Not My Will, But Yours: Love, Betrayal, and Divine Timing

I used to pray that he’d come back. I thought that was faith—believing that love could still find its way home. But over time, my prayers began to change.

Now I pray that he finds peace. That he heals. That he meets someone capable of loving him in the ways he can truly receive.

Because real love doesn’t cling. It releases. It trusts. It lets God be God.

For so long, I thought I knew better than God. I held on so tightly to the story I wrote in my mind—that if I just stayed soft enough, patient enough, worthy enough, it would all work out the way I hoped. But I’ve come to learn that even the deepest love, if it’s not aligned with God’s will, is not meant to stay.

And if the only reason this person came into my life was to ignite this level of growth—to break me open and help me become someone I never imagined—I still thank God for it. Even the ache. Even the unanswered prayers.

Because through it all, I found something more enduring than romance. I found reverence. I found surrender. I found myself.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about Judas. Not just the traitor we were taught to condemn, but the man who followed Jesus, witnessed miracles, and still couldn’t fully see.

He wanted more proof. More control. Maybe even more of Jesus than Jesus was ready to reveal. But maybe Judas’s betrayal wasn’t just about forcing something sacred into human timing—it was also about fleeing from the very thing he couldn’t bear to trust. Because betrayal doesn’t always come from hatred. Sometimes it comes from fear. The fear of surrendering to something greater than us. The fear of stepping into love that asks us to risk being fully seen.

Some people try to control love to make it feel safer. Others run from love because it already feels too powerful to hold. And I think both were true of Judas. Just as both have been true of me. And maybe even the person I loved. Because we’re taught that love doesn’t conquer all. That love is too fragile. Too risky. Too naive.

But maybe what breaks us isn’t love itself—it’s the fear that we’ll never be enough to stay inside it.

But even in that betrayal, Jesus didn’t shame him. He didn’t lash out. He didn’t call him enemy. He called him friend. He surrendered, even knowing how it would all unfold. “Not my will, but Yours be done.”

That’s the kind of surrender I’m learning now.

Because sometimes, like Judas, we try to force something that was never ours to control. We think if we push hard enough, cling long enough, prove ourselves enough, we’ll make love behave the way we want it to.

But that’s not faith. That’s fear dressed up as determination. Or avoidance dressed up as detachment.

So I’ve stopped asking God to bring him back. I’ve stopped trying to rewrite a story that was never mine to author. I’ve stopped confusing the pain of letting go with the idea that I’m unworthy.

Now, I ask God for peace. I ask for clarity. I ask for the strength to accept what is, not what I imagined.

Because real love says: I want the best for you—even if the best isn’t me. And real faith says: I trust God’s plan—even when it breaks my heart.

Maybe I’ll never get the ending I wanted. But I got something greater. I got transformation. I got freedom. And I got closer to God.

So if he never comes back around… I’ve accepted it. Because sometimes, the people who hurt us the most were never meant to stay. They were meant to awaken us. And maybe, in some mysterious way… that was the miracle all along.