Honestly, Sandie

I spent weeks trying to figure out what “you’re in the wrong room” meant.

Not days.

Weeks.

The first time I heard it, I was sitting in a staff meeting.

Just another meeting.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing emotional.

Then out of nowhere, four words landed in my head.

“You’re in the wrong room.”

I remember thinking, what the hell does that even mean?

I’ve spent years in this room.

I’ve helped build this room.

My husband and I have poured thousands of hours into this room.

Most of our closest relationships came from this room.

What do you mean I’m in the wrong room?

Then life kept moving.

Because that’s what life does.

Kids needed things.

Work needed things.

Church needed things.

And I kept coming back to those four stupid words.

A few weeks later, I was sitting in a Target pickup parking spot waiting for somebody to bring out whatever random thing I had ordered because apparently walking into the store was too much effort that day.

And there it was again.

Only this time it didn’t stop with four words.

“As long as you remain in the room you’re in, the people you’re supposed to reach won’t have access to you.”

Then I saw it.

Not with my eyes.

Just an image in my head.

A giant glass wall.

I could see them.

They could see me.

But neither of us could get through.

No conversation.

No connection.

No way to reach each other.

Just glass.

I remember trying to make sense of it all and playing it out in my head like what the situation would look like in real life. If there was a glass wall, could I write something on a piece of paper and hold it up for them to read it? Isn’t that an interesting point of view? 

I remember sitting there wondering if I had completely lost my mind.

Because none of it made sense.

Not then.

Looking back, I think it was one of the most important moments of my life.

Not because I understood it.

Because I didn’t.

Not even close.

It mattered because it was the first crack.

And once something cracks, light starts getting in.

The funny part is that the crack didn’t start there.

The crack started months earlier.

January 2023.

A thought landed in my head that wouldn’t leave me alone.

“Ask people why they would find something they love and then choose to leave it.”

That question followed me everywhere.

Because I had watched people do exactly that.

Families.

Friends.

Volunteers.

People who said they loved their church.

People who built their lives around it.

People who invested years into it.

Then one day they left.

And I couldn’t stop wondering why.

Not the church answer.

Not the answer people give when they’re trying to avoid conflict.

The real answer.

What makes someone walk away from something they once loved?

At the time, I thought I was studying them.

Looking back, I think I was studying myself.

Because every answer created three more questions.

And every question led somewhere I wasn’t expecting.

Nobody warns you what happens when you actually start looking.

Not glancing.

Looking.

When you start paying attention to things you’ve been trained to ignore.

When you stop accepting every answer just because someone with authority gave it to you.

When you start asking why.

That’s when things get interesting.

Church culture loves questions right up until the questions stop producing the answers it wants.

Read your Bible.

Pray.

Seek wisdom.

Listen for God’s voice.

Be transformed.

Grow deeper.

Know yourself.

Know God.

All great advice.

Until what you’re hearing points somewhere unexpected.

Then suddenly people get nervous.

Because growth is exciting when it moves in the approved direction.

It’s a problem when it doesn’t.

And that’s where I found myself.

Not losing faith.

Not running away.

Not offended.

Just unable to stop pulling on a thread.

Have you ever done that?

Found one loose thread and thought you’d just tug it a little?

Then twenty minutes later you’re standing there holding half the sweater.

That was me.

One question became another.

One contradiction led to another.

One realization opened a door to ten more.

And eventually I found myself standing somewhere I never expected to be.

Not because I was looking for a different destination.

Because I kept following the questions.

For years I thought wandering was the danger.

Now I wonder if wandering is where people actually find themselves.

Because every meaningful thing that’s happened in my life started outside the places where everyone already agreed.

Outside certainty.

Outside the script.

Outside the room.

That’s where the song Stargazing keeps getting me.

Because stars don’t suddenly appear.

They’ve been there the entire time.

The stars aren’t changing.

The person looking at them is.

That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.

Maybe the questions were always there.

Maybe the contradictions were always there.

Maybe the people I was supposed to reach were always there.

Maybe the glass wall was always there.

Maybe I just couldn’t see any of it from where I was standing.

And maybe that’s why these conversations keep finding me now.

The women rebuilding their lives.

The people trying to untangle what they believe from what they were told to believe.

The ones learning how to trust themselves again.

The ones realizing their value was never tied to how useful they were.

The ones peeking behind the curtain and seeing enough that they can’t pretend they didn’t.

Three years ago, I thought I was losing my way.

Now I think I was finally paying attention.

The stars were there all along.

I just needed enough distance to see them.