There is a kind of silence you can’t find in the day-to-day world. It doesn’t come from simply turning off your phone, or escaping to the next room. It’s the kind of quiet that wraps around you like a living thing, a hush so deep that you can hear the beating of your own heart, the stirring of your soul.
I found that silence one early morning last summer, tucked away in a small, campground in the wild heart of rural Colorado. It was just me and my little dog, Penelope, waking up to the sound of the river just outside the roll up glass door, nestled under the towering watch of the Collegiate Peaks.
The first rays of sunrise slipped through the glass in the cabin, spilling gold across the bed. I stepped outside into air that was crisp and clean, standing there in true “Missouri Girl” fashion in flip flops, on cold, wet grass. Before me stretched a view so breathtaking that words seemed almost disrespectful. A valley of untouched green, crowned with snow-kissed peaks that rose like ancient sentinels into the wide-open sky. The river sang quietly beside me, and for a long moment, I simply stood there, too full for speech.
The first thought I could articulate to go with this photo: “Thoroughly in awe of the majesty of this place God has created.” But awe hardly covers it. It wasn’t just beauty that struck me. It was smallness — my own smallness. A kind of liberating surrender, standing before something so much greater than myself. God wasn’t a distant thought or theological idea in that moment. He was here. He was real. And He was so much bigger than I had remembered.
In the months leading up to that trip, life had felt like an endless string of necessary tasks. Surviving, not thriving. Going through motions without much room for breath. Somewhere along the way, I had misplaced my joy. I hadn’t realized just how heavy my heart had become until that morning, standing under the Colorado sunrise, felt like breathing for the first time in years.
I was reminded by a song, that survival is not the end of the story. God created us for more than just making it through. His promises reach beyond mere endurance. We are not meant to live half-alive.
Romans 8:37-39 says:
“No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Those words echoed in my spirit as the sun rose higher, casting long beams across the valley. More than conquerors. Not barely scraping by. Not living a life muted by fear or exhaustion. More.
In the face of the river’s song and the peaks’ silent praise, I understood something again: God’s love is not a distant concept. It’s a living, breathing reality that meets us in our smallness. In our exhaustion. In our aching need for something more.
When you stand in a place so wild, so untouched, you realize that you were never meant to carry the weight of the world alone. You were never meant to hustle your way into worthiness. You were made to be loved by a God so vast that even the mountains and rivers are simply reflections of His grandeur.
That morning, I sat on the old picnic table next to my cabin, Penelope curled up on my lap, coffee in hand, and let the stillness press into me. I didn’t need to perform. I didn’t need to pretend to have it all together. I didn’t even need to speak. God had already spoken.
His creation whispered truths louder than any words:
- You are small, and that’s a good thing.
- You are loved, and that’s a permanent thing.
- You are more than what you’ve been surviving.
I think sometimes we lose our joy because we lose our perspective. We get caught up in survival mode, shrinking our view down to the next task, the next crisis, the next “have to.” We forget that life was never meant to be lived in a narrow hallway of obligations. God built wide-open spaces into His creation because He built wide-open spaces into our souls.
That sunrise wasn’t just a beautiful start to a week of adventure. It was a beginning — a quiet revolution in my heart. A turning point between surviving and living.
In the days that followed, I hiked trails that left my legs aching and my spirit soaring. I sat by still waters and let the Word of God unfold again fresh in my mind. I let the quiet do its holy work. I let smallness make room for awe.
If you find yourself in a season where the days blur together and your heart feels heavy, hear this: You are not alone. You are not forgotten. And survival is not your final chapter.
There is a love that spans every mountain and every valley of your life. There is a victory that is deeper than your weariness. There is a sunrise waiting to remind you that God is bigger, better, and nearer than you think.
You don’t have to stay stuck in survival mode. You were made to thrive in the vastness of His love.
You were made for awe.
