Raspberry Iced M

The Good. The Bad. The Raspy.

  • Disposable Raspberry

    On the heels of my post about abandonment, I felt it necessary to clarify a few things.

    There’s a particular kind of pain associated with feeling disposable.

    Like I was useful for a season.
    I was important until something changed.
    I was wanted until it became inconvenient.

    It’s almost as if some people can set me down and keep walking.

    That’s a painful feeling, and if I am honest, it touches something old inside me.

    Feeling disposable prompts thoughts I probably wouldn’t otherwise have.

    They moved on so easily.
    I guess I didn’t matter much.
    If I were valuable, they’d have stayed.
    I was replaceable.

    And for a long time, I was thoroughly convinced of all of those things.

    What I am learning about myself, though, is that I have all too often accepted feelings as facts.

    It hurts because the realization that I have been disposed of by people I love incites fear. Fear of abandonment. Fear that I’ll never be enough. Fear that love will always be predicated on a condition I cannot maintain. And fear that my value depends on being chosen.

    So when someone leaves, withdraws, replaces, ignores, or changes, it can feel bigger than the current moment. And sometimes it can feel like confirmation of every insecurity I carried.

    But I am not unintelligent. And while I used to equate feelings with facts, now I am trying to be more objective. I have made it my mission to challenge my own emotions. So even though it can be difficult to remember in the middle of fear, the truth is that someone’s choice is not my value. Another person’s decision does not define my worth.

    Those who have left me feel 100% justified in doing so. I have made some decisions that have not flattered who I am at my core, and those people confuse that pattern of poor choices with character.

    (That’s a post for another day.)

    People leave us for lots of reasons. Immaturity. Avoidance. Selfishness. Their inability to sustain connection. Their own wounds. Circumstances their own lives have handed them.

    So, yes, it could be that my bad decisions played a part in their choosing to leave. But their own decisions are a reflection on them, too.

    The last year or so of my life has been a war. Not a battle – a war with myself and my feelings. Challenging every single one. So when I feel disposable…

    1. I name the feeling honestly. Instead of pretending I’m okay, or rushing out to replace the person who cast me aside, I tell myself the truth. I feel discarded. I feel forgotten. I feel replaceable. Naming the wound helps me tend to it.
    2. I separate feeling from fact. This is still incredibly challenging for me. But feeling disposable is not proof that I am. So I ask myself: What are the facts here? Did one person choose differently, or am I assigning global meaning to it? Loss trickled down can feel like a verdict, when it is really just one event at a time. And the funny thing is that each loss has made me wiser and more prepared for the next.
    3. I stop using one person as the judge of my worth. When someone leaves, I used to hand them entirely too much authority. Their choice became my identity. But I am working on taking back that authority. No one – NO ONE – gets to decide my value anymore.
    4. I am rebuilding through action. Worth can seem abstract when we’re hurting. So I have started grounding myself in tangible things. I keep routines. I care for my body by eating whole meals and resting, or even by showering and throwing on clean leggings when I don’t “feel” like it. I do meaningful work – both for pay and voluntarily. I keep commitments to myself (which I haven’t mastered completely, but I try to prioritize three things to accomplish every day). I create things. I have started new traditions. I help other people. Action restores dignity.
    5. I notice now where I feel “used” repeatedly. I have realized over the last year or so that feeling disposable points to patterns. Times I gave more than was probably within my capacity. Times when I accepted crumbs on the off chance that gathering enough crumbs would one day equal a whole cookie. Times when I performed or betrayed a core value so that I could “earn” someone’s love or attention or time or affection. Times when I actively chased people who were unavailable. Pain doesn’t have to be wasted. It can become insight if we let it.
    6. I choose reciprocal spaces. I go where I am consistently valued – and I’ll be frank – that’s not a lot of places. But I don’t want to be somewhere when I’m convenient. Friendships, communities, my church, my job – I look for places where I am not merely useful, but seen. And when I can’t find places like that, I stay home. I’m always welcome at home.
    7. I allow grief to be grief. I am mastering the art of naming my emotions correctly. And feeling like I’m disposable is real. But sometimes it’s grief. Grief that someone mattered to me more than I did to them. That hurts. And grief deserves an honest look, too.
    8. I do not chase. To be honest, there is a part of me that still knows that if I don’t reach out first, I’ll be forgotten. And that used to scare me. I rationalized this in my head, over and over – if I wanted to be loved, I needed to be available. And I still think that is mostly true. But I am not the type of person who “half does” anything. It drives me crazy to do 80% of a project and leave the other 20% hanging. So why would I allow that in my relationships? If I’m really that terrible…if I’m not worth inviting or including or talking to…if I am truly only worth someone’s time if I shrink myself into a doormat…I don’t want it. So I let my absence speak for itself. And the truth is that they probably don’t even feel it, and they may be happier without my involvement in their lives. And now I think that’s a good thing. If I have made someone else so miserable that they cannot tolerate me, they deserve peace without me.
    9. My boundaries remain intact. Other people are well within their human rights to walk away from me. I no longer try to control that. But when they do, I hope they’re prepared to stand on that decision, because I no longer accept those aforementioned crumbs.
    10. I pray. Fervently. I told the Lord last week that I felt so lonely and isolated. And I asked Him if being lonely is a consequence of my bad decisions, or if there’s a reason why I am stuck in this season. He let me know it’s both. Yes, people have walked away from me because I have hurt them. People have also walked away from me because they do not possess the capacity to empathize with someone like me. But more than that, because I am the type of person who does perform for relationships, I have forgotten who I am at my core. He has allowed people to leave for two reasons – one, they are not necessary to complete the purpose He has set for me, and two, He knows I am distracted too easily by the attention I get from other people. He wants me to focus right now. Focus on Him. Focus on myself. Focus on keeping the mask off long enough to know what I need to change/fix. And focus on how every bit of this has become part of a testimony that will help someone else. If He can accept me…if He can transform me…then He can do it for anybody.

    So I’m learning that being left does not mean I am worthless. Being replaced does not equal being forgettable. And being misunderstood does not equal being disposable, even if it all seems that way at first glance. Sometimes all of those things just mean that people don’t have the capacity to hold what I give. And that is okay.

    If you feel disposable right now, be gentle with yourself. That feeling can be loud. But it’s not who you are. You’re not a jacket someone outgrew. You’re not trash someone threw away. You’re a whole person whose value existed before the relationship(s) you lost. And that value remains now that the relationship(s) are gone.

  • Raspberry Cycles

    My life used to feel repetitive in ways I didn’t fully understand.
    Ways I couldn’t see were my decisions.

    Different people.
    Different circumstances.
    But same outcomes.
    Same emotions.
    Same mistakes.
    Same pain wearing different clothes.

    And I thought changing those patterns meant having one big breakthrough.
    An epiphany that opened my eyes to who I am supposed to be, who people needed. One dramatic moment when everything suddenly became different.

    But that hasn’t been my experience. And breaking patterns has looked much more subtle.

    1. It started with awareness. The first sign wasn’t changed behavior, like so many times before. I figured out that trying to white-knuckle myself into submission left me feeling deprived. Instead, it was recognition. I started noticing things sooner. Thought patterns. Emotional triggers. The familiar pull toward choices that have never served me well. I used to move automatically. Now I notice. And awareness is what prompted that change.
    2. I pause. There was a time when I acted on every emotion. Immediately. If I felt hurt, I reacted. If I was lonely, I reacted. If I felt restless, I moved. Now there’s space. And it’s not always a lot. But enough to pause. Think. And choose differently. That space is where I realize change is happening.
    3. I am less interested in temporary relief. Patterns survive because they offer something. Comfort. Escape. Validation. Distraction. The feeling of being chosen. Even destructive patterns often meet a real need, even if temporarily. But that quick relief doesn’t appeal to me like it once did. And it took me too long to figure out that temporary comfort can create long-term damage. I’m less willing to trade that now.
    4. I recover faster. I still have hard moments. I can still be triggered. And I still think in ways that belong to an older version of me. But I don’t hang out there. What used to derail me for days now only affects me for an hour or two. What used to send me spiraling is now noticed and managed. That shorter recovery time is progress.
    5. I am more honest with myself. I used to explain things away. Minimize. Justify. Shift blame. Now I see myself more clearly. Not cruelly, but truthfully. And honesty has changed what circumstances never could.
    6. I care more about peace than excitement. Chaos used to make me feel alive. Intensity felt meaningful. Drama felt important. These days, though, routine, stability, well-thought decisions, and peace matter to me more. That shift in what I value signifies to me that the pattern is losing its power.
    7. I’m willing to be misunderstood while I change. Sometimes patterns are tied to image. Needing approval. Needing to be seen a certain way. Now I’m more willing to let people think what they want while I do the work in private. That’s definitely new. And it feels healthier.
    8. I keep choosing the next right thing. Breaking these patterns has not happened in one, giant leap. It’s happened in small moments. One honest decision. One restrained reaction. One day of consistency. One uncomfortable but healthy choice at a time. Those moments add up. And they will continue to add up.

    I know I’m breaking the patterns not because life is perfect. Not because temptation disappeared. Not because I never struggle. Not because I don’t hurt.

    I know I’m changing because I no longer move through life unconsciously. I notice. I pause. I choose.

    And every time I do that, I reinforce something new. Not perfection. But freedom.

  • Raspberry Control

    There’s a particular kind of helplessness that comes when someone you love leaves.

    Whether they walk away suddenly. Or slowly. Emotionally, physically, or relationally…

    The impact is the same.

    A pattern in my life – abandonment. And I really have no one to blame by myself.

    People choose distance for a reason. And as I have gotten older, I’ve come to understand that whether I agree with the reason or not, the result is the same – I end up alone. And I’m left standing in a life that exists, but is altered.

    And that’s okay. That part I cannot control.

    When someone leaves, it awakens a hundred painful thoughts.

    Was I really that awful?
    Why can’t I just be enough?
    Is it fixable?
    Will they come back?
    How do I move forward now?

    The mind searches for answers because answers feel like control.

    But most times, those answers aren’t clear. At least not immediately.

    I cannot control someone else’s choices, their timing, their willingness to communicate, the ability to love well, whether or not they regret leaving, whether or not they understand my pain…

    …and all of that hurts.

    But it also clears the ground for something important.

    Control does not come from getting those people back. It comes from returning to myself.

    I can take back control of my routines. I choose to get up. Eat. Move my body. Keep structure in my days.

    Pain loves empty space.

    I do not have to spend every waking hour replaying what happened.

    Wondering what they’re all doing.
    Checking my phone.
    Living in a loop of mental conversations.

    My mind deserves better use than endless replays.

    I am deeply affected when people leave.

    But it doesn’t define what I am worth.

    I do not accept the label of “the one who gets left.”

    I am still a full person with value outside of others’ decisions.

    And while those chapters include loss, they do not make up my entire book.

    Healing, for me, has not been two or three dramatic breakthroughs.

    There hasn’t been instant peace.

    Currently it looks like crying but still logging in for work. Hurting and still paying bills. Missing them and making dinner. Grieving and still showing up.

    That quiet functioning is often healing in disguise.

    At first, all I wanted was control over other people’s choices. Their return. The conversation. The aftermath. Their explanation.

    But eventually, real healing asks for control over my own next steps. How I live now. How I care for myself now. How I grow now.

    And the cold, hard truth is perhaps the hardest to swallow – some of those people will never come back. Sometimes closure doesn’t come through reunion. Instead, it comes through rebuilding and becoming stable without the person who left, thereby destabilizing my world.

    When someone I love leaves me, sometimes it feels like they take my peace with them.

    But peace that can be carried away by another person wasn’t secure to begin with.

    Real peace gets rebuilt. Inside routines. Boundaries. Self-respect. And inside the version of me that has learned that I didn’t control their leaving…

    …but I can absolutely control what I build next.

  • Farsighted Raspberry

    There are seasons where the things God is doing can be seen clearly.

    Doors open. Things fall into place. Answers come. The path is clear.

    And then there are other seasons when I can’t see a thing.

    Right now, nothing looks like it’s changing. The situation I am has stayed the same for 8 months. My prayers haven’t been answered yet, and the outcome is unclear.

    And the human part of me has so many questions. Is anything happening? Can He hear me? Is He moving at all?

    But the truth is that some of the most significant moments in the Bible happened quietly.

    And slowly.

    Joseph sat in prison for 13 years before he was elevated.
    David lived in obscurity for years before he became king.
    The Israelites spent 40 years wandering around a desert.
    The birth of Jesus was announced way before He was actually born.

    There were long stretches where nothing visible was happening…

    …but that didn’t mean nothing was happening.

    Just because I can’t see movement doesn’t mean there isn’t progress.

    I can only see things through a human lens. But God may be working in places I cannot access. In people. In timing. In circumstances that haven’t been pieced together yet.

    But also…in me. Shifting my perspective. Strengthening my patience. Refining my character. Internally preparing me for the prayers He is going to answer…when I’m ready.

    That doesn’t fix the part of me that wants answers right now. I want resolution. A timeline. A miracle.

    Trust God without visible proof, or progress I can measure, or reassurance I can point to is not easy. But I am choosing to believe that He’s still working, even when I cannot see how. His work isn’t always obvious to the human eye. And it doesn’t always happen on my timeline or immediately upon my request. And it doesn’t always look the way I anticipate.

    But that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.

    Things have unfolded in the last several months that I do not understand. And even though I don’t have clarity, I’m choosing to believe that He is working, even in the parts of my life that look like they may never change.

  • Integrous Raspberry

    Lately I’ve been working on ways to track the internal work I’ve been doing.

    When trying to lose weight, for example, it can be difficult to notice changes in your body, especially if they’re not directly related to the number on the scale. Statistics say it usually takes about 12 weeks to recognize differences in our body.

    That’s 12 weeks of consistent effort without seeing whether or not that effort is actually going to pay off.

    And after 12 weeks, doesn’t your salad taste like you’d rather be fat?

    What I am doing, though, has no deadline, and there is no finish line. Which is pretty awful for the “immediate gratification” compartment that still exists in my brain.

    To that end, and as a reminder that the decision I’ve made to do the next right thing is worth my best effort, I have started noting the good choices I’ve made. This helps me focus on the positive, for one thing, and it serves as a tangible diagram by which to track my progress.

    Nothing I’ve done has been overly dramatic or noteworthy. But it’s just enough to affix my eyes on the right priorities. Nothing for applause. Nothing for congratulations or recognition or rewards. Just something for me. And since this blog is also for me, below is what I have recorded in the past week.

    1. On Sunday, I received a Snap from a grown woman who called me names by which I have never been called (to my face). And instead of defending myself or explaining myself, I handled her attack with grace that only the Holy Spirit could’ve given me in that moment.
    2. If I saw something overly filled with ugly language or inappropriate in some way, I scrolled and/or clicked off.
    3. I gave someone I do not even really “like” a compliment.
    4. I allowed my son to drive my vehicle to attend a gathering I didn’t necessarily agree with. Nothing harmful. In fact, he asked to go to the church he attends with his dad. And even though it was my custody, and even though I could’ve asked him to please go to our church instead, I ate it. He’s not property, and my way is not the only right way.
    5. I made a decision with regard to the kids’ health insurance that was the right thing to do. It has cost me. Money. Control. And any chance of sooner-rather-than-later reconciliation with my daughter. But it was the right thing – not the easy thing, not the most convenient thing, and not even the “best” thing for any involved party. But it was the integrous thing.
    6. Several times this past week, I’ve prayed before my thoughts overtook me. Not every time. But enough times that it will hopefully become a habit.
    7. I shared something very private in our small group at Bible study last night, thereby challenging my own introversion.
    8. My husband and I had a pretty terrible experience at a restaurant last night. More him than me. Our server dumped several ramekins of honey mustard on my husband’s lap. And in his work scrubs, he was actually late getting to work because he had to come home and change after dinner. On top of that, he ordered a side item he never received. But we paid for our meal anyway – without complaining. We gave grace. Because we recognize how often we need grace.
    9. When a $640.00 prescription sunglasses online order hadn’t arrived on time, I inquired, but did not complain.
    10. I’ve been reading my Bible to understand it, and not just to “get it done.” My relationship with Jesus is not a chore. He is not a box to check off. He’s my friend. And really…the only one I’ve got.

    I’m never going to get it right all the time. But – perhaps – the next right things – small ones – add up to a sum of change.

    Here’s to consistency…

  • Raspberry the Wrong Way

    If I am honest, I can trace most of my bad decisions back to one thing.

    Not recklessness, even though that is how it all ended.
    Not even rebellion, even though it looked like it.

    I was trying to satisfy a need I thought I had.

    I wanted to be chosen.

    Not just liked. Not just accepted. Not just allowed to tag along.

    Chosen. Prioritized. Wanted. Picked clearly, intentionally, and without hesitation.

    That need drove more of my behavior than I realized, especially while I was making those decisions.

    And the problem wasn’t the desire itself. Wanting to be chosen is human nature.

    The problem lied in how I tried to meet that need.

    I looked for it in the wrong places. I accepted it in forms that were not healthy. I pursued it in ways that were dishonest and in ways that compromised who I believe I am at my core. And sometimes I made decisions that created temporary feelings of being chosen at the cost of long-term stability, trust, and integrity.

    And I didn’t understand that while I was doing it. I knew I wasn’t being honest with myself (and others), but the conviction I felt did not outweigh the euphoria that came with *finally* being seen and valued.

    When something fills a need that deep – even temporarily – it’s easy to ignore how expensive your choices will eventually become.

    Looking back, I can see the pattern more clearly. Hindsight is always 20/20. If something made me feel chosen, I moved toward it. Even if it was complicated. Even if it wasn’t right. Even if it required me to overlook things I shouldn’t have or change certain aspects of my own personality.

    That’s where the mistakes came from.
    Not from not knowing better.
    But from wanting something so badly that I justified the wrong way of getting it.

    And over time, those decisions added up. The bill arrived, past due, and trust was broken. Relationships were damaged. And I was at that point a version of myself I no longer fully recognized. And eventually, the very thing I was chasing – being chosen – felt further away than ever.

    Wanting to be chosen didn’t make me wrong.
    My methods did.
    And no amount of explanation changes the impact of those methods.

    I am learning that being chosen – the right way – looks different than I thought. It doesn’t come from chasing or proving or compromising. It comes from alignment. From being someone who lives with integrity. From making decisions I can stand behind. And from building a life that doesn’t require self-abandonment to feel wanted.

    So the discomfort I sit in now is the realization that I may never be “chosen” in full by other people. The incorrect methods I used to achieve that goal had the opposite effect, and I am lonelier than I’ve ever been.

    Phone’s dry.
    Lunch and coffee outings are non-existent.
    It’s just me…well…and the dog I got…who doesn’t understand a word I say, but at least I’m not talking to “myself.”

    But I still firmly believe that the Lord works all things out for good. I believe He takes our stupidity into consideration when designing His plan for our lives. The Bible says so.

    So instead of disappearing into that discomfort, or wallowing in that loneliness, I’m enduring it under the hope and assumption that it is what He thinks is best right now.

    Not having friends has almost completely eliminated my desire to be chosen by other people.

    Now I choose honesty. Restraint. And a version of me that isn’t driven by the urgency to present myself as someone completely different from who I am called to be.

    I am choosing myself. I am choosing God’s affirmations. Because He knows I’m not perfect. And He chooses me anyway. Intentionally. I am not an afterthought or a tag-along. He doesn’t tell me I need to change in order to be accepted. And He has never – and will never – leave, no matter how many times I’ve broken His heart.

    He’s not just my Father.

    He’s my Friend.

  • Raspberry Warfare

    Every Wednesday for the past couple of months, I have attended a small group Bible study called “Freedom.”

    And it is changing my life.

    There have been times in the last year or so when everything hard in my life felt like spiritual attacks.

    Every struggle.
    Every consequence.
    Every uncomfortable situation.

    “The enemy is attacking.”

    And sometimes that is true.

    But not everything is a demon. Some things are just decisions. The natural result of choices I’ve made.

    Broken trust.
    Damaged relationships.
    Patterns that caught up with me.

    And for a long time, it was easier to frame those things are warfare than it was to call them what they are – consequences.

    Not punishment.
    Not condemnation.
    Just reality.

    This distinction matters because mislabeling everything as “spiritual warfare” cuts off opportunities to grow. I start fighting the wrong battle. I resist instead of reflect, rebuke instead of take responsibility, and I pray for removal instead of doing the work required to change.

    And that has kept me stuck in this loop of victimhood that I do not believe the Lord has intended for me. Or anyone else.

    At the same time, not everything is just consequence. There is an internal battle that happens beneath the surface of circumstances.

    That voice that says I’ll never change, that I’m still the same person, and “this” is who I am.

    The pull back toward old patterns.
    The temptation to escape instead of endure.
    The urge to globally identify with the worst version of myself.

    That part is not just consequence.
    That’s a fight.

    And I’m starting to recognize that the real battlefield isn’t my circumstances. It’s my mind. What I believe. What I come into agreement with. What I act upon.

    And so I used to think of prayer as just having a conversation with God, asking for help, seeking peace, praising Him for His many blessings, and worshipping Him because He really is who He says He is.

    But it’s so much more than that. It’s confrontation with my demons, too.

    It’s saying, “God, You are still good,” to confront the lie that He’s not.
    It’s, “I don’t have to return to who I used to be,” to challenge the lie that I’m stuck.
    It’s, “I will choose differently,” to resist the pull to repeat old patterns.

    The art of fighting demons isn’t about reacting to everything. It’s about discernment.

    Knowing when to take responsibility, when to sit in consequences, and when to do internal work while also resisting lies, rejecting temptation, and standing in truth.

    While some things need to be owned, other things need to be rebuked. And the devil is very crafty. Because the voice in my head that reminds me that I’m not good enough, that I’m fundamentally broken, that I don’t deserve grace or forgiveness or confidence or redemption? It doesn’t sound like the devil. It sounds like me.

    I’m learning that real strength looks like both things – sitting in what I’ve caused and standing against what tries to pull me backwards.

    Sometimes it’s not about fighting something outside of me. It’s about choosing what I agree with inside of me.

    And every time I choose truth and responsibility…every time I do the next right thing…every time I choose to stay instead of run…

    I’m fighting. Not loudly, but effectively.

    And that kind of fight changes everything.

  • Defensive Raspberry

    There was a time when I felt the need to explain everything.

    My choices.
    My intentions.
    My side of the story.

    If someone misunderstood me, I wanted to correct it.
    If someone judged me, I wanted to challenge it.
    If someone formed an opinion about me, I wanted to change it.

    Prove. Argue. Defend. Because I needed to be understood.

    Some of that came from fear.

    Fear of being misrepresented.
    Fear of being reduced to my worst moments.
    Fear of been seen in a negative way, despite the good qualities I do possess.

    And if I’m being honest, some of it also came from guilt. When you know you’ve made mistakes, you want to explain them.

    Not excuse them. But add context. To say, “That’s not all of who I am.”

    But I found out that defending myself didn’t usually change anything.

    Understanding is never guaranteed.
    Erasing the past is impossible.
    And shifting people’s perspectives is a goal too difficult to achieve, because I spent all of my time explaining myself instead of actually changing what needed to be changed, so that I drained myself, but had nothing to show for it.

    I was more focused on what other people thought than how I was actually living.

    But gradually, something is shifting.

    Now I resist the urge to respond to every opinion.
    I don’t believe every misunderstanding needs to be corrected.
    And I don’t think I need to explain myself in order to justify my progress.

    The truth is that real changed doesn’t need to be argued. It shows up overtime.

    So instead, I focus these days on being consistent.

    The next. Right. Thing.
    Quietly. No audience. No validation.

    I still care. I feel it in my core when someone misunderstands me. I notice when others see me through an old lens.

    But I don’t chase it anymore.
    I don’t try to fix it in real time.

    Because no one in this world needs to “understand” in order for me to live correctly.

    And that means that I have had to accept that most people will always hold onto their own, old version of me. Opinions won’t change. Conclusions are permanent. Some bridges are forever burned.

    And I have to wake up every day and make the choice to be okay despite the grief that comes with consequences.

    I am not perfect. I will never be perfect.

    But I am consistent. And over time, I am hoping that will speak louder than anything I could say.

  • Middle of the Raspberry

    I know God is the God of the beginning.

    The fresh start.
    The moment something new begins.
    Alpha.

    And I know He’s the God of the end.

    The breakthrough.
    The resolution.
    The place where everything finally makes sense.
    Omega.

    But He’s the God of the middle, too.

    It’s not as easy to define, because it’s bigger. It takes up more space. It varies.

    It’s not exciting or chaotic like the beginning and it’s not satisfying like the end.

    It’s the in-between. Where things are still unfolding. Where answers haven’t come yet. When you’re still carrying what you’ve been praying about.

    It’s where most of us live.

    In the beginning, faith feels hopeful. And at the end, that faith is confirmed.

    But in the middle, our faith is quieter. Less certain. More stretched. Sometimes even tired. The kind of faith that requires that we believe in results we cannot see yet.

    The Israelites wandering in the wilderness.
    David running before he ever wore the crown.
    Joseph in prison before the promise was fulfilled.

    Pivotal moments…even years…in all of these stories. Long, uncertain seasons.

    And He was there the entire time. Not just when things started. And not just when they resolved.

    But in the waiting.

    Right now my “middle” feels like praying the same prayer again. Waking up to the same situation. Trying to stay steady when nothing seems to be moving. Trusting God without seeing progress.

    And if I’m honest…that’s the hardest kind of trust.

    The middle doesn’t always look productive, but it is. It’s where patience is built, character is shaped, dependence on the Lord deepens, and we are refined. It’s waking up every day and handing over the same pile of issues, asking for God’s grace and mercy and intervention. It’s, “I still trust you,” even when I don’t understand, even when I don’t see change, and even when I don’t like where I am.

    His presence isn’t limited to the moments that make sense. He doesn’t disappear in the middle. He doesn’t step back while I figure it out. He stays.

    In the repetition.
    In the waiting.
    In the uncertainty.

    God is the God of the beginning.

    God is the God of the end.

    But maybe the place I’ve experienced most deeply…

    …has been in the middle.

    Where I have to choose trust over proof.

    And even there – especially there – He is still God.

  • Divinely Delayed Raspberry

    There is a kind of faith that feels strong when prayers are answered quickly.

    Doors open.
    Situations change.
    Clarity comes.

    It’s easy to recognize that God is good when we can see what He’s doing.

    But there’s another kind of faith…the kind that is required when nothing changes.

    I have prayed the same prayer for 8 months. Every day. I’ve meant it deeply. I’ve waited on its answer.

    And it hasn’t come. And in fact, it does not appear that it’s going to be answered anytime soon (based on a conversation I had today).

    There is no clear answer.
    No visible, forward movement.
    No relief.
    Just misunderstandings, rejection, blame, labels, and silence.

    And it doesn’t feel spiritual. It hurts. On my most peaceful days, it’s uncomfortable, and on more emotional days, I wonder if God hears me at all. I cry myself to sleep wondering how long this has to hurt. I over-analyze. I feel shame. I accept what others say about me as truth. And internalize others’ reactions.

    Today is one of those days.

    Things feel “in between.”
    I don’t know what to do next, because it seems that being lonely, and keeping to myself still doesn’t solve the issue.
    It seems like practicing integrity and doing the right thing still causes me trouble, because doing what is right costs people – who once counted on my dishonesty when it was convenient for them – certain allowances.
    And today I am reminded that no matter how closed off I’ve become, and how out-of-the-way I’ve tried to be – there are still people who need for me to be the villain. The problem. The “me” that used to exist.

    It feels like carrying something longer than I thought I’d have to.

    And it has raised a lot of questions.

    Is God listening?
    Do I need to do something different?
    What do I need to button up to ensure change?

    This concept isn’t new.

    Hannah prayed for a child for years. Abraham waited decades for a promise to be fulfilled. David was appointed king before he ever became one. Joseph sat in prison for 13 years.

    And in the New Testament, Paul asked God three times to remove his struggle.

    So what was God’s answer? “My grace is sufficient for you.”

    Not a removal. Instead, a sustaining.

    There is a part of me that believes that the answer I seek will not come, because what I am praying for is just relief of the consequences of my own actions.

    But I know that’s just religion talking.

    Because the Lord said He works all things out for good.

    So I don’t think God is delaying out of indifference. I think He’s working on something deeper than the situation itself.

    He’s working on me.

    My impulse to equate feelings to truth.
    My patience.
    My trust.
    My dependence on Him.

    In a refining way.

    And I continue to pray, every day, even still. The same prayer. I pray for change. I pray for grace. I pray for softened hearts. I pray that the Lord changes my heart.

    And in my walk, I continue to do the next right thing. I read the Word every day. I attend classes, and therapy, and I’m part of a church, and all of those things have provided outlets and challenges and feedback. I’ve swallowed my pride. I’ve taken every high road. I’ve stopped defending myself. I’ve left people alone. I vent to no one except the Lord (and my therapist).

    I recite that verse in Galations in my mind – “Who are you living for, other people…or me?” I let go of every bit of control.

    …and still no answer…

    …not even a clue that He has heard me…

    If you’re in a similar situation, I offer a little advice below. And listen – I know how hard it is to take advice when you’re drowning in unanswered prayers. So take it all for what it is worth.

    1. Keep showing up. It is hard. I know. When it feels repetitive. When you don’t “feel” anything. But consistency matters more than emotion.
    2. Pray honestly. My prayers aren’t polished anymore. They’re not perfect. They’re real. He knows I’m hurting. He knows I’m angry. He knows I’m impatient and that I’m tired of waiting for the needle to move. And He can handle all of it.
    3. Focus on what you can control. And to be fair, it’s not much. Today, I controlled a response. I read a message from someone, and it ripped my heart out. I answered this person’s message against my own impulses. I ate it. I took a high road – one another version of me would’ve never taken. No defenses. No blame. No gloves. I just took it. Because even if the situation never changes, it has changed me.
    4. Don’t rush to create your own solution. Sometimes the hardest part of waiting is not forcing the outcome. Not stepping in to “fix” what feels delayed – but instead – trusting that premature solutions often come with their own consequences.
    5. Identify what is changing. Even when a situation stays the same, something else shifts. I see how much I’ve grown in 8 months. And it’s not growth that proves anything to anybody. It’s a different kind of progress. Deeper. Heavier. More permanent. My faith is no longer fleeting. It is a fixture. I am more patient, more aware, and so much stronger.

    I am learning that God’s silence is not absence. Sometimes it is space.

    Space where I’m still being formed.
    Still being steadied.
    Still being shaped into someone who can carry what I’m asking for.

    Divine delay is not always denial. And it doesn’t mean God isn’t listening. It doesn’t even mean your prayer didn’t matter.

    Sometimes the story just isn’t finished yet.

    And trusting the Lord in that space – when nothing changes, when no answers come, when I don’t like it – that might be one of the deepest forms of faith I’ve got.