Not mine to fix

What God is teaching me about surrender, family, and trust

Yesterday I was convinced I needed to do something.

Fix it.

Fight it.

Explain it.

Defend myself.

Pack my bags and leave.

Surely God expected something from me.

Instead, He asked me to do the one thing I have spent my entire life avoiding.

Nothing.

Here’s the backstory... A few days ago, I found myself sitting in the middle of yet another family storm.

By this point, I should probably be used to them.

But this one hit differently.

Maybe because I am fresh out of treatment. Maybe because I am trying so hard to protect the healing God has begun in me. Or maybe because when the dust settled, I realized this wasn’t really about my family at all.

It was about me.

Or at least that’s what I thought.

I had a visit. What I expected to be a conversation turned into a revelation. Decisions had been made. Roles had been assigned. Boundaries had been established. Trust had been withheld.

I sat there listening as pieces of information landed one after another.

The lock had been changed. I didn’t need access. I didn’t need a key.

I wasn’t allowed to have guests without approval.

And if I didn’t like it?

Well, I didn’t have to stay.

The words themselves hurt.

But it wasn’t really the words.

It was what they seemed to confirm.

The fear that I wasn’t trusted.

The fear that I wasn’t valued.

The fear that after sacrificing so much to a caregiver, I had somehow become expendable.

I wish I could tell you I responded with grace and wisdom.

I didn’t.

I took it straight to God.

And I unloaded.

I questioned everything.

My purpose.

My decisions.

My obedience.

My future.

My place in this family.

Even my place in God’s plan.

I sat there wondering how I had arrived at sixty-one years old feeling as though I had no home, no control, no voice, and no clear direction.

I was angry.

Heartbroken.

Triggered.

Exhausted.

And if I’m being completely honest, I was tired of telling myself “let go and let God.”

What exactly was that supposed to mean?

Let them walk all over me?

Let them dictate my life?

Sit quietly while everyone else makes decisions?

I didn’t want to quote another Christian cliché.

I wanted answers.

Instead, God gave me perspective.

Not immediately.

First came IOP.

We processed the emotions.

The triggers.

The thoughts.

The evidence.

The fears.

The stories I was telling myself.

I felt a little better, but I still didn’t have a solution.

Then came my small group.

We talked through the situation again, and somewhere in that conversation something shifted.

Not the circumstances.

Not my family.

Me.

For days I had been operating under one assumption:

I have to fix this.

I need to make them understand.

I need to change their minds.

I need to defend myself.

I need to figure out what to do.

I need to solve this.

And suddenly I saw something I had completely missed.

What if this isn’t mine to fix?

What if the reason I feel crushed is because I’m carrying something God never asked me to carry?

What if my job isn’t to repair my family?

What if my job isn’t to manage everyone’s opinions, decisions, reactions, or behavior?

What if my job is simply obedience?

That realization stopped me in my tracks.

Because I have spent most of my life fixing things.

People.

Problems.

Relationships.

Crises.

If something was broken, I stepped in.

If someone was hurting, I carried them.

If a situation was falling apart, I took responsibility.

Sometimes out of love.

Sometimes out of necessity.

Sometimes because nobody else would.

But somewhere along the way, responsibility became ownership.

And ownership became a burden.

A burden I was never meant to carry.

The truth is, I cannot fix my family.

Love does not require ownership.

You can love your family without carrying them.

You can pray for them without fixing them.

You can be hurt by them without becoming responsible for them.

You can disagree with them without overthrowing your own peace.

That is the lesson.

I cannot make people trust me.

I cannot control decisions made by my siblings.

I cannot heal old wounds.

I cannot change hearts.

Only God can do those things.

For the first time, I began to understand what surrender actually means.

It isn’t giving up.

It isn’t becoming passive.

It isn’t pretending everything is okay.

Surrender is returning ownership to God.

It is saying:

“My family is in Your hands, Lord, not mine.”

“Lord, these people belong to You.”

“This situation belongs to You.”

“The outcomes belong to You.”

“The healing belongs to You.”

“I will do what You ask me to do, but I will no longer carry what only You can carry.”

That night, nothing changed externally.

The locks were still on the door.

The decisions had still been made.

The family dynamics had not magically resolved themselves.

But something inside me was different.

The burden was gone.

Somewhere between my rant, my therapy group, my small group, and a long conversation with God, I realized I have spent a lifetime trying to carry things that belong to Him.

People.

Problems.

Outcomes.

Control.

Healing.

Change.

None of those were ever mine.

My job is obedience.

His job is everything else.

I am still learning.

Some lessons take a day.

Some take decades.

This one has taken me sixty-one years.

But I think I’m finally beginning to understand.

Not everything that breaks my heart is mine to fix.

And surprisingly, for the first time in a very long time, that feels like freedom.

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A reflection for you

What burden are you carrying that was never yours to carry?

Who are you trying to fix?

What outcome are you trying to control?

What would happen if, just for today, you placed it in God’s hands and trusted Him with what only He can do?

Maybe the freedom you’re looking for isn’t found in solving the problem.

Maybe it’s found in surrendering it.

Let’s Pray

Father, forgive me for carrying burdens You never asked me to carry.

Teach me the difference between loving people and trying to control them.

Help me trust You with the things I cannot fix, the people I cannot change, and the outcomes I cannot guarantee.

Give me the courage to obey You and the wisdom to leave the rest in Your hands.

In Jesus’ name. Amen.