I remember when I got glasses while living in Sturgis, South Dakota. I was about 22 or 23. I hadn’t worn glasses since elementary school, so it had been a solid decade of squinting and pretending everything was fine. Things were blurrier than I realized. I even convinced myself we needed a bigger TV because it “wasn’t HD enough.” Turns out the TV was fine. My eyes were the problem. One of my favorite things about living there was staring at the Black Hills. Every time we drove between Sturgis and Walmart, I’d find myself looking out at them. It never got old. They felt massive, and I felt small. It reminded me of God in creation—how He made something so beautiful and so powerful, just for us to see and worship Him through it. I’d stand in our front yard and look toward the cliff on Sly Hill Road. Hills, mountains—whatever you want to call them—they fascinated me.

And yes, I say hills on purpose. Some people see those pictures and call them mountains. I used to, too. I had been to the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, and they felt tall. But the Black Hills rise over 7,200 feet at Black Elk Peak—the highest point between the Swiss Alps and the Rocky Mountains. That’s impressive. But then Jen and I went to Denver and saw the Rocky Mountains. After hiking and exploring those giants, the Black Hills felt… smaller. Still beautiful. Still significant. But in comparison? They were hills.

Perspective changes everything.

I’ll never forget walking out of the eye doctor’s office, putting on my new glasses, and being shocked. I didn’t realize how much depth there was in those trees I’d been staring at for years. Everything looked like it was in high definition. I kept taking the glasses off and putting them back on. “I can see clearly now…” I told Jen—who had worn glasses or contacts since elementary school—that I had no idea what I’d been missing.

Have you ever noticed how stressful the eye doctor can be? They flip that little lens in front of your face and ask, “Better… or worse?” And suddenly it feels like a life-altering decision. You’re staring at a blurry letter that might be an E… or maybe a smudge on the wall. And they’re waiting. “Better… or worse?” You panic. “Uh… better?” Then they flip it back. “Better… or worse?” Now you’re second-guessing everything. What if I answered wrong? What if I just committed to the wrong prescription for a whole year? We don’t like that tension. We don’t like living between Option One and Option Two. We want certainty. We want clarity immediately. We want to lock in the lens and move on. But sometimes the only way to get clarity is to sit in the adjustment.

That’s what Proverbs 16:9 is getting at: “In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.” We want to pick the lens. We want to control the outcome. But God is the one adjusting the prescription. We plan. He establishes. We choose what looks “better.” He knows what actually is. If anyone understood planning, it was Solomon. He built cities, trade systems, and the Temple. Planning isn’t wrong. It’s wise. The Hebrew word for “plan” carries the idea of designing or calculating your path. But “establishes” means to firmly set in place. You can design. Only God can secure. You can draft the blueprint. God pours the foundation. And if you’ve lived long enough, you already know this is true. You planned to be somewhere else by now. You planned that relationship would last. You planned that opportunity would work. You planned that diagnosis would be different. You planned. But God directed.

That’s where James 4:13–15 sharpens the focus. James speaks to merchants confidently declaring their next business venture: “Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city… carry on business and make money.” And James responds, “You do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.” He isn’t rebuking ambition. He’s rebuking presumption. The word for mist is atmis—vapor, like breath on a cold morning. It’s real, but it disappears quickly. James isn’t trying to depress us. He’s trying to free us. When you realize you are not sovereign, you can finally let God be.

Then we arrive at Jeremiah 29:11—the verse everyone loves to quote. “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” It’s beautiful. But it doesn’t mean what many assume it means. We tend to read it as if God is promising individual success, financial breakthrough, and smooth circumstances. But in the original Hebrew, “you” is plural. God is speaking to a nation in exile. Jerusalem had been destroyed. The Temple was gone. Families were displaced. False prophets were promising a quick return. Jeremiah says it will be seventy years. Most of the original hearers would die in Babylon. When God says, “I know the plans I have for you,” He is not promising immediate comfort. He is promising covenant faithfulness.

The word translated “prosper” is shalom. Not upward mobility. Not material overflow. Shalom means wholeness, completeness, peace rooted in right relationship with God. Babylon did not feel prosperous. But God was still producing shalom through discipline, purification, and preservation. We often read Scripture through a success-driven lens. We equate blessing with visible results. But biblically, hope is not optimism about circumstances. It’s confidence in God’s character.

Jeremiah 29:11 doesn’t promise that everything you touch will turn to gold. It promises that God’s redemptive purposes will not fail. It promises that His covenant stands—even when your circumstances don’t feel successful. God isn’t promising your plans will succeed. He is promising His plans will. So what does Double Vision look like at the end of this series? It means you see how God sees you—not defined by your worst moment. Not trapped by your past. Not limited by your current season. When Israel saw exile, God saw refinement. When they saw defeat, God saw preservation. When they saw delay, God saw preparation. Proverbs reminds us He establishes steps. James reminds us life is vapor. Jeremiah reminds us His covenant purposes stand. And Ecclesiastes reminds us that everything outside of fearing God and keeping His commandments is ultimately meaningless.

Solomon writes, “Meaningless! Meaningless! … Everything is meaningless!” That’s not exactly coffee-mug material. But after twelve chapters of wrestling with the emptiness of life apart from God, he concludes: “Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the duty of all mankind.” Everything else fades. Careers fade. Applause fades. Plans shift. But God remains.

Here’s the tension: we plan, but God directs. We dream, but God defines. We want clarity, but God gives trust.

And here’s what I’ve realized about the eye doctor. After all the “better or worse” questions, after all the adjustments, you don’t walk out seeing perfectly. You walk out with a prescription. You still have to wait for the glasses. That’s the Christian life. God doesn’t always hand you full clarity about your future. He hands you a prescription called trust. You don’t leave knowing every step of the next five years. You leave knowing the One who establishes your steps. And when you look back years later, you realize He was adjusting the whole time. That relationship that didn’t work? Lens adjustment. That door that closed? Lens adjustment. That season of waiting you hated? Lens adjustment. He wasn’t blurring your life. He was correcting your vision. One day, not metaphorically but literally, faith will become sight. One day the blur will be gone. One day we will see Him face to face.

Until then, Double Vision faith says this: I will plan, but I will trust. I will move, but I will surrender. I don’t need to see everything clearly. I just need to trust the Doctor who does. So maybe the final question is simple: when God flips the lens and asks, “Better… or worse?” will you trust Him with the answer? Because clarity isn’t found in controlling the future. Clarity is found in trusting the One who already stands in it.