Last night, I read a verse that quietly stayed with me:
“I remember the devotion of your youth…” (Jeremiah 2:2)
In that chapter, God is speaking to His people, remembering how they once loved Him—how they followed Him closely—but also confronting how far they had drifted.
It didn’t feel distant. It felt very personal.
Almost like a gentle question: Have you drifted? Not away completely, but slowly… from loving Him to simply expecting from Him.
I carried that thought into today without really realising it.
And today wasn’t easy. It felt heavy, stretched—one of those days where things don’t flow, and everything takes more effort than it should. So when Jonny asked me, “How was your day?”, I could feel the complaint rising straight away. It was almost automatic, like my heart had already decided that a hard day equals a bad one.
But something made me pause.
Because underneath that instinct to complain, there was a deeper issue. If I truly believe that God is sovereign—that He is the giver of every breath, every provision, every moment—then why is my heart so quick to be dissatisfied?
That question slowed me down.
Because when I really think about it, complaining rarely starts where I think it does.
It usually begins quietly—almost unnoticed. A moment where something doesn’t go the way I expected, or the day feels heavier than I planned. And without even realizing it, my heart starts to shift.
I begin to act as if I was meant to have a smoother day. As if comfort is the default. As if I am owed ease.
But then I stop and see it more clearly.
Nothing in my day is actually mine by right.
Every breath I’ve taken today was given to me before I even asked for it. Every moment I’ve moved through has been held together in ways I don’t see. Every need that has been met has been carried by a hand that doesn’t fail. And even in the hard moments—the tired ones, the stretched ones—the strength to keep going wasn’t something I produced on my own. It was quietly supplied to me as I needed it.
And I don’t always notice that in the moment.
That’s where the drift happens.
Not in rebellion… but in forgetting.
Forgetting that I am living on grace, not entitlement.
And then my mind went to the image in Isaiah—the clay and the potter.
And it humbled me.
Because when I complain—even quietly—I am not simply responding to what is happening around me. I am revealing something deeper within me. I am, in that moment, quietly stepping into judgment over His wisdom—subtly suggesting that the way He has allowed my life to unfold is lacking, incomplete, or in need of correction. As if I could have arranged it with more precision, guided it with more care, or shaped it into something better.
And beneath that, even more quietly, is the assumption that I see enough of the story to make that judgment. That my perspective—so small, so limited, so bound to this one moment—could somehow outweigh the understanding of the One who not only formed me, but holds every moment of my life from beginning to end in perfect knowledge and perfect love.
That’s what shifted something in me.
Not the circumstances—but my perspective.
So in that moment, I made a small but real decision. I chose to turn from complaint to gratitude. Not because the day suddenly felt easy, but because I needed to come back to what is true.
And when I answered, I said, “My day was hard, but He has been with me through it. He knows the end of it all, so I’m okay… there is still so much to be grateful for.”
And I meant it.
Not because everything went well, but because His presence is what makes a day good. Not comfort. Not ease. Not things going my way.
If He is with me, then even a hard day is still held within His purpose. It’s still meaningful. Still covered by His care.
Maybe this is what it really means to return to our first love.
Not chasing a feeling or trying to get back to some emotional moment we once had, but choosing to realign our hearts with truth. To remember who God is—and who we are before Him.
I’m realising how easy it is to slip into quiet grumbling, to live with a low-level dissatisfaction without even noticing it. But I don’t want to stay there.
I want to receive each day for what it truly is—a gift sustained by grace.
And to stay close to Him.
Because in the end, that’s where life is found.
With Love from Lusanja