Scripture: Psalm 139:8 – “If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.”
Has anyone ever told you that you “exhaust them?”
When Tom and I began dating, apparently, I had some deep-rooted “stuff.” (Ha!)
Self-doubt coupled with massive trust issues did not add up to a “fully whole” (or easy) partner.
I had this habit of needing to ask the same “relationship” questions about every three days.
For a while, he answered them without any pushback. Finally, about a year into the relationship, he asked, “Do you realize that you ask me the same things over and over again? For the life of me, I’ve tried to figure out what I’m saying wrong that makes you feel the need to keep asking. It’s as if you think if you ask it one more time, slightly differently, you will find a different answer. Is that what you are looking for?”
Of course it wasn’t. And truthfully, I had no idea that was something I did.
“Andrea, I love you, but that is exhausting.”
Now, I did not hear, “this is exhausting.”
My wounded from years of hurt ears heard, “YOU are exhausting.”
Luckily, frank conversation has been a trademark of our relationship. So . . . much conversation, very healing conversations, ensued after that statement. And a deep realization that I had some stuff, longstanding wounds, I had to work through.
We like to believe that once we’ve encountered Jesus, once we’ve been set free, we’ll never struggle again. That redemption means we are forever steady, unshakable, immune to the pull of our old wounds.
But then life happens.
The voices that once haunted us whisper again. The old temptations creep back in. The past we thought we buried resurfaces, and suddenly, we’re not standing in the light—we’re stumbling back into the very places we swore we’d never return to.
That’s Mary Magdalene’s story in The Chosen.
After experiencing the miracle of Jesus’ redemption, she falls back. Not just in a small way, but deeply—returning to the darkness, to shame, to the belief that maybe she was never really free to begin with.
Those that love her go after her, finally finding her.
And when she finally comes back to Jesus, she expects rejection.
She expects disappointment.
She expects to hear the words, I knew you’d mess this up.
But Jesus doesn’t say that.
He just looks at her.
And it’s not a look of frustration or anger—it’s love.
Because Jesus already knew this moment would come. He knew the battle she’d fight. He knew how fragile healing can feel and be in the face of old pain.
And still, He never left her.
The Myth of Perfect Faith
We like to measure faith in straight lines—progress without setbacks, healing without struggle. But the truth? Faith is a journey, not a final destination.
Peter walked on water—and then sank.
Thomas swore loyalty—and then doubted.
Mary was redeemed—and then ran.
But here’s the thing: Jesus doesn’t leave when we falter.
We might distance ourselves. We might believe we’re beyond grace. We might convince ourselves that we were never really changed to begin with.
But God was never the one who moved.
Psalm 139:8 tells us that even when we make our bed in the depths—even when we sink into the places we swore we’d never return to—God is still there.
And maybe the hardest part of faith is not believing that God loves us when we’re doing well, but believing that God still loves us when we’ve fallen apart.
Returning Without Shame
Maybe you’ve been there. Maybe you’ve found yourself stumbling back into an old struggle, an old doubt, an old way of thinking. And maybe you’ve hesitated to pray, to reach out, to return—because you’re convinced that by now, God must be tired of you.
But hear this: God is not exhausted by you.
Jesus does not look at you with disappointment. He is not shaking His head, waiting for you to grovel your way back.
He is standing exactly where He always was. Arms open. Heart steady. Saying, I was always here.
Reflection & Application
Have you ever felt ashamed to return to God?
What lies have you believed about how God sees you in your struggles?
Take a moment today to imagine Jesus looking at you—not with frustration, but with love.
No matter how far you’ve wandered, grace still calls your name.
And when you finally stop running, you’ll find that Jesus never left.
Over time, I’ve realized something else about that conversation with Tom: It wasn’t just my wounds at play—he was navigating uncharted waters too. His frustration wasn’t just exhaustion; it was genuine confusion. It was vulnerability. Tom desperately wanted his love to be enough, to heal the wounds he hadn’t caused. When he said, “Andrea, I love you, but that is exhausting,” what he meant was, “I’m here, I’m trying, but I’m afraid I’m not enough.”
Relationships are built on these moments—moments of vulnerability where our fears, doubts, and deepest questions are exposed. The beauty emerges when we choose to stay in that vulnerable space together. In staying, we discover not only our wounds but our shared strength.
It’s a reflection of how God chooses to remain with us, patiently embracing our doubts, never tiring of our questions, and gently reminding us: “I’m still here. My love was always enough.”
Tom taught me something powerful about the nature of love. Love stays. Love listens. Love wrestles alongside you, even in exhaustion.
Isn’t that exactly how God loves us, too?
Grace and Peace,
Andrea