Discernment Diaries: The Camp Floor
I thought God was calling me to lead. Maybe He was calling me to sit.
This summer, somewhere between cabin conversations, campfires, and the beautiful chaos that camp always brings, God met me on the floor.
Not the polished floor of a sanctuary. Not in the middle of a sermon. On the floor.
It happened after I led one of our evening devotionals. We had spent time talking about loving God more. We talked about relationship instead of perfection. About bringing everything to Him. About prayer. Somewhere in that conversation, I admitted something that had been living quietly inside me for far too long.
"I don't love myself... so how could God?"
Even saying the words out loud felt impossible. I'd preached grace to others. I'd reminded kids that they were deeply loved. I'd pointed them toward a God who delights in them. But somewhere along the way, I had quietly convinced myself that I was the exception. Everyone else could believe they were loved. I just needed to work a little harder to earn it.
Then we started reflecting in our journals. Not polished prayers or thoughts. Just honest ones. The kind where you stop searching for the right words because your heart has finally run out of places to hide.
As I prayed, the lyrics from the old hymn echoed in my mind:
"Take it to the Lord in prayer." And I did.
Not just my questions about what comes next or my uncertainty about where God is leading me. I brought Him the part of me that has spent years believing I wasn't enough.
And somewhere between the tears and the silence, I stopped trying to hold myself together. I cried harder than I have in a long time.
Nothing made sense but I think, for the first time in a while, I stopped performing. Even for God.
I've been listening to Living Room Floor by Leanna Crawford since coming home, and I can't help but think camp gave me my own version of that song.
Maybe it wasn't my living room floor. But it was my floor.
The place where striving finally surrendered to sitting. The place where I stopped asking God to hand me a blueprint for my future and instead let Him tend to the wounds I'd been carrying into it.
Maybe that's what discernment really is? Not figuring out where God is sending you. Allowing Him to heal the parts of you that think you have to earn the right to be sent.
I've spent so much time asking, "God, what are You calling me to do?" But maybe lately He's been answering a different question altogether.
"Torri, will you let Me love you before you try to lead for Me?"
That's a much harder prayer. Ministry is easier than vulnerability. Leading is easier than receiving. Doing is easier than believing you're already enough. Yet I wonder if every calling begins in the same place. On the floor.
Where pride loosens its grip, tears become prayers, and we stop trying to impress Jesus and simply let Him sit with us.
Maybe that's why camp changes us every year. We show up expecting God to teach us something. Instead, He reminds us who we are. I came to camp asking God where He was leading me next. I left realizing that before He was going to answer that question, He wanted to answer another one that had been buried much deeper:
"Do you believe that I love you?"
Somewhere between leading devotionals, laughing with campers, and sitting on the floor with tears I couldn't hold back anymore, I realized I had been asking God for direction while quietly doubting His affection.
I wanted to know where He was calling me. He wanted me to know His heart.
So I don't have all the answers. I still don't know exactly what God is unfolding.
My head is still a little messy. My heart is still learning. But I know this:
The place where I finally stopped striving became the place where God met me with a love I didn't think I deserved.
And maybe that's the beginning of every calling—not a platform, not a plan, but the quiet confidence that you are already deeply loved by the One who calls you.
Maybe the floor wasn't where I fell apart. Maybe it was where God began putting me back together.
P.S.
To Leanna—thank you for writing the song that gave words to a place in my heart I couldn't quite name. God used your obedience to meet a girl sitting on a camp floor, trying to untangle what was happening inside her. I'll probably never get the chance to tell you that, but I hope you know your "yes" mattered.
To my friend—thank you for doing what Job's friends did before they started talking. Thank you for simply sitting with me. For holding me while I cried. For not trying to fix what only God could heal. You were the hands and feet of Jesus in a moment when I desperately needed to remember I wasn't alone.
And to Jesus...
Thank You for meeting me on the floor.
Thank You for waiting until I stopped pretending I was okay.
Thank You for loving me through the tears I tried so hard to hold back.
Thank You for being patient with my wandering thoughts, my questioning heart, and my slow journey toward believing what You've said about me all along.
If this is where Your call begins—not with confidence, but with surrender—then I'll meet You here again. On the floor. Every time.
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