Some faith runs hard and fast.
Some faith simply stays.
It’s not always loud or sure or certain.
Sometimes, it just means showing up again today—
still aching, still praying, still hoping.
Maybe that’s you right now.
Holding on when nothing makes sense.
Trusting quietly in a God who hasn’t stopped being good.
That kind of faith matters.
God honors the staying.
He meets you in the waiting.
“Surely I am with you always…”
— Matthew 28:20
You know what’s kind of wild?
Some people love being surprised.
Ha!
To me, not knowing what’s coming ignites a kind of anxiety and fear that I’d really rather avoid.
Uncertainty makes my shoulders tense and my thoughts race —
not because I doubt God’s goodness,
but because I crave stability. I want to prepare. I want to protect myself.
And yet, here I am…
in a season where so much is unknown.
So much is unplanned.
So much is unfixed.
And still — God is asking me to trust Him.
I don’t know what’s coming.
I don’t know how it all works out.
I don’t even know what tomorrow holds.
But maybe — just maybe —
that’s part of the beauty.
Maybe not knowing is exactly what makes God’s love so powerful.
It’s not dependent on my plans or my preparedness.
It’s not built on certainty, but on surrender.
Because without any help from me —
without my strategy, without my grip,
without my constant attempts to predict the next plot twist —
God is still working.
And His plan?
It far surpasses anything I could write for myself.
So today, I’m loosening my grip.
I’m choosing trust over certainty.
And I’m reminding my anxious heart:
Not knowing doesn’t mean I’m unsafe.
Not knowing doesn’t mean it won’t be good.
It just means the story is still unfolding.
And I’m not the one writing it.
“Commit to the Lord whatever you do,
and He will establish your plans.”
Proverbs 16:3 (NIV)
There’s a story in Scripture that’s been close to my heart lately —
Abraham. Isaac. And a mountain no one wanted to climb.
God asked Abraham to lay down the very thing He had given him —
his long-awaited son.
And Abraham said yes.
Not because it made sense,
but because he trusted God’s heart,
even when the path didn’t look like provision.
Someone reminded me recently:
“I like to think the lamb was already on its way up the other side of the mountain.”
That stayed with me.
Because that’s what faith is, isn’t it?
Trusting that God is already providing —
even when all you can see is loss.
We may not understand the mountain,
but we can trust the One who meets us there.
He hasn’t forgotten.
He’s still writing the story.
And the thicket is never empty.
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.
Even the broken pieces can grow something beautiful
I used to look back at the hard things and wonder what the point of it all was.
Why the pain, the waiting, the silence.
Why the breaking.
But slowly, in the quiet work of healing,
I’ve come to believe this —
that nothing is wasted in the hands of a God who sees the whole story.
Not the quiet tears I tried to hide.
Not the long, quiet stretches of uncertainty.
Not the prayers I barely had words for.
Not even the things I’d rather forget.
Because somehow,
the soil that held the most sorrow
is the same soil where something sacred began to grow.
No, I wouldn’t choose to walk through it again.
But I also wouldn’t trade what I’ve found on the other side:
A deeper strength.
A quieter kind of hope.
A faith that doesn’t need the full picture to trust the Painter.
So if you’re in the middle of it —
wondering if anything good could come from what’s been lost —
hold on.
What feels broken today
may one day bloom with beauty
you couldn’t imagine from here.
Nothing is wasted.
Not in His hands.
There’s a certain kind of quiet
that lives in the in-between.
After what’s been planned —
before what makes sense.
It’s not quite peace.
Not quite panic.
Just… waiting.
A stretch of time
where clarity feels far away,
and trust becomes a choice
you keep making in the dark.
That’s where I am right now.
And I don’t have anything polished to say.
No deep revelation.
No strength to spare.
Just this: I’m here.
Still praying.
Still breathing.
Still trusting the One who sees what I can’t.
Because I don’t know what’s next —
but I know who’s holding me.
And sometimes that has to be enough.
So if you’re in the stretch too —
between the ache and the answer,
between the weight and the relief —
you’re not alone.
This space might not feel holy,
but I believe it is.
And even here,
you are still held.
Where I Found My Voice 