Confessions of A Curious Follower
Showing up beyond the map.
It’s the end of the day.
The kettle has just boiled, and steam rises from the cup of tea in front of me. I open the laptop and turn it on. The dehumidifier is churning next to me. I open Microsoft Word. New Document. No template. The text cursor blinks back to me.
I open the internet. Go to Substack. Go to my dashboard. Go to posts. There are no drafts waiting to be published. No posts scheduled. No backlog of perfectly polished pieces ready to press “send” on. It’s Monday night, and the busyness of the day – the kind that doesn’t feel particularly productive but somehow fills every moment – has kept me from getting to the good stuff. The stuff I know I need to do. The stuff I want to do.
I need to write.
Partly it’s because a rhythm has quietly developed over these past few months – blogs go live on a Tuesday. It’s not a rule I’ve set in stone, but it’s one I’ve come to value. Not just for the sake of consistency or momentum or platform, but because writing, for me, is how I breathe. It’s how I process what’s really going on beneath the surface. It’s the place I meet God most clearly – not always in clear statements or big conclusions, but in the simple act of naming the moment.
And it’s been well over a week since I last did that.
Since I last paused long enough to write something meaningful – not just for publishing, not just for you, the lovely reader – but for me. Not everything I write sees the light of day. Not everything is coherent enough to share here. But everything I write helps me stay grounded in the deeper rhythms of being alive. And I’m noticing, right now, that I’ve been slipping out of those rhythms a little.
I’ve been interruptible, yes. I’ve shown up for the things that matter – for people, for moments, for admin and beginnings and bits of life that need tending. But I haven’t stopped long enough to really check in.
And while I could technically publish this tomorrow or Thursday or whenever – there’s something in this rhythm sticking around for a while longer. There’s something in choosing to write because I need to. Not just because it’s time – but because I’m being drawn back to the page. I’m not writing because I have it all figured out – I’m writing because I don’t.
And so here I am – interrupting the dehumidifiers hum with a confession. One that I didn’t quite know I needed to voice until now:
“I’m here…now what?”
I’m reminded again – not for the first time, and probably not for the last – that my ‘doing’ without ‘being’ is futile. That productivity, no matter how purposeful, can’t sustain me if it doesn’t flow from presence. From stillness. From a rootedness in who He is, who I am and who He continues to be, and who I’m becoming. My ‘doing’ must come from ‘being’. As I have already said, the busyness of the day has got in the way – I need to breathe, to take a second, to process, to check-in.
How am I BEING?
And so for the first time since the last time I wrote anything, I pause - well actually more like stop. I stop. And I breathe.
And with that breath, I notice the heaviness. It’s been sitting there all day – perhaps all week – but I’ve been too busy to name it. I breathe again, softer this time. And as I do, I close my eyes, and an image forms in my mind.
I’m standing in a field. Just me. Surrounded by open land from horizon to horizon. There are a few scattered trees, but otherwise, it’s wide and quiet, perhaps a few birds sing in the distance. I look down and notice a map in my hand and I realise that the fence I passed a few steps back was the last marked point on it. There is no more map. A border where the page ends but the land keeps going. And it hits me – I’ve followed the path I knew. But now, I’m beyond it.
The journey so far – the past couple of years, the rhythms I’ve lived, the work I’ve been part of, the ways I’ve learned and grown – it’s all there on the map behind me. Known, named, familiar. But ahead? Nothing but open ground. The land is good. It looks rich with possibility. But it’s also full of uncertainty. Of risk. Of newness.
My heart starts to race – a strange mix of excitement and fear. A sense that something is about to begin, but I don’t know what yet. The land invites exploration, but it also stirs something in me that’s less comfortable. Because when there’s no map, there’s no certainty. No obvious next step. No clear destination. Just instinct. Attentiveness. Trust.
My heart continues to race.
I think back to something I’ve heard others say over the years: “What’s got you this far won’t get you where you need to be.”
At first, I push back internally. Isn’t that a bit strange? Surely God has got me this far. Surely He’s the one who’ll get me wherever I need to go. And yes – of course He will. But as I sit with it, I begin to realise what that phrase is really about. It’s not that God changes – it’s that I do. It’s that the tools, habits, and scaffolding that supported me in one season aren’t necessarily the ones I’ll need for the next.
The map in my hand has shown the contours of my journey so far. The ups and downs. The stretches and stumbles. But it can’t show me what’s ahead. And that’s okay. The path ahead will ask something different of me. A different pace. A deeper trust. A new kind of curiosity. And in that, I feel drawn – not to strive harder, but to be still enough to notice that presence isn’t bound by a map. Because I’m not being asked to walk alone. I’m not being asked to figure it all out. I’m simply being invited to show up – beyond the map – and trust that God is already there.
I think about vision. About clarity. About one of the many metaphors I keep coming back to – the optician visit that is long overdue. You know your eyesight’s not what it was. The glasses you wear are helping, but everything still feels just slightly out of focus. The world is out there in front of you, but you can’t quite see it clearly. And then, when you finally go and get tested, when you stop pretending you can see just fine – the lenses shift. And everything comes into view.
I wonder if I’m in that in-between moment right now. The moment just before the glasses change. When things still look blurry. When I’m still adjusting. When I’m learning to rely on God not just as a distant guide, but as the one who sees clearly when I don’t.
It’s humbling.
But maybe that’s the point.
This isn’t a blueprint or a declaration – it’s a check-in. A beginning again. A way to pause and name what’s stirring, even if the words aren’t fully formed yet. I don’t have a map for this next stretch. I’m not sure how far the field goes. But I know I’m here – heart racing, eyes open, breathing slowly – and that, for today at least, is enough.
The question I began with, “I’m here…now what?” hasn’t been answered. Not really. And maybe it doesn’t need to be. Not all at once. Perhaps the invitation is simply to ask it, openly, honestly, and to keep asking as I walk. “I’m here…what’s next?” It’s not a demand. It’s a prayer. A posture. A way of staying open. A way of staying with God in the not-yet. A quiet, steady way of saying: I’m still listening.
Because something is moving. Not loudly, not suddenly – but unmistakably. Even here, in this room, with a blinking cursor, a now half-drunk cup of tea and the quiet hum of the room around me – something is shifting. A stillness. A presence. A reminder that I’m not alone, even when I’m beyond the map.
So I’ll keep showing up. I’ll keep noticing. I’ll keep writing. And perhaps that’s where the real adventure begins.
Josh | A Curious Follower
A Curious Follower is a space for anyone who’s learning to slow down, live with intention, and follow the quiet tug of something deeper.
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