Presence Over Praise

There is something sacred in the ordinary. A simple door. A gate. A threshold. A doorkeeper. The one who watches, opens, welcomes, guards.

In the temple system of old, the doorkeeper had no glamorous role. Few songs were written about him. He rarely stood in the spotlight. But without him, people might not enter; without him, the way could remain closed; without him, the gathering place could be compromised.

And so I begin by being honest: I am still learning what it means to wait well. I am still learning what it means to trust God with seasons when nothing seems to happen.

I am still learning what it means to serve even when recognition is delayed, to care even when nobody seems to notice, to believe that the small tasks matter — perhaps more than the big ones. I don’t claim to have fought great battles and arrived at full victory in every area. What I do claim is this: I’m learning. Day by day. Step by step. One moment at a time.

For many years I believed that ministry meant influence. I assumed that if I did well, if I spoke often, if I taught well, if I led well, if I had the right opportunities, doors would open, people would notice, applause would come. But over time I discovered that what matters most is not how many people saw me, but how many encountered God through me.

I tried to be consistent in teaching, caring, leading. I hoped for wider roles. I expected certain doors to open. But sometimes those doors stayed closed. Some speaking or leadership roles never came. I held quiet hopes—for invitations, for broader responsibility, for recognition—but often I was simply asked to stay: to serve, to support, to wait, to keep loving people, even when things seemed mundane or unnoticed. In those seasons, I quietly discovered God shaping something in me: humility, perseverance, faith, patience, trust—even when I didn’t know what the outcome would be.

There were days when I felt restless. Tired of waiting. Trying to push ahead before God had opened the way. Questioning whether small roles mattered. Questioning whether anyone noticed. But also learning, slowly, that being present matters more than being promoted. That showing up matters more than standing out. That faithfulness often looks like staying when leaving seems easy. That sometimes the greatest work is unseen.

It was during this time that I discovered the words of Psalm 84 — a song for pilgrims, for those on the move, for those who long for God but know the way is not without challenge.

Spurgeon called it “the pearl of Psalms.” I wasn’t using the psalm because I had arrived; I was using it because I needed it. Because it spoke what my heart already felt: longing. Waiting. The cost of journey. The need to press forward even when the route is uncertain.

“How lovely are your dwelling places, O Lord of hosts! My soul longs, yes, even faints, for the courts of the Lord; my heart and my flesh sing for the living God.”

That longing is not clean, polished, or always strong. Sometimes the soul is weak. Sometimes it faints. Sometimes the flesh is discouraged. Sometimes the noise of life drowns out the still, small voice. Yet the yearning remains. The recognition: God is beautiful. God is holy. God is worth seeking. The heart and flesh respond; the whole person sings.

“Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, at your altars, O Lord of hosts, my King and my God.”

That image humbles me. The sparrow. The swallow. Vulnerable birds. Small. Easy to overlook. But they nest by your altar. They find rest where sacrifice is made, where atonement is offered, where forgiveness speaks. And God welcomes them there. Not because they are impressive, but because they are present. Because they are near. Because they are humble. Because they build their nests where grace is found.

“Blessed are those who dwell in your house, ever singing your praise! Blessed is the one whose strength is in you...”

To dwell means more than visit. More than attend a meeting. More than perform duties. It means to live in, to abide, to make home near God. I want my identity wrapped up in being close to God—not just in what I do, but in who I am with Him. And strength? Not from what people give me, not from applause, not from platform, not from recognition. But from God. My true source. My foundation. My resource. My courage. My sustainability.

“When they go through the valley of Baca they make it a place of springs; the early rain covers it with pools.”

Yes, there are valleys. Sometimes seasons of drought. Times when I’m unsure of what’s ahead. Times when I wonder if things will ever move. Times when fatigue and frustration threaten. But this psalm says: the valley doesn’t have to remain only sorrow. It can become refreshment. It can become a source. It can collect pools of blessing. The early rain helps. The hardship can yield resilience. The journey matters. What seems like waiting may be forming strength. What feels like delay may be building capacity.