We say it was destined, as though destiny were a gentle thief who sneaks in and makes choices on our behalf.
We blame heaven for the things we whispered into being ourselves.
We say God willed it when what we mean is, I wanted it but I can’t bear the weight of wanting it.
We say it was meant to be when what we mean is, I didn’t think through what it would cost.
And in that way, we hand over our agency like a burden too heavy for our own shoulders.
But it wasn’t God who made us lie, or leave, love halfway, or love at all.
It wasn’t God who made us take what wasn’t ours and call it blessing.
We call our choices fate, our longings divine instruction,
as if heaven were a cupboard where excuses are neatly stacked.
It was us, our choices, our desires, our fears dressed up as divine instruction.
We are not as powerless as we pretend to be.
We choose, and then we pray that our choices are forgiven.
We act, and then we ask heaven to endorse our actions.
We stumble, and call the fall holy because it hurts less to say it was God’s plan than to admit we tripped on our own pride.
Maybe God just watches quietly, not angry, not amused, as we write his name on the things we have chosen for ourselves. Perhaps he gives us time, waiting patiently for us to understand the gift of choice, the sacredness of responsibility, the truth that to be human is to decide, and then to live with the echoes of that decision.
The things we put on God. They pile up like forgotten prayers, like the parts of ourselves we’d rather not name.
And perhaps one day, we’ll stop shifting the blame upward and look inward, and see that the divine has always been patient enough to let us learn the difference between His will and our own.
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