Staying Here

A similar theme has come up for me a couple of times in the last two months, and it feels important to share.

On October 29, 2025, I asked a simple but tender question in prayer:

“What would you ask the Father in my behalf?”

The answer came quietly, clearly:

That you stay present. Stay with me. I am always present with you, but you start to lose focus of me when you look to the past or the future. Stay here with me.

I was reminded that safety is found here—in this moment.

You will find safety in being present with me. That is all I would ask the Father in your behalf. That you remember that I am always here in the present.

And then gently:

I love you. You are safe here and now. I can hold you if you are here with me now. I am always available for a hug.

What a beautiful reminder.

Then today, January 22, 2026, I asked another question:

“Lord, what do you want my heart to know?”

The answer came with a resonance of familiarity.

I just want you to remember that I am with you right now.

Not later.

Not once things are resolved.

Not once the fear quiets down.

Right now.

If you focus on right now, I am here. If you focus on me, I am right now.

There was no urgency in the response—only presence.

My love is prevalent. My presence is pure and can overshadow all else.

And then this invitation:

Look unto me right now and be saved right now from this moment. From your pain. The pain you feel now about the past. The projected pain of the future. The fears that dance and twirl around you and feel so real, so present.

And then, there was an invitation into movement.

Come unto me in this moment and We will dance together.

Not to fix.

Not to analyze.

To dance.

I will dance with you and everything else will fade.

That idea softened me completely.

That dancing in your heart is me. Feel the dance. Move with me.

Presence wasn’t stillness—it was connection.

Let the music of my Spirit be turned up in your mind, in your heart, in your body and your soul, and let everything else fade into the background. Disappearing from relevance. From existence.

And then this quiet truth settled in:

There is only you and me right now.

No timeline.

No proving.

No fixing.

Spin and twirl and let all else fade away. This is what is real. This is unchanging.

And finally:

Step into joy.

This is what I keep being brought back to—not control, not certainty, not answers—but presence.

Here.

Now.

With Him.

And that is enough.

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When He said His love is prevalent, I later looked up the word. It means widespread. Predominant. Powerful.

Not something I have to generate— but something already filling the room.