The Practice of Returning

There is a quiet temptation to believe that once something has been seen, it should remain settled. That once rest has been tasted, trust understood, or belonging found, we should somehow stay there. As though awareness itself should guarantee permanence, as though being seen once should mean we never need to return to that place again.

But formation does not work that way.

The journey of faith is not linear. We do not move forward by leaving these places behind. We move forward by returning to them again and again, returning to the place where we are seen and held, each time with a little more honesty and a little less striving. Each return deepens what has already been revealed, not because we are failing to hold onto it, but because life keeps inviting us to live from it in new ways.

There will be moments when we notice ourselves drifting. Not dramatically, not rebelliously, but quietly. Returning to effort. Returning to self-reliance. Returning to fitting in. Returning to proving. Often we only notice after we are tired again, tense again, bracing again, or feeling unseen and disconnected in ways we cannot quite name.

This does not mean something has gone wrong.

It means something has been revealed.

Awareness itself is fruit.

The invitation in those moments is not to correct ourselves, but to return. To rest again. To trust again. To allow ourselves to be seen again, to return to the place where belonging does not need to be earned. Not as a reset or a recovery plan, but as a rhythm. A familiar movement back to what is already true.

Rest was never meant to be a single moment we achieve. It becomes a reference point we return to when life pulls us back into movement. A place we recognise rather than recreate. Identity is the ground we stand on as we notice where we are still tempted to perform, explain, or justify ourselves, especially in order to stay connected.

Belonging, too, continues to unfold over time. We keep learning where we can remain ourselves without shrinking or striving. Where presence is welcomed. Where honesty is not costly. Where connection grows not because we force it, but because we stay long enough for trust to form, and where being seen does not threaten our sense of safety.

And this is often where the work deepens.

Because real relationship will eventually bring disappointment. Misunderstanding. Rejection. People will not meet us perfectly. They will miss us, hurt us, or fail us in ways they may not even see. And in those moments, the temptation is to close our hearts, to pull back, to protect ourselves from further pain, or to decide that belonging was never real to begin with.

But formation invites something braver.

In these places, we learn to keep our hearts open. Not naive. Not unguarded. But open. We learn not to disappear when relationship becomes difficult, nor to harden ourselves in response to hurt. We learn to remain present even when things do not go as we hoped they would, even when being seen feels costly.

The only One who meets us with perfection is the Father. Everyone else needs the same grace we require every day. This does not mean we ignore harm or abandon wisdom. Boundaries matter. Discernment matters. Sometimes loving people well requires difficult decisions, honest conversations, or even distance, but love does not require us to disappear.

Love is not the absence of boundaries.

Love is the refusal to let bitterness take root.

And this is why returning to the Father always comes first.

He is the only place where our hearts can remain fully open without fear. The only One who meets us without limitation, misunderstanding, or failure. Abiding with Him is our anchor, the place where we are always seen and always belong. Everything else flows from that place.

As we return to Him, again and again, something begins to form within us. We are held when our hearts feel bruised. We are steadied when relationships feel costly. We are met in places where others cannot meet us, no matter how much they love us.

And from that place of abiding with the Father, from that place of being seen and belonging, we learn how to remain present with others.

This is what abiding looks like.

Not constant awareness.

Not perfect alignment.

But repeated returning.

Returning to the Father when our hearts feel bruised.

Returning to the place of being held and known when relationships feel costly.

Returning to love when closing our heart would feel safer.

Maturity is not measured by how rarely we are hurt, but by how gently we respond when we are. It is knowing where to return when we feel the pull to harden or retreat, when we feel unseen or tempted to withdraw. Knowing that love does not withdraw while we find our way back.

There is no finish line here. No place where this work is completed. No version of us that no longer needs to return to rest, trust, identity, and belonging, to being seen again and again.

There is simply a life lived in response.

A life that keeps returning.

A life that keeps choosing openness over armour.

A life that allows love to do its work over time.