“You can’t take it with you.”

I’ve heard those words so many times. We came into this world with nothing, and when we die, we will leave with nothing. Everything we gain will be left behind. That’s true not only of material possessions–house, clothes, books, and all the daily items we use or enjoy–but also of our jobs, our relationships, and our ministries. We will be gone, and someone else will take our place. A Josh Ritter lyric comes to mind: “That’s the sad thing with life. There’s people always leaving just as other folks arrive.”

While this is difficult to reckon with, I find it harder perhaps to reckon with the fact that even during my lifetime, hardly anything is meant to last the entire length of my days. I pass from infancy to childhood to adolescence to adulthood, and there are various stages of adulthood, various roles I might play: wife, aunt, mother, grandmother, Sunday School teacher, nursing home resident, and more.

Here’s another truism: “Change is the only constant.”

Scripture and experience attest to the fact that there are seasons to life; it never stays the same (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8). In order to live joyfully, we’ve got to embrace this. I know I’m in a season of change right now. Some of the changes, I have discerned and feel ready to effect. Others, I’m still teasing out.

In preparation for this season (though unbeknownst to me), over the past year or so an image has come to me repeatedly. I see my hands in front of me, lifted up. They are open, and I’m able to receive blessings. I’m also able to let go when change comes, and my hands are open to receive what’s next. I aspire to live this way. All too often, though, the image and the reality are different. My hands are closed, gripping tight to what I have. Fearful. Fixed on one thing. Determined there’s only one possibility or circumstance or gift or way of serving others. Unwilling to consider anything else.

Intellectually, I realize most of what I have in life–and life itself–is given. I didn’t ask to be born at this time in this place to these people. I’m just here. This is me, and I’ve got to deal with that. Even those parts of life I think I have more control over, like my career, have an element of givenness. Just as one example, not every company I apply with calls me for an interview. My choices are restricted.

As a Christian, I recognize God as the ultimate giver of life. I believe He maintains sovereign control over the world. I don’t believe He causes every circumstance, but I believe He at least allows them all and could stop any of them or intervene in any situation at any point if it is His will. And if that is true, the converse is true: God the giver is also God the taker.

Sometimes, this taking is welcome. Jesus took my sin upon Himself on the cross and offered me new life through His resurrection. Yes! Amen! Hallelujah! But when God takes something that He gave, and I’m not ready to give it up, I have a hard time accepting it. Once something has been given to me, I want to keep it. I think, “It’s mine.” I don’t think of myself as stewarding this relationship, this ministry, this job, whatever it is at the time. It’s mine. I own it. I’m entitled to it. 

And there’s the problem.

Entitlement gets messy. It sets up in my heart and brings pride, insecurity, jealousy, envy, narrowmindedness. Before I know it, I’m trapped. It’s only when I hold the gifts of life with open hands that I find freedom and joy.

We know from nature that living living things move, change, and grow. When stagnation sets in, death isn’t far behind. Why should I expect my life to break the mold? Things aren’t going to stay the same. “Behold! I am making all things new!” This is God’s stirring proclamation at the end of the Bible (Revelation 21:5).  Again, why should I expect–if I belong to God–that my life would be different? Even now, I am a new creation in Christ (2 Corinthians 5:17). 

So I want to live with open hands. If God takes something away from me, I want to have faith that trusts He does it for my good. That what He gives in its place will be even better. For ultimately, He gives Himself.  We’re all on our way to a wedding, remember (Revelation 19:6-9)? I want faith that trusts He is greater than any gift He gives. Faith that’s excited by change, by growth, by movement. That longs for new creation (Romans 8:19-23).

Little by little, God is stoking the fire of my faith. As my frozen death-grip on what I have now thaws, I’m able to live into the vision of being open-handed. I see change as a gift. I treasure what I have now, certainly, but I realize it isn’t meant to last forever. I can treasure what comes next instead of fearing it.

And now I close with a verse that’s quoted about as often as those two truisms I opened with: “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28). All things. Things He gives, things He takes, things He allows, things we must remove. If I just let go, He will make something beautiful that glorifies Him out of it all. 

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Title credit: “Feels Like Letting Go” by Matthew Perryman Jones