Today’s Reading: Job 1-4
I started writing this post much earlier today than I normally do.
Something in my heart told me to.
At the time, I wrote:
I can feel it in my heart that a season of change is here – or coming.
And strangely, I felt grateful.
Not necessarily grateful for change itself. I don’t even know what all of that change looks like yet.
But grateful for everything I’ve been reading, praying about, and noticing leading up to this moment.
Because lately, I can feel myself surrendering differently.
I still felt a little anxious this morning.
But I didn’t feel consumed by fear.
So I prayed for the Holy Spirit to fill my heart and continue guiding me.
And then I went about my day.
I had no idea how much I would return to that prayer before the day was over.
Then I Started Job
Of all the books to begin while sitting in uncertainty…
Job.
Job immediately challenges something I think we can easily misunderstand about faith:
Following God does not mean painful things won’t happen to us.
Job is described as faithful.
And terrible things still happen.
He loses things he loves.
He grieves.
He questions.
By chapter 3, his pain is pouring out of him.
And I think that’s important.
Because sometimes faith can accidentally get presented as though trusting God means we should always feel okay.
Have faith.
Don’t worry.
God has a plan.
And suddenly, if we’re still hurting, grieving, anxious, or confused, we wonder if maybe we’re doing faith wrong.
But Job hurts.
Deeply.
His pain doesn’t mean his faith never existed.
And perhaps faith isn’t about avoiding pain at all.
Maybe it’s about discovering where we turn inside of it.
I didn’t know yet how much I was going to need that thought today.
My First Instinct Was to Fix It
Later, one of my friends asked me to call.
They were upset about some things, and honestly, it just wasn’t a good conversation.
It was painful.
And as we were getting toward the end of the conversation, I could feel my brain beginning to do exactly what it has done so many times before.
What do I do?
Do I go here?
How can I help?
How do I fix this?
There it was.
That instinct we’ve been talking about.
Someone I care about is hurting.
Something isn’t okay.
Therefore, my brain immediately starts turning their pain into my assignment.
And then something happened.
Almost as quickly as those thoughts began, another thought interrupted them:
This is not yours to carry.
And just like that…
I felt peace.
Nothing Changed – Except Something in Me Did
Nothing about the situation changed.
That’s what I want to make clear.
The conversation didn’t suddenly become positive.
The problem wasn’t solved.
I wasn’t given some explanation for why anything was happening.
I still cared.
It still hurt.
But somehow, I knew:
I didn’t have to pick it up.
And maybe that’s one of the biggest things I’m beginning to understand about everything I’ve been writing lately.
Caring about someone does not mean carrying everything for them.
Loving someone does not mean fixing everything that hurts them.
Something can matter deeply to me without becoming my responsibility to solve.
Only a few entries ago, I wrote:
I don’t have to turn every concern into an assignment.
Today, I actually had to live it.
The first thought still came.
Fix it.
Carry it.
Make it okay.
But something else came faster.
This is not yours to carry.
And for once, I listened.
Is That the Holy Spirit?
That is the question I’ve been sitting with tonight.
Was that me hearing the Holy Spirit?
I don’t know how anyone could definitively prove where an internal thought comes from.
And throughout this journey, I don’t want to start declaring every thought, coincidence, or feeling to be a message directly from God.
I want to remain curious.
I want to question.
I want to learn.
And most importantly, I want to keep noticing.
So instead of trying to prove what happened, I started looking at where the thought led me.
It didn’t tell me I was right and someone else was wrong.
It didn’t make me feel superior.
It didn’t tell me to control anything.
It didn’t tell me to fix the situation.
It didn’t even promise me that everything would turn out exactly the way I wanted.
It simply said:
This is not yours to carry.
And what followed was peace.
Maybe learning to recognize God’s guidance isn’t always about hearing some enormous, unmistakable voice.
Maybe sometimes it’s noticing what gently redirects us toward what we’ve already been learning.
Toward peace instead of control.
Toward love without rescuing.
Toward compassion without carrying.
Toward trust instead of fear.
And maybe discernment means continuing to ask:
Where is this leading my heart?
And Then I Got to My Devotional
This is where I stopped again.
At the beginning of the day, I had prayed for the Holy Spirit to fill my heart and guide me.
Then the conversation happened.
Then came:
This is not yours to carry.
Then came peace.
Later, I went to do my devotional.
The title was:
How to See Signs of the Holy Spirit in Your Life.
Okay.
I’m noticing. 😂
And one of the first things discussed was that feeling of wondering whether God is speaking to you.
I just sat there for a moment.
Because I’ve been ending every one of these entries with the same words:
Keep noticing.
And today, that’s exactly what I was doing.
I don’t have to tell you what all of it means.
Honestly, I don’t completely know yet.
But I noticed.
And I want to remember this day.
Then I Thought About Job Again
This is where today’s reading suddenly came back into the picture differently.
Because what I was experiencing was strange.
I was hurting.
And yet…
I had peace.
Both were true.
And Job helped me understand why those two things don’t have to contradict each other.
Faith doesn’t require pretending something doesn’t hurt.
Peace doesn’t require pretending everything is okay.
We can grieve and still trust God.
We can be disappointed and still trust God.
We can feel anxious and still trust God.
We can wish something were different and still trust God.
Job’s suffering wasn’t evidence that he had failed at faith.
His pain was real.
And maybe we need to give ourselves permission to understand that ours can be real too.
Pain and faith can exist in the same heart.
Maybe peace isn’t proof that nothing hurts.
Maybe peace is discovering that something can hurt without having to consume you.
That feels different to me.
Maybe This Is What Growth Actually Looks Like
I’ve spent a lot of this journey talking about transformation.
About my brain rewiring.
About recognizing fear faster.
About the seed and the soil.
About roots growing before we can see the fruit.
And today made me think about spiritual growth differently again.
Maybe growth doesn’t mean eventually having all the right thoughts.
Maybe it means recognizing the wrong ones sooner.
Because my instinct didn’t disappear today.
My brain still went:
Fix it.
That’s familiar.
That’s me.
But this time, I recognized it almost immediately.
And something I’ve been planting through Scripture, prayer, reflection, and practice came forward before I had the chance to run ten miles down the old road.
This is not yours to carry.
A few entries ago, I wrote about roots growing where nobody can see them.
Maybe today I saw a little bit of fruit.
Not because I responded perfectly.
Not because I suddenly became someone who never overthinks.
Not because difficult things stopped hurting.
But because my response changed.
Maybe That’s What Listening Looks Like
I think I’ve spent years imagining that if God were guiding me, I would somehow know.
There would be some undeniable sign.
Some giant answer.
Some unmistakable moment.
And sometimes, I’ve absolutely experienced things that felt that way.
But maybe guidance can also be quieter.
Maybe it comes through something we’ve read.
Something we’ve prayed about.
Something we’ve been practicing.
A thought that interrupts an old pattern.
A conviction that redirects us.
A sense of peace that arrives even though the circumstances haven’t changed.
And maybe the more we read, pray, listen, and practice, the easier it becomes to recognize what aligns with the heart of God.
I don’t think I need to have all of that figured out tonight.
I think I’m supposed to keep doing exactly what I’ve been doing.
Notice.
Lord, Take Control
And somehow, again, I return to those words.
Lord, Take Control.
Their meaning continues to change as I do.
At first:
I can’t do this alone.
Then:
I don’t know what’s coming, but I trust You.
Then:
Show me what’s mine to carry and help me release what isn’t.
Then:
Even if where You’re leading isn’t where I thought we were going.
And today?
Help me recognize Your guidance when it comes – and give me enough trust to listen.
Because maybe surrender isn’t something we decide once.
Maybe we practice it every time our old instincts tell us to grab control again.
And maybe faith isn’t the absence of pain.
Maybe it’s learning that even inside the pain, we don’t have to carry everything alone.
Questions I’m Leaving With
When something goes wrong, what is my first instinct?
Do I immediately turn someone else’s pain into something I need to fix?
Can I care deeply about someone without carrying what belongs to them?
When I feel an internal prompting, do I stop long enough to ask where it is leading me?
Could spiritual growth be happening in the moments when I recognize an old pattern sooner?
And can I allow pain and peace to exist together without believing one cancels out the other?
Today’s Takeaway
Something can hurt and still not be yours to carry.
Faith doesn’t mean painful things stop happening.
Peace doesn’t mean everything is okay.
And spiritual growth doesn’t necessarily mean the old thought never comes.
Sometimes growth looks like hearing it…
recognizing it…
and choosing differently.
Today, my mind started where it has so many times before:
How do I fix this?
But this time, something interrupted me:
This is not yours to carry.
Nothing outside of me immediately changed.
But something inside of me did.
And maybe that is exactly what I’ve been learning to notice all along.
Lord, Take Control.
Until next time… keep noticing.