Week 48: So What Did I Really Learn in Utah?

Before I even made it back to my room, after receiving the IV and getting my feet wrapped, I promised Jamie I wouldn’t attempt Day 2. He knew there was a part of me that would be tempted to go out again. But, I promised to stick to volunteering and cheering on the other participants. However, by dinner, moving around had become difficult, and by the next morning, I couldn’t stand up straight. I had re-injured my hip, and the headache and nausea had also returned. I knew it was time to make the hard decision to head home early.

Thankfully, my travel buddy, Karen, chose to head back, too—and I can’t express how grateful I am for her. There’s no way I would have made it through the Dallas–Fort Worth Airport alone. She even paid for someone to push me in a wheelchair through the terminals, because at that point I couldn’t walk on my own. My body was truly revolting, reminding me that even determination has its limits and that rest was no longer optional, but necessary.

And not just for 29029.

I came home with something I didn’t expect, a profound sense of clarity. The climb stripped away all the noise and left me face to face with what really matters—what’s worth carrying and what I need to finally lay down.

It wasn’t just about finishing a physical challenge; it was about recognizing that I’ve allowed certain responsibilities, habits, and even relationships to take more from me than they return. And if I want to keep moving forward—not just up a mountain, but through life—I have to protect what fills me and release what empties me.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do isn’t pushing harder, but choosing differently.

What I didn’t expect was how deeply this would be reflected in my walk of faith. Ever since this journey began for our family, over 10 years ago, I’ve carried this unrelenting need to stay tethered to the institution of church. (And for clarification, I don’t mean the bride of Christ—I mean the juggernaut of programs, expectations, and structures that so often get mistaken for Him.)

But as time went on, I began to see the business model of church take over—the branding, the performance, the machinery that ran louder than the Spirit. And still, I told myself that staying mattered. Not because I thought I could change it with my own hands, but because I believed prophetic voices were needed. A voice to call us back to simplicity, to presence, to truth.

And, to be clear, those voices are needed.

Just not my voice… in that setting.

The climb made me realize how much that posture has cost me—how much energy I’ve poured into holding space within a system that often confuses profit with purpose. And yet, even in that realization, there’s no bitterness—only a renewed conviction that my faith was never meant to be sustained by an institution, but by Jesus alone.

Since being back, I’ve been a bit reclusive. I’m still working hard behind the scenes, of course, but I’m no longer pouring energy into places—or with people—that leave me feeling empty and, often times, frustrated. Church was never meant to resemble a country club. It was never intended to be a place of status, exclusivity, or performance. It was meant to be a sacred communal space—a gathering of the broken, the seeking, the grateful, the hopeful. A place where walls come down, not where they’re built higher.

At its core, church was designed to be a living, breathing expression of Christ’s body on earth. A table where everyone has a seat, not a stage where a select few put on a show. It was meant to be marked by humility and hospitality, by sacrifice and service, by the kind of love that refuses to keep score.

Somewhere along the way, we traded that vision for something shinier, something more marketable, something that looks successful from the outside but too often leaves souls starving on the inside. And yet, the original design still calls to us—a reminder that sacred community isn’t about belonging to an institution, but about belonging to one another under Christ.

And now I’m trying to figure out what that looks like for me and my family.