Wednesday arrived with an obscene amount of traffic at the roundabout, the kind that turns an already lengthy moment into an even longer one.
But this time, I did it silently.
No muttering. No insults. No commentary. Just breathing.
A tiny, quiet win, the kind no one sees but God.
Paul would call this “walking by the Spirit,” though it didn’t feel spiritual at all. It felt more like refusing to let irritation narrate the moment.
Sometimes spiritual formation looks like prayer. Sometimes it looks like worship. And sometimes it looks like keeping your mouth shut at a roundabout.
A victory is still a victory, even when it whispers.
Today, as I think about last week’s silent victory, I can’t actually remember what was so victorious about it. I can’t remember the exact moment I chose silence over reaction. But maybe that’s the beauty of it, the quiet wins don’t always leave a dramatic memory. They just leave a gentler version of you behind.
“Join me again tomorrow evening as the week takes a lighter turn, a tiny shift in language that somehow feels like progress.”
The Eleven One 
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