Making Room for the Unexpected
It's been six months since my last blog post. The final week of April, I was writing about making space for what was unfolding. I was standing at the edge of something new, not entirely sure what it would look like, but learning to trust God with the next right step. And that was the last thing I wrote for A Dwelling Place. But I didn't stop writing. I started writing something entirely different. For a while, it felt like I had put A Dwelling Place on the back burner to make room for something else. But looking back now, I'm not so sure that's what happened. Maybe something else needed room to grow. A Season of Planting May has always been a month of planting for me. Every spring, I look forward to choosing flowers, preparing my pots, and bringing a little color back into our outdoor spaces. Living in Redding has brought its own learning curve. Our summers are hot and dry, and I've spent the past few years figuring out which flowers can withstand the heat and which ones require more attention than I can realistically give. For the first three years, I planted petunias. They were beautiful and grew well, but needed a lot of watering and care to thrive. I also experimented with salvia and dusty miller, mixing colors and textures to see what worked. Then last year, I tried something different. Vinca. And they flourished. They handled the heat beautifully, required far less attention, and continued producing flowers throughout the summer. So this spring, I chose to plant them again. I let go of something familiar to make room for something new. I didn't realize how much that simple decision would reflect what was happening in my own life. Something I Never Expected Around that same time, I was presented with an opportunity to step into grant writing. It wasn't something I'd planned for. I'd helped write a few grants in a previous role, but none had been awarded, and I certainly wouldn't have considered myself a grant writer. There were possibilities to explore, conversations to have, and decisions to make. If you read my last post, The Pressure Is Off, you'll recognize some of what I was processing at the time. I knew that if I was going to pursue this opportunity, I wanted to approach it intentionally. I wanted to invest in learning, developing the right skills, and understanding what I was stepping into. On May 6, after talking it through with Kris, I enrolled in a grant writing training program. And I dove in. By June, I had stepped into a new role with an incredible local nonprofit organization, continuing to invest in my training while learning how to apply it in real life. Because it's one thing to learn something new, but it's another thing entirely to put what you're learning into practice. You can read, study, and take all the notes you want, but there's something about applying what you've learned in real situations that deepens your understanding in ways a classroom never could. And that's where some of the greatest growth happens. It's also where things can get uncomfortable. Especially when you've spent so many years doing something familiar, and suddenly find yourself learning an entirely different kind of work. You're asking questions. Making mistakes. Learning systems. Discovering things you didn't even know you needed to know. And sometimes wondering if you really have what it takes. Grace for the Growing I'll be honest. There have been moments when I've questioned myself. In September, I had one of those moments when everything felt like too much. I broke down, wondering whether I was really cut out for this. But what met me in that moment wasn't criticism or disappointment. It was grace. Through some wonderful leaders, I was encouraged to keep learning, lean into the uncomfortable, and give myself permission to grow. There was room to be human. Room to not have all the answers. Room to be in process. And I've been discovering something about myself along the way. I know more than I think I know. Sometimes I can't see it because I'm so aware of everything I still have to learn. But then there are moments when something clicks. When I recognize how much I've grown, how much I've absorbed, or how God has been quietly developing something in me. And once I see it, I can't unsee it. It's been humbling and encouraging all at once. Making Room Somewhere over the summer, I realized I couldn't keep giving the same amount of attention to everything. There was work to do, new things to learn, and a life to live in the middle of it all. And I was feeling guilty about not being able to do it all. I had only recently started writing and sharing through A Dwelling Place again. It didn't make sense to have begun something in the spring only to set it aside a few months later. But the more I tried to hold everything together, the more I realized something needed to change. Interestingly, I was facing a similar decision with my flowers. By July, we were entering the hottest months of summer. Even the vinca that had done so well in previous years needed watering every day, sometimes twice a day, to survive the relentless heat. And I was tired. I remember wrestling with the thought of letting them go. It seemed wasteful. I'd spent time and money planting them, and I loved what they added to our outdoor spaces. But I finally decided to stop watering them and let them die. Eventually, I cut them back. And you know what? I felt peace. Not because I didn't care about the flowers anymore, but because I had finally given myself permission to stop tending something I no longer had the capacity to maintain. It was such a simple decision, but it made me recognize something happening in other areas of my life. Sometimes we're so focused on caring for everything and everyone else that we neglect what we need in the middle of it all. I had to come to terms with the fact that I couldn't do everything, and that didn't mean I was failing. There was freedom in letting go of the guilt. Freedom to recognize my limits. Freedom to make room for what needed my attention in that season, including caring for myself. And perhaps that's what I needed to learn most. Just because something is good doesn't mean I have to keep doing it in the same way, in every season. There's a time for planting, and there's a time for letting go. Ecclesiastes 3 reminds us that there is a season for everything. A time to plant and a time to uproot. And sometimes discerning the difference takes wisdom. What Grew in the Quiet Now here we are. November. Six months have passed since I stepped into something entirely unexpected. The flowers have long since been cut back. The hottest days of summer are behind us. And as the seasons begin to change, I've found myself looking back over these past several months with gratitude. Not because everything went exactly as planned. It certainly didn't. But because I can see things now that I couldn't see while I was in the middle of them. I can see the growth. The relationships. The opportunities. The confidence that's slowly being built. And the ways God has used something I never imagined pursuing to develop something in me, not just for myself, but for the people and community around me. I think about Galatians 6:9, and the encouragement not to grow weary in doing good, trusting that in due season there will be a harvest. And perhaps that's part of what I'm recognizing now. There was a lot being planted and cultivated over these past six months. Some of it was uncomfortable. Some of it required more of me than I expected. And some of it happened quietly, without much outward evidence of what was growing. But now, looking back, I can begin to see the fruit. Not everything is finished. There's still so much I'm learning, and there's more growing ahead. But there's something beautiful about taking time to recognize what God has already done. And to be thankful. A Time to Return One thing I've noticed about myself is that I often need to walk through something before I'm ready to share it with others. I need time to process, to ask questions, to wrestle through what I'm learning, and to recognize what God might be revealing along the way. Maybe that's part of why A Dwelling Place was quiet these past six months. I was living through something before I had the words to write about it. And now I'm beginning to find those words again. When I look back at what I wrote in April, I'm reminded that God wasn't asking me to figure out the whole journey before taking the next step. He was simply inviting me to walk with Him. And that's exactly what this season has required. I've learned that growth doesn't always look the way I expect it to. Sometimes it looks like stepping into something unfamiliar. Sometimes it looks like learning to receive grace. And sometimes it looks like laying something down, releasing the guilt, and trusting that God is still at work. So here I am, stepping back into this space. A little different than I was six months ago. Still learning. Still becoming. Still trusting Him with the next right step. And looking back with gratitude for what grew in the quiet. Jesus, thank You for the ways You've been growing me, even when I couldn't recognize it. Thank You for the unexpected opportunities, the people You've placed along the way, and the grace to learn as I go. Teach me to recognize the seasons I'm in, to know what to tend and what to release, and to trust You with what is still unfolding. Help me see the fruit of Your work with gratitude, and continue walking with You, one step at a time. Amen.
Sometimes we don't recognize what God has been growing until we look back and see the fruit.