Train My Mind for What Is True

“Finally, believers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable and worthy of respect, whatever is right and confirmed by God’s word, whatever is pure and wholesome, whatever is lovely and brings peace, whatever is admirable and of good repute; if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think continually on these things [center your mind on them, and implant them in your heart].” Philippians 4:8 (AMP)

Father,

Tonight I repent of rehearsing worst-case scenarios about my future. And I ask You for a mind trained to notice what is good, what is true, what is lovely, what is praiseworthy, even while I am still in transition.

Lord, You know how my mind works.

I think deeply.

I analyze.

I process.

I replay.

Sometimes somebody can treat me badly in a shop and instead of simply acknowledging,

That interaction was unpleasant,

I take it home with me.

I examine it.

I interpret it.

I replay the words.

I try to work out what the person meant.

I create explanations.

I create motives.

I build an entire story around one moment.

Sometimes even in friendships, instead of confronting something directly, I sit with it.

I meditate on it.

I analyze it for days.

I can have dinner with somebody and come home and think about that dinner for days afterwards.

What did she mean by that?

Why did she say it like that?

Did something change?

Was there something underneath the conversation?

And before long, Father, I have constructed an entire story—

sometimes without ever checking whether the story is true.

The same analytical mind that helps me in my work, the mind that notices patterns,

tests assumptions,

anticipates risk,

asks questions,

looks around corners, can become unhealthy when I turn it loose on my life without discipline.

At work, scenario analysis has value.

Risk identification has value.

Planning has value.

But I am beginning to see that I sometimes live as though my personal life is a risk register.

What could go wrong?

How would I respond?

What would I do if this doesn’t happen?

What is Plan B?

What is Plan C?

How will I survive?

And Father, I want to say something carefully tonight.

I do not believe I am a negative person.

I am grateful.

I look for things to celebrate.

I laugh.

I hope.

I enjoy life.

I can see goodness.

But I also recognize something underneath all of that.

I rehearse overcoming.

I have many stories in my mind about how I will overcome things that have not happened.

I imagine disappointment and then imagine how I will survive it.

I imagine unanswered prayer and then build the life I will create around the unanswered prayer.

I imagine being alone and then design the community that will make being alone bearable.

I imagine career disappointment and then prepare myself emotionally for how I will recover.

And tonight I realize:

I am sometimes making provision for pain that has not arrived.

I am preparing myself for battles You have not told me I will fight.

I am rehearsing victories over enemies that may never come.

I am building shelters from storms that are not on the horizon.

And Father, that is not harmless.

Because every time I rehearse the worst-case scenario,

I am giving mental space to something that is not true.

Your Word does not say:

Whatever could go wrong, think continually about these things.

It says:

Whatever is true.

So Father, teach me to ask:

Is this true?

Not, Could this happen?

Not, Has this happened to somebody else?

Not, Would I survive if it happened?

But:

Is this true right now?

Is it true that I will be alone?

No.

I don’t know that.

Is it true that my prayer for companionship will not be answered?

No.

I don’t know that.

Is it true that my career will not unfold beautifully from here?

No.

I don’t know that.

Is it true that disappointment is waiting for me?

No.

I don’t know that.

Is it true that I need to emotionally prepare today for tomorrow’s hypothetical loss?

No.

That is not truth.

That is fear trying to disguise itself as preparation.

And Father, I repent.

I repent for giving fear a sophisticated name.

I repent for calling it planning when sometimes it is unbelief.

I repent for calling it realism when sometimes it is self-protection.

I repent for calling it wisdom when sometimes it is simply anxiety rehearsed quietly.

I repent for building emotional cushions around prayers before You have answered them.

Because tonight I can see something that I did not see clearly before.

I have become very good at leaving room for disappointment.

Almost as though I am saying:

Lord, I am asking You for this—but don’t worry, I have already worked out how I will cope if You don’t give it to me.

And perhaps on the surface that sounds mature.

Perhaps it sounds surrendered.

Perhaps it sounds like:

Your will be done.

But Father, search my heart.

Because sometimes underneath,

Your will be done,

there is another sentence:

I don’t really believe You will do this for me.

And that hurts to admit.

Because I know Your power.

I know Your goodness.

I know You answer prayer.

I have watched You answer prayers I prayed for other people.

I have stood beside women who were waiting for children.

I prayed.

And babies came.

I have prayed with women longing for companionship and marriage.

And I have watched answers come.

I have seen doors open for people.

I have seen lives change.

I have seen Your hand.

So my struggle is not intellectual.

I know You are able.

My struggle is more personal:

But will You do it for me?

And Father, sometimes my heart whispers:

What about me?

What about my prayers?

What about the things I have waited for?

What about the things that have remained unanswered?

What about the hopes that have taken years?

And then almost immediately,

I correct myself.

I tell myself not to be ungrateful.

I remind myself of everything You have done.

I say:

Even if You don’t answer, I will be okay.

And there is truth in that.

I do want to trust Your sovereignty.

I do want to worship You whether I receive what I ask for or not.

But tonight I recognize that sometimes my:

Even if You don’t…

does not come from the faith of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego.

They said, in essence:

Our God is able to deliver us. And even if He does not, He is still God.

Their even if came after:

He is able.

Sometimes mine begins somewhere else.

Mine sometimes sounds like:

He probably won’t. But when He doesn’t, I will still love Him.

Father, heal that.

Because that is not the same thing.

One is surrender.

The other is resignation.

One says:

I believe God can. I believe God may. I trust Him if He chooses differently.

The other says:

I expect disappointment, and I am trying to spiritualize my expectation.

Father,

forgive me.

Forgive me for hiding unbelief behind humility.

Forgive me for hiding fear behind surrender.

Forgive me for hiding resignation behind,

Let Your will be done.

Let Your will be done, yes.

Always.

But let me say it with a heart that still believes You are able.

Let me say it with expectation.

Let me say it without writing the ending before You do.

Let me say it without quietly deciding that Your will must mean disappointment for me.

Because perhaps that is another belief You are renewing:

Your goodness does not automatically mean my suffering.

Your sovereignty does not mean I must expect loss.

Your holiness does not mean You are reluctant to bless me.

Your will is not synonymous with disappointment.

You are not a God I need to emotionally brace myself against.

Father, forgive me for the places where I have thought of You that way.

Heal me.

Heal the part of my heart that expects other people to receive what I long for while I learn to live without it.

Heal the part of me that has become more comfortable imagining how I will survive unanswered prayer than imagining how I will receive answered prayer.

Heal the part of me that is fluent in coping but hesitant in expectation.

Heal the part of me that knows how to prepare for disappointment but feels vulnerable preparing for joy.

Because tonight I realize:

sometimes hope feels dangerous.

Hope leaves the heart exposed.

If I hope fully,

I could be disappointed.

If I expect good,

I might have to grieve.

If I allow myself to imagine answered prayer,

perhaps the absence of the answer will hurt more.

So I create a buffer.

I leave an escape route.

I build Plan B before I have even walked fully into Plan A.

I tell myself:

At least if this doesn’t happen, I can do this.

And sometimes that is practical wisdom.

But sometimes it is emotional armor.

And tonight I ask You for discernment to know the difference.

Father, even something as simple as the future I sometimes imagine with friends—

a compound where everyone has their own home,

where we create family and community around one another, there is nothing inherently wrong with that dream.

Community is beautiful.

Friendship is beautiful.

Building a life with people you love is beautiful.

But Holy Spirit, You showed me something underneath the way I sometimes imagine it.

Sometimes I am not merely dreaming about community.

I am making provision for the assumption that the companionship I am praying for will never come.

I am saying:

If I never have a husband, at least I will have this.

And again, there is nothing wrong with building a rich life now.

I do not want to postpone joy until marriage.

I do not want to treat singleness as a waiting room.

I want to live fully today.

But Father, there is a difference between living fully now and quietly writing off tomorrow.

So teach me that difference.

Let me build friendship without using friendship as a consolation prize.

Let me build community because community is good, not because I have already concluded that another prayer will remain unanswered.

Let me create a beautiful life today without deciding what You cannot add to it tomorrow.

I don’t want to build my future around Your imagined absence.

I want to build my life around Your presence.

And Father, perhaps this is the heart of Philippians 4:8 for me tonight.

Think about what is true.

Truth:

You are with me.

Truth:

You love me.

Truth:

You hear me.

Truth:

You have been faithful.

Truth:

I do not know tomorrow.

Truth:

You are already there.

Truth:

My unanswered questions are not evidence of abandonment.

Truth:

delay is not the same as denial.

Truth:

another person’s answered prayer does not mean You have forgotten mine.

Truth:

I am allowed to hope.

Truth:

I am allowed to ask boldly.

Truth:

I am allowed to receive good things from You.

Truth:

I do not have to rehearse tragedy in order to be prepared for life.

Truth:

if difficulty comes tomorrow, tomorrow will also contain grace.

I do not need to borrow tomorrow’s trouble today.

Father, that changes something.

Because perhaps I have been trying to pre-live suffering so that if it arrives, it will hurt less.

But suffering does not become lighter because I suffered it twice, once in imagination,

and once in reality.

And if the thing never happens,

then I have carried pain You never gave me.

So tonight I release imaginary suffering.

I release hypothetical funerals.

I release hypothetical loneliness.

I release hypothetical rejection.

I release hypothetical career failure.

I release hypothetical abandonment.

I release conversations that have never happened.

I release conclusions nobody has spoken.

I release motives I have assigned to people without asking them.

I release futures You have not written.

I release worst-case scenarios.

I release the need to prove to myself that I could survive them.

Father, I already know something greater:

If tomorrow contains difficulty, You will be there.

That is enough.

I do not need tomorrow’s strategy tonight.

I need today’s grace today.

And tomorrow’s grace will meet tomorrow’s woman.

Father, train my mind.

This will require grace.

Because this way of thinking is practiced.

It is familiar.

It feels productive.

It can make me feel in control.

So I ask You to interrupt me.

When I start creating stories,

interrupt me.

When I replay one conversation for the twentieth time,

interrupt me.

When I start assigning motives,

interrupt me.

When I begin planning how I will recover from something that hasn’t happened,

interrupt me.

When I build emotional cushions around unanswered prayer,

interrupt me.

Ask me:

Is it true?

And if it is not true,

teach me not to meditate on it.

Whatever is true, let me think on that.

Whatever is honorable, let me think on that.

Whatever is right and confirmed by Your Word let me think on that.

Whatever is pure let me think on that.

Whatever is lovely let me think on that.

Whatever brings peace let me think on that.

Whatever is admirable—

let me think on that.

Whatever is excellent—

let me think on that.

Whatever is worthy of praise—

let me think on that.

Not superficially.

Not pretending that difficult things do not exist.

Not refusing to address real problems.

Not becoming naive.

But refusing to make fear my meditation.

Father, give me the courage to deal with reality instead of imagination.

If somebody hurts me,

teach me to address what actually happened rather than creating ten explanations for why it happened.

If a friendship changes,

give me courage to ask questions.

If something at work concerns me,

give me wisdom to respond to the evidence in front of me.

If I don’t know,

teach me to say:

I don’t know.

Instead of filling the unknown with fear.

Father, I think that might be one of the most peaceful sentences You can teach me:

I don’t know yet.

I don’t know what that person meant.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.

I don’t know exactly how my career will unfold.

I don’t know whether every prayer will be answered in the form I imagine.

I don’t know.

But I know You.

And that is enough information for today.

Father, train me to notice goodness in transition.

Because transition can make the mind hyper-aware of uncertainty.

What is changing?

What could go wrong?

Where am I going?

What will happen?

But while all those questions exist,

there is still goodness.

There is still food on my table.

There is still laughter.

There are still people who love me.

There is still work.

There is still health to steward.

There are still new rooms to enter.

There are still conversations to enjoy.

There are still books to read.

There are still prayers to pray.

There are still mornings.

There is still mercy.

There is still Your presence.

So don’t let transition become so loud that I cannot hear gratitude.

Don’t let uncertainty become so big that I cannot see beauty.

Don’t let one unanswered prayer erase twenty answered ones.

Don’t let what is missing become more real to me than what is present.

Father, I repent of rehearsing worst-case scenarios.

And I receive grace to live differently.

I receive grace to hope without building an escape route around every hope.

I receive grace to pray without immediately planning for disappointment.

I receive grace to say,

Your will be done,

from a place of trust rather than resignation.

I receive grace to believe:

You can do this for me too.

And whatever You choose,

You will still be good.

That is surrender.

Not:

You probably won’t.

But:

You absolutely can.

You may.

I ask boldly.

I wait openly.

And I trust You completely.

Father, make my mind a place where truth can live.

Make my imagination a servant of faith rather than fear.

Let me imagine possibilities that honour Your goodness.

Let me imagine myself receiving joy without immediately imagining how it could be taken away.

Let me imagine answered prayer without embarrassment.

Let me imagine good things without feeling foolish.

Let me hope.

Let me hope.

Let me hope.

And when fear says,

But what if…?

teach me to answer:

What is true today?

Today

God is good.

Today

God is faithful.

Today

God is with me.

Today

I am loved.

Today

I am provided for.

Today

I am being renewed.

Today

I do not know the ending.

And today

I refuse to write one out of fear.

You are the Author.

I will let You write.

In the mighty name of Jesus Christ,

Amen.