Here I am, but an instrument, trying to conduct the orchestra. Why, I wonder, do things sound out-of-tune? Why, I ask, is everyone in the wrong place? How, I moan, will all this disorder be put right?
I’m always trying to be in control, even though I know that without God driving, my car can’t handle the off-roading that lies ahead. Without God in that driver’s seat, I miss all the good scenery and all the peaceful parts of the trip. What must the professional driver think when the cocky amateur takes the racecar around a dangerous curve? It’s no wonder I crash and burn with my lack of knowledge about the racetrack.
The ocean sighs.
The conductor steps up.
The clean-up crew arrives to make the best of the wreck.
Just when I think I’m in the right place, the door slams shut…on my fingers. In the scream of pain, I see clearly that I am but a grain of sand, an instrument, a passenger.
Thy will, not my will.