These are the things that scare me. 

ALL OF THE THINGS I DON’T KNOW.

The mistakes I will make because of my lack of knowledge. 

“I can’t write anything,” I tell him. Weeks pass like this. Instead, I read incessantly, hoping my knowledge will immunize me against mistakes, against fear. I get my hands on every audiobook and podcast I can find. I browse higher education opportunities. 

ALL OF THE THINGS I DON’T KNOW.

I know God is in control. But not whether I will lose everything and everyone I love. 

I know I will live after life, but will I die a painful death?

I know things will work together for good, but when will they exactly? And how? 

For every book I read, I add ten more to my list. I can never gain enough knowledge. 

Knowledge is the fruit I want to take and eat and give to Adam, but the more I know, the more I’m exposed to everything I don’t know.

I remember the way he holds out his hand for me as he stands in the gap below me, between me and a long drop to a rocky ledge. “I got you,” he says. 

There’s no way on earth I’m just going to trust him. “I need you to tell me exactly what to do and what to expect. Walk me through every step.” 

All of the things I don’t know are in the gap below me, between my hand and his. Fear lives there. And I want to eliminate it, along with any element of trust and faith in anyone else other than myself. 

There once was a man who couldn’t walk and I remember reading what Jesus told him: “Get up, take up your bed, and walk!” (John 5:8)

“I got you.”

What if he hadn’t tried? What if he had waited until the uncertainty was gone? The need for trust–eliminated. Until he was really, really, really sure it was all going to work out just fine.

What if he hadn’t seen uncertainty as possibility? The gap for trust as just a space for grace. Between not knowing and knowing–a space to trust. To link hands.

The opportunity for hope to spring to its feet. 

“The LORD is my portion,” says my soul, “therefore I will hope in him.” (Lamentations 3:25)