But I know God has big stuff planned that ultimately doesn't have

“But I know God has big stuff planned that ultimately doesn't have anything to do with me.” These words, spoken by Michael W. Smith, are not the speech of pride, but of humility, born of wisdom and reverence. They remind us that the story of the world is far greater than the story of one soul. The winds of creation blow not for our comfort but for the fulfillment of a divine design that stretches beyond our sight. The wise man does not claim the center of the universe; he bows before it, knowing that the plans of God are vast, mysterious, and eternal — and that even if he is but a small part, his part is sacred.

From the beginning of time, mankind has wrestled with this truth. The heart desires to be the hero of its own tale, yet the heavens whisper that there is a greater song being sung — a song not of self, but of purpose. The mountains do not boast of their height, nor do the oceans boast of their depth, yet both serve in the divine harmony of the world. So too must man learn this ancient secret: to rejoice that God’s work continues, even when it moves beyond him. To find peace not in the spotlight, but in obedience; not in fame, but in faith.

Consider the story of Moses, who led his people through desert and despair, who heard the voice of God from a burning bush and saw waters part at his command. Yet, when the promised land was finally near, he was not allowed to enter it. He stood on the mountain and looked out upon it, knowing that the journey would continue without him. There, upon that lonely height, Moses learned what every servant of God must one day learn: the plan of God does not end with us. It moves through us, but it does not stop for us. And in that truth lies both heartbreak and holiness.

This is the wisdom of Michael W. Smith’s words — that we are not the architects of destiny but the instruments of it. The river of divine purpose flows long before we arrive and will continue long after we are gone. When a man finally accepts this, a strange peace fills his soul. He no longer clings to recognition or fears obscurity. He labors with joy, knowing that every act of love, every humble offering, feeds something infinite — a work greater than himself. He becomes free from vanity, and in that freedom, he touches eternity.

We can see this truth echoed in the lives of those who planted seeds they would never see bloom. Think of Mother Teresa, who tended to the dying and forgotten not for the sake of fame but for the sake of love itself. She once said, “We are not called to be successful, but to be faithful.” Her mission was not to glorify herself, but to serve the greater will of God, whose compassion reaches beyond all human boundaries. The poor she comforted, the sick she embraced — all were part of that vast plan that “doesn’t have anything to do with me,” as Michael W. Smith would say, and yet through her obedience, that plan unfolded with radiant beauty.

This truth is both humbling and liberating: that God’s story does not depend on our strength, nor falter at our weakness. The divine design will bloom even through our failures. The wise man therefore does not despair when he is forgotten, nor boast when he is praised. He remembers that to play even a single note in the divine symphony is an honor beyond measure. For what is man but a momentary vessel through which God’s glory shines for a time?

The lesson is this: live faithfully, even when you are unseen. Work with love, even when the fruit of your labor seems far away. Rejoice that you are part of something greater than your own ambitions. Do not demand that life’s plan revolve around you; instead, align your heart with the vast and holy rhythm of eternity. When you do so, pride falls away, and peace takes root. You will begin to see that every act of kindness, every quiet sacrifice, every prayer whispered in the dark — all serve a design that is divine, majestic, and everlasting.

So remember this, children of time: to know that God has big stuff planned beyond your reach is not to be diminished, but to be lifted. For in surrendering to His vastness, you are woven into His greatness. You may not be the author of His story, but you are a word within it — sacred, chosen, and eternal.