On a recent hike, I came across a tree with leaf buds unlike anything I’d seen before. They were long, skinny brown pods. Honestly, they looked dead. It was like something had
once been alive but had withered and died, leaving behind these husks clinging to the branches, or falling in pieces from the tree.
But on closer inspection, some of the brown was peeling back. And underneath, there
was green. New life!
Not all the buds were in the same stage. Some were still tightly sealed, wrapped up like tiny tombs. Others were just beginning to unravel. Some had nearly shed their outer layer with a few strips of
brown still attached, and several had released their brown coat entirely to become brilliant green leaves.
It made me think how much this mirrors our lives, especially once we’re at or past the halfway mark—when it’s easy
to think we don’t have a new chapter remaining and there is no obvious next step.
We have seasons that feel like endings, where everything has come to a standstill and we can’t imagine what could possibly come after
this. Life feels closed in, contained, maybe even buried.
And then, something breaks and the old life starts to slough off. We may not fully understand what’s happening, but we can feel that life is
shifting.
When the breaking comes, things may be uncomfortable, but it’s important to remember we are not breaking apart, we are breaking open. And we have to remember the new thing can’t fully emerge unless we’re
willing to give up the old.
When life as we know it starts to change, it can feel unsettling, even frightening. The brown tomb may have been small and confining, but it was also comfortable and familiar.
Safe. Nothing could get in—but nothing could get out either. And maybe, for a while, it's necessary to straddle the fence of what was and what is becoming.
Incubation is an important part of life, not to be
skipped or rushed. Change begins beneath the surface, often out of sight, so we can't assume nothing's happening when we don't see it yet.
Time takes time. Even in the uncertainty, there are gifts if we look
for them.
When I’m in an incubation season, waiting for a shift, my prayers sometimes feel like they’re never going to be answered. I like to joke that God is an on-time God, but He isn't going by my watch.
And while we're growing uncomfortable waiting in our small brown tomb, our best friend may have already shed hers and is living an exciting new chapter.
It's easy to look at someone else's green leaves and wonder why ours haven't come yet. Whenever we’re stuck in a season of waiting, that is not the time to compare our journey to someone else’s.
Envy only drains us. It can point us toward what we long for, but beyond that, it pulls our energy away from our own becoming. That energy is far better spent in curiosity—asking how we might invite more of what we desire into our own lives.
Curiosity is such a beautiful place of openness.
Open-endedness.
Possibility.
That space where something new begins to push through.
In a
world that primes us for instant gratification, it's easy to lose the art of anticipation—the sacredness of not knowing, yet trusting that something good is on its way.
Picture a five-year-old on Christmas
Eve. They have no doubt that Santa is bringing them something good in the morning. They don't know what it is, but they know it's good. And that's enough in that moment.
Are we willing to be five years old again and
try on uncertainty as a gift? To not know what's coming next, but to trust it's good?
What if we could see uncertainty not as something to fear, but as something to receive?
Confined.
Breaking.
Waiting.
Uncertain.
Comparing.
Receiving.
Curiously anticipating.
Where do you find yourself today? Brown,
green or in-between?
If you are still tightly wrapped, held in a season of familiarity that could also feel closed and unclear, may you trust that something good is forming within you.
If you are beginning to break open, shedding what no longer serves you, keep going! You are in the “allowing” phase. Proceed gently and bravely—allowing the process to unfold.
And if you’ve recently come out of incubation and are leaning into new growth, I join you in celebrating all your discoveries in this fresh season.
Wherever we are, there is something to honor and something to be grateful for. Because the truth is, nothing stays the same. Change is always at work whether we can see it or not.
Embrace today. Find the gifts. Remember to look for the green beneath the brown. If you can’t see it yet, just wait. It’s there. We are always becoming...
Don't miss the retreat announcement below. There's room for one more woman to join us at the beach.
