Daily Prayer: Trusting What I Can't Quite See Yet
Daily Prayer: Trusting What I Can't Quite See Yet
"Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see."
— Hebrews 11:1
I was pouring my second cup of coffee this morning — the one I actually get to drink while it's still warm — and I noticed the light coming through the kitchen window had that particular slant to it that makes everything look a little golden and a little cinematic, like my ordinary countertop deserved a film score.
I just stood there for a second. Mug in both hands. Not thinking anything profound. Just noticing.
And then, because my brain is apparently always doing something in the background, Hebrews 11:1 floated up like a notification I hadn't asked for but was glad I got.
The Word "Confidence" Is Doing a Lot of Work Here
I've read this verse so many times that I sometimes skim right past it the way you skim a road sign you've memorized. But this morning it landed differently.
Confidence in what we hope for.
Not wishful thinking. Not fingers-crossed optimism. Confidence. That's a sturdy word. That's the word you use when you know something even if you can't prove it yet.
I think about how I feel when my adult daughter texts me something she's working through — a decision, a direction, a new chapter she's still writing. I can't see how it's going to unfold. She can't either, fully. But I have this deep, settled confidence that she's going to be okay. More than okay. And I can't point to a single piece of evidence that would hold up in court. It's just something I know in a way that lives below logic.
I think that's a small picture of what faith is.
Assurance About What We Do Not See
The second half of the verse is the part that gets me.
Assurance about what we do not see.
Not proof. Assurance. Which is different. Proof is something you show someone. Assurance is something you carry.
My husband and I were talking the other night about something we're hoping for — nothing dramatic, just one of those good, ordinary things you hold carefully because you want it to work out. Neither of us knows how it's going to go. There's no guarantee. And yet we both have this underlying sense that it's going to be alright, that God is in it, that we don't have to white-knuckle our way through the uncertainty.
That's not naïveté. I've lived long enough to know things don't always go the way you hoped. But faith isn't the belief that everything works out the way I planned. It's the assurance that God sees what I don't, and that He's not surprised by any of it.
Honestly? That's the part that lets me breathe.
Faith in the Middle of an Ordinary Morning
I don't think faith only shows up in the big moments — the scary diagnosis, the hard conversation, the thing that keeps you up at 2 a.m. I think it's also in the way I get up and make the coffee and go to work and trust that today is going to be worth showing up for, even before I have any evidence that it is.
That's a small act of faith. It counts.
I think about the women in Hebrews 11 — the whole hall of faith chapter that follows this verse — and they weren't all doing spectacular, headline-worthy things. Some of them were just holding on. Staying faithful in the middle of long stretches of ordinary time, trusting something they couldn't see.
That feels very close to home.
Most of my life isn't cinematic. It's coffee and commutes and answering emails and figuring out what to make for dinner. And somewhere inside all of that, I'm practicing this quiet confidence — the kind that doesn't need everything figured out to keep moving forward.
I like that faith is described here as something you already have, not something you have to work yourself up to. It's confidence. It's assurance. It's already there.
I just have to remember to pick it up in the morning, like the coffee mug.
A Prayer for Today
God,
I don't always feel confident. Some days faith feels more like a muscle I'm trying to remember how to use than something I naturally carry. But I believe You're real, and I believe You see the things I can't, and today that's enough to start with.
Thank You for the small moments that remind me to pay attention — the light through the window, the good cup of coffee, the text from my kid, the person I love sitting across the table. There's so much I hope for that I can't see yet. Help me hold it with open hands instead of a clenched fist.
I trust You with the parts of my life that are still unwritten. That's not nothing. Help me remember it's actually everything.
Amen.
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