Does God really know best?

Let's be honest for once

I can already feel the side eyes and gasps from reading the title. We’ve been taught to slap a “God is good all the time, and all the time, God is good” on everything—even when the moment deserves an outward cry instead of repressed emotions.

In Christian spaces, we’ve mastered religion. We know how to say the right things to fit in with church culture. But here’s the truth: God is not intimidated by our emotions. Our questions don’t scare Him. Our inner thoughts don’t catch Him by surprise. It’s better to be honest than to sit in shame over something He already knows—Psalm 139 is proof of that. This would be a great time to read it. I love the NLT version.

It starts with: “O Lord, you have examined my heart and know everything about me.”

So when life comes at us fast—anger, sadness, frustration, all of it—who are we trying to convince that we’re okay? Ourselves or God?

When I get news I don’t want to hear, I get sad. Then sadness turns into frustration. Then anger. And eventually, I see the light—because deep down, I know nothing catches God by surprise (even if I look like a deer in headlights).

He knows the beginning from the end and is faithful to complete what He started in us. The fact that you’re reading this right now means there’s still breath in your body, which means He’s not done with you.

A few years ago, I decided to be honest—with myself and with others. When people ask how I’m doing, I don’t say okay if I’m not. I won’t say blessed and highly favored when life feels like a dark valley. As humans, we crave connection—to be seen, to be understood. So I let people see me. And I let God use the right ones to remind me of who I am in Him when I can’t feel it for myself.

The other night, I lay in bed, struggling to even open my mouth in prayer as fear tried to crawl into bed with me. Instead of pretending I was okay, I cried out to my husband and asked him to pray for me. I refused to sit in silence and let fear win.

As someone who once battled crippling anxiety in college—so badly that it landed me in the hospital—I know what it’s like to feel helpless. But I also know what it’s like for God to free me from panic attacks for good. That doesn’t mean fear doesn’t try to sneak back in. It just means I’ve learned how to keep my house filled—with the Holy Spirit and with people who can hold up my arms like Aaron and Hur did for Moses.

The truth is, God knows best. He created us on purpose, for a purpose in a world full of brokenness. He is good—not because life is always good, but because He says so and through experience. He desires a relationship with us where we are constantly being transformed, perfected, and prepared for the day He says, “Well done.”

So when emotions are fleeting, when fear knocks, and its friends try to throw a pity party with me as the guest of honor, I remind myself of His Word. I turn to Psalm 139 and remember: God sees me. God knows me. God is with me.

Then, I document. Sometimes, it’s journaling. Other times, it’s writing a Substack essay like this one. Either way, I leave myself stones of remembrance—a record of what God is doing and has already done. And when I look back at the moments I felt helpless, I see how He carried me through the valley to experience light again.

So here’s my encouragement to you: Get honest.

Find a rhythm of documentation.
Find a trusted community.
Find a way to remind yourself of God’s faithfulness.

Because it does get easier—not because trials stop, but because our perspective changes to see through the mind of Christ. The storms still come. But joy still follows mourning. And God never breaks a promise.

He’s a good Father. A good Friend. Whatever you need Him to be in the moment.

But are we still enough to hear Him?

Turn down the noise.
Eliminate the doom-scrolling.
Fix your eyes on Him.
Ask Him what He’s doing—even in sorrow.

Because this too shall pass.
And one day, you’ll testify about how He did it. Again.

First, be honest.

If you’re not okay—say that.

He already knows.

With intentionality,
Janae