With Open Hands
Oftentimes, I find it easy to forget the deeper truth—that everything we have is a gift, entrusted to us by God.
Today, I’m 36 weeks and a few days pregnant, and while I’m eager to meet my daughter soon, that anticipation has also been exhausting. Over the past seven weeks, my husband and I have struggled to find balance—between serving in our ministries, navigating ongoing preterm labor complications, almost daily hospital visits, work, and the everyday tasks that continue to pile up.
The uncertainty around my health created a kind of dissonance, and we began to lose sight of the many blessings this pregnancy has brought and the lessons we’ve been learning along the way—too caught up in trying to maintain control over what we believed was in our control.
In that dissonance, the emotions that come with exhaustion began to brew. We grew anxious about what battles tomorrow might bring and found ourselves just surviving—checking off to-do lists and rushing through each day. Somewhere along the way, we forgot the beauty of this journey that our Creator intended. And in some ways, we grew bitter about the process.
Today's gospel—the Parable of the Tenants—gently called me back to that forgotten truth. The tenants were entrusted with something that didn’t belong to them, yet they acted as if it did. In some ways, I saw myself in them. I had started holding this pregnancy, this season, and even the outcomes too tightly, as if they were mine to control. But like the landowner in the parable, God has been patient and loving, sending gentle reminders of what it means to love and be loved—through my husband’s steady presence, the gift of watching our daughter grow with each check-up, the reassurance that she is healthy despite how my body may be feeling, the nudges and kicks that remind me daily of the life growing inside me, the kindness of strangers, and the quiet strength that I'm learning over the past nine months.
Each of these has reminded me that this life, this child, this journey—all of it belongs to Him. I’m just a steward, invited not to own, but to tend with care, with trust, and with open hands.
So as I wait—still tired, still hopeful—I’m learning to loosen my grip and lean into the grace of being a steward. To care deeply, but not cling. To trust that even in the unknown, God is near, tending the vineyard alongside me. And maybe that’s enough for today.
Lord, thank You for entrusting me with this season—its joys and its aches. Help me to live not with clenched fists but with open hands. Teach me to be a faithful steward of the life You’ve placed within and around me. When I grow tired, remind me that You are near, tending the vineyard too. And in the waiting, I may remain in your peace.
Mia Huynh