We were just kids. We had barely crossed the threshold of matrimony before we were thrust into our first job in ministry. We packed a moving truck with dowdy college furniture and idealism and drove two thousand miles to a place that would become the source of so many firsts in our lives.

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As we arrived, many of life’s most stressful milestones collided at once—marriage, entry into career,

moving across the country, purchasing a home, trying to start a family, and even a global financial crisis.

Anxiety seemed to lurk in the corner of every room, eroding the perilous optimism that often accompanies

a college degree.

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Things were not going as we had hoped. Everything was hard. Cars broke down. Snow fell. People were difficult. A setting built for adventure slowly constricted, creating a sense of dread for what each new day might bring. The uncertainty of tomorrow and the desperation of the present became constant companions and nightly conversation partners. During the day we worked. In the evening, we walked circles around our fears and frustrations, slowly losing our footing and sinking into a quiet delirium.

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We needed hope.
We needed life.
We needed a promise.

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And we found Luke 12.

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As Jesus was teaching, He was interrupted by a man desperate to find authority—someone who could force

his brother to divide their parents’ inheritance. Jesus responded by warning of the danger of greed and explaining that true life is never found in the abundance of possessions. Then He looked at the crowd—the infirmed, the poor, the working families—and then at the striving man whose inheritance had already been

spent in his imagination.

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There was a palpable desperation hanging in the air.

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Then Jesus turned to His disciples and appealed to nature to teach a truth that would anchor Christians for centuries—and become a lifeline for our struggling family:

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“Therefore I say to you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; nor about the body, what you will

put on. Life is more than food, and the body is more than clothing.
Consider the ravens, for they neither sow nor reap, which have neither storehouse nor barn;

and God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds?
And which of you by worrying can add one cubit to his stature?
If you then are not able to do the least, why are you anxious for the rest?”
 

Luke 12:22–26 (NKJV)

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Jesus points to ravens—creatures without foresight, without barns, without plans—and reminds His hearers

that God feeds them anyway. He exposes the way our spirits curve inward, constantly striving to secure the future, convinced that if we do not grasp the threads of our circumstances, no one else will. The fear pacing behind our anxious effort is this quiet suspicion: perhaps God cannot be trusted; perhaps His care will cost

us more than it gives.

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Then Jesus calls on the most delicate teacher of all:

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“Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; and yet I say to you, even Solomon in all

his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
If then God so clothes the grass, which today is in the field and tomorrow is thrown into the oven,

how much more will He clothe you, O you of little faith?”
 

Luke 12:27–28 (NKJV)

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As my wife and I wrestled with the growing weight of adulthood, we adopted a simple phrase: the lilies of the field. Adorned in quiet beauty that has inspired poets for centuries, the lilies became a living promise—that God’s care is not earned through effort, but received through trust.

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Jesus was uniquely qualified to teach this truth because He embodied it.

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John describes the Advent of Christ as the eternal Word becoming flesh and dwelling among us. The architect and artist of all creation stepped into His own work, and those who owed Him their very existence did not recognize the Master’s hand.

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He puts it this way:

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 "He came to His own, and His own did not receive Him. But as many as received Him, to them He gave

the right to become children of God, to those who believe in His name."

 

John 1:11-12 (NKJV)

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John shares with emphatic assurance that the Child in the manger can bear the weight of our dependance. We can trust Him for our daily bread because He willingly became the Bread of Life. We can trust that he does not act with evil intent because He trades our sin for His righteousness. We can trust Him to meet our grief and fear with compassion because He was a man of sorrows acquainted with grief.

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But trust is always a choice.

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Jesus does not force it.
He invites it.

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He stands before us—God made small, God made near—and asks whether we will receive Him. Whether we will loosen our grip on the fragile illusions of control. Whether we will stop pulling the thin, impotent strings of fortune we vainly clutch and place our weight on something sturdier.

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Advent reminds us that God did not wait for our trust to be perfect before He came. He entered our fear, our lack, and our uncertainty first. He placed Himself into the world’s care before asking the world to place

its care in Him.

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So, when anxiety rises and tomorrow feels heavy, Jesus does not give us a strategy.
He gives us a picture.

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Consider the lilies.

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They do not toil.
They do not spin.
They simply receive.

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And in their quiet beauty, they sing a song with a better ending than fear ever could:

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There is grace already prepared.
There is provision already promised.
There is a God already near—and worthy of our trust.