Last week, I got to meet a friend’s baby for the first time. As I stood there holding all six pounds and nine ounces of this newborn miracle, I couldn’t get over how tiny she was. They grow so fast that I forget how small they start out. How fragile. How dependent.

The truth is, this infant is in desperate need of her mother. But in the not-too-distant future, she’ll forget that. She’ll start sitting up on her own. Before you know it, she’ll start crawling and walking and speaking and doing more and more things all on her own.

And because she’s using the big girl potty, because she doesn’t need anyone to help her button her pants anymore, because she has finally learned to tie her own shoes, she’ll think she’s invincible. She’ll start rebelling against the rules her parents have set for her because she’ll start to imagine she could create a better life for herself. And she’ll forget that her parents do more for her than her little brain can comprehend.

And when I picture the child this infant will become, I see myself in a whole new light. Because I’ve just described my relationship with God in a nutshell.

I forget how fragile, how desperate, how small and dependent I truly am.

According to the world, I’m an adult. I’m legally responsible for myself. And sometimes that makes me forget that I’m not technically doing life on my own. Sometimes I forget I’m not the one calling all the shots and carrying the entirety of the burden.

Last week at Bible study, one of the girls I’m beginning to do life with pointed out how we’re hesitant to follow God’s call on our lives because we’re afraid to take that risk. Or what we think is a risk.

What we think is a risk.

I was so glad she amended that statement. Because it’s true that following God isn’t risky at all. After all, He’s the one who sees the whole path—the big picture. He knows where He’s leading us.

So why am I always convinced that my way is right? Why can I not see that my arguments with the almighty God are about as valid as a four-year-old trying to explain to her mother why it’s a good idea to have candy for dinner? Why can’t I understand that my search for comfort in the moment only leads to ultimate destruction? That God has much greater designs for my fragile life?

I want to be trusting again. As needy and dependent and perfectly at peace as my friend’s newborn daughter.

I need to be reminded of how helpless I truly am, and cradled close to God’s heart today.