Returning to Dependence

I’ve been reading a book titled Waiting on God by Andrew Murray. It feels fitting, because in this transition season, waiting has been anything but poetic. It’s felt dry. Long. Inconvenient. I’ve wrestled with the question that slips out when the silence stretches too far: Where are You, God?!

And that wrestle followed me into this morning’s devotional.

Before I sat down to read, I went outside to feed my chickens, one of my favorite parts of the day. I have many, but one in particular, Alli, always follows me to the barn. She waits for me to crouch down so she can eat straight from my hand before I scatter the rest of the feed. This morning was no different. Her little feet pattering behind me, her trust, her expectation — it all felt so normal.

Then I came inside, opened the book, and read the title for Day Three:

“The True Place of the Creature.”

The Scripture:

“These all wait for You, That You may give them their food in due season. What You give them they gather in; You open Your hand; they are filled with good.” — Psalm 104:27–28

Immediately, I thought of Alli.

Then came the line that hit me like a punch to the gut:

“These all wait for You.”

Murray goes on to say that just as creation itself was God’s work, so is its preservation. No creature brought itself into existence, and no creature can sustain itself. All creation lives under one unchanging law: waiting on God.

And suddenly, something in me cracked open.

Because somewhere along the way, my heart drifted from that truth. My natural state — our natural state — is dependence. Waiting. Receiving. Being sustained by the open hand of God.

But my waiting had become irritated. Demanding. Impatient. I had slipped into the illusion that I should be able to sustain myself, provide for myself, carry myself. Our culture praises independence, self‑sufficiency, and “making it happen.” But in the process, we’ve wandered far from what we were created for.

We were made by God and for God.

Just like my chickens depend on me, wandering out to the coop each morning, waiting for my hand to open, I realized I’ve been avoiding dependence on anything or anyone, including the One who actually sustains me.

If I didn’t feed my chickens, they would die. They know this. They live from my hand without shame, without fear, without apology.

And today, I felt the Lord gently inviting me back to that posture.

Back to dependence. Back to surrender. Back to the simple, honest truth that I need Him. Not as a last resort, but as my natural state of being.

I’m sorry, Lord. Somehow, I drifted. But today, I want to learn again how to lean, fully, openly, trustingly, on my Father.