Isaiah 5-8

22 Oct, 2026

I've always been the girl with the plan. I like knowing where I'm going, what I'm doing, how much something will cost, how long it'll take. I like having things to look forward to. A trip booked months in advance, a little something in my shopping cart, a future I can more or less picture if I close my eyes.

I'm not particularly fond of surprises. Good ones, sure. But even then I'd probably prefer a heads-up.

So naturally, the past couple of years have been something of a nightmare for someone like me.

Isaiah 5 opens with God comparing Israel to a vineyard. A vineyard He had planted, tended, protected, and given every opportunity to produce good fruit. Except it didn't. It produced bad fruit, despite having everything it needed to flourish.

And then God explains what He had been looking for.

Because when I look at my life now, I think I've made a fair amount of progress. I don't drink anymore. I don't party. I'm not nearly as impressed by material things as I used to be. I try to be kinder, more patient, more understanding. I try to be mindful of what I entertain, what I say, what I allow into my life.

But those are mostly things I can identify. Things I can point to and say, See? I've changed.

What about the things nobody sees?

My thoughts, for example. The things I think about people when they irritate me. How quickly I lose patience when I feel misunderstood. How difficult it can be to extend grace to someone who has hurt my feelings, even though I ask God for grace practically every day.

I can stop drinking. I can stop partying. I can stop buying things I don't need. Those are decisions I can make and, for the most part, follow through with.

But how exactly does one stop being impatient? Or prideful? Or occasionally convinced that everyone else is the problem?

I suppose that's where the real work begins.

Then comes Isaiah 6, where Isaiah sees God on His throne, surrounded by seraphim proclaiming His holiness. And instead of being terribly impressed with himself for having been given such an extraordinary vision, Isaiah immediately recognizes his own unworthiness.

Woe is me.

I like that he doesn't pretend otherwise.

And after God cleanses him, Isaiah volunteers to be sent.

Just like that.

I read that and wondered whether I could say the same thing so readily.

I want God to change me. I really do. I've prayed for it more times than I can count. I want to be a better Christian, a better wife, a better daughter, a better person in general. I want to become someone whose faith is evident not just in what she believes but in how she lives.

But the trouble is that I don't particularly enjoy the process of changing.

I like the idea of becoming a better woman. It's the becoming part I struggle with.

Especially when becoming means letting go of things I once loved.

Sometimes I think about my life before cancer, and I miss it terribly.

I miss working. I miss making my own money and buying whatever little thing caught my eye. I miss planning trips without wondering whether my body would cooperate. I miss getting dressed and feeling good in what I was wearing. I miss the body I used to have, the energy I used to have, the blissful ignorance of waking up in the morning and not immediately assessing whether something hurt.

What a luxury that was. To wake up and simply get on with the day.

I didn't know it was a luxury then, of course. Nobody really does when something has always been there.

And I don't think there was anything wrong with enjoying those things. God didn't forbid me from traveling or wearing cute clothes or making money. I don't believe He gave me cancer because I was too independent or too fond of shopping.

But I do wonder about the direction I was heading.

Because I was very comfortable with myself. Perhaps a little too comfortable. I had my own money, my own plans, my own ideas about what my life would look like. I thought I had a pretty good handle on things.

I didn't.

And I don't mean that in some dramatic, self-pitying way. I simply didn't know how quickly a life could become unrecognizable.

One diagnosis and suddenly the things I'd spent so much time planning were no longer particularly relevant. My body, which I'd always assumed would just do what I needed it to do, had become something I could no longer take for granted.

I wouldn't wish any of it on myself again. I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

But I also can't deny that something has changed in me because of it.

I think God has been using this season to redirect my heart. Away from things I had begun depending on too much, away from a life that was becoming increasingly centered around myself, and toward a relationship with Him that I might never have pursued so seriously otherwise.

I don't know whether that was why any of this happened. I don't pretend to know God's reasons.

I only know what He's been doing with me since.

And I find myself in this rather strange position of being grateful for the woman I'm becoming while still grieving the woman I used to be.

I wonder if those two things will ever stop feeling so contradictory.

Isaiah 7 and 8 didn't make matters any easier, because now we're talking about trust.

King Ahaz is terrified because his kingdom is being threatened. God tells him not to be afraid, that the enemies he's worried about won't succeed in their plans. But Ahaz has other ideas about where his security ought to come from.

I can almost understand him.

Not the disobedience, obviously. But the desire to have something concrete to rely on. Something you can see and measure and reasonably expect to work.

I like that sort of security myself.

And when I don't have it, I get anxious. When I get anxious, I distract myself. I'll read something, play a game, watch a show, scroll through my phone. Anything to keep my mind from wandering somewhere I'd rather it didn't.

Sometimes I wonder if I've become quite good at not thinking about things.

Which is funny, considering how much I think about everything else.

But there are certain thoughts I know better than to entertain for too long. The what-ifs. The possibility of getting sick again. The question of whether I'll ever feel entirely like myself. Whether I'll be able to do all the things I used to do.

I don't like where those thoughts take me.

So I find something else to think about.

And for a while, it works.

But I've been wondering whether there's a difference between giving myself a break from worrying and refusing to acknowledge that I'm worried in the first place.

I think there is.

Because sometimes I become so determined not to feel afraid that I end up not allowing myself to feel much of anything about it. I make myself busy. I move on. I tell myself there's no point dwelling on something I can't control.

Which is true, I suppose.

But I don't think God is asking me to become indifferent to my own life.

I think He wants me to bring those fears to Him.

Even the unreasonable ones. Even the ones I've already prayed about. Even the complaints I'm slightly embarrassed to admit because surely, after everything He's brought me through, I should be a little more trusting by now.

But then I remember how often people in Scripture cried out to God.

They weren't always composed. They weren't always patient. They didn't always understand what He was doing.

And still, they prayed.

I wish waiting came naturally to me.

I wish I could simply surrender everything and go about my day without periodically wondering whether God might give me a little hint about what comes next.

Just a small one. Nothing extravagant. A general outline would be lovely.

But I suppose that rather defeats the purpose of trusting Him.

And here's the thing. I still want my old life back in certain ways.

I want to feel healthy. I want to work and travel and dress up and enjoy things without so much thought going into whether I can. I want to make plans again and have the reasonable expectation that I'll get to follow through with them.

I don't think those desires are wrong.

Sometimes I even imagine God allowing me to have those things again, and I wonder what it would feel like to experience them as the woman I am now.

To earn money and not mistake financial independence for complete security. To travel and remember what a privilege it is to have a body that can take me places. To get dressed and appreciate the ordinary pleasure of feeling comfortable in my own skin.

To wake up on some unremarkable Tuesday, feel perfectly fine, and remember to thank Him for it.

I hope I get to experience that.

I really do.

But I don't want to make my faith dependent on whether I do.

Because I think that would mean I hadn't learned very much at all.

Maybe the point isn't that I need to stop wanting the things I used to have. Maybe it's that I need to stop believing my life can only be good if I have them.

And maybe I don't need to become an entirely different person, either.

I still like planning. I still like beautiful things. I still want to see the world. I still have a thousand ideas about what I'd like to do with my life, some more realistic than others.

I don't think God is asking me to stop being that girl.

I think He's teaching her that she was never meant to carry the weight of her entire future by herself.

And I suppose that's what I want to tell Him today.

Father, I know I have a long way to go. I know there are things in my heart that need changing, things I'm still holding on to, fears I haven't quite learned how to surrender.

I want to become more patient. More compassionate. Less concerned with having everything figured out. I want to trust You without constantly needing reassurance that things will turn out the way I hope.

But I also want to be honest with You.

I miss my old life. I miss my body. I miss not having to think so much about my health. And I still hope, very much, that some of those things will be restored to me.

You already know that, of course.

I don't want to pretend I've stopped wanting them just to sound more surrendered than I actually am.

So please, keep working on my heart. Help me recognize the things that need changing without making me resent the process. Help me appreciate what I have while I grieve what I've lost. And when I become frightened by the uncertainty of it all, remind me that I can come to You instead of trying to manage every feeling on my own.

I still have plans, Lord.

Quite a few, actually.

But I'm learning to hold them a little more loosely.

I still want a beautiful life. I just don't want to build one so full of beautiful things that I forget to make room for You.