Written by Kayla Stannard

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness,
gentleness, and self-control…” —Galatians 5:22–23

I’m a Christian now.

That sentence may sound simple, but it’s the result of a long, winding journey through
silence, religion, questioning, and finally—grace.

I didn’t arrive here quickly. I wandered. I wrestled. I walked away and came back again.
But the truth is, God never left. Through every step, every delay, every detour—He was
there.
I grew up in a Jehovah’s Witness home, where silence wrapped itself around things that
should’ve been loud—like laughter, questions, and worship. Music—especially the kind
that stirred hearts toward God—was forbidden. But even in the quiet, I could feel it: a
longing for something more. A life that bore the fruit I’d never seen in full bloom.
Love was something we talked about, but it often felt transactional. If you obeyed, you
were accepted. If you questioned, you risked being cast out.

I was the youngest of five, but by the time I started forming memories, most of my siblings had already left. I grew up in the echo of what used to be a family. My brother Ben was the first to leave the religion. At the time, I thought he was abandoning the truth. But now I know—he was
reaching for it.

There wasn’t much peace in our home. Tension lingered like a storm that never fully
passed. I learned how to be small, how to avoid setting off the lightning. But even in the
turmoil, I craved the peace that surpasses understanding, though I didn’t have words for
it yet.

Then one day, Ben handed me a cassette tape of Jars of Clay’s “Love Song for a
Savior”. Just a simple tape. But it held the sound of freedom. I remember pressing play,
not knowing that this was the moment my life would begin to change. The music filled
the room—but more than that, it filled something in me.
I wept. Not out of sadness, but from a kind of joy I’d never felt before. The kind that
bubbles up when you realize you’re loved just as you are. That tape didn’t just carry
melodies—it carried truth. In those lyrics, I felt God’s presence for the first time. Not as a
cold overseer, but as a Father. As a friend. As someone who saw me.

But here’s the thing: I didn’t come to Christ that day.
That moment was a spark, not a flame. A beginning, not a homecoming.

It took me a long time to fully surrender. To let go of the old framework I was raised in.
To believe that grace was real. That God wanted me. Not my performance. Not my
perfection. Just me.

I wandered. I wrestled. I tried to build faith on my own terms—and sometimes, on no
terms at all. But through all of it, God was still there. Waiting. Never forcing, never
shaming—just waiting with the kind of patience only perfect love knows.
And when I finally turned around, He hadn’t moved.

That song awakened a hunger for everything the Spirit gives:
 Patience for my own slow process of healing.
 Kindness from people God placed in my life at just the right time.
 Goodness that kept showing up even when I felt unworthy.
 Faithfulness that carried me through seasons of doubt.
 Gentleness that disarmed my defenses and softened my heart.
 Self-control to walk away from what was familiar but not fruitful.

Now, my relationship with God is no longer built on fear. It’s built on love. It’s not about
performance—it’s about presence. His presence. The One who met me through a
“forbidden” song and stayed with me through every step, every stumble, every delay.

And now, I see the fruit.
Not all at once, and not perfectly—but undeniably.
I see it in the love that overflows when I share my story.
I feel it in the peace that settles when I worship freely.
I sense it in the joy that still brings me to tears every time I hear that song.

And here’s what’s even more beautiful: within my faith now, I’ve come to see the fruit of
the Spirit not as a checklist, but as evidence—as signs that God is living and working
inside of me. When I see love where there used to be fear, or gentleness where there
once was self-protection, I know it’s not me—it’s Him.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re taking too long to “get it right,” I want you to know this: God
is not in a hurry. He’s not disappointed in your pace. He’s just glad you’re still
walking toward Him.
He is love.
He is joy.
He is peace.
And He is waiting—ready to plant something beautiful in the soil of your surrender.

Because even in the silence, God sings.
And when He does, His song is full of fruit.

You can find Kayla over at Substack to read more of her writing. https://divinesoundtrackscommunity.substack.com/?utm_source=global-search