My Way

I was more than willing to turn over my life—if God would do it my way. I’d pray for help and then hand God a detailed script for how that help should arrive. I’d ask for guidance and then argue when it didn’t match what I’d already decided. I didn’t want a Higher Power; I wanted a cosmic assistant.

Living with alcoholism had trained me to plan for every disaster, to stay one step ahead of the next crisis. No wonder I tried to manage even God. I wasn’t surrendering; I was delegating with micromanagement. “Here, take this problem. Fix it by Thursday. Use this method.” I wasn’t surrendering, I was delegating. One night, standing at the sink at 2 a.m., bargaining for my loved one to get home safe, it hit me: I was still trying to run the show.

My sponsor finally asked, “If you already know how it should turn out, why are you asking God for help?” That question exposed the truth: my prayers were instructions, not trust.