Running Through the Forest

When I was in my early twenties, I started a music group. I called it Charismatic Pain.

It sounded crazy to most people. It probably still does.

But to me, it meant something deep, something I couldn’t fully explain at the time:

It was about the kind of pain that hurts — but heals.

The kind of pain you feel when you finally stop running and obey the voice of God.

The kind of pain everyone instinctively avoids because it costs too much.

I even wrote a song back then called “Running Through the Forest.”

It was chaotic, frantic — a cry from my own heart.

I was running through life like I was running through a dense forest, branches slashing my arms, breathless, terrified of what would happen if I stopped.

I was afraid to face the pain.

Afraid to hear the voice that was already calling me.

Afraid that if I ever stood still, I would have to deal with the weight of who I really was — and who I was really called to be.

So I ran.

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Decades later, I see it more clearly.

I stumbled across an old story — an Indian tale — about what to do when you’re lost in the woods.

The elders say:

“Be still. The forest knows where you are.”

The wisdom hit me like a freight train.

Not because it was new — but because it had been there all along, buried in my bones, waiting for me to be still enough to hear it.

You don’t find your way by running harder.

You find it by stopping.

You find it by standing still long enough for the forest to find you.

You find it by feeling the pain you spent your whole life trying to outrun — and realizing it was never your enemy.

It was the very thing God was trying to use to call you home.

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Today, I spend my days teaching others to restore old windows —

but really, I’m trying to teach something even deeper.

I’m trying to teach the art of listening.

Of being still.

Of trusting that the windows themselves — and the Spirit embedded within them — will teach you, if you are humble enough to stop and listen.

It’s not just about windows.

It’s about life.

It’s about stopping long enough to feel the Charismatic Pain that leads to real obedience — the pain that shapes you, heals you, and brings you home.

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I’m not running through the forest anymore.

I’m learning to stand still.

To listen.

To trust the One who knows exactly where I am — even when I don’t.

And maybe that’s what true craftsmanship is.

Not just with wood.

Not just with windows.

But with life.