The Thrum of Gentleness

I am learning that gentleness is not what I once thought it was.

It is not meekness. Not smallness. Not the quiet erasing of myself to keep the peace.

Gentleness, I am discovering, lives much deeper than manners or volume.

It is the calm that exists beneath the noise of life. The hush underneath the hurry. A steady, unshakeable presence that does not need to prove itself.

It comes from contentment.

From that settled knowing of Emmanuel — God with us — not as an idea I reach for, but as the ground I stand on. My position. My place.

From here, gentleness is not fragile.
It is resonant.

Like a steady thrum beneath all things. Like a deep vibration of truth that hums quietly, faithfully, whether I am aware of it or not. I hear it most clearly in still moments, but it does not disappear when life grows loud.

This gentleness holds me.
And here is the beautiful surprise: it does not cancel out my fire.

I can be feisty and gentle. Passionate and at peace. Strong in conviction and soft in spirit. Gentleness does not dull my edges — it steadies my centre.

It allows me to move through the world without bracing myself. To respond rather than react. To remain anchored even when my voice rises and my heart burns for what matters.

I am learning to recognise this thrum within me.
To trust it. To let it lead.
Not as something I must manufacture, but as something I already carry. Because He is with me. Because His truth resonates within me.

And perhaps this is what it means to be gentle: Not to be less. But to live from the deep, quiet strength of God with us — steady, present, and alive within.