Standing on the sidewalk with my bags, I checked my watch: 9 a.m. He should be here any moment.

During the weeklong conference I had spoken several times with my friend, including the night before, about our departure plan.

Fifteen minutes passed. I called his cell phone. Voice mail.

Thirty minutes passed. I called again. Voice mail.

As the clock moved closer to 10 a.m., I began to panic. Four hundred miles. Eight hours. How am I going to get home?

At 10:15 a.m. I called again. This time he answered. Relieved, I told him I was waiting. His response was like a baseball bat to my face.

"Oh, I left an hour ago," he said.

"Are you still giving me a ride home?" I asked.

"No," he answered. And then he hung up.

I called back. Voice mail.

Angry and confused, I paced the sidewalk, trying to make sense of what happened. Eventually I'd find out he was on medication that affected his memory. But without that information I was left to wrestle with my thoughts. An hour later an idea finally came to mind:

I wonder if God has some reason for me to stay.

Proverbs 16:4 says, "The Lord has made everything for His own purposes" (New Living Translation).

I realized that if God had a specific purpose for me to stay, I should concentrate on that.

From anger to confusion to curiosity, I began to step through the rest of the day anticipating what God had in store.

I arranged to rent a car for the next morning, then enjoyed breakfast with friends I hadn't seen in over a year. I counseled and prayed with a discouraged college student on the beach. And after each event I thought, This was reason enough to be left behind.

As I reconnected with other friends, God unveiled one more reason.

A hit-and-run by a Ford Bronco left 10 of us stranded, needing to call for help. Only one person had a cell phone: me.

Anger and complaining could have filled my day. But realizing that God had a plan I could not see turned misfortune into a day where every minute counted. God sharpened my senses to experience His purpose. A bad morning became one of my favorite days.

Walking through the woods of New Hampshire in autumn is like swimming in color. Above and below, yellow and orange and red and brown all mix together like a child's painting. Happy, thoughtful and free.

Morbid as it may seem, autumn really is about death: Summer ceases, and while winter waits, the foliage of each tree begins to die and fall to the ground. They leave their greens—an otherwise respectable uniform within the forest—for a lavish fashion show where each tree seems to try and outdo the other. I have loved this finale, this spectacle. But I'm awed that it is actually the leaf's death, the draining of a life-giving pigment called chlorophyll, that helps to create the brilliant palette. Nature's beautiful death.

God repeats this pattern in you and me. Jesus calls His followers to the beautiful death every day. He tells us to die to ourselves, or like the leaf, to allow Him to drain our chlorophyll—our will, our plans, our mirage of control—so that He might be seen instead. Surrendered, hard as that may be, we become God's canvas, a reflection of the Artist.

I relaxed into the leather passenger seat as Daryl pointed her silver Lexus eastward. Driving back from the conference, she demonstrated the Global Positioning System. The computerized woman's kind voice offered perfect directions as we sailed down the road.

Nearing my house, Daryl reached out and pressed the suspend guidance button, silencing the instruction.

Daryl recognized that she didn't need the GPS' help as she approached an area she knew well.

How often do I press the same button in my life?

There are life tasks that I can do easily, things I don't really need faith for. I can drive or talk with a friend pretty well on my own.

On my own. Those simple words expose my wrong thinking. What part of this Christian life grew out of my own ability? None.

The apostle Paul states, "Éand whatever is not from faith is sin" (Romans 14:23b).

Initially, I chose to put my faith in Christ—not my own ability—and became a Christian. Yet now, as a believer, I often don't operate by that same faith.

Essentially, that's where I'm pressing the suspend guidance button. Knowingly or not, I'm saying, "God, I've got it here. I know where I'm going." That's what Paul meant when he penned the passage. That's sin.

As a follower of Christ, the consequences of that truth frighten me: missing out on seeing God work on my behalf, stagnated faith, puffed-up pride.

Today I choose faith. Not autopilot.