Is God doing His deepest work when it feels like nothing is happening?

As autumn settles in, I find myself quite nostalgic for the place I grew up. New Jersey in autumn is a very special place. Hayrides, pumpkin patches, apple picking, all the brilliance of the leaves changing – red and orange, yellow and brown. Crisp mornings and bright afternoon sun. Cosy sweaters and warm apple cider. The dry sweetness of autumn, cold air carrying the faint smell of woodsmoke, and that gentle autumn light that leaks through the trees.

It’s always been my favourite season. As November rolls through London, I find my thoughts drifting back to my hometown, longing for things that are far gone now. My parents and siblings have all moved away from New Jersey and, though I still have family and friends there, my visits have become less frequent. And although I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be here in London, this time of year always seems to beckon me towards another land.

Alongside the nostalgia, autumn always has me reflecting a lot on transition.

Perhaps it always will. Alongside the nostalgia, autumn always has me reflecting a lot on transition. My friend Hannah and I walked around Wandsworth Park recently, looping the circle as it hugs the Thames and leads us under the canopy of changing leaves. These walks are precious to me. Since she moved around the corner, we’ve started walking once a week together, finding a beautiful rhythm in it. We’re both in seasons of transition, though perhaps at different stages. I’m building a ministry that’s beginning to bear fruit, and she’s about to emerge from a sabbatical season, getting ready to step back into work after a season of pause and rest.

For me, this season feels full and demanding. There’s so much I care about, so much I’m holding, and at times I feel overwhelmed by it all. We spent our walk reflecting on the change within us, the formation that has come through waiting and preparation. We spoke about our worries, fears and longings. The things we’re hopeful for. The things we’re still learning to trust God with. And with each loop, I began to notice more dried leaves gathering around the tree trunks, collecting around the roots.

There was something about seeing them there that caught my attention. All that colour that had been held in the branches only weeks before was now lying quietly on the ground. The trees looked barer, but the roots were still there, working beneath the surface. And I wondered how much of our lives with God are like that – things falling away above ground while something deeper is happening underneath. The season is changing in London too. And I began to think about how far I’ve come.

The autumn days of my teenage years in New Jersey, when I walked away from the faith I was raised in. The years of trying to understand who I was and what my life was for. All the moves and transitions. All the seasons changing. And then there was that precious day in London in 2013 when, in my twenties, I encountered the Holy Spirit in a way that changed everything for me. All the autumns that followed, slowly learning what it actually meant to follow Jesus. And through it all, I can’t help but reflect on just how kind God is.

How deep the roots grow when we surrender to God and trust Him with the work of our lives.

How patient He is as we learn to live into what is already true of us, as we learn how to live as beloved. How slow the work of formation is. How deep the roots grow when we surrender to God and trust Him with the work of our lives. Sometimes I expect growth to look more obvious than it does. I want to see it happening, to know I’m moving forward. But so much of the work God does in us happens slowly, quietly, beneath the surface. There’s always more for Him to work out of us, more of His love for us to receive. And He’s so faithful and so gentle in the process.

Perhaps there’s a part of me that will always want to move a little quicker. But the longer I follow Jesus, the more I’m learning that the deeply formed life can’t be rushed. There will be seasons when fruit feels visible, and others when formation feels hidden and it’s harder to tell what God is doing beneath the surface. But He is faithful in it all. And perhaps the invitation for all of us is to be present in the season we’re in. Present to Him. More able to receive His love. More willing to surrender what we long to hold tightly to. More capable of living faithfully in the life in front of us. So this autumn, as the leaves change, as I change, as time moves and as God works in me, I want to live with my heart ready to receive, my eyes open to see, and my ears attentive to His voice. Because everything He’s called me to build is impossible in my own strength.

I need Him for every bit of it. For the Friday morning walks where my soul feels fragile. For the Sunday morning preach. For the teaching sessions in Boldly Rising. For the deep chats and vulnerable prayers. For the meals around a table, the quiet evenings with my husband, and the morning commute. For the grace to remain fully present to the very ordinary bits of life I find myself in. The conversations. The walks. The work. The waiting. The leaves gathering around the roots. The slow, hidden work of becoming.

Maybe that’s what I want to remember this autumn. We don’t need to rush the season. We can be present to God in it.

A breath prayer for the season you’re in

Breath prayer is a simple way of turning our attention towards God by repeating a short prayer with the natural rhythm of our breathing.

Find a quiet moment and take a few slow breaths, allowing yourself to become aware of God’s presence with you. Perhaps begin by saying, Come, Holy Spirit.

As you breathe in, pray:

Help me receive your love.

As you breathe out, pray:

Help me surrender this season.

Repeat the prayer slowly for a few minutes.

As you pray, notice what rises to the surface. Where are you trying to rush? What are you holding tightly? What might God be inviting you to trust Him with?