Faith Without the Fix

I’m learning that living in the and isn’t something you arrive at—it’s something you practice.

Right now, my life is full of contradictions I don’t know how to resolve. I am exhausted and deeply responsible. I am living with chronic pain and still showing up every day. I am faithful—and unhappy. I believe in God wholeheartedly, and I am also weary in ways that don’t feel particularly holy or inspiring.

For a long time, I thought faith meant clarity. Or peace. Or at least relief. I thought if I believed hard enough, trusted deeply enough, or prayed the right way, something would shift—my body, my circumstances, my joy. And when those things didn’t change, I quietly wondered what that said about me.

But lately, I’ve been realizing that faith isn’t always revealed through resolution. Sometimes it’s revealed through endurance. Through staying present when the situation doesn’t improve. Through choosing honesty over performance. Through continuing to believe even when life doesn’t feel good.

I’ve felt restless at church lately—not because I’ve lost faith, but because I’m craving something more lived-in and real. It often feels like we’re standing up and reading other people’s words—quoting talks, prophets, and scriptures—without pausing to say why it matters to us. I don’t need a perfectly delivered message. I’m longing for someone to say, “This resonated with me because here’s where my life is messy—and here’s how God is meeting me there.”

When I got home today, that restlessness spilled out in my kitchen. I realized I’m just tired of performative faith—faith that sounds polished but never quite touches real life. Maggie listened and then said, very simply, “Well, Dad… when you give a talk in church, maybe you can do that.” She’s right. That moment stayed with me. It reminded me that what I’m really craving isn’t critique—it’s courage. The courage to speak honestly about real lives, real struggles, and a God who shows up not after everything is fixed, but right in the middle of the mess.

And the truth is, God has shown up for me—but not in the ways I expected.

He hasn’t taken the pain away.
He hasn’t lightened the workload.
He hasn’t wrapped this season up neatly.

What He has done is stay.

He has stayed when my body hurts and my patience runs thin.
He has stayed when my faith feels steady but my joy feels far away.
He has stayed when my prayers are simple, repetitive, and unpolished—often nothing more than, “I’m tired. Please help.”

And somehow, that has been enough. Not enough to fix everything—but enough to keep me grounded. Enough to keep me from hardening. Enough to remind me that I am not carrying this alone, even when it feels unbearably heavy.

This is the kind of faith I’m learning now—the kind that doesn’t hinge on outcomes or relief. The kind that chooses presence over escape, honesty over performance, and endurance over explanation. Not a faith that looks impressive from the outside, but one that keeps me soft and open when it would be easier to shut down.

Maybe this is where the invitation lives—not in fixing one another, but in seeing one another.

What if we asked ourselves:
What is my and right now?
Where am I holding two truths that feel impossible to reconcile?
Where am I strong and tired? Faithful and hurting? Hopeful and unsure?

And what if, instead of pretending we have it all together, we became better neighbors to one another inside that tension? Sharing burdens instead of comparing them. Showing up with small kindnesses instead of grand answers. Offering a hand, a text, a meal, a prayer—something that says, I see you. You don’t have to carry this alone.

The world feels louder, harsher, and more divided than ever. Loneliness has crept into places it didn’t used to live. And maybe what we need most right now isn’t certainty or solutions—but connection. Presence. The quiet courage to sit with one another in the dark and trust that God is already there too.

So this is where I am—standing in the middle of my and. Faithful and exhausted. Grateful and grieving. Hopeful and unsure. Still believing. Still showing up. Still choosing not to harden, even when it would be easier to retreat.

I don’t know exactly what’s next for me. I don’t have a clear roadmap or a tidy ending. But I do have hope—not the loud, shiny kind, but the steady kind. The kind rooted in knowing that I’ve been carried this far, and I won’t be abandoned now.

So I’ll keep living in the and.
I’ll keep choosing presence over escape.
I’ll keep trusting God to meet me here—and to guide whatever comes next, one honest step at a time.

And if you’re living in an and right now, I hope you know this: you’re not broken, you’re not failing, and you’re not alone. We were never meant to do this by ourselves.