grace given me

Life is full of transitions. Some are monumental; others, barely noticeable. Yet each one reshapes us in ways both big and small. Lately, I’ve noticed transitions all around me. My sister and a dear friend are learning to navigate life without their spouses. Another loved one and close friend are walking through the exhausting rhythm of cancer treatments. My mom and stepdad are settling into a new home. I’m facing my first Thanksgiving without both of my kids under one roof.

Transitions weave through every part of life—in departures and arrivals, in our busy schedules and quiet times, in seasons of great change and moments of gentle adjustment, in job shifts, family plans, and the interruptions we never saw coming.

Transitions can leave us vulnerable. When they’re planned, we can pray, prepare, and often respond with the kind of peace, patience, and self-control we hope for. But when change blindsides us, our reactions often reveal what’s going on inside. Like when someone squeezes a lemon—whatever is within comes out. In moments of surprise, stress, or pain, a sourness can spring forth before we even realize it. A cutting word, a defensive comment, a fear-based decision—all tiny attempts to protect ourselves that can end up costing connection, trust, or peace.

Change exposes what we depend on. It shows us how much we crave stability and control. Our brains are wired for predictability, and when life disrupts our patterns, it’s easy to lose our footing. We long for consistency, comfort, and certainty. But when those are stripped away, something deeper is revealed: our need for an anchor stronger than circumstance.

Times of transition can be some of the hardest moments in life, but they’re also invitations to transformation. Romans 12:2 reminds us: “Let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. Then you will learn to know God’s will for you, which is good and pleasing and perfect.” We forget so easily who we are and whose we are. We suffer from a kind of spiritual amnesia—losing sight of our sure identity in Christ. Fear takes over when we forget that there is one who is always predictable, always consistent, and always for our good.

The truth is, God uses every transition—big, small, and in-between—to shape us more into his likeness. Each uncomfortable stretch is an opportunity to let him renew our minds, soften our hearts, and deepen our trust. Transformation doesn’t happen in the calm; it happens in the in-between—when we’re stepping from what was into what’s next.

I love how the apostle Paul, in several of his letters, admits that sometimes he doesn’t know exactly what Jesus would say about a given situation—but because he’s spent so much time getting to know him, he can respond with confidence rooted in Christ’s character. Imagine living that way—so close to Jesus that our first instinct is love, not fear. That our responses carry peace instead of panic, joy instead of judgment. That our thoughts align so closely with his that even when life shakes us, we remain steady.

That’s the beauty of transformation—it doesn’t just change what we do; it changes who we are. The more time we spend with him, the more we begin to reflect him. Maybe your transition right now is full of uncertainty. Maybe you’re grieving, adjusting, or waiting for something to settle. Take heart—these in-between spaces are sacred ground. They are where God refines, restores, and renews. Lean in. Let him change the way you think. Trust that he’s using every shift to form something beautiful and lasting in you.

Lord, thank you that you are steadfast and sure. Thank you for sending your son to walk in our humanity—to feel what we feel, to endure what we endure. Because he was tempted in every way, we know he understands the transitions that test our hearts. Help us to lean more fully on you. Keep us in your flow—aligned with your spirit, anchored in your truth. Use every transition to transform us more and more into your likeness. Amen.