Make Room, Lord, It is Good to Be Here
I looked up and noticed the bare branches towering above me, stark against the blue afternoon sky. In the distance, the moon appears small and quiet, just visible through the tangle that remains. Pruned back, the branches can make room for the moon’s gentle presence, reminding me how even what is cut away can reveal unexpected beauty. Such is the nature of detaching.
I start to weave thoughts about it in my head. I could write about this. But I pause, thinking of the work to be done as I pick up fallen branches after finishing my afternoon walk. I need to make room.
Lately I’ve been struggling to dedicate time to writing. Or maybe, if I’m honest, I’ve been struggling to write something that feels meaningful enough.
I want to write. The desire is still there. Other things have required my attention. The world just feels noisy. I don’t want to add to it.
And if I am honest, I find myself craving silence more than sentences.
I am craving peace and quiet while living this very ordinary life in a world that feels upside down.
I’ve been craving connection to people, my home, my garden, and what’s right in front of me.
Maybe I haven’t really been struggling.
Maybe I have been detaching from all the unnecessary things that pull me in different directions. I have been pulled in so many directions, too many, for some time now. Maybe you have been, too.
But I am listening to who, what, where, when, and how the Spirit is moving.
This Lent has drawn me inward. Deeper detachment. Longer stretches of silent prayer. More time in the Word. More regular interior conversations with God. A more intentional commitment to digging into my ordinary days and the work in front of me.
The cadence of discipline and routine is necessary and healing. Necessary discipline is something I have been pondering, wrestling, and may stitch together more thoughts on soon—in God’s time.
There is something sacred about making room for Him in the ordinary.
About meeting Him as we carry our cross.
About noticing Him in the smallest of moments, in the challenges, in the triumphs.
About allowing Him into the places where we come to the end of ourselves—into the rubble and ashes of the life that does not look the way we planned, hoped, dreamed, or expected.
I have been learning a lot about detachment and about how God is inviting me to meet Him within it. Maybe you are, too. It is Lent after all.
Detachment is teaching me about making room.
Surrender and detachment have a way of exposing what distracts us from who we were truly meant to be. They reveal the attachments—the good, the bad, the ugly—that quietly shape us. They humble us. They expose our fragility. They reveal our need. They loosen our grip. They draw us closer to the heart of the Father. And in that loosening, they give us a deeper freedom to love God, others, and ourselves without fear.
Perhaps in that silence, we begin to listen more closely. We become less entangled in worldly distractions. We start to recognize His voice again.
Heather Lebano
Perhaps in that silence, we begin to listen more closely. We become less entangled in worldly distractions. We start to recognize His voice again. We begin to see His glory in the small and hidden places, in the desert, in the valley, in the branches and the sky when we fix our eyes above.
This silence, this noticing, leaves me free to see all the places—ordinary and extraordinary—where He is present.
In the way the sun casts its light across the room. In the way the snow melts quietly into soil that waits to be warmed.
In the way the morning light reflects in the mirror as I greet the day. In the way the sun slips beneath the horizon beyond the steep incline as I take my evening walk.
In the way the bright moon, barely in sight, hides deep within the bare branches.
In the way I sort through closets, holding shirts heavy with memory, deciding which to keep and which to offer onward. Side note: one of the many lingering effects of grief.
In the way I let go of routines that once shaped our days—morning rituals, shared meals, familiar patterns—gently searching for a new rhythm that fits the shape of my life now.
In the way I release connections and commitments that no longer bring peace, trusting that it’s kindness—both to myself and to others—to make room for calm and clarity.
In the way I make room on shelves, in drawers, in the quiet corners of my days, letting emptiness settle without hurrying to fill it.
In the way detachment is less about discarding and more about honoring—trusting that in letting go, love is not lost but transformed, making space for something unexpected to take root.
In the friend who shows up unexpectedly to nourish us with soup and bread.
In the plant grown and rooted from a clipping that trails across a surface, stretching toward the light.
In the discipline of waking early with the puppy and the patience required to train at her pace, not mine.
In the mercy received. And in the mercy given.
The silence that comes from going deep, from releasing unnecessary attachments does not empty life of meaning. It reveals it.
When I am less entangled in noise and distractions, I am free to hear and see glory in what can feel inconsequential. I begin to notice that grace is steady, warm, and patient. It rises and sets. It melts and softens. As we detach, it grows.
And I begin to see more beauty in what feels small. In the light. In the melting snow. In the trailing plant stretching toward warmth. I realize I am simply living. And more often than I expect, I find myself thinking, Lord, it is good to be here.
May you make room for Him in your ordinary moments.
May you find space to say, “Lord, it is good to be here.”
“Lord, it is good for us to be here.”
Matthew 17:4
