Learning the Pace of Grace

When I returned from the beach, I was certain I would hit the ground running again.

My body had rested, but my spirit was still learning a different pace. The first week back filled itself with distractions, and rather than force momentum, I chose to pivot. I refused to let the gift of rest be wasted.

Then came another uphill climb.

Plans unraveled. My rhythm needed recalibrating. And I was reminded of a lesson I seem to learn again and again: every time I try to sprint ahead of my season, God gently calls me to the bench.

So here I am—moving from bed to couch, wrapped in tissues and herbal tea, nursing a cold, allergies or sinusitis that refuses to be ignored. No resistance. No striving. No desire to push through. Just stillness.

Responsibilities were canceled. Deadlines released. Rest became the assignment.

On a simple Trader Joe’s run for chicken noodle soup, fluids, and another round of medicine, I found myself pausing to breathe in gratitude. The world keeps spinning without my constant effort. The “superwoman” cape I wore so faithfully suddenly felt too heavy to carry.

Today, I only have enough for me! And where my hands fall short, his grace is sufficient.

My nose is raw from endless tissues. Being sick is inconvenient and uncomfortable. But the ache is revealing something deeper than physical exhaustion.

Sometimes what feels like interruption is actually invitation.

An invitation to surrender instead of strive.
To trust instead of control.
To remember that my worth is not measured by my productivity, but by my willingness to be present with the One who orders my steps.

God, I hear You.

I see You slowing me down before I outrun Your grace.

And I’m learning that not every pause is a setback.

Some pauses are sacred.

Some benches become altars.

Some seasons of stillness restore more than strength—they restore perspective.

Maybe the miracle isn’t in making it to the finish line faster. Maybe it’s in becoming the kind of person who no longer mistakes exhaustion for faithfulness or busyness for purpose.

So I’ll rest without guilt, heal without apology, and trust that what God has ordained for me will not pass me by.

Because the God who calls me to be still is the same God who knows exactly when to tell me to rise.

And when He does, I won’t be running on adrenaline or ambition—I’ll be moving in alignment. That kind of pace doesn’t just carry you farther; it carries you where you were meant to be all along.

Comments

Broken Covenant

Once upon a time— I wanted to believe something was real so desperately that I silenced the Spirit within me just to keep the illusion alive. I saw every red flag— not as warnings, but as tests of how much I was willing to endure to feel chosen. I asked no questions because truth was already whispering, and I feared what obedience would cost me. So I made a covenant with denial— calling lies “grace,” and confusion “patience,” because the truth felt too vast, too holy, too disruptive to the future I had built in my mind. I clung to potential like it was promise, and mistook absence for peace. Yet the weight of it— this thing I called love— crushed my spirit daily. Still, desperation dressed itself as loyalty and convinced me to stay. And it didn’t get better. It decayed. Quietly at first… then unmistakably. Each time God unveiled truth, I chose the comfort of shadows over the calling of light. I pleaded. I prayed. I begged— not for revelation, but for permission to remain where I w...

From Chaos to Calm

After a while… the need to be heard at full volume begins to dissolve. The rooftops grow silent. The flames you once fed with trembling hands no longer feel like power— only exhaustion. What you burned never built a home. And somewhere along the way, you realize— not every echo returns, not every seed takes root, not every mountain was yours to climb. The grace you poured out like water in a desert, the love you offered with open, unguarded hands— it did not come back the way you imagined. And still… you are here. So instead of fighting what refuses to bend, you loosen your grip. Not in defeat— but in awakening. You release the need to be answered, to be chosen, to be understood by those who never learned your language. Your hands, once reaching outward, begin to rise— not in desperation, but in devotion. Upward. Open. Steady. God… I see You now in the quiet I once avoided. I hear You not in the thunder— but in the space where my striving used to live. And I am ready. Something within ...

Do Not Resuscitate (DNR)

What unsettles me most about some people is not the harm they cause— but the silence that follows it. No conviction. No trembling. No evidence that a soul was ever stirred. As if something sacred once lived there… and quietly left. What remains is form without fire. A body that breathes, but does not feel . A Walking corpse. Spiritually vacant, yet socially skilled— fluent in imitation, but foreign to truth. They move through people like weather— touching everything, anchoring nowhere. I once mistook that emptiness for mystery. Confused detachment with depth. Thought restraint was discipline, when it was really disconnection. But there was no rootedness in him— only appetite. An endless hunger dressed as desire. A man grazing on bodies, scrolling through souls like they were disposable moments. Not searching. Not building. Just consuming— to quiet something unnamed within him. Unhealed wounds don’t stay still. They wander. From bed to bed, from face to face, from high ...

A Daily Dose of Freedom

Search This Blog