“Jesus, Take the Wheel—But Turn Left Here.”

I had just found a way to steal a minute to myself between homeschool lessons and decided to doom-scroll until my brain stopped making noise. I opened my social media drug of choice, and immediately the first two beats of “Sabotage” by the Beastie Boys blasted through my phone speakers and I knew I was in for a treat.

This song has carried me through so many situations: uphill after a six-mile run, into soccer tournaments, out of the rage left by a conflict, or simply through the need to scream in the car. It’s the sort of resurrection song that can call forth the last shred of will you need to finish the job. The scream arrives at just the right moment to release whatever you’ve been holding back.

It has been my faithful companion for quite some time. This time, though, it was paired with a video whose subject matter suggested a “Jesus, Take the Wheel” moment. Naturally, my interest was piqued.

There Jesus was, robed and in sandals, taking the wheel while some poor fella rode as a reluctant passenger, headed back toward his purpose after he’d strayed. Screaming in the back. Kicking the front passenger seat as he became airborne. Regretting his lack of a seat belt as his face pressed against the roof of the car. Jesus ducking and dodging with divine precision as He gently reminded him that He is the Way.

I chuckled because sometimes it does feel like that. Sometimes His way feels like being flung around in the backseat of some jankety car with no shock absorption that we never elected to ride in, desperately searching for the door handle so we can get out, however messy the outcome. Sometimes it feels like my face print is permanently embedded in the cheap fabric still somewhat lining the roof of my minivan, with the seat belt forever out of reach—or covered in something sticky.

Then I thought about the times in my life that have felt like that: out of control, painful, full of regret, airborne and reaching chaotically for something solid.

Not all of those circumstances were mine to choose. In fact, some of them chose me. Some things just happen to us, and calling them a lesson in surrender doesn’t make them good. I don’t believe every pothole was placed there by God, or that every collision was my fault. Still, there have been moments when I’ve known it was time to let go of the wheel…and hesitated. 

I recognized something about myself in those moments. I was begging God to take over while a tiny part of me kept white-knuckling the wheel—or offering unsolicited advice from the backseat.

I wanted Him to drive. I just wanted to keep a hand on the steering wheel in case I didn’t like where we were going. I wanted to give directions if I thought He was wrong, or I knew a better route.

“Jesus, take the wheel—but turn left here.”

“Please drive this train wreck—but make sure we get there by five.”

I can laugh at that version of myself because she is painfully familiar. She has prayed for guidance and then spent the rest of the day trying to negotiate the answer. She has asked for peace while rehearsing every possible disaster. She has said, “Your will be done,” while quietly adding, “provided it looks enough like mine.”

So what has that looked like in my life?

Jesus, take the wheel with my finances—but after I buy these shoes. Oh, and not on Fridays.

Jesus, take the wheel with my health—but I can still eat whatever I want, right?

Jesus, take the wheel with my teenagers. Give me patience—but freely, please, not through a lesson that requires me to practice it.

It’s not that I don’t mean my prayers. I do. I just want surrender to feel more like handing over a set of keys and less like watching someone take a turn I wouldn’t have chosen. I want to trust Him without having to tolerate uncertainty. I want the comfort of being led and the comfort of being in control, and I keep discovering I can’t have both at once.

So I grab for the wheel again. I make a plan, revise the plan, worry over the plan, and look for signs that the plan is working. When life still doesn’t follow my route, I find myself wondering whether God ever took the wheel at all.

But maybe the harder question is whether I let go of it in the first place.

I want to be clear: surrender doesn’t mean sitting quietly through harm or calling someone else’s choices God’s will. It doesn’t mean giving up the ability to think, decide, set a boundary, or pull over when something is unsafe. It means noticing when fear has convinced me that I must control everything before I can be okay. It means asking for His wisdom in the next choice I can make, even when I can’t see ten miles down the road.

Maybe surrender is less dramatic than I’ve made it. Maybe it isn’t one grand, serene moment when I toss the keys to Jesus and never reach for them again. Maybe it’s a hundred small moments of catching my hand halfway to the wheel.

A breath before I try to force an outcome. A prayer before I answer in anger. The humility to admit that my preferred route isn’t the only one that might get me home.

I don’t know where every road leads, aaaand I still reach for the wheel. I suspect there will always be a part of me in the backseat shouting directions over “Sabotage,” convinced that if I could just see around the next bend, I could relax. Meanwhile, I’m trying to peel something sticky off the seat belt and wondering who let me leave the house with an open cup in the first place.

But perhaps the next time I find myself bracing for impact, I can pause long enough to ask: Am I responding to the road in front of me, or am I fighting the turn because I didn’t choose it?

If there’s danger in front of me, I can act. I can ask for help, set a boundary, and make the next wise choice available to me. But if what frightens me is simply that I can’t see the whole route, gripping harder won’t make the road appear. I know because I’ve tried. I’ve leaned so far between the front seats to study the windshield that I’ve missed the chance to look out my own window.

Maybe trust begins with sitting back just enough to notice where I am. To breathe. To listen. To admit that I’m scared without treating fear as proof that we’re headed the wrong way.

I’ll probably offer directions again. I’ll probably say, “Are You sure?” at least twice before the next turn. But I can catch myself reaching, uncurl my fingers, and remember who I asked to drive.

And when “Sabotage” comes on again, I can save the screaming for the chorus—when I’m airborne—but buckled. Hands in the air, but not grasping for the “oh shit handles.” Enjoying the ride without letting my fear cloud the view from my window. Living my life as it was intended the whole time. 

With You in the Grasping,

Emily

Ash and Bloom