There are days when the clouds sit low over the mountains and the air feels heavy, like it’s holding everyone’s unspoken questions. I often notice this when I drive through the greater Seattle area—people walking quickly, eyes forward, carrying invisible weight. Some are searching. Some are tired. Some don’t even know what they’re missing, only that something feels off. I used to think everyone had it figured out except me.
Years ago, I met a woman for coffee not far from my home in Bellevue. She didn’t ask me for advice. She just talked. About her marriage. About feeling like she was doing everything right and still ending every day exhausted. About praying, but feeling like her prayers were bouncing back unanswered. I listened. Not because I had answers, but because I recognized the sound of someone wandering on their life path, unsure where the road bent next.
At one point she stopped and said, “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
I smiled and said, “Maybe you just needed to say it out loud.”
We sat quietly for a moment. Outside, the rain started again—soft, steady, familiar. I didn’t rush to fix anything. I didn’t quote Scripture or offer solutions. I simply reminded her that God was not far from her, even if she felt far from Him. That sometimes the hardest seasons are not punishments, but invitations to slow down and listen differently.
Her shoulders dropped. Just a little.
That moment reminded me of something I keep learning over and over: most people are not looking for someone to lead them. They’re looking for someone willing to walk beside them.
From my home base in Bellevue, this is how my days often unfold—through phone calls, quiet conversations, walks, and moments that don’t look important on the outside. I don’t go searching for people. They tend to find me when they’re ready to be heard. Sometimes they stay only a short while. Sometimes they come back. Either way, I trust God to decide the timing and the depth.
I’ve learned that listening is holy work.
I’ve also learned my limits. I can be present, deeply present, but not endlessly. God didn’t design me to carry everyone’s burdens for long stretches of time. Instead, He taught me how to offer space—space for people to reconnect with Him, not depend on me. When conversations stretch too long without openness, I feel it in my spirit. That’s usually my cue to gently step back and let God take the lead again.
At home, I find peace in simple order. Rearranging a room. Making a small space feel useful. Creating calm out of limitation. I’ve noticed that when people feel overwhelmed inside, their outer world often reflects it. Bringing order into one often brings relief to the other. It’s all connected—our homes, our thoughts, our faith.
One evening, after helping someone sort through both emotional and practical clutter, I prayed quietly and felt God say, This is enough for today. I realized then that serving doesn’t always look like big programs or public platforms. Sometimes it looks like one conversation that helps someone take their next step without fear.
If you are wandering right now—unsure where you belong, wondering if God still sees you—I want you to know this: He has never taken His eyes off you. You don’t need to run harder or try to become someone else. You only need to pause long enough to remember who you already are.
And if you are someone who often listens, who holds space, who feels both called and careful with your energy—please know you are not alone. There are many of us walking quietly, trusting God to do the deeper work while we simply stay faithful to what’s in front of us.
From Bellevue to Seattle and everywhere in between, I see people every day who are closer to God than they think. Sometimes all they need is a moment of stillness—and someone willing to walk with them until they remember.