I remembered this poem during my prayer time today I feel it may bring healing to someone who needs to hear it As children bring their broken toys with tears for us to mend, I brought my broken dreams to God, because He was my friend. But then, instead of leaving Him, in peace, to work alone; I hung around and tried to help, with ways that were my own. At last, I snatched them back and cried, “ “How can you be so slow?" "My child, " He said, “What could I do? You never did let go”. That poem carries such a gentle sting, doesn’t it? It’s so simple, but it exposes something very deep in us. We say, “God, here fix this,” but then we stand over His shoulder the whole time. We don’t actually release it we supervise it. That poem isn’t a correction from God. It’s comfort. “My child you never did let go.” That’s not rebuke. That’s tenderness. It’s the voice of a Father saying, You’re trying to carry what you were never meant to carry. You are not missing the mark. You are not failing to hear God. There’s a difference. When Elijah was overwhelmed, doubting, and exhausted, God didn’t correct him. He fed him. Let him sleep. Sat with him in the cave. And then spoke in a whisper. Because sometimes the most spiritual thing is not to “press in” but to rest under the whisper. God isn’t distant. Right now, God is not asking you to listen harder. He’s asking you to lean back. You don’t need to hear Him clearly today. You need to be held by Him. And it’s okay to say, very simply, without big prayers: “God, I’m too tired to hold this. You hold me.” When you try to fix things You’re helping God again. Not because you don’t trust Him… but because you’re responsible. Faithful. Used to carrying things. And your Father is whispering the same line from the poem over this whole season: “My child… you never did let go.” Not of your dreams. Not of your body. Not of your wellbeing. You’re still carrying it. This season isn’t about doing everything perfectly. It’s about learning to stop carrying yourself and trusting him to carry you

As children, before the world broke us, we could run into the arms of love with no fear. I remember my youngest used to jump from high places whether I was ready or not. She had no doubt that I would catch her every time. I think when Jesus said we should be like children when we come to Him, this is what He meant. As adults, we have been hurt. Broken by life. Wounded by people. And though we may want to, it becomes hard to trust. Hard to put ourselves back into that place of vulnerability. But Jesus invites us to trust Him like that child trusts a parent to believe that He will catch us when we jump. It’s not about childish behaviour. It’s about that sense of awe, that deep knowing that no matter what, we will be safe. Life is not always going to be perfect. Things won’t always fall into place the way we hope or plan. But we have this assurance: even when they don’t, we can run to the Father and fall into His grace. There is no need to hide from Him like Adam and Eve did in the garden. He will never hide from us. No matter what we have done, His love is always there to carry us through. He will not yell at you when you come to Him and say, “I made a mistake.” His love and compassion are unchanging, always available. Before a child learns fear, they come just as they are, expecting to be loved and held. They say sorry, and that is enough. And even if you have never experienced that kind of love and acceptance from people, it does not mean you will never have it. Your Father in heaven is waiting with arms open wide, ready for you to come just as you are with a repentant heart, ready simply to be loved.

This busy world rarely lets us stop to “smell the roses.” We feel tired, worn down, and we ask God to give us rest. But Scripture shows us something deeper. There is a difference between God giving us rest and entering His rest. Matthew 11:28 says, “Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” This is a gift. Grace. Relief. Salvation. Peace from the burden of sin and striving. But Hebrews 4 speaks of something more: “Let us make every effort to enter that rest.” This is not about what God gives. This is about where we choose to live. God giving rest is provision. Entering His rest is position. God’s rest is the peace and salvation Christ has already secured. Entering His rest is the daily decision to stop relying on ourselves and live fully in what He has done. It means ceasing from self effort, just as God ceased from His works in creation. It means choosing faith over anxiety. Trust over self reliance. Dependence over striving. Israel was offered the Promised Land but never entered because of unbelief. In the same way, we can be saved, yet still live exhausted because we haven’t learned to live from the rest God has already provided. Entering His rest is not a one time event. It is a daily walk of faith. So how do we stop trusting ourselves? First, we recognise our complete inability to produce righteousness, peace, or security on our own. Then, we place full trust in the finished work of Christ. We cease trying to earn what has already been given. And we choose, every day, to live in quiet obedience and complete dependence on Him. God gives rest. But we must choose to enter it.

For a long time I quietly assumed that as we grow older, our usefulness in the church somehow decreases. But lately, I’m discovering something very different in my own walk with God. I’m finding that after decades of being shaped by Him through life, hardship, faithfulness, and surrender, He is only now awakening gifts in me I didn’t even realise were there. And the more I look at Scripture, the more I see this is not unusual for God. Moses was eighty when God called him at the burning bush. Caleb was eighty-five when he said, “Give me this mountain.” Anna the prophetess was in her eighties when she recognised the Messiah before many others did, and she was found worshipping, praying, fasting, and prophesying in the temple. Psalm 92 says, “They will still bear fruit in old age, they will stay fresh and green.” It seems God does not see age the way we do. Where we often see decline, He sees readiness. Where we think a season is winding down, He may see a life that has finally been formed enough to carry something deeper. Titus 2 says older women are to “teach what is good.” That word means to train, to shape, to disciple. It speaks of spiritual influence that comes from a lifetime of walking with God. That’s not a small or secondary role. It’s a kingdom role. I’m realising that this season of life is not a stepping back but a stepping into something that has been prepared over many years. Not because I am energetic, but because I have been formed. Not because I have something to prove, but because God has been quietly at work all along. Perhaps there is a depth, discernment, and spiritual authority that God grows in women over decades that we don’t always recognise, but that He deeply values and intends to use. I’m simply grateful to be discovering that God is not finished with me. In many ways, I feel like He is only just beginning.

Such a small detail… but John never wastes ink. John 20:6–7 tells us that when Peter entered the tomb, he saw the linen burial cloths lying there and the face cloth that had been around Jesus’ head was folded and set aside by itself. This wasn’t random. And it wasn’t the result of a rushed escape or grave robbery. In Jewish burial, the head cloth was wrapped tightly around the face and jaw. Lazarus came out of the tomb still bound in his grave clothes and had to be unwrapped. But Jesus didn’t. The grave clothes were simply left behind. The head cloth was calmly folded and placed aside. This was the scene of Someone who didn’t struggle out of death He passed straight through it. John includes this detail so we understand: this wasn’t theft, panic, or resuscitation. This was resurrection. Order where there should have been chaos. Peace where there should have been disturbance. The grave clothes are lying there. The body has not been unwrapped. The head cloth is not torn off in haste. It is folded and set aside. This is not the scene of a grave robbery. This is not the scene of panic. This is not the scene of someone escaping. The last time a cloth touched Jesus’ face, it was in death. The first act of the risen Christ was to remove it and leave it in the grave. He will never wear a burial cloth again. Death was not escaped. It was defeated. The first Adam was wrapped in shame and hid his face. The last Adam removes the cloth from His face and leaves it in the grave. No more hiding. No more death. No more covering. Just life.