Skip to main content

Surrendered


Today, I sat with a subtle restlessness 
and quiet nudge
that refuses to let me settle
where I’ve outgrown.


I know this feeling.


It’s the same pull
that meets me at the edge
right before everything changes.


And I’ve never been afraid
of the edge—
I know how to measure the fall,
how the wind shifts 
before I leap.


Calculated risks
have always recognized me.


But lately…
I’ve been still.


Not the sacred kind of stillness—
not the resting, restoring pause—
but the kind that lingers too long,
where hesitation disguises itself as wisdom
and time slips quietly through my hands.


I’ve stayed
past the moment of release.


And I’ve learned—
disrespect is a door slammed shut
from the inside.


No apology,
no backtracking,
no carefully chosen words
can rebuild an entrance
where honor has been evicted.


Some endings
don’t negotiate.


And me?
My closure has never been loud—

No announcements.
No final speeches.
No echoing exits
designed to be heard.


I disappear
in lowercase.


Because when I go silent,
I’m not empty—
I’m bowed.

At the feet of the cross,
where noise dissolves
and truth doesn’t have to shout.


Where I lay down
what I can’t fix,
what I can’t force,
what I can’t face anymore.


“Lord…
I need You.”

Not eventually.
Not in distant, 

delayed timing.


But swiftly—
with intention,
with movement
I can recognize as You.


Let this closure
not just resemble a closed chapter—
but move me.


Let it come
with an address change—
in place,
in spirit,
in what’s allowed
to reach me again.


Because I am done
standing at doors
that no longer open for me.


Done revisiting spaces
that forgot how to hold me with care.


So I release it—
fully, finally—
not with resistance,
but with surrender.


No more circling
what You’ve already called finished.


No more reaching
for what You’ve already removed.


If You closed it,
I won’t knock.


If You took it,
I won’t chase.


If it left,
I’ll trust it wasn’t meant
to survive where I’m going.


Strip every attachment
that makes me second-guess Your will.


Silence every echo
that tries to call me back
to what You’ve already delivered me from.


And wherever You send me next—
let it not require explanation,
only obedience.


Let it not feel familiar,
but right.


Let it stretch me
without breaking me,
humble me
without diminishing me,
and cover me
without hiding me.


Because I’d rather walk 

forward with You
into the unknown
than stay comfortable
outside of Your will.


So I lay it down—
the questions,
the weight,
the need to understand.


And I pick up
what only You can give:

Peace
that doesn’t argue,
clarity
that doesn’t waver,
and a direction
that doesn’t ask for permission.


Do what only You can do, Lord.


Close it so completely
that even my memory
loses its desire for it.


Move me so clearly
that hesitation cannot follow.


And when it’s done—
let the evidence of Your hand
be so undeniable

that I never mistake
this moment

for anything less
than deliverance.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Broken Covenant

Once upon a time— I wanted to believe something was real so desperately that I silenced the Spirit within me just to keep the illusion alive. I saw every red flag— not as warnings, but as tests of how much  I was willing to endure to feel chosen. I asked no questions because truth was already whispering, and I feared what obedience would cost me. So I made a covenant with denial— calling lies “grace,” and confusion “patience,” because the truth felt too vast, too holy, too disruptive to the future I had built in my mind. I clung to potential like it was promise, and mistook absence for peace. Yet the weight of it— this thing I called love— crushed my spirit daily. Still, desperation dressed itself as loyalty and convinced me to stay. And it didn’t get better. It decayed. Quietly at first… then unmistakably. Each time God unveiled truth, I chose the comfort of shadows over the calling of light. I pleaded. I prayed. I begged— not for revelation, but for permission to remain where I w...
Post a Comment
Read more

From Chaos to Calm

After a while… the need to be heard at full volume begins to dissolve. The rooftops grow silent. The flames you once fed with trembling hands no longer feel like power— only exhaustion. What you burned never built a home. And somewhere along the way, you realize— not every echo returns, not every seed takes root, not every mountain was yours to climb. The grace you poured out like water in a desert, the love you offered with open, unguarded hands— it did not come back the way you imagined. And still… you are here. So instead of fighting what refuses to bend, you loosen your grip. Not in defeat— but in awakening. You release the need to be answered, to be chosen, to be understood by those who never learned your language. Your hands, once reaching outward, begin to rise— not in desperation, but in devotion. Upward. Open. Steady. God… I see You now in the quiet I once avoided. I hear You not in the thunder— but in the space where my striving used to live. And I am ready. Something within ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Do Not Resuscitate (DNR)

What unsettles me most about some people is not the harm they cause— but the silence that follows it. No conviction. No trembling. No evidence that a soul was ever stirred. As if something sacred once lived there… and quietly left. What remains is form without fire. A body that breathes, but does not  feel . A Walking corpse. Spiritually vacant,  yet socially skilled— fluent in imitation, but foreign to truth. They move through people like weather— touching everything, anchoring nowhere. I once mistook that emptiness for mystery. Confused detachment with depth. Thought restraint was discipline, when it was really disconnection. But there was  no rootedness in him— only appetite. An endless hunger dressed as desire. A man grazing on bodies, scrolling through souls like they were disposable moments. Not searching. Not building. Just consuming— to quiet something unnamed within him. Unhealed wounds don’t stay still. They wander. From bed to bed, from face to face, from high ...
Post a Comment
Read more