From my window in Akasia, I often watch the sun rise over the city of Pretoria. It’s a breathtaking spectacle, a vibrant tapestry of colours painted across the canvas of the morning sky – oranges, pinks, and fiery reds bleeding into the soft blues and purples of the awakening day. But there are times, just like the changing seasons, when the beauty outside mirrors a turmoil within. Times when I feel myself shedding, not just layers of clothing against the morning chill, but something far deeper – layers of expectation, of carefully constructed plans, of the illusion of control. Doubt, anxiety, and that nagging feeling that I’m somehow off-course, adrift in the vast, shimmering ocean of life, wash over me.
I’ve always been a planner. A list-maker. A control freak, if I’m honest. My life has often felt like a meticulously crafted spreadsheet, each cell neatly filled with meticulously planned outcomes. My idea of "God's plan" used to involve a meticulously charted course, a neatly packaged life unfolding precisely as I envisioned. A linear progression from point A to point B, with clearly defined milestones and a predictable destination. But then life, in its infinite wisdom (and sometimes infuriating chaos), decided to throw a few – or perhaps a whole volley – of curveballs.
The job I thought was my “calling,” the one I had poured my heart and soul into, the one that defined my identity and fueled my ambition, dissolved. It wasn’t a gradual decline; it was a sudden, jarring collapse. One day I was on top of the world, the next I was staring into the abyss of unemployment, feeling utterly lost and disoriented. Relationships, once bedrock solid and seemingly unbreakable, fractured. Promises whispered in hushed tones, pledges made under starry skies, were broken, leaving behind a trail of heartache and disillusionment. Dreams, meticulously crafted and polished, painstakingly nurtured over years, shattered like cheap glass against the unforgiving realities of life. They lay in pieces at my feet, a testament to my naiveté, a painful reminder of my misplaced faith in the illusion of my own control.
I found myself here, in Akasia, a place I didn’t choose, a place that initially felt like a punishment, a consequence of my failures. It wasn’t the grand, cosmopolitan city I had envisioned for myself; it wasn't the life I’d carefully planned, a life I’d convinced myself was divinely ordained. It was… just Akasia. A quiet suburban neighborhood nestled within the sprawling city of Pretoria. I felt… lost. The compass of my life was spinning wildly, pointing nowhere. The sense of direction that had been my unwavering guide had vanished, replaced by a disorienting and unsettling emptiness. Sound familiar?
In the midst of this turmoil, Proverbs 3:5-6 became my lifeline, a desperate grasp at something solid in the swirling vortex of my emotions. It felt almost confrontational at first, a stark challenge to my carefully constructed worldview. “Trust in the Lord with *all* your heart?” My heart, bruised and battered, felt like it belonged in a museum of broken things, a fragile relic of a life I no longer recognized. The very idea felt ludicrous, a cruel joke played on someone already reeling from the blows life had dealt. "Lean not on your own understanding?" But I *had* understood, hadn't I? I'd planned, I'd strategized, I'd meticulously considered every contingency. I’d built my life on the foundations of logic, reason, and meticulous planning. Yet here I was, utterly defeated, my carefully constructed edifice crumbling around me. Where was the logic in this? Where was the plan?
Then, slowly, subtly, almost imperceptibly, a quiet whisper began to cut through the cacophony of doubt and self-recrimination. It wasn’t a dramatic revelation, a sudden epiphany, or a booming voice from the heavens. It was a gradual dawning, a gentle unfolding of understanding. God’s plan, I began to realize, isn't a rigid itinerary, a predetermined route mapped out in advance. It's not a checklist to be ticked off, a series of pre-ordained steps leading inevitably to a specific destination. It's a journey. And sometimes, the most beautiful landscapes are revealed not on a well-paved road, but on a winding, unexpected path, a path that challenges our assumptions, stretches our capabilities, and pushes us beyond the limits of our comfort zones.
Nature itself, in its unwavering rhythms and cycles, taught me this lesson. The seasons don't control themselves. They don't dictate when they’ll change, when the leaves will fall, when the first frost will arrive, or when the flowers will bloom. They simply surrender to the rhythm of nature, trusting the process, embracing the inevitable transitions. And in their surrender, they become something magnificent. The barrenness of winter gives way to the vibrant promise of spring. The relentless heat of summer yields to the refreshing coolness of autumn. Nature teaches us that change is not only inevitable but essential for growth, for renewal, for the continuation of life's grand, unfolding cycle.
My Akasia home, initially a symbol of failure and displacement, a stark reminder of my dashed expectations, gradually became a sanctuary, a place of unexpected peace and quiet reflection. The quiet moments spent on my stoep, listening to the chirping of crickets and the rustling of leaves in the evening breeze, became moments of profound connection with God. The frustration, the anger, the overwhelming sense of loss, began to give way to a tentative, almost fragile trust, a hesitant acceptance of the unexpected path life had led me down. The meticulous plans I had held so dear lost their significance, overshadowed by a deeper, more profound understanding of God's unwavering presence.
The "straight path," the one I had envisioned, the one I had so diligently striven to follow, isn't always straight, friends. It’s often a winding, messy, utterly unpredictable road, full of twists and turns, unexpected detours, and seemingly insurmountable obstacles. It demands surrender, a letting go of the illusion of control, a humbling acknowledgement of our own limitations. It requires a faith that transcends our human understanding, a trust in a plan that unfolds in ways we may not always comprehend. But it also promises a breathtaking view from the summit, a perspective only earned through enduring the journey itself, through embracing the chaos and uncertainty, through accepting the unexpected twists and turns that shape our lives.
The work isn't done yet. My story is still being written. The chapters I had carefully planned may be rewritten, rearranged, or even entirely discarded. There are still moments of doubt, of self-questioning, of the nagging fear that I might be hopelessly lost. But in the quiet confidence of God's unwavering presence, I find my place, not only in Akasia, but in His great, beautiful plan. And that, my friends, is a view worth striving for, a perspective worth fighting for, a journey worth embarking upon, even if the destination remains shrouded in the gentle mystery of His grace.
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