Push forward not pull back.

Push forward not pull back

It’s Darkest Before the Dawn

There are seasons where the night doesn’t just feel long… it feels personal.

Not because you stopped loving God. Not because you stopped believing. But because the darkness starts talking. It starts whispering conclusions. It starts pressing you to write endings you were never authorized to write.

“This is it.”

“This is as far as I go.”

“This is how my story ends.”

And the reason those words feel so convincing is because they usually arrive when you’re tired. When you’ve prayed, and it feels like nothing moved. When you’ve tried, and it still didn’t shift. When you’ve stayed faithful longer than anyone knows, and the only thing that seems to multiply is pressure.

But I’ve learned something in the crucible of real life, not theory: the moment that feels like the end is often the moment God is setting the stage for a turn you could never produce on your own. The night doesn’t last forever. And the darkest part is often the final stretch before the dawn breaks.

I’m not saying that to give you a cliché. I’m saying it because I’ve lived it.

And I believe God is speaking to people right now who are standing in that pressure-filled space where you’re being tested, not only in what you believe, but in whether you’ll keep your integrity when it costs you comfort. Because one of the most intense forms of darkness isn’t always an external battle. It’s the internal tension between what would be easier and what is right.

There was a season in my life, years ago now, when I was working in a governmental institution in a leadership role. I carried real responsibility. I oversaw a critical section and had people under my authority—people whose performance, conduct, and outcomes mattered. This wasn’t an environment where things were casual. Decisions had weight. Reviews had consequences. Integrity wasn’t just a word we admired. Integrity was the backbone of leadership.

And in that season, I had a subordinate who, to the eye, seemed impressive—charismatic, capable, and the kind of person who could easily be favored by the wrong people for the wrong reasons. But behind the scenes she had entered into a secret relationship with one of my superiors. It was hidden. It was immoral. And it was destructive. She was married. He was married. Yet they were operating in secrecy, and secrecy always creates a shadow—because sin doesn’t just break vows, it contaminates atmospheres.

Then came the annual performance review.

That moment where you’re required to put truth on paper. Where you evaluate not based on who someone knows, but on what they’re actually doing. So I did the review honestly. Not cruelly. Not vindictively. Simply truthfully. I assessed her work, her output, the reality of what was being produced, and it came up lacking. So I submitted the review to my superior.

That’s when I learned something many people only learn when it costs them: sometimes you don’t get resisted for being wrong—you get resisted for being honest.

My superior called me into his office and looked me in the face and said he wanted me to change it. He wanted me to soften it. He wanted me to alter the record. He wanted me to give her a good report.

And right there, the crossroads opened.

Because in one direction there was peace—temporary, artificial peace—built on compromise.

In the other direction there was integrity—costly, lonely integrity—built on truth.

So I told him I couldn’t do it.

Not because I wanted conflict. Not because I was trying to be dramatic. But because it wasn’t integrity, and I could not put my name under a lie. I could not adjust the truth to protect someone else’s secret. I could not become complicit in something God was already shining His light on.

And the moment I refused, something began.

Not loud persecution at first. Not a public explosion. It was subtler—and that’s often worse. Because subtle persecution hides behind plausible deniability. It hides behind smiles. It hides behind “concerns.” It hides behind innocent questions that aren’t actually innocent.

And slowly, like poison moving through a system, gossip started.

Not only inside the office, but it began to spread wider than I expected. Conversations. Side comments. Insinuations. A slow attempt to undermine my character, my integrity, my credibility. And when people attack your character, it doesn’t just affect how you’re viewed. It tempts you in your inner world. It tempts you to panic. It tempts you to defend yourself. It tempts you to try to control the narrative.

And in the middle of that darkness, I felt the Lord speak with such clarity:

“It is darkest before the dawn.”

Then He said something that went against every natural instinct in me:

“I don’t want you to defend yourself. If you do not defend yourself, I will be your defense.”

I want you to understand how hard that is. Because when you’re being falsely spoken about, your mind doesn’t want to pray first—it wants to explain first. It wants to correct the record. It wants to gather proof. It wants to win the argument. It wants to protect your image.

But the Lord was teaching me something deeper than winning an argument. He was teaching me the difference between being right… and being clean. Because you can defend yourself and still be right, but become contaminated in spirit. You can win the battle in public and lose peace in private. You can speak truth and still do it in a way that twists your heart.

And God was after my heart.

The Lord kept repeating it: don’t defend yourself. Don’t back down. Never give up.

So I made a decision with the help of the Holy Spirit: I will stand.

Despite the attacks.

Despite the whispering.

Despite the feeling that my name was being dragged through rooms I wasn’t in.

I decided I would not move. I would not become unstable. I would not become reactionary. I would stay consistent and keep walking in what God was asking me to walk in. Because there are seasons where the breakthrough isn’t about a new door opening yet. It’s about whether you can stand still without compromising while you wait for God to move.

And then… suddenly… everything shifted.

It wasn’t gradual. It wasn’t a slow improvement. It was like the tide turned.

Doors began to open that I never could have forced open. I was offered positions I never dreamed I’d be considered for—roles that felt beyond my qualification, beyond my timeline, beyond my reach. And I was promoted earlier than what was normal within the system—well ahead of patterns that others had followed.

And it wasn’t because I defended myself.

It was because God defended me.

And looking back now, I can see something even deeper that God was doing in me. I believe that season didn’t just protect my integrity in a governmental setting—it prepared me for a life in ministry. Because many times, the moment you step into your assignment to advance the kingdom of God—and we are all called to advance the kingdom in our own sphere—you discover there are forces of darkness that do not want the reality of the kingdom of God moving forward. Sometimes the resistance isn’t random. It’s spiritual. Sometimes you get attacked not because you did something wrong, but because you refused to cooperate with darkness. And the Lord used that season to teach me how to stand when my name was being questioned, how to stay clean in the middle of pressure, how to resist the urge to fight back in the flesh, and how to let heaven do what only heaven can do. Because ministry will demand that of you again and again: not just gifting, not just revelation, but character under fire.

And here’s another truth that the Lord has been impressing on me more and more as the days go on: everything that can be shaken will be shaken, but what will remain will be the Lord. In seasons of shaking, God is not trying to destroy you—He is trying to expose what you’ve been leaning on. He is removing the props, the illusions, the false supports, the need for human approval, and the craving to control outcomes. And when all of that gets shaken loose, what remains is the unshakable foundation: Christ Himself. That’s why you cannot afford to compromise in a shaking season. Don’t compromise your words. Don’t compromise your actions just to justify yourself. Let God be the one that not only justifies you, but qualifies you for advancement in the kingdom. Because when He opens a door, no man can shut it. And when He lifts you, no whisper can hold you down.

That’s why I’m saying to you, whoever you are reading this: the night will try to pressure you into moving prematurely. Into compromising. Into reacting. Into panicking. Into “fixing it.” But sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is what Scripture says:

“And having done all… stand.”

Stand doesn’t mean passive. Stand means anchored. Stand means unmovable. Stand means you refuse to trade your integrity for temporary relief. Stand means you decide that pleasing God matters more than being understood by people. Stand means you would rather be misjudged for a season than dishonor the Lord for a moment.

Because here’s the reality: God often steps in right before you give up—not because He was absent before, but because He is precise about timing. And the timing is not only about your circumstance. It’s about your formation.

Some of the greatest battles you will ever fight won’t be against people—they’ll be against the temptation to become like the people who hurt you. Against the temptation to let bitterness shape your voice. Against the temptation to let accusation become your language. Against the temptation to use the same weapons that came against you.

But when you refuse to partner with darkness, something begins to happen inside you. You become steady. You become unshakable. You become the kind of person who can carry responsibility without corrupting your soul. And that is exactly what the kingdom needs in this hour—people who don’t just speak about righteousness, but walk in it when it costs them.

That’s why Naomi’s story matters.

Naomi returned to Bethlehem and tried to rename herself “Mara”—bitter—because grief had convinced her the story was finished. “Call me what my pain feels like,” she essentially said. “Let my identity match my disappointment.” And isn’t that what the night tries to do? It tries to get you to rename yourself based on one dark chapter. It tries to convince you that what you’re living is what you’ll always live.

But God would not let Naomi end there.

While Naomi was renaming herself, God was redeeming her. He was arranging a harvest, a redeemer, a future, and a lineage. And the woman who said, “The Lord brought me back empty,” ended up holding a grandson in her arms and stepping into a story that would touch generations.

So hear me: God will not sign His name under an ending that fear or fatigue wrote.

Sometimes His protection feels like frustration. A door closes. A plan collapses. A relationship fails. And you think, “Lord, why?” But later you realize He was protecting you from the wrong ending. He was refusing to let you be trapped in a story that would shrink your calling. He was cutting threads that would have strangled your future. He was closing a door that looked good, but would have drained your soul. That’s not rejection. That’s mercy.

And sometimes the way God steps in isn’t through thunder. It’s through people.

There are moments in life where you’re still believing, but your arms are tired. You’re still showing up, but you’re weary. You’re not losing faith—you’re simply human. Moses knew that feeling. As long as his hands were lifted, Israel prevailed. But his arms grew heavy. And what did God do? He didn’t shame Moses. He sent Aaron and Hur to hold his hands up until the victory was complete.

That’s how heaven moves sometimes—through human hands.

So if you’ve been praying for help, don’t only look up. Look around. The answer might already be beside you. And if you’ve been feeling a nudge to reach out to someone—don’t ignore it. You might be the one God is sending to hold up someone else’s hands at their weakest point.

And then there are seasons where the battle isn’t your reputation—it’s your fire.

The heart grows tired. The passion gets quiet. Not because you stopped loving God, but because life has pressed you. You still believe, but it feels like the flame is low. That’s why Paul’s words to Timothy are so powerful: “Fan into flame the gift of God that is in you.” He didn’t say, “Find a new fire.” He said, “Stir what’s already there.”

Some of you need to hear that today: your fire isn’t gone. It’s low.

And God is not intimidated by embers. He breathes on them. He rekindles what you thought was finished. He reminds you who you are. He brings you back to the quiet place where you first met Him. He restores simplicity. He restores hunger. He restores joy—not as a performance, but as a return.

And sometimes the most discouraging season of all is when nothing is working.

Not when everything collapses—but when everything stays the same. You pray and it feels unchanged. You try and it feels unresponsive. You keep casting your net and it keeps coming up empty. Peter knew that feeling too. He toiled all night and caught nothing. Then Jesus stepped into the boat and said, “Launch out into the deep.”

Same sea. Same nets. Same fisherman. But now, Jesus was in the boat.

And one word from the Lord turned an empty night into an overflowing morning.

That’s what God does. He steps into “nothing” and turns it into “now.” He steps into frustration and turns it into formation. He steps into delay and turns it into divine timing.

And finally, let me say this—because it matters.

Sometimes the most powerful thing you ever do for God is simply not quit. It doesn’t look dramatic. There’s no spotlight. But heaven records it. Paul and Silas worshiped at midnight, bruised and chained. They sang in a place that didn’t deserve a song. And when God moved, it wasn’t just their chains that fell. Every chain fell. Their endurance became deliverance for others.

So don’t underestimate the ripple of your obedience.

Your worship in the dark can unlock someone else’s prison.

Your integrity under pressure can give someone else courage.

Your quiet perseverance can become someone else’s breakthrough.

And as we close, I want to leave you with a question that requires honesty.

Are you being used of God in advancing the kingdom… or are you being used of the enemy to tear down something God wants to build?

Because in seasons of pressure, your words become a weapon—either for heaven or for hell. Your influence can strengthen what God is establishing, or it can fracture it. The Holy Spirit builds, restores, heals, and strengthens. The accuser tears down, isolates, labels, and destroys.

And I want to challenge every one of us—whether you’re a leader or simply involved in the work of God in any way—don’t ever put yourself in a position where you’re tearing down what God is building. Because none of our words or actions are weightless. There are consequences to what we sow, and there will be accountability for how we treated what God entrusted to us. One day we will stand before the Lord, and it won’t matter what the crowd said—it will matter what decision you made, and whether it was in alignment with God’s plan or the enemy’s plan.

So if you’re in a midnight season right now, hear this as a prophetic encouragement: it is darkest before the dawn. Don’t defend yourself when God has told you to surrender your defense to Him. Don’t back down when heaven has told you to stand. Don’t quit in the hour where God often moves most powerfully.

Hold on.

The dawn is coming.

And when God steps in—right before you give up—you will finally see why He waited.

Much love.