Editor’s Note: When we read Rebekah Lyons’s new book, Freefall to Fly: A Breathtaking Journey Toward a Life of Meaning, we knew that her voice was needed in this issue. Rebekah is a mom of three living a busy life in New York City who fell prey to that which she feared most—mental illness. For her, that came in the form of debilitating panic attacks and depression. As Rebekah journeyed through this dark period with God, she discovered that where her fears and desires met was actually a place of calling and purpose. What follows is the story of Rebekah’s first relapse, and her subsequent breakthrough. Afterward, Rebekah graciously agreed to talk with Conversations Journal about the things she wishes pastors and churches knew about anxiety, and the spiritual practices—the Classical Spiritual Exercises—that keep her grounded in surrender and love.

Even the best of weeks in Manhattan are demanding—often beckoning an invitation to the country for a bit of retreat. The “country,” as New Yorkers suggest, can refer to a lot of places—from a train ride to the Long Island shore or Pennsylvania woods to a road trip to upstate waterfalls and Connecticut orchards. One weekend our family drove north to Southbury, Connecticut, for a night away, complete with indoor pool amenities and two queen beds. The leaves were beginning to turn, and the glorious smell of fall beckoned us to come and play. On the drive out, we stopped along the way. Inhaling steaming spice donuts from a roadside cider stand, we picked a bag of apples at a nearby family orchard. Driving farther, we rummaged through a curbside tag sale, finding that priceless gadget the bargain hunter in me could not resist. I was living in the moment, embracing my summer challenge to find my treasure.  

Night fell at our charming hotel, where we ended the day with a family ritual of swapping highs and lows. [My husband] Gabe took the dogs out one last time and tucked everyone in. 

Lying silent in the darkness, I heard Gabe’s heavy breathing as he slept soundly by my side, our children dozing just yards away. Soon sleep beckoned, though less restful than I hoped for. I tossed and turned between dreams, resisting each one like an uninvited guest. 

Suddenly I bolted upright in bed. My eyes cracked open to our darkened hotel room. All was quiet. Disoriented, I grasped at fragments from my dream state in those initial waking moments, but something was amiss. Mind groggy, I felt my eyes flutter. A cold sweat took over my body as I sat frozen in fear. 

Panic whispered. An unexpected yet subtle return. 

The moment I acknowledged its presence, the floodgates opened. Please no, not again! Erupting in the aftermath of a dream I couldn’t grasp, this attack came at a moment my defenses weren’t able to keep it at bay. As if jumping down a black hole, my brain surrendered to the adrenaline surge. I knew I must exit this tiny room in order to fill my lungs and relieve my pounding heart. I shook Gabe awake, begging him between gasps to help me get to the elevator. If I could just get to the lobby, maybe I would find relief. Wide-open space had a way of silencing the demons. Our children stayed asleep as the alarm clock glowed 3:20 a.m. No time to process further. We rushed out the door. 

My body must run. 

Stepping onto the elevator, I deployed learned breathing exercises to muscle through the descent. Seconds became minutes until my body burst through the doors into a tiled lobby. Inhaling large gulps of air, I mentally took in the vastness of the room. Heartbeats ebbed as I tried to recount the experience to Gabe in short spurts. He listened and looked at me intently. Breath by breath, I found a rhythm. Long moments of silence followed as I stared straight ahead. I calmed down. Finally it ended. 

We were painfully aware that the attacks I’d avoided the past nine months were back. No words seemed appropriate. 

After a little time went by, Gabe meekly suggested we check on the kids. Body drained and numb, I followed him back into the elevator and to our room, unsure of what was next. 

We returned to New York with a heaviness. Why wouldn’t the panic attacks just go away? The days that followed felt somber. Much different from the weeks prior. No longer skipping down Fifth Avenue or delighting myself with pumpkin scones. This time panic accompanied me. 

That fear-filled night in the tiny hotel room was only the beginning. I began experiencing an onslaught of attacks daily, each distinctly different from what I’d fought the year before. These attacks were smothering. No longer confined to tight spaces on subways and airplanes. These episodes took place in wide-open spaces as I gasped for air on the playground bench while my kids played in the distance. My anxiety manifested itself in shallow breathing all day and into the night. I strained for a deep breath to fill my lungs, the bottomless yawn that would never come. I researched breathing exercises each night before attempting sleep and whispered prayerful pleas in the middle of the night when I awakened. 

The sleepless nights and a brittle reserve kept my loved ones at arm’s length. I would forge ahead through parent council meetings, curriculum nights, and class parent get-togethers, but my closest friends knew. The weariness in my eyes told a different story. When they would ask with courage what was happening, my response was always the same. Speechless, I offered a resistant shrug and smeared away a stubborn tear. 

I’d almost tasted meaning, yet now felt further away than when this journey began. I walked long blocks days and nights regretting my belief that I’d found treasure, as if the pursuit of calling were a cruel joke. This now-distant promise of hope reborn drained my heart at breakneck speed. 

How do I move forward when I keep falling back into panic? 

How do I uncover my treasure when I’m struggling for breath? 

This devastating relapse rendered something terrifying in my psyche for which I had no words. I couldn’t muster the courage to try to describe it to others. Panic knocked the first time during that dreadful flight the previous October. But the new year brought extended relief, and [our trip to the Grecian island of] Santorini tricked me into believing that awful season was past. This sudden setback left me wrestling the deepest angst of all. My hope was fading fast. 

I began to believe I would never change, a thought that brought sadness and emptiness and new depths of desperation. Relapse felt brutal on the heels of unearthing my gifts. On the heels of discovering a place where I’d found community and the courage to learn a different story. A place where the depression and anxiety lifted and I’d begun to dream again. A season where I’d regained my footing, started making strides, and grown in confidence. I’d stood back up and embraced the idea of treasure because it was worth the risk. Relapse followed a place where I’d seen joy and it was beautiful. I’d felt emboldened from the adversity thrown my way, and I’d emerged stronger, taller. 

Yet my relapse scoffed at all that now. With disdain and cursing. This hope reborn—which I’d feared for so long—suddenly felt like a lie. The resolve that had moved me into this healing place screeched to a halt. My heart felt trampled on the floor, leaving me reeling and fearing I would never recover. 

The roller coaster returned. Just as life was looking up, the floor was dropping out from beneath me. This relapse meant something was here to stay and my will alone would not be strong enough to change it. 

I only knew I’d reached a breaking point, and I was willing to do anything to change my situation—anything but stay. With no solution in mind, we left the conversation hanging, unresolved. 

A week later I called my friend Shannon in Atlanta to process the options. I was thrilled to tell her of Gabe’s openness to a move and thought surely she would affirm my running. We could be neighbors again, getting back into those old comfortable rhythms. 

Her wisdom silenced my justifications. She reminded me that though she would love to have me in Atlanta, my problems would only follow me back. 

I understood this, but hearing it couched in love made it sink deep into my soul. Like a runner taking a mid-race breather, I paused long enough to realize that the race was already over, and my running wasn’t necessary. She urged me to stay—echoes from a year prior—and get healthy, because the only way I would find freedom would be to stick this out. 

Confused by her next words, I dismissed them. It would be several weeks until I was able to comprehend them. 

“Rebekah, perhaps your panic attacks represent something deeper,” she proposed to me. 

“What if they are physical responses to your fear that you will never find what you were meant to do? Could the panic be an indicator that you are close to breaking through?” 

Silence. 

The conversation concluded without resolution. After hanging up the phone, I pondered what had transpired. Succumbing to my fear wasn’t only a dramatic change in my own trajectory, I thought, but also a demand for Gabe to compromise his calling. 

Is there no way for both of us to live fully alive? 

I felt a weight of responsibility, as if somehow this all depended on me. No one to talk to, nowhere to go. Who could make sense of my up-and-down reactions? 

I must give in. 

I’ll do what I swore I would never do. I’ll numb out. 

We woke up the next morning after yet another restless night, and I told Gabe my resolution: I would take antidepressants to get me through. I was no longer able to cope and ready to do whatever I needed to do. I wouldn’t be able to live a normal life otherwise. I couldn’t raise my children haunted by the fear of emotionally losing it. 

He stared at me with surprise and compassion in his eyes. “Honey, we can’t stay in a place that is making life so difficult for you. We should move.” 

The date was Tuesday, September 20. Otherwise a normal day. Gabe went to the office, and I headed across the park for another Tuesday morning at Laura’s with hopes to conceal my troubles. As good girlfriends do, they asked me how I was doing. I shrugged and cried, again. 

Without prompting, they surrounded me and prayed bold prayers. Long and loud. My hope was depleted. I was lost and confused. Yet this community of women believed in me. No, they believed for me. Their strength lifted me when I couldn’t trust on my own. 

Before bed that night, I lay on my back with my feet raised high against a wall. (Breathing exercises had become a part of my normal routine.) Soon after, I swallowed the little blue sleep aid and drifted off to sleep. 

Awakened, again. 3:02 a.m. 

I clutched Gabe’s arm, squeezing and clasping. We both sat up straight in a silent impulse. I had no words. The air I tried so desperately to grasp seemed destined to stay away from my lungs. I struggled for speech, but nothing came. 

He prayed, “God, take this panic away. You are not a God who invokes fear, but faith. Give us faith. Help Rebekah to breathe, to calm, to release.” 

Still no words. Just clutching at Gabe’s bicep over and over and over. He kept praying. With all the will I could gather, I lifted my right hand and cried out, “RESCUE ME!” 

In a raw, desperate exhale from my lungs, I shouted, “DELIVER ME!” I wasn’t stopping there. I got louder. “I CAN’T DO THIS WITHOUT YOU!” My body shook and shivered uncontrollably. With my heart hammering out of my chest, I huddled next to Gabe in bed. 

Then it happened. My body collapsed. I fell flat on the bed. 

Body still. No pounding, no trembling, just stillness. Something broke. 

The physical bondage that I’d been battling for more than a year—gone in an instant. I had never come out of a panic attack like that before. I’d always had to escape my setting for it to subside. This was different. No running, just silence. Nothing in me moved, but my eyes darted back and forth. 

I mustered a whisper to Gabe: “Did you feel that?” His questioning response: “You stopped?” Tranquility. Falling into the arms of Something bigger, Someone stronger. The levity of a burden removed. As light as a bird with not a care in the world. More than just being heard, I was met in the moment. Carried by Him who knows all things. Speechless, I drifted back off to sleep. 

The following weeks gave me space to reflect. I would catch myself tangled in my own thoughts on subway rides as I attempted to make sense of this event. Capturing that night with words proved difficult. I only knew it changed my life. Saved it, even. 

Deep in conversations with friends, I would hear parts of my own story reflected in their struggles. Each conversation further illuminating the similarities we shared. Untold numbers of women walking my same journey of anxiety and depression multiplied with each exchange. As if wearing the scarlet A for anxiety, I was becoming a magnet for mess. I found solidarity in other women’s stories, letting brokenness bond us. As if a giant jigsaw puzzle were being worked in my brain, connecting one piece here, another there. The picture was starting to become clear. 

During one sobering conversation, a friend who recently began a regimen of antidepressants reminded me, “That’s your story—you found rescue, but I haven’t.” Humbled, I left our talk confused and undone. I related. It brought to mind my Central Park wrestling match with God only a few months prior, when I’d spoken those exact words, shaking my fist toward God and the forlorn winter trees: “Why, oh why, oh why is there rescue and there’s not?” 

I don’t pretend to know the ways of God. When or how He chooses to liberate us. 

For me, rescue came in my darkest hour. The moment I laid down the belief that I would ever actually change. The instant I came to the end of myself and admitted defeat. In my final moment of surrender. I remembered the frightful words I’d underlined during that fateful flight a year prior: Death, a life-giving surrender. 

Rescue had come in my death. 

The night of my liberation, I experienced a physical breaking of the chains of fear I had been carrying for as long as I remembered. 

§

01.  The Moment of Rescue

I never possessed language for how overwhelming this rescue felt until I visited the 9/11 Memorial downtown following the tenth anniversary of the World Trade Center attacks. Two square fountains, streaming shalom, outline the perimeter where the towers once stood. Sacred ground with glowing lights illuminating the names of people who lost their lives that day. A firefighter. A police officer. A mother and her unborn child. The setting gives pause to remember the fateful day that marked the beginning of a new era. 

I thought about how the memories of that day have shaped each of us in the past decade. Stories that changed us, that melted our hearts. Many of them told immediately, others that have leaked out slowly over the years. 

Looking for a way to mark the moment a decade later—to remember the ill-fated day—I was directed by a friend to a short online documentary narrated by Tom Hanks titled Boatlift.BoatLift, directed by Eddie Rosenstein and Rick Velleu (New York: Eyepop Productions, Inc., 2011), Youtube.com. I went into the film without expectation and was surprised by how much it moved me. 

When the towers fell in flames that historic September morning in 2001, millions ran for safety amid falling ash. Hundreds of thousands fled to the riverbank, greeted by the reminder that Manhattan was an island and they were trapped. In fear, some plunged into the cool waters of the Hudson and swam for New Jersey. Others were left to wait for boats, standing on the seawall and begging to be picked up. 

One particular boat was at risk of capsizing due to the hordes of frantic people trying to pile on. Watching this scene, Coast Guard commander Michael Day made a call on the radio: “This is the US Coast Guard on the pilot boat in New York. We need help with the evacuation of Lower Manhattan.” Anyone with a boat was being summoned for a moment like no other. 

Within twenty minutes after the desperate and unprecedented call went out, boats—private vessels, party boats, and ferries—lined the horizon. Commander Day exclaimed that he’d never seen so many boats come together so quickly in his twenty-eight years of service.  

Crewmembers reported that people were walking like zombies through the debris. Everyone seemed to be helping out. The vessels went back and forth all day long, carrying as many passengers as they could hold. As I watched this extraordinary documentary, I was struck by the selfless beauty of unknown neighbors and friends, willing to answer the call and risk their own safety in service to each other. 

What is now known as “the great boatlift of 9/11” became the largest sea evacuation in history. Nearly half a million people were rescued by boat in fewer than nine hours. 

Undone, I replayed the scene. The crucial turn in the story. The Coast Guard radioed for help. Sea vessels of every type and size swept from near and far, rushing in across the choppy waves of New York’s harbor. 

Perhaps this is how God thinks of rescue. When our panic sets in and we usher up prayers, desperate enough to jump off the seawall to swim for our lives, he rushes in with an overwhelming response. If only we would make that final call. It’s the one action no one can do for us. 

Jesus said,  

 

“Come to me, all you who are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:28–30, NRSVUE).Scripture quotations marked (NRSVUE) are taken from the New Revised Standard Version, Updated Edition, copyright © 1989, 2021 The National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

 

He promises our weary souls rest, but do we really believe him? 

Do we trust that the God of this universe is strong enough to lighten our loads? 

I wanted to believe it was possible, but for whatever reason, I couldn’t until I had emptied myself, recognizing that I needed help. 

I thought of my journey leading up to that night of deliverance. How long had I been carrying this burden, growing weaker by the day? Beaten down, treading a darkened path, weighed down with despair. I thought of so many of the beautiful women around me, those who were heaving loads of stress and anxiety, piling on more and more burdens by the day. 

But that night in October marked something different. I’d called for his help by choice, and he heard my cry. “In my distress I called on the Lord; the Lord answered me and set me free” (Psalm 118:5, RSV).Scripture quotations marked (RSV) are taken from the Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright © 1946, 1952, and 1971 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

What a relief to know that God not only exists but also listens. He hears when we cry. And when he hears, he responds by liberating us. When I could do little more than lift my hands and exhale a desperate cry for rescue, he noticed. Much like the people hanging on the seawall ready to jump for their lives. 

§

02.  In Conversation with Rebekah Lyons

Tare Owens: Rebekah, thank you for making the time to talk with us. I really enjoyed reading your book. I have to tell you that I was reading the section about your first panic attack—the one you had on the plane—while I was on a plane flight to England. You are so evocative in your writing that I had to do some slow breathing to keep myself from beginning to panic myself. 

Rebekah Lyons: You were living vicariously but you didn’t want to in that moment. 

 

TO: Yes, exactly. 

RL: Oh no! I’ve heard a few stories like that. Sorry! 

 

TO: It just goes to show you write powerfully. Your book tells a beautiful story, and it’s incredibly courageous to be speaking out in particular about mental illness—depression, anxiety—especially in the church today. 

Rebekah, one of the reasons I was excited to both excerpt your book and talk to you is that this issue of Conversations Journal tackles the issue of fear. We titled it with the regular command that shows up in so many places in Scripture—“Be not afraid.”See Genesis 15:1; 21:17; 26:24; 46:3; Exodus 14:13; 20:20; Deuteronomy 1:21, 29; 3:2; Joshua 8:1; 10:8; Judges 6:23; 2 Kings 1:15; 1 Chronicles 22:13; 2 Chronicles 20:17; Psalm 118:6; Isaiah 7:4; 12:2; 40:9; 41:14; 43:5; 44:2; Jeremiah 1:8; 30:10; Daniel 10:19; Joel 2:21; Matthew 1:20; 28:5, 10; Luke 1:13, 30; 2:10; 12:32; John 12:15; 14:27; Acts 18:9; 27:24; Hebrews 13:6; Revelation 2:10; among others.

But that’s not an easy thing to do. I think all of the events going on around us (tornadoes, fires, floods) and in the face of that it can be really harmful to tell somebody with anxiety to just “be not afraid.” What do you do with those passages of Scripture? Are they comforting? Are they ones that you turn to God or are they ones that turn you away from God in places of fear or anxiety? 

RL: Well, I think ultimately those Scriptures are comforting because we really do need his strength day by day, his rescue day by day. 

We might have a moment where we feel full of faith and the gifts of the Spirit, whatever those are, and we aren’t questioning his provision or rescue. Then there are certainly days where we will feel the opposite. At the end of the day it’s about us just going back to him, in surrender. 

 

TO: To jump off of that, you write both in your book and on your blog about the daily process of letting go. What are your daily practices of letting go that help you stay in that place of surrender? 

RL: For me it’s the surrendering of the will. It’s my will, my rights, what my perceived rights are. I find my response is the strongest—when I want to assert my will rather than surrendering to God—when life is not looking the way I thought it should look. 

I think part of the difficulty is finding daily practices that are really simple. We are women and men who work or we have families or we do both. Often it feels like things are coming at you all day long, but the question is, can we be present to it, to the work of God in our lives, the work of surrender? In each moment, in each encounter, are things crossing your will, are they stripping away your selfishness? And when they are stripping away your selfishness (which usually they are) how do you respond to that? 

I was having a conversation last week with a good friend, and I said, “I almost feel like there’s too many resources out there.” Sometimes we get paralyzed by all of the books and blogs and writers and top leaders and thinkers—all the suggestions for practices and disciplines and ideas on how to grow spiritually. For me, it boils down to waking up and getting my daily ration of coffee and asking, “Lord, where do we begin today?” 

For me I’m just trying to get back to the basics on what nourishes my soul and keeps me in a continual posture of surrender. 

To do that, I stay seated at his feet and focus on receiving from him instead of trying to be the one who brings the content to our time together. I often read out loud from Scripture because it tends to settle in my heart a little more when I can actually hear the words. I also believe body, mind, and spirit are deeply connected. It’s important to me to connect with something physical—like I did a prayer walk yesterday with a dear friend. It started as a jog, and then within thirty minutes we’re just walking next to the water and praying out loud. 

I also love the Divine Hours. It’s a practice that settles me. I have an app that helps me pay attention to the times of day, and to be in prayer. I refresh those even on my phone because I can read those anywhere. I certainly don’t do it every four hours like I’d love to, but it’s a simple practice of Scripture and prayer, with a physical rhythm to it. I just think that reframes and starts the day, every day, in a really great way, and when I make the time I really feel the difference. 

 

TO: I don’t have little kids of my own, but I have a lot of friends who do I’ve often handed a copy of Conversations to someone I know and love, who is hungry for God, but who is in the middle of “toddlerdom”—and I just see her face fall in shame and disappointment because she knows she’s not going to get the time to sit down and read it. And words like “spiritual formation” or “spiritual exercises” then go on to the invisible list of One More Thing To Do. You’ve spoken a little in that sense of just incorporating what’s natural and what’s soul nourishing, but what would you say to that man or woman wants more but is in a full stage of family life? 

RL: Well, I think we are defined more by what we say “no” to than by what we say “yes” to. It’s the things we say “no” to all of a sudden that give us time back in our day. 

We have such a tendency to start the day saying yes to too many things. There’s this temptation to reach over to my smartphone and be instantly connected to the outside world—and no longer in control of what I am saying yes to. So, I have to start with saying no. No, I’m not going to check Instagram or Facebook. When I wake up in the morning, before I begin, I will spend time with him. I’m not going to spend my day watching or looking at what someone else is doing versus hearing from God. The morning time is mercy for me each day, and that is a very specific time. When we start the day with distractions, we never really ever get back to the real thing, the real source of nourishment. 

If we start the day hyperconnected, we’re wired from the very first moment to comparing or competing, wondering whether we are living a life that’s as important as someone else’s. We just begin the day on the defensive. We judge our value, our worth to the world and to God (and we just can’t help it), by lining up our life next to someone else. 

You know, in New York and traveling, I always have my iPhone by my bed. I play music or white noise, because we’ve lived places that are just so loud—sirens and street noise and hot dog vendors and cars. I’m so used to having that phone by my bed, and in the morning, turning off the alarm, it’s so easy at that moment just to jump on over to Instagram because I am on my phone and I’m a little bit obsessed. But I have to decide that I’m not going to—I can’t start my first thoughts and my first encounters like that. I have to say no in order to say yes to God, yes to real life with him. 

It seems so silly and so simple, but it’s so much harder to do than to just say. But if you start with something that is as simple as that, all of the sudden you seem to get time back for some reason, somehow. 

 

 

TO: I’m going to change tracks just a little bit and ask you, in light of the issue that we are doing on fear, what do you most want pastors, congregations, people in the church to know about anxiety in particular? 

RL: When we say fear is sin, it’s really hard for those struggling with fear and anxiety because nobody wants to feel fear. Nobody wants to have a lack of faith. Nobody wants to doubt. 

So, I would say, have a lot of grace with fear and people who are struggling with fear. The opposite of fear is faith. As pastors and leaders, let’s talk and teach more from a place of faith than from a place that shames those who fear. I wrote about fear in an article after Rick Warren’s son Matthew committed suicide and I underlined the fact that you can’t equate mental illness with spiritual weakness. Doing that shames people and turns them away from help. 

When we’re in the church and confessing that we struggle with fear, people have a tendency to respond, “Wow, look at them. They must not be walking with God because they sin.” But the truth of what’s happening is different than that, and it might be more accurate to say, “Wow, God meets us in our suffering, and he comes to the brokenhearted.” 

As a church, we need to be encouraging people to say, “When you see this pain and this struggle, have complete empathy for them.” Let’s talk more about the power of the Holy Spirit and how we all are in desperate need of a Savior. We are all broken people. 

I used to have such a different view of suffering. I used to believe that God must be punishing us—what did we do wrong, how can we do better. But the truth is the opposite of that. Suffering is actually what’s building and maturing and giving us a gift—the gift of dependency on him. 

To me, this is the crux of the promise of the gospel. That he’s come so that we can have life and have it abundantly and that life comes at no cost. Part of our ability to experience that abundance comes because we know it first as pain. We’ve known how despairing it has been, and all of a sudden he comes in and rescues and rushes in and then, then it really feels abundant. The circumstances might not look much different from the despair to the abundance, but it’s our vantage point that changes. We sense and feel that he is present and that we’re marked and we’re different. 

 

TO: I love that. I’ve taken a lot of your time. I am going to ask you one more question and then I’m going to stop. What books, or writers, or saints across the ages have supported you and shaped you in your journey? 

RL: Well, first, Richard Rohr. I love him. He wrote a book Falling Upward that is basically a much smarter version of Freefall to Fly. But it’s really just a law of the ages that we won’t go up unless we’ve gone down. And it marks these moments throughout his journey of how pain has yielded to worship. 

I’ve loved Viktor Frankl. He wrote Man’s Search for Meaning. He’s a Holocaust survivor and basically his premise is that the root of anxiety is all about unfulfilled responsibility. For me that resonated because anxiety came full throttle at a time when I was questioning what my life was about and really struggling with knowing what I was supposed to be putting my hands to, what I was created for—beyond my role of mother and wife. That was really confusing for me. To me, the term “unfulfilled responsibilities” implies that you know that you’ve been entrusted with gifts, and you know you’ve been given opportunity—but you don’t seize it because you are paralyzed by the unknown and the fear. 

I love Phileena Hueretz. She wrote Pilgrimage of a Soul, and I cite a lot of her in chapter three. 

I love Ann Voskamp [of One Thousand Gifts] as just a great mentor. I love her heart and her spirit. I know that she reaches many women today. I would say that’s kind of a handful. 

 

TO: Rebekah, thanks so much for your time, and for your courage.