I Feel Like a Cactus

And why I’m not calling it Sabbatical anymore.

When I stepped away from ministry and writing in the first week of April, I called it a sabbatical.

I’m not calling it that anymore.

Not because anything dramatic happened.

But because “sabbatical” implies I know when it ends.

It implies I know what comes next.

I don’t.

I don’t know when this season will end.

I don’t know what Deeply Rooted will become.

I don’t know if I’ll coach again.

I don’t know what ministry will look like in six months.

For the first time in a very long time, I’m simply taking one day at a time.

And strangely… I think that’s exactly where Jesus has me.

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If you’ve followed my writing for a while, you may have noticed I’ve been unusually quiet.

Part of that was intentional.

Part of it was because I genuinely didn’t know what to say.

I thought stepping away would bring clarity.

I thought I’d emerge with a polished vision, a stronger theology, and a renewed sense of purpose.

Instead, I came out with more questions.

This season has been filled with grief.

Confusion.

Pain.

Disappointment.

Old wounds resurfacing.

Questions I never expected to ask.

There have been days where I’ve felt deeply connected to Jesus.

There have also been days where I felt like a cactus that hadn’t seen rain in a long time.

Still alive.

Still rooted.

But dry.

I think that’s important to say because we don’t often talk honestly about seasons like this.

We tell stories after everything works out.

We celebrate the testimony after the healing comes.

We share the breakthrough after we’ve made sense of it.

But what about the middle?

What about the season where you don’t know what God is doing?

What about when you’re still trying to trust Him while everything feels uncertain?

That’s where I am.

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One of the biggest things I’ve realized is how much I cared about what other Christians thought of me.

I don’t think I fully understood it until I stepped away.

I wanted to be a “good Christian.”

Not in the sense that I wanted to be holy—I still want that.

I wanted to be approved.

I wanted people to think I had good theology.

I wanted people to agree with me.

I cared about the metrics.

The comments.

The messages.

The opinions.

I would lie awake replaying critical emails and social media comments in my mind.

Even when I acted like I wasn’t affected…

I was.

Stepping away exposed just how much of my identity had become tangled up in the approval of other believers.

I don’t want to live like that anymore.

I don’t want to build a life around being seen as a “good Christian.”

I want to build a life around following Jesus.

Those aren’t always the same thing.

Something else has surprised me.

Almost every Christian I’m deeply drawn to has a similar story.

Many of my closest friends didn’t grow up in church.

They found Jesus first.

Church came later.

They’re often less fluent in “Christianese” but deeply familiar with Jesus Himself.

I find myself craving conversations with people who are real more than people who are impressive.

People who don’t have an answer for everything.

People who don’t feel the need to perform certainty.

People who love Jesus and are still learning.

That has become my prayer too.

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Ironically, one of the unexpected parts of this season has been discovering parts of church history I never imagined I’d be interested in.

A few weeks ago I started reading about Catholic saints.

If you had told me six months ago that I’d be writing that sentence publicly, I would’ve laughed.

I’m not making some grand announcement.

I’m not telling you I’ve arrived at new conclusions.

I’m simply admitting that I realized I had dismissed some things without understanding them.

So I’m learning.

I’m asking questions.

I’m listening.

That has become the rhythm of this season.

Less defending.

More curiosity.

Less pretending I know.

More admitting I don’t.

One of the greatest gifts this season has given me is the realization that certainty and faith are not the same thing.

I used to think that if my confidence in certain theological positions wavered, maybe my faith was wavering too.

I’m beginning to see that’s not necessarily true.

You can have questions and still cling to Jesus.

You can admit, “I don’t know.”

You can change your mind about secondary things.

You can sit with mystery.

You can be confused.

You can grieve.

You can feel spiritually dry.

And you can still belong completely to Christ.

That realization has been strangely freeing.

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So no, I’m not ending this season.

I’m not announcing what’s next.

I’m not unveiling a new vision for Deeply Rooted.

Honestly, I don’t have one.

Maybe one day I will.

Maybe it will look completely different than before.

Maybe it won’t.

I don’t know.

What I do know is this:

I’m still following Jesus.

Sometimes confidently.

Sometimes limping.

Sometimes with tears.

Sometimes with joy.

Sometimes with more questions than answers.

But I’m still following.

And if that’s where you find yourself today too, I hope you know you’re not alone.

You don’t have to pretend you’re flourishing when you feel dry.

You don’t have to rush yourself into certainty.

You don’t have to package your life into a testimony before you’ve lived it.

Sometimes faithfulness looks remarkably ordinary.

Sometimes it looks like waking up, looking at Jesus, and saying,

“I’m still here.”

Today, I think that’s enough.

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