Farther Up the Trail

Dear Traveler,

If this letter somehow finds you…

You'd probably assume I'm writing from the top of a mountain. I'm simply writing from another trail.

There have been more valleys than you thought you'd survive. More funerals. More births. More ordinary Tuesdays than dramatic victories. I know you're tired, but I'm hopeful that some day soon you'll look up and see there have been more summits than you could've imagined.

It turns out life never really becomes easier. I know you're wondering if this season is ever going to make sense.

The empty house. The grief. The debt. The disappointment. The anxiety-ridden sleepless nights. The long drives trying to outrun your own mind. The tears. The prayers that seemed to echo back in silence. The anticipation. The struggle. The longing. The waiting.

You keep asking God where He is and what He's trying to build. You don't realize yet that He's building you. Not into someone stronger. Into someone softer.

You thought growth would feel like certainty. Instead, it feels like dependence. You thought wisdom would mean finally having the answers. Instead, wisdom became trusting the One who never asked you to have them.

Do you remember the coast? Of course you do. You sat there alone, convinced you needed some undeniable encounter with God. Looking back, I smile. Because the miracle wasn't that He finally showed up. It was that you finally stopped insisting He prove He already had.

That became a stone you carried for the rest of your life. Not because everything changed afterward. Because you did. You stopped trying to manufacture faith and simply began noticing His presence. And that was enough.

There are things ahead that would overwhelm you if I listed them. Some dreams become reality. Some never do. Some prayers receive a joyful yes. Others receive a quieter answer that you'll eventually realize was mercy. You lose people. You forgive people you once swore you never could. You become the father you desperately hoped your children would remember. Not because you were perfect. Because you kept coming back. You apologized. You laughed. You cried. You played on the floor longer than your schedule said you should. You chose presence over performance more often than not. Your work becomes larger than you ever dared to say out loud. All because you slowly stopped believing life belonged to you in the first place.

You became less interested in building an empire and more interested in stewarding a garden. And that's when life began to flourish.

You thought that pain and purpose were never synonymous. You thought you'd never taste and see that He was good. You thought that going deeper would require more effort. But it was just another invitation—just like its predecessors.

Just another invitation.

Again.

And again.

And again.

To come. To trust. To receive. To hope. To believe.

You'll smile one day thinking about how desperately you wanted to know what God was doing. Now I can tell you this: you were standing in it far more often than you realized. Not during the big moments. But during bedtime prayers with your kids. Songs in an empty house. Coffee before sunrise. Her smile in the passenger seat. Conversations on back porches. Leading people with integrity. Sitting beside hurting people without trying to fix them. Watching the ocean without needing an answer. The long walks you finally took.

The Kingdom arrived much more quietly than you expected. You once asked, "What does God demand of me?" I'm grateful He patiently dismantled that question. He never demanded what you could never produce. He simply kept inviting you closer.

You also worried about wasting your life. I understand why. You carried ambition like both a gift and a burden. Here's what I wish you'd believe sooner: nothing surrendered to Christ is ever wasted. Not failed relationships. Not lonely nights. Not plans or ideas that didn't work. Not tears no one saw. Not prayers that felt unanswered. Not years that seemed unproductive.

He wastes nothing.

Not even you.

There are Ebenezer stones now. More than you can count. Some are moments everyone would celebrate. Most are invisible. A quiet peace where panic used to live. A conversation that ended with grace instead of defensiveness. Choosing generosity when fear would've made more financial sense. Holding your grandchildren. Standing beside your grown children and realizing they know the Shepherd better than they know your accomplishments.

Those became the real monuments.

You never actually found the life you were searching for. You discovered something much better. He had been carrying it—and you—the entire time.

So keep walking. Build. Stop and rest. Repent quickly. Laugh often. Cry when you need to. Love with an open hand. Take the trip. Hold your kids a little longer. Keep writing. Keep wrestling. Keep doubting. Keep seeking truth.

Keep leaving stones behind for the people coming after you. One day, they'll need them just like you did. And when they ask how you made it through all those years…

Don't tell them about the work. Don't tell them about the material. Don't even tell them about the milestones. Tell them about the God who never once left. Even when you couldn't feel Him.

Especially then.

I'll see you farther up the trail.