Abide

I have quietly adopted one word for this season: abide. Not as a pretty idea, but as flooring that holds when everything in me trembles. When the old voices of worthlessness and “not enough” rise, I still feel the urge to hide—especially when the Lord nudged me to write again at this late hour. It felt like stepping into the open without armor, showing the “real me” when I already feel scraped thin. Yet in that tug-of-war, abide has become solid ground. Abide says I don’t have to dazzle; I have to dwell. Not to prove, but to belong. So this space—short devotionals, quiet poems, and children’s stories—is my small, steady yes to staying near Jesus: “Abide in me, and I in you” (John 15:4). When my heart shakes, the floor does not: “He only is my rock and my salvation” (Psalm 62:2). And even when the flame feels faint, I remember His gentleness: “A bruised reed shall he not break, and the smoking flax shall he not quench” (Isaiah 42:3).

Abiding has become the difference between bracing and resting, between proving and belonging. Jesus didn’t say, “Impress me.” He said, “Abide in me” (John 15:4). On days when the inner voice spits, You’re not enough, I answer with something sturdier than my feelings: “The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want” (Psalm 23:1). A shepherd doesn’t scold a limping sheep; He lifts it. “A bruised reed shall he not break, and the smoking flax shall he not quench” (Isaiah 42:3). Some days I feel like that smoking wick—barely a glow—but His breath is not to blow me out; it is to breathe me back to flame.

Writing, for me, is less about having something to say and more about staying where Love says I belong. Abiding looks like placing my whole weight on Christ, the way you finally sit in the chair you’ve been hovering over. He says, “Come unto me… and I will give you rest… Take my yoke upon you… and ye shall find rest unto your souls” (Matthew 11:28–29). That yoke isn’t a strap around my shame; it’s alignment to His steady heart. When panic rises—What if this is foolish? What if I’m exposed and empty?—I step aside and pray the simplest prayer I know: “Hold thou me up, and I shall be safe” (Psalm 119:117). Then I keep going, one line at a time.

I won’t pretend it feels brave. Often it’s a two-minute prayer before I open the page, a verse whispered, or meandering through the house because my chest is tight. But small things matter. “Who hath despised the day of small things?” (Zechariah 4:10). The Lord keeps meeting me in what feels small—quiet, mustard-seed obedience—and somehow doors I could never kick open begin to swing. Not ease, but peace where there was only noise. A clearer sentence where there was fog. A sturdier spine where there was collapse. I keep thinking of that “still small voice” (1 Kings 19:12). Abiding sounds like that—low, steady, near.

About those evenings I want to quit—close my computer, close my heart. They feel like the Emmaus road at dusk. Two disappointed disciples walking away from what they hoped would be, and the Risen One draws near without forcing Himself in. “He made as though he would have gone further,” until they asked, “Abide with us” (Luke 24:28–29). That’s the part I needed to learn: He will walk beside me unrecognized until I invite Him closer. So I borrow their prayer—Abide with me in this exact ache—and I sit with a simple passage—John 15, Psalm 91. As I linger, the Word begins to warm my cold places. Sometimes it’s only a few degrees, but it’s enough to keep me at the table. “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart” (Psalm 34:18). Near is enough. Near turns quitting into continuing.

To be honest, the harshest critic is often the one behind my own eyes. You’re such a waste. You’re not gifted enough. No one needs this. But the Advocate answers, “Ye are clean through the word which I have spoken unto you” (John 15:3). The Accuser hisses, You are alone. The Lord says, “I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee” (Hebrews 13:5). When my confidence collapses, I have to breathe out the prayer of the desperate: “Lord, help thou mine unbelief” (Mark 9:24). It isn’t eloquent, but it’s honest—and honesty opens a window for grace.

Abiding is teaching me that fruit is not manufactured; it’s borne. My job isn’t to wring meaning out of myself; it’s to stay attached. “He that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit” (John 15:5). If there is any fruit in these pages, it will be because the Vine is faithful and I stayed—shaky, yes; imperfect, yes; but stayed. And underneath every trembling step, I keep hearing the music of Zephaniah: “The LORD thy God in the midst of thee is mighty… he will rejoice over thee with joy; he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing” (3:17). Imagine that—God singing over a faltering heart. Over my faltering heart. Over a late-blooming pen. Over the raw, quiet yes.

If this Fireside Chat warmed your spirit and sparked fresh resolve to live what you believe, fan that flame with Scripture—“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly” (Colossians 3:16). Pull a little closer to the Light, and carry it into the week ahead.

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