The Space In Between

I’m still learning how to stand firmly in who I am in Christ. Some days, it feels like I’m discovering myself for the first time; other days, like I’m returning to a version of me that’s always been there beneath the surface—steady, true, and quietly growing. This season isn’t about achieving something impressive; it’s about being developed. I sense it deeply. God is forming something lasting, and I can’t keep interrupting the process every time things shift or someone questions my path or I grow restless with waiting.

I’ve done that long enough—hesitated, overanalyzed, doubted the very path I prayed to be shown. But now I know: that kind of fear only slows down the progress. Every moment I spend second-guessing is a moment I delay the unfolding of what’s already in motion. It’s time to stop hesitating. I can’t keep holding back out of fear of being wrong or misunderstood. I’ve been called. I’ve been entrusted. And I’ve been equipped—whether or not I feel like it doesn't matter. It’s time to give this season my full attention and my full effort—not striving, but surrendering. That means walking boldly, even if the path curves. That means choosing obedience over opinion, and peace over performance. I trust that if God needs to redirect me, He will. That’s His job. Mine is to show up fully and follow Him with courage.

This is not about perfection. It’s about participation. 

Sometimes I get caught in the loop of what I think I deserve—or more often, what I believe I don’t. It’s subtle but powerful, this belief that I have to earn the goodness that comes my way. I can feel it creep in when I dream too big or receive too much. I tell myself, “You’re not worthy of this,” as if the abundance of God has limits tied to my performance.

But the truth is, grace was never about deserving.

No, I don’t deserve a partner in life and future ministry—but I belong with my person, when that door is opened. I don’t deserve to sit among visionary leaders and entrepreneurs—but belonging is written into my calling, and I won’t shrink back from the table anymore.

I don’t deserve the home I long for—but I belong in the space God is preparing for me, where my family will rest, create, and thrive.
I don’t deserve to homeschool these daughters of mine—but I belong in that sacred role, chosen for it, even in my inadequacy.

And grace—grace is the banner over it all. I don’t deserve it. I could never earn it. But I am in it, surrounded by it, upheld by it every step of the way.

So I’m learning to stop disqualifying myself from the very things God is calling me into. This is not about entitlement. It’s about trust. He decides where I belong. My job is to stop arguing with Him and start living like it's true.

There’s this ongoing interweaving between the upper story and the lower story—between what is promised in heaven and what is still unfolding on earth. I live in the tension of the already but not yet. I know who I am in Christ. I know what I’ve been promised. And yet, the gravity of this earthly dwelling—its limitations, its pressures, its delays—has a way of pulling me into survival mode. It convinces me I need to hustle, strive, hold everything together. That it’s all up to me.

But deep down, I know that isn’t true.

Victory is already mine—not because I’ve earned it, but because Christ has secured it. Still, I’m being prepared for what I’m not yet ready to carry. There’s a difference between being called and being released. And sometimes that space between is the most sacred stretch of all—the refining, reshaping, rooting place.

It’s hard, though. Living in this in-between often feels like carrying weight I was never meant to hold. I forget that provision has already been made. That strength is supplied, not manufactured. That grace goes ahead of me, behind me, and within me.

So I breathe. I remember.

It’s not all up to me.
But I do have a part to play.
My role is to stay open, stay obedient, and stay grounded in the truth that I am being made ready.

Every delay, every detour, every deep ache for more—it’s not the absence of God. It’s the evidence of His care. He won’t release what I’m not yet able to carry in joy and peace. He’s not withholding—He’s preparing.

And so I walk forward, even with shaking knees, trusting that this middle place is not meaningless. It is the sacred space between promise and fulfillment, and I belong even here.

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The space between promise and fulfillment, what I don't deserve and where I belong...

I am already chosen and dearly loved.
But I am not yet living in perfect harmony.
I don’t deserve this love—but I belong in it.

I am already partnered in heart with someone who reflects the kind of love I’ve prayed for.
But I am not yet living in that reality.
I don’t deserve that kind of connection—but I belong in it's purpose.

I am already launching my daughters into strength, faith, and identity. But I am not yet finished guiding their steps.
I don’t deserve the honor of shaping their lives—but I belong in their story.

I am already thriving in my calling,
bearing fruit from the seeds of joy and obedience.
But I am not yet seeing the full harvest.
I don’t deserve the abundance I see—but I belong in this field.

I am already walking in my purpose,
but I am not yet standing in the fullness of the vision.
I don’t deserve to carry this calling—but I belong in this mission.

I am already at home—in Spirit, in peace, in who I am becoming.
But I am not yet in the house that holds my future memories.
I don’t deserve a place prepared—but I belong wherever He leads.

Challenges from Jeremiah

During the 2018 Christmas Season, I found myself immersed in the book of Jeremiah. Not exactly festive reading. Yet in the chaos of that season, one piercing question rose above the rest:

Are you willing to fail for Jesus?

I couldn't shake it. Jeremiah had poured his life into warning a people who refused to listen. He didn’t keep Jerusalem from falling. And yet, he remained faithful.

At the time, I had convinced myself that failure was not an option. But God was preparing me for a different kind of success—one not measured by outcomes, but obedience. Enter 2019: a year of spiritual whiplash. I was asked to do things that felt odd, uncomfortable, even foolish. When I resisted, the consequences were real. But once I surrendered, something shifted. The so-called failures became fertile soil for God to work in me...the growing pains were real and also fruitful. And if I want to add some extra dramatic wording...the entire trajectory of my life changed. 

Last year, Eugene Peterson’s Run With the Horses started showing up everywhere. A quote here, a mention there. I took the hint and bought the book. And I was blown away by this completely different perspective of Jeremiah. The subtitle was The Quest for Life At It's Best!

Then I discovered Peterson had also written on Galatians, so I added that to my ever-growing, slightly chaotic reading pile. But here’s the kicker: I can’t quote from either of them now. Why? Because all my books are packed away.

I packed them in faith.

Every box is a declaration that this season of waiting will one day become a season of moving.

Waiting can feel like wilderness.

It’s that in-between place where you’re no longer who you were, but not yet where you’re going. It's uncomfortable, uncertain, and presently it feels like falling behind while everyone else is running ahead.

This week Jeremiah 12:5 popped into my head while reading something completely different, and I thought to myself that's an interesting correlation. I will have to come back to that later. But instead, I was challenged to dig in…now.  The verse is God’s response to Jeremiah’s honest complaint: Why do the wicked seem to thrive? Why does it feel like those who do wrong are rewarded while those who try to walk faithfully struggle? Those weren't exactly my complaints, but I was definitely playing old tapes in my head, and blaming more than I was believing.

And instead of soothing or explaining, God responded with a challenge:

If you're worn out by foot races, how will you run with horses?

At first glance, it doesn’t seem comforting at all.

In a season where everything feels slow or stagnant, I’ve often asked, “What’s the point of this? Why does it feel like I’m circling the same mountain?”

But what if the waiting isn’t punishment?
What if it’s preparation?

There are horses ahead. And in God’s mercy, He isn’t sending me to run with them until I’ve learned endurance on the ground. The waiting is a strengthening season, not a stuck one.

When I'm waiting, I often want answers. But sometimes, God gives alignment instead. Which is another word that keeps coming up in my writing.  He’s teaching me to trust Him when I don’t have clarity, to obey without full visibility, and to rest when everything in me wants to strive. I am not a rookie at this. And, yet, I am still hesitant.

And as I dug into this verse and it's unwelcomed timing, I was reminded of the things that Jeremiah did that made zero sense. 

Jeremiah purchased a field in Anathoth. It was absurd, really. Who buys real estate in a land being overtaken?
But God told him to do it—and Jeremiah obeyed.
This act wasn’t about land. It was about hope.
It was a physical declaration:

“Houses and fields and vineyards shall again be bought in this land.” (Jeremiah 32:15)

 (Jeremiah 29):
To those already taken to Babylon, Jeremiah sent a message:

“Build houses and live in them; plant gardens… take wives and have sons and daughters… seek the welfare of the city.” (Jeremiah 29:5–7)

It was not the message they expected. They wanted rescue. What they received was a call to root down in exile, trusting that God’s plans were still unfolding—even in a foreign land.

There are seasons when hope seems irrational, and the future feels far off. And yet, God might ask me to buy a field anyway.

To pack my books.
To trust that the moving season will come.
To build a life (and a business) in the waiting.

Jeremiah 12:5 goes on to say:

“And if in a safe land you are so trusting, what will you do in the thicket of the Jordan?”

As 2024 ended, I found myself standing in a foggy "to be continued." More questions than answers. More starts than finishes. And 2025 hasn’t exactly cleared things up—it’s been one hurry up and wait moment after another. Just when I think I’m about to step forward, the pace slows again.

And yet—I'm safe.

There’s provision, enough for today. There’s no crisis. No fire. No flood. Just... limbo. But even in this quiet place, God is exposing something in me:

You say you trust Me. But can you trust Me in the slow? In the silent? In the still?

It’s easier to run when adrenaline kicks in. It’s easier to believe when the stakes are visible. But what about when everything looks fine on the outside, and yet my soul feels shaky?

That’s when God has every right to ask about my stamina.

If I grow faint in the “safe land,” what will I do when the real thicket comes?

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There have been days I didn’t want to look at my texts, answer the phone, or leave my house—because of the dreaded questions I couldn’t answer.

“What’s next?”
“Any updates?”
“Still waiting?”

Questions that exposed the uncomfortable tension between my belief in God's direction and the apparent lack of visible fruit. I said I was following His lead—and I was—but the outcomes haven’t matched the faith steps (yet). And I’ve wondered: How many more “I don’t knows” do I have in me?

But something has shifted recently.

I’ve discovered I’m not the only one in this waiting season. In fact, the more willing I am to answer honestly, the more others open up about their quiet battles—their dance with fear and faith.

I’m not trying to prove I can run with horses.
But I do want to be ready—
ready to respond when God says move,
ready to recognize His hand even when the path feels hidden,
ready to remember that every season of waiting has always led somewhere meaningful.

And while I wait, I’m learning to let go of the need to explain.
To be at peace with “I don’t know.”
To let my authenticity speak louder than outcomes.
To sit in the tension without rushing the story.

Because I believe one day—maybe soon, maybe not—I’ll look back on this season
and see that it wasn’t a holding pattern.
It was holy ground.
The kind that doesn’t draw a crowd,
but draws me closer to the One who called me here in the first place.

Home is Where the Heart Is: Plot Twist

They say home is where the heart is, but I’ve learned something deeper: I’ve brought my heart into every home I’ve had. And by God’s grace, I've been given the gift of realizing my heart was never bound—it’s kept beating, growing, and moving forward, no matter where I reside. (Romans 7:6 But now, by dying to what once bound us, we have been released from the law so that we serve in the new way of the Spirit, and not in the old way of the written code.)

When I was 24, I moved 1,500 miles away from everything familiar to start a new chapter in Salt Lake City. I lost a beautiful home there—but truthfully, that home never offered true stability. Volatility lived in its walls. I once believed that security would come from bricks and mortar, but that dream was gently undone.

Years later, I sold everything we owned and moved into an RV—pregnant with my fourth child. It sounds wild, but it was a deliberate choice to embrace uncertainty and follow a deeper call.

And then, during one of the most uncertain seasons of my life, God asked me to do something I didn’t want to do: buy another house. I fought Him on it, unsure, afraid. But this house… this one became something different. It became the place where I began raising four girls on my own. It became holy ground. I embraced what God had given me, and I vowed, I will never sell this home.

But here's what I’ve come to understand: it wasn’t the walls that made each place sacred—it was the people. The community that surrounded me in each of those seasons is what truly turned each space into a haven. The friendships, the support, the shared laughter and tears—those are what etched the deepest memories into the walls. And every time God calls me forward into a new chapter, it’s this—the leaving of community—that becomes the tenderest grief.

And yet—not once has He led me somewhere that didn’t come with provision. In every new place, the community and resources weren’t just replaced—they were matched, even multiplied. Every step of the journey has carried both loss and abundance, and somehow, always, His faithfulness has gone ahead of me.

And here I am. Another season of uncertainty. Another stretch of road that invites me to place my security not in walls or misplaced identity, but in Him. And with mixed emotions, the house where love and a new life were built is for sale. Not out of loss, but as an offering. A trust-fueled yes to whatever He has next.

Because the truth is: home has never been a structure. It's always been the heart. And this heart still beats strong, still trusts deeply, still walks forward in faith—carrying home, and everyone who’s been part of it, wherever God leads.

If there’s something in your life right now providing a sense of security—something you find yourself clinging to, whispering, “As long as I have ____, then it will all be okay”—ask yourself: Is that really the source of your peace?

What shifts when we welcome gifts freely rather than grasping tightly? 

What if the truest security isn’t in the job, the relationships, the house, the plans, or the thing that gives you purpose—but in the One who never shifts, even when everything else does? (James 1:17 Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.)

Faith can look like stillness. Sometimes, it looks like surrender in motion. 

In recovery, we say “Act as if”—an invitation to practice the posture of surrender. 

It’s choosing to walk in obedience, to loosen your grip, to live like the promise is already true… even if your heart is still catching its breath.

(Romans 4:20-21 Yet he did not waver through unbelief regarding the promise of God, but was strengthened in his faith and gave glory to God, being fully persuaded that God had power to do what he had promised)

Because sometimes the act of surrender comes before the feeling of peace. And faith? Faith often looks like stepping forward with open hands while everything inside you still wants to clench your fists.

A common question I ask myself: What are you afraid of?