In the quiet hush of early morning, when the world was still cradled in slumber, I found myself sitting with the Lord — my heart tender, my spirit awake. A gentle unveiling took place. Like peeling back layers of a well-worn canvas, I began to see the strokes of an old, familiar pattern woven through my life.

Fleeing.

From people.

From life.

From God.

I saw how I’ve lingered in the shadows of smallness — choosing invisibility as a shield. Staying silent and unseen felt safer than risking being wrong, being replaced, being too much… or not enough. Procrastination, hiding, self-sabotage — these have been the threads binding me in a tangle of false protection. If I don’t try, I can’t fail. If I’m not noticed, I can’t be discarded.

Yet, in His mercy, God exposes the darkness within not to shame us — but to bring healing, so the enemy loses his hold.

These Psalms met me like dew on parched ground — whispers of harmony, blessing, and sacred rest. They reminded me that the Lord's sanctuary is not a place to perform but to abide… not a platform to be evaluated on, but a refuge to be held in.

I was reminded of D-School, three years ago. I still remember the Spirit’s invitation echoing through my soul like a soft lullaby:

"Come, My Child, My chosen one, My daughter. Stop doing. Rest in My peace."

And I did.

Mostly.

But on Monday, during prayer ministry, I found myself whispering the ache I hadn’t yet named:

“I don’t know how to be a child.”

"I don’t know how to play."

To rest without guilt.

To just be… and trust that being is enough.

So now, Lord, I bring You this raw, childlike prayer:

Teach me the things I never learned.

Teach me how to rest like a daughter.

Teach me how to be small without shame.

Teach me how to play, how to be, how to breathe without fear.

I’m tired of trying to figure it out alone.

Would You align me with the right people who carry the grace to help me learn what I need to know? 🤔

I release striving. I release the fear of being replaced. I receive Your invitation once again — not to do but to dwell.

I want to live from the quiet centre of daughterhood, where love is the rhythm, not performance… and rest is a holy posture of trust.

In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

—

You are not forgotten, dear heart. You are not too late to learn, too broken to play, or too much to be loved. Your Heavenly Father delights in you — not in what you can produce — but in you. He sings over you with joy and covers you with His peace. May today be another step closer to becoming who you’ve always been in His eyes: beloved child, held and free.