God in the small

I keep telling myself my life is made of moments too small to matter.

The quiet ones.

The unseen ones.

The ordinary Tuesdays where nothing breaks open and nothing miraculous announces itself.

The moments where I fold laundry with a heavy chest, sip coffee that’s gone cold, whisper prayers that feel unfinished.

I’ve learned how to measure worth by noise.

By milestones.

By moments that photograph well and preach easy.

And when my days don’t rise to that standard, I quietly file them away as insignificant, another hour survived, another breath taken.

But You don’t see my life the way I do.

Where I see “small,”

You see sacred.

You see the moment I choose to get out of bed when grief presses its full weight into my bones.

You see the way I still show up gentle when my heart feels bruised.

You see every prayer I don’t finish because tears interrupt the words.

You see me keep loving when it would be easier to harden.

I keep thinking You are waiting for something bigger from me, a louder faith, a braver step, a better version of who I am supposed to become.

But maybe You are watching me become right here.

In the moments I rush past.

In the minutes I dismiss as wasted.

In the places I think You must be absent because nothing dramatic is happening.

You don’t miss these moments.

You don’t overlook the way I breathe through the ache instead of letting it swallow me.

You don’t ignore the strength it takes to keep believing when the story feels unfinished.

You don’t call these hours empty just because they don’t sparkle.

You call them holy.

And something in me softens when I realize this—that my life isn’t a collection of failures waiting to be redeemed by something bigger,

but a living altar built of small obediences, quiet endurance, and whispered yeses.

Maybe the kingdom is not only found in the moments that change everything.

Maybe it is hidden in the moments that keep everything from falling apart.

So tonight, I lay down my measuring stick.

I stop calling my survival insignificant.

I stop apologizing for the slowness of my healing.

If You believe these moments are too sacred to miss,

then I will stop trying to outrun them.

I will stay here.

In the quiet.

In the ordinary.

In the in-between.

Because maybe this—

this tender, trembling faith that keeps choosing You in the small,

is not lesser at all.

Maybe it’s exactly where heaven leans closest.