A few days ago, I was at a hair salon with an incredibly beautiful view of a harbor. The weather that day was rather gloomy—the sky was covered in clouds, and all the boats had their sails tucked away. While the hairdresser was putting highlights in my hair, my eyes kept wandering back to the harbor.

The masts looked sad as they swayed back and forth without much purpose. Almost as if they were waiting for something that never came. There is so much strength and beauty in a sailboat, and on this dark day, these boats seemed completely out of their element.

As I watched the scene, I thought about how I, too, sometimes find myself anchored in a harbor like that. My sails are tucked away, and I sway from side to side, without strength or direction. No wind blows me out onto the open sea. No compass needle eagerly points north. There is no destination I am heading toward. I simply rock back and forth without ever going anywhere.

These lines formed in my mind:

the lead-gray sky
hangs low over the masts
that, with sails tucked away,
sway empty
like bare trees in winter
waiting for the next breeze
that will send them out again
into the wide open

Sometimes, seasons in the harbor are simply part of my life. Pauses belong, too. Boats need to be repaired, and sometimes the weather would make it far too dangerous to sail out onto the open sea.

But sometimes I have missed the wind that was meant to carry me in a certain direction. The rope was tied too tightly to the safety of solid ground, and I traded my true purpose for a boring existence in the harbor.

Right now, I believe it is time to bring my sails back out. My time in the harbor is over. The wide open is calling. The many possibilities God is giving me are like waves beneath my bow, steadily carrying me closer to the horizon.

I am still hesitating. The harbor still feels so final. But the wind is already picking up. I can already feel the stirring of a new beginning as it brushes against my face.

Questions for Personal Reflection

• Has your boat been anchored in a safe harbor for a while? Can you feel God’s wind calling you out into the wide open?

• Or is your boat in dry dock because it needs to be repaired? Maybe the last journey tore holes in your hull. Are you allowing restoration to happen?

• If you can feel that sense of a new beginning: Where is the journey taking you? Are there dreams, ideas, and thoughts you would like to talk through with God?

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After scrubbing the toilet and the shower, I kind of got lost in my own little world. My husband helped our daughter assemble the bookshelf and dresser, while I retreated into polishing the tiles. I realized that this was one of the last acts of service I could do for my daughter.

Naturally, she needed me less and less as the years went by, becoming increasingly independent, and I moved slowly and gently into the background so she could bloom and shine and discover who she really is.

Our relationship wasn’t always easy. She is just as headstrong as I am, and we had our fair share of fights. Some of the words I said over the years in heated debates, I wish I could take back. She is my firstborn, and in many ways I matured alongside her, growing into my role as a mom and figuring out how parenting works.

Being a mom has kept me humble. I realized over and over again that I don’t know as much about being a grown-up as I thought I did. I lost my temper more times than I could count. Without even knowing it, my child taught me to depend on Jesus more than anything.

I remember how overwhelmed I felt when she was first born. I was happy beyond words! But I also remember the deep feeling of inadequacy. How I could hardly believe that I would help this tiny human grow up. And here I was, helping her move into her own apartment, hearing her chat in the other room with her dad.

I wanted to get the bathroom as clean and shiny as possible. Show her how much I love her. Give her that feeling of comfort and safety, because I wouldn’t be there that evening to say, “Good night.” I wanted the tiles to look as good as new and the shower door sparkling clean.

I was so thankful there was something I could do, even though she is handling her life on her own now. The soapy water dripping down my hands and the fresh scent of the cleaning spray made me feel like I could still contribute and live out the calling I enjoy most: motherhood.

Letting go of my responsibilities as a mom has not been easy. When you’ve been so deeply involved in your child’s life and then feel them slipping away with the force of a young adult full of longing for adventure and life, it hurts to see your arms empty. The rhythm of life that has developed over almost two decades is suddenly out of step. A new melody has to be found. A new song has to be written.

It is a new season, and I am cheering my daughter on. I am so thankful I get to be her mom and that I was there to witness her first breath. She has made me into a different person—a stronger and softer woman, a deeper believer.

We shared giggles and tears, anger and frustration. It was all there. Twenty years of motherhood with this special girl. I feel overwhelmed just thinking about it. What a gift it is to be a mother—and what a challenge that demands everything.

On that moving day, it felt like this was one of the last things I could do for her: clean the bathroom. Scrub the tiles. Polish the hardware. Make everything look clean and smell fresh.

It wasn’t much, but it meant so much to me that I could do this, just like the countless other tasks I was able to do for her over the years. The dinners. The hair braiding. The listening. The folding of laundry.

None of what I have done for her was perfect. I wasn’t always the mom she needed.

As much as I wanted to present her with a new bathroom on moving day, it was still clearly one that had been used before. I wasn’t able to get every soap stain off the shower glass. The grout between the tiles was still grey. It reminded me of how often I felt that I wasn’t a good enough mom. There have been countless nights when I wondered if what I had done that day was enough.

One of the prayers I have always prayed as a mom is this:

Lord, make up for my lack. Show up when I can’t. Love where my love isn’t enough.

I could have done better, but my own brokenness often got in the way. I wonder if the stains I wanted to scrub off those tiles were somehow connected to the regrets I carry deep down in my heart.

When I was done, I walked into the other room. The bookshelf was almost assembled. The dresser had the TV on top, and I could already imagine how cozy this room would be in just a few days.

My daughter has an eye for beauty. She will notice the clean bathroom and the diffuser with essential oils I set up for her. She will find beautiful rugs for the clean floor and towels in just the right color. She will put out her perfumes and lotions and make this space her own.

(She sent me this picture later that night…)

She will live her life, discover beauty along the way, fight her battles, and grow in love. She will use the space I tried to prepare for her. She will bloom and shine.

And I will watch from a distance with a heart full of prayers, thankfulness, and affection. Motherhood will never be the same again. I am once again maturing alongside my child into a new season of life.

Questions for Personal Reflection:

• What are you being asked to let go of in your current season of transition?

• Where are you still trying to “scrub away” past mistakes or regrets instead of receiving God’s grace?

• What would it look like to pray, “Lord, make up for my lack,” and entrust to Him what you could not do perfectly?

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I stumbled upon this worship song a couple of days ago. I remember listening to it a few years back. The simple, but so profound, words touched me deeply. The familiar melody brought me back to my younger self. A mom with small kids. A simple life built on lunches and dinners, laundry and playgrounds, lullabies, small hands in mine.

A simple life where I knew my place was at home. Where I thrived, cried, prayed, and worshipped between kitchen and living room. That was my tent, my place of influence. At the time, it often felt too big and too much. I felt out of place. I was afraid that I was failing my little ones. Too many times, I lost my temper. Too many times, I raised my voice. Too many times, I wished to be somewhere else, doing something other than changing diapers and solving sibling conflicts.

But—oh—how sweet and simple my life was back then.

My beautiful things were found in the backyard, sitting in the sandbox with my baby. They were found in the toys on the floor that I tiredly decided to just leave where they were until the next morning. The beautiful things were the wet kisses, the small hands wrapping around my neck. The whispered “I love you, Mom.” The handpicked daisies, the stems too short to put in a vase.

My beautiful things were the worship songs sung in-between, knowing my kids were listening somewhere in the home. Sometimes one child would be sitting on my lap while I played the piano, hitting out-of-tune notes, making the worship more glorious and delightful.

Yes, it was easy to find the beautiful things God blessed me with. The small sparkly miracles He sewed into the familiar fabric of my everyday life. The sacred and special he placed everywhere around me. A ladybug. A ray of sunshine through the fingerprint-stained window. The crumbs on the floor after a dinner where we laughed and giggled together.

As I was listening to this worship song just a few days ago, I couldn’t help but wonder where the beauty has gone. It seems to have evaporated. It seems to have retreated because the busyness of life has pushed it away. The simple and sweet seems to have vanished.

I feel lost now between kitchen and living room. I am not sure anymore what my role is. What my place is. Who I actually am.

The more I listen to the song on repeat, the more I long to discover beautiful things again. The small things, the unassuming, the sparkle in the simple.

My kids have grown. Two are about to leave the nest and spread their wings. I cheer them on. I am so proud of them. But my mama heart feels strangely abandoned. I feel left behind, some of my strength departing with them.

Jesus, where are the beautiful things? Help me find them. Help me see You in everything once again. In the sweet and simple. The sacred hidden in the ordinary. Help me slow down enough to register the miracles along the way. And even though there is no little hand resting in mine reminding me of childlike wonder, help me to be childlike enough to stand in awe of the life You have blessed me with.

Take a quiet moment to listen. This reflection is also available on YouTube.

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Questions for Personal Reflection:

• What change or transition has made you feel uncertain about your place or purpose? How might God be inviting you to discover His beauty in this new season?

• When you look back, where can you see God’s presence in the ordinary moments of your life? How can those memories help you trust Him with the season you’re in now?

I drive my daughter to a therapy session every Friday. The sessions take place at a church, and I wait for her in the lobby. I can almost never just read or concentrate on some work because there is a constant buzz. Meetings for a church event, catering plans, decorations being put up and taken down, renovation work. I hate to say it: This doesn’t feel like a sanctuary from the world, but an extension of it.

Church history was well acquainted with the slow for many centuries. Monasteries in the middle of nowhere, dedicated to night-and-day prayer. Repetitive liturgy that helped people find comfort in times of distress. The church year that came with seasons of fasting and self-denial. Less was always more when we look at how God has formed His church throughout history. Today, we think we need more to make the concept of church work. More lights, more sound systems, more programs. We have fallen for the belief that this is the time to change slowness into fastness. We couldn’t be more wrong.

Slow means deep

The Bible uses the root system of a tree to describe a dedicated believer. Psalm 1:3 (ESV):

“He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither.”

Or as it says in Colossians 2:7:

“Have your roots in him. Build yourselves up in him. Grow strong in what you believe, just as you were taught. Be more thankful than ever before.”

Roots not only grow slowly, they also grow hidden. They say the roots of a tree are just as big and wide as the crown of the tree. God has an eye for things that people cannot see. He looks at the heart. Our inner root system.

When we put more focus on growing fast on the outside, we don’t have the inner strength to uphold whatever it is that we are growing. It will eventually wither, or we will crash under its burden. We need to develop roots, and that simply takes time. If we overlook the importance of the hidden life, we miss the point of faith. It is that serious.

The outward is wasting away, says Paul, but the inward is being renewed day by day (2 Corinthians 4:16). What fuels our belief system is the dedicated care for our inner person. It’s the realization that there is more to this life than we can see with our eyes. It is the inner preparation for eternal life.

The Bible says we are being transformed into the likeness of Jesus by looking at Him. If this isn’t a picture of absolute stillness and slowing down, I don’t know what is!

I remember when my husband and I were first dating, we would look into each other’s eyes for minutes on end. Our eyes were locked. Nothing else mattered! Those were moments when time stood still. We didn’t speak. We hardly moved. We just gazed into each other’s eyes.

Spiritually speaking, this is where actual transformation takes place—by gazing at Jesus. Being mesmerized by His beauty. Being overwhelmed by His majesty.

When was the last time you got lost looking at Jesus?

Develop the slow in your time with Jesus. Look at Him. Simply sit at His feet. Feel His presence. Be okay with prayers that don’t have any words. Cultivate your spiritual root system. Grow deep into His Word and His living water.

Slow means faithful

For many years, I have fallen for the lie that a successful Christian is a fast Christian. Someone who quickly rises to a sphere of influence. Someone whose voice rapidly gains a platform.

Over time, I have found the opposite is true. Of course, God elevates people to stages and gives them the opportunity to impact many people. But very often, people lift themselves up because they have fallen for the same lie that I did. We are quick to say yes to the platform, but slow to commit to the path to get there.

I wonder if we also feel like we need the outward ministry to prove to ourselves that we are, in fact, good Christians. We need the approval of others to calm the insecurities within us. It’s the pat on the back, the applause, the likes, the followers that give us the actual kick—not the fact that we get to serve Jesus.

We need to learn to be faithful in the slow.

That means being faithful in the little things. The things that don’t get platformed and don’t get a mention in the church’s weekly newsletter. The things that don’t earn you followers on social media.

Time in the Bible. Gazing at Jesus. Sitting at His feet. Choosing kindness when you feel you have the right to be angry. Hugging your children when you feel tired. Preparing dinner when you’ve already had such a long day. Praying for the person who cut you off on the highway.

It’s all the things where your love and dedication to Jesus spill out into all the nooks and crannies of your everyday life. The things that don’t seem to matter in the long run.

But—oh—they do.

In a time when we are so used to filtered and staged images of people’s kitchens and living rooms, we have forgotten that God looks at the real stuff that happens behind the scenes in our hearts.

God has always trained His people in hidden places. He has tested their faithfulness in seasons of betrayal. He has taught them to wait for long periods until He finally led them on.

The real Christian life doesn’t take place on a platform. It takes place in the thousand decisions we make each day. It takes place in our thought life. It takes place when we tuck our kids into bed. It takes place when we turn on Netflix and decide not to watch that one show everyone is raving about.

The Christian life is all about being faithful when no one is looking. And this kind of rock-solid faithfulness is developed in the slow. When we jump off the bandwagon of celebrity Christianity. When we untangle ourselves from the consumerism that has been cultivated in the church, pushing us into speed and superficiality.

Slow means healthy

I have learned in about ten years of building two different online ministries that slow is almost always better. I am apostolic by nature. I like to drive things forward. I constantly have new ideas. It is very hard for me to slow down.

I tend to rush ahead and realize midway that I have not really thought and prayed things through. I have ended up close to burnout almost three times by doing life this way.

Burning out is not a holy thing to do.

It only shows that my inner root system and my dedication to being faithful in the small and slow ways of life have not been fully developed. I strongly believe that it is very hard to burn out when we walk in the ways of God. We only burn out when we rush ahead or get lost in things that we were never meant to take on.

To find the fine line between the two, to truly follow God’s ways, I have to slow down. I have to listen. I have to sit down and read His Word.

The Kingdom of God is first established within us. It is not a building. It is not a stage. It is not an Instagram or a Substack account. It is something that is hidden within us (Luke 17:21).

I think God is more interested in our hearts than in what we do outwardly because He is concerned about our physical, mental, and spiritual health.

Proverbs 4:23 (NIV) says this:

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.”

This is where it all starts!

But how do we develop a heart that is pleasing to God? David’s life is a wonderful example. His early spiritual training happened when his brothers got to go off to war and he was stuck tending the sheep. While he was being overlooked and was given a job that didn’t seem to make a difference, he developed a life of worship and gained physical and psychological strength by defending his flock against bears and lions.

It was exactly this strength that would make him into a mighty warrior later in life.

When the prophet Samuel came to David’s family to anoint the next king of Israel, David wasn’t even invited. Only when it became clear that David’s brothers were not chosen by God was the young shepherd boy called in from the fields. This is when Samuel spoke the words I already mentioned in this article: God looks at the heart.

David is anointed as king (see 1 Samuel 16). But it is still a long way to the throne.

His heart is taught lessons in humility over and over again. Instead of sitting on the throne, he has to serve Saul, the current king, and deal with his moods. Instead of seeing the prophecy fulfilled, David must hide in desert caves and fear for his life.

It takes about fifteen years until David is actually crowned king.

This is the healthy way to go! You need to be tested. You need to learn to endure. You need to prove yourself worthy of the task. You need to go slow.

Slow paves the way for fast

When bamboo is planted, it takes five years of watering and care before you even see a sprout break through the ground. But once it grows, it can shoot up to 90 feet tall in just five weeks.

If we are willing to go slow, the fast will come.

The slow and steady lifestyle you develop in times of testing and trial will be a strong foundation for the acceleration God is going to bring to your life, to your ministry, to your job—whatever it is that you are being entrusted with.

In my experience, the fast seasons are very short-lived compared to the slow seasons. They are wonderful and exhilarating, like a roller coaster ride, but before you know it, you find yourself again in the wilderness, waiting for the next powerful push forward.

When we have not developed a heart that is okay with this spiritual rhythm, we will easily get frustrated and impatient. We will start to question God, move forward on our own accord, make decisions outside of God’s will, and end up with a big mess.

It’s not worth it.

Welcome the fast seasons when they come. Enjoy the ease, the flow, the breakthrough. And then settle back into the slow.

Say yes to the unhurried seasons. Dedicate yourself to the hidden life. Cover yourself with the dust of the ground while sitting at Jesus’ feet, gazing at Him. Grow your roots deeply into His Word and wisdom.

Your leaves will never wither.

Questions for Personal Reflection

• Where in your life do you feel pressured to move faster than God may be asking you to move?

• What does your hidden life with Jesus look like right now? Are your roots receiving the time and attention they need to grow deep?

• What would it practically look like for you to embrace “the slow” and be faithful in the small things during this season?

We completely surrendered all our needs to Jesus and were absolutely convinced that he would provide everything we needed. And he did—just not always on our timetable.

There were months when we weren’t able to pay the rent. When our family car broke down, we had to manage without a car for almost half a year. There were many times I felt abandoned by God and wondered whether we had been too naïve to choose a lifestyle of complete dependence on him when we had four children to care for.

But looking back, we truly didn’t lack anything. Despite struggling to pay the rent, we didn’t lose our home. Someone unexpectedly paid off all our debt. After months without a family car, a larger donation came in that allowed us to buy a used car with cash. A family vacation was gifted to us, boxes full of clothes for our children were donated—we were cared for.

The provision came when we actually needed it. Not before. Not when I prayed for it. God had a different timetable, and we had to learn, over and over again, to submit to his ways.

Fast forward ten years: we are still learning.

I found myself in prayer a couple of weeks ago, complaining to God that we are still in this “Manna season”—a season where we have just enough for the day. There is no extra to put aside. There is no planning ahead. It is simply trusting that we will have enough when we need it. It felt like lack to me.

So I complained to God, asking him when we would finally have enough. I wanted to plan ahead. I wanted to know whether we could afford the road trip this summer. I wanted to know whether we could pay for the dentist appointment. I wanted to know whether the mortgage would be covered. I felt sick and tired of accepting the way God was choosing to provide for our family.

During my prayer, I was reminded of Psalm 23, and the Holy Spirit whispered to my heart:

My comfort doesn’t remove every discomfort.

At first I couldn’t understand what that meant, but then I looked more closely at Psalm 23.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. (verses 1–2)

This picture implies complete surrender to the leadership of the Shepherd. Jesus is the one who decides when and where I get to lie down. Yes, it is a picture of perfect care and provision—but I am not the one who decides the place or the hour of rest. The Shepherd does.

That means I follow him to those places without knowing when they will come. In the meantime, it is enough to know that he is my Shepherd and I shall not want. Later in the Psalm it becomes clear that the paths the Shepherd leads me on can feel intimidating and even frightening:

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...” (verse 4)

Where are the green pastures? Where are the still waters? Am I still willing to follow the Shepherd when life looks different? When his provision doesn’t seem to come on my timetable? Can I still say with David,

“I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”?

It seemed almost impossible to submit my heart to Jesus when I was so upset about our financial situation. I wanted the green pastures without being willing to walk through the dark valley. His comfort no longer seemed enough. I wanted certain add-ons. I wanted security. I wanted answers. I wanted a breakthrough.

As I pondered Jesus’ leadership in my life, I slowly began to understand. God’s comfort does not always remove my discomfort. The green pastures are a place I can come to because I first submitted to his leadership. I must learn to let myself be guided through dark places, to be content with his rod and his staff—with his presence. His comfort meets me while the discomfort remains.

My thoughts then went to another verse in Psalm 23:

“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.” (verse 5)

Jesus sets a table for me. He anoints my head with oil. My cup overflows. It is a picture of astonishing care and provision. It is almost unbelievable that the King of kings would tend to me in this way.

But there are also enemies present.

Think about that. Jesus invites you to sit down despite your current circumstances. Despite your sickness. Despite your financial lack. Despite your unanswered questions, your trauma, your sadness. All of that looks on as you take your place at his table and begin to nourish your soul. Your enemies are watching while you feast on God’s goodness.

His comfort does not erase every hardship. We need to learn to accept the pebble in our shoe, the unanswered mysteries, the frustrating circumstances, while at the same time following his leading into the unknown, the uncomfortable, and the unpredictable—trusting that there will be green pastures along the way.

Our financial situation hasn’t changed one bit since that prayer. But my perspective has.

I realized once again that I need to become comfortable with discomfort and trust God’s timing. All the while, I can feel completely cared for. It is not an oxymoron. It is simply living in the new creation while the old ways of living still feel way too familiar. It is not a contradiction. It is living by grace alone. It is not unfair. It is God teaching my heart to trust him and wait on him.

One last thought:

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life...” (verse 6)

Have you ever read that and thought, Yes! Sign me up for that kind of life!

Goodness and mercy shall follow me. Wonderful. But wait a second. Follow me?

Does that mean I don’t always see them? Does it imply that I might have to keep moving forward without feeling his goodness, without seeing his mercy right in front of me?

I think it does.

We walk by faith and not by sight. We believe, as we take the next step, that God’s goodness and mercy will catch up with us. There may be moments when we don’t see them, but we keep walking because we trust the loving leadership of our Shepherd.

May we be okay with that.

May we still experience his presence when life doesn’t unfold the way we hoped it would. When God chooses different ways to show us his care than we expected. May we yield to his will, trust his decisions, and obey his voice.

May we discover that his comfort is real—even while discomfort remains.

Questions for Personal Reflection:

• In which area of your life are you longing for God’s comfort right now?

• How might you intentionally receive his comfort, even while your circumstances remain difficult? (For example, through worship, prayer, sharing your burden with others, or choosing to trust him even when you don’t yet see the outcome.)

• Where might God be inviting you to sit down at his table, while your enemies are still present?

I am making myself very vulnerable with this article. After writing it, I kept coming back to it, wondering if I should rewrite it or leave some things out...

But then again: If we as Christians can’t talk about the wounds we carry while at the same time communicating a healing hope, who else can?

So I am going to be brave and pray that my healing journey encourages you.

As a teenager, I became a bed-wetter after a traumatic experience. It was so bad that my whole backside was covered in open wounds. It hurt to sit down on the wooden chairs at school. I was embarrassed and felt like a failure. Walking through something like that, when life is already challenging enough, planted shame deep within my soul. Am I good enough? Do I have what it takes? What do others think of me?

Later in life, during my first year of marriage, I experienced a nervous breakdown. Shame came knocking on my door once again. I was admitted to a psychiatric unit, unable to contact my husband on our first wedding anniversary. Instead of looking through our wedding pictures and celebrating this milestone, I found myself taking antidepressants and trying to understand why I had suddenly started experiencing panic attacks.

When I became pregnant with my first child, my relationship with my mother started to become very difficult. It was the beginning of a 20-year struggle, until I finally found the courage to distance myself from her.

By distancing myself from her, I also lost my relationship with my father and my three siblings. Years of trauma therapy have not yet completely helped me adequately deal with this kind of loss.

I had many reasons throughout my life to turn my back on God. There are many promises in the Bible that I have not seen fulfilled in my life. I feel lonely, abandoned, and outcast a lot. Why am I still holding on to Jesus? Why am I still trusting him?

Because suffering creates a bond like nothing else.

When Jesus suffered unimaginable torture for me, he thought of me. He suffered so that he could have a relationship with me. His suffering was a sign of love, commitment, and care. Modern science has found that suffering creates bonds like almost nothing else. It can help people with similar experiences stick together through thick and thin.

Jesus’ suffering bonded his heart with mine in a way that I can hardly comprehend. And I have found that my own suffering can do the same in return.

Let me share another example out of my own life: When I found out that my husband had been addicted to pornography for the first 10 years of our marriage, my world fell apart. I felt betrayed and used. It took two years of healing before I was able to tell him that I forgave him. I would never have thought that this could happen, but this most unsettling time in our marriage ended up knitting us together in a way that the good times never did. We walked through the darkest valley together, even though the cost was high. The bond that was created between my husband and me when all the odds turned against us still carries us today. Pain brought us closer together.

As a Christian, I have the privilege of answering the suffering of my bridegroom Jesus with my own suffering. We all walk through seasons of heartache. I am not saying by any means that we should chase suffering to be more holy. But as we encounter suffering simply by living our lives and refusing to conform to this world, we always have a choice how we respond. Am I seeing this as an opportunity to submit myself even more to Jesus, or am I backing away, trying to protect my heart and seeking a comfortable life?

It is a mystery that is almost impossible to unravel. The most painful moments of my life have become a love letter to Jesus. When I held on, even though everything within me wanted to let go. When I gave him my yes, even though this “yes” was costly. When I submitted to his will, even though my heart had different dreams.

The Bible is clear when it comes to suffering: It is a normal, expected part of the Christian life. It is not a sign that God is unfair or doesn’t care. It is the answer of a love-sick bride embracing similar experiences to those her bridegroom has already endured. Why else would Paul write: “...that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and may share his sufferings, becoming like him in his death...” (Phil. 3:10)? How else could you explain the rejoicing of the apostles after they were tortured? “Then they left the presence of the council, rejoicing that they were counted worthy to suffer dishonor for the name.” (Acts 5:41)

It is because of love.

“Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends.” (John 15:13)

Suffering is one—if not the most effective—way to communicate love and devotion. I was never able to express my love to my husband more meaningfully than when I decided to stay by his side after he betrayed me for 10 years. I was never more able to live out my faith than when I ended up in the psychiatric unit or when my siblings walked away from me.

Suffering draws my wandering heart to Jesus.

Of course, that goes against everything the world teaches. We are wired for comfort. We are wired for answers. Suffering is an assault on our humanistic worldview. That is why so many walk away from faith when life gets tough. When there are no answers. When God remains hidden in a cloud of mystery.

I believe that what we, as Western Christians, need to learn more than anything else is the ability to suffer. Viktor Frankl, the famous Austrian neurologist, psychiatrist, philosopher, and Holocaust survivor, said this: “The ability to suffer can only be obtained through suffering.” In other words, if we avoid suffering, we will never know how to suffer. And for a Christian, that is not a good place to be.

Suffering doesn’t disappear when we follow Jesus. In fact, it might even increase. But when we break through into the very heart of suffering, we will find Jesus there. We will have fellowship with him, and we won’t care nearly as much about the irritating waves of pain that are trying to get our attention. Our gaze is on Jesus.

By locking eyes with him, healing begins to flow. It is almost ironic to say that my suffering has brought the greatest healing to my heart. Most people would say that the absence of suffering is what we should pursue. Yet I have found that the presence of suffering has made me more whole and taught me to live in dependence on Jesus. I was able to confront generational trauma only because I embraced my suffering. I was able to reach the deepest places of my soul because I didn’t simply numb my panic attacks but chose to look beneath them. The prayers paired with tears are the ones I remember the most. Suffering opens a space where holistic healing can take place. This is where Jesus turns curses into blessings and wounds into wonder. This is where he prepares us for our calling. This is where we truly bond with the “Man of Sorrows” (Isaiah 53:3).

One of my favorite Bible verses during my darkest valleys is Hosea 2:15 (ESV):

"Therefore, behold, I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, and speak tenderly to her. And there I will give her her vineyards and make the Valley of Achor a door of hope."

Achor means trouble. When we walk through hard times in life, God can transform those experiences into an open door that ushers in hope. Suffering is never the end for the Christian believer.

It is always the beginning.

Questions for Personal Reflection:

• Where do you see suffering in your life right now? What is your immediate response to it? Do you want to numb it, escape it, or ignore it?

• What if this suffering is an invitation to come closer to Jesus and fall in love with Him even more? How would your response to suffering change?

Attacks from the enemy trying to wear me down, confuse me, and wound me. Disappointment lingering in the air like mustard gas—hard to detect before it quietly causes devastating damage.

Of course, we are in a war. A spiritual one, but a war nonetheless. Yet in the busyness of everyday life, it’s easy to forget. We keep going while carrying wounds we barely acknowledge, unaware that our souls need tending. Instead, we push on—driven by adrenaline or simply numb because we no longer have the strength to fight.

This poem is an honest glimpse into the state of my heart when I wrote it. Perhaps it will encourage you to pause for a moment and consider the landscape of your own soul.

The good news is this: When World War I ended, it didn't take long before the birds began to sing again.

That is the hope we hold on to, even in the middle of our own battles. Victory has already been won. The desert will bloom. Our hearts will heal. We will not be overcome.

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my soul is dragging her feet
the pain like mud underneath me
pulling me downwards
the soil of hardship and loneliness
full of stones, thorns and weeds
not ready yet to receive seeds of faith

here i find myself

wandering for years in no man’s land
craters of disappointment
scar the landscape of my soul
broken dreams line like barbed wire
the trenches where i hide
and cry myself to sleep

abandonment presses on my shoulder
as i try to make sense of it all

Even as a young child, I carried the dream of one day living here, building a life, and planting roots in this beautiful country. I ended up marrying an American citizen. I was able to study two semesters at a Bible School in South Carolina. And even after my husband and I got married and, because of different circumstances, ended up deciding to build our family in Germany, there was always this dream of one day moving to the States.

I’m so grateful that during this season of my midlife, God actually opened that door and made it possible for us to move to America. We moved here five years ago, and I believe that July 4th, on the 250th anniversary of this country, is a fitting moment to share some of the things I’ve learned through immigration and how this move has affected my faith.

As I said, it had always been my dream to move here. And because I had lived here before many years ago, I honestly thought making the transition would be fairly easy. But I soon realized that it wouldn’t be nearly as easy as I had imagined.

I guess it’s different when you make such a big change in midlife—when you’ve already established routines, traditions, friendships, and a life as a family. Starting over is overwhelming for sure. But the things I have learned through my immigration journey are so valuable and have enriched my life as a Christian so deeply that I would do it all over again if I had the choice.

On this Fourth of July, I’d like to share five things that stand out to me most as I look back on the past five years. Whether you’re an immigrant to the United States or another country, or whether you’ve lived in the same place your entire life, I hope these lessons encourage you in your own walk of faith.

1. My citizenship is in heaven.

Yes, I can’t wait to hold an American passport in my hands. Right now, I have my green card, and becoming a U.S. citizen is something I’m looking forward to. Studying for the immigration test is an exciting endeavor (and also very nerve-wracking—I thought I was done taking tests and dealing with the fear of failing!).

But there is something far more comforting, even more anchoring, than an earthly citizenship could ever be.

I have a citizenship in heaven.

No matter where I live, no matter where God plants me on this earth, that citizenship defines me more than anything else. My identity as a Christian is not tied to a passport.

That truth has given me so much comfort during those seasons when I felt out of place, when I literally felt like an alien, when we were still living out of moving boxes, and when it was hard to find a place that truly felt like home.

I think we all go through seasons when we feel like we don’t belong. When we walk through the doors of a new church. When we start our first day at a new job. Certain situations can make us feel unsettled and out of place. That can affect our sense of self-worth and the way we carry ourselves. But when we can fall back on the comforting knowledge that our belonging is not tied to a place, a relationship, or anything we do, everything changes.

I have found that meditating on the fact that I am just passing through this world changes my priorities and reshapes my perspective on circumstances that would otherwise feel intimidating.

Nothing comforts like belonging.

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2. (Spiritual) traditions are important.

Honestly, I have never been someone who valued traditions all that much in my spiritual life.

As a family, yes. I’ve always loved creating traditions with my children. But spiritually, I was much more the spontaneous type. I liked the unexpected. I liked long worship nights with very little structure. It was always tough for me to integrate regular quiet times in my everyday life.

But after moving to America and walking through a season where everything had changed, I suddenly found myself craving tradition.

I was craving liturgy.

I was craving stillness.

I was craving regular rhythms—something predictable in my spiritual life.

Since then, I have come to deeply value written prayers—prayers that someone else has carefully formulated and that I can simply pray when my own words are not enough. When I’m too tired. When life has left me speechless.

Falling into a safety net of rituals has saved my faith during the past five years. It has been like a sacred scaffolding around my soul. When I wanted to scream and run and hide, these old traditions kept me in place. I still like a good, wild worship session, but I value the stillness, repetitive prayer, and hymns, which are soaked in real-life struggles and heavenly responses, so much more than I ever have.

Traditions have become incredibly important to me, and that’s something immigration taught me.

3. It’s okay not to fit in.

Even though I’m already in midlife, and I’ve certainly done some unconventional and even rebellious things throughout my life, I feel like I learned this on a completely new level.

It really is okay not to fit in.

It really is okay to stand out.

It really is okay not to do what people expect you to do.

Moving from one country to another and living between cultures forces you to face that reality. As soon as I open my mouth, I can tell that I’m recognized as a foreigner. I don’t have a strong accent, but I guess it’s easy to detect. In the beginning, I tried so hard to sound like everyone else around me. But since it is so important to me to continue speaking German with my children, I haven’t gotten rid of that last bit of German intonation, and I often scramble for words in conversation.

For someone who loves words and communication as much as I do, this is especially hard and humbling. But I am learning to be okay with it. My heart is speaking an altogether different language anyway. As a Christian, I carry heavenly words inside of me that the world doesn’t understand.

“For the word of the cross is folly to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.” (1 Cor. 1:18)

I should expect to be misunderstood.

The way I see it now, my immigration journey to the States has helped me become more okay with that.

Maybe you can relate, even though language isn’t your hurdle. Maybe it’s social anxiety. Maybe it’s self-doubt. Maybe it’s constantly comparing yourself to other moms, coworkers, or your siblings. I encourage you to break free from the mold. Do something you’ve been longing to do but have put off for all the wrong reasons.

Make peace with the stutter of your soul.

Laugh when you trip over your own feet.

We need Christians who don’t strive to portray perfection but pursue the dreams God has placed in their hearts—even when that means they don’t fit in. Even when it makes them look like fools.

It’s not an easy lesson to learn, but it’s incredibly freeing. It allows me to become more fully the person God created me to be.

A wonderful misfit.

4. Culture is a choice.

I love American culture. I love the history. The adventurous spirit of the pioneers who went west has always inspired me. I love the kindness and friendliness. I love how people genuinely love their country. I can’t get enough of the incredible nature, the opportunities, and the easygoing attitude.

But there are also parts of American culture that I don’t want to adopt. And I have learned that that’s okay. Culture is a choice.

As Christians, I think we’re called to create a different kind of culture anyway, no matter where we live—whether we are immigrants to a country or natives.

My husband grew up as a missionary kid in Europe, and through him I learned about the idea of a “third culture kid.” These are children who grow up between cultures and eventually develop a third culture of their own—a blend of both.

Aren’t we Christians called to do something very similar?

We’re in the world, but we’re not of the world. We develop a Kingdom culture—a culture that can be seen, touched, and experienced in every possible way here on earth: through prayer, through embraces, through practical help, through the words we choose to speak, simply through our lives. It’s the love of Jesus that seeps through everything we say and do. And it is also a culture that bears the touch of the supernatural—a culture that can't be fully explained, yet carries mysteries and wonders and invites our gaze heavenward.

Developing this culture is a daily choice. It is up to me which culture I decide to conform to—the culture of this world or God's Kingdom culture. It starts with the thoughts I allow to enter my mind the second I wake up and ends when my head hits the pillow at night and I have to decide between thankfulness and worry.

Every Christian is an immigrant when you look at it this way. Every Christian faces the challenge of adapting to a new culture, a new way of life, even a new language and currency. We get to decide every day which parts of the surrounding culture we embrace and which parts we choose not to conform to. Every day, we have to remind ourselves that this world is not our home and that we belong to a different kind of culture.

I’ve never seen that more clearly than after moving here.

5. God loves the nations.

Moving to America has given me a completely new appreciation for the nations and for God’s heart for them.

I come from a country where the United States is often viewed very critically. Much of the media coverage is negative. I have loved watching the reactions of so many fans traveling here for the World Cup and seeing how surprised they are by how wonderful it is here—how kind and hospitable people are, and how good the food tastes. I love seeing the nations come together to celebrate, to laugh, and to enjoy fellowship with one another. It feels like a glimpse of heaven. Moments like these remind me of God’s design for the nations.

But sadly, we live in a time when the words of Jesus—that “nation will rise against nation” (Matt. 24:7)—are becoming reality. In the midst of this turmoil, it is easy to get swept up in prejudices and opinions and allow our minds to wage war against entire people groups.

I think we are often too quick to judge nations and, in doing so, miss God’s purposes for them. A nation is so much more than its political leaders. A nation is always much bigger than the headlines. I believe every nation carries a spiritual heritage, and every country has a unique role to play in God’s story.

As Christians, we are called to be peacemakers. Of course, that won’t prevent war and conflict. But it can bring stillness to our minds and clarity to our prayers. It helps us resist the traps of the devil and protects our hearts from pride and arrogance. And that is what is needed most in these challenging times.

I love the thought that God’s delight in the diversity of peoples and cultures doesn’t disappear in eternity. Even in Revelation, we see the nations worshiping God together.

May we reflect this eternal truth in the way we read the headlines and the way we respond to wars and rumors of wars. May we never allow hatred or disgust to triumph over the love of Jesus, who loved the world more than His own life. May we weep and pray for our brothers and sisters who are persecuted, and may we never become so absorbed with the affairs of our own country that we forget to pray for the nations that need to be loved home to Jesus.

A Prayer

So today, on this special Fourth of July, I'd like to end this article with a prayer for America. Will you pray with me?

Jesus,

I pray that You would bless the United States of America.

I pray that You would give her leaders wisdom, clarity, discernment, and a love for truth—a love for You.

I pray for every person in this country who is suffering. Meet them with Your grace, Your healing, and Your hope.

I pray for justice. Strengthen judges, law enforcement, and everyone entrusted with making difficult decisions. Help them walk in integrity and righteousness.

I pray for protection over this nation.

I pray for peace.

And I pray for joy, especially on this Fourth of July.

May America continue to experience Your mercy, Your guidance, and Your blessing. Thank You for guiding me here. Thank You that I get to live here and enjoy the beauty of this nation.

Amen.

Are you an immigrant to the United States or another country as well? How has this journey shaped your faith?

Happy Fourth of July everyone! 🎉

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I recently read a book about the end times, and the author called the reader to hustle. He said Jesus’ return is around the corner, we don’t have any time to waste, and we need to be more productive, more focused, more all-in. While I agree that we live in spiritually dense times, the thought of hustling until Jesus returns made me feel weary. Here I am, still recovering from our move to the U.S., tired from the symptoms of perimenopause, and overwhelmed by life as it is. Hustling is an intimidating prospect to me. The thought of time running out makes me feel numb.

Ultimately, anything that doesn’t light me up but burns me out isn’t from God. And He does things differently than we do. The way He measures time is unlike ours. So yes, from a human perspective, it looks like it’s all hands on deck now. Get moving. Get ready. Prepare. Have your emergency food in the pantry.

But what about the weary soul, still recovering from the pandemic? What about the lonely Christian, aching for community? What about the tired parents, overwhelmed by sleepless nights? What about the sick and the heartbroken? Do we just tell everyone to get their act together and hustle?

This is not the way of Jesus.

When everyone wanted Him to overthrow the Roman government, He retreated into the desert. When everyone expected a king, He chose to ride on a donkey. When everyone was looking for victory, He died on a cross. I truly believe the way of the Christian in the last days looks very different from what many of us expect.

We need heart-to-heart connections. In times of crisis and in seasons of transition, we need someone to be there more than we need church programs and busy ‘spiritual’ schedules. We need a shoulder to cry on, a quiet prayer spoken for and with us. We need fellowship—not in a Sunday school classroom, but in the heart of a home. The living room. The kitchen. We need real relationships. Nothing else will see us successfully through hardship. So maybe right now is a time to look for those brothers and sisters in Christ who will be there when life gets rough and Jesus’ return draws nearer.

But as we all know, relationships take time to grow. It’s nothing like signing up for a church event or volunteering for the welcome team. It’s all about becoming real, vulnerable, and doing life together over the long haul. Something like that doesn’t grow overnight. It takes time and care. Are we willing to invest in those kinds of relationships? This has nothing to do with hustling, but everything to do with intentionally slowing down and opening your heart and your home.

Talking about slowing down. I am appalled by the speed at which we are living our lives. I am annoyed by the pressure so many Christian influencers communicate to their overstimulated audience. Yes, there is so much heartbreak. Yes, there is so much injustice. But I am not made to respond to every crisis. My soul cannot handle every corruption there is. The solution to the times we live in is not to answer to everything and hustle our way through our intercession. I believe the answer is to slow down and learn to listen again to the quiet whisper of God in the midst of the deafening noise of the world. This has nothing to do with checking out or not caring. I think the opposite is true: I can only give what I have received first from God. I can only love when I let myself be loved by Him. How can we ever make an eternal impact when our hearts are so preoccupied and burdened with the ways of the world? Wouldn’t it be wiser to first listen and then respond?

When Christianity spread across Europe so many centuries ago, the driving force was monks who faithfully and quietly prayed within their monastery walls. From those places of prayer, missionaries were sent out, and whole people groups came to know Jesus.

When Graf Zinzendorf built a place of 24/7 prayer in a remote town in Germany, men and women were later sent out into the nations, leading thousands to Christ.

It always started with quiet devotion to God. It always started within homes and tight-knit communities. And I believe this is the way forward for us now. It’s not the hyped-up Reel that will bring about change—it’s the prayers of the mom who chooses to commit her children to Jesus. It’s the couple responding to the voice of God and searching for His will. It’s the burned-out believer who chooses to sit still in God’s presence. God has always used the unassuming, the small, and the quiet to overcome the darkness.

So, in case you have felt overwhelmed by the times we live in and have felt an ungodly pressure to finally get it all together, and have started to get lost in seemingly spiritual to-do lists, just pause. Breathe.

Productivity in the Kingdom comes from presence, not performance.

So let us all search for His presence in our lives today. Let us all stop and listen to His small, tender voice. Let us all stop getting involved in human endeavors disguised as Christian attempts to save the world. He already saved it. He already overcame it. My job is to abide in His strength. And then—nothing is impossible.

_{Picture taken by Timothy Hammond}

Last night I picked up the camera myself. As I was changing the sheets on my daughter’s bed, the sun shone into her room in such a beautiful way that I suddenly felt like I had to record it. I asked if I could borrow my son’s camera (of course he had to turn it on for me—I had no clue), and I started filming. Soft sunrays. The shadows of tree branches cast across the old cabinet we got on Facebook Marketplace a few years ago. The sheer curtains illuminated like a vintage canvas with gently changing images. I was blown away by the beauty. My daughter’s bed wasn’t even made, the sheets all mingled on the floor. And here I was, capturing this miracle with an old Nokia camera, marveling that I had never stumbled upon this beautiful scene before.

We are surrounded by beauty. But we are too busy to notice it. Hadn’t I watched my son all weekend treasure-hunting for the unique details of everyday life, I would have missed those two minutes when the sun was at just the right angle to paint such a memorable scene in my daughter’s room. I would have continued to hustle, taken the laundry downstairs, put the dirty dishes away. I would have missed the sacred moment and hurried on with life. I would have been poorer for it.

Especially since moving to the States, I have felt my life getting busier. Trying to fit into a new culture adds to the pace of life, which is already fast enough as it is. You constantly feel like you have to catch up. Everyone is further ahead, knows more than you do, and you’re afraid you’ll miss out. No phone call comes easily. Everything needs to be researched. You miss deadlines because you didn’t even know there was a deadline. The past five years have been so fast, so intense, that I started missing the small, quiet mysteries of ordinary life.

The sunrays through windows.
The butterfly circling the citrus tree.
The leftovers from breakfast somehow arranged like a still-life painting.
The steam rising from my tea mug.
The gentle glance from my husband in the midst of our busy afternoon.

Life is made up of many small miracles. I hope I don’t miss them today. I hope I go slowly enough to notice the blessing. I hope you will, too.

It may sound silly, but it isn’t always easy to identify with two cultures, two homes, and that inner struggle often shows up in unexpected ways. I was watching my kids during a recent U.S. match, and I could see so much happening beneath the surface. Our youngest, who is the most integrated into American culture, was talking about “our anthem” and “our team.” My daughters were more skeptical, constantly comparing the American team with the German team—as if they weren’t quite sure whose side they were on.

That’s our life. We live between cultures and between homes. We are happy and sad at the same time. We never quite fit in.

I am not complaining at all. The life God has chosen for us is adventurous, colorful, beautiful, and different. Because of our experiences, we carry a great deal of empathy within us and adapt easily to challenging circumstances. We are bilingual, have a broad perspective, and a deeply rooted resilience. Moving abroad has made us stronger and wiser in many ways, and I wouldn’t trade any of it.

And this is mostly what you see when you watch the reels and vlogs of expat life. You see the highlights, the momentum, the excitement of daring to step outside the mold. But I miss the honest conversations about the price tag that comes with this kind of lifestyle. The homesickness. The added challenges of raising children in a new culture. The feeling of never quite fitting in that reveals itself in small decisions, like which team you are actually rooting for.

I have found that the art of living abroad comes down to finding the fragile balance between letting go and holding on. It’s a tightrope to walk.

Yes, I need to let go of the past. I cannot live my life looking in the rearview mirror, constantly comparing the new with the old. I need a mindset that is ready to embrace the unfamiliar, the unexpected. I need to be willing to adapt, to be okay with being shaped and formed into someone I wasn’t before. That takes a humble heart and quite an adventurous spirit, because we humans naturally prefer familiarity and predictability.

But at the same time, you cannot let go of everything.

Especially when you move abroad with children, there are traditions and treasures you want to pass on to them. One of the greatest challenges for me is speaking my mother tongue with my children. Not speaking the native language outside our home feels strange to me, so I try to speak English whenever we are out in public. At home, I try to switch back to German, which is always a struggle. My perimenopausal, tired brain doesn’t always cooperate. I struggle to find the words. I mix both languages. I trip over what I want to say. It’s a mess.

Sometimes I feel as though I am letting the language of my heart down. I am afraid of forgetting how to express my deepest feelings and experiences in the tongue I grew up speaking. The words carry so much more than their literal meaning. It’s the sound, the associations carried by each syllable, the stories, the memories. It is so much more than a language.

English isn’t any of that for me—at least not yet. I am still trying to make myself feel at home in this foreign way of speaking and expressing myself.

Language is never just words. It is also culture. It is the way I say something. The melody of it. I haven’t quite learned the song well enough to join in. I am still careful, timid, quiet. And I hope my children will never feel that way about the language they first heard when they entered the world. So I am trying to keep it alive and create a space in the middle where both can exist: the old and the new way of communicating.

I also want to hold on to certain traditions. Christmas is a perfect example: Adventskranz. Adventskalender. Heiligabend. Wholesome German rituals that are not deeply embedded in American culture. They are the small things I try to keep alive in a different culture, side by side with new traditions.

After a while, the old and the new culture begin to unite, and a third culture starts to emerge. That’s when you root for two teams with equal enthusiasm. That’s when you say something in English with a German meaning, and it doesn’t quite make sense. Or the other way around. That’s when you realize your German directness can be perceived as rude, and that simply using the right words is only a small part of communicating well.

It’s learning to be okay with living in between. It’s making peace with the imperfect. It’s understanding that you are still on the journey long after you have settled.

At first, I was happy that I didn’t have to deal with the packing, the jet lag, and the painful reverse culture shock. It’s hard coming back to a place that you called home for so many years, only to realize you feel like a stranger there. People move on. You move on. Nothing stays the same. In a way, our trips back seemed like trying to relive memories, and it always felt a little stale.

At first, I was happy not to deal with the budget, the constant thought in the back of my mind of how on earth we would finance everything. And of course, I was happy that I would not have to deal with the inevitable goodbye at the end of our stay. The coming home. The intense feeling of being stuck between two worlds and never truly feeling at home again. Anyone else out there who can relate to this?

When I say I am homesick, I cannot even tell you exactly what I am homesick for. It’s a mixture of feeling a certain way in my home culture (not having to think about what I am going to say when I enter a store, knowing my way around, feeling comfortable and at ease), memories (my kids being little, special places like playgrounds where we always used to go), food (the bakeries, the pizza and Asian places that were part of our dating and movie nights), and the people (my friends, acquaintances, neighbors). I am homesick for a certain lifestyle and the feeling of being in the right place.

Since our move to the States, everything has shifted, and while I do enjoy the new facets of my life (living close to the beach, the friendliness of people, the opportunities, the wide-open spaces everywhere you go...), part of my heart will always be somewhere else. No matter where I go. That’s the price you pay when you move abroad and embrace another culture.

This in-between feeling is actually a very biblical state of mind. We read in Hebrews: “For here we do not have an enduring city, but we are looking for the city that is to come.” I think homesickness reminds our souls that this earth is not our home. There will never be a place where I will feel completely at home, because this is not my home. I am just passing through, journeying on to a forever home. A perfect home.

I am thankful that I get to experience homesickness in such a profound way. It hurts, but it also sets my heart on heavenly things. It lifts me out of earthly securities and temporary belongings and grounds me in the belief that the best is yet to come. Jesus is preparing a home for me. The home I actually want to be homesick for.

Last night I had a bedtime conversation with my husband. Eyes already closed, lights off, but our minds still very active. We connect through whispered words between pillows and blankets, his hand holding mine. Those are sacred moments, and truth is spoken plainly and honestly in the dark. I told him that ever since I have allowed myself to write again and feel myself, I would describe the state of my soul as floating. I have lost my footing somehow. I am like one of those helium balloons that has been let go, and now it seems like there is no way of getting it back. I seem to ascend higher and higher until I am just a little dot in the blue sky. Far from the secure and stable ground, far away from something or someone holding me tight, keeping me safe. I am just floating.

Obviously, that is not what I make myself and others believe most of the time. I pretend that I know what I am doing. I do that by keeping busy. These past years, I have buried myself in work. I distract myself with doom-scrolling on Instagram. I even disguise my flight away from the pain inside of me as creativity. I create content on social media. I do podcasts. But it’s all pretense over presence. It’s loneliness disguised as social activity. It’s lostness playing dress-up as a successful entrepreneur. All the while, I am floating. And I am afraid I will soon be out of sight.

It’s quiet up there. Looking down, everything is so small, so meaningless. So far away. Maybe for right now it is fine to float. If I dare to recognize the floating for what it is: a time in my life where nothing really turned out the way I wanted it to. A season where I am subject to high winds. Being drawn and pushed to an unknown destination.

I wonder if many of us are floating, all the while pretending to be firmly footed on the ground with marching orders that tell us exactly what is next. I wonder if we are all just a bunch of balloons way up in the sky with no way of knowing where to go from here or even how we ended up there.

What if I simply admit to myself that this is how it is? I am helplessly floating through my life at this very moment, and there is basically nothing I can do to change that. In fact, the floating might be part of the process of finding my new home. My new footing. A fresh purpose.

I remember someone challenging me to picture a kite. This kite has a string, and the string is held by someone on the ground. The wind keeps the kite moving and dancing up in the sky. I was then asked this question: What resembles me and the Holy Spirit in this picture? Do I want to be the one firmly footed on the ground, holding the string, making sure everything goes okay and the kite doesn’t fly away? Or am I daring to be the kite, dancing way up there, completely trusting the person on the ground to hold me fast, all the while being utterly surrendered to the ever-changing wind? Or is the Holy Spirit, in my imagination, the person on the ground, predictably holding the string, or is He the wind, making the kite dance and move? I think instinctively we would all gravitate toward either being the person on the ground or wishing the Holy Spirit were the person on the ground. Both scenarios seem safer. But I believe it is me and the Holy Spirit up there. He is the wind; I am the kite. There is nothing I can control in the skies. I can only trust. I can only surrender.

I may not be a helium balloon after all. I may be more like a kite with a string. The person holding this string, making sure I don’t end up as a dot in the sky, is Jesus. Holding the string, giving me room for some daring maneuvers, shouting up to me to “have some fun” and to “go for it.”

So, yes. I am floating. But there is a string. And there is a wind that is holding me and guiding me. And I know there is a destination. While I am up here, I want to make the most of it. I want to get an overview. I want to learn to enjoy the feeling of having absolutely no control. I want to trust.

Life’s transitions, whether it is midlife, a move, a new job, or becoming a parent, catapult us into a state of floating. We lose our footing for a while. Life feels unpredictable and uncontrollable. It might seem as though we get lost in chaos and disappear into a state of mere functioning. We distract our weary souls, we keep busy, and we pretend we know what we are doing. But we don’t. And that is okay.

Float a little with me. There is an army of kites in the sky.

Five years ago, my husband and I decided to move our family from Germany to the US. It was 2021, the summer when the pandemic felt like a bad dream, but somehow I knew it wasn’t all over. We felt exhausted, weary, and ready for something new. We just didn’t know what.

So we packed our belongings (most of which we sold anyway), bought plane tickets, and came to the States.

Since then, I have felt lost.

I thought I would find myself. I thought this adventure is exactly what I needed. And while I still believe that our decision to move to the US was right and I haven’t given up hope, it’s been a struggle. What hasn’t really helped: My work continued to be in German. I work with Germans every day, so in a way it almost feels like I am living my life in reverse.

With our move, I uprooted myself from my home country, but since then my roots have remained above ground, and I haven’t yet found a place where I can bury them again deep in rich, healthy soil.

Something else I am somewhat embarrassed to admit: I haven’t found real friends. That has been one of the hardest realities I have had to come to terms with. I expected to find friends more easily. But for now my heart has had to settle for casual acquaintances. For someone who struggles with self-worth, always wondering if I am too much, too little, too quick to share what I think and feel, this definitely has been a hard one.

Because I work from home, I am mostly at home. I have even developed a sort of social anxiety over the past few years because I have literally forgotten how to spend time with people. It all started with the pandemic, and that state of isolation somehow prolonged itself into the aftermath of COVID.

So anyway, it has been hard. Feeling lost is just not…nice. It’s one of the most uncomfortable feelings I know.

But I want to turn this heartache into hope.

I am so done living in-between. I am so done feeling lost between two languages and two worlds.

Writing this in English is not easy for me. I am a published author in German, and words mean the world to me. To start a sentence in English with German grammar in mind, and German words filling in the gaps when my midlife brain fails to find the English equivalent, makes me feel like a second grader who is just learning vocabulary.

It’s humbling.

And yet it perfectly reflects how I feel: trying to figure out a whole new way of expressing myself, scrambling for words because I am attempting to describe a terrain I have never walked before. It is all new to me. Everything. Even after five years, I feel as though I have just stepped off that airplane and am still trying to find my footing.

So I set myself a goal: I will show up here for the next 50 days and attempt to find the words that explain what is going on inside me.

I will be honest. I will be real.

I will share my struggles with transition, with midlife, and with the state of my heart. But I will also share those beautiful moments I so often overlook in everyday life. Perhaps this challenge will lead me back to wonder, back to noticing God’s beauty woven into ordinary days. And maybe it will help you too.

I will always come back to hope because that is who I am.

I will not give up.

I will find a way through this maze of disappointment and loose ends. I will find the soil where my roots will finally be able to grow deep again and give my life stability.

Because, in the end—who knows?—the lostness might actually be a worthy destination.

Most powerful Holy Spirit, come down upon us and subdue us. Bathe us with the brilliance of Your light like dew. (Celtic Daily Prayer, Northumbria Community)

The more I reflect on the Holy Spirit, the more I realize how much He directs my gaze toward beauty. I become a contemplator of God’s art, which surrounds me everywhere and at all times. My senses are increasingly attuned to the wonders that can be found everywhere, and this sensitivity fills my life and humbles my heart.

The prerequisite for immersing myself in this beauty is stillness. I cannot rush through a museum and still admire the hidden details in the masterpieces. I need time. I need focus. I need respect for the painters’ talent and capability.

In the same way, we need stillness for our spiritual life. We must pause and open our eyes.

What wonder, what work of art will I encounter today?

How is the Creator revealing Himself to me today through His creation?

Let’s cultivate a lifestyle of stillness so that we may become worthy admirers of His beauty.