Heir Father, Here I am. Not polished. Not perfect. Just… present. I don’t have the strength to pretend anymore. I don’t want to perform surrender—I want to live it. But I don’t know how. I say I’m giving things to You, but sometimes I’m just bottling them up, hoping You’ll act before I burst. You see my heart. You made it this soft, this tender, this wide. And sometimes, God, I resent it. Because I feel everything. And right now, I feel too much. I love You. You are the One I run to. But I also love Them. And I don’t know how to carry both loves without losing parts of myself. I want to be still and let You work, but the urge to act, to understand, to fix, is so loud. I want to be strategic, but not manipulative. I want to love, but not lose myself. I want to trust You—but not put You on a clock. And then I remember Job. He lost everything—his children, his health, his wealth, his place in society. But worst of all, he lost clarity. And what did he do? He sat in ashes. He cursed the day he was born. He wept, he questioned You, he wrestled with grief, with theology, with silence. But he didn’t walk away. He stayed in the conversation. And maybe that’s what You’re asking of me too. Not to understand. Not to perform. But to stay. To wrestle without rejecting. To grieve without giving up. Job’s friends had all the right words—but none of Your spirit. I don’t want to be like them. I don’t want easy answers or rehearsed faith. I want real faith—the kind that can scream and still bow. The kind that loses and still believes. The kind that doesn’t need to control the ending to trust the Author. God, I’m sorry for every time I’ve tried to write Your script. I’m sorry for giving You deadlines instead of devotion. But I’m also thankful—because I know You’re still here. You haven’t left. You won’t leave. So help me. Teach me how to carry this heart You’ve given me. Show me how to guard it, not close it. To rest, not retreat. To feel deeply without drowning. To love without idolizing. To wait without wasting away. And God, if I am being pulled into anything that isn’t from You— cut the tie gently… or strongly… but clearly. Don’t let me walk in confusion. Don’t let me mistake my will for Your whisper. Like Job, I want to say:“Though You slay me, yet will I trust You.” Even if it’s with trembling hands. Even if it’s with a heart full of questions. Father, give me clarity. Give me courage. Give me peace that stays—even when answers don’t. I still believe You write the best stories. So write mine. I’m not strong enough to hold the pen anymore. In Jesus’ name, Amen.