And so, I’ve come to the end of another season...

What began as a five-month part-time 20-hour-per-month contract has quietly unfolded into a full year — one rich with lessons, growth, resilience, unexpected healing, and grace.

However, the past six months have felt like limbo. A waiting season. I knew the end could come at any time, and that I’d likely be replaced by a virtual assistant overseas — because it’s supposedly more cost-effective. There’s no bitterness in that sentence, just reality. And oddly, when the official notice came four weeks ago, I didn’t fall apart having had the past 6 months to work through the initial feelings of failure, rejection, not being good enough and tossed aside. I felt… relieved. Like I could finally exhale. The guillotine I'd been waiting for finally dropped. And even though I wasn't looking for a job when it found me, it’s no less disappointing or painful to lose it.

Since the first mention last year, I’ve been steadily tying up loose ends — pouring my energy into documenting standard operating procedures — a task that stirred memories of the many roles where I’ve done this before. It’s almost become a familiar rhythm. Once again, I found myself stepping into the remnants of disorder, navigating the gaps left behind, and slowly shaping something whole from the mess, so I can pass the baton as best I can.

Once again, I pioneered my way through the chaos left by my predecessors, not with fanfare, but with quiet determination — bringing structure, clarity, and structure where there once was confusion. There’s something deeply honourable about finishing well.

But the truth is, the more I’ve built, the more I’ve come to realise how much I haven’t yet touched. And with time slipping through my fingers, there’s a quiet fear that I might not get it all done.

Still, even in the overwhelm, there’s something sacred and rewarding here. Something quietly beautiful. To leave a legacy — not of perfection, but of order, intention, and care — feels like a gift. If those who follow can walk with less confusion and more clarity, then I’ve done something that matters. And that brings a sense of peace… even as the page turns.

As for me — my heart feels heavy today. There’s a sadness that runs deeper than the end of a job. Today also marks eighteen years since my Oma passed, and that ache still lingers, soft and steady.

Grief has a way of layering itself, doesn’t it?

But even in this — especially in this — I hold onto hope. I know this sorrow will ease in time. The same God who walked me through past valleys will carry me through this one too.

And while one door has closed, I’ll choose to praise Him in the hallway — trusting that in His time, another will open.

A Prayer for the Hallway:

Lord, today my heart feels tender. Weighted. Wounded.

Not only because this chapter is closing, but because this day brings with it the quiet ache of remembrance.

Eighteen years without Oma — yet her love still lives in me.

And now, the loss of this role adds another layer of letting go.

But I thank You that You see it all.

You gather every tear, every sigh, every word I cannot quite say (Psalm 56:8).

You are the God of doors and hallways,

Of beginnings and endings,

Of grief and grace.

And so, even here — even now — I choose to praise You.

Not because everything feels okay,

But because You are still good.

Still faithful.

Still present.

And You're still God.

Teach me how to wait well.

How to worship when the way forward isn’t clear.

How to rest in the truth that You are working even in the silence.

May this hallway become holy ground,

And may I walk it with hope.

In Jesus's Name, Amen.