(What Trust Looks Like When You’re Not in Control)

Between 2025 and this year, I tried something new.
I tried surfing.

It turns out balance is harder than it looks. Strength is far more demanding than expected. And the ocean? It has very little interest in cooperating with my learning curve.

I was splashed, knocked off the board, tossed around gently but firmly — a reminder that I was not, in fact, in charge.

And strangely, I loved it.

Because while I couldn’t control the waves, I could learn how to meet them. I could get stronger. I could improve my balance. I could fall, adjust, and try again.

Different waves required different responses. Some were too small. Some were clearly not for me yet. Others looked manageable… until they weren’t.

Knowing When to Go — and When to Wait

That’s where the trainer came in.

I couldn’t tell which waves were too big, too fast, or beyond my ability. But he could. He watched the water with a trained eye, reading patterns I didn’t know how to see.

He never rushed me. Never pushed me toward something I wasn’t ready for. And when the right wave came, he gave the board a gentle nudge, called out instructions, and stayed focused on me while cheering me on — whether I stood up or wiped out.

The waves were powerful but not cruel. Unpredictable, but not chaotic. They corrected me. Humbled me. Strengthened me.
I left the water exhausted, laughing, and deeply grateful — for the interruption, for the forced stillness, for the brief relief from overthinking, planning, and trying to anticipate what might come next

That experience nudged a truth awake in my heart: I don’t see the full picture, but God does.

I can’t always tell which moments will stretch me in good ways and which ones I’m not meant to face yet. But He can. Through His Word, through quiet guidance, through timing I don’t always understand, God leads with wisdom and care.

He doesn’t push me into what will crush me. He protects me more than I notice. And when the moment is right, He invites me forward — gently, patiently — so growth can happen.

And even when I lose my balance and fall, He is still present. Still steady. Still guiding.

The Ocean That Calms

Before each session I stood in front of the ocean — my favorite place — and just watched.

The waves moved as they always have, steady and powerful. I smiled. It’s so immense… and yet, it’s nothing for God. One word from Him, and it would obey. One word, and it could part. One word, and it could stop. The ocean calms me, but it also amazes me. It reminds me of the Creator, who holds even the wildest waters in His hand.

For a moment, the noise of my mind softened. I just stood there, breathing, amazed at this beautiful creation God made — feeling both small and deeply held at the same time.

God is already present. Already active. Already involved — not just in defining moments, but in the overlooked details.

Jesus once said “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?” (Matthew 6:26)

If God attends to birds and tides, waves and wind, and the little crabs in the sand, then I can trust Him with what’s ahead too. With the visible challenges and the quiet ones. With the days I feel strong and the days I feel stretched thin.

That doesn’t remove responsibility.
It doesn’t erase effort.

But it does remove the need to carry everything alone.

A Year That Feels Like Water

This year is a blank chapter — full of moments I can’t fully see yet. Waves are coming, yes, but not all of them are meant to knock me down. Some will lift me. Some I’ll learn to ride. Some will stretch me in ways that feel demanding at first, but strengthening over time.

Others will surprise me — the kind that leave salt on my skin and a smile on my face, reminding me that even here, there is beauty to notice.

Growth tends to be layered like that — challenging, rewarding, and occasionally ridiculously inconvenient.

I don’t know what’s waiting ahead. I don’t know which moments will feel light and which will ask more of me than I expected. But I’m learning that the goal isn’t control — it’s trust.

Trusting that I’m being guided by Someone who sees the whole ocean, not just the wave in front of me.

Beginning Without a Script

So this is how I begin the year.

Not with promises I’ll need to revise.
Not with resolutions designed to impress.

But with trust shaped by attention — by remembering who God is: Creator. Sustainer. Guide through storms and calm waters alike.

If He cares for creation with such consistency and care, then I can trust Him with my steps — even when my balance is off, even when I misjudge the wave, even when I fall.

This year may not be easy.
But it will be guided.

And that changes everything.

Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But steadily — like the tide.