Parables & Precious Trials

Tag: god

  • When I Don’t Know If I’m Hearing God

    I’ve been told more than once by pastors and church leaders that “Bible dips” don’t work. You know, when you open your Bible at random and hope that whatever verse your eyes land on is God speaking directly to you. They say God doesn’t work that way. That it’s not divinely inspired, that it’s dangerous to assume our own interpretations as God’s will. That I can’t ask God for a closer parking space. That I have to be cautious not to call something divine when it might just be my own wishful thinking.

    And I get that. I understand the merit of those teachings.

    But still—I don’t believe in coincidences.
I do believe God is in the details.
I believe He is constantly communicating with me, in ways big and small.

    I say: “Maybe it’s my imagination.”

    God says:

    “Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.”

    — Jeremiah 33:3

    I think about how we each appear differently to the people who know us. My mom sees one version of me, my spouse sees another, my friends another still. None of them are wrong, but none of them are the full picture either. Their perception is their reality.

    And I don’t want to do that with God.
I don’t want to project a version of Him that I’ve built from my own preferences and assumptions.
I don’t want to declare something divine when He’s not in it.
I don’t want to say, “This is God,” if He’s not there.

    But still—sometimes I’ll put on my worship playlist and hit shuffle, and I’ll whisper, “God, pick the songs. Let me hear You.” And when the right song plays, when it cracks my heart open in a very specific place I didn’t even know was sore, I wonder…

    Was that You, God? Or just luck?

    I say: “Maybe I’m just projecting.”

    God says:

    “My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.”
— John 10:27

    I don’t want to mistake emotion for divine instruction.
I don’t want to follow a version of God I’ve made in my own image.
But sometimes I just really, really need to hear Him in a way that’s personal. In a way that reminds me I’m not crazy for believing He’s near.

    And in those moments—
When I cry in my car listening to a song I didn’t even remember adding to my playlist…
When I open my Bible and the words are exactly what I needed to see…
I do dare to believe. I know He is there.

    I say: “Maybe I don’t have discernment.”

    God says:

    “If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you.”
— James 1:5

    I worry sometimes. What if I’ve built this whole thing wrong?
What if my sense of hearing God is totally off?
What if I don’t really know Him at all?

    But deep down, I also know this: the enemy loves when we second-guess ourselves.
He loves when we doubt whether we’re really connected to God. He squeezes into those spaces. 
Because when we stop believing we can hear from God, we stop listening. The enemy wins.

    I say: “Maybe I made this up.”

    God says:

    “The Lord confides in those who fear him; he makes his covenant known to them.”
— Psalm 25:14

    So no, I don’t think asking God to shuffle a playlist or guide a page flip is silly.
I think it’s childlike faith.
I think it’s relationship.
And I think God delights in it.

    Not because He’s bound by those things, but because I’m inviting Him into them.

    I say: “Maybe it’s not that deep.”

    God says:

    “In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your path.”
— Proverbs 3:6

    I don’t want to romanticize everything and call it divine.
But I also don’t want to flatten the divine and call it coincidence.

    Because I really do believe God is in the small things.
I believe He’s in the song that makes me bawl.
In the verse that feels alive.
In the silence that speaks louder than words.
In the weird, unexplainable peace.

    So here’s where I land:

    I will keep testing what I think I hear.
I will hold it up to Scripture.
I will ask for wise counsel.
I will pray for discernment.
But I won’t stop listening.
And I won’t stop believing that God loves to be heard.

    Because I am not a stranger to Him.
And He is not silent.

    “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.”
— Jeremiah 29:13

  • When God Showed Up Anyway

    —a reflection on faith, fragility, and unexpected grace—

    There’s a kind of guilt I never knew had a name.


    Not the kind that comes when something goes wrong.


    The kind that visits when things don’t go as wrong as they could have.

    My daughter is four.


    She has cancer.


    And autism.


    And she doesn’t speak—not with words, anyway.


    So when the pain comes, I have to guess.


    Is it her stomach? Her bones? The sharp, chemical ache of chemo?


    I read her the way you read weather—watching the shift in her clouds,


    feeling for the pressure in the room.

    I’ve met parents in these hospital halls who’ve told me,


    with voices like cracked porcelain,

    “I could never believe in a God who would let this happen to children.”

    And I understand. I do.

    But here’s the truth I hesitate to say out loud:


    I have seen God more clearly through this diagnosis


    than I ever did in the quiet seasons.


    Not in thunder or burning bushes—


    but in the way a nurse kneels to meet my daughter’s eyes,


    in the hands that hold her with instinct and tenderness,


    in the stranger who sees my exhaustion and calls it beautiful.

    God didn’t show up as rescue.


    He showed up as presence.


    Over and over again.

    But here’s where the guilt coils tight in my chest:


    Her diagnosis isn’t terminal.


    And I say that with trembling gratitude,


    but also with a grief I don’t know where to place.


    Because some children don’t get to grow up.


    Some parents don’t get to carry home a child who survived.

    So who am I to speak of revelation?


    Of grace?


    Of faith that held when their worlds fell apart?

    I want to believe I’d still say God is good

    if the scan had said something else.


    If the treatments had failed.


    If I were standing at a graveside, not a bedside.


    But how could I know?

    And yet…


    faith isn’t a contest.


    Suffering isn’t a ladder.


    Grief doesn’t ask for comparisons, only witness.


    And light isn’t less holy just because someone else is in deeper shadow.

    I have seen God in this storm.


    Not because we were spared,


    but because we weren’t alone.

    If you’re in the thick of it—whatever it is—


    if your belief is barely breathing, or if it died long ago,


    please know this:


    There is no shame in your story.


    No wrong way to feel what you feel.

    But if you, like me, have seen a flicker of divine love


    in the breaking open—


    you can speak of it, too.


    Not to prove anything.


    Just to say:

    He was here. Even here. Even now.