There is a peculiar kind of silence that settles in the spaces between what was and what will be. Not absence, but suspension. A corridor without doors. A train station at midnight. A life paused mid-sentence. These are the liminal spaces, and most people rush through them like fugitives. I have learned to stand still.
I know them well. The waiting. The unraveling. The long stretch between prayer and answer. They are uncomfortable places, stripped of certainty and swollen with questions. The world calls them wasted time. God calls them preparation.
In these seasons, the old life falls away like dead skin. Identity dissolves. Plans collapse. You stand exposed, unadorned by achievement or clarity. There is nothing to cling to but faith. And that, perhaps, is the point. God does His finest work when the scaffolding of self-sufficiency is torn down, leaving only the raw architecture of the soul.
Henry Miller once wrote as if life were meant to be consumed whole, devoured with reckless honesty. I understand that hunger. To live vividly. To feel deeply. To strip existence down to its marrow and call it sacred. Yet even in the chaos, in the wandering and the wilderness, there is a divine hand guiding the narrative. Not sterile. Not polite. But alive. Wild. Intentional.
Liminal spaces are not voids. They are wombs.
They are the sacred in-between where God dismantles what no longer serves you and plants what will. Here, He whispers when the noise dies. Here, He clarifies when certainty evaporates. Here, He teaches you that faith is not forged in arrival but in endurance.
I have met Him in the quiet aftermath of loss, in the tension of uncertainty, in the long, dim hallway of becoming. Not as a distant observer, but as a steady presence. A lantern in the fog. A voice that says, “Stay. I am here.”
There is a strange beauty in not knowing. It sharpens your senses. It humbles your pride. It teaches you to walk by faith instead of sight. The world demands momentum. God demands trust.
So I wait. Not passively, but with intention. Not in despair, but in expectation. Because every threshold holds the promise of transformation, and every wilderness conceals a revelation.
If you find yourself suspended between chapters, do not mistake it for abandonment. You are not lost. You are being led.
And in the sacred in-between, where yesterday has ended and tomorrow has not yet begun, God walks beside you.
B🤍
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