Waiting is not the same as being stuck.
It is the space between what has been laid down and what has not yet been given—between the wound and the healing, the breaking and the rebuilding—where waiting becomes its own kind of work.
By this time, God had already begun uncovering things hidden for years—truths that changed the way I understood everything that came before.
Waiting was where I had to learn how to live with that truth…
to sit with the shock of it, the weight of it, and the slow unfolding of what it had meant all along.
And I began to understand that God wasn’t keeping me there to hold me back—
He was keeping me.
Holding me steady when I felt like I might unravel.
Preserving what was fragile.
Teaching me how to live in a place I didn’t choose, but wasn’t meant to rush through.
And it was in that place—held, but still hurting—that the weight of what I was beginning to understand settled even deeper.
During counseling, pieces of my marriage had slowly begun rearranging themselves in my mind. Moments I once dismissed or explained away no longer felt isolated. A pattern was beginning to emerge—one I had never fully seen while I was living inside it.
The realization that he had always seen me as a child was devastating.
But for the first time, it made sense.
And that clarity didn’t bring immediate relief.
It brought a deeper kind of ache.
Because the hardest part wasn’t just seeing it—it was sitting with it.
Reliving, in my mind, the moments I had felt dismissed… the quiet ways I had been made to feel small… the times I questioned myself without knowing why.
Trying to carry the weight of that truth was overwhelming.
I took it to bed with me every night and woke with it every morning.
Each day, I wrestled with the knowledge that I had been married to someone I did not fully know—even though I had believed for years that I did.
The man I thought I knew and the man he truly was were not the same.
I slowly began to realize how much of our marriage had existed within the version of himself he chose to let me see.
The realization was disorienting—grieving not only the loss of the marriage itself, but the life I thought I had been living inside.
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Eight years have passed since the life I knew ended—eight years of learning to stand again, of remembering how to breathe, of discovering who I am without someone else defining me.
And still, there are moments that catch me off guard—
a song, a memory, a quiet evening that reminds me of what once was, of what I survived, of what God carried me through.
Sometimes the tears still come.
Not because I am broken—but because I am human.
And because pain, even when healed, remembers.
I am not where I was.
But I am not yet where God is taking me.
I am here—still walking, still waiting, trusting Him a little deeper than yesterday.
This is where I’ve learned that faith isn’t just believing God when He moves—it’s choosing Him when He seems silent.
It’s where hope grows roots—slowly, unseen, but steady.
It’s where God keeps me.
He steadies me when I want answers.
He holds me when I want resolution.
He reminds me that His silence is not absence—but invitation.
There are days I wonder if the truest redemption I will ever taste will be the one that greets me when I finally go Home.
This world is not my home, and sometimes my soul feels its distance.
When people ask how I am, I usually say, “I’m okay.”
Not because I’m pretending—but because okay is honest.
I’m not broken anymore—but I’m not carefree either.
I’m not bubbly or bright or “over it.”
I am okay.
I am steady.
I am grounded.
I am held.
I am joyful in the Lord.
Content in His leading.
Grateful for His provision.
But happiness—the light, effortless kind—hasn’t fully returned.
And now I understand why.
Deep pain leaves its imprint.
Trauma reshapes the way the heart and mind learn safety, joy, and rest.
I am not the same woman I was before—not hardened, but changed.
More careful about what I allow close to my heart. More aware of what is sincere… and what is self-serving.
I have learned that it’s okay to have boundaries—to choose who has access to my heart and who does not.
Some of those decisions have been difficult, but they have been necessary.
Protecting my heart is not wrong.
It is wisdom.
And maybe that is part of why happiness feels different now.
Happiness may come and go.
But joy remains.
Happiness rises and falls with circumstances—but joy is steadier, deeper—rooted in the quiet assurance of God’s presence.
Once, I was told happiness was the goal—as if contentment could be found by chasing what feels good in the moment.
But I’ve learned that kind of pursuit never satisfies.
“I have seen everything that is done under the sun, and behold, all is vanity and a striving after wind.” – Ecclesiastes 1:14 ESV
Joy doesn’t demand escape.
It stays.
So, for now, I sit with Jesus in the quiet—in my beautiful home,
in this peaceful and blessed life, in a heart that still remembers what hurt feels like.
And I wait.
Because this is where He keeps me.
Not forgotten. Not abandoned. Just here—with Him.
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Years into living on my own, God still reminds me that I am seen and cared for in quiet ways.
One evening after a counseling session, I stopped at the grocery store knowing I needed both food and gas—and I didn’t know how I was going to make what I had in my checking account stretch.
I counted what I had, made careful choices, and trusted Him with the rest.
I usually treat myself to Starbucks in the grocery store—but only if I have money on my card.
That night, after a difficult counseling session, I had just enough credit on my Starbucks card to justify the small comfort of coffee.
But when I went to pay, the barista smiled and told me I had enough stars for a free one.
My groceries came to exactly what I had.
And when I filled my car with gas, the total landed right where it needed to.
Sitting in my car afterward, tears filled my eyes, and I whispered, Thank You, Jesus.
These moments don’t feel small to me.
They feel tender—reminders that God is still providing, still attentive, still faithful.
That I don’t have to panic or brace myself anymore.
I can wait with Him, knowing He will take care of me.
So, I wait.
I’m not empty.
I’m not lost.
Just waiting with Jesus in the middle.
And in that waiting, I’ve begun to see healing differently.
Healing is not only found in what changes.
Sometimes it is found in learning to live fully in what remains.
And learning to live in what remains can be its own kind of wilderness road.
What does it look like to live this time to the fullest?
What does fullness mean when life is steady, quiet, ordinary?
I’m not completely sure yet.
I know I am where God wants me.
But some days, I still whisper, LORD… is this all You have for me?
Waking up.
Going to work.
Serving faithfully.
Teaching my Sunday school class.
Going to church.
Going to the grocery store.
Coming home to a quiet house.
Some days it feels peaceful.
Some days it feels lonely.
Some days it feels like purpose.
Some days it feels like pause.
It is ordinary.
It is sacred in a way I didn’t expect—but honest enough to say: sometimes the middle is hard.
And yet, here in this unfolding middle, I know God is not finished with me.
He is not silent—He is being gentle with me, allowing me to rest after all I’ve walked through.
He has not set me aside—only settled me for however long He sees fit.
This is not the end of my story.
This is a time of quiet formation—where faith is strengthened in unseen ways.
And when I step back and look at the stories God has been writing since the beginning, I realize this middle isn’t unique to me.
Sometimes life with God looks like crossing seas.
Sometimes it looks like circling walls.
Sometimes it looks like standing still in the wilderness—
with manna in your hands and a promise still far ahead.
And sometimes, it feels like sitting in the back seat of childhood faith again, quietly whispering,
LORD… are we there yet?
Not with impatience—but with a heart learning that arrival is not the point, and that His presence in the process is the truest destination.
And so, I stay.
I breathe.
I keep my hand in His—trusting that every mile of this middle matters to Him, and that even here, He is working in what remains.
Trusting God doesn’t mean the pain goes away.
It means I don’t have to carry it by myself anymore.
And somewhere in that place—where the pain is still present
but no longer mine to carry alone—something unexpected begins to grow.
Gratitude.
Not loud.
Not forced.
But steady.
Sometimes it looks like tears—because healing has layers I didn’t know existed.
I am grateful—deeply, fiercely grateful—for every way God has carried me, restored me, steadied me, and held me when I could not stand.
And still, sometimes I cry.
Not from despair—
but from release…
from memory…
from tenderness…
from the ache of a life that changed without my permission—
and from the holy weight of knowing how far God has brought me.
Tears do not mean I lack gratitude.
They mean my heart is still soft.
Some days healing looks like joy.
Some days it looks like quiet.
And some days it looks like tears rolling down my face as I whisper,
Thank You, LORD… even here.
“Come to Me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you, and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” – Matthew 11:28–29 ESV
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“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.” – James 1:2-4 ESV
Thank you, Miss Sandra, for showing me what it looks like to welcome trials as friends.