Through the Valley

“Even though I walk through the valley…”
There’s something sacred about those words.
Not because it promises an easy way out.
But because it promises presence.
“…I will fear no evil, for You are with me.”

Sometimes, you don’t get to go around the valley.
You have to walk through it.

And when you do, you start to see —
it’s not the absence of fear that marks your faith,
but the nearness of the One who walks with you through it.


I’m in one of those valley seasons now.
The kind where the air feels heavier.
Where I wake up with more questions than answers.
Where joy is still real, but so is the ache beneath it.

And yet, I keep walking.

Not because I’m strong.
Not because it’s easy.
But because I know He’s near.

That’s what keeps my feet moving —
not clarity, not certainty,
just His presence.


Maybe you’re here too.
Maybe your steps are slow and unsure.
Maybe the shadows feel a little closer than they used to.

But even here — especially here —
you are not alone.

He hasn’t left.
He hasn’t forgotten.
And He isn’t waiting for you to climb out of the valley
before He meets you in it.


He doesn’t always calm the storm first.
Sometimes, He just walks beside us while it rages.

And maybe that’s what faith is —
learning to take the next step
even when the valley still feels dark.


Anchor Verse

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.”
— Psalm 23:4 (ESV)

The Strength Fear Tries to Steal

I’ve wasted so many todays
worrying about tomorrow.

Not intentionally.
Not because I wanted to.
But because anxiety is sneaky like that —
convincing you that if you think it through just one more time,
you’ll feel better.

Spoiler: you don’t.

I read something recently that really stuck out to me:
“What does your anxiety do? It does not empty tomorrow of its sorrows; but, ah! it empties today of its strength.”
— Alexander McLaren

And I felt it.

Because fear doesn’t just whisper worst-case scenarios —
it drains the light from moments that were meant to hold joy.
It robs us of the strength we do have for right now,
by convincing us we need to hoard it for what might come later.

But we weren’t made to live that way.
Not crouched in fear.
Not rehearsing pain that hasn’t even happened.

Today is still here.
And it still matters.

God didn’t promise we’d be fearless.
But He did promise He’d be with us.
And that is more than enough.

Maybe peace isn’t the absence of what we fear —
but the presence of the One who knows how to carry us through it.

So for today —
not tomorrow, just today —
I’m choosing presence over panic.
Trust over spirals.
And strength over fear.