Drifting…And the Return

 I didn’t walk away from Jesus—not exactly. It was more like a slow drift. Sundays became optional. My prayers got quieter. The loneliness crept in and did what loneliness does best—it whispered that no one really noticed whether I showed up or not. Not even God.

Until last week.

I had stopped by the local bar—again. It’s become part of the routine. Not because I love it, but because it gives me somewhere to go. Something to do.

I slid onto a barstool, exchanged a few words with the bartender, chatted with one of the regulars—just small talk. 

And then the question. It came out of nowhere—gentle, unassuming—

‘So this what keeps you here?’ he asked, like he hadn’t just cracked something open in me.

Just a passing question. A throwaway line.

But it hit something deep.

I didn’t answer. Just smiled politely and took a slow sip of my drink. But my chest felt tight—like he’d cracked open a door I’d been holding shut for years.

What does keep me here?

Not just here at the bar. Or in this town. But in this space. This sadness. This distance. The low hum of a life half-lived.

That night, I lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. That question echoed louder in the dark.

And I remembered Jesus. The Jesus I once loved like a friend. The One I used to talk to about everything. The One I used to sing to in the car.

I hadn’t stopped believing. But somewhere along the way, I stopped reaching.

No flashing lights. No dramatic tears. Just a quiet ache. A stirring in my chest that said:

You’re not as far as you think.

And for the first time in a very long time, I knew exactly what my next step needed to be. 

Sunday morning came. I moved slowly—chose a simple outfit, brushed my hair with more care than usual, stared at my reflection a little longer than I needed to. Something about me looked different. Softer, maybe. More open.

I was nervous. Not about being seen—but about feeling seen.

Still, I went.

The church parking lot was full. The sight was so familiar, it almost hurt. Nothing had really changed. And yet, everything had.

I walked through the glass doors into the wide-open lobby of the church I once called home.

And just like that—it all came rushing back.

The familiar rhythm of Sunday morning. The hum of conversation and laughter. People glad to see each other. It was exactly how I remembered it—contemporary, casual, full of grace.

I smiled. I’d spent years here once. Years singing, praying, serving. Healing.

And now…I was back.

Familiar faces approached me, people I hadn’t seen in so long, arms open, eyes kind. No judgment. No hesitation. Just:

“We’re so glad you’re here.”

I hadn’t realized how much I needed that—to be seen.

I found my way to the worship center and settled in. As the band began to play “I Thank God” by Maverick City, the words washed over me:

“Wandering into the night
Wanting a place to hide
This weary soul
This bag of bones…”

Tears slid down my cheeks.

“And I try with all my might
But I just can’t win the fight
I’m slowly drifting
A vagabond…”

That was me.

The sermon was on building healthy relationships through faithfulness. And as I listened, I remembered.

Yes, I’d drifted.

But I hadn’t quit.

And now—I was here. Present. Open. Still willing to grow.

Still willing to be faithful.

I closed my eyes, let the tears come again, and whispered—“I’m still willing.”

And I meant it.

Not perfect. Not polished. But present.

Faithfulness isn’t about perfection—it’s about presence. It’s about staying when it’s hard. Showing up even when you don’t feel strong. Living with commitment to God and others when it would be easier to pull away.

And I know now:God never stopped being faithful to me.

Even when I drifted—He stayed.