Recently, a dear friend spent the week with me, house-hunting as she and her kids prepare to move to the area. I spent several days driving around town with her and showing her all the sights. Acting as her tour guide stirred a deep affection for the place I’ve called home for the past twenty-five years.

Nostalgia was a key ingredient in those stirred affections. I found myself writing an ode to the frozen custard shop that was once the gathering place on Main Street (back before they paved paradise and put up a parking garage). I took a stroll down memory lane with my description of hot summer evenings, roll-up garage doors, noisy rotating fans, and minty-green grasshopper sundaes.

But nostalgia wasn’t the only emotion I felt. The affection wasn’t just rooted in the past, but in the present. As I drove down familiar roads and introduced my friend to the places where I live my life, I felt a settled sense of belonging. This is my town. I belong to this place, and it belongs to me.

These reflections on place and belonging aren’t new; for months, the topic has held my attention. My journal is full of “threads,” loosely related to the idea of place. Some are only snips, like the print in my living room that reads, “This place right here,” or the song lyric, “I want to be where my feet are.” Some threads, though, are slowly unspooling, untangling in my mind.

Loose Threads is a place to jot down some of those ideas, to untangle them aloud and listen for the connective threads. These aren’t complete thoughts; often they’re little more than a quote that resonates. If there’s a pattern woven into these threads, it hasn’t yet appeared. But I believe there’s value in writing down these incomplete thoughts and saying them aloud. I know that process is valuable for me, and I pray it serves you, too.

1st Loose Thread: This Is My Land

Joshua 15 is a turning point in the book of Joshua — it begins to recount the land allotments for each of the tribes of Israel. On the surface, it’s a dry, repetitive read: “And the boundary goes up to the top of the mountain that lies over against the Valley of Hinnom, on the west, at the northern end of the Valley of Rephaim. Then the boundary extends from the top of the mountain to the spring of the waters of Nephtoah, and from there to the cities of Mount Ephron.” That’s just a sample; sixty-three verses are given to Judah’s allotment alone.

The description falls flat to our ears, but imagine you’re a Hebrew woman from the tribe of Judah, hearing those same words. Imagine the Valley of Rephaim as the plains that lie just beyond the door of your house. What if the waters of Nephtoah were the cold, fresh springs you splashed in as a child? Picture Mount Ephron as your mother’s hometown, or the place your grandparents were buried. Suddenly, the land allotments aren’t so dull.

When I put myself in the shoes of that Hebrew woman, my whole perspective changes. This is not an abstract piece of land; this is my land. This is the inheritance that the LORD God of Israel has given to me and my family. The land allotments are a map, rich in detail, of the place of my belonging.

2nd Loose Thread: Choosing a Place

Bookish descriptions are a nerdy pleasure: a character-driven plot, a coming-of-age story, or an epistolary novel. 🤓 As a book nerd, I gravitate toward books that “evoke a strong sense of place.” Two novels from my recent reading stand out as representatives: Tom Lake by Ann Patchett and Time of the Child by Niall Williams. Their settings couldn’t be more different; one takes place in Michigan in summer and the other in Ireland during Christmastide. But both authors transport you to their respective places; I could almost taste fresh cherries while reading Tom Lake, while Williams’ setting made me shiver.

The sense of place was communicated not just in descriptions, but through the characters themselves. The fleeting thoughts of two supporting characters reflected a settled sense of belonging:

• In Tom Lake: “Benny hadn’t missed the fact that other lives were available to him; it was just that the choice he liked best was the one that sprang to life beneath the tires of his bike.”

• In Time of the Child: “Although… like all small places it was confining, Ronnie had come to the understanding that for her it was also freeing and she never wanted to leave it. This was home. More, with a conviction she knew could not be explained, she felt it was where she was supposed to be.”

These characters didn’t just receive a place, but they chose that place. The place they received was the choice they liked best, the place they never wanted to leave.

3rd Loose Thread: A Settled Sense of Belonging

There’s a danger of romanticizing a place, and I’m an easy target. (My ode to the custard shop is a case in point.) Life isn’t a novel, and places aren’t always idyllic. Once-peaceful places can be disrupted. Summer among the Michigan cherry trees gives way to a bitter Midwest winter.

Not only do places change, but we change places. We leave behind what’s familiar and dear for the unknown and new. We may greet the new place with eagerness or trepidation, joy or grief.

Despite the changing nature of place, and even with the risk of rose-colored glasses, I believe in the goodness of our places. You and I each live within a story that “evokes a strong sense of place.” Like the Hebrew woman in the land of Canaan, like Benny in Michigan, and like Ronnie in Ireland, our places have been written into our stories.

Acts 17 tells us that the Lord of heaven and earth has determined allotted periods and the boundaries of the dwelling place of everyone that lives on the face of the earth. Just as he sketched the boundary lines around Judah’s inheritance — around every hill and stream and valley — he has determined the boundary lines of our dwelling places. The God who made the earth and everything in it has determined the place for each created being.

This means that the place you live is not coincidental. Your neighborhood, your workplace, your school, your church, your grocery store, your local park — all of it is written into your story by the divine Author, for your good. But that alone is too small a thing for this Author! Even more, you and your place are woven into the story of all time — a story that displays the glory of the One writing it, a story that culminates in a place where he himself dwells with his people.

The hope of that culmination is what causes me to fight for a settled sense of belonging. Any belonging that I feel today, in this beloved place that I’ve called home for twenty-five years, is only a foretaste of a better belonging. I want to savor it here and whet my appetite for what is to come — when the dwelling place of God is with man. The settled sense of belonging in that place will be complete, secure, and eternal!

Allow me to pull back the curtain for just a moment — we’re all friends here. Quite literally. You, the people who will read this, are men and women I see in the halls at church. You’re longtime friends who have known me for twenty, even thirty-plus years. You’re my loved ones — my mom, my dad, my sister.

So, with the audience defined, I want to share a little of my writing journey. Some of you have been on my email list since the spring of 2023, when I took a class on “Writing and Publishing for Ministry” with the late Dr. Adrianne Miles. You have my sincere thanks for your support and your patience with me! I’ve had a pattern over the past few years of writing one email (two, tops), then going radio-silent for six months or more. It’s easy to blame those gaps on schedule or workload, but the real culprit is perfectionism and its old pal, procrastination.

A friend has been encouraging me for some time now to push past the need to finely tune my words and to start writing. Write for the people you know, she said. Write for those you know and love — they’ll give you a safe place to think out loud and untangle your thoughts.

I’ve had a desire to write for as long as I can remember, even going back to my childhood. (I used to do “book tour interviews” in the shower, but that’s normal, right? Don’t answer that, please.) I believe that the Lord has given me gifts as a writer, and that those gifts are intended for the building up of his body, the church. I want to exercise those gifts and grow and develop as a writer. That requires . . . writing. Hence, my friend’s wise advice: start writing.

So that brings us here. Actually, it brings us to two weeks ago, when I last wrote in this space. I made a commitment to myself at that time: to write and publish every two weeks. I didn’t announce it with any fanfare, because let’s be honest — my track record of holding to any kind of writing commitment isn’t great. But I did tell one or two friends, and those faithful friends have checked in. One of them texted me two days ago:

(Side note: friends like this are one of the Lord’s kindest gifts!)

So now . . . that brings us here. Two weeks after my last post, here I am. And to be honest (once again), this is not what I intended to write. I planned to write about my current study in the book of Joshua, the promise of victorious rest, the triumph of King Jesus, and the rest he secures for his people. I may still write that. I’m tucking it in my “ideas” folder for now.

But as I sat down to write, I heard my friend’s words once again: write for those you know and love. So, remembering the faithfulness of those friends who have held me accountable, I’m doing something that feels incredibly risky: I’m opening myself up to greater accountability.

I’m committing to you — the friends and family who have my phone number, could knock on my door, will see me in the halls on Sunday — not just to start writing, but to keep writing. I don’t have a content calendar or a fully-stocked folder of drafts ready to post, but I’m committing to show up here again in two weeks.

If I’m honest (and why stop now?!) I want to delete this even as I’m writing it. That’s not because I fear the commitment, but because I find myself wondering, who cares?? But so many of you have told me that you care about what I have to say. You’ve shared with me ways that the Lord has used my weak, imperfect words to encourage and strengthen you. You have given me the confidence to say, “The Lord has given me gifts as a writer.” You’ve affirmed that in me, and you’ve encouraged me to use those gifts. So I’m committing to you that I’ll do just that.

I promise not every post will be quite as raw, unfiltered, and off-the-rails as this one. You can expect to find regular reflections on the resistance of living a peaceful and quiet life to the glory of God. Lord willing, those reflections will be more finely tuned than this morning’s, but I can promise you they won’t be perfect. I’m okay with that, though. Or at least, I’m learning to be okay with that — learning as I simply start writing.

P.S. I wrote the post above in another app, then opened Substack to copy and paste. Here’s what I saw on the default home screen for Substack’s editor:

😂 Message received.

Yet, I boarded a plane and flew halfway around the world. In the process, I learned a lesson you’d think I’d have mastered by now: my definition of perfect timing is rarely the same as that of my loving Father.

Disconnected from my everyday life and all its noisy distractions, I heard the voice of the Savior whispering, “Come away with me to a quiet place and rest.” Those ten days in Southeast Asia became a quiet place to rest and be refreshed. My roommate snapped a picture of me on one of the early mornings, which will linger in my memory as a reminder of the nearness of God’s presence, there in that quiet place.

The Invitation

The whisper I heard during that time away is an invitation Jesus offered to the twelve disciples. In Mark 6, Jesus sent the twelve out to minister in his name, and Mark records their return:

“The apostles gathered around Jesus and reported to him all they had done and taught. Then, because so many people were coming and going that they did not even have a chance to eat, he said to them, ‘Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.’” (Mark 6:30-31, NIV)

Jesus invites his disciples, still walking on air after the triumph of ministry in his name, to come away to a quiet place (literally a desolate or remote place). His invitation is about more than a destination or a retreat. It’s an invitation to find rest with Him. It’s reminiscent of the call in Matthew 11:28: “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

It’s not about a place

We’re so prone to making rest about finding a quiet place. I mean “place” broadly — a location in space or a moment in time. We picture escapes or getaways, and they don’t even have to be beach vacations. A mom who hides in her closet from the unending cry of “Mommy!” seeks a quiet place, and so does the executive assistant who leaves her phone on the desk to escape the ping of notifications (not autobiographical, at all!)

We also idealize places in time, carefully crafting an environment that’s perfectly suited for rest. We go analog, ditching the Apple Watch, social media, and notifications. We clear our calendars, saying “no” to all the excess. We plan time off, mark it on our calendars, and look forward with anticipation — “Then I’ll rest.”

If rest is dependent on place, though — if it’s all about the ideal environment — it’s inevitably fragile. I was reminded of that this week when I sat down in the rocking chair on my patio (one of my personal quiet places) for five minutes of quiet, only to have music begin blasting from the nearby pool seconds later.

The rest Jesus offers isn’t fragile because it’s not about a place. It isn’t dependent on circumstances or limited to a season. It is a rest that remains — an eternal rest (Hebrews 4). It is the rest that we will enjoy for all eternity, when God himself dwells with his people. And a foretaste of that rest is available now, as Jesus invites us, “Come away with me.”

It’s not about a program

If rest isn’t about a place, neither is it about a program — at least not my program.

Upon returning from Southeast Asia, I sat down with a trusted friend and mentor, sharing with her the invitation that lingered in my mind. “I fear the quiet place,” I told her; “I fear what the Lord might show me there, or what he might ask of me. But what if that’s the point? What if this is all about me surrendering?”

I expected my friend to help me dig beneath the surface of my fears with heart-revealing questions. But instead, she surprised me by leaning back in her chair instead of leaning in. She smiled and said, “Isn’t it funny how often we bring our agendas, even when the Lord invites us to rest?”

I find myself doing the same thing when reading Mark 6. Why does Jesus call his disciples away to a quiet place? What does he have to teach them? What lessons or revelations awaited them in that quiet place? But Mark doesn’t record the program for the disciples’ retreat with Jesus, much to my dismay.

Another friend summed it up well: even in our rest, we have to be productive.

But when I create a program for my retreat to the quiet place, bringing an agenda and a three-step process for learning the lessons involved, it becomes all about me. I’ve forgotten the Person giving the invitation: “Come away with me.”

Are there lessons to be learned in the quiet place? Will my Savior reveal depths of his character and call me to respond? Most definitely. After all, nothing is wasted or purposeless with him. But his thoughts are not my thoughts, neither are his ways my ways (Isaiah 55:8). His program is infinitely better than mine.

It’s about the presence of the Good Shepherd

The invitation, “Come away with me to a quiet place,” is not about a place or a program, but finding rest in the presence of Jesus. This is an invitation to delight in his nearness. It’s an invitation to experience the fullness of joy (Psalm 16:11) that is found in him and him alone.

It’s an invitation to delight in the presence of the Good Shepherd, as he makes me lie down in green pastures and leads me beside still waters (Psalm 23:2). That sounds like an idyllic quiet place but the presence of the Good Shepherd is no less real if I walk through the valley of the shadow of death (Psalm 23:4). The rest that is found in the presence of Jesus, our Good Shepherd, isn’t limited to green pastures.

As we come away with him, he shows us where true rest is found. He reveals the lesser things to which we turn for rest. Our idealized pictures of quiet places show their cracks, and our programs pale in comparison to this one aim:

One thing have I asked of the LORD,

that will I seek after:

that I may dwell in the house of the LORD

all the days of my life,

to gaze upon the beauty of the LORD

and to inquire in his temple. (Psalm 27:4)

I don’t have a neat bow to tie on this reflection, because I’m writing in real time. These are not the words of one who has returned from the quiet place, transformed. No, I’m a traveler on the journey along with you — a journey toward our eternal rest, enjoying the presence of our Good Shepherd along the way. This new space on Substack is dedicated to cultivating a quiet life to the glory of God, and that begins with simply enjoying his presence!

Simple Pleasures

Simple pleasures, enjoyed in the quiet place.

Enjoying: Long walks, followed by a few minutes of cool-down in the rocking chair on my porch

Listening: “Be Still, My Soul” by Paul Zach, Jessica Fox, and iAmSon

Reading: Gilead by Marilynne Robinson

Watching: “The Year the Earth Changed” on Apple TV

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.