The world is a hard place. It seems especially so these days.
Last month, I turned 46. I was determined to make my 40s a strong decade, but, so far, it has been more of a survival decade. It must be the case that each person goes through phases like this sooner or later. I had a pretty easy life in all the decades prior, so I guess my time was due.
I can only hope I’m laying the foundation for the next 4 decades, especially because I keep hearing that the lowest year for happiness is 47. I haven’t even hit the bottom yet!
But if every day is a little bit of a fight to find some goodness, here is what I’ve found works:
Evening walks with a friend, especially in horribly hot So Cal summers
Any time you can get to a beach and lay eyes on water
Any time you can be in weather in the 70s
Bookstores
Handmade/artisinal ice cream or custard
Visitors – family, old friends, colleagues. We take them all
Reading that beautiful book your friend worked on for over a decade!
Attending a Creative Writing class at your new church with friends.
Attempting to join the prayer ministry at your new church.
Writing with your new Montblanc calligraphy pen, your husband found you on Facebook Marketplace after years of giving up calligraphy.
Noticing that you are lonely in some common adult ways, but you are cared for by a circle of people who feel like your people, even if they don’t make up one group.
Staying on top of your health and lowering your A1C and cholesterol despite doctors telling you it wouldn’t be possible.
Getting asked to preach at new places.
New doors you didn’t plan for that answer some prayers.
Have you ever tried to create something out of nothing?
I usually avoid anything of the sort.
Even with my family, which is perhaps the greatest creation of my life, I cannot say I created them out of nothing. The entire time, I referenced the love and nurture that went into making me.
I remember being a 22-year-old new hire for a campus ministry organization. I resented being placed on a campus where I would have to (re)create something from near nothing. While I met some beautiful people who have enriched my life, the process of it was nearly soul-crushing for me.
Similarly, creating a life in California without any roots here has been a constant struggle. I find myself constantly comparing it to where I was from and the circle that surrounded my life until I left.
Last year, I took a pilgrimage. More than two years into leaving the old, I needed a break from the work of creating from nothing, to rest and make space in my lungs for deep breaths.
On the other side of that pilgrimage I have become something new and I have made something new. Both were processes already unfolding, but the trip was something of a marker.
The last pieces of the old were tearing away and needed to release in order for me to take flight.
When I finished climbing Croagh Patrick, a 4.3-mile ascent and the most challenging part of our journey, I was met with the news that my husband had planned a surprise for me. He gave me the chance to choose a piece of art in a studio near our accommodations in Westport.
This was an especially sweet surprise because he was not on the trip. He had worked from home with multiple accomplices to determine the best time and place on the journey around the Emerald Isle to give me a special souvenir.
On his end, the details were flawless. On our end, as pilgrims, our legs were jello, my sweat was stinky, and I had less than an hour to get to the art studio and choose a piece of art. Still jet-lagged and constantly on the move, I had not yet had the opportunity to really take in Ireland and consider how I wanted to remember it. The limitations forced me to make a quick decision in the moments before the studio closed.
I thought of what Tracey, my leadership coach, had said about other decisions.”Go with your first instinct.” She was reminding me to trust my gut.
It seemed silly, but my instinct was drawn to a woodcut hot-air balloon with the words “Up, up, and away in my beautiful balloon.” Apparently, it is a lyric from The 5th Dimension, a band I had never heard of. It was the colors, the fun and whimsy, and perhaps, subconsciously, this idea of taking flight that caught my eye.
I was ready to take flight, to leave behind the things that we were weighing me down. To launch ahead with my new endeavors unencumbered, embracing the process of creating from nothing.
And thankfully, by God’s grace, it’s not nothing anymore.
Yesterday, my therapist let me know that I had been seeing her for two years. It was time to reevaluate what was needed as we moved ahead. My gigantic insurance reimbursement spreadsheet shows that we met weekly for 9 months and have been meeting every other week since then, for a total of 24.
20 years ago, when I was a newlywed beginning my career, I was referred to a therapist who saw me for the duration of my pregnancy with Emma. We worked on some key things that helped me adjust to adulthood with a better awareness of myself and my emotions. That was a great foundation for my adult life.
But then I entered a different season: the second half of life.
When the Old Tools Stop Working
Around age 40, the familiar strategies that once worked for me became ineffective. Changes in my work, home, and lifestyle intensified by the pandemic made it clear that I needed new approaches.
Unprocessed trauma surprised me and seeking help turned out to be a complex journey, not a quick fix.
2022: The First Attempts
Still COVID-cautious in this part of the country, I found an in-network licensed social worker to meet on Zoom. She taught me how to do box breathing for anxiety, but also told me to “just talk” to family members if things were stressful. It was like I had a piece of the puzzle (breath work) but not the other piece (actual strategies for my situations).
I don’t think she’s ever lived in a home with neurodivergent people, much less trapped during a pandemic in the same four walls together.
I asked Jeff to find a couples therapist with me to work on the new dynamics around raising teenagers. I didn’t care that this licensed marriage and family therapist wasn’t in-network. I just found the nearest Asian American available right away, hoping that would cover any cross-cultural nuances. We met with her for 18 months, nearly every week.
If I were to describe these 18 months, it would be like every member of our family was drowning. One domino would go down and the others would follow. It became clear that perhaps trauma was making each of our lives harder. We never got past showing up every week in survival mode to learn any strategies or repair anything.
2023: The Breaking Point
During that time, I started meeting with a new personal therapist. She worked with me on Zoom, asking me what I was feeling and where I felt it in my body. I felt no emotion in my body. I could name simple emotions like sadness, frustration, and stress.
I told her it felt like we were pummeled by relentless hardships with no time to catch our breaths. If one more giant wave hit, I felt I would go under.
Shortly after, I hit my lowest point when I was blindsided by a decision that did not work out in my favor. At the time, we were waiting for a favorable decision that would give us a new season and alleviate many of the stressors in our lives.
One day, desperate for relief, I took a walk, but was barely able to move. Despite regular exercise, I felt 80 years old. I stopped and lay down under a shady tree, staring at the sky. Despair caused my muscles and joints to move like old machinery, barely able to turn on.
Photo by Tom Fisk
Late 2023: A Realization
After 18 months with the same couples therapist, we left to find a neurodiverse couples specialist. Looking back, it seems odd we stayed as long as we did despite the cost and minimal progress, but we clung to any support we could find while the issues accumulated. We felt surprised that we had worked with so many people in crisis, but could not find the right kind of help for our own collapse.
If only my plan had worked 6 years before when I asked if we could do couples therapy while things were going well, to work off the habits of the PhD we had pushed through. The only problem was our insurance approved 8 sessions with a therapist WHO FELL ASLEEP during the sessions.
When my personal therapist moved, I reevaluated. I realized traditional talk therapy was not working for me.
I talk for a living. I do conflict resolution much of the time. I manage high-level situations. Jeff and I were not the type of people who have no self-reflection or people skills, and then get the opportunity to finally tend to it in therapy. I realized the disconnect was happening in my body.
During the pandemic, I read a book that focused on healing the body from experiences of racial trauma and violence. In the process, it introduced me to the concept of somatic (body) therapy. At the same time, the algorithms guided me, populating my social media feed with information about why some people don’t heal with talk therapy alone.
This sounded like me. I decided to Google “somatic therapists” and found one. She called me and I jumped in. She is the therapist I have been meeting with for 2 years. I am thankful for the way she integrates all kinds of therapies into trauma-informed care.
2024 Learning to Feel Again
In our very first few meetings, she validated my experiences and said most of her patients were experiencing a flood of post-COVID anxieties or trauma, especially those who had parented in difficult situations. She diagnosed me with chronic PTSD, and over time, we began to find safety in my body, even as I continue to live amidst a number of unresolved issues day-to-day.
One day, I attended a training on Zoom to learn about a new ministry program. It was the first time I had been in an all-day online meeting in five months. My body got exhausted and I felt myself slightly shaking. I had to turn off my camera and lie in bed. I realized I was experiencing some sort of PTSD from working day and night on Zoom during a prolonged crisis.
I brought this insight to my therapist and recalled to her the distracting and disturbing noises in the house that I experienced when I would try to work in the office during our pandemic year. I noted chewing, slamming, crying, barking, laughing, doorbells, and my family rustling as they searched for food. She helped me understand why these noises were so distressing to me.
I was present to a camera, showing active listening to others elsewhere, while inwardly suppressing what I felt and worried about in my home.
I had no idea I had been affected this way.
I began to learn the language of healing a nervous system. Did you know that when you go into fight, flight, fawn, freeze, or flop as a trauma response, your nervous system is either getting activated into hyper-arousal (like the fight mode) or hypo-arousal (flop or exhaustion)? You either can’t calm down or you crash out.
As difficult situations continued to unfold, I went through over a year of terrible symptoms of hyper-arousal such as shaking uncontrollably from the time I woke up. I could only exert myself for a short period of time each day and then I would go into hypo-arousal of needing to lie down.
Couples Therapy Rounds 2 & 3
We tried an online neurodiverse couples therapist. Despite his gentle efforts, he was moving slowly and progress was minimal. Then he went on a leave of absence indefinitely due to a house remodel.
Exhausted by being let down, we stopped seeking couples therapy and continued with our individual therapists for a while.
Then, a church we had been quietly attending for a few months announced that they were going to give 150 couples 12 free sessions of marriage therapy. I signed us up. Jeff agreed. It gave us the boost we needed. My husband chose a therapist from their generous list of approved facilities. It was finally a fit. We continue to meet with her every other week, even as we have switched to out-of-pocket payment.
Thank God. It took three years, but I have two good therapists.
Healing in the Second Half of Life
I am learning, for the first time, to cry a little in the moment instead of becoming dysregulated months later, when things compound. I am learning how to feel a wider range of feelings than sad, frustrated, or stressed. I am teaching myself that I am safe right now, even if my brain is telling me I am not. I am learning that I can go for a walk or go to Trader Joe’s when I am getting flooded with a bodily sensation that feels traumatic. (A trick for teaching yourself that you are not trapped in a cycle like your brain may be telling you).
I am trying to teach my brain that just because a family member is having a bad day does not mean they hate me, don’t love me, or that I am going to wither up and die. I am learning not to be hypervigilant to control or manage others around me, but to manage myself and the sensations that come with moving through discomfort.
My body and brain demanded that I take care of myself this way when everything got to be too much. It has felt at times like I am dying on my way to a resurrection, but when I look back with my therapist at all that I have accomplished, I know that deep healing has begun to take root.
Many of us probably come from cultures and places that assume you only go to therapy if you have an out-of-the-ordinary type of problem. But since I have been working with people for over 25 years, I know the truth is that all humans have problems and need help navigating them. Everyone should go to therapy, and there should be no stigma for needing couples, individual, or family therapy. I work with parents every day who tell me about their grief, frustration, bodily overwhelm, dread, and confusion. We all need help.
I hope my story helps you stay on the road to healing in whatever way you need.
Summer ended in the blink of an eye, and my 10-day trip to Ireland feels like a mirage. Before I forget the details, I believe it is time I introduce you to my new friend from the journey, Brigid.
Brigid has fiery red hair and a personality to match. Rejecting her culture’s customs, she refused to be married, costing her important father a slew of cattle, weapons, and land. Instead, she took up vows to God. I wonder if her father saw it coming. After all, as a child she did give his sword to a beggar. No wonder she developed the controversial habit of taking from the wealthy for the poor.
Her cloaks, in sapphire and emerald tones, are alluring. Mysterious and majestic, they convey warrior meets wizard, while her pursuits are all peaceful and scholarly. A leader for all, she established monasteries in Kildare for both men and women, known not only for prayer and learning, but also for hospitality to any person in need. As if the mystique of channeling Robin Hood, Mother Teresa, and Disney’s Merida, were not enough, she is also known for her discerning ability to settle disputes, like King Solomon.
Brigid is a new friend of mine, but she’s not my contemporary. She lived in the mid-400s to early 500s. Some might say she colored outside the lines. I would say she lived beyond the confines of family, culture, and the religious establishment in her time. Her story shows that God was with her “out there.” For example, she boldly asked the King of Leinster for property for her monastery, of which he offered her “whatever her cloak would cover.” It sounds like he expected to give her a piece of land the size of my local community garden plot, but he was about to learn the mystery of abundance. Brigid and her companions unrolled her cloak over the acres that would become the borders for her new monasteries. Like David, she could say her boundary lines fell in pleasant places (Ps. 16:6).
Greater yet is the mystery of her ordination. As a woman, Brigid was restricted to particular vows for religious life, but during her ceremony, the priest “accidentally” read her the vows for a bishop. Some called it a mistake that stuck, while others said it was the work of the Holy Spirit. Either way, it was another example of abundance. The containers created by humanity put the world in categories that keep things orderly and clear for us, but the Spirit of God operates freely (Jn 3:8). Bishop Brigid was given a wide open space (Ps. 18:19) both physically with land and spiritually with her unconventional title as a woman. Out of this, she lived a faithfully expansive mission, reflecting God’s expansive world, without knowing it would earn her a seat as a patron saint of Ireland.
Beyond Domination
Initially, I perceived Brigid was something of a maternal guide for men and women alike. But, there was something about her leadership that begged for a wider lens. Hers is not only a story about female leadership in patriarchal times. These categories alone shrink the picture of Brigid among the sweeping green fields of Kildare. The way she carried her Holy Spirit-entrusted authority into her expressions of peace, hospitality, and care for the poor and creation invited us all to do the same. She is more of a model than a reformer, a be-er instead of a fixer. For no other goal, she existed from her God-given authority, extending God’s goodness and love in her space.
Like Christ, Brigid brings a non-dominating leadership and spiritual authority in a world stuck on tools of domination. Perhaps what draws us to Brigid is as simple as that–Christ in her essence and ways. She was born under the protection of the sword, but sold that sword to a beggar. She should have been wed in exchange for land, but instead received her land at the hand of God. Her womb was to be a future king-maker, but she was made a bishop and given children of all kinds. She did not use tools of domination, nor worry about their forces. She walked differently, in the opposite direction of systems of domination, and the Lord provided.
While our impulse is often to reject the vulnerability encompassed in following Christ’s non-dominating example, when I meet a friend like Brigid, I become reacquainted with our soul’s deep desire to live in a space like hers. Containers of identity try to lay claim on me, but in the endless expanse, I am free to delight in God’s creation from a posture of sharing and flourishing. There is nothing to hoard in this space. This was humanity’s first relationship with creation in the Garden of Eden.
Domination, on the other hand, is a human tool for wielding power and control. It is a product of the fall, giving rise to all sorts of evil. While it’s true that God gave humanity a part in God’s shared authority over the garden, sometimes referred to as shared dominion, our human capacity for keeping this sort of stewardship pure is quite limited. This is seen in the trajectory of dominion theology (or dominionism) whereby the ends justify the means and human domination over earth, animals, and people is permitted. Deep down, while our flesh wants to control someone else, our spirit wants to live in a space where we are neither dominated nor dominating others. Our innate programming from our Creator points to this desire.
Bishop Brigid invited all of us weary journeyers in Kildare to a world more real than the one her clan members shed blood over. She invited us into “earth as it is in heaven.” She did not need the title of bishop, saint, or chieftain’s daughter to do it. Rather, she lived according to God’s ways, without striving for those other systems to give her approval.
Confidence in my Own Calling
Brigid reminds me that God is not only with us in contained spaces where we can see and define everything. Our calling is not ultimately informed by the titles and accolades bestowed upon us by institutions. God is present there, but God is equally present in the expansive outside world–spaces too vast for us to hold in our minds, let alone our hands.
How else should we understand the hidden places of God’s creation? In the Kildare oak grove, we learned that below the surface, root systems communicate with one another, reflecting God’s artistry and order. Why do we try to dominate something so beyond us? Lord, have mercy on us for our pride that causes us to believe you have called us to lead things so that we can build something great. Our never-ending vocation is to worship you, not ourselves and our creations.
In contrast, I like the way Brigid followed her desire to live a life for God and let God take care of the rest. After all, we now know the Holy Spirit unfolds cloaks to cover acres, illuminates words to bless and commission. Those who would otherwise be overlooked, passed over, or forbidden are welcome and provided for at both God’s table and Saint Brigid’s monastery.
And, wouldn’t you know it? On the day we arrived in Kildare to learn about Brigid, there had been a miscommunication. Twelve of us arrived just in time for lunch to two sisters who had no idea what time we were coming and no lunch. In keeping with the tradition of their patron saint, they did not bat one eyelash of condemnation or inconvenience and kindly left to purchase lunch, bringing it back to feed us.
And so, in the spirit of my new friend, I say, “Weary travelers, have a seat.”
A spiritual director is someone trained to come alongside you as a listening companion in your relationship with God. It is an old tradition, gaining wider traction in the last couple of decades. Nearly sixteen years ago, when I moved to California, I knew that I eventually wanted to find a spiritual director.
I had occasionally met with a spiritual director in Chicago. However, at the time, her schedule was becoming complicated with caring for an ill family member. I had limited time that overlapped with her in Evanston, where we would meet. When I arrived in California, I knew I probably needed a consistent person who was very accessible to me.
Finding a Spiritual Director
While several of my colleagues practice spiritual direction, I sought out someone from outside our work environment on Google. What emerged was an eclectic list of names, ranging from New Age to Christian. I started with the most practical option, contacting a church with a reputable name down the street. I was referred to two women, the first was Julie. Since our first meeting, Julie and have met every month for fourteen years, until this last week.
Julie knows that almost nothing in my journey to California and my life here has been natural or easy. It has been uncomfortable for us at every turn. Meeting her and fitting naturally with her was an exception. She was easy. She came into my life without any trouble or barrier. Living less than two miles away, she invited me to meet at the retreat center in the next town over. She was always there, waiting for me attentively. Whether we met in the pergola, the alcove, or inside the building, she was always seated, praying for me when I pulled up, then stood to greet and hug me.
A Sacred Relationship
My relationship with Julie made up almost 1/3 of my life and nearly the entirety of my sixteen years in California. Last month, Julie left us rather suddenly. I am grieving, and so are my friends who I shared her with along the way. While she did not say that she was terminally ill at our April appointment, I had begun to reflect for the first time on how one day Julie would die. I should start to prepare myself for that day, I thought. I did not know her death had already begun until a month later when she called me to her home for our final meeting.
Julie knew what it was to suffer–to navigate call amid broken systems, deal with people who break your heart, and all the absolute junk of life. She knew how to remain a faithful wife and mom to complicated humans, including after one son had gone to be with Jesus. She grandparented with dedication. Everything she did was purposeful and a bit stubborn.
I used to feel bad that my deeply discounted 60-minute sessions rarely finished within 90 minutes and sometimes went on to two hours. Now, I’m so grateful for Julie’s generosity of time. I understand that time was limited. Like the alabaster perfume, it was so precious it deserved to be spent rather than saved. Our rhythm continued like clockwork, but it would not continue forever.
A Sudden Goodbye
Just over a month ago, Julie texted me to see if I would take my last appointment at her house, indicating that it would likely be the last time we would meet. She offered to contact a mutual friend who had been meeting with Julie for almost as long. My friend made adjustments to come to town from the west side, and the two of us met with Julie before spending the day together. It was an emotional morning. We cried, we prayed, we laughed. We got to see the dynamics of Julie expanded beyond our one-on-ones by including one another and seeing her in her home.
When we began to pray, the thing that immediately touched me and stood out the most was the gift of rhythm. Julie is a gift, but it was also the context of our meetings, a beautiful place that perfectly represented the space of spiritual direction, pulling us away to be still with God. In that space, we always began with a spontaneous appreciation of the grounds and the day, taking in the natural beauty and its contrast from the pavements where we lived just below. The grass was always green. The sky was usually cobalt blue. The deer frolicked, and the mountain and its vegetation offered a seasonal variety of orange, yellow, and purple hues. We saw bunnies, lizards, and birds. We were even there the morning of the Eaton fire before the winds began. The fire encircled the property later that evening. I am thankful that it survived.
Just an ordinaryday at the retreat center where we met.
Learning Surrender
I learned so much from Julie. In many ways, All Gen Movement, the little non-profit I’ve been building in the air, is a reflection of her presence in my life. It is about approaching the needs of the church and the generations from a posture of surrender to Jesus rather than from a position of control. Surrender is the very essence of the contemplative life learned through spiritual direction.
Julie saw me through five job changes, a three-year stint on a church search committee, and a painful rejection of my calling that led me into a season of stumbling through the darkness. She taught me so much. Her voice prepared me for my current path when she told me “you hear from God.” She knows that every day since I heard from God has been somewhat painful and confusing. Still, she has told me every session, “You are on the right track. Keep going.”
Following the Cross
Whenever I complained about pain, rejection, and the lack of alignment with the kingdom happening around me, she would confront me with a hint of sarcasm. “Ya think?” she would ask me when I told her about the parts of ministry that seemed downright idiotic, idolatrous, or disobedient at times. “How do you think Jesus felt?” she would add.
She welcomed me to the way of the cross countless times. She might add, “I hate to tell you this, but it doesn’t get better…” or “Yay, you get to be in the club of following Jesus unto death.” Julie had a way of encouraging me to continue while holding the truth that it was hard and that few would follow.
I know she died in the fellowship of Jesus and the cross, which she had followed, often alone, with her internal clarity and Christ keeping her secure along the way. I bet it felt good to lay it down now and not have to bear it. She can experience the other side, the victorious resurrection of Christ.
She always told me to write everything down. I planned to, one day. For now, I am just surviving, but I should have listened to her. I wish I had written down every appointment I had with her. Instead, it has become integrated into my life. I’ll have to do some work to excavate it.
A Pilgrimage
A couple days ago, I returned from a pilgrimage in Ireland. It was a spontaneous trip for me after receiving an invitation from a friend. I told Julie about it that last day at her house. She was so excited, offering me to look through her book collection on the topics of Celtic Christianity. I promised to send pictures, but she passed away 17 days before I got on the plane.
Dear Julie,
The pilgrimage was pretty similar to everything you’ve lived through. I visited thin spaces, walked ancient pathways, and climbed impossible mountains. Sometimes I heard the quiet voice of God. I thought of you.
I left this story hanging in July, right before things began to take off. You may remember that all I had was a picture of a tunnel with some light at the end. Step by step, I hoped I might get out of the darkness and into the light.
A few weeks after I posted that story, everything changed.
Within two days, I had a 501(c)(3), a firstborn to launch, and I picked up a contract. I had to laugh, but I wanted to cry. I felt frustrated by everything happening simultaneously instead of bit by bit when I had ample time.
Thus began the project of building the plane in the air.
First, let me back up.
Shortly after I sensed that I needed to take steps toward the light, I met with a small team of friends who were praying for my next steps. At that point, it was clear to me that turning in resumes for jobs as a method of discernment was not working.
My heart knew what I needed to do. I just really wanted to find someone to pay me to do it.
The discernment team asked me if I felt ready to start my own ministry organization. With reluctant clarity, I said yes. I was hesitant because I still did not like the idea. I was clear because I had to admit the fruitlessness of the four months prior. The best I could do was to take one step at a time and see if there was confirmation down this road.
Slowly but surely, there was. It would be hard to recall all the steps in detail now. In short, I spent early 2024 consulting with a few churches, leading local prayer groups for parents, speaking at retreats, and gradually filling out paperwork for a non-profit in the cheapest way possible. (Because the nearly $1000 of upfront costs to start the ministry were $1000 I did not have at the time.)
Still, I felt unsure of precisely what I was building. Was it a prayer movement for the next generation? Was it a consulting ministry for healthy churches? (Why would churches pay me to help make them healthy?) Was it a ministry to families? Would I be speaking and teaching? As it turns out, it’s a little of all those things. I am trying to find all the appropriate words to describe this succinctly on a forthcoming website. That feels vulnerable too.
It seems obvious, but I had no idea that following Jesus’ call to ministry in a renewed sense of vulnerable dependence would require building every piece like I got a new Lego set with a step-by-step manual. In other words, none of the who, how, or what would come primarily from my strategic gifts, which I had relied on my whole career. Instead, it would be a process of following directions, even being willing to experiment with ministry ahead of knowing everything I wanted to do.
So many of the concerns I had been expressing in my prior senior ministry management role were obsolete when I considered created something new. The choice was mine to do ministry more organically and trust the Lord to provide.
I have a big vision for this little airplane called All Gen Movement. We are living in a time when one could easily say that God’s promises do not seem to be true for our kids, the Church, or the future. But I believe the Spirit has been doing a work of renewal before the crumbling even began. Like the twelve getting sent out with the bare minimum, I feel like I am on a journey to share Jesus’s healing ministry.
This healing is what we need.
Falling off a cliff with no one to catch me was painful. Getting scraped off the pavement was not much better.
But as these stories go, the longer the time passes, eventually, we get a broader perspective of why it had to be this way.
My work requires freedom to operate away from systems that do harm.
Outside the constraints of a management job.
I am used to being a loyal employee who tries to bring up concerns in the context of values.
Now, I am creating with the Creator.
Being an employee was much easier.
But right now, for me, this feels much more sacred.
And, yes, on most days, the whole process feels a bit insane too.
Photo taken after speaking at my last work conference, flying home into the unknown.
The last few years have been a plot twist for my family. If you had asked me to describe my life prior, I would have called it complex. Even so, within complexity, we had few curveballs until the recent season of life hurled a number of them.
When your prior structure and framework for your life becomes a rug pulled out from under you, first, you will experience disruption and disorientation. Then, there is an opportunity to go through a process of healing. The healing has to do with figuring out what is accurate and true. You must dig deeper to discover what was false or faulty about your previous operational mode.
My conclusion about such healing is this–it feels like dying.
In other words, there is a lengthy stage in the healing process where you shed the old and do not yet have the new. This process is a slow, pronounced kind of dying. It is hard to explain unless you have gone through it because it is a dying into health, putting to death things that you will not bring forward with you.
This phenomenon is well-documented. You can read Richard Rohr’s Falling Upward or St. John of the Cross’s Dark Night of the Soul to think about this on a spiritual and soul level. Or, you can think about it on a medical and bodily level. If you have surgery and a serious recovery process, you may feel temporarily worse before you feel better. The passageway between what was and will be is both painful and inconvenient.
A Real-Life Metaphor
The latest life-inspired metaphor to help ponder this is an appliance flood in our home on December 2nd.
We had just finished a lovely Thanksgiving weekend with our college-age daughter home for her first break. It was the Monday after. She was back at school, my husband was on a plane for a work trip, and I was on my morning Zoom call when I stepped out of our home office to make tea. What greeted me was a washing machine failure from the load I had thrown in just before the call.
Initially, it looked like an inconvenient derailment of my Monday morning, but when I saw the extent of the nooks and crannies the water had flowed into, it became a disruption on a much larger scale. By that evening, insurance had sent a water remediation company to tear out our floors and cut into our walls. They removed any damp materials and left us with eight industrial fans blowing at a deafening frequency.
The beginning of the demolition
What began as a hopeful Monday morning for quiet work and a peaceful start to the extras of the holiday season turned upside down. I asked the contractor for his honest timeline estimate. He told me two months. Four weeks have passed, and his estimate seems accurate. We have made it through the worst. The contractors patched up our walls the day before Christmas, but our possessions and our dining table continue to sit in the garage. Rugs cover a pathway through the rooms so we do not have to stand on hard, cold concrete.
I am seeing in a new way from this unfortunate experience.
Quick Break, Slow Repair
Damage happens relatively quickly. (It took less than 1 hour for the water from one load of laundry to damage half of our first floor.) The demolition is less instantaneous but also relatively quick. I had no time to waste as I pulled every towel out of our linen closet and got to work in back-breaking labor, even pulling out the heavy washing machine that I have seen contractors struggle to move in a moment of Herculean strength. Then, without delay, insurance made sure to do damage control by tearing out every area of dampness and throwing it away.
The process gets slow once the damage is done and the demolition is complete. The rebuild does not begin or proceed with the same sense of urgency.
It would have increased the cost of the claim if the insurance were to act slowly, allowing the water to do more damage. But in rebuilding they take time to negotiate with the contractors over every nickel and dime. They make slow determinations between their other urgent jobs. Then, the estimator finds contractors that can do the work within the parameters of the insurance claim. Because it is the holiday season, the progress is even slower.
Living in Between
On the other end, you have us, the homeowners. We have to live in a state of disrepair. It looks bleak and requires a lot of patience and renegotiating what life looks like daily as you try to cook and live in a disrupted environment. If someone were to walk into my house on the day all those fans were blowing (as several neighbors did), they would say what a disaster (as they did). However, as awful as it looked, those were the first stages of the rebuild. We were preparing a dry foundation.
One of my least favorite days. Living in a state of mayhem as repairs were underway on Dec. 23.
It looked better with the floor in tact, but underneath, dampness was going to mold. The day the floors were left bare and the concrete exposed was the first step in creating something new.
In other words, when it most looked like a catastrophe, the rebuild was underway. Likewise, there are moments that most look like death, where healing is underway. I could see the rebuilding stage in a new way and understand my life in the last year or so.
Hope in Rebuilding
Rebuilding is disruptive but promising. If damage happened without your agency, it is not your chosen path. The only way out is rebuilding and in that stage you are about to experience a good thing.
Things will go wrong in the process. It will feel like chaos and disorient you again. (I have never heard of a rebuilding process for anything without setbacks, mistakes, or delays.) However, brick by brick, you are headed in the right direction.
It feels terrible when you cannot appreciate the progress. When things are incomplete, it can facilitate despair. But when you understand the small steps with gratitude and keep your eyes on the bigger picture (we are getting new floors, new paint, a new washer, new floorboards, etc.), you can persevere. You can have some hope.
If the rebuild process is causing you despair, I understand.
But, I want to offer a perspective I am learning: you deserve to be congratulated. You already made it through the damage and the demolition. You are on the road to something better, something new. Not every day will look like any amount of progress. And some days, nothing truly advances. But you have every right to have hope. This stage is not a teardown. It is a piece-by-piece renovation.
If you are like I was last year, in a season of despair and disorientation, you may not have the capacity to hope (yet). I just want you to know, I have hope for you. From where I stand now, I empathize with your pain, and also see the potential for a significant rebuild in your life–one that will give you what you need for the future rather than keep things as they were in the past.
A Quiet Rebuild
The same principle applies on a macro level. Individuals have been experiencing damage, demolition, and rebuilding, but so has our society. Rather than living in rubble, we can clear it away and build something new over time. The other side of collapse is the first stone being laid.
Christmas is the beginning of a renovation phase. Christ came to earth as a new beginning, the second Adam. The first man and woman acted in ways that brought about damage to every generation. Subsequent generations, like Noah’s, had to deal with the demolition that followed.
The incarnation is a quiet rebuild, a flutter in a young woman’s womb that became light and hope for the world. It looked like nothing, but it was quite something.
You may be engulfed by atrocious damage done to you and others. You may be watching the rubble pile up in the teardown, debilitated like I was a year ago. But if you know the Christmas story, you know the angels, shepherds, and magi were the early witnesses to humanity’s rebuilding.
It did not look like much when he was born among the animals to unimportant people in a tiny city. The threat of more rubble came in the form of edicts for infanticide and crossing borders seeking refuge.
Rebuilds are long and slow. What looks like wreckage today is a new beginning for our home and family.
I believe the same for you. Where you are is not where you will end up.
Damage comes with the loudest bang but is the shortest visitor.
The teardown may take a little while.
But the longest leg of the journey is the rebuilding. And building is good. Piece by piece, you will get there.
Calling the Twelve to him, he began to send them out two by two and gave them authority over impure spirits. These were his instructions: “Take nothing for the journey except a staff—no bread, no bag, no money in your belts…” (Mk 6:7-8)
The loud pounding inside of me from early in the year was deafening by October. I would agree to speak at a faculty and staff conference in Sisters, Oregon, with no idea whether I would still be working for my employer. The clarity around leaving was so strong going back to March. But, I said yes. It would help me end well to prioritize a trip to see my newest staff in Portland. We could travel together to the conference.
I was just beginning to learn to do the next thing without being sure what was ahead. To give my “yes” unless and until I had to give a “no.”
When it came time for me to prepare my opening talk, my heart was exploding with new lessons and ideas. I had so many possible things to share and say. My spiritual life was growing and stretching. I had a pretty comprehensive set of notes on my phone for a scripture that I thought I might use to build a good talk. It was Mark 6 where Jesus sends out his disciples to begin the ministry he has modeled for them. I knew I should speak on the theme of vulnerable dependence out of this passage.
There was just one problem. Whenever I would begin to think about the message, something was blocking me from prepping. I do not mean that evil was causing the blockage. I sensed an intentional barrier. It was like something was preventing me from shifting over to my notes in my phone or preparing something new. I sensed God was taking ahold of my mind and asking, “Would you be willing to do this without relying on your intelligence, your preparation, or your polish? Would you be willing to move backwards in your sense of professionalism and expertise?”
This was new. I kept hoping that as I got closer to the moment to deliver the talk, I would feel permission to open the notes. But, in my spirit, I sensed that I was supposed to do what I was willing yet not eager to do. I was to obey the passage on vulnerable dependence by living it out and modeling it. The speaking was not going to matter. It was not going to be a great talk. I was going to be the object lesson. I would have to surrender measures of success and believe in the invisible fruit of obedience, nothing else.
You might think that surrendering ego and letting God speak through me would make for an excellent talk. It was not that. I could not think clearly. I fumbled on my words. With all the awkwardness of an amateur taking the stage to audition, I took a deep breath, exhaled and tried not to think about how this “performance” reflected on me. It may as well have been my first talk as a student from 2001.
Nothing was familiar. I was learning a new skill of minimizing myself and depending on God live in front of an audience. In a room full of university professionals, I did not even have a Power Point to try to cover me. Listening to the Spirit with nothing on the agenda was peculiar. They could have saved some money by not flying me up from Southern California for this.
Moments before, knowing what I was about to do, I had kneeled down in my beautiful, pristine speaker cabin in the woods of Oregon and sang with full gusto, “I surrender all. I surrender all. All to Thee my blessed savior. I surrender all.” This was my only and final preparation, and I knew it.
Performance. Ego. Polished Slides. Respect. I surrendered all. And it was not comfortable because I was doing it as a guest of someone who had invited me to bring something. Instead, I was showing up with nothing and practicing letting the Spirit work in spite of me.
It was not outwardly beautiful. But it was important. Thankfully, the second day I had permission to bring my best. I was not ready to go back to back in that kind of humiliation. In the end, I think the Spirit showed me that the Spirit worked equally the day I did my best and the day I brought very little. It was a reminder that the Spirit’s work and effectiveness are not up to me. All we can bring is obedience.
The day before, I still had 24 remaining hours to write the first talk. With all the time in the world I went to dinner, came back and stared at my computer screen.
I just can’t do it.
It did not make sense because I already had notes written. I went to bed and hoped the next morning there would be a lift to move ahead. Maybe God was holding me back until the last minute to see how much I trusted. Maybe God would flood my mind with new information about the talk I should give.
I woke up. Nothing. Still felt the same barrier and sense that I could not cross it.
With no talk writing to do, I walked down the Willamette River on my way to get coffee and doughnuts for my first time in Portland. Maybe God would speak to me as I moved instead of sat. It was raining.
Typically while on the road doing ministry, I would send a WhatsApp message to my colleagues and ask them to pray for me, especially if something felt stressful or difficult. But, I did not know what to say. It was our job to plan and perform well and I was planning to not perform.
Instead, as the weather fogged my glasses and the raindrops wet my light jacket, I took out my phone and texted R . I was attempting to get clarity in case I had to write the talk on the long drive to the retreat. It would not be the first time that clarity came on the journey to a speaking engagement.
R is the kind of person who I believe is sent into my life to help me through this kind of moment. I don’t remember what I wrote, probably something like, “I am here in Oregon to speak at a conference, but I do not have anything prepared. I keep feeling like God wants me to just show up, but I am wrestling with this.”
What R wrote back began like this:
“Lisa, I’m very happy for you…”
A remarkably different response than I could have received from most anyone else.
As soon as I saw the opening line, tears streamed and joined the rain drops on the soggy overcast morning. I was not crazy. Or, at least if I was crazy, there was one friend cheering me on. He remarked that this was a deepening of my trust in God as well as God entrusting more to me.
The text was the confirmation I needed. The tears flowed because I knew.
I arrived at Stumptown and enjoyed a sacred moment replying to the text on my phone and warming up with my coffee. Whatever happened next, at least I had this.
Fortunately, after I had obeyed the first night of the conference, I went back to my cabin and immediately typed out my slides for the next morning’s talk. As I suspected, all the material was there. With the barrier removed, it gushed out of me in record time. Mercifully, God allowed me to show these faculty that I wasn’t some ill-prepared crazy person and better meet the expectations of my colleagues.
But, it was not until after I took myself out of the equation. No ego. If I am going to be so bold as to show up with no notes to do a half baked job and claim it was God and not me, then it is also God and not me when God helps me do an excellent job.
I learned that day that vulnerable dependence results in a surrendered outcome. After all, just before Jesus sent out his disciples in all authority, he went into the temple with that same authority and no one believed. He also told them that there would be some homes where they would have to shake the dust and keep moving.
Obedience is not about outcome. When you obey, you surrender the process and the outcome, trusting the Spirit to work in ways that bring fruit we may not otherwise measure.
A month later, I sent an email to resign from my job. Oregon had given me one practice round in vulnerable dependence before doing so.
Last week, I returned home from another trip to Portland. This time, we were taking my daughter to college orientation.
As the plane descends to Oregon soil, I am keenly aware that my vulnerable dependance has been continuous from my trip in October 2022 to today. Instead of moving into a secure job, I find myself in a very exposed state, starting a ministry. I feel just as much like the disciples now as I did then.
I meet Donan for coffee in Downtown Portland while I’m in town. She is the staff I hired in 2022 to cover the Northwest. We are just a few blocks from where I wrestled along the river in the final hours before she drove us to the retreat. Amidst cozy Portland vibes and coffee, we joyfully ponder the Spirit’s unexpected work in the Northwest. We hope together for new fruit in the mystery of the place.
My daughter’s decision to go to college in Oregon surprised everyone, including her. Though she has shown little interest in faith in her teenage years, she will land where my faith was tested and tried before I set off on an arduous prolonged season of trust. It was during a month and a half of weekly fasting (a practice I never do) that I felt confirmation to send her here—one of the least churched areas in the entire United States. Another opportunity for surrender and trust.
As we send her, I know that God is present there–along the Willamette River, in the woods, and on the campus. Oregon has become a sacred pilgrimage for me and it is fitting for me to return on the cusp of another new season. It is the flight of my firstborn and the anticipated flight of a new ministry.
Last week, I felt like I completed a full circle. It was a journey around the same town, same people, same river, and same coffee shop that punctuated my last visit. And when I return in a few weeks, I have one more big surrender ahead.
God, I am struggling. Like the disciples paddling in the dark storm after you told them to pull out in the middle of the water. It’s the last watch of the night. I am exhausted and scared, but I think you are here. I believe you have a purpose.
In summer 2020 when the world was still in the early stages of COVID-19, my friend, Steve, was navigating his fair share of challenges. In a season of unemployment and between homes, prospects looked poor on both fronts. If I knew then what I know now, things would have been different.
I would have taken Steve into our home, risked exposing my household to COVID, and let him stay indefinitely. But at the time, there were no vaccines. We knew relatively little about COVID-19. With kids in virtual learning and Zoom work-from-home, I was at my limits.
I told my spiritual director, who listens monthly to my narration of my life as we look for God together, “Every Sunday, I drive to the park, pull out my lawn chair and pray with Steve and Jonathan.” I went on to explain Steve’s situation. I met him when he had come back to church fresh out of incarceration and rededicated his life to God. He had fallen on hard times, losing his job and home just as COVID hit. And, he lived out of his car.
I described how, with a sense of urgency, Steve asked me and Jonathan to pray with him in-person. For some reason, we both said yes without hesitation, never missing a Sunday. On the best of days in a pre-pandemic world, it could not have been planned. But, somehow, in this alternate reality, there was a portal to this possibility and the three of us stepped inside.
We coordinate by text, show up, talk and pray, usually for hours, until well past summer sunset. At the end of our time, Steve gets into his car. Where will he go? We never know. How long will Steve be gone? When we will hear from him? These are all mysteries. But as sure as the mid-2020 morning starts on Zoom and the evening ends at home without any organized activities, every Sunday night I spend with Steve and Jonathan.
She gave me a look of bewilderment. This was a new and odd turn that even my trained spiritual director scratched her head about. At the time, we kind of shrugged at the senselessness of it all during the upheaval of the pandemic year. A couple months later it became more than a passing shrug when Steve died alone in a motel room.
My friendship with Steve was not new. My family and I had known him for several years. But Steve, Jonathan, and I were in a new situation, working together on a committee with an important spiritual task to complete when COVID hit. Steve felt strongly that some of us needed to pray in-person. Thus, our Sunday night prayer meetings began in early July, lasting through mid-November.
It is easy to forget how slow and uncertain time felt during this season of the pandemic. While my family stayed home following safety orders, Steve and Jonathan were the only people I intentionally left my house to see. If I can go back and channel the feelings of those early months, it is astonishing. With all worship centers closed, Sunday nights in Library Park became my new rhythm. This togetherness during isolation amplified everything—the prayers, the community, and the bond.
When we met in person, we masked and sat six feet apart. This was inconvenient for Steve who did not have access to hygienic health and safety options and seemed to want to experience closeness.
Only on the very last day that I saw Steve did we unmask and “break bread.” In fact, it was french fries, Coke, and a chicken sandwich, but it felt as sacred as the Lord’s supper. Our fellowship of three huddled together around a space heater in my open garage on a rare, rainy November night. Fries dipped in ketchup were our intinction. Coke and lemonade tasted refreshing like living water. Steve was so excited to eat with friends. Looking back, it may have been his only shared meal in eight months. Little did we know it wasn’t a typical Eucharistic feast, unless you count the very first. We were offering Steve last rites.
Photo credit: Jeff Liou
When we didn’t hear from Steve for six weeks, Jonathan and I were not concerned. Steve, peculiar as he was, had made it clear to us that he would turn off his phone and drive across the country to secure a van that my husband had planned to build out for him as a mobile home. He even took down our addresses and warned us that if ever we didn’t see him for a while, a letter would arrive. When the page turned to 2021, I believed that I would receive Steve’s letter any day or a sudden text asking us to find a mutual time to gather again when his phone was turned on.
But on January 11, 2021, I learned that Steve died on November 27 about 100 miles from my home. He hadn’t been in any known communication by text with any of his friends for about ten days at the time of his death. The news was devastating.
In one phone call, the cord of three strands broke. We lost our friend and leader of our prayer group who had kept us moving with faith through the pandemic. There are “prayer groups” and then there are prayer groups. This was a prayer group. The spiritual atmosphere was vivid. Steve was as strange of a leader as John the Baptist must have been while wearing camel skin and eating locusts. He lived on the margins of society and met us at the edges to pray before he ventured back out.
Often one or more of us felt desperation with a challenge in front of us and then we would walk away from the prayer time and see God answer in an unexpected way. I remember one week where we conducted two prayer times over the phone together, which was not unusual. This week, I was away, borrowing a friend’s mountain cabin with my family. Every aspect of the prayer time is vivid in my memories– where I sat, what I wrote in my journal before and after, how God spoke to me in my dreams, and the exact words that Steve spoke. I can even hear Steve’s voice in my head.
The cause of Steve’s death was still inconclusive at the time of his memorial service in late January. At age 43 he had developed a recent health issue with his pancreas, but that didn’t show up in the initial autopsy. A bit like Elijah, he seemed to be here one minute and gone the next. At the time, I could barely process his death. It was a shock, and we were living shock upon shock in a sort of time warp already.
About seven months later, my body began to release and I grieved more deeply. It was when our committee work was coming to a long-anticipated crossroads and he was not there for it, that I was finally able to cry. During this time, his absence became sharper for me and all the prayers we prayed together flooded my mind. I do not believe in communicating with the dead. But his death was so sudden, I sometimes wondered if he was trying to tell me anything.
Could he see me tossing and turning at night, crying, sweating, wrestling spiritually or was it just my memory of him visiting me in that heavy hour? I remembered his prayers and knew they were effective beyond his living days. I strangely sensed that some of his connection to the Spirit of God was passing on to me. Like John the Baptist, he prepared the way, but he was not there to see it through. The only small comfort at this time was reaching out to Jonathan knowing that he was holding Steve’s memory as well.
There’s no ending to this story because what do you write about unsolved mysteries? The story of Steve is the story of multiple mysteries–a strange fellowship, answered prayers, and Steve’s death. And the mysteries continue because none of this was as strange of an outlier in my life as I originally thought it would be. All of this was absolutely central to everything God was and is doing, even if right now I do not know all that means or entails.
Rest in peace, Steve. As I turned 44 last week, I remember and honor your 43 years, mindful that you did not make it to this one. Thank you for everything you taught me about longing for revival, persistent prayer, trusting God for daily bread, and believing God’s work at the margins. You were one of the best leaders I ever followed.
I was waiting. Everyone who knew me was waiting too. They checked in with me moment by moment, which was kind, but very similar to being nine months pregnant. You have no control over when you have the baby, but feel like a watched pot that never boils.
Then it finally happened. The first glimmer of progress. A job posted that I had been waiting for.
As summer progressed I was in a lengthy process for this role, which I felt passionate and excited about. It clearly aligned with God’s calling and words for me. From the outside looking in, it was like the job had been created for me. It fit the scope of my life and ministry experiences well—so much so that my former colleagues called it a “no brainer.” Jeff and I felt anticipation for what God might do as this application process unfolded.
Prior to the posting, other opportunities came my way. Early on, I was even given the opportunity to write my own job description out of my sense of call, but something did not feel right. I held it in prayer until I finally got a clear answer to wait and take this other emerging path instead. A team of people praying for me through my transition asked, “What will you do if you don’t get this job? Are you applying to other jobs?”
I responded, “It feels like the Holy Spirit is stepping on my neck and telling me there is only one path to take. If I do not get this job, I will have a lot of questions for God. It just will not make sense.”
I should pause and say that I never heard God promise me this job as an outcome. God did give instructions to exclusively wait on and apply for this specific role. One might assume that would mean a positive outcome. This was my assumption. If, for some reason, God did not give me this job, we believed there must be something better that would soon become obvious.
As the summer went on, I made it through every hoop and stage of the process down to the final two candidates. I was eager and ready to resume work. I went in for the final interview early in the kids’ new school year–perfect timing for something new for myself. The following day, Jeff and I celebrated our 21st anniversary, anticipating a long-awaited season of change. That next morning, I received an email that gut punched me so hard it knocked me off the face of the earth. They had chosen another candidate who “God had been preparing for the job.” I have no doubt that is true, but what on earth had God been preparing me for?
The process was over.
Eight months dragged out in waiting came down to a swift rejection. Despair moved across my entire body. I had walked out to the edge, jumped off the cliff, and no one caught me. I plummeted. Like a cartoon from my childhood, I had crushed myself into a puddle at the bottom.
My husband encouraged me about all the possibilities at my fingertips, but all I could feel was beautiful clarity from the voice of God ending horrifically with a heavy door slammed abruptly in my face. Even then, I sensed how seemingly impossible it would be for me to move forward from this place apart from a supernatural lift.
In a normal application situation, at this point, you work through any disappointment, assume the best about doors closing and opening, and keep dreaming about what the future might hold. You move on to the other logs you’ve thrown on the fire since this one has burned out. But, just as I told my prayer team, I did not have any other logs on the fire. God only gave me one log and it just burned its last ember.
In retrospect, I was expecting God to bring me to door #2 if door #1 closed. If I really got this far out into two years of obedience and then this was not the final destination, surely God would provide for our family by quickly showing us the real thing we had been waiting for. Right?
At this point, I did what any person who had already been several months without income waiting on a specific process would do, I began applying to all the other jobs. In so doing, I tried to approach it with an open mind and choose jobs that overlapped with at least one clear aspect of my calling.
Day 150
In a short matter of time, I began to have interviews almost every week, a process that was like goldilocks trying porridge. Everyone I knew had desires and opinions for me about the bowls I was tasting.
A large ministry’s development director.
A director of church partnership for an institute of higher learning.
A Dean of Spiritual Development at a college.
A Discipleship Pastor at a megachurch.
A CEO of a local ministry home.
A high profile family’s covert charitable foundation.
I took the approach that if God opened doors, I would walk through them until the processes closed. I was curious as phone calls and emails came so quickly in comparison to the long, slow slog I had just gone through. But, each time, a sadness and concern would come over me. I knew that this path did not match the clarity God had given me. The unmistakable clear trajectory that began when the Holy Spirit spoke to me and sent me on a new journey never lifted.
It would have been easier if it had.
Instead I found myself in daily and nightly despair about the disorienting process I had just been through. Then, for a few hours I would have to dress nice, throw on a blazer, put on makeup and perform to my highest abilities. It was brutal.
This interview season spanned six months and yet I was no closer to my calling than before I began. In fact, I always knew in my gut that I was not supposed to be on this journey. God never asked me to leave my job so that I could go on a wild goose chase. There was no reason to leave the previous job for this kind of a journey. I just did not know what else to do.
I tried to keep an open mind in the event that momentum would start to build and God would give me a clear direction or nudge. Mostly I just found myself panicking when I became a final candidate for jobs. The morning before the Dean interview, which seemed like the best fit for me, I abruptly awoke at 4am, sweating. I was thinking about a church up the street going through a season of scandal.
“Churches…making churches healthy. I’d rather work for myself if I have to.”
I tried to show up for every interview and bring my best, but the truth is, I felt locked in to the original calling God had given me. It just would not let up.
Having interviewed dozens and dozens of people for ministry jobs in the previous decade, I knew my problem. A) I wasn’t called to these jobs B) I was aimlessly looking for work C) I had a specific vision and calling that was coming through more strongly than the work at hand. Jeff and I both agreed. We wouldn’t hire me for these jobs either.
As each door closed, I felt relief instead of sadness. But, I also felt confused and aimless.
Day 260
Sunday morning comes and Jeff and I decide to take our son an hour away to the megachurch where I will be interviewing. It is Christmas time.
A famous worship singer and songwriter comes out on the stage. Jeff and I look at one another with the same knowing chuckle. We were not expecting that!
As the worship plays, I merely close my eyes and God begins to speak to me with direction for the first time since the early part of the year.
I receive a vivid picture. Standing outside the door of my calling, I am weeping. I feel sadness all over my body as I stand in a sewer tunnel staring at a door vaulted shut like you might see at a bank. I see I am at the end this tunnel and notice there are other doors along the sides. With no other choice, I begin to ponder these other doors. They are not welcoming but they are not vaulted shut either.
I could knock on these.
But, in the distance, on the other side of the tunnel is a sense of heat and daylight. Reluctantly, with curiosity impeded by sadness, I sensed an invitation to start to take steps toward the light.
The image panned out again and I saw that the path toward the light would also put me over and above this sewer. A different access point to my calling would become available. I would be above all these doors instead of knocking on them.
I thanked God for speaking. The slow pursuit toward heat and light had begun.
