The Abiding Place
There’s a lake not far from our old house, that I used to visit when the noise of life grew too loud. It wasn’t grand or glamorous — just still water and soft reeds — but something sacred always seemed to happen there.
It became my abiding place.
Not because God was more present there than anywhere else, but because I was. There, I slowed down. I remembered what was true. It was where I returned when I needed to listen, not speak.
Several months ago, I sat at the lake holding my breath and a prayer. I had just submitted my first book manuscript and was waiting to hear whether it would be accepted. I was hopeful, but uncertain.
As I sat in the hush, I noticed movement: herons, everywhere. Elegant and strange, like brushstrokes come to life. The white ones came and went; but one blue heron remained, unmoving. Steady. Watchful. I’d never seen one there before. I stayed for nearly an hour, and so did he.
Later, I looked up the symbolism of the blue heron. Many consider them a sign of Christ — a quiet reminder that God is near and watching over you. I tucked that knowledge away like a little gift.
Months later, heavy with ordinary life — the slow accumulation of too much — I returned to the lake.
And wouldn’t you know it? Just as I parked, another blue heron landed beside me.
He stood there: calm, present.
He didn’t need to “say” anything; his presence was the message.
Abiding in the Everyday
“Abide in Me, and I in you.” — John 15:4
To abide is to remain. To dwell. To stay connected, even when we feel unworthy or weary.
In John 15, Jesus speaks of the vine and branches, not to demand perfect behavior but to invite us into a deep relationship. To remind us that we are not meant to bear fruit by effort alone. Fruitfulness is not about striving — it’s about staying.
And often, staying is the quiet work.
It’s noticing His nearness in the middle of your mess.
It’s choosing to sit still when everything inside you wants to fix, run, or prove.
It’s going back to the lake — or the laundry room, or the passenger seat, or the cracked leather Bible you’ve carried for years — and whispering, “I know You’re here.”
When We Feel Unworthy
Sometimes in the abiding, I wonder: Who am I to notice such holy things? Who am I to speak of them?
But Scripture is full of people just like me, and just like you, who encountered the presence of God and were changed by it. They weren’t perfect. They weren’t polished. But they were willing to see.
And that’s what I want to be: a noticer. A branch that abides, not because I’m strong, but because I’m connected to the Source.
A New Abiding Place
Recently, our life has shifted. We’ve moved, and now, right outside our porch, there is a pond of our own.
Most mornings, when I sit outside with my Bible, a blue heron drifts in like an old friend. He lands in the reeds and lingers as if to remind me: God is here, too.
When we were in the process of buying this house, it almost fell through. The disappointment was sharp. One day, I drove out here and just sat in the driveway, not knowing if it would ever be ours. And there — before the papers were signed, before I knew the ending — was the first blue heron I ever saw on this property.
It felt like a holy whisper: This is in God’s hands. It will be okay.
Now, each morning when the heron comes, I remember that promise. That abiding isn’t so much about geography — it’s about presence. His and mine, together.
He didn’t need to “say” anything; his presence was the message.
A Simple Prayer
Lord,
Thank You for meeting me in the quiet.
For blue herons and still waters.
Please, remind me that abiding is not about effort,
but about presence —
Yours and mine, together.
Amen.
I’d love to hear: Where is your abiding place?
