Verse: “My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.” — John 10:27
The sermon was written.
Scriptures studied.
Commentaries read.
Every paragraph poured over and prayed through.
And still—I was nervous.
Not the kind of nervous that comes from lack of preparation, but the quiet tension that settles in your chest when you carry something meaningful and hope it will land softly in the hearts that need it.
I knew this sermon held weight.
It was about listening to the Shepherd’s voice. About being known by God. About Tabitha, a quiet disciple whose love and labor were so deeply embedded in her community that her resurrection felt like the mending of something broken.
And yet, even with every note in place, there was that question in the back of my mind:
What if it doesn’t connect?
What if the words feel too big?
Or not enough?
It’s a strange vulnerability—to prepare a sacred offering and still feel unsure.
But here’s what I learned (again): God works in the spaces we worry about.
The service came and went, and not in the dramatic, everything-went-wrong way my nerves had braced for. It flowed. The Spirit moved. Children’s voices filled the sanctuary. People nodded, not just with politeness but with recognition.
It was fine.
More than fine—it was full.
And in the quiet afterward, I asked myself why the lead-up had to feel so heavy. Why does doing something you care about—especially in faith—sometimes feel more like anxiety than joy?
The answer, I think, is in the nature of love.
We worry because we care.
We stress because we long to be faithful stewards of something sacred.
And maybe that’s not something to push away but something to hold gently.
But the other part of the answer is trust.
Preparation is good.
But at some point, you have to step aside and let God do what God does.
I think about Tabitha—how her faithful, often invisible work became a testimony of resurrection. I think about Jesus in Solomon’s Portico, declaring with boldness, “I and the Father are one.” That kind of clarity doesn’t come from performance. It comes from presence.
So the next time I feel that tension—that tightening in my chest before I speak, write, or serve—I want to remember this:
I am not the Shepherd.
I’m a sheep who hears His voice and follows.
And that is enough.