Inside the Threshing Room

This essay was originally posted January 30, 2026 to Substack.

I’m in a threshing season.

I’ve been planted, I’ve produced grain, and I’ve been harvested. Now is the moment where God seems to be separating the wheat from the chaff in me. He’s getting rid of the labels I never gave myself but wore anyway. He’s separating me from the shame I carry for not being who or what others thought I should be, and he’s separating me from the shame of my own mistakes. But, he’s preserving the parts of me that grew in spite of my poor decisions and all that was done to pull me off my mark.

Soon, he’ll ask me to step into new places, where I’ll be kneaded into dough and made into bread. That’s when he’ll break me apart in the best ways and share me with anyone who might find encouragement in my words and experiences. I’m looking forward to that.

But for now, I still sit on the threshing room floor, waiting until daylight. I observe what goes on around me. I listen to the stories playing out in the lives of others. I look for opportunities to learn what I still need to know. The patience I hold isn’t boring. It’s charged with anticipation and excitement for where God is leading me next.

I bear witness. Silent and introspective, I watch and I wait to be transformed into a new thing.

The funny thing is, I’m sensitive to gluten—I can’t even eat wheat bread. And maybe that’s on purpose. Maybe I need to intimately understand what it’s like to be averse to nourishment I once enjoyed before I am broken apart to nourish others who can no longer tolerate the spiritual bread they’ve been offered.

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A quick note: I have no intention of ever charging any type of monthly fee to read my words. These essays and poems are my daily offering. If the seeds planted here someday produce grain, and eventually become bread—books, artwork, workshops, etc.—those things will be separate from the writing shared here.

Thank you for reading and supporting The Common Joy.

‍ ‍—Mack