Subdue, crush, scatter

A three word prayer for the really big things.

by Michelle Stiffler

When my kids were little, we ate sandwiches and apple slices inside forts constructed of bedsheets. We went to story time at the library, especially when Miss Jane was there, because she did the silliest voices for every character. I packed picnics and pushed my little ones on park swings until their heads felt funny, or until they wanted a snack, or until they decided to take several more trips down the twisty slide. 

I loved summer days most, when my school-aged kids were home, and we were all together. We passed full days at the pool, sometimes never leaving the water. Other days we camped out on lounge chairs and read books all day, occasionally dunking ourselves underwater just to cool off. One overcast afternoon, we sat on our towels and nibbled pretzels into letters, laying each one out until we had the entire alphabet. It was nothing short of a masterpiece.

I took those early years day by day, because that is how a mother must take the exhausting work of care, routine, and endless questions. Most days were lovely, but of course, there were mornings when petty sibling arguments had me counting the hours until naptime. There were afternoons when I was certain one more conversation about sharing or kindness would break me in half. There were evenings when the bedtime process pushed me to the end of myself. And there were long winters—several of them—when I swore my sanity would be lost completely if my sleep was interrupted one more time by a child announcing they’d thrown up somewhere between their bed and the bathroom. 

My eldest entered high school before my youngest entered kindergarten, so I was still elbows deep in reading logs and school dress-up days when small doses of teenage troubles came my way. I’d expected depression would be part of her journey. I’d intuited other teenage difficulties, too, and when they came, I faced them, “fixed” them (adorable), then went back to my sweet spot of little-kid problems and little-kid questions. I had a high-school graduate before my second eldest started middle school, giving me license to figure—wrongly, of course—that rearing three teens for another decade would be easy-peasy. At the least, I figured very little would surprise or unsettle me.

But then the darkness came for my second eldest, and as much as she tried, she could not control the heavy thoughts and suffocating emotions. We sought professional help for months, then one day, we were through the thick of it. When the darkness came for my youngest, it came with a tighter grip, dragging my child and our family through hell for years on end. Eventually, the darkness came for my son. There were no little-kid problems left. No glimpses of light. Just hope in the darkness. 

I once boasted to a coworker that I wasn’t afraid of the doubts my teenagers might one day wrestle. I wasn’t afraid of the small ways they might wander from faith. It was true, I think. But I hadn’t expected the darkness to pursue my children harder than it’d once pursued me. I hadn’t expected to watch my children suffer. I hadn’t expected living would take all their energy—nothing left for doubt or wandering. Of all these things, I was very much afraid. 

Crisis leaves no room for grief, but when crisis stretches into a way of living, longing starts to visit— or so I’ve found. I longed for the simple burden of a pool bag stuffed with towels, for the simple responsibility of getting four rambunctious goofballs across the street safely.

I longed for the carefree version of me, the one who naïvely believed it was within her power to create happiness for her children.

I longed in daydreams, in doctor’s waiting rooms, on the messy floors of nearly grown kids’ bedrooms. The longings turned red-hot—harsh and blinding as the desert sun in summer. Some describe grief and darkness as winter. I know them as triple-digit summers that never end.

One difficult morning, as the July sun blazed everything in its path, I leaned back in my desk chair and scanned the jotted words and faded scraps on my inspiration board. I longed for the past, and there it was, in verses, thoughts, and epiphanies I’d scribbled down over the years—faith anchors to truth and a God who doesn’t change. A tiny post-it containing only three words—subdue, crush, scatter—caught my eye. Those words became a prayer.

Taken from Psalm 89, it is verses 9 and 10 that hold the firm picture and prayer my mama heart needed: “Lord, You rule the oceans. You subdue their storm-tossed waves. You crushed the great sea monster. You scattered your enemies with your mighty arm” (NLT). 

The God bigger than little-kid problems, bigger than teenager problems, bigger than my grown-up problems—He hadn’t lost dominion over anything or anyone. In the storm of overwhelming emotion, “Lord, subdue.” In the midst of thought monsters and darkness, “Lord, crush.” In the reality of evil, enemies, and forces against, “Lord, scatter.”

I prayed these three words this morning, through clenched teeth. I prayed them again while holding back tears, because I’m too tired for tears. Too angry for sadness. Too beyond this endless patience being asked of me. I don’t long for the past anymore; I long for the future. I long for God’s power and glory. And in my longing, He asks for my trust. Dependence is so hard. 

So today, I pray a new prayer, turning my heart and eyes to the line before my three-word prayer. “Lord, You are entirely faithful.” I write the five words on a little note and place it on my board—a reminder for future me.

Personal trainer, barre & yoga instructor, somatic coach & founder of Sincerity Method. Published in Common Good, (in)courage, Fathom, The Women's Devo Bible in the Message (2025) & others. Desert dweller, sunrise chaser, bread baker. Wife, mom, Mimi. Always learning to trust Jesus more. https://www.onemoretruth.com