A Good, Good Father.

Can I trust the One holding the match?

I don’t doubt for a second that God is good.

I mean — how could He not be?

Goodness is part of who He is — even when it doesn’t look like goodness to me.

And I trust Him.

I really do.

But the truth is:

I don’t always trust what He’ll do with what I give Him.

That’s the part that scares me.

Not who He is — but what He might ask of me.

What He might take before I’m ready to let go.

What dreams He might burn down that I’ve only just built.

And I know He’s kind.

My heart believes that with all it is.

But lately, my mind has been struggling to catch up.

It’s not that I don’t want God’s will —

It’s that I brace for impact when I pray for it.

I expect pain. I expect loss.

Like surrender is a setup.

Like letting go means I’ll never get it back.

I’ve prayed for God’s will and ended up grieving.

And deep down, I’ve wondered:

How do you reconcile a good God with a broken heart?

I whisper “You’re a good Father” like a chant,

Hoping repetition will make it stick.

Hoping it’ll silence the fear that maybe—just maybe—He won’t be good to me.

Because if I really believe He’s good,

Shouldn’t I also believe He gives good gifts?

Shouldn’t I believe that whatever I lose, He can restore?

Why do I expect to bleed when I obey?

Why does surrender feel like heartbreak?

I hate when people talk about obedience like it’s soft and easy.

Like it doesn’t draw blood.

Like it doesn’t leave you crying on the bathroom floor.

Because sometimes, God’s will burns.

It takes the things we love and turns them to ash.

But even then — in the flames —

He is still a good Father.

Even when His goodness burns.

And I don’t want to live like this anymore —

Offering half-obedience and calling it faith.

Tithing my dreams but keeping the best parts hidden.

Singing “I surrender all” but crossing my fingers behind my back.

I want my mind to catch up with what my heart already knows:

That I won’t be left with empty hands forever.

That God is good — and so is His will, even when it breaks me.

Because He never breaks what He doesn’t plan to heal.

And He always honors what’s laid down on the altar.

I’m learning, slowly, that surrender isn’t a setup.

It’s a trust fall.

One that always ends in the arms of a good, good Father.