If I’m being completely honest, I feel like a failure. I’m not where I planned to be at this point in my life. I envisioned having a highly profitable coaching business, lots of engagements lined up, and being able to choose how I want to spend my “extra” money.
When he was eleven years old, my son gave me a gift he’d picked out and purchased himself. A small ceramic pitcher—about five inches tall, painted pearly white, with a tiny pink flower attached. Not long after, a stormy season sent me more fervently seeking, searching for rescue and relief. I sank my teeth deep into a brown leather Bible, and its words sank to the deepest parts of me. God’s Love Letter was the balm for my hurting heart, the binding up of wounds, the filling up of empty within.
Years ago, my Dad said that the reason why kids join gangs is because they didn’t know that somebody loves them. Recently, I remembered his words and thought about a spiritual parallel. The God of the Universe loves us with all of His Heart, but how often do we move through life operating as if our Maker doesn’t exist? Do we not believe that we are loved by Him?
I should have used a travel mug. Because I was certainly traveling all over my house that hurried Monday morning. Instead, I had my trusty heavyweight café mug, the kind modeled after WWII submarine mugs so they wouldn’t slide around. And it was full of delicious coffee and brown sugar oat milk creamer. Kids were getting their school gear together, my husband and I were grabbing our bags, and we were all piling into the van.
Several years ago I was closing in on a graduate degree and interviewing for positions in which to use my new skills. I had an impressive resume, connections and the right credentials. One of the last questions one particular interview panel asked was “What do I bring to the table?”