How’s Jesus Holding You Up?

Faith & SpiritualityPersonal Growth & Reflection

Aug 10

I cried before work this morning.

Not dramatic, sobbing-on-the-floor crying. Just the kind that happens when you’ve been holding yourself together pretty well, until suddenly you aren’t. My mind had been spinning, worry piling on top of worry, and somewhere along the way the little “everything’s fine” wall I’d built around myself developed a crack. The emotions I’d been keeping on the other side finally found their way through.

I was having a hard morning.

There was something I knew I needed to face today, and my brain had already decided how it was going to go. Not only had I predicted what would happen, I had apparently skipped right past all the reasonable possibilities and gone straight to the worst-case scenario. I wasn't responding to something that had actually happened yet. I was responding to what I had convinced myself was going to happen.

And the more I thought about it, the heavier it became. Before long, I had woven in old frustrations, past wrongs, unanswered questions, and all the shoulda, coulda, wouldas I’d been carrying around with me. What started as worry about one thing happening today somehow became a mental inventory of everything that had gone off track over the past few weeks. And the farther down that rabbit hole I went, the more evidence I seemed to find that everything was, in fact, terrible.

I felt this deep sense of dread, worry, and uneasiness that I couldn’t seem to shake. As I got ready for work, I kept trying to reason my way out of it. I knew I was getting ahead of myself. I knew I couldn’t predict the future. I knew that imagining every possible way something could go wrong wasn't going to somehow make me more prepared if it did.

I knew all of that.

And still, I worried.

As I was getting ready, I tried to articulate to Allyson why I felt so unsettled. I tried to explain what I was afraid might happen, why it was weighing so heavily on me, and why I couldn't seem to get out of my own head.

Eventually, the words gave way to tears.

And here’s the frustrating thing: I know God.

I know He loves me. I know He is aware of me. I know I can pray. I know the scriptures. I know all the things we tell ourselves—and each other—when life gets hard.

But knowing those things did not magically make the dread disappear.

Sometimes I think we do ourselves a disservice when we pretend faith works that way. Believe harder. Pray more. Trust God. Stop worrying. As though fear is evidence that faith has failed.

I don’t think it is.

I think sometimes faith is what we choose to do while we’re still afraid.

So I went to work, and Allyson went about her morning.

A little while later, my phone started filling up with messages from her. She had been doing her scripture study and morning devotional, and apparently God had decided that while I was at work trying to keep myself together, my wife was going to become His personal delivery service.

The first passage she shared talked about what happens when planning and problems begin to preoccupy our minds: turn to God. Whisper His name. Thank Him for watching over us. Tell Him we trust Him. Ask Him to illuminate the way forward.

And then came the part that grabbed both of us: Keep returning your focus to Him.

Not never lose your focus. Not if you really trust God, you won’t be afraid. Not pray once and your anxiety will disappear.

Keep returning.

There is something incredibly freeing to me about that because my mind wanders. My mind worries. My mind can take one uncomfortable interaction and somehow produce a twelve-part Netflix documentary about every possible catastrophic consequence before I’ve even finished breakfast.

Maybe yours can too.

The invitation isn’t to somehow become incapable of worry. It’s to notice where we’ve gone and return. Back to Him. Again.

Allyson suggested that maybe we choose a scripture each week and memorize it together—something we could deliberately put into our minds so there would be less room for everything else clamoring for our attention. She said something that stuck with me: maybe we don’t have to spend all our energy trying to push the fear out. Maybe we fill the space with something else.

Scripture. Prayer. Trust. Gratitude. God.

Not because the fear isn’t real or because the problem suddenly disappears, but because the problem doesn’t deserve to be the only thing in the room.

Then she sent me another passage. This one talked about becoming an overcomer—not by avoiding trouble, but by learning to find joy in the middle of circumstances that once might have defeated us. And buried in that reading was the simplest little prayer:

I trust You, Jesus.

That’s it. No eloquence required. No perfectly constructed prayer. No explanation of the situation God already understands. Just: I trust You, Jesus.

And when the fear comes back? I trust You, Jesus.

When I start rehearsing the conversation again? I trust You, Jesus.

When my brain starts predicting outcomes it has absolutely no authority to predict? I trust You, Jesus.

When I start trying to control what everyone thinks about me? I trust You, Jesus.

When I don’t know what happens next? I trust You, Jesus.

Maybe trust isn’t something we decide once. Maybe sometimes trust is a decision we make every five minutes.

There was another line in what Allyson sent that I haven’t been able to shake. It suggested asking God, “What do You have for me in this trial?”

That is a very different question from the ones I usually ask: Why is this happening? How are You going to fix this? When is this going to be over? Can You please make this go the way I want it to go?

Those are pretty natural questions. But “What do You have for me here?” That’s different.

That question assumes that even if I wouldn’t have chosen this experience, God can still use it. It shifts my attention from escaping the discomfort to discovering what might be growing inside it. Maybe there’s something I need to learn. Maybe there’s something I need to release. Maybe there’s a way I need to grow. Maybe God is asking me to trust Him with something I have spent a lifetime trying to control myself. And maybe I won’t understand any of it until much later.

But asking What do You have for me here? changes the posture of my heart. It allows me to open my hands, let go of what I’m trying so hard to control, and trust whatever God may have for me in the experience.

Allyson and I decided we wanted a scripture for the week. We tossed a couple back and forth, but I kept returning to Psalm 38:15: “For in thee, O Lord, do I hope: thou wilt hear, O Lord my God.”

The more I sat with it, the more I loved it.

Psalm 38 isn’t written from a mountaintop. David is hurting. He’s physically suffering. He’s carrying guilt. People have distanced themselves from him. Others are speaking against him. And just before the verse that grabbed me, David says something remarkable: he stops responding.

He describes himself as someone who cannot hear and someone who will not open his mouth. Not because nothing is happening—a LOT is happening—but David has apparently decided that he does not have to respond to every voice because he knows which voice matters most.

“For in thee, O Lord, do I hope.”

And then: “Thou wilt hear.”

Not I know exactly how You’re going to fix this. Not I know You’re going to give me the outcome I want. Not even I know when You’re going to answer.

Just: You will hear me.

There is so much peace in that because faith isn’t certainty about the outcome. Faith is certainty about Who holds it.

I don’t have to know exactly what happens next. I don’t have to predict every possible problem or rehearse every possible conversation. I don’t have to make everyone understand me. I don’t have to control every outcome. I can deal with what actually needs to be dealt with today and leave tomorrow where it belongs.

And when my mind inevitably wanders back into fear?

Return.

I trust You, Jesus.

Return.