This morning I sat perched in my bathroom and let out a raspy wail. “Ugh, I just wish I could plan a fun and special thing and not have this disease wreck the day and ruin it for me!” My “woe is me” meter was on full tilt as I lamented the evening I had conjured up in my head, even though I still had a solid eight hours until go time.
That’s right where the enemy would have us be, isn’t it? Catastrophizing every ordinary miracle today has to offer because we haven’t taken a moment to stop, give thanks, pray for mercy, and trust that our good Father wants us to experience the good parts just as much as we want them ourselves.
I realized, as I sat there staring at my own tired reflection, that I had already decided how the day would end before it had even begun. I had written a story of disappointment, frustration, and limitation — and then handed it the microphone before God even had a chance to speak into it.
How often do we do that?
We trade possibility for prediction.
We surrender joy to fear.
We allow what might happen to rob us of what is happening.
Illness has a way of shrinking the horizon. It teaches you to measure life in energy units, in symptom flares, in “maybe” and “we’ll see.” But what it doesn’t get to do is dictate where hope lives. That part still belongs to God. And, if I’m honest, sometimes it belongs to my willingness to loosen my grip on expectations.
The truth is, special moments have rarely unfolded the way I imagined them even before sickness entered the room. The most meaningful memories in my life were almost always disguised as interruptions, detours, or completely rewritten plans. Somehow, God has always had a way of sneaking beauty into spaces I was convinced were ruined.
So I sat there and did the only thing I knew to do. I prayed a very unpolished, very honest prayer.
“Lord, I’m scared this day will fall apart. I’m frustrated that my body feels like it has veto power over things my heart longs for. But I trust You more than I trust my fears. Help me to receive whatever today holds — the joy, the disappointment, the laughter, the fatigue — as something You can still use for good.”
Peace didn’t rush in like a tidal wave. It rarely does. Instead, it trickled in like a slow drip from a faucet that someone finally remembered to turn off. My shoulders softened. My breathing steadied. The day didn’t suddenly become guaranteed or predictable, but it became held. And that is often better.
Maybe the miracle isn’t that our plans go perfectly.
Maybe the miracle is that joy can still show up in imperfect circumstances.
Maybe the miracle is that God wastes nothing — not the setbacks, not the symptoms, not even the bathroom floor meltdowns before noon.
I don’t know how tonight will unfold. If I’m honest, part of me still wants to script it, control it, and protect it from disappointment. But I’m learning that tightly gripping expectations often squeezes the life out of the very moments I’m trying to preserve.
So today, I’m practicing open hands.
Open hands to receive whatever strength God gives.
Open hands to release whatever I cannot control.
Open hands to hold joy gently, without demanding it perform perfectly.
If you’re living in a body, a season, or a circumstance that feels unpredictable, maybe this is your reminder too: you are allowed to hope without guarantees. You are allowed to celebrate even when outcomes feel uncertain. You are allowed to believe that goodness can coexist with limitation.
Our Father is not waiting at the finish line of a perfect day to meet us there. He is walking beside us through the messy, rewritten, grace-filled middle of it all.
And sometimes, that is where the best parts are hiding.
Choosing Hope 