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Since I was a girl, I’ve dreamed of changing the world like it was my destiny. On Christmas and birthdays, I would close my eyes tight, squeeze my hands together, and wish for big things, hoping they would lead to greater things. As I grew, my dreams turned to disappointments. It was as if the world had stood outside the window of my heart, shouting its prosperity anthem of greater things yet to come. I felt an ultimatum to “go bigger or go home.” A trip across the ocean would prove me wrong.
My heart raced when I saw their number pop up on my phone, I had been avoiding a conversation with someone who had already made it known to me that they didn’t see things the way I did. I just knew it was going to be hard and probably not go well.
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.