...if you are restless—truly restless—not for more but for what’s real—perhaps this is not a flaw to fix, but a call to follow. Don’t rush to interpret it. Don’t drown it in noise. Let it speak. Let it become unbearable, if it must.
As always, the first signs of real spiritual growth are rarely beautiful. They don’t come as inspiration or peace, but as a kind of corrosion. Something familiar becomes unbearable.
But what you may not be aware of is that this erosion may be a God-send. That discontent—persistent, slow, uncomfortable—might be the beginning of hearing God again, of bending your path, syncing your soul to the rhythm of His visions, His plan for your life.
There are many kinds of discontent, of course. The petty kind, born of comparison and the creeping poison of modern life. The consumer discontent that advertisers exploit with precision: your home isn’t modern enough. But that isn’t the kind we’re speaking of here. There is a deeper discontent. The quiet one. It arrives unannounced. It doesn’t scream or demand. It simply waits. It hovers in the silence between obligations. It begins not with pain, but often with a shrug.
It happens when something inside us refuses to settle for what has always been enough. God, it seems, rarely calls people to remain. Even when they desperately want to. He lets things become uncomfortable for us. Not violently, but persistently.
As Christians, we often imagine God as a comforter, and He is. But the comfort He offers is rarely soft. It is the kind that holds us upright amid life’s trials. It is not the kind that compels us to dodge the storm brewing before us, but to face it head-on. I have gone through struggles myself, which, in hindsight, I couldn’t understand how I survived. Truly, the grace to continue life despite yesterday’s shadows only attests to God’s faithfulness and quiet but steady comfort.
When the Familiar Becomes a Cage
It is difficult to leave what has worked. Whether a physical place, a belief, or a way of being. The Israelites, when freed, longed to return to Egypt—not because it was good, but because it was familiar. Slavery had become their rhythm, their comfort. The wilderness was too open, too empty, too full of waiting. They lost sight of what’s in store for them on the other side, the Promised Land, flowing with milk and honey.
The Grace of Unsettling
One begins to wonder: if God loves us, why not leave us in peace? Why not allow us the dull contentment of routines? But peace, the kind we long for, is not the same as numbness. And numbness is often what we’ve settled for.
What we call peace may be a kind of spiritual inertia. A life so perfectly padded that nothing gets in—not doubt, not awe, not our life missions, not even God. What we fear isn’t that God might speak. We fear that He already has, and that we’ve ignored Him.
Discontent is, then, a form of mercy. It unsettles us. It whispers before it must shout. This holy ache is not God’s absence. It is His insistence.
Moses was raised in opulence, educated in the best of Egyptian thought, surrounded by structure and power. But something in him refuses to be at ease. It begins with a glance at an Egyptian guard too brutal, a Hebrew slave too silent. He cannot not see it. And then he acts clumsily. As many do when first confronting the raw edge of injustice.
He flees. Spends years—decades—doing nothing of note. Herding sheep in a nowhere place. But here’s what most people don’t get: God did not meet him in the palace. He met Moses in obscurity.
The burning bush is not an anomaly. It is what happens when a man has been made ready by long disappointment. The fire of calling must come after the ash of disillusionment. The discontent Moses carried wasn’t erased in the wilderness. It was clarified. He would not return to Egypt because he missed the power. He would return because the ache had matured into obedience.
How the Ache Becomes the Answer
More often than not, listening to the ache is to risk change. To leave behind a version of yourself that was manageable, acceptable, even admired. To move toward something unformed, something that does not yet have a name. Faith in such a moment becomes less about answers and more about willingness. It becomes trust that the unease is not a detour, but a doorway to our life’s mission, to surrender and yield to God’s call, even if it feels like it’s out of our depth.
Don’t Rush Through the Wilderness
Therefore, there’s always this temptation, once you’ve recognized the restlessness, to escape it quickly. To rebrand, restart, reinvent. Our culture applauds action. But spiritual transformation rarely happens at that speed. You will sit in the in-between. You’ll outgrow your old life like a favorite sweater that suddenly doesn’t fit, but the new one won’t be stitched together just yet.
This is the desert. It is where illusions are stripped. It is where motives are tested. Many do not survive it spiritually. They return to Egypt, if not in body, then in spirit. But for those who stay, who dare to ask God what this ache means, the desert becomes something else entirely.
It becomes holy ground.
And so, if you are restless—truly restless—not for more but for what’s real—perhaps this is not a flaw to fix, but a call to follow. Don’t rush to interpret it. Don’t drown it in noise. Let it speak. Let it become unbearable, if it must.
Because sometimes the ache is not the problem.
Sometimes, it is the answer.
We forget—often by choice—that faith, if it is alive, must move. Not necessarily to new cities or careers, but deeper into self. Into the places we’ve avoided or denied. In honesty. Into obedience that costs something. And it begins, almost always, with a discomfort we cannot explain away. Only the awareness, sharp and quiet, that something must change.
If you’re one of them, you have just joined a long line of people who have heard God not in triumph, but in ache.
The struggles of transition may be debilitating at the outset, but once you push through the fear and indecision, things will slip into place. And the rewards? They will be nothing short of extraordinary, earned by your courage, faith, and obedience to the only One who can propel you forward to your life’s mission.
Recall Moses, timid like a lamb, yet courageous and faithful enough to go to Egypt to confront Pharaoh and become the leader of God’s people, was revered and lived a life of purpose.
Remember Abraham, who left his homeland to heed God’s call despite plunging himself into something unfamiliar. He eventually became the father of many nations and won the distinction of being called by God as His friend.
Consider Ruth. She left everything familiar, her homeland, her people, her future, and chose to walk the uncertain road of sacrifice. Her sacrifice eventually led her to unexpected favor—she found belonging among God’s people, provision through Boaz, and a place in the lineage of the Messiah.
Your life’s mission may not be as grand as Moses' or Abraham's. It might not come with burning bushes or parted seas, but that doesn’t make it insignificant. Maybe you’re not leading thousands through the wilderness, but you are leading in quieter ways, such as sharing God's words with a neighbor, a friend, or officemate, or helping fund your church's small projects, teaching Bible lessons to kids in a Sunday school, preaching the gospel on the city street, or going to a foreign country for a month or two to share the love of God.
As you transition to the path God is leading you, no matter the size or scale, may these words from the Scripture that guided His loyal servants from centuries past until now be your assurance of His faithfulness:
“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.” Joshua 1:9
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