Welcome to A Curious Follower
This is where it starts – a space for wonder, wisdom, and what ifs.
When I was five, I stood beneath the giant silver dome of Spaceship Earth in Florida – neck craned, eyes wide, heart racing. It didn’t look like it belonged. Not to Florida. Not even to Earth. It looked like it had landed from somewhere else – a spaceship, maybe. Or a secret message hidden in plain sight. Or something just waiting to be discovered. And for a five-year-old with an overactive imagination, it really could have been anything. I didn’t have the words for it then, but I knew I was standing in the presence of something bigger than me – literally, yes, but maybe also in a deeper sense. Something that made me feel small. And as I look back now, it’s strange – to feel so alive beneath something that could’ve squashed me flat. But I was. Strangely alive.
I know how lucky I was to be at Walt Disney World at that age. Not everyone gets to go, or to see the world through those kinds of lenses. But looking back, I can’t ignore how deeply formational that moment was – and others like it from my childhood. Not just in shaping who I am now, but maybe in gently revealing who God was inviting me to become - even at five years old.
You see, inside Spaceship Earth – the attraction, not just the dome – you go on a ride through the centuries. You travel through the story of human progress, from cave paintings to printing presses, from early alphabets to satellites in space. It’s all about communication – how we’ve learned to speak, write, share and dream together. And at the end, just when the history lesson finishes, something unexpected happens. You step off the ride and into a new room. A quiet, glowing space filled with questions about the future. Not just what was, but what could be.
It was that invitation, that simple question, that stayed with me:
What if tomorrow could be better than today?
Something about that stirred me deeply. Even at eight years old, I remember lying in the back garden at home thinking: I wonder, can I make a spaceship that has enough fuel to get all the way to Jupiter? I wasn’t trying to escape Earth. And my homemade rockets never made past the height of our house. But I just wanted to explore it and everything beyond it. I wanted to imagine something more. Not because I wasn’t content, but because I was curious.
I think I still am.
It would seem I’ve always been wired that way – curious. Not necessarily loud, or brave, or bright-eyed like the way films show it. Just quietly, stubbornly wondering about things. Noticing. Asking. Letting thoughts linger a little longer than they should.
And yet, somewhere along the way, curiosity, along with imagination and dreaming, got harder to hold onto. Not because it disappeared, but because it slowly got buried. Bit by bit, it was covered over by ‘grown-up’ responsibilities, by expectations, by the kind of questions you’re not always encouraged to ask out loud. Questions that begin with ‘what if’ and end in silence. Questions that don’t resolve easily. Questions that feel dangerous, even when they’re honest.
I didn’t stop being curious. If anything, my curiosity just changed shape. It got a little darker. A little heavier. The curiosity that once built spaceships in my head started peering down roads I’d have been better off avoiding. Gambling. Alcohol. Escapes that promised excitement but delivered exhaustion. Curiosity became something I learned to be cautious with, to be responsible with – to keep contained, managed, controlled. Keep it neat. Keep it quiet. Keep it in the box.
That’s the tension, isn’t it? Curiosity in itself isn’t wrong – it’s a gift. But it needs a companion. Curiosity without wisdom can drift into dangerous places. It can look like freedom, but lead to addiction. It can feel like discovery, but end in harm. I’ve walked a few of those paths. I’ve followed questions that didn’t need answering and opened doors I wish I’d left closed. But even then, I don’t believe the answer is to shut curiosity down altogether – to silence it or shame it or seal it away. The answer is to pair it with wisdom. The kind of wisdom that grows when we walk with God. The kind that gives us permission to make mistakes – and then learn. The kind that trusts the leading of the wild Holy Spirit.
Because childlike wonder isn’t childish – it’s holy.
Curiosity still belongs in the life of faith. Not as a threat, but as a companion. To challenge us, strengthen us, and bring clarity when the map runs out. When the car runs out of fuel. When there seems to be no way forward.
Curiosity. Following.
That’s what this space is for.
So what is A Curious Follower?
It’s a blog, yes. A newsletter too. The home of ‘Growing with God’ (more on that another time.) And perhaps, over time, something more – a podcast, a retreat, a book, devotionals…
But really, it’s a space.
A quiet space. A human space. A space for questions that don’t have tidy answers.
For wonder that doesn’t fit into bullet points. For people who are still following Jesus – but perhaps with more questions than they once had, and a bit less certainty about how it all fits together.
It’s a space to slow down and notice.
To notice what’s happening in the world – the tensions, the beauty, the ache beneath the surface.
To notice the culture we live in – the rhythms we absorb without thinking, the habits that form us, the longing we carry.
To notice where God might be moving – not just in the big and bold, but in the quiet, strange, and easily-missed moments.
To notice what new thing God might be doing – in us, around us, and through us.
Because the truth is, God is always doing something new. The question is – are we paying attention?
A Curious Follower is about that kind of attention. The kind that doesn’t rush. The kind that asks. The kind that holds space for mystery. It’s not about having the right answer. It’s about staying awake enough to see the invitation.
You can expect reflections that weave together Scripture and silence, pop culture and prayer, leadership and longing. Some posts will look like letters. Others will feel like journal entries or psalms or fragments from the edge of faith. There will be stories and observations, practices and provocations. But always, the thread will be the same – curiosity and attentiveness to where God is already at work, and where God might be asking us to follow next.
Not louder. Not faster. But deeper.
If you find yourself on the edge of the familiar, wondering if God might be just as present outside the frame as within it – then you’re in the right place. If you’re willing to let go of neat answers in favour of holy questions – then perhaps you’re already a curious follower too.
This space won’t rush you. It won’t pressure you. It will simply ask:
What if God is closer than we think? And what might happen if we follow with eyes wide open?
Why now?
Because I don’t want to sleepwalk through life. Because the noise has never been louder, and yet, somehow, the silence has never felt so necessary. Because I think a lot of us are asking questions and we need somewhere to hold them without rushing for the answer. Because the world feels tired. The Church feels tired. And maybe, if we’re honest, we’re tired too.
But I don’t believe that’s the end of the story.
I believe God is still breathing. Still creating. Still calling people not just to build things but to become a people. A people marked not by platform or polish, but by presence. People who live intentionally. A little slower. Listen longer. Pay attention. Carry hope.
I believe we’re in a moment where many of us are being re-formed, not deconstructed for destruction’s sake, but reshaped with tenderness into something more honest. More grounded. More whole. I think we’re learning to live without a script, not faithless, but free. Not drifting, but discerning. Following God into unknown places with open hands and softened hearts.
And I suppose that’s why I’m starting this now. Because I want to notice what God is doing, not just in me, but around me. In our communities. In our culture. In the people I walk past in the supermarket. In the stories I hear over coffee. In the questions that rise uninvited in the middle of the night.
I want to make space for others to notice too.
I’ve spent a lot of time building and doing and planning – and I’m grateful for all of it. But now feels like the time to plant something slower. Something rooted not in reaction, but in rhythm. Not in pressure, but in presence. A small and steady reminder that God is still at work in this weary world…and that curiosity might just be the way we find Him again.
Not in certainty. Not in strategy. But in the art of paying attention.
And if I’m honest – I’m doing this because I need to. Not in a strategic way. Not because I’ve figured something out and want to pass it on. But because I need somewhere to lay these thoughts down. To give shape to the questions that keep surfacing. To name what I’m noticing before it slips away.
I need a space where I can write without pressure – where I can follow the thread of curiosity and see where it leads. And maybe, just maybe, someone out there might read along and feel a quiet yes rise up inside them too.
Maybe you’ve been feeling the same. Maybe you’ve been carrying thoughts that don’t quite fit anywhere else. Maybe you’ve been longing for language that makes space instead of closing it down.
This isn’t polished teaching. It’s definitely not a manifesto. It’s just me, showing up – word by word – hoping to find God in the middle of it all.
And if it helps you do the same, even just a little, then that’s more than enough.
What kind of community are we building?
The kind that listens and doesn’t lecture. That notices before it reacts. That isn’t trying to be impressive – just honest.
This won’t be a space for noise or hustle. It won’t be about keeping up or having it all together. It will be about being human, being present, being faithful – even when we’re unsure what that looks like.
If you’ve ever felt like you’re on the edge of something – edge of faith, edge of burnout, edge of wonder – this is for you.
We’re not building a brand. We’re learning how to be again. People who follow Jesus with open hands, soft hearts, and questions that don’t always fit in a sermon.
You’re welcome here – not because you have the answers, but because you’re willing to keep asking.
Whether you’re here every week or just passing through, my hope is that you leave feeling a little less hurried – and a little more human.
So this is me – starting small. Tending the fire. Putting one word in front of the other.
Following Jesus, curiously.
You’re welcome here, just as you are.
Come in. The kettle’s on.