Choosing Relationship

Throughout my life, I have often chosen relationship over being right.

And when I say “right,” I don’t mean opinion. I mean correct—
Correct because of experience.
Correct because of research.
Correct because of proven methods.
Correct because of discernment.
Correct because, deep down, I knew.

There have been many moments—across roles as a daughter, mother, wife, friend, colleague, and supervisor—where I have known in my knower that I was right… and still chose relationship.

Not always. But often.

And if I’m honest, when I knew I was right, it was often hard not to say more.
Not to push further.
Not to challenge harder.
Not to fight for what I believed was the best and right path forward.

Because at the core, it wasn’t just about being right.

It was about wanting the best outcome.

Sometimes that looked like softening my voice.
Sometimes it meant using humor to diffuse tension.
Sometimes it meant making myself smaller so someone else could feel more comfortable.

Because if they felt comfortable, the relationship could stay intact.

And if I’m honest, there were times when I leaned in even when others were the ones unwilling to stretch—too fragile or too inflexible to hold the tension of disagreement.

Choosing relationship didn’t mean I never spoke truth. It didn’t mean I avoided accountability. And it certainly didn’t mean every relationship lasted.

But it did mean that I often carried the quiet weight of holding both truth and connection at the same time.

Over the years, I’ve found myself offering this phrase to others when they come to me for counsel:

“Abandon the need to be right.”

Not because truth doesn’t matter.
Not because clarity isn’t important.
But because the need to be right can sometimes cost us the very thing we’re trying to preserve.

When people feel unheard, dismissed, or stuck in their “rightness,” we often come back to a simple but difficult question:

What matters most here—being right, or the relationship?

And if the answer is relationship, then the work becomes different.

It becomes about finding a way for both people to feel honored and respected, while also discerning how much being right actually matters in that moment.

There is no easy win here.

We are human beings doing our best.
We don’t always get it right.

As parents, we can often see the path ahead for our children—we want them to choose the right way.
As supervisors, we can see the road in front of our teams—we want them to take the right steps.
As friends, partners, and leaders, we want the people we care about to avoid pain, make wise choices, and move forward well.

And yet… they have their own journey.

And we have to decide, again and again, how we will show up in it.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on this through the lens of Easter—particularly Good Friday.

That desperate in-between.

The space between what was and what will be.
The place where pain and promise coexist.

When I think about Jesus, I don’t see someone who avoided truth for the sake of relationship.

He spoke boldly. Clearly. Convictingly.

He was right.

And yet, He still chose relationship.

Even knowing He would be misunderstood.
Even knowing He would be betrayed.
Even knowing the very people He loved—and who claimed to love Him—would deny, reject, and crucify Him.

He did not withdraw.
He did not harden.
He did not say, “I told you so.”

He stayed.

He endured.

He forgave.

He made a way for relationship—even in the face of rejection.

Good Friday reminds us that choosing relationship is not the same as avoiding truth.

It is not passive. It is not weak. It is not about shrinking ourselves to keep others comfortable.

Sometimes, choosing relationship looks like standing fully in truth while remaining open in heart.

Sometimes it looks like holding conviction without closing connection.

And sometimes, it looks like loving anyway—
even when being right costs you something.

Maybe the question isn’t simply, “Am I right?”
Or even, “Am I preserving the relationship?”

Maybe the deeper question is:

Am I willing to abandon my need to be right in order to pursue what is truly best—while still holding truth with humility and grace?

Because perhaps being more like Christ isn’t about choosing between being right or being in relationship.

Perhaps it’s about learning how to carry both… with courage, humility, and love.

The Bread We Eat

A friend shared a scripture with me today that has stayed with me all afternoon:

“It is in vain that you rise up early and go late to rest,
eating the bread of anxious toil.”
— Psalm 127:2

I paused when I read those words: anxious toil.

Not just work. Not effort. Not responsibility.

Anxious toil.

The kind of striving that begins early in the morning and stretches late into the night. The kind that quietly convinces us that if we just push a little harder, stay a little later, carry a little more, things will finally settle.

Lately, I’ve been noticing this posture in various folks I encounter:

Leaders responsible for millions of dollars and thousands of people.
Volunteers faithfully collecting offerings and tithes at church.
Friends stepping into new roles and new seasons of work.
Students navigating the final spring semester of high school before graduation.
Parents burning the candle at both ends to make ends meet.

So many people rising early. Staying up late. Carrying the weight of responsibility.

And in many cases, eating the bread of anxious toil.

The phrase itself is striking.

Bread is meant to nourish. To sustain. To give energy for the journey ahead.

But the bread of anxious toil does the opposite.

It is not nutrient rich. It does not strengthen the body or restore the spirit. Instead, it slowly depletes what we need most.

It takes more than it gives.

It feeds anxiety rather than faith.

It fills our days with motion while quietly draining our strength.

I myself long ate the bread of anxious toil.

This week, I’ve stayed up late and rose early.

Its one thing to stretch for a controlled moment - to finish a project, prepare for an event, or polish and presentation. Its another thing if this is your way.

When its your way…it steadily becomes your wall that slowly erodes your will.

This weekend at church, our pastor preached on Eternal Home from Psalm 84. In the message, we reflected on the journey of those traveling toward Zion. One phrase from that Psalm has been echoing in my mind since then:

“They go from strength to strength.” (Psalm 84:7)

My husband later shared something he discovered while studying the passage. The Hebrew word used for strength in that verse is Chayil.

In a military context, chayil can mean army, valor, or valiant wealth—strength that is resourceful, courageous, and capable.

What makes this image so powerful is the contrast.

Normally, travelers grow weaker as they walk long distances. The expectation is depletion. Fatigue. Less strength with every mile.

But the psalmist flips the expectation.

As these travelers move closer to Zion—closer to the presence of God—they do not weaken.

They become more valiant.

More resourceful.

More strengthened for the journey.

They go from strength to strength.

What a profound contrast to the bread of anxious toil.

One posture drains us through striving.

The other strengthens us through proximity.

One is sustained by anxiety and self-reliance.

The other is sustained by trust and presence.

I wonder if many of us today are unknowingly eating from the wrong table.

Working harder. Sleeping less. Carrying more.

All while wondering why the nourishment never seems to come.

Maybe the invitation is not simply to work less or try harder to rest.

Maybe the invitation is to draw closer to the source that actually strengthens us.

To move toward the place where the journey itself becomes sustaining.

Where instead of eating the bread of anxious toil, we begin to experience the mysterious promise of going from strength to strength.

And perhaps the deeper question for all of us is this:

What table have you been eating from lately—and is it truly nourishing the life you are called to live?

Being Celebrated Does Not Always Mean You Are Respected

Every once in a while, a conversation stops you in your tracks—not because it is dramatic, but because it is deeply honest.

Recently, a leader I met shared her current state of wondering.

For more than a decade, she has faithfully served within her organization. She is frequently called upon to carry responsibilities well beyond the scope of her role. When something difficult needs to be done, she is trusted. When something important needs to be delivered, she is dependable. Her team deeply loves her. Her direct reports feel supported, seen, and championed under her leadership.

And at key moments in her career, she has been celebrated. Awards. Recognition. Public appreciation.

Yet beneath the celebration is a tension she has struggled to name.

When it comes time to make decisions, influence direction, or take decisive action, she often finds herself questioned. Systems suddenly appear that slow her progress. Barriers arise that feel unnecessary. Execution becomes harder than it should be. She described the experience as feeling strangely “othered.”

By her own admission, she has tried to lead well through it all. She has chosen to believe the best in others. She has examined her own leadership growth and remained committed to humility. She has offered support even when she herself needed encouragement.

But now she finds herself asking a quiet question many leaders eventually face:

Am I burned out… or have I completed my time here?

As a woman of faith, she is listening closely. She does not feel released from her role. Yet she also senses that God does not intend for leadership to feel so isolating.

So we sat together in the tension of the question.

Instead of rushing toward answers, we explored her why.

• Why did she say yes in the first place?

• What is her daily yes now?

• What moments bring her joy?

• What situations still move her to tears?

We also talked about the practical realities of leadership within systems. How does she spend her time? How can she prepare emotionally and strategically for the inevitable “no”? How might she navigate the system in ways that allow the system to work with her instead of constantly against her?

Sometimes the most faithful step forward is not escape—it is clarity.

Christine Caine often reminds leaders that calling is rarely convenient. She writes that “God’s will is not an itinerary but a posture of obedience.” Faithfulness, then, is not always about having the perfect environment. It is about continuing to show up aligned with the assignment we have been given.

But faithfulness does not mean ignoring what our experience is trying to teach us.

J. Oswald Chambers once wrote, “Beware of thinking that the great test of faith is endurance. It is not. The great test is obedience.” Sometimes obedience means staying. Sometimes obedience means shifting how we engage. And sometimes obedience means preparing for a transition we cannot yet fully see.

Celebration is a gift. It acknowledges effort, dedication, and impact.

But celebration alone does not necessarily equal respect, and it certainly does not guarantee authority.

Wise leaders learn to discern the difference.

As our conversation ended, we were not rushing toward a decision. Instead, we were leaning into curiosity—about calling, timing, and courage.

Because sometimes the most important leadership work is not what happens in the boardroom or the strategy session.

Sometimes it happens in the quiet space where we ask ourselves:

Am I being invited to endure… or am I being invited to lead differently?

And perhaps an even deeper question for all of us to consider:

Where in your own leadership are you being celebrated—but not truly trusted—and what might that tension be trying to teach you?