Held in the in-between

Learning to grieve, to be carried, and to trust God in the limbo

There are seasons that do not arrive with clear edges. They do not announce themselves as beginnings or endings. They simply settle in, quietly, heavily, like a mist that lingers over everything.

This is one of those seasons.

Grief has a way of entering not only through loss, but through timing. Just when something in the heart has softened, just when forgiveness has been released, something shifts again. It can feel almost disorienting, as though the soul is trying to hold both freedom and sorrow in the same breath.

There is a sacred tension in that space — and Scripture itself tells us it is not accidental. Life moves in appointed rhythms, each one held within the purposes of God.

📖 "To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven: a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance." — Ecclesiastes 3:1,4 (NKJV)

The heart often knows this truth, yet still struggles to live it. There is a quiet pressure that whispers, 

you should be strong, you should move on, you should not feel this deeply.

That voice can sound spiritual, yet it is not the voice of the Father.

The Father does not rush mourning.

He does not silence tears with theological statements. He does not stand at a distance and say, 

she is in heaven now, so be at peace.

Instead, He draws near to the broken places and honours what is being carried. Even Jesus, standing at the tomb of His friend Lazarus, did not begin with answers. He stood in the grief and let it move Him.

📖 "Jesus wept." — John 11:35 (NKJV)

Perhaps the most tender verse in all of Scripture — two words, no explanation, just the Son of God allowing grief its sacred moment. If He could weep beside a tomb, we need not be ashamed of our tears.

📖 "The LORD is near to those who have a broken heart, and saves such as have a contrite spirit." — Psalm 34:18 (NKJV)

Grief is not a failure of faith. It is often the evidence of love.

There is something deeply human, and deeply holy, about allowing the heart to feel the weight of what has been lost, even when heaven has gained. These two truths do not cancel each other out. They sit together, held by God Himself.

In this space, the soul begins to recognise something else as well. Not every burden is meant to be solved. Some are meant to be walked through.

Limbo can feel uncomfortable, even frustrating. It is the place where clarity is not yet formed, where direction feels paused, where focus slips through tired hands. Yet it is also the place where God gently asks a different question — not 

what must be done,

 but 

what must be surrendered.

📖 "Cast your burden on the LORD, and He shall sustain you; He shall never permit the righteous to be moved." — Psalm 55:22 (NKJV)

There is grace to put things on hold.

There is grace to not have all the answers.

There is grace to sit in the quiet and allow the heart to catch up with what has happened.

That grace is not passivity — it is trust. It is the quiet courage of a soul that chooses to rest in God's sovereignty, even when it cannot yet see the full picture.

In seasons like this, the need for people becomes clearer. Not people who fix, explain, or rush the process, but people who show up. Presence becomes a language of love that words cannot replace. It reflects something of the heart of Christ, who did not stand far off, but came near, sat with, and walked alongside.

The absence of that presence can be felt deeply, yet even there, God does not leave the space empty.

📖 "I will not leave you orphans; I will come to you." — John 14:18 (NKJV)

There is another layer that often surfaces in grief — the places that were never fully healed. Old wounds can rise again, not to condemn, but to be revealed. What feels like regression is often invitation. The Lord gently uncovers what still needs His touch, not with urgency, but with compassion. His presence in the wound is always redemptive — never punitive.

📖 "There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus." — Romans 8:1 (NKJV)

Nothing is wasted in this. Not the tears. Not the confusion. Not the prayers that felt as though they dissolved into silence. Even the moments that feel like self-sabotage, confusion, or emotional overwhelm are not outside His reach. He sees what sits beneath them. He sees the patterns, the pain, the history, and He meets them with truth.

📖 "He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." — Psalm 147:3 (NKJV)

What He binds up, He also beautifies. There is an ancient Japanese art form called kintsugi — the practice of repairing broken pottery with gold, so that the fractures become the most luminous part of the vessel. God works like this. He does not conceal the broken places; He fills them with something far more precious than what was there before.

There is a quiet reassurance in knowing that being invited, being seen, being trusted by others is not accidental. It is not something earned through perfection, but something recognised through faithfulness. The lies that say 

you are not wanted

 or 

you are not enough

 begin to lose their grip when truth is spoken — not only by God, but through the voices He places around you.

The truth is this: you were chosen long before any wound was given a chance to name you.

📖 "…just as He chose us in Him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and without blame before Him in love." — Ephesians 1:4 (NKJV)

In the middle of grief, calling does not disappear. It may slow, it may soften, it may take a step back, but it remains. This is not a matter of feeling — it is a matter of covenant. The vision to see hearts healed, to build, to lead, to create spaces where others encounter God — it is still there. It is simply being held in a gentler place for a moment.

📖 "For the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable." — Romans 11:29 (NKJV)

This is not a season to strive.

It is a season to be held.

📖 "My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness." — 2 Corinthians 12:9 (NKJV)

There is no need to rush out of this space.

There is no need to prove strength.

There is only the quiet invitation to stay with Him, to allow the tears, to receive the presence, and to trust that even here, in the in-between, He is doing a deep and tender work.

The mist will lift in time.

Clarity will return.

Strength will rise again.

📖 "Those who wait on the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint." — Isaiah 40:31 (NKJV)

For now, it is enough to be here — held, seen, and gently carried by the One who never steps away.

💡Reflection:

Take a quiet moment with these questions. There are no right answers — only honest ones.

• Is there a grief you've been carrying quietly, feeling as though you should be further along by now? What would it feel like to give yourself permission to still be in it?

• When you read that Jesus wept — not with explanation, not with theology, but simply with tears — what stirs in you? What does that tell you about the kind of God who holds your sorrow?

• Where in your life right now do you sense God asking not what must be done, but what must be surrendered? Is there something you're still trying to carry that He's gently asking you to release?

• Think of a broken place that has surfaced in this season. Could it be that God is not punishing you with its reappearance, but inviting you deeper into His healing? What might that look like for you?

• Your calling has not disappeared — it is simply resting in a gentler place. What one truth from this piece do you want to hold onto as you wait?

🙌Prayer:

Father,

I come to You just as I am — not polished, not certain, not finished. I come in the middle of the in-between, where the mist still sits and the way forward is not yet clear.

Thank You that You do not ask me to arrive before You draw near. Thank You that Your Son wept — that grief has never been foreign to You, and that my tears are not a sign of broken faith, but of a heart that has loved.

Help me to receive the grace of this season. The grace to not have all the answers. The grace to put things on hold. The grace to let my heart catch up with what has happened, without shame, without rush, without the pressure to perform my healing.

Heal the places that have surfaced again. Fill every fracture with Your presence — not to conceal what was broken, but to make it beautiful in the way that only You can. Let Your gold run through the cracks.

Remind me, on the days when the lies grow loud, that I was chosen before a single wound was given the chance to name me. That my calling is irrevocable. That Your strength rises precisely in the places where mine has run out.

I trust You with the mist.

I trust You with the waiting.

I trust You with the work You are doing that I cannot yet see.

Hold me close, Lord — here, in the in-between — until clarity returns and strength rises again.

In Jesus' name, Amen.

🌸 A Gentle Call to Action

If this reflection spoke to your heart, I invite you to take it deeper:

Journal your thoughts and prayers as you process these truths.

👉🏻Explore my Devotional Collection for more writings that weave Scripture and creativity together. https://www.trixiscreations.com/devotional-collection

👉🏻Visit my This is My Story page, where I share the deeper journey behind my art, writing, and ministry — a testimony of God’s restorative love in the broken places. https://www.trixiscreations.com/this-is-my-story

👉🏻Consider joining one of my Healing 💔heARTs💖 gatherings or paint parties, where we create, share, and heal together in God’s presence. https://www.trixiscreations.com/healing-hearts

Your story matters. Your freedom matters. And most of all, you are deeply loved by the God who sets captives free.