But I want to drive

Trust: letting go of the steering wheel of my life, moving to the passenger seat, and, worst of all, relinquishing the keys. But I want to drive. I want to listen to my own music, set the temperature to comfortable, cruise smooth, traffic-free highways, and choose my own destination. Trust. I grip the keys more tightly in my fist, impressing their shape deep into my palm.
It hurts.

So, I'll let you have the keys now, my hand tingles and burns. I know it's futile to fight You. But I'll form a back-up plan--hold back, encase my heart in foam peanuts to cushion the blow just in case. Who knows where this will end? You don't show me the itinerary. I know you'll make me listen to music I don't want to hear, crank the window wide to let in the frigid February air, make me uncomfortable. I hate not knowing.

My eyes are blurring, lids straining back to open after each blink. You say, "Sleep...I've got the wheel." I shake my head, straighten back to alert. If I lay back, relax, let each mile pass blindly...I'll lose any shred of control I have...think I have. I can't think anymore. My head throbs with worries of journey and, most of all, destination. Sometimes I wonder why I don't just let go, scrap my cushioned faith, and free fall. Trust. I know You know the road, but I don't. Sometimes knowing all the facts doesn't equal faith. But my grip is weakening with every mile. I'm tired--surrender is inevitable. If only it wasn't so hard.