The Heart of Endurance

Tag: god

  • 80: Following Is Not the Same as Surrendering

    For much of life, we learn that progress comes from taking control.

    We identify where we want to go, make a plan, work hard, solve problems, and adjust when things go wrong. When we face difficulty, we try to overcome it. Sometimes we even learn to turn adversity into fuel.

    This capacity is enormously valuable.

    But there is another capacity that many of us develop much later:

    knowing when to stop trying to control the outcome.

    We often think of “following” as receiving direction and then taking action. A mentor gives advice. Experience tells us what to do. Faith, values, or intuition point toward a particular path.

    Then we take the steering wheel.

    We decide where we are going and work to get there.

    But there are periods in life when the road ahead is no longer clear. We may not know which choice will prove right. Other people’s decisions may affect our future. Something we have built may change unexpectedly. Aging may gradually remind us that effort cannot solve everything.

    At such times, trying harder does not necessarily create more control.

    This is where surrender becomes important.

    Surrender is often misunderstood as giving up. But they are not the same.

    Giving up says:

    “Nothing I do matters.”

    Surrender says:

    “I will do what is mine to do, but I will stop demanding control over what is not mine to control.”

    That distinction changes how we move through uncertainty.

    Imagine driving a car. Under normal circumstances, responsible driving means paying attention, choosing the direction, and holding the steering wheel firmly.

    Life requires the same thing. We should make decisions, accept responsibility, develop our abilities, and act when action is needed.

    But life is not entirely steerable.

    Other people have their own wills. Institutions behave unpredictably. Bodies age. Relationships change. Accidents happen. Opportunities appear and disappear. Even our carefully constructed plans eventually encounter forces larger than ourselves.

    The important question therefore changes from:

    “How can I regain control?”

    to:

    “What is actually mine to do, and what is no longer mine to control?”

    That is not passivity. In fact, it may require more courage than action.

    When we cannot control the destination, we can still choose how we travel. We can remain attentive. We can respond to what appears. We can listen more carefully. We can continue acting where action is possible without insisting that life produce the outcome we expected.

    For a religious person, this may be called surrendering to God. Someone else might describe it as accepting reality, trusting life, or recognizing the limits of human control.

    The language matters less than the underlying shift.

    There is a time to steer.

    And there is a time to recognize that holding the steering wheel more tightly will not determine where everything goes.

    Perhaps maturity is not becoming better and better at controlling life.

    Perhaps it is developing the wisdom to know the difference between what we can shape and what we must learn to follow.

  • 46: Love Without a Message

    A woman from my home church passed away recently.

    She lived a full life.

    For many years, she served quietly as the wife of a pastor. She did not stand at the front to give sermons. She did not speak with a loud voice. She did not try to teach through many words.

    But for me, she was one of the most important mentors of faith.

    ⸻

    When I became a Christian at 23 years old, I did not understand much.

    I did not know much about God.

    I did not know much about Jesus.

    I did not know how faith should shape a life.

    There were many messages around me.

    Christians should do this.

    Christians should believe that.

    Christians should live this way.

    Messages are everywhere.

    But the opportunity to actually experience God’s love through another person is rare.

    She gave me that opportunity.

    ⸻

    She never tried to correct me first.

    She never pressured me.

    She never gave me a list of what I should do.

    She simply welcomed me.

    She smiled.

    She listened.

    She encouraged.

    She made me feel accepted.

    When I visited her home or spoke with her, I always felt warmth. She often told me kind words. She made me feel that I was seen and valued.

    That was not a lecture.

    It was love.

    ⸻

    Over time, I began to understand something.

    God’s love cannot be fully taught as information.

    It must be embodied.

    A person can explain love with words, but another person may allow us to feel it through presence.

    She did that.

    Her life was quiet, but it carried a message deeper than many speeches.

    Her smile was a message.

    Her listening was a message.

    Her acceptance was a message.

    Her kindness was a message.

    ⸻

    Looking back, I now see how much she shaped me.

    She showed me that faith is not only belief.

    Faith is atmosphere.

    Faith is how another person feels in your presence.

    Faith is whether someone leaves your home feeling lighter.

    Faith is whether love becomes visible without needing to be announced.

    ⸻

    She may not have had a public title beyond her role.

    But her influence was deep.

    The love she gave did not stop with her.

    It continued in the people she touched.

    It continued in my faith.

    It continued in how I try to listen, encourage, mentor, and care for others.

    That is legacy.

    Quiet legacy.

    Invisible, but real.

    ⸻

    Her passing makes me sad.

    But it also fills me with gratitude.

    She did not explain God’s love to me.

    She let me experience it.

    And perhaps that is one of the highest ways to live.

    Not to speak many messages,

    but to become, quietly and faithfully,

    a place where others can feel God’s love.

  • 22: Preserved Until I Could See

    When I was younger, my mind was often somewhere else.

    Even when I was physically with my family, part of me was already thinking about the next task, the next responsibility, the next challenge, or the next future vision.

    I worked hard.

    I pushed.

    I tried to build a life.

    At the time, I believed this was necessary. And in many ways, it was. There were years when life was financially difficult. There were seasons when even ordinary needs felt heavy. We had to endure uncertainty together.

    During those years, my wife and children carried more than I fully understood.

    They felt my pressure.

    They lived inside my urgency.

    They saw my struggle.

    And yet, they stayed patient.

    They did not complain.

    They remained with me.

    ⸻

    Now, as I look back, I realize that I missed many moments.

    Small moments.

    My children growing.

    Ordinary happiness at home.

    Quiet family time.

    The simple joy of being together.

    I cannot say I saw all of it clearly then.

    My mind was too busy.

    My life was too focused on building, surviving, and moving forward.

    ⸻

    I know I was sincere.

    I was trying to protect my family.

    I was trying to build stability.

    I was trying to create a future.

    But now I can see something I could not fully see before.

    My family was already the future I was trying to protect.

    ⸻

    My wife’s patience was not small.

    Her quiet strength held the family together during difficult years.

    My children grew through those years in ways I may not fully understand. They saw my struggle, my discipline, and my sincerity.

    I was not always present in the way I wish I could have been.

    But somehow, by God’s grace, they grew well.

    They are walking their own paths.

    They are kind.

    They are moving forward.

    ⸻

    That fills me with gratitude.

    Because I am seeing this while I am still healthy.

    Still alert.

    Still able to change.

    Still able to be with my wife.

    Still able to spend meaningful time with my children.

    This is a blessing I do not take lightly.

    ⸻

    I am grateful that God allowed me to see it while it is still here.

    ⸻

    The difficult years were not meaningless.

    They became soil.

    From that soil came discipline, stability, family strength, and eventually peace.

    ⸻

    I am sorry for the moments I could not fully see.

    But I am grateful that God preserved what mattered most until I was ready to receive it.

    ⸻

    My family carried love quietly while I was carrying pressure.

    Now, in this season of life, I can finally see that love more clearly.

    And I can say:

    Thank You, God,

    for leading me through the hard years,

    and for keeping my family close enough

    for me to recognize the blessing now.

  • 12: The Gift I Did Not Ask For

    For many years, I prayed for visible things.

    Success.
    Recognition.
    Opportunity.
    Influence.
    A larger contribution.

    I wanted my work to matter.
    I wanted my effort to be seen.
    I wanted doors to open.

    At the time, these prayers felt honest.

    I was working hard.
    I was trying to serve.
    I wanted to use what I had been given.

    I thought that if I could achieve more, contribute more, and be recognized more, my life would feel complete.

    But many of those things did not come in the way I hoped.

    The recognition was limited.
    The opportunities did not always open.
    The contribution I imagined did not take the form I expected.

    For a long time, this was painful.

    I felt unseen.
    I felt frustrated.
    I wondered why the effort did not lead to the place I had imagined.

    I thought something was missing.

    Over time, something began to change.

    Not outside.

    Inside.

    My life did not suddenly become more visible.

    The institution did not suddenly recognize everything.

    The world did not suddenly understand me.

    But my heart began to receive something different.

    Peace.

    Gratitude.

    Quiet happiness.

    A deeper awareness of small blessings.

    I began to notice things I had passed by for years.

    A quiet morning.
    A healthy body.
    A conversation with family.
    A student growing.
    A sentence becoming clear while writing.
    A season changing.
    A day given again.

    These things were not the visible success I had once prayed for.

    But they were real.

    And they began to feel more precious than what I had been chasing.

    I once asked God for big doors to open.

    Now I am learning to thank Him for the room I am already standing in.

    This realization did not come easily.

    It came through disappointment.
    Through exhaustion.
    Through reflection.
    Through letting go of old measures.

    But now I see something I could not see before.

    God gave me the peace I did not know I needed.

    Visible success can fade.

    Recognition can disappear.

    Titles end.

    Institutions change.

    But gratitude forms something deeper inside.

    Peace becomes a place to live from.

    Happiness becomes less dependent on circumstances.

    Life becomes quieter, but richer.

    My life is not expanding loudly now.

    It is deepening quietly.

    And this depth feels more real than the recognition I once wanted.

    I still work.

    I still train.

    I still write.

    I still care about doing things well.

    But the inner direction has changed.

    I am no longer trying to force my life to become impressive.

    I am learning to receive it as a gift.

    Maybe this is one of the surprises of faith.

    Sometimes God does not answer by giving us what we asked for.

    Sometimes He changes what we are able to see.

    I once wanted my life to be recognized.

    Now I am learning to be grateful that I have a life to receive.

    Thank You, God.

  • 3: When Prayer Became Listening

    For much of my life, my prayer was connected to movement.

    I prayed for strength.

    For opportunity.

    For doors to open.

    For faith to continue.

    For help to reach the next stage.

    At that time, those prayers were honest.

    I was building a life.

    I was facing uncertainty.

    I needed courage, endurance, and direction.

    My prayer often sounded like:

    “God, please help me move forward.”

    ⸻

    Over time, something began to change.

    Not suddenly.

    Gradually.

    As my life moved from expansion toward integration, my prayer also changed.

    I found myself asking less.

    And thanking more.

    ⸻

    Instead of saying:

    “Please make this happen.”

    I began saying:

    “Thank You, whatever happens.”

    ⸻

    This did not mean I stopped caring.

    I still work.

    I still train.

    I still prepare.

    I still make decisions carefully.

    But the inner pressure became different.

    I no longer felt that life had to unfold exactly according to my own plan.

    I began to listen more.

    To quiet thoughts.

    To small internal movements.

    To what appeared naturally in stillness.

    ⸻

    At the same time, my attention also changed.

    Earlier, my mind was often drawn toward:

    • news
    • uncertainty
    • social conflict
    • professional pressure
    • the noise of the world

    These things are real.

    But they easily consume attention.

    Now, more often, my mind turns toward something quieter.

    Nature.

    The seasons.

    Weather.

    Morning light.

    Night silence.

    Rain.

    Wind.

    Cherry blossoms.

    ⸻

    Nature moves without hurry.

    Spring comes in its time.

    Summer grows in its time.

    Autumn releases in its time.

    Winter rests in its time.

    There is movement.

    But no rushing.

    There is change.

    But no anxiety.

    ⸻

    This rhythm has begun to teach me.

    I do not need to force every door open.

    I do not need to control every outcome.

    I do not need to understand everything immediately.

    There is a time to work.

    A time to wait.

    A time to release.

    A time to receive.

    ⸻

    In the past, I often asked God to help me reach what I wanted.

    Now, I am learning to notice what has already been given.

    Family.

    Health.

    A quiet morning.

    A body that can still train.

    A mind that can still reflect.

    A day that begins again.

    ⸻

    Perhaps gratitude is not something we add to life.

    Perhaps gratitude appears when noise becomes quiet enough.

    ⸻

    I used to ask God to open doors.

    Now I am learning to notice the room I am already standing in.

    ⸻

    When my mind became quiet, nature became prayer.

    ⸻

    I no longer need life to move faster.

    I only need to be still enough to move with it.