For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived with the anticipation of something—a subtle, persistent sense that something is coming. It’s difficult to name, but easy to feel. An underlying unease that keeps my attention pointed forward, as if today is only a prelude to what’s next. Because of this, the present moment rarely carries ease. It feels temporary, like a waiting room rather than a place to rest.
This habit of anticipation often disguises itself as vigilance, even wisdom. It tells me that staying alert will keep me safe, that readiness will prevent disappointment or pain. But the cost of always leaning forward is subtle and steady: I abandon now for a future that never quite arrives.
And the truth is, there is no storm gathering. No signal flashing on the horizon. There is just this moment—breath moving in and out, life unfolding quietly, without demand or warning. Peace doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t come with explanation or resolution. It simply exists, waiting for me to stop bracing and allow it.
Perhaps what I have been anticipating all along is not an event, but permission. Permission to let nothing happen—and to discover that nothing is wrong.
“In returning and rest you shall be saved;
in quietness and trust shall be your strength.”
— Isaiah 30:15
God,
I loosen my grip on what might come next.
Teach me to return to this moment without fear.
Let rest be enough, and quiet become my strength.
Help me trust that You are already here.
Amen.
