There was a time when I thought joy only existed in the big moments—the holidays filled with laughter, the rooms crowded with family, the milestones and celebrations that made you feel part of something larger. But somewhere along the way, life taught me that joy doesn’t just live in noise. Sometimes, it’s waiting quietly in the stillness, where few people ever think to look.
This season, as Thanksgiving fades into the soft glow of winter, our house remains quiet. No clinking of glasses, no chatter around a crowded table—just the soft hum of the fireplace, the flicker of a candle, and the gentle rhythm of two hearts still choosing to be thankful. For a long time, that quiet used to ache. I’d scroll through photos of big family gatherings and feel that familiar tug of longing. But over time, I’ve started to see the beauty in this quieter kind of life—the one that God, in His gentle wisdom, has placed before us.
When life slows down, when circumstances force us to step out of the busyness of the world, something miraculous happens: we start to notice what we once overlooked. The light that filters through the window in the morning. The way a cup of coffee feels like comfort in your hands. The peace that fills the room when the day begins without rush or noise. The small, holy rhythm of breathing, being, and believing that even here—especially here—God is still good.
Tim and I have learned that joy isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a quiet victory—a day without anxiety’s shadow, a night without fear, a morning when the body feels calm and the spirit feels still. Sometimes joy is the laughter that returns out of nowhere, the kind that bubbles up after a long silence and reminds you that healing, even slow healing, is still happening.
We’ve walked through some deep valleys, ones that have changed the way we see life. There were days we thought joy had packed its bags and left for good. But it never really leaves—it just looks different. Sometimes it’s not fireworks; it’s a candle. Not a celebration; a sigh of relief. Not a crowd; a connection between two hearts that have weathered storms together and still believe in love.
If I’ve learned anything from these past few years, it’s that gratitude and joy often grow best in the soil of hardship. It’s the moments that nearly broke us that have made the simple things feel sacred. The quiet dinners. The soft music. The peace of knowing we made it through another day together.
I’ve stopped chasing what used to define “happiness.” Now I find it in the steady presence of God who never leaves our side, even when life feels smaller, quieter, lonelier than we hoped. I find it in knowing that no matter what we face—fear, anxiety, seizures, sorrow—He still holds us in His hands. And that’s enough.
There’s something freeing about accepting the life you have instead of longing for the one you thought you’d have. It opens your eyes to blessings that were always there—hidden in plain sight. It teaches you to savor what remains instead of mourning what’s missing. It teaches you that peace isn’t found in the noise—it’s found in the nearness of God.
So, if your life looks quieter than you expected right now, take heart. You haven’t been forgotten. You haven’t been left behind. Maybe God is teaching you how to hear His voice again, not in the whirlwind, but in the whisper. Maybe He’s showing you how to find beauty in stillness and how to build joy not from what’s loud and fleeting, but from what’s steady and eternal.
Joy doesn’t always need an audience. It doesn’t need perfect health, a big family, or a calendar full of plans. Sometimes joy is just knowing that, against all odds, you’re still standing. You’re still breathing. You’re still loved.
That’s the kind of joy I want to hold onto this season—the quiet, rooted kind that doesn’t depend on circumstance, but on presence. The kind that remembers God is near, even when life feels far from what we wanted. The kind that whispers through the silence, “You’re okay. You’re loved. You’re still here.”
So today, I’m lighting a candle and thanking God for the quiet life we’ve been given. For the peace that comes from stillness. For the laughter that finds us when we least expect it. For love that grows stronger in the waiting. For the steady truth that joy is not gone—it’s just softer now, gentler, more real.
If your world is quiet this Thanksgiving season, don’t mistake it for emptiness. Sometimes, it’s in the quiet that joy finally has room to speak.
And when it does, it says: This life—this small, sacred, ordinary life—is still beautiful. And so are you.
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