Thoughts I Couldn’t Silence

I don’t understand why the sky is blue.

I’ve heard explanations—about light, reflection, and the vastness above us—but none of them ever quieted the question inside me. Because what I was really asking was not about color. I was asking about the meaning.

Why this world? Why this design? Why this life that unfolds around us with such beauty, and yet so many unanswered questions?

I don’t understand why they say there is water above us, as if the heavens themselves hold something we cannot reach. And maybe that’s what unsettled me the most—the idea that there are things beyond me, above me, outside of my understanding.

And yet, they are still real.

I don’t understand why the fish lives in the ocean while the bird lives in the sky. I have watched them both—one moving in depths I cannot breathe in, the other flying in heights I cannot reach. Both created, both sustained, both exactly where they are meant to be.

And still, I wondered… who decided that?

Who placed each one in its place and called it good?

I don’t understand why the baby cries when the mother is right there, holding him close. I’ve seen it—the safety, the warmth, the presence—and still, the tears fall. It doesn’t make sense. If love is near, why is there still pain?

And maybe that question followed me longer than I realized.

Because haven’t I done the same?

Haven’t I stood in the presence of God—held, seen, known—and still felt confusion, still felt unrest, still cried out without understanding why?

I don’t understand why the leaves fall.

Every year, without fail, they let go. They release what once gave them life, drifting to the ground in quiet surrender. And yet, somehow, it’s called beautiful. The colors, the change, the transition—it all carries a kind of glory.

But I never saw the beauty at first. I only saw the loss.

I don’t understand why every season carries both light and ending.

Why something can be so full and yet so temporary at the same time.

And for so long, I held onto these questions as if they were meant to be solved.

As if, with enough thinking, enough searching, enough effort, I could finally reach a place where everything made sense.

But I should’ve known…

I should’ve known that not everything that exists was created to be fully explained by me.

I should’ve known that my understanding has limits, but God does not.

I should’ve known that questions are not always doors to answers—sometimes, they are invitations to trust.

Because the truth is, I was never standing outside of creation trying to figure it out.

I was always standing inside of it. Part of it. Formed by the same hands that shaped the sky, the ocean, the birds, and the seasons.

And how could something created ever fully contain the Creator?

I should’ve known that there are things in this life that are not meant to be reduced to logic.

That the material and the spiritual are not in competition, but in connection.

What I can see… and what I cannot see… both carry intention.

Both carry a design.

Both point back to something—or rather, Someone— greater than everything.

So I began to ask a different question.

Not “Why don’t I understand?”

But “What if I don’t need to?”

What if understanding was never the goal?

What if trust was?

Because faith does not begin where everything makes sense.

Faith begins where I choose to believe—even when I don’t understand.

And maybe that’s what I should’ve known all along.

I should’ve known that God was never asking me to figure out the sky…

But to look at it and remember how small I am—and how cared for I still am.

I should’ve known that the fish in the ocean and the bird in the sky were never random…

But reminders that everything created has a place, a purpose, and a covering.

I should’ve known that the crying child in the arms of his mother was not a contradiction…

but a reflection of my own heart—learning that presence does not always remove pain, but it never leaves me alone in it.

I should’ve known that the falling leaves were not an ending to fear…

but a rhythm to trust.

Because if God is faithful in the falling, He will be faithful in the renewal.

And slowly, something shifted in me.

Not all at once. Not in a loud or dramatic way.

But quietly… deeply… steadily.

I stopped demanding answers to every question.

And I started recognizing God in every detail.

In the sky, I could not explain…

In the seasons I could not control…

In the emotions I could not always name…

He was there.

He had always been there.

And when I open my eyes now, I see it differently.

This day—this very day—is not something guaranteed.

It is given.

Unexpected. Unrepeatable. Sacred in ways I cannot fully measure.

And instead of waking up, trying to understand everything that lies ahead…

I wake up choosing to trust the One who already knows.

Because somewhere beyond what I can see, beyond what I can reason, beyond what I can hold—

There is a future.

Not random.

Not uncertain.

But written.

Written by a God who creates with intention, who sustains with love, and who leads with purpose.

So no… I still don’t understand everything.

There are still questions that rise in me, but they no longer feel like storms—more like echoes I have learned to sit with. Still moments where I pause before God, wondering why things are the way they are, and learning that His silence is not absence. These thoughts don’t shake me the way they used to; they no longer unravel me like they once did. They are simply there—the thoughts I once couldn’t silence.

Because now, I know this:

I should’ve known that I was never meant to carry the weight of knowing everything.

I was only ever meant to walk in faith.

To trust.

To follow.

To believe.

And maybe… just maybe…

That is where peace was waiting for me all along.