I have spent entirely too much time asking God to silence voices that sound suspiciously like mine.
And this morning, I think God sat on the end of my bed, looked at me with all the patience in heaven, and essentially said, “Girl, are you finished?”
Because apparently, I have been holding both the microphone and the weapon at my own execution. And then having the audacity to ask God who keeps attacking me.
Ma’am.
I have prayed against negativity while rehearsing it in my head. Asked God to increase my faith while narrating every possible way something could go wrong. Begged Him to heal relationships while bringing an entire vocabulary of suspicion, insecurity, and anticipated rejection into them.
And the worst part? I didn’t even recognize how cruel I had become to myself because I had been speaking that language for so long it sounded like my native tongue.
I’m not good enough. I’m too much. I’m difficult to love. Something is going to go wrong. They’re probably upset with me. I’m going to mess this up. I can’t handle another disappointment.
And then I wondered why peace felt so unfamiliar.
Girl, you’ve been speaking fluent catastrophe and wondering why hope needs subtitles.
I had to sit with that.
Because somewhere along the way, I confused preparing for disappointment with protecting myself from it. If I could anticipate the rejection, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as badly. If I could identify everything wrong with me before someone else did, perhaps their criticism wouldn’t sting. If I expected the worst, maybe I could survive it.
But I wasn’t protecting myself. I was practicing pain.
And that practice didn’t stay between my ears.
It followed me into my marriage. My friendships. My family. My relationship with God. I started interpreting people’s words through wounds they didn’t necessarily create. A change in someone’s tone became evidence. Silence became rejection. A disagreement became abandonment.
I could turn a perfectly innocent conversation into a full-blown federal investigation, complete with witnesses, exhibits, and a closing argument nobody requested.
And sometimes the defendant didn’t even know we were in court.
Whew.
So when I opened Luke 1 this morning, I realized God wasn’t just addressing what I say to other people.
He was confronting what I have been saying to myself.
In Luke 1:34, Mary asks Gabriel, “How will this be, since I am a virgin?”
And I love that question because Mary needed clarification. She wasn’t pretending the circumstances made sense. She understood enough about biology to know something wasn’t adding up.
Girl, same.
I believe God can do anything. I just occasionally need the entire itinerary, confirmation number, departure gate, and the name of whoever is driving.
Preferably in writing.
But here’s what got me.
Earlier in Luke 1, Zechariah also asked a question.
In verse 18, after Gabriel announced that Elizabeth would have a son, Zechariah asked, “How shall I know this?”
And Gabriel responded by telling him he would be unable to speak until the promise was fulfilled because he had not believed the message.
Two people. Two impossible pregnancies. Two questions.
But the difference wasn’t simply that one asked how and the other asked for proof. Scripture actually tells us Zechariah didn’t believe, while Mary’s response ultimately became surrender.
And I had to ask myself something uncomfortable.
When I question God, am I trying to understand His instructions, or am I demanding enough evidence to make obedience feel safe?
Because those are two very different conversations.
And then I thought about Elizabeth.
God didn’t remove Zechariah from her life. He didn’t cancel their marriage, revoke the promise, or decide Elizabeth had to suffer because her husband struggled to believe.
But Zechariah’s unbelieving mouth was silenced for a season.
Now, Scripture doesn’t explicitly say God silenced him to protect Elizabeth, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what that silence meant in a household carrying such a delicate promise.
What if some things are too precious to keep exposing to constant doubt?
And before I started thinking about everybody else’s negativity, God redirected that question right back to me.
What if the voice I need to stop entertaining is my own?
Because I can be my biggest skeptic.
I can receive a beautiful promise and immediately start cross-examining it. I can recognize God’s faithfulness yesterday and still wake up today wondering whether He’s going to abandon me tomorrow.
And after everything I’ve survived, I understand why my mind learned to anticipate danger.
But understanding where that habit came from doesn’t mean I have to keep giving it authority.
Unlearning is uncomfortable.
Speaking life feels foreign when you’ve spent years using criticism as motivation and fear as preparation.
Sometimes saying, “God is working this out,” feels less natural than saying, “Something is about to go wrong.”
And I am realizing that my mouth cannot keep reinforcing the very fears I’m asking God to deliver me from.
Then Gabriel says something in Luke 1:36 that nearly took me out.
“And behold, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son.”
BEHOLD.
Now, in the Greek of Luke 1, that word is idou. It’s an attention-getting expression. Look. See. Pay attention.
And I love that Gabriel uses it before telling Mary about Elizabeth.
It’s almost like heaven is saying, “Before you get overwhelmed by what I’m announcing, pay attention to what I’ve already been doing.”
Elizabeth was older. She had been called barren. Yet she was already six months pregnant.
SIX MONTHS.
Mary was just receiving the announcement, and God had already been working in somebody else’s body for half a year.
And here’s where I got emotional.
Just because Mary didn’t know Elizabeth was pregnant didn’t mean God wasn’t already moving.
How much of my life have I labeled stagnant simply because I wasn’t being given updates?
How many times have I accused God of doing nothing because I couldn’t see what He was doing?
I love a detail.
No, seriously. I LOVE a detail.
I want to know what happens next, why it happens, who is involved, how long it will take, and whether there are any foreseeable complications. And if there are complications, I would appreciate a brief PowerPoint presentation outlining the contingency plan.
God, however, has apparently declined my request for project management access.
And I am offended.
Because I want the next step explained before I take the current one.
I want certainty before surrender. Proof before participation. The outcome before the obedience.
And suddenly, I realized something that made me want to close my Bible and stare at the ceiling.
Sometimes I’m not stuck because God hasn’t spoken.
I’m stuck because He hasn’t told me enough to satisfy my need for control.
I’m waiting for Him to reveal what’s next.
And He’s waiting for me to respond to what He’s already revealed.
OUCH.
It reminded me of Bring It On.
Remember how the Toros discovered their entire championship routine had been stolen from the Clovers? All that confidence, all those trophies, all that choreography, and suddenly they had to figure out how to move without relying on what had always worked.
And Torrance had a decision to make.
Keep clinging to the familiar routine or learn something new.
And baby, I have been standing in the middle of my spiritual gymnasium, holding my metaphorical pom-poms, telling God I cannot possibly perform without the old choreography.
The old choreography of overthinking. People pleasing. Controlling. Assuming the worst. Talking myself out of hope before disappointment gets the opportunity.
But I cannot keep asking God for a new season while insisting on performing the same routine that kept me emotionally exhausted in the last one.
And unlike Bring It On, this isn’t about earning a trophy.
It’s about learning to trust the One who called me onto the floor in the first place.
Then God took me to Genesis 18:14.
“Is anything too hard for the LORD?”
Sarah had laughed at the possibility of having a child in her old age. Understandably, the circumstances looked ridiculous.
But God’s question wasn’t about Sarah’s reproductive capabilities.
It was about His.
And I realized how often I evaluate God’s promises using my own limitations.
I look at my emotional capacity, my history, my resources, my past mistakes, and decide what is realistic.
Then I call my assessment wisdom.
But sometimes it’s just fear wearing reading glasses.
And this morning, I felt God asking me another question.
“You keep telling Me you have faith. Where’s your Isaac?”
Excuse me?
Because now we’re in Genesis 22, and Abraham is being asked to surrender the very son God promised him.
Not because Isaac was bad. Not because Abraham didn’t love him. But because Abraham’s trust was being tested.
And I started thinking about everything I claim to have surrendered while still keeping a death grip on it.
My plans. My expectations. My need to be understood. My obsession with knowing the outcome. My insistence that everyone I love behave in ways that make me feel emotionally secure.
I say I trust God, but I keep checking whether He’s handling things according to my instructions.
I want Abraham’s faith with a return policy.
And the most uncomfortable question of all became this.
What is my Isaac?
What am I holding so tightly that even the thought of surrender makes me question God’s goodness?
Because maybe my Isaac isn’t a person.
Maybe it’s my need to know.
Maybe it’s the illusion of control I’ve been using to feel safe since I was a little girl who learned that life could change without warning.
And maybe putting that on the altar doesn’t mean I stop caring.
Maybe it means I finally stop treating control as my savior.
Because in Genesis 22, God provided the ram. Abraham didn’t have the entire explanation before he obeyed. And God never intended Isaac to become a human sacrifice.
The test exposed Abraham’s trust, and God’s provision interrupted the knife.
I cannot turn that passage into a promise that every sacrifice will produce the outcome I prefer.
But I can recognize the question it asks me.
Do I trust God’s character when I don’t understand His process?
And that brings me right back to Mary.
Luke 1:38.
“Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.”
There it is again.
BEHOLD.
But this time, Mary is speaking.
Gabriel’s behold directed her attention toward what God had done.
Mary’s behold introduced her response of surrender.
Same expression. Different moment.
One invites her to see.
The other reveals her willingness to obey.
And I sat there wondering whether I’ve spent so much time asking God to show me something that I’ve neglected to offer Him something.
My yes.
Not a rehearsed, polished, church-appropriate yes.
A trembling yes.
A yes from a woman who has survived things she still struggles to explain. A woman learning that healing doesn’t require her to anticipate every disaster. A woman who has spoken so harshly to herself that kindness sometimes feels suspicious.
A woman who is tired of being afraid of the very life she’s praying to live.
And I don’t want to keep calling fear discernment.
I don’t want to keep calling control responsibility.
I don’t want to keep calling negative self-talk humility.
And I certainly don’t want to keep blaming God for my lack of movement when I’ve been standing at the starting line demanding a map of the finish.
Maybe faith isn’t always a loud declaration that makes the room shake.
Sometimes it’s quietly refusing to agree with the cruelest thought in my head.
Sometimes it’s not assuming someone is leaving because they’ve gotten quiet.
Sometimes it’s telling myself I’m loved without immediately listing the reasons I might not deserve it.
Sometimes it’s taking the next step without knowing the next ten.
And sometimes it’s placing my Isaac on the altar, opening my hands, and admitting that I have mistaken holding on for being faithful.
This morning, I don’t think God was asking me to become louder.
I think He was asking me to become more intentional about whose words I keep repeating.
Because Luke 1:37 reminds me that nothing will be impossible with God.
And Luke 1:38 reminds me that Mary’s response was not to demand every detail.
It was to make herself available.
So here I am.
Still healing. Still unlearning. Still occasionally wanting God to email me the itinerary.
But I’m done allowing my worst expectations to have the loudest voice in my life.
I’m learning to speak to myself like someone God loves.
I’m learning to stop dragging yesterday’s fear into today’s relationships.
I’m learning that not knowing doesn’t mean God isn’t working.
And I’m learning that surrender isn’t losing the promise. It’s releasing my insistence on controlling how it unfolds.
Because perhaps the greatest obstacle between me and my next step hasn’t been the enemy, the circumstances, or even the silence of God.
Perhaps it’s been my refusal to move until I could guarantee I wouldn’t get hurt.
And God never promised me a life without uncertainty.
He invited me to trust Him in the middle of it.
So this morning, I’m putting down the microphone I’ve used to narrate my own defeat.
I’m laying my need to know on the altar.
I’m retiring the old choreography.
And for once, instead of asking God to prove He’s going to move, I’m asking myself why I haven’t.
Because God has already said, “Behold.”
And I think it’s time I answered, “Let it be to me according to Your word.”