For months now, my life has felt like a scrambled Rubik’s Cube.

Not slightly mixed up.

Not just one side out of place.

Completely turned in on itself — colors scattered, no symmetry, no visible order.

Every time I think one side is finally coming together, something shifts again. A conversation. A decision. A delay. A disappointment. What felt aligned suddenly isn’t. What looked promising unravels. And I’m left staring at it, wondering how everything became so disjointed.

The anxiety of that kind of disorder is hard to explain.

I like clarity. I like alignment. I like when things make sense.

But this season has not made sense.

It has felt like taking one step forward and five steps back. Like getting one full side nearly finished — the colors almost perfectly aligned — only to realize there’s one square out of place. And in order to fix that one small misalignment, you have to undo nearly everything you just built.

That might be the most frustrating part of all.

Because sometimes obedience feels like regression.

Faithfulness feels like loss.

Progress feels like unraveling.

And I find myself asking God, “We were so close. Why does this feel like we’re going backwards?”

But here’s what struck me about a Rubik’s Cube: the person who solves it isn’t guessing.

There is a formula.

There is intention behind every turn.

Sometimes a move that appears to scramble the entire cube is actually the only way to place one stubborn piece exactly where it belongs.

The chaos is not chaos to the one who understands the design.

And I am not the designer.

“For My thoughts are not your thoughts,

neither are your ways My ways,” declares the Lord.

“As the heavens are higher than the earth,

so are My ways higher than your ways

and My thoughts than your thoughts.”

— Isaiah 55:8–9

There is a very human part of me that gets angry when things feel out of order. When outcomes feel unjust. When doors close that seemed right. When people misunderstand. When effort doesn’t yield the result I expected.

I want to grab the cube back.

I want to force the colors into place.

I want to twist and turn until it looks right to me.

But forced order isn’t the same as divine order.

And I have had to learn — am still learning — to place the entire scrambled mess back into the hands of the One who made me.

The One who is not confused.

The One who is not surprised.

The One who is not pacing heaven, scratching His head over the puzzle of my life.

He knows the sequence.

He knows which move must come first.

He knows which “backward” turn is actually necessary for alignment.

He knows what I cannot see from my limited angle.

Sometimes what feels like undoing is actually positioning.

Sometimes what feels like loss is actually refinement.

Sometimes what feels like chaos is simply a complexity I do not yet understand.

The Rubik’s Cube doesn’t solve itself. It must be surrendered to the hands that understand its structure.

And so must I.

Not once.

Not theoretically.

But daily.

I have had to pray, “Father, I do not understand what You are doing. I do not like how this feels. I do not see the order. But I trust that You do.”

Submission is not passive. It is not resignation. It is active trust in a wisdom higher than my own.

The cube is still in motion.

There are still turns that feel disorienting.

But I am learning that peace doesn’t come from seeing all six sides perfectly aligned. Peace comes from knowing whose hands it’s in.

And that is enough for today.