A once-wide door that threatened to close
When I first came to France, life felt like a wide-open door. My wife Caroline and I built a rhythm here — simple, steady, full of small joys. I worked as a teaching assistant once a week, learned French bit by bit, and began to feel at home.
But lately, that sense of certainty has slipped away.
I’ve been diagnosed with “small vessel disease” in the brain. It’s not something you expect to hear, and it changes the way you look at everything. I’m not at the French language level I should be, and I haven’t been able to sit for the civic exam required for a residence card. Without that, the future feels hazy. I can’t work right now, and the job that gave my week its shape has gone.
In my native England, I knew where to turn when life wobbled — which office to call, which form to fill, which person might listen. Here, everything is new. The systems are unfamiliar, the language still feels like a wall some days, and even asking for help can seem daunting. It’s strange how quickly life can narrow — how the familiar scaffolding of work, language, and belonging can vanish.
We may have to move back to England, though that’s not as straightforward as it sounds. There are practical hurdles, emotional ones, and the ache of leaving behind the life we’ve built. Yet as unsettling as it all feels, I keep reminding myself that life has always been uncertain. None of us knows what the future holds. We can guess, plan, and hope — but we don’t know.
Facing the unknown with faith
When I look back, I see how God has carried me through other unknowns. Leaving England was one of them. I didn’t know what waited across the Channel, only that love was calling me forward. There were hurdles — paperwork, language, fear — but each time, doors opened. I can still trace the moments when grace broke through: A kind official, a friend’s translation, a small job that gave me purpose. God’s goodness was woven through it all, even when I couldn’t see it clearly.
Now, as I face this new uncertainty, I’m trying to hold onto that memory. The same God who led me here hasn’t changed. God’s love doesn’t depend on my health, my paperwork, or my ability to speak fluent French. It’s steady, even when everything else feels fragile.
Sometimes a thought comes that catches me off guard: If I had stayed in England, if I had just kept quiet and tried to live unseen to the end, maybe I could have spared Caroline all this worry and pain. The guilt of that thought can feel heavy — as if love itself had caused harm.
But God helped me turn from it. God showed me all the love and freedom God has brought me, and reminded me that hiding was never the way. It’s strange how the scars of my strict Baptist upbringing still stir a fear from within, but God’s love is stronger than fear — its brightness casts the shadow away.
Uncertainty isn’t the enemy
There are days when I feel the weight of it — the not knowing, the waiting, the fear that the life we built might unravel. But then I remember: Uncertainty isn’t the enemy. It’s the space where faith grows. It’s where we learn to trust not in outcomes, but in presence — in the quiet assurance that we are not alone.
I think of all the times the Bible speaks of people walking into the unknown: Abraham leaving his home, Ruth following Naomi, Mary saying yes to something she couldn’t understand. None of them had guarantees. What they had was trust — not in their own strength, but in God’s goodness.
That’s what I’m trying to remember: God is still here. Even in the hard places.
Sometimes I sit by the window and watch the sunrises or sunsets. France has become home in ways I never expected. I’ve learned to love its rhythm, its beauty, its stubborn bureaucracy. And even if we have to leave, I know that home isn’t a postal code — it’s the place where love lives.
Life has always been uncertain. It’s just that sometimes, uncertainty is highlighted more sharply than others. Illness, loss, change — they remind us how fragile everything is. But they also remind us of what endures.
If your future feels unsettling or uncertain, take heart. You’re not alone. Uncertainty doesn’t mean abandonment. The same God who opened doors before will open them again — perhaps not where you expect, but always toward love.
Hold onto that. Even when the path ahead looks blurred, grace is still moving. And sometimes, the most faithful thing we can do is simply to keep walking — trusting that God’s love will meet us, as it always has, right where we are.
Based in France, Liz Queyrel reports on LGBTQ+ Christian life across France and greater Europe.