The life I thought he owed me

There is no idol more subtle than the life I thought God owed me.

Not the golden calf, not the graven image, not the gods of stone or wood—

but the one I built quietly in my heart.

The version of my life I scripted,

the story I demanded,

the ending I believed I deserved.

It was polished with prayers,

shaped by longing,

wrapped in expectations so carefully disguised as “faith.”

I called it hope,

but sometimes it was entitlement in a holy robe.

I whispered, “Surely, God, You will give me this—

because I love You, because I serve You, because I waited.”

And when He didn’t,

when the script unraveled,

when the chapter didn’t end the way I swore it must, I realized the idol wasn’t out there.

It was in me.

It was the version of life I thought He owed me.

This idol never shouted, never demanded.

It lulled me instead—

with illusions of control,

with dreams that sat enthroned above surrender.

And I, thinking I was bowing in worship,

was actually bargaining with God.

But idols always break us.

They always leave us empty.

And in the crushing of that false expectation,

in the shattering of that image,

something holy rises—

a deeper worship, a truer surrender.

Because when I let go of the life I thought He owed me,

I found the life He always meant for me.

Not lesser. Not cruel. Not careless.

But eternal. Weighty with glory.

Rooted in His wisdom,

not in my demands.

So today I lay it down again—

the idol of “what should have been,”

the altar of “my plans.”

And I whisper through tears and trembling,

“Not my will, Lord,

but Yours.”

Because the life I think He owes me doesn’t exist. The life He gives me—

that is the miracle.

That is the treasure.

That is the cross, the resurrection,

and the promise I can build eternity on.