Fall has always held a certain charm, but this year, the familiar season brought unexpected shadows. Unpacking last winter’s clothes stirred up memories, not all of them welcome. With each day growing colder, a sense of unease crept in, as if the golden hues of autumn were tainted with a hidden deception. Breezy, nostalgic moments were suddenly overshadowed, marked with a sense of something being amiss.
Yet, truth has a way of breaking down barriers, walls that seem insurmountable. Turning away from truth, or forgetting its power to heal and liberate, is not an option. Truth, even when it’s difficult, is a rescuer.
Hope emerged like daylight breaking through dense trees, bringing with it a sense of warmth and clarity.
Without something to look forward to, a sense of purpose, we can lose our way. In the everyday moments, this can be as simple as a quick mental check of the week ahead. If the week looks challenging or filled with tasks I’m not eager for, I look further out, searching for that break in the clouds, a small ray of light to focus on. Sometimes, that ray of light is simply the promise of a good lunch – a small pleasure to anchor to.
We need those sparks of hope, those guiding lights in our lives, whether they are people or things. It’s part of our human nature to need a vision, a hope for something beyond ourselves, something bigger to invest in and be a part of. Without this, as the wisdom in Scripture tells us, we lose our vitality. Lately, during my commute, Amanda Cook’s song “Heroes” from her album “The Voyage” has been on repeat. Each time she sings, “you taught my feet to dance upon disappointment,” it resonates deeply, stirring emotions that feel almost too intense for a morning drive.
For there is hope for a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease. Though the root thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground; Yet through the scent of water it will bud, and bring forth boughs like a plant. – Job 14:7-9
Something that weighs heavily on my mind, and I know on the minds of many women around me, is the quiet fear we often face, and the choices we make in response. It’s about choosing a sense of inner peace that stands in stark contrast to the turmoil around us. To those on the outside, it might seem illogical, even counterintuitive, to combat fear with stillness. Yet, as believers, we carry the strength of Christ within. When we are rooted, standing firm in our identity, it becomes an unshakeable force.
This extends even to the deeply personal fears surrounding dreams of family, partnership, and fulfillment. The pain of uncertainty, of wondering if those cherished dreams will ever come to fruition, or if they’ll remain perpetually out of reach, is profound and often hidden. Women are masters at keeping busy, fulfilling responsibilities, sometimes at the cost of those quiet, inner longings.
Shortly after my wedding plans were called off, a woman prayed for me, repeating the powerful affirmation: “Hope is NOT deferred.”
Never. In fact, in that moment, hope was restored. Confirmation arrived, a clear sign that my instincts were true. (I recall a past breakup where I went to his house ready to end things. When he immediately agreed, I surprised him by sighing with relief and saying, “Oh thank God,” through tears of joy. I must have seemed crazy, laughing and insisting I was better than ever, while he looked bewildered, asking if I was alright. I laughed and cried all the way home, using that experience to learn to trust my intuition. We both moved forward to better paths.)
The escalating emotional rollercoaster leading up to the wedding was undeniably wrong, abnormal, and not my fault. I had been misled, and there was something better waiting.
It’s during these times that I remind myself of a crucial truth: it’s impossible to miss my own boat.
A loving Father doesn’t take away to create emptiness. His vision extends far beyond our own. He is light in the darkness. When that light feels distant, like a tiny pinpoint, we must lean in closer. He is always there, faithful to meet us in those shadowed spaces. Some of my darkest days have been marked by an unparalleled sense of His presence, a closeness not always felt in brighter times. It’s from these periods of difficulty that our roots grow deeper, searching for sustenance. Our convictions become stronger, and our stories of resilience gain power.
In the words of the insightful Chris Martin, “Lights will guide you home.”
