Drafted: Called for Life

This post is part of the “Drafted” series—reflections on how spiritual performance, religious systems, and a desperate desire to belong shaped my understanding of faith, purpose, and identity.

I’ve already shared how it started.
The enlistment at the altar.
The moment I first felt “called to go.”
My first brush with spiritual training.
What it was like to step onto the missions field.
And what it felt like to come home and no longer recognize myself in familiar places.

But this post is different.

This time, I’m not just recounting a moment—I’m opening a time capsule.

What follows is a breakdown of a missionary support letter I wrote on December 27, 2004. I was 17 years old, deeply embedded in the world of evangelical missions, and convinced I had found my life’s purpose. The letter was written with passion, certainty, and urgency—the kind I was praised for. The kind I mistook for calling.

In this post, you’ll read snippets of that letter—written by the girl I was back then.

Alongside each one, you’ll hear from me now—the woman who’s still healing, still untangling, still learning what calling really means.

And today, I get to offer that old version of me what she gave away too young: soft permission, sacred rest, and the sound of her own voice rising gently to the surface.

---

Dear Younger Me,

You were 17 when you wrote that letter.
Pen in hand. Heart on fire.
You believed purpose sounded like urgency and felt like surrender.
You believed the weight in your chest was holy.
You called it a calling. And no one questioned it.

You poured your story into those pages, convinced you were found—
when really, you were still learning how to be seen.

So I’m going back with you.
Not to correct or critique.
But to sit beside the girl who bled conviction into every word.
To listen for the ache between the lines.
To tell her what she never heard:
that her softness wasn’t a weakness,
that her worth didn’t hinge on usefulness,
that her voice was always hers to keep.

Let’s open this letter together—one line at a time.
Let’s tell the truth slowly.
Let’s remember out loud.
Because maybe you weren’t just called for life.
Maybe you were called to come back to your own.

---

📜 Then

“I want to share a story with you about how my life has been changed… I was barely 13. It felt so right, but I was so young. How could I have found the thing that made my life complete?”

🪞 Now

Oh, sweet girl. Of course it felt complete.
You were thirteen, wide open to wonder, and someone handed you a purpose wrapped in passion and praise.
You didn’t yet know the difference between calling and coping.
You only knew that something lit up inside you—and that fire felt holy.

But what you were really tasting was belonging.
What you were really chasing was approval.
And still—you meant every word.

You weren’t wrong to feel something.
You just didn’t know yet what that something cost.

---

📜 Then

“Ron Luce asked, ‘Who feels called to missions full time?’ I remember thinking, not me… It can’t be. I didn’t go on a trip the next summer. It was that summer I heard the voice inside me saying Go.”

🪞 Now

You resisted at first. And I’m proud of that.
That flicker of not me—that tiny defiance—was wisdom.
You were still learning how to listen to your own voice,
but it was there, tucked beneath the pressure and the praise.

But hesitation was never welcome in a world built on certainty.
And so, when a quieter voice said Go, you obeyed—
not because you were sure,
but because you were afraid not to be.

You were taught that obedience was holy.
You were never taught that consent mattered.

And still—you went.
Of course you did.

---

📜 Then

“I chose Peru… Leafing through the brochure I looked into the eyes of the young in the picture and thought: this is it.”

🪞 Now

You saw their eyes and thought you were being called.
But maybe what you really saw was a reflection—
of your longing, your ache to matter, your need to be used by God to prove you were good.

It wasn’t manipulation.
It was formation.

The kind that teaches you to trust a feeling,
so long as it takes you somewhere far and holy and hard.

You didn’t choose Peru by accident.
You were chasing the feeling your friends came home with—
that fire, that fullness, that weight that looked like worth.

And I don’t blame you.
Because no one told you that “this is it” shouldn’t mean losing yourself.

---

📜 Then

“That trip would be something so different. I was 15. I remember wishing for the trip to go by quickly. I remember hurting. Not because of me… but because of them. I remember holding back. I remember being so scared to give away my heart. I didn’t want to feel vulnerable. But then… I remember letting go. It was like a wall broke that day.”

🪞 Now

You were fifteen.
And already learning that pain was part of the process.
That holding back meant you weren’t surrendered enough.
That vulnerability was a risk—but withholding it was a spiritual flaw.

You wanted to love without losing yourself.
But you were taught that the more it hurt, the more it must be holy.

So when the wall broke, they called it breakthrough.
You called it obedience.
But underneath it all, it was a survival response—
a girl learning to open up, not because she felt safe,
but because she thought God needed her cracked wide open.

No one told you that you had a right to keep parts of yourself.
No one told you that “letting go” could be gentle.
You only knew that your brokenness made people proud.

---

📜 Then

“7/30/02 — ‘We only have 3 days of ministry left, and I want to give it my all.’ I learned something that day that can’t be taught using books or lectures. I learned to forsake all.”

🪞 Now

You wrote it like a vow.
A holy declaration from a girl who believed her value was in what she could surrender.
Three days left, and the urgency was rising—not just to serve,
but to make the sacrifice mean something.
You were running out of time to prove your passion.
To be used. To make it count.

“I learned to forsake all.”

That line still catches in my throat.

Because no one told you that you were part of the “all.”
That your tenderness, your rest, your self—none of it had to be laid down to be loved.
You were slowly disappearing in the name of devotion,
convinced that God needed all of you,
but not in the way love actually works.

You thought you were being faithful.
But you were just trying not to waste your one chance to matter.

And it breaks my heart now—how proud you were to burn for it.

---

📜 Then

“Something in Peru changed me. The people touched my heart in places I didn’t know existed. From the second we arrived in the beautiful country of Peru, I was captivated. Like a little child in the candy store, I stared out the window of the bus on that cold July morning in Lima. Throughout the time spent in their wonderful country, I fell more and more in love with the Peruvians.”

🪞 Now

Of course you were captivated.
You were young, tender, hungry for something to believe in—
and this place, these people, made you feel that holy ache again.

You didn’t yet know how to separate love from longing.
Didn’t yet have the language to name the way your sense of self
was being braided into the mission.

You loved them.
And I believe you.
But you were also falling in love with who you got to be
when you were there:
needed, important, “called.”

They touched your heart, yes.
But no one stopped to ask how much of your heart was still yours to hold.

You called it love.
But you were still learning what love without a savior complex even looked like.

---

📜 Then

“Back in Texas, Mr. Luce asked again: ‘Who feels called to missions full time?’ This time my answer was different. The feeling I had inside me made me want to stand up on my chair and scream ME!!!!!!! But quietly, with tears streaming down my face, I stood.”

🪞 Now

You stood like it was sacred.
Like your whole body had been waiting to say yes to something bigger than you.
And it was brave.
It was beautiful.

You stood not for applause, but because it felt holy—
because you wanted your life to mean something.
And I want you to know: that yes mattered.

But what no one told you was that you didn’t have to make it forever.
That callings can shift.
That obedience doesn’t require permanence.
That standing once doesn’t mean you owe every future version of yourself to that moment.

You weren’t wrong to rise.
You just didn’t know you could sit back down.
You didn’t know you could revisit the question later—
with more wholeness, more self, more freedom.

The tears were real.
The ache was real.
And so was the weight.

I honor your yes.
And I offer you something just as sacred now:
permission to change your mind.

---

📜 Then

“I gave God my plans and took hold of His. No matter where, no matter how, no matter when.”

🪞 Now

You thought surrender meant certainty.
That giving God your plans meant letting go of your personhood.
You said no matter where, no matter how, no matter when
as if love required your silence,
as if calling meant saying yes before you even knew the question.

But you were just 15.
You didn’t know yet that divine direction isn’t a contract—
it’s a conversation.
One you’re allowed to return to. One you’re allowed to revise.

You wanted to be faithful.
You wanted to belong to something bigger than your doubts.
And that longing? I honor it.
But I also grieve what it cost you—
all the times you said yes without knowing you could ask for clarity,
all the ways you thought disappearing was devotion.

You thought surrender made you strong.
And maybe it did.
But strength isn’t supposed to erase you.
Calling isn’t meant to cage you.

You didn’t have to give it all away to be worthy.

---

📜 Then

“I went the next summer. Not far away, but here in America… the people I passed by every day.”

🪞 Now

You thought staying closer made your work smaller.
That proximity wasn’t as holy.
That the real mission was out there—farther, harder, more dramatic.

But that summer taught you something important, didn’t it?
That pain isn’t always across an ocean.
That there are people aching quietly on the same streets you walk every day.
That you didn’t need a passport to prove your purpose.

And still… I know the guilt crept in.
Because part of you worried you were settling.
Like your calling only counted if it looked extreme.
Like loving the people nearby wasn’t enough.

But you were never meant to measure ministry in miles.
You were never meant to earn your worth in distance traveled.
Proximity doesn’t make love less powerful.
Presence doesn’t need a platform.

You were doing sacred work right where you were.
Even if it didn’t look like what you imagined.
Even if no one clapped.

---

📜 Then

“I was doing what I was born to do… I was born to love everyone.”

🪞 Now

You wrote it like a revelation.
Like you had finally cracked the code to your existence.
This was why you were here: to love everyone.
Without boundaries. Without rest. Without question.

And that love? It was real.
But it came with a cost.

Because you weren’t just loving people.
You were losing yourself in the process.
You were taught that the more you gave, the holier you were.
That love meant laying yourself down, again and again, until there was nothing left.

No one taught you that love has limits.
That even sacred compassion needs boundaries.
That you can be called to care without being consumed.

You were not born to love everyone at your own expense.
You were born with a heart that feels deeply—
but also with a body that needs rest,
and a soul that needs tending,
and a voice that should never have been silenced in the name of selflessness.

You were not created to burn out for love.
You were created to be loved, too.

---

📜 Then

“I returned to Peru. My world was shaken. Once again my heart was broken.”

🪞 Now

You thought returning would deepen your calling—
and it did, in the way you understood it then.
You weren’t questioning anything.
You were certain. Steadfast. All in.

You believed every tear, every ache, was proof that you were right where God wanted you.
You weren’t unraveling—you were anchoring yourself even deeper.

But still… something cracked.

You said your heart broke for them—and I believe you.
But now, I wonder if something in their struggle mirrored your own.
If maybe, deep in the quiet places you couldn’t name yet,
you were starting to feel the weight of your own unmet needs reflected in theirs.

Not consciously.
Not in a way you could admit.
But your heart knew.
And it broke a little—because you were never taught to recognize your pain
unless it wore someone else’s face.

You weren’t coming undone.
You were doubling down.
And that, too, deserves tenderness.

---

📜 Then

“This summer… I will lead. I will go to Panama. I am different.”

🪞 Now

You said it with conviction.
I will lead. I will go. I am different.
You were stepping into adulthood with a mission and a title.
You believed leadership meant readiness.
That difference meant growth.
That saying yes—again—meant you were finally becoming who you were born to be.

And you were different.
But not because you were leading a team or going to another country.
You were different because you had already learned to silence your doubt.
To ignore your needs.
To bury any part of you that didn’t fit the narrative of “called.”

You were becoming someone the system celebrated.
But you were also becoming someone you couldn’t fully hear.

You thought being chosen meant being certain.
But leadership without reflection only deepens the performance.
You didn’t need another mission field.
You needed someone to notice you.

Not the leader.
Not the vessel.
Not the fire-filled world-changer.
Just… you.

---

📜 Then

“Every second counts. Missed opportunities mean missed people. One word, one smile, one second can change someone’s eternity.”

🪞 Now

You carried time like a ticking clock strapped to your chest.
Every moment a test.
Every interaction a potential eternity.
You lived like the whole world was on fire—and it was your job to keep it from burning down.

That’s a heavy burden for anyone.
But especially for a teenager who just wanted to do good.
To love well.
To make sure none of it was wasted.

No one asked what that pressure was doing to you.
But the truth is—you didn’t ask either.
You didn’t notice.
You were too focused, too committed, too caught up in the urgency to realize how much of yourself you were handing over.

You thought missed moments meant missed souls.
But here’s what I know now:
Love doesn’t move at the speed of panic.
You don’t have to live on high alert to be faithful.
You don’t have to be the first to speak to be enough.

You were not created to be a stopwatch for salvation.
You were created to be human.
Present. Soft. Whole.

And if I could go back to you in that moment, I wouldn’t rush in with more answers.
I’d sit beside you.
In the silence.
And remind you: you don’t have to save the world to matter in it.

---

🪞 Beautiful girl,

You thought you were called for life.
And in many ways, you were.
Not because you said yes in a stadium.
Not because you gave up your summers, your plans, your softness.
Not because you poured yourself out until there was nothing left to prove your devotion.

But because your life—the whole of it—is worthy of being called back to.
Again and again.

You were called to love, yes.
But also to rest.
To question.
To grow.
To come home to yourself.

This wasn’t a failure of faith.
It was the beginning of freedom.

You were never just called to go.
You were called to stay—
with yourself.
In your own skin.
With your own voice rising, finally, to the surface.

So if no one told you this before:
Your calling was never supposed to cost you you.

---

🪑 From the Therapist’s Chair

When we talk about “calling,” we often forget how developmental it is.
You weren’t just responding to God—you were forming your identity.
And when identity gets fused with performance, praise, or spiritual urgency,
the nervous system learns that love is earned… and rest is dangerous.

That’s not faith. That’s survival.

If your younger self was praised for disappearing—
for being selfless, obedient, sacrificial—
it makes sense that part of healing now means reappearing.
Choosing rest. Slowing down.
Letting your voice rise without needing it to save anyone.

This is what redemption can look like:
Not going back to the altar—
but coming home to yourself.

---

👉 Coming up next:
I had been preparing for this since I first wept at an altar.
Every surrendered plan, every quiet yes, led here.
The Honor Academy wasn’t a new direction.
It was the promise fulfilled.

I didn’t feel trapped.
I felt trusted.
I was proud to serve.
Proud to belong.
Proud to give God my everything—again.

But some cages are built with purpose and praise.
And some disappearances don’t look like loss until much later.
This is the part of the story where I stopped asking who I was becoming—
because I was too busy becoming who they said I should be.

📖 Read the next post: Drafted: Honor Bound