Resting in His Hands: When God Holds What We Can’t

Lately, my life has felt like a constant chase.

The Southern Belle Classic came and went, and by every outward measure—it was a success. The kind you work for. The kind you pray over. The kind that should leave you feeling full.

And in some ways, it did.

I’m so grateful—for my friends, for the people who work so hard to make the Southern Belle Classic what it is, and for the conversations and interactions that reminded me how much good there still is in all of this. There’s a community, family, and opportunity in the industry that carries so much potential for connections, relationships, and ministry.

But even in the middle of that gratitude, there’s this quiet, nagging feeling that seems to always get a foothold in my heart.

That I fall short.

Short in my career.

Short in my faith.

Short in my ability to minister the way I feel called to.

Short in being the kind of wife I want to be.

And if I’m being honest, that feeling follows me in my day to day, at each sale, each ride, and each conversation.

Because there are small, sacred moments that should bring me joy that instead irritate or frustrate me.

It's because I'm too busy measuring.

Measuring how everything went.

Measuring if I had done enough.

Measuring if I was enough.

Even in success, I find myself searching for something more… or something deeper… and coming up a little empty.

That’s a hard thing to admit.

Because the truth is, I don’t just train and sell horses. I pour into them. I go above and beyond in every way I know how—physically, mentally, financially, emotionally, spiritually. I carry them. I fight for them. I pray for them. I spare no expense when it comes to their care, comfort, happiness, and health. I believe in them more than I believe in myself.

And every single one of them carries a piece of my soul.

So even when things go "right"… it feels heavy. Because I’ve tied so much of myself to the outcome, to the doing, to the constant giving and constant striving to do my very best by them.

That kind of living, drains you. I've glorified burnout and burning everything else down around me: relationships, marriage faith, family, home, and hobbies, to prove I'm enough.

It didn't happen all at once, but slowly and quietly.

It stole my joy in the places it was meant to live to the point that my everyday heart posture was anxiety, frustration, and living in a pressure cooker.

The sound of my pigs being their ridiculous, goofy selves—moments that should make me laugh without thinking twice, upset me to the point I tried to give them away.

Like the friendships that show up steady and kind, even when I don’t have much left to give back seemed like a burden.

Like the soft, knowing eyes of a horse that trusts me—really trusts me—made me sad.

Those moments matter more than anything else and I was depriving myself of them.

They’re the ones God places right in front of me… and yet somehow, I’ve been too busy striving to fully receive them.

I keep thinking about something from Where the Red Fern Grows—when Grandpa says "you have to meet God halfway."

I’ve always loved that idea. The grit in it. The responsibility. The partnership.

But lately, I’ve been wondering…

What if that doesn’t always apply the way we think it does?

What if sometimes, in trying to “meet God halfway,” I’ve actually just been forcing doors open that He never asked me to push?

Working harder. Holding tighter. Trying to make something be exactly what I think it should be—because I care so deeply.

But maybe not everything is meant to be carried like that.

Maybe some things aren’t waiting on more effort… maybe they’re waiting on surrender.

Because if I’m really honest, there’s another weight I carry too.

The kind that sits heavy in my chest.

The feeling that I’ve failed my horses.

That I didn’t protect them enough.

That I didn’t show them to the best of their ability—not because they couldn’t, but because I got in my own way chasing perfection instead of just letting them be what they are.

That I overthought, overrode, overtried… and in doing so, I missed them.

And then there’s the part that everyone sees, but no one understands the effect it has on me.

I let all of them go, at some point.

No horse gets to stay with me forever. I’m just part of their journey—and I carry a deep responsibility in that. To prepare them well. To set them up for whatever comes next. To give them everything I possibly can before they step into their next chapter.

It's not because I didn’t love them enough… but because this is how I, the little horse loving girl inside of me, feeds my family. This is just the reality of the life I’ve chosen.

And truthfully, they all go to good people—people who care, who try, who show up for them in their own ways. I’m so grateful for that. I really am.

But loving them the way I do means I see every little piece of them with my heart and soul—I see their personalities, their try, their heart—and letting go of that closeness is never as simple as it looks from the outside.

I’m being really honest… there are moments I feel like I’ve betrayed that trust. Do horses think like that? The logical side of me knows, probably not but it doesn't mean it doesn't sit on me.

Did I betray the love they had for me—and the love I had for them? Call it a talent or a curse, but I've always been able to get most horses to do things for me easily, no fight, no punishment, no struggle. John calls it "feel" which I'm grateful for but it leads to this weight of responsibility that I’m the only one who can do it “right.”

The only one who can understand them the way they deserve. And when I let them go, it can feel like I’m handing them off in a way that doesn’t match the depth of what we had.

I know that isn’t true. I know they go on to be loved and cared for in ways that look different than mine, which is an example of another way God uses passions, talents, and horses to show his love.

But that feeling is constantly creeping on me.

I carry that.

I carry the wondering.

I carry the hoping that they’re understood, that they’re thriving, that they’re loved in the ways they need.

I carry the quiet ache of releasing something that meant so much to me.

Not because anyone else is doing it wrong—but because a piece of me went with them.

It’s a weight that doesn’t really have a place to go.

But maybe… God sees that too?

Maybe He sees the intention behind my chase for perfection?

The love behind the decisions that don’t feel clean or easy.

The heart that tried to do everything right.

And maybe He’s not asking me to meet Him halfway in all of this striving and proving and pushing—

Maybe He’s asking me to trust that He meets me right here.

In the uncertainty.

In the questions.

In the ache of caring this much.

Because somewhere along the way, I started chasing excellence more than I was chasing Him.

I started believing that if I just worked harder, gave more, showed up better—that I would finally feel settled. Secure. Worthy.

But God never asked me to earn my worth and I know I'm not supposed to find my security in my "success."

He already decided my worth, my security, and my passions.

Not in how much I do.

Not in how far I go.

In Him.

Even good things can become heavy when they start to define you. Horses aren’t the problem. Hard work isn’t the problem. Passion isn’t the problem.

But when they become the measure of who I am… that’s where I start to lose myself.

And maybe that’s exactly where God is meeting me right now—not in the big, obvious moments of success, but in the quiet unraveling of all the ways I’ve placed my identity in something other than Him.

Maybe He’s gently reminding me:

You are not what you produce.

You are not how much you give.

You are not the weight you carry.

You are Mine.

And that has to be enough.

I don’t have all the answers right now. I don’t know exactly what this path is supposed to look like long-term. I don’t know if I’m exactly where I’m meant to be or if God is slowly reshaping something in me.

But I do know this:

He hasn’t left.

Not in the success.

Not in the questions.

Not in the exhaustion.

Not in the guilt I carry for selling horses that I love deeply.

He’s still here—in the laughter I overlook in the friendships that hold me up, in the silly pigs and goats that pull me out of my own head, and in the kind, steady eyes of the horses that trusts me.

And maybe that’s where healing begins.

Not in doing more.

Not in proving anything.

But in loosening my grip.

To let joy be small.

To let purpose unfold.

To let grace cover the places where I feel like I’ve failed.

Because at the end of the day, every horse may carry a piece of my soul—

But my soul was never meant to be held together by how well I do. It belongs to Him. Maybe I don’t have to meet Him halfway after all. Maybe I just have to stop running long enough to realize:

He’s already here.