, I see what has always been true. These limits are reminders that I am created, dependent, and needy. And as Nancy DeMoss Wolgemuth has said, “Anything that makes me need God is a blessing.”

Limits humble us. I have often thought of humility as my response to sin, but humility “begins with the knowledge that there is a good Creator Lord and we are the finite creatures he has made to live in fellowship with him.”² Limits remind me of my need, but they also point me to the One who meets my needs. They cause me to call to mind the Lord’s steadfast love and faithfulness (Lam. 3:21-23). They offer me the opportunity to walk by faith, in step with the Spirit, hemmed in, behind and before, with the Father’s hand upon me (Ps. 139:5).

So rather than running from your limits, begin by embracing them. Let them remind you of what’s true—you need God. And that is a good thing.

I am limited. I’ve always known that instinctively, but recently a new reality has begun to grip me: I am limited... by design.

I wake every morning to these limits:

• I have only twenty-four hours in my day.

• My body will require sleep again tonight.

• I don’t know what tomorrow (or even today) holds.

• I can’t be in two places at once.

• Perhaps most humbling—I simply can’t do it all.

These limits—marks of being human—often leave me feeling like a failure. To avoid that feeling, my impulse is to ignore my limits, acting as if they don’t exist. I’ll squeeze as much out of those twenty-four hours as I can, function on as little sleep as possible, and plan, manage, and control as much as is humanly possible.

But what if limits don’t simply define what I can’t do, but what I wasn’t designed to do?

When I ignore my limits, I run the risk of missing an important truth. Kelly Kapic, in his book, You’re Only Human, offers this simple reminder: “We are, by God’s good design, finite.” Finite is a word for us to recapture. It simply means, “having limits or bounds.” Its opposite is more familiar—infinite—which, in short, means limitless. This word can only rightly be applied to God. He is the only One who is limitless. We, on the other hand—human beings created by God—were designed with limits. We were made to need our Creator and Sustainer. In the beginning, God created limited human beings and he said that it was good.

Limits are still good. The way that we live within them has been broken and distorted by the fall, but limits are good and for our good. Psalm 16:6 paints a picture of the good design of limits:

“The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;

indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.”

Psalm 16:6

Pleasant Places

The boundary lines of my life—the limits that shape my world and my days—are a beautiful inheritance. They are God-given, his perfect, good gifts, designed for me. The psalmist describes his place within those limits as pleasant—I picture the green pastures and still waters of Psalm 23.

This may sound like an idealistic picture of limits. Yes, that’s the framed picture in the gallery, but on an ordinary Wednesday, a still-life portrait of limits includes an incomplete task list, an extra cup of coffee, and an endless number of open browser tabs. It looks far more like a finger painting than a Monet. The gap between the psalmist’s painting and my still-life portrait shows my broken relationship with limits. Gently, like a good Shepherd, the Lord has been leading me to examine that relationship and to reclaim my limits as pleasant places, boundary lines that he has drawn. Living within my limits means humbly remembering that he is God and I am not. He is infinite and I am finite. I am a needy, dependent creature, a truth that’s hard for me to admit.

My limits are good gifts because they keep me near my Creator.

Humbling as they are, limits offer an invitation to draw close to the One who created me. Yes, I am needy, but in my need, I have always experienced the provision of God. My limits point to all the ways he is limitless. He’s the eternal God, unlimited by time (Deut. 33:27). Unlike me, he never sleeps (Ps. 121:4) or grows weary (Is. 40:28). I can’t search the depths of his wisdom (Rom. 11:33). I can’t flee from his presence, no matter how far I run (Ps. 139:7). He is able to do more than I could ever imagine (Eph. 3:20).

Friend, your limits are the boundary lines designed to keep you near your good Shepherd. They are the fence around pleasant places—green pastures and still waters—where he leads you and is near you. In the weeks ahead, I’ll be sharing bits of my own story of learning to live within these boundary lines. I invite you to join me in discovering the joy of communion with our limitless God, not in spite of our limits, but by living within them.