A Journey Toward the Stream
A Letter from the Wilderness
Liturgical Season: Great Lent
Scripture for Reflection: “Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in Him. They will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit".”
— Jeremiah 17:7-8
I. A Small Beginning
Dear Fellow Pilgrim,
Today was a good day. Not extraordinary, not triumphant. Just good. And for that, I am grateful.
The past week has been heavy. Sickness swept through our home, and with it came exhaustion, weakness, and the creeping voices of despair. My body ached, but my heart ached more. The old doubts returned, whispering their tired lies: “You are failing.” “You are too weak for this life.” “You will never change.” And for a while, I believed them. I forgot to be still, to breathe, to let the storm pass without gripping onto it. Instead, I fought against the waves until I sank beneath them.
But today… today was different. Nothing miraculous happened. But I got up. I kissed my children. I tidied one small corner of my home. I made sure everyone was fed. I moved my body in exercise. I taught my class. I showed up. And in these small acts of faithfulness, God met me where I was.
Healing, I am learning, is not a grand unveiling. It is not sudden clarity or immediate transformation. It is small, humble movements in the right direction. A willingness to try again. A refusal to let yesterday define today. So I try again.
II. The Battle Within: The Quiet Burden of the Wounded
Suffering is woven into every human life. No one is spared. But there is a particular kind of suffering that cannot be seen—wounds that do not bleed outward but inward. Those of us who carry mental illness walk among the world appearing whole, yet feeling like a house whose foundation has been shaken.
CPTSD is not a wound I asked for. It is not a failure of faith or a refusal to heal. It is the residue of harm done over time, a sorrow written into my bones before I had words to name it. It is the echo of voices long gone, telling me even now that I am unworthy, unlovable, broken beyond repair. And yet, here is the truth: I am not bad. You are not bad. We are not beyond repair.
This suffering is not our fault. But healing is still our responsibility. Not because we owe the world a healed version of ourselves. Not because we must be fixed before we are worthy of love. But because healing is our inheritance. Because wholeness is what we were made for.
III. Learning to Be Here
Today, I return to mindfulness. Not as a cure, not as a way to force healing, but as a small act of trust.
> I am here, in this moment. That is enough.
> I let the waves rise and fall. They will not consume me.
> I will not chase yesterday, nor fear tomorrow. I will root myself in today.
This is the work before me. To be still. To notice. To soften my grip. To trust that what is painful today will not always be painful. I did not do this well yesterday. I may not do it well tomorrow. But today, I try again.
IV. Small Mercies
Today, grace found me again in the pages of What My Bones Know by Stephanie Foo. There is something deeply humbling about reading another’s story and seeing your own reflection in their words. Hard truths surfaced—the kind I would rather not acknowledge. And yet, there they were. Waiting to be seen. Healing begins with honesty, and honesty is rarely easy. But I want to heal. So I will sit with the discomfort. I will listen. I will not turn away.
V. The Roots Beneath the Soil
Some days, I wonder if I will ever be truly whole. I long to be like the tree in Jeremiah’s vision—planted by the water, steady in the heat, unwavering in the drought. But trees do not grow overnight. Their roots press into the soil long before they break the surface. Their strength is formed in unseen places, inch by inch, deepening before they ever reach the stream. And so it is with us. We do not see our own growth. We do not feel our own healing. But it is happening. Quietly. Slowly. Beneath the surface. One day, we will drink deeply of healing. One day, the years of drought will not touch us. One day, the world will look at what has endured and glorify the Lord.
But for now, we stretch unseen toward the stream, trusting it is there. I see the roots pressing toward the water. I see the first light of Pascha on the horizon. I see a grace that holds me even when I fall. And I know, deep in my soul—I will not be defeated.
+ Where have you found healing in unexpected places? A book, a conversation, a quiet moment? How do you steady yourself in the midst of suffering? +
