This weekend, our beautiful city of Spokane looked a little different.
The bright blue skies of summer gave way to towering plumes of smoke that stretched across the horizon. Wildfires burned through thousands of acres surrounding our community, leaving thousands of families displaced and uncertain of what would come next. The smell of smoke lingered in the air, helicopters circled overhead, and emergency alerts buzzed across our phones. It was one of those moments where life suddenly feels a little more fragile than it did the day before.
Like many families, we found ourselves standing outside, looking toward the smoke. It’s strange how something can feel both far away and incredibly close at the same time. Our neighborhood was calm. Birds still chirped from the trees, sprinklers watered freshly cut grass, and a few kids rode bikes down the street as if nothing had changed. Yet just beyond the hills, families were packing up treasured belongings, saying goodbye to homes they weren’t sure they would see again.
Standing beside me was Penny.
She stared at the sky for a long moment before turning to me with the first of many questions.
“Mama, is the fire coming here?”
“What if it reaches our house?”
“What if people lose everything they own?”
“Would we have to leave?”
“And…what happens to all the animals?”
I smiled at that last question because, of course, Penny would be thinking about the animals. She has always had the kind of heart that worries about everyone else before herself.
As she waited for my answers, I realized I was carrying two different responsibilities. One was to tell her the truth. The other was to protect her heart. Those two things don’t always feel like they fit together.
I wanted to be honest without overwhelming her. I wanted her to understand what was happening without carrying fears that weren’t hers to hold. So instead of walking her through every possible scenario or explaining every alarming update I’d read that morning, I gently brought her back to what was true.
“Right now, we’re safe.”
“The firefighters are working so hard.”
“If anything changes, we’ll know what to do.”
“And no matter what happens, Mama will always take care of you.”
That last sentence wasn’t a promise that nothing bad would ever happen. It was a promise that she would never have to face it alone.
As parents, I think we spend much of our lives doing exactly that. We quietly carry information our children don’t need yet. We filter what they hear, not because we want to deceive them, but because we love them. We don’t tell them every frightening possibility before a doctor’s appointment. We don’t list every danger before a family road trip. We don’t explain every heartbreaking headline they are too young to process.
Instead, we help them focus on today.
Today we are together.
Today we are safe.
Today we have everything we need.
Tomorrow will come soon enough.
The older I get, the more I realize how often God parents me in exactly the same way.
There are so many questions I wish He would answer. I would love to know how every difficult season ends before it begins. I’d happily accept a five-year plan with color-coded tabs and a few reassuring footnotes. Instead, God usually gives me just enough light for the next step.
Not because He’s withholding good from me, but because He knows what my heart can carry.
As I looked at Penny that afternoon, I realized there were details I intentionally chose not to share. Not because they weren’t true, but because they weren’t helpful. They would have only invited fear into a heart that was already trying to make sense of something scary.
It made me wonder how many things God lovingly shields me from every single day.
How many disasters He prevents that I never hear about.
How many prayers He answers behind the scenes before I ever know to pray them.
How many details He keeps tucked safely in His hands because He knows I would spend all my energy worrying about tomorrow instead of living faithfully today.
Joanna Gott
Jesus’ words in Matthew 6 suddenly felt less like instruction and more like the gentle voice of a loving Father: “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”
When I read that verse before becoming a mom, I mostly heard it as a command.
Now I hear it as comfort.
It’s almost as if God is saying, You don’t have to carry tomorrow because I’m already there.
Peter echoes the same invitation when he writes, “Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.” (1 Peter 5:7)
Not because He merely tolerates us.
Not because He’s checking a heavenly box.
Because He cares.
Because we are His children.
That afternoon, Penny eventually stopped asking questions. She wandered off to collect a handful of rocks, somehow deciding they were exactly what her stuffed animals needed. Children have a beautiful ability to return to joy once they know they’re safe. Meanwhile, I stood there thinking about evacuation maps, weather forecasts, and wind speeds.
Maybe that’s why Jesus tells us to have faith like a child.
Children trust the people who love them.
They don’t need every answer because they believe someone bigger is paying attention.
As I tucked Penny into bed that evening, the fires were still burning. The smoke hadn’t disappeared, and many families were still facing unimaginable loss. We prayed for the firefighters, for those who had been evacuated, and for rain. Then she hugged me, rolled over, and fell asleep within minutes.
I watched her for a little while before quietly leaving the room, and I couldn’t help but smile.
She slept peacefully because she trusted the One watching over her.
What a picture of the Gospel.
The truth is, none of us know what tomorrow holds. Fires come. Storms arrive. Diagnoses change everything. Plans unravel. We cannot promise our children—or ourselves—that life will always feel safe.
But we can point them to the One who never changes.
The God who watches over us never slumbers. The Father who holds tomorrow also holds us today. And just as I long for Penny to bring every fear to me instead of carrying it alone, our Heavenly Father invites us to place every worry into His hands.
Maybe that’s what courage looks like after all.
Not pretending the smoke isn’t there.
Not denying that hard things happen.
But choosing, one day at a time, to rest in the care of our Father, trusting that while we cannot see what tomorrow holds, the One who holds tomorrow has never once taken His eyes off His children.
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Read more of Joanna’s contributions to AllMomDoes here.
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