My mornings used to be a frantic rush. Up before dawn to get the kids ready for school, pack lunches, and then it was straight to my job at the local diner. By the time I finally sat down for a cup of coffee, the day already felt half over. My faith felt like another task on the to-do list – a quick prayer on the way to work, maybe a glance at a devotional in the evening before collapsing into bed. I knew I believed, but it felt distant, like a melody I could barely hear above the noise of my busy life in Shelby. I longed for a deeper connection, a sense of peace that seemed perpetually out of reach. I’d see other women in church, their faces radiating a quiet joy, and I wondered what their secret was. How did they find that stillness amidst the everyday chaos?
One particularly hectic morning, my old pickup truck decided it had enough. It sputtered and died halfway down our gravel road, leaving me stranded. Panic flared – the kids would miss the bus, I’d be late for work. As I sat there, fuming and frustrated, I noticed the sunrise painting the eastern sky in hues of pink and gold. For the first time in what felt like ages, I wasn’t rushing. There was nothing I could do but sit and wait. In that unexpected stillness, with the engine silent, I heard the birds singing in the nearby woods, the gentle breeze rustling the leaves. It was as if the world had paused, inviting me to notice its quiet beauty. I closed my eyes and, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t just rush through a prayer. I simply breathed and listened. In that unexpected silence, a verse I’d memorized as a child, “Be still, and know that I am God,” drifted into my thoughts. It wasn’t a booming voice, but a gentle whisper of truth.
That morning, a neighbor eventually came along and helped me get the truck towed. I was late, but something had shifted within me. That unplanned pause had shown me the value of stillness. Now, even on the busiest mornings, I try to carve out just five minutes before the day truly begins. I sit on my porch with my coffee, watching the sunrise, listening to the sounds of nature, and simply being present. It’s not about grand pronouncements or lengthy prayers; it’s about finding that quiet space to connect with something bigger than myself. That broken-down truck, frustrating as it was at the time, became an unexpected gift, a reminder that sometimes, we need the world to stop so we can truly hear the still, small voice of faith. The secret wasn’t some grand ritual, but those small, intentional moments of stillness amidst the rhythm of our everyday lives.
