Trust the Slow Work

I’ve never been very good at the New Year rush.

You know the routine—big resolutions, bold promises, dramatic declarations that this will be the year everything finally comes together. New calendar, new you, no loose ends allowed.

But most years don’t begin that way. They begin quietly. Unevenly. With some things unresolved and others still unnamed.

That’s why, at the turn of the year, I keep coming back to the words of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, the Jesuit priest who managed to live at the intersection of science and faith, intellect and mystery—and who understood patience far better than most of us ever will.

His line is simple:

“Above all, trust in the slow work of God.”

Jesuit wisdom often works like that. No fireworks. No slogans. Just a quiet truth that stays with you.

Teilhard knew how impatient we are. He didn’t scold it; he named it:

“We are quite naturally impatient in everything to reach the end without delay. We should like to skip the intermediate stages.”

That’s us. We want the lesson without the struggle, the clarity without the confusion, the peace without the waiting. We want January to fix what took years to tangle.

But life doesn’t work that way. And faith certainly doesn’t.

Teilhard reminds us that growth is messy by design:

“It is the law of all progress that it is made by passing through some stages of instability—and that it may take a very long time.”

That word—instability—used to bother me. Now I find it oddly reassuring. Instability means something is moving. It means you’re not stuck, even if you’re uncomfortable.

Jesuit spirituality has always been honest about that discomfort. It doesn’t promise easy answers; it asks you to pay attention. To notice what’s stirring. To stay with the questions instead of rushing past them.

I learned that lesson firsthand years ago in a conversation with James Keenan, better known to most of us simply as Jim Keenan, SJ. We were talking about growth, about frustration, about that constant sense of wanting things to move faster than they do. At one point, he smiled—gently, the way Jesuits do when they’re about to tell you something you already know but don’t quite want to hear—and said, almost casually, “Patience is still something you need to work on.”

No lecture. No judgment. Just a quiet truth placed squarely in front of me.

It stayed with me because it was right. And because it still is.

Teilhard puts words to that same idea:

“Let your ideas mature gradually—let them grow, let them shape themselves, without undue haste.”

Not everything needs to be decided in January. Not every doubt needs a name. Not every door needs to be forced open.

One line lands harder the older you get:

“Don’t try to force them on, as though you could be today what time… will make of you tomorrow.”

There’s a humility in that—earned only by experience. By realizing how often we tried to rush becoming someone we weren’t ready to be yet.

And then there’s this, perhaps his most honest line:

“Accept the anxiety of feeling yourself in suspense and incomplete.”

Incomplete.

That’s not how we like to describe ourselves. But maybe it’s the most truthful way to begin a new year. Not finished. Not figured out. Still in motion.

Jesuits speak often about discernment—about trusting that God works not only in answers, but in the waiting. Teilhard lived that belief. Jim KeenanSJ reminded me of it personally. What matters most isn’t mastering the outcome; it’s being faithful to the moment you’re actually in.

So this year, I’m not making grand promises. I’m not pretending I have it all lined up.

I’m trying something quieter.

Showing up. Paying attention. Practicing patience—still practicing it—and trusting that something good is happening even when I can’t yet explain it.

As this year opens, I’m giving myself a little grace. I’m letting go of the need to have everything named, solved, or settled. Some things in my life are still tender. Some questions remain open. Some hopes are only half-formed. And that’s okay. The most meaningful changes rarely announce themselves when they arrive. They unfold slowly, almost unnoticed, asking only that I stay present, do the next right thing, and trust that I’m being led—even when the path ahead isn’t clear yet.

For now, that feels like enough.

Trust the slow work.

It’s been going on longer than we realize.