Finding Peace in the Serenity Prayer

As I reflect on the tapestry of my life, woven through joy and sorrow alike, I find myself acknowledging the moments of deep loss—those times when the weight of grief has pressed down on my spirit. The death of my beloved husband to cancer was a profound turning point; it felt as though a piece of my heart was buried alongside him. There were countless days I felt the heaviness of despair, my identity stripped away, the familiar comforts of life having vanished. I had to face the bitterness of my reality—the need to let go of the old, the grief that clung to me, and the false securities that I had wrapped around my heart like a protective cloak. This recognition of what must die is both painful and liberating. In the words of the Serenity Prayer, I found a guiding light—a whisper of God’s faithfulness amid the tragedy.

Naming What Must Die

In this season of reflection, I find it essential to name the things that must come to an end. Old identities, formed from years of caregiving and teaching, faced the harsh reality of change. I had to relinquish the image of being a wife, which had defined my very essence for decades. The gentle rhythms of daily life were interrupted, and I realized the heaviness of expectations I had set upon myself. There were moments when I wrapped my worth around my ability to nurture and care for others, believing I could find solace in being needed. That false security needed to die; it was a weight I no longer could carry. The destructive patterns of clinging to memories instead of embracing the present had to be laid down. I could not continue to dwell in the past, holding onto what was precious but ultimately unchangeable.

As I reflected upon these layers of grief, I understood that the pain of letting go is universal. Perhaps you, too, have experienced this in your own lives. Maybe you feel bound by relationships that no longer bring joy, or perhaps the relentless pull of financial worries has sown seeds of anxiety in your heart. Naming these fears, these burdens, is the first step towards freedom. They are the weeds in the garden of your soul, choking out new growth and preventing the flourishing of a life built on faith and trust. Oh, dear one, it is in this honest admission of what must die that we find the fertile ground for new beginnings.

The Descent into Death

Then comes the dying: a journey that is often filled with heartache, resistance, and profound sorrow. I think of Gethsemane, where Jesus knelt in anguish, praying for strength to endure the path ahead. In our own lives, this descent can feel overwhelming, as we grapple with the reality of loss and what it means to let go. I can recall the nights when I would sit alone in my garden, the cool breeze brushing against my skin, tears streaming down my face as I surrendered to the grief that felt like a heavy cloak. The very act of letting go felt like a stripping away of my identity, reminding me of the deeply personal nature of this process.

During those moments, I encountered resistance, often from within. I struggled with the fear of becoming unrecognizable, of losing the parts of myself I held dear. It was as if I were standing at the edge of a great chasm, unsure of whether to leap into the unknown or cling to the familiar, even if it was painful. I witnessed the fading echoes of my husband’s laughter, the warmth of his embrace—each memory a tether pulling me back, yet I knew I could not remain there. The ego, with all its self-preservation instincts, cried out, urging me to hold onto the past. Yet, there in the depths of my sorrow, I found the gentle whisper of the Lord reminding me of His steadfast love, urging me to trust the unfolding story.

Holy Saturday Waiting

In the darkness: there lies a liminal space where the old self dies, and the promise of new life is yet to be revealed. This in-between time can feel excruciating, much like the Saturday the disciples experienced—a day filled with uncertainty and confusion. They had witnessed the death of their Savior, and in their waiting, they wrestled with doubt and despair. I recall the times when I too felt suspended in that space, caught in a waiting room of life, where the answers seemed distant and the ache of loss was palpable. During those moments, I would often turn to prayer, seeking solace in the words of Scripture, allowing God to bathe my heart in His peace.

It was in those days of waiting that I learned to lean into the discomfort and uncertainty. I remember one particular evening, sitting on my porch, watching the sun dip below the horizon, casting a golden hue across the sky. It was then that I felt the weight of that darkness—the pain of waiting for what I longed for, yet knowing I must remain patient. The wilderness seasons can feel endless; the dark night of the soul can seem to stretch on forever. Yet, in those moments, I