Step 3: Relinquishing Control

Step 3: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood God.

As I watch the cold rain on an early March morning, I consider the options. Behind me are thousands of words bearing testimony to the un-manageability of life on my own terms. Alongside the stories is a gossamer thread that bears witness to a companion truth, that of power beyond my own that is worthy. Holding these tandem truths, the decision to trust is a no brainer. But it is not my brain that I must convince.

The water dancing outside the window dances with familiar indecision. Falling from the sky as rain drops, the cold air wants something more dramatic and the water turns to ice and snow and back again. I watch the magic just outside my window, feeling the invitation to release while still holding on.  What would it look like to relinquish my grip on both my will and my life?

The desire to know is the crux of the resistance, it is the instinct to control. I’ve been down this road before, daily and for many years now, and the resistance is familiar. With each passing season, the evidence mounts as to the trustworthiness of life’s rhythm and yet I still find myself removing one claw at a time in the process of letting go. There are no shortcuts and no destinations, this is a journey with daily routines to tend.

Once upon a time, and not so very long ago, I was a married-to-a-man suburban-pastor mom who made a daring leap of faith.  The trajectory was warp speed, catapulting my spirit out of the closet, through the sweetest love story of all time, and then into the city and out of the church. Having lost the world and gained my soul, having left all that I thought was precious and discovering what truly is, having lost religion in the quest for spirit, this step should be an easy one.  Having been lost and now found, dead and now come to life, I understand viscerally and profoundly the value of relinquishing control and being at one with the water of life.

But like every step, it must be (can only be) taken one day at a time.  So for this one day, on a cold and rainy March morning, I make the decision, just for today, to turn my will and my life over to the care of the one alive in the breath.  And it is very good.

ps. The falling water has now been transformed into giant snowflakes, stunningly beautiful.