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Learning the Posture of Mary: When the longing for surrender meets the struggle to let go.

Some songs have a way of finding us exactly where we are. This past Sunday, during worship, I found myself unexpectedly undone by a song called At Your Feet by Luminescent. I've heard beautiful worship songs before, and I've sung familiar biblical truths countless times. But something about the simplicity of these lyrics reached a place in my heart that I hadn't quite found the words to express. The message was simple: bring it all to Jesus. The broken pieces, the fears, the failures, the disappointments, and the dreams that never came to fruition. Lay it all at His feet. And yet, as I stood there with tears flowing, I recognized something about myself. I deeply desire that kind of surrender. I crave the peace that comes with it. But if I'm being honest, I'm still learning how to let go. That moment became the inspiration for my painting, Lay It All Down

Brenda McKenzie

11/4/20264 min read

The Pieces I'm Still Holding

The Mary I long to be, and the Martha I recognize

I've always been drawn to the story of Mary and Martha in Luke 10:38–42.

Martha welcomes Jesus into her home, but becomes consumed by the responsibilities and preparations surrounding His visit. Meanwhile, Mary sits at His feet, listening.

I recognize myself in Martha.

I'm often thinking ahead, anticipating needs, calculating the cost, and trying to make sure everything is taken care of. There is a certain comfort in being prepared, in having a plan, and in knowing that I've accounted for what might go wrong.

But I also long for Mary's posture.

I want to be able to set everything aside and simply be present with Jesus. To listen without distraction. To trust without calculating the cost. To rest without feeling that something important will fall apart if I stop tending to it.

I don't think Martha's desire to serve was wrong. But somewhere in the busyness, she lost sight of the very thing she had welcomed into her home.

And I wonder how often I do the same.

How often does my need to manage, protect, and preserve keep me from experiencing the peace of simply being in His presence.

The pieces I'm still holding

There is another part of this story that feels particularly personal.

My wounds have become so intertwined with my identity that I sometimes find myself holding the pieces together like a puzzle, trying to figure out what the picture is supposed to look like when everything is finally assembled.

I want to understand what happened, how it shaped me, and who I might have been without some of those experiences.

Perhaps I believe that if I can just find all the pieces and put them in the right places,

I will finally feel whole.

But what if healing isn't dependent upon solving the puzzle?

What if I don't have to reconstruct the person I was before the breaking?

What if I am more than the sum of my wounds?

I recognize that some of my instinct to maintain control comes from places of hurt. When life has taught us to anticipate, protect, and hold things together, releasing control doesn't always feel like freedom. Sometimes it feels frightening.

I know the biblical invitation to surrender, but knowing something in my heart and feeling safe enough to live it are not always the same thing.

And perhaps that is why these images keep finding their way into my artwork.

The vessel, the oil, and the offering

In my painting, a woman kneels at the feet of Jesus, cradling a broken vessel as precious oil pours out.

Her face is intentionally absent.

I wanted the viewer to see themselves in her posture rather than simply observe someone else's act of worship.

The imagery draws from the biblical accounts of the woman who anointed Jesus with costly perfume. There is something profound about an offering so precious that it is poured out without reservation.

Traditionally, we often interpret the breaking of the alabaster jar as a picture of extravagant worship: holding nothing back.

I love that message. I want that kind of surrender.

But when I look at my own painting, I notice something else.

Even as the oil pours out, the hands are still carefully cradling the broken pieces. There is an instinct to preserve what remains, to hold on to what might still be salvaged.

I see both the offering and the struggle.

I see the longing to release everything, alongside the fear of what it might cost.

And I recognize myself there.

Perhaps surrender isn't always a dramatic moment when we finally open our hands and release everything at once. Perhaps sometimes it begins with the willingness to bring even our reluctance to Jesus.

To admit that we want to trust Him but are afraid.

To acknowledge that we are holding tightly to things we know we cannot ultimately control.

To come to His feet, even when our hands are still trembling.

We don't have to hold ourselves together

One of the most comforting truths woven throughout this song is the reminder that we don't have to hide.

We don't have to perform, strive, or become worthy of His presence.

We are already known.

Already loved.

Already invited.

In Isaiah 61:3, we find the beautiful promise of beauty for ashes, gladness in place of mourning, and praise in place of despair.

This is a theme that finds its way into so much of my artwork. Broken vessels, clay in the Potter's hands, gold woven through fractured places, and beauty rising from ashes.

I find myself returning to these images because they remind me that our brokenness does not disqualify us from being loved, and our past does not have to define our future.

But I am also learning that I don't have to understand how every broken piece fits together before I allow myself to be held.

Perhaps I have spent so much time trying to understand my brokenness that I've forgotten I am more than the sum of my wounds.

The invitation isn't to fix ourselves before coming to Jesus.

It is to come as we are.

A prayer for the pieces we are still holding

I don't write these words as someone who has mastered surrender. I write them as someone who is still learning.

I want Mary's posture, but I recognize Martha's instincts in myself. I want the freedom of open hands, but sometimes I am still afraid to release what I've spent so much time trying to protect.

Maybe you recognize that tension, too.

If so, perhaps we can begin with a simple prayer:

Jesus, I've spent so much time trying to hold everything together. I bring You the pieces I don't understand, the wounds I still carry, the fears I cannot seem to quiet, and the dreams I have had to lay down.

Teach me to trust You with what I cannot control. Help me loosen my grip, not because everything feels safe or certain, but because I am learning that my security is found in You.

Remind me that I don't have to put myself back together to be loved by You.

Meet me here, at Your feet.

Amen.

A note of gratitude

This painting was inspired by At Your Feet by Luminescent. I am grateful for the songwriter's willingness to put such a beautiful, biblical invitation into words and music. This past Sunday, those words reached a tender place in my heart and stirred something I needed to express through my own creative language.

My hope is that this painting might carry that invitation forward, reaching another heart as the song reached mine.

There is peace found in surrender. And sometimes the first step is simply bringing it all to His feet.