I saw a quote the other day that stopped me…
“You can’t receive with closed fists.”
Which, first of all, sounds like something a very peaceful person would say while sitting barefoot beside a lake.
Probably someone who owns linen pants.
I do not own linen pants.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Because I’ve spent a lot of my life with my fists closed.
Not literally. That would be weird.
Just walking around Stop and Shop gripping my hands while Erin whispers, “Please stop. People are looking.”
I mean spiritually. Emotionally.
I have held onto things hard.
Jobs. Titles.
People.Reputations.
Versions of myself.
Ideas about how my life was supposed to turn out.
And here’s what I’ve realized…
We usually talk about letting go as if we’re talking about bad things.
Let go of resentment and anger.
Let go of shame and the person who hurt you.
Absolutely.
But nobody tells you how hard it is to let go of something that was good.
Something you loved. Something you prayed for. Something you worked twenty years to build.
Something that became so woven into your identity that you couldn’t tell where it ended and you began.
Because sometimes the thing God asks you to loosen your grip on isn’t destroying you.
It just isn’t where you’re going anymore.
And THAT is considerably less convenient.
I would prefer God send an email…
SUBJECT: IMPORTANT UPDATE REGARDING YOUR LIFE
Dear Mike,
Thank you for your continued participation.
Effective immediately, the following season has concluded.
Please discontinue all attempts to resurrect it.
Your next assignment will be provided shortly.
Warm regards,
God
P.S. Stop trying to control everything.
P.P.S. Seriously.
But apparently God doesn’t use Outlook or Google.
So instead, life changes. Doors close. People leave. Plans collapse.
Things we were absolutely certain were supposed to happen… don’t.
And our response?
Grip tighter. We pray with clenched fists.
God, please show me what’s next.
But also, don’t take this. Or this. Definitely not that.
And please make whatever is next look remarkably similar to what I already had.
Amen. I’ve done that.
I’ve asked God for a new life while quietly handing Him the architectural plans for the old one.
I’ve prayed, Thy will be done, while adding several strongly worded suggestions regarding what His will should be.
That’s not surrender. That’s consulting.
And God, I’ve discovered, is not particularly interested in hiring me as His strategic advisor.
Probably because my track record is questionable.
But there’s something else about a closed fist.
It can hold something. But it can’t receive anything.
Clench your hand.
Now imagine someone trying to place something beautiful inside it.
They can’t.
Your hand is already occupied.
And maybe our lives work the same way.
Maybe sometimes God isn’t withholding the next thing.
Maybe we’re simply gripping the last thing so tightly that there’s nowhere to put it.
That doesn’t mean what you’re holding was bad.
Maybe it was wonderful or it gave you purpose for twenty years.
Maybe you loved that person or that version of your life was beautiful.
You can be grateful for something…
and still release it.
Because opening your hand doesn’t erase what was there.
It honors it.
Thank you for what you taught me.
Thank you for who I became while I held you.
Thank you for the season.
And then…
you open your hand.
Which is terrifying.
Because for a moment, there is nothing there.
That’s the part nobody puts on the inspirational coffee mug.
There’s a space between letting go and receiving.
An empty-hand season.
And empty hands can feel an awful lot like an empty life.
So we panic.
We reach backward.
We grab whatever we just released.
Maybe we should check LinkedIn. (I did every day for almost two years)
Maybe we should refresh our email seventeen times. (Yep, I did that too)
Maybe we should develop a comprehensive six-month strategic plan with measurable outcomes and a color-coded spreadsheet.
God says, Trust Me.
And I’m standing there with a binder.
“But I made tabs.”
I think faith might be learning to survive that space.
The space where your hand is finally open…
but nothing has been placed in it yet.
Because an open hand is vulnerable.
It cannot control… or cling…or guarantee.
It can only wait.
And trust. And receive.
Which makes me wonder if we’ve misunderstood surrender.
Maybe surrender isn’t God asking us to throw away everything we love.
Maybe surrender is simply God asking:
Do you trust Me enough to open your hand?
Because here’s the beautiful thing I never noticed before.
The posture for letting go…
and the posture for receiving…
is exactly the same.
An open hand.
And then I think about Jesus.
Open hands.
Healing. Feeding. Blessing. Serving.
And eventually, on a cross…
even His hands were opened.
Not clenched.
Opened.
Maybe that’s the lesson.
We spend so much of our lives asking God to fill our hands.
More success. More certainty.
More money. More answers.
More security. More proof that everything is going to be okay.
And maybe sometimes God looks at us with all the tenderness in the universe and says…
I want to give you something.
But first, you have to open your hand.
Not because everything you’re holding is bad.
But because some things were only meant to be held for a season.
And when that season ends, faith isn’t pretending it didn’t matter.
Faith is opening your hand anyway.
Even when it hurts. Even when it’s empty.
Even when you have absolutely no idea what’s coming next.
Because maybe the emptiness isn’t punishment.
Maybe it’s preparation.
Maybe the space you keep trying so desperately to fill…
is the very space God has been trying to create.
So these days, my prayer is getting simpler.
No architectural plans.
No strategic recommendations.
No binder.
Okay.
Maybe a small binder.
I’m working on it.
Just this…
God, help me loosen my grip on what was.
Give me the courage to hold my hands open long enough to discover what You want to place in them next.
Because you can’t receive with closed fists.
And maybe the thing you’ve been calling loss…
is actually God
making room. 
Comments