To Live, To Trust by Lauren Anderson

A few months ago, I was overwhelmed with grief over the loss of my grandmother. In those quiet moments as I sat alone with my thoughts, the only thing I knew to do with this heartache was to write.
I feel the same sense of overwhelming devastation this morning as I feel the aftershocks of loss, tragedy, and senseless violence. As I grieve this–as we all grieve this–I turn back to those pages in my journal, written not that long ago, and I revisit the words that soothed me then.
The only thing I know to do when I feel out of control is to ground down in the One who is.

My mind and heart are swollen with thoughts of the Garden of Gethsemane.

I see images of Jesus with knees pressed into damp earth, lurched over with the depth of his sorrow, loss, and anguish; sweating blood because this thing is just too big.

So overwhelming. So overpowering. So strong.

I can’t do this.

So scared.

Feeling nothing else but the power and magnitude of this.

So out of control, so incapable.

What do I do?

Can I handle this?

There is no way.


Please let this be different.

Please do something.


Why this?

Anger. Confusion. Hurt. Anger toward the Father.

Such deep, deep anguish.

The depth of darkness.


And yet,

He prays.

He cries.

He challenges and struggles and pushes.

He returns to the Father because the Father is the only one who makes him feel grounded.

In the middle of the sea, he trusts his anchor.

Let this cup pass from me.


Not my will, but thine be done.

I trust you.

It hurts and I am scared, but

I trust you.

Whom else can I trust?

You ground me.

If I am to rise up from this ground tonight with any sense of calm, peace, or okayness, it has to be you.

I am so incapable to carry the weight of this myself.

I trust you.

You are carrying this on your shoulders.

You are in control.

You are capable.

I trust you.

For Jesus to get from sweating drops of blood in the garden, praying for the cup to pass form him, to allowing himself to be arrested, tortured, and crucified, he had to know something.

Not just positive thinking.

He had to know within the depths of who he is–

My God is here.

I am grounded down in the Great I Am,

Rooted, anchored in the Beloved Everlasting.

I trust you.

You are here and I trust you.

And again at the cross–

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?



The height and width of this settled down within him.

So out of control.

So overwhelmed.

Why did you leave me?

– Why did you let her die?

Why did you forsake me?

– Why did you put me here if you are just going to take away everything and everyone I love?

But to survive this–

You are my anchor.

Into your hands I commit my spirit.

I trust you.

My God is here.

I am grounded down in his presence.

I am overwhelmed but my God is here.

I am anchored in the Everlasting.

In my anguish, I’m held.

In my anger, I’m anchored.

In my devastation, I’m cared for.

I trust you.

You are in this.

My God is here!

You are my anchor when I am out of control.

My God is here.

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