Gentle is Still Brave

Last week I went back to church.

And it felt like a homecoming—full of grace, emotion, old songs, familiar faces. Something deep inside me stirred, and I felt it again. Hope. Presence. A spark of faith I thought I’d misplaced.

But this week?

This week was quieter.
Softer.  

Harder, in a way.

Because after the warmth of that first Sunday faded, I was left with the stillness that follows emotion—the question of what now?

I woke up early, like I said I would. But instead of excitement, there was hesitation.

Was last week just a moment? A fluke? Will I feel anything at all this time?

Part of me wanted to roll over, pull the covers up, and whisper, Next week. I’ll go next week.
But another part—the gentler, steadier part—whispered, “Just go. You don’t need to perform. You don’t need to feel everything. Just go.”

So I did.

Not with a triumphant heart, not with tearful worship.

But with quiet strength.

Strength wrapped in gentleness.

I got ready slowly. I didn’t rush. I didn’t strive. I simply showed up.  And something about that felt holy.

The message this morning wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was about how gentleness is strength under control. The kind of strength that doesn’t need to raise its voice to prove it’s there. The kind that shows up, steady and unwavering, even when no one’s watching.

The pastor said, “Gentleness doesn’t add volume—it adds value.”

Gentleness doesn’t demand the spotlight, but it carries power all the same. The power to keep showing up. The power to remain kind. The power to return—not with a bang, but with quiet intention.

And that’s what I’m learning to honor in myself.

Not the loud leaps forward, but the soft, sacred steps. The quiet yes. The open heart. The willingness to begin again, even if my voice trembles and my hands shake.

Growth doesn’t always come through striving, but through surrender.

That's exactly what this is for me:
Not proving.
Just surrendering—again.

Not in some grand gesture, but in a quiet, consistent yes.

This season of return isn’t about running back with arms flung wide.

It’s about walking slowly. Softly. With care.

It’s about letting my soul adjust to light again after years of shadows.

I think for a long time I believed coming back to God had to look bold or dramatic. But now I see - gentleness is also strength.

To keep showing up.
To keep trusting.
To let God love me even when I feel numb or unsure.

There is something deeply sacred about moving slowly and still believing it counts.

So if you’re in a place like mine—trying to return, trying to rebuild your faith or your rhythm or your sense of belonging—be gentle with yourself.

You don’t have to rush.
You don’t have to prove you’re “back.”
You don’t have to feel brave to be brave.

Just keep coming.
Keep listening.
Keep opening your heart, even if just a crack.

That’s strength.
That’s surrender.
That’s enough.

I’m learning that God isn’t looking for my performance.  He’s drawn to my presence.

And right now? That’s all I can offer.

But I know this much:  Gentleness has carried me farther than pressure ever could.

So I’ll go again next week.
And the next.
Not because I have it all together.
But because grace meets me right where I am—
Softly. Faithfully. Gently.

At the end of the sermon, the worship team closed with an old hymn—Amazing Grace.

No lights. No theatrics. Just voices rising together, some shaky, some strong.

The moment the first few words rang out—
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…”
—I couldn’t hold the tears back.
Not because I felt ashamed.

But because something about those words, in that moment, felt like a hand reaching out to my heart and saying, “You’re home. Take your time. You’re safe to return slowly.”

So I wept.

Not the overwhelmed tears of being found in a mess but the quiet kind that come when you realize you were never truly lost.

Just gently being led back.

Still willing. Still soft. Still His.

Drifting…And the Return

 I didn’t walk away from Jesus—not exactly. It was more like a slow drift. Sundays became optional. My prayers got quieter. The loneliness crept in and did what loneliness does best—it whispered that no one really noticed whether I showed up or not. Not even God.

Until last week.

I had stopped by the local bar—again. It’s become part of the routine. Not because I love it, but because it gives me somewhere to go. Something to do.

I slid onto a barstool, exchanged a few words with the bartender, chatted with one of the regulars—just small talk. 

And then the question. It came out of nowhere—gentle, unassuming—

‘So this what keeps you here?’ he asked, like he hadn’t just cracked something open in me.

Just a passing question. A throwaway line.

But it hit something deep.

I didn’t answer. Just smiled politely and took a slow sip of my drink. But my chest felt tight—like he’d cracked open a door I’d been holding shut for years.

What does keep me here?

Not just here at the bar. Or in this town. But in this space. This sadness. This distance. The low hum of a life half-lived.

That night, I lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. That question echoed louder in the dark.

And I remembered Jesus. The Jesus I once loved like a friend. The One I used to talk to about everything. The One I used to sing to in the car.

I hadn’t stopped believing. But somewhere along the way, I stopped reaching.

No flashing lights. No dramatic tears. Just a quiet ache. A stirring in my chest that said:

You’re not as far as you think.

And for the first time in a very long time, I knew exactly what my next step needed to be. 

Sunday morning came. I moved slowly—chose a simple outfit, brushed my hair with more care than usual, stared at my reflection a little longer than I needed to. Something about me looked different. Softer, maybe. More open.

I was nervous. Not about being seen—but about feeling seen.

Still, I went.

The church parking lot was full. The sight was so familiar, it almost hurt. Nothing had really changed. And yet, everything had.

I walked through the glass doors into the wide-open lobby of the church I once called home.

And just like that—it all came rushing back.

The familiar rhythm of Sunday morning. The hum of conversation and laughter. People glad to see each other. It was exactly how I remembered it—contemporary, casual, full of grace.

I smiled. I’d spent years here once. Years singing, praying, serving. Healing.

And now…I was back.

Familiar faces approached me, people I hadn’t seen in so long, arms open, eyes kind. No judgment. No hesitation. Just:

“We’re so glad you’re here.”

I hadn’t realized how much I needed that—to be seen.

I found my way to the worship center and settled in. As the band began to play “I Thank God” by Maverick City, the words washed over me:

“Wandering into the night
Wanting a place to hide
This weary soul
This bag of bones…”

Tears slid down my cheeks.

“And I try with all my might
But I just can’t win the fight
I’m slowly drifting
A vagabond…”

That was me.

The sermon was on building healthy relationships through faithfulness. And as I listened, I remembered.

Yes, I’d drifted.

But I hadn’t quit.

And now—I was here. Present. Open. Still willing to grow.

Still willing to be faithful.

I closed my eyes, let the tears come again, and whispered—“I’m still willing.”

And I meant it.

Not perfect. Not polished. But present.

Faithfulness isn’t about perfection—it’s about presence. It’s about staying when it’s hard. Showing up even when you don’t feel strong. Living with commitment to God and others when it would be easier to pull away.

And I know now:God never stopped being faithful to me.

Even when I drifted—He stayed.