This Friday Freewrite post was written more than six months ago and never published, but the words still ring true as I share them today.
I have two hands, and they're small. My two hands can't hold all the people I love, or cling to every one of the dreams I have, or heal every hurt I encounter, or fix everything that's broken in my world. My two hands aren't enough for all that. It made me mad for a while. I was angry that my hands couldn't keep someone close. I was angry that people had slipped through my fingers and are too far away to bring back now. I was angry that opportunities had turned to vapors and drifted away before I could latch on to them.
My hands were fists, clenched tight and shaking and white at the knuckles, fighting a battle I knew I could never win.
Then, like a whisper and a freight train all at once, it hit me.
Nothing can enter closed hands.
I was so adamant, so indignant, so self-righteous. I believed my fists were justified. I was frustrated, and I wanted things to be different, and my hands were held so tight as I tried to somehow hold it all together how I wanted it to be.
My hands grew tired. My fingers couldn't hold their grip. I let go.
It happened slowly, as if I was releasing things one by one, finger by finger, until my palms lay open before me. I let go of the stress about a job I desperately wanted that didn't even exist. I let go of the anxiety and the worry about a relationship that had consumed me. I let go of the people whose lives had drifted from mine, wishing them well and loving them even still. I let go.
And my hands were filled again. This time, with peace so real I swear I could feel it settle over me. This time, with friendships out of the blue bringing comfort and laughter and the sweetest quality time. This time, with ways to serve and spread joy and love on people.
Blessings came when I surrendered my grip and held my hands open before Him in surrender and in worship.