What If This Is the Good Part?

I think I’ve spent a lot of my life waiting for the part where everything clicks into place.

The part where I feel settled. Certain. Completely sure of who I am and where I’m going.

The part where the questions have answers and the things I’ve been praying about finally make sense. The part where I’m not juggling quite so much, where the calendar feels a little less full, where I finally feel like I’ve caught up.

You know—the good part.

But lately, I’ve been wondering something else: What if this is the good part? Not someday. Not when I’ve figured everything out. Not when the next thing happens. This. Right here.

I’m really good at looking ahead. There’s always something coming. Another Sunday. Another project. Another deadline. Another event. Another season. Another idea I’m already turning over in my head before I’ve finished the one in front of me.

Some of that is simply part of who I am. I love dreaming about what could be. I love creating things and building things and imagining what might come next. Still, there’s a difference between looking forward to something and living like the present is simply the waiting room for it. I don’t want to miss my life while anticipating the next version of it.

When I really pay attention, there is so much here that I once hoped for. There are people I prayed would be part of my story. There is work that matters to me. There is ministry that stretches me and reminds me that God can use things I never expected Him to use. There are conversations that make me laugh until my stomach hurts. There are little hands that reach for mine. There are texts from people who know exactly when I need them. There are cups of coffee that go cold while I’m distracted doing something I care about.

There are ordinary mornings. Messy afternoons. Really long days. And somewhere in all of it, there is joy. Not the loud kind. Not always the kind you photograph or post about. Just the quiet realization that this life—imperfect and unfinished as it is—is happening right now.

I think we sometimes imagine the “good part” of our story as the highlight reel The big yes. The answered prayer. The accomplishment. The celebration. The moment we finally understand why everything happened the way it did.

Most of our lives aren’t lived in those moments. They’re lived in kitchens and cars and offices. They’re lived on Sunday mornings and random Wednesday afternoons. They’re lived in grocery store aisles, bedtime routines, coffee runs, meetings, phone calls, laundry piles, conversations in parking lots, and five quiet minutes before everyone else wakes up.

Ordinary isn’t something we have to hurry through to get somewhere more meaningful. God is here, too.

Throughout Scripture, God has a habit of meeting people right in the middle of regular life. Moses was tending sheep. The disciples were fishing. Mary was simply living her life in Nazareth. People were walking roads, drawing water, eating meals, doing their jobs—and God kept showing up.

Holy moments weren’t always announced as holy moments. Sometimes people only realized what they had experienced after they were already standing in the middle of it. I wonder how often I do the same.

How many times have I prayed, God, show me where You are, while standing in a moment I will someday wish I could visit again?

There are parts of my life right now that are hard. There are questions I still don’t have answers to. There are places where I’m discerning and waiting and wondering what God is doing. There are things I wish were different.

Recognizing the goodness of right now doesn’t mean pretending those things aren’t real. Joy has never required that.

I’ve been thinking about the younger versions of me lately. The girl who wondered what her life would look like. The woman who prayed for things she couldn’t see yet. The version of me who worried she was behind. Who thought she’d eventually reach some magical age where she’d have herself completely figured out. I wonder what she would think if she could see me now.

Not the polished version. The real one. The one with too many tabs open in her brain. The one reheating the same coffee. The one who still questions herself. The one who gets overwhelmed and overthinks and sometimes wonders whether she’s doing any of this right. I think she’d still recognize some of her prayers.

That stops me in my tracks. It’s easy to become so accustomed to the life we’re living that we forget some pieces of it were once things we desperately hoped for.

There will be more. More stories. More changes. More prayers. More things I haven’t even thought to dream about yet. There will be chapters that surprise me and ones I probably wouldn’t choose for myself. There will be beginnings and endings and moments that rearrange everything I thought I knew.

I don’t need to rush toward them. I don’t need to turn every good thing into a stepping stone toward something bigger. I don’t need to ask every season, Okay, what’s next?

Sometimes I can just be here. I can drink the coffee. I can sit a little longer. I can laugh with my people. I can notice the sunlight coming through the window. I can let an ordinary moment be an ordinary moment without demanding that it teach me something profound. I can thank God for a life that is still unfinished.

Perhaps that’s part of what joy in the story has been teaching me all along. Joy isn’t waiting at the end. It’s scattered throughout the pages. Sometimes it’s obvious. Sometimes you have to look for it. And sometimes you don’t recognize it until you stop trying so hard to get to the next chapter.

So I’m trying to stop waiting for the good part. I’m trying to notice what’s already here. The people. The laughter. The work. The questions. The growth. The mess. The coffee. The ordinary. The holy.

This life isn’t perfect. Neither am I. There are still things I’m waiting for, things I’m working toward, and things I’m asking God to help me understand.

A life doesn’t have to be finished to be good. I don’t have to know what comes next to love what is here. Someday I may look back at this season—the full calendars, the big questions, the little moments I almost overlooked—and realize I was living inside something beautiful.

Then again, I don’t have to wait until someday to realize it.

What if this is the good part?