A reflection for those who walk the unseen road

I don’t quite belong here.

I walk through this world with familiar faces, shared histories, common spaces—but something in me knows I’m not of this place. I speak a language that feels foreign to others, even though it’s not in words. It’s in the quiet pull of surrender. In the ache for something deeper. In the fire of love that doesn’t start with me.

There was a time I tried to belong. I thought if I looked right, believed right, behaved right, I could find my place. But even in the right pews and the right prayers, I remained a stranger. Not because I didn’t believe—but because I did. I believed too much to pretend.

I’ve heard the name of Jesus repeated like a password—invoked to gain entrance, avoid judgment, or stay safe. But I also know what it is to cry out His name in desperation, not to escape consequences but because I saw my emptiness and still didn’t want to change. And yet, He came anyway. He changed me anyway.

I don’t know where I end and where He begins. That mystery used to trouble me. Now it comforts me.

I’ve been told to get better. To be strong. To be wise. But I found the doorway to life in admitting I had nothing to offer—only need. Only weakness. Only desire for Someone to make me new, even when I couldn’t muster the will to want it.

That, I believe, is grace.

And now I walk. Not with certainty in myself, but in the One who walks with me. I don’t need to belong to systems that say they believe but never surrender. I love them. But I do not follow them. I follow the Lamb.

He leads me in ways I don’t understand. But I’ve learned this: obedience is not always understood until later. Or never. And yet it is still life.

I don’t expect to be fully seen here. I don’t resent it either. Because I know there is a place, a Kingdom, where my name is known. Where my cries have been bottled. Where my prayers have become incense. Where my transformation is not strange—but normal.

I live from that place now.

I do not carry reputation. I don’t need it. The cross has relieved me of the burden to be impressive.

I don’t carry answers, only a testimony.

I don’t carry strength, only surrender.

I don’t carry certainty, only faith.

If you recognize what I’m saying—not with your mind, but your spirit—then maybe you’re not from here either. Maybe you’ve longed for a Kingdom you didn’t know had already come near.

He will meet you. Just as He met me—not at my best, but in my undoing.

And if you don’t understand me, that’s okay too. I am foreign here. But I am finally home.