We are back in the Kalahari after a blessed Easter weekend spent with our children. The season is slowing changing. Mornings arrive gently, unhurried, as soft rain clouds gather and drift across the green savannah on the Kalahari. The landscape seems to breathe more slowly now. Even time feels less insistent.
By late afternoon, the sky begins its quiet transformation — muted golds deepening into burnt orange and soft reds. Autumn reveals itself not in sudden change, but in layered colour: in the fading light across the grasslands, in the long shadows stretching over the earth, in the hush that settles before evening.
As I sit and watch a storm forming in the distance, slowly moving across the open landscape, I am reminded of something I read in a devotional by Lysa TerKeurst. Yes, I always want to fill in the blanks, have all the answers, and find solutions quickly. But without the blanks in my life, I leave Him no room to enter and write His answers.
He does not make mistakes. He purposes the gaps.
And this thought lingers with me — not as something fleeting, but something that settles deeply in my heart.
He allows sacred spaces. Blank places. He leaves room.
And perhaps that is what these Kalahari afternoons are teaching me too. There is a particular kind of stillness here — one that cannot be manufactured or rushed. The wind moves slowly across the open land, the horizon stretches endlessly, and even the rain seem to pause before it arrives.
In these pauses, life feels uncluttered. Honest. Spacious.Sacred.
It is here, in the quiet in-between, that I find myself drawn to simple rituals. A pot of tea. A well-worn plate. Something sweet from the oven, made not in haste, but in rhythm with the land.
So, make this quick coconut pie with me. Brew your cup of tea, grab your journal, and sit with me. Allow the gaps. It is sacred spaces.
– Aldalene
