Endings, Beginnings, and the In-Between
On Ending Well, Beginning Well, and the End-Credits Scene.
Sometimes things end quietly.
No grand finale. No fireworks. Just a pause, a subtle shift, a moment you almost miss until you realise the chapter has closed and the next page hasn’t quite turned.
I recently finished a role that shaped me more deeply than I expected. A role that started with a barely-seen opportunity, an almost-missed application deadline, and a sense that something was stirring – even if I didn’t yet know the shape of it. Two years ago, I walked into something that would challenge and affirm the way I think about Christian community, calling, and what it means to follow God into the unknown. It gave me language I didn’t know I needed. It allowed space for the kind of leadership that doesn’t shout but listens, that doesn’t race but walks slowly and faithfully. It stretched me, unsettled me, shaped me, and in ways I’m only just beginning to name, it changed me.
And now, it’s finished.
I’ve been asked, already, what’s next. It’s a fair question. But the truth is, I don’t have a polished answer. I’m not sure I want one.
There’s a strange, sacred space between ending and beginning – a kind of liminal ground (between one place and another) where the past is still echoing and the future is forming, but neither has fully taken shape. It’s unsettling, but it’s also alive with possibility. It’s where questions breathe freely. It’s where faith feels most like faith. It’s where God often speaks in whispers rather than bold, audible declarations.
A seat in the cinema
I’ve found myself thinking lately about Marvel films – and yes, I know how that sounds. I’m under no illusions: I’m not a superhero. I’m not James Bond either, and yet something about those closing moments in the cinema rings weirdly true.
You know the ones. The film ends. The music starts. The screen fades to black. But you don’t move. You stay seated. Because you know there’s something else coming. A final scene. A glimpse. A flicker of what might be next. You’re not given a roadmap. Just a moment. A nudge. A promise: the story isn’t over yet.
There’s even that line – quietly iconic now – that appears after almost every Bond film:
JAMES BOND WILL RETURN.
No explanation. No justification. Just the confidence that, somehow, his story is still unfolding – even if we don’t yet know how or when.
That’s how this feels. The credits have rolled on a season that mattered. But something lingers. Not as a plan. Not even as a clear direction. Just as a quiet conviction that there’s still more to come. And maybe, for now, that’s enough.
Endings suck (even good ones)
I won’t pretend I’m not sad. Endings, even the good ones, carry weight.
This one was quieter than I thought it might be – less full-circle, more open-ended. There’s a sense of unfinishedness I can’t quite ignore, a lingering awareness that the ending came before I was ready to write it. And yet, there’s no real way to say goodbye to a season that gave you more than you expected. No neat sentence that holds it all. I’ve tried to find one, but every time I do, it falls short.
So instead, I’m learning to let the grief sit next to the gratitude.
Yes – I’m sad.
Yes – it feels early.
Yes – there are conversations I wish I still got to be in.
But no – I wouldn’t change what’s been. Not for a second.
Some things don’t need to be complete to be valuable. Some seasons don’t need to last forever to leave a mark. And just because something ends earlier than expected doesn’t mean it didn’t do its work.
This season did something in me. I leave it changed – not in loud or dramatic ways, but in quieter, deeper ones. I leave with clarity. With peace. With conviction. But also with a small ache in my chest that says, that mattered. That was good. That helped shape me.
I’ve learned that grief doesn’t always arrive with floods of tears. Sometimes it comes in waves – small, honest moments where you realise how much something meant to you. A look back through old notes. A pause during prayer. A silence you didn’t expect to notice.
And sometimes we grieve not because something went wrong, but because something went right – and now it’s finished.
And that’s a grief worth honouring.
The bit in-between
There’s this moment in Inside Out – a Pixar film that gets way too deep for a kids’ movie – where Joy realises that Sadness isn’t the enemy. That the two belong together.
I think about that a lot in times like these.
It would be easier to rush ahead. To announce the next big thing. To tie a ribbon around this chapter and move on. But I want to stay here a little longer. In the in-between. Not because I’m stuck, but because I want to honour the space where God often does His quietest, deepest work.
This is the space I find myself in now – not quite looking back, not quite rushing forward. Just sitting in the silence between what was and what will be. Letting the quiet speak. Letting the questions settle. Letting the next thing take its time.
This is where the roots go down. This is where the reflection happens. This is where I breathe again – not because I’m finished, but because I’m about to begin again.
And maybe that’s the point.
Because I’ve been here before. Not here exactly, but close. A role I almost didn’t apply for. A form filled out at the last moment. A feeling in my gut that said, this matters, before I had any idea what “this” even was. It came from the edge. From the unexpected. Unplanned, but deeply timed.
And if that’s how God brought me this far – who am I to assume He won’t do it again?
Maybe that’s the rhythm I need to return to – not the pressure to define what’s next, but the permission to wait without knowing. To prepare without proof. To trust that something is already unfolding, quietly, unseen, waiting for its moment to be revealed.
I don’t want to miss it because I was too busy moving on.
So what does actually come next?
You might be wondering.
I’m not going to do the Marvel thing and flash an exciting trailer. But I’ll give you a quiet end-credits scene of my own:
A man sits at a kitchen table in Scarborough. It’s quiet. A half-finished cup of tea sits next to a notebook. He writes the final line of a chapter, closes the page, then flips it over and begins again. In the corner of the room, a copy of Psalm 136 is pinned to the wall. The words: “His love endures forever.” A moment later, a document opens. The title reads: The Radical Recall to Rest. The scene fades. But something lingers. Not the end. Just a new beginning.
Growing with God
In the meantime, some things continue.
Growing with God – a reflective discipleship space I’ve helped shape over the past two years – is quietly finding its rhythm again. It began as a framework, but it’s become something far more personal. An invitation. A breath. A space to slow down, to listen, to be with God in a world that rarely makes space for stillness.
For individuals, teams, and communities who are tired of doing more and ready to discover what it means to move at God’s pace again, it offers no big answers or strategies – just space.
For more information you can catch up on the blog posts sharing the heart of this space:
The next round of online taster sessions are now live. If you're curious, open, or simply need a moment to sit still with some questions, you’re welcome. And if your church, community, or team needs something slower, quieter, more honest – I also offer in-person sessions and immersive retreats. Sometimes what’s needed isn’t more energy, but deeper attention.
For more information visit the Growing with God page:
And the book…
Behind the scenes, I’m still writing – and shaping something that’s been quietly forming for a while.
The Radical Recall to Rest is now in the editing phase and will be launching later this year. It flows from the heart of Growing with God – giving language to what many of us have felt but struggled to name. It’s about another way. A slower way. A more human way to live, lead, and stay connected – to God, to others, and to ourselves.
It’s not a manual or a how-to guide. It’s a companion, honest and at times raw, for those who are tired of chasing what doesn’t last, and longing for something that might.
If you’ve ever found yourself stretched thin, spiritually worn out, or quietly wondering, “Is this it?” – this book is for you.
I’ll be sharing more soon. But for now, just know it’s on its way – written slowly, intentionally, and with deep hope that it might meet you wherever you are.
A gentle ending
So this is where I am.
Not in a new job. Not at a crossroads. Not waiting for a headline. Just here. In the in-between. Reflecting. Listening. Trusting. Still a curious follower.
To those who walked with me in this past season – thank you. To those who trusted me with space and responsibility – thank you. To those who reminded me I didn’t have to prove anything – thank you. And to those who are still figuring out their own ending or beginning – I see you.
You don’t need to rush. You don’t need to define it all. You don’t need to know the whole plan or tie it up with a bow. Let the credits roll. Let the room stay dark for a moment longer. Watch the final names fade. And when the music settles…listen.
Maybe there’s one more scene. Maybe the next thing is already beginning. Not with clarity. Not with certainty. But with faith. And just enough light to take the next step.
So if you’re sitting in your own in-between – grieving something good, waiting for what’s next, wondering if your voice still matters in the story that follows – stay in your seat. Don’t rush. Watch the credits. Honour what’s been. And when the moment comes...step into the next scene.
Not because it’s perfect. Not because you’re ready. But because the Spirit still moves.
Josh | A Curious Follower
Before you scroll on…
If you’re in the in-between right now – if something has ended, or is just beginning, or you’re standing in the space between – take a moment. Notice what’s still here. What’s gently unfolding. What’s grounding you today.
There’s no need to make it profound. Just permission to pause. To breathe. To name a small thing that reminds you you're still part of the story.
If something in this post stirred something in you – feel free to share it in the comments. Or just carry it with you quietly into whatever comes next.
And if you'd like to keep following along – with more reflections, more space, and the occasional hash brown or post-credit scene – you can subscribe, share, or simply return next time.
There’s no pressure. Just presence. Just curiosity.
JOSH BARKER WILL RETURN. (And he’ll bring ice cream.)