Holding Fast, Without Hardening

There are moments when letting go is not the answer.

When rest has been taken,

waiting has been endured,

and what remains is the quiet work of staying.

Holding fast is not about force.

It is not about becoming unbreakable.

It is about remaining —even when the path feels narrow,

and the strength you have is not loud.

We often imagine perseverance as tension —

clenched hands, steady resolve, unshaken certainty.

But real faithfulness is rarely dramatic.

It looks like showing up again, quietly, imperfectly,

without needing to prove how strong we are.

There are seasons when circumstances do not change,

when prayer does not lead to immediate relief,

and when the way forward remains unclear.

In these places, holding fast does not mean denial.

It means staying present —refusing to abandon what still matters,

even while acknowledging how hard it is.

Holding fast does not require hardening the heart.

It allows softness.

It allows doubt.

It allows weariness.

What it refuses is disappearance —the quiet choice to remain,

even when leaving would be easier.

This kind of perseverance does not announce itself.

It does not demand recognition.

It lives in small, faithful decisions —to stay,

to trust a little longer,

to keep walking without certainty.

And that, too, is strength —not the kind that shines,

but the kind that endures.