I cannot be convinced that God does not pursue me personally, and I say that because of how intentional He is with my life.
I am the type of person who tries to do all the things. I truly believe life is too short not to reach for everything I want to be, carrying the mindset that if someone else can do it, I can too. Right now, I’m working full-time as a pediatric nurse, transitioning my degree to my FNP, volunteering with the Red Cross and Patsy’s House, planning a spring wedding, attempting to break generational curses, learning to set boundaries, maintaining a social circle, and working out 3 to 4 times a week.
Recently, between bridesmaids, decorators, and in-laws, the noise got to be too loud. I found myself pulling off to the side of the road, overlooking a bridge above a lake. Part of me wanted to jump off and say goodbye, but something stopped me. I got back into the car and cried under a pavilion. In all honesty, I expected an angel to come down—just like God sent to feed Elijah under the broom bush when he was exhausted and ready to give up (1 Kings 19:4–7). But that miraculous physical encounter didn't happen.
I got back into the car, convinced I could hear a voice inside guiding me, turning left and right until I was nearly two hours in the wrong direction of home. Angry and overwhelmed, I looked at the map, picked New Orleans, and drove nine hours straight.
On paper, medical clinical terms would classify this as a manic episode. But in my spirit, it was the raw reality of a lack of boundaries and holding onto far too much weight that I was never meant to carry alone. Like the Galatians who were called out for starting in the Spirit but trying to finish by human effort (Galatians 3:3), I thought that by reading my Bible, attending church, and doing all the right things, I would be "good enough" to encounter God personally like people did in Scripture.
Under that pavilion, I cried out to God for a hug—for physical comfort. Growing up, I never had those warm, fuzzy relationships with parents. Watching others wrapped in the arms of a mom who drops everything for them is something I’ve never experienced. Though I have family who loves me, it’s not the same—especially when a history of abuse causes me to instinctively recoil from physical touch, even while desperately begging the Creator of the universe for a hug that never came.
I read of Jesus laying His hands on people to heal and comfort them, and I catch myself asking why they were so fortunate to feel His physical presence while I wasn't good enough for it. I hate that it always circles back to my self-worth, even with all the progress I’ve made in my mental health.
Yet, even without a physical hug, God met me in New Orleans. He surrounded me with strangers who spoke life over me—telling me I am beautiful, funny, smart, and that I give too much of myself away. Like Hagar fleeing alone in the wilderness after being mistreated, God met me in my wandering and reminded me that He is El Roi—"The God Who Sees Me" (Genesis 16:13). And like Elijah standing on the mountain, God didn't meet me in a grand, dramatic spectacle; He met me in a gentle whisper through the quiet, unexpected kindness of people along the way (1 Kings 19:11–13).
I know God pursues me because I see His hand all over my life. Yet the craving for a parent's unconditional love—the longing for a mom and a dad—doesn't just disappear. While Scripture promises that "though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will receive me" (Psalm 27:10), the gap between my expectations and comparing my life to those who have what I deeply want is where the deepest hurt lives.
I’m learning to lay down the pressure of doing everything to earn His presence, trusting that His grace is sufficient in my weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9) as I navigate how to let Him re-parent my heart.