"Don't do it," she told me as she offered advice I hadn't asked for. "Just don't do it," she said again. She wanted it to stick. She wanted me to listen and take heed. While it was unsolicited, I was listening, and I held her words close to my heart.

She didn't know it, but she was telling me not to do something that God already instructed I do. Something that, despite my fear, I'd already dedicated myself to doing.

I had multiple break downs over the last two weeks just thinking of the drastic change I was preparing to make. A change, though scary, would bring so much peace—alongside a load of uncertainty. I struggled with recognizing whether the voice telling me to do it was my own, or God's. The conviction I felt afterward confirmed it was the latter. But that didn't make it any less frightening and it didn't make me any less nervous. Though I gave myself countless you don't have the spirit of fear pep talks, the anxiety was real.

"Don't do it," was what I took away from that discussion. It was what elicited an internal conflict for an already tough decision.

"But I am God," I heard as I walked to my car contemplating what the hell I was going to do. 

But. I. Am. God. And God had already told me what He expected of me. He already wrote the instructions on my heart and left me to execute. And despite the kind words being whispered in my ears by myself and those around me—words meant to provide counsel and aid—I knew what I had to do. I knew what words I had to hold onto. I knew whose words I had to hold onto. 

God is the Author of my life, and my Creator. He's my Comforter in the midst of problems. My Provider when I have nothing; my Strength when I feel I have nothing left. And there are no amount of opinions or counsel that could convince me to not do what He has already spoken. 

God has been there since before my first breath. He loved me when I was most unlovable. He kept me when I didn't want to be kept. He protected me. He saved me. God has been a counselor, a friend, and a Father since before my time began, and I refuse to place more truth on the words of man, than I do God's. 

Through all of this—the breakdowns and the whirlwinds of emotions—I've learned that you can't tiptoe into faith. You can't keep one foot on land and expect to walk on water. You can't be a part-time believer and reap full-time benefits. True faith means resting fully in His embrace, no matter how frightening and illogical it may seem. It's trusting more than what I can see. It's feeling His presence and knowing that He will light whatever path He tells me to walk. True faith lies in sacrifice, obedience and action. 

"Don't do it."
"But I am God." 
"Don't do it!"
"But I am God!"

That's the exchange replaying in my head. It's the battle I'm currently enduring, and one many of us have gone through before. It's the constant brawl between free will and obedience. The fight between our wants and God's purpose. The struggle between worldly success and eternal life.

"It is better to take refuge in The Lord than to trust in man." Psalm 118:8