Holding On and Letting Go

When I packed up my house recently, I was surprised by how much of my life fit into boxes. Not just the visible pieces—belongings and keepsakes—but the unseen stories they carried.

Each box felt like a time capsule. A photograph here, a handwritten note there, all whispering fragments of who I’ve been. And as I stacked them one by one, a question kept surfacing like a prayer I didn’t intend to pray: Why do I hold on to all this?

Some of it is love, of course. My grandmother once gave me a faded sheet of photographs filled with the faces of relatives I never knew. Their eyes, fixed in sepia light, seemed to be searching for someone who would remember them. They represented an abundance of stories I would never have known. Throwing them away would feel like abandoning a collection of stories I was entrusted to keep.

But as I stood there surrounded by boxes, I felt the ache of another truth: these memories both anchor and weigh me down. They tether me to where I’ve been—but sometimes keep me from stepping fully into what God is calling me toward.

That’s the tension I keep living in—the holy paradox of holding on and letting go.

The Tender Trap of Remembering

I’ve always been sentimental. I love remembering. I love stories. I can sit for hours with an old photograph or a piece of wood from a long-demolished home and imagine what it once meant to someone.

But I’ve learned that sentimentality, though beautiful, can quietly become a trap. It comforts—but it can also confine. It invites us to gaze backward when life is asking us to move forward.

Memory is a gift, but when memory becomes our dwelling place, we stop living in the present moment where God still speaks.

The truth is, much of what I’ve kept through the years isn’t mine to carry. They were chapters written by other hands—stories I inherited but was never meant to complete.

There’s a quiet kind of courage in release.

It isn’t defiance. It’s worship. It's a focus on the present.   It’s saying to God, “You are the Keeper of my story now.”

And still—it’s hard, very hard. It's like you can't say a proper goodbye. Because letting go always feels like loss, until you realize it’s actually trust. Trust that God has more for you.  Much more.

My Father’s Story

In one of those boxes, I found something that stilled me: two framed proclamations—one from the local City Council and one from the Texas House of Representatives—honoring my father.

I had forgotten they even existed.

When I was in medical school, a man armed with an automatic weapon walked into my father’s high school lobby. He was the principal and saw himself as the protector of the 2,000 students under his watch. It was just before the class bell—a heartbeat away from tragedy. My father’s office was nearby. He heard the shots, and without hesitation, stepped out into the gunfire.

He called to the man. Somehow, miraculously, the shooter stopped. My dad spoke softly but sternly.  In that holy pause, something shifted. The gunman recognized my father—the same man who had once shown him compassion when he was struggling with a serious personal trauma. In that instant of remembered grace, the man lowered his weapon and laid it on the floor in front of him. My father picked up the gun, led him into his office, and waited for the police. Not one student was hurt.

My dad never spoke of it again.

Decades later, reading those proclamations, I felt a deep ache of pride—and reverence. A sense of who has shaped my life. My father wasn’t reckless; he was rooted. What moved him wasn’t adrenaline, but character formed in the quiet unseen days before that one defining moment. You see bravery is an instant and intuitive act that occurs before fear can take shape. However, I believe it is built on a foundation of daily decisions over time that shape a special type of courage.

That’s what I now call infinitesimal courage—the small, steady choices that build the muscles of faith and character before crisis ever comes.

Because when the world shakes, we don’t rise to the occasion.  We fall to the level of our formation.

The Sacred Madness of Courage

There’s a fine line between courage and madness. My father could have been killed that day. But sometimes, to follow God’s leading is to step into the line of fire—not from recklessness, but from conviction.

In the moment, bravery and courage rarely look wise. To the spectator, it all looks foolish, even reckless. Only later, through the lens of grace, do we see it for what it was—faith that refused to flinch. The unshaken life doesn’t avoid risk. It moves through fear with an anchored heart.

That’s what my father showed me: courage is not the absence of fear—it’s the presence of a love that is strong enough to cast it aside.

A Room to Breathe Again

Now, in this new home, I’ve set up a small writing room. Light filters through the window differently here. The walls don’t hold the echoes of old pain. As I placed my father’s proclamation on the desk, something shifted inside me.

This isn’t just a writing space; it’s a sanctuary of renewal. A space where my soul can breathe again. A space not defined by what was, but open to what’s being restored.

I’m learning that we honor the past best not by living in it, but by allowing its lessons to shape how we love today.

The past will always whisper its stories—of laughter, of birth, of loss, of becoming. The future will always beckon with its own demands. But the only sacred ground we ever truly stand on is now. Jesus said in Matthew 6:34, "Therefore don't worry about tomorrow because tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."

To live unshaken is to live present—to trust that God holds both the story behind and the one ahead. My father’s courage wasn’t rooted in what was behind him; it was born in the quiet confidence that God was with him in that moment.

That’s what I long for too:  A life rooted deeply enough to remember, yet light enough to move forward when called.  A life where love steadies my hands, and trust frees my heart.  A life unshaken not because the storms never come—but because the One who holds me never lets go.

Closing Reflection

Maybe that’s what “letting go” truly is—not losing, but entrusting.  Not forgetting, but releasing what is no longer ours to carry.  Not abandoning the story but giving it back to the Author.

We are not meant to live buried under what once was.  We are meant to live awake to what still is.

And in that surrender—between holding on and letting go—  we finally find the steady heartbeat of the unshaken life.