“Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it. Prone to leave the God I love.”
Those are probably some of the most honest words ever sung in church.
I have sung those lyrics more times than I can count. And I don’t want you to think I’m about ready to jump off a cliff or anything, but the older I get, the more I find myself surprised by how true those words are for me.
Maybe it’s always been true, and I’m finally at a place of admission.
There was a time in my life when I think I would have been hesitant to admit that. Not because I didn’t believe it, but because I thought that after enough years of walking with Jesus, there shouldn’t be any wandering in my heart.
You would think that after enough sermons preached, enough Scripture studied, enough prayers prayed, and enough years spent following Christ, my heart would be a little more settled.
But I’ve discovered something about myself.
I am far more capable of wandering than I ever wanted to believe.
And I’m not necessarily talking about walking away from the faith altogether. Sometimes wandering is a lot more subtle than that.
Sometimes, for me, it’s the desire to be understood. Wanting people to know my heart. Wanting them to see me for who I am today rather than who they may remember me to be. If I’m being honest, there’s still a part of me that wants my reputation back. That wants to explain myself, defend myself, and somehow change the way people see me.
And while I know that my identity is found in Christ, I’m often surprised by how easily I go looking for it somewhere else. In what people think of me. In what I accomplish. In the roles I hold. In whether I feel respected, valued, or understood.
I know I’m a child of God. I know I’m loved by Him. I know His acceptance of me isn’t something I have to earn. I’ve preached those truths more times than I can count.
And yet, somehow, I still find myself living as though I need something more.
Other times, wandering looks a lot less dramatic. It’s getting so caught up in the busyness of life that I hardly give the Lord a thought. It’s prayerlessness. It’s realizing that I’ve spent more time scrolling through my phone than reading Scripture. It’s allowing the things that are temporary to consume my thoughts, my energy, and my affections, while the things that are eternal quietly take a back seat.
And what’s frustrating is that I know better.
I know how all the things I chase after will eventually lose their significance. I know how empty the approval of others can be. I know that nothing this world offers can give me what I already have in Jesus.
But knowing those things and resting in them are not always the same thing.
And maybe that’s what humbles me most.
I can genuinely love Jesus, believe every promise He’s made, and still find my heart wandering toward things that were never meant to satisfy it.
Both things can be true.
I love Jesus. I really do.
But I also know myself well enough now to recognize that my love for Him, as sincere as it may be (or I hope it is), is not what ultimately keeps me.
His love for me does.
And the older I get, the more amazing that truth becomes.
I used to think spiritual maturity would eventually mean becoming less dependent on grace. That somehow, with enough growth, I would become stronger, more consistent, less needy.
But I’m beginning to wonder if maturity looks a whole lot more like recognizing just how desperately I need His grace every single day.
Not just grace for the sins of yesterday, but grace to keep my heart today.
Grace to love Him when my affections grow cold. Grace to pursue Him when other things compete for my attention and affection. Grace to remind me that even my faithfulness is sustained by His.
There is something so freeing about no longer pretending that my heart is stronger than it is.
Because the hope of the Christian life has never been that I am so good at holding on to Jesus.
It’s that He is so faithful to hold on to me.
So these days, when I sing those old words, I find myself singing them a little differently. Maybe a little slower. Definitely with a little more honesty.
They are no longer just poetic lyrics to a familiar hymn.
They’re a confession.
And even more than that, they’re a prayer.
