Lost Call

 Have you ever felt completely lost in the Lord?

Not lost from Him, but lost in Him, as if you are sitting in a tiny boat, floating in the middle of an endless sea where the horizon looks exactly the same in every single direction. You know the shore exists, you know the One who rules the waves is good, but you have absolutely no idea which way to row.

For as long as I can remember, even back when I was a child, I felt a distinct, unshakable pull on my life. I felt called to be a pastor. I envisioned spending my days the way my mom and dad did: entirely in His service, dedicated to the ministry, guiding a flock, and living a life explicitly structured around the church. It felt like a clear path.

But then, the doors closed. Because of reasons that felt incredibly trivial to me, mostly centering around the fact that I enjoy playing video games, I was denied by the United Methodist Church.

When that door slammed shut, it didn't just hurt; it felt like the signal fire went out. Ever since that moment, God has felt profoundly silent. The vivid sense of calling that guided my younger years has seemingly vanished. I look at my life now and I don't feel a distinct, cosmic assignment.

I want to be clear: I do not think God has been unkind to me. He has been incredibly good. In fact, He spent decades working behind the scenes to bring my beautiful wife and me together. She is a constant reminder of His faithfulness. But because she knows the depth of that miracle, she gets frustrated with me when I talk about feeling lost. It hurts her to hear me say I feel adrift when God has so clearly provided for us. I understand her perspective, but the human heart is complex. It is entirely possible to be deeply grateful for the blessings you have, while simultaneously feeling completely blind to your purpose.

I want to serve Him. I ache to do what He wants. But right now, my reality doesn't look like a sanctuary or a mission field. It looks like a frustrating day job.

Most of my days are a chaotic blend of sporadic, passing laughter surrounded by a deep, bubbling angriness that I carry at work. I resent the job overall. It is exhausting to extend a sincere greeting to someone only to be met with dead silence and ignored. It is demoralizing to be asked for your professional opinion, only to be flatly told you are wrong the moment you speak up. And then there is the daily grind of micro-managing and babysitting grown adults, people who would rather secretly watch videos on their phones than do the simple, basic tasks required of them.

All of these feelings have been amplified tenfold since I lost my Mom in January. Grief has a way of stripping away your filters and leaving your rawest emotions exposed to the elements. Since she passed, I feel more angry than I ever have before, but I also feel entirely detached. Every single day feels like an aimless struggle through the muck and the mire, just trying to keep my head above water while my boots are stuck in the mud.

But as I sit here and type out these frustrations, a quiet, challenging thought begins to cut through the noise.

Maybe this, this exact, aggravating, heartbreaking space, is exactly why God has me here right now.

It is easy to imagine serving God happily when you are surrounded by people who also are doing all they can to serve. It is easy to be "in His service" when the environment matches your expectations of what holy work should look like. But true, Christ-like service isn't about the setting; it's about the heart.

Maybe my current assignment isn't to lead a church. Maybe my assignment is to learn how to serve happily even when every single part of my flesh doesn't want to.

If I can learn to show grace to the coworker who ignores my greeting, if I can find humility when my opinion is discarded, and if I can lead with patience instead of resentment when micro-managing others, isn't that just as much "in His service" as preaching a sermon?

Jesus didn’t spend His ministry in pristine cathedrals. He spent it walking through the literal dust, dealing with stubborn disciples who didn't understand Him, and serving people who would ultimately reject Him. He didn't wait for a perfect environment to demonstrate the Kingdom of God.

I feel frustrated and worn down. My wife and I are still being kept apart because of politics, just like so many families who are caught in situations they never asked for. It’s hard to heal when the person who should be beside me, the one whose shoulder I should be able to cry on, is kept away from me. I miss her comfort, her presence, her grounding. I miss the simple ability to sit with her and let the weight fall off my chest.

And today makes it all heavier. Today is my mom’s birthday.

The sadness hits differently on days like this. I feel hurt in a way that’s hard to put into words. I want to talk to her so badly. I want to hear her voice, tell her everything I’m carrying, and feel her pray over me the way she always did. My mom was an anchor. She helped me understand myself, my life, and the way God was moving in it. She helped me hear Him when I couldn’t hear anything else.

Now she’s gone, and I feel like I can’t hear God at all. It’s like her absence has created a silence I don’t know how to fill.

Or maybe… maybe it’s not that God is silent. Maybe I’m just too stuck in my own head to hear His quiet voice. Maybe I’m like the customers who walk into the store, hear me greet them, and then walk right past me without noticing. Maybe God is speaking, and I’m just walking past Him, too overwhelmed, too distracted, too hurt to recognize the direction He’s trying to nudge me toward.

I miss my mom. I miss my wife. I miss the feeling of being held, understood, and spiritually steady. And I’m trying, really trying, to find God in the middle of all this noise and grief.

I am still hurting. I am still grieving my mom, and I am still mad at the circumstances that kept me from a place I always called. I still feel like I'm wading through a swamp most mornings. But I am realizing that being "adrift in an endless sea" means God is still the one holding the waters. He hasn't forgotten me. He has just changed the classroom.

Today, my prayer isn't for a sudden rescue or a dramatic change of venue. My prayer is simply for the strength to take the next step through the muck, to swallow my resentment, and to find a way to serve the people right in front of me, even when it's the last thing I want to do. Because if I can learn to shine a light in the middle of this workplace frustration, then I haven't lost my calling at all. I'm just living it out in the dark.