Searching for Grace: A Weary Leader, a Wise Mentor, and Seven Healing Conversations for a Parched Soul

How Did I Get Here?

M

Y FIRST CONVERSATION

with Scotty was on a long, narrow porch in the North Georgia mountains. The porch was filled with rocking chairs and swings and was attached to a barn. Men sat scattered around, talking about SEC football, theology, and the life they had retreated from to take in some rare moments of quiet.

Just inside was a two-story vaulted great room, a kitchen, and a hallway lined with several bedrooms. Beyond the living quarters was a simple structure with a dirt floor, filled with stalls, hay, and horses. Just thirty minutes before, I’d perched high in the loft of the barn listening to Scotty teach the group of men sitting in camp chairs and hammocks while a fresh breeze filled the loft from the outside twilight.

Fifty men had come here to sleep under the stars, to cast a fishing line or fire a gun, to listen and learn, to make a friend and share a conversation. I was there as one of the leaders, the pastor of twenty men attending from our young church. I was also there as a participant.

I was a thirty-five-year-old pastor attempting to keep my life under control.

Physically I was a whole person sitting in that barn, but my interior life was frazzled, and I was unsure if I could put myself together—or be put back together at all. Two questions were pulsing in me: How did I get here? and How does this get better?

Just a year earlier, I had started a church with a handful of people, hoping our small start-up would survive and make a difference in our community. Before that, I had been an associate pastor at a large church in Atlanta, and the departure from that haven of establishment and safety left me feeling exposed and anxious. As we moved out on our own, my wife and children were content and adjusting, but I was a mess inside.

That night, Scotty’s words pierced my soul. He spoke of loss, avoidance, abuse, religious performance, and finally grace and peace. I had heard him speak once before, at a huge conference in southern Florida, where he stood onstage in front of thousands of people. Scotty was familiar with such settings: he had started and led a church in Nashville that grew to four thousand people. He’d written books and taught as an adjunct professor at several seminaries around the country. I had been sitting in the back of the room at that conference, and I never had the nerve to approach him. But now, at the retreat, I could sense a growing urgency in my spirit.

Scotty told us about coming out from behind the curtain of running, avoiding people, and performing for approval. The curtain had kept him from simply being with people. He said his life’s theme song had been Running on Empty by Jackson Browne: Running on empty, running blind.[1]

I knew the feeling.

Scotty said, "Who we are matters to God more than what we do. Our calling is to be worshipers, not workers; present, not impressive. Our truest identity is found in being God’s beloved sons and daughters." Scotty bared his past and shared his present fears. He told the story of his own imperfection and how he now rests in the arc of God’s story for him. He didn’t speak as one perfect and completely healed but as one in the process of healing and growing in the awareness of the lavish love of God.

As I sat there looking out at the stars, I felt as if he had made a leap my soul knew I needed to make. This wasn’t the first time I’d sensed this longing for a more abundant life. But it did feel like a calling into deeper waters.

Barbecue was served, and I watched as Scotty found a place on the porch. He had on brown leather Birkenstocks, gray hiking pants, and a casual, plaid button-down shirt with a zipped-up fleece vest. Even though he had just spoken of trauma and weakness—vulnerabilities that would have sent me into hiding for weeks—he comfortably shared a meal and chatted with guys about fly-fishing for trout.

As dinner concluded, I tossed my plate in the trash and waited nearby, hoping for a moment to begin a conversation. Scotty stood against the rail of the porch, his six-foot frame leaning slightly backward. I don’t remember what I said, but I know my intention: What does he know that I don’t know yet?

Scotty told me, almost a decade later, that I was redemptively pestering him on that porch. A year and a half passed after that conversation before I reached out to him with an email, asking if he would mentor me.

•   •   •

When I decided to start our church with my wife, Kristy, and two other couples, it felt like I might as well have been trying to start a mutual fund. I didn’t know where to begin, nor did I know the steps to take after beginning. I immediately became overwhelmed by questions about bylaws, vision, values, financial accountability, caring for people, and leadership structures. Out of desperation, I began attending a monthly gathering in Atlanta led by experienced pastors who coached younger pastors about how to launch and lead a church. Through that gathering, I was paired with a pastor named Jake, and he became my coach as we formed our church of three families.

Jake was around fifty years old and was the founding pastor of a small bilingual church in a neighboring town. Jake held my hand as I raised support money for the first time in my life, formed a core group of parishioners, began a Bible study in the lobby of a dentist’s office, and eventually launched a church with thirty adults and a herd of children in a preschool cafeteria.

Just eight months after our church launched, our community was shattered when a dear friend from our tight-knit group took his own life. The morning of the funeral, when I was still reeling from shock and grief, Jake showed up at my house, dressed in his finest suit. Without waiting for me to ask, he drove me to the funeral in his Honda Accord.

When I walked into the church, Jake was with me. When the sound tech helped me put on my microphone, Jake was with me. When I found the family and prayed with them, Jake was with me. When I sat quietly and prepared to officiate my first funeral, Jake was sitting beside me. When I stood in front of six hundred people and talked about my friend and the God who loves him, I looked out to my left, and Jake was right there, in the front row.

During this season our church was growing slowly and steadily. The ministries of teaching and caring for people were developing. As our numbers and ministries increased, the need for administrative processes increased too. Then we bought a building, which meant we needed to raise even more money to renovate it.

Russ, you’re beginning to ask me questions I don’t know the answers to, Jake said to me as we sat in my home office above the garage. We could hear the laughter of my three girls and a few of their neighborhood friends from the backyard below.

What do you mean?

You’re asking me about organizational development, about running a building, and I haven’t walked this path, Jake said.

I understand. I nodded. Okay.

Even as I said the words, I was sad for what this meant. The truth was, I’d noticed this trend over the past few months too. I would throw questions Jake’s way, but he was unable to answer to the degree that satisfied either of us.

It’s time for you to find another coach, he said.

[1] Jackson Browne, Running on Empty, Running on Empty, Asylum, 1977.

Where Can I Find Peace?

M

ONTHS PASSED

after recognizing my need for a new coach. My questions and anxiety stacked up. I found myself unable to transform my heart and mind from anxiety and volatility to a place of peace. One Tuesday I yelled at the woman working at the post office, daydreamed the afternoon away, called the post office to apologize, and then came home in a general angst, harping on my young daughters who were creating a mess throughout our home.

Kristy dispensed grace to me. She was patient while I was emotionally erratic. We both knew something had to change. This wasn’t just a bad day; this was a bad new normal. I needed more than a coach to help me lead our church; I needed a mentor to help me with the entirety of my life.

I emailed Scotty at a point when my anxiety was dismantling me. Asking Scotty to mentor me was a long shot at best; it was a half-court shot at the buzzer. But Scotty prayerfully considered my request and eventually said yes. I laid out our relationship plan like a long-distance bromance. We would video chat monthly for an hour and a half, we would visit each other often, and we would call and text without reservation.

I began to keep a special page in my journal reserved for questions for Scotty:

How are you present with someone when everything in you is swirling?

What do you do when you feel like you’re about to tip over?

What do you say to a man who found out his wife is cheating on him?

What do you say to a woman lying in hospice, about to die?

How do you develop a fellowship structure for the church?

Why am I so anxious? Were you anxious?

What causes fear?

I would ask these questions during our monthly conversations, and as Scotty and I talked, it was as if time stood still. These were holy moments for me. It was like growing up again—receiving an education in the grace and peace of God. By the end of our chats, Scotty always turned the tables and asked me questions.

How is your marriage?

How are you doing as a dad?

How is your soul?

What would a healthier and freer you look like?

I told Scotty the truth, not the half-truths I was accustomed to giving out, because I felt safe with him.

A family is leaving our church, I told Scotty.

Oh, I’m sorry, he said. How does that make you feel?

It’s just a disappointing thing. I mean, I know they should go to church wherever they want to. I want them to find the place that’s right for them. But for some reason I’m still sort of upset.

Feeling rejected is always hard. And it’s sad to see friends leave. All of us react differently to feeling rejected or being disappointed. Our insecurity kicks in pretty quickly.

What should I do? I asked.

Know that God loves you no matter what, he said. Call them. Pursue them in love. Then send them away in love.

It occurred to me maybe the pain of having this family leave wasn’t just about that particular situation but about an ongoing fear that ran in my heart about being second place, about being overlooked, about not being good enough. God was using Scotty’s words to heal a wound I didn’t even know was festering inside me. He was reminding me of something I needed to grasp about my true worth—not just as a pastor, but as a person.

His words were full of compassion rather than judgment. He offered a listening ear and passed on wisdom from his own experience, but he never gave me an I’m going to fix you lecture. He talked, and I took notes, and at the end of our conversations, he always told me he loved me. I don’t remember the first time he said those powerful words, but I remember feeling like it was about five years too early for my guarded and resistant heart. I wondered if there was a but coming at the end of those words: "I love you, but you need to . . . or I love you, but you should . . ."

Scotty never put conditions on his love. So I started saying, I love you in return.

Ever so slowly, I was learning to give—and, with difficulty, learning to receive.

•   •   •

After Scotty and I had been talking for two months, I was taking a road trip with Kristy and my three daughters, ages two, four, and seven. We were headed from our home outside of Atlanta to my in-laws’ in Orlando. As the highway stretched before me for seven hours, I found myself reflecting on the conversation Scotty and I had just had about peace and identity.

I’m always on edge on the inside. I just want more peace, I said to Kristy—partly questioning and partly just musing out loud. How can I be more secure in my belovedness—my identity as someone deeply loved by God?

After talking for an hour, I noticed that Kristy wasn’t responding anymore. I glanced over to the passenger seat and saw that her head was nodding about and she was fast asleep. I continued to contemplate the lessons inside my own head and heart. I found myself wishing my conversations with Scotty were recorded so I could go back to them, so I could share them directly with Kristy instead of constantly saying, Well, you know, Scotty says . . .

As I replayed Scotty’s words in my head, I wondered, Could I refine these lessons to the vital principles of grace that bring peace to a human soul?

I wasn’t sure, but it was worth a shot.

So after we talked the next time, I pulled out a little black journal and began jotting down the lessons he shared with me. That journal became my constant companion and prized possession. The lessons became more than static principles; they provided life-giving nourishment to my soul in a world of stress and responsibility and worry. The lessons became flowing grace, mountain streams to be caught up in and carried along by.

The next week I told Scotty about the lessons of grace. What do you think? I asked. Can we study them and flesh them out together?

I wanted my wife, my daughters, and the people I counseled every week to experience what I was experiencing. I wanted them to live more peaceful lives too. My dream is for people to hear what I get to hear, I said to him.

This book exists because Scotty said yes.

•   •   •

We all want to navigate life with a sense of meaning and inner calm. The reality is that some days are like flowing streams, welcoming us to wade and float, while others seem to be barely a trickle, with nothing but mud to travel upon. As we move through this spectrum of days that range from dry to overflowing, it can be easy to ignore the immense interior life driving us the entire time.

That’s what this book is about: your inner life.

When Scotty and I began our conversations, I desperately needed to pay attention to what was happening inside of me, or soon enough I may have broken apart. And I should note that this doesn’t just happen to pastors. It happens to all of us—it’s part of being human. And we all need guides along the way.

It turns out that what’s going on inside of us is what fuels our decisions, activity, and peace while on this earth. What I’ve learned over the last decade of working with people is that the soul is often restless. As a pastor, I’ve had hundreds of conversations in counseling sessions, and most of them have something to do with the person, at any age or stage or situation of life, lacking peace. The details change: sometimes the catalyst is a relationship or marriage issue; other times it’s a job problem or money constraints. Sometimes the person is wrestling with loneliness or anxiety, or perhaps they’re struggling through something more philosophical, such as finding their meaning or purpose or value. But at the core, it’s always about resisting grace while desiring peace.

When our souls are out of rhythm, life becomes a song turned to chaos. It’s a reality everyone knows: we all want to be at peace, but from time to time—or perhaps most of the time—it eludes us. We want that refreshing stream, but we can’t find it. Or we find a stream, but when we try to grasp it, it passes through our fingers and rushes away.

The ancient Hebrews used the word shalom for peace. This rich word also means wholeness, health, and blessing. This idea of shalom reflects the idea of perfect harmony with God, nature, and ourselves—something human beings