I sat on the sofa with the television remote nearby and my phone within easy reach, bothered by several circumstances I couldn't resolve. My stomach felt tight, and my mind refused to settle.
How is this going to work out?
What is going to happen here?
How will that situation ever be resolved?
The questions kept circling, each one demanding an answer I didn't have.
Comfort or Distraction
Somewhere beneath all that noise, I sensed the still, quiet voice of the Lord drawing me toward Him.
I'd like to say I ran to Him.
I didn't.
I reached for the remote.
I watched one thing and then another. When that no longer distracted me, I picked up my phone and began scrolling through social media.
Watch.
Scroll.
Watch some more.
For a little while, I escaped the questions.
But I didn't escape the unrest.
My heart was still tugging at me. My stomach still felt twisted in knots. And when I finally put the phone down, every question I'd been trying not to think about was waiting for me.
Nothing had been resolved.
I had gone looking for comfort.
What I found was distraction.
Later, as I sat thinking about it, the Lord brought Esau to mind.
Esau came in from the field, exhausted and hungry. Jacob was preparing stew, and Esau wanted some—right then. In exchange for satisfying that immediate hunger, he gave Jacob his birthright.
It's easy to read that story and wonder, How could he give up something so valuable for a bowl of stew?
But that evening, I wasn't quite so quick to point a finger at Esau.
I understood the desire for immediate relief.
Certainly, watching television or scrolling through social media isn't the same as selling a birthright. And there's nothing wrong with enjoying a movie, a good meal, recreation, or any of the legitimate pleasures God allows us to enjoy.
But Esau's story caused me to look at something deeper in my own heart.
What do I reach for when I want comfort?
And perhaps even more importantly:
What am I reaching for instead of Christ?
That one landed.
Because comfort isn't the problem.
The question is where I go looking for it.
Sometimes I want something that will make me forget what I'm feeling.
Christ wants to meet me in what I'm feeling.
I want distraction.
He offers fellowship.
I want the ache to disappear.
He offers His presence.
I want something to take my mind off the problem.
He offers Himself.
That's where the difference lies.
Distraction asks nothing of me.
Christ asks me to come.
To sit.
To listen.
To trust Him when I don't have answers.
To believe that His presence is enough even when the circumstances haven't changed.
That kind of comfort doesn't always come quickly.
Sometimes it comes while I'm sitting quietly with my Bible open.
Sometimes it comes through prayer.
Sometimes it comes when I stop asking God to explain everything and simply acknowledge:
Lord, I don't understand this. But I trust You.
And sometimes the circumstances don't change at all.
But something in me does.
I began to realize that comfort and distraction are not the same thing.
Distraction helps me forget for a little while.
Comfort helps me remember who is with me.
Distraction numbs.
Comfort restores.
Distraction changes the channel.
Comfort changes the heart.
Distraction says, “Don’t think about it.”
Comfort says, “Bring it to Me.”
Distraction offers temporary relief.
Christ offers Himself.
That is the difference I had been missing.
I had been looking for something to make me feel better. Christ was inviting me to come closer.
And coming closer didn't necessarily mean the questions would disappear.
It meant I didn't have to carry them alone.
That's what real comfort is.
Not always an answer.
Not always a changed circumstance.
Not even the immediate disappearance of the ache.
Sometimes comfort is simply knowing that Christ is there—and choosing to remain with Him instead of running toward something that will help me forget for a little while.
The television can entertain me.
My phone can distract me.
A good meal or movie can lift my spirits.
But none of those things can do what Jesus can do.
They can occupy my attention.
Only Christ can minister to my heart.
That is what I needed.
Not another program to watch.
Not another scroll through my phone.
Not something else to temporarily take my mind off what was troubling me.
I needed Him.
I needed to bring the questions, the uncertainty, and the things I could not fix into His presence and leave them there.
That doesn't always come easily for me. Sometimes I pick those worries right back up again.
But I'm learning.
I'm learning that I don't have to understand everything before I can trust God.
And I don't have to wait until everything is resolved before I can have peace.
That's the danger.
We don't always deliberately turn away from Christ.
Sometimes we simply reach for something else first.
Another episode.
Another scroll.
Another distraction.
Something—anything—to quiet what feels uncomfortable inside us.
And all the while, Jesus is saying,
Come.
That night, I finally did.
I knelt before the Lord and asked Him to forgive me.
"Lord, help me run to You first. Instead of seeking comfort and easy answers, let me seek Your face."
And there, in His presence, something began to change.
Not necessarily my circumstances.
Me.
The questions hadn't suddenly been answered.
The situations hadn't magically resolved themselves.
But my attention had shifted.
And this is where comfort becomes more than a personal matter.
Because when I am constantly occupied with making myself comfortable, I can become distracted not only from Christ but also from His purpose for my life.
If I am always filling the quiet, how will I hear Him?
If I am constantly distracting myself from discomfort, what might I be missing?
If my first concern is preserving what feels safe, familiar, and easy, could I overlook an invitation from God that requires something more?
I think about Esther.
Mordecai challenged her with words that have spoken to my heart for years:
“And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?”
Esther 4:14
Esther had been brought into a kingdom.
So have we.
Through Christ, we belong to a Kingdom with an eternal purpose.
And that makes me wonder:
Why has He placed me here, now?
Why these days?
Why these experiences?
Why these gifts?
Why these people around me?
What might Christ want to do in me—and through me—for such a time as this?
I don't want the noise of this world to keep me from hearing the answer.
And I certainly don't want temporary comforts to satisfy me so completely that I stop hungering for Christ and the purposes of His Kingdom.
This isn't a call to throw away the television.
I'm keeping mine.
And I'm certainly not giving up a good bowl of soup.
It is simply an invitation—to myself first, and perhaps to you too—to examine what has our hearts.
Enjoy God's gifts.
Rest.
Laugh.
Watch the movie.
Take the vacation.
Eat the soup.
But let us never allow His gifts to become substitutes for His presence.
Perhaps in these extraordinary days, the greatest thing we can do isn't to try frantically to accomplish something impressive for God.
Perhaps it is simply to remain close to Jesus.
To sit at His feet.
To know His voice.
To receive His comfort.
And then to rise when He calls us, when He fills us, ready for whatever purpose He has placed before us.
Maybe that's the question I'll leave with you today:
Is there a comfort or distraction that has been keeping you from sitting at the feet of Christ—and perhaps from hearing what He has called you to in this season?
I know what mine was that evening.
So I turned off the television.
Put down the phone.
And finally went to the One who had been calling me all along.
May we stay close enough to hear Him.
Because we have been brought into His Kingdom
FOR SUCH A TIME AS THIS.
A Prayer for Us
Lord, help us recognize when we are reaching for temporary comfort instead of reaching for You. Draw us back to Your feet, where we find the peace, strength, and true comfort our hearts need. Keep us close enough to hear Your voice and willing to follow wherever You lead. May nothing distract us from the purpose You have for our lives for such a time as this. Amen.
Until next time,
Cynthia
