The Storm We Try to Steer

Have you ever noticed how utterly exhausting it is to play God in your own life? We do not call it that, of course. We call it 'being responsible.' We call it 'planning for the future.' We call it 'worrying because we care.' But underneath all the frantic maneuvering, the late-night overthinking, and the desperate attempts to manage everyone's opinions of us, there is a quiet, terrifying reality: we are absolutely terrified of losing control.

When the bottom falls out of our carefully constructed plans, the first thing well-meaning people will tell you is to 'let go let God.' It is a beautiful sentiment, the kind of thing that looks wonderful printed on a coffee mug. But if we are being completely honest, when you are standing in the middle of a raging storm, letting go feels entirely reckless. It feels like giving up. We want to grip the steering wheel tighter. We want to stock up on bottled water and ramen noodles for the apocalypse we are absolutely certain is coming.

We are just like the disciples in the boat. The waves are crashing over the sides. The situation is completely out of their control. And what is Jesus doing? He is asleep. He is resting in the absolute sovereignty of His Father. When the disciples finally wake Him up, they are panicking, fully expecting Him to match their level of anxiety. But He doesn't. He never does. He addresses their internal storm before He ever touches the external one.

And he saith unto them, Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then he arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm.— Matthew 8:26, KJV

Releasing What We Want to Keep

Surrendering to God is not always about giving up our obvious sins or our toxic habits; sometimes it is about giving up our righteous preferences. It is one thing to surrender a broken relationship. It is an entirely different kind of agony to surrender a perfectly laid plan, a deep desire, or a vision of how your life was supposed to look.

Think about the man in the region of the Gadarenes. Jesus had just delivered him from a legion of demons. For the first time in his life, this man is sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind. Naturally, he wants to stay with the One who saved him. He begs to get in the boat. It is a holy request! It is a good, pure desire! But Jesus looks at him and says no. He sends him away.

Imagine the sting of that moment. The man wanted to be in the boat, but Jesus sent him back to his house. Sometimes, surrender looks like being told to stay when you desperately want to go. It looks like being assigned to a season, a job, or a city that you did not choose, and deciding to trust that the Author of your story knows exactly what He is doing. This is where Proverbs 3:5 becomes more than just a memory verse; it becomes a lifeline for survival. When you trust the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding, you realize that if the situation is out of your control, it is not out of God's hands. He will use the very thing you did not want to bring about a deliverance in your future.

Now the man out of whom the devils were departed besought him that he might be with him: but Jesus sent him away, saying, Return to thine own house, and shew how great things God hath done unto thee.— Luke 8:38-39, KJV

The Weight of the "Cares of This Life"

One of the greatest enemies of surrender is the sheer weight of tomorrow. We carry the heavy grief of yesterday in one hand and the frantic anxiety of tomorrow in the other, and we wonder why we do not have the strength to hold onto Jesus today. We become weighed down by the infinite, exhausting details of simply trying to survive in a broken world.

Christ knew this about us. He knew that our human frames are incredibly fragile, and that our minds are prone to wandering into the dark alleys of worst-case scenarios. He gave us a profound warning about the danger of letting our hearts become heavy with things we were never meant to carry.

Notice the phrase He uses: 'cares of this life.' He isn't just talking about blatant rebellion. He is talking about the mortgage. The medical test results. The prodigal child. The crushing weight of trying to keep all the plates spinning while pretending you aren't tired. When our hearts are overcharged with these cares, we lose our spiritual peripheral vision. Surrender is the daily, sometimes hourly, practice of unburdening your heart. You don't have to understand how all the events are going to unfold. You just have to decide in advance: wherever I end up, that must be exactly where God has me.

And take heed to yourselves, lest at any time your hearts be overcharged with surfeiting, and drunkenness, and cares of this life, and so that day come upon you unawares.— Luke 21:34, KJV

The Empty Tomb of Our Expectations

Ultimately, surrender is what happens when we stop looking for God in the places we expect Him to be, and start recognizing Him right where we are. Mary Magdalene experienced this profound shift on the morning of the resurrection. She went to the tomb looking for a body to anoint. She was looking for a dead savior. Her heart was broken, her hopes were dashed, and her entire paradigm of who Jesus was had been shattered on the cross.

When she sees Jesus, she doesn't even recognize Him. She thinks He is the gardener. She is so trapped in her own grief, so locked into her own understanding of how things were supposed to go, that she is blind to the miracle standing right in front of her. She wants to take control. She says, 'If thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.' She is still trying to manage the tragedy.

Then Jesus says one word: 'Mary.' The Good Shepherd speaks her name, and her entire world is reoriented. But then He gives her a command that is the ultimate picture of surrender: 'Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended.' He is telling her, 'You cannot cling to the old version of me. You cannot hold onto what was. You have to let go of the Jesus you knew so you can experience the resurrected Christ.' We have to stop clinging to our dead expectations. When we finally open our hands and release our grip on the steering wheel, we find that we are not falling. We are being caught.

Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away. Jesus saith unto her, Mary. She turned herself, and saith unto him, Rabboni; which is to say, Master.— John 20:15-16, KJV

Friend, I do not know what you are gripping so tightly today. I do not know what storm is raging outside your boat, or what dead expectation you are weeping over at an empty tomb. But I know the One who speaks to the wind. I know the One who calls you by name. You do not have to hold it all together anymore. You can let go. You can open your hands. Because the moment you release your illusion of control is the exact moment you fall into the unshakeable, sovereign grip of His grace.