It’s not a loud kind of confidence.
Not the kind you have to announce.
It’s the kind that settles in
when you remember who made you…
and who holds you still.
I don’t feel the need to prove anything right now.
Not because I have it all together —
but because I know I’m already known.
Already loved.
Already His.
That changes how I carry myself.
Not with striving.
Just with peace.
“In Him we live and move and have our being.”
Acts 17:28 (NIV)
There are days when the thing in front of you feels too big to move.
Too heavy to carry.
Too complicated to untangle.
The obstacle might be a person.
Or a wound.
Or a door that just won’t open no matter how hard you push.
And it’s easy to believe that this is the thing that will finally undo you.
That maybe this is the end of the road.
That prayer doesn’t work.
Or God’s not listening.
Or you’re just too tired to keep saying the same thing again and again.
But lately, I’ve been reminded of something:
Prayer is not powerless.
It’s not passive.
It’s not some backup plan we use when everything else fails.
Prayer is the most powerful thing we’ve been given.
Because prayer isn’t just words — it’s connection.
It’s alignment.
It’s surrender and authority woven together in the same breath.
It’s not always flashy.
It’s not always instant.
But it is always working.
Because prayer invites God into places we can’t reach on our own.
And there is no obstacle that outranks His presence.
So if what’s standing in front of you feels too big —
remember who’s standing beside you.
“The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective.”
James 5:16 (NIV)
There are moments when everything feels heavy —
when the world feels dark,
and I find myself whispering,
“It’s really dark, God. Can You help shine some light?”
And I feel Him answer,
softly but clearly:
“My child, you are to be the light.”
I’ve stood in the dark before, wishing for a flashlight — only to realize there was a light switch within reach.
Maybe it’s the same in life.
What we’re asking for might already be within us.
What we’re craving, we might already carry.
This world has always known darkness.
But that’s why the light matters.
Even a small light can change what feels overwhelming.
Maybe today, it begins with you.
“You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden.”
Matthew 5:14 (ESV)
There are moments I find myself crying out, not because I don’t believe God is near — but because I desperately want to feel Him.
It happened when I was driving home after something had upset me. I was talking to God the way I do when I’m worked up — no script, no filter, just honest. And I said out loud, “Even though I’m alone… I know I’m not alone. I know You’re sitting right here with me.”
But still — I wanted more.
Not more proof, just more presence.
I wanted to feel Him.
I wanted to see Him.
I wanted to hear something from Him — not metaphorically, not spiritually… but tangibly.
And then something struck me:
What I really wanted… was to be able to touch Him.
To smell Him.
To reach for Him like a child does their parent.
That’s when this image came to mind — one I’ve seen a hundred times in my own house.
Me, rocking my baby to sleep…
His tiny hands gently reaching for my face — tracing my lips, my eyelashes, my nose.
Not because he’s trying to calm me…
But because he’s learning me.
Because he wants to know the features of the one who loves him.
And I realized — maybe that’s what God wants from us too.
Maybe He wants us to be so hungry to know Him, so desperate to recognize Him, that we would reach for Him like a child in the dark.
Not to fix anything.
Not to perform anything.
But just to discover.
To trace the lines of His face.
To wonder where His hair falls at the nape of His neck.
To feel the curve of His jaw, the arch of His brow, the kindness in His eyes.
To know: this is my Father.
We often think of God as the one tracing us — counting the hairs on our head, holding our tears in a bottle, never sleeping as He watches over us.
But what if the invitation has always been two-way?
What if He’s not hiding — just waiting?
Waiting for us to draw closer.
Waiting for us to cup His face in our hands — not because we need something from Him… but because we want to know Him.
I want to know the God who knows me like that.
“For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.
Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”
1 Corinthians 13:12 (NIV)
There are quiet places that don’t feel peaceful at first.
They feel empty.
They feel unfamiliar.
They echo too much.
Sometimes it’s the stillness itself that feels loud —
not because it’s actually noisy,
but because we’ve been moving so fast for so long
that stopping feels like something might catch up with us.
Maybe it’s grief.
Maybe it’s fear.
Maybe it’s the simple ache of being alone with your thoughts —
without the to-do lists, the baby monitor, the scrolling, or the noise of a world that never stops.
But stillness is not punishment.
It’s invitation.
It’s where God gently meets us when we’re no longer outrunning Him.
Not with reprimand —
but with presence.
Because He doesn’t need our productivity.
He wants our proximity.
He just wants us close enough to hear Him when He whispers,
“I’m still here.”
“I’ve been here.”
And the stillness begins to soften.
The silence turns holy.
And the ache doesn’t disappear —
but it rests.
Not because it’s fixed,
but because it’s finally held.
“Be still, and know that I am God.”
Psalm 46:10 (NIV)
Some days, it feels like my candle is burning out.
And other days, I swear I could light up a whole city.
I’ve learned to pay attention to what fuels the flame.
And today — it was him.
It was the moment I held my busy toddler in my arms at church,
and he suddenly stilled.
His head nestled into my shoulder,
his little eyes focused on the woman singing behind us.
The stillness.
The wonder.
The quiet awe that washed over him — and me too.
And now, it’s this moment,
as I rock him to sleep, singing gently over his tired frame.
My voice may not be beautiful, but he doesn’t mind.
And neither does God.
He fills my heart.
He overflows my cup.
He ignites something holy in me.
When he’s not here, everything feels a little off —
my home isn’t messy in a way that I love,
and my to-do lists aren’t full of things I want to be doing.
There’s just… space. And longing.
But even in that longing, I’m reminded of a Father who feels the same.
A God who simply wants to be acknowledged when He draws near.
A Father who welcomes us into His home,
mess and all.
A Father who delights in the songs we sing —
even the off-key ones.
Even the tired ones.
Even the whispered ones.
These moments…
they’re sacred.
And I think He calls them beautiful, too.
“The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save;
He will rejoice over you with gladness;
He will quiet you by His love;
He will exult over you with loud singing.”
— Zephaniah 3:17 (ESV)
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
There’s a kind of homesickness I can’t explain.
Not for a house or a city —
but for something deeper.
A nearness. A Presence. A peace that settles in the bones.
“How lovely is Your dwelling place, Lord Almighty.
My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the Lord;
my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God.”
— Psalm 84:1–2 (NIV)
I read that — and I don’t just understand it,
I feel it.
Because more than answers,
more than comfort,
more than clarity or resolution —
what I really ache for is God Himself.
To feel close to Him again.
To remember what it’s like to rest in His presence,
not rushing past it
or reaching for it like it’s still far away.
But to dwell in it.
To breathe it in like oxygen for a soul that’s been holding its breath.
Maybe you’ve felt it too.
That quiet pull toward the sacred.
That longing to feel seen,
held,
not alone.
The world offers distractions.
But nothing satisfies that ache like Him.
Not a new chapter.
Not a healed circumstance.
Not even peace in your situation.
The ache you feel?
It’s holy.
Because what your soul longs for most —
is the One who made it.
And He’s not far.
He’s right here, closer than you think.
Joseph had no idea that one day, he’d be released from prison and become second in command over all of Egypt.
Elizabeth had no idea that, long after her childbearing years had passed, she would carry the one who would prepare the way for the Lord.
So if your situation feels impossible —
if you’re waiting, wondering, aching to see what God is doing —
let their stories remind you:
He is never late. He is never absent. He is never done.
God may be about to do something miraculous.
You don’t have to be loud to be loved.
You don’t have to be noticed to be known.
You don’t have to be praised to be precious.
God hears the quiet.
He sees the faithful.
And He calls it beautiful.
“Your Father who sees in secret will reward you.”
— Matthew 6:6 (ESV)
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)
Where I Found My Voice 