And Regret rears its ugly head and I pet it, adoring its beauty, weeping in its presence. And it opens wide its mouth and swallows me whole, and I go down to the uttermost parts of darkness and turmoil, where it breaks me down and digests me, bit by bit.
And I hear the voice of God saying “Surrender”.
So I surrender in boxes, bits and pieces of my heart, unwhole. I give God my box of surrender, too big for the little piece of my heart inside it.
Why did I put it in such a large box?
Why did I put it in a box?
Surrender.
No.
He says He will redeem this.
But what if I don’t want His redemption?
I want mine.
Mine is my own, drawn and colored to exactly how I see beauty, exactly how I see my perfect future.
His redemption scares me.
His purposes and plans frighten me.
I know He gives good gifts, but I want certain gifts.
I give God my gift registry, a paper longer than my future, bigger than my dreams. Here God, I say, please give me some of these.
I know He knows best, but I want my best.
I don’t want His best.
His best isn’t immediate, it’s uncomfortable at times, it heaves and sighs and grows within me, causing me pain and ache within the process.
Why can’t He give complete gifts?
Why do I always have to put them together?
I get tangled in the strings.
Surrender.
But does He see?
How can He feel what I’m feeling from up in his seat above the heavens?
Does He remember heartache?
Does He remember pain?
Does He remember how hard surrender is?
I don’t want your will God.
I want mine.
I don’t want your plan.
I want mine.
If I scream loud enough, will you listen and bend your will?
If I cry long enough, will you alter your plan?
If I surrender everything, will you ease my pain?
Or will it simply get worse?
Surrender.
I don’t want to.
But I know I have to.
Because my heart is too heavy to carry alone.
My pain is too much to bear by myself.
This life is too messy to clean up with just me.
I need Him.
But do I want Him?
Surrender.
the unworthy wanderer 