I don’t know if it’s the monotony of adulthood or the realness of living in a broken world, but there are seasons when I feel like I’m lost in a cornfield.

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Stay with me.

When you start a corn maze, there’s a designated start and end. You know where you’re going. The problem is everything in between.

There are turns and dead ends. Paths that look like they’re definitely going somewhere until they very much are not. There are signs and suggestions and people yelling directions from somewhere you can’t see.

And sometimes the advice is helpful. Sometimes it is decidedly not.

Sometimes you’re pretty sure you’re going the right way and then—surprise!—you’ve walked directly into a wall of corn.

Which is basically where I am right now. I’ve applied for opportunities. I’ve been rejected for opportunities. I have guest articles and submissions sitting somewhere in the ether. I have book ideas with absolutely no motivation to do anything about them. I have amazing clients and very little creative juice left for my own “stuff.” I have days that people assume are empty that are anything but.

There was a beginning. I know there’s an end. But the path in between? Not much of a view

And maybe that’s what has been bothering me. I don’t necessarily feel like I’m going nowhere. I just don’t feel like I’m going anywhere new.

I’m doing the things. I’m showing up. I’m sending the email and writing the thing and applying for the opportunity and trying to be a responsible adult and answering the text and making dinner and doing the dishes and occasionally remembering that plants also require water to survive.

But I would really like to see some evidence that all of this is going somewhere.

I like progress. I like knowing why I’m doing something. I like a good five-year plan. I like a six-month plan. Honestly, I’d take a decent Tuesday plan at this point.

What I don’t particularly enjoy is doing something faithfully and then having absolutely no idea what it is producing.

Which is probably why I’ve been thinking about the parable of the sower (Luke 8:4-15).

Not because I think every application I submit is a seed that will eventually become a bestselling book or every article I write is guaranteed to find its way into print.

But because the sower doesn’t get to see the whole story when he plants the seed. He sows. And then he waits.

Some falls on the path. Some on rocky ground. Some among thorns. And some falls on good soil and produces a harvest.

The seed doesn’t look like much when it’s first put into the ground. Actually, it looks a lot like nothing. And maybe that’s where I’ve been getting stuck.

I keep confusing nothing I can see with nothing happening.

A seed underground looks like nothing. A season of preparation can look like nothing. Obedience without immediate results can look like nothing. Waiting can look like nothing.

But that doesn’t mean God is doing nothing. I don’t know what He is doing right now.

And I think that’s the disclaimer.

Vol. 7 of Disclaimers of a Very Real Person, apparently, is that sometimes I don’t have a profound spiritual lesson to share. Sometimes I’m just tired. Sometimes I’m bored. Sometimes I’m frustrated that I can’t see the point. Sometimes I want God to hand me the map instead of asking me to trust Him with the next turn.

And sometimes I look at my life and think, Really, Lord? This is it? Not because I don’t trust Him. But because I’m human.

And maybe faith isn’t pretending the cornfield is beautiful. Maybe faith is admitting that you’re tired of the cornfield and still trusting the One who knows exactly where you are.

Jesus never promised me I would understand the path. He promised to be with me in it.

So I’m going to keep walking. Not because I know where this leads. Not because I suddenly have a burst of creative motivation. Not because the next opportunity is guaranteed to work out. Not because I have figured out what God is doing. But because I know Him.

And maybe that’s enough for today.

Maybe I don’t need to know whether I’m five turns away from the exit or about to walk into another dead end. Maybe I just need to take the next step. And then the next one. And then the next one.

Because sometimes the most spiritual thing I can do is keep walking through the corn. Even when I can’t see the end. Even when I don’t understand the middle. Even when it feels like nothing is happening.

-Reanna

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I mean, I don’t love waiting in general. But I especially don’t love waiting when I can’t see the end. I can handle a delayed flight if someone tells me, “Hey, it’ll be another 30 minutes.” I can sit in a waiting room if I know approximately how long the appointment will take. I can even survive being stuck behind a train.

Probably. But I would really like to know how many more train cars are coming.

Because there is something about not knowing that makes us start looking for another way around.

When I was talking with Debra Mcninch on this week’s episode of the Not Just Waiting Podcast, she used the picture of being stopped at a train track.

You’re sitting there. Waiting. You look to see if you can spot the end of the train. You wonder how much longer this is going to take.

And eventually, you start thinking, Is there another way? Can I turn around? Can I go around it? Can I somehow make this train move faster?

Honestly? Same.

I think that is how a lot of us approach the seasons we didn’t plan for. We’re okay trusting God as long as we know where we’re going. We’re okay waiting as long as we know when the waiting will end. We’re okay surrendering the outcome as long as we can quietly keep a backup plan in our back pocket.

But eventually, we find ourselves sitting in a season we can’t fix.

A relationship that hasn’t been restored. A prayer that hasn’t been answered the way we hoped. A diagnosis, disappointment, move, loss, financial situation, or family story we never would have chosen.

And suddenly, we’re sitting at the train tracks asking God, How much longer?

If I’m being honest, I would often prefer if He would just give me a little more information. A timeline would be great. A five-step plan would be helpful. Maybe a calendar invitation. Something. But that’s not usually how trust works.

Debra said something in our conversation that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about: she tries not to get five years into the future. Sometimes, she tries not to get five minutes into the future. Instead, she asks, “God, what are You doing right now in this moment? What are You speaking to me right now, today?”

I think I need that reminder. Because sometimes I am so busy trying to figure out what happens next that I miss what God is doing now.

I’m looking down the tracks, trying to spot the end of the train, while God is standing beside me asking me to trust Him where I already am.

And that doesn’t mean waiting is easy. It doesn’t mean we have to pretend that the hard thing isn’t hard. It doesn’t mean we stop praying, stop hoping, or stop bringing our honest questions to God.

Debra has spent years praying for her family and walking through a story that looks very different than the one she originally imagined. Somewhere along the way, she learned to describe her posture as waiting with anticipation.

Not waiting with control. Not waiting while trying to manipulate the outcome. Not waiting with her hands crossed, demanding that God hurry up. Waiting with anticipation.

She told me about a puzzle sitting on a shelf. Her family used to do puzzles together, so she bought one and keeps it visible. It is a reminder of the hope she carries for the day when they can sit around the table and do a puzzle together again. And I loved that picture.

Because hope doesn’t mean pretending you know exactly how God is going to write the story. Sometimes hope simply means refusing to believe that this chapter is the whole story.

There is a difference between holding tightly to an outcome and holding tightly to God. One says, “This is how I need You to fix it.” The other says, “I don’t know how You’re going to do this, but I know You are still God here.”

And maybe that is the invitation in the waiting. To keep bringing Him our hopes without trying to control the timeline. To keep praying without assuming we are the ones responsible for making the answer happen.

To keep moving when He says move. To be still when He says be still. To open our Bibles when we don’t have the words to pray. To tell the truth when we’re tired. To remember that faithfulness doesn’t always look like doing more.

Sometimes faithfulness looks like sitting on the bathroom floor and saying, “Lord, I need You.” And sometimes that is enough for today.

You don’t have to figure out the next five years. You might not even have to figure out the next five minutes.

Maybe today, you just need to ask: God, what are You doing here? What are You forming in me? What are You asking me to release? What does faithfulness look like today?

You might not be able to see the end of the train. But you are not waiting alone. And while you’re looking down the tracks, wondering how much longer, God still has the aerial view.

He sees what you cannot. He knows where this is going. And He is still with you here.

So maybe we can stop trying to force the train to move. Maybe we can stop trying to find a way around every hard thing. Maybe we can loosen our grip on the timeline. And maybe, just maybe, we can learn to wait with anticipation.

Not because we know exactly what is coming next. But because we know who is with us while we wait.

If you’re in a season that doesn’t look like you thought it would, I hope you’ll listen to this week’s conversation with Debra Mcninch on the Not Just Waiting Podcast.

And friend? If all you can do today is keep your eyes on Jesus while the train keeps passing by, I think that counts as waiting well.

-Reanna

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Dreams are a hard thing to live with. They’re imaginary hopes we cling to. Little pictures we create of what our lives might look like someday.

Think back to when you were a child. What did you dream about?Was it your wedding? A dream career? A house or car with very specific—and probably wildly impractical—specifications?

For me, it was my wedding. Well, my wedding and babies, but we aren’t poking that bear today.

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I dreamed of this quintessential Southern wedding. Hydrangeas. Ferns. A big church with gorgeous windows. The perfect bridal party, with my childhood pastor “marrying me off.” The husband was there, of course, but his face was always kind of fuzzy in the dream.

There would be hymns being sung. A unity candle. A chic reception with fantastic food. And, naturally, my new husband would pick me up and whisk me away to our honeymoon.

It was a beautiful dream. And almost none of it happened. Okay, that’s not 100% true. I did get grocery-store hydrangeas.

But the big church? Nope. My childhood pastor? Nope. The giant bridal party? Nope. The hymns and unity candle? Nope. The husband picking me up and whisking me away? Also nope.

And yet, my wedding was wonderful.

It was fun and meaningful and so perfectly us. In fact, it was almost the exact opposite of the wedding I had imagined as a little girl.

And that’s when I realized something I hadn’t really considered before: Sometimes you have to grieve a dream even when you aren’t disappointed with your life.

I had to grieve that little girl’s wedding. Not because my actual wedding was bad. Not because I wished I had married someone else. Not because I wanted to trade my life for the one I had imagined. I simply had to acknowledge that something I had once pictured so clearly was never going to happen.

And there was grief in that. Maybe you know that feeling. Maybe your dream was a wedding, too. Or maybe it was something completely different.

Maybe you always imagined you’d have a certain career by now. Or live in a certain city. Or have children. Or be financially comfortable. Or have a particular kind of family. Maybe you thought you’d be further along in your calling, your friendships, your ministry, your education, your health, or your faith.

Maybe you thought your life would look completely different by this point.

And maybe—this is the part we don’t always say out loud—you actually like the life you have.

You can be happy and still grieve. You can be grateful and still have an ache. You can love the person you are becoming and still miss the person you thought you would be.

You can trust Jesus and still have moments where you whisper, “But this isn’t what I thought it would look like.”

I think sometimes we make grief harder than it needs to be because we assume that if we’re grieving something, we must not be grateful for what we have. But both can be true.

And that’s my disclaimer as a real person. I don’t have this figured out. I still have dreams. I still have expectations. I still occasionally catch myself comparing the life I’m living to the life I thought I’d be living by now. And sometimes I have to open my hands all over again.

Proverbs 16:9 says, “The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.”

I used to read verses like that as though my plans were the problem. As though having a dream meant I wasn’t trusting God enough.

But maybe the problem isn’t that we dream. Maybe it’s that we forget our dreams were never meant to be our gods.

We’re allowed to dream. We’re allowed to hope. We’re allowed to want good things. And we’re allowed to grieve when those good things don’t happen the way—or when—we thought they would.

Faith doesn’t mean pretending we never wanted it. Sometimes faith looks like saying, “Jesus, I wanted this. I really, really wanted this. And I don’t understand why this isn’t my story. But I trust You with the story anyway.”

That’s a different kind of surrender. A harder one, maybe. But a more honest one.

So, friend, what dream are you grieving? Maybe it’s one you haven’t told anyone about. Maybe it’s one you thought would have happened by now. Maybe you’re genuinely happy with your life and still feel a little ache when you think about the life you once imagined.

If that’s you, you don’t have to shame yourself out of the grief. Bring it to Jesus. Thank Him for what is. Grieve what isn’t. And trust Him with both.

Because maybe the goal isn’t to stop dreaming. Maybe it’s learning to hold our dreams with open hands.

-Reanna

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I want to know how the story ends. I want to know that the decision I’m making is the right one. I want to know that the thing I’m praying for is actually going to happen.

And if I can just think about it a little longer, plan a little better, prepare for every possible scenario, and maybe manipulate the outcome just a little bit...Surely I’ll be okay. Except that’s not really trust, is it? That’s control wearing a Christian T- shirt.

And that is exactly where my conversation with Kathy Rogers went on this week’s episode of Not Just Waiting. Kathy has lived through more than I can imagine. She walked through breast cancer herself, then watched her mom battle cancer, and later lost her 29-year-old daughter, Elayna, to metastatic breast cancer.

And somehow, in the middle of unimaginable grief, Kathy learned to say: God is faithful even when I can’t see what He’s doing.

That’s not the kind of faith that comes from having everything go according to plan. It’s the kind of faith that has been tested. And I think that’s why this conversation stayed with me.

Because we kept coming back to this idea: I’m responsible for obedience. God is responsible for the outcome.

Oof. As a recovering control freak, I don’t particularly love that sentence. Kathy said she’s a striver. A doer. Someone who wants to figure out how to get a better outcome. And I thought, Oh. I know that girl.Maybe you do too.

We can turn waiting on God into a full-time project. We make lists. We research. We strategize. We pray. We make backup plans. We pray about the backup plans. And then we wonder why we’re exhausted.

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Kathy described realizing during her cancer journey that she had been what she called a “checklist Christian.” She went to church. She read her Bible. She prayed.

But she wasn’t really casting her burdens on God. She was basically handing Him the list and saying, I’ve got it. Until cancer made it painfully obvious that she didn’t. And that’s when she began learning what it actually meant to trust God.

I think there is something really important here for those of us who are waiting. Sometimes we’re asking God, When is this going to change? And maybe He is asking us, Will you trust Me while it hasn’t?

We also talked about how easy it is to settle for the mediocre simply because it’s familiar. And honestly? That one got me.

Because I would rather choose something I know I can manage than something beautiful that requires me to trust God. I would rather have predictable than glorious. And when you say it out loud, it sounds ridiculous.

But don’t our lives sometimes say exactly that?

Kathy shared the story of losing her hair during chemotherapy and then watching it grow back completely differently—white-blonde and natural. She sees that hair as a reminder of God’s provision, almost like He was saying, You thought you knew what this was going to look like. But I have something you couldn’t have imagined.

And I loved that. Because isn’t that what we’re so often afraid of? We think surrender means God is going to take something away. But what if surrender sometimes means letting God give us something we couldn’t have planned for ourselves?

What if it’s glorious?

That doesn’t mean every hard thing has a happy ending. Kathy’s story makes that abundantly clear. Her mom died. Her daughter died. There are losses in this life that don’t get neatly tied up with a bow.

But Kathy talked about experiencing joy, gratitude, and what she described as a peace that passes understanding—even in the middle of profound grief.

And that is one of the things I love about Jesus. He doesn’t promise us a life without pain. He promises His presence in it.

We don’t have to do hard things alone. And that led us into another conversation I desperately needed: community. Because apparently, doing all the “right” Christian things isn’t the same as actually being known.

We can go to church. Read our Bibles. Serve people. Check all the boxes. And then go home and realize we’re incredibly lonely.

Why? Because community requires vulnerability. And vulnerability is terrifying when you’ve been hurt before.

I’ve been in situations where I’ve trusted people with something vulnerable and watched that vulnerability get used against me. And when that happens enough times, your body starts learning a lesson your theology hasn’t quite caught up with: Don’t trust people.

But Kathy reminded me that the answer isn’t isolation. The answer is learning to become more secure in God’s love.

Because the more we know Him, the more we learn to trust Him. And the more secure we become in who He says we are, the less we have to live in fear of what everyone else thinks.

It’s so simple. And so incredibly not easy. Which is probably why I loved the moment when we talked about the people in Scripture who absolutely did not have their lives together: Peter. Paul. Basically everyone.

There are no perfect humans in the Bible. (Yes, I know, Jesus. Stay with me.) And somehow, those are the people God uses.

So maybe being broken doesn’t disqualify us. Maybe we can be highly broken and highly qualified at the same time.

I don’t know about you, but that gives me a little more courage to keep going. To keep trusting. To keep surrendering. To keep becoming.

And if you’re in a waiting season right now, Kathy left us with something I don’t want to rush past. She said that waiting is one of the hardest places to surrender—but it can also be one of the places where God draws us closest to Himself.

Instead of only asking, When is this going to end?

Maybe we can begin asking: “God, what do You want me to learn in this?”

Because Jesus was never in a hurry. And neither do we have to be.

Maybe you’re not behind. Maybe you’re not forgotten. Maybe this season isn’t wasted. Maybe God is doing something in you that you can’t see yet. And maybe—just maybe—what you’re afraid to surrender isn’t the end of the story.

Maybe it’s glorious.

If you’re walking through grief, uncertainty, waiting, or a season where you simply don’t know what’s next, I hope you’ll listen to this conversation with Kathy.

I think you’ll feel a little less alone. And maybe a little more willing to trust the God who has been faithful all along.

And friend, if that’s you, remember: You are not behind. You are not forgotten. And you are definitely Not Just Waiting.

-Reanna

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Which is interesting, because I’ve spent the better part of this year collecting evidence to the contrary.

You know there are seasons of life when you just don’t fit the mold. You have the job but not the style. You have the kids but not the freedom. You have the degree but lack the satisfaction. You have the spouse but not the joy.

Well, I’m currently in the season of I’ve got the time but spend most of it at the doctor.

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Okay, maybe not in total reality. But it definitely feels like it.

I have at least one doctor’s appointment every week, with an accidentally-added additional one every other week. Honestly, I’m pretty sure I’ve gone to the doctor more this year than I have in my entire life.

And it’s not even like I’m going in for all of these appointments because something is dramatically wrong. It’s the opposite.

Every time I go in for something “routine,” they make me come back. The dentist? I needed a sealant. The nurse practitioner? Referral to a specialist. The eye doctor? Apparently I have some random disorder that requires me to come back and be screened for it.

I mean…wild. Weird. Unexpected.

Not to mention the normal appointments for the various parts of my body that have apparently decided, Yeah, this is just going to be a permanent problem now.

And somewhere along the way, without really realizing it, I internalized the fact that I’m broken. Not just that I live in a broken world. That I am the broken one.

Which is sort of true. I mean, technically, we are all broken. We are all living east of Eden, carrying the consequences of sin and sickness and grief and disappointment and a million other things we didn’t choose.

But somewhere along the way, I forgot the life-speaking part.

Proverbs 18:21 tells us that “the tongue has the power of life and death.”

And I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.

Because sometimes the things we say to ourselves become the loudest voice in the room.

I’m broken. I’m behind. My body is failing me. My life isn’t supposed to look like this. Everyone else is moving forward. Why can’t I just be normal?

And eventually, those thoughts stop feeling like thoughts and start feeling like facts.

But just because something is true about my circumstances doesn’t mean it gets to define my identity.

I may have limitations. I may have diagnoses. I may have more doctors’ appointments on my calendar than I would prefer. I may have a body that requires more attention than I ever imagined it would.

But I am not my limitations. I am not my medical chart. I am not the thing that went wrong. I am not the season I’m currently living in.

And neither are you.

(This is a work in progress, by the way. Please don’t corner me in the nursery on Sunday and ask me about it. There have been A LOT of tears and a few too many temper tantrums.)

I’m still learning this. I’m still learning that brokenness and belovedness can exist in the same body. That weakness doesn’t make me worthless. That needing help doesn’t make me a burden. That a life that looks different than I expected can still be a really good life.

And maybe most importantly, I’m learning that Jesus doesn’t look at me and see a problem to be fixed.

He sees me. He loves me. He meets me right here.

Not when I finally get healthy enough. Not when I stop crying about it. Not when I have a better attitude. Not when I figure out how to make peace with all of it.

Right here. In the middle of the doctor appointments and the unanswered questions and the things that probably aren’t going to change. Right here.

So, for Vol. 5 of Disclaimers of a Very Real Person, I wanted to remind you of something I’m having to remind myself: You aren’t broken either.

Your mistakes don’t define you. Your situation isn’t permanent. You aren’t behind. You are becoming.

And the things that feel like evidence that your life is falling apart may not be evidence of that at all.

Maybe they are simply evidence that you are human. Maybe your life doesn’t need to fit the mold to be meaningful. Maybe you don’t need to become a different version of yourself to be worthy of love. Maybe you don’t have to spend your life trying to prove that you’re okay. Maybe you can simply let Jesus meet you in the places where you aren’t.

Because the goal was never to become unbreakable.

The goal is to become rooted in the One who holds us when we break.

The Lord is mighty in you. Even here. Especially here.

- Reanna

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This was one of them.

When I invited Susan Bosma onto the podcast, I knew we’d be talking about her near-death experience. What I didn’t expect was how often the conversation would circle back to something much more familiar for all of us: waiting.

Susan spent fifty years carrying a story she believed God had entrusted to her before He finally opened the door for her to share it publicly. Fifty years.

In a culture that celebrates immediate platforms and overnight success, that kind of obedience feels almost impossible to imagine.

And yet that’s exactly what stood out to me.

Yes, we talked about eternity. Yes, we talked about heaven, judgment, Scripture, and the hope found only in Jesus. But underneath all of that was a quieter message that I think every one of us needs.

God isn’t in a hurry. We are.

Susan’s testimony reminded me that waiting doesn’t mean God has forgotten you. Sometimes He’s preparing you. Sometimes He’s protecting you. Sometimes He’s teaching you to hear His voice before He asks you to speak.

One of my favorite moments in our conversation came near the end when I asked what she would say to someone who’s in a waiting season right now.

Her answer surprised me. She didn’t tell us to strive harder or figure everything out. She simply reminded us not to doubt our value while we’re waiting.

Don’t compare yourself. Bloom where you’re planted. Do whatever God has placed in front of you today.

That message sounds remarkably familiar because it’s one we’ve come back to here again and again.

Waiting isn’t wasted.

Another part of our conversation that I can’t stop thinking about was when Susan shared that she’s alive today because people prayed for her long before she believed. She talked about friends who faithfully witnessed to her, even when she rejected what they were saying. Decades later, she looks back and says every single prayer mattered.

I don’t know who needs to hear that today, but maybe you’ve been praying for someone who seems completely uninterested in Jesus.

Keep praying. Maybe you’ve been faithfully showing up for someone who hasn’t responded. Keep loving. Maybe you’re wondering if your quiet obedience is making any difference. Keep going. You may never know this side of heaven what God is doing behind the scenes.

Whether you agree with every detail of Susan’s testimony or not, I hope you’ll do what I encouraged listeners to do in the episode: listen prayerfully, thoughtfully, and hold everything up against Scripture.

More than anything, I hope this conversation causes you to think about Jesus.

To remember that eternity is real. To remember that today matters. And to remember that faith has never been about having every answer before we take the next step.

Jesus told Thomas, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”

That’s still true today.

Friend, if you’re in an in-between season, don’t mistake God’s silence for His absence.

He is still working. He is still pursuing people. He is still answering prayers. And He is still with you in the waiting.

I’d love for you to listen to this week’s episode and let me know what part challenged or encouraged you most. As always, my prayer is that you leave with a little more courage, a little more hope, and a deeper confidence that you’re not behind. You’re becoming.

-Reanna

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You know the feeling. The season when life doesn’t quite look like you hoped it would, but there’s not actually anything wrong.

Nothing is on fire. Nothing is falling apart. There’s just…laundry. And groceries. And doctor’s appointments. And work. And dishes that somehow need to be washed again even though you literally just washed them.

I’m currently staring at two loads of laundry on my couch and a suitcase that has not been unpacked. My TENS unit is combating some “regular” pain, and my brain fog is THICK today. The sky is dreary, and the tomato plants on my back porch are now sticks thanks to some particularly ambitious hornworms.

Welcome to Vol. 4 of Disclaimers From a Very Real Human.

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Because sometimes life is not bad. It’s just… blah.

And honestly, I’m not sure what to do with that. Maybe I’m discontent. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe I’m bored. Maybe I’m craving a change.

Or maybe I’m just experiencing one of those very normal stretches of life where the days start to blur together and nothing feels particularly exciting.

Not that our life is normal or super predictable. It’s really not. But we do the same things over and over again. The time changes. The places change. The people change. But the general rhythm stays the same.

Wake up. Work. Eat. Clean something. Go somewhere. Come home. Go to bed. Repeat.

And lately, there haven’t really been many things to look forward to on a weekly basis. Right now, the most exciting thing on my agenda is my parents’ visit in mid-October. (Which, by the way, I now have to learn how to share with my brother who lives close-ish to me, but I’ll complain about that later.)

Maybe the piece I’m missing is the looking forward to part. Because I think we were made to look forward to things.

We make plans. We count down. We anticipate. We save things for later because sometimes the promise of something good is enough to make an ordinary Tuesday feel a little less ordinary.

There’s a reason children ask, “How many more sleeps?” There’s a reason we put vacations on the calendar months in advance. There’s a reason birthdays and Christmas and weddings and concerts and trips and dinners with friends can make us feel lighter long before they actually happen.

We are people of anticipation. We want something on the horizon. And maybe that’s part of what has felt off lately. I don’t necessarily need a more exciting life. I think I might just need something to hope for.

Which feels particularly interesting as a Christian, because hope is supposed to be one of the things that anchors us. Paul writes in Romans 8 that “hope that is seen is not hope.” We hope for what we do not see, and we wait for it with patience.

Maybe I’ve been expecting hope to feel like excitement. Maybe I’ve confused having something fun on my calendar with having something to look forward to. Because a trip can give me something to anticipate for three weeks. A visit from my parents can give me something to anticipate for two months.

But Jesus gives me something to hope for when there isn’t anything particularly exciting on the calendar.

And I think I’m still learning the difference. I don’t want to turn every quiet season into a problem that needs to be solved. I don’t want to manufacture excitement just because I’m uncomfortable with ordinary.

And I definitely don’t want to fill my calendar simply so I have something to post about, something to anticipate, or something to make the days feel more significant.

Sometimes the couch is covered in laundry because the laundry needs to be done. Sometimes the suitcase stays packed because you haven’t gotten around to unpacking it. Sometimes the tomato plants die because apparently hornworms have declared war on your garden.

Sometimes your brain is foggy. Sometimes the sky is gray. Sometimes nothing particularly bad is happening, but you still feel a little… blah. And maybe that’s okay, too.

Maybe I don’t need to diagnose it. Maybe I don’t need to fix it. Maybe I can just notice it.

And maybe I can ask myself what I’m actually longing for underneath the boredom. Is it adventure? Connection? Rest? Purpose? Joy? Something to look forward to?

Or is it something deeper—a reminder that there is more to my story than whatever is happening on my calendar this week?

I don’t know yet. But I think I’m going to sit with that for a while.

In the meantime, I have two loads of laundry to fold. And a suitcase to unpack. And apparently some dead tomato plants to mourn.

Just another disclaimer from a very real human.

- Reanna

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It’s become one of my favorite questions because every answer reminds me that becoming usually happens in places no one applauds.

This week’s conversation with was one of those conversations that stayed with me long after we stopped recording.

Somewhere in the middle of talking about waiting, identity, and trusting God, she said something that made me stop in my tracks. She said she’s learning to live from being known instead of being capable.

Whew. I don’t know about you, but that one found me. Because if I’m honest, it’s really easy for me to believe my value comes from what I can do. How productive I am. How many things I finish. How helpful I am. How much I accomplish.

If you’ve listened to the podcast for any length of time, you know I’m a to-do list girl. I wake up with one already running through my mind. Sometimes I even dream about things I need to do and have to decide if they were real or not.

Achievement comes naturally. Dependence doesn’t. And I think that’s why this conversation mattered so much.

Cathy talked about how God has been inviting her to let go of competence as her identity and instead learn to rely on the Holy Spirit again.

Not because competence is bad. But because it was never meant to be the foundation she stood on.

Honestly, I think many of us need that reminder. We spend so much energy trying to become more capable when maybe Jesus is inviting us to become more connected.

There was another moment I haven’t stopped thinking about. We started talking about butterflies. You know how everyone loves to use the butterfly as a picture of transformation? What we conveniently forget is what happens before the butterfly emerges.

Inside the chrysalis, the caterpillar doesn’t simply grow wings. It literally dissolves. It becomes goo.

Not exactly the inspiring Instagram version of transformation. But maybe the more accurate one.

Sometimes following Jesus feels a little like that.

The things we’ve always depended on stop working. The strengths we’ve leaned on suddenly aren’t enough. The answers feel quieter. The plans don’t move as quickly.

And we wonder what happened. But, maybe nothing went wrong. Maybe we’re simply in the middle of becoming.

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One of my favorite parts of our conversation was when Cathy reminded me that the goal isn’t balance. It’s abiding.

Not perfectly managing every responsibility. Not holding every plate in the air. Not saying yes to everything. Just staying near Jesus. Again and again.

She shared practical ways she does that—a fifteen-minute timer when life feels scattered, breathing prayers throughout the day, returning to Scripture when everything feels noisy.

Nothing flashy. Just faithful. Simple reminders that intimacy with Jesus is built one moment at a time.

Toward the end of our conversation, she said something I’ll probably carry with me for a long time: “The right thing at the wrong time is still the wrong thing.”

How many times have I pushed on doors God simply wasn’t opening yet because I knew it was eventually the right thing? How many times have I confused obedience with urgency?

Waiting has a way of exposing that. It reminds us that God’s timing matters just as much as God’s direction.

Maybe that’s why waiting feels so uncomfortable.

It asks us to trust the Shepherd more than our own instincts. It asks us to follow instead of forge ahead. It asks us to believe that becoming is just as important as arriving.

If you’re in a season where you feel like everything familiar is being stripped away, I hope you’ll remember this:

God may not be taking something from you.

He may be inviting you into deeper intimacy with Him.

Your worth has never been rooted in your productivity. Your identity has never been built on your competence. You don’t have to strive your way into becoming who God created you to be. You simply have to stay close to the One who is already forming you. Maybe that’s what waiting has been about all along.

-Reanna

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They show up in ordinary moments.

Like realizing—for what feels like the hundredth time—that you’re the one packing up the car to drive to everyone else’s house.

Welcome to Vol. 3 of Disclaimers from a Very Real Human.

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We wear the badge of “busy” almost daily. I promise it isn’t intentional. My husband and I are both huge introverts. My ideal evening looks like dinner at home, one episode of a show, pajamas before 8:00, and absolutely no plans on the calendar.

But, we also really love our people. So it’s rare that we’re home for more than one weeknight. We’re trying to make that two nights a week, but depending on the season, that’s easier said than done.

One thing I’ve noticed lately is that we’re almost always the ones who travel to everyone else. Does it make sense? Absolutely.

We don’t have little people buckled into car seats or animals that need to be let outside every few hours. It is infinitely easier for us to drive across town than it is for friends to pack diaper bags, snacks, bedtime routines, and exhausted toddlers into the car.

I wouldn’t ask them to do that. But, it still hurts my heart sometimes.

Because every time we’re the ones driving home late, there’s this tiny reminder that our story looks different than the one I imagined.

I wish we were the house with the toys scattered across the living room. I wish bedtime routines were ours to navigate. I wish people came to us because our kids were already home. Instead, we pack up leftovers, hug our friends goodbye, and drive home to a quiet house.

I know that probably sounds silly. But grief has a funny way of hiding inside ordinary moments. And honestly, I think this shows up in almost every part of life.

We long for jobs we don’t have. We catch ourselves admiring someone else’s beautiful home, fancy dishes, or perfectly styled living room. (I got lovingly called out for this one this week.) We want the vacation. The promotion. The marriage. The baby. The break. The version of life that seems easier than our own.

The problem is that we almost never know what those “privileges” actually cost.

Yes, our life has beautiful gifts. We’re incredibly blessed. But we’ve also made sacrifices that most people don’t see. We’ve intentionally kept our schedule flexible. We’ve tried to keep our home available. We’ve said no to opportunities so we could say yes to people.

If you only watched our life through social media, you might think it’s all sunshine and roses.It isn’t.

Every story has joys.
Every story has thorns.

This week, my thorn is wishing we were the family everyone came to because our house was full of little feet instead of just the two of us. But that isn’t our story right now. And if I’m honest, next week the thorn may look different.

Because while our circumstances change, comparison has a way of finding new disguises. It quietly convinces us that peace is waiting on the other side of someone else’s story.

Maybe your thorn looks different. Maybe it’s the promotion your friend received.The fifth engagement announcement you saw on Instagram. The perfectly curated newborn photos that somehow found their way onto your feed. The text asking if you’ll babysit again. Or maybe it’s something no one else even knows you’re carrying.

Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 12 that he pleaded with the Lord to remove his thorn, but instead God answered, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

I’ve always wanted God to remove the thorn. Lately, He’s been teaching me that His presence in the middle of it is the greater gift.

Not because the thorn suddenly stops hurting. But because the thorn keeps reminding me that my deepest longings were never meant to be fulfilled by the life I imagined. They were always meant to lead me back to Jesus.

So if you’re carrying a thorn this week, you’re not alone. Maybe neither of us gets the story we would’ve written. But we do get the Savior who faithfully walks us through the one we’re living.

- Reanna

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“Worry is meditation.”

I don’t know about you, but I’ve always thought of meditation as this intentional spiritual practice. Something peaceful. Something disciplined.

But worry? That just feels...automatic.

It’s the running commentary in my head while I’m trying to fall asleep. It’s replaying conversations that already happened or rehearsing conversations that probably never will. It’s trying to solve tomorrow before I’ve even lived today.

Kathleen said something so simple, yet so profound: if meditation is simply what we continually think about, then worry is meditation too. It’s just meditation on fear instead of truth.

I had to sit with that for a while. Because if that’s true, then the question isn’t whether I’m meditating. The question is what I’m meditating on.

That shifted something in me.

One of the things we talk about often on the podcast is becoming. Not becoming more productive. Not becoming more impressive. Becoming more like Jesus.

But if I’m constantly feeding my mind fear, comparison, timelines, and worst-case scenarios, I shouldn’t be surprised when peace feels far away.

Another part of our conversation that stayed with me was Kathleen’s picture of being connected to the Vine.

She described self-reliance as living like a branch that’s trying to survive apart from the vine. You’re still working. You’re still trying. But you’re forcing instead of flowing.

Oof.

If you’ve followed me for any length of time, you know that self-reliance has been one of the biggest things God has been gently unraveling in my own heart.

I’m naturally someone who likes a plan. I like spreadsheets. I like checklists. I like feeling like if I work hard enough, I’ll eventually figure everything out.

But waiting has a way of exposing all the places where I trust my own strength more than God’s.

Maybe that’s why I loved one of Kathleen’s practical questions so much: “What state am I in right now?”

Am I living connected to the Vine? Or have I drifted into anxiety, hurry, frustration, striving, or fear?

Because those aren’t invitations to shame ourselves. They’re invitations to return.

To remember that Jesus never asked us to carry everything. He invited us to abide.

And maybe that’s the invitation for you today, too. Not to try harder. Not to figure everything out. Not to force what’s only meant to flow through dependence on Him.

Just to come back to the Vine. To breathe. To trust. To remember that becoming has always mattered more to God than performing.

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If this conversation resonates with where you are, I’d love for you to listen to this week’s episode with Kathleen Johnson. We dive into walking by the Spirit, overcoming self-reliance, spiritual disciplines, surrender, and what it really looks like to trust God in the in-between.

I think it might encourage you as much as it encouraged me.

-Reanna

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When did I decide I needed to dress like a mom?

Not because I am one. Just…because I thought I was supposed to look like one.

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I’ve been having a bit of a physical identity crisis this year.

My body changes so quickly because of chronic illness. Inflammation comes and goes. Some weeks my jeans fit. Other weeks they don’t. My face changes. My energy changes. Nothing feels consistent, and honestly? My closet drives me a little crazy.

Granted, I’ve been a T-shirt-and-jeans kind of girl since I was eight years old. But as an almost 28-year-old woman, I don’t really feel like I fit those clothes anymore. Not because there’s anything wrong with them. I just don’t know if they still feel like me.

When I was teaching, I dressed comfortably but mostly put together. Nine-year-olds have very strong opinions about what their teacher should wear—and they’ll absolutely tell you.

Since stepping out of the classroom, though, I haven’t had a “back-to-school” shopping season. Outside of replacing the occasional pair of jeans that finally gave up after years of wear (usually by ripping in the thigh because...real life), I haven’t really bought “real clothes” in almost three years.

I didn’t think that bothered me. Until I started seeing myself on my podcast every single week.

Suddenly all I could notice was the same rotation of worn-out shirts. The colors that washed me out. The fact that I can practically see through some of them now. The inflammation in my face somehow feels more obvious when I don’t feel confident in what I’m wearing.

And somewhere along the way, I realized...This isn’t really about my closet.

It’s about how I see myself.

My husband is wonderful at reminding me that I’m fearfully and wonderfully made. He gently helps me take my thoughts captive when comparison starts to spiral. He reminds me that my identity has never been found in my appearance, my productivity, or the version of my life I thought I’d have by now.

But if I’m honest? The voices of this broken world are often louder than the truth I know.

The lack of energy from chronic illness mixed with a lack of motivation usually wins, and I end up roaming the world in a semi-disheveled state.

Meanwhile, all of my newborn-mom friends somehow manage to look effortlessly put together. And I’d be lying if I said that didn’t stir up some shame.

Because underneath all of this is a thought I didn’t even realize I’d been carrying. I may never experience biological motherhood the way I always imagined. That’s a grief I’ve carried quietly for years.

And I think somewhere around a decade ago, I subconsciously decided that if I couldn’t control my future, I could at least look like the woman I imagined I’d become.

The “soccer mom.” The effortlessly put-together woman who somehow always has a cute outfit, a matching water bottle, and enough emotional stability to keep a plant alive. (I’ve managed one of those things.)

But somewhere along the way, I confused looking like the woman I imagined with becoming the woman God is actually forming.

Those aren’t always the same thing.

God has never asked me to dress like the future I hoped for. He’s simply invited me to be faithful in the season I’m living now.

That’s a much gentler invitation.

Instead, I’m the community aunt. I’m the woman who gets asked, “So...you stay home, but you don’t have kids. What do you actually do all day?” I’m the friend who writes, records podcasts, freelances, serves our church, and shows up wherever she’s needed.

It’s a beautiful life. It’s just not the one I imagined.

And maybe that’s why my closet feels heavier than it should.

Because every outfit feels like I’m trying to become someone instead of simply dressing the woman God has already created me to be.

I’m beginning to think I need to spend less time asking, “How should I be perceived?” and more time asking, “Who has God actually invited me to become?”

Those are two very different questions. One is rooted in performance. The other is rooted in identity.

The more I sit with that question, the more I wonder if this is where joy begins.

Not when my body finally cooperates. Not when I can afford a whole new wardrobe. Not when my life finally matches the picture I carried in my head.

Joy begins when I stop trying to become the woman I imagined and start embracing the woman God is faithfully forming.

Because maybe that’s been the invitation all along. Not to become someone else. But to become more like Jesus.

So, friend, consider this Volume 2 of Disclaimers from a Very Real Human.

I’m tired of trying to please everyone. I’m tired of dressing for expectations I never agreed to. I’m tired of measuring my worth against a future that may never come.

And if I’m being completely honest, I really do need help with my closet.

But maybe even more than that, I need to remember that before I ever get dressed, before I ever walk out the door, before anyone forms an opinion of me—I am already fully known.

Already deeply loved. Already chosen. Already enough because I belong to Jesus.

Maybe I don’t need to learn how to dress like the woman I thought I’d become. Maybe I just need to faithfully dress the woman God has already created me to be. And maybe..that’s where joy starts.

-Reanna

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I tell myself, Once this season is over...then I’ll breathe. Then I’ll feel settled. Then I’ll know what God is doing.

But the more conversations I have on the podcast, the more I’m realizing that maybe waiting was never the point. Maybe becoming was.

This week’s conversation with reminded me of that over and over again.

Kim shared how God has continued to reshape her life—even in seasons when she thought she had already figured it all out. After raising children, beginning a new career later in life, and navigating changing family responsibilities, she found herself learning something many of us spend years resisting: We don’t actually have to have everything under control.

Honestly, that part hit me harder than I expected. Control has a funny way of disguising itself as responsibility. We tell ourselves we’re just planning ahead. Being prepared. Thinking through every possible outcome. Staying productive.

But if we’re honest, sometimes we’re simply trying to avoid trusting God with the unknown.

One moment from our conversation has stayed with me. I shared a story about sitting on an airplane recently while talking with the Lord about something that’s been causing me a lot of anxiety. In that quiet moment, I sensed Him asking a simple question: “Why haven’t you prayed about it?”

My immediate answer surprised me. “Because I thought I had it.” Then came another thought I couldn’t shake. If I truly handed it to Him...I wouldn’t be in control anymore.

Isn’t that how so many of us live? We say we trust God, but when it comes to the things that matter most, we keep one hand wrapped tightly around them just in case. We pray for wisdom. We pray for direction. We pray for open doors.

But sometimes we stop short of surrender because surrender means releasing the outcome.

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Kim said something that I think so many of us needed to hear. She talked about intentionally changing her mornings—not because she wanted to check off another spiritual habit, but because she realized she wasn’t making space to actually hear God’s voice.

She journals first to clear the mental clutter. Then she reads Scripture. Then she journals again to process what God is showing her.

I loved that. Not because it’s a magic formula, but because it creates margin. And if you’re anything like me, your brain doesn’t naturally create margin. It creates grocery lists. Work projects. Emails you forgot to send. Things you need to remember before lunch.

Sometimes we aren’t struggling to hear God because He isn’t speaking. We’re struggling because our minds never slow down long enough to listen.

One thing I’ve been learning this season is that hearing God’s voice isn’t usually a gift people are born with. It’s a relationship that’s practiced. The more time we spend with Him, the more familiar His voice becomes.

Just like you recognize a loved one’s voice across a crowded room, we begin recognizing His through consistency—not perfection.

That’s encouraging because it means none of us have to have it all figured out. We just have to keep showing up.

Kim also reminded me that waiting isn’t one-size-fits-all. Sometimes waiting looks active. You send the email. Apply for the job. Take the next faithful step. Other times, waiting looks quiet. You pray. Journal. Rest. Listen.

Neither is more spiritual than the other. The question isn’t whether you’re moving. The question is whether you’re trusting.

Maybe that’s what God has been trying to teach me all along.

Waiting isn’t wasted because God isn’t waiting. He’s forming. Stretching. Refining. Building trust one surrendered prayer at a time.

Friend, if you’re in an in-between season today, I hope you’ll remember this: You don’t have to know the whole plan to take the next faithful step. You don’t have to control tomorrow to trust God today. And you don’t have to become someone else before God can use you.

He’s already working. Even here. Even now. Even in the waiting. Because you were never just waiting. You’ve been becoming all along.

- Reanna

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The journey to joy is... honestly, I don’t even know anymore.

Maybe that’s the whole post.

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I had such high hopes for this year. I imagined it looking so different than it has. But there haven’t been many gold-star moments. Instead, there’s been a lot of insecurity. A lot of questioning. A fair amount of grief. And a whole lot of unknown.

I know joy is a fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5:22–23). But if I’m being completely honest? Opening my Bible has been really hard. Worship has been really hard. Even praying has felt hard.

The fear of the unknown can be paralyzing. And somehow, knowing what God often does in the in-between seasons has made me want to avoid being in His presence altogether.

Which feels strange to admit. Because I know He’s good. I know He’s the Creator who formed the oceans, the mountains, the lilies, and the sparrows. I know He provides over and over and over again. I know His character hasn’t changed just because my circumstances have.

But lately, I kind of feel like I’m a sophomore in college again—angsty, depressed, and trying to avoid my parents at all costs.

Except this time, it feels like I’m avoiding God.

Is this just a season? Absolutely. Is there a Bible study sitting on my coffee table right now? You bet. Have I opened it? No. But I did move it from its hiding spot onto the coffee table, so I’m calling that progress.

There are about 160 days left in this year, and I’m desperately trying not to waste them.

There are things I want to try. People I want to spend more time with. Family I want to love more intentionally. Dreams I still hope God has for me.

Do I know how to do any of that? Not really. Well... sort of. I know Who does.

Here’s what’s surprised me this season—

Even when I haven’t consistently opened my Bible, the Word I’ve hidden in my heart over the years has continued to meet me. Verses I’ve memorized have surfaced at exactly the right moments. Truths I learned years ago have interrupted lies I started believing yesterday.

I haven’t been holding onto Scripture as much as Scripture has been holding onto me.

That’s the grace of God.

Psalm 119:11 says, “I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you.” I used to think that verse was only about resisting temptation. Now I wonder if it’s also about surviving seasons like this one.

Because when you don’t have the strength to study, sometimes what you’ve already stored away becomes the very thing that sustains you.

So if I can leave you with one thing today, it’s this: Store up God’s Word while you’re standing in the land of joy.

You’ll need it when you wander into enemy territory and can’t seem to find joy on your map.

One day, you may discover that the verses you memorized years ago become the rope God uses to gently pull you back toward Him.

Maybe joy isn’t found in pretending everything is okay.

Maybe it’s found in discovering that even when we struggle to reach for God, His truth never stops reaching for us.

-Reanna

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This week’s conversation with Wendy Bower did exactly that for me.

I’ve spent a lot of time talking about waiting over the last few years. After all, that’s what the Not Just Waiting community is built around. Learning to trust Jesus in the in-between has become part of my own story.

But Wendy said something that completely shifted the way I think about it. “The in-between is everything.”

At first, I wanted to argue with her. Because if I’m honest, I don’t usually love the in-between. I like plans. I like progress. I like seeing the next step before I take it.

And if you’ve been around here for very long, you know I’ve wrestled with timelines more times than I can count.

But as she unpacked what she meant, I realized she wasn’t celebrating uncertainty. She was celebrating intimacy.

She talked about spending more than ten years waiting for something that still hasn’t happened. Instead of spending those years demanding answers, she slowly learned to receive something she never expected.

The love of God.

Not the kind of love you simply know in your head. The kind that becomes so real that it changes the way you see everything else.

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One of my favorite moments was when she talked about John referring to himself as “the disciple whom Jesus loved.” I’ve always smiled at that description. It almost feels bold.

But Wendy reminded me that John wasn’t trying to prove he was better than anyone else. He simply knew who he belonged to. His identity wasn’t rooted in his calling. It wasn’t rooted in his accomplishments. It wasn’t even rooted in being one of the disciples. It was rooted in being deeply loved by Jesus.

And honestly? I think that’s what so many of us are missing.

We spend so much time asking God what He wants us to do that we forget who He says we already are. Loved. Chosen. His.

That’s where confidence begins. Not confidence in ourselves. Confidence in the God who never changes.

Another part of our conversation has been replaying in my mind all week. Wendy described praying for something specific when she sensed God asking her a question. “What if I want to give you the lake, but you’re asking for the fish?”

Oof. How many times have I prayed with closed hands?

How often have I decided exactly how God should answer before He’s even had the chance to surprise me?

That image has stayed with me because it reminds me that God’s timing isn’t about withholding. Sometimes He’s building something much bigger than I can currently imagine. Sometimes the delay isn’t punishment. It’s preparation. Sometimes He’s expanding my capacity so I can receive more than I would have settled for.

That doesn’t mean waiting is easy. It doesn’t erase grief. It doesn’t make disappointment disappear overnight. But it does remind me that God is always doing more than I can see.

One thing I loved most about this conversation was that it wasn’t filled with easy answers. It was filled with a Person. Again and again, Wendy pointed back to Jesus.

Not to hustle harder. Not to have more faith. Not to finally figure everything out.

Just Jesus.

Because when you become convinced that you are deeply loved by Him, gratitude begins to grow naturally. Peace follows. Trust becomes possible.

Waiting starts to look less like standing still and more like walking closely with the Father.

Maybe that’s what I’ve needed to remember lately. Maybe that’s what you need today too. The goal was never simply getting through the waiting. The goal has always been becoming more like Jesus while we’re there.

So wherever you find yourself today—in the hallway, in the middle of unanswered prayers, or wondering if God has forgotten you—I hope you’ll remember this: He isn’t wasting your waiting. He isn’t absent from your story.

And if His plans are bigger than yours, maybe it’s because He’s preparing a lake while you’re still asking for the fish.

Take courage, friend. The in-between isn’t empty. Jesus is there. And that changes everything.

-Reanna

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Family drama. Chronic illness. Drastic life changes. Relationship limbo. A diagnosis you never expected. Grief. Dreams that haven’t happened yet. Prayers that still feel unanswered.

None of those things are easy.

Yet somehow we’re expected to carry them all… and somehow not compare our hard to everyone else’s.

I’ve definitely caught myself doing that.

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I compare my ability to move, work, and simply exist to the people around me. I’ve decided moms are superheroes because I genuinely don’t know how they do it. There are days my body barely cooperates with the things I have to do, much less the things I want to do.

Maybe your hard looks different. Maybe your body isn’t the thing that feels heavy. Maybe it’s your marriage. Maybe it’s infertility. Maybe it’s the job you thought God called you to that no longer fits.

Maybe it’s watching everyone around you move into the next season while you’re still wondering if yours is ever going to come.

Comparison has a sneaky way of convincing us that everyone else is carrying their burdens better than we are.

But I don’t think that’s true. I think we’re all carrying something.

The question is: How do we carry it?

How do we give ourselves grace while still calling ourselves higher? How do we grieve without letting grief become our identity? How do we acknowledge pain without letting it convince us that hope has left the room?

These questions come up often in our house.

Every year, around the beginning of a new school year, I find myself slipping into what I’ve jokingly started calling my “woe is me” season.

The funny thing is, I don’t even live by a school calendar anymore. I haven’t for years. But somehow my body remembers.

August still feels like fresh notebooks and classroom doors. It reminds me of the students I no longer teach, the routines I no longer have, and the version of my life I thought I’d still be living.

It also reminds me of how much chronic illness has changed. There are days I wonder what my body will let me do next year. There are moments when today’s limitations start writing tomorrow’s story.

If I can’t do this now…Will I ever?

Will our dreams always stay dreams?

Will my body always have the final word?

It’s amazing how quickly our minds can turn temporary circumstances into permanent conclusions.

Maybe that’s why joy feels so complicated. Not because God has changed. Not because He’s stopped being good. But because our circumstances get loud enough that we mistake them for the truest thing about us.

The older I get, the more I’m realizing that following Jesus has never required pretending life isn’t hard.

He never asks us to deny our grief. He never asks us to ignore our disappointment. He simply invites us to bring it to Him.

Jesus told His disciples, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)

He never promised a trouble-free life. He promised His presence.

Maybe joy isn’t found after the hard. Maybe it’s found with Jesus in the middle of it.

I’m still learning that. I still compare. I still dread August more than I’d like to admit. I still wonder what my future will look like if my body keeps saying “not today.”

I don’t have a tidy ending. I don’t have a three-step plan for choosing joy.

What I do know is this: Every year, Jesus has met me here.

Not once the circumstances changed. Not once I figured everything out. Right here. In the questions. In the grief. In the uncertainty.

And maybe that’s what joy has been all along. Not pretending life is lighter than it is. But discovering that the presence of Jesus is heavier than whatever we’re carrying.

Maybe the journey to joy was never about escaping the hard. Maybe it has always been about discovering we were never walking through it alone.

-Reanna

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One sentence from this week’s podcast has stayed with me long after we stopped recording. We spend so much time managing symptoms that we forget they’re actually clues. That challenged me.

Because if I’m honest, I spend a lot of time treating the symptoms. When I feel overwhelmed, I reorganize my calendar. When I feel behind, I work harder. When I feel uncertain, I make another plan. When life feels out of control, I try to regain it.

None of those things are inherently wrong. But they can become distractions from the deeper work God wants to do.

This week’s conversation with Heather O’Brien wasn’t really about anxiety. It was about trust.

She introduced the idea of what she calls silent anxiety—the kind that doesn’t always look obvious. The kind that hides behind productivity. Behind perfectionism. Behind overthinking.Behind constantly trying to anticipate every possible outcome.

The kind that whispers, “If I can just stay ahead, maybe I’ll finally feel safe.”

I don’t know about you, but I’ve believed that lie more times than I’d like to admit. Especially in seasons of waiting. Because waiting has a way of exposing whatever we’ve been trusting.

Sometimes that’s Jesus. Sometimes it’s our plans. Sometimes it’s our ability to control what happens next.

One thing Heather said that I haven’t stopped thinking about is that God wasn’t simply asking her to change her schedule. He was asking her to become more flexible.

That sounds simple until you realize flexibility requires surrender. It means holding your plans with open hands. It means allowing interruptions to become invitations instead of inconveniences. It means believing God is still good when your carefully crafted timeline falls apart.

And honestly? That’s much harder than creating another to-do list.

Romans 12 tells us to be transformed by the renewing of our minds. Not by becoming more productive. Not by becoming more efficient. By becoming new.

That’s the invitation Jesus keeps extending. Not behavior modification. Heart transformation.

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Maybe the frustration you’ve been feeling isn’t the real issue. Maybe the exhaustion isn’t either. Maybe they’re simply clues pointing to places where Jesus wants to bring freedom. Not shame. Freedom.

Because God isn’t only interested in changing your circumstances. He’s committed to changing you.

And while we often pray for answers, He keeps inviting us into deeper trust. Maybe that’s what becoming looks like. Not finally getting everything under control. But finally believing that He already is.

-Reanna

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Or at least it feels that way sometimes.

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In my opinion, joy is easiest to find during the months filled with sunshine. Summer has always felt like joy to me. But there’s also a strange longing that comes with it.

Maybe it’s because of the privilege I had to spend carefree summers at home with my mom and brothers. Maybe it’s because there were fewer obligations and more opportunities to simply exist.

Whatever the reason, summer felt different when I was younger.

We’d wake up, put on our swimsuits, and head straight to the pool. We’d swim until lunch, climb out long enough to eat, and then jump right back in until it was time for supper.

Now, my middle school years weren’t quite as carefree. There were chores and responsibilities. But even then, there was still a designated time for fun. Play wasn’t something we had to earn after accomplishing everything else. It was simply part of life.

As an adult, I am most definitely not scheduling time for fun.

Instead, I get overwhelmed by everything that needs to be done—the laundry, the dishes, dinner, serving this family, preparing to host, mowing the lawn, answering emails, squeezing in work, and keeping up with all the other responsibilities that somehow multiply overnight.

Somewhere along the way, I missed the fun train.

The problem is that I’m not entirely sure how to get back on it.

Even last night, I wanted to plant flowers in our yard. It sounded simple enough. But we decided to move where I was planting them, and that section of the yard wasn’t ready.

My husband grabbed the lawn mower to prep the area. I actually tried to get to the mower before he did. (I was unsuccessful.)

Then I sat on the porch for the entire time he was mowing because I felt guilty that he was spending his evening helping me instead of doing something he enjoyed.

Crazy, right?

As I sat there, I realized how difficult it is for me to simply receive help. How quickly I assume that rest, fun, or enjoyment must be earned. How easily I believe that someone else’s time is valuable while mine should be spent being productive.

Maybe that’s why the journey to joy feels exhausting. Not because joy itself is hard. But because we’ve convinced ourselves that we have to finish everything before we’re allowed to enjoy anything.

The laundry must be folded. The dishes must be washed. The yard must be perfect. The inbox must be empty. Then we’ll rest. Then we’ll have fun. Then we’ll enjoy summer. Except the list never ends.

I wonder if that’s one reason Jesus invited weary people to come to Him. Not after they finished everything. Not once they had earned a break. Just as they were.

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)

Maybe rest was never supposed to be a reward for productivity. Maybe joy wasn’t meant to be squeezed into the margins after we’ve completed every task.

Maybe God created us for more than accomplishing things. Maybe He created us to delight in Him, to notice His goodness, and yes, even to have fun.

So I’m asking myself this summer: What would it look like to stop earning rest and simply receive it?

What would it look like to believe that joy belongs in my life today—not someday when everything is finished?

Because if I’m honest, I think I’ve spent enough time waiting for permission to enjoy the season I’m in.

-Reanna

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And then there are conversations that quietly expose all the places where you’ve been trying to hold everything together.

This week’s podcast episode was definitely the second one.

I sat down with to talk about becoming—the quiet, often unseen work God does in us while we’re waiting. I expected to leave with a few good quotes and encouragement for you. Instead, I found myself realizing how often I’ve confused saying yes to everything with saying yes to God.

Those aren’t always the same thing.

One thing Allison said has been replaying in my mind ever since we finished recording: God isn’t asking for every yes. He’s asking for your yes.

That sounds simple until you’re someone who likes having a plan. Or someone who feels responsible for everyone. Or someone who secretly believes that if you just worked a little harder, served a little more, or carried a little extra, everything would finally fall into place.

Hi. It’s me.

I’ve spent a lot of my life believing that being faithful meant being available all the time. If someone asked, I wanted to help. If there was a need, I wanted to fill it. If there was a problem, surely I could figure it out.

The problem is that eventually every “yes” starts crowding out the ones God actually asked for.

One of my favorite moments from our conversation was when Allison shared something the Lord told her during a season she didn’t want to be in:

“A yes right now is not a yes forever. I just need your yes right now.”

That sentence brought so much freedom.

Sometimes we resist where God has us because we’re convinced we’ll be stuck there forever. We want the five-year plan before we’ll trust Him with today.

I laughed during the interview because I admitted I’d love for God to hand me that five-year plan. But if He actually did...I’d probably try to manage it myself.

Maybe that’s why He gives us enough light for today instead of next decade.

We also talked about something I think every woman wrestles with at some point: expectations. Not just expectations for our lives. Expectations for other people.

If you’ve ever caught yourself thinking, Why aren’t they showing up for me the way I show up for them? you’re not alone.

That part of the conversation stepped on my toes in the best way.

Sometimes our disappointment isn’t because someone failed us. Sometimes it’s because we’ve quietly decided who we need them to be. Meanwhile, they’re walking through their own hard season just like we are.

Releasing those expectations doesn’t make disappointment disappear overnight, but it does make room for grace.

It reminds us that our identity was never supposed to be rooted in other people’s consistency. It’s rooted in Christ.

As we talked about waiting, I realized something else. I spend a lot of time asking God to change my circumstances. He spends a lot of time changing me.

Those aren’t competing priorities. One often comes before the other.

Maybe the waiting season you’re in isn’t just about what you’re hoping will happen. Maybe it’s about who you’re becoming while you wait.

That’s really what this season of the podcast has been about—Becoming.

Not becoming more productive. Not becoming more impressive. Not becoming someone who finally has life figured out.

Becoming someone whose first response is, “Yes, Lord.” Even when the plan isn’t clear. Even when the timeline doesn’t make sense. Even when we’d really prefer a spreadsheet.

If you’ve been wrestling with God’s timing, carrying expectations that feel too heavy, or wondering whether you’re saying yes to the right things, I hope this conversation encourages you as much as it encouraged me.

And if you’re anything like me, you may want to listen with your journal nearby.

I know I will be.

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“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make straight your paths.” — Proverbs 3:5–6

- Reanna

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Now I can see He was leading me into a life I never would have imagined for myself.

Five years ago, my brother and I packed my car to the brim and drove 995 miles from Mississippi to Virginia. My life looked very different then. I knew exactly three people, had just started my first “real” job as a third-grade teacher, and used the title missionary to explain my drastic, very uncharacteristic move to the East Coast.

Before I moved, my dreams were pretty simple: find a husband, have a cute little house, and love on all the kiddos God sent my way.

Once I got here, though, those dreams felt impossible. So I traded them for a simpler one: do whatever the Lord told me to do—and do my best to like it.

Looking back, I can’t help but laugh. The Lord, in His kindness, cared about both.

I’m writing this from the couch in my cute little house that my sweet husband pays for, looking over at the bins of toys in my living room for all the kiddos the Lord sends our way.

And I’m still doing whatever the Lord tells me to do...while doing my best to like it along the way.

This journey hasn’t been easy.

There have been setbacks, disappointments, grief, and seasons where I questioned what God was doing. But there has also been overwhelming joy, unexpected friendships, answered prayers, and countless reminders that His plans have always been better than mine.

I think of Proverbs 16:9: “The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.” I spent so much time trying to imagine what my future would look like, but God was writing a story far more beautiful than anything I could have planned.

As I celebrate five years in Virginia, here are five things I’d tell the girl who packed up her car and drove east.

1. God’s plans are way better than yours.

2. Learn the culture, and don’t fight it too hard.

3. Southern hospitality will get you in trouble...be kind anyway.

4. When the boy asks you to coffee—go. It will, in fact, change your life.

5. If you want a village, be a villager.

If I could add one more thing, I’d tell her this:

You don’t have to know where the road ends to trust the One leading you.

Five years later, I’m grateful I got in the car.

Not because everything turned out the way I expected—but because God proved, once again, that He is faithful in every mile.

-Reanna

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But the older I get, the more I realize becoming usually looks a lot messier than that.

It looks like changing your plans. It looks like grieving dreams you were sure God gave you. It looks like learning to rest when you’d rather keep striving. It looks like letting God reshape not only what you do—but who you are.

This week’s conversation on the podcast reminded me of that all over again.

When Melinda Grace shared her story, I kept hearing the same thread woven through every season she described: God wasn’t just redirecting her career. He was transforming her heart.

She chased a dream for years. She hustled. She pushed harder. She kept believing the next opportunity would finally make everything make sense.

Instead, God invited her to stop. Not because He was punishing her. Because He loved her.

Sometimes we assume closed doors mean we’ve failed. Sometimes we think resting means we’re falling behind. Sometimes we believe the only faithful response is to keep working harder until something changes.

But Scripture tells a different story. Again and again, we see God slowing people down before He sends them out. Moses spent years in the wilderness. David spent years waiting for the crown. Jesus Himself often withdrew to lonely places to pray before returning to ministry.

God has never been in a hurry.

Maybe that’s difficult for us because everything else is. We can ask AI almost any question and receive an answer in seconds. We can order groceries from our phones. We can have conversations with people across the country before breakfast.

Everything around us trains us to expect immediate results. But intimacy with Jesus has never worked that way.

His voice is usually found in the quiet. His direction often comes after surrender. His peace grows when we stop trying to control every outcome.

One thing Melinda said has stayed with me ever since we recorded. She talked about decluttering—not just closets or junk drawers—but expectations. Old dreams. Old identities. Old versions of herself that weren’t supporting where God was leading next.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that.

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How many things am I still carrying simply because they’ve been with me for a long time? How many expectations have I confused with God’s promises? How many timelines have I created that He never asked me to keep?

Waiting isn’t only about learning patience. Sometimes it’s about making room.

Making room for a different dream. Making room for healthier rhythms. Making room for deeper trust. Making room for the version of you God is lovingly forming—even if she looks different than the one you expected.

Maybe that’s where you are today. Maybe you’re grieving a plan that didn’t happen. Maybe your life looks nothing like you imagined. Maybe you’re tired of waiting for the next chapter.

Friend, I hope you’ll remember this: God isn’t asking you to hustle your way into His will.

He’s inviting you to walk with Him. One faithful step at a time.

If you’d like to hear the rest of this conversation, this week’s episode of the Not Just Waiting Podcast with Melinda Grace is one I think you’ll come back to more than once.

I’d love to know: What expectation is God inviting you to release in this season?

Leave a comment

-Reanna

Ps. Melinda was so gracious to share a freebie with us! It’s called Refresh Your Kitchen with My Top 10 Organizing Hacks for Kitchens click here to get it in your inbox.

If you enjoyed this post, would you consider buying me a coffee? It helps me keep writing and encouraging others with the love of Jesus.

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