Divine Insight Podcast
Welcome to Divine Insight.
This is not a place for polished prayers or rehearsed faith.
Here, we bring the raw ache of our hearts before God
our questions, our grief, our surrender,
without performance, without pretending.
Divine Insight is where we wrestle and still believe.
Where we sit in the ashes and still whisper ‘Amen.’
It’s not about having the right words
it’s about staying in the conversation with the One who never leaves
Divine Insight Podcast
Series Surrender - Letter 1 The Space Between My Yes and Your Timing - ENG VERS
Father, surrender doesn’t feel holy right now it feels heavy. I told You I laid it all down, yet my heart keeps reaching back. I whisper Your name, Jesus, but the silence roars louder than my prayers. Why does letting go feel like loss? Why does obedience ache like rejection? Still, I believe if my hands are trembling, Yours are steady.
Dear Father, Here I am. Not polished. Not perfect. Just present. I wake up, and there’s no fear. But there is longing—an ache to reach out to someone, to fill this empty space inside me. And even though I tell myself I’ve surrendered, here I am—thinking of them again. My mind starts running. My heart starts searching. And I feel myself slipping. So I whisper your name: Jesus. It’s not pretty. It’s not a peaceful, kneeling prayer. It’s a cry from the middle of my chest. Because this isn’t easy. I’m letting go of something I was used to, to hold onto Someone I’m just beginning to understand in a new way. I know You’re here. But why does the silence feel so loud? Why do I still feel lonely after I’ve laid it all down? Is this loneliness an attack? Or is it You, allowing me to be emptied, so You can fill me? I’m trying, Father. I’m fighting. And that scares me—because I thought surrender was supposed to feel like peace. But this? This feels like spiritual surgery. I think of Job, and how he said,“Though He slay me, yet will I hope in Him…”(Job 13:15). But I’m not Job. I’m not that strong. And then I remember Hosea. You told him to love someone who would break him, to live out a painful lesson in front of the world. Did he ask You the same question I’m asking now? Why me? Why this? Why does surrender feel like rejection? You gave me a dream—to heal others. But first, You are healing me. And that healing feels like loss. So here I am, Father. Still struggling. Still crying. Still showing up. I won’t pretend this is easy. But I believe You’re still writing the story. Even if I’ve dropped the pen, even if my hands are shaking—I trust Yours are steady. Take what’s left of me and make it holy. Amen.