Every prayer sounds a little different when you’re unemployed.
You stop saying things like, “Thy will be done,” and start whispering, “Lord, can Thy will include benefits and dental?” You start reading Bible verses like job listings “plans to prosper you and not to harm you” and wondering if that prosperity comes with PTO and a gas stipend.
That was me. Unemployed, overqualified, and quietly auditioning for sainthood in the waiting room of life. I had a folder of resumes, a folder of rejection emails, and a growing suspicion that God’s HR department had accidentally filtered my prayers into spam.
Every morning started the same way: cold coffee, open laptop, hopeful heart. I’d refresh my inbox as if the Holy Spirit doubled as a recruiter. I’d pray for “divine alignment” and end up aligning my savings account with whatever was left in the freezer.
Then one Sunday, my pastor made an announcement: “We’re looking for someone to help in children’s ministry. Just a few hours a week.”
And like every unemployed optimist who’s one sermon away from a breakdown, I thought, Perfect. A distraction. Something to do while I wait for the real miracle.
What I didn’t realize was that the distraction was the miracle.
One Sunday turned into two. Two turned into a month. Before I knew it, I was waist deep in a classroom full of toddlers who thought Jesus lived in the snack cabinet and that baptism involved more splashing than scripture.
Every week brought new chaos, juice spills, crayons in forbidden places, and profound theological debates like, “If Jesus walked on water, can He walk on juice?”
I started to see patterns in the madness. When I thought I was teaching lessons about faith, I was actually learning them. When I thought I was helping the church, it was helping me. God wasn’t ignoring me, He was retraining me.
In humility. In humor. In holy patience.
Every spilled cup was a sermon on surrender. Every tantrum was a test of grace. Every time a kid looked me dead in the eye and said, “You’re not the boss of me,” I had to resist replying, “Tell that to God.”
Somewhere between cleaning Goldfish crumbs out of my shoes and praying for clarity, I realized I wasn’t stuck in a season of waiting, I was sitting in a classroom for the soul.
This wasn’t a delay. It was divine onboarding.
Because sometimes, before God gives you the job, He gives you the lesson. And sometimes, that lesson comes with juice boxes, glitter, and the overwhelming scent of hand sanitizer.
This is that story. The story of an unemployed adult, a classroom of sticky children, and one very overworked coffee maker that somehow became a crash course in the fine print of faith.
A story about how purpose often hides in the ordinary. How laughter can sound a lot like worship. And how sometimes the miracle isn’t in the calling, it’s in the chaos.
The Gospel According to “We Loved You, But…”
If God had a spam folder, I was living in it.
“We loved you, but…” “Your experience is impressive, however…” “You were a strong candidate, unfortunately…”
Every email felt like a breakup letter written by a corporate therapist. I started treating them like devotionals, reading them, crying a little, and then pretending to find spiritual meaning in the phrase “we’ve decided to move in another direction.”
At first, I tried to laugh it off. “Maybe God’s just filtering out the wrong opportunities,” I’d tell myself while eating cereal for dinner. But after the twentieth rejection, it felt less like filtering and more like ghosting. I started to wonder if Heaven had a hiring freeze.
Job hunting is humbling in a way few things are. You can have degrees, references, experience, and still feel invisible. It makes you question your worth and, on bad days, your Wi-Fi connection.
I prayed like I was negotiating with a celestial recruiter. “Lord, I’ll take anything. Full time, part time, hybrid, remote, missionary work in a Wi-Fi zone—Your call.”
But Sundays were different.
In that chaotic little classroom, there were no rejections, no algorithms, no performance reviews, just unconditional acceptance from a group of children who believed my name was “Snack Guy.”
They didn’t care about my employment status. They didn’t ask what I did for a living. They only cared if I remembered to bring Goldfish and extra napkins.
One morning, after receiving yet another rejection, I sat on the floor holding a juice box like it was communion wine. A little boy noticed I wasn’t smiling and asked, “Are you sad?”
I nodded.
He said, “You can borrow my happy.” Then he gave me half his cookie.
That’s it. That’s theology. No sermon. No verse. Just generosity that doesn’t know it’s being holy.
The kids didn’t need my credentials. They didn’t care about my title. They just needed someone to show up, to listen, to laugh. And somewhere in that, I realized, I needed the same thing.
Because when the world stops seeing your worth, God sends you a reminder in the form of a sticky-handed prophet who thinks sharing cookies is an act of worship.
Those kids didn’t know they were preaching, but they were. They reminded me that worth isn’t earned; it’s given. That love doesn’t come with an offer letter. And that showing up, faithfully, quietly, imperfectly, is still the most sacred act of all.
Sometimes God doesn’t give you what you want. He gives you what you need to remember who you are. And sometimes, that reminder comes in the shape of a half eaten cookie and a juice-stained hug.
Snack Time and Sanctification
Children’s ministry has a way of making you question your calling, your career, and sometimes your will to live.
Every Sunday is a new episode of Survivor: Sunday School Edition. There are alliances, betrayals, snack based diplomacy, and at least one emotional breakdown before worship time (usually mine). If you’ve never bartered with a three year old over who gets the last cup of apple juice, you’ve never truly tested the limits of your theology.
The room was a whirlwind of energy and emotion, a miniature world with its own laws of chaos. But in that same chaos, I began to see something sacred.
Because every Sunday, in the middle of the noise, there were small, holy moments. A kid would pray out loud for a lost toy. Another would offer a snack to someone who dropped theirs. Sometimes, a spontaneous group hug broke out for no reason at all. It wasn’t organized religion, it was organic faith.
A little girl once spilled her juice all over her dress. She froze, waiting for me to scold her. I saw the panic in her face, the universal look of “I messed up, and now I’m doomed.”
Instead, I handed her a napkin and said gently, “It’s okay.”
She smiled through tears, wiped her hands, and said, “It’s okay ‘cause Jesus cleans up too.”
I swear, I almost turned that into a sermon on the spot.
Every moment like that chipped away at my pride. I came into that classroom thinking I was there to lead, to teach, to bring structure to the chaos. But the truth was, I was the student. These kids weren’t learning from me, I was learning from them.
I started realizing that sanctification isn’t about growing holier in theory; it’s about growing softer in reality. It’s about finding grace in interruptions. About realizing that spilled juice doesn’t ruin the lesson, it is the lesson.
Each week, I found myself rewiring the way I viewed God. For so long, I treated Him like a manager, checking my progress, tracking my productivity, waiting for me to “get it right.” But in that ministry room, surrounded by children who believed that every prayer mattered, I started to understand Him more as a parent, loving, patient, endlessly cleaning up after my messes without taking away my crayons.
Faith stopped being a theory. It became a muscle. Built through juice box crises and unpaid overtime. Strengthened by exhaustion and softened by laughter.
And joy real joy began to sneak back in.
It wasn’t loud or triumphant. It was quiet and persistent. It came in the form of sticky hugs, off-key singing, and random “thank yous” from little humans who didn’t know how much I needed them.
Each Sunday, I walked into that room tired, and walked out… still tired, but lighter somehow.
Because those kids didn’t just teach me about God. They showed me God, in the purest, most unfiltered way possible.
They reminded me that holiness isn’t fragile, it’s flexible. It bends down to clean the floor, picks up the spilled snacks, and still finds joy in the middle of the mess.
By the end of each week, I’d collapse into my car, covered in glitter, sticky fingerprints, and the faint smell of apple juice and all I could think was: If this isn’t church, I don’t know what is.
And every week, without meaning to, those kids reminded me that God doesn’t just live in miracles—He lives in messes too.
Because sometimes sanctification doesn’t look like quiet devotion or deep meditation. Sometimes it looks like snack crumbs on your shoes, a half-finished craft in your hand, and a classroom full of chaos whispering, “It’s okay. Jesus cleans up too.”
Amen, I’m Hired (and Still Sticky)
The email came on a Tuesday.
Subject line: “We’re pleased to offer…”
For a moment, I didn’t believe it. I thought it was spam, or worse, a cruel test of faith from the universe. But no, it was real. Salary, benefits, a start date, the works.
I just sat there, in the same kitchen where I’d cried through countless rejections, the same counter where I’d prayed over bills and bowls of cereal, and whispered the only word that made sense: “Amen.”
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was the soft kind of Amen, the kind you exhale when you’ve run out of words, when gratitude outweighs relief.
But the miracle wasn’t the job. It was the peace that came before it.
By the time God said yes, I didn’t need it to feel whole anymore. Somewhere between the rejection emails and the juice box baptisms, something inside me shifted. I stopped praying for an escape and started thanking God for endurance. I stopped asking “When?” and started whispering “Even now.”
I had found purpose in a room full of toddlers, redemption in routine, and joy in things that didn’t look impressive on paper.
The job was a blessing. But the waiting, that was the transformation.
Because waiting is where faith graduates from theory to practice. It’s where the shiny parts of belief get tested, scratched, and refined. Waiting forces you to see whether you trust God’s plan or just His timing. And I’ll be honest, I failed that test more than once.
But somewhere along the way, I learned that God doesn’t waste waiting. He uses it to sand down the edges of impatience, to strengthen spiritual muscles you didn’t even know existed. The waiting room is never empty, it’s just quieter than you expected.
Now, even as I juggle meetings and deadlines, I still volunteer in that same classroom on Sundays. I still hand out juice boxes. I still get glitter in my hair, and I still lose small theological debates with five year olds.
One Sunday, a kid asked me, “Are you famous now that you have a job?” I laughed and said, “Not even close.”
He thought for a second and said, “That’s okay. Jesus wasn’t famous either until He was older.”
And just like that, I was reminded how God keeps using children to deliver punchlines that double as prophecies.
Every time I walk into that classroom, I’m reminded that faith doesn’t always show up as lightning. Sometimes, it shows up in laughter, in patience, in the slow, steady act of showing up when you’d rather quit.
Faith is holding a juice box instead of a microphone. It’s cleaning up someone else’s spill without complaining. It’s choosing to believe that purpose isn’t found in promotion, it’s found in presence.
I used to think faith was a mountaintop moment, a voice from heaven, a clear sign, a sudden open door. But now I know: sometimes faith shows up quietly, in the small decision to keep showing up, even when your hands are sticky and your heart’s still healing.
And yes, sometimes, it shows up covered in glue.
But the beautiful thing about glue is that it holds things together. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what faith really does, it binds the broken, sticks through the storms, and leaves a residue of grace wherever it goes.
So yes, I’m hired. But more than that, I’m held. Held by the lessons, the laughter, and the God who never stopped working, long before the offer letter arrived.
And every time I see those kids, I remember: the miracle wasn’t the email. It was the becoming.
The Moral (and the Marketing)
If you’ve ever been in a waiting season, stuck somewhere between who you were and who you’re becoming, this story’s for you.
Because sometimes God doesn’t answer prayers with a yes or no. Sometimes He hands you a mop, a juice box, and a classroom full of tiny disciples who remind you what grace looks like in real time.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not quiet. It’s faith, but in the form of sticky hands, loud laughter, and lessons you didn’t sign up for but desperately needed.
Faith doesn’t always feel holy. Sometimes it feels exhausting. Sometimes it feels inconvenient. Sometimes it feels like standing in a room that smells like apple juice, wondering if you’re doing anything that matters. But even then, it’s still faith. And it’s still worth holding onto.
Because in those small, ridiculous, beautiful moments, you start to see it. The pattern. The purpose. The punchline of every unanswered prayer.
You start to realize that God isn’t just the Author of miracles, He’s the editor of messes. He rewrites your story in ways that don’t make sense until you’ve lived through the typos. He humbles you, molds you, and hands you lessons disguised as detours.
So if you’ve ever felt overqualified and overlooked, if you’ve ever wondered if Heaven’s HR lost your file, or if you’re simply trying to find peace between “Not yet” and “Amen,” this book is for you.
It’s for the faithful and the frustrated. The ones who keep showing up even when they’re tired. The ones who’ve learned that joy can survive unemployment, that grace can live in chaos, and that miracles sometimes wear the disguise of ordinary days.
✨ Read the full story in Job Hunting with Jesus and Juice Boxes — now available on Amazon.
It’s heartfelt. It’s funny. It’s brutally honest. And it’s proof that even when life doesn’t go as planned, God’s still the best writer in the room, crafting plot twists you’ll laugh about later, once the glue finally dries.
Because sometimes faith doesn’t look like confidence. Sometimes it just looks like continuing.
