Finding God in the Small Surrenders

I used to think spiritual strength looked like unshakeable faith. Like never doubting, never wavering, never collapsing in the Target parking lot because the weight of everything finally caught up with me.

But that's not how faith works. At least not for me.

My quite times with God that guide my daily life isn't grand or impressive. It's small. It's waking up and whispering, I can't do this on my own. It's opening my hands instead of clenching my fists. It's learning, over and over again, that surrender isn't weakness—it's the only honest response to a life I was never meant to control.

Most morning, before the noise starts, I sit with my coffee and my Bible. Some days, the words sink in deep. Other days, I read the same verse three times and still don't absorb it because my mind is already running through deadlines and to-do lists and all the ways I might fail today. But I show up anyway. Because showing up is the practice. Consistency, not perfection.

Prayer looks different from how it used to. It's less about eloquent words and more about exhaling the truth. I'm scared. I'm overwhelmed. I don't know what I'm doing. And then listening. Not for audible answers, but for the quiet knowing that settles in when I stop trying to fix everything myself.

That practice of surrender. It's what taught me how to lead with compassion in the hardest spaces.

Leading with compassion means entering spaces where people feel unseen and choosing to truly see them.

I work with writers, many of them carrying stories they're

afraid to tell. Stories shaped by trauma, grief, rejection, doubt. Stories the Christian publishing world has historically overlooked or misunderstood. As a sensitivity reader and editor, I've learned that my job isn't to fix people or rush them toward healing. It's to create space where their voices matter. Where imperfection is expected. Where the goal isn't a flawless manuscript but a story that breathes with truth.

Compassion in these spaces looks like slowing down. It's resisting the urge to jump straight to solutions when what someone needs is to be heard. It's reading between the lines of an email to catch the fear underneath the defensiveness. It's remembering that the writer who keeps missing deadlines might be struggling with something I can't see—and asking instead of assuming.

It means choosing curiosity over judgment. When a writer pushes back on feedback, my first instinct used to be frustration. Now I ask: What are they protecting? What wound does this touch? Usually, resistance is about fear. Fear of being misunderstood. Fear of getting it wrong. Fear that their story doesn't matter.

Compassion also means honesty wrapped in gentleness. Sometimes the most loving thing I can do is tell a writer the truth they're not ready to hear, but doing it in a way that honors their dignity. Not "This doesn't work," but "Here's what I see happening, and here's why it matters." Giving them tools, not just critique.

And sometimes, compassion looks like boundaries. Like saying no when yes would harm me or deplete what I need to care for my family, my own writing, my own soul. Like recognizing that kindness without wisdom isn't actually kind—to them or to me.

The hardest part? Offering that same compassion to myself. I'm better at giving grace than receiving it. But I'm learning. Slowly.

Which brings me to purpose.

Living with purpose doesn't mean I have it all figured out. It means I've stopped waiting for permission to use what I've been given. My voice. My story. The scars that make me who I am.

Purpose, for me, is writing stories that say: Broken things can be made beautiful again. It's advocating for voices the publishing world overlooks. It's showing up at conferences and in writers' inboxes and in my own messy creative process, believing that words matter. That stories heal. That telling the truth, even when it's hard, is worth it.

Purpose isn't a destination. It's a direction. And some days I'm moving toward it with confidence. Other days I'm crawling. But I'm moving.

Because I believe God doesn't waste our pain. He redeems it. Transforms it. Uses it to connect us to each other in ways polished perfection never could.

So I keep surrendering. Keep choosing compassion. Keep writing.