Abide. I am but a branch.

For a long time, I thought the answer to anxiety was to “figure things out”.

If something felt uncertain, I wanted a plan.

If something felt unsafe, I wanted to secure it.

If I couldn’t see how things were going to work out, I wanted to know the answer. Now.

I didn’t necessarily think of myself as controlling. I thought I was being responsible.

But lately, God has been showing me something different.

There is a difference between faithfully doing my part and scrambling to manufacture an outcome.

And that distinction has been changing the way I understand what it means to abide.

I don’t have to be the source.

Jesus says in John 15:

“I am the vine; you are the branches.”

A branch isn’t the source of its own life.

It receives.

That doesn’t mean the branch does nothing. It grows. It bears fruit. It participates in the life of the vine.

But it doesn’t have to become the vine.

And I’ve realized how often I try to do exactly that.

I try to become the source of my security.

My future.

My relationships.

My success.

My answers.

My outcomes.

But I’m not the source.

God is.

Then I found Psalm 91.

Psalm 91:1 says:

“You who sit down in the High God’s presence, spend the night in Shaddai’s shadow.”

And verse 2 says:

“That’s right, he’s my refuge, I trust in him, and I’m safe.”
The Message

Something about that stopped me.

I’ve been thinking about what it means to run to a shelter I can’t see. I’ve prayed. “God, how do I run to an unseen shelter”?!

But what if I’m thinking about it backward?

What if God isn’t waiting for me to find my way into His shelter?

What if He is already here?

God doesn’t become present because I finally calm myself down enough to find Him.

He doesn’t disappear because I’m anxious.

I don’t have to manufacture His presence.

He is my refuge.

And if I belong to Christ, I’m not trying to get home to God.

In Christ, I am already home.

Yes, the scenery keeps changing.

I’ve been thinking about one of those old picture viewers I had as a child.

You looked through it and clicked a button, and suddenly the picture changed.

A different scene.

A different place.

But the viewer stayed in your hands.

That’s how life can feel.

The scenery changes.

Jobs change.

Income changes.

Friendships change.

Plans change.

Circumstances change.

And my instinct is to stare at the changing picture and think, How do I make this one stay?

But Scripture keeps calling me to lift my eyes.

The picture changes. The One holding the viewer does not.

Jesus Christ is “the same yesterday and today and forever.”

That changes what abiding means for me.

Abiding isn’t escaping the changing scenery.

It’s remaining with the One who doesn’t change.

Faith doesn’t build the shelter.

I’m also learning that faith isn’t what makes God my refuge.

He already is my refuge.

Faith is how I receive and rest in what He has promised.

Abraham believed God, and that faith was counted as righteousness.

He couldn’t see the fulfillment of God’s promise yet.

But he trusted the One who made it.

That’s where I’m learning to live.

I can make plans.

I can work.

I can budget.

I can seek wisdom.

I can build.

I can take the next faithful step.

But I cannot manufacture the outcome.

I can build the ark. I cannot manufacture the rain.

And maybe that’s what it means to abide.

So what do I do when I start scrambling?

I’m learning to stop and remember:

I’m a branch.

I don’t have to be the Vine.

He is my Refuge.

I don’t have to manufacture safety.

He is my Source.

I don’t have to create the future.

He is with me.

I don’t have to figure out everything before I can trust Him.

And when anxiety comes, I don’t have to interpret it as evidence that God has left me.

I can simply say:

“Jesus, I’m anxious. I don’t know what happens next. But You are here. You are my refuge. I don’t have to become my own source.”

Then I can take the next step.

Not ten steps.

Not the whole plan.

The next one. The next small step. Then, repeat.

Because perhaps abiding isn’t about learning how to never scramble again.

Perhaps it’s learning to recognize sooner when I’m scrambling—and returning to the One who has been holding me all along.

The scenery changes.

The Shelter remains.

And I’m learning to live there.