Little Wren Writes

I don’t think I’ve ever deliberately decided to wander from God.

I’ve never woken up one morning, made a cup of tea and thought: Right. Today seems like an excellent day to become spiritually distant.

It tends to be much less dramatic than that.
A missed prayer here.
A Bible that stays closed there.
A difficult season where talking to God feels complicated.
A disappointment I don’t quite know what to do with.
A choice I’m ashamed of.
A few days of being too busy…then a few more.

Sometimes I’m not even angry with God. I’m just tired. Distracted. Embarrassed. Numb.

And somewhere along the way I realise: Oh. I’ve wandered.

I think we sometimes imagine wandering as outright rebellion. Running away. Shaking our fist at God. Choosing something spectacularly sinful and disappearing into the metaphorical wilderness.

And sometimes it is. But sometimes wandering is quieter.

Sometimes it’s simply becoming less aware of God. Other voices become louder. Other things become more urgent. Prayer becomes something I keep meaning to get back to. Scripture starts feeling strangely intimidating because now it’s been a while, and apparently I’ve turned opening my Bible into something requiring a formal re-entry procedure. Sometimes hurt makes me wander. Sometimes shame. Sometimes disappointment. Sometimes exhaustion. Sometimes I don’t know why.

I just notice one day that God feels further away.

Of course, theologically, God hasn’t moved. I know that. But relationships aren’t experienced purely through theology. I can know God is present and still feel distant from Him. I can know He loves me and still feel reluctant to approach Him. I can know grace is real and still find myself thinking ‘I should probably get myself together before I pray properly again’.

That’s one of shame’s favourite tricks. It convinces me that I need to become presentable before I return to the One who already knows everything. Maybe I’ll pray after I’ve sorted myself out. Maybe I’ll come back when I’ve been more consistent. Maybe I’ll talk to God once I’m less angry.

Less messy. Less confused. Less ashamed. Then I’ll be ready.

I have made some impressively questionable decisions in the last few months. Some have been exceptionally fun (like 13 Broadway shows and patting sea otters). Others have been far less exciting – in fact some have filled me with shame and sadness. I have done things that have hurt people. I’ve made choices that have hurt myself. It’s been a tricky season of navigating mental health challenges and the ‘fun’ that comes with trying to heal. I have clung to people, and I’ve had to spend some time in the ‘wilderness’. Sounds dramatic, but it did feel a little bit like that. And once my time in the metaphorical wilderness had finished, I was increasingly anxious about returning. Are people going to be angry with me? Disappointed? (Again, a bit like the prodigal son vibes that I talked about many letters ago). I’m not ‘fixed’. I’m still messy and broken and sad sometimes. And as I wandered back to them, I was greeted with warmth, grace, a big hug (or three) and forgiveness. I was welcomed back. And I didn’t need to be ‘ready’ to be welcomed. Phew!

Jesus also seems remarkably uninterested in waiting for people to become ‘ready’.

Peter is one of my favourite examples. Peter loves Jesus. There’s no question about that. He’s impulsive. Passionate. Occasionally says spectacularly unhelpful things. Which is reassuring. But he loves Jesus.

And shortly before Jesus dies, Peter makes an enormous promise: “Even if I have to die with you, I will never disown you.”

A few hours later…he does. Three times. Not because Peter has stopped loving Jesus. Because he’s frightened.

And then the rooster crows. Luke tells us Jesus turns and looks directly at Peter. Peter remembers what Jesus said. And he goes outside and weeps bitterly. I wonder what Peter heard inside his head after that.

Coward.
Failure.
You said you’d stay.
You abandoned Him.
After everything He did for you.
How could you?

Scripture doesn’t tell us. But I know what shame sounds like in my own head. I can imagine.

Then Jesus dies. And Peter doesn’t get the chance to fix it. That’s the part that gets me. There is no conversation. No apology. No opportunity to explain. No – Jesus, can we talk about what happened last night?

Jesus is gone. Then comes resurrection. Joy. Confusion. Chaos.

And eventually, in John 21, Peter says “I’m going out to fish.” Back to what he knows. Back to boats. Nets. Water. The life he had before Jesus said ‘Follow me’.

Maybe Peter isn’t abandoning discipleship. The text doesn’t actually say that. But I wonder whether there’s something familiar and safe about returning to fishing after everything that has happened. When life becomes too much, familiar things can feel comforting. So Peter fishes. All night. And catches absolutely nothing.

Which feels unnecessarily rude after the week he’s had.

Morning comes. There’s a man standing on the shore. The disciples don’t initially recognise Him. He tells them to throw their net on the other side of the boat. Suddenly it’s full of fish.

John realises first – “It is the Lord!”

And Peter…Peter jumps into the water. Of course he does. Because Peter has never once encountered a situation he couldn’t make more dramatic. He swims to Jesus. And when he reaches the shore, what does he find? A charcoal fire. Fish. Bread.

And Jesus says: “Come and have breakfast.” I love that.

Peter has denied Him. Failed Him. Probably carries enormous shame about what happened. And the risen Jesus makes him breakfast. Before the difficult conversation. Before Jesus asks Peter three times: “Do you love me?”

Before the restoration. Before: “Feed my sheep.”
Before Jesus speaks again about Peter’s future there is: Come and eat. Welcome. Sit down. You’re still invited to the table.

Jesus doesn’t pretend Peter’s failure didn’t happen. That’s important. Welcome isn’t the same as avoidance. Later Jesus returns directly to the place of Peter’s failure. Three denials. Three questions.

Do you love me?

And each time Jesus gives Peter something to do. Feed my lambs. Take care of my sheep. Feed my sheep.

Peter’s worst moment doesn’t become the end of his calling. Jesus doesn’t say: Well, you really blew that. We’ll find someone more reliable.

He restores him. And then says again the words that began Peter’s journey in the first place:

“Follow me.”

After everything. Follow me.

I think I sometimes imagine God’s response to my wandering very differently.

I picture disappointment. Distance. Arms crossed. A slightly weary ‘Here we go again’.

Maybe because human relationships have sometimes taught me that repeated failure eventually exhausts people’s patience. Surely God must get sick of the same things too. The same insecurity. The same fear. The same sin. The same wandering. The same prayer…sorry. I’m here again.

But Jesus’ response to Peter makes me rethink that picture. Not because Jesus doesn’t care about sin. He cares deeply. But His correction happens inside relationship. Peter isn’t restored by being humiliated.

He’s restored by Jesus.

And I think wandering can happen because we forget that. We imagine God waiting at some distant point for us to find our way back. But throughout Scripture, God is remarkably active towards wandering people. Seeking. Calling. Correcting. Providing. Inviting. Drawing near.

Jesus describes Himself in John 10 as the Good Shepherd. Shepherds don’t stand at the sheepfold shouting:

Well, you wandered off. Work it out.

They go after sheep. Which, admittedly, isn’t enormously flattering imagery for us. Sheep are not famous for their excellent decision-making. Still. The point stands.

Maybe welcome is one of the things I most need when I’ve wandered. Not permission to stay where I am but a welcome back.

Grace doesn’t say – It doesn’t matter where you go.

Grace says come home.

Come back into relationship. Come back into truth. Come back into the light. Come back to the Shepherd. Come back to the table. Sometimes there will be things to confess. Things to change. Things to repair. Apologies to make. Patterns to address.

But I don’t have to complete all of that before approaching Jesus. I approach Jesus because I need grace to do it.

And perhaps that’s what I love most about Peter’s breakfast. Jesus doesn’t make Peter earn proximity. He feeds him. Then He restores him. Then He sends him. Welcome isn’t the reward Peter receives after proving he’s changed. Welcome is where the changing begins.

I need that. Because sometimes I still treat God like someone whose affection I need to regain. I tell myself I’ll get back into a good Bible-reading routine. Pray properly. Be more disciplined. Stop doing the thing. Start doing the other thing. Become generally more spiritually impressive. Then I’ll feel close to God again. But the gospel keeps disrupting that order. Come first. Then let grace do its work.

And sometimes my wandering isn’t sin. Sometimes I’m just exhausted. Sometimes grief has made prayer difficult. Sometimes I don’t know what to say to God because I’m disappointed with Him. Sometimes my Bible feels like words on a page rather than something alive. Sometimes worship feels natural. Sometimes it doesn’t. I don’t want to call every season of spiritual dryness rebellion. But I also don’t want to become comfortable with distance.

So maybe the question isn’t: How did I end up here?

Maybe it’s simply: Which direction am I facing now?

Because even a tiny turn towards Jesus is still a turn towards Jesus.

Maybe that’s all some days require. Jesus, I’m here.

Not an impressive prayer. Not a profound spiritual insight. Just: I’m here.

And perhaps I discover He’s been there all along. Breakfast on the fire. Grace already prepared. No shock at my arrival. No surprise at what I’ve done. No need for me to convince Him that I’m worth another chance.

Just Jesus. Still telling the truth. Still dealing with what needs dealing with. Still calling me forward. Still saying: Follow me.

I will wander again.

As one of my favourite songs, Come Thou Fount, reminds me:
“Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
prone to leave the God I love;
here’s my heart; O take and seal it;
seal it for thy courts above.

It’s not because I want to. It’s because I’m human.
I’ll get distracted. Busy. Hurt. Ashamed. Self-reliant. I’ll sometimes listen to other voices more closely than His. I’ll sometimes try to fix myself before coming back.

But perhaps I’m learning something about welcome. God’s welcome isn’t fragile. It isn’t reserved for the version of me who has been spiritually consistent for thirty consecutive days. It isn’t cancelled the moment I struggle. And it isn’t opposed to correction.

The same Jesus who says:
Come and have breakfast
also says:
Follow me.

That’s grace. Welcome that doesn’t leave me where it found me.

So when I notice I’ve wandered, maybe I don’t need to panic. Or hide. Or spend three weeks trying to become worthy of returning. I can turn around. Tell the truth. Come back. Sit with Jesus. Let Him speak into whatever brought me here. Receive grace. And follow again.

I think the most important thing about wandering isn’t how far I’ve gone. It’s the One who still welcomes me when I turn towards Him. The Jesus who met Peter beside the water. The Jesus who knew exactly what Peter had done. The Jesus who didn’t minimise it. Didn’t ignore it. Didn’t define Peter by it. He simply lit a fire. Cooked breakfast. Restored what had broken.

And said once more:

Follow me.

“Jesus said to them, ‘Come and have breakfast.’” 
John 21:12