I Just Want to Learn How to Chill

If someone had asked me a year ago what I wanted most, I probably would've answered without thinking.

I wanted answers.

I wanted clarity.

I wanted justice.

I wanted restoration.

I wanted certainty.

I wanted to know what God was doing and, if I'm being completely honest, I wanted Him to tell me when He was going to do it.

Lately, though, something has changed.

Not all at once.

Not dramatically.

Just quietly.

I don't think I want certainty nearly as much anymore.

I think I just want peace.

I've caught myself praying differently these days. My prayers aren't necessarily shorter, but they feel less desperate. I'm not trying so hard to convince God that something matters to me. He already knows. He always has. I think the person who needed convincing was me.

Sometimes I laugh because I imagine God looking at me with so much patience. Almost like a father watching his little daughter frantically trying to solve a problem that she was never expected to carry in the first place.

That image comforts me.

I've realized that I spend an incredible amount of energy trying to mentally prepare for futures that don't exist yet. My imagination treats uncertainty like an emergency, so it immediately starts writing stories. Some are hopeful. Some are heartbreaking. Most of them never happen.

And yet my body responds as though they already have.

No wonder I get tired.

No wonder my nervous system has felt exhausted.

I've been living tomorrow before finishing today.

That's such a strange way to live.

The more I pray, the more I find myself wanting something much simpler.

I just want to become the kind of woman who trusts God enough to enjoy an ordinary afternoon.

To take my son to the park without wondering what next year will look like.

To drink my coffee while it's still hot.

To read a good book because I enjoy it, not because I'm trying to distract myself from uncertainty.

To laugh with my parents without secretly carrying tomorrow on my shoulders.

I think that's what I mean when I say I want to learn how to chill.

Not laziness.

Not indifference.

Trust.

The kind of trust little children seem to have naturally.

My son never asks me what we're doing three Thursdays from now.

He doesn't worry about next month.

He doesn't wonder whether I'll still love him tomorrow.

He simply reaches for my hand because, in his little heart, he has already decided that I'm trustworthy.

I wonder how many times God has looked at me and gently thought,

"My daughter... would you just take My hand?"

I hope one day that's the kind of faith I have.

Not because every question has been answered.

But because I've finally stopped believing that unanswered questions are an obstacle to joy.

Maybe peace isn't found at the end of certainty.

Maybe peace begins the moment we stop demanding it.

And honestly...

I think I'm finally beginning to understand that.

One ordinary day at a time.

💜