Trusting that Jesus may hold me starts with recognizing that I don't have to transport everything on my own. It's a surrender—to not vulnerability, but to heavenly energy that knows number limits. So often, we take to to manage every depth of our lives: associations, moment, finances, outcomes. And when points commence to crumble or slide beyond our understand, we panic. But Jesus invites people into a different way: to let go of our grip and allow Him to transport what we cannot. True confidence begins wherever our sense of get a grip on ends. It's in that time of launch, that whispered prayer of “Jesus, I can not do this without You,” that acceptance begins to move.
You will find instances when life feels also heavy—when sadness lingers, when panic tightens, when the trail forward is clouded. In these instances, relying that Jesus may hold me is not really a graceful idea, but a lifeline. The Gospels are filled with reports wherever Jesus matches persons in the center of these storms—to not scold them for being afraid, but to go beside them, peaceful the waves, and speak peace. When I confidence Him, I don't reject that storms exist. I simply recognize that He is more powerful than the breeze and waves. And when I cannot go, He holds me—not only metaphorically, but truly. He lifts the fat I cannot keep and areas me on a higher path.
We live in some sort of that glorifies independence and self-sufficiency. But the religious life calls people in to a greater dependence—perhaps not on the planet, but on heavenly love. Trusting that Jesus may hold me suggests I don't need to have most of the answers. I don't need to be strong most of the time. I don't need certainly to treat myself, repair everything, or estimate the future. Jesus becomes my energy in weakness, my knowledge in confusion, my peace in chaos. Issuing the burden of self-reliance is not giving up; it's providing in—to a love that is large, individual, and trustworthy. It is one of the most releasing experiences of the soul.
When I confidence that Jesus may hold me, I know I am never alone. He is perhaps not a remote figure from the past or a notion in a book. He is here, now. He walks before me to prepare the way, beside me to go through it, and behind me to shield what I keep behind. When I stumble, He lifts me. When I fall, He doesn't condemn—He carries. This kind of confidence is not naive; it's rooted in relationship. Through prayer, stop, Scripture, and simple existence, I come to understand His voice. And the more I hear that voice, the more I feel that I don't go this journey by myself.
Much of life is uncertain. We don't know what tomorrow holds, how situations may occur, or the length of time specific periods of pain may last. But Jesus never promised assurance of circumstances—He promised His presence. Trusting that He will hold me doesn't mean I will not face the unknown. This means I will not face it alone. When anxiety arises about the future, I tell myself that He previously stands there. He sees what I cannot. He knows what I need. And He holds the map even if I'm lost. Trust becomes my compass, and religion becomes the floor beneath my feet.
Ironically, we don't often learn how to confidence when points are easy. It's often in the valleys—when everything else is removed away—that individuals ultimately learn how to allow Him hold us. When I have attempted every choice and nothing works… when I have cried every prayer and the pain however lingers… when I have arrive at the conclusion of myself—that is wherever confidence is born. In these holy rooms of surrender, Jesus appears perhaps not with condemnation, but with compassion. He doesn't demand I be tougher; He invites me to rest in His strength. In carrying me, He shows me who He truly is—and in the act, I start to comprehend who I'm, also: favorite, safe, held.
Trusting Jesus to transport me isn't about sitting straight back and performing nothing—it's about aligning my actions with religion, perhaps not fear. It's about showing up, praying deeply, caring freely, and choosing peace, even if my circumstances tempt me to panic. Being carried by Jesus doesn't mean I have no role—this means I allow Him to steer the steps. My role is to keep start, ready, and surrendered. I listen. I follow. I forgive. I release. And I actually do the whole thing to not earn love, but because I previously am loved. In this room, religious maturation grows—perhaps not from striving, but from trusting.
By the end of the day, the deepest ease in relying Jesus is understanding that He is faithful. He doesn't change. He doesn't provide up. He doesn't grow weary. His love isn't dependent on my efficiency or perfection. Whether I'm in delight or sorrow, religion trust that jesus will carry meuncertainty, He remains. When I confidence that He will hold me, I rest—perhaps not because life is simple, but because He is good. His claims endure, His acceptance is sufficient, and His hands never grow tired. And therefore, even if I don't understand the trail, I can however go in peace—because I understand Who's carrying me.