The Serenity Prayer

This prayer—so brief, yet endlessly deep—has become one of the most profound tools on my path toward spiritual wholeness. In moments when fear presses hard on my chest or when wars rage within me unseen, I don’t merely recite these words. I clutch them like a lifeline.

These aren’t just words—they are an anchor flung into the unseen depths, steadying me when life’s storms try to tear me from my centre.

And when I recite them sincerely—whether whispered in the quiet corners of my mind or spoken aloud into the chaos—they do more than just soothe. They awaken. They tear through the noise and clutter of my mind and reconnect me to a sacred undercurrent of acceptance, courage, and wisdom. Not as distant virtues, but as raw, living forces with the power to steady my shaking hands and recentre my soul amidst life’s uncertainties.

But here’s the hard truth I’ve come to learn you don’t just recite this prayer and expect magic. You must let it carve itself into you, word by word. You must wrestle with it. Bleed with it.

Because beneath its simplicity lies a vast ocean—and if I only skim the surface, I miss the very treasure hidden within its depths

It begins:

“God, grant me the Serenity.”

At first, this opening line sounds gentle, almost soft. But make no mistake—this is no casual request. This is a surrender in its deepest, most raw form. The word “grant”–to agree to give or allow– is a quiet plea, heavy with the admission that I am empty-handed, and that serenity is not mine to seize through sheer force or intellect.

Rather it is a gift, a grace, given by something—someone—beyond the small confines of my control. This single line cracks me open. It humbles me, strips me of the illusion that I can somehow muscle my way to peace with sheer force. It reminds me that serenity is not found in tightening my grip on life and seeking control, but in loosening it—in laying down my sword and turning my gaze toward the unknown. It is the soft collapse after the exhaustion of my own limited resources, when my will alone proves insufficient.

And yet, I have found that surrender here is not some collapse into weakness or despair. Instead, and paradoxically, it is a rise into strength—a fierce act of humility and courage that says: “I cannot do this alone.” It repositions me within the vastness of something greater, where serenity is no longer about conquering the storm but learning to be still within it.

Then comes the gut punch:

“…To accept the things, I cannot change.”

Acceptance—God, what a brutal, beautiful, wise teacher. It is not passive. It is not resignation. It is standing bare-chested, honestly before reality and saying, “I see you.” It is unclenching my fists and releasing the futile fight against the unchangeable. And that fight… that resistance has always been the birthplace of my deepest suffering.

Acceptance is not apathy. It is not indifference. It is the warrior’s grace to face life as it is—not as I wish it to be—and to bow without breaking. Each time I accept what I cannot change or control, I reclaim the precious lifeblood once wasted on rage, denial, or despair. And that reclaimed energy becomes the very breath of my resilience, the seed of my peace. And yet, the prayer doesn’t leave me on my knees.

It calls me to rise:

“…The Courage to change the things I can.”

Here, I stand at the edge of myself, face to face with my own reflection. What can I change? And the mirror answers: me. My fear. My pride. My excuses. My attitude. My unwillingness to confront the shadows that live inside of me and shape the way I see the world. Courage is the raw nerve that compels me to step into the flames of my own becoming.

Courage here is not some grand, cinematic heroism. It is the quiet, trembling bravery to sit with my own discomfort, to dismantle the parts of me that no longer serve, to choose growth even when it’s messy and uncertain. It is tearing down the walls I’ve built to protect myself from the very transformation I so desperately crave. Without courage, acceptance would calcify into stagnation. But courage—real courage—breathes life into acceptance, turning surrender into sacred action.

And then, the softest, most necessary thread:

“…And the Wisdom to know the difference.”

Wisdom, that elusive and tender companion who teaches me when to yield and when to fight. It’s not loud or flashy; it’s the quiet knowing, the deep breath before the decision, the subtle tug on the soul that says, “This is yours to carry,” or “This is yours to release.” Without wisdom, I’d waste my life either swinging wildly at the immovable or collapsing before the very obstacles I’m meant to overcome.

But with it, I learn to move with life’s current, not against it—to discern between surrender and transformation with grace. This prayer is no longer some passive mantra I recite in my moments of discomfort. Instead, it is a mirror, a map, a battlefield and a sanctuary. It beckons me into the deepest chambers of my heart, where humility meets action, where peace meets honesty, where surrender and courage dance together in a quiet, defiant harmony. And if I dare to live it—to let it carve its truth into my bones—I encounter something unshakable, something pure: a serenity that holds me steady, not because the storm has ceased, but because I have remembered who I am within it.

It all begins with a simple, humble plea—uttered through clenched teeth, whispered through tears, or exhaled into silence:

“God, grant me…”

And something shifts. A door opens. The storm still rages, but it no longer owns me. In surrender, in courage, in wisdom—I don’t find escape. I find arrival. I come home. Home to the truth that serenity is not the absence of chaos, but the presence of stillness within it. Home to the quiet knowing: I am held, I am enough, I am free.

And from that place—rooted, open, alive—I no longer just recite the serenity prayer. I become it.

Chris Johns