Learning How to Stay

A reflection on depth, doubt, and staying where He is

It started, strangely enough, with a question I already wrote about—
one that seemed small on the surface, and somehow wasn’t at all.

I thought I would find an answer.
I thought it would settle.

Instead, it opened.

I went looking—
not casually,
but with that quiet urgency that comes when something lands deeper than you expected.

Reading.
Tracing.
Following threads that had been held long before I ever thought to ask.

Thomas Aquinas said one thing.
Francis of Assisi seemed to leave room for another.

And somewhere in the middle of it all—
somewhere between the pages and the questions and the need to understand—

I realized I wasn’t asking Jesus anymore.

I was trying to arrive without Him.

What began as wonder
slowly took on weight.

Not a holy weight—
not the kind that draws you nearer—

but the kind that presses.

The kind that says,
figure this out
resolve it
don’t leave until you know.

And the deeper I went,
the less I could breathe.

Not because there was something wrong with the depth—
but because I had forgotten how to be held in it.

So I stepped back.

Quietly, at first.
Almost without admitting it.

Maybe this is too much.
Maybe this isn’t where I belong.
Maybe I was reaching for something I don’t actually need.

And for a moment—
it felt like relief.

Like standing at the edge of the water again,
feet in the sand,
waves gentle, predictable,
nothing asking more of me than I was ready to give.

But something in me knew.

It wasn’t peace.
It was distance.

Because once you’ve seen beneath the surface—
even for a moment—
you can’t unknow it.

You can’t return to the shoreline
and not feel the absence of what you’ve left behind.

Nothing was wrong.

And still—
something felt thinner than it used to.

Like a song played too softly to carry its own meaning.
Like light without warmth.

And I found myself drifting back—
not all at once,
not bravely,

but because something in me still recognized
that there was more.

And this time, I saw it.

It wasn’t the depth that undid me.

It was the way I entered it.

I had gone looking for answers
instead of going to Him.

I had traded presence for precision.
Conversation for conclusions.

As if knowing more
could somehow steady what only He could hold.

And maybe that’s where I got lost.

Because the question was never too much.
The depth was never the problem.

I had simply stepped into it
without remembering how to breathe.

So I’m learning again.

Not to rush toward resolution—
but to remain.

To bring the question,
instead of trying to outrun it.

To let it sit—
not as something that demands an answer,
but as something that draws me closer.

Because if He is who He says He is—

if He is good,
and present,
and attentive—

then the things I carry to Him
are not overlooked.

Not dismissed.
Not handled carelessly.

Not even the small ones.

Especially not the small ones.

And maybe what I had mistaken for rigidity
was never meant to replace Him.

Maybe it was meant to hold something steady—
a rhythm,
a structure,
a way of not drifting too far from the center.

Because the more I pressed into what I didn’t understand,
the more I expected to find fractures.

But instead—

I kept finding something intricate.

Something layered.
Something that didn’t collapse under the weight of my questions.

What I thought were gaps
began to look like lace.

Not everything revealed—
but everything held.

I’m still asking.

Still wondering.
Still, at times, unsure.

About things I don’t fully understand.
About things I may not understand for a long time.

But I’m not asking alone anymore.

And that changes everything.

I don’t know exactly where I’ll land.

But I know this—

I don’t want a faith I can step in and out of
without ever being changed.

And I don’t want one that replaces Him with answers, either.

So maybe this is what it looks like now—

not arrival,
not certainty,

but staying.

Not retreating to the shore
the moment the water deepens,

and not forcing myself under
when I forget how to breathe—

but learning, slowly,

to remain where He is.

And trusting
that He will meet me there.