When The Running Stops

I’ve done a little to-ing and fro-ing in my day.

I traveled around the world five times by the age of eleven. So movement came early for me.

Packing, leaving, arriving, starting over—those weren’t dramatic events; they were normal. Motion felt natural.

Stillness had to be learned later.

So when the Bible talks about people running “to and fro,” I understand that instinctively. I know what it’s like to keep moving—not always because you’re lost, but because stopping feels unfamiliar.

For a long time, running worked.

Running helps you outrun questions.

Running keeps you productive.

Running gives the appearance of progress.

But eventually, for reasons you don’t always choose, the running slows.

Sometimes—if we’re honest—

the get-up goes.

Not because faith has failed.

Not because curiosity has died.

But because motion no longer saves you.

Illustration:

I once saw a large Brahman bull used to mill flour in a village. He was strong, healthy, dependable.

His owners had blinded him, and from morning until night he walked in circles, turning the millstone. The flour was made. The work was done.

Everything looked productive.

Except the bull never went anywhere.

That image stayed with me.

There is a difference between movement and direction.

There is a difference between activity and sight.

There is a difference between running for God and actually knowing God.

Scripture says, “The people who know their God will be strong and take action.”

And it also says, “The eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the earth, to strongly support those whose heart is completely His.”

Did you notice the difference?

We run because we’re unsure.

God looks because He knows exactly what He’s seeking.

Sooner or later,

every life reaches a moment when the running stops

—and what remains is not how far we’ve gone, but whether we’ve been seen… and whether we’ve learned to stay.

– Part One: Knowing God in a Time of Pressure

Scripture is honest about what happens when movement no longer carries us—when momentum fails and habit can’t do the work faith once did.

Daniel 11:32 is written into a moment like that.

It’s not a peaceful chapter.

It’s not devotional.

It’s not reflective.

It’s political.

It’s violent.

It’s confusing.

Daniel 11 describes a time when power shifts, truth is manipulated, alliances are made, and religious language is used to disguise betrayal.

In that environment, the text draws a line—not between believers and unbelievers, but within the people who claim the covenant.

Some “act wickedly toward the covenant.”

Others are described this way:

“The people who know their God will be strong and take action.”

That word know is doing far more work than we usually allow it to do.

This is not information.

It is not familiarity.

It is not religious fluency.

This is covenant knowing.

In Scripture, to know God is not to master ideas about Him—it is to belong to Him in a way that holds when pressure is applied.

It’s the kind of knowing that shows up not in calm seasons, but in compromised ones.

That’s why strength comes after knowing—not before it.

Strength in this passage is not energy.

It’s not personality.

It’s not resolve.

It’s stability.

These are people who are no longer being carried by motion, approval, or success. They aren’t running anymore—not because they’re passive, but because they’re anchored.

Only people who are anchored can act without panic.

When life becomes unstable, most of us do one of two things:

we speed up,

or we freeze.

Running is often fear with momentum.

Freezing is fear with exhaustion.

Knowing God creates a third posture: steadfast action.

Not frantic.

Not reactive.

Not desperate.

Just faithful.

That’s why this verse pairs so naturally with 2 Chronicles 16:9:

“The eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the earth, that He may strongly support those whose heart is completely His.”

Notice what God is not looking for.

He is not searching for the busiest people.

He is not scanning for the most effective programs.

He is not impressed by constant motion.

He is looking for hearts.

Undivided hearts.

Settled hearts.

Hearts that are His.

Here’s the quiet mercy in that verse:

God is doing the looking.

While we are often unsure—running, circling, trying to keep things moving—God’s gaze is steady. His attention is not anxious. He is not searching because He’s lost. He is searching because He intends to act.

The eyes of the Lord move—not to judge first—but to support.

Which means this:

When the running stops, the most important question is no longer What am I accomplishing?

It becomes What has my heart been attached to all along?

Activity can continue long after sight is gone.

The bull keeps turning the stone.

The flour keeps coming.

But without vision, there is no arrival.