This winter has been long.
Not just the kind of long that comes with cold winds and short days, but the kind that seeps into your bones—the kind that leaves you feeling distant even from the things you love most. Since the fire, everything has felt... quieter. Still. And not always in a peaceful way.
It’s hard to explain, but I’ve felt a distance growing between me and my faith. Not because I don’t believe—I do. I know God is real. I believe in His love, His presence, and His promises. But it’s like that belief is sitting just out of reach, like a photograph I can see but can’t quite touch. And in that space between belief and connection, I’ve found myself retreating. Slowly. Silently. Almost without noticing it at first.
One of the biggest ways I’ve pulled back is by no longer physically going to church. I’ve convinced myself that watching online is “still church,” and in some ways, it is. But if I’m honest, it’s also safer. I can stay in the background, unseen. I don’t have to share space with others when I feel uncertain. I don’t have to be vulnerable. And I don’t have to face the gentle conviction I’ve been feeling about the prayer team I am part of—that quiet reminder from the Holy Spirit that I am equipped, even when I’ve been telling myself I’m not.
Because I know I’ve been called to pray. I’ve seen God move through prayer. I’ve felt the Holy Spirit give me what I need as I pray for others. And still, I’ve told myself, “Not now. Not me. Not yet.”
But today… something shifted.
I attended church for Easter, and our pastor spoke about Thomas—the disciple so many of us know as “Doubting Thomas.” But instead of focusing on his doubt, our pastor showed us something new: that perhaps, Thomas wasn’t full of disbelief. He was full of longing. He didn’t want to just hear about Jesus from the others. He wanted to experience Jesus for himself. He wanted something personal, not just communal. And that? That landed deep in me. So hard that I visibly exhaled.
Because maybe that’s what I’ve been craving too. Not just the rhythm of faith, but the reality of it. Not just to know Jesus is real, but to feel Him close again.
And here’s the beautiful part: after the sermon, I noticed there weren’t many members of the prayer team present. I hadn’t planned to go up. I hadn’t prepared my heart. But before I knew it, something pulled me forward. Suddenly, I was standing at the front of the sanctuary with the others.
Only one person came to me. He didn’t have a specific need—he just wanted to pray. And friends… that was Jesus.
Because the moment I opened my mouth, the prayer just poured out. Not from my head, but from the Spirit. It was like I stepped into something already moving—something sacred. In that moment, I didn’t just believe in God—I experienced Him. It was personal. Intimate. Undeniably real.
And as I drove home, a wave of realization washed over me—quiet, yet powerful. The young man who stepped forward to pray… he was the same one I had prayed with months ago, when he came up to me to give his life to Jesus. In that moment, I couldn’t hold back the tears of joy, overwhelmed by the beauty of God’s grace.
This was a reminder that even when I’ve felt disconnected, even when I’ve pulled away, God has never left. He’s been right here, waiting for me to step forward.
This is what it means to bloom where we are.
Not in perfect conditions. Not after we’ve “gotten it together.” But in the middle of the ashes. In the quiet aftermath of winter. When we dig deep—not into ourselves, but into the soil of God’s love, and trust that even there, especially there, something holy can grow.
So, I’m starting again. I’m coming back—not just to church, but to communion. To connection. To the prayer team. To the truth that I am equipped, because the Holy Spirit equips me. I do not want to stay locked in a room, like the disciples did after Jesus was crucified, paralyzed by the fear of what would come next. Instead I want to turn to the peace Jesus brings, to come closer to Him.
Because like Thomas, I’ve seen Him for myself. I’ve touched His presence. I’ve encountered Him in the living.
Because faith isn’t the absence of winter. It’s the seed that dares to believe in spring.
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