There are seasons in the spiritual life where God feels near, and seasons where He feels silent. There are moments when faith feels like fire, and moments when it feels like ashes. But sometimes—very quietly—God is not abandoning; He is transforming.

As I’ve been learning more about the teaching of the Dark Night of the Soul, something in me has begun to make sense. Not in the mind alone, but in the heart. I can look back now and see a pattern I didn’t notice before: the way God slowly revealed Himself to me in stages. Not because He changed, but because I did.

What began as a cry to a distant Creator became a relationship with a saving Lord. And now, almost unexpectedly, it has become a whisper in my soul: “Say Father.”

This blog is that story.

There are seasons in co-parenting when the emotional weather changes without warning. Plans shift, promises wobble, people you depend on become unpredictable, and suddenly your week becomes a moving target. For years, that unpredictability triggered resentment in me — a reflex born from feeling responsible for everything yet powerless to change anything.

But something different happened recently.

The storm came — same patterns, same chaos — yet I felt something I haven’t felt before:
I wasn’t drowning in it.
I was near the storm… but not in it.

There is a pattern in Scripture—a rhythm God uses to form His saints—that we often overlook when we’re in the middle of our own spiritual growth.

God starts us with zeal.
Then He purifies the zeal.
Then He restores it with wisdom, gentleness, and true authority.

You can trace this in Elijah.
You can trace it in the Apostles.
You can trace it in Jesus Himself.

To live as a disciple of Christ is to embrace this profound calling with sincerity and humility. It is to see every interaction as an opportunity to reflect love that is deeper and more transformative than mere human kindness. Grace does not discard the good found in natural human inclinations but elevates them, infusing them with divine purpose.

Co-parenting, family stress, and personal relationships all have a way of stirring our emotions faster than anything else in life. A tone of voice, the wrong look, or a misunderstood comment can send the heart racing and the mind into overdrive. We start reading motives, assuming intentions, and judging situations before we ever pause to breathe.

But when I opened 1 Corinthians 2, something shifted.

There was a night — one I’m not proud of, but one I’ll never forget — when I sat at a table with tarot cards, crystals, candles, and a desperation that felt louder than any prayer I had ever prayed. I was trying to talk to “spirits,” trying to force blessings out of shadows, trying to find riches, success, and meaning through whatever voice would answer.

It’s hard to see your own life spelled out like that. Hard to admit that you’ve been moving through the world without a safety net: no friend circle, estranged biological family, no regular community, no one checking in, no one to lean on. I co-parent, I raise my son, I try to be his example — but in the quiet moments I realize I don’t have an example of my own.