“Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” feels different when the tension is close to home. Enemy feels like a strong word when shared space no longer means shared connection.

Praying for people to get what they deserve is human nature. Praying in submission with surrender is Christlike. When I do not know what to pray, I simply say, “Lord, whatever it takes.” The outcome rests in His hands, and I trust Him to work where I cannot. Those words came from a place of strain that felt personal and unresolved. I did not know how much that prayer would continue to matter.

Since then, life has shifted in ways I could not have anticipated. My circumstances changed dramatically, but the prayer did not. It continues as I rest and recover.

Jesus’ command in Matthew 5:44 is easy to quote and difficult to live. Enemy sounds like a harsh label when conflict exists without open hostility. Sometimes the tension is quiet. Distance can grow even across the same room.

“Whatever it takes” moves the focus away from my preferences and toward God’s purposes. It acknowledges that He sees what I cannot see, knows what I cannot know, and understands every heart involved. The prayer places the situation in His hands instead of mine.

Since returning home from the hospital, my ability to serve has been limited. Tasks that once felt routine now require planning, assistance, or patience. This forced slowing has removed many distractions. What remains is time to pray. I cannot do everything I want to do, but I can pray all day, every day.

When I pray, “whatever it takes,” I am letting go of all that is not mine to carry.

“Whatever it takes” is not a demand for a specific outcome. It is surrender to God’s will, even when that will involves change in me rather than change in the situation. Sometimes the answer is peace amid unresolved tension. Sometimes it is clarity about what belongs to me and what does not. Sometimes it is the strength to endure a season that has not yet changed.

Praying this way does not excuse harmful behavior, nor does it eliminate the need for wisdom, boundaries, or accountability. Surrender is not passivity. It is trust that transformation belongs to God, not to me.

This season of recovery has brought that truth into the light. I cannot carry everything I once managed. Limitations have allowed me to release things that were never mine to control. Letting go is not weakness. It is obedience.

If you are walking through tension that feels too close, too complicated, or too heavy, you are not alone. This prayer does not require perfect faith or eloquent words. It requires willingness.

Lord, whatever it takes.

Place the outcome in His hands and trust Him to work where you cannot.

He doesn’t mind missing the candles and cake on the actual day. Camp is his happy place. It’s a place where he feels alive, confident, and free. Over the years, he’s built friendships that have lasted. The group chat between his cabin mates is rarely inactive. He pushes himself physically on obstacle courses, overcoming fears and facing new challenges in ways he doesn’t do at home. He’s been spiritually stretched and is often sought out as a prayer warrior or wise counsel among his camp friends.

This year, when I asked him about his favorite part of camp, with the caveat, “Besides your friends,” he said, “The leap of faith.”

I raised my eyebrows at this. “Really?”

You see, my son is not the first to volunteer for heights or big risks of any kind. He tends to think things through carefully. He doesn’t seek out thrills without purpose. He prefers quiet solitude. Most of his “risks” are in the world of video games.

This year, something about the high-ropes elements at camp impacted him greatly. Strapped into a harness, he climbed a tall wooden pole and jumped, reaching for a trapeze bar just out of reach. The goal of the “leap of faith” is simple enough: leap from the platform and grab the bar. When you catch the bar, you soar. If you miss, the harness catches you.

As I listened to him describe the moment, I could hear how his apprehension turned to excitement. This year, his leap of faith felt particularly meaningful. He turned seventeen at camp, and every day feels a bit like climbing that pole. With every choice and plan, the stakes get higher. As parents, we’re on the ground, holding the ropes, shouting encouragement, praying he’ll reach his goals and land safely.

His decisions now carry lasting weight. College and career plans, friendships, and owning his faith. His responsibilities grow as he tests his limits and discovers how far he can go. In many ways, he is leaping, sometimes with confidence and sometimes with fear, but always knowing someone is holding the line. His parents are doing the same, gradually releasing our grip so he can soar.

While he’s still in our home, he has a harness and even a net in the form of boundaries and guidance. His consequences are smaller, with more second chances. We all know the day is coming when the safety net will widen, and his choices will carry him to places we can’t follow.

This season of parenting feels like the high ropes course. We’ve invested in his learning, and we are taking a leap, trusting that we’ve given him what he needs. One day soon, he will soar. Sometimes, he may crash. We take comfort in knowing that even when we’re not the ones holding the rope, God is the truest safety harness.

While he learns to leap, we learn to let go, trusting a faithful Father to hold us both, steadfast and sure, through whatever comes our way.