My husband texted me that he'd just prayed for someone in an elevator. They were two guys riding the elevator down to the hotel lobby. One was facing the reality of losing a parent, and the other—leaning into the feeling that he was supposed to ask, "how are you doing, man?" One simple question. A quick prayer. Nothing heroic. Nothing that shifted eternity—that we know of. Maybe it did.

Maybe it was the hope and love and assurance that this stranger needed—that he was seen, not alone, and that there were others who would help him as he prepared to wade through grief.

Simple obedience carried out in tasks where there is no recognition, no accolades handed out—this is what it means to walk in step with the Holy Spirit, to follow His lead, to do as He prompts. And I am positively convinced, there is no better way to live.

I felt something similar recently. I was in line at the grocery store when I felt God step close and whisper to my heart: "offer to help her." Sadly, I wasn't quick to act, but dismissed the idea and turned my attention to emptying my cart full onto the conveyor belt. But the more I resisted, the more I felt Him lean in—until the thundering in my chest was so rapid that I feared what would happen if I didn't obey.

With a deep breath, I took a step toward the person in my line of sight—and froze. I was afraid of how my words may appear and worried about what would happen if they didn't like what I had to offer. With those thoughts swirling, I retreated. But again, the feeling wouldn't let up. I knew it was God pressing His finger into my chest and asking the same words that He has for years, "will you obey?"

I sadly watched as the cashier took several items and carefully placed them in a box on the floor to be returned to the shelves later. The employee continued to scan additional items, each time asking the woman on the other side of the counter, "this too?" The discarded items were left behind because the amount had surpassed what the woman had anticipated spending.

When I could no longer shake it, I finally stepped out of line and went over to the young mom who was now bagging her groceries. The interaction was quick and without the result that I had hoped for, and I choked back tears as I walked away. I knew I had acted in obedience, even if my help hadn't been received.

I watched her small children, younger than my own, knowing their little and growing bodies needed nutrients, and that they were unaware of the fact that their mom was making difficult, on-the-spot decisions about what they would eat in the coming days.

She seemed so grateful for my offer to help—even though she declined it.

The response of others shouldn’t dictate whether I am will be obedient to the Lord.

I didn't want her to feel embarrassed or ashamed—and so I didn't press the matter. I received her most sincere "thank you's" and watched as she paid, wrangled her children, and walked out of the store, and out of my life.

Often my acts of obedience, my daily moments of surrender, have little to do with a tangible, physical outcome. Typically, they are far more about the condition of my heart, and whether I will continue to offer help, choose kindness, turn the other cheek, extend grace, walk in patience, and offer compassion—even if it is unreturned, unappreciated, or unnoticed.

God wants to know if I'll keep showing up and stepping out when He prompts me, regardless of the ask.

My daily obedience is less about my actions producing something and much more with the subtle growth that happens in a place where no one will ever see or know.

That's why "daily obedience" is sometimes a hard thing for me to talk about—because I can't always measure it unless there is a way of calculating how much time it takes for me to move when the Holy Spirit starts whispering. It looks different all the time, for every person, and in each season.

But what I go back to, over and over, is that my "yes" when I surrendered my life to Jesus was a promise that everything else afterward would include the same emphatic response. No matter what He asks.