Adonai in the Gray

They never tell you how loud the silence can be when you’re waiting for a sign.

When you’re young, you imagine that life will hand you answers with the efficiency of a mail carrier. Neat envelopes sealed with certainty, arriving right on time. But life…life is not a tidy courier. It’s messy, slow, stitched together by invisible threads you can’t always see. And lately, I’ve realized—I always knew this, but now I know it—life rarely moves in clean black-and-white moments.

There’s a holiness in the gray.
A tenderness in the in-between.
A whisper tucked in the folds of fog.

This is where I’ve found Adonai. Not in thunderclaps or fire, but in the quiet that makes you lean closer. Like Elijah, who did not find Him in the mighty wind or the earthquake or the fire, but in a still, small voice:

“After the fire, there was a soft whisper of a voice. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle, went out, and stood at the cave’s entrance.” ~ 1 Kings 19:12 (TLV)

It’s strange, isn’t it, how easy it is to miss a whisper when you’re braced for a storm?

Living in the Liminal

Lately, I’ve been living in the thresholds: the almosts and maybes, the spaces between heartbeats. Some parts of my life feel suspended in a kind of twilight, neither day nor night. Not quite a beginning, not quite an ending.

Relationships too. The ones that once felt like clear rivers now feel more like shifting mist. I’ve learned, quietly and painfully, that some people only seek you out when they need shelter from their own storms. When the winds are calm, they forget the safe harbor you offered.

It’s not just with others. Healing, too, has unfolded for me not in a blinding epiphany, but slowly, stubbornly—like a fog lifting inch by inch. The echoes of past hurts don’t vanish in a single day. They dissolve, grain by grain, like sand slipping through fingers.

Signs, Silence, and Searching

We’re all searching for signs, aren’t we?

I’ve watched people I care about do it. Throwing wishes into the well of uncertainty, hoping for a ripple. I’ve done it, too. I’ve asked the sky for a sign. Begged it, even. And sometimes, all I’ve received in return is silence.

But I’m starting to learn:
Silence is a sign.
It’s a kind of answer, even when it breaks your heart a little.

When there’s no map, no neon “this way” sign, all you can do is trust the quiet compass tucked in your chest. The gut feeling. The sacred nudge. The Spirit’s murmur you feel more than hear.

And you know what? It has not once led me into ruin.
Even when it led me into grayness, it somehow also led me into grace.

The God Who Dwells in Mystery

Adonai doesn’t always crash into our lives with burning bushes and parted seas.
Sometimes, He hums low in the fog.
Sometimes, He writes His messages in missed calls, empty Saturday afternoons, half-finished conversations, unanswered questions.

And still, still, I have found myself held.

In quiet friendships that anchor me.
In laughter that bubbles up when I least expect it.
In the way resilience rises in me like a slow, steady tide.

There’s a story I always carry close, Footprints in the Sand, that reminds me: sometimes when it looks like we’re walking alone, we’re being carried. We just can’t always see the arms holding us until later.

Gentle Encouragement

If you’re living through a season of not-knowing, I’m standing with you. Lantern in hand. Heart in hand.

You’re not lost.
You’re not broken.
You’re learning a language only the soul can speak.

The gray isn’t a curse.
It’s a classroom.

And Adonai’s voice? It echoes loudest when we stop straining for trumpets and start leaning into the hush.

Have you ever found yourself caught in a foggy season—where nothing felt certain, but something still whispered stay?
How do you find peace in the pause?

I’d love to hear your heart, your story, your whispers.