Tell your story.

I’m not where I am doing what I thought I would be doing 16 months ago.

It was 11:50am yesterday, and I had 10 minutes before the call started.

“Do I just cancel?”

I’ve had a lot of calls lately. Calls that have no real purpose except for me to tell my story. The story of being the “Christian alcoholic.” The story I never set out to tell. The story that—up until recently—I didn’t want to tell.

And yet God has been orchestrating these conversations. If I’m honest, though, without fail right before they’re set to begin I get nervous. “This is silly. Why would they even care? What’s going to become of this?”

Those are the thoughts that begin flooding in. They’re lies for the most part. But the best lies contain morsels of truth. And the truth is, this is all a little silly.

I’m not where I am doing what I thought I would be doing 16 months ago. I was the guy with a thriving consulting business. I was building digital business for celebrities, “influencers,” even oil companies. I was directing films. And I was making the most money of my life.

And today, all that has evaporated for the most part. Instead I’m left with something much simpler: a story. A story of falling flat. A story of failure. A story of being torn down. A story of rock bottom.

And yet…

It’s also a story of being built back up. A story of triumph. A story of hope. A story of humility and weakness, yes, but also a story of strength.

And it’s all that I have left to give. I thought I was going to be consulting the biggest names in media, business, and culture for years to come while talking about faith and mental health. That’s what I did, and I did it well. But God took that away. Maybe—or probably—because I would have never given it up.

In its place he’s given me two things: 1) this story of recovery and trust and hope; and 2) more of him. I only have the first because of the second. Some days I celebrate that. Other days I wallow in it. Sometimes both happen within minutes of each other.

And then the calls happen. I tell my story. All the details. The nitty gritty parts. The shameful parts. The tough parts. The triumphant parts. And I hear, over and over again, words like “Wow,” and “Thank you.” And I marvel at what God has done.

So far those words haven’t paid the bills. And maybe they never will. But the conviction remains the same: keep telling your story. So I must.

Friend, you have a story too. Maybe it’s not in a place to tell quite yet. Maybe the ending is uncertain. Maybe you’re just getting to the climax. Or maybe, it’s just beginning.

Tell your story.

Whenever he tells you to, tell your story. Because the “wows” and the “thank yous” are fuel. Not because they’re recognition of your strength. No, because they’re reminders of how he has sustained you and is sustaining you.

I know.

Now, onto another call. I have a story to tell.

(Pic: I did a lot of thinking about my story while in the mountains of Colorado this month. I took this picture during one of those sessions.)