I always thought obedience would feel peaceful.

That if I just followed where God led, the road would rise to meet me.

Doors would open.

Burdens would lift.

Life would feel lighter.

But no one warned me that sometimes,

obedience feels like a prison.

That sometimes the moment you finally say yes

Yes to healing.

Yes to leaving.

Yes to Jesus

—is the moment everything starts to fall apart.

This past year has been the hardest of my life.

And yet, it’s the year I’ve obeyed God more than I ever have before.

I didn’t leave my teaching job lightly.

God pressed it on my heart so firmly I couldn’t ignore it — not even with logic, not even with fear, not even with the guilt of walking away from a career I loved.

But my body told the truth before I could even say it out loud.

Anxiety.

Hives.

Sour stomach.

Tears in the car every morning.

It was like my spirit and body were crying out in unison:

“It’s time to go.”

So I obeyed.

I walked away from the classroom and into what I thought would be a quieter season — more time to focus on my daughter, on faith, on rest.

Instead, everything imploded.

As I packed up my classroom, a family crisis erupted.

One that brought me face to face with my past… with my abuser… with decades of trauma and silence and generational dysfunction.

It was like God had cleared my calendar so He could hold up a mirror and say:

“Now let’s deal with this.”

And suddenly I wasn’t just grieving a career loss.

I was confronting the very things I had spent a lifetime trying to survive.

Yesterday at Church…

…the pastor brought up Acts 12, the story of Peter being saved from prison — how God sent an angel and did the impossible.

I jotted the verse down and thought, “Hmm, I’ll dig into that later.”

This morning, I opened my Bible, and I’m so glad I did.

Because this wasn’t just a miracle story.

It felt like God was sitting beside me, pointing at the page, saying,

“This is for you.”

Peter wasn’t in prison because he messed up.

He was there because he obeyed.

Because he was bold.

Faithful.

Unafraid to speak the name of Jesus.

And Herod didn’t take any chances.

Peter was chained between two guards, guarded by four squads of soldiers, and locked behind multiple gates.

The plan was to execute him after Passover.

Peter had no escape.

No control.

No hope — at least by human standards.

Then the pastor said something that pierced through me:

And I felt that deep in my bones.

Because I want the miracle.

I want the freedom.

I want the restoration and the beauty and the breakthrough.

But this past year has been dark.

The deep, painful, isolating, stretching part that no one sees.

And there are days I don’t want to keep showing up for it.

Days where I keep begging God to step in.

To take the pain away.

But if Peter’s story taught me anything this morning, it’s this:

God does His best work in the dark.

An angel appeared. 

Light flooded the cell.

The angel struck Peter to wake him up — because he was sleeping.

Chained.

Condemned.

Surrounded by guards.

And still — sleeping.

That kind of peace is supernatural.

That kind of trust only comes when you’ve fully surrendered the outcome to the hands of God.

Then?

The chains fell off.

The guards didn’t wake.

The doors opened by themselves.

Peter walked out of what was designed to destroy him — completely untouched.

None of it made logical sense.

And that’s the point.

God doesn’t wait for perfect conditions.

He doesn’t need human permission.

He moves in the chaos.

He breaks the rules.

He opens the gates.

I feel like Peter.

Except I’m still in the prison.

I said yes to God — and it didn’t lead me to peace.

It led me to pain.

It led me to grief.

It led me to hard conversations, spiritual warfare, family fallout, and so many questions.

But I keep thinking… had I not said yes —I wouldn’t have the time or space to look honestly at what’s been buried.

I wouldn’t be able to do the deep work of breaking generational chains.I wouldn’t have had the strength to face the trauma that’s shaped me.

God knew what was coming.

And He cleared the path so I could finally stop surviving and start healing.

And I want that healing not just for me —but for my family too.

I want them to see Jesus the way I’ve come to know Him.

Not just as a Sunday story — but as a real, present Healer.

I want them to understand that they don’t have to carry the weight of our past anymore.

They don’t have to believe the lies that our abuse taught us.

The lies Satan whispered into our identity.

The ones that told us we were too broken, too far gone, or too messed up to ever be whole.

They don’t have to live like that anymore.

Healing is possible.

Restoration is real.

And Jesus — Jesus is enough to do it.

If your obedience has led you into a prison —If your “yes” to God has made life harder, not easier —If you feel like you’ve been sitting in the dark, waiting for the miracle —

Please hear this:

He hasn’t forgotten you.

You’re not being punished.

You’re being positioned.

The same God who sent an angel to Peter…The same God who broke chains, silenced guards, and opened impossible gates…That’s your God too.

You don’t have to see the way out to know He’s working.

You just have to keep saying yes — one quiet yes at a time.

So today, I am resting in knowing that God is working behind the scenes.

Even when I can’t see it.

Even when it still hurts.

He is shaping me for my next step — preparing me in ways I don’t even understand yet.

He is here.

Quietly working.

Faithfully present.

And I’m holding onto this truth:

If it isn’t good, it isn’t done.

Because my God finishes what He starts.

And this story isn’t over yet.

Dear Jesus,

This doesn’t feel like the blessing I expected.

Obedience hurts more than I thought it would.

And I’ll be honest — some days I wonder if You’ve forgotten me here.

But I know You haven’t.

You’re the same God who broke Peter’s chains.

You’re the God who moves in the dark.

Who works while we sleep.

Who sends miracles when all hope feels lost.

I trust that You’re doing something, even here.

Even in the pain.

Even in the silence.

Even in this “prison” that obedience brought me to.

Break every chain in my life, Lord —The ones tied to fear, trauma, performance, and shame.

And when You open the gate,

Give me the faith to walk through it.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.