We all live in a place.
Some call it a house, some a hut, some an apartment tucked between busy streets.
For years, my place was Hoboken, New Jersey. Friends in the building. Basketball at the park. Church a few blocks away. Life fit like a favorite shirt—comfortable, familiar, mine.
But places change.
My parents had been saving for a long time, dreaming of a home in the Dominican Republic. I had visited before, but never imagined I’d live there. Then came the news: we were moving. And not after I graduated—no, right at the tail end of my 11th grade year.
It felt like someone had pulled the rug out from under me. I wasn’t just leaving a building. I was losing a whole world.
I’ll never forget the first night in that new house.
I went to bed in my own private room—a first for me. At some point in the night, half-asleep, I got up to use the bathroom. The trouble was, my mind was still in Hoboken.
I walked forward with confidence—straight into a concrete wall. Bang.
I stumbled, redirected, and hit another. Smack.
Then another. Thud.
It was like living in two worlds at once. My body was in the Dominican Republic, but my mind was navigating the old map of my old apartment. It wasn’t until I forced myself awake that I realized the truth: I wasn’t in Hoboken anymore.
Sometimes life is like that. We crash into walls because we’re still trying to live in a place we no longer belong.
Science calls it negativity bias. The bad outweighs the good, and loss speaks louder than gain.
That was me. For months I sat in a rocking chair on the porch, the warm breeze brushing past me, the smell of fresh bread from the bakery drifting by, the birds singing their songs—and all I could feel was the ache of what I’d left behind.
I couldn’t see the gifts of this new place because I was blinded by the grief of losing the old one.
Jacob knew something of this weight.
He had deceived his father, Isaac, stolen his brother’s blessing, and now ran for his life. Esau’s anger burned behind him, and uncertainty stretched before him. He laid his head on a stone for a pillow, fear and shame his only companions.
If anyone was trapped in negativity bias, it was Jacob—caught between what he had lost and what he feared.
But in that barren place, God broke through.
A ladder stretched from earth to heaven, angels ascending and descending, and God Himself speaking promises:
Land. Legacy. Protection. Blessings.
When Jacob awoke, he said, “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it.”
His fear shifted into awe. The lonely ground became holy ground. The place of flight became the place of God’s presence.
Maybe you know what it’s like to be in the wrong place.
A financial place that feels fragile.
A mental place heavy with fear.
A spiritual place that feels far from home.
If so, remember Jacob. Remember the boy who crashed into walls in the night. And remember these truths:
After months in the Dominican Republic, something shifted. God gently opened my eyes to the truth I had resisted: He was in this place, too.
Friendships formed. Beauty emerged. The country that once felt foreign began to feel like a gift.
Looking back, those midnight collisions with concrete walls weren’t just funny—they were parables. A lesson in waking up. A reminder that clinging to the old only leads to pain. A whisper from God: “I am already here. Open your eyes.”
So wherever you find yourself today—whether in joy, in fear, or in loss—may you pause long enough to say with Jacob:
“Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it.”