The Quiet Before the Move

I spent the day clearing out a curio cabinet, wrapping small, intricate pieces and tucking them back into their original styrofoam homes. Safe. Nestled. Waiting for whatever comes next.

There’s something strangely grounding about packing before you know where you’re going. It’s not optimism. It’s not impatience. It’s preparation in its purest form — the kind that comes from instinct, not urgency.

Each piece went into the box with a kind of quiet trust. A trust that says: I don’t know where I’m headed yet, but I know I won’t be here forever.

And somewhere in the middle of all that wrapping and sorting, Canvas and Clay came to mind — that reminder that God is the artist and the potter, and I’m the clay. That He shapes, forms, refines, and makes all things work together for my future and for my good. It pulls me back into trust. Trust in the process. Trust in where I am right now. Trust in where my path will go, even if I can’t see the full picture yet.

Packing feels small, but it’s movement. It’s momentum. It’s a quiet yes to whatever is coming.

I can feel a shift on the horizon. That mix of scary and exciting that always shows up right before life changes. And it helps to remember that every small step shapes the next one. The choices I make today shape who I become tomorrow. Nothing is wasted. No step is too small. No moment is a failure or a mistake.

The trick is: I don’t know where these boxes are headed. Not yet. But I can feel the timing. And I have a sense that when the next chapter arrives, it’ll arrive fast, the kind of fast that doesn’t wait for you to get your life in order.

So here I am, prepping. Clearing. Making space. Not because I have the offer in hand, but because I’m choosing to trust the One who shapes the path long before I walk it.

Sometimes readiness isn’t about knowing. It’s about trusting the pull. It’s about packing the cabinet anyway.