Worry is a thief. It creeps in at the most inopportune times, threatening to strangle our joy and siphon our peace. It clothes itself in questions that chip away at our confidence. When my son moved 1200 miles away to Canada for an internship, worry invaded my thoughts.

Better. Stronger. Faster. Prettier. Smarter. Taller. Skinnier. Wealthier.

Someone will always be something “er” more than you and me. It’s lethal to fix our eyes where we feel we lack and focus where we feel someone else has something in spades.

I won’t lie; it was one of the most difficult decisions of my life. After 20 years as a full-time worship pastor, God asked me to trust Him and transition into a new season. My initial reaction when God asked me was hesitation: “God, are you sure?”

“What year is your Cadillac,” he asked curiously.

“Umm, I’m not really sure. Would you believe it was a gift!” I said politely, albeit preoccupied while attempting to place my sandwich order in the line at Subway.

Undeterred, he continued, “Well, you know next year they’re coming out with flashers.”

Humility.

It’s fast becoming a lost character trait. Our society encourages self-promotion and getting ahead at all cost, trampling humility under ambition.

I’ll confess; in an attempt to let my quiet time unfold organically one year, it grew increasingly haphazard. Sloppy. After a few random “eyes-closed-page-turn-wherever-the-finger-stops” mornings (ahem…), I realized I needed a change.

I’m such a do-er. Anybody relate? One of my life-long pursuits included ridding myself of the yoke of perfection. Perfection is relentless. Never satisfied, it continually places unattainable demands on its prey. For an over-achiever, that constitutes cruel and unusual punishment. Thankfully, God offers a much better way.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I cried out loud to myself, shifting my car into park.

A distracted driver barreled into me at 35 mph while I sat stopped at a red light. Weak in the knees and jarred from impact, I called my husband and checked out the damage.

I arrived at the quaint, Italian restaurant and chose a quiet table for dinner. Andrea Bocelli’s soothing voice soared over the speakers. Red and white checkered tablecloths and green vines adorned the room. The calm ambiance was perfect for an evening dedicated to spending time with a few women from my church, connecting over garlic knots and chicken Florentine.

Put me on a plane, a boat, or a train, and I promise one thing: I’ll get motion sick. Travel plans make Dramamine my new best friend. I wasn’t always this way. Perhaps it’s a lovely ailment that comes with age. Whatever the reason, it’s annoying. However, I can sleep off motion sickness far quicker than I can recover from the learning curves of life.

I was tempted. Really tempted. I was offered a long-awaited and prayer-saturated professional opportunity I’ve been hoping for. But the offer came with a catch.

I can’t divulge specifics, but I can say this: accepting the offer meant diminishing who I am as a woman in ministry. My ministry credentials, which represent God’s call on my life and required years of study and hard work, now stood as a barrier due to man-made restrictions.