Don't Mistake Your Exhaustion for God's Limitation

Do you ever wake up and immediately sense that something—and you—feels different?

I barely slept last night. For no apparent reason, I woke around 2:30 a.m. and couldn't fall back asleep. I read and listened to music until I finally felt tired enough to rest again.

I later woke to my alarm, something I rarely need because I usually rise naturally. It was still early, and sunlight was streaming through the bedroom curtains, casting the most beautiful glow across the room.

In that moment, I took it as the first little sign that the day was divinely aligned.

Before bed, Lylah and I had prayed that Larry would be at church so I could finally speak with him about the business proposal I had sent while he was out of the country. My plans had been delayed for two weeks, but I felt peaceful. I trusted that things would happen at the right time.

The delay had also given me more time to continue developing content for future classes. And along the way, there had been little moments that made me feel like everything was coming together.

Yesterday, I met a new client who is also the new counselor at Suncoast School. We connected immediately. I told her about my business and my hope of offering classes through Suncoast Community Church, and she loved the idea. She even suggested ways we might collaborate.

It felt like another little confirmation from God that I am in the right place and simply need to keep the faith and surrender the rest to Him.

And then this morning, Pastor Larry was there.

He greeted us when we arrived, and we spoke briefly. We agreed to meet this week to talk more about the proposal.

And I felt completely at peace.

Of course, I hope it unfolds the way I envision it. But if it doesn't, I trust that I will be guided toward what is right.

That is what feels so different in me now.

I still desire so many things. I still have dreams and hopes and things I want deeply. But I am grateful for what I already have, and I no longer feel like I need to control when or how the rest happens.

I finally feel free.

Before church, Lylah and I stopped to get breakfast. When I went to pay, the employee told me the people ahead of us had already paid for our order.

We were so grateful.

After we thanked God aloud, Lylah said, “That was so nice. I wish I could give them a hug.”

We talked about paying it forward and how good it feels to receive kindness and then pass it on to someone else.

Sometimes giving with love is enough simply because we know we acted with love.

And then Pastor Troy's sermon brought all of these things together for me once again.

I always laugh inside when I listen to him speak because his words so often seem to meet me exactly where I already am.

Today's continuation of Extreme Faithfulness was about helping others, loving deeply, and wanting so badly to help someone heal or change—but ultimately recognizing that we cannot do that for them.

Only they can.

It connected back to last week's message about courage and reaching the point where we finally say, “I can't do this anymore.”

Not because we don't love someone.

Sometimes it is because we have loved, cared, shown up, and given everything we had.

Eventually, we become exhausted.

Pastor Troy talked about post-goal depletion—that feeling when you can see the finish line and then suddenly get pulled backward. You thought you were almost there, and now you are sitting in a place you never expected to be again.

That is when it becomes easy to question everything.

To lower our expectations.

To wonder if we were wrong to have faith in the first place.

But then he said:

“Don't mistake your exhaustion for God's limitation.”

That stayed with me.

Maybe being tired doesn't mean we have failed.

Maybe sometimes it means we have been faithful.

We cared.

We showed up.

We gave what we could give.

And when we reach our limit, maybe that is when we are supposed to rest and leave the rest to God.

Ultimate faithfulness is doing what God asks you to do—and when you reach your limit, knowing it is time to rest and surrender what comes next to God.

At the end of the sermon, Pastor Troy told a story about taking his family to Disney. They spent the entire day there, and on the drive home, his exhausted children fell asleep in the back seat.

They didn't know which road they were on.

They didn't know how long it would take.

They didn't know how they would get home.

They simply trusted that their parents would get them there.

And maybe that is what surrender looks like with God.

We don't have to know every direction.

We don't have to know how long it will take.

We don't have to know exactly how we will get there.

We just have to do our part.

Listen to the calling.

Follow the voice.

Act with love.

Act with kindness.

And then trust God with the rest.

It made me think about my own moment of breaking.

The moment when I finally said:

Enough.

And in freeing myself, I realized something that had been there all along:

My faith is mine.
My passion is mine.

There is so much beauty in the moments that can transform our lives if we are willing to really look.

Sometimes the signs are obvious.

Sometimes they are as simple as sunlight through a window, a conversation with someone new, a door opening, or a stranger paying for your breakfast.

Sometimes we just have to be willing to notice.

Like the ocean tides, the things meant for us have a way of returning.

And maybe this is what I am learning now—to see the reflections in the mirrors, embrace the views through the windows, and recognize the moment when I am standing in front of an open door.

The path ahead may be unknown.

But I don't need to know where it leads to trust that I am being called to step through.

True courage doesn't require certainty. It requires the willingness to keep trusting, keep holding faith, and keep moving forward.

And when we have done all we can do, sometimes courage looks like resting and surrendering the rest to God.

You did not fail because you became exhausted.

You reached the place where faith asks you to stop carrying what was never yours to carry.

Thank You, Lord.