Linthicum Heights United Methodist Church

What guitar, discipleship, and the decline of the church have in common.

Introduction:

I’ve played guitar most of my life, and over the years, I’ve had the chance to play with some truly talented musicians. Looking back, I can honestly say that I’m not only a better guitarist today, but I’ve also grown more as a musician because of them.

Here’s what I mean. Being a guitarist involves knowing chords, hitting the right notes, and keeping time. But being a musician is more about living the music: expressing yourself, listening, and playing in a way that connects with others. And I didn’t learn that just by practicing alone.

Of course, hours of practice matter. But what truly shaped me was playing alongside people whose skill, creativity, and passion pushed me farther than I could have gone alone.

In those moments — whether on a stage, in a living room, or during a late-night jam session — I learned more than any lesson book could teach. I noticed how someone’s fingers moved across the strings, how they listened for the groove, and how they poured themselves into the music.

That’s the gift of playing with others. You don’t just hear the notes—you experience what it means to live the music.

And faith works in a similar way. It’s not something we learn from afar or memorize from a page. It’s something we experience through the people who walk beside us.

Why Relationships Matter for Growth

Reflect on the experiences in life that truly influenced you. Whether it was learning a trade, starting a career, or figuring out how to be a parent, the most lasting lessons likely didn’t come from a manual or a lecture. Instead, they came from someone who walked with you — showing you, modeling for you, and sometimes even correcting you. Your experiences have shaped who you are.

Faith is similar in that way. At its heart, it’s about relationships. From the start, Jesus didn’t just give a list of rules. He invited people to walk with him, eat with him, watch him heal, forgive, and serve. His words were important, but even more important was his presence. People didn’t just hear about love, they experienced it through his actions, and then they showed it themselves.

That’s why, in Matthew’s Gospel, the final words Jesus gives aren’t about building classrooms or developing a curriculum. He says: “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations… teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always.” Notice the movement here, it’s about going with people, sharing life, and carrying presence. It’s about inviting others to encounter Jesus through you.

Discipleship — whether in the first century or today — has never been just about passing along information. It’s about lives shaping lives, where love, courage, and hope are as much embodied as they are taught.

Asking the Hard Question: Why the Decline?

So, if church growth really happens when others encounter Jesus through us in relationships, then it forces us to ask a tough question: What does that say about the decline of the church?

For others to encounter Jesus through us, relationships are crucial. To clarify, many churches already have these connections. People care for each other, share meals, pray together, and support one another in times of need. That’s authentic community, and it matters deeply. These relationships help keep the church alive.

But here’s where it gets complicated. Too often, we wait for someone new to show up on a Sunday morning before we consider making space. Then we quietly assess whether they “fit in” or are “like us” enough before we risk bringing them into the circle. Inside the walls, we may be relational. But outside, we’re often passive.

And when it comes to reaching beyond those circles, the church often replaces connection with information. We dedicate energy to sermons, studies, invitations, and social media posts — without engaging in the slow, vulnerable process of building genuine relationships with neighbors, coworkers, or even strangers. We assume that if people just hear the right words, they’ll join in. Or worse, we leave that work to the “experts” — the pastors, the leaders, the extroverts — rather than recognizing it as the calling of us all.

Maybe the question isn’t just, ‘Why is the church declining?‘ Maybe it’s, ‘Why aren’t we willing to risk relationships outside our comfort zones, where faith is not only shared but stretched?’

Why Building Relationships Is Hard Today

If the decline of the church is largely about relationships, then we need to honestly assess why forming them is so difficult in today’s world, especially outside the walls of our congregations.

Part of the challenge is how fast life moves. Most of us feel stretched thin, running from one obligation to the next. Relationships that challenge us or pull us into new areas require time, and time seems like the one thing we don’t have.

Another obstacle is our comfort zones. It’s natural to stick close to people who share our values or experiences. However, doing so causes us to miss the growth that comes from listening to someone else’s story or seeing the world from a perspective that challenges our own.

There’s also the fear of being vulnerable. Real connection requires honesty about who we are, what we struggle with, and where we fall short. That can be intimidating. It feels safer to stay polite, keep relationships shallow, and avoid the risk of being misunderstood or rejected.

All of these barriers stem from a deeper issue: our culture’s consumer mindset. We’ve been conditioned to expect quick results and easy wins. However, relationships don’t work that way. They can’t be rushed, packaged, or checked off a list. They develop slowly, through small choices repeated over time. Building relationships requires patience, courage, and intention. When the church opts for presence over convenience, it offers something rare: a community where people are truly seen, known, and loved. 

What This Means for the Church

If decline is more connected to relationships than to information, then the future of the church won’t be secured through better marketing, polished programs, or even more powerful preaching. These can help, but they alone are not enough. What the world longs for — and what Jesus pointed us toward — is encountering him in the presence of one another.

The early church grew not because it had the most impressive buildings or the best organizational strategy, but because people truly lived in community. They broke bread together. They shared what they had. They prayed for one another. Their lives were so connected that faith was experienced as much as it was spoken. That kind of connection is what made the gospel compelling.

The same remains true today. When the church is at its best, it isn’t just a provider of religious services or spiritual content. It’s a community where people sincerely walk alongside each other. Where someone notices when you’re missing. Where meals are shared, names are remembered, stories are honored, and questions are welcomed. It’s a community where you encounter Jesus through others.

And it can’t end at the church door. The church’s witness depends on whether our relationships extend outward — across differences of age, race, background, and belief. The most powerful sermon isn’t always delivered from the pulpit; it’s often demonstrated when someone simply shows up, again and again, with patience and love.

If decline is rooted in relational gaps, then renewal will come through relational courage. And that’s something every person in the church can practice.

Conclusion

If faith is experienced more than it’s taught, then the question isn’t only about the church as a whole — it’s about us. Who is walking with you right now? And just as important, who are you walking with?

Maybe there’s someone in your life who already encourages you, listens to you, or challenges you to grow. Hold on to that gift. Relationships like that are rare, and they influence us more than we realize.

But also consider: is there someone outside your usual circle who might need you to walk with them? It could be a neighbor you don’t know well, a coworker carrying more than they let on, or even someone in your congregation you’ve never truly spoken to. Reaching out might feel awkward. It might push your comfort zone. But those are often the very places where faith comes alive.

This is what discipleship looks like — not just learning about Jesus, but living in ways that make his presence tangible through us. It’s slow, ordinary, and sometimes costly. But it’s also where the gospel gets real.

So maybe the better question isn’t, “Why is the church declining?” but, “Who am I willing to walk with?” Because when we risk relationship, faith multiplies.

Some lessons make us smarter. Others make us more human.

Introduction

It’s that time of year again — new backpacks, sharpened pencils, families taking first-day-of-school photos, and teachers preparing their classrooms. Learning is on everyone’s mind, and it should be. Learning matters.

What we learn broadens our minds and pushes us, while love gently transforms us. So, if learning opens the mind to new possibilities, love opens our hearts to others. And in a world that desperately needs both wisdom and compassion, maybe we can’t afford to separate them anymore.

What if the most profound kind of learning isn’t just about opening our minds, but also about opening our hearts?

Learning as a Metaphor for Transformation

When I think about learning, I can’t point to just one teacher, mentor, class, or person who changed everything. It’s been a collection of voices and moments, in classrooms and far beyond, that shaped me into who I am.

There were the math teachers who encouraged me when I wanted to give up. There were reading teachers who opened my world to books and stories. And then there were the teachers, mentors, and others who taught me how to think—who planted the seeds of being a lifelong learner, always curious and always growing.

Learning guides us from certainty to curiosity, from believing we already know to recognizing how much more there is to discover. That shift, sometimes uncomfortable, sometimes exhilarating, helps us see the world with clearer vision and greater humility.

Yet, learning alone isn’t enough to transform us. We can know the definition of kindness without ever practicing it. We can study justice without ever standing up for someone who’s been wronged. We can even read the most memorable love stories without truly learning to love.

That’s where the heart plays a role, and where love becomes our most valuable teacher.

Love as the Deepest Teacher

Reflect on the first time you fell in love or when a friend showed up for you during your darkest moments. Those experiences didn’t just teach you new things — they changed you. They expanded who you cared about. They pulled you out of a closed heart and into something more open, more vulnerable, and more alive.

Love has a way of transforming us from within. It doesn’t just show us what is right; it gives us the courage and compassion to live it.

And maybe that’s the point: It’s a way of life you grow into. Each relationship, each act of care, each step toward compassion pushes us a little further. Love shapes us into people whose lives have more room for others. And that is the kind of transformation that lasts, not just in knowledge gained, but in love lived.

An Open Mind Without an Open Heart

Of course, it’s possible to be highly knowledgeable and still be unkind. We see this all the time: people with advanced degrees who treat others disrespectfully, leaders who believe they know the right policies but ignore the people those policies affect. Even in everyday life — on social media, in workplaces, in families — we can be quick to argue a point but slow to show compassion.

Having an open mind doesn’t guarantee an open heart. In fact, sometimes the opposite is true: the more we “know,” the more we may use that knowledge as a weapon instead of a gift. Even the Bible has been used this way — quoted to prove a point rather than to embody love. We can take pride in being right and, in the process, forget what it truly means to be kind.

That’s why love is so vital. Knowledge without love can make us clever but cold. But when learning and love go hand in hand — when the mind and heart remain open — wisdom grows. Wisdom is never just about being right; it aims for the truth with humility and lives it out with kindness.

The most meaningful learning — the kind that makes us more human — happens when both our minds and hearts are open. And maybe that matters more than ever today, in a world where open minds and open hearts often feel scarce. All the more reason to remember: learning and love go hand in hand.

Love That Broadens the Circle

The most powerful aspect of love is how it draws us out of ourselves. If left unchecked, a closed heart turns inward, protecting itself by withholding and shrinking the circle of those who matter. But when love opens the heart, that circle expands. We begin to care not only for those closest to us but also for those we once overlooked — or even resisted.

Think about times when you’ve gone out of your way for someone: staying up late to comfort a friend, sacrificing time or money to help, or having an important, difficult conversation. In those moments, love opens your heart. It makes you more generous, more connected, and more human.

For many, that’s how faith is experienced. Yet even beyond faith language, most of us have felt it: those moments when love calls us to grow in unexpected ways, when it breaks through our self-protection and draws us into deeper connection.

Love is what opens a closed heart. When it partners with learning, it becomes the teacher that makes us not just smarter, but more human.

Practicing Open Minds & Open Hearts

So, what is it like to live with both an open mind and an open heart?

Most of us won’t change the world overnight, but we can begin by practicing open-mindedness and kindness in simple ways.

These are daily practices. Over time, they weaken the hold of a narrow mind and a closed heart. They help us live with wisdom, not just knowledge — compassion, not just correctness.

Learning and love are intertwined paths. They are two sides of the same journey: understanding more clearly and loving more profoundly.

Conclusion

Learning opens the mind; love opens the heart. Together, they make us more human.

As this new school year begins, it’s a good reminder that learning is one of the ways we grow into more complete, wiser human beings. It broadens our perspective, challenges our assumptions, and keeps us growing long after we leave school. But it’s not the only way we grow; love is its lifelong companion.

What might need to open inside you right now? Your mind to a new idea? Your heart to someone you’ve resisted? Or maybe both — because the truth is, they belong together.

The deepest kind of learning isn’t just about what we know. It’s about how we love. And that’s the most important back-to-school reminder of all.

Because the greatest difference is made over time.

How often do we assume we’ve done enough just because we sent a quick text, dropped something off, or sent money?

Most of us like to see ourselves as helpful people. If a neighbor needs to borrow a ladder, we lend it. If a coworker’s having a tough day, we bring them a coffee. If there’s a fundraiser, we contribute a few dollars. These small acts matter. They can brighten someone’s day and lighten a burden in a moment.

But there’s something about quick fixes—meeting an immediate need—that’s both comforting and misleading. It feels good because it’s tangible. We can check it off a list and move on, satisfied that we’ve done our part. It is clean, contained, and easy to handle. The problem is, life’s toughest moments aren’t solved in one afternoon. Grief doesn’t have an expiration date. Financial struggles don’t vanish after a single payment. Loneliness doesn’t go away just because someone stopped by once.

Meeting an immediate need can sometimes be essential. However, on its own, it rarely builds the trust, understanding, or shared experiences that truly change lives. It’s like watering a plant once and expecting it to thrive. Without ongoing care, the need reappears. And without someone dedicated to staying, the relief fades as quickly as it arrives.

This is where charity usually enters the conversation. At its best, charity is an act of compassion: a hot meal, a bag of groceries, a ride across town, a donation. Sometimes those gifts are lifesaving. And sometimes they’re exactly what’s needed. But if we stop at charity, we risk mistaking temporary relief for change. Charity often works like a one-way street: it moves from the giver to the receiver, and then it’s over. The need is met for the day, but little else changes.

The power of presence is different. Staying means, “I want to know your name. I want to understand your story. I’ll walk this road with you, not just drop something off at the curb.” Over time, this kind of presence begins to form a relationship. It trades efficiency for trust, control for vulnerability, and quick fixes for something that endures.

This doesn’t only apply to our friends or neighbors. The same is true with those we marginalize—the hungry, the unhoused, the incarcerated, and the oppressed. Charity can help for a day, but only a relationship—rooted in staying—can challenge systems, restore dignity, and spark real change.

Think about it like this:

Charity acts from a distance. Being present means drawing closer. And when we draw closer, we risk being changed ourselves. We might see realities we’d rather avoid. We might see things we can’t fix. But we also uncover something deeper—mutual respect and a shared humanity.

Presence is showing up again—checking in weeks or even months after the crisis has passed. It’s letting someone know they haven’t been forgotten, because relationships are built on consistency.

That kind of consistency doesn’t usually shout; it speaks softly through small, steady choices: You matter. I see you. I’m still here. Trust grows in those ordinary moments, and trust doesn’t just open doors for conversation but also creates a space for healing. For someone going through a tough time, presence can show that their worth isn’t tied to a transaction.

Presence is slow work. Sometimes it can feel awkward, like nothing is changing. But the effect shows up quietly, over time—like a seed breaking through the ground after a long winter.

It might look like listening without rushing to fix, remembering the small details that show you’ve been paying attention, or following up after everyone else has left—because that’s how presence gradually turns into relationship.

At its core, staying is both practical and deeply personal. In the end, it’s less about what you hold in your hands and more about the message you send with your presence: You are worth my time. You are worth being known. You are worth coming back for.

When you choose to be present, you don’t just impact one person’s life—you create ripples you might never fully see. Your presence can be a lifeline, rebuilding trust in a world that may have taught them not to expect it. And beyond our personal circles, forming relationships with people who are hungry, homeless, pushed to the margins, or overlooked becomes an act of solidarity—the seed of lasting change.

But staying changes you, too. You learn patience. You get better at listening. You notice the patterns beneath the surface—the bigger forces shaping someone’s life. Sometimes that insight prompts you to act in new ways, stand up for change, or pay attention differently in other relationships.

And there’s one more ripple: others notice. When people see you stick with someone, it quietly challenges their assumptions about what care looks like. It shows that kindness doesn’t have to be quick or flashy to be real. It plants the idea that maybe they, too, could slow down and build lasting relationships.

Presence isn’t about being the hero in someone else’s story. It’s about becoming part of a shared story—and sometimes, that story has more chapters than either of you expected at the start. That’s what a relationship is: not a single act, but a thread woven over time.

Think about the people in your life right now. Who might need more than just a one-time gesture? Who might need someone who will stay around?

But also—think beyond your usual circles. Who in your community is waiting not just for a handout, but for a hand held in solidarity? Who is hungry, unhoused, overlooked, or carrying a burden in silence because they’ve learned not to expect anyone to stay?

It doesn’t have to be dramatic. You don’t need all the answers, a grand plan, or unlimited time. Just start small—one person, one moment, one decision to keep showing up.

The truth is, most of us can offer quick help. But the real difference lies in choosing not to disappear when the moment passes, in being willing to stay even when it’s inconvenient, uncertain, or uncomfortable. Sometimes, the most powerful thing we can give isn’t what we bring in our hands—it’s what we bring with our presence. When we keep showing up, presence becomes trust. Trust turns into a relationship. And relationships are what change lives—ours and the world’s.

What changes lives isn’t what we give, but that we remain—long enough for relationships to grow, lives to change, and justice to take root.

True connection isn’t built in a rush — it grows in the steady, repeated rhythms that keep us rooted and alive.

We rush through life. Our schedules are full, our phones never stop buzzing, and we confuse activity with progress. The truth? Rushing doesn’t bring us closer to what truly matters. You can push yourself to exhaustion and still miss the most important moments.

And when it comes to the spaces we share — whether at work, in our neighborhoods, or in any community we’re part of — how we show up is more important than how much we do. Sometimes we show up, check the boxes, and move on to the next task. We’re polite, efficient, and productive — but nothing really stays with us once we walk away.

At times, the pace slows down. People stay longer. Ideas are exchanged, stories are shared, and a spark of creativity or understanding starts to grow. The unplanned moments — a shared laugh, a helpful insight, a genuine offer of support — are where the real impact begins to take hold.

That’s the difference. It’s not about how much you do — it’s about the rhythm you live in. We’re drumming to the beat of urgency when what we really need is the steady, deliberate cadence of connection. And connection takes time.

The Lie We Believe

Somewhere along the way, we bought into a lie: rushing from one activity to another will bring us closer to what truly matters.

We think that just doing more — joining another group, attending another event, signing up for another committee — will finally make us feel connected. But you can fill your schedule with “important stuff” and still feel completely alone.

Sometimes we dive into everything all at once — saying yes to every chance, showing up everywhere, filling every open slot. At first, it feels exciting, even productive. But without the steady rhythm of shared routines, it often results in exhaustion, frustration, and a feeling of disconnection.

Why? Because without shared rhythms — consistent, relational patterns of life together — all you have is noise.

You can’t microwave trust.
You can’t quickly build community.
You can’t binge your way into meaningful change.

In fact, doing more without a clear purpose often backfires. It drains energy that could be better used on more meaningful commitments. It tricks you into thinking you’re making progress when, in reality, you’re just going in circles.

Growth — genuine, lasting, heartfelt growth — depends on the slow, sometimes uncomfortable process of showing up day after day. And most of us resist slow progress.

What True Rhythms Look Like

Busyness is like a treadmill — you keep moving, but you don’t really go anywhere. Rhythm, on the other hand, propels you forward without wearing you out.

Healthy rhythms aren’t complicated. In fact, they’re simple enough to list:

Maybe it’s committing to a weekly dinner with friends — phones down, presence up. Maybe it’s deciding that weekly gathering isn’t optional, not because you’re checking a box, but because you want to keep your soul tethered. Maybe it’s scheduling regular rest before your body forces it.

Start small. Pick one rhythm. Keep it steady. And as you find your rhythm, invite others into it — because growth isn’t a solo act.

Now imagine this: a community where people actually show up for each other — not because it’s easy, not because it’s convenient, but because they’ve chosen to belong.

Imagine your life rooted in rhythms that do more than just fill your time—they keep you genuinely alive. Your life will follow the rhythm you select. Make sure it’s one worth dancing to.

A reflection on beginning again—and becoming whole

Some words sound beautiful but are used so often that they lose their meaning—words like love, healing, freedom, hope, and home. We hear them in songs, see them in social media posts, and cling to them during difficult times in our lives. Yet even meaningful words can become background noise. We say them without truly thinking about what they really mean—or how they’re shaping our lives.

Lately, I’ve been sitting with the word grace. Not in an abstract, theological sense—but in the real, lived way that grace finds us. It reshapes how we see the divine, the people around us, and even ourselves.

I don’t know where you are on your journey. Maybe grace feels distant or unfamiliar. Maybe you’ve been carrying doubts, hurts, or weariness that no one sees. If that’s you, you’re not alone. I’ve been there too—and I want to say: grace still finds us. Even when we don’t know how to ask for it.

I’ve always struggled to explain grace.

You recognize grace when you experience it—when it slips in through the cracks of your shame, doubt, and grief. Sometimes it comes directly through prayer or reflection. Other times, it shows up through others—an old friend who says what your heart needed to hear, a kind stranger who reminds you that you matter, or a moment of quiet you didn’t know you needed. In those moments, I believe it’s God’s love reaching us—through unexpected messengers. Grace may come from God, but it often flows through people—reminding us that we’re seen, known, and not alone.

Grace opened my heart to God—not in a dramatic way, but in a quiet, unfolding manner. I thought I already knew who God was, but over time, grace drew me closer. It changed my understanding of faith. It stirred a calling to lead, to serve, and to grow into the kind of love I was being shown. That kind of grace doesn’t just leave you where it found you. It invites you to change—not through pressure, but through presence.

Grace shifted how I saw the church—from an institution to a community—a place where I didn’t have to pretend, where my doubts wouldn’t disqualify me, and where I could ask tough questions without being pushed away.

After I was confirmed, I didn’t have much to do with the church. And by the time I came back, it had been years. Honestly, I hadn’t thought much about church in a long time. But something in me had started to feel… off. Like something essential was missing.

If you’d asked me back then, I probably would have told you I was searching for God—or at least for some purpose in my life. So I decided to go church shopping. Shopping for God. I had no idea what I was really looking for. I just knew I couldn’t keep living the way I had been.

To my surprise, the first church I entered became my home. And here’s the thing—it wasn’t the sermon, the music, or even the people or the welcome I received. I went to a Sunday morning worship celebration, and somewhere in the middle, something shifted. Not around me… inside me. Something cracked open and softened. Something woke up. And I knew: I wasn’t alone. That’s grace.

I understand that not everyone’s experience with church is the same. For some, it has been a place of judgment, exclusion, or silence. I’ve also seen that and felt the tension between longing for spiritual belonging and fearing rejection. But grace kept nudging me to imagine what church could be. It is not perfect or free from struggle—but a space where healing and honesty are possible. I’ve glimpsed that kind of church—when people come together with humility, compassion, and a desire to grow. Grace helped me hope for that kind of community again… and even become part of creating it.

Grace allows me to explore what I believe and why I believe it. It creates space for the tension between faith and doubt. It keeps the door open even when everything else urges me to walk away. Grace has also helped me recognize my privilege—not to feel shame, but to listen more, see differently, and live more humbly and generously. 

Grace doesn’t just comfort—it transforms. It involves learning to say “I was wrong,” showing up for someone even when it’s uncomfortable, or giving yourself permission to rest without guilt. Transformation isn’t flashy—it’s often quiet and repetitive—but it changes us.

Grace Isn’t the Reward—It’s the Beginning

Some people talk about grace as if it’s something we receive after we’ve done the right things — as if it’s a reward for good behavior. But I’ve come to believe that grace is the starting point. It’s what allows us to begin again, to grow, to change, and to become. It’s not a stamp of approval; it’s an open door.

There is a line in the New Testament that stays with me: “For by grace you have been saved through faith… it is the gift of God.” (Ephesians 2:8) We often hear that and think about salvation as something distant or only for the afterlife. But what if grace is also what helps us become whole—here and now?

What if grace is what makes that process possible—over and over again?

Living Grace, Not Just Talking About It

We’re all becoming something. But how often do we stop to ask: Who am I becoming?

Am I becoming someone who chooses:
the courage to grow—over hiding behind fear,
trust over the need to stay in control,
compassion over criticism,
and peace over the pressure to perform?

We carry a lot—expectations, questions, mistakes, regrets. And most days, we’re just trying to hold it together. But grace doesn’t demand perfection. It simply invites us to become—with honesty, not shame.

I’ve come to see faith—not as a checklist of beliefs but as how I accept grace, live grace, and share grace. On my best days, that means showing compassion—for others and myself. During harder times, it involves being honest about my own limits and letting love hold what I can’t fix.

An Invitation to Begin Again

I don’t know what your relationship with grace has been. Maybe you’ve experienced it in a dramatic way—a moment of forgiveness or healing that changed everything. Or maybe, like me, grace has come more quietly—through friendships, second chances, or the courage to stay when leaving seemed easier.

You don’t need to have all the answers. Just start—right where you are, with what you have. That’s where grace meets us.

So wherever you are today—may you have the courage to begin again, and the grace to let love hold what you can’t fix.

Accept it.

Live it.

Share it.

Reflection Question:
What’s one area of your life where you feel pressure to prove yourself—and need to receive grace instead?

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I share weekly reflections on faith, leadership, grace, and everyday life—along with daily devotionals to guide your journey. You can subscribe at hearingbeyondthenoise.com or follow me on Instagram and Facebook @MWBynum.

I’d love to hear from you—feel free to share, reach out, or join the conversation anytime.

Learning to move with God’s rhythm.

Recently, I spent an afternoon kayaking on a tidal river with friends. We carefully planned our trip, syncing our paddling with the rhythm of the tide. As the tide rose, we paddled upstream—our strokes steady, assisted by the gentle pull of the current. The water was calm, and the weather was hot. We moved upriver, catching glimpses of herons and eagles fishing beside us. It felt as if creation itself was breathing with us.

When we reached our destination, we anchored our kayaks on a sandbar in the middle of the river and waded into the cool, refreshing water. There, with fishing poles in hand and joy in our hearts, we laughed, shared stories, and just enjoyed being together. I felt grateful—grateful for the beauty of God’s creation, for the gift of friendship, and for the stillness that surrounded us like grace.

Eventually, as the tide turned, we climbed back into our kayaks and let the river carry us home. I paddled alone for part of the journey, quietly moving with the tide, surrounded by silence and reflection. That stillness gave me space to think about the day’s joy and understand something deeper: this entire experience was a metaphor for our faith.

Because discipleship isn’t a static decision or a one-time event—it’s a journey. It requires movement, effort, intention, and sometimes, it leaves us feeling completely exhausted. When I got home, I put everything away, ate dinner, and went to bed early. The next morning, a friend told me he felt like Jello. I laughed because I knew exactly what he meant.

That tired-but-satisfied feeling is familiar to anyone who has poured themselves into something worthwhile. And that’s the kind of “holy tired” we often experience after following Jesus. He never promised ease or comfort, but he did promise presence. And he did say this:

“My yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
— Matthew 11:30

At first, that sounds like a contradiction. But it isn’t. Jesus wasn’t saying that the journey would be effortless. He said that when we follow his way—when we move with the current of God’s love instead of against it—our lives fall into a sacred rhythm. The work doesn’t disappear, but it no longer feels like a fight.

Moving with God’s tide is a kind of grace. It doesn’t mean skipping the tough parts. It means trusting that love is the way forward, that forgiveness is worth the risk, that justice is worth the effort, and that rest is not weakness but wisdom.

Resting after the day’s effort isn’t failure—it’s faithfulness. God designed us with rhythms in mind. We are created to work, to love, to serve… and then to rest. Even Jesus stepped away. Even Jesus napped in the boat. Even Jesus went off to quiet places.

Sabbath is part of our discipleship, not as an escape, but as a way to recalibrate our hearts to God’s pace.

So what does paddling with the tide in everyday life look like?

It might mean…

It might involve doing the same things you’re already doing—but with intention, with God, with grace. That’s when effort turns into joy.

That day on the river made me realize that we don’t control the current. But we can learn to listen for it, watch for the turn, rest when needed, paddle when called, and move in the direction we were always meant to go.

So yes, some days will leave you feeling like Jello. But it’s the good kind of tired—the kind that says: you were doing what you were made to do.

Paddle with the tide, friends, and rest when the day ends.

Reflection Prompt:
Where in your life are you paddling against the current?
Where might God be inviting you to let go of control and flow with grace instead?

Take a few quiet moments today to listen. The Spirit often speaks just beneath the surface.

If this reflection touched your heart, I’d love to hear what you’re feeling. Feel free to leave a comment, reply, or send me a message. Let’s keep listening together.