Faith Over Chaos

I’m going to paint you a picture of me.

I stand alone in front of you, wearing my old, worn flip-flops—the only shoes that have ever truly understood me. My hair is streaked with gray, which might look like wisdom earned over time… if I hadn’t started graying early. Maybe it’s not age, but the wear and tear of single motherhood: the solo decisions, the single nights heavy with loneliness, the quiet ache of watching life pass by while I was too busy surviving to chase purpose.

Alone I stand—a woman padded by the weight of stress, sorrow, and trials, all lovingly coated in cake, chocolate, and the best candy ever invented: turtles. I wear baggy clothes not for comfort, but to camouflage each lump that, to me, marks a misstep—a decision I wish I could redo, a moment I wish I’d handled differently.

I am of average intelligence, but with a non-wavering ability to rise in my work life like a stubborn dandelion through concrete. I show up. I learn fast. I carry more than I’m asked to, and I do it with a smile that sometimes hides the ache. My resume might not sparkle, but my grit does. In my work life, I carry authority, intelligence, and training like a well-packed toolbelt. I can grow you, show you, and take you higher than you ever imagined. I’ve coached, led, healed, and held space for others to rise. And yet—somewhere in the climb—I’ve found myself stuck in the quiet echo of what am I missing?

Where is my heart?

It’s in my work—my relentless striving to climb higher, faster, longer. It’s in the way I never stop to ask, What is enough? I keep moving, keep proving, keep spinning plates while whispering prayers I’m not sure I believe will land.

I worry about everything—my future, my past, my mistakes, my dreams. I carry them all like mismatched luggage, dragging them behind me with a smile that says, I’m fine, and eyes that say, Please don’t look too close.

I stand here alone in front of you with my grit and my sarcasm packed in my purse—ready to pass them out like peppermints at church. A little sweetness, a little sting. My armor isn’t shiny, but it’s mine.

Where is all this packed?

The worry, the achievement, the education, the stress—it’s all crammed into this oversized backpack slung across my shoulders. It’s lumpy, it’s tattered, it smells vaguely of old coffee and unmet expectations. But it’s mine. I’ve stitched it together with late nights and early mornings, with grit and guilt and a few candy wrappers tucked in the side pocket.

But what if it wasn’t?

What if I didn’t have to carry it all? What if I could unzip this burden and hand it over—piece by piece—to a God who doesn’t flinch at the mess? What if surrender wasn’t weakness, but wisdom? What if the art of laying it down was more powerful than the hustle of picking it all up?

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28

What if I slowly take off this large, heavy backpack and open it?

Right here. Right now. I unzip the seams and expose the contents—my vulnerable parts, the ones I’ve kept zipped up tight for years. I reach in with shaking hands and start pulling it all out.

Here, Lord—here are my children. My worry. My work. My mess. My need to prove. My fear of being forgotten. My dreams that feel too dusty to speak aloud.

I lay them out, one by one, like sacred offerings on the altar of surrender. And it hurts. It hurts.

Why is it painful?

Because these things—they’ve become part of me. Not just what I carry, but who I think I am. The fixer. The doer. The one who holds it all together with duct tape and prayer. I prefer superglue to prevent change, to prevent things from falling apart.

So maybe… maybe I’ll keep just this one thing. Just this one piece. It’s small. It’s mine. It’s the last thread of control I have.

And then—He speaks.

“You are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one.” Luke 10:41–42

He doesn’t scold. He doesn’t snatch it from my hands. He just looks at me with eyes that have seen every sleepless night, every turtle wrapper, every whispered prayer I didn’t think He heard.

And He says, “For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you.” Isaiah 41:13

Do you remember? Let me take you back to the beginning. You are seeing me.

See me.

This is the sum of me—all my heavy-laden parts, wrapped in a backpack I stitched together with striving and sorrow. I carry it. I hold it dear. I call it mine.

But now… pan out. Even I notice it. I wasn’t alone. He was there the whole time. Not watching from a distance, not waiting for me to collapse—holding me. Holding me with all the weight I insisted on carrying. I thought I was strong. I thought I had to be. But He was there, arms steady, whispering, “You don’t have to do this alone.”

I realized I am not the sum of what I hold. I am the beloved of the one who holds me.

I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you. Isaiah 46:4

So now, when I paint you a picture of me, I don’t just show you the backpack.

I show you the arms that carry it—and carry me. The backpack is brand new now. It’s thinner. Lighter. Shinier. So shiny, in fact, that there’s a reflection in it. It’s the reflection of Jesus. Not because He magically appeared, but because I finally invited Him in—into all of it. Into my worry. My work. My motherhood. My mess. And now, when I look at the weight I carry, I don’t just see me.

I see Him. His reflection, holding me.

Helping you find peace in the garden again – where the weight is lighter, the presence is real, and the One who holds you never lets go.

Maybe you’ve carried a backpack like mine. Maybe yours looks different. But the weight still presses. Let’s pause and unpack together…

1. What weight have you claimed as yours, even though He’s whispered, “Let me carry that”?
2. What would it look like to unzip your burden, piece by piece?
3. What scares you about laying it down?
4. If Jesus were reflected in your backpack, what would He see?