The Only Thing That’s Truly Ours
Everything I see in the world, everything I own (or rather think I own: artistic skill, athletic ability, intelligence, health, wealth, power, life itself), none of it is truly mine. It’s all a gift, given to me because I need it, or someone else needs me to have it.
Why? How? For how long?
These are the questions I pondered early this morning as I stood on my back deck, cradling a fresh cup of coffee.
The sky was a clear, blazing blue. A stiff breeze stirred the trees. Birds cut through the air like darts. Bugs buzzed around my head. Everything danced within the boundaries of my backyard—a small parcel of land the county says I own, and taxes accordingly.
But can I really own the things that move through the air?
Of course not.
My gaze drifted to my expansive lawn. Emerald green except for a brown patch or two (or three, or more) where the grass seed refused to take. Beyond that, past the tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers in the garden, a hodgepodge of trees, shrubs, even the stubborn weeds, stretched to a fence line shrouded in shadow.
I may not own the air or the birds and bugs, but surely I must own the dirt, right?
I act like it belongs to me. I mow the grass. I tend the garden. I water and fertilize at regular intervals. But even those efforts don’t really make the grass grow or the flowers bloom or the heirloom tomatoes ripen. I have no control over that mysterious spark of life. And whatever control I think I have?
An illusion.
Every gust of wind, every speck of dirt, all kinds of birds, all kinds of beasts, all kinds of creeping things. Every star, planet, and distant galaxy belongs to the Creator of the Universe.
Even me. I belong to Him.
This realization forces my thoughts to turn inward. To the rhythm of my breath, the beat of my heart. I imagined all my abilities, great and small. I could picture my wife and our wonderful marriage, my growing children.
I think they belong to me. I think I own them. Again, I act like I do.
But are they truly mine?
If they are, why can’t I keep them? We age. Muscles weaken. Skin sags. Vision fades. Vocal cords fray. After forty, sleeping wrong can mean weeks of pain. Worst of all, dementia can take a once-brilliant mind and drag it into a chasm of no return.
Is there anything I own, free and clear?
My thoughts reached deeper, past the surface of things. Past the illusions I’d been carrying.
The answer came slowly, like dawn breaking.
My will.
I sit in that revelation for a moment, feeling its power.
My will is also a gift. However, unlike the others, it’s mine. Because I can give it away. I can use it to do good or to do harm. It’s mine to direct, mine to surrender, mine to waste or redeem.
My ability to choose is worth more than everything else in the physical world—combined.
The thought echoed.
My ability to choose is worth more than everything else.
It’s the only thing given to me that remains mine until I die.
Every moment, I face choices. How to respond to frustration. Whether to show kindness or indifference. Whether to speak truth or remain silent. To forgive or hold grudges. To turn to Him—or turn away.
These choices are mine. A gift, yes—but one I command alone. With that ownership comes responsibility. And consequences.
What makes this gift even more remarkable is its reach. Each choice ripples outward, touching lives I may never know. The patience I show to the driver that cuts me off. The encouragement I offer a struggling friend. The decision to listen instead of speak.
These are the moments where I exercise my only true possession.
Standing on my deck, surrounded by gifts I don’t truly own, I feel the weight—and the wonder—of owning just this one thing.
My will isn’t just mine. It’s my contribution to the world. It’s how I participate in creation itself.
The county may say I own this land. But I know better now. I’m simply its steward, as I’m with every other gift placed in my care.
Except for my will.
That’s mine to give.
That’s mine to surrender.
