I’ve been thinking a lot lately about presence—what it really means to be present, and what it might mean when we find that we’re not.
Over the past several weeks, life has been full. The end of the year, the beginning of a new one, gatherings, worship, conversations, responsibilities—good things, meaningful things. And yet, in the midst of all of that, I began to notice something in myself: my mind was wandering more than usual. I would be physically in a room, with people I care about, and still feel slightly elsewhere.
For a long time, I thought being present simply meant showing up. I even used to joke that wherever I went, there I was. And while that’s true in one sense, I’ve come to realize that presence is more than proximity. Being present means actually being there—with attention, with awareness, with some measure of openness to the moment we’re in.
Years ago, when I began a meditation practice, I learned something important: thoughts are always rising. The mind wanders naturally. And part of the practice is learning not to follow every thought that appears—letting them pass by without judgment, without grabbing hold. Over time, that practice made it easier to return to the moment, to listen more deeply, to respond rather than react.
But recently, I noticed something else. Sometimes a wandering mind isn’t just distraction. Sometimes it’s information.
There are moments when the mind wanders because we are overwhelmed—emotionally, relationally, sensorially. Moments when something deep within us is quietly saying, This is too much right now. And instead of consciously stepping away, our attention drifts. The wandering becomes a kind of self-protection.
Other times, the mind wanders simply because that’s what minds do. Thoughts rise. Old habits reassert themselves. In those moments, the invitation may be to gently let go and return—to the conversation, to the breath, to the person in front of us.
The wisdom lies in discernment.
So often—especially for those of us who care for others, who help, who listen, who serve—we assume it’s our job to be present all the time. Always available. Always responsive. Always producing. But that belief is not only unrealistic; it’s harmful. It ignores a simple truth about being human: we are finite. There are limits to our capacity, and recognizing those limits is not a failure. It’s honesty.
Sometimes the most loving thing we can do—for ourselves and for others—is to take a step back. To claim a Sabbath moment. A sacred pause. Not to run away, but to tend to what needs healing and wholeness within us.
And sometimes the most loving thing we can do is to stay—to notice the wandering, let it go, and return to the moment with gentleness.
There isn’t one right answer. Life doesn’t work that way. What we’re invited into instead is attentiveness: listening to what our mind, our body, our heart, our soul may be telling us. Not judging. Not pushing through at all costs. Just noticing.
Learning to be present is a practice. And that practice includes learning to be present to ourselves—not just to what others need from us, but to what we need as well.
So if your mind wanders, be kind to yourself. Ask what this moment is calling for. Is it rest? Is it return? Is it a boundary? Is it deeper listening?
Whatever the answer, let it arise gently.
Because you are not a problem to be solved.
You are a gift to be received.
And part of living that truth is learning how—and when—to be present, both for others and for yourself.
You are infinitely precious and unconditionally loved for the gift you already are.
Infinitely Precious 