Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.

PROVERBS 3:5 (NIV)

Have you ever experienced a morning where the air felt cool and the light still carried a hint of sleep? That was the kind of morning I had. Except I was sitting at the stoplight, waiting to merge onto the interstate during it. The overpass stretched above me, its lines of concrete and steel catching the pale light of dawn. For a moment, I looked up.

I wasn’t moving yet—just waiting. The hum of engines surrounded me, the faint echo of traffic overhead filling the stillness. I noticed how weathered the bridge looked in that morning light. The concrete had aged into a dull gray, the kind that tells stories of rain, snow, and heat. Cracks ran across its surface, like veins, and in some places, the edges had chipped away, leaving shadows that deepened with the rising sun. The metal beams that held it all together were rusted in spots, their paint faded and peeling. A few carried graffiti, names, and colors layered over time, telling their own stories of presence and passing.

It wasn’t pretty. But it was honest—strong, steady, worn, and real. As I sat there, I thought about how much we trust without even realizing it. I trusted that the road above would hold. I trusted the concrete and steel to do exactly what they were built to do, even though they looked tired and imperfect. I didn’t question it. I didn’t analyze it. I simply believed it would hold.

That thought stayed with me. How often do we live this way without noticing it? You sit in chairs without checking their legs. You cross bridges without testing their strength. You lean into routines, trusting that things will work the way they always have. Yet when it comes to trusting God, or even trusting the process of your own growth, you hesitate. You ask if it’s safe. You question if the foundation will hold. That quiet moment before getting on the freeway reminds you that trust isn’t something you learn once. It’s something you practice every day. The issue isn’t whether you know how to trust; it’s where you decide to place it. If I could sit beneath tons of concrete and steel without fear, you can surely rest in the hands of a faithful God.

Trust, I’ve learned, is less about certainty and more about surrender. If I could trust a freeway to hold, you can trust the One who holds you.

If I can trust a freeway to hold, I can trust the One who holds me.

Keep moving forward,

Dr. Key