I’ve spent the last few weeks trying contact lenses. I know this seems like a relatively small thing hardly worth mentioning, but it’s quietly undone me. Every time I leave the eye doctor with a new adjusted set, I’m hopeful that this pair might be the one, and clarity will finally come. And every time, within hours, my eyes ache, and the world becomes slightly blurry again. My patience is tested, and I blink, gently rub, adjust, and try again. Eventually, I take them out. I want to see clearly, but my eyes won’t be rushed. (And have I mentioned that I am impatient?)

There’s something humbling about this process and about realizing my body won’t cooperate with my urgency. No amount of trying harder is producing immediate clarity for me.

Each new year, rather than declaring a new year’s resolution, I choose a word on which to focus. So, as I embark on a new year amidst all of this, I have been taking time to sit and be prayerful about where God wants me to focus (pun intended) and how I might approach the new year with a fresh perspective (read Julie’s recent post). I usually associate “fresh” and “new” with momentum. Fresh feels like clarity and confidence wrapped nicely together, like something you step into and keep moving with. And I love that. I love a fresh start! However, fresh and new hasn’t felt like that at all for me. I was recently reflecting with a friend about the tension I am feeling. This fresh new year has actually felt a bit slow, uncomfortable, and even unsettling.

So, my word for this new year? I felt the Lord lead me to words like still, quiet, patience, calm…. Which feels almost aspirational when I type it here. AND challenging. These words each challenge this girl who thrives on motion. I move quickly. I think ahead. I love progress. Even my rest tends to have an agenda (just ask my husband)! Given all of this, I felt nudged to land on the word, calm. Calm doesn’t come naturally to me; I have to be very intentional. (And even then, I want to practice it very efficiently!)

What I’m realizing is that I approach my life the same way I approached those darn contact lenses: adjust quickly, push through discomfort, expect clarity on my timeline. And God, in His kindness, keeps interrupting that impulse. I want new and fresh and the momentum that comes with it, but I’m being asked to slow my pace.

Psalm 46:10 says, “Be still, and know that I am God.” Stillness before knowing. Presence before clarity.

I’ve read this verse a hundred times. I’ve written about it. I even have it tattooed on my ankle. And yet, having the directive “be still” etched into my skin doesn’t mean I no longer need to be reminded of it. Stillness isn’t passive or lazy, and it isn’t a form of disengagement. It asks something of me. It requires restraint, a deep trust, and a willingness to stay present right where I am.

I’m also reminded of Psalm 51:10, the prayer that has been the foundation of our women’s community group this year: “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.” The word “create” catches my attention. This pure kind of renewal isn’t something I achieve through effort or discipline; it’s something that God brings into being, if I let Him. And creation, by its very nature, takes time.

I can’t help but wonder how often I mistake effort for faithfulness and how easily I assume that if I just try harder, adjust a few variables, apply the right solution, and/or keep moving forward, I’ll arrive at the clarity I need. But what if that clarity or renewal doesn’t come from sharper strategies or better lenses? What if it comes from learning to see with a more patient posture and gentler eyes?

Jesus healed sight in the Gospels more than once, and I’m struck by how rarely those moments unfolded in the same way. Sometimes He spoke; sometimes He reached out and touched. Once, He made mud and gently washed it over a man’s eyes. There was no formula to follow and no urgency to optimize the outcome. There was presence, relationship, trust, and likely even patience. Healing, like vision, wasn’t rushed. In this story found in John 9, when the man’s sight was restored, the people around him were likely confused, and they wanted an explanation. They want clarity immediately. But the man’s response was simple and honest: “The man they call Jesus made some mud and put it on my eyes. He told me to go to Siloam and wash. So I went and washed, and then I could see.” (John 9:11). He had no clear explanation as to why. He had simply encountered Jesus. Sometimes clarity seems to follow encounter rather than understanding.

This has been convicting for me. I like to understand things and make sense of what’s happening. But perhaps, for now, God is less interested in explaining, more interested in inviting, and more focused on shaping my trust than sharpening my clarity.

I’ve also been reflecting on how I care for myself—mind, body, and spirit—and noticing how this is all tying together. I often bring the same urgent posture to all three. I want to improve, optimize, and manage. So, what if care this year looks less like control and more like yielding—yielding to slow down, to rest, and to live faithfully even when I’m not seeing clearly yet? I am sure it’s no coincidence that the health book I’m reading right now talks about the importance of fasting as a regular spiritual rhythm!

Isaiah 30:15 says, “For thus said the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel, ‘In returning^[a] and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.‘” Not striving, nor rushing, but calm, quiet rest.

There’s a different kind of strength in admitting that I don’t see clearly yet — letting the blur be what it is and trusting that God isn’t withholding clarity but rather patiently cultivating something deeper within me.

So for now, I’m choosing to keep wearing my glasses and let my eyes breathe. I’m practicing my word for the year, calm, in small, ordinary ways: pausing before I react, paying attention to my body, and resisting the urge to rush ahead of grace. I’m trying to abide rather than accelerate.

Jesus said, “Abide in me.” (John 15:4) Not advance or achieve, but abide. And I’m embracing that fresh and new doesn’t always arrive with momentum. Sometimes it makes its way quietly through patience and humility of admitting that clarity can’t be forced. I think that’s the kind of fresh and new year I’m being invited into right now.

A Prayer for the New Year

Dear Heavenly Father,

Thank You that Your ways are greater than my ways, and Your plans greater than mine. I confess how much I want clarity on my terms and how quickly I try to keep pressing forward, even when You are asking me to slow down and be still. Please teach me to trust You even when things are not clear, and to trust that You are at work.

Help me practice calm in small, ordinary ways:
To rest without guilt.
To yield without fear.
To abide without rushing ahead of grace.

Give me gentler eyes, a quieter spirit, and the courage to stay present where You have me.
Create in me what only You can create, and renew in me what I cannot manufacture on my own.

I want to remain with You. In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen.