A Table Reflection: Epiphany on the Dock

January 7, 2026

Some seasons don’t close neatly.

They don’t end with clarity wrapped in certainty or lessons tied up with gratitude bows.

They remain raw.

Still unfolding.

That season — the one I walked through with care, conviction, and cost — is one of those.

I loved the work. I was good at it. And for a long time, that was enough to keep going. Until it wasn’t. Until something beneath the surface began asking quieter, harder questions about integrity, dignity, and what it means for work to be life-giving.

Epiphany is not always sudden illumination. Sometimes it is slow recognition — light dawning not all at once, but in moments. In conversations. In the steady presence of the right people placed beside you.

I see now that God did not waste that season. He did not abandon me in it. He paired me with companions who could walk the terrain with honesty — people who helped me trust what my heart already knew, even when the knowing was painful.

Leaving was not a rejection of the work.

It was a response to truth.

And yet — I did not leave the work entirely.

I stayed close. I shifted my posture. I stepped away from carrying the full horizon and chose instead to stand nearer to the water — closer to people, closer to the lived reality of what the work asks and gives.

I am still standing on the dock.

The rails are still beside me.

I notice them now.

They are the constraints of systems and leadership — structures meant to guide and protect, especially when visibility is low. Some rails offer safety. Others quietly serve control. This season taught me to tell the difference.

I no longer confuse the rails with the destination.

They are not the horizon.

They are simply where I steady myself while I look outward.

Like the Magi, once clarity came, returning the same way was no longer possible. Not because the road behind was evil — but because it was no longer life-giving. A different way emerged. Not louder. Not easier. But truer.

I am still learning what that season gave me.

I am still unlearning what it took from me.

Both can be true.

This reflection is not a conclusion. It is a marker — a stone placed on the Table to say: something holy happened here, even if I don’t yet have language for all of it.

Epiphany reminds me that light does not demand full understanding — only honesty. And sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is remain present in the becoming.

So I stand here.

On the dock.

Held by what steadies me.

Looking toward what is still forming.

Unfinished. Tender. Honored.

And I trust that clarity will continue to come — not all at once, but in time.