I Said I Do, I Didn’t Say I’d Stay…

I’ve discovered something rather uncomfortable about myself.

I love the idea of commitment. I love the promises, the possibilities, the beautiful picture of what could be. I love beginnings. I love when God gives me a word, when something finally makes sense, when I can see a little glimpse of where He’s taking me.

What I don’t particularly enjoy is the part where I have to keep showing up after the excitement wears off.

Apparently, I have confused being committed to God’s promises with being committed to God.

And those are two very different things.

This morning, I was reading John 6, specifically verses 65 through 68, where many of Jesus’ disciples turned back and stopped following Him. They had heard something difficult, something they couldn’t reconcile with their understanding, and rather than remaining long enough to understand, they left.

Jesus turned to the Twelve and asked if they wanted to leave too.

Peter’s response was, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.” (John 6:68, NIV)

I sat with that for a minute.

Because I’ve never physically walked away from Jesus, but I have emotionally packed my bags more times than I’d like to admit.

I’ve gotten offended by His silence. I’ve questioned His timing. I’ve looked at circumstances and decided that perhaps I misunderstood the assignment. I’ve prayed for direction, received it, and then proceeded to interrogate God when the directions didn’t include a scenic route, complimentary snacks, and an estimated arrival time.

Ma’am. This is faith, not Southwest Airlines.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I have sometimes been more loyal to my expectations of God than to God Himself.

That one hurt.

Because John 6 wasn’t simply about people disagreeing with Jesus. Earlier, in verse 54, Jesus spoke about eating His flesh and drinking His blood. They struggled with what He was saying, and instead of staying to discover the deeper meaning, many walked away.

They abandoned a relationship they needed because they encountered a truth they didn’t understand.

And I wonder how many times I’ve done exactly that.

How many opportunities have I walked away from because they became difficult? How many relationships have I mentally checked out of because I was disappointed? How many times have I mistaken discomfort for divine instruction to leave?

Now, I’ve survived enough to know that sometimes leaving is necessary. There are situations where staying is not faithfulness, it’s foolishness. God doesn’t require me to tolerate abuse or abandon wisdom to prove my loyalty.

Yet I also know myself well enough to admit that sometimes I don’t leave because something is wrong.

Sometimes I want to leave because something is hard.

And I have gotten exceptionally good at making those two things sound alike.

I thought about The Wood this morning, one of my favorite movies. Roland is supposed to be getting married, and instead of confidently walking into the commitment he’s chosen, he’s somewhere having a whole emotional crisis while his boys are trying to get him to his wedding.

Sir. The tuxedo is ready. People are waiting. What are we doing?

Yet beneath the comedy, I recognize something painfully familiar.

Sometimes the closer I get to something I’ve wanted, the more frightened I become of what it will require from me.

Because wanting something and remaining faithful to it are not the same thing.

The wedding is exciting. The marriage requires endurance. The promise is beautiful. The process requires patience. The calling sounds wonderful until it demands consistency when nobody is applauding.

And suddenly I’m Roland, emotionally missing on the day I’m supposed to show up.

Not because I don’t want what I’ve been promised.

Because I’m realizing that receiving it will require a version of me that cannot keep running whenever things become uncomfortable.

Whew.

I also had to confront something else. My history has taught me how to survive disappointment. I’ve lost people I loved, endured circumstances I never chose, and learned early that life can change without asking my permission.

Somewhere along the way, I became very skilled at preparing myself for things not to work out.

I can anticipate loss. I can brace for disappointment. I can make an emotional exit plan before anything has even happened.

And while those instincts may have helped me survive certain seasons, I cannot keep allowing them to govern every season God is asking me to grow through.

My history is not my destiny.

Just because something was interrupted before doesn’t mean everything ahead of me is destined to end prematurely.

I thought about Galatians 6:9, where Paul encourages believers not to grow weary in doing good, because in due season we will reap if we do not give up.

Notice that the harvest is attached to perseverance, not my preferred timeline.

I have been guilty of looking at a field I’ve only recently planted and becoming offended because nothing has grown.

Then I start questioning the seed, the soil, the season, and occasionally the Farmer Himself.

All because I cannot see what’s happening beneath the surface.

And this is where God really got in my business.

I have made an idol out of outcomes.

I’ve wanted the healing, the stability, the growth, the answered prayers, and the evidence that my obedience was worth it. I’ve wanted God to demonstrate His faithfulness in ways I could recognize immediately.

Yet what happens when He is faithful and my circumstances remain difficult?

What happens when the truth is still the truth, even though the facts haven’t changed yet?

What happens when the answer isn’t no, but the journey looks nothing like what I imagined?

Am I still committed?

Or was my commitment contingent upon getting what I wanted?

I don’t particularly enjoy that question because I already know I’ve had seasons where my answer was embarrassing.

I’ve treated commitment like a subscription service. The moment the benefits became unclear, I started looking for the cancellation button.

And somehow, I expected God to remain unwavering while I reserved the right to reconsider every thirty business days.

The audacity is breathtaking.

Yet the beautiful thing about Peter’s response in John 6 is that he didn’t claim to understand everything. He simply recognized who Jesus was.

“To whom shall we go?”

Not where can we find something easier. Not who can offer a more convenient explanation. Not what other arrangement might produce faster results.

Who else has the words of eternal life?

That’s the kind of faithfulness I want.

Not a faith that never wrestles, questions, cries, or becomes weary. I’ve done all four, sometimes before 7 a.m.

I want the kind of faith that can wrestle without walking away. The kind that survives disappointment without turning God into the villain. The kind that understands that a detour is not necessarily a denial.

I may be absolutely right about where God is taking me and completely wrong about how He intends to get me there.

And perhaps my greatest struggle hasn’t been believing that God can fulfill His promises.

Perhaps it’s been accepting that I don’t get to dictate how He fulfills them.

I keep asking God for transformation while resisting the circumstances that expose what still needs transforming.

I want the harvest without the waiting. The intimacy without the vulnerability. The maturity without the stretching. The testimony without the inconvenient middle.

But commitment doesn’t become faithfulness simply because I declare it.

It becomes faithfulness when I continue showing up.

When I’m disappointed. When I’m confused. When I’m tired. When the circumstances are not giving what I thought they were supposed to give.

And no, that doesn’t mean I have to pretend everything feels wonderful.

It means I stop making my feelings the final authority over what God has already said.

I think about Roland again. All that panic, all that uncertainty, all that commotion surrounding a decision he had already made.

And I wonder how often I’ve been standing at the threshold of something meaningful, allowing fear to convince me that the weight of commitment means I chose incorrectly.

Maybe sometimes the weight is simply evidence that what I’m stepping into matters.

So here I am, having another uncomfortable conversation with myself.

I don’t want to be someone who only loves God when I understand Him. I don’t want to confuse His silence with His absence, or His delays with His indifference. I don’t want to keep abandoning what He’s called me to because the process is less glamorous than the promise.

I want to stay long enough to see the good.

And if I’m being completely transparent, I think some of the things I’ve called unanswered prayers were actually unfinished assignments I became too discouraged to continue.

That’s a difficult possibility to sit with.

Because maybe I haven’t always needed a new word, a new direction, or a new opportunity.

Maybe I’ve needed to become faithful to the last thing God told me.

Jesus didn’t chase the disciples who walked away. He gave them room to decide whether they would remain.

And this morning, I hear that same question confronting me.

Do I want to leave too?

No, Lord.

I may not understand the route. I may be disappointed by the pace. I may have to cry, wrestle, repent, and ask You to help me with the very commitment I claimed to have.

But where else would I go?

You have the words of eternal life.

And I’m learning that unshakable faith isn’t proven by how loudly I celebrate the promise.

It’s revealed by whether I remain faithful when the promise hasn’t arrived.

I said I wanted to follow Jesus.

Now I have to stop acting surprised when following requires me to keep walking.