The Day God Asked Me to Quit My Job

I remember that fateful day rather clearly.

A cup of coffee in hand.
My bible and journal on the table before me.
The frustrations of my heart that I couldn't quite put into words.

As a freelance writer, I often started my workday with the Lord. Before I wrote my articles, I needed to write for my heart.

But nothing was coming for some reason. A lack of peace kept me distracted, though I couldn't quite figure out the cause. So I closed my journal and decided that I might as well get to work. No sense wasting time when things gotta get done.

I opened my laptop and got ready to email a client about the articles he needed for the week. And then finally, I felt the Lord speak to my heart very clearly:

"You're going to tell your clients that these are the last assignments you'll be doing for them."


And then I was flooded with peace. I can't explain why; it didn't make any sense. But it felt absolutely right, for no reason other than the fact that I knew this is what God wanted me to do.

So what do I tell him? I'm just done? Do I need an excuse?

"You're going to tell them that you've been hired to work for someone else and you no longer can work for them."

"Jeana, you're writing for Me now —I will be your employer and provider."


And so I quit.
I was filled with a peace I didn't understand.

And filled with more uncertainty than I'd ever known.



It's been about a year and half since my last employment.


And I suppose I thought that when the Lord said I'd be "writing for Him," I'd suddenly have some kind of platform or starting point. Or at least some measly income to add to what my husband makes as a student worker.

But instead, God answered every question I asked Him with this one simple word: wait.

What about a part time job?
Should I work on my own blog?
I thought you said to write —what do you even mean??

And through the tears and uncertainty, the still, small voice of the Lord spoke to me, as if I was a little girl curled up in the lap of her papa.

"Just wait."
"You can't know how much I love you when you are your own provider.
For now, I need you to stop.
It's time to rest, to find your pace.
Come and be my daughter, and taste what it is to have enough."


And so I waited.

And over the days and months upon waiting, I tasted the provision from my Father who always provides enough.

Enough money.
Enough love.
Enough hope.
Enough mercy.
Enough to overflow my heart.

So much enoughness, that I don't need to take anything more for myself.

I already have everything because of who my Father is.



I'm only now transitioning out of that season of waiting and into one of movement, with new work and writing opportunities presenting themselves. It feels like a sunrise after a very long night, and it’s exciting and scary all at the same time.

So, it's safe to say that I understand waiting is not only inconvenient —it's often terrifying.

But friend, if you are feeling that tug from God to wait, then let me take you by the hand and tell you that IT WILL BE OKAY.

We live in a world that seeks instant answers and constant security found in things that surely won't last forever.

But even in our forgetfulness, we have a Heavenly Father who waits for us and with us. And in this waiting, He calls you and I into the greatest source of security and understanding we will ever know.

That you belong to Him, and that love cannot be taken away.

"Though the mountains move and the hills shake, My love will not be removed from you and My covenant of peace will not be shaken," says your compassionate LORD. - Isaiah 54:10


May you find peace in your waiting, dear friend.

Why I'm No Longer Afraid to Set the Table

"Aren't you going to answer the door?"

My friend gave me a confused look as I let the doorbell ring. I was trying to flip burnt pancakes and make more batter and cook bacon. And darn it, I was really counting on all the guests to show up late so that they didn't have to see this hot mess.

"Seriously, go get the door." Half smiling, she took the spatula and pushed me towards the entrance.

All that to say, having breakfast for dinner sounds really great in theory. But when you buy all the ingredients last minute and you can't multitask, it just creates burnt pancakes and an anxious hostess who wants to run away and hide from the mess.

Unfortunately, the running away and hiding seems to be a recurring theme in my life.

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Although I'm an introvert, I need people.

I need relationships and connection and a meal to share with beloved friends.

Since we've been married, my husband and I have talked about making our home a place for regular gatherings around the table.

That breakfast dinner was the first of our weekly dinners that we planned to host in our home.

But after the stress of hosting just once, I mentioned to my husband that maybe we should change it to just once or twice a month. And my very logical argument could be summed up in this phrase:

"I'm just not capable of cooking for a bunch of people and holding a conversation at the same time!"

My very loving husband was silent for a moment. Then he said, "When you talk about these dinners, you are imagining as if you have to prepare this all by yourself. But I can help, I want to do this with you."

"You see that you are not alone, don't you?"

"All you have to do is ask for help and remember that I am already here with you."

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Too often, I let fear make decisions for me.

I don't realize that it's fear that is doing it because I cover it up with excuses that sound like solid arguments in my mind.

"I have never been able to do it before, so I can't do it ever."
But that actually means,
"I know this won't come easy, so I'm sure I shouldn't try."
Or more simply (and vaguely) put,
"I don't want to fail."

Fear was keeping me from setting my table.

And it's all too easy to look at the other tables in my life —my relationships or my writing or future plans— and imagine that Jesus is not there with me.

To see obstacles in front of the places I'm called to be and the dreams I long to chase, and imagine that I am on this journey alone. 

So fear comes in and tells me that I dare not try.

It tempts me to forget that the Word of God says, "Fear not, for I AM with you." (Isaiah 41:10)

But the thing is, Jesus is not afraid of the obstacles or my weakness.

Instead, the gospels remind us that He spent a lot of time on earth gathered around some sort of table, cultivating the Kingdom of God with people who didn't have their acts together.

Walking with Jesus reminds me that He is not afraid of my pace or my inability to multitask. That He works with me and walks with me through every obstacle —the big and scary, and the slow and small moments of everyday life.

And you know what? Being a slow-paced person means that it will take me a bit longer to make dinner, especially for friends. 

And that's okay.

Because the precious things in life —things made in a simple, unhurried pace— are often the most special. 

After all, that seems to be the pace of our Heavenly Father, right?

His unhurried hands healing the deepest parts of our hearts. Letting roots run deep, the sourdough bread rise, and the sun set slowly at the end of each day.

It's the artisan pace of our Artisan Father.

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We've had a couple more dinner parties since then.

And it has been absolutely wonderful.

With a little planning, prayer, and simplifying, dinners in this home have blessed us and our guests.

I hope this reminder blesses you too, to set your own table at your own artisan pace.

Wanderlust and the Kingdom of God

When I returned from my first trip to Europe back in 2013, I vowed that one day I'd live there. Someway, somehow, my husband and I would live overseas.

And I wanted it to be Europe.
More specifically, Italy.
Preferably and impossibly, Florence. (I gave up on that particular city eventually, but the dream of being an expat lived on.)

But after spending years researching every option that I could squeeze out of Google, I began to relent.

Not because it seemed too difficult, or even impossible.

My wanderlust just sort of disappeared, replaced by something new. 

Oddly enough, as my desire for the expat life began to wane, my father-in-law decided to build a house in France. Sort of out of the blue, but delightfully surprising, nonetheless. Even more delightful was the moment we found out that he wanted to fly us out for 3 weeks to drive around the French countryside in a camper.

St. Michell, Normandy, France

St. Michell, Normandy, France

As we readied ourselves to fly across the Atlantic in May, we talked and dreamed of a tiny house on the land one day, visiting Nooch's dad in the south of France every summer, vineyards and baguettes and all the goodies.

But as we traveled around, visiting some of the most beautiful countryside I've ever seen, I could see clearly what had replaced my wanderlust:

My friends, my tribe.
Baking bread in my kitchen.
The Kentucky countryside.

It's not that I couldn't have those things if we ever decided to move to France.

But the thing is, I already have everything I could possibly want right here, in my home place. It's right here, where we've nested ourselves, just west of the foothills of Appalachia.

It was as if a deep contentment followed me around Europe, reminding me that France is lovely, and home is lovely too, and the Kingdom of God is found on many different soils.

And the best soil is simply where I am called to be.

The problem with that lesson is that it isn't exactly Instagrammable. To be fair, if you went to France, I'd want to hear all about the wine and food and see endless pictures of green hills and people wearing berets. But while I loved what I saw (and failed in the picture taking department) I came back with a deeper love for home, forgetting about the tiny house blueprints, and a desire to stay here and grow roots for as long as possible. 

But I guess I haven't been totally honest with you yet.

You see, the wanderlust didn't disappear suddenly —I remember the moment that it began to fade.

It was 2 years ago or so. I was sitting at my kitchen table with my laptop, figuring out how Nooch could get into a PhD program in Europe, opening a door for new adventures and all the dreamy things. Then it hit me —why not pray about it? How cool would it be if God wanted us in Europe? Then my dream would be unstoppable, right?

So I told God what I wanted, and then I asked Him what He thought about it. He answered me gently and sweetly, in a way I wasn't anticipating at all.

"Jeana, you want to live in a perfect city." 

He showed me a picture of a beautiful city, full of shimmering cobblestone streets and divinely crafted architecture. More lovely than Florence, than any city I'd ever known.

"But this place doesn't exist on Earth. This longing you have is for my perfect Heavenly Kingdom, the place you were made for all along. Only I can satisfy your wanderlust."

And slowly but surely, the wanderlust was replaced by rich contentment. A new longing for the Kingdom to come, built on my Heavenly Father's land. 

Crescent Hill Reservoir, right here in Louisville.

Crescent Hill Reservoir, right here in Louisville.

And if you still want to be a wandering nomad, I totally get it. Traveling is so fun, and seeing new parts of the world is one of the most enriching things you can experience.

But let us not forget that home has a host of things to teach us too, in the beauty of small moments, where seeds are planted, growing into heavenly places for birds to make their nests and for us to nourish the people we love.

So in the words of Jesus Christ and Pliny the Elder:

"Your heart will be where your treasure is."
-Matthew 6:21, NCV-


"Home is where the heart is."

Amen & Amen.

Safe travels to you, friend, wherever your heart calls you.