I’ve spent a fair share of mornings arguing with fence posts and losing. You see, the world offers us no shortage of things we cannot change—weather, neighbors, and the mysterious fact that weeds always grow faster than beans. A wiser man than me turned that irritation into prayer: “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.”
That’s a tall order, serenity. For most of us, it shows up late, if it shows at all—usually after we’ve exhausted ourselves trying to win arm-wrestling matches with reality. The trick, as I’ve found kneeling in soil or staring at stars, is that serenity isn’t surrender—it’s compost. You let what you can’t control rot down, and in time it feeds something new.
Now, courage—ah, that’s the grit between your molars. It’s deciding to hoe the row even when the sun is cruel, to mend the fence even though you know the cow will lean on it tomorrow. Courage isn’t always grand; sometimes it’s just refusing to quit when the odds laugh at you.
And wisdom—well, wisdom’s the rarest crop. You can’t force it, though you can cultivate it. It comes from listening more than talking, from admitting when your corn is knee-high but your pride is chin-high. Knowing the difference between what can be changed and what cannot—that’s the harvest of many seasons, and few gather it fully.
So the prayer is no mystical formula. It’s a farmer’s almanac in disguise: compost what you can’t control, hoe what you can, and learn the difference under a wide and patient sky.
That’s all I have to say, I will say no more.
Leave a Reply