Faith is not a one-time decision. It’s not a box to check or a static label we wear. It is something far more alive than that—more like a garden than a trophy. And like any living thing, it needs to be revisited, worked on, and nurtured.
There are days when faith feels easy—when we see the sunlight, when the soil feels rich, when everything is in bloom. But there are also seasons when it feels like all we’re doing is pulling weeds, waiting on rain, or staring at dry ground wondering if anything will ever grow again.
And yet, the garden doesn’t stop being a garden just because it's out of season. It doesn't lose its identity just because it’s not blooming.
In my own life, I’ve noticed that faith requires the same attention we give to a real garden. It needs daily checks—not always dramatic gestures, but quiet visits. A prayer. A pause. A moment of silence. A second look at something bigger than myself. Some days, it’s as small as the decision to show kindness when I’d rather not. Other days, it's wrestling with deep doubts and still choosing to show up.
What’s wild is how much grows when you tend it—even when it seems like nothing’s happening. The roots go deep long before you see the first green shoot. And often, it’s the tending itself—the showing up again and again—that changes us.
Faith gets tested. Storms come. Droughts hit. We question what we believe, or we’re forced to face the fact that we haven’t actually thought about it in a while. But that’s part of it. Faith isn’t brittle; it’s built to be tested. And like a plant that leans toward the light, our faith often finds its way back when we give it the space to do so.
So if your faith feels shaky or distant or dormant—don’t panic. That’s part of the process. Just keep tending. Water it with truth. Pull the weeds of bitterness and distraction. Let it breathe. Give it time. Revisit the parts that once brought you life. And trust that even in the quiet, something is growing.
Keep your hands in the dirt. The garden of faith will surprise you.
There are days when faith feels easy—when we see the sunlight, when the soil feels rich, when everything is in bloom. But there are also seasons when it feels like all we’re doing is pulling weeds, waiting on rain, or staring at dry ground wondering if anything will ever grow again.
And yet, the garden doesn’t stop being a garden just because it's out of season. It doesn't lose its identity just because it’s not blooming.
In my own life, I’ve noticed that faith requires the same attention we give to a real garden. It needs daily checks—not always dramatic gestures, but quiet visits. A prayer. A pause. A moment of silence. A second look at something bigger than myself. Some days, it’s as small as the decision to show kindness when I’d rather not. Other days, it's wrestling with deep doubts and still choosing to show up.
What’s wild is how much grows when you tend it—even when it seems like nothing’s happening. The roots go deep long before you see the first green shoot. And often, it’s the tending itself—the showing up again and again—that changes us.
Faith gets tested. Storms come. Droughts hit. We question what we believe, or we’re forced to face the fact that we haven’t actually thought about it in a while. But that’s part of it. Faith isn’t brittle; it’s built to be tested. And like a plant that leans toward the light, our faith often finds its way back when we give it the space to do so.
So if your faith feels shaky or distant or dormant—don’t panic. That’s part of the process. Just keep tending. Water it with truth. Pull the weeds of bitterness and distraction. Let it breathe. Give it time. Revisit the parts that once brought you life. And trust that even in the quiet, something is growing.
Keep your hands in the dirt. The garden of faith will surprise you.
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