Staying in my Lane
A priest I know once confessed that he has what he calls “a copy editor’s heart.” He wants to correct everyone’s mistakes.
I laughed when he said it because I immediately recognized the impulse. Not in him. But in me.
There is a part of me that would very much like to edit reality. I would like to improve other people’s decisions. I would like to rewrite awkward conversations, remove unnecessary suffering, and tighten up a few storylines that seem to be wandering aimlessly. Given the opportunity, I could probably identify several plot holes in the universe by lunchtime.
The problem, of course, is that life does not hand out editorial privileges. Most of the stories that trouble me belong to someone else. And many of the problems that consume my attention are not mine to solve.
A friend once gave me a phrase to use in times of trouble: “God's got broad shoulders.” At first, it sounded like a simple statement of faith; now I think it might be a statement about responsibility, or more accurately, about the limits of responsibility. Not everything belongs to me. Not every burden needs to be picked up. Not every problem is mine to solve. Some things are simply too large. Some things are unfolding in ways I cannot see. And some things can only be resolved by time.
A broken bone heals when it heals.
Trust returns when it returns.
Grief softens on its own schedule.
Recovery cannot be forced.
Growth cannot be rushed.
Some things unfold at the speed they unfold, and no amount of anxiety changes the timetable. Unfortunately, that rarely stops me from trying. I replay conversations. I imagine alternate outcomes. I rehearse speeches I will never give. I try to manage other people’s choices from a distance. I wrestle with outcomes that are entirely beyond my control.
The result is usually about as productive as teaching a pig to dance. It doesn’t work, and it annoys the pig.
The problem isn’t a lack of effort. The problem is the assignment. I’m trying to solve a problem that belongs to someone else, or to time, or to God. And those are very different things. I’ve come to understand that it is my pride that is getting in the way of my growth. It is my arrogance that prompts me to involve myself where I am not needed, wanted or helpful.
And I’ve started to suspect that wisdom has less to do with having answers and more to do with recognizing ownership. My grandmother used to tell me to, “sit on my hands and stop trying to push the river.” She was right. A better use of my energy is to stop and think.
Whose problem is this?
Whose decision is this?
Whose lesson is this?
Whose burden is this?
Sometimes the answer is mine. Often it isn’t. When it is mine, I should act.
Tell the truth.
Keep my promises.
Make amends.
Show up.
Do the work.
But when it isn’t mine, perhaps the wiser choice is to step back.
Pray.
Wait.
Trust.
And stop trying to edit chapters that don’t belong to me.
There is a tremendous relief in accepting that I was never asked to carry the entire story, only my part in it. Some things belong to God. Some things belong to other people. And some things simply belong to time.
May God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
