Do You Micromanage God?

The Moment I Realized I Was Trying to Help God

In the summer of 2016, I came face to face with fear. We had a one-on-one punching match the weekend of our oldest son’s 18th birthday.

You see, our oldest wasn’t always “ours.” He was mine before he was also my husband’s. At 19, I gave birth to him as a single mom. Just four months after James and I were married in 2004, he legally adopted him as his own. Our son’s biological father hadn’t been in the picture since he was about 3 or 4 years old.

As our son grew up, questions started to surface—questions I was always open to answering. His curiosity deepened, especially after his half-siblings found him and started trying to connect. Identity is a powerful thing. We all want to know where we come from—it’s part of our wiring. It’s also the number one thing the enemy tries to distort to keep us from discovering who God created us to be. (But that’s a post for another day.)

On that particular weekend in August of 2016, a decision we had made long ago came due. We had agreed: “You may seek your biological father out when you turn 18.” So, he made plans and set out for a weekend to meet his father and siblings.

At the same time, we were hosting a tent revival—nightly services held all week. As the pastor’s wife, there was an unspoken expectation that I’d be there. But anxiety was at an all-time high. My newly adult son had just driven several hours away, completely on his own, to reconnect with a family he hadn’t seen or remembered since toddlerhood.

This mama was an emotional wreck. I cried at the drop of a hat. The last thing I could do was be around people, smiling and hosting as if my heart wasn’t unraveling. So, I stayed home. Alone.

When Worship Finds You Folding Laundry

I had so much nervous energy that I started cleaning—folding laundry in my bedroom while watching the tent revival live on Facebook. Worship was still going, and they began singing: “I’m no longer a slave to fear. I am a child of God.”

I listened… and then I wept.

I had been completely consumed by fear for days. My body was in full-on fight-or-flight mode. For 18 years, I had done everything I could to protect my son and control the environment he grew up in. And now? I had no control. All I could do was pray.

And pray I did. My husband and I prayed together—prayers of protection, of wisdom, and that our son would find answers to his many “why” questions.

In the middle of that worship song, as the words “I’m no longer a slave to fear” echoed through my phone, I heard the Lord speak to me—clear as day.

“Do you trust Me?”
Then again, louder in my spirit:
“Do you trust Me to do the things you’ve prayed for?”

I stopped in my tracks.

That question wrecked me.

Because I realized that every time I said I trusted God—but then picked my prayers back up, trying to handle things myself—I was micromanaging Him.

Let that sink in:
I was micromanaging God.

The Author of Life. The Creator of the stars. The One who holds the world in place.
That God. The One who died for my salvation.

And I was micromanaging Him.

God gave me a picture in that moment: me, placing my prayers at His feet—and then coming back, over and over, to pick them up again. To “help.” To fix. To control.

But when you give something to someone, it’s no longer yours. You surrender your right to dictate what happens to it. And God gently showed me that every time I took back what I had given Him, I was stealing from Him.

As a kid, I remember the term “Indian giver” being used for someone who gives something and takes it back. I now understand that phrase is both outdated and offensive. So I asked Google: What do you call someone who gives a gift and then takes it back?

The answer:
A thief.

Ouch.

Fear Is a Choking Vine

That same day, I had been outside our house, looking at a tree I had planted years earlier. Despite my very non-green thumb, it was growing beautifully. But that day, I noticed something: vines.

They were everywhere—creeping up the trunk, weaving through the branches.

So I started pulling. Surprisingly, they came off easily. But the more I pulled, the more I realized how many there were. It took time, but eventually, I got them all.

Later that night, as I stood folding laundry and processing what God was saying, He brought that tree back to my mind.

Those vines were like fear.

They creep in slowly. Quietly. Invisibly.
Until one day they’ve wrapped themselves so tightly around your spirit that they begin to choke the life out of you.

Fear doesn’t always come in with a shout. Sometimes it whispers. It waits. It weaves itself into our thoughts, our habits, our reactions—until we’re no longer living free. We’re surviving. Numb. Tired. Disconnected.

But Jesus didn’t die so we could live in survival mode.

He died so we could be free.

And that night, I realized I had to lay my son—my fears, my questions, my control—at Jesus’ feet. And leave him there.

A Simple Homecoming

Several days later, our son walked back through our front door. I’ll never forget his words:

“I’m so glad to be home.”

I smiled through quiet tears, because I knew:
God had him.
God heard me.
And fear didn’t win.