What Cindy Knows (And What I Keep Relearning)

I've been in ministry for over 35 years. I've preached thousands of sermons. Trained pastors on six continents. And written more words about sustainable leadership than I can count. And I still come home on Sunday afternoons and fish for compliments from my wife about my sermon.

I'm subtle about it. I have a neaky way of doing it. But Cindy knows. She's always known. And she has never once played along.

I did the same thing on Monday morning when Ministry Cancer launched. I was convinced the content was right—that what I'd written could help shift the trajectory of ministry leadership if enough people read it (I still believe that). But believing something matters and people receiving it are two very different things. And the gap between them is where I spent most my nights leading up to launch. The loop runs the same way it always does. What if it falls flat? What if people say it's obvious? Or wrong? Or not worth the years I put into it? I know that loop well and still have to manage it.

The morning of the launch, Cindy was heading out the door for school. And I was doing my thing—hovering near my phone, pretending to be casual. She stopped and looked at me the way she does when she's about to say something I need to hear but won't enjoy.

"I've been through a lot of book launches with you. And I know you're hoping this will set the world on fire. But I don't care if it does or not. If it helps even one person, it was worth the work."

Then she left. Just like that.

She's been saying the same thing for decades. It never fully hits in the moment—I still want to set the world on fire, not going to pretend I don't—but her words always turn out to be the truest thing said in the moment.

The response this week has been more than I hoped for. Private messages, conversations I didn't expect, a text yesterday from a highly influential ministry leader who said, "Generation after generation, people in ministry keep not learning the lessons you're offering. We'd all rather do our own research, apparently, than admit the plain truth that we’re not exceptional and we can learn from other people’s pain. Maybe Ministry Cancer is what we’ve been waiting for."

I read that twice. Then shared it with Cindy.

She smiled. "That was kind. Let's just hope it helps one."

She's so good for my ego. Genuinely. Because my ego doesn't need what it thinks it needs. And she's known that about me longer than I have.

Maybe you do it too. Fish for compliments after the sermon. Troll for affirmation after the meeting. Scroll to see comments on your post. I'm not judging—I'm right there with you. But here's what I keep coming back to—our job is to love people and tell them the truth. That's it. And as you do that faithfully, you trust God to bless obedience at the right time. For his purposes. For his glory. The sermon lands when someone is ready to hear it. The book helps those who it's supposed to when they need it most. You rarely get to see the moment it connects. You just keep going and trusting the work.

Am I thrilled I held the #1 spot in three categories for a couple of days? Heck, yeah. Can I sustain that? Heck, no. The Amazon rankings are already dropping, and that's fine. But maybe for a moment, what I wrote helped somebody at exactly the right time. That's what I actually hope you take away from this short reflection.

Not that the book did well. That your work matters—even when you can't measure it. Even when the feedback is slow. Even when you come home Sunday afternoon, and nobody says the thing you were hoping to hear.

Keep going. Keep loving people. And keep telling the truth.

That's all I've got today.