This past year stretched many of us and considering the news cycle already this year…that trend will not stop anytime soon. 
(I know that’s probably an understatement—but let’s start there.)

For some, faithfulness simply meant continuing to show up—even when clarity didn’t come and resolution stayed out of reach.

Change came quickly. Uncertainty lingered. Things we assumed were stable shifted, and some losses did not explain themselves. For many, endurance wasn’t theme for the year or something we set out to practice. It was simply what was required of us.

Looking back, I can see how much of that surfaced in my writing along the way. Not as commentary or answers, but as attention. The themes that kept returning—lament, exile, anxiety, endurance, courage, rightly ordered love—weren’t planned. They emerged because they had to. They became language for a season marked by disruption and disorientation, when pretending stability no longer felt honest.

I wrote HELD in a season of absolute fear and panic—trying to manage uncertainty in familiar ways, while my brain and body were essentially saying, not again.

The writing wasn’t meant to lead anyone out of the uncertainty.
It was meant to give words of hope through the uncertainty.

And as the year has closed, it’s become clear to me that endurance alone doesn’t tell the whole story.

The past few months I found myself feeling closed off (less writing, less reflective). I discovered that something can begin to form beneath steady faithfulness if we’re not careful. Not rebellion. Not collapse. But something quieter—and more dangerous precisely because it often goes unnoticed.

Resentment.
Distance.
Disillusionment.
A hardening that promises protection from disappointment.

For me, it rarely shows up as anger—though it can, and it has. More often it shows up as guardedness. I still believe. I still show up. I still do the right things. But disappointment hasn’t always been given a place to go. And when it isn’t named, it doesn’t stay contained. It starts taking on a life of its own. It doesn’t just hide behind the walls—it builds them higher and thicker.

Earlier this year, I wrote about lament as an act of courage—grief that stays turned toward God instead of pulling away. I still believe that deeply. What I’m learning now is how easy it is to lament once, survive the moment, and then move on—without returning when grief resurfaces in quieter, more manageable forms.

Because grief doesn’t disappear just because we’ve learned how to function again.

Unlamented disappointment doesn’t go away.
It hardens.

What surfaces later often isn’t new bitterness, but old grief—disappointments we moved past too quickly, trust we became cautious with, and the ongoing grief we’re still learning how to carry honestly. Not all at once. Slowly. In layers.

There is a shadow side to being stalwart.

Endurance, when left unattended, can slowly turn into callousness. Strength can start to armor itself. What began as resolve can create distance—first from our own hearts, and eventually from the people we love and serve.

This year also revealed something important about attachment for me—about where we instinctively look for safety under strain. About how easily we cling to roles, outcomes, certainty, or control when life feels unstable. And about how much those attachments shape our leadership, our relationships, and even our faith.

At the same time, a quieter and truer work has been happening. A slow loosening. A reordering. A learning—often through discomfort—to release what is temporary and to re-attach our hearts to what is eternal.

And for me, that has included something very practical: paying attention to the voices I allow to shape my inner life. The constant inputs. The social media cycles. The news. The outrage—and what I can only describe as “underrage”… that low-grade irritation and suspicion that quietly trains the heart to harden. I’ve had to ask myself: What am I feeding my attention? What is discipling my emotions? What is forming my nervous system?

Because attachment isn’t only about who we love.
It’s also about what we listen to—
and what we return to when we feel afraid.

Scripture reminds us that we are adopted as sons and daughters—able to cry Abba, Father (Romans 8; Galatians 4). But adoption does not remove us from exile. It anchors our belonging while we still live away from home. By exile, I don’t mean disengaging from people or retreating from the world (or even hating the world). I mean living fully present—yet aware that our deepest belonging and our truest home are in the Kingdom of God.

That tension explains much of what this year has felt like.
Am I willing to live in exile?
Can I find joy in the midst of whatever comes my way?
Can I learn, in the words of Paul, to be content regardless of circumstances?

To belong fully to God while living among systems and values that cannot finally hold us requires vigilance. But it also requires tenderness. Without both, faithfulness becomes brittle.

The apostle Paul spoke of learning to fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen—because what is seen is temporary, and what is unseen is eternal (2 Corinthians 4). That kind of learning doesn’t happen quickly. It happens in years like this one—years that stretch us, expose us, and quietly reorient what we love.

The invitation here is not to abandon strength.
It is to redeem it.

Not to stop being steadfast—but to remain unhardened.
Not to let endurance replace grief—but to let lament keep the heart open.
Not to guard ourselves from disappointment—but to bring it back into the presence of God before it quietly reshapes how we love.

The goal is not to be unbreakable.
It’s to remain human… and to remain with God… and to remain open to love.

To endure without withdrawing.
To guard without closing off.
To remain faithful without losing tenderness.

I don’t know what this past year asked of you, or what you’re carrying into 2026. I do know that living in exile is not easy. It wears on the heart. It tempts us to protect ourselves in ways that slowly cost us connection.

So stay open.
Pay attention to where callousness may be forming.
Notice the walls—not to shame yourself for building them, but to gently ask whether they’re still needed.

Because often, this is how God closes a season—not with answers or resolution, but with a heart that is still willing to stay open, even in exile.

A Blessing for 2026

As you step into the year ahead,
may you be given what you need
more than what you expect.

May 2026 not demand from you
what it cannot sustain,
and may you learn—early—to release
what asks you to become smaller, harder, or less human.

May you continue to show up
with steadiness rather than urgency,
with honesty rather than performance,
and with courage that does not require certainty to act.

When clarity comes slowly,
may you not confuse waiting with failure.
When change continues,
may you not confuse instability with abandonment.

May you remain attentive to your heart—
not only to what strengthens it,
but to what stiffens it.
May you notice resentment early,
return to grief when it surfaces,
and allow tenderness to keep pace with endurance.

May your attachments be gently reordered—
less to what is immediate, measurable, or temporary,
and more to what is lasting, faithful, and true.

May you live as one who belongs,
even when the world feels unfamiliar;
secure in love,
even while walking faithfully in exile.

And when the year stretches you again—
as it surely will—
may you remember:
you are not being asked to be unbreakable,
only to remain relational.

Go into 2026 with strength that stays soft,
faith that stays honest,
and hope that does not hurry the work of God.

Amen.