When my nephew stood about as high as my hip, we went down to the beach to fly kites. The unfaithful wind teased us as we stumbled in the sand like drunks trying to get our multi-colored triangles to take flight. The sun was leaving the light to the moon, and darkness began washing in.

The 5-year-old and I finally found the wind and let the kite go. We let it fly out over the ocean, but he was uneasy. I kept coaxing: "Trust me, Teddy." I was giddy as the string ripped out and our kite flew with the birds. Teddy was unsure. It was too far: he could hardly see it in the distance and coming night. "Trust me, Teddy," I repeated.

In an instant, the kite tipped down and plummeted into the wide ocean. Teddy, now in my arms, tensed up. He tried to be strong, but his little heart wavered. I, still confident, urged him once again to rest in the wisdom of his loving aunt. We began the long effort of wrapping up the string and waiting. Would anything be on the other end?

Darkness now embraced us completely, adding to the tension. We wrapped that white string around and around forever. Please, please come home, little kite! I started praying, fearing for Teddy's disappointment in an empty string and in his trustworthy aunt. Soon we came to the end of the string.

Nothing. Gone was Teddy's kite. Oh no, I sighed. Teddy, distraught and disappointed, began to sob on my shoulder. "I knew it," he wailed. I couldn't have felt worse if I had drowned a kitten. Teddy was inconsolable. We were both crushed, he for his kite and me for making promises I couldn't keep.

I thought later about "the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows" (James 1:17, New International Version). He does not make promises He cannot keep.

He knows the end from the beginning—even when after waiting and wrapping string, the end feels disappointing. His goodness and faithfulness are unlike mine. He is altogether different; I rest in the fact that He is unlike me.

For Christmas last year I received a fancy hair dryer. Then, while on a mission trip with students, someone left behind a high-quality one. Since the device was never claimed, I hoped to give it away. However, I didn't know how I would find a person in need of such a random piece of equipment.

So I presented the situation to the Lord. I said, "God, You are big and all-knowing. I pray that if someone needs a blow dryer, You would bring that person to me." I continued on with my tasks and forgot about the whole situation.

The next day, a friend who is on a tight budget, called. "Want to go to the mall with me?" she asked. "My hair dryer died, and I need to replace it."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Praise the Lord!" I shouted.

"What?" she asked.

I explained the story. She had also prayed; she asked God to provide in a unique way.

The experience showed me clearly that God cares about the small things. He used a hair dryer to build two friends' faith.

Here's my confession: I last saw my endocrinologist on borrowed time. I was that diabetic patient—the one who reschedules her appointment in hopes of changing her life within those 14 days. I would then earn an "A" from the lab and a pat on the back from my doctor.

I'd have blood sugar readings that would cause my glucometer to turn gleefully pink like a mood ring. I'd work out five times a week. I'd say adios to my Taco Bell friends who serve me my bean burrito through my driver's side window.

But my life in those weeks didn't change. Thirty-two years of lifestyle patterns continued on. And, as a result, I walked into the office feeling like a failure. It became very evident that, if I could have changed myself, I would have by now. But I can't.

After I got home, God reminded me that He's not like my doctor. He's not checking my chart, looking over at me with his bifocal-framed eyes. He's not sighing, plotting a plan for how to get me back on track. He doesn't wonder when I'm ever going to get it right.

Rather, God is my very Life. He gives me the power to change so as to craft me into the likeness of His Son. And He's using diabetes to do it—exposing my legalism for the lifeless endeavor that it is and beckoning me to rest in His strength, in His ability to change me.

From the inside out. Not the other way around.