Dear Little Girl, You Don’t Have to Perform for God

There are mornings when the chair feels sacred.

Coffee gets cold beside you. Your Bible is open. The house is quiet. You write and pray and somehow an hour disappears because you have so much to say to God—and somehow, in the saying, you begin to hear Him too.

And then there are mornings like today.

The alarm has already gone off too many times. Your body is tired. The calendar is full. There are people who need you, work that isn't finished, texts waiting for answers, and approximately seventeen things running through your head before your feet even hit the floor.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, you can accidentally turn time with God into one more thing you're failing at.

I didn't pray long enough.

I barely read my Bible.

I didn't journal enough.

I didn't have some profound revelation.

I was distracted the entire time.

And suddenly, even quiet time has become a performance metric.

Dear Little Girl, I don't think that's what He wants.

I don't think God is sitting across from you with a stopwatch.

I don't think He's counting pages.

I don't think He's measuring the length of your prayers or grading the depth of what you wrote in your journal.

The Journal that changed my life….

I think He wants you.

That's it.

The you who sometimes has hours.

And the you who sometimes has five minutes.

The you who arrives peaceful and expectant.

And the you who drops into the chair already overwhelmed and says,

“Hi God. Crazy day. Love you. Come with me.”

Maybe that's the whole prayer.

And maybe that's enough.

Because relationship isn't measured by the length of the conversation.

Think about the people you love most. Some days you sit across the table and talk for hours. You tell stories. You cry. You laugh. You work through the hard things.

Other days it's a kiss on the cheek as someone runs out the door.

Love you. Be safe. Call me.

The brevity doesn't make the relationship less real.

Love was already there.

I think sometimes we forget that with God.

We can turn prayer into something we accomplish instead of Someone we walk with.

Jesus certainly withdrew to quiet places to pray. He showed us the importance of getting away, becoming still, and being with the Father.

But He didn't leave the Father behind when He left the quiet place.

He carried that relationship into the crowds.

Into meals.

Into interruptions.

Into long walks.

Into healing.

Into work.

Into exhaustion.

Maybe that's what I'm learning in these chairs.

The chair isn't the relationship.

The chair is where I remember the relationship.

And then I get up.

I teach the class.

These precious Girl Scouts earned their dance and friendship badge!

I answer the phone.

I drive the kid.

I make the dinner.

I tend to the body God gave me.

I do the next thing in front of me.

And God comes too.

There will be mornings when I have pages and pages to give Him.

There will be mornings when I have tears.

There will be mornings when I have questions.

And there will apparently be mornings when all I've got is:

Hi. I'm here. I love You. Help.

Maybe spiritual maturity isn't becoming better at performing quiet time.

Maybe it's becoming better at returning.

Returning when you're distracted.

Returning when you're tired.

Returning when you don't have anything profound to say.

Returning when yesterday wasn't your finest.

Returning even when all you have is a few minutes and a cup of coffee.

Because He was never asking for a performance.

He was asking for your presence.

And Dear Little Girl, you don't have to earn the presence of a God who has already promised you His.

So if today is one of those days, close the Bible when you need to.

Finish the coffee.

Get up from the chair.

And say:

“Come with me.”

Because He will.

And sometimes, that may be the most honest prayer you pray all day.

Love,
Worthy

The Chair Where He Keeps Waiting

Worthy Heart Reflection

Last Sunday, I shared a picture of my mom's chair.

The chair where she prayed.
The chair where she watched children walk home from school.
The chair where she faithfully met with God for years.

As I wrote those words, I realized something.

I have a chair too.

Every morning, before the notifications, before the calendar, before the demands of the day begin, I carry my coffee to the same place.

Two chairs sit there.

One for me.

And one for God.

No, I don't believe He physically sits in the other chair.

But making room for Him changed the way I meet with Him.

Years ago, I read a little book called Two Chairs. The idea was beautifully simple: if you want to cultivate a friendship with God, create space that says, You're welcome here.

So I did.

At first, it felt intentional.

Then it became a habit.

Somewhere along the way...

it became holy.

Some mornings I laugh.

Some mornings I cry.

Some mornings I don't have many words at all.

I simply sit.

I listen.

I read.

I pray.

And somehow, every single time, I leave different than I arrived.

Not because all my problems disappear.

They don't.

My marriage still has places that need grace.

The people I love still face battles I cannot fight for them.

My own fears still try to find their way back into my heart.

Life doesn't pause because I spent time with God.

But something inside of me changes.

Peace has a way of speaking louder than fear.

Truth becomes easier to hear than worry.

Love becomes stronger than control.

I'll also confess something.

There are mornings I don't show up.

I'm busy.

I'm distracted.

I convince myself I'll do it later.

And almost without fail, I can tell the difference.

Little frustrations feel bigger.

My patience grows thinner.

My thoughts become noisier.

Not because God has moved.

Because I have.

A few mornings ago, while I sat in those two chairs, a thought quietly crossed my mind.

I wonder if He's waiting for me on the mornings I don't come.

Not waiting with disappointment.

Not keeping score.

Simply waiting like someone who treasures the conversation.

That thought didn't fill me with guilt.

It filled me with gratitude.

What kind of God longs to spend time with us?

The kind who met a woman at a well.

Who walked with discouraged disciples.

Who lingered at dinner tables.

Who still whispers, "Come spend time with Me."

Not because He needs us.

Because He loves us.

People sometimes ask me about my morning routine.

Truthfully, it isn't the coffee.

It isn't the chair.

It isn't even the routine.

It's the relationship.

The chair is simply where I remember who I am.

Before I'm Amy.

Before I'm Mom.

Before I'm wife.

Before I'm Miss Mermaid.

Before I'm "Worthy."

I'm simply His.

And that changes everything.

So if you're reading this today, can I offer you one gentle invitation?

Find your chair.

Maybe it isn't a chair at all.

Maybe it's the driver's seat before you walk into work.

A porch swing.

A park bench.

A quiet corner of your bedroom.

God has never been looking for perfect conditions.

He's always been looking for willing hearts.

There isn't anything magical about my chair.

But there is something beautiful about returning, day after day, to the God who never stopped waiting.

Maybe...He's waiting for you, too.

Dear Little Girl…You Don’t Have to Carry What Isn’t Yours

Dear Little Girl,

You've always been so good at carrying things.

Not just groceries.

Not just diaper bags.

Not just calendars and responsibilities.

You carry moods.

You carry tension.

You carry everyone's disappointment.

You carry conversations long after they've ended.

You carry the weight of wondering if someone is upset with you, if you said the wrong thing, if you could have fixed it, if you should have tried harder.

Somewhere along the way, you started believing that love meant carrying what belonged to everyone else.

But sweet girl...

That's not love.

That's exhaustion.

“Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.”

— 1 Peter 5:7

Real love doesn't require you to carry what God never asked you to hold.

Compassion isn't the same thing as responsibility.

You can sit beside someone in their pain without climbing into it.

You can pray for someone without trying to control them.

You can understand why someone reacts the way they do without excusing hurtful behavior.

You can love someone deeply without carrying what belongs to them.

That lesson has taken me years to learn.

For a long time, I believed every difficult conversation was mine to fix.

Every tense moment was mine to soften.

Every harsh word was mine to explain away.

If someone I loved was hurting, somehow I believed it was my job to hurt with them until they felt better.

But God has been teaching me something different.

He has been gently showing me that I can remain compassionate without becoming responsible for another person's choices.

I can understand someone's story without making it my burden.

I can stay present without abandoning myself.

That's what healthy love looks like.

Jesus carried the cross.

He never asked you to carry everyone else's.

So today, lay it down.

Lay down the guilt that was never yours.

Lay down the shame someone else handed you.

Lay down the responsibility you've quietly accepted for another person's healing.

Because there is only one Savior.

And it isn't you.

Today, simply carry what God has placed in your hands.

Leave the rest with Him.

Because remember this: The cross was never an invitation for you to become someone else's savior. It was an invitation to trust the One who already is.

Today, open your hands.

God never asked you to carry it alone.

Love,
The Girl Who Is Finally Learning the Difference

“Father,
Teach me the difference between compassion and responsibility.
Help me carry only what You’ve placed in my hands.
Amen.”

Dear Little Girl…Rest in Hope

Dear Little Girl,

You like answers.

You like to know what is going to happen next.

You like plans and timelines and reassurance that everything will be okay.

You want to know the test results before the doctor calls.

You want to know the marriage will stay steady.

You want to know the kids will make good choices.

You want to know the money will stretch far enough.

You want to know the people you love will be safe.

And when you don't know, you start working.

You think about it.
Pray about it.
Research it.
Plan for it.
Prepare for every possible outcome.

As if enough effort could somehow create certainty.

But lately God has been teaching you something different.

Not through answers.

Through peace.

The kind of peace that shows up before the situation changes.

The kind that arrives when there are still questions on the table.

The kind that whispers, "You don't need to know everything. You just need to know Me."

In Acts 2, Peter stood before the crowd and quoted David's words:

"My body also will rest in hope."

Rest in hope.

Not rest in certainty.

Not rest in guarantees.

Hope.

Because hope is not confidence in an outcome.

Hope is confidence in God's presence.

It means trusting that even if the path twists in ways you didn't expect, you will not walk it alone.

So, dear little girl, stop striving for certainty.

Stop demanding tomorrow's answers before you've lived today.

The Spirit of God is already with you.

The same Spirit that raised Christ from the dead lives in you.

And maybe the miracle isn't finally getting the answer you've been waiting for.

Maybe the miracle is discovering you can rest before it arrives.

Rest in hope.

Not because you know what happens next.

Because you know Who goes with you.