The Narrow Way

It has been some time since I last shared here, and I want to acknowledge that, without rushing past it or dressing it up.

This season has been heavy in ways that are difficult to explain unless you’ve lived inside a heartbreak that doesn’t resolve quickly, neatly, or publicly.

It hasn’t been a season of busyness or distraction, but one of deep emotional weight, one that requires more from me than words can carry.

There are moments in life when writing feels like breathing, and then there are moments when even breathing feels intentional.

This has been one of those seasons.

A season where the pain is not loud enough to be obvious to the world, but deep enough to quiet me. A season where grief does not always come with tears, but with a constant ache that sits just beneath the surface, shaping how I move through my days, my prayers, and my silence.

I didn’t stop writing because my faith failed.

I paused because my faith is being refined in ways that demand stillness.

God didn’t leave me here; He met me here.

And sometimes meeting God doesn’t look like revelation, it looks like survival, like holding on, like trusting Him when you don’t have the strength to articulate what hurts or why.

This season has been heartbreaking, yes, but it has also been revealing.

Pain has a way of stripping us down to what is real, and I have learned that faith does not disappear in heartbreak, it deepens.

It becomes quieter, sturdier, and more honest. I have learned that God is not intimidated by silence, nor offended by our need to step back and tend to wounds that are still bleeding.

There were days when obedience looked like nothing more than getting out of bed and choosing not to lose hope, even when I didn’t feel it.

Days when prayer wasn’t poetic but raw and unfiltered.

Days when I had no answers, only trust.

And somehow, in the middle of that, God is still working, gently, patiently, faithfully.

The Bible tells us that the Lord is close to the brokenhearted, and I have come to understand that closeness in a new way.

Not as a dramatic rescue, but as quiet companionship.

As strength that arrived when I had none left to give.

As peace that didn’t erase the pain but held me steady inside it.

As the assurance that even when I wasn’t writing, speaking, or sharing, God was still shaping something meaningful beneath the surface.

This season has reminded me that faith is not measured by output.

It is measured by surrender.

Sometimes faith looks like pressing forward; other times it looks like resting and letting God do the work you can no longer carry.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stop striving and trust that God is still moving, even when you are still.

I am still here.

I am still listening.

And God is still good, unchanging, patient, and present in every moment of this unfolding story.

Nothing about this pause means the calling has disappeared or the journey has ended. It simply means this chapter requires more depth than display.

If you are walking through your own heavy season, please hear this with gentleness, you are not failing, and you are not forgotten.

Some seasons are not meant to be narrated in real time because they are too tender to rush through.

God does some of His most important work in the quiet places where no one is watching.

Thank you for your patience, your grace, and your presence here.

And thank you, Lord, for being faithful in every season, especially the ones that break our hearts and deepen our trust.

Love you all,

Annie Stewart Lambert