The Revolving Door Season

What if the in between is not a setback but a sacred forming?

I lost my job.
Twice.
In one year.

It still feels strange to say that out loud.

The first time felt shocking. The second time felt disorienting. Not devastating exactly, but unsettling. Like the ground beneath me was not as steady as I thought.

And yet what followed was not panic. It was obedience.

Not loud obedience. Not platform building obedience. Just quiet daily yeses.

Yes to applying.
Yes to trusting.
Yes to showing up.
Yes to humility.

This season has felt like standing in a revolving door.

You are moving but not arriving.
Turning but not landing.
Sometimes it almost feels playful, like that scene in Elf when he spins around laughing, delighted by the motion.

Other times it feels exhausting.

You begin to wonder
When do I step out
Am I meant to enter the building
Or walk back out to the street
How long do I keep circling

The in between does not come with instructions. It feels like waiting in a lobby without knowing your name will be called.

And yet this season has been marked by provision.

Friends who quietly showed up—
sometimes from the most unexpected places.

Texts that carried hope.
And yes, food pantry visits.

The first time I walked into a food pantry I felt the weight of it. I have always been the one organizing, planning, providing. I am used to being capable.

But something unexpected happened there.

I did not find despair.
I found dignity.

There was kindness. There was order. There was care in the way food was displayed and offered. It was not charity thrown at someone in crisis. It was community meeting need.

It felt like manna.

Not abundance for years ahead. Not certainty about tomorrow. Just daily bread. Enough for today.

There is something deeply forming about needing help. About receiving without earning. About letting others carry you when you would rather carry yourself.

I have always been a worker. A builder. A doer.

This year I have become a waiter.

And waiting is not passive.

Waiting is obedience when you cannot see the whole picture.
Waiting is faith without applause.
Waiting is trusting that the revolving door is not punishment but positioning.

Scripture is filled with these spaces.

Israel between Egypt and the Promised Land.
David between anointing and crown.
The disciples between resurrection and Pentecost.

God is not uncomfortable in hallways.

He forms people there.

I do not know where I will land.
Inside the building.
Out on the street.
Or somewhere I cannot yet imagine.

But I know this.

God has been faithful in the turning.

He has provided in ways that required humility.
He has softened places in me that achievement never could.
He has shown me that obedience sometimes looks like staying in motion without knowing the outcome.

This is not a story of arrival.

It is a story of trust.

If you are in your own revolving door season, circling and wondering, you are not behind. You are not forgotten. You are not failing.

You may simply be in the holy in between.

And God is just as present here.