More like Him

The way is narrow.

So narrow that it presses against me like a threshing floor, sifting away what cannot pass through. To keep walking, I must let go of whole pieces of myself—dreams I once carried like treasures, habits I once wore like garments, identities I once thought defined me. The path makes no room for excess. The further I go, the more I discover that this road demands not just my sin, but also my self.

More of Him. Less of me.

And yet, the letting go is not without pain. To lay down who I thought I was, who I thought I would become, is its own kind of death. Sometimes it feels like grief, like burying a friend I once knew well—the version of myself that I had planned, polished, and promised would be enough. The ache runs deep because it’s not just surrender of what is broken in me, but also what I once thought was beautiful.

The narrow way is not cruel, but it is costly. It takes and takes until only Christ remains. And in the taking, I find myself stripped, vulnerable, and smaller than I ever intended to be. My flesh protests, whispering, hold on—cling to what you were, cling to what you wanted. But the Spirit insists, release it, for what waits ahead is greater than what lies behind.

I’ve learned that grief and glory walk hand in hand here. There is a tearing, but there is also a remaking. There is loss, but it gives way to gain. Every step away from myself feels like exile, but every step toward Him feels like home. The ache of surrender becomes the birthplace of intimacy, because only in the hollowed-out places can He fill me with Himself.

The way is narrow.

But so is the opening of a grave before resurrection bursts forth.

So is the space between pruning shears and springtime fruit.

So is the womb before new life cries out.

And maybe this ache I feel—the grief of losing parts of who I thought I was—is not a sign of death alone, but of newness pressing through. Perhaps every shedding of self is an unveiling of the life I was always meant to carry. The narrow way is painful, yes, but it is also sacred. For in the narrowing, I am widened to His likeness.

So let me grieve if I must, but let me not turn back. Better to ache and be remade than to cling to what cannot enter the Kingdom. Better to walk this narrow way with my tears and His presence than to stand at the wide gate with all of myself intact but none of Him within me.

The way is narrow.

But He walks it with me. And that is what makes this road abundant.