Under Construction

Remembering the last women's retreat I spoke at in 2018...

A year or so ago, a sweet woman reached out and sent me a few old photos. They were from the last time I spoke at an evangelical women’s retreat. I smiled when I opened them. I remember that weekend well. The theme was Under Construction.

I had the whole thing planned down to the smallest detail. For the opening session, I wore a construction hat and tool belt. I loved a good theme!

I told the women their lives were like stones in a rock quarry, being shaped and chiseled by God to fit perfectly into place in God’s Kingdom one day. I used passages from 1 Kings, Isaiah, and 1 Peter to build the message. The work of faith, I told them, was preparing for what God was building.

The second session focused on protecting our minds. Out came the construction hat again. I warned them about “stinkin’ thinkin’” and reminded them that “the scene of the crime is in the mind.” I loved those little rhyming sayings back then. I called these little sayings “Sticky Thoughts” because they stick. At least I hoped they would.

The third session featured a reflective vest. I talked about light—how it helps things grow, how it warms us, how it exposes what we can’t see. Sometimes it comforts us. Sometimes it irritates us, especially when someone flips on a light while we’re sleeping.

I took them to the story of Gideon’s army in Judges 7, where the soldiers broke their clay jars and let their light shine into the darkness. I joked that I once heard we’re all “crack-pots.” I borrowed that one from Patsy Clairmont, one of the Women of Faith speakers I’d heard years prior.

Recently, I found my notes from that retreat. Reading through them, I was struck by how neatly everything fit together. Every illustration connected. Every session built on the one before it. The messages were organized, thoughtful, and well prepared.

And yet, something felt off that weekend.

Looking back now, I can see why. That retreat became a turning point in my story. By the time I stepped onto that stage in 2018, construction hat in place and PowerPoint ready to go, something inside me had already shifted.

Preparing for those messages was one of the hardest seasons I had experienced in ministry. I had already left the church. My beliefs hadn’t fully unraveled yet, but the unraveling had begun. I was still working in Christian radio. I was still trying to hold everything together. Still trying to make my faith fit the shape it had always held in my life. For two years I had been fighting questions I never wanted to ask.

Then I stood on that stage and realized just how much had changed. I looked out at those beautiful, sincere, faith-filled women and felt a deep sadness. I could still say all the right things, deliver the message well, and I could still sound passionate. The problem was that I wasn’t sure I believed some of it anymore.

That realization felt like a heaviness in me all weekend.

I wasn’t trying to deceive anyone. I loved those women! I wanted good things for them. Yet I knew I was offering them a version of faith that no longer fit me.

It felt a little like putting on an old pair of skinny jeans. You know the pair. The ones you keep convincing yourself still fit and are still in style. The zipper closes if you hold your breath and suck in long enough, but deep down you know the truth. Not only do they not fit, they aren’t even the right style for you anymore.

The retreat ended, and something in me ended with it.

I never spoke at another women’s retreat again.

Invitation after invitation came in, and every time I said no. Less than a year later, I left Christian Radio.

Not out of anger or rebellion. I simply knew I couldn’t keep performing certainty while privately wrestling with doubt. I needed room to explore, to be honest not just with myself but with those around me. More than anything, I craved authenticity.

People often imagine deconstruction as some dramatic collapse. For me, it wasn’t. It was tender, slow and painful. It felt less like rebellion and more like surrender. A slow release of certainty, and a willingness to stop forcing answers and start asking better questions.

When I look at those photos now, I don’t feel shame. I feel compassion. I see a woman who was doing the best she could with what she knew at the time. She was terrified of losing everything. She was trying desperately to hold together a world that was already beginning to change beneath her feet.

I can also see how exhausted she was.

The photos reveal things I couldn’t see back then. The strain. The stress. The weight I was carrying physically, emotionally, and mentally.

I was only a couple of years into my questions. I had no idea how long the road ahead would be! I think that makes me glad because had I known, it might have been much harder.

What I feel now is gratitude, though. Gratitude for the moment I finally stopped fighting myself. Gratitude for the courage to follow the questions, for the permission I eventually gave myself to seek truth wherever it led.

If you’re standing in a place like that right now, I want you to know that you are not alone! Take your time, give yourself grace, give yourself space. Some journeys cannot be rushed. They unfold in their own time.

And ironically, the message from that retreat still feels true:

We’re all under construction.

The blueprint may look different than I once imagined, but the work continues.

Honor your journey.

It’s worth it.

-Leslie Nease