Rainy days in East Texas have a way of slowing a man down.
The trees drip.
The roads shine dark beneath the clouds.
And somewhere in the quiet places of the soul, Scripture begins speaking again.
Today my thoughts wandered back into John 15.
I have visited that chapter for years now.
Returned to it.
Quoted it.
Taught from it in churches, classrooms, prison chapels, and small gatherings of believers trying to learn how to walk with God in a distracted world.
And still it waits for me like an old vineyard path I have not fully explored.
“Abide in Me, and I in you.” (John 15:4 NKJV)
Jesus did not speak those words as a suggestion for especially spiritual people.
He spoke them as a description of life itself.
A branch does not occasionally visit the vine.
It remains there.
Lives there.
Draws life there.
The branch does not grit its teeth and produce fruit through effort and religious determination. Fruit is not manufactured by strain. It comes from connection.
That may be one of the hardest lessons for modern believers to accept.
We know how to strive.
We know how to perform.
We know how to exhaust ourselves trying to appear fruitful.
But abiding is quieter than that.
Deeper too.
It is the settled life of remaining in Christ when emotions rise and fall, when prayers seem alive and when they seem to echo back unanswered, when faith feels strong and when the soul walks through fog.
Abiding is staying.
The older I get, the more I think much of the Christian life is found in that one word: remain.
Not spectacular moments.
Not endless religious activity.
Not emotional surges that disappear by Monday morning.
Remaining.
There is something deeply covenantal about that language. Scripture consistently describes God not merely as One who visits His people, but as One who dwells among them.
From the tabernacle in the wilderness…
to Solomon’s Temple…
to the promise of Emmanuel, “God with us”…
to the Spirit dwelling within believers…
The story keeps moving toward shared presence.
Toward abiding.
And perhaps that is why John 15 feels so personal. These are not the public sermons spoken beside fishing boats or on crowded hillsides. This is the Upper Room. Judas has already stepped into the darkness. The cross waits just ahead. And in those final hours Jesus speaks to His disciples about vines, branches, love, obedience, friendship, and remaining.
As though He were saying:
“When everything else shakes, stay connected to Me.”
Rainy days help me hear that more clearly.
Maybe because vineyards require seasons.
Pruning.
Waiting.
Patience.
No branch becomes fruitful overnight.
And no believer drifts accidentally toward deep communion with Christ. We drift the other direction. Toward distraction. Toward spiritual neglect. Toward quiet distance from the Lord of the Vineyard.
Which is why abiding requires intentionality.
Not legalism.
Love.
A deliberate returning of the heart toward Christ again and again and again.
Sometimes in prayer.
Sometimes in worship.
Sometimes in silence with an open Bible resting on your lap while rain taps softly against the windows.
“Without Me you can do nothing.” (John 15:5 NKJV)
Not little.
Nothing.
Yet hidden inside those sobering words is also a profound comfort. The burden of producing life does not rest entirely upon us. The call is not first to impress God, but to remain near Him.
Stay connected to the Vine.
And fruit, in time, comes naturally from that union.
So today, on this rainy afternoon in Lufkin, my wanderings led me back into the vineyard again.
And there, walking slowly beneath heavy clouds with the Lord of the Vineyard, I am reminded once more:
The Christian life is not merely about visiting sacred places from time to time.
It is about learning to dwell there.
Spiritual Wanderings 