Monday, 1:08 AM: My wife sleeps peacefully beside me, and Maple, our little white fluff of a dog, is draped heavily over my left ankle, snoring. An occasional twitch of her hind leg means she’s dreaming of gleefully chasing off Collin, the angry little terrier who lives down the street — her arch nemesis.

But I’m wide awake, and on the job.

I’m not actually doing anything, mind you. I’m just lying in bed. But my mind is endlessly churning, trying to be the architect of my own life. Endlessly reviewing the blueprints of my future, checking for structural weaknesses in my plans, trying to disaster-proof my family, my finances, my faith. I’m terrified that if I look away for a second, everything will collapse.

You already see the problem: I’m not actually building “a good life.” I’m building a fortress. A protection against hurt and failure. I’m building a hiding place that keeps people from seeing me as I see me: incompetent, disgusting.  

Monday, 2:43 AM: It slowly dawns on me, you know what the trouble with fortresses of our own making is? Even if they could be safe against the world (which they can’t be), they’re also sterile and lonely. They keep out joy; they keep out real connection.

They can even keep out Jesus.

That’s when it hits me. It’s like a sunrise in my soul right in the middle of the night! I should just hand in my resignation. I should quit my “job” as the frantic architect. Why not let Jesus in? Why not let him do the building — the building of… whatever he wants to build?

A little voice pipes up: “Because if you talk to Jesus — to God — he might say you’re not worth his time!” It’s the voice of a scared little part of me that has a history with rejection. A lost little boy.

“I get it, buddy,” I think, “But why not actually ask Jesus what he thinks of me? He’s got a track record of loving the weak, of rescuing the lost, of taking time for children. Let’s try it. Let’s ask him if he’ll accept our resignation. In fact, I’ve got just the prayer for that…”

Monday, 3:31 AM: I’m asleep. My wife never woke up. Maple is lying still and snoring loudly now, she’s moved off my ankle and snuggled up next to my side under the covers. Jesus guards the door and protects my sleep. And he’s already got a plan for my morning.

Now, that quiet resignation at 3 AM wasn't a magic wand. My "frantic architect" didn't walk off the jobsite and never look back; he still shows up some mornings, blueprints in hand, ready to get back to work. Quitting an ingrained, soul-deep job like that isn't a single decision—it's a daily practice. The difference is that now I have a gentle, practiced response. When I sit down to look at the ministry's budget or my family's calendar, I feel the crushing weight of being the sole guarantor of its success a little bit less.

So, sure, I still feel the architect's old fears creeping in—the "what ifs" and worst-case scenarios. But now I see them for what they are: an invitation to trust. I can look at the plans, and then with a quiet prayer, hand the blueprints back to God. The feeling is tangible—my shoulders literally drop.  

If you're ready to practice handing in your resignation, I created the Learning to Trust God workshop as a guided space to help you lay down your tools, even if just for an hour.

One attendee, Paul, described what a workshop did for him: "This workshop helped me to connect the desires that I need to give over to the LORD with the truths that He says about me in a way that 'clicked' in my mind and heart!"

And for those who are ready to move from laying down the tools to actually dismantling the old fortress, I offer Heal & Deepen Your Relationship with God Intensives. Come and learn to live as a beloved child in God's house, not as a frantic architect trying to build your own walls.