You’ve been showing up, giving your all, and still, nothing seems to move. The numbers stall. The doors stay closed. The silence stretches on until it starts to sound like doubt.
But what if the silence isn’t absence? What if it’s something unexpected?
Imagine if everything you’ve prayed for, planted, and poured into is already forming underground — quietly, invisibly, and right on time?
I learned that lesson one evening, when light touched something golden outside my window, and I realized the miracle had been working all along.
It was one of those quiet autumn evenings when everything felt suspended between gold and stillness. The lake beyond my window shimmered faintly under the lowering sun, its surface kissed by the last whispers of light. I sat in my usual chair in the sitting room, hands wrapped around a warm mug of smoked butterscotch latte. The scent drifted through the air, with notes of vanilla, maple, and a hint of charred sweetness, curling like incense in the room. It smelled like peace. Mouth full of comfort, like a moment worth pausing for.
And then, as I gazed through the glass, something caught my eye. A flash of color on the tree outside, something unexpected. At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. But there it was, a small, round fruit glowing golden orange against the darkened bark. I blinked, leaned forward, and then rose from my chair, curiosity drawing me closer.
When I stepped out onto the deck, the crisp air brushed against my skin, carrying with it the scent of fallen leaves and earth. The trees stood still, quiet sentinels of the changing season. I looked up again, certain now of what I saw. It wasn’t just one. There were several whole, ripe persimmons, gleaming like tiny lanterns, hanging from the branches. I stood there, marveling.
Because that tree, the one on the left, wasn’t supposed to have any fruit this year.
The Memory of Disappointment
In the spring, I had watched the neighboring tree, the one on the right, come alive in a cloud of white blossoms. It had been breathtaking, the kind of beauty that makes you stop mid-step and whisper a silent thank you. Soon, little green bulbs began to form beneath the blossoms, each one a promise of a harvest to come.
Each morning, I’d step out with my coffee and look at them, tiny green promises of what could be. But week by week, they dropped, one by one. Some fell hard and green; others simply disappeared. The ground was soon littered with what could have been.
I remember feeling an odd sadness, deeper than fruit deserved, a lesson every entrepreneur mindset eventually learns:
When early signs vanish, it doesn’t mean growth stopped. It just moved underground.
But it wasn’t really about the persimmons, was it? It was about hope deferred. It was about watching something that had once been full of promise suddenly end without explanation.
By the time summer arrived, I had stopped looking. The branches were bare, and I accepted it as so. There would be no persimmons this year. Sometimes, that’s just how things go, I told myself. Some seasons are barren, and some hopes don’t bloom. Some prayers go unanswered. Or so I thought.
Why Do We Doubt the Invisible?
That afternoon, standing on my deck, I was stunned into silence. I had checked that tree dozens of times over the summer and never once saw a single bud. Not a blossom. Not a hint of life. I had no reason to expect anything. And yet, here it was, full and fruitful.
It made me pause and ask, Why do we lose hope when we can’t see what’s forming beneath the surface?
Why do we assume silence means absence?
Because somewhere between spring and autumn, I had stopped believing in what I couldn’t see. I had let my eyes dictate my faith. And in doing so, I missed what was happening quietly, invisibly, in the background. The tree hadn’t been barren after all. It had simply been preparing.
The Lesson of Divine Timing
The truth arrived quietly: the miracle had been unfolding all along, just not in my line of sight.
I hadn’t planted, pruned, or measured; I simply sipped my coffee, believing nothing was happening. Yet beneath the surface, divine timing was at work, the faith-driven success hidden in every season that appears empty.
Like so many things, in their own time, in their right season, it bore fruit. That’s what’s fascinating. It’s alignment.
It reminded me that we don’t have to force what is already ordained. The soil knows when to open. The seed knows when to wake. The sun knows when to stretch its rays toward what is ready to bloom.
We live in a world that praises speed, demands evidence, and seeks instant gratification. But divine timing is not bound by our impatience. Miracles ripen at their own pace, and faith is the act of staying open enough to recognize them when they finally appear.
How many blessings do we declare dead simply because we can’t see them yet? Many dreams have been buried because they weren’t growing on our timeline. How often do we abandon what was meant for us because we couldn’t see it forming beneath the surface of the soil? But sometimes, the quiet seasons are not about delay. They’re about alignment. Timing.
Just like that persimmon tree, life knows when the conditions are right; when the temperature, the soil, the timing, and the readiness all meet in harmony. And when that moment comes, the fruit appears. Effortless, abundant, undeniable.
The Call to Alignment
Maybe the invitation isn’t to do more, but to align more. To live attuned to the rhythm nature already honors without struggle. That’s the long-game strategy behind every sustainable breakthrough: alignment over acceleration.
The trees don’t panic when the leaves fall. The lake doesn’t resist the coming freeze. The birds don’t worry if the sky seems empty. Everything in creation trusts the season it’s in. Everything moves in accordance with divine timing. What if we lived like that?
What if, instead of fretting over what hasn’t yet shown up, we chose to believe that the unseen is simply still unfolding? Could we find peace in the waiting?
What if we trusted the slow miracle of becoming?
To be in alignment isn’t to be idle. It’s to walk in step with divine order. Doing what is yours to do, and leaving what is God’s to handle. It’s to plant, to water, to tend your own garden, and then rest, knowing that growth will happen when it’s meant to.
There’s a peace that comes when you let go of the outcome and trust the timing. That’s when miracles begin to appear like golden fruit glinting in the sun. Not because you demanded them, but because you finally stopped standing in their way.
A Gentle Reminder
That afternoon, I stayed on the deck for a long while. The sky softened into hues of amber and lilac, and the lake mirrored the quiet majesty of the trees. My latte had gone cold, but I didn’t mind. I was full in a different way, filled with awe, gratitude, and quiet joy for the unexpected blessing I could never have brought to fruition on my own.
Maybe the harvest isn’t late. What if it’s right on time? Maybe faith is simply learning to sip your coffee in peace, trusting that what you’ve prayed for is already on its way, ripening quietly in the background. Imagine, when it finally arrives, that it won’t be because you chased it, but because you were patient enough to notice it had been there all along.
Language of the Seasons
Every season speaks in its own tongue, a whisper, a hum, a hush, a song. Spring promises, summer labors, autumn fulfills, and winter teaches us to rest. The persimmon tree, in its silent obedience, reminded me that faith is not about forcing, it’s about flowing.
There are seasons to sow, and seasons to see. Moments exist when the ground seems empty, yet roots are deepening in secret. There are prayers that seem unanswered because they’re still germinating.
The miracle does not rush. It ripens. And when it does, when it finally breaks through the invisible into the visible, it carries within it the sweetness of every silent season that came before.
Don’t rush the quiet season or mistake it for a dead end. The work you cannot see is still working for you, quietly multiplying beneath the surface and preparing the ground for what’s next.
The miracle is coming, it’s maturing. Tend your garden with patience. Trust the process with faith. Walk forward with quiet confidence.
One day, when the light hits just right, you’ll see that what felt still was sacred, and what seemed delayed was divine timing in motion.
Stop checking for blossoms; the gold is already a done deal. Have faith. Remain consistent. Stay in the game long enough to see your hope break ground.
The miracle ripens in its own season, and you are right on time.