The Quiet Between Pines

Jehovah,

Some paths wind longer than expected.

I thought I knew the distance I was walking—

yet here I am,

ankles scraped from stones I hadn’t foreseen,

heart caught on a bramble of unsaid things.

There is someone in this journey.

Not a stranger, but not a harbor either.

Just… a soul who travels near,

but never quite beside.

I see them sometimes in the way the wind curls around a cedar tree—

present, brushing the edges,

but never staying long enough to carve rings in the wood.

They offer small markers along the trail—

a gesture, a glance, a rare word—

but their rhythm is not mine,

and I cannot ask the forest to bend for my feet.

Still, I wonder.

Why did you place their voice in the same valley as mine?

Why do I keep finding feathers in their silence,

as if you are trying to tell me something soft

through something so elusive?

I do not wish for more than what is right.

I do not demand clarity from your clouds.

But, Jehovah—

some nights I feel caught

between obedience and the ache to understand.

Not rebellion—just reach.

Am I the thorn, too bold in my bloom?

Do I ask too much of something meant to stay

rooted in its own soil?

I watch them move like mist—present, then gone.

Not cruel. Just distant.

Like a stream that offers water only when the sky allows.

And I try, Jehovah.

I try to hold my hands open.

I try not to chase shadows

or weave meaning into moss that grows without my help.

But still, I overthink.

Still, I pause too long at crossroads that offer no sign.

Still, I carry concern like pine needles in my hair—

fine, nearly invisible,

but enough to catch the wind and tug.

Am I pursuing something

you only meant to be a teaching?

Or is this part of your shaping—

to teach me not about them,

but about waiting?

Because the waiting is not empty.

It is filled with small storms inside me—

of wondering if my steps are too loud,

if my warmth is too much,

if my presence asks them to feel

what they are not ready to face.

And yet,

I do not feel you scolding me.

Only this:

a gentle pull toward stillness.

A whisper that says,

“Let the river take its time.”

The weight of listening to you is not heavy—

only the part of me that tries to carry answers

you never asked me to find alone.

So I lay this down,

not as an accusation,

not as a plea for return,

but as a simple offering.

Let this longing become patience.

Let this silence become shelter.

Let this confusion become clay

in your patient hands.

And if this presence is not to remain,

then let them be a leaf carried by wind—

part of the season,

not of the root.

But if there is something more I do not yet see,

then teach me how to wait

without tying my worth to their footsteps.

Jehovah, you made the red earth and the tall pine.

You shaped me from both.

You know the wild of me,

and you still call me yours.

So here I am.

Walking.

Listening.

Not asking the forest to change—

only for the strength to walk through it

with quiet dignity,

and a heart that trusts

even when the path is veiled in morning mist.

—Your daughter of dusk and cedar