Thin Air, High Hope

With our recent move and some big life changes, I’ve found myself with extra space and time to reflect on some things that have been brewing for a while now. This has been especially important as I come to terms with my firstborn heading off to college and her bedroom now empty. Friends have encouraged me to take up a hobby to help fill that space. In response, I’ve started a garden. Gardening, I’m discovering, offers beautiful imagery of life’s seasons: its dormancy, growth, and harvest. Over the next few weeks, I am hoping to share some of these thoughts. 

But first, the move… 

Moving back to Florida has been such a whirlwind of emotions.

On one hand, I’m returning to my happy place. I love the warmth, the greenery, the endless beaches, and those wide-open skies. Life here slows down. It’s just too hot to rush. I love being close to family, having spontaneous coffee dates, and long, meaningful conversations. But on the other hand, this move feels heavier than ones in the past, bringing more transition and deeper emotion.

This past year has left me feeling weary. It’s been a year filled with physical and relational challenges, losses, shifting seasons, and evolving family dynamics. There have also been victories, celebrations, and unexpected joys. And while I know this is just life, this year seemed to weigh more heavily on me, maybe because I’m more tired than I’ve been before. Even though Jesus promises that His yoke is easy and His burden is light, I’m realizing that I’ve been carrying a yoke that’s left me tired and wanting.

Coming back to Florida feels like landing in a wide-open space. There’s room here to think, to breathe, and to slow down, like a reset button. It feels like a gift from God, though I still find myself resisting a bit. I hear His voice urging me to rest, to reflect, to go deeper. 

Yet, there are other voices, both past and present, that keep insisting life is all about doing; that pleasing God is about doing more and more. I’m caught between these two perspectives, and even though I believe the truth is somewhere in the middle, I know God calls us to rest first, and then to work. This challenges my trust because I can’t help but ask, “If I am not doing something, where is my value?” I’ve worn the yoke of performance for so long that I’m not sure I even know how to move forward without it. And when the voices around me are so eager to equate performance with value, I find myself struggling to find the right answer about where true worth lies.

But deep down, I’m convinced that I need to find that answer. That the answer to that question is essential to growth, essential to a healthier, more sustainable relationship with God and others. And the answer needs to come from God and God only. I need to find a place where God’s voice is the loudest, even if that means withdrawing to more secluded spaces. Once I can hear Him clearly, I know I’ll be able to recognize His voice above all others. 

It reminds me of something I read recently, the idea that sometimes we need to withdraw in order to fully reengage. Nouwen wrote, “In solitude, we discover that being is more important than having, and that we are worth more than the results of our efforts. In solitude, we discover that our life is not a possession to be defended, but a gift to be shared.” I see this in the lives of Jesus, Paul, Moses, and even the Israelites. It’s scary to step into the wilderness, not knowing how long the wandering will last: 40 days? 13 years? 40 years? But if it helps me hear God’s voice more clearly, understand His heart more deeply, and walk more closely with Him, then nothing could matter more.

Already, I’m realizing how gardening is able to provide the kind of solitude where God’s voice can be heard more clearly, a quiet space where He speaks in the stillness. As my hands work in the dirt, my mind begins to clear, little by little. Recently, when I shared with a friend my uncertainty about whether gardening was a meaningful use of time, she reminded me, “Carmen, God is in the dirt.” And she’s right. God meets us in the mess, in the soil, in those quiet, dormant places before any growth becomes visible.

Just like in the garden, this time of slowing down and withdrawing feels like a season God is using to plant something new. Right now, the soil is being prepared, seeds are being sown, and the growth may be unseen. I want to trust that in His perfect time, the quiet work He’s doing will bear fruit. The garden teaches that some of the most profound growth happens beneath the surface, out of sight, long before anything blooms. Perhaps, like in the garden, God is using this season of dormancy to draw me closer, to teach me to listen, to trust His process, and to prepare for the harvest that He will bring in His time.