It all began with Nehemiah.
It was a quiet morning, and I was returning to the book of Nehemiah, a familiar place I go when I sense that something is being built or rebuilt within and around me. Whether it’s reconstructing personal rhythms, parenting with renewed intentionality, or stewarding fresh assignments, Nehemiah always seems to meet me right where I am. But this time, something different stood out. A holy ah moment rose in my spirit, not because of Nehemiah’s leadership or the burden he carried, though those are always compelling, but because of something tucked more quietly in the text: the time markers.
Nehemiah 1:1 says:
“Now it happened in the month Chislev, in the twentieth year, while I was in Susa the citadel…”
And in Nehemiah 2:1:
“And it came about in the month Nisan, in the twentieth year of King Artaxerxes…”
These weren’t just passing details. The Spirit wouldn’t let me move on quickly. Why were these months mentioned? Why were they significant enough to be included in Scripture?
That question became a doorway. One I didn’t expect to walk through, but as I leaned in, it ushered me into an unexpected journey—into the times and seasons ordained through the Hebrew calendar and how they give us language and framework for discerning what God is doing in and around us.
What I discovered began to change how I viewed time, prayer, and my posture in seasons of tension. It brought me face to face with a truth I could no longer ignore: God is a God of timing, and often, His divine work unfolds in rhythms and seasons that require spiritual sensitivity.
From Nehemiah to Now
The month of Chislev was when Nehemiah received devastating news—Jerusalem’s walls were broken, and its people were in great distress. That moment ignited grief, fasting, and intercession. Yet it wasn’t until the month of Nisan, roughly four months later, that the king noticed Nehemiah’s sorrow and released him to go and rebuild.
Those four months weren’t wasted. They were holy. They were full of prayer, discernment, and divine preparation.
As I reflected on these months, I looked up where we were in the Hebrew calendar. I discovered we were in the month of Av, a time historically marked by devastation, sorrow, and destruction. According to Jewish tradition, both the First and Second Temples were destroyed during this month, specifically on the ninth of Av (Tisha B’Av). It’s considered one of the lowest points in the Jewish year.
And yet… even here, I sensed the weight of God’s presence.
I began to feel a heavy burden. In recent weeks, destruction has seemed to loom everywhere: floods, fires, persecution, earthquakes, and economic strain. While these tragedies hadn’t touched my family directly, they deeply touched my spirit. I found myself weeping over headlines and hurting for people I’ve never met. I was grieving for the state of the world, and yet fully aware that I was still protected.
That’s when Psalm 91 came to me, not just as comfort, but with conviction:
“A thousand may fall at your side and ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you.” —Psalm 91:7 (ESV)
It’s a verse many of us cling to, especially in uncertain times. But as I read it slowly, I wasn’t just comforted by the promise; I was moved by the pain it described. Thousands falling. Lives unraveling. Homes lost. And amid all that destruction, the question arose in my spirit: What is my role in this moment?
The answer came gently but clearly: compassion.
Yes, I am covered. But coverage doesn’t cancel compassion. In fact, it should intensify it. We are not spared, so we can remain comfortable; we are spared so we can become intercessors, burden-bearers, and light-carriers.
The Tension We’re Called to Hold
Throughout Scripture, we see people of God holding this holy tension. The prophets lamented. Jesus wept. Paul described himself as “sorrowful yet always rejoicing” (2 Corinthians 6:10). This is not a contradiction. It is a spiritual depth that refuses to bypass pain in the name of victory.
We are called to hold both the devastation of destruction and the promise of God’s presence. To see the ruins and still speak of restoration. To mourn what’s lost and still expect what’s coming.
This is where the Spirit began to invite me into Selah moments.
The Selah Invitation
The word Selah, used frequently in the Psalms, means to pause, reflect, and consider. It’s more than a poetic break; it’s a spiritual posture. In a world that rushes to react, Selah invites us to slow down and seek God’s heart before we speak, move, or try to fix.
In this season, I believe we are being called to pause, to sit with the weight of what’s happening in our world and bring it before the Lord with reverence and listening hearts.
The duality of destruction and spiritual depth is real, and it is holy. It doesn’t mean God is distant. It means God is near. Near to the brokenhearted. Near to the mourning. Near to those who seek Him.
He is not only the God who rebuilds cities, but the God who rebuilds us.
So, may we be women who don’t rush past the rubble. May we pause, reflect, pray, and then act. May we stand firmly in faith and tenderly in love. And may we find, even in the month of destruction, a God who gives beauty for ashes, joy for mourning, and a garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness (Isaiah 61:3).
Selah.
