Between What Was and What Will Be

There are seasons in life when everything seems to pause — not because we’ve chosen to stop, but because God, in His quiet mercy, creates space. This has been my experience over the past year.

For a while, I didn’t recognize it as a gift. The sudden stillness in my routine felt more like absence than abundance, more like loss than love. Plans I had long been clinging to began to unravel, and doors I thought would open, or continue to stay open, seemed to be closing instead. I remember praying for clarity, for movement, for something — anything — that would fill the silence. But instead, God invited me to stay. To sit. To wait. At first, waiting felt like wasting. I struggled to understand why everything around me was slowing down while others seemed to keep moving — advancing in their careers, relationships, and faith with such visible progress. Meanwhile, my life felt like it had been quietly set aside.

Waiting has never come easily to me. I find comfort in knowing what’s next — to have a plan, a direction, a sense of purpose guiding me forward. But lately, I’ve found myself standing in a kind of stillness I didn’t necessarily choose. Among this stillness, God created unexpected space in a relationship I cherished deeply, and it caught me off guard. The distance ached, and the silence made me question myself. Have I done something wrong? Have I lost my way? For weeks, I wrestled with what He was doing, holding the uncomfortable stillness like a heavy weight on my shoulders. But slowly, I began to see that the pause wasn’t punishment; it was protection - preparation. God was showing me how much of my peace I had unknowingly placed in someone else’s hands instead of His.

Psalm 37:7 says, “Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him.” Those words began to take root in me when I finally stopped trying to fix the silence. I started spending more time in prayer — not to ask for what was next, but simply to be with Him. Some days, that meant sitting in the Word with a heart too heavy to speak. Other days, it meant journaling through tears I didn’t realize were yearning to be released. Slowly, the quiet that once felt empty began to feel full — full of grace, full of peace, and full of lessons I wouldn’t have learned if life had stayed loud.

In this new and uncomfortable situation, God began revealing to me what I had been holding too tightly: my timelines, my plans, certain people, even my sense of identity. I realized how much of my worth I had tied to movement — to visible results, constant doing, and the reassurance that I was “on track.” But in this new season, there is no checklist to measure growth. There is only surrender. And it was in surrender that I began to hear His voice again — not in thunder or urgency, but in whispers of peace that said, “You’re safe here.”

Looking back, I can see how this distance created across various avenues of my life wasn’t meant to fully isolate me, but to draw me closer to Him. It was God’s way of realigning my heart, teaching me that His timing is not delayed; it’s deliberate and perfect. Ecclesiastes 3:1 reminds us, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.” Slowly, it has been revealed to me that even the waiting, the wondering, the not-yet, has a spiritual purpose.

There’s a particular kind of faith that grows in the quiet. It’s not the kind that shouts from mountaintops, but the kind that whispers, “I trust You,” even when the outcome is uncertain. It’s the faith that learns to rest without resolution. It’s strange how God can use distance to draw us near, how the very place that once felt hollow can become the soil where new trust takes root.. Sometimes, the same void we try to fill is the one He’s using to heal. I think of Psalm 34:18 — “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” This verse met me on the days I felt forgotten, when prayers seemed to echo into nothing. But they were never unheard. God was closer than I realized, shaping something new in the silence. Not just changing what was happening around me, but creating a transformation within me.

This season hasn’t ended, but it’s beginning to make sense. What once felt like distance now feels like invitation. I’m learning that stillness can be sacred, that God can fill even the emptiest spaces with purpose. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but I know He’s here too — shaping me quietly, patiently, tenderly.

Maybe space isn’t something to escape after all.

Maybe it’s where transformation begins:

between what was and what will be.