Abide Until You Know

Some truths don’t land in the mind first.
They land in the chest.

Most of us have heard that God loves us.
We can say it. Sing it. Defend it.

And still live as if we’re standing just outside the door —
close enough to hear the sounds inside,
but never quite at rest.

That’s why this passage feels so weighty.
Paul isn’t writing theology here.
He’s praying.

And not standing —
He’s on his knees.

Paul begins with posture.

Not because God is far away —
but because what he’s about to ask cannot be produced by effort.

He doesn’t pray first for behavior.
He doesn’t pray for clarity or correction.

He prays for inner strength.

Not outward resolve,
but something happening quietly inside —
so that Christ may dwell.

Not pass through.
Not visit when invited.
But be at home.

And before anything is understood, explained, or known,
he names the ground beneath it all:

That’s not a goal.
That’s a place to remain.

This is the heart of the prayer.

Paul asks that you would know
what cannot be reduced to knowing.

A love beyond dimensions.
A love you don’t stand back and analyze —
but step into.

And notice what’s required to receive it:

strength.

He prays that you would be strengthened inside
so that Christ may dwell.

It takes strength to stop managing the relationship.
Strength to stop proving.
Strength to stay present
when fear wants to explain, control, or escape.

This kind of knowing doesn’t come from effort.
It comes from abiding.

From staying close enough — long enough —
for love to stop being an idea
and become familiar.

Like roots learning the feel of soil.
Like a body learning rest.

The prayer ends not with instruction —
but with fullness.

Not with fear —
but with confidence.

Not with something to do —
but Someone already at work within.

And then worship.

Because when love like this is glimpsed —
even briefly —
the only honest response
is to stop talking…
and stay.

This prayer was never meant to be rushed.
It was meant to be entered.

It doesn’t ask you to solve anything.
It doesn’t ask you to fix yourself.
It doesn’t even ask you to feel something specific.

It simply opens a space
and invites you to remain there.

Today, you don’t need to measure the width
or map the depth
or make sense of how love like this could possibly be yours.

You don’t need to grasp anything at all.

If you’ve spent years trying to be acceptable,
trying to be certain,
trying to be faithful enough or clean enough or sincere enough —
this prayer quietly releases you from all of that.

Paul isn’t praying that you would try harder.
He’s praying for the kind of strength
that allows you to stay.

Abiding begins right there —
when you stop managing the relationship
and allow yourself to be present.

To sit long enough
for the noise to settle —
to stay even when your instinct is to move on.

And slowly — often quietly —
love shifts.

It stops sounding like a sentence you’ve heard before
and begins to feel like the ground beneath your feet.

Something you don’t have to prove.
Something you don’t have to defend.
Something that simply holds you.

This is not a moment to accomplish.
It’s a place to return to.

So today, just abide.

Not to earn anything.
Not to unlock something hidden.
But to let what is already true
become familiar.