The Journey to Peace
“Though He slay me, yet I will trust in Him.” – Job 13:15
Chapter 4: The Great Surrender
When everything false is finally stripped away
When Tim left, it wasn’t just another heartbreak—it was the final blow that sent me crashing back into nothingness. Everything I thought I had rebuilt, every small piece of hope I had carefully constructed, shattered in an instant.
The cruel irony wasn’t lost on me. A difficult childhood marked by trauma and the daily struggle of being neurodivergent in a world that demanded conformity. Spiritual abuse and church manipulation that twisted my understanding of God’s love. The crushing devastation of being expelled from missionary college, watching my dream of serving God die before it could even begin. Years of isolation, depression, and anxiety made exponentially worse by Albert and Karen’s betrayal—people I had trusted completely who left me questioning my ability to read anyone’s true intentions.
After all of that, I thought I had finally found my person in Tim. I thought God had finally given me someone who understood me, who saw past my differentness to the heart underneath. Instead, Tim used me and manipulated me just like all the others. When he walked away, he didn’t just break my heart—he tore down everything I had painstakingly rebuilt from the ashes of my previous disappointments.
I was back at rock bottom, but this time it felt different. This time, it felt final. I had survived childhood trauma, spiritual abuse, crushed dreams, and devastating betrayals, always managing to piece myself back together somehow. But this—this felt like the last straw. I had nothing left to give, nowhere left to fall.
The shame was suffocating. Not just about Tim, but about everything. Every failed attempt at normal friendships. Every social situation I couldn’t navigate. My weird brain that could solve complex problems but couldn’t read the simplest social cues. My complete inability to be the person I thought God wanted me to be. After decades of trying and failing, I felt like a cosmic joke—too broken for human connection, too damaged for divine love.
But eventually, something shifted. The sharp edges of pain dulled into a flat, gray numbness. I went through the motions: work, home, sleep, repeat. The veterinary clinic provided structure, but even that felt distant and mechanical. I was functional but empty, existing rather than living.
Months passed in this haze of nothingness. I wasn’t depressed exactly—depression had energy, had feeling. This was different. This was just… nothing. A life stripped down to its most basic components with all the color drained out.
I had my quiet house, my dog, my routine. Financial stability slowly returned. I was “fine” in every measurable way, but fine felt like a death sentence. The woman who had once dreamed of changing the world, who had felt everything so intensely, was now sleepwalking through days that blended into each other without distinction.
It was pure boredom that finally drove me to pick up the Bible again. Not spiritual hunger, not a divine calling—just the desperate need for something, anything, to fill the endless quiet hours. I started watching random YouTube videos about faith and theology, not because I believed, but because I had nothing else to do.
Night after night, I sat in my living room with an open Bible, reading passages that felt as foreign as a language I’d never learned. I watched video after video, most of them meaningless noise, but it was something to occupy my mind. Something to make the silence less suffocating.
This became my routine: work, home, read, watch, sleep. A mechanical existence with no real purpose beyond passing time. I wasn’t seeking God; I was seeking distraction from the vast emptiness that my life had become.
The woman who had once burned so brightly was now little more than a flickering ember, barely alive in the ashes of everything she’d lost.
Chapter 5: The Great Awakening
When breadcrumbs become a clear pathway
The routine continued for months like the dull rhythm of a metronome marking time in an empty room. Work, home, read, watch, sleep. The Bible passages blurred together like watercolors bleeding into gray, most of the YouTube videos forgotten as soon as they ended, their words dissolving into the static of my numbed existence. I wasn’t learning anything profound or having spiritual breakthroughs—I was just filling the vast, echoing chambers of time, mechanically going through the motions of seeking something I wasn’t even sure existed.
But somewhere in that monotonous repetition, something began to shift like tectonic plates moving beneath the surface of my consciousness. My mind, even wrapped in its thick blanket of numbness, was still doing what it did best: cataloguing information with the relentless precision of a master librarian, recognizing patterns like a detective connecting seemingly unrelated clues, storing details that seemed random but weren’t. Video after video, chapter after chapter, my brain was quietly assembling pieces of a cosmic puzzle I didn’t know I was solving.
Slowly, imperceptibly at first, the hyperfocus that had always been both blessing and curse began to kick in like an engine finally catching after months of cold starts. I found myself staying up later, the artificial glow of my computer screen painting my face in blues and whites as I dove deeper into Hebrew and Greek cultures, timelines stretching back millennia, and history that felt more alive than my present reality. What started as boredom-induced browsing became systematic research with the intensity of an archaeologist uncovering buried civilizations.
Nimrod, Wars, Big Pharma, Babylon, Adam, Mudfloods, Enoch, Moses, Holly’Werid’, Noah—my mind began cataloguing every connection with the precision that had once embarrassed me in social situations, weaving threads between ancient kings and modern deceptions, between biblical prophecies and contemporary events. The dining room table became my command center, scattered with notebooks filled with timelines drawn in different colored pens, printouts arranged in careful stacks, and books marked with dozens of sticky notes like a rainbow of discoveries.
Months passed this way, each day adding another layer to the intricate tapestry I was unconsciously weaving. The emptiness was still there—a constant, hollow ache in my chest—but it was punctuated now by moments of genuine curiosity, fleeting instances where a piece of information would click into place with the satisfying precision of a key finding its lock. I wasn’t seeking God exactly, but I was seeking truth, and my brain was finally being used for what it was designed to do.
Then it happened.
It was a Tuesday evening in late autumn, the kind of gray day that seems to leach color from everything it touches. I was sitting at my dining room table, surrounded by the familiar chaos of my research—open books creating paper mountains, notebook pages filled with my careful handwriting, printouts arranged in patterns that made sense only to me. The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional settling creak of old wood.
I was tracing a connection between two seemingly unrelated historical events when a single thought cut through the fog of my existence like a lightning bolt splitting a dark sky:
“IT’S ALL A DISTRACTION!”
The voice wasn’t audible, but it was unmistakable—as clear and undeniable as thunder following lightning. In that instant—that single, crystalline moment that felt suspended between heartbeats—everything clicked. Not just the research I’d been doing, but everything. Every thread I’d been following suddenly wove itself into a magnificent tapestry, every piece of the puzzle I’d been unknowingly assembling for seven years snapped into place with audible precision.
What followed was the most extraordinary twenty minutes of my entire life.
Like dominoes falling in perfect sequence, understanding cascaded through my consciousness with breathtaking speed and clarity. Every social anxiety I’d ever felt—click—it was distraction from developing the discernment I actually needed. Every desperate attempt to fit in with people who drained my energy—click—it was distraction from the solitude required to hear God’s voice clearly. Every relationship that had left me feeling depleted and confused—click—it was distraction from learning to trust the Holy Spirit as my primary guide.
My childhood trauma, which had felt like senseless suffering for decades, suddenly revealed itself as the precise preparation I’d needed. The sensitivity that made me feel everything so intensely wasn’t weakness—it was the spiritual antenna that allowed me to detect deception others missed. The hypervigilance that exhausted me in crowds wasn’t anxiety—it was discernment operating at full capacity. The way my mind naturally questioned everything wasn’t rebelliousness—it was the gift of testing spirits that the Bible commands.
The spiritual abuse I’d endured, the manipulation by church leaders who confused their preferences with God’s voice—click—it had been the exact education I needed to recognize authentic spiritual authority versus human control. Being expelled from missionary school hadn’t been rejection—it had been redirection, protecting me from a system that would have dulled the very gifts God was refining in me.
Albert and Karen’s betrayal, which had shattered my ability to trust my own judgment—click—it had been the final lesson in discerning true character beneath convincing facades. Tim’s manipulation hadn’t been punishment for being unlovable—it had been the last distraction removed, clearing the path for this divine appointment with truth.
Each revelation built upon the last with mathematical precision, creating a symphony of understanding that made my heart race with recognition. My neurodivergent brain wasn’t broken—it was fearfully and wonderfully made for this exact purpose. The hyperfocus that made small talk impossible was the same hyperfocus allowing me to see connections across millennia of history. The pattern recognition that made me seem weird in social situations was the same gift that could trace God’s fingerprints through every age of human civilization.
I wasn’t too intense, too direct, too much. I was exactly the right intensity for cutting through deception. I was exactly direct enough to speak truth without compromise. I was exactly enough for the calling being revealed to me piece by piece.
Sitting there in my quiet house, surrounded by the evidence of months of seeking, I felt the presence of the Holy Spirit like I’d never experienced before. Not audible, not dramatic, but unmistakable—like coming home after a lifetime of wandering. He’d been there the entire time, orchestrating every rejection, every disappointment, every moment of isolation to prepare me for this understanding.
He’d been there when I was five years old and already asking questions that made adults uncomfortable, preparing my mind to question everything I’d later encounter. He’d been there through every spiritual abuse, teaching me to recognize the difference between human manipulation and divine love. He’d been there through every failed relationship, protecting me from settling for anything less than His best.
Even when I was screaming at Him, even when I wasn’t paying attention, even when I was drinking and doing drugs and making terrible choices—He was quiet, never audible, never shaming me, never making me feel guilty. He never showed up in dreams or spoke through false spirits, even during my wildest phases. But He was there through all of it, speaking to me in the language my mind could understand: patterns, connections, systematic revelation of truth.
The years that the enemy meant for evil, God had turned for good with surgical precision. Every rejection that felt personal was actually protection. Every moment of feeling like an outsider was preparation for standing apart from systems that would have compromised my calling. Every struggle with being different was training for a purpose that required exactly the mind I’d been given.
No weapon formed against me could prosper—not because I was invincible, but because He had been turning every weapon into a tool, every attack into armor, every wound into wisdom.
I found God—not the version that institutions had tried to package and sell like spiritual fast food, not the God filtered through human agendas and denominational preferences, but the authentic, unchanging, eternal God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. The First and the Last. The I AM. The God who speaks creation into existence and hears whispered prayers in empty houses. The God who walks with Daniel in the lions den and meets women at wells and calls fishermen to change the world.
As the pieces continued clicking into place with divine precision, I understood that my mind had been transformed into a weapon against deception—not through my own effort, but through His faithful refining process. My gift for seeing patterns that others missed, my ability to hyperfocus for hours on subjects that fascinated me, my inability to accept surface-level answers—all of it was being redeemed and repurposed for His glory with breathtaking intentionality.
The research surrounding me wasn’t just random information anymore—it was revelation. Every timeline, every connection, every carefully documented pattern was part of a larger truth that took my breath away. I could see how the same spiritual forces that had operated in ancient Babylon were operating today. I could trace the threads of deception and truth through every age of human history. I could understand, for the first time, what it meant to have the mind of Christ.
For the first time in my life, I felt complete, overwhelming peace wash over me like warm honey, filling every crack and crevice of my broken places with golden light. The peace that passes understanding—I finally knew what that meant. It wasn’t the absence of struggle; it was the presence of purpose so powerful that struggle transformed from obstacle to opportunity.
The girl who had spent years trying to fit into everyone else’s definition of normal—who had apologized for her intensity, dimmed her brightness to make others comfortable, twisted herself into shapes that felt foreign and wrong—had finally discovered that God had been preparing her for something that required exactly the mind she’d been given.
Sitting in that quiet house with the evidence of divine orchestration spread before me like a feast, I whispered the words that would change everything:
“I wasn’t broken. I was chosen.”
The seven years of wilderness had come to their appointed end. The season of preparation was complete. The woman God had been crafting in secret was ready to emerge, and she was more beautiful than anything I could have imagined.
Chapter 6: The Fertile Ground
From wilderness to harvest
That revelation was the turning point, but the real work was just beginning. What followed over the next three years was the beautiful, deliberate process of learning to live as the woman I was always meant to be.
Every day became an adventure in discovery. I dove into the Word not as a religious duty, but as someone who had finally found the missing piece of herself. The research that had started from boredom transformed into passionate pursuit of truth. My hyperfocus became a weapon of precision in the hands of the Almighty, allowing me to connect dots and see patterns that others missed.
No longer was I the weird girl who couldn’t make small talk. I was spiritually gifted, the head and not the tail. My direct communication wasn’t rudeness—it was clarity. My inability to accept surface-level answers wasn’t stubbornness—it was discernment. Every trait that had brought me shame was revealed to be exactly what God needed for His purposes.
The financial stress that had once kept me awake became opportunities to trust His provision. The social isolation that had felt like punishment became sacred space for divine encounter. The differentness that had brought shame became the very gift that allowed me to see truth others missed.
“Though He slay me, yet I will trust in Him”—and He had proven Himself faithful beyond what I could have imagined.
Month by month, I watched the wilderness of my life transform into fertile ground. The house that had been my refuge became my launching pad. At twenty-seven, I was ready to sell it and step into whatever came next. The seven years hadn’t been lost time—they had been invested time, making me into exactly who God needed me to be.
The season of solitude was complete. Everything that had been broken was now beautifully whole. I was fearfully and wonderfully made, created for such a time as this, and I was finally ready to step into the story He’d been writing all along.
The wilderness chapter had officially closed. The harvest was ready to begin.
Epilogue: To Everyone Walking Through Their Wilderness
You are not alone. You are not forgotten. And you are not being punished—you are being prepared for something beautiful that you can’t yet see from where you’re standing.
The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—the First and the Last, the I AM—sees you in your wilderness. He’s writing your story with the same faithfulness that guided Israel through forty years, the same love that sustained Ruth in a foreign land, the same grace that met the woman at the well.
Your unique mind, your social struggles, your financial stress, your relational wounds—none of these disqualify you from His love or His plans. They may be the very tools He’s using to prepare you for a purpose that requires exactly who you are.
You are a child of God. You are the head and not the tail. You are spiritually gifted. No weapon formed against you will prosper. Though He slay you, yet you can trust in Him.
Your wilderness has purpose. Your solitude has meaning. Your breaking is building something beautiful that will bring Him glory.
Trust the process. Trust the One who leads you. Trust that when you come out of your desert, you’ll be whole and healed and ready for the story He’s been writing all along.
The wilderness isn’t your destination—it’s your preparation.
And on the other side of your seven years—however long they last—you’ll discover what I discovered: He was there all along, composing a love story more beautiful than anything you could have written for yourself.
About the Title
Blueprints in the Wilderness reflects the profound truth that God’s most intricate designs are often drafted in our most desolate seasons. Like an architect who sees the finished cathedral while others see only empty land, the Creator was drawing up plans for my life even when I felt completely lost and alone.
Those seven years that looked like abandonment were an apprenticeship. The isolation that felt like punishment was preparation. In the wilderness, away from the noise of other people’s expectations, God had space to reveal His original design for my life. My unique mind, my direct communication style, my need for solitude, my gift for pattern recognition—all the things that made me feel broken were features, not flaws, in His architectural plans.
The wilderness doesn’t destroy the blueprint; it reveals it. And sometimes the most beautiful structures can only be built on ground that’s been cleared of everything that doesn’t belong.
Even during my years of questioning and rebellion, my home kept its reputation as “the peaceful house.” Friends would come over just to sleep well, drawn by something they couldn’t name. He was sanctifying that space, preparing it and me for what was coming, using my need for deep, systematic processing to prepare me for revelations that would have been impossible any other way.
I am a child of God, fearfully and wonderfully made, and my story is evidence that He wastes nothing—not even the wilderness years that seem like they’re destroying us are actually building us into exactly who He needs us to be.
Steadfast Sanity 
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