The last few months I have been refined in the quiet — two months of intentional pause and one of being ready again, open but still waiting. I’m sharing these thoughts not because I’ve “arrived” or have everything figured out, but because I believe there’s value in being honest while we’re still in the middle of the story. God often uses our unfinished chapters to bring hope, remind others they’re not alone, and keep shaping us along the way.
The Quiet Season
After the boys left, I had already told my worker I needed a break — to be “on hold.” That meant no calls, no new children to consider, no updates to brace for. Just space. At first, the quiet felt heavy and strange. Then slowly, it started to feel sacred.
At the beginning of October, I let my worker know I was ready again — open and available if a child needed a home.
October in education is always full: conferences, family night, spirit week, and kids who’ve settled in enough to really show their personalities. Add the anticipation of the holidays, and it can feel like one of the longest months of the year.
But for me, October has become even more layered — full of anniversaries, both heavy and holy. My Gramps’ unexpected passing. The first little one who stayed just 24 hours. The text about big brother needing care — and the weeks later when he joined my home. Family victories, hard days, a birthday, and memories that tug at my heart.
This year, I think I might end October by putting up my Christmas tree early. Because I love the light — the calm, steady glow that fills the room and reminds me that light always returns after the darkness.
Learning to Slow Down and Be Present
These last few months have been a lesson in slowing down — not just my schedule, but my heart. Not running at the world’s pace, but God’s.
I’ve been learning what it means to be present where I am instead of constantly preparing for what might be next. If you know me, you know this is challenging for me.
I’m practicing these rhythms now, while the house is quiet, so I can carry them into the next season — when (not if) the chaos of life comes again. Because it will — the unexpected, the typical, the full days and long nights.
But I want to meet those moments differently this time. I want to respond to chaos with calm — not because I’m naturally peaceful, but because I’m learning peace in the waiting.
Surrender and Refinement
It hasn’t been easy. There have been plenty of days I’ve prayed, “Okay God, I’m ready.” And maybe He’s been gently whispering back, “You could be, but let’s stay here a little longer. Not yet.”
That’s hard for me to hear. But I’m learning that His pauses are protective. Okay God — Your plan, not my timeline. Yours is always better. My perspective is so limited, and yet He sees the full picture.
This season has been a quiet classroom. God’s been teaching me that surrender isn’t giving up — it’s trusting what I can’t see. That peace isn’t found when life settles — it’s cultivated right in the middle of uncertainty. And that discernment grows best when I stop rushing to fill every quiet space with my own answers.
Quiet seasons are where roots grow deep — where God does His refining work (& all the details) that no one else sees.
When the Rooms Are Empty
The kids’ rooms have been empty for three months now. Not just physically quiet, but still. Toys and books remain. Rocking chair still.
Sometimes I walk by and the silence catches me off guard. Other times I go in and sit for a while — sometimes with worship music, sometimes with my Bible, sometimes just talking to God and listening in a silent house. Other times just my thoughts.
I think what’s been hardest is the sudden shift — after nearly two years of being “Mom” every day, I’m not anymore. I had a taste of the motherhood I’ve prayed for and longed for, and then just as suddenly, it was gone. The ache of that still lingers — the missing, the quiet, the questions. The desire for family hasn’t disappeared; if anything, it’s deepened. But even here, I’m learning that God can meet me in both the ache and the peace.
And yet, I never want to lose sight of what an honor it is to be part of a child’s story — to stand in the middle for a season when they need a safe place to land, steady love to depend on, and a soft place to grow while their world is being rebuilt. It’s holy work, even when it’s temporary.
I think about how quickly my home shifted to make space for one child, and then suddenly two. And how, just as quickly, it shifted back to silence.
I think about how much I’ve changed, too. Two years ago, I was saying yes to the unknown. Now, I’m learning to say yes to God even when the answer isn’t what I expected.
Who I Am in the In-Between
God’s been reminding me that my identity isn’t found in what I do. Not in my job. Not in fostering. Not even in motherhood.
Those are meaningful and full of purpose — but they aren’t the foundation. Jobs change. Cases shift. Homes quiet.
If my identity is tied to only those things, I’ll crumble when they shift. My identity isn’t found in what I do — it’s found in whose I am. And I am His.
That truth has been both humbling and freeing to relearn.
What I Know Now
I don’t know what comes next — when I might welcome a child again, or what God is quietly preparing behind the scenes.
But I know this: This time hasn’t been wasted. Not one second.
God has used the quiet to strengthen my faith, to refine my rhythms, to teach me how to slow down, to listen, and to be present before the next thing.
Sometimes He teaches us to rest before the beginning, not after.
So I’ll keep learning to slow down. To hold things with open hands. To trust His timing more than my own. To find peace in the quiet — and to carry that peace into whatever comes next.
This isn’t a story of having it all figured out — it’s a story of being refined in the waiting. If you find yourself in a “quiet” or “boring” season, I hope you know it wasn’t wasted.
God is still working — even here, even now, even in the stillness.