Do I trust God only when he agrees with me?

I want to say I trust Him. I do. But if I’m honest I’ve trusted Him most when the road felt kind, when the prayers aligned with the outcome, when the story unfolded in a way I would have written it myself.

But now?

Now, I’m standing in a season that I never would have chosen. One that feels like betrayal cloaked in sovereignty. I am breathing through pain that He could’ve prevented. And I don’t know how to reconcile His goodness with this ache.

It’s easy to trust a God who heals.

But can I trust Him when He allows the brokenness to stay?

It’s easy to worship the God who opens doors.

But what about when He nails them shut and whispers, “Stay”?

What if trust is not proven in the praising but in the wrestling?

What if faith is not just believing for the miracle, but believing through the absence of one?

I keep asking questions I don’t get answers to. But maybe the deeper question—the one that haunts me in the silence—is this:

Do I trust God only when I agree with Him?

Because if that’s the case, I’ve mistaken partnership for surrender.

Agreement for obedience.

Control for faith.

And I think maybe God is peeling back every layer of false faith I’ve wrapped around my heart. Not to punish me, but to purify me.

He is stripping me of the idol I made of my understanding.

He is teaching me what it means to lean not on it.

I may not understand His ways.

But I know His hands.

Scarred hands.

Faithful hands.

Wounded for me.

I whisper a trembling yes—not because it makes sense, but because He is still holy.

Even when I disagree.

Even when I don’t see.

And maybe that’s where worship is born—not in the applause of answered prayers,

but in the quiet surrender that says:

“Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.”

(Job 13:15)