When God hasn’t moved

I used to think obedience looked like movement…like wild steps into the unknown,

like Abraham leaving,

like Peter walking on water,

like the rush of faith catching wind in your sails

as you follow the voice that beckons,

“Come.”

But today…

obedience looks a lot like stillness.

A lot like staying.

A lot like waking up in the same place

with the same pain

with the same unanswered prayers

and the same four walls that echo with questions

no one has answered yet.

And I’m starting to believe,

maybe it takes more faith

to stay where God placed me

than to run where I want to go.

Because there’s a silent ache in staying.

There’s an unseen war in the waiting.

There’s a deep surrender in choosing to remain

when everything in me wants to flee

to something that feels more fruitful,

more seen,

more alive.

But God hasn’t moved.

And neither can I.

There is no open door.

There is no new call.

There is only the whisper:

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

And so, I sit.

And in this sitting,

I sow tears into dry ground.

I sow prayers into the soil of unseen promise.

I sow trust into a silence that doesn’t always feel holy.

I want the burning bush.

But what I have is the barren field.

I want the parted sea.

But what I have is the quiet shore,

where nothing splits,

and nothing stirs,

and the sky seems to forget I’m still here.

But maybe staying is the brave thing.

Maybe staying is the obedience that touches heaven.

Maybe the angels marvel

not at how far you went,

but how firmly you stood

when you wanted to run.

Maybe faith looks like not moving

until He says move.

Maybe faith looks like sitting

when your flesh screams to strive.

Maybe faith is trusting that manna falls

even in the wilderness of today.

I don’t know how long He’ll ask me to stay.

But I know this:

My roots are learning what wings never could,

that presence isn’t proved by movement,

but by abiding.

And I will abide,

even when it hurts.

Even when it’s lonely.

Even when it costs me the applause of progress.

Even when it makes no sense to anyone else.

Because He is here.

And if He is here,

then this stillness is sacred.

So I’ll stay.

Because he is here.