Where We Steady Ourselves

This weekend feels significant.

It’s Easter—a day that carries weight all on its own. And it also marks the first weekend of worship gatherings in a new building after years of waiting.

I’ve had a lot of thoughts swirling around because these two timelines—faith and construction, family and planning—have been quietly intertwined in my life for a long time.

When my husband and I were engaged, one of our earliest and most serious conversations was about where we would land as a church family. That decision ended up becoming a cornerstone in our marriage in ways I couldn’t have anticipated.

Early on, we found ourselves part of a small group that slowly became an extension of our family. Over time, we took on leadership there too—walking through joy, conflict, growth, and adulthood side by side with others. The kind of shared life that forms you.

Not long after, I stepped into a communications role at the church. What started small eventually became a long-term calling—one that placed me right in the middle of a massive building project meant to make room for more people to gather.

At the same time, my husband and I were trying to start a family.

Those two efforts—building a space and building a family—ran side by side for years. And both took far longer than I wanted.

There were seasons marked by infertility and frustration. Seasons where it felt like nothing was moving fast enough. I remember quietly wondering which would happen first: would we finish the building, or would we have a child?

I never imagined how long the building would take.

Eventually, our first child came into our lives through adoption. Not long after, construction finally began. Time moved on. Kids grew. Walls went up. Progress happened—just never on the timeline I expected.

Then came another surprise pregnancy. And later, another.

Meanwhile, the building kept inching forward. Plans for opening it were made and remade—over and over again. Dates were chosen, scrapped, rewritten. Contingencies piled up. We learned how to hold plans loosely, even as we worked diligently.

And now, here we are.

Our youngest is almost walking. And recently, I watched him steady himself against a cross mounted on the wall—hands pressed against it as he pulled himself up.—eyes lifted, hands grasping.

That moment stopped me.

Because looking back, I realize that this is all any of us are really doing:
Making plans.
Adjusting them.
Living our lives in the in-between.

And through it all—through delays and disappointments, through growth and surprise—God has been present. Steady. Faithful. Unmoved by our timelines.

The Bible names this kind of faithfulness plainly:

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.”
(Hebrews 13:8)

We plan.
We wait.
We adapt.

And God remains.