The stumble became a mirror of life’s own missteps—those moments when we move too fast, driven by our goals, desires, and schedules, without attentiveness to where we are, how we are, or even why we are moving in the first place. In our rush, we often miss a step—not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. We miss a chance to pause. We ignore the nudge to slow down. We bypass the wisdom of presence.
In that moment of standing still, unsure of what to do, I thought of Psalm 46:10: “Be still, and know that I am God.” Stillness was not something I had intended to practice that day. But the stumble demanded it. It insisted that I stop, pay attention, and reckon with the fragility of my own movement. The pain in my toe was real, but it was not the only message. The deeper message was in the shock—the abrupt interruption of my hurried rhythm and the stillness that followed.
God often speaks in the in-between places. Not always in the grand moments of celebration or the deep valleys of suffering, but in the brief, sudden pauses of life. In Elijah’s encounter with God in 1 Kings 19, we are told that the Lord was not in the wind, nor in the earthquake, nor in the fire, but in the “still small voice” (1 Kings 19:12). Could it be that God was present in that minor stumble, in that unplanned halt on the staircase? Could it be that He was inviting me to listen?
There is something deeply spiritual about stumbling. It is not quite falling, but it is a disruption of balance. It reminds us that we are human, that even our strongest steps can falter. Proverbs 16:9 says, “In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.” I had planned my day, mapped my movements, yet God allowed that single step to shake me—not to harm me, but to remind me of who really orders my path.
As I stood there, I remembered how quick I am to take motion for granted. My legs carry me without a second thought. My feet go where I send them, obediently and reliably. Until they don’t. Until they hesitate. Until they hurt. And in that brief break from normalcy, I was reminded of my own dependence—not just on my body, but on God’s sustaining grace. Paul writes in Acts 17:28, “For in him we live and move and have our being.” Even my ability to rush down stairs is a grace. I forget that sometimes.
The toe throbbed with pain, but my spirit throbbed with awareness. I began to ask myself: what else have I been rushing past? Have I missed important moments in my relationships, my prayers, or my discernment because I was too focused on moving forward quickly? Have I overlooked God’s whispers because I’ve been more attuned to deadlines than to divine direction?
Jesus never rushed. His ministry was urgent in its purpose but patient in its pace. He walked with people. He lingered in conversations. He noticed the woman who touched his garment (Luke 8:45), he saw Zacchaeus in the tree (Luke 19:5), and he wept with those who mourned (John 11:35). His steps were deliberate. Even when others pressured him to hurry, he remained grounded in the Father’s timing. That realization humbled me. My stumble revealed how often I try to outrun grace, as though the outcome depends solely on my speed.
After a while, I limped a little to test my weight. The pain wasn’t unbearable, but it reminded me to tread carefully. There was a gentleness required now—a mindfulness in each step. And maybe that is the gift hidden in the stumble: the call to be gentle with oneself, to walk with care, to live attentively. It is the same call we hear in Micah 6:8, where the prophet writes, “He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”
That kind of walk—the humble walk—requires the ability to learn from the stumble. To see it not as failure, but as a teacher. And so I’ve begun to pray differently. Not just for strength to keep going, but for the humility to stop when needed. For discernment to recognize the voice of God even in the smallest disruptions. For grace to accept that not all forward movement is progress if it comes at the expense of presence.
If you’re reading this and have recently “stumbled” in life—maybe not physically like I did, but emotionally, spiritually, relationally—I invite you to reflect. What is that stumble teaching you? What pace are you keeping, and who set it? Are you being still enough to hear the voice of God? Are you allowing yourself to feel the pain, not just to treat it, but to understand it?
You don’t have to fall to know that something is off. Sometimes, the near-falls are grace’s gentle alerts. Let them speak. Let them re-center you. God doesn’t waste anything—not even a missed step. In His mercy, He uses even our stumbles to slow us down, to open our eyes, and to call us back to the sacredness of now.
May your steps be steady. But when they falter, may your heart be open to what the Spirit might be saying through the silence that follows.
“The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, and He delights in his way. Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down; for the Lord upholds him with His hand.” —Psalm 37:23–24
What moment in your life caused you to pause, and what did you hear in the stillness?
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