Once upon a time, I found Jesus. More accurately, He found me. After spending a really long time not knowing how much I need Him, I finally saw myself for who I was, and I called out to Him in response to His call to me. That was almost seven years ago.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I knew that I didn’t love, not truly. I knew that in order to love, I needed to accept His. I needed to really believe He loved me. So I did. My whole paradigm changed that day.

That doesn’t mean anything else changed. I was already on a trajectory away from Him. I was on a road I didn’t belong on. As an excellent Wavorly song says, “Turning around was never so hard til I found us far apart.” At that point, I was really far away, heading further, and had no idea which way to turn. Imagine yourself lost on a dark night with a broken light and a broken compass, and nothing but two ears and a voice guiding you home. Even better: imagine yourself in the Millennium Falcon, crashing toward Starkiller Base, unable to pull up, not knowing the defector stormtrooper was a janitor and knew nothing about blowing the place up. And yes, I’m going full-on Star Wars VII: The Force Awakens on you.

I had no idea what was in store. I really didn’t. I knew things would be difficult, but I had no clue of the depth of it. I don’t remember being as bombarded with temptations and heartaches as when I started following Christ. Yet I don’t know that I’ve seen more personal growth happen in me than when I started following Christ.

(I’m not going to blather on about all the things that happened between 2009 and 2013. If you’ve read my blog before, you know. If you want to know, read about it.)

In one respect, I’m glad for how far I’ve come, but it hasn’t been without cost. That cost has been my ability to care.

I don’t care.

Those are three words no one wants to hear. “I don’t care” is giving up. On what? Literally anything.

Have you been told that before? It hurts, doesn’t it? Knowing that you’re not seen, not heard, invisible, inconsequential.

I hate that about myself, which is great because that means all hope is not lost. But right now, that’s a problem. The whole reason I decided to follow Jesus was so I could love, not so I could withhold love in apathy.

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I’m not sure entirely how I figured it out, but I suddenly noticed lately how much of what has been happening in my life indicates that I don’t really care.

The stagnancy of my romantic relationships?
Because I didn’t care about anything beyond the moment, escaping the rest of my life.

My lack of reading scriptures or praying in a meaningful way?
Because I didn’t care about anything beyond the moment, escaping the rest of my life.

My isolation from people I claim to care for?
Because I didn’t care about anything but my own problems.

My inability to focus long enough to do successful studio takes?
Because I didn’t care about them as much as I care about the things distracting me.

My inability to loosen up?
Because I don’t care enough about living healthily enough to stop obsessing over the things I want.

My jealousy?
Because I don’t care about much else than what I want.

Why I don’t try hard enough to change any of this?
Because I don’t care to keep failing or hurting, which is, by default, keeping anything good from coming of anything I’m going through.

I don’t want to run away from my issues, but I also don’t want to run into a worse place. Another song, by Linkin Park this time, says, “Sometimes I think of letting go and never looking back, and never moving forward so there’d never be a past.”

Relatable? Too much.

Good way to live? Not ever.

The irony of the whole thing is that we tend to stop caring because of the weight that caring becomes. But to stop caring means your heart has to stop working, and if your heart stops working, you really can’t go anywhere. You collapse. You stay where you are. You die.

When you stop caring, you are dead, and it definitely feels the part. At least pain lets you know you’re alive, even though it means you’re fighting to stay that way. When joy happens, you know you’re alive and free.

That’s what I think is so powerful about the “joy of salvation” that people talk about. Not only are you alive, not only are you free, but you are now set on a path of becoming more like Christ until His coming, when everything corruptible in us will be replaced with something incorruptible, and we will enter eternal life and eternal freedom, where all darkness ends and the light only grows, extending into every corner of creation. It’s unstoppable. It’s unstoppable good, unstoppable beauty, unstoppable life, forever.

That’s something that’s actually worth caring about. When we lose sight of that, it’s not hard to stop caring about things, especially the more we know evil and hurt.

I guess that’s what I’ve been missing. With something lasting to care about, whatever else is valuable to us, whatever else brings joy, although temporary, finally gains its true meaning. We finally have a reason to care about it.

A reason to care about him.

About her.

About anyone, anything.

But without context to something eternal, how can anything temporary have meaning?

But when you have eternity with our amazing God in sight, everything else has value again. It becomes worth it to try, worth it to love, worth it to lay aside the apathy, to lift up your eyes to those to whom you can extend God’s love, which is a mere foretaste of what is to come in Christ.

“Our light affliction, which only lasts for a moment, is working toward an eternal glory that far outweighs anything else. That’s why we look not at the things that can be seen, but the things that cannot be seen. Why? Because the things we can see are temporary, but the things we cannot see are eternal.”

—Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ (2 Corinthians 4:17-18 paraphrase mine)