“But as for me, the nearness of God is my good.”
— Psalm 73:28 (NASB)
THE NEARNESS
Letters on the Treasure of God’s Company in an Ordinary Life
“But as for me, the nearness of God is my good.”
— Psalm 73:28 (NASB)
Letters on the Treasure of God’s Company in an Ordinary Life
You are tired in a way sleep doesn’t reach.
Not the tiredness of doing too much, exactly, but of being too much — too visible and not truly seen, always reachable, always presented. Somewhere along the way, life became a stage whose lights never go all the way down. And the part of you that longs to be simply known has learned to keep quiet. But it has not died. It aches at odd hours.
Underneath it, quieter than everything and patient as roots, there is a leaning. A tilt of the soul toward Someone. What you have wanted, under everything you have wanted, is God. Not information about Him. Not a technique for reaching Him. Him.
And here is the news these letters carry, almost too kind to be believed: that wanting did not begin with you. Long before you leaned toward Him, He leaned toward you.
He is nearer than you dared believe, and gladder to have you than you dared hope.
The old Scripture says His eyes run to and fro throughout the whole earth — searching eyes, a Father’s eyes, moving through the crowd for a face He loves. They were never scanning past you toward someone more impressive. You were never auditioning. You were being sought.
The hunger you thought was your own idea is the echo of His. He wanted first. And this changes the shape of everything, because it means the life you were made for is not somewhere ahead of you, waiting to be earned. It is beside you, waiting to be entered.
The Christian life is not a life lived for God with communion as its reward. Being with Him — wanted, welcomed, near — is the life. It is not earned but entered.
There is no ladder. Whatever you have been told, God is not waiting at the top of your best efforts to see whether you make it. The door was opened from His side, brought near by the blood of Christ, so there is nothing left to earn; there is only Someone to be with. He is already in the room.
The whole practice of this book is small enough to fit in a coat pocket. He is already near; you do not have to get His attention. So through the day, you turn — not your body, your attention — toward Him. Some turns last two seconds at a red light; some are a long sit before the house wakes.
You will drift; everyone drifts. You come back without accusation or self-contempt, because the returning is the practice. A cook found it among his pots and pans. A cupbearer found it in a half-second before a throne. And a Bible teacher kept an empty chair by the kitchen stove, because the Friend who met him there sometimes came at half past two in the morning.
The Nearness is fourteen letters written by a father to his daughter — and, in hope, to you: the thirsty one, the tired one, the one half sure that a warm, daily companionship with God is reserved for other people. People with quieter houses. More discipline. More time.
These letters say otherwise. From a burned-out prophet fed under a broom tree to a failed disciple restored over breakfast by a charcoal fire, they trace one steady claim: the nearness of God is not a reward for the spiritually gifted. It is a gift already given in Christ — waiting in the car line, over the stove, in the quiet chair before the house wakes.
If you have loved Brother Lawrence or Tozer, these letters walk the same road — at your own kitchen sink.
The Nearness unfolds across fourteen letters and 142 pages — moving from the ache that starts it all, through the searching eyes and the Father’s face, into the practice of the Turn, and finally to the fire that restores, the winter that waits, and the circle of the friends of God.
The letters open with an invitation and close where they began — in a kitchen, beside a chair that has always been yours.
The whole practice of the book, sayable in a single breath — taught three times across the letters and left whole on the closing page, to carry with you into an ordinary day.
He is already near; you do not have to get His attention. So through the day, turn — not your body, your attention — toward Him. Some turns last two seconds at a red light; some are a long sit before the house wakes. Carry a word of His in your pocket to turn with. Anchor a few turnings by design — a time, a chair — and let the rest fly free. You will drift; everyone drifts. Come back without accusation or self-contempt, because the returning is the practice. And when you rise, go with Him into the next thing.
Designed for an 8-week small group or church study, the Discussion Guide walks through the fourteen letters with reflection questions and simple practices — a time, a chair, a word to carry — for learning to live near, together.
A few of the “words to keep” the letters leave you with — the vocabulary of a life lived near.
142 pages · Published 2026 · Encounter Press
Available soon on Amazon. In the meantime, download the free study guide.