I once stared at the monitor with the page so bright.
“I’m in control,” I said, “making everything just right.”
I planned every chapter, placed each comma on cue,
Until the joy slipped away—and the story did too.
“Work harder,” I said. “More hustle. More speed.”
I chased many goals, both my wants and my need.
But the faster I ran with my plans in the lead,
Every sentence grew heavier as I would read.
Then God gently whispered, not scolding, not stern,
“Dear child, there are lessons you still need to learn.
You’re free to create, but you’re not meant to carry
The weight of results that will only make you weary.”
“For control isn’t peace, though it feels very strong,
And visions without me won’t hold for very long.
Even bright, clever plans—when done on your own—
Will crack like a throne made of fragile sandstone.”
Remember the garden, the tears, and the plea:
“Not my will,” Jesus said, “but yours … let it be.”
He didn’t lose purpose or power that day.
He stepped into Love’s more excellent way.
So I loosened my fingers, released every scheme,
Letting God guide the plot and revise my dream.
I still wrote with passion, with effort and care,
But trusted the ending to hands far more fair.
Now, step after step, not a sprint, not a shove,
I walk with the Author who writes out of love.
I don’t need control. I have something more grand,
With my hand in his on the path he has planned.
