The Gift of Staying: Embracing the Sacred Call to Belong
In the early pages of Scripture, before the Fall, before the ache of creation fractured by sin, God made a declaration: “It is not good for man to be alone” (Genesis 2:18).
This divine observation is striking. In a world not yet marred by brokenness, where humanity walked with God in the cool of the day, something was still incomplete. The Creator, in His infinite wisdom, looked upon His image-bearer and deemed solitude insufficient. We were made for communion—not as a concession to weakness, but as an expression of divine design. We were not only made by a relational God; we were made for relationship, in His image, to mirror the eternal fellowship of Father, Son, and Spirit.
For much of my life, I have lived with an instinctive pull away from permanence. Growing up in a military family, change was constant, and the fleeting nature of relationships beyond my immediate family shaped my way of being. I quickly learned to pack lightly – emotionally and relationally. I learned how to build fast friendships and even faster exits. And somewhere along the way, I made a silent vow: I will not let myself be fully known, because to be known is to risk loss.
This vow has quietly followed me into adulthood, and until this year, I didn’t fully realize how it shaped the way I approach relationships. Until this year, I’m not sure I could have even named it. I now recognize how it disguised itself as wisdom, self-protection, and strength, but beneath it lay fear—and beneath that fear, a longing.
This year, through the Chattanooga Fellows Program, I have begun to confront that vow. As we began our year, we were invited to commit ourselves not merely to a schedule or a curriculum, but to one another. We were asked to say yes to community before we even met one another. And in doing so, we were asked to trust that being deeply and consistently present is where true community begins.
Over the summer, we read Made for People by Justin Whitmel Earley, a book that reframes friendship not as a mere accessory, but as a divine calling—one of the primary ways we reflect the nature of God and live out the Gospel. Earley argues that God created us to function best when we are in meaningful relationships with others. We are made in His image (Genesis 1:26), and as such, we are made for relational work, reflecting the relational nature of God Himself.
The early chapters of Genesis paint a profound picture of this truth. In fact, as the title suggests, we are made for people. Earley writes, “You are made for people in such a way that you will be lonely if it is just ‘you and God.’ … It is crucial to see that our capacity to be lonely with God is not a sign of God’s insufficiency or lack. It is a sign of His unfathomable generosity: God designed us to need people. You cannot experience God the way you were made to until you experience Him alongside others.”
We often think of our relationship with God as self-sufficient, as if intimacy with Him alone should satisfy all our longings. But Earley challenges this notion. The ache for companionship, for deep and abiding friendship, is not a flaw in our faith or a sign of spiritual immaturity. It’s a mark of divine intentionality. Our loneliness is not always a problem to be fixed—it can be a reminder of the communal love we were created to give and receive.
And if this is true—if friendship is not incidental but central to God’s design—then learning to live in community is not optional for the believer. It is a spiritual discipline. A means of grace. A form of obedience. Building and sustaining Christlike friendships isn’t merely a social skill; it’s part of our sanctification. To pursue friendship is to pursue the heart of God.
Earley goes on to say, “We are not happiest when we are hiding and ‘safe.’ We are happiest when we are exposed and loved anyway.” This idea deeply challenged me as I read. It spoke to a tension I often feel—the longing to be fully known and loved, paired with a strong desire to stay guarded and in control. But the truth is, joy doesn’t come from self-protection. It comes when we allow ourselves to be seen—truly seen—and still embraced. In friendship, we are invited to show up as we are, with all our flaws and vulnerabilities, and to be loved with a grace that mirrors the unconditional love Christ offers us.
The fullest expression of this joy is found in our relationship with Christ. He knows us intimately—our strengths, our weaknesses, our faults—and yet He loves us fully. It is in this divine relationship that we understand the power of unconditional love. And yet, God has given us an earthly symbol, a reflection of this love in the form of friendship. What a gift it is to experience, on a human level, the grace and love that God extends to us. Through the vulnerability and grace shared between friends, we are reminded of His never-failing, never-ending love.
The beauty of Christlike friendship lies in its invitation to embrace both vulnerability and authenticity. True friendship isn’t about perfection or the absence of flaws; it is about showing up, being honest, and offering grace when we inevitably fall short. In this way, friendship becomes a living reflection of God’s love—a love that is not contingent on our worth, but is freely given, despite our imperfections. When we allow ourselves to be known and loved in friendship, we participate in the kind of love that God models for us, and we reflect His nature in the world around us.
This year hasn't brought a single moment of radical transformation—no mountaintop experiences or sudden turning points. Instead, growth has come slowly, through subtle shifts, intentional habits, and persistent wrestling. In the quiet, steady rhythms of a faithful community, these ideas have begun to take root.
I continue to struggle with the part of me that longs for deep connection and the part that clings to control. I’m still learning to believe that I don’t have to choose between being safe and being known—that in Christ, there is another way: to be fully known and fully secure, not because I’m guarded, but because I’m held by a love that doesn’t flinch at my vulnerability.
Love is what sustains community. But not love as sentiment—love as sacrifice. Love as staying. Love as showing up on the days when it feels easier to disappear. Love that forgives. Love that listens. Love that tells the truth. Love that reflects the steadfast, pursuing heart of God.
This year, I have seen that it takes a kind of strength to remain in community—a strength that looks like weakness. It takes the courage to speak honestly, to admit need, to say no with clarity and yes with humility. It takes the grace to forgive, and the grace to receive forgiveness in return.
And more than anything, it takes the willingness to believe what God has said from the beginning: It is not good for man to be alone.
Through the Fellows program, I have entered a space that did not merely invite but required commitment—to presence, to people, and to the long, slow work of faithfulness. And I have found that the very ache I’ve carried—the tension between longing for intimacy and the urge to remain hidden—has become a sacred meeting place with God.
Community, I’m learning, is not sustained by sentiment, but by faithfulness. And faithfulness—like a muscle—must be practiced daily. I have begun to value the quiet discipline of showing up. Of choosing presence. Of saying yes to the slow, often unseen work of being formed alongside others. Committing to community requires, as Eugene Peterson puts it, a long obedience in the same direction—an everyday act of trust, of staying, of believing that something sacred is being built in the ordinary.
I am grateful to have received that kind of faithfulness. This year, I have been pursued in my weakness. I’ve been reminded that I am not alone, and that the love offered to me by my community is a sustaining, good gift from the Lord. But more importantly, it points beyond itself—to the love of the Father, who is ever-present, steadfast, and unfailing.
Committing to community has not come easily to me. I am still learning what it means to stay, to trust, to be fully seen. But I am beginning to believe that this shared life—this rhythm of mutual obedience, covenant friendship, and grace—is not only good, but sacred.