Stillness Matters

It was a typical morning for me.

I was sitting in my usual spot on the front porch, coffee beside me and my journal and pen in front of me. The streetlight—and our lamppost—were both still lit, though daylight was beginning to reveal itself.

We have woods in front of our house—and behind it. So, it’s not unusual for me to see deer, turkeys, and rabbits. Plus, there’s the neighborhood cat I call Booter Scooter because of the way he struts down the road.

Lately, it’s been the rabbit hopping back and forth across our street, stopping occasionally to listen and scan its surroundings.

As I gazed out one morning not long ago, something caught my eye on the retaining wall that borders our yard. It appeared to be on the wall, but also somehow on the road. I didn’t have my glasses on and couldn’t easily figure out what it was.

It wasn’t moving.

From my vantage point, it looked like a large rock was sitting on the road.

Except it seemed to extend onto the wall.

Or perhaps a large branch had fallen. But it didn’t exactly look like a branch either.

The longer I stared, the more curious I became.

More than half an hour passed. It was full daylight before I finally stood up to get a better look.

And when I did, it moved.

The rabbit.

How had I confused a small rabbit with a large rock or fallen branch?

It was the angle of the wall and the way the rabbit blended into it from where I sat.

But it was also the rabbit’s remarkable stillness.

How could something alive remain that still for that long?

Later, I realized it hadn’t been still in the way I thought it was.

Though it looked like a rock, its nose was twitching. Its ears were listening.

It was alert. Aware. Ready.

Its movements were simply too small for me to see.

And I wondered: How often do I do that with my own life?

Am I doing it now?

From the outside, this season looks quiet. I’m writing, reading, praying, and thinking. I’m waiting. It doesn’t look like much is happening.

But beneath the surface, a memoir is taking shape. A writing voice is becoming clearer. New readers are finding my work.

And God is shaping me in ways that aren’t yet visible.

When everything seems quiet, we must trust that movement may be happening even before we can see it.

How often do I—how often do you—mistake stillness for the absence of movement?

Maybe you are recovering from grief and feel as though nothing is changing. Maybe you are searching for work and no doors seem to be opening. Perhaps a marriage appears unchanged after months of difficult conversations. Perhaps you are a parent wondering if anything you have taught your children is taking root.

Or maybe you have prayed for years and are beginning to wonder if God is listening.

Perhaps that is one of faith’s quiet invitations: not to believe only when we can see movement, but to trust that God is often doing His deepest work beneath the surface, long before we recognize it.

Maybe quiet doesn’t mean stagnant.

Maybe stillness isn’t the absence of movement.

Maybe some of life’s most important work happens beneath the surface, long before anyone—including us—can see it.