We went to Cape Cod a few weeks ago. It’s a favorite place with my favorite beach. When we are there, I go to the beach alone in the morning to pray. It’s easy—there’s a lot of privacy—the dog walkers might wave, and I can wave back. The surfers are out in the waves. No one is sunbathing.

I take time at the water’s edge to write the names of each person I love on the edge of the shore and watch to see the water come up and take the prayer away. Sometimes I write the names of people I struggle with—coworkers, former friends, and yes, relatives. I have left many prayers on the beach. Many fears, dreams, people I love and people that scare me. I have cried many tears with those prayers and let the ocean’s saltwater wash away my salty tears. Sometimes the healing or resolution happens right there at the water’s edge, and many times it happens later that day or week or month.

It is always some form of surrender.

I live in the gap between wanting to make a complete surrender, making that surrender for a moment, and then, seeing, even as I walk back to my car some fear returns and my wish to control something or someone is already back in my head.

Surrender is such an imperfect process, but I do think it is a process. I really do wonder about people who say they have done it and it’s done. Do they really never worry again? Worry means I still think I can affect an outcome. Curiosity might be the antithesis of worry. Being able after surrender, to wonder: “I wonder how God is going to play this one out?”

These are the things I surrender and later worry about: my job, his job, my health, his health, money, in-laws, kids and aging.

Maybe this worry habit of mine too is something I need to surrender.

Over and over, I surrender and return to these things. But just the surrendering of them makes them different—if only for a minute I am willing.

The ocean’s rhythm is familiar; in and out, in and out, washing, soothing, wearing me down.