An Invitation to Embrace the In-Between
Learning to live faithfully when you're not where you were, and not yet where you long to be
When You Don’t Know Where You Are
Sometimes, it starts with a vague restlessness. A sense that something is off, or that something is not working the way it used to. You’re not where you used to be, but you’re not sure where you're going either.
You ask yourself:
Am I just tired?
Have I lost motivation?
Was I wrong about my dreams?
Why does everything feel suspended, uncertain, like I’m waiting for something—but I don’t know what?
You try to name it: burnout, transition, apathy, disillusionment. But none of those labels quite fit. They might touch the edges of your experience, but they don’t capture the whole. All you know is that you're not moving forward like you thought you would. Or you're not where you want to be. And you’re not sure how to get there, or if “there” even exists anymore.
And then it begins to dawn on you: maybe you're not confused, lazy, or doing life wrong. Maybe you're in an in-between.
It’s not a popular place to be. It lacks markers of success. It resists clarity. And yet, it is a real place. A space where something is still happening, even if nothing looks like progress.
Why We Fear Acknowledging the In-Between
It’s not always the in-between itself that we fear. Often, it’s the acknowledgment of it.
To say “I don’t know where I am” or “I’m not sure what’s next” feels vulnerable, especially in a world that prizes clarity, confidence, and forward motion. Naming the in-between makes it real, and in doing so, we expose our lack of control. We admit we’re not progressing the way we thought we would, and that can feel like failure.
The fear grows when this season is prolonged. Delay, ambiguity, and unmet expectations begin to wear us down. We start wondering if the problem isn’t just our circumstances, but us.
And for some, the in-between isn’t just about career, relationships, or calling. It’s theological.
What do you do when the faith that once gave you certainty now feels full of questions? When the framework that used to make sense no longer holds? When the version of God you once trusted starts to feel too small for the complexities of life?
Some call this deconstruction. Others name it as disorientation or spiritual dislocation. Whatever language you use, it’s unsettling. You ask:
Is my faith unraveling?
Will I be judged for asking these questions?
What happens if I no longer speak the same language of certainty I once did?
This kind of in-between is especially difficult because many church spaces are uncomfortable with it. Doubt is often seen as dangerous. Questions feel like threats. And so we keep quiet, afraid that if we voice our wrestling, we’ll be met not with grace, but with suspicion.
But Scripture has room for this kind of in-between too. It gives us psalms of lament, the silence of Holy Saturday, the cries of prophets, and the honest questioning of Job. Faith is not always about resolution. Sometimes it’s about remaining.
Still, the fear persists. Many of us have absorbed a theology that equates faithfulness with forward motion. When we’re told that blessing means progress, healing, clarity, or promotion, then seasons of waiting or questioning feel like signs that something is wrong.
We hear verses like, “You will be the head and not the tail,” and quietly wonder why we’re still here—unfinished, uncertain, unresolved.
I’ve lived that fear. I’ve feared the uncertainty. I’ve feared that my hopes would be deferred indefinitely, or that my prayers would echo unanswered. I’ve feared that the longing itself was foolish. That I would invest years waiting for something that would never come.
But I stay. Not because I’m strong or sure, but because there’s nowhere else to go. I have to see this through. And sometimes, just staying is its own act of faith.
Like Peter, when Jesus’ words grew hard and the crowds began to walk away, I find myself saying:
“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”
— John 6:68
Even when I don’t understand, even when nothing resolves, I stay because something in me still believes he is the source. Not of easy answers, but of life itself.
God Meets Us in the In-Between
The remarkable thing is that the in-between is not alien to Scripture. It is its very soil.
Israel wandered the wilderness for forty years before reaching the Promised Land.
Joseph was sold, imprisoned, and forgotten long before his dreams were fulfilled.
Ruth gleaned in fields before redemption came.
Job sat in ashes with no answers.
The disciples hid in fear between crucifixion and resurrection.
The in-between is not where God is absent. It’s where he forms, refines, prepares.
Sometimes we assume God’s presence is proven by movement—when doors open, when things click into place. But often, his presence is more deeply revealed in the stillness that precedes motion.
When we’re not producing or achieving or receiving clear signs, God still speaks. He still walks with us. Not through grand gestures, but often in quiet sustenance, just enough light for the next step.
This is not wasted ground. It is formative ground. It is where faith matures. Not through control, but through surrender.
An Invitation, Not a Threat
We often interpret the in-between as something to overcome. We want to get through it, past it, out of it. But what if the invitation is not to escape, but to live it fully?
Throughout Scripture, God says, “Do not be afraid.” These words are not motivational slogans. They are divine interruptions. They come in moments of deep uncertainty. Before the path is revealed. Before the answer is clear.
Think of Joshua, standing at the edge of the Promised Land, not yet in it. Moses was gone. The people still carried fears from the wilderness. Joshua didn’t yet know how the battles would unfold, how the land would be taken, or how he would lead. And in that in-between—not in triumph, but in transition—God spoke:
“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”
— Joshua 1:9
This is the invitation:
To stay present.
To refuse to numb or distract yourself from the ache.
To believe that God is still at work, even when you can’t see it.
To be in-between is not to be abandoned. It is to be human. And it is to be met again and again by the God who doesn't rush formation, who doesn’t despise waiting, and who isn’t finished yet.
If You’re in the In-Between Now
Maybe that’s where you find yourself today. Somewhere between the loss and the new beginning. Between calling and clarity. Between longing and fulfillment. Between questions and answers.
Maybe it feels like your life has stalled. Like your prayers hang unanswered. Like you’ve outgrown the old but haven’t yet grown into the new.
Let me say this clearly: this is not failure. This is not evidence that you are behind or forgotten.
The in-between is sacred space. Not because it feels good, but because it’s honest. And God meets us in what’s real.
And truthfully, most of life is in-between.
We are not who we were yesterday.
And we’re not yet who we hope to become.
We’re not where we used to be.
And we’re not yet where we long to be.
We live, day by day, in the unfolding—becoming, learning, waiting, growing.
And if this is where you are, may you hear this quiet invitation:
You don’t have to be afraid.
You can let the in-between do its work in you. Let it deepen your faith, not in outcomes, but in the One who walks with you in the dark. You are being shaped, not in spite of this season, but through it.
And one day—perhaps even now, in glimpses—you will say with quiet confidence:
“I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.
Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.”
— Psalm 27:13–14