Learning to Lean

The Way Faith Grows

I have been thinking a lot about faith lately, and how it does not arrive all at once or fully formed, but instead grows over time through experience, through questioning, through moments of both clarity and uncertainty, and through a willingness to keep moving forward even when the path is not entirely visible.

Leaning into faith is not something we are born knowing how to do. It is something we learn, slowly and sometimes reluctantly, as life unfolds around us. There is no straight line, no single moment where everything suddenly makes sense. Instead, we weave our way through, sometimes with intention and sometimes simply doing the best we can with what we have been given, trusting that even when we feel uncertain, we are still being guided.

And I think, in some quiet and shared way, we are all seeking. We are all searching for something that fills us, something that brings a sense of love and joy and grace, something that connects us to one another and to something greater than ourselves.

What Bread Has Taught Me

For me, that learning has been unfolding in my kitchen.

I am learning to lean. I am learning to lean into my faith in a way that feels less like striving and more like trusting, less like controlling and more like allowing. It is becoming part of my daily life, not in a way that feels forced, but in a way that feels natural and steady, like something that has always been there waiting for me to notice.

Bread has taught me more than I ever expected. It has taught me about patience and letting go, about forgiving what does not go as planned, and about trusting a process that cannot be rushed. It has given me a kind of clarity and discernment that I did not have before, the ability to pause, to observe, and to respond rather than react.

When I think about this, I am reminded of the story of manna in the Bible, how it was provided daily, just enough for what was needed, no more and no less. There is something deeply comforting in that. The idea that what we need is given to us, often in quiet ways, often one day at a time, and that our role is simply to receive it and trust that it will be there again tomorrow.

A Season That Has Asked Much

This season of my life has been one of the most challenging I have ever walked through, and at the very same time, it has been one of the most rewarding.

I have carried a heavy heart in this season. There have been moments that have asked more of me than I thought I had to give, moments that have required me to keep going even when I felt uncertain, moments that have stretched both my body and my spirit in ways I did not expect.

And yet, within that, there has been growth.

Not always visible. Not always easy. But present.

The Lesson That Keeps Returning

The most profound lesson I am learning is this.

I am never alone.

Not in the quiet moments. Not in the difficult ones. Not in the spaces where I feel unsure or overwhelmed. There is a presence that remains steady, even when everything else feels like it is shifting.

God has provided me with everything I could ever want or need.

The challenge, the place where the real work happens, is in recognizing that. In being willing to see it. In allowing myself to trust that what is being given is enough.

The Wisdom to Know the Difference

There is a part of the Serenity Prayer that I have struggled with for a long time.

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.”

It is that last line that has always felt just out of reach. The wisdom to know the difference.

And yet, lately, something has been shifting.

I am beginning to see more clearly. Not perfectly, not all at once, but in small moments, in quiet realizations, in the gentle understanding that comes when I am willing to pause and listen rather than push forward.

That wisdom does not arrive in a rush. It unfolds, slowly, over time, as I continue to lean.

Leaning and Learning

If I had to name this season of my life, I think that is what I would call it.

Leaning and learning.

Learning to trust what I cannot see. Learning to release what I cannot control. Learning to recognize what is being placed in front of me and to receive it with gratitude instead of resistance.

It is not a perfect process.

But it is a real one.

And for now, that is enough.

Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb