People asked me all the time, “Are you still writing?” and I look at them with the answer, “Yes, but most of it is tucked away because at least for now, it’s rather private.”

“Rather private” is the way I have felt more and more. It was unusual for me to crave a small group of people on a Sunday morning over the usual large crowd, but some weeks found me in a small home church soaking up the solitude rather than my own church where I could worship extravagantly with a few hundred people.

I needed the quiet. My head knew it was okay, but my heart had a hard time catching up, because I knew I was called to something.

That call to something led me to publish a few books and begin public speaking engagements. I thrived on it and my soul came alive because I was living out my calling. Then, a major crisis hit my life, and I needed every moment to gather strength and wisdom just to get through.

That place was just as okay with God as the active places had been. Truth is, I was still active—but in other ways. Every day was spent earning money and taking care of my children. Days off were spent resting or rejuvenating.

I learned to re-live what I had done for many years—be faithful in the moment, with no agenda other than loving God and others.

Because my children were home the day of our annual writer’s conference this year, I chose not to attend. The past year, I had taught a workshop there. Now I have resigned from their leadership team. I had no extra energy to give, and they understood. But, was I okay with the quiet season?

I had always worked hard. Pushing myself was a life-style, a habit. I wanted to feel good about what I had accomplished each day. Then I had to learn to be okay in the stillness, because God was there, too, and He didn’t call me to make noise when He knew I needed the quiet.

Oh friends. We can gather satisfaction by living out our calling, but refuse to gain rest when God is calling us to stillness.

Every few weeks, I hike mountains in silence, pondering life. Friends join me who are okay with my season, and often, people message me to share their own stories. The calling I have always had continues.

Am I as okay walking women through their tragedies from a place of tears as I was from a place of accomplishment? Truth is, people need love more than they need to see accomplishment—and they may feel safer walking a valley with you than feeling pulled to a mountain top by you.

I’m here to embrace each of my seasons, and I’m sharing them with you so courage rises in your heart to do the same. I look back on my short life and realize this one thing—all good things rise out of faithfulness in small, everyday matters.

My books have come out of embracing the urge to write. I was a mother of four small children with no office and no private space. Just a laptop (from a yard sale) and a heart saying yes to Jesus Christ. Just a few hands picking up my phone to quickly jot notes when I couldn’t immediately write but wanting to catch the thoughts tumbling around my brain as I did the mom life.

Then there was a “yes” when God let me know the writing needed to turn into a book. I took many steps of faith mixed with fear as He did His thing. It was an unfolding, not a striving. 

There was no striving to get somewhere or do something or be someone. Just a lifestyle of loving God and doing what He created me to do well.

Did you know that often your calling shows itself in the very thing where you excel?

This new season is another one of saying yes to God. Yes, I’m still writing because that’s what writers do. No, it’s not as glamorous and there’s a whole lot of pain in a story like mine. But it’s a story I trust God will use in His own time and way.

In this quiet season, there’s still that deep knowing that I’m loved by God, and I’m one of His favorites—as are each one of you, because God can divide His love, yet give each one of us ALL HIS LOVE.

Seasons change, but His love never will. Embrace the quiet or the accomplishment because none of it matters as long as you’re embraced by CHRIST. 

~By Sara Daigle