How the Silence Spoke

A story about grief, God, and the quiet power of building something eternal.

A few weeks ago, I was preparing to launch my new website. Everything was nearly complete—the designs refined, the copy poured over, the pages humming with presence. 

And then my grandmother died.

We were close. She was sharp-witted and fiercely independent, a woman who could slice through pretense with one arched brow. I get my stubborn streak from her. My wildness. My refusal to follow paths that are not mine. 

When my husband and I announced a couple years ago that we’d be going through our first pregnancy and home birth without any medical or midwifery assistance, she was the only family member who didn’t question me. She didn’t even express concern. She knew I could do it. She never doubted my ability to succeed. (freebirth questions this way)

So I paused.

I closed the computer, put projects on hold, and drove two days to Illinois with my husband and 1 year old daughter to sit beside my father amongst the cemetery stones, monuments to memory, as we said goodbye to our fiery red head. 

Grief cracks things open. Not just the heart—but questions. 

Old, holy ones.

Why are we here? Is what I’m doing with my life enough? Is it beautiful enough? Eternal enough? Real enough?

I started to dread returning to my work. I was afraid to even look at the website. I feared I’d suddenly hate it. That it would feel shallow. That the words I’d written would sound like noise. That the sacredness I hoped to carry into every line might have evaporated in the weight of loss.

So I avoided it. For days.

And then something quiet and divine happened.

Back home in North Carolina, at my mother-in-law’s house, a small book caught my eye. The Practice of the Presence of God by Brother Lawrence. 

He was a 17th-century French monk—though not a priest or scholar. He worked in the monastery kitchen, peeling potatoes and repairing sandals. Yet his intimacy with God was so radiant, so unshakable, that visitors and nobles sought his quiet counsel. His entire spiritual life was built not on striving, but on surrender. On treating the mundane as sacred. On letting every action—even silence—become a prayer.

I opened it at random—as mystics often do—and landed on a page about holy inactivity: A kind of waiting that isn’t avoidance, but reverence.mA stillness not rooted in fear, but in the Presence of God.mA pause that prepares the ground for divine insight.

He spoke of resting in God the way you rest in sunlight—not to escape the work, but to let the work become illuminated.

That moment shifted something in me. It reminded me that waiting is not always avoidance. That sometimes, God pulls us into silence not to delay our purpose, but to deepen it. So I returned to the website. I logged in to review just one more time...and it felt good. Not just good. Holy. Alive. I was surprised. Not because it looked right, but because it felt right—even after walking through grief and doubt.

And I realized: I had built something that could hold me, too. Not just my clients. Not just my business. Me. Because I had written it from a place of mission—not marketing. From eternal clarity—not trend. From the stillness of knowing—not the scramble of performance.

When you write from your root...when your message is shaped by your why and refined through fire...it will not shake. It will not crumble. Even when you are shaking.

That’s what I want to pass on to you today: Your brand, your message, your mission—it isn’t meant to be a performance. It’s meant to hold you through every version of yourself. This is the power of building from truth. From eternity. From the altar, not the algorithm.

So if you’re in a pause right now... I want to ask you gently: Is it holy inactivity? Or is it fear in disguise?

One leads to resurrection. The other keeps you in the tomb. May you know the difference. And may you create from a place that endures.

Questions for the One Who Creates with God:

1. Does my work still feel sacred when no one is watching?
   Or have I been building for eyes instead of eternity?

2. What part of my mission would I still carry if everything external fell away—my title, my followers, even my certainty?
   What truth would remain pulsing in my chest?

3. Where in my life have I mistaken procrastination for prayer?
   And where have I dismissed holy incubation as laziness?

4. Am I writing, creating, designing from pressure—or from Presence?
   What would it feel like to let my next offering emerge like a psalm, not a pitch?

5. What is the truest sentence I could write about why I am here?
   Would I dare to put that on my website?

6. Have I allowed grief or change to sanctify my message?
   Or have I silenced the places where God is still whispering through the ache?

7. Is my brand a monument to who I’ve been—or a living altar to who I’m becoming?
   Can it breathe with me through transformation?

8. What would I say if I believed someone’s life might change from encountering my work today?
   Would I still hold back?

9. Who am I becoming as I build this?
   And is she closer to heaven?

And if you find yourself standing at a threshold— between versions of yourself, between what you’ve built and what you’re becoming—you don’t have to navigate that alone.

The Resonance Review is a sacred space I’ve created for moments just like this. Not just for refining your website or elevating your message—but for returning to the root of your mission. For remembering why you began. For letting your work become more honest, more aligned, more eternal.

It’s part brand audit, part spiritual recalibration. A holy mirror held up to your business—so your outer presence begins to reflect the truth of who you really are.

Through May 11th, when you book your Resonance Review, you’ll receive a special support bonus: one full week of post-session guidance, to help you carry the insights into form with grace, clarity, and confidence. You don’t need to schedule the session now—just reserve it. You’ll have four months to book.

If the timing feels right… this might be your invitation. To return to your altar. To rebuild from Presence.

To rise.