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.

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.

Jesus with Skin on

Earlier this Spring, my husband took a group of high school guys to an event our church coordinates called “MAN CAMP“. He left Friday morning before I woke up, so when I came into the kitchen to fix myself breakfast, I found a note waiting for me.

It started with “Morning Rach! A few things…” and I felt myself bristle. I expected it to be a list of things he wanted me to do/take care of while he was gone.

Because that’s the kind of note I would have left him.

In fact, I had been leaving him lots of notes like that lately, because in my opinion, he had been increasingly pulling less and less of his weight around the house, leaving things undone that I had to pick up the slack on, or remind him about for the 400th time. I constantly noticed things he was not doing more than the things he was, and found myself brewing about broken promises and bad habits – past or present – with increasing frequency.

He would be the first to tell you, not all of my thoughts and feelings were unmerited. But, they were taking over the driver’s seat of my mind and the climate of our marriage.

If I’m being totally honest, I have actually been quite an A-hole to my husband as of late. My tone with him is sharp, bitter, and often cutting, even when I don’t intend for it to be.

And, what I let come out of my mouth pales in comparison to the thoughts that have been occupying my mind more often than not.

I’ve found myself feeling disgusted, bordering on contempt. Even though I don’t want to feel this way.

But as I read through the rest of his note, instead of to-do’s, it was a bulleted list of a love letter:

I love you unconditionally with all my heart.
I hope you are feeling much better this morning.
I appreciate you.
I miss you already.
Enjoy your weekend with the girls.
Thanks for being you. For your joyful spirit, youthful zest for life, infectious laughter (it makes me smile to hear you laugh), your heart for God that is full of all the loves, your grace and kindness, and for choosing me to live life with.

As tears filled my eyes, my gut twisted with guilt and I thought:

how on earth can he still think these things about me?

This is the guy who sees me at my worst. At my most disgusting, my least people-skilled. I have been wretched to him at times.

Then I thought, if he even remotely had a glimpse inside my thoughts about him lately, there’s no way he would have written these things.

And suddenly, I was awash with the revelation of Jesus’ love and grace – all over again.

He whispered in my heart, I know about ALL your thoughts, and I still love you like that.

My husband, in that moment, was a very real Jesus-with-skin-on to me.

Have you ever heard that term? I remember when a friend of mine told me her husband had been Jesus-with-skin-on to her early in their dating, while she was still recovering from her divorce and struggling to trust again. It was such a clear picture of behavior, and the image stuck in my brain. But I don’t think I had ever experienced it so evidently in my own life until the very moment I was holding that note.

Have you ever experienced that type of love?

That same week, I started a new devotional by Mark & Jill Savage called “10 Days to a Better Marriage” (it’s an excerpt from their book, “No More Perfect Marriages“). And Day 5 slapped me right in the face that weekend as the authors wrote about using the “tool of the Grace Space” with your spouse. Read what I did:

Grace is a free gift from God. Because of Jesus, we deserve punishment but we get mercy instead. It’s an upside-down response to what we deserve. God gives us grace because of who He is. We don’t earn it. We don’t even deserve it.

…Grace Space happens when we allow another person to be human, to make mistakes, to be imperfect and to have their own indiosyncrasies.

Grace is a first cousin of forgiveness. We use this tool when dealing with the harmless habits that bug us but don’t really hurt us. Like coffee [stains]. Or leaving the lights on. Or leaving the toilet seat up. Or when our spouse does things differently than we would.

When thinking through whether something needs forgiveness or grace, ask yourself these two questions:

Does this hurt me or just irritate me?
Does this need to be corrected or simply accepted as part of being married to an imperfect person?

Grace is a beautiful gift to give our spouse, especially if he/she is aware of places where he/she falls short or has bad habits. Grace replaces criticism. Even if he/she isn’t aware of their shortcomings, you can use your tool of grace.

Next time you’re tempted to criticize, stop and pull grace out of your marriage toolbox. Ask yourself if this is an offense or an irritation. If it’s an offense, offer forgiveness before you address it, and if it’s simply bumping into your spouses human limitations [or imperfections], offer grace.

Ouch.

I had been doing the exact opposite of all of this. I was letting myself get offended over immaterial irritations. That certainly was a wake-up call.

I had forgotten the things I already learned – and even written about in my own book! I felt like a total hypocrite.

I had let myself get to a place where I was letting Barry’s actions – or inactions – affect my mood and determine my behavior, instead of giving him the benefit of the doubt and extending grace for his shortcomings.

I felt shameful for getting this so wrong, while my husband was obviously walking this out so well for me.

But, I was so glad for the revelation and reminders.

Our next date night, I brought up his note, and the things I had been learning. I apologized for being focused on the wrong things and let him know how he had shown Jesus to me. He told me he knew what had been inside my head, as I wasn’t very good at hiding it on my face. There was a lot of crying. And freedom. And a sense of cleansing and refreshing.

Have I totally fixed my thoughts since then? No. Have I gotten better and do I catch myself going down that road quicker? Yes.

It is, and will continue to be a process. A daily decision to pull out my God-tool of Grace, rather than giving Barry the reaction he “deserves” from me. I don’t deserve the amount of patience I get from God (or my husband), as I figure all this marriage stuff out, but I have an endless supply. And so do you.

“No marriage crumbles in a day. It’s a drift of one centimeter to another, one feeling or one decision that leads to another feeling or decision that’s a little off-center.
If left unaddressed, those things will draw us away from each other instead of toward each other, creating a fade of feelings.” – Mark & Jill Savage

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

You can also get more info and pre-order Katie’s book HERE.
#madelikemartha

Catch Me Up: Permission to Be Imperfect

You know what my favorite feature in the Bible App is?

It’s the “catch me up” button.

Screenshot_20180303-174308

When I open the app and see I’m 5 days behind on a reading plan, it can be really discouraging. It’s easy for me to start spiraling into shame and guilt. I start to feel like I’m not doing enough spiritually, like I’m not a “good enough” Christian.

And that can pretty quickly snowball into to overwhelm. I start thinking about all the things in my life I’m behind on, that I’m not doing “well enough” in.

But one tap of the gear icon and “catch me up” shifts the dates of the plan forward so suddenly I’m back on track.

It sounds silly, but I instantly feel lighter!

I used to think using that feature would be like cheating. I wanted a visual reminder that I wasn’t being diligent enough in my quiet time and needed to step up my habit.

But I think I’ve realized that was the spirit of legalism and religion talking – wanting to keep me in bondage. See, religion is oppressive…. It’s like slavery.

And that’s exactly what Jesus came to set me free from.

Let me explain:

2000 years ago when Jesus of Nazareth walked the earth, anyone who was following God at the time was doing it under the strict religious code called the “Jewish Law”. There were rules about literally EVERYTHING: what they could eat, what they could wear, where they could go, who they could hang out with… Even when and where they could pray, how often they should do it, how long they should feel bad for doing something wrong and how to make up for a mistake (with sacrifices or other punishments).

Their entire experience with God was militant and regimented; there was nothing personal or intimate or fluid about it at all.

(I lived that type of religious experience for most of my life.)

But as Jesus traveled and talked to crowds and close friends, He talked about a new way to live. He told people they were free to be free from those rules and regulations, and free to just be in relationship with His Father – without all the rigmarole.

In fact, the first Christians weren’t a part of what is known as Christianity today, their lifestyle practice was simply referred to as “The Way”.

It was a completely counter-cultural way of living. Literally the exact opposite of what the religious leaders of that day were teaching people.

I’ve been studying the letters that Saul of Tarsus, later renamed the Apostle Paul, wrote to the early church. I am finding it fascinating how he warned these people – even then – about reverting back to their religious customs. The rules and laws that are all about making you feel you are “doing good”.

In several letters, he writes about not continuing to do things for the sake of tradition or edict. But to be led by the Spirit instead. He explains that the Spirit was a gift Jesus left behind for us, so that we could be free from the old laws.

“It is for freedom that Christ set us free. Stand firm then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by the yoke of slavery.” – Gal 5:1

Paul gives examples from his own life; how he is free to do things which would be considered against the religious law (like eat certain kinds of foods) because he is now free from those restrictions.

The crux of the issue is this: as long as we feel we are doing all the right things and following the rules, we don’t need saving, we don’t need God. We are doing things for Him, but not doing life with Him, which is what He really wants.

But, when we live being led by His Spirit in what we should do, and how we should live, that creates a daily dependence in us. Quickly we realize, if left to ourselves, we would do all the wrong things (and sometimes we still do anyway), and that we are in desperate need of saving.

And here’s the thing, the religious law says, you must read your Bible (devo) every day, and when you miss a day, shame on you. Now, go wallow around feeling pitiful and worthless and filthy. You’re not a good person, and it’s better for other people for you not to be around them.

But The Way says, just hit the “catch me up” button. Forget about what you did or didn’t do yesterday. Today is a new day, let’s walk forward together.

And if you mess up again tomorrow, the catch me up button is waiting for you the day after that. 🙂

You know in the app there’s no limit to how many times you can use that button?

It has taken me 4 months to get through a 40 day plan before.

And that’s totally ok.

Jesus gave me permission to stop beating myself up for it. He is giving you the same permission today.

Stop trying to earn what He literally died to give you. Freedom from guilt, shame and bondage is ours for the taking. And sometimes, it’s hiding right under the gear icon on our smartphones!

Check out what else Paul said:
“This same Good News that came to you is going out all over the world. It is bearing fruit everywhere by changing lives, just as it changed your lives from the day you first heard and understood the truth about God’s wonderful grace.” Colossians 1:6 NLT
Translation: Tell your friends!

Ps, If you’re not already using the YouVersion Bible App on your phone, what are you waiting for?! It’s incredible!

Here are some of my favorite plans:
God’s Dream for Your Life, Rick Warren
The Invisible War, Rick Warren
Relaxing With God, Andrew Farley
Starting Your Day Right, Joyce Meyer
One: A Marriage Devotional, Jimmy Evans
From this Day Forward, Craig & Amy Groeschel
Crash the Chatterbox, Steve Furtick
Visioneering, Andy Stanley
The Lies Couples Believe, Chris Thurman
Hearing from God Each Morning, Joyce Meyer
The Lies We Believe About God, Chris Thurman
Goliath Must Fall, Louie Giglio
Marriage Is Hard, Time of Grace Ministries
Fighting for My Marriage, XXX Church

Are You There God? It’s Me Rachel

“Tell them to go home and flourish in their planting, in the place where I have planted them, and if they do, they’ll change the world.” – Bobbie Houston

It was a sweltering Friday in July, but I was inside. I was sitting just outside of a hotel meeting room door anxiously waiting for my name to be called.

It was my first writer’s conference and I had scored one of the few, coveted appointment slots with a publisher; during which I would pitch my book in hopes they would offer me a contract.

I sat quietly, legs crossed at the ankles, my hands in my lap resting on top of the three ring binder that held the hole-punched pages of my lifelong dream.

Months leading up to this pinnacle moment, God and I had gone round and round in conversation about whether or not I would self-publish or traditionally publish my manuscript. I was fine with either, of course, I just needed to know which route to take. After all, this was His project and I was just along for the ride.

Once I secured one of the publisher appointments, I thought that was God’s unquestionable confirmation that I was going to traditionally publish. He had opened the door and was making a way.

I started to gather my things when I heard my name but then came another voice, “Rachel? …From Cincinnati?”

I answered yes.

A petite, middle-aged brunette from Oklahoma stood beside me, with an expectant smile and a fire in her eyes, “I need to talk to you,” she said, “I’ve been looking for you all day. I knew I was going to run into you! Let’s talk after your appointment.”

I went into my appointment puzzled and intrigued, trying to figure out how this person could know about me. I concluded that she must have seen me speak somewhere and put two and two together.

But any thoughts about the interaction quickly left my mind as I sat down across the table from this bearer of life-changing conversation.

The publishing agent and I exchanged formalities and cards. I talked, she asked questions, I talked some more. I was prepared to hand her copies of my book proposal and one-pager like I had been instructed to do (and spent days of hours preparing).

And then she proceeded to tell me that there was no need, they would not be moving forward in publishing my book, because….well, I didn’t need them.

“Everything we would do for you, you have already done and invested in for yourself,” She said, “You have the gumption to go out and do all these things and make it happen. Most authors don’t. And that’s where we come into play. So, you don’t need us.”

While that certainly wasn’t what I was expecting to hear, it was oddly flattering. But I left the room more confused than ever, God, why would you set up this appointment for me if this wasn’t how you were planning to get my book into the world?

I was about to find out exactly why.

Upon reentering the corridor, my new friend was waiting for me. We found a quiet corner to chat and she proceeded to blow my mind with the crazy goodness of God.

The night before she had gone into the prayer room that the conference staff had set up and found a piece of paper rolled up with a prayer written by, “Rachel in Cincinnati.”

I also visited the prayer room that day. I had just walked out of a pre-conference session on marketing and my head was swimming thinking about branding and logos and taglines and email lists (UGH! Email lists!! I can’t stand being on them, the last thing I wanted to do was start one!). I darted straight into that quiet, candle-lit space and spent my time on the floor, bawling my eyes out, talking to God about all the things that were overwhelming me.

I was trying to get my book out, but being told I needed to be growing a speaking platform to be successful. I felt like I had too much on my plate already and here He was, trying to add more. I felt like I didn’t have time for everything, or anything. I felt like I was already neglecting Barry enough. In short, I hadn’t even started on the path He was calling me to and I already felt overwhelmed just looking at it!

As per the instructions, I left my prayer scroll in a basket from which the conference staff, or other attendees, could find and pray over/in agreement with.

Turns out, Gwen, this lady preacher from the Great Plains I was sitting across from, was the person who picked up my prayer. And as she was reading, God spoke to her very clearly about me; He told her something He wanted me to know. So she was confident He would arrange that the two of us would somehow run into each other. In this group of 800 women. In the next 48 hours before the conference ended.

As if the odds of that weren’t fantastic enough?!

She explained how she had come to the conference out of obedience to a prompting, and while she was enjoying it well enough, she felt like it wasn’t really for her. Once she read my prayer, she knew she was specifically there in North Carolina on a mission from God, for me.

…how do you respond to that other than weeping?

Understand, I was just coming out of a very long season wherein I felt God had been silent. (I blogged about it several times) I was just learning to hear from Him by reading His Word, but not audibly, or directly or as clearly as I used to. My unspoken attitude in my prayers had become, “Are you there God? It’s me Rachel.”

But this day, His voice was unmistakable; Here is what God said to me (through her):

“…You don’t have to work or stress or strain or worry about any of these things. I will open the doors for you. I will put you in the places I want you to speak. I will take care of everything else. Just go back to the last thing I told you to do.”

So she asked me, “What was the last thing God told you to do?”

“Tell my story. Write it down.”

“Then you get your book out. God will handle the rest. God will continue to bring people and resources you need to get it done, to get it out, like He already has been doing.

And don’t feel any guilt for walking away from, saying ‘no’ to, or ignoring all those other things you’re being told you ‘need’ to do.”

I honestly don’t remember if she also said the rest of this stuff I have written down, or if God just continued the conversation with me once I got alone by myself and my prayer journal:

“God will make all the connections you need and get you in all the doors you need without having to force anything.

Rest in His sweet reassurance of that.

Rest in His Power.

It’s His project. It’s His idea.”

And boy did He ever deliver on those promises!

God was the most incredible Chief Marketing Officer I could have ever hired to launch a book, and He is still putting in hours today.

It’s utterly absurd that I’ve been on radio and TV – an unknown, first-time author from small-town Kentucky?! Are you kidding me?

ONLY GOD could have opened those doors to me, only God can give me the favor of the decision makers and influencers in media outlets.

ONLY GOD could have arranged for industry experts to offer to help me with designs and websites and logos – FOR FREE.

ONLY GOD could have sent a little woman 1,200 miles to a room at a conference to pick up a scroll and obediently relay the Words He gave her for a complete stranger.

There are so many other small nuances and serendipities that He orchestrated in that season. It was marvelous and exhilarating to be a part of!

And it all happened one obedient step at a time. I just kept doing the next thing He was asking me to do, forgetting about the ten other things I might have to do in the future. And He took care of everything else.

The next time you wonder if He’s listening, if He cares, if He still works in real and tangible ways in our lives, on this earth today, remember this story and be encouraged. He is, He does. And He’s waiting to work in your life as soon as you ask!

This Sunday night, I’ll be telling ANOTHER story about a time I felt God was ignoring me for a whole year. I would love for you to join me as I stream LIVE in Facebook. Sunday, Aug 27th at 8pm. www.Facebook.com/RachelDawnWrites