Control

Letting Go of the Handle

ONE SUNDAY afternoon after worship, I ran a few errands to prepare for the week ahead. Somewhere between stops, my gas warning light came on. Thankfully, a station was nearby, so I pulled in and began to fill my truck.

As the numbers on the pump ticked up, a voice from the direction of a nearby liquor store cut through the air—loud, angry, and laced with profanity. Though I couldn’t see him at first, the man’s outrage seemed tied to the price of his favorite whiskey. From what I could piece together, he’d settled on a bottle of scuppernong wine instead, all the while shouting for the world to hear.

Midway through filling my tank, he suddenly appeared. Standing about 30 feet behind me, he was clad in an old Army coat far too vintage for his age, he spit, but mostly on himself, and began barking threats—explicit, violent ones—at me.

I stayed quiet. Still. Watching. Planning.

If needed, maybe a stream of gasoline to the face would buy me a few seconds.

But without warning, he saluted, turned, and marched off down the street—singing horribly something I didn’t recognize.

I stood still, half-tank full and grateful it hadn’t gone any further. Also, I hate wasting gas. Especially at $3.79 a gallon.

That night, I thought about what happened. The man had clearly lost control. But then came a more uncomfortable thought: So have I—just in subtler ways.

Control is a familiar struggle for me. Maybe it is for you too.

Despite my best efforts, I’ve come to realize how little I actually control. I’ve worn the mask of “I’ve got this” while feeling deep down like I didn’t have a clue. And still, I clung to the handle—desperate to shape the outcome.

I remember watching an old home movie of me and my dad making ice cream. It was one of those old manual crank machines. He did most of the work, but I insisted on helping. As the handle became harder to turn, I gripped tighter—determined to prove I could do it.

At one point, his hand swung the metal crank around and accidentally knocked me in the face. Years later I later realized—it wasn’t carelessness. It was protection. He had shielded me from the bare metal, taking the impact for me.

Still, I didn’t let go.

That old memory feels like a parable now.

We insist on keeping our hands on the crank—on the controls—trying to manage what only God truly holds, only to discover, again, it isn't sustainable. But it is human.

Psalm 46:10 offers the better way: “Be still and know that I am God.” In Hebrew, it means: Let go. Release your grip. Stop plowing forward. And experience that only I AM is—the One truly in control.

Colossians 1 echoes this truth: “Everything began in Him and finds its purpose in Him… and He holds it all together right up to this moment.”

Wiser now, I see that I should simply to do what God asks of me—and trust Him with the rest. He is the only One who knows how to finish the work without bruising me in the process. The only One who knows what I truly hunger for—and how to make it perfectly delicious.

He’s the Father who let me keep my hand on the handle just long enough to know I could trust His. He’s always known what I needed—and how to keep me safe, even from myself.

Prayer

Heavenly Father, forgive me for the many times I’ve clung to control, convinced that my striving could hold my world together. Teach me how to let go—not out of fear or failure, but in faith. Remind me daily that You are already holding all things, including me. When I grow restless, anxious, or uncertain, quiet my soul with the truth of who You are—and who I am not. You've no need of sleep. You never falter. You never stop loving. Today, I release my grip and take hold of Your Peace. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

© March, 2019, revised July 2025; Gary Landerfelt mypericope.com