The Hedge With Windows

I’m sitting by the fire on my back porch—my little sanctuary—doing what my soul does when it finally exhales: thanking the Lord.

Not in a rushed way. Not in the “I’ve got a list” way.

In the way you thank Someone when you’ve watched Him keep you alive through things you didn’t have language for at the time.

In the way you thank a Father who didn’t just provide—He covered. Who didn’t just comfort—He guarded. Who didn’t just rescue once—He kept rescuing until rescue became a rhythm.

And as I’m thanking Him for the hedge of protection, my eyes start doing what they always do when Holy Spirit is about to teach me without making it feel like teaching.

They start mapping.

I’m looking at my trees—the ones that are thicker and fuller than others, the ones still growing into their height, the ones that already feel like sentries—and I can see it: the future line of coverage. The day the branches will touch. The day the spaces will be filled. The day the perimeter becomes a living wall, taller than rooftops, dense and woven, a quiet “no” to what doesn’t belong.

And I found myself doing something almost childlike and completely holy: I closed one eye and held up my arm—like a visor, like a frame—blocking out the places that aren’t filled in yet so I could imagine the hedge complete.

All the way around.

North. East. West.

And then I moved to the south.

And I paused.

Because the south—right there—had a gap.

Not in the trees.

In the sky.

A break in the clouds.

A pocket of baby blue—soft and clean like new beginnings—draped with white puffy clouds, and then surrounded by darker blue and grayish whites like a border. Like the sky itself was saying: this is what’s breaking through.

So I did it again—closed one eye, lifted my arm—blocking out the unfinished place.

And I realized something that landed in my body before it landed in my mind:

If the hedge was fully filled in right now… from where I’m sitting… I wouldn’t be able to see that opening.

I wouldn’t be able to see the breakthrough.

And that’s when Holy Spirit whispered—so gentle it felt like breath on the back of my neck, but so certain it changed the temperature of the moment:

That’s why I left gaps.

Not because I forgot.

Not because I’m slow.

Not because you’re unprotected.

Because there are things I still want you to see from your vantage point.

And suddenly the hedge wasn’t just protection.

It was perspective.

It was the Lord teaching me that sometimes the thing we think is “not finished” is actually a mercy-window. A God-designed aperture. A viewing port.

Because we all want full coverage.

We want everything filled in.

We want no gaps, no openings, no vulnerabilities, no questions.

But the Lord—who is both shield and seer—does something only He would do:

He builds the hedge and He leaves sightlines.

He grows the wall and He keeps the windows.

So you can see.

So you can witness.

So you can learn, not from panic, but from peace.

And this is the part that undoes me: He didn’t want me to see the breakthrough from a place of striving.

He wanted me to see it from a seated position.

From rest.

From worship.

From awe.

Not from the battlefield.

From the fire.

Not from the perimeter pacing the fence line like a soldier scanning for threats.

But from the sanctuary—where gratitude makes your eyes honest and your body soft enough to recognize goodness without needing proof.

Because there is a difference between “looking” and “seeing.”

Looking can be anxious.

Seeing is often a gift.

And the Spirit will train you to see in a way that doesn’t cost your nervous system its peace.

It’s wild how physical it is.

How worship changes your posture.

How gratitude changes your breath.

How safety changes your vision.

Because when you feel unsafe, your eyes hunt for danger.

But when you feel held, your eyes start noticing openings.

Tiny clearings.

Unforced signs.

The blue patches you would’ve missed if you were only scanning the treeline.

And I realized: that gap in the hedge wasn’t a flaw.

It was an invitation.

It was the Lord saying, I am building something around you, and I am also showing you what I am doing ahead of you.

Protection behind.

Breakthrough before.

And you—right in the middle—being taught to recognize it without fear.

That’s the quiet architecture of God.

He does not just guard you from what you can’t see.

He also reveals what you couldn’t have imagined.

But not always when you demand it.

When you’re ready to receive it.

When you’re seated.

When you’re softened.

When you’re worshiping instead of white-knuckling.

So if you’re in a season where things feel “not fully filled in yet”—where there are gaps, where there are places that don’t feel complete—let this be the kindness reveal:

Sometimes God leaves a gap on purpose.

Not to expose you.

To show you.

To let you catch sight of the blue through the gray.

To let you witness a breakthrough from a place of rest.

Because there are revelations you can’t receive while you’re braced.

There are promises you can’t see while you’re sprinting.

There are openings you miss when your whole system is screaming “finish it, finish it, finish it.”

And the Lord—gentle and fierce—knows how to grow your hedge and grow your sight at the same time.

So tonight, sitting by the fire, I’m not just thanking Him for the protection.

I’m thanking Him for the windows.

For the vantage point.

For the mercy of not having everything filled in yet—because in the unfinished places, He’s still letting me see the breakthrough coming.

Not from a place of striving.

From a place of worship.

From a seated position.

From awe.

And I can feel it: this is how He teaches us to live.

Covered… and seeing.

Guarded… and guided.

Protected… and prophetic.

Because a hedge without windows might keep you safe—but it can also make you forget the sky is still moving.

And my Father doesn’t just want me safe.

He wants me awake.

He wants me witnessing.

He wants me to see what He’s doing—while I’m still at rest.

——-

I Hear the Spirit

“You’re not being teased with gaps—you’re being trusted with sightlines.

There is a mercy in what is “not yet” that religion can’t name and impatience can’t tolerate: I leave openings because I am still showing you what you will need to remember later. I am training your eyes to recognize breakthrough before it fully fills in, so you don’t mistake “incomplete” for “unsafe.”

Some things are grown as a wall.

Some things are revealed through a window.

And I am doing both at once.

So when you notice the baby-blue opening surrounded by heavier clouds, don’t reduce it to weather. Notice the pattern: I highlight the breaking, not just the building. I let you see the promise from a seated place so your body learns that provision does not require panic, and vision does not require striving.

Remain where worship has softened you. That posture is not passive—it is prophetic. From there, you will see what frantic scanning would miss. From there, you will learn to measure protection by My presence, not by your ability to control the perimeter.

And when the hedge closes—when the branches finally touch and the wall becomes seamless—you will not lose sight.

You will have already learned how to see through Me.”