01/27/2026
Not my words but oh so good
I am living in the “Selah.”
The sacred space between the cry and the comfort. The hollow pause between the groaning and the glory.
Between “Why, Lord?” and “Now I see.”
Between the ashes and the crown.
Selah…I used to rush past that word in the Psalms. Skimmed it like a speed bump on the way to something louder, clearer, resolved.
But now I know it’s more than a pause.
It is a dwelling place.
A deep exhale in the middle of unanswered prayers.
A quiet held between sobs and songs.
I am sitting here, in the ache that has not yet lifted, in the wound that has not yet healed,
in the prayer that still waits for its amen.
I am not where I was, but not yet where I long to be. I am in the middle…the Selah.
And I am learning this:
The pause is not empty.
The silence is not God’s absence.
It is His breath over the waters again.
It is the same voice that spoke in the beginning, not always with words, but with weight.
With presence.
Here, He teaches me to wait like the psalmists did, not with passive resignation, but with hope.
Selah does not mean the story is over.
It means: Stop. Ponder. Let the weight of what was just said sink into your bones.
It means: Don’t miss this moment.
It means: God is still speaking, even in the stillness.
This is the space between grief and healing.
Between brokenness and breakthrough.
Between Good Friday and Resurrection Morning.
I thought healing would feel like a moment, a flash of divine power.
But what if healing looks more like dwelling in the pause?
Like learning to trust the Surgeon while He’s still stitching the wound closed?
Selah: the ground is still wet with my tears,
but the roots are reaching deeper.
Selah: I am not whole, but I am being held.
Selah: I don’t have answers, but I know the Answerer is near.
I used to beg for the fast-forward button.
Now I just pray not to miss Him in the slow unfolding.
Not to miss the revelation in the space between.
So I sit. I breathe. I ache. I hope.
And I whisper that word with trembling lips—
Selah.
