It’s something I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.

At the same time, there’s so much noise coming at us from every direction. Opinions, “truths,” perspectives—everyone has a platform, and everything is presented as something worth listening to. After a while, it becomes hard to tell what’s actually true and what just feels right in the moment.

And when everything is loud, it’s easy to drift—away from what matters, away from each other, and slowly, even from God. Not all at once, but in small ways. Choosing what’s convenient over what’s meaningful. Surrounding ourselves with voices that agree with us instead of ones that challenge us. Leaning into what feels accepting instead of what is actually true.

There are so many spaces now where anything is affirmed, no matter what it is. And while that can feel comforting on the surface, it also removes something important—accountability. The kind that doesn’t condemn, but calls us back to what is right.

Because truth isn’t something we get to reshape based on what feels good. And if we’re not grounded in something steady, it doesn’t take much to start believing whatever we hear the most.

And the only place I’ve found that kind of steady, unchanging truth is in God.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot this week—how easy it is to stay “connected” but still be distant, how easily we can be influenced without realizing it, and how quietly we can move away from what we know is true if we’re not intentional about staying rooted.

I’ve also been thinking about where that kind of connection even comes from.

I used to sit and play cards with my great-grandpa. He loved playing cards and listening to the Detroit Tigers games on the radio. It was simple—nothing big or planned—but it was time spent together.

Lately, my husband and I have been listening to radio shows, and it’s funny how something like that can bring those memories right back. Just sitting there, listening, being present—it reminds me of time that didn’t feel important then, but clearly was.

Because when you’re a kid, you don’t always realize what you’re being given. You don’t really know your great-grandparents the way you know your parents or even your grandparents. A lot of times, they just feel like someone who is there—an older presence in the room, someone who might watch over you now and then. And some people don’t get that time at all.

But I did.

And the reason I did is because my grandpa made the effort to stay close to his dad. He showed up. He brought us along. He made sure those connections didn’t fade.

We went to pow wows together. We went to Bear Swamp to check on the trees he had planted—trees that are still standing today.

And now, without even really thinking about it, I love planting trees. I give them as gifts. It’s something that stayed with me.

It all traces back to time that someone chose to invest.

The relationships we show up for, the time we make, the effort we put in—it doesn’t just stay in that moment. It carries forward. It shapes what people remember, what they value, even what they pass on. And when we start replacing that with distance, convenience, or surface-level connection, we don’t just lose time—we lose what could have been passed down.

Now I’m 42, and I have seven grandkids—with one more on the way. And the truth is, we hardly see most of them. It’s not that we don’t care. Life just gets busy, and somewhere along the way, distance—both physical and otherwise—starts to feel normal.

The internet helps fill in the gaps. You can see pictures, watch videos, keep up with what’s going on, and in between visits, that can feel like connection. But it’s not the same. Those in-between moments were never meant to replace actually being together.

Because I look at my kids and my grandkids, and I see how much they’re struggling—anxiety, depression, feeling overwhelmed, even just feeling bored with life—and I find myself asking how we got here.

That wasn’t my childhood. My childhood was filled with imagination, with play, with being outside until we were called in. My parents were present. They played with us, laughed with us, made time for us.

I remember one time we had been stuck inside because of a storm. The rain finally let up just enough, and all of us kids—me and my brothers and sisters—ran outside and started what felt like an epic mud fight. We were completely covered, and my parents were outside hosing us off, trying to get us cleaned up and back inside before the next round of storms rolled in. It was chaotic and messy, but it was also good.

That kind of joy didn’t come from a screen. It came from being together, from being present, from having people in your life who made the time to be there. And I can’t help but wonder if part of what’s missing now isn’t just less connection, but less real connection—the kind that grounds you and reminds you that you belong, that you’re known, that you’re not alone.

And there was something else we had that I don’t think we fully appreciated at the time. We had God woven into our everyday lives.

Our summers were filled with Bible school. Weekends meant youth group. We volunteered, showed up for each other, and found ways to support causes that mattered—even if it looked like something as simple as an all-night rockathon to raise money. It wasn’t really about the events. It was about the people and being part of something bigger than ourselves.

Those connections didn’t just happen. They were built through shared time, shared faith, and a shared understanding of what mattered.

And now, as that older generation has started to pass on, I can see how much of that is fading. That sense of community, that rhythm of showing up for one another and serving—not just each other, but God—is becoming less common.

Because when you lose those connections—when faith becomes something private instead of something lived out in community—something shifts. We don’t just lose tradition, we lose grounding.

And if I’m being honest, it’s unsettling to watch how much things have changed. Not just in how we connect, but in what we believe and what we accept as truth. There’s a constant stream of ideas shaping how people think, and over time, what once felt clear doesn’t feel as clear anymore.

It becomes easier to dismiss what God says when it doesn’t align with what feels good or widely accepted, and easier to avoid the kind of honesty and accountability that help keep us grounded. Without people around us who are willing to speak truth into our lives, it becomes easier to drift—not suddenly, but slowly.

Because none of us are meant to do this alone. We were created for real connection—relationships that support us, challenge us, and point us back to what is true. And when those kinds of relationships begin to disappear, it affects not just how we relate to each other, but how we live.

Losing my aunt has made something very clear to me—not in a dramatic way, but in a quiet, steady kind of clarity. Time isn’t something we can assume we’ll always have, and the distance we allow to grow in our relationships matters more than we think.

Those relationships, that time spent together, that sense of community—they’re what keep us grounded. They’re what keep us connected not just to each other, but to God. And when we neglect them, it doesn’t just create distance between people; it creates distance in the things that anchor us.

This week has been a reminder that what we invest in—our relationships, our faith, the time we choose to give—shapes more than just the moment. It shapes what endures long after we are gone.