Set

A few weeks ago, Lydia and I sat across from each other over brunch and talked for a few hours. We lingered over our food, caught up on life, and slipped right back into the friendship we have had for as long as I can remember. Our parents were friends and part of the same Sunday School class, so Lydia has been woven into my story for decades. We spent a lot of time together growing up, even though we went to different schools. Eventually, we stood beside each other at our weddings. I even named my daughter after her.

Today is my wedding anniversary, and it has me thinking about the people who have walked alongside me through the many seasons of my life, even when life has taken us in different directions. I live about 1,400 miles away from our hometown, and I wish we talked more than we do. But when we are together, it doesn't seem to matter how much time has passed. We just pick up where we left off.

That reminded me of something Isaac preached recently from Colossians 3: that because we've been raised with Christ, we're called to set our hearts and minds on things above. He talked about it almost like setting a cornerstone. Once a cornerstone is set, it establishes a direction. It isn't about how you feel on any particular day. It is about deciding where you are going to point yourself and continuing in that direction.

And right now, I wish I could be closer.

What Lydia is walking through right now isn't a rough patch. It's something that will change the shape of the rest of her life, and there are parts of it I'm not able to share here. I know enough to wish I could do more. I wish I could show up at her house, help with her younger kids, sit with her on the hard days, and carry some of the emotional weight with her. But I live 1,400 miles away. There are some kinds of help that distance simply makes harder.

So I pray. I support the ministry work she is doing. And when I am home and we have the chance to sit across from each other over brunch, I try to be fully there. Those things are small compared to what I wish I could do, but they aren't nothing. And somewhere in all of this, I have had to remember that my hope for Lydia was never supposed to rest on whether I could be physically present for her. It rests on God. He can be present with her when I am so far away. He can carry what I cannot carry. He can work in places I cannot reach. And He is not limited by the things that limit me.

That doesn't make the distance stop hurting. I still wish I could be there. But it does mean I don't have to be enough for her. I can love her, pray for her, give when I can, and trust the One who is already there. The miles may have changed our circumstances, but they don't have to change where my hope is pointed.

My mind is very good at collecting things. An email I need to answer. An appointment I need to reschedule. A conversation I need to have. Something at church that needs to be figured out. A kid who needs something. A grocery list running through my head while I'm trying to pray. None of those things are necessarily important enough to be called a crisis, but somehow they can fill every available corner of my mind.

Maybe that's part of what Isaac was getting at when he talked about setting our minds on things above. It doesn't mean the ordinary things don't matter. They do. It means they don't get to become the thing that occupies the center of my attention. I can take care of what is in front of me without letting it become the thing I build my hope around. My circumstances can change. My to-do list can get longer. There will always be something else competing for my attention. But I can keep bringing my mind back to what is true, to who Christ is, and to where my hope is actually anchored.

A few weeks ago, Lydia and I sat across from each other over brunch, and for a few hours the miles between us were simply the miles between us. They were still there. Her circumstances were still there. Nothing about our conversation changed any of that. But I was reminded that some things can remain firmly set even when everything around them changes.

I wonder if this is what Paul is getting at in Colossians 3. We have been raised with Christ, and we are called to set our hearts and minds on things above. Not because life will stop changing, but because we have somewhere fixed to turn when it does.

We don't get to choose everything that happens around us. We don't get to control the miles, the circumstances, the interruptions, or even every wandering thought. But we do get to keep returning to what we have set our hearts and minds on.

Where has your heart been set?


This Week
Think of one person or one worry that's been pulling at your heart or your mind lately, someone whose circumstances aren't yours to control, or something ordinary that keeps crowding out your attention.

If your heart is already staying steady on Christ even while you're carrying that person or that worry, take a minute this week to notice that, and thank God for it.

But if you keep catching your mind wandering back to the same nagging thing, here's the practice: when you notice it happening, don't try to solve it right then. Just name it, hand it to God, and point yourself back toward Him.

You don't have to get your whole heart reset in one sitting. You just have to keep pointing yourself back.


Prayer
Lord, thank you for being the fixed point our hearts can return to, even when everything else keeps shifting.

Forgive us for letting our minds drift toward whatever is loudest instead of staying set on you, and for believing our hope has to rest on what we can control. Help us set our hearts on you like a cornerstone, established on purpose, not moved by how we feel today. Where we love people we cannot reach the way we wish we could, remind us you are not limited by what limits us.

We don't have to get it all reset in one sitting. Just keep pointing us back to you.

Amen.