This morning, before the day began asking anything of me, I listened to a meditation that said:
Be patient with the moment. Don’t try to change it.
It was such a simple sentence.
And yet it felt almost radical.
Because if I am honest, my first instinct is almost always to change the moment.
If I feel discomfort, I adjust.
If I feel sadness, I analyze.
If someone I love is overwhelmed, I try to smooth it.
If my body aches, I manage it.
If life feels uncertain, I begin reorganizing it.
Improvement has been my reflex.
Fixing has felt like strength.
But what if patience is something deeper?
What if the present moment is not asking to be improved — but entered?
My Habit of Moving Too Quickly
Lately, I’ve been noticing something when Mr. P and I play chess. (or rather Mr. P brought it to my attention 😏)
I have a tendency to move quickly.
I see something that looks like a good move — and I act on it almost immediately. Sometimes before I’ve fully studied the board. Sometimes before I’ve paused long enough to see what else might be possible.
And more than once, I’ve made a move I wished I could take back.
Not because it was terrible.
But because I hadn’t stayed long enough to see if there was a wiser one.
There is something uncomfortable about pausing in chess.
When you sit still and don’t move, it feels like you’re behind. It feels like you should be doing something. It feels like progress only happens when a piece advances.
But the best players don’t rush.
They study the board.
They look at the whole picture.
They consider not just what they want — but what is already unfolding.
Sometimes the strongest move is restraint.
Sometimes the most strategic choice is to wait.
And I am beginning to see how often I treat life like a rushed chess match.
If something feels tense, I move.
If something feels uncertain, I act.
If something feels uncomfortable, I rearrange it.
But what if I paused?
What if I looked at the whole board of this moment?
What if this present moment isn’t asking for a quick move — but careful attention?
| “Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10
Being In the Moment
There is a difference between enduring a moment and being in it.
Enduring waits for it to pass.
Being in it listens.
When I stop trying to rearrange reality, something shifts.
I begin to notice:
What my body is asking for.
What my emotions are revealing.
Where I am resisting.
Where I am afraid.
The moment often tells the truth long before my plans do.
Sometimes it says:
You are tired.
Sometimes it says:
You are carrying more than you admit.
Sometimes it whispers:
Slow down.
Patience is not passive.
It is attentive.
It is the courage to stay long enough to understand what is actually happening on the board before you move.
What If God Is Already Here?
Deuteronomy 31:8 |“The Lord Himself goes before you and will be with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you.”
Faith, for me, has often meant forward motion.
Prayer. Action. Intention.
But lately I am learning another layer of faith:
Trusting that God is present in the unedited moment.
Not only in the healed knee.
Not only in the resolved situation.
Not only in the lighter season.
But here.
In the ache.
In the waiting.
In the unfinished game.
Being patient in the present moment does not mean resignation.
It means believing that this moment is not wasted.
It means trusting that clarity often comes to those who stay.
A Gentle Practice
If today feels heavy for you, perhaps try this:
Pause before your next decision.
Sit with one feeling for sixty seconds without correcting it.
Ask quietly: What is this moment showing me?
Not:
How do I fix it?
But:
What is it telling me?
You may find that patience is not about doing less.
It is about seeing more.
There is a great deal I do not know right now.
I do not know what surgery will bring, or how my body will respond in the days that follow.
I do not know how the coming weeks will unfold — for my family, for my daughter’s journey, for the tender spaces we are all walking through.
And I do not know how every thread of this season will weave together.
There are moves on the board that are not mine to control.
Outcomes I cannot force.
Moments I can only enter with open hands.
But perhaps I do not need to know.
Perhaps this moment is not asking for certainty.
Perhaps it is asking for trust.
For staying before I move.
For listening before I react.
For believing that even here — especially here — God is already present.
If I am quiet, I can feel it.
A steadiness beneath the unknown.
And maybe that is enough for today.
With love, laughter, and quiet courage,
Renée 🌿
