Where are you?
Okay, so in what tone did you just read that?
I ask because I can't help but think about a recent TikTok trend where you say the same phrase in completely different tones — serious, angry, disappointed, sarcastic, shocked. And it got me thinking about how you might be hearing and processing my question right now.
Many of us, whether we are aware of it or not, tend to hear and filter messages through our wounds. This is something I've become very intentional about as I've done my own inner work. So, if you'll humor me for a second, before we go any further, I'd like you to take a moment to briefly examine your filter.
Maybe you have a secure attachment style and didn't think twice about it. Or maybe you have an insecure attachment style and just got activated — and now you can't stop thinking about that last interaction still living rent free in your head and heart. It's okay. Take that moment. Validate whatever that emotion is. I've found that when we give space to emotions as they come up, they don't turn into feelings that take on a life of their own, becoming elaborate stories that turn into legends.
Alright… now, from that place, consider what tone you hear when God asks Adam and Eve:
Four words. In my opinion, one of the most loaded questions in all of Scripture.
As a mom of two boys, silence in my house outside of naptime was never a good sign. If nobody was slamming something or yelling “give it back,” they were doing something they had absolutely no business doing. My “where are you” came with me already knowing something wasn't right.
But God was not confused about Adam and Eve's coordinates. He is omniscient, omnipresent. He knew exactly where they were. What He was really asking was: why did you go? Why aren't you where you're supposed to be? Why have you moved away from Me?
I want to pause and reflect here for a moment.
As a child, I was handed interpretations of this story without context. As an adult, I internalized the version of Eve that was handed down to me — the one that blamed her for our painful periods, our womanly ails, our collective suffering. Most of my adult life I heard those comments. I myself have been guilty of making them.
But at some point, something shifted.
As a woman working in ministry, I began to question the narrative. I became curious about Eve. And interestingly enough, as I walked through my own ministry challenges — my missteps and those of others — I became much more empathetic to her. Living as a pastor's wife for over twenty years, a women's ministry leader, a mother, and every other role in the fishbowl of ministry had me wanting to hide behind figurative fig leaves as well. Desperately wanting to cover myself because of my own insecurities, my fear of rejection, and my quiet belief that I was not enough.
At some point, anytime I stood at the pulpit, in leadership meetings, or at conferences, I saw myself mirrored in who Eve had become in that garden.
I genuinely loved my calling. I felt deeply called to this work. And yet I was quietly disappearing — enveloped by a packed calendar, the idol of a good reputation, the approval of people. I wore a smile that said “I'm fine” when nothing about me was fine.
Here's the image that keeps coming to me: being on a water mat on a lake. You're floating, relaxed, not paying attention, and before you know it you are nowhere near the dock. You never even felt yourself move. That's how insidious this drift can be. How did I get there? How do any of us get there?
When did my theology become “stay busy for the Lord”? When did I begin finding my worth in tending everyone else's soul while neglecting my own?
The gift of a recent sabbatical cracked me open. When I had nothing to be busy with, no one to tend to spiritually, no role to define me, I became keenly aware of my own vulnerable state — and the access I had unwittingly given the enemy to destabilize my faith. He had almost succeeded in using my desire to please God against me.
Because that's how it works. The enemy's attack is subtle. Unassuming. It comes dressed in concern. It comes as a leadership culture that celebrates output while quietly dissecting your faults. It comes in the meeting where your idea is ignored, only to be later celebrated when a more favored colleague says the exact same thing. It comes as a voice you respect, minimizing your exhaustion as a lack of faith and your questions as disloyalty.
And underneath all of that, the real questions being planted: Can you really trust God here? Does He see what's happening to you? Does He even care?
Eve fell into that trap. I fell into that trap. And if you're honest — really honest — so have you.
Going back to the beginning, back to the garden, helped me heal a deep spiritual wound I had unknowingly carried most of my life.
It was there I had a jarring realization: my identity as a woman had been formed by The Fall, not by Creation. My identity as an image bearer had been hijacked by an incomplete theology. It was like I had spent most of my life in a house of distorted mirrors, with a warped reflection of myself and of who God truly is.
During my sabbatical, I came to God empty. Spiritually fatigued. If I'm being honest, lost. I had nothing to offer but a broken heart, a fragmented faith, and a crushed spirit. I came as a blank slate.
And re-reading Genesis 3 from that vulnerable place was like watching all the faulty mirrors converge and finally show me my true self. My created self.
It was there that I experienced God the Creator holding my hand — the hand of my inner child — fixing what was fragmented and making me whole. And I was able to see clearly, maybe for the first time, that after the fall, after the hiding, after the fig leaves, God did not abandon Eve. He went looking for her. In the garden. In the cool of the day. Making space for her to be vulnerable with Him.
Where are you?
Garden Living is my healing experience. It is the process of recovering what was always true: You bear God's image. You carry divine purpose. You were built for deep, life-giving relationship. The garden is where you remember who you were created to be.
It is the theology of a God who keeps walking into the garden and calling our names — even when we are hiding, even when we isolate, even when we have convinced ourselves and everyone in our congregations that we are completely fine while we waste away inwardly.
He is asking you that question right now. Not where are you on the ministry plan or the women's retreat schedule. Not where are you in relation to what everyone else needs from you this week.
Where are you with Him?
That is the only question that leads back to the garden. And in the garden — wholeness, His rest, the sound of God walking toward you in the cool of the day — was never lost.
I don't know where you are in your ministry life right now. But I know this: you matter. Your health matters. You are worth it. And God still wants to use you.
If any of what I've shared today resonates with you, I invite you to join me in the practice of Garden Living.