I’m no stranger to anxiety or depression. I spent many afternoons frustrated with my failures and missed expectations.

Have I wrecked my relationships? Have I made a mess of my ministries? And, ultimately, have I failed my Father? Such petty questions, surely God does not have time for these little struggles.

I would watch the tears drop to my lap in an oppressive sense of loneliness. I found myself here again - afraid of the future and disappointed with my past - looking for answers in a leather bound book.

Drawn like a lamb to a brook I read that my God has collected each of my tears in bottles. He has taken note of them in His books and has numbered my hairs.

I was left overwhelmed by this meticulous Master. Does the clock maker forget a single screw? Does the painter settle for a less-than-perfect leaf? Or do they treat ever part of their work with tender care?

How do I know my God is guiding my life? How do I know if He can work with this broken vessel? How can I trust that He will see me to the end? I look at the painted butterfly’s wings and know that He is the God of my little things.