Finding Strength in Surrender through the Lens of the Bible

Naming What Must Die

In my corporate days, my identity was deeply entwined with my title and position. Yet, once I traded my desk for the kitchen table, I realized something profound needed to die—my reliance on status for self-worth. This wasn't just about a job; it was about my grasp on false securities that I trusted more than God. It was scary to acknowledge that I needed to let go of the part of me that clung to worldly success. As I sat among piles of laundry and lesson plans, I understood that the death of these old identities was necessary.

The Bible gives us the story of the rich young man, who, when asked by Jesus to sell his possessions and follow Him, went away sad because he was very wealthy (Mark 10:22). His grip on material wealth prevented him from a deeper relationship with Christ. Similarly, in our lives, we cling to our comforts—be it wealth, achievements, or even relationships—often believing they define us. The call of Christ, however, invites us to relinquish these in favor of something far more substantial: His love and purpose for us.

What are the securities we hold dear that drown out God's whispers in our everyday chaos? My longing for affirmation through productivity was masking my true vocation as a mother. It was a daunting realization, much like looking into a mirror and seeing not just my reflection but my soul's attachments. These need not be seen as failures but as opportunities for transformation—an invitation to a freer, grace-filled life.

As I reflect on this, I am reminded of my grandmother's words, "Dios tiene un plan mejor," God has a better plan. Embracing this truth requires the painful yet freeing process of naming what must die so that something new and holy can be born.

The Descent into Death

Then comes the dying: releasing these false identities was not an overnight decision but a gradual surrender. It felt like peeling layers from an onion, each one stinging a bit more than the last. My comfort was in routines and accolades, which now felt like chains. The process of letting go was a journey through my own Gethsemane, where Jesus prayed in anguish, "Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done" (Luke 22:42).

In the darkness, I experienced the resistance of my heart. I wrestled with God, much like Jacob by the river, until I could finally say, "Your will, not mine." Yet, it wasn't just a moment of submission; it was a continuous act of surrender each day. The ego, which had been my guide for so long, screamed against this dying. Doubts crept in like shadows, whispering, "Is this worth the pain?"

But amid the struggle, I discovered small moments of grace. Between diaper changes and dishes, I found peace in the ordinary. The kitchen table became an altar where I offered my daily chores as prayers. My vocation as a mother began to teach me humility and dependence on God in ways my executive role never could.

The saints remind us that this descent is sacred. Saint Francis of Assisi, who gave up his wealth to follow Christ, showed that true joy is found not in holding on but in letting go. His radical poverty was not destitution but a profound freedom. This journey through the valley of death is difficult, but it is where God meets us, gently preparing us for resurrection.

Holy Saturday Waiting

In the liminal space of Holy Saturday, we linger in the uncertainty of in-between. It is a space that feels endless, where hope and despair seem to share the same breath. The disciples experienced this waiting after Jesus' crucifixion, not knowing what would come next. Much like them, we find ourselves in seasons of waiting, caught between what was and what will be.

During my own Holy Saturday moments, I felt the tension of unanswered prayers and the silence of God. It was as if life paused, holding its breath. In these times, my faith wavered, and doubts crept in like uninvited guests. Yet, it was in this very pause that I learned to lean into the presence of God, even when He seemed distant.

Holy Saturday teaches us the value of patience. Between the duties of motherhood, I found solace in the rhythm of the liturgical calendar, which reminded me that darkness does not last forever. The promise of resurrection is always on the horizon, even if it feels unreachable in the moment.

Reflecting on this, I think of Saint Monica, who prayed for years for the conversion of her son, Augustine. Her perseverance in this holy waiting bore fruit in the eventual transformation of her son, who became one of the Church's greatest theologians. Her story is a testament to the power of patient trust in God's timing.

The Unexpected Morning

But Sunday is coming: Resurrection arrives often when we least expect it. Easter morning dawned not w