As some of you know, my father in Michigan is suffering from both Parkinson’s and dementia. He is still at home, and my mother is still able to care for him. He’s gentle and good-humored, and I’m grateful to be able to visit as often as I can.

But it’s terrible to watch his decline and the toll it has taken on both him and my mom. He was a machinist, a mechanic, and a builder, with a great engineering mind despite no formal education. Parkinson’s took his hands first, but dementia is worse—and as much as I would like all the time I can get with him, it’s hard to see him like this.

I’ve prayed for healing, and I know God could do it in an instant if He wants—but so far that’s not His plan. So what should I pray for?

For a while, I said, “Lord, please don’t make this any harder than it has to be.” Of course, He never does. He couldn’t. God doesn’t sit on His throne dishing out a little extra suffering here and there for fun. He who is All Good, who is Love, can only will the good for us.

So what do I ask for? What do I want?

Of course, I desire Heaven for my father—but not at the moment. Right now, I just want him back. Back the way he was. I want relief and peace and joy again for my mom. I want to wake without the stab of sorrow and guilt in my heart that I’m too far away to do more. I want all of you to be able to say, “Hey, how have you been?” and not get 20 minutes of heartache and tears. I want I want I want…

And I know God is good, all the time. I know others have it worse than we do. I know I know I know. But I still want.

Now hope that sees for itself is not hope. For who hopes for what one sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait with endurance. In the same way, the Spirit too comes to the aid of our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit itself intercedes with inexpressible groanings.

Romans 8:24-26

I don’t know how to pray. Sometimes I try words. Sometimes I try tears. Sometimes I shake my head and laugh and say, “Lord, you know. Only you know.” And I try to surrender—to place it all in His hands.

I surrender my dad. I surrender my mom and her needs. I surrender my sister, who is closer to home and helps more than I can. I surrender my marriage and family and work, all of which have been so accommodating to my travel in support of my folks. I surrender our children and grandchildren. I surrender home projects, future plans, writing, homebrewing, whatever it takes, because this is where we are right now. I must do whatever it takes.

So I try to surrender everything, and in the end, I still feel stuck. I don’t know what to do.

And then it dawns on me: Everything I have surrendered to the Lord is already His. I have given Him nothing; I am merely, FINALLY, admitting that all of this is beyond my control. The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away.

In the end, I have only one thing to surrender—the only thing He has given me that I am free to do with as I please: my will.

Why do I struggle to pray? Because I don’t want what He wants—even though I know it must be for the good. I have set my will against Him.

Every day, multiples times a day, I pray in the Our Father, “Thy will be done.” I am not sure I’ve ever meant it before today.

But He’s a good, good Father. Better than my own, if I can imagine that. He desires the good for my folks, and for me, and for you, if we can only bow our heads and raise our hands to receive it.

Please, pray that I find the strength to surrender my will to the Lord. I will pray the same for you.