It’s really interesting to see where your relationships with people go. If you’re like most people, you see friends, enemies, in between, come and go. Some stay longer than others. Some just go. Some, defying all odds, seem to stick around. It’s really cool when that happens.

I’ve been blessed to spend the past almost-seven years with the same group of people consistently in my life in some way or another. My immediate church family is especially hugely important to me, along with a ton of the people I’ve met as a result of meeting them, even the ones who have moved away or I don’t get to be in touch with as consistently. There still always seemed to be consistency there.

It’s a fantastic feeling, welcomeness, wantedness, neither of which are actually real words. It’s an awesome contrast to my life before. I won’t say I had no friends. That’d be a lie, but they were few and far between. I look back on that time, and I’m glad I’m not there anymore. It makes where I am so much sweeter. Knowing that the people you’ve chosen to surround yourself with don’t have some agenda, some mold, some criteria for you to fulfill in order to be kept—people who don’t just want to use you—is liberating in so many ways that I can’t even list them all, and I’m just getting started with the list myself.

Not because intend to be this way, but it’s taken me longer to grow closer to some than others. But it’s happened, and I’m grateful. These are people that I will cherish for life.

After a while, the people who deserted you start to fade in the glow of Christ in the people who chose to stay. I will always remember the feeling of being alone, and that will be valuable in ministry to people who have felt the way I have, been treated the way I have, and those who will. I’m totally fine with that. It’s not that I resent the past. I just have no reason to dwell in it.

The thing about that glow is that it leaves an impression. By abiding in light, darkness seems darker when it comes, at least at first, if you don’t get used to it.

People leave impressions. I’m so glad for that, but the whole idea about an impression is that it stays with you. So, when I say that I’ve got a lot of people on my mind, it’s an understatement. It’s not exactly that it hurts, at least not always. It’s a beautifully diverse picture full of tons of different people who have each meant something to me. I’m not unaware of the blessing of brothers and sisters that I have.

But sometimes, it does hurt. Eventually, you get around to those people you miss. Sometimes, you miss them a lot. Sometimes, life has you too occupied to dwell on it, which can be sweet relief; but it can make you question how much you care. It probably shouldn’t. Or maybe it should. I guess it depends which is actually true.

The contrast between the time in my life before people kept me around just for me, and where I am now, just makes everything seem a bit more vivid. The joy of loving and knowing I’m loved is even clearer because I know what it’s like to not know I’m loved, or to know what it’s like to be hated, or worse, dismissed and ignored. And with such a vivid joy comes an equally vivid sorrow when those who light your life aren’t near.

Don’t get me wrong. I refuse to live consumed with either blind joy or blind despair, but they’re both there. They’re both present at all times, warring against each other. At least that conflict makes sense, even if it doesn’t help.

It’s times like these that the over-quoted words “the joy of the Lord is [my] strength” (Nehemiah 8:10) pop out of the mouths of people who seek to encourage you. It’s good to have people who try to encourage you. Those people are golden, but I’m not convinced that most people think through the implications of that statement.

A lot of people claim “the joy of the Lord” in an attempt to make you (or themselves) happy, but that’s not what it’s really about. The joy of the Lord is not my happiness—okay, sometimes it is. I’m grateful for those times on a level I cannot convey with words. But let’s not get it twisted. It can bring happiness, but that’s not what it is.

The joy of the Lord is strength. It’s not that you feel better or your situation changes because you have the “joy of the Lord.” It’s not a magic, cure-all happy pill. It’s strength, meaning that when your mind is in chaos, when your heart is shredded, when you’ve been betrayed, when you’re lonely, when you’re longing, when you miss those you care for, when you hurt for those who are hurting, Jesus strengthens you. He stays with you “so that you will be able to bear” the weight you carry (I Corinthians 10:13).

It’s okay if it doesn’t go away. It’s okay to feel joy and pain at the same time. It’s okay if you have a lot of people and stuff on your mind. I do. All the time. All at once. And it’s actually okay. It really doesn’t feel like it sometimes. I don’t always feel okay, but even that’s okay because somehow, I make it through, and that is joyous. I know my Father is with me, always, and that good will come of all the things that face the people of God.