Sixty Degrees of Faith

I was driving home from work tonight, the kind of evening that feels ordinary until it suddenly isn’t. The sky had already settled into darkness, but the city lights stretched just far enough to outline the road ahead — soft, steady, familiar. Above them, the stars pushed through the cloud cover like they were determined to be seen. It was sixty degrees in January, the kind of gentle warmth that shouldn’t make sense but somehow does. And in that warmth, I could smell it — the faintest hint of spring.

It’s too early for it, technically. But there it was anyway. A shift in the air. A quiet promise. A reminder that seasons don’t always wait for permission to change.

As I drove, worship music filled the car, not loud, just present — the kind of soundtrack that settles into your chest more than your ears. And with it came the thoughts I’ve been carrying lately, the ones that live in the space between hope and surrender. The even ifs.

Even if I don’t get the opportunity I’m rooting for. Even if the timing isn’t mine to control. Even if the next step feels bigger than I expected. Even if the answer is “not yet.”

There was a time when those thoughts would have tightened my shoulders or sped up my heartbeat. A time when uncertainty felt like failure and waiting felt like falling behind. But tonight, with the road lit just enough and the stars showing up anyway, the even ifs didn’t feel heavy. They felt honest. They felt like faith.

Because the truth is, I’ll be okay. Not because everything will go exactly the way I want it to, but because every season — even the confusing ones, the stretching ones, the quiet ones — has carried me somewhere I needed to go. Every shift has taught me something. Every delay has shaped me. Every closed door has redirected me toward something better aligned.

And maybe that’s what I was smelling in the air tonight — not just spring, but possibility. Not just warmth, but hope rising in its own timing. Not loud, not dramatic, just steady. Just enough.

So I drove home with the windows cracked, letting the night air move through the car, letting the music settle my thoughts, letting the even ifs become a kind of peace instead of a fear.

Because even if things don’t unfold the way I imagine, I’m still exactly where I’m supposed to be. And that’s enough for tonight.