faith unfaded

I’ve spent the last two years learning how to live in peace.

Not the fragile kind.
Not the kind that depends on everything going right.
But the steady, practiced kind — where the pendulum stops swinging and the middle finally feels safe. I’ve even recognized a simple truth: boring is heavenly.

I no longer chase the chaos. I appreciate the calm when things are good.

But what happens when they seem too good? Do you wait for the other shoe to drop? Do you once again grab the reins of control?

What happens when someone you love reemerges after a long season of loss — whether through illness, distance, or estrangement — and joy and fear arrive at the same time?

You prayed for restoration. You prayed for healing. You prayed for reconciliation. It finally arrived — now you’re terrified you’re going to mess it up.

When restoration shows up, something unexpected can happen inside us. Gratitude rises. Hope returns. And quietly, a different weight slips onto our shoulders.

Not responsibility for loving well.
Responsibility for protecting the season.

Lately I’ve noticed questions surfacing that don’t sound like peace at all:

What if my presence matters more than I realize?
What if I misstep?
What if things unravel again — because I do or say something wrong?

The internal pressure causes unrest.
Love begins carrying a responsibility it was never meant to carry alone.

My nervous system isn’t unsettled because peace feels unfamiliar.
It is alert because loved ones’ well-being feels fragile — and somehow attached to my behavior.

That’s a different kind of fear.

It isn’t craving chaos.
It isn’t mistrusting calm.
It isn’t discomfort with stability.

It’s the fear of causation.

The fear that if something good is lost, I’ll be the one who bears the blame. And I can forgive others much faster than I forgive myself.

That’s where control sneaks in — and I find myself taking situations out of God’s Hands and putting them back in my own.

I trust God with outcomes in theory.
I struggle when the outcome has a face I love.

But God isn’t just the God of peace.
He’s the God of outcomes.

Being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.
—Philippians 1:6

My presence matters — but it is not the hinge everything turns on. My words and actions matter — but they are not the nucleus of every situation.

Sacred moments with loved ones often feel heavy not because we’re meant to control them — but because we know they matter.

Surrender doesn’t mean loving less—it means loving without trying to manage the outcome. It means showing up fully present, without assuming responsibility for how every moment unfolds. God never asked us to be the source, the solution, or the safeguard. He asked us to trust Him enough to loosen our grip and let love rest where it belongs—in His hands.