Some seasons don’t shout.
They whisper.
They pull you into stillness.
They quiet the noise.
They soften your heart.
They make room for God to speak.
The days after Thanksgiving always feel like holy ground to me—
a sacred pause where gratitude settles in deeper than the meal,
deeper than the gathering,
deeper than the noise.
This year, that quiet feels different.
It feels like rest.
Real rest.
The kind your nervous system recognizes before your brain does.
Slow mornings.
Soft rain.
Coffee with God.
Dogs curled up at your feet.
A house that finally feels steady again.
A heart learning to unclench.
A husband and son laughing at the lake instead of walking on eggshells.
It’s gratitude wrapped in peace.
Yesterday, as Trey rested on the couch, you caught a glimpse of that old college love again—the “I can’t believe this man is mine” kind of love you used to feel long before the years got complicated.
That wasn’t nostalgia.
That was grace.
A flicker of God whispering,
“Look how far I’ve carried you. Look at what I can still do.”
Back in Acts 9 this morning, you saw yourself in Saul again—
the way God takes a person’s weaknesses, flips them over,
and uses them as the very place His glory shows up.
The mess becomes the message.
The broken becomes the bridge.
The darkness becomes the place where light finally wins.
And something inside you softened:
“God… can You turn my weaknesses into strengths too?
Can You use my marriage? My heart? My story? Me?”
And heaven answered,
Yes. That’s what I do.
And so…
You’re learning who you are when life slows down.
When the house is peaceful and everyone feels steady.
When you’re not bracing for the next shift or trying to carry what was never yours to carry.
You’re learning to rest.
You’re learning to breathe.
You’re learning to stay in the calm without waiting for the next storm.
You’re learning who you are in the quiet—
when your heart finally has room,
when peace is allowed to land,
and when hope has space to rise again.
And maybe this is the real miracle of the weekend after Thanksgiving:
Like a flower, you are finally learning to lean toward the light.
Amen.
