Little Wren Writes

I like to be in control.

There. I said it.

I don’t necessarily need to be in control of everything. Just the things that matter. And the things that might go wrong. And the people I care about. And the future. And other people’s reactions. And approximately seventeen possible contingency plans.

Very reasonable.

The problem is that life has repeatedly refused to cooperate with this arrangement. People make choices I can’t control. Bodies do things I didn’t approve. Plans fall apart. Relationships change. Bad things happen despite careful planning. The future remains irritatingly unavailable for preview.

And still, somewhere inside me, there is a part that thinks:
Maybe if I just try hard enough, I can keep everything together.
That’s where striving lives.

I’m not entirely convinced that striving is the same as working hard. Hard work is good. There are things worth persevering with. Things that require discipline. Faithfulness sometimes means getting up when you don’t feel like it and doing what needs to be done.

I think striving is different. I’m not saying that striving is bad…but for me? Well I think striving is what happens inside me when effort becomes desperation.
I have to make this work.
I have to fix this.
I have to keep everyone happy.
I have to get this right.
I have to stop something bad from happening.
I have to make sure they don’t leave.
I have to hold everything together.

Striving has clenched fists. It is constantly scanning for the next thing that needs managing. It struggles to rest because rest feels irresponsible when there are still things that could go wrong. And there are always things that could go wrong. That’s the problem.

I’ve spent a lot of my life striving. Sometimes it has probably looked impressive from the outside. Helpful. Capable. Organised. Reliable. Hard-working. The person who sees what needs doing and does it.

And I don’t think those are bad qualities. But good qualities can sometimes be powered by unhealthy things.

Sometimes I’ve helped because I genuinely wanted to love someone – sometimes I’ve helped because being needed made me feel secure.

Sometimes I’ve planned because planning was wise – sometimes I’ve planned because uncertainty felt unbearable.

Sometimes I’ve worked hard because something mattered – sometimes I’ve worked hard because stopping would mean having to feel what was underneath all the doing.

The behaviour can look exactly the same. The heart underneath it can be completely different. I need to start asking:

Am I being faithful here…or am I striving?

And for me, striving becomes particularly tempting when life feels uncertain. When you’ve experienced things changing suddenly, control can start to feel a lot like safety. If I know what’s happening, I can prepare. If I prepare, I won’t be caught off guard. If I’m useful, perhaps I’ll be needed. If I’m needed, perhaps I won’t be left. If I anticipate every possible problem, perhaps I can prevent the next painful thing.

There’s a strange comfort in believing everything depends on me. It’s exhausting but it gives me something to do.

Surrender is harder. Because surrender means admitting something I deeply dislike:

I cannot guarantee the outcome.

I can make wise choices. I can prepare. I can communicate. I can love people well. I can pray. I can seek advice. I can work hard. I can set boundaries. I can show up.

But I cannot control what happens next. I cannot make another person stay. I cannot guarantee that people I love will be safe. I cannot prevent every loss. I cannot know what tomorrow holds. I cannot make life behave.

And no amount of striving will change that.

This is where Christians sometimes say:

“You just need to surrender it to God.”

Which sounds lovely…I would also like instructions because what exactly does surrender mean?

Do I pray about something and then magically stop caring? Do I suddenly feel peaceful? Do I stop making plans? Do I stop asking God for what I want? Do I become one of those wonderfully serene people who says,

“I’m just leaving it with the Lord,”

while I am internally building an Excel spreadsheet titled POSSIBLE DISASTER SCENARIOS?

I don’t think surrender means becoming passive. And I definitely don’t think it means becoming indifferent.

Surrender isn’t saying, “I don’t care what happens.”

It’s saying:

“I care deeply, but I accept that I am not God.”

That’s a very different thing because surrender doesn’t mean I stop doing what is mine to do.

If there’s a difficult conversation I need to have then I still need to have it.
If I need help, I still need to ask.
If I’ve hurt someone, I still need to apologise.
If there’s a decision to make, I still need to seek wisdom.
If something needs planning, then I must plan.
If a boundary needs setting then I need to set it.
If something matters deeply to me, then I need to pray about it.

Surrender isn’t releasing responsibility – It’s releasing control.

I do what is mine and then I have to release what isn’t.

Their reaction. Their decision. The outcome. Tomorrow. The parts of the story I cannot see. That’s the bit I find difficult.

There are things I’ve prayed for while desperately trying to control the answer.

God, I trust You with this. Also, here are the exact specifications for how I would like You to handle it. Ideally by Thursday. Thank you.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with telling God what I want. In fact, Jesus teaches me exactly the opposite. Because when I think about surrender, I keep coming back to a garden.

Gethsemane.

Jesus knows what is coming. The cross is no longer some distant future event. It’s hours away.

Betrayal. Arrest. Humiliation. Violence. Death.

Jesus takes Peter, James and John with Him and tells them:
“My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.”

Then He falls to the ground and prays. And what He prays matters. Jesus doesn’t pretend He doesn’t care about the outcome. He doesn’t say:

“Father, I’m completely fine with whatever happens.”

He asks for something.

“Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me.”

Jesus tells the Father exactly what He wants.

I don’t want this.

There is something profoundly comforting about that because sometimes I’ve imagined surrender as needing to stop wanting what I want.

As though mature faith should sound like: “God, honestly, I don’t mind either way.”

But sometimes I mind very much.
I want the person to stay.
I want the relationship to heal.
I want the answer to be yes.
I want the baby.
I want the pain to stop.
I want the future I imagined.
I want the person I love to be okay.
I want God to change something.

And Jesus shows me that I can say so. But then comes the surrender.

“Yet not my will, but yours be done.”

Those words are sometimes quoted so calmly that I think we forget where they were spoken. This isn’t Jesus peacefully journalling beside a lake.

He is in anguish.

Luke tells us His sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground. Surrender isn’t easy for Jesus because the outcome doesn’t matter. Surrender is costly precisely because it does.

I think this is slowly changing the way I think about it. Surrender isn’t the absence of desire – It is desire placed into the hands of God.

This is what I want. This is what I fear. This is what I would choose. And still, I trust You.

That is not weakness. That is extraordinary courage.

I think surrender is particularly difficult for me because sometimes I don’t know what God will do with the thing I hand Him.

We like telling stories about surrender when the ending is lovely. “I finally gave it to God, and then He gave me something even better!”

Wonderful. Sometimes that happens.

But Gethsemane doesn’t allow me to make that the definition of surrender.

Jesus surrendered to the Father…and still went to the cross.

Sometimes surrender does not change the circumstance. Sometimes the cup isn’t taken away. That makes surrender much harder.

Because Christian trust isn’t: God will make everything happen the way I want if I trust Him enough.

It is:

God is trustworthy even when I don’t get the outcome I want.

I find the second one much harder. And much more solid.

Ultimately, I think surrender requires knowing who God truly is. I cannot surrender to someone I believe is careless. If I think God is distant, unpredictable or indifferent, of course I’ll cling tightly to control. But Jesus doesn’t surrender Himself into the hands of a stranger.

He says: Father.

That’s where surrender begins. Relationship. Jesus knows the One He is trusting. And perhaps that’s what I need more than another reminder to “let go and let God.”

I need to know the God I’m letting go to.
The God who is good.
The God who sees what I can’t.
The God who knows tomorrow.
The God who loves more deeply than I understand.
The God who is not panicking when I am.
The God who has already proved His love at the cross.

Surrender isn’t trusting that everything will be easy.
It’s trusting Him when it isn’t.

Annoyingly, I’ve also discovered that surrender is rarely a one-time event. This is unfortunate. I would prefer to surrender something once, receive a certificate of completion, and move on.

Instead, I can hand something to God on Monday…and by Tuesday afternoon I have quietly picked it back up. Just checking on it. Making a few adjustments. Perhaps developing a small contingency plan. By Wednesday I’m fully responsible for the universe again.

Apparently I have very grabby hands.

Surrender has to become less like one dramatic moment and more like a rhythm.

Open the hands.

Again.

God, this matters to me.

Open the hands.

This is what I want.

Open the hands.

This is what I’m frightened of.

Open the hands.

This is what I cannot control.

Open the hands.

This is Yours.

Sometimes I have to do that repeatedly with the same thing. That doesn’t mean I failed to surrender it the first time. Maybe it just means trust is something I’m learning.

There’s an enormous relief hidden inside surrender too.

If I am not God then I don’t have to do God’s job.

I don’t have to hold the universe together.
I don’t have to know everything.
I don’t have to predict everything.
I don’t have to keep every person I love safe through sheer force of worry.
I don’t have to manage everybody’s opinion of me.
I don’t have to prevent every painful thing.
I don’t have to know how the story ends before I take the next step.
Phew!

Yes, there are plenty of things I am responsible for, but there are also things that belong entirely to God. And striving often happens when I forget the difference.

I am still very much learning where that line is. Sometimes surrender means doing less. Sometimes it means doing something difficult and surrendering the outcome. Sometimes it means waiting. Sometimes it means acting. Sometimes it means praying the same desperate prayer Jesus prayed:

Please take this away.

And sometimes it means adding:

But if You don’t, stay with me through it.

I think that’s where surrender becomes something much deeper than giving up.

Giving up says: nothing can be done.

Surrender says: I will do what is mine to do, and trust God with what only He can do.

I still strive. I still catch myself mentally trying to organise outcomes that are completely beyond my jurisdiction. I still sometimes treat worry as though it is a productive contribution. I still want guarantees God hasn’t promised me. And I still find open hands much more frightening than clenched ones.

But I’m learning. Slowly. Surrender doesn’t mean I stop caring. It doesn’t mean I stop hoping. It doesn’t mean I stop praying boldly. It doesn’t mean I stop working hard.

It means I stop pretending that my ability to control the outcome is what keeps me safe. I can want something desperately…and surrender it. I can be afraid…and surrender it. I can grieve…and surrender it. I can ask God to change the story…and surrender it.

Jesus did not teach me surrender from a place where nothing was at stake. He taught it in a garden. On His knees. In anguish. With everything at stake. And that makes me think surrender might not be weakness at all. Maybe surrender is one of the bravest forms of trust. So today I’m practising again. Not perfectly. Not permanently. Just for now.

Opening my hands.

This matters to me, God.

This is what I want.

This is what I cannot control.

And I trust You with what happens next.

“Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done.” 
Luke 22:42