t’s been a tough time.

Not “end of the world” tough, not “I’ve lost everything” tough, not “war zone” tough. I’m not going to insult other people’s pain by pretending mine is the main event. But it has been hard, nevertheless. The kind of hard that drains you quietly, day after day, until you realise you’ve been running on fumes and stubbornness for longer than you’d like to admit.

And the annoying part, at least for someone like me, is this, I feel like I should have handled it better.

I’ve replayed moments in my head, conversations I should have navigated with more wisdom, decisions I should have made earlier, the tone I should have used, the patience I should have shown. I’ve had that awful little inner courtroom running late into the night, where I’m both the prosecutor and the accused, and the verdict is always the same, guilty, incompetent, should-have-known-better.

I failed.

Or at least that’s what it feels like. I didn’t rise to the occasion. I didn’t “manage it”. I didn’t keep all the plates spinning. I didn’t stay calm and unshakeable and sorted. I let “things” get to me. I let stress push me around. I let weariness talk louder than faith. I let discouragement write a few chapters it had no right to write.

And if I’m honest, I think part of the sting is pride. Because there’s a version of me I like to believe in, the one who is steady, capable, dependable, the one who has a plan and never gets rattled. The one who can shoulder burdens and still smile, who can solve problems like clockwork, who doesn’t crack.

But the truth is simpler and less flattering, I’m not that guy all the time.

Sometimes I’m tired. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed. Sometimes I’m brittle. Sometimes the smallest setback feels like a wave to the face. Sometimes I want to be strong and instead I just feel exposed. Sometimes the best I can manage is to turn up, do the next right thing and try not to snap at someone I love.

So yes, it’s been a tough time.

But God.

Those two words don’t erase the hard bits, they don’t pretend the pain isn’t real and they don’t turn life into a glossy poster. They don’t make bills disappear, they don’t rewind conversations, they don’t give you a do-over on your choices. But they do something deeper.

They put the story back into the right hands.

Because here’s the thing, when life gets shaky, we start acting like the weight of everything is sitting on our shoulders, as if we’re the central pillar holding up the universe. We start talking to ourselves like this is all down to us, like our competence is the foundation, like if we wobble then everything collapses. And if you’re the sort of person who values responsibility, who hates letting people down, who is wired to fix things, then that mental habit can feel almost righteous.

But it’s not righteousness, it’s self-reliance dressed in respectable clothes.

God never asked me to be my own saviour.

He asked me to trust Him.

That’s a confronting line to write because it sounds simple and simple truths can be the most brutal. Trust Him. Not just when I feel strong, but when I don’t. Not just when I’m winning, but when I’m embarrassed. Not just when I’m performing well, but when I’ve dropped the ball and can’t hide it.

And that’s where the “But God” part gets real, not as a slogan, but as a lifeline.

Because God doesn’t meet us only at our best. He meets us at our most honest.

There’s a strange comfort in the Bible’s bluntness. Scripture doesn’t paint the heroes as spotless. Moses loses his temper. Elijah collapses into despair. David makes a mess. Peter boasts and then folds. Paul admits weakness and talks openly about pressure and fear. If anything the Bible seems determined to strip away the illusion that God’s people are powered by flawless self-control.

God’s people are powered by God.

That’s the point.

And if I’ve learned anything in a hard season it’s this, God does some of His best work when we finally stop pretending we’ve got it covered.

We hate that. We want growth without humility and we want victory without surrender. We want God’s peace as an accessory, something that sits on top of our already well-managed lives. We’d like Him to be the insurance policy, not the foundation.

But God, in His kindness, doesn’t indulge our illusions forever.

Sometimes He lets our strength run out so that we stop worshipping it.

Sometimes He lets us feel the limits of our own capacity so that we remember we’re creatures, not the Creator. Sometimes He lets the noise in our heads get loud enough that we finally fall to our knees, not as a performance, but as an act of survival.

And that’s not cruelty. That’s mercy.

Because pride is a terrible master. It keeps score, it demands constant proof, and it never gives you rest. Pride says, “You must be enough.” Pride says, “If you fail, you’re finished.” Pride says, “If you can’t handle it, you’re not worthy.”

But the Gospel says something radically different.

The Gospel says, “Christ is enough.”

It says that your standing with God is not based on how well you kept it together this week. It’s based on Jesus, His life, His death, His resurrection and His intercession for you right now. It’s grace from start to finish.

That doesn’t mean failure doesn’t matter and it doesn’t mean we shrug off responsibility. But it does mean that failure doesn’t get the final word. It does mean that shame is not your identity. It does mean that God is not standing there with crossed arms waiting for you to pull yourself together before He’ll help you.

God is a Father, not a taskmaster.

And the best fathers don’t abandon their children when they stumble, they pick them up, they steady them and they teach them how to walk.

There’s a verse that has carried me more than once, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.” That’s not the kind of verse your pride puts on the fridge. It’s the kind of verse you learn when you’ve run out of clever answers.

It’s an upside-down kingdom truth. Weakness is not a disqualifier for the Christian, it’s a doorway. Not because weakness is good in itself, but because weakness puts us in the only posture that can actually receive what God gives.

So what does “But God” look like when you’ve been having a tough time?

Sometimes it looks like repentance, not the dramatic kind where you make big speeches, but the quiet kind where you stop making excuses. You say, “Lord, I didn’t handle that well.” You say, “I acted out of fear.” You say, “I tried to control things instead of trusting You.” And then, here’s the key part, you don’t stay there. You don’t wallow. You don’t punish yourself to feel holy. You bring it into the light and you leave it at the cross.

Sometimes “But God” looks like forgiveness, forgiving other people who let you down, forgiving yourself for not being perfect and forgiving the idea that you were supposed to be. Some of us need to repent not only of our sins, but of our impossible standards, the ones God never asked us to carry.

Sometimes “But God” looks like doing the next faithful step, even while your emotions are sulking. You pray when you don’t feel like it. You open your Bible when you’d rather scroll. You go to church when you’d rather stay home. You keep showing up, because faith is not mainly a mood, it’s allegiance.

Sometimes “But God” looks like asking for help. That one really irritates the self-sufficient part of us, doesn’t it? But God often ministers to us through His people. He made the Church for a reason. We’re not meant to muscle through life solo, pretending we’re fine. That’s not strength, that’s isolation with better PR.

Sometimes “But God” looks like a reframe of the story. Instead of “I failed, and that’s the end,” it becomes “I failed, and God is not finished.” Instead of “I should have handled it,” it becomes “I’m learning dependence.” Instead of “This proves I’m weak,” it becomes “This proves I need the Lord and the Lord is faithful.”

And if you’re reading this and you’re in that same rough patch, let me speak plainly.

You are not condemned if you belong to Christ.

You are not abandoned.

You are not forgotten.

You are not a write-off because you didn’t handle things perfectly.

You may need to apologise to someone. You may need to make a change. You may need to tighten up a habit, or face a hard truth, or stop procrastinating on something that’s been quietly damaging you. God’s grace is not permission to stay stuck. But it is power to get up again. It is freedom to be honest without being destroyed by it.

That’s the miracle, real grace makes you braver, not lazier.

And here’s the part that can feel almost unbelievable when you’re ashamed, God can redeem even the mess. He can use the hard season to deepen your faith. He can use the failure to soften your pride. He can use the pressure to refine your character. He can use the disappointment to reorient your priorities. He can use what you meant for your own downfall as the very place He teaches you what it means to live by faith.

“But God” is not denial. It’s defiance.

It’s defiance against despair. It’s defiance against the lie that you are what you produce. It’s defiance against the voice that says you’re finished. It’s defiance against the enemy who would love nothing more than for you to believe that your sin is bigger than the cross, or that your weakness is bigger than God’s strength.

It’s a declaration that the Lord is still on the throne and that His mercies are new every morning, even after a day you’d rather forget.

So yes, it’s been a tough time.

But God is faithful.

But God is patient.

But God is near to the brokenhearted.

But God gives wisdom when we ask.

But God restores.

But God strengthens.

But God finishes what He starts.

And if you can’t see the whole path right now, that’s all right. You don’t need to. You need the next step. You need today’s obedience. You need today’s prayer. You need today’s little act of trust.

One day at a time.

That’s not a cliché, it’s how the Lord has carried His people since the beginning, manna in the wilderness, daily bread, fresh mercies, step by step.

So take heart, Roland. If God is in it, and He is, then this tough time is not the end of your story. It may be the chapter where you stop pretending, stop striving and start leaning on the only strength that actually holds.

And that strength has a name.

Jesus.