“My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.”
—Matthew 26:39 (NIV)
Reflection
One afternoon, I was sitting on my backyard swing. I was working through my daily devotional and began thinking out loud, as though I were teaching someone else. I was explaining that God knows the desires of our hearts and that when He places a desire within us, we still have to trust Him enough to follow where He leads. As I heard myself say the words, I knew I could no longer keep treating Abide & Dwell as a someday dream. The decision was made.
I thought I was working through that morning’s reading so I could someday help another woman. Somewhere in the middle of that imaginary conversation, the words turned around and began speaking directly to me.
I had said I trusted God. I believed He was good. I believed He was present. But I began to recognize that there was still something I had not released: the responsibility I felt to secure my own future.
That grip did not come from nowhere.
I learned very early not to assume someone else would help me. I did not to have help enrolling in college, applying for financial aid, or planning my future. A four-year degree took me nine years to complete because I had to keep working and figure things out as I went.
Later, I carried the responsibility of providing for my family. Work became how I survived, how I cared for my children, and how I quieted the fear that everything could fall apart.
Dental hygiene provided the most dependable income. In my first marriage, I carried the full financial responsibility for our family. After that marriage ended, rising housing costs made an already difficult season even harder. As a single mother, I worked as a dental hygienist while also caring for an elderly man, filling Mary Kay orders, driving for DoorDash, and trying to learn affiliate marketing. I had worked hard to build a career that could support my family, but it had also become a ceiling. I was exhausted, in pain, and unhappy, yet terrified that walking away would mean losing the dependable income I had worked so hard to build. It felt wrong not to appreciate the blessing of the job I had once prayed for. But I learned that I could be grateful for the season in which it had served me without believing it was meant to carry me forever.
For years, whenever life became difficult, I found a way. I worked more. I learned something new. I made another plan.
That strength had helped me survive. It had helped me raise my children and keep moving when stopping was not an option. But somewhere along the way, I began believing that I must always be the one holding everything together.
I had always said that I would never depend on a man. A man could leave, become ill, lose his ability to work, or die. I had seen enough of life to know those were not imaginary possibilities. Depending on another person felt vulnerable, and vulnerability did not feel safe to me.
During that difficult season, I prayed every day for a year and a half that God would bring Scott—the man who is now my husband—back to Texas. When he returned, he did not simply marry me; he loved me completely and showed me a kind of partnership and support I had never known.
I began sensing that God was asking me to step away from the career that had provided my financial security. Scott also believed it was time and fully supported the decision. What should have felt like relief felt terrifying, because trusting God in that season also meant receiving the support He had placed beside me through my husband.
I did not have replacement income neatly waiting. I could not see exactly where the road would lead. What I had was a husband who believed I should take the step and a God who had never abandoned me. That should have been enough for me to obey.
Still, I wanted more.
I wanted God to give me certainty that everything would work. I wanted Him to promise that I would never regret leaving. I wanted to know that the income would be replaced, the dream would succeed, and the decision would make sense to everyone watching.
I was willing for God to lead me, but part of me still wanted to decide where the road ended.
That day on the swing, I finally saw what I was holding. I had placed the decision before God, but I was still gripping the outcome. I trusted His goodness while quietly insisting that His goodness should look the way I expected.
Then I thought about Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane.
He did not pretend that He had no desire of His own. He brought His anguish honestly before the Father:
“My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.”
—Matthew 26:39 (NIV)
That verse had always sounded beautiful. Now it sounded costly.
Jesus showed me that surrender does not require us to pretend we no longer care. I can tell God what I hope for, what I fear, and what I desperately want Him to do. Surrender changes the posture beneath those prayers.
It allows me to say, “Father, this is what I desire, but I trust Your will more than the outcome I can see.”
That is still difficult for me.
Almost immediately after I left hygiene, an unexpected job opportunity opened for my husband. I received it as a huge blessing and reassurance that I had obeyed.
I am still learning that I do not have to carry every possible ending before it arrives. I am still learning to accept support without believing I have become weak. I am still learning that preparing responsibly and controlling everything are not the same thing.
Leaving one job did not complete my lesson in surrender. Life continues to place new mountains in front of us, and each one exposes another place where my hands have quietly closed again.
Those moments do not mean I failed the last lesson. They give me another opportunity to live what I have said I believe—to choose God again and show, through my life, that difficulty will not make me turn away from Him.
I will not pretend the mountain is small when it is not. I will tell God when I am frightened, tired, angry, or unsure. Then I will meet Him at the bottom of that mountain, geared up in Scripture and ready to climb it with Him.
I know now that surrender is not giving my life to an uncertain universe. It is placing what I was never able to control into the hands of the God who has always been able to hold me.
I am not writing from the other side of surrender as though I have mastered it. I am still in the process. My hands are still learning to open. But I can say without a doubt that there is peace—and even excitement—on this side of surrender. Life did not suddenly become easy. I simply stopped believing that every answer depended on me.
When the next mountain comes, I want Him to find me there—honest about how hard it is, anchored in His Word, and still willing to climb.
A Prayer
Father,
I confess that I sometimes ask for Your will while still clinging to my own. Thank You for meeting me with mercy instead of shame. Jesus, teach me the surrender You showed in Gethsemane. Help me bring You my honest desires without demanding that You answer them according to my plans. Loosen my grip on the outcome, the timing, and the answer I believe I need. I trust that Your wisdom reaches beyond what I can see and that Your love has already been proven through Christ. May my life say, “Not as I will, but as You will.”
Amen.
To Dwell On This Week
What outcome have I placed before God but not fully released?
Am I seeking His will—or asking Him to approve the ending I have already chosen?
A Gentle Next Step
Name one outcome you have been trying to manage. Bring it honestly before God:
Father, this is what I hope for. This is what I fear. This is what I have been holding. I place it in Your hands. Not as I will, but as You will.
You do not have to force yourself to stop caring. Simply begin practicing the open-handed surrender Jesus showed us.
Come and See
Each week we’ll open God’s Word together, learning what it means to abide in Christ and dwell in His peace. If today’s reflection encouraged you, I’d love for you to come back next week as we continue dwelling in His Word.
May you dwell in Him.
—Rhonda, Abide & Dwell