“I want to just leave it in God’s hands but am not sure I trust Him enough yet.”

When I read that line in my messages, whew—it felt like looking in a mirror. Because I’ve been there. More than once, in different seasons of my life, I’ve sat with a heavy heart and a stressed soul, whispering, “God, I know You can…but will You?” And if I’m honest, even after God has shown Himself faithful time and time again, that question has echoed through my spirit more than I’d like to admit.

That tug-of-war between wanting to release everything into God’s hands, yet struggling to actually trust Him with it—that’s real. It’s the tension of faith. On one side, you know He’s able. You’ve seen Him move. You’ve heard the stories, maybe even lived through miracles of your own. But on the other side, there’s that ache of uncertainty: Will He do it for me this time? Will His answer line up with my hope?

The beautiful thing is—we’re not alone in that wrestle. The Bible gives us space to be honest about it. In Mark 9, a desperate father brings his son to Jesus after the disciples couldn’t cast out the spirit tormenting him. The father looks at Jesus and says, “If you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.”

And Jesus’ response? “‘If you can’? Everything is possible for the one who believes.” (Mark 9:22–23).

When I read Jesus’ response, I can feel the awkward tension in that moment. But how many times have I come to God with the same hesitation—‘Lord, if You can… if You’re willing…’—as if the God who spoke the world into being needs to prove Himself again?

And with a trembling heart, the father cries out, “I do believe; help my unbelief!” (v.24). That verse has always stopped me in my tracks. Because that’s it. That’s everyday life in one sentence. Faith mixed with doubt. Belief tangled up with questions.

Right there, in the middle of his imperfect trust, Jesus meets him where he is, steps in, and heals his son. Jesus doesn’t bless who he pretends to be—He blesses who he really is: trembling faith and all.

That story reminds me that Jesus isn’t waiting on my faith to be flawless before He moves. Even shaky, mustard-seed trust is enough for Him to work with.

In fact, I keep little jars of mustard seeds in my house—one on my desk and another in my living room. They’re tiny, almost easy to miss, but they preach to me every time I look at them. Jesus said if we have faith the size of a mustard seed, we can move mountains (Matthew 17:20). So when I’m wrestling, when my prayers feel more like questions than declarations, I glance at that jar and remember: even the smallest faith in a big God is still enough.

And maybe that’s the reminder you need, too. Because sometimes life leaves us tired of carrying the weight but scared to set it down. You want to trust, but your heart is bruised from disappointment. You want to release it, but your grip feels safer than the unknown. You’re not broken for feeling this way. You’re human. And God isn’t pushing you away because your faith feels fragile. He’s leaning in closer.

Trust doesn’t have to look like a giant leap. Sometimes it’s just whispering, “Lord, this piece is Yours today,” and handing Him one thing at a time. He’s patient. He’ll meet you in the middle, just like He did with that father.

So when I find myself whispering, “Lord, I trust You…but not enough,” I’m comforted knowing He’s not rolling His eyes at me. He’s not walking away. Instead, He meets me in the middle of my wrestle. He shows me, step by step, that His hands are safer than mine.

And that’s what trust looks like—it’s not a one-time leap; it’s a daily practice of faith. It’s loosening our grip one finger at a time. It’s remembering His track record, even when our current circumstances try to make us forget. The more I look back on the ways He’s already carried me, the easier it becomes to breathe deep and say, “Okay, Lord. This one’s Yours too.”

So if you’ve ever found yourself in that same place—wanting to leave it in God’s hands but not sure if you trust Him enough yet—I want you to know you’re not alone. Trust grows in the wrestle. And every time you hand Him what you’re holding, even trembling, you’re building a faith that learns to rest in His steady hands.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo,