A reflection on the grace that finds us again and again.

There’s a line from an old hymn that many of us know by heart:

“Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love.”

It’s a line that lingers—not just because it’s poetic, but because it’s honest.

Wandering happens slowly. Not always through rebellion or resistance, but through distraction, exhaustion, or simply forgetting what our hearts need most. We start carrying more than we were meant to. We get pulled into patterns that numb us. And somewhere along the way, we stop noticing how far we’ve drifted.

Even then, Jesus keeps coming close.

The man who wrote Come Thou Fount—Robert Robinson—understood this pull. He wrote those words at age 22, fully aware of how easily our hearts drift. Later in life, he struggled with that same tension. One version of his story tells how, years after writing the hymn, a stranger read it aloud beside him in a carriage. With tears in his eyes, he said, “Madam, I am the poor man who wrote that hymn… and I would give a thousand worlds to enjoy the feelings I had then.”

His words echo a truth many of us have felt: the ache of remembering where we’ve been with God and wondering how to get back.

Wandering shows up in different ways. Sometimes in obvious choices, but more often in small shifts—a quiet leaning toward comfort, distraction, or control. We don’t always recognize the drift, but we feel its effects. Life feels heavier. Joy feels distant. Prayer grows quiet. Wandering isn’t new. It runs through the pages of Scripture. Adam and Eve strayed. The people of Israel got lost. David veered off course. Peter fled. And still, God kept pursuing.

The invitation isn’t rushed. It isn’t loud. It sounds more like a whisper: Come as you are. Let Me be enough for you again.

The truth is, we’re all becoming. Being a disciple of Jesus isn’t about having it all together or knowing all the right answers. It’s about letting Him shape us, one surrendered space at a time. It’s not just the obviously wrong things that lead us away—it’s also the good things that quietly take up too much room. Comfort. Success. Control. The need to prove ourselves. They don’t always look harmful, but they can keep us from the life Jesus offers.

And it’s not about losing yourself. It’s about becoming who you truly are.

That fear we sometimes carry—What if I surrender and lose the parts of me that matter?—it’s built on a lie. Jesus doesn’t erase who you are. He reveals it. He wipes off the tarnish, not to make you someone else, but to help you reflect His light. Like silver being polished, layer by layer, He brings out what’s been hidden and forgotten. And it takes time. Some parts are harder to clean than others. But He does the work. We bring the surrender. Trusting that Jesus knows how to lead us gently. He doesn’t ask us to climb back to where we used to be. He meets us in the middle of wherever we are.

There are moments in life that open space for clarity. A weekly Sabbath can serve as a gentle reset, creating room for what has been hidden to come into view. In stillness, deeper longings and subtle patterns begin to surface—habits of coping, striving, or numbing that have quietly shaped our days. As we slow down, we become more aware of where our hearts truly are and what they most need.

Jesus doesn’t shame us for being tired or needing comfort. He invites us to find those things in Him. He reminds us that being human isn’t weakness—it’s a design. One that needs rest. One that needs connection. One that needs Him.

So He calls us to abide. To make our home in Him. To stop running on empty and trying to hold it all together ourselves. He says, “Come to me.” Not when you have it figured out. Not once you’re back on track. But now. As you are.

When we’re stressed or uncertain, our first instinct might still be to grab control, to numb out, to run. But Jesus is right there—waiting. Ready to walk with us, not rush us. He’s not asking for perfect. He’s asking for presence.

We don’t have to be afraid to wait on Him. Jesus doesn’t point fingers. He meets us in the quiet, offering rest and reminding us we’re not alone.

The Holy Spirit doesn’t need noise to speak. He meets us in silence too. He uncovers what’s hidden, not to shame, but to heal. And when we slow down long enough to pay attention, we start to see what’s been pulling at our hearts. The Holy Spirit is always working. Always reminding us who we are and who we belong to. And He doesn’t need us to perform. He invites us to slow down. To listen. To live in rhythm with Him.

If you’ve been feeling off-center lately, it’s okay to say so. You’re not alone.
Take a moment and ask yourself:

Where has my attention been going lately?

What habits are shaping my heart?

What part of me is longing to come home to God?

There’s room for those questions. There’s room for you.

Jesus is still the One who finds us. Still the One who stays. Still the One who sings over us when we forget how to sing.

So maybe today’s prayer is the same as Robert Robinson’s, all those years ago:

“Here’s my heart, Lord—take and seal it.”