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Cosmic God, Inner Work: How Psalm 139 Reshapes the Heart



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This past week looked so normal.


Emails. Meetings. Client strategies. Ministry writing. Checking in on hurting women. Creating content. Preparing teachings. Navigating hard emotions. Managing expectations. Balancing work and home. Trying to keep up with responsibilities while my mother’s health declines.


Nothing earth-shattering. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would make anyone stop and say, “God is clearly moving.” Just an ordinary week —small, routine, seemingly inconsequential.


And yet… within the simplicity of these days, God was doing something far bigger than I realized. Something vast. Something cosmic. Something holy.


He was quietly, intentionally, tenderly reordering me.


It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It wasn’t even obvious until it was, and then I knew it was deep.

It sent me straight into Psalm 139.

A God so vast… yet so intimately near

Psalm 139 begins on the grandest scale imaginable. David writes of a God who is everywhere, at all times, in all things:


A God who knows every thought before it forms. A God who fills the heavens and whose presence saturates all creation. A God who hems us in behind and before. A God who sees through darkness as if it is light—a God who formed galaxies and formed me in the womb with the same intention.


A God this big should not care about something as small as my week, my heart, my inner world.

But somehow… He does.


And this is what undoes me:

Psalm 139 begins with the immensity of God —and ends in the smallest, most hidden place of all:

“Search me, O God, and know my heart.”Psalm 139:23 (NKJV)

From the expanse of the universe to the tiny space of a human heart.

From a God who fills all things to a God who stoops low enough to reorder one woman’s inner life.

From omnipresence to intimacy.


And this week, that intimacy felt painfully real

Because woven into my ordinary week was a quiet heartbreak —a conversation I didn’t want to have, a truth I didn’t want to accept, a goodbye that felt both right and profoundly hard.


It didn’t ripple outward into the world, but it rippled through me.


And heartbreak has this strange way of exposing things nothing else can. It softens places we’ve armored. It reveals fears we’ve hidden. It shakes patterns we’ve normalized. It opens rooms in us we thought were locked.


Scripture teaches this, too:

  • Pain often reflects what’s inside (Proverbs 27:19).

  • Pruning is painful but produces righteousness (Hebrews 12:11).

  • God is near to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18).


So when heartbreak touched me, it wasn’t God leaving me—it was God leaning in.

And in the quiet of that ache, He showed me something I didn’t want to overlook:

There are places in me that still need pruning. Places shaped by past trauma.

Places that learned survival instead of trust. Places that became sharp instead of soft. Places that grew a critical spirit without me meaning to.


Not because I’m harsh —but because wounded places often speak in the tones they were shaped in. Pain shouts before patience can whisper.


And Psalm 139 brought me face-to-face with that truth.

Not to shame me —but to heal me.


The God who fills the universe is also the God who tends the deepest corners of my heart.


So David’s ancient prayer became my own:

“Search me, O God, and know my heart.” Because I want You to name what I cannot see.

“Try me, and know my anxieties.” Because heartbreak reveals fears I’ve buried.

“See if there is any wicked way in me…” Because trauma can plant patterns You never intended.

“…and lead me in the way everlasting.” Because I want every step to be walked with You.


God wasn’t just comforting me — He was pruning me


And pruning is not punishment. Pruning is care. Pruning is preparation. Pruning is what a loving Father does to make something grow stronger.


Jesus said in John 15 that the Father prunes every fruitful branch so it will bear more fruit.

So if God reveals a critical spirit, or a fear response, or a defensive pattern, or a wound that still speaks —it’s not because you’re failing. It’s because you’re ready.


Ready for healing. Ready for growth. Ready for freedom. Ready for transformation.

Pruning is not God saying, “You’re too much.”

Pruning is God saying, “You’re meant for more.”


So friend…as you think about your own ordinary week —the emails, the rhythms, the responsibilities, the emotions you carry —I want you to know something:


God’s deepest work in you often happens quietly. In the moments that seem small. In the days that look uneventful. In the places no one else sees. In the rooms you rarely open. In the thoughts you don’t say out loud. In the heartbreaks you try to navigate alone.


He isn’t waiting for you to get stronger. He isn’t waiting for you to feel spiritual. He isn’t waiting for a mountaintop moment. He meets you in the normal. In the tired. In the hidden. In the tender. In the aching. In the honest places.


And when He leans in, it is never to condemn you —it is to reorder you.


To heal what trauma shaped.To soften what life hardened.To prune what has overgrown.To strengthen what has weakened.To purify what has been muddied. To realign what has drifted. To restore what has been fractured.


Because the God who fills the universe is also the God who fills you.

The One who sees galaxies also sees the smallest corners of your heart —and He loves you enough to transform them. This is sanctification. This is shepherding. This is the way everlasting:


Letting the God who governs all things do His quiet, holy, beautiful work inside you —one surrendered step at a time.


And somehow, that’s what makes even an ordinary week holy.

__________________________________________________


If this resonates with you, take the next step.


Mark your calendars for the Field & Feather Fire Conference on February 14, 2026 in Tonica, IL, 10 a.m - 2 p.m


Come spend a day set apart to let God do this same quiet, holy reordering work in you—through worship, teaching, testimony, and community, and of course - sisterhood.



 
 
 

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