Are you her? THAT woman?

Well, I need to talk to her specifically today.

Not the woman still waiting. Not the woman still fighting to hold on. I'm talking to the one who let go. The one who walked away from the assignment because the waiting cost her more than she had left to give.

Maybe nobody knows you did it. Maybe you didn't announce it — you just quietly stopped. Stopped writing. Stopped praying about it out loud. Stopped telling people what God said to you three years ago because it started to feel embarrassing to still be talking about something that never showed up. You picked up a life that made more sense. Safer. Smaller. Quieter. And some days it's fine. But some days — usually late at night, or in the car before you go inside — something in you still aches for what you left on the side of the road.

I see you. And I need you to know, I'm not writing this from a place of judgment. I'm writing it as someone who understands exactly how a woman gets tired enough to walk away from the very thing God spoke over her life.

The waiting will do that. Nobody warns you that the gap between called and commissioned isn't just quiet — it's expensive. It costs you your certainty. It costs you your energy. Some days it costs you your faith that you heard God right in the first place. And if you wait long enough without seeing anything move, walking away doesn't feel like rebellion. It feels like relief.

But here's what I keep having to remember, and what I need you to hear today: the son in Luke 15 didn't just wander a little. He took everything, left completely, and built a whole life somewhere far from his father's house (Luke 15:13).

That's not a woman who got distracted. That's a woman who made a decision. And Scripture doesn't shame him for it. It just tells us what happened next — he hit a famine. Everything the far country promised him ran dry (Luke 15:14). And "he came to his senses" (Luke 15:17). Not "he was punished into submission." He came to himself. He remembered who he actually was underneath who he'd become.

Maybe that's you right now. Maybe this email is the famine catching up to you — that quiet, gnawing sense that the thing you replaced your calling with was never going to fill it.

I want you to notice something else in that story, because it matters more than anything else I could tell you. The son planned a whole speech. He was ready to come back and ask to be a servant, because he didn't think he deserved to be called a son anymore, let alone be trusted with anything again (Luke 15:19).

But "while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son" (Luke 15:20). The father didn't wait at the door with his arms crossed asking where she'd been. He ran. Before the apology. Before the explanation. Before she'd even proven she meant it this time.

That's not a story about a man who barely tolerates you coming back. That's a Father who's been watching the road the whole time you were gone.

So hear me clearly — you walking away didn't disqualify you from the assignment. It just delayed the reunion.

And I need to say this part too, because I won't just leave you comforted, I need to call you back into motion. Jesus stood in front of people just as inconsistent as you and me — people who had denied Him, doubted Him, scattered when it mattered — and He didn't bench them. He said, "You will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses" (Acts 1:8). And in the very next breath, He was telling His disciples the harvest was plentiful but the workers were few, and to ask the Lord to send workers into the field (Matthew 9:37-38).

Sis, He is still asking. And He's not looking past the ones who walked away — He's looking for them, because they know exactly what it costs someone to come back, which makes them the safest hands for someone else who's about to walk away too.

You don't have to have it rebuilt to come back. You don't have to explain the years. You don't even have to fully understand why you left. You just have to turn your feet back toward the house.

Because there's a robe waiting, not a lecture (Luke 15:22). There's a seat at the table, not a probation period. And there's a field out there, still ripe, still waiting on laborers — and God is not looking for the woman who never left. He's looking for the one who knows what it feels like to come back, because she's the one who can go get the others.

Come home. Then come to work.

Let's pray:

Father, I lift up the woman who walked away — not because she stopped believing You exist, but because the waiting cost her more than she thought she could carry. Meet her while she's still a long way off. Run to her before she finishes her apology. Remind her the assignment is still hers, the calling was never revoked, and the field is still waiting. Turn her feet back toward home, and then turn her hands back toward the harvest. Let her know it's not too late to be a laborer again. In Jesus' name,

Amen.

Be blessed,

Tereciah

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