“Bring me your angst,” God keeps saying to me. “But only as much as you want to be free.”

That invitation has been with me for months.

Angst, for me, usually looks like quiet anger and resentment. Like other Enneagram One’s, my perfectionism can often lead to a slow-simmering rage under the surface. It shows up as tight shoulders, a racing heart, a clenched jaw.

Lately, my angst has attached itself to a few places.

Women’s roles in the church and home. People using God’s name to support a bunch of nonsense — nationally and interpersonally.

And, honestly, my kids. The noise. The mess. The constant stimulation. The way my house never quite feels peaceful. The dirt on the floors, the things that get broken, the sense that there’s nowhere I can fully rest. I love them deeply—and still, my mind is triggered by this stuff constantly.

As I write this, I can feel my body reacting. My heart rate ticks up. And almost without thinking, I pray the prayer I’ve learned to pray so many times a day:

Yahweh, I give all of this to You.

I’ve realized I have to bring Him my angst. Sometimes every other minute.

Here’s the picture that helps me: My angst is like a big, tangled ball of yarn.

Some strands of that yarn are easy to name—frustration with systems, people, noise, injustice. Other strands are harder. Questions for God Himself. Confusion about His words. Grief and anger over what He has allowed. It’s all tangled together.

When I’m holding it, I feel responsible for fixing it. It’s my mess, my emotions, my job to untangle. I turn it over and over, getting more frustrated the longer I stare at it.

But God keeps asking me to hand it to Him. To move on with other things while He holds it a while.

It matters a lot how I imagine this handoff. It’s not upward, like I’m tossing it into the sky to something distant. But sideways—handing it to Someone walking right beside me.

The Spirit is arm-in-arm with me in the middle of my day. (Even when I’m being an idiot.)

And when I give Him the yarn, He doesn’t throw it away. He doesn’t ignore it. He gives it His attention. He untangles it while I keep walking, while my body settles.

This isn’t spiritual bypassing. I’m not pretending the feelings aren’t there. I’m trusting them to Someone who can hold them more gently than I can. Knowing that He will address them.

And often—at the right time—He hands the yarn back.

When He does, it’s usually a little less knotted. A little easier to look at. Maybe ready to be worked through all the way to peace. Or maybe ready to be handed right back to Him again.

Yahweh, I give all of this to You. I trust You with it.