It's Time to Step Into My Calling

Dear friends, forgive me, this is long,

I was walking along the beach earlier this month, listening to a sermon on spiritual warfare. The waves rolled in and out, the breeze brushed against my face, and somewhere between the preacher's words and the sound of the surf, something began stirring deep within me.

By the time the closing music played, I had my hands raised in worship. I wanted to dance right there in the sand!

I was listening to Pastor John K. Jenkins Sr. of First Baptist Church of Glenarden, speaking at Flatirons Community Church during their Same Demons, Different Day series.

His message came at a time when I needed to hear it more than I realized.

I've spent much of my life trying to survive what happened to me. Some experiences have left scars, while others have left wounds that still ache. Losing Alisha and Jason changed everything about how I see life, love, and the future.

And as I walked along that beach, I began wrestling with a difficult realization.

If I don't lean into Jesus and the calling He's placed on my life, I could spend so much time surviving what happened to me that I never fully live the life He's calling me to live.

That's a sobering thought.

Because the truth is, sometimes I still want the life I thought I was supposed to have.

I want to know what Alisha would look like today. I wonder what kind of woman she would've become, whether she would've married, had children, or called me just to talk about her day. I want the ordinary moments other mothers might take for granted.

And Jason. I wonder about the man he would've become as he grew older. What would his life look like now? What conversations would we have? What would make him laugh (more likely giggle)?

I miss the people they were, and I grieve the people they never had the chance to become.

There are days when I still struggle with the unfairness of it all. I can look at the ocean, appreciate God's beautiful creation, and feel grateful for the life I have, while simultaneously aching for the two people who aren't here to share it.

Sometimes I don't even know what to do with those conflicting emotions.

And perhaps that's part of what I've been wrestling with. How do I fully embrace the life God still has for me when part of my heart will always long for the life I lost?

I can't change what happened. I can't go back and rewrite those terrible chapters. I can't hold my children again on this side of Heaven. And no amount of faith, prayer, or determination will erase the grief I carry.

But I don't believe God is asking me to erase it.

I believe He's asking me to trust Him with it.

There's a difference between allowing grief to remain part of my life and allowing it to determine the direction of my life.

I haven't always understood that difference.

Sometimes fear feels safer than hope. If I don't expect too much, perhaps I won't be disappointed. If I don't step too far outside what's familiar, perhaps I won't get hurt again.

But living that way comes with its own kind of loss.

And I've already lost enough.

I know what it's like to wake up and wonder how I'll get through another day. I know what it's like to carry questions that don't have answers. I know what it's like to pray for relief and discover that sometimes God's comfort doesn't remove the pain, but gives me enough strength to keep going.

And I know I'm not the only one.

There are people everywhere carrying heartbreak that others can't see. Parents who've buried children. Spouses who've lost the person they expected to grow old with. People wounded by betrayal, trauma, illness, or circumstances they never imagined facing.

I want to be someone who can sit beside them in those dark places and offer hope.

Not easy answers. Not a quick Scripture verse meant to make everything better. Just the compassion of someone who understands that sometimes getting out of bed is an act of courage.

Second Corinthians 1:3–4 reminds us that God comforts us in our troubles so we can comfort others with the comfort we've received from Him.

That's the kind of ministry I want my life to reflect.

Not because my pain was good. Not because my children had to die for me to have a purpose. I will never believe that.

I would've chosen a lifetime with Alisha and Jason over every opportunity that has come from sharing my story.

But I don't get to make that choice.

What I do get to choose is how I live the days I have left.

And I believe God can take even the most devastating experiences and, without diminishing the loss, bring compassion, service, and hope into the lives of others.

Something else struck me during that sermon.

The enemy would love for me to remain discouraged, distracted, fearful, and convinced that my most meaningful days are behind me.

But Isaiah 54:17 reminds me that no weapon formed against me will succeed.

That doesn't mean weapons won't be formed. It doesn't mean I won't experience another heartbreak or struggle with fear tomorrow.

It means the enemy doesn't get the final word over my life.

Jesus does.

Perhaps I've been so busy looking at everything I've lost that I've sometimes overlooked what God has already placed in my hands.

I've been writing and encouraging people for years. I've shared my story, prayed with hurting people, and tried to point others toward Jesus. Maybe stepping into my calling isn't about starting something entirely new.

Maybe it's about trusting God enough to stop holding back.

And maybe part of what's been holding me back is the fear that moving forward somehow means moving farther away from my children.

I know in my head that's not true. But grief doesn't always listen to what I know.

There's a part of me that wants to hold tightly to every memory, every photograph, every piece of the life we shared. As though loosening my grip on the pain might somehow loosen my connection to them.

But Alisha and Jason aren't held in my grief.

They're held in my love.

And that love isn't going anywhere.

I don't have a grand plan. I don't know exactly what the next chapter looks like. And I certainly haven't figured out how to live without fear.

But I know I don't want to reach the end of my life and realize I spent more time afraid of living than actually living.

On that beach, with worship rising from my heart and the waves washing over the sand, I was reminded of something I desperately needed to hear.

I'm still here.

I wish my children were here, too. I wish I could tell them what God is stirring in my heart. I wish I could hear their voices and see their smiles one more time.

But while I still have breath, there's life to live, love to give, and work God may be asking me to do.

Perhaps stepping into my calling begins with one simple prayer.

Jesus, I'm willing.

Willing to trust You when I can't see the road ahead. Willing to let You continue healing the broken places. Willing to serve others with the compassion You've shown me.

Willing to take the next step, even if I have tears in my eyes.

I wonder how many of us are standing at the edge of something God is calling us toward, hesitant because of what we've already endured.

I don't believe we have to be completely healed, fearless, or certain about tomorrow before we can say yes to Jesus.

But we must be willing to follow Him today.

My pain is part of my story, but it doesn't have to write the rest of it.

It's time for me to step into my calling.

Until next Wednesday, keep leaning into Jesus.

Prayer

Lord Jesus,

Please help me remember, for Jason and Alisha, and me, that "You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed." Psalm 139:16 (NLT)

This is true for Jason and Alisha, for me and my loved ones.

Amen