I used to think my life

was a series of pages I had to fill.

Ink smudged with striving,

lines pressed heavy with worry,

chapters shaped

by what I could not change.

But His hands turn the pages,

steady, unshaken, sure.

What I called endings,

He calls beginnings.

What I saw as ruins,

He rebuilds with grace.

Even in the silence between sentences,

His goodness is still writing,

His mercy still unfolding,

His love still carving beauty

out of every ache,

every waiting,

every wonder.

The story is not mine to write,

but to trust—

to watch His goodness

carry every line to redemption,

to let hope spill into the margins

until I can finally see—

My future was never uncertain.

It was always in His hands.