A Small Beginning
Even the smallest beginnings belong to God. What an encouraging truth.
When I first started writing, I didn’t have a goal. I only knew that I loved the process of searching, asking questions, and writing out words that helped me make sense of things I didn’t yet understand. Most of what I wrote never made it past my hard drive. It was invisible work. But over time, that small start became sacred. I had no idea I’d eventually write a book.
Most of God’s work begins that way: hidden, unrushed, and often unnoticed. Seeds take time to grow. Roots form long before fruit appears. And sometimes, what looks like silence and waiting is only the sound of something taking shape beneath the surface.
Learning to See in the Small
Writing is one of the ways God has taught me to see. For a long time, I studied and wrote without an audience. I trusted that insight would lead to something more concrete—maybe a clear teaching role that would emerge in a traditional place. But now I see that the small moments took me in a different direction.
I expected God to call me to something, but looking back, I see he called me out. I took what seemed like a sharp turn from the main current—the river split, and there was a small tributary. A slower pace, meandering its quiet way to what looked like nowhere in particular. Yet on those narrow banks, God met me. And he was faithful to bring me along.
He kept telling me his story—again and again—until I finally slowed down enough to listen. Somewhere out there in the wild frontier, he pointed toward a mountain barely visible on the horizon and said, “Follow the tributary. Keep walking.”
So many times, I looked around—alone. No one ahead. Sometimes, no one behind. And I felt impossibly small.
But I’ve learned that small doesn’t mean insignificant. Faithfulness often looks like repetition—returning to the same page, the same desk, the same story that still has more to say. The labor of study and writing has become, for me, a kind of prayer. Some days it’s worship. Other days, it’s wrestling. But always, it’s an act of trust that what God began out on that little stream—out there on the frontier—he will finish.
Gratitude for the Process
Writing my first book has made me deeply grateful—not only for what has been written, but for what the process itself has done in me.
For the patience it has required.
For the courage it’s summoned.
For the humility it has forged.
For the way it’s taught me to depend on God’s vision instead of my own.
I’m thankful, too, for the people who have walked beside me in these early steps—the ones who read drafts, offered encouragement, and reminded me that obedience matters more than outcomes. What began as a solitary journey into the unknown has, over time, gathered a few loyal companions—fellow travelers who can see that same distant mountain peak and are willing to keep walking toward it too.
Thanksgiving and the Worship of Remembering
As we approach the season of Thanksgiving, I find myself reflecting on how often Scripture calls us to remember. Israel was told to remember the manna, the wilderness, the deliverance, the covenant, the bread and the cup—all the places where God had already been faithful.
Gratitude, at its core, is memory turned into worship.
Looking back now, I can trace the small beginnings that led here: the first time I opened my Bible with a small group waiting for me to lead; the first time I dared to write something honest; the first time I admitted, “I think I’m reading this wrong.” None of those moments felt extraordinary, but together they’ve become the path that brought me here.
I don’t know where this next chapter will lead. I never do. I only know that the words keep coming—never when I expect them, never how I imagine them—but they always come. The Spirit brings them and lays them before me: persistent, unceasing, waiting for me to write them down.
And I’m starting to believe that small beginnings matter. Not because they’re perfect or promising, but because they’re real. Because they remind us that God delights in beginning things—families, promises, and sometimes, even words.
So I give thanks for small beginnings—for honest starts, and for the quiet faith that keeps us at the desk when no one’s watching, that keeps us walking toward that distant mountain when no one else seems to care.
It’s out there—in the ambling tributary, far from the main current—that grace grows unseen.
And somehow, out here in the wilderness, I can feel it now: he is bringing back the force of the single river.
“Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin...”