Never Enough

Play to Win

In the Summer of 2020, my brother was on an internet reality show called Play to Win.

The show, produced by a husband-and-wife entrepreneur team, is a spinoff-of-sorts of NBC’s primetime hit The Apprentice. A group of contestants compete for a “life-changing job” or a “six-figure coaching opportunity”. [1].

During one interview with the hosts, the wife called my brother out for being fake, wearing a mask. She said, “I feel like there’s something you’re hiding. …Maybe it’s because you always have a smile on your face. …You hide your true self behind the smiles and the positivity all the time.”

With teary eyes and trembling voice my brother described how, for most his life, he felt like a failure. He dropped out of college, he had a string of failed business ventures, mentors he let down… His divorce only added to his sense of personal failure. Overall, he just felt he was a disappointment to his family and his parents. All he wanted in life was to make that up. To make his parents proud. To prove he was a success.

My heart reeled as I watched the footage that Fall.

Over the next several weeks, I found myself filling up page after page in my prayer journal asking God to help my brother know he was not a failure. That he was loved.

I wanted him to know my mom and dad absolutely did not care about his success. They didn’t care about how much money was in his bank account, or his status in business, or the emblem on the front of his car, or the size of his house, or where and how often he vacationed.

I could see all of these things so clearly because God, my Heavenly Daddy, had whispered the same Truths to me over the last two years. It was revolutionary. A complete 180° to everything I had believed up till then.

God showed me He is not at all concerned with the number of books I sell, or the number of attendees at the conferences I speak, or how many followers I have on social media, or the size of my mailing list.

He wants, more than anything, to spend time with me. To be in relationship with me. He wants me contentedly at rest in him. And He wants that to be enough, without any of those other things.

I prayed so fervently. I could see how blindly my brother was deceived. I envisioned him in the midst of a dense fog, or with a shroud pulled over his head.

I wanted my brother to feel peace. To enjoy his life – really – not just pretend to enjoy it on Facebook Live. I wanted him to be able to rest. To stop all the striving for his worth, his significance, for love and acceptance, for validation. To just be with us, and to know that was enough.

I prayed against spiritual strongholds. Demonic deception. I prayed in the name of Jesus. For him to be set free. His eyes opened. Revelation to come.

I prayed it. But I never said any of these things out loud to my brother.

The regret of that stings more deeply than I can describe.

My husband and I have confessed to one another several things we regret not saying to my brother while he was still alive.

On a walk in the days after they found my brother’s body, we were talking about the show and this particular topic.

My husband wondered aloud, “Even if we had said all the things, even if we had held a family intervention to try to shake him awake, to tell him we could see through all the bullshit and to stop faking it, would he even have been able to hear it?”

We both knew the answer was ‘no’.

He would have laughed it off. Diminished or dismissed it. Possibly even turned it around on us to make us the bad guys for calling him out with the truth.

My brother had spent the previous twenty years of his life programming himself every single day, in every single way, with every piece of input he took, that a man’s worth was only as great as his financial “success”.

He could not see, what literally hundreds of people have reiterated now after he is gone, that his success was within the impact he made in others. In the fact that he showed up every single day and made a point to reach out to someone, to send an encouraging note, to send a funny text, to send a voice clip with encouragement.

That was his legacy. Those things were more than enough. But he couldn’t see that.

Stronghold, indeed.

This is one of the hardest and most exhausting parts of losing a loved one to suicide – all the wondering. The questions. The trying to get inside their head after-the-fact.

The “Why?” and “Why now?”
and “How did I not see it coming?”
and “Was it my fault somehow?”
or “What could I have done differently?”
“Was it impulsive or premeditated?”
“What pushed him over the edge?”
“What if I had done this or said that, would it have made a difference?”
“What if….what if… what if…?”

The mental merry-go-round is debilitating. Endless. And the regret that comes with all the questions is absolutely haunting.

The day after they found my brother’s body I was taking a shower and suddenly became gripped with the thought of what more I could have given my brother that would have made him stay? That would have made him feel differently?

And I realized, no matter how much more I gave, nothing would have ever been enough.

The Grand-Canyon-sized expanse of emptiness inside of him could never be filled by another human. Or by any external factor in this life.

The lyrics to The Greatest Show’s “Never Enough” lilted through my head as the water ran down my face that morning:

All the shine of a thousand spotlights
All the stars we steal from the night sky
Will never be enough
Never be enough
Towers of gold are still too little
These hands could hold the world but it’ll
Never be enough
Never be enough
For me
Never enough
Never, never
Never enough
for me
For me

Just a couple weeks after my brother’s death, I sat in my OBGYN’s office for my six-week postpartum check-up. My OB asked me if I was experiencing any PPD symptoms.

“I don’t know,” I said, “I don’t know the difference between postpartum depression and regular old, my-brother-just-killed-himself depression.”

I told him the hardest part was all the mental ping-pong, all the questions. And the hardest question of all to answer was why he did what he did.

My doctor said the most helpful – and true – thing to me. He said, “There’s no use trying to make sense of what he was thinking it what he did. There is no understanding it from a rational perspective…. because rational thinking people don’t kill themselves. His brain wasn’t functioning ‘normally’ at the time.”

I found out he was speaking from experience. His own brother took his life 18 months prior to mine.

Harsh delivery aside, it gave my mind a great degree of peace and rest.

But the “what if’s?” still plagued me in time.

In October of 2022, I answered this prompt in my guided grief journal:

If I could talk to you one more time, I’d tell you…

…What’s hardest about watching this [Play to Win] video is the knowledge that I didn’t follow through on the nudge to talk to you after [the first time].

I want you to know:
It breaks our hearts to see you restlessly striving, working, producing, posturing and pretending.
We just want the real, authentic you.
We want your time & attention.
We want to laugh with you over funny movies and card games.
We want you to be present with us when we are together, not multitasking a thousand different ways.

Brother, I want nothing more than for you to wake up. To hear the voice of Your Heavenly Father say, “Look up Child.

Look up from your toiling and searching and striving and see that I love you just for who you are and where you are. No matter how many times you’ve failed. Your failures were a result of you trying to do things on your own, seeking things I don’t even want for you.

Learn to live and walk with Me. And I will give you Peace and Rest and Satisfaction. Deep and Abiding. I will show you the work I want you to do. It will be rewarding and it will make an impact. But that’s not even what matters most.

Come sit with Me for a while and I will give you a new perspective.

I made you the way you are, now let Me show you how I want you to use everything I put inside you.

Let Me reframe and redefine for you what success looks like.

I love you.”

These are the things I regret not saying to my brother four years ago.
And maybe if I had, it would have made all the difference.
Or maybe, it would have never been enough.

[1] https://www.facebook.com/rayhigdonpage/videos/883545428687674/

A Grief Observed

“Losing a beloved is an amputation.” – C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

I once listened to a podcast in which a psychiatrist was talking about why it feels like we lose a part of ourselves when we lose a loved one.

He said that, unwittingly, we store information, memories and experiences in the brains of other people we are close to; like an external hard drive. Our own minds have limited capacity to keep all the data we need, so we share mental and emotional data resources with others.

We see this phenomenon to be particularly true when someone loses a spouse and has no idea what the bank password is, or what type of oil the car takes, or where the Tupperware is located in the cupboard… Those pieces of information were stored in the other person for easy access. Just as we store information for them as well.

We never expect to need to know those things ourselves because we expect the other person to always be there.

There was a specific piece, or version, of me that was reserved just for when my brother and I were together. We had a special bond our whole lives.

In his data bank I stored all our inside jokes, movie quotes, random road trips, family history, all the techie/internet answers I needed, car maintenance advice, and much more. He was a fixer, a finder, ever-resourceful. I knew certain things were only one text away if I needed them.

When I got the call that his body was found at the bottom of the canyon, it felt like a very tangible part was cut out of me. Like there’s an empty/missing place inside now.

Pictures and memories and stories will soften the sting I know, but that void will always be there, this side of Heaven.

And that’s just the way it is when we live in close relationship with others. When we love. It’s hard and it hurts, but it’s the cost of this benefit of the human existence.

***

In the weeks following my brother’s death, I listened to C.S. Lewis’ book, A Grief Observed. It was the first book of Lewis’ I ever read, actually. So different than what I imagined from the famed theologian, the book is a collection of his journals following the death of his beloved wife, Joy, opened wide for the world to see.

His pain is visceral. The deepest, rawest places of his soul on display. There are times he questions his faith and shouts at God. C.S. Lewis! It was the most relatable thing I’ve ever read.

By that point, I already had a running notepad in my phone, to which I added bits and pieces every day about all I was thinking and feeling. My own version of a grief journal. It was the only thing I could do at the time, while being physically attached to a newborn breastfeeding for eight hours a day.

The only thing that kept me from going lit-rally insane in that season was the fact I could get words and sentences out of my own soul and onto “paper”. In his book, Lewis stated, “What we work out in our journals, we don’t take out on our loved ones.” I think I was doing both, but I imagine it could have been a lot worse if I’d kept everything inside!

The excerpt at the beginning of this post is from this journal of mine on March 10th, 2021.

Some things I wrote and shared in real time on social media, but most of it, I kept tucked away. Some of it will only ever be for my own eyes, but some of it, I just wasn’t ready to share yet. I have been waiting for the right time and place – and headspace – to bring these words to light.

Mostly I think I had to wait to tell the story without being angry. Well, only angry. Which I was, for the longest time.

White-hot rage was the prominent emotion I could pinpoint after my brother decided to ride his motorcycle off the Grand Canyon. It took me a solid 12 months – and therapy – before I ever got to sad.

I was:
Angry that he made another selfish decision, in a long list of them.
Enraged by the timing – three weeks after I gave birth to my first son, when I needed my parents the most, when I needed it to be all about me.
Incensed he tainted this time that is supposed to be sweet and pure and full of joy.
Irate he would put my parents through that.
Livid he stole years of cognition with my father from me, from us, from my son. I knew the mental toll it would take on both of my parents – particularly my father, who was already diagnosed with Alzheimers, but whose symptoms were mild.
Furious about the fact that I would never get to be the same again – I would be forever altered by his choice.
Seething over the mess he left behind I had to clean up. That he made me an only child. That he abandoned me to struggle with aging parents and Dad’s diagnosis alone.
And on and on.

Even when I did experience moments or days of sadness, it would be overshadowed by my anger that his choice was the reason I had to feel that way.

The rage became its own entity within me. I finally made space for therapy when I was afraid of that rage, of who I was with it churning inside me.

People thought they knew my brother, thought they knew the story. They did not. The “public” didn’t even know it was suicide. My family and I told people we knew, who we’re close with, in one-on-one conversations, but that was it. And I wanted to tell the whole, stark-naked truth of what he had done to us over a loudspeaker.

But about 18 months after John’s death, God whispered a Truth to my heart. It was after I had told one more person the whole story. The one that I’m beginning to unfold here. Her reaction was exactly what I wanted: shock, solidarity, anger alongside me. But the bitterness and burning rage in me didn’t regress for even a minute. If anything, it was prodded and stoked hotter.

And God gently said to me, “You can tell as many people as you want, but it’s not going to make you feel better. Or more free. Relieved from the pain or frustration. It’s not going to make you feel justified.” It was like a veil was removed in my mind and my emotions.

My therapist once asked me what it would take for me to stop being angry at my brother. I listed: “An apology, reconciliation, changed behavior…” She pointed out that even if my brother was alive, I may never have gotten those things. But, since he’s dead, I sure as shit wasn’t getting them now. So I had to figure something else out.

God reminded me of this prior conversation while He was speaking to me then.

That very same weekend in the Fall of 2022, I was sitting in a conference when the speaker stopped the event to pray over a person/persons in the crowd who needed to “let go of something”. Her prayer was vivid, visual: She said [once you decided to let go], it would feel like fresh Spring air. Like when you open the windows of your house on the first warm, Spring day and let the fresh air blow the stale scent of Winter away.

I had been sitting in my stale house of rage for 18 months, but that day I opened the windows and let God breathe something new inside me. I felt a shift. The anger didn’t magically get better or go away overnight, but I felt lighter. Freer. More hopeful. That I could and would feel different moving forward.

It’s been another 18 months. The anger still comes in waves at times. But the waves are few and far between, they aren’t as high or as violent, and they pass back out to sea quickly. Mostly, I just feel an aching longing when I think of my brother now. I wish he weren’t gone. And at last, I feel a release in being able to tell his story. Our story.

It’s true, I don’t ever get to be the same person I was before he chose to end his life, but the person I am now has a depth of knowledge, experience, compassion, and empathy that I can use for myself and others.

I have found immeasurable comfort in being able to write all of this down over the last three years, but my prayer is that I can share it without triggering any of that old bitterness and rage. And that I can tell it in a way that is helpful to others who are also walking through an earth-shattering encounter with grief, and not just as a continued therapeutic exercise for myself.

I hope you stick with me on this journey. But I understand if this content isn’t for you right now. You are loved, and I will still be here sharing all of the #RealTalk if you need me in the future.

***

This post is part 4 in a series that starts with: http://racheldawnwrites.com/blog/reads-like-fiction/

Sabbatical

About 18 months ago, I was in a meeting with a client in Miami when the woman I was meeting with pulled a second person in the room. She announced she was leaving the company in two weeks, and this was her replacement. This was not entirely uncommon, but what happened next was.

I asked her what she was going to do, “Are you staying in the industry?”

“No,” she said, “I’m going back home (some country in South America) to take a sabbatical. I’m going to spend time with family and take time to figure out what I want to do.”

I started crying. Right there, in the middle of her office.

Her words were like a salve to my soul. That was exactly what I wanted. The only problem was, there’s no such thing as sabbaticals in Corporate America. You can’t just take months off of work to figure out what you want to do with your life. There are bills to pay and adult responsibilities to fulfill.

But this woman’s plan was like a refreshing oasis in the middle of my desert wilderness of exhaustion. I couldn’t stop thinking about her words, or the peaceful calm on her face when she said them.

I cried because I wanted to be that brave. I wanted to give myself that kind of time and space for my soul to breathe and my head to think clearly again. I wanted a sabbatical too. But that wasn’t realistic for me at the time.

There’s a song on the radio right now with the lyrics,

He makes a way where there ain’t no way,

let me tell you ‘bout my Jesus.

Ready?

Monday morning, May 2nd, 2022, I was a nervous wreck. The weekend prior, my husband and I had decided I would ask my company for some time off and a new position when I returned. With a knotted stomach and sweaty hands, I emailed my boss to ask if he had time for a call.

Once we connected, I told him everything that I had been wrestling with the last eight months. All my indecision, doubt, fears, uncertainty about what God was asking me to do. Travel or stay home? Work part time or full-time? Or, should I leave the workforce all together and “just” be a mom? What if I did that and hated it? How would I come back?

My company had already been SO gracious to me after my brother’s death, which happened in the middle of my maternity leave. They had given me additional time off for bereavement, and then more time again once I had been back to work a few months, when I was overwhelmed getting everything in order with my brother’s possessions and estate. And now I was asking for even more.

I couldn’t even verbalize what I needed because my head was so overloaded and scrambled I didn’t even know myself! I just knew SOMETHING had to give.

“Look,” I said, “I know there’s no such thing as sabbaticals in corporate America, but that’s what I’m asking for. I want a significant chunk of time off – like three months – so I can even have the time and space to breathe and think a clear thought about what my next steps should be. Basically, I want to take the Summer off.”

My boss said many empathetic and reassuring things to me that day. He was an absolute gem about the whole thing – a part I attribute to God. But the last words he said to me were, “As far as I know, we don’t have a sabbatical program (how he said that without laughing I’ll never know), what I imagine will happen is you will be separated on good terms and can come back anytime you’re ready, but hey, check with HR, they have more knowledge about what we can and can’t do than I do.”

My next phone call was to HR. I relayed the whole scenario and conversation with my boss. And when I was done, I kid you not, that woman opened her mouth and said, “Actually, we do have an administrative leave program. It’s kind of like a medical leave of absence, except with that you need a doctor’s note, with this, you just need your managers to sign off, which it sounds like they already have. And it lasts up to 12 weeks.”

Twelve weeks. Three months.

I was getting my sabbatical. I was going to get to take the Summer off to spend with my son and hear from God.

What. In. the. Actual. Was. Happening?

Sparing all the side-stories and details, suffice it to say, God’s provision went so far over and above what I could even imagine during this time. It was one blessing after another. More and more and more abundant overflow of His goodness than I would have ever asked for.

It was honestly bananas.

The one story I want to tell you about is this: The week that I called my boss – the VERY week – my husband got a phone call from a prospective client to do his largest project to date. If he won the job, it would net as much as his entire previous year’s income combined. And then, he got another call like that. And another. Three calls, in one week. Each would individually exceed the last year’s income. He ended up winning two of the three projects.

It’s been a year now, and the calls haven’t stopped coming.

What I didn’t know when I worked my last day on Friday, June 3rd, was that I wouldn’t go back to work at all.

My Summer never ended.

I Never Wanted to Be A Mommy Blogger

This time last year, I went to bed about 9pm on a Wednesday just like any other night. Save for the fact I was VERY pregnant – 38 ½ weeks.

Around 1am, I woke up to the sound of a pop and the sensation of a gush – my water broke.

Twenty hours later, I went from wife-and-woman-only to: mama.
When it was over, I cried, but only because it was the most grueling two hours [of active labor] of my life and we both survived.

I never wanted to go through labor and delivery. In my naivete, I always told people if I ever had a baby, I would schedule a c-section to avoid it. In fact, I never really even wanted to be pregnant. I begrudged the whole process most of the nine months.

Children were a theory, of something, sometime, in the future. And mostly, I planned on adopting them. My son, Samson, was a total surprise.

But now I understand why women do this physically-illogical thing over and over to themselves. Which was always the most baffling part to me.

Those nine months of my life, and the 20 hours of labor, are such small slivers of time in the grand scheme of the 37 years of my life so far.

While yes, the first three months I was only nauseous, and last three months I was ONLY tired and uncomfortable. And while I can vividly remember how utterly depleted my tiny body was after pushing “just one more push” for 45 straight minutes…
… all of that pales in comparison to the fact that I’ve now had a whole year with this tiny human I call my own son.

Don’t get me wrong, at first, it was totally awkward and strange.
I remember sitting in the NICU, looking down at this stranger-baby against my chest and feeling disconnected. All I sensed was a mere protective obligation for this small creature now solely in my (and my husband’s) care.

It took almost three months at home with him before I felt any sort of attachment or bond. Not until he started becoming something other than a blob that only demanded more than I wanted to give, at all hours of the day.

But now, every day, I get to know him better. Every day, more of “him” emerges. And every day, I fall more and more helplessly in love with who he is.

I am wholly, entirely smitten.

The sound of his voice, his laugh, the smell of his skin, the sweetness of this touch, the look in his eyes when he looks at me – when I can tell he is just as enamored with me.

I fall recklessly, head-over-heels, irrevocably in love.

When I started to understand, I described loving him with pieces of me I didn’t know existed. It was so weird finding this new capacity in my heart, when I thought it was already so full. I couldn’t imagine it containing anything more, but it was overflowing to the point it felt like it would literally burst!

I have heard all of these sentiments from other mamas before me. So much so that it’s almost trite. But it doesn’t make all of it any less true.

Being a mother is the most exhausting thing I’ve ever experienced. Just making it through a single day, he takes every ounce of energy and bandwidth and love I have to give. Then, the minute I put him in his crib and walk out of his room, I miss him. I want to go wake him up so I can spend more time with him.

This love is reckless because I already know he’s not mine forever. He never was. He’s merely on loan to me. Entrusted to me to steward and shepherd, for a time. And then let go. To turn him back over to God and the world as he ventures out on his own. To walk out his own path and purpose. To find another woman to love, if he chooses to.

I am already praying over her. Whoever that little girl may be. Who may one day come and steal my little boy’s heart. Who will join him and walk alongside him in all that God has for him to do on this earth. I pray she will love him well.

But for now, he’s my little love alone.

My whole life has flipped upside down in the last 12 months, and I am still trying to wrap my head around it all. I can’t believe a year has already passed since I met him. And one thing I know is that the time I do have with him will never feel like long enough.

So yesterday, I savored the last day of his 11th month, and today I am basking in the first day of his 12th. And I will fall more in love.

Nov 4th, 2016

Three years ago on this day, I sat on my living room couch in my snack-stained bathrobe and messy bedhead bun – on what should have been one of the happiest days of my life – only feeling confused and disappointed.

I remember thinking, this is not at all what I imagined this would be like. I thought I would feel…..different. I thought I would feel something at least.

Anything but the way I did.

It was launch day for my first book, Now What? A Story of Broken Dreams and the God Who Restores Them. This was the culmination of a six-year journey. The achievement of a dream I had held in my heart since the third grade. The pinnacle moment for the project I had poured every bit of myself into for the last four years.

And I felt nothing.

The night before, I had been up late waiting to push “publish” on the Amazon CreateSpace platform that would send my words to every corner of the globe with an internet connection.

As the second hand tipped over the minute line and the clock struck midnight, I pushed that button with great expectation – as if my whole world would magically transform in an instant. When a confirmation page loaded on the browser I thought, well that was anticlimactic.

I walked around in a daze that Friday.

My book launch party was still a week away; there was still plenty to do, so I threw myself into the last-minute details of that and convinced myself that on that day – surrounded by my closest friends and family, toasting lattes to my accomplishment – I would finally feel that mountaintop moment of arrival I was expecting.

But November 11^th came and went, and while I relished every moment of celebrating the milestone, surrounded by my biggest cheerleaders, nothing changed on the inside of me.

In fact, I plummeted so fast and so far south on my emotional rollercoaster, I felt more disenchantment than elation. Disillusionment than excitement.

I checked the sales report every morning for weeks – expecting to see numbers in the thousands. When it barely tipped over 60 copies in the first month, I was in a full-on depression.

What was happening?

If God really called me to write this book, and He opened all the doors for me to put it out in the world like He did, wouldn’t He also cause it to fly off the shelves?Wouldn’t He want as many copies in the hands of as many people as possible? Wouldn’t He want to make it a best-seller?

Did I hear Him wrong? Is this my fault? What’s wrong with me?

Then came the shame. Mountains and oceans of shame.

Shouldn’t Jesus be enough?

I mean, sure, those “lost” people out in the world deal with feeling unfulfilled, but not Christians, right?

I mean, I literally learned this lesson in junior high youth group: Every human on earth is walking around with a Jesus-sized hole inside them. Most people go around trying to fill it up with relationships, or sex, or drugs and alcohol. But once you “get saved” and “have Jesus”, all that goes away.

…Then why did I still have a hole?

What I have learned in the last three years is that achievement is empty. Achievement alone.

Even if it is the achievement of something good.

Even if it is something God called you to.

Even if it is in ministry.

Even if your heart is pure.

And no body prepared me for this.

No one ever told me that people inside the church – even inside ministry – can still feel emptiness in their souls.

I had enough foresight to see that if accomplishing the number one goal in my life made me feel this hollow, than any other goal I set from here would only result in the same cavernous hole. And I needed to do something about it.

So I set out on a journey. To wrestle with God about the ideas of success and accomplishment I held so deeply. To seek to understand the balance between expectation and contentment. Striving and satisfaction.

And it’s been great!

And scary. And fulfilling. And challenging. And burden-lifting. And freeing. And seemingly never-ending.

But, I’m starting to see a light at the end of the tunnel. I’m starting to grasp some firm answers and see through the fogginess to clarity.

It’s time to start talking about it. I’m excited to begin sharing this journey with you.

If you’ve ever been disappointed by a dream come true, I hope you’ll come along with me.

Dear 21 Year Old Self…

060107 129 Twelve years ago – on this very day (as Shutterfly so aptly reminded me) – I was saying “I do” for the first time in my life.

I was young, naïve, blissfully ignorant…. And so, so, so misinformed.

I meant the words I said with all of my 21-year-old heart, but I was ill-equipped to fulfill them.

I was short-tempered, self-righteous, and lacked any understanding of the word Grace whatsoever.

The bigger problem was my mountain of unrealistic expectations. I was expecting marriage to fulfill me. My husband to complete me. And thought we would live happily-ever-after day-after-day.

I read recently that, “Expectations are disappointments waiting to happen.”

I did not hide my disappointment in my first husband.

Soon, disappointment led to disenchantment. Then to disdain and disgust. Which eventually led to the most gut-wrenching D-word of all: Divorce. And that led to months and years of darkness and depression. 20190607_210309

But tonight, 12 years later, I’m sitting on my deck watching the sunset, listening to my husband chipping golfballs in our backyard. My life has been totally redeemed.

If I could go back and talk to the girl in this photo, I would explain that marriage is not so much about who you are married to, but how you are in the marriage.

This marriage is honestly not terribly different than the last.

My husband still does things that annoy me, sometimes forgets things, or breaks a promise… we disagree, argue and sometimes even shout at each other.

My marriage is imperfect. My husband is imperfect.

Unfortunately, it took my entire life falling apart to realize that so am I.

But the breaking of me made way for the best of me in its place.

A friend recently asked me if I knew what I knew now, could I have made my first marriage work? My answer was yes, but, I wouldn’t know what I know now had I not gone through my first marriage failing.

I had to be humbled. Today, I am patient and kind (on my good days!), but most of all, I am full of grace.

I know the last time my husband and I argued, will not be the last time we argue. I know the last time he broke a promise, will not be the last time he breaks a promise. Or the last time he hurt me will be the last time he hurts me.

But I have done those things too. And I will do them again. At times, I take him for granted, and often don’t speak to him in a polite tone.

I have a limitless supply of grace for him and he does for me.

I would tell the young girl in the white dress that grace – not love, as we were sold – is the most important part of making a marriage work.

There is an indescribable peace that comes with knowing that despite your imperfections – even at your ugliest, even when you don’t deserve it – the other person is never giving up on you.

This is exactly how Jesus love us.

And giving that peace to another human being is what walking out a lifetime of real love looks like.

There’s No Such Thing As Annuals

My mom used to own and operate her own greenhouse. If having a green thumb is a thing, my mom is green head-to-toe – that woman can make anything grow anywhere!

Recently, while sitting on my deck looking at the shriveling petunias left over from our 4th of July party, I was saddened by the fact they were almost completely dead. Brown, dry, crisp. With only a hint of their former green life remaining. Not that I hadn’t been caring for them, but Petunias are annuals, which means they only bloom for one season, one year, and then they die. They will not regrow or bloom again next year, their little roots cannot survive the harsh winter in Ohio.

Even though they were practically dead already, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away. I imagined them sitting in the bottom of my dumpster feeling rejected and discarded even though they had done nothing wrong. (I’m a bit irrational when it comes to any living thing….ask my husband about it sometime)

But that got me thinking about why God would create something so beautiful, something that brings me (and others) so much joy, to just then wither up and die.

One voice in my head wants to tell me it’s because God isn’t really good or kind or loving. That He is cruel or indifferent.

But another voice, the One I’ve come to hear more often and more clearly, tells me that’s not true.

So, I start there. With the things I know about God that are true:

God is good and kind and loving, and creative.

He makes beautiful things because He enjoys it and He enjoys bringing joy to His children.

God also does not create any living thing that does not reproduce or regenerate itself.

With those facts I concluded, petunias, and therefore all annuals, must actually be man made, genetically altered, for them to die off on the winter.

I text my mom asking if that was the case.

But before she could respond, I had a follow up thought. “Or, is it that every plant is really a perennial (meaning it never dies and/or does come back every year) in the right climate?”

My mom’s response came as her typical short-hand over text, “yes, to the second”.

So it turns out, there is actually no such thing as annuals. They are just perennials planted in the wrong place.

There have been countless persons make an exhaustive number of spiritual metaphors regarding plants and planting. Jesus himself not excluded. (See Matthew 13)

And I don’t doubt at some point in your life – probably more than once – you’ve seen some motivational poster with a striking image of budding flora and the words “bloom where your planted” overlayed.

But still as I snapped this picture this morning and thought of that conversation with my mom, words and ideas started flowing.

I’ve always interpretted Jesus’s parable of the sower as just throw seed everywhere and see what sticks. And that poster communicated just do your part to flourish as much as you possibly can wherever God has you planted in the moment. And that certainly is true and valid.

But I’d never thought about making sure you are darn-well planting in the right place before you start trying to grow something! Otherwise, after one magnificent season full of vigorous and vibrant color you might just shrivel up and die! (Metaphorically speaking, of course)

And then I realized, I think that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.

I think that’s a reality of what any of us are doing anytime we experience burnout in a given endeavor. We are trying to grow something somewhere in which God never created it to grow. We want to plant seeds where we want them to be planted, or just any place we can, without stopping to consider the cost of loss come end of season. So it may work for a season, but anytime we are working outside and against God’s intended design, we will ultimately shrivel back into the ground.

I wonder if it hurts God’s heart at all when we bring plants into climates where they can’t survive and then just dig them up and throw them out each year? (I have no idea if He gets as emotionally attached to inanimate objects as I do sometimes) but I can guarantee it hurts Him to watch us trying to force growth in our lives in the wrong territory.

I recommend before you start trying to grow something yourself, take a good look around and ask God if that’s the best place to try to plant a seed or develop roots.

Transplanting is hard. Landscapers literally use the word “trauma” to describe what happens to a plant that has been uprooted and planted somewhere new. But often, it’s what’s best for the health of the plant in the long run.

If where you are now you feel your petals are falling off and leaves are drying up, you might want to think of consulting the Master Gardener about a relocation to the plot he has picked out for you.

Apple Seeds and Deep Prejudices

In the Spring of 2016, I realized I am prejudice.

prejudice

noun prej·u·dice \ˈpre-jə-dəs\

: an irrational attitude of hostility directed against an individual, a group, a race, or their supposed characteristics

: an unfair feeling of dislike for a person or group because of race, sex, religion, etc.

: a feeling of like or dislike for someone or something especially when it is not reasonable or logical

All of these definitions fit my condition perfectly.

But my prejudices have nothing to do with skin color.

Home Sweet Home

While preparing a message to give at a ladies luncheon at small church in Southern Kentucky, I got stuck.

When I booked the event, I was told I could plan the theme. Immediately the word “refreshing” came to mind.

I wanted to get the audience brainstorming about their dreams and purpose in their life, to refresh their passion.

I decided to take the ladies through an exercise I had done myself a few years ago and wrote about in my book.

After pulling me out of the darkest pit of my life, God was teaching me how to dream again. He prompted me to make two lists: things I was passionate about, and things I was good at – natural talents and abilities I possessed. When I did this I began to see correlations. I began to see purpose. I started to get a clear picture of what God put me here on earth for.

With the two lists side-by-side, I saw how He had planted specific passions in my heart, and gave me the corresponding skill-sets to go after them. Refreshing, right?

But leading up to the event, I wondered if that exercise had only been refreshing to me. What if no one else found it as revelatory? I thought I knew the direction I wanted to take the day, but every time I sat down to type or research, I just felt….. blah.

In discussing ideas with the event coordinator (my mom), I asked her what she thought about it, if she thought a Purpose-Finding exercise would be interesting and applicable to the rest of the audience.

See, this wasn’t an audience of my peers; other thirty-somethings in the midst of a quarter-life crisis, trying to identify which path to take. This was going to be a room full of women who doubled my age; women who, many of them, had already lived full lives. Did they even want or need to be refreshed?!

But my mom’s response was encouraging to me. She said, “I think that’s a great idea. Because where I am now is, ‘Ok God, I’ve lived this whole life, and I’ve raised my children, and had careers, and I’ve had my own businesses, and I’ve already done all these things, but I’m still here.’ – And, I don’t know how much longer I have – it could be one more day or forty more years- but…. ‘Now What? [she giggled at her clever use of my book title] What am I supposed to do next? What am I still here for?’” And then she ended with, “I kind of feel I’ve outlived my usefulness, like I’m all used up.”

…I can’t express what it felt like to hear those heartbreaking words come out of my mom’s mouth. But I was hopeful because I had a solution, I had some insight for what to do in a “Now What?” moment like that.

And here’s what I know: if my mom felt that way, she wasn’t going to be the only woman in that room who did. So it was settled; I would walk through that exercise with them and plan my talk accordingly.

But nothing changed for me internally. I still felt so unmotivated.

Usually, once I get a clear inspiration for a talk, I can’t put it down and I absolutely cannot wait to deliver it! I get excited about the life change that God wants to bring with my words and joyfully overwhelmed at the honor that I get to be a part of it.

This was entirely not the case this time. I was utterly dreading this event.

The closer it got, the less excited I felt.

I made sure to check off every other thing on my daily to-do list and continued to put off finalizing the talk until it was the week of the event.

I sat down and reviewed the outline I had prepared and then contemplated scrapping the whole thing and starting from scratch.

I worried I had missed God’s leading altogether and was only focused on what I wanted to accomplish that day.

I sat my notes aside and picked up my prayer journal. I began to ask God if I had missed Him entirely. I told Him I was happy to throw out my talk and give the one He wanted.

But when I picked up my notes and read through again them I thought, this is really good stuff. So why am I still so drained and debilitated at the thought of giving this talk?

Within an hour of penning those words in my journal, I found myself on the phone with my high school cheerleading coach. It had been about three years since we last spoke.

While we talked I told her, “Hey, by the way, since the last time we were together, I wrote a book and I started speaking publicly.”

“WOW! Look at you!” She said, congratulating me and expressing her pride.

“Yes, it’s exciting…but it’s also a lot,” I replied, “Since I’m still working full time, it’s a lot on my plate and it’s overwhelming at times. BUT, the cool part is, I know it’s exactly what God is calling me to, and I know it is literally what I was created for.”

And I swear to you, her exact response to me was: “Isn’t that refreshing?”

She went on, “I don’t even know if that’s the right word, but I remember that point in my life, when I realized teaching was for me; that teaching is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing in life. Everything just clicked.”

I couldn’t even tell her how ironic her words were, but I was laughing.

Ok, I hear your confirmation, God, this is the talk I’m supposed to give. But YOU are going to have to give me the passion for it.

It’s Not About Me

Many times before a talk I start to feel nervous or uneasy as I prepare. I worry about delivering just the right message in just the right way. I get pretty worked up questioning if I’m qualified enough and if I have enough value to bring to the audience.

And every time, God reminds me that it’s not about me.

He has opened the door and given me this opportunity and as long as I get out of His way and let Him, He will show up and speak through me. It’s not about me, it’s about the audience and what He has in store for them.

As soon as I take my eyes off myself, my own insecurities, and focus on the audience, what they are going through and what they are going to get out of it – and remember that God is doing all the talking anyway – all of that uneasiness goes away.

With that in mind, I sat down with my prayer journal once more. It was the day before the talk.

I asked God to give me His eyes and His heart for these people. To show me what He sees when He looks at them, so I can feel what He feels and know the right words to give them.

I was immediately blindsided by a fierce conviction: I don’t believe in these people at all. (Insert big eyes emoji)

These are small-town church people living in small-town Kentucky, I thought, Even if God did have big dreams for them, would they even go after them?

It occurred to me I have always seen “these people” as a sub-class. Entirely unambitious. “Poor, dumb and happy.” Oblivious to the fact they are throwing their lives away by staying confined to small towns and small sanctuaries. I seethed with judgement against them for not dreaming bigger. Thinking bigger. For not wanting to “get out” and “move on” like I did. I believed they really couldn’t do anything of significance if they stayed where they were.

I was convicted. Oh no! I am prejudice!

Against small-town people.

And, against traditional “church” people.

In my book, Now What? A Story of Broken Dreams and the God Who Restores Them I recount the months after my divorce when I was angry and bitter at God. I ran away from Him and from all things church and religion – I didn’t want anything to do with any of it. I had followed their rulebook and God’s gameplan and my life didn’t turn out like I had been promised.

Additionally, recollections of the shaming and shunning of people who had fallen short during my childhood church experience replayed in my head as I imagined I, too, was being judged and condemned by these people during the lowest point in my life.

A few years after my divorce, I found a safe place in the welcoming arms and atmosphere of a self-admitted “church for people who have given up on church but not on God.” And it was unlike any experience I ever had to that point. But, even after all the healing and restoration God has brought into my life, I was caught off guard by the fact I still assumed and thought the worst of the “traditional church people”.

I was absolutely prejudice against them.

I had an “irrational attitude of hostility directed against an individual, a group, a race, or their supposed characteristics” just like the dictionary described.

And I was wrong.

For both of these prejudices.

God immediately opened my eyes to see these people weren’t any different than anyone else He’s created.

We are all equally flawed. And most of all, equally loved by Him.

Of course He has a plan and a purpose for their lives.

Of course they could be effectively and impactfully used by Him.

Of course they could dream big dreams and do big things, even from their small towns.

Of course He believed in them.

And of course He expected me to believe in them too.

It wasn’t my talk that was off, it was me that was off! Ouch.

My heart was completely wrong toward these people.

And I had some serious repenting to do.

Apple Seeds

After my revelation (and repentance), I was on the phone with my speaking mentor, recounting the experience to him.

He quipped, “It’s good that you figured that out now. If you had gone in there tomorrow with the same attitude you had toward those people today, you would have felt it and they would have felt it and it would have not been effective.”

He went on to tell me a very wise reminder, one he said he has to constantly remind himself of over and over:

“When you walk into a room to speak to a group of 100 people,” he began, “How many people’s lives do you have the opportunity to impact that day? …..100, right? That math works. The answer is 100, right?”

“Right,” I agreed.

“But that’s the wrong answer.”

Jeff is the master of trick questions that make you feel like you’re brilliant in one instant and rubbish the next, but they get your wheels turning and the lessons stick long-after the conversation.

“When you walk into a room of 100 people,” He said, “The number of lives you have the opportunity and ability to impact that day is infinity. It’s limitless.”

Seemingly changing subjects he pondered an ancient riddle, “How many seeds are in an apple? 10, 12, 15? …But how many apples are in a seed? An unlimited number, right?

…Because an apple seed becomes a tree, which produces hundreds of apples each year, which all contain seeds, that all contain more trees.

…So it’s the same when you walk into that room of 100,” He asserted, “Because those people know people who aren’t in that room, and they know other people, and those people know other people and so on. And those people are going to have kids one day,” He paused, if only for a millisecond, “When you and I walk into a room to speak, we literally have the ability to impact generations of people who aren’t even born yet!

So just think about that for a minute…. If even just one of those 60 year-old, grey-haired, small-town Kentucky women grabs hold of a dream and a vision you share with them on Saturday – and does something with it – she could impact the lives of people who aren’t even born.”

After that phone call, I was electric! My belief in these women and their futures was raised exponentially!

And that’s exactly what I told them from stage that next day!

After pouring myself out for them that afternoon, there were several women who came up to me afterward and told me they really were leaving refreshed. So my mission was indeed successful.

But more than that, I planted some apple trees that day. And I am eager to see the bountiful harvest that comes out of small sanctuary in that small town in southern Kentucky.

Two Weeks Ago, I Googled Myself

When the devil whispers a lie to you, it’s not random. It’s intentional. Deliberate.
It’s the exact opposite of the Truth. The specific Truth he is trying to discredit in your life.
It gives you a little insight into his playbook.

Two weeks ago, I googled myself.

It wasn’t out of arrogance, I promise, rather shear curiosity. Barry (my husband) and I were driving around town when he told me about a DJ friend of his from college, “He moved to L.A. and is like a real life, big time DJ. You can google him!”

So naturally I thought, I wonder what happens when you google “Author Rachel Dawn”? So I did. To my surprise, the results were stacked! Google returned my bio, my author page on amazon, my tv interview, youtube clips, my website, my blog… like I was a real life, big time author!

Then it occurred to me that google results are tailored to individuals based on their search and web history, I told myself, this has to be biased. So I tried it from Barry’s phone and asked 3 or 4 of my closest friends to google me and screenshot their results. They all had virtually the same content I saw, but in a different order; some looked more impressive than others.

Later that night, in a back-and-forth text exchange with my sister I told her my results had been “crazy” and made me look “totally legit”. To which she simply replied, “You are legit.”

And then I bawled my eyes out at 1:30 in the morning as I typed out a page long reply to her.

You see, what I feel is the furthest thing from legit.

Some days, I feel like a total fraud.

There’s actually a term for this, it’s called Imposter Syndrome.

Wikipedia defines imposter syndrome as: a psychological pattern in which an individual doubts their accomplishments, and has a persistent internalized fear of being exposed as a “fraud”.

And a Fast Company article states: The phenomenon reflects a belief that you’re an inadequate and incompetent failure, despite evidence that indicates you’re skilled and quite successful.

Just two days earlier, while in for my weekly appointment, my book came up in discussion with my chiropractor for the first time. Like any genuinely interested person, he asked a few questions, and then came the one question I had been praying wouldn’t come of his mouth, “Are sales going well?”

You guys… It.got.so.weird.

All my confidence was sucked right out from inside me. Immediately my shoulders drooped and I couldn’t look him in the eye. I was so self-conscious thinking about the number of copies sold in my head. My voice trailed off as I rambled on about how reality had not lived up to my expectations for numbers blah blah blah… and I changed the subject as quickly as possible.

I was most embarrassed at my own reaction.

And when that text from my sister came in, the realization of why I felt that way hit me.

I wrote to her: I don’t know when it’s supposed to feel like you “made it” in this [book] world, this segment. But lately I’ve noticed my confidence has been lacking and I think it’s because I feel like I’m just failing. Like I should be way further along. The further away I get from my release date, the more of a failure I feel. But I don’t even know at what point I would stop feeling that. This is the first time I’ve even been able to put those thoughts together in words.

Maybe you have felt like this before? You thought with this degree or that job, you’d be making more money. At this company, you’d be further up the ranks. By this age or with all the work you’ve put in, you’d have more, be more, feel more satisfied…

Compound that with social media feeds parading in front of you the people who started at the same place at the same time, but appear further along and totally fine. Ugh.

She responded with precisely the words I needed to hear, but still struggled to believe:

You know those are lies being whispered to you. You’re successful because of the lives you’ve touched, not the number of books sold. I’m sure you would have written that book just to help a single person, but instead, you’ve helped hundreds…so far, and more to come.

Not many people can say that.

You’re one of the most confident people I know, don’t let the devil steal that God-given trait from you. Maybe the plan is to kill, steal and destroy your confidence so that you won’t keep going, so that you won’t write another book?!

You’re only 33 and you wrote and have published a book. That’s successful.

Everything I’ve ever been taught about success is to set tangible, concrete goals. It’s not enough to just want to “write a book”, you have to set a deadline, and concrete numbers for sales, so you can measure your accomplishment. But so far, that method had only served to send me on an emotional rollercoaster in this endeavor. My expectation was to have sold this many copies during launch week, not almost 2 years later.

I prayed to God that night: tell me what I should be believing for. Should I have a goal with a number attached to it? Or not? Why was this bothering me so much? I asked Him to reveal the depth of what was really going on.

At Least I’m Not Alone

Over the next few days as I marinated on the exchange, I was reminded of a story I heard at the She Speaks conference in 2016. During a workshop titled, Marketing Do-Over: Secrets I Wish I Had Known, Before My First Book Launched, Courtney DeFeo recounted a similar meltdown.

Some time after her book launched, Courtney called her mentor (Lysa Terkeurst) crying hysterically about the [lack of] number of copies she had sold. She expected it to be many more by then. She expected to be further along. And she felt like everything she had done had been wasted effort. She questioned if she really supposed to do this? She wanted to give up. Then, they had this exchange:

Lysa calmly asked her, “Did God ask you to write the book?”

“Yes.”

“Are people being impacted?”

What?

“Do you get letters/emails from people telling you how your book is impacting them?”

“Well, yes.”

“That’s all that matters. Numbers are not the key indicators of your success. Changed lives are.”

I was thankful to have heard that story even before I needed it so I knew I wasn’t alone. But that still didn’t mean I knew how to stop feeling this way or what to do with these feelings.

Subterfuge

What shocked me the most about my early morning meltdown was the fact that I hadn’t realized it was happening.

“Subterfuge” was the word I kept picturing in my imagination. If our minds are the battlefield of our lives (and I believe they are), the enemy had been playing a long, slow game of Guerilla Warfare to which I had been utterly oblivious. I wondered just how long those thoughts had been planted, germinated, and able to take root?

A few days later I was retelling the 1:30-am-text-exchange-breakdown-story to my friend

When the Devil(1)

TaLarrya and in the way that only she can, she listened and then responded, “Ok, so you know that is a lie. So, what truth is the enemy trying to shake your confidence in, that God wants to affirm in you? The two are probably related.”

I’m thankful for friends I can be totally vulnerable with, who can speak Truth back to me in exactly the way I need it.

In that moment, it was like the enemy’s playbook was thrown open in front of my eyes.

When she walked away, I took out my phone and jotted a quick note for myself: What’s the opposite of failure, of “I should be further along than I am right now.”?

I believe there are still many truths God will continue to whisper to me about this, but right away what I heard was, I’m exactly where God wants me, right now.

For reasons beyond my comprehension, I’m supposed to be in this exact this place, at this stage, for this moment, in this season, with this number of books sold.

I don’t know what all of His plans for my future as an author and public speaker look like, how high He will elevate me, what reach and impact He will allow me to have, but He has promised that He does:

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” (Jeremiah 29:11)

My job is to rest in the trusting of that truth. And to do the next thing He puts in front of me.

Resting & Trusting keep popping up as recurring themes in my life this year…looks like I still have a lot to learn about them both.

Would All the Real Martha’s Please Stand Up?

martha cover My friend Katie Reid just finished her book, “Made Like Martha: Good News for the Woman Who Gets Things Done” and invited me to be on the launch team. I eagerly jumped at the chance – not just to help create buzz for my friend and her release in July, but a little selfishly, because the book sounds like it was written just for me.

There’s a story in the Bible, in the book of Luke, about two women, sisters – one’s named Mary and one is Martha – who have an encounter with Jesus. Martha invites him to their house for dinner, but spends the whole time doing things for her guest, while Mary shirks the work and just sits with their guest, enjoying his company. In the story, Mary is clearly heralded as the “good sister” while Martha is recorded as having her priorities out of order.

Ouch.

Here’s the problem: I’m Martha.

Double ouch.

In fact, if I had written the book, I would have subtitled it, “Good News for the Woman Who Handles Sh*t”, but Katie is a better Christian than I am. 😊

Indeed, those words have come out of my mouth more than once. Around Christmastime, I verbatim told my husband, during a tiff about dinner reservations, “I don’t want to be the one who always has to handle sh*t!!” in a moment of vulnerability and irritation.

“Has to handle” is a subjective term, of course. As the reason I’m usually “handling things” on my own is because I arrogantly feel no one will handle them better than me, or it’s more hassle to have to explain it or wait on someone else to do it, so I just do it myself.

Plus, getting sh*t done – especially good things, like things for God and for my purpose – makes me feel really, really good about myself. It’s how I measure my days and weeks and months as successes or failures. If I don’t do all the things God put me here on earth to do while I’m here, then what was even the point? Amiright?

->Please tell me I’m not alone in all of these things I’m saying out loud? <-

Over the last year, God has taken me on quite a journey of learning to let Him handle things, instead of handling them myself.

Which, turns out, is a matter of Trust, or lack thereof, in my case. Which is not something I realized I had a problem with.

That is, until He was asking me to let Him handle things I really wanted to handle on my own. Things I knew I could handle well. Better than anyone.

Even Him.

Yowza.

I didn’t say that out loud. But my actions, and my reluctance to relinquish control, were only shouting that message to Him.

I have found I’m really good at putting something in God’s hands to handle until the next time it comes to mind and then I’m like, yeah God, let me go ahead and have that back, mmkthanks.

I haven’t breached the first chapter of the book yet, but I am hoping it is going to give me permission to live in my strengths as a Martha and feel justified in doing so. But I have a sneaking suspicion it’s going to echo all the things God has been whispering into my heart and my life over the last twelve months:

“Stop.

Stop Trying.

Striving.

Pushing.

Figuring.

Planning.

Doing.

Controlling.

Handling.

….And Rest.

Trust.

Relax.

Sit Still.

Just be.

And let Me handle it.”

I’m sure I’ll be highlighting, sharing, snapping, posting and instagramming all the words as I make my way through it. I hope you’ll stay with me on this journey as I do. Maybe you and I both will learn a thing or two about who we were created to be.

martha story