The months of May and June—well a solid portion of 2018, for that matter—have been marked by a whole lot of change. My sister graduated from high school, making my parents empty nesters. Dear friends and roommates have moved away. New roommates are moving in. And that’s just the beginning.

I hate change, like really hate it. As a creature of habit and lover of routines who is severely lacking in spontaneity, change is the enemy, and I typically don’t handle it well—God bless my parents for graciously answering their phones to listen to me process it all. For the past couple of months, I have felt like the ground is constantly shifting under my feet, and I’m grasping for any remnant of what used to be, wondering if or how God will fill the voids left behind. Far-reaching change like this is often accompanied by a constant sentimental state about every little thing, which adds a fun dynamic to the preexisting mix of emotions and makes accepting that the change is good all the more challenging.

In thinking about all of this upheaval and where the grace and hope might be found in the midst of my crazy emotions, the only things that initially came to mind were annoying coffee-mug clichés: “this too shall pass,” “God works for the good of those who love him,” “everything happens for a reason,” etc. And honestly, none of those seemed to assuage this heaviness in my chest.

But then I think about the Israelites wandering in the wilderness. They go along with God’s plan, uprooting their lives to journey to the Promised Land. And it doesn’t take long for things to turn sour. They grumble, even reminisce about their days in slavery, and God repeatedly reminds them of his faithfulness, only to have the Israelites completely forget about it moments later. And thus the cycle continues. My life has looked remarkably similar (minus the desert and manna): God provides, I forget and question where he is, he provides again, and on it goes. But there is peace to be found in that chaos. God’s promises to equip me have never depended on the quality of my memory of his past help. He provides for me despite myself, because what loving Father wouldn’t want the very best for his children? Granted, the Man Upstairs and I often have different ideas of what I need at any given moment, but luckily, he’s got a better track record for being right.

I also think about the humanity of Jesus. I remember that, for my sake, he underwent an infinitely more dramatic change, leaving behind his power and majesty to become a baby, born in a manger. To live as a flesh-and-blood human and experience all of the turmoil that this world has to offer—He gets it. The God of the universe gets it. He’s not waiting for me to collect myself and stop being sad about everything that’s changing. Instead, he invites me to lean on his everlasting arms, to be held up when the weight of everything gets to be overwhelming. And although I will not always hear and accept that invitation, it is never revoked and never expires.

God—the only person who can promise to be completely unmovable, who remains the same yesterday, today, and forever—sits with me in this uncomfortable season of change, and he’s not going anywhere.