I haven’t found my next official title yet. The office with my name on the door, the email signature that sums me up in one neat line, the place where I show up five days a week with a lanyard and a mission statement. I’ve applied. I’ve waited. I’ve prayed. And in between, I’ve trimmed hedges, fixed faucets, hugged my kids, closed deals, and opened my heart a hundred different ways.
But the other day, I remembered something—something I’ve forgotten before and I’ll probably forget again. I remembered that just because you’re not in a position doesn’t mean you’re not in your purpose.
Let me tell you what happened.
One of my tenants asked me to come by. No explanation. No details. Just a simple, “Hey, can we talk?” Now, if you’ve ever been a landlord—or honestly just a human with a to-do list—you know how that can go. My first thought was, Great, what broke now? Water heater? Furnace? Maybe the roof?
But I made the 45-minute drive anyway. Not because I had to. But because Mr. E matters.
He’s not just a tenant. He’s someone who trusts me to provide a home—a real one. Not just a roof and drywall, but a space where he feels safe and seen. I take that seriously.
When I got there, he called me upstairs. I glanced around nervously, half expecting to see water pooling or drywall sagging. But everything looked fine. Still standing. Still solid.
In the kitchen, he laid out an envelope on the table.
Turns out, it was his rent check. The one he said he’d mailed but I never got. The one he’d already made right. The one I had already told him, more than once, “It’s okay, I believe you.”
But here he was, proving it. Showing me the postmarked envelope returned to sender—undeliverable. Holding it like it was evidence in a courtroom.
And I realized something: Mr. E isn’t used to being trusted.
So even though I had told him he was good… he still needed to prove it. Not for me. For him.
I looked at him and said, “Thank you. I knew I could trust you—just like I said.”
And in that moment, something softened in him. He didn’t have to carry the weight of proving his worth. He’d already done the right thing. He just needed someone to see it. To say it.
I won’t lie—I was a little annoyed on the drive home. I mean, it could have been a text. But as I pulled away from his flat, I realized I didn’t make that drive to fix something. I made it to be someone. To remind him that he matters. That he’s not just a renter in a re-emerging city—but a man rebuilding a life, and doing it with integrity.
That second-story kitchen table turned holy.
And me? I realized something else. I may not have found my next “job” yet, but I’ve found my calling again and again in the in-between.
In the broken-down houses I’ve rebuilt. In the people others might overlook. In the spaces where trust and dignity are repaired, one conversation at a time.
That day, I saw it clearly: my creativity, my resilience, my stubborn sense of responsibility—it all matters. It all still makes a difference.
I may not have a place where I clock in, but I do have a place where I show up. And showing up matters.
Sometimes the Holy Spirit doesn’t need a Sunday morning or a spotlight. Sometimes He just needs a driveway in Highland Park and a heart willing to listen.
As I backed my car down the driveway and headed back toward home, I heard a whisper. Not from my phone. Not from a podcast. But from deep within.
It said, “You still matter.”
And I believed it.
It was the best message I heard preached to my heart in a while. One that was just for me. But maybe, it was for you too. Maybe someone else needs that same whisper.
You still matter.
You really do.
It was a surprising trip that day, and frankly, God wasn’t done with just one whisper. Before I even left Mr. E’s street another one came in quietly.
I’ll share more with you on that one next time.
For now, keep journeying my friends. It’s an interesting one that I’m glad we can share, together.