No Sense Trust Revisited

In February of 2025, I wrote about trust for the first time.

I wrote about what trust truly means and how hard it can be. And if I am completely honest, I thought I understood it. I thought I knew what it meant to trust fully. I felt deeply connected to the trust I was experiencing at the time.

Looking back now, I realize I understood one version of trust.

Life has since introduced me to another.

If you haven't read the first piece, I encourage you to read it and then come back here. I think it matters to see where I was then before stepping into where I am now.

Read: No Sense Trust https://www.healingburnedsoul.com/post/no-sense-trust

Before we go any further, stop and think about something for a moment:

How many things do you trust on a daily basis? In my first piece, I wrote, “We put our trust in many things, often without a second thought.” That is still true, more true every day I am battling.

Trust is woven into the ordinary fabric of our lives. Most of the time, we don't even recognize it as trust because nothing has happened to make us question it.

That is the strange thing about trust.

It is easiest when you don't have a reason to doubt.

It is easy to trust your body when it hasn't failed you. Easy to trust the process when you can see progress. Easy to trust the future when it looks hopeful. Easy to trust people when they consistently show up for you.

And sometimes, it is even easy to trust God when the prayers you prayed seem to be answered the way you hoped.

But what happens when the things you trusted become uncertain?

What happens when you can't see the outcome?

What happens when you have prayed, waited, hoped, and trusted before—and you are still standing in the middle of something painful?

That is where I am right now.

If you asked me today whether I trust, my honest answer would probably be:

“Not as much as I should.”

And that is hard for me to admit.

On July 29 and August 10, 2026, I went into surgery again. I have honestly lost count of how many surgeries I have had at this point. After twenty-three years of this journey, part of me genuinely believed we would be done by now. I thought there would eventually be a point where surgeries stopped being part of my story. Apparently, I am not at that chapter yet.

But that is a story for another day.

What I do know is that these surgeries required an incredible amount of trust.

I had to trust a new doctor, a new hospital, and a new care team. I had to trust people I barely knew with a body that has already been through more than I ever imagined it would have to endure. I had to trust medications to carry me through moments of suffering. I had to trust my body to heal again after being cut open and asked to recover yet one more time.

And the trust didn't stop there.

I had to trust my insurance to cover what needed to be covered. My friends to care for things at home while I was away. My employer to understand the days I couldn't work. My finances to somehow stretch through weeks without a normal paycheck. I had to trust my church to pray, to support me, and to remind me that I wasn't carrying all of this alone.

There was trust everywhere.

And now, weeks later, I find myself struggling with it.

I look at my bank account and my heart beats a little faster than it should. I look at the places where surgery was supposed to help, and trusting my body to heal becomes harder.

I feel pain when I walk. Pain when I lift my arm to do something that should be completely ordinary. I feel the exhaustion after a day of work and wonder how I am supposed to keep going.

I look at the things I still cannot do and wonder when—or if—they will become easier.

And somewhere underneath all of that is a quiet question I don't always want to say out loud:

Can I really trust that this is going to get better?

That question is harder than I want it to be. Because trust is difficult when everything around you feels uncertain.

It is difficult when there is pain you cannot explain away. When there are bills that still have to be paid but the bank account doesn't hold enough, a job you still have to show up for, a body that still hurts, and a future you cannot see clearly.

It is difficult when you have no evidence in front of you that everything is going to work out.

And maybe that is exactly why I have had to return to what I called “No Sense Trust.”

I have to almost fake it until I make it. Not because I am pretending everything is fine. Not because I am ignoring reality.

Not because I am putting on some Christian smile and convincing myself that pain isn't painful.

I am looking directly at the reality in front of me.

And sometimes, the reality scares me.

Sometimes I don't know how the bills are going to work. I don't know exactly how my body is going to heal. I don't know how long the pain will last. I don't know what the next surgery, appointment, paycheck, or tomorrow will bring.

But I am learning that trust does not require me to know.

Maybe that is what I missed the first time I wrote about trust. I thought trust was the feeling that everything was going to be okay.

Now I think trust is what happens when I don't know if everything will be okay—and I choose to place myself in God's hands anyway.

That is a completely different kind of trust. That is no sense trust.

No sense trust, to me, is trusting when the circumstances don't make sense in any way.

It is trusting when the numbers don't add up. Trusting when the healing isn't happening as quickly as you hoped. Trusting when the pain is still there.

Trusting when the door you thought would open stays closed.

Trusting when you cannot see what God is doing or understand why He is allowing something to happen.

It is trusting without having all the answers.

And perhaps that is the point.

If I had all the answers, I wouldn't need trust.

If I could see exactly how my finances would work out, I wouldn't need to trust God for provision.

If I knew exactly how my body would heal, I wouldn't need to trust Him with my healing.

If I knew what tomorrow held, I wouldn't need faith for tomorrow.

Trust begins where certainty ends. And that is uncomfortable.

Because I like certainty.

I like plans. I like knowing what comes next. I like being able to look at a situation and figure out how to fix it. I like knowing that if I do A, B will happen.

But life—and faith—don't always work that way.

Sometimes God asks me to take the next step without showing me the whole staircase.

It feels like an algebra question sometimes. If A+B=D, solve for C. But where is C!? C is the trust.

Sometimes all I can see is the step directly in front of me. So I take that one.

Then another.

Then another.

Then sit down.

Then another.

Maybe that is what trust looks like right now.

Not confidence.

Not certainty.

Not pretending I am not afraid.

Just taking the next step.

Trusting that the Lord is still good when I don't understand His goodness in the moment.

Trusting His provision when I cannot yet see where it will come from.

Trusting His presence when I feel alone.

Trusting His faithfulness when my circumstances feel anything but faithful.

Because the most beautiful thing about the God I trust is that He does not change when my circumstances do.

My circumstances change.

My body changes.

My finances change.

My plans change.

My emotions change.

What I understand changes.

But He doesn't.

And maybe that is where my trust has to rest—not in the promise that everything will happen the way I want it to, but in the character of the One who walks with me when it doesn't.

I don't know what tomorrow holds.

I don't know exactly how this season will end.

I don't know what healing will look like.

I don't know how every piece of this puzzle will fit together.

But I am learning that I don't have to know.

I just have to keep taking the next step.

Even when it doesn't make sense.

Even when I am scared.

Even when my faith feels smaller than it did yesterday.

Even when I have to whisper the words instead of confidently proclaiming them:

“Lord, I trust You.”

Maybe that is what real trust looks like.

Not a person standing confidently on the mountaintop, certain of what comes next.

Maybe sometimes it is a tired person sitting in the valley, looking at everything that doesn't make sense, wiping the tears from their face, and choosing to take one more step anyway.

That is where I am.

And maybe, for now, that is enough.

Maybe no sense trust isn't about understanding.

Maybe it is about surrendering the need to understand.

Because sometimes faith isn't saying,

“I know exactly how this is going to work.”

Sometimes faith is simply saying,

“I don't know how this is going to work. But I know Who I am going to trust while I walk through it.”