Peace, Be Still
There is a quiet confidence that comes with knowing the truth does not need defending.
Truth has its own rhythm. Its own way of rising—slowly, steadily—until it can no longer be ignored. I’ve learned that when something is true, it does not require force or urgency. It asks only for patience and trust.
Lately, I’ve been practicing intentional stillness.
Not silence born of avoidance, but stillness chosen with purpose. The kind that resists the impulse to explain, correct, or react. The kind that steadies the heart when external noise tries to pull attention outward.
In stillness, I am reminded that truth always prevails.
It may not surface on our timeline. It may not arrive in the way we expect. But it is never lost. Truth carries its own weight, and in time, it stands on its own—without needing to be pushed forward.
There is a scripture that has echoed softly within me: “Peace, be still.”
Not as a command to suppress emotion, but as an invitation to trust.
When I choose stillness, I create space for God to speak.
Not through chaos. Not through haste. But through clarity.
I am learning that God’s voice is often gentle. It does not compete with fear or argue with confusion. It waits patiently for the moment we stop striving long enough to hear it.
Intentional stillness has become an act of faith for me.
It looks like pausing before responding.
It looks like surrendering outcomes I cannot control.
It looks like resting in the knowing that I do not need to prove what is already true.
In moments where I once felt compelled to act, explain, or defend, I now choose to be still. And in that stillness, I feel a deeper sense of alignment—not because everything is resolved, but because my spirit is anchored.
Stillness does not mean inaction.
It means discernment.
It is the quiet posture of someone who trusts that God is working even when nothing appears to be moving. It is choosing peace over panic, faith over fear, listening over reacting.
I’ve noticed that when I step back, clarity steps forward.
When I quiet my thoughts, wisdom rises.
When I stop reaching for control, I feel covered.
There is a sacredness in allowing truth to unfold without interference. In trusting that what is meant to be revealed will be revealed—at the right time, in the right way.
Peace, I’ve learned, is not the absence of tension.
It is the presence of trust.
And stillness is not emptiness.
It is attentiveness.
Today, I choose to remain still—not because I am unsure, but because I am confident. Confident that truth does not rush. Confident that God does not need my anxiety to accomplish His work. Confident that what is real will stand.
In the quiet, I listen.
In the listening, I am guided.
And in the guidance, I rest.
Peace, be still.
