Trusting God with What You Can’t Control
A Parable for the Heart that Won’t Stop Gripping the Wheel
The River of “What If”
There was once a woman named Elena who lived in a valley carved by a restless river. The water was wide but gentle—until the spring rains came. Then it rose without warning, snapping branches from its banks, turning placid eddies into whirling currents.
Elena hated spring.
As a child, she’d watched that river flood their small town square. She remembered sandbags, frantic neighbors, her father’s furrowed brow. Somewhere inside her, the roar of runoff became a vow: If I can control the river, I can protect the ones I love.
Years passed. Elena grew into the sort of person people relied on. She managed spreadsheets at work, menu plans at home, the social calendar for her church. She was always a little tired but a lot competent—until last March, when three storms arrived back-to-back and the river slipped its banks again.
Elena stood on the porch of her childhood home (now hers), heart thumping. She had a new stash of sandbags, but the water rose faster than her shoveling hands. For the first time she felt something crack: I can’t hold it back.
That night, soaked to the bone, Elena whispered, “God, why can’t You just stop the rain?”
Only silence answered—yet something in her soul whispered back: Maybe the river was never yours to control. Elena scowled. She hated that thought almost as much as she feared the flood.
The Invitation to the Boathouse
The next morning, bleary-eyed, Elena found an envelope tucked under her door. Cream paper, simple script:
“Come to the old boathouse by sunset.
Bring nothing heavy.”
She almost laughed at the absurdity—nothing heavy? She was made of heaviness these days. But curiosity tugged her through the drizzle toward the abandoned boathouse upstream.
Inside, lilac light filtered through broken boards. In the center stood a boat—freshly tarred, sturdy, with oars resting across its benches. Beside it stood an elderly man whose eyes carried the calm weight of years.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, as though they’d met before.
Elena frowned. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet,” he said, “but your Father sent me.”
She bristled. “My father’s been gone five years.”
“I meant your heavenly Father,” he replied gently. “I’m simply a ferryman. People call me Keeper.”
Elena crossed her arms. “I don’t need a boat. I need a dam.”
“Perhaps,” Keeper said, “but dams crack. Boats float.”
He gestured to the empty bench. “Would you trust me to row?”
Elena’s chest tightened. The river outside thundered. She pictured being swept downstream powerless. “I’m not a passenger,” she muttered.
Keeper’s eyes didn’t waver. “You’ve been captain for a long time. How’s that burden feel?”
Elena swallowed.
“Bring nothing heavy, Elena. Leave the sandbags here. Come sit.”
The Slow Drift
Against her instincts, she stepped inside the boat. Keeper pushed off, and the vessel glided into the current. Elena’s pulse pounded.
“Where are we going?”
“Downstream,” Keeper said, lifting the oars. “Not as far as you fear.”
The current caught them. Elena’s knuckles whitened against the gunwale. She scanned the riverbank for hazards, ready to shout corrections. But Keeper’s strokes were unhurried, eyes fixed ahead with quiet confidence.
Minutes passed, then hours. Something melted in Elena’s chest—first fear into tension, tension into fatigue, fatigue into a strange relief she hadn’t tasted in years. She closed her eyes, and for a breath she felt—rested.
“Why does the river scare you so?” Keeper asked.
“Because it ruined things,” she said. “It took what we built.”
“It took what you thought you could keep,” he corrected softly. “Loss is real, but control is illusion.”
Elena’s jaw trembled.
“What if,” Keeper continued, “the One who made the river loves you more than He loves your ability to manage it?”
The Hidden Edges of Control
Elena stared at the water sliding under the boat. “I’m tired of being afraid,” she whispered.
“Control masquerades as safety,” Keeper said, dipping an oar. “But it costs more energy than surrender ever will.”
He told her a story of a vineyard that tried to prune itself. The vines wrapped around their own branches, choking fruit in an effort to dictate growth. Only when the gardener’s hands cut away excess did the vines bear grapes sweeter than before.
“Pruning looks like loss,” Keeper said, “until harvest shows it was love.”
Elena exhaled, tears hot. “I don’t know how to let go.”
“You don’t have to know,” he answered. “You only have to give the oars to the One who does.”
The Storm They Couldn’t Outrow
A rumble shook the sky. Ahead, dark clouds billowed. Wind lifted spray off choppy water.
Elena panicked. “We need to turn back!”
Keeper didn’t shift. “Storms come. But this boat is built for them.”
Sheets of rain hammered the river. Water sloshed over the sides. Elena bailed frantically, arms burning. “We’re sinking!”
Keeper’s voice was steady. “Look at me, Elena.”
“I have to fix—”
“Look.”
She met his gaze. Calm as a candle sheltered from wind.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“Peace,” she choked.
“Where does peace come from? Your bailing, or my presence?”
Her hands stilled. Rain kept pounding, but something shifted: fear lost its monopoly.
Keeper’s next words were nearly drowned by thunder: “Peace isn’t the absence of storm. It’s the presence of Someone stronger than it.”
The Bend in the River
Hours later, clouds broke into gold strips across the sky. The river widened into a serene inlet Elena had never noticed. Wild irises lined the banks. Atop a hill stood a small cottage—weathered but sound, smoke curling from its chimney.
Keeper guided the boat to shore. “Come,” he said, extending his hand.
They climbed the path. On the cottage porch sat Elena’s childhood rocking chair—the one she’d lost in the first flood. She brushed a tear. “How…?”
“The Father restores,” Keeper said simply. “Sometimes differently than we expect, but always better than we dare imagine.”
He opened the door. Inside, tools lined the walls. Not sandbags, shovels, or boards to barricade against water—just gardening implements, paintbrushes, blank journals stacked neatly.
“This is yours,” he said. “A place to live from trust, not toil.”
Elena ran her fingers over a journal cover etched with one word: Rest.
“I don’t deserve this.”
Keeper smiled. “Grace isn’t earned. It’s received.”
Living Unburdened
They sat in rocking chairs as dusk painted the sky. River sounds drifted below, still wild but no longer menacing. Keeper handed Elena a cup of tea.
“What if the river rises again?” she asked quietly.
“It will,” he said. “Rivers rise and recede. Seasons change. But every flood teaches you to float, and every storm shows you Who still commands the waves.”
Elena’s shoulders dropped. “I want to trust like that.”
He nodded toward the journal. “Then start writing what you can’t control. Hand each line to God.”
Elena opened to the first page and wrote: Weather, outcomes, other people’s choices, tomorrow’s news…
Tears kissed the ink, but she kept writing until heaviness lifted. When she looked up, Keeper was gone, but she sensed she wasn’t alone.
On the final page, she penned a prayer: Father, teach me to ride the river with You, not fight it without You.
She closed the journal. Outside, night insects sang a lullaby. For the first time since the floods, Elena slept deeply, lungs free, heart unburdened.
What This Story Means for Us
Maybe you’ve been sandbagging the banks of your own uncontrollable river—taping anxiety to the windows of your soul, piling self-reliance where surrender should sit. Maybe the storms keep outrunning your best plans.
Friend, hear the invitation:
“Bring nothing heavy. Step into the boat.”
Trust isn’t denial of danger; it’s dependence on a God bigger than it. It’s laying down the illusion that everything rises and falls on your grip. It’s believing:
• His strength shows up where yours ends.
• His peace guards hearts in mid-storm.
• His plans are higher, His timing wiser, His love unwavering.
So unclench the oars. Let the Keeper row. Watch how the river — even wild — can carry you somewhere beautiful you never could’ve engineered.
Because the One who commands the water also counts your tears, and He would rather teach you to float than watch you drown in control.
Tonight, leave the sandbags. Step into rest. Trust the God who knows the current and loves the traveler.
