Day 22: Embracing God’s Sovereignty.

There’s something both encouraging and unsettling about believing in an all-powerful God. The kind of God who, with a whisper, could reroute the course of our lives. Heal a body. Mend a marriage. Prevent a loss. Close a door. Open a womb.

And yet… sometimes He doesn’t.

For a long time, I wrestled with that reality—not just the pain of what happened, but the ache of knowing God could have changed it, but didn’t.

When I tell people I grew up atheist, it’s hard for them to believe—mostly because of how outspoken I am now about my love for God. But the truth is, I never really struggled with the idea that He could exist. I think, deep down, a part of me always hoped He did. What I struggled with was the idea of a God who would allow others to suffer—and choose not to intervene.

Somewhere along the way, I equated God’s power with a kind of divine obligation—that if He could change something, He should. Especially if I prayed hard enough. Believed deeply enough. Waited long enough.

So when He didn’t, I didn’t just grieve the outcome—I questioned who He was.

The truth is, accepting God’s sovereignty means learning to trust His wisdom more than my own.

As a writer, embracing His sovereignty felt like handing over the pen in the middle of my manuscript and trusting someone else with how the story ends.

That’s hard to do—because as a writer, I know nothing in a story is placed by accident. Every word, every plot twist, even the quiet pauses between scenes—it’s all intentional. You labor over details, making sure each thread weaves into the next. You think about the arc, the transformation, the tension that shapes your thoughts. And you know that some of the most meaningful moments only come because of the necessary conflict that grows something in the story that couldn’t exist without it.

So if I—a human writer—can be that intentional with each story I write, how much more intentional must God be with ours?

The irony, of course, is realizing that I was never the author of my story—I was the reader. Only He knows the beginning from the end. He holds the pieces of our lives, and even though things don’t always go the way we hoped, it doesn’t mean we’ve been abandoned.

And just because we don’t know the reason behind what He allows doesn’t mean there isn’t one.

I’m learning to live in the tension of both: the ache of unanswered questions and prayers, and the quiet trust that He is still good. Because His sovereignty isn’t defined by our comfort, convenience, or happiness—it’s defined by His unchanging nature and eternal purpose.

To me, there’s so much peace in knowing I don’t have to write my own story—I just get to live it. I don’t have to carry the pressure of plotting every detail or making it all make sense. I can simply trust the Author.
And honestly, the true mark of every great writer is their ability to create anticipation—to keep you turning the page, believing that what’s coming is worth the wait.

And it is.