The Danger of a Gifted Tongue

I signed with a publisher last night. And before the ink was dry — before I even fully exhaled — a thought slithered in like it owned the place: You know how to make this land. You know exactly what to say.

And the terrifying part? I do.

I've been in sales long enough to read a room in three seconds flat. I know how to find the hunger in an audience, how to feed it just enough to keep them leaning in, and how to close. I can make almost anything sound irresistible. That's not arrogance — that's a skill set forged over years of targets, quotas, and quarterly reviews.

But I'm not writing a sales pitch. I'm writing about foster care and faith. And those two things are not safe territory for a closer.

"The same skill that makes you compelling can make you dangerous — not because you'd lie, but because you're good enough to make a half-truth feel whole."

Here's what I'm watching out for in myself. Not because I'm especially prone to corruption — but because I know exactly where the exits are:

1. Softening the hard parts. Not with lies. With omission. Leaving out the costly obedience because the struggle gets more applause than the surrender.

2. Leading with relatability over revelation. Warm opens doors, and I am very, very good at warm. But sometimes truth doesn't need a runway. It just needs to land.

3. Chasing resonance instead of faithfulness. Those two are not always in the same room. Resonance says they felt it. Faithfulness says He meant it. Only one of those is my actual job.

4. Writing for the review.The five stars. The DM that says, "This changed my life." The tag. Those things feel like fruit. Sometimes they are. Sometimes they're feedback loops dressed up as calling.

Foster care isn't a feel-good story with a tidy ending. Faith isn't either. These are spaces where kids test whether you're steady enough to stay — and staying is costly. Where prayers feel like silence. Where your leadership cracks before it holds. Where God doesn't always show up the way you scripted.

If I whitewash that — if I sand down the rough edges to make it more palatable, more marketable, more me — I've stolen something from the people who needed the real version. I've handed them inspiration when they needed truth. I've given them a highlight reel when they needed a companion for the dark.

Too much truth is almost never the problem. Too little is the whole game.

So I'm making a decision right here, in writing, before the first chapter is polished: I will write the parts that cost me something. The nights I wasn't steady. The kids who didn't attach. The moments my faith felt like furniture — just there, not alive. I will not curate myself into someone easier to follow.

Because God doesn't get the glory in the polished version of me. He gets it in the real one — the one He keeps showing up for anyway.

"Lord, for You. Use my words to draw others to You. Let these words take root and reflect Your love for all. To God be the glory — even when the algorithm doesn't reward it."

Write like a vessel. Edit like a steward. Publish like someone who's already given the outcome away.

And if you're a writer, a speaker, a leader, or anyone else who's ever been told you have a gift with words — this one's for you too. Your skill is not the problem. Your surrender is the practice.

Now go write something that scares you a little. That's probably the chapter He needs most.