Waiting For Proof - and Writing Anyway

Most days, when I sit down to write, I don’t feel especially brave or inspired. I feel ordinary. I make my tea the same way I always do. I open the same document. I reread the last paragraph I wrote and wonder—quietly, not dramatically—if I’m doing any of this right.

I tell myself I’ll keep going after I feel more certain. After I’m more confident. After I see some kind of proof that this book matters.

But books, like faith, rarely offer proof in advance.

I’m in the middle of writing my first novel, and the middle is a humbling place to be. The beginning had excitement and possibility. The ending, I imagine, will have some sense of resolution. But the middle is made up of days that look a lot alike. Days where progress is measured in paragraphs instead of breakthroughs.

This is the part where I’m tempted to ask for reassurance before I keep going.

I want to know the story will come together. I want to know I’m not wasting time. I want to know I’ll finish.

And somewhere along the way, I’ve realized how familiar that pattern is.

When life is going smoothly, it’s easy to rely on my own effort. I show up, I work hard, I manage things. Faith slips quietly into the background—not abandoned, just assumed. But when things feel uncertain, when the outcome isn’t clear, I start looking for evidence. I want confirmation before obedience. I want clarity before trust.

Writing this book has been a gentle mirror.

I can’t force the story into shape. I can’t rush the process without losing something important. And I can’t always tell, on a given day, whether the pages I’m writing are good ones, or if they’re terrible. All I can do is show up and work faithfully with what I’ve been given.

There are days when the words come easily, and days when they hardly come at all. Days when I feel close to God in the work, and days when He feels quiet. But I’m learning that quiet doesn’t mean absent. It often means I’m being asked to keep going without the comfort of certainty.

I used to think faith in writing would look dramatic—clear direction, confident steps, visible progress. Instead, it looks like small choices repeated over time. It looks like trusting that the work has value even when no one else sees it yet. It looks like believing that God is present in the ordinary act of putting one more honest sentence on the page.

Lately, my prayer before I write has become very simple.

Help me be faithful with today’s pages.

Not the whole book. Not the outcome. Just today.

That prayer has taken some pressure off. It reminds me that I don’t need proof to keep going—only willingness. Willingness to do the next small thing. Willingness to trust that faithfulness matters, even when the results are hidden.

I think this is true beyond writing.

So many parts of life ask us to move forward without guarantees. Healing. Forgiveness. New beginnings. We often want evidence that things will turn out well before we take the next step. But faith, at its core, has always been about trusting what we already believe, even when we can’t yet see how the story will resolve.

I don’t know exactly how this book will end. I don’t know when it will be finished, or who will read it, or what it might mean to anyone else. But I do know that showing up—steadily, imperfectly—has already changed me.

And for now, that’s enough.

If you’re in a middle chapter of your own—working, waiting, hoping—I hope you’ll give yourself permission to stop asking for proof and start honoring faithfulness instead.

Sometimes the miracle isn’t the finished thing.

Sometimes it’s simply continuing.

I’d love to hear from you:

Where are you tempted to wait for proof before taking the next step?