I don't know why, but this one has been tough.
Maybe it is the toughness in me, the stubbornness that refuses to simply leave in His hands what I never held. Never could hold. Clinging to my future is like holding a piece of air. It is unseen and impossible.
"Just leave it in the hands of the Jesus," Brandon Heath sings quietly to me. "If we're gonna pray about it, there's no use worrying. If we're gonna worry about it, why are we praying?"
I don't know Brandon. Maybe it is the familiarity of worry. Because the hands of Worry always give back what we handed them. But what a jumbled mess that is.
The hands of the Healer hand us the dreams we don't deserve. He takes our small-minded ideas, our faint hopes, our blind wishes, and surprises us with things more beautiful; a re-crafting, recreating of our dim dreams.
It takes courage to leave our hopes in His hands. Sometimes that means we'll never see them again. Which is only good news if we can be brave enough to see it. To see Him.