The Morning After Christmas

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I realize I’m offloading comfort onto an imaginary future person…

Not in a fantasy way, but in a human way.

I picture someone who stands with me in the trenches.
Not someone who always agrees with me.
Not someone who excuses my worst moments.
But someone who lifts me when I’m tired, challenges me when I’m wrong, and doesn’t disappear when the story gets complicated.

I notice it. I check myself and name it, then bring it to God, simply by reflecting on it.

My goal is not to replace anyone, rewrite the past, or summon a relationship out of thin air. I’m just acknowledging the ache for shared courage, shared adventure, shared life.

I am gentle with myself, knowing that desire is Holy, while being mindful that, if left unchecked, it could grow into discontent, bitterness, and spite.

I want to say this clearly, especially to myself:

I am not writing to be seen by one person.
I’m writing because processing out loud is how I survive.

Speaking. Writing. Organizing thoughts. Letting them be witnessed.

For me, that’s not attention-seeking — it’s obedience.
I don’t believe Christians are meant to heal in isolation or hide their humanity behind summaries and sound bites. We also shouldn’t put on a brave face in the middle of a storm and claim “everything’s fine, God is good, He’s still in my life!” All those things are true, but remorse and lament are also healthy and lead to a new way of life.

I find myself continually writing because it partially satisfies the question, “So what’s your story?”

I believe my story, and that of many others, deserves so much more than just a 60-second testimony; though a succinct summary is something we should also be prepared to deliver.

But this is my form of worship. Writing, taking things to God. It brings me great clarity and an ability to more fully articulate the story and see his hand more clearly in my life.

This story, the one that God is writing, deserves more than a summary.
And honestly — it’s not just my story, it’s your story, too.

It’s the story of so many people living fragmented, compartmentalized lives.
We have some faith over here. A little pain over there. We’ve partially conceptualized our callings in theory, but in practice, shame primarily rules and dominates our lives.

I hate that.

And what helps me heal is being more fully known, more fully understood, and more fully accepted. I want people to see who I really am — not a polished version, not a crisis version, not a “post-victory” version of Jared. But a man who is actively becoming integrated with himself, God, and the story and the calling set before him. I want that for you, too.

That desire — to be fully known without being rejected… It isn’t sinful.
It’s the most human thing there is.

Yes, I want a wife someday.
Yes, I want kids.
Yes, I want shared laughter, shared risk, shared meaning.

That is a personal desire, and at times it is selfish.

But deeper than that, I want to serve God from the middle of the story, not after everything is resolved.

I want to show all people, especially those who feel disqualified, that healing doesn’t require hiding. That usefulness doesn’t wait for perfection. And serving God isn’t something you earn after you’re fixed.

I believe that talking about the pain isn’t wallowing in it.
Identifying these emotions we’ve been given can be God honoring (within reason).
And often, that is the medium that I use to help me resist my “old self.”

I don’t want to go back.
And I don’t want to pretend I’m already finished.

I want to live honestly.
Love courageously, despite the circumstances.
And serve faithfully, all from the middle of the story.

If you’re reading this and you’re in the middle too:

You’re not late.
You’re not missing.
If you are in Christ, you are still covered by His blood and called to more.

— Jared
Messy, Moving, Made for more