Part 3 of 8 in The Year God Redefined Contentment

"Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the everlasting way." — Psalm 139:23–24

The illusion of control is one of the most convincing lies fear has ever whispered to me. For years, I believed I was simply being responsible. I had no idea the Lord was about to show me something completely different.

Hello Friend!

Welcome to Part 3 of my 8-part series, The Year God Redefined Contentment.

If you're just joining me, I'd encourage you to go back and read or listen to Part 1 and Part 2; each post builds upon the last as I share how the Lord has been patiently revealing His heart to me and in the process, transforming mine.

Part 1, When God Gives You a Word You Don't Want
Part 2, The Orphan Lie: How Fear Convinced Me I Was Alone

In the first two posts, I shared how God began redefining what contentment truly means and how He exposed an orphan lie that fear had quietly whispered over my life for years. As I continued spending time with Him, however, I began realizing that fear hadn't only shaped the way I viewed loss.

It had also shaped the way I loved the people closest to me.

And that's where the Lord gently showed me something I never expected to see.

The Conversation I Couldn't Shake

Several months ago, Tyler and I were having one of those conversations that every married couple eventually has—the kind that leaves you thinking long after the words have been spoken.

There wasn't yelling.

There wasn't hostility.

There wasn't a marriage in crisis.

It was simply an honest conversation between a husband and wife who love each other and wanted to understand one another better.

As we talked, Tyler said something that immediately caught my attention.

He told me that at times he felt like he was walking on eggshells around me.

If I'm honest, my first reaction wasn't agreement.

It was confusion.

Walking on eggshells?

Around me?

That didn't make sense.

I've never wanted our home to feel tense. I've never desired for the people I love to feel like they had to measure every word before speaking,  nor worry about how I might respond. In fact, if you had asked me beforehand what kind of atmosphere I believed I was creating, I would have described it as caring, responsible, and deeply invested in the well-being of my family.

His words didn't fit the picture I had of myself.

So instead of immediately understanding what he meant, I quietly carried those words to the Lord.

"Search Me, O God"

One of the prayers I've found myself returning to often this year is David's prayer in Psalm 139:

"Search me, O God, and know my heart."

I've learned that praying those words requires a willingness to see things I'd rather miss.

It's much easier to ask God to change other people than it is to invite Him to search me.

But over the past several months, He's been teaching me that His conviction is always an invitation, never an accusation. He isn't looking for reasons to shame us. He's looking for places where His freedom can reach us.

So I brought Tyler's words before Him.

"Lord... is there something I'm not seeing?"

Not all at once, but over time, He began answering that prayer.

And what He showed me was both painful and beautiful.

Painful because I couldn't deny it.

Beautiful because His kindness met me in it.

I Thought I Was Protecting My Family

As I continued praying through that conversation, I realized something I had never seen before. I wasn't intentionally trying to control Tyler, Jackson, or anyone else in my life. In my mind, I was simply trying to protect the people I loved most. If I could anticipate problems, prevent mistakes, think through every possible scenario, or prepare for what might happen next, then surely I was being a good wife, a good bonus mom, and a responsible adult.

After all, isn't that what love does?

Love protects.

Love prepares.

Love cares.

Those desires weren't wrong.

But somewhere along the way, fear quietly attached itself to them.

Without realizing it, I had stopped preparing from a place of peace and started preparing from a place of anxiety. I wasn't simply considering possibilities anymore. I was trying to manage outcomes before they ever had the chance to unfold.

Looking back now, I can see that I wasn't trusting God with tomorrow because I was already trying to carry it myself.

Fear had convinced me that control was love.

That realization humbled me.

Because my intentions had been good.

I wasn't trying to dominate anyone.

I wasn't trying to make every decision.

I wasn't trying to become the leader of our home.

I was simply trying to prevent pain.

But good intentions don't always produce healthy fruit.

And the Holy Spirit was inviting me to look beyond my intentions and examine what my fear was actually producing.

The Atmosphere I Never Meant to Create

One of the hardest lessons I've learned this year is that our hearts are never as private as we think they are.

Whatever fills our hearts eventually spills into our homes.

Jesus said it this way in Luke 6:45:

"For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of."

I had always interpreted that verse primarily in terms of words. But as I reflected on our conversations, I realized it extends beyond what we say. Our hearts shape our tone. They shape our reactions. They shape the emotional climate we create for the people around us.

Fear has an atmosphere.

So does peace.

When fear quietly occupies our hearts, it doesn't stay there.

It begins influencing how we ask questions.

How we respond to unexpected situations.

How quickly we assume something might go wrong.

How tightly we hold the people we love.

I wasn't trying to create pressure in our home.

But pressure was exactly what fear was producing.

And the heartbreaking part was that I couldn't see it until someone I loved had the courage to lovingly tell me.

The atmosphere I was trying so desperately to prevent was the very atmosphere fear had quietly been creating through me.

What Conviction Really Feels Like

If I'm honest, there was a part of me that wanted to defend myself.

Not outwardly.

I didn't argue with Tyler or tell him he was wrong. But internally, I found myself replaying the conversation, trying to make sense of it. I knew my heart. I knew how deeply I loved my husband and our family. I wasn't trying to make anyone feel like they were walking on eggshells. I wasn't trying to create tension in our home. In fact, everything I did was because I wanted our home to feel safe.

That was the part I couldn't reconcile.

How could my intentions be so different from someone else's experience?

As I continued bringing that question before the Lord, He gently reminded me that while our intentions matter, they aren't always the clearest indicator of what's happening inside our hearts. We can genuinely desire to love people well while unknowingly allowing fear to shape the way that love is expressed. Those two things can exist at the same time.

That realization was difficult to sit with.

Not because I felt condemned.

Because I knew the Holy Spirit was showing me something true.

Looking back, I'm so thankful He didn't allow me to dismiss Tyler's words simply because they were hard to hear. Instead, He used them as an invitation to look beneath the surface. Rather than asking, "Was I trying to control people?" He began asking a much deeper question.

What has fear been producing in you?

I love that Jesus asks better questions than I do.

I would have focused on my behavior.

He focused on my heart.

The more I prayed, the more I realized that conviction feels nothing like condemnation.

For so many years, I think I subconsciously expected God to expose my weaknesses with disappointment. Instead, I've experienced Him exposing them with compassion. There was no shame in His voice. No accusation. No "I can't believe you're still struggling with this."

Only kindness.

Only patience.

Only an invitation to come closer.

Romans 2:4 tells us that it is God's kindness that leads us to repentance. I've read that verse many times, but this year I've experienced it in a way I never had before. His conviction wasn't pushing me away. It was drawing me nearer. Every layer He uncovered wasn't another reason to feel guilty. It was another place where He wanted to bring freedom.

And that changed the way I received His correction.

Instead of feeling exposed...

I felt loved.

Stewardship or Sovereignty?

As I continued praying through everything the Lord was showing me, I found myself wrestling with a question that had never crossed my mind before.

Where does faithful stewardship end... and where does trying to take God's place begin?

At first, I wasn't even sure I understood the question.

I've always considered responsibility to be one of my strengths. I enjoy planning. I like thinking ahead. I'm wired to notice details that other people often overlook, and for most of my life, those qualities have served me well. They helped me in my career. They helped me care for my family. They even helped me navigate some incredibly difficult seasons. Because of that, I never questioned whether those tendencies were healthy. I simply assumed they were part of how God had made me.

And to some extent, they are.

The Lord wasn't asking me to stop being responsible. He wasn't asking me to become careless or passive. He wasn't suggesting that wisdom and preparation were somehow wrong. Scripture encourages us to be wise stewards of what God has entrusted to us, and I believe that's something we're called to pursue.

But as I sat quietly with Him, I sensed Him gently revealing something I had never noticed before.

Somewhere along the way, fear had quietly attached itself to those good qualities.

Without realizing it, I had begun believing that if I thought through enough possibilities, anticipated enough problems, and prepared for every worst-case scenario, I could somehow protect the people I loved from unnecessary pain. Looking back now, I can see that my planning wasn't always flowing from peace. Often, it was flowing from fear. I wasn't simply preparing for tomorrow. I was trying to control a tomorrow that hadn't even arrived.

That realization stopped me.

Not because planning is wrong.

But because I had unknowingly given my planning a responsibility God had never intended it to carry.

As I reflected on that, I realized I had slowly begun confusing stewardship with sovereignty.

God invites me to faithfully steward what He places in my hands. He asks me to love well, to pray faithfully, to walk in wisdom, and to be obedient to what He's asked of me. Those things are my responsibility.

The outcome never was.

Somewhere along the way, I had quietly started carrying outcomes as though they belonged to me. I wanted to make sure everyone was okay. I wanted to make sure no one got hurt. I wanted to prevent disappointment, avoid unnecessary pain, and protect the people I loved from making mistakes that might wound them. Those desires weren't born from selfishness. They were born from love.

But love, when mixed with fear, can become incredibly heavy.

As I look back now, I can see that I was carrying burdens that weren't mine simply because I loved the people around me so deeply. I thought that if I worried enough, planned enough, or stayed alert enough, I could somehow create a safer future for all of us.

I couldn't.

Only God can carry that kind of responsibility.

And perhaps that's what brought me the greatest sense of relief through this entire journey.

The Lord wasn't asking me to love my family less.

He was inviting me to trust Him more.

Those are two very different things.

The more I released my grip on outcomes, the more I realized that faithfulness and control had quietly become tangled together in my heart. For years, I had assumed they were the same thing. But they aren't.

Faithfulness is responding in obedience to what God has asked of me today.

Control is trying to carry tomorrow before it ever arrives.

Only one of those produces peace.

Peace Was Never Mine to Manufacture

As these pieces slowly began coming together, I found myself returning again and again to Proverbs 3:5–6:

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own understanding; in all your ways know Him, and He will make your paths straight."

I've loved those verses for years.

I've memorized them.

Quoted them.

Encouraged other people with them.

But this year, they began asking something different of me.

Did I really trust the Lord with all my heart?

Or did I trust Him while quietly believing it was still my responsibility to make sure everything turned out okay?

That's a much more uncomfortable question.

Because if I'm honest, there had been countless moments when my prayers sounded like trust, but my actions revealed something else. I would pray, surrender the situation to the Lord, and then immediately begin mentally rehearsing every possible outcome. I'd think through every conversation, every scenario, every decision that might need to be made, convincing myself that I was simply being responsible.

Looking back now, I realize I wasn't resting after I prayed. I was picking the burden back up. Not because I doubted God's goodness. Because somewhere deep inside, I still believed that if I didn't carry it, no one would. That realization brought me right back to the orphan lie God had exposed in my previous post.

Fear had convinced me that I was alone.

And if I was alone, then of course everything depended on me.

Of course I needed to stay alert.

Of course I needed to anticipate every possibility.

Of course I needed to hold everything together.

But daughters don't live that way.

Daughters know they have a Father.

As that truth settled more deeply into my heart, I began seeing something I had missed for years.

The illusion of control wasn't really about control at all.

It was about trust.

Every time I tried to carry tomorrow, I was quietly believing tomorrow rested on my shoulders instead of His.

Every time I rehearsed every possible outcome, I was placing myself in a position God had never asked me to occupy.

He had invited me to walk beside Him. I had unknowingly been trying to walk ahead of Him. No wonder I felt exhausted. No wonder peace felt so difficult to hold onto. I was carrying responsibilities that belong to God alone. Jesus' words in Matthew 11 began taking on an entirely new meaning:

"Come to Me, all of you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

I've always loved that invitation, but this year I found myself asking a different question.

What burden was Jesus actually inviting me to lay down?

Certainly the burdens of grief.

Certainly the burdens of loss.

Certainly the burdens of disappointment.

But I wonder if He was also inviting me to lay down the burden of believing that I was responsible for holding everything together.

Because the truth is...

I never was.

There is something incredibly freeing about realizing that my assignment has never been to control outcomes.

My assignment is to walk faithfully with Jesus today.

To love the people He has entrusted to me.

To pray.

To obey.

To forgive.

To extend mercy.

To trust Him with what I cannot see.

Tomorrow has always belonged to Him.

As I've continued walking through this season, I can't honestly say I've mastered surrender.

There are still days when fear whispers old narratives.

There are still moments when I feel the temptation to tighten my grip, rehearse every possibility, or convince myself that peace depends on my ability to stay one step ahead. But those moments don't last as long anymore. Because now I recognize the voice. And I've begun recognizing another voice that speaks even louder. The voice of my Father. The One who has been patiently reminding me all year that contentment isn't found in perfect circumstances.

That security isn't found in controlling outcomes.

That belonging isn't something I have to earn.

It's something I've already received.

As His daughter.

Perhaps that's what Jesus has been inviting me into all along.

Not a life with fewer responsibilities. 

A life with fewer burdens.

Because those are not the same thing.

The more I loosen my grip on what only God can carry, the more room I make for the peace He has been offering me all along.

And maybe that's the greatest irony of all.

The peace I spent years trying to create...

was never mine to manufacture.

It was always His to give.

Reflection

As you spend time with the Lord this week, I want to encourage you to resist the temptation to immediately ask, "Where am I trying to control things?"

Instead, begin by taking one step deeper.

Ask Him,

"Lord, what burden have I been carrying that You never asked me to carry?"

Maybe it's the future of your marriage.

Maybe it's one of your children.

Maybe it's a relationship that feels fragile.

Maybe it's your finances, your health, or a decision you're trying desperately to get right.

Whatever comes to mind, don't rush past it.

Sit with Him there.

Ask Him why that burden feels so heavy.

Ask Him what fear might be sitting underneath it.

Then ask one more question.

"Father, what would trusting You here actually look like?"

He may not change your circumstances overnight.

But don't be surprised if He begins changing the way you carry them.

Prayer

Father,

Thank You for Your patience with me.

Thank You for never exposing my heart to shame me, but always to draw me closer to You. Thank You for gently uncovering the places where fear quietly shaped my thoughts, my relationships, and the atmosphere of my home. Even when Your conviction has been uncomfortable, it has always been wrapped in kindness.

Lord, forgive me for the times I've carried responsibilities You never asked me to carry. Forgive me for believing that peace depended upon my ability to anticipate every outcome or protect the people I love from every hardship. Thank You for reminding me that You never called me to be sovereign. You simply invited me to be faithful.

Teach me what it looks like to live each day as Your daughter. Help me to trust You more deeply, surrender more freely, and rest more fully in Your love. When fear begins whispering old lies, remind me that I am not alone, I am not abandoned, and I am not responsible for holding everything together.

Thank You for being the faithful Father who never asks me to carry what only You can bear.

In Jesus' name,

Amen.

In Part 4, I'll share one of the most unexpected revelations God has given me this year—how discovering His mercy transformed me far more deeply than judgment ever could, and why learning to receive His mercy forever changed the way I extend it to others.

With love,