The Patience of Surrender

 It is hard not to become discouraged.

Sometimes it feels as though I am carrying a wound that is nearly seventy years old. I have searched for it. Prayed over it. Sat with it. Cried through it. Tried to understand it.

And yet, it still feels as though something inside me remains frozen in time.

When I cannot seem to reach that place, I feel stuck.

It feels as though the little girl within me is still living with the pain, the fear, and the memories of the past. Sometimes it even seems as though she is afraid of what freedom might feel like.

After all, fear has been familiar.

Freedom has not.

If she has lived her whole life expecting danger, perhaps safety itself feels unfamiliar. Perhaps stepping into the light is not as simple as opening a door. Perhaps it requires trusting a world she never learned to trust.

I have tried to reassure her.

I have told her she is safe.

I have reminded her that she is no longer alone.

Some days those words seem to reach her.

Other days, her fear feels so much bigger than anything I can say.

And that is where I find myself today.

Not with another answer.

Not with another technique.

Only with surrender.

I cannot force healing.

I cannot force the past to let go.

I cannot force a frightened little girl to trust before she is ready.

Love cannot be forced.

Safety cannot be demanded.

Healing cannot be rushed.

Perhaps my task is not to rescue her but to remain faithfully beside her, as long as it takes.

To let her borrow my courage until she discovers her own.

To trust that even when I cannot see movement, something unseen may still be unfolding beneath the surface.

So today, my prayer is simple.

God, give me patience.

Give me the grace to stop measuring healing by how quickly old wounds disappear.

Teach me to trust that staying present is not the same as standing still.

And if all I can do today is love that little girl without asking her to change, then let that be enough.