We were wrapping up a Wednesday night Bible study when my brother-in-law, Erik, said that he believed what I was wrestling with was God’s will.
That bothered me slightly because I knew, without a doubt, that I accepted God’s will. After all, only a foolish person would not accept the will of God over their life.
I went home and prayed, asking God if I really was wrestling with His will. I acknowledged that everything is at His mercy and not ours. I know His Word is true. I know He is sovereign, that His plans are greater than ours, and that His will is perfect. I knew I accepted every truth He had ever revealed to me.
I told God in prayer, “Lord, I accept Your will.”
And I heard His voice say, “You accept it, but you don’t always surrender to it.”
So, I guess I am foolish. Because I didn’t realize there was a difference.
Why was this so profound? The difference between acceptance and surrender. Well, for a little context, I am big on ownership and accountability. To the point where I base my relationships and friendships on those principles. Because if my past or childhood has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t change what you don’t acknowledge. If you are unable to acknowledge, take ownership, and be accountable, no relationship you participate in can truly be healthy.
This was such a difficult principle for me to grow through because my childhood and past were so traumatic. I was always seeking ownership and accountability from those who damaged, wounded, and tainted my soul and my understanding of who God really is.
I couldn’t accept that the people you love and trust can also be unloving and untrustworthy.
At the root of it all, it was hard to accept that God would allow suffering.
There came a point in my life when I had to accept that my story would always carry a reality I never wanted. I convinced myself that when people got to know the real me, they would only see my trauma. They would see someone broken and wounded, someone whose childhood had left scars that would forever shape how they navigated life.
But perhaps what was hardest to accept was that I had begun to associate my pain with God. I rejected Him and blamed Him for the actions of people who didn’t even know Him. I struggled to reconcile how a God who loved me could allow the very things that made it so difficult for me to understand His love.
You see, acceptance begins with recognizing who God is and acknowledging that His authority is greater than ours. It’s understanding that God is God, that His purposes are not dependent on our understanding, and that His will is ultimately above our own.
Which meant that I could intellectually acknowledge God’s sovereignty but still struggle emotionally and spiritually with what He allows.
I accepted that He was in control, but questioned why He allowed certain things to happen. I accepted that His will is perfect, but struggled to reconcile His goodness with my suffering.
Acceptance acknowledges God’s authority, but it doesn’t necessarily mean our hearts have fully yielded to Him.
Surrender, the very thing I was wrestling with, goes beyond acknowledging His authority. It’s the act of yielding my own desires, expectations, plans, and need for control to Him.
I think of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. He doesn’t pretend that what lies ahead is easy. He expresses His desire and acknowledges the weight of what is before Him, but ultimately yields to the Father’s will.
He remained submitted to the Father.
Surrender is not simply agreeing that God has authority. It’s choosing to live in submission to it.
I’ve been reading Romans over the past few weeks, and when I got to Romans 12:1–2, it really stood out to me. It speaks about transformation through the renewing of our minds so that we may discern what is the good, acceptable, and perfect will of God.
Scripture connects knowing and discerning God’s will with transformation. It isn’t just about knowing what is true; it’s about allowing that truth to transform us.
Because I accepted God’s sovereignty, but I wrestled with what surrendering my pain to that sovereignty would require.
Surrendering didn’t mean accepting the abuse, excusing the people who hurt me, abandoning accountability, or pretending that the suffering I endured wasn’t significant. It meant entrusting God with what I couldn’t control while taking responsibility for what I could.
Which brings me to forgiveness, healing, and growth.
I had to realize that these things could no longer be dependent on someone else’s willingness to acknowledge what they had done.
That doesn’t mean accountability no longer matters. It means I don’t have to wait for someone else to take ownership before I take responsibility for my own healing.
I can acknowledge what happened without allowing it to define me. I can forgive without excusing. I can heal without receiving an apology.
And most importantly, I can trust God without fully understanding why He allowed what happened.
Because surrender was never about pretending my pain didn’t exist. It was about finally allowing God to have authority over the parts of my life that my pain had been controlling.
