Between Here and Home

A field journal from the road between brokenness and glory

Sometimes we need a place to name what we’re learning on while walking the path of life.

A place to pay attention.

To grace. To grit. To the slow, quiet work of God.

Of My Sojourn is that place for me.

It’s more field journal than blueprint. More trail map than podium. A space to tell the truth about the sweetness of Christ—and the ache of waiting for all things to be made new.

I’ve walked a lot of roads—some straight, some winding, and a few I wish I’d never taken. I’ve worked as a journalist, chasing truth and trying to make sense of the chaos. I’ve managed bands, helping others find their voice while I was still finding mine. I’ve spent hours on barstools listening to people cry, confess, and search for something solid. And I’ve spent just as many hours in church offices with the grieving, the angry, the burned out, and the proud—trying to remind them (and myself) that Jesus is still enough.

I’ve preached sermons I was still learning to believe. I’ve held the hands of the dying and baptized new believers in the same month. I’ve watched saints fall and skeptics soften. I’ve heard confessions, cried in parking lots, and sat in silence when words would only wound.

Even as a pastor, I still wrestle with fear and doubt. I still forget I’m loved. I still try to impress people instead of resting in the God who already knows me. I still want control. I still want clarity. I still want Christ—but too often I go looking for Him in the rearview instead of the moment I’m in.

And through it all, one truth has haunted and healed me:

Christ really is enough.

Not just for eternity. But for Monday. For the ache in your chest at 2AM. For the shame you can’t shake. For the boredom that numbs you. For the anger that scares you. For the prayers you gave up praying.

I’ve been the prodigal and the older brother. I’ve chased applause and tried to curate a life that would look holy enough to justify myself. But the older I get, the more I’m convinced of this:

If Jesus isn’t full of grace for sinners like me, then I have nothing.

If Jesus doesn’t hold me when I’m weak, then I won’t make it.

If Jesus doesn’t want all of me—the ugly, the tired, the doubting, the trying-too-hard—then I’m not sure I know Him at all.

But He does.

And I do.

That’s why I named this space Of My Sojourn. Because I’m not home yet. I’m still learning how to live like a citizen of heaven while carrying an Ohio driver’s license. Scripture calls us sojourners—temporary residents in a world that doesn’t quite fit. I feel that. Maybe you do too. I wanted a place to write honestly from the tension of this middle ground. Between Eden and the New Earth. Between grace received and glory revealed. Between what I believe and what I still forget when the lights go out. This is my sojourn. These are the dispatches.

And in many ways, it’s Rich Mullins who taught me how to name that tension. I found his music as a teenager in West Virginia who didn’t have the words for what I was feeling—but Rich did. He sang about longing and grace and dirt and love and Jesus like someone who had tasted all of them and still wasn’t done hungering. His honesty gave me permission to stop pretending. His music played like prayer and poetry all at once. It still does.

Now I’m in my forties, and I’ve got the scars and soul stretch marks to show for it—but the soundtrack hasn’t changed. I still want to be a man after God’s own heart, even when I feel like a misfit. I still have some words to write: not just Christian words, but Christ-centered, grace-drenched, wild-eyed words that smell like sheep and dirt and hope.

So no, this space won’t be polished. I won’t always tie the bow at the end. But I promise to tell the truth. About doubt. About desire. About grace that holds when the scaffolding of your life collapses. About Jesus—who didn’t just save me once but keeps saving me daily.

If you’re anything like me—hungry for more, tired of pretending, still limping toward the Light—I hope these dispatches make you feel less alone.

You’re not crazy for loving Jesus and still struggling to trust Him.

You’re not too far gone. You’re not too much.

You’re just right for grace.

Let’s walk together.