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…

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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…

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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….

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Dear 21 Year Old Self…

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…

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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…

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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,…

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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…

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Would All the Real Martha’s Please Stand Up?

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,…

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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. 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…

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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…

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