A cry from the quiet place, where striving dies and life begins

I forget so easily.

Not the truth, but the source.

I know You are good. I know You are present. I know You are my strength.

But somewhere in the execution, I reach for control.

I write the plan, polish the vision, move the pieces—

and only later ask if You were even in it.

It’s subtle.

I call it stewardship. I call it leadership.

But it’s a slow drift back into self—

where I carry what You never asked me to pick up.

And yet, when I stop, when I breathe, when I remember…

I can see it clearly.

Every good thing has come from You.

The words that had weight.

The decisions that bore fruit.

The peace that carried me through what should’ve broken me—

None of it was mine.

I was just there.

Present. Empty. Willing.

And You moved.

You always move when I’m surrendered.

But You wait when I’m strong.

So I lay it all down again.

The clever plans. The wise strategies. The spiritual-sounding ambition.

Even the things You once gave me—if I’ve started to manage them instead of abide in You.

Even the callings that feel holy, but have become heavy.

Because I don’t want to lead from memory.

I want to live from presence.

From the Vine. From the Voice. From the Spirit that flows like sap into branches that stay.

Teach me again to wait.

To walk in step, not in assumption.

To move at Your pace, even when it’s slower than my comfort allows.

I don’t need to be strong.

I just need to stay close.

And when it’s all said and done—

When the story is told,

When the fruit is counted,

When the race is finished—

I want one thing to be undeniably clear:

It was never me. It was always You.

“Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit,” says the Lord of hosts.

—Zechariah 4:6