Write the Vision
As this year comes to an end—it’s December 30, and everything feels quieter—I’ve been thinking a lot about where I’ve been and where I’m headed. The rush of the holidays is fading, the noise of the year has softened, and there’s this familiar in-between space where reflection meets hope. It’s the kind of moment where you realize you don’t need loud resolutions, just honest ones.
There are seasons where faith feels confident and sure, where you’re certain of what God is doing and where your life is going. And then there are seasons where faith feels quieter. Slower. More tender. Where you’re still believing, but you’re also tired, unsure, and learning how to sit with God instead of rushing ahead of Him. That’s the season I’ve found myself in as this year closes.
Habakkuk 2:2 says, “Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so he may run who reads it.” For a long time, I thought this verse was about productivity. About goals and five-year plans and having everything mapped out before you begin. I thought writing the vision meant having clarity first. But the more I sit with this verse, the more I realize it’s actually about trust.
Habakkuk wasn’t writing from a place of certainty. He was writing while waiting, while questioning, while standing watch and asking God how the story was supposed to unfold. And somehow that makes this verse feel more accessible, not less. Because most of us aren’t writing our visions from mountaintops. We’re writing them from the middle of real life, especially at the end of a year that stretched us.
For years, I told myself I had to be more healed, more stable, more put together before I was allowed to hope boldly. Debt-free first. Established first. Certain first. Only then could I write the vision. But God doesn’t say, “Write it when you’re ready.” He just says, “Write it.” So as this year closes, I did.
I wrote that I want to become debt-free. That I want to walk into the career I was actually called to, not just something that keeps me afloat. I wrote that I want financial abundance, not for luxury, but for peace and stability for my son and me. I wrote that I want a home, a real sense of security. That I want to travel and experience the world God created. That I want love that feels safe, healthy, and rooted in faith. That I want to be more like Christ. That I want joy, peace, friendships, a church, a village. That I want to become the version of myself I once believed I wasn’t worthy enough to be. Not as demands. Not as deadlines. Just as honesty.
“Make it plain” doesn’t mean make it impressive. It doesn’t mean make it perfect or pretty or share-worthy. Plain is simple. Plain is honest. Plain is admitting you don’t want to live in survival mode forever. Plain is saying you want more than just getting by. Plain is writing down the things you’ve been afraid to hope for because hoping makes you vulnerable, and vulnerability requires trust.
Habakkuk 2:3 says, “For the vision awaits its appointed time… If it seems slow, wait for it; it will surely come; it will not delay.” That line feels especially comforting as the year ends. If it seems slow, wait. Not quit. Not rush. Not shame yourself for not being further along by December 31. Just wait. Faithfully.
I’m learning that some visions aren’t meant to be chased aggressively. They’re meant to be built slowly. Brick by brick. Prayer by prayer. Small obedient steps that don’t look impressive from the outside but matter deeply over time. This coming year isn’t about having everything figured out for me. It’s about laying a foundation strong enough to hold what’s ahead.
Honey for the Hollow was never meant to be about having a polished faith or a picture-perfect life. It’s about believing that even the hollow places can hold sweetness. Writing the vision doesn’t mean I know how everything will unfold. It means I trust that God does. It means I’m willing to name the life I’m believing Him for, even as one year ends and another begins.
So if you’re sitting in this end-of-year quiet too, this is your permission to write anyway. Write the vision with shaky hands. Write it while you’re still healing. Write it even if part of you is scared it won’t happen. God isn’t asking you to see the whole road. He’s asking you to trust the One who does.
Sometimes the bravest act of faith, especially at the end of a year, is simply putting pen to paper and saying, “Lord, this is what I’m trusting You with.”
Even here. Even now.
