The Voice Between the Lines - Day 3

A 7-day return to your Sacred Story

Day 3 — The One Thread You Kept

This is the second of seven daily prompts. Nothing fancy—just a few quiet moments to reconnect with the voice beneath the noise.

Follow along.
Reflect privately.
Journal.
Or share what rises.

I’ll be walking through the prompts too—writing what stirs, what moves, what returns.

And if you’re just finding this now, you’re not behind.

The invitation still stands.
Start wherever you are.
Or circle back to Day 1.

Wherever you feel the tug…
that’s where you begin.

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Today’s Prompt:

What part of you refused to disappear?

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I overdosed in 2004.
I survived. But you probably guessed that.

Six days later, I found myself inside a church.
Destiny Church.

I sat in a row with only two chairs.
I was raw and deeply skeptical.

Reluctantly, I decided to give this Christian thing a try.
But for only thirty days.

That was the deal I made with God: thirty days.
Just to see what could happen.

Those thirty days turned into months. Then years.
Then I was ordained in that very church and sent out as a missionary.

Me? A missionary?

I was sent to help start a new church in Paris—but it was so much more than that.
It felt like destiny—literally and figuratively.

In Paris, I embraced the wildness and unpredictability of it all.
Eventually, I met a guy. A pastor.

We actually met in Germany, but the point is—he was a pastor of a prominent church.
Someone I already admired. Someone I put on a pedestal.

I loved what they taught at that church.
How they taught it, framed it, understood it.

Eventually, I was invited to come serve there—learn how they did church in Los Angeles.

There, I could be discipled.
Be a protégé.

Who knew where it might lead?
I thought I did.

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I had visions. BIG visions.
Ideas of how it would unfold.

I thought I was watching my sacred story climax into some kind of ministerial ascension.

Instead, it collapsed.

The church that brought me to LA laid me off.
Ended my job and put my dreams to rest—or so it seemed.

"You can still volunteer, though."

Ouch.
Not exactly a hero’s moment.
More like a polite exile.

Pedestal gone.

It felt like everything I had built—everything I had trusted—crumbled.
The great story I was decoding didn’t end in glory.
It ended in grief.

But did it?

I tried to walk away from it all.
From church. From ministry.
From whatever calling I thought I had.

But the need to help people kept knocking.
Louder. More chaotic.

Other churches needed someone—someone who could help them get over a hump.
I helped.
I got burned.
Again. And again.

A pattern was forming—one I was painfully forced to notice:
I’d give my whole heart to a church… and they’d eventually, graciously, decline it.

More ouch.

So I pivoted.
I started businesses. Got good at other things.
Found new ways to contribute. New crafts to master.

Every so often, the old pull would rise again—the pull to just help people.
And every time, I’d try to whack it down—like some eternal game of whack-a-mole with a gazillion credits still to burn.

I thought I had finally become bitter enough to leave it,
like my arms had whacked the last mole.
It was time to let someone else burn the credits.

Then I started writing a book.

It was meant for my kids—a way to preserve the true story,
the nitty-gritty details,
for when I’m no longer here.
But it became something more.

My book coach warned me: It’ll be like therapy.

She wasn’t kidding.
Two years. 150,000 words. Fourteen edits.
And something sacred—something bigger than me—emerged.

Yes, it was a book.
But it said more than just what happened.
It whispered what mattered.
It traced the shape of a soul that still believed.

Someone who actually believed there could be more—
That God, or the universe, or a higher power was really in it with them.
Or at least, they lived like they believed that.

And that person… was me.

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But what happened?

Preparing to publish it to the world, I caught enough glimpses for it to finally register:

The thread was still there.
Even after the heartbreak.
Even after the disappointments.
Even after I tried to bury it.

I was still a missionary.
I was still in ministry.
I was still living my life for something greater than me.

The calling didn’t vanish.
It evolved—just like I did.

I needed to redefine what that meant for me.
Without pulpits or pews or permission.
I needed to claim it as my own.

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The thread never broke.

It wove itself deeper—
into everything I am,
everything I’ve been,
and everything I still dream of becoming.

Through all the loss and reinvention—
I was still being sent.
Just not where I expected.

And maybe that was the point all along.

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This post is part 3 of 7 of The Voice Between the Lines —
a 7-day return to your Sacred Story.

You can start at Day 1 or jump in wherever the whisper finds you.

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