Day 183

1 Kings 17–18 | Matthew 8:1–17 | Psalm 77

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Some seasons feel like they’re on pause.

Like life is happening somewhere else—just not here.

Not now.

That’s what summer can feel like for a lot of college students.

Last week, I prayed over them during college group. A room full of twenty-somethings—all at different points in their walk with Jesus—gathered not for a retreat or a revival, but for games, cookies, worship, and time together.

And what struck me most wasn’t their hunger for food or fun.

It was their hunger for something real.

And truthfully, they’re not alone.

A lot of us are in a version of the in-between right now.

Summer might look different in adulthood—but the spiritual drift, the quiet doubts, the unstructured days that loosen old rhythms?

That part’s the same.

Not a Holding Pattern—But Holy Ground

Summer break is notoriously deceptive.

It looks like rest.

But it can quietly erode rhythms of faith.

Old habits return.

Bible reading slows.

Community thins.

And the enemy whispers, “You’ll get serious again when school starts.”

But here’s the truth:

Summer isn’t a spiritual holding pattern.

It’s the unseen soil where God plants what will one day bear fruit.

Roots grow slow.

Faith grows deep.

And formation doesn’t wait for the spotlight.

Just look at Elijah.

Before his fire-from-heaven showdown in 1 Kings 18, God took him through a series of hidden places.

First to the brook, where ravens fed him.

Then to the widow’s house, where flour and oil never ran out.

Then to the upper room, where he stretched over a lifeless boy and cried out for breath.

Each of these places was obscure.

Isolated.

Unimpressive.

But each one prepared Elijah for the moment when fire would fall.

Faith That Grows in Quiet Spaces

In Matthew 8, it’s not the crowds who amaze Jesus.

It’s the centurion.

A man who understood authority.

Who recognized power when he saw it.

Who trusted Jesus to heal without needing to see it with his own eyes.

That’s what the hidden season makes possible.

Not performance.

Not applause.

But raw, resilient trust—faith that believes even when it doesn’t feel.

That’s the prayer I prayed over them:

That this summer wouldn’t be a season of drift—but of deepening.

That it wouldn’t be a break from growth—but the birthplace of it.

And if I’m honest…

It’s a prayer I need, too.

Because while they’re in a season of transition, so am I.

While they’re stepping back from routine, I’m being pulled from mine entirely.

While they’re learning how to walk with Jesus in the quiet—I’m learning to trust Him when doors don’t open, timelines don’t move, and hope feels just out of reach.

God Is Still at Work in the Silence

Psalm 77 begins with a cry of confusion:

“Has God forgotten to be gracious?”

“Will He never again be favorable?”

But halfway through, something shifts.

“I will remember the deeds of the Lord…

I will ponder all Your work…” (v11–12)

The psalmist doesn’t get answers.

But he gets perspective.

He remembers that God was still God in the past—which means He is still God in the present.

That’s what I want our students to know.

That’s what I want to believe myself.

That the God who answers with fire is the same God who speaks in famine.

That the God who multiplies miracles is the God who sustains with the mundane.

That the God who draws crowds is still present in the quiet.

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Lord, for every person walking through the quiet in-between—remind us that You are still moving. Still forming. Still faithful. Help us resist the lie that growth only happens in motion. And teach us to trust You in stillness, in silence, and in seasons that seem slow. And when transformation comes—whether fast or slow—may we see it for what it is: Your faithfulness, unfolding. Make this summer one of formation. One of transformation.

Amen.