A Porch Light Kind of Brave

It was already dark when I stepped outside. I didn’t really mean to take a break—I just wandered, looking for air that didn’t come with a to-do list attached. The wind was cooler than expected, like fall was hinting from the edges, and the porch light clicked on behind me.

I stood there for a minute, hands in my pockets, not doing anything. Not thinking hard. Just being.

That’s harder than it sounds.

Most days are full before the clock even starts ticking—messages to answer, plans to make, dishes to shift from one side of the sink to the other. And while I’m grateful for all of it, sometimes I just want to disappear for a minute. Not forever. Just long enough to come back softer.

I didn’t find any big answers out there. Just the porch light humming behind me and the kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled. And that was enough.

Because here’s what I’m starting to understand: being brave doesn’t always mean taking up more space. Sometimes it’s choosing to stay soft when it would be easier to go numb. Sometimes it’s doing the hard thing—again—without applause. Sometimes it’s knowing when to pause. Sometimes it’s simply showing up to your own life.

Brave can be quiet.

It can look like washing your face and starting again. Or opening the window instead of scrolling. Or telling the truth gently. Or refusing to be rushed just because the world is loud.

There’s a verse in Proverbs 31 that always gets me:

“She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.”

That laugh? It’s not carefree. It’s rooted. It knows Who holds the future—and that’s enough.

So if you’re feeling pulled in a thousand directions, if you’re wondering if what you’re doing matters, if your life doesn’t always look shiny on the outside—let me say this:

The porch light still shines. Small, steady, faithful. Just like you.

Keep going, friend. You're doing beautifully.

—The Rusted Sparrow