Day 207

2 Chronicles 27–28 | Matthew 21:33–46 | Psalm 87

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In seven short days, I’ll ship my laptop back to headquarters.

And just like that—I’ll be unemployed.

No more paychecks.

No more stability.

No more illusion of security.

I’ve reached out to every contact I have.

I’ve sent my resume to strangers, friends, and friends of strangers.

I’ve gotten affirming replies from impressive people…

“You’re exceptional.”

“Your work speaks for itself.”

But nothing open. Nothing ready. Nothing tangible.

Except for one single callback.

It’s a high-level executive job.

I’m wildly underqualified.

It’s on the other side of the country.

And it’s the only thing even close to a door that’s cracked open.

So I keep asking, “Why, God?”

Why just that one?

Why now?

Why so quiet otherwise?

This morning, I wrote the public notice for all our public-facing domains:

Our firm has officially ceased operations following its acquisition by [the acquirer]. As of today, our brand and all affiliated subsidiaries have been fully absorbed by [the acquirer], and our company name has been retired.

I typed it out. Then clicked publish. Then sat in the silence that followed.

Because it’s not just a brand that’s been absorbed.

It’s the life I’ve known.

The team I helped build.

The decade I gave.

But in the swirl of rising anxiety—like a tide that won’t retreat—today’s Scriptures whisper something deeper.

The Illusion of Ownership

Jesus tells a story in Matthew 21 that hits harder than usual today.

A master plants a vineyard—clears the land, builds the tower, digs the winepress. Then he leases it to tenants and goes away.

But when harvest time comes, the tenants act like it’s theirs.

They beat the master’s servants.

Kill his messengers.

And when the master sends his own son?

They throw him out of the vineyard and kill him too.

Because in their delusion, they say: “This is the heir. Come, let us kill him and have his inheritance.” (Matthew 21:38)

It’s madness.

But it’s also me.

How often do I act like this life is mine?

Like this role, this house, this provision—was built by me, earned by me, sustained by me?

Like I’m the owner?

But I’m not.

I never was.

And this isn’t my vineyard.

The Danger of Trusting in Strength

In 2 Chronicles 27, King Jotham rules well. He becomes powerful because “he ordered his ways before the Lord.” (v6) But his son Ahaz? Not so much.

Ahaz worships idols. Burns his children as offerings. Sacrifices to the gods of his enemies hoping to gain their power. He builds altars on every street corner and shuts the doors to the temple of God.

He makes decisions driven by fear.

By sight.

By the illusion of control.

And it wrecks him.

Because the second we start trusting in what we can see—whether it’s our network, our resume, our strength, our logic, or our gods of convenience—we lose the very presence we need most.

But God Never Left

Psalm 87 reminds me of something precious:

“The Lord records as he registers the peoples, ‘This one was born there.’” (v6)

It’s a poetic picture of identity—not defined by location, profession, or achievement—but by where we’re truly from.

I was not made for a company.

I was not called into a career.

I was not built to plant my roots in this vineyard.

I was made for Zion.

For the city of God.

And by His grace alone, my name is written in its book.

That changes how I wait.

How I walk.

How I grieve the closing of this chapter.

Because this season might feel like loss—but it’s not a loss of what’s mine.

It’s just the Master reclaiming His vineyard.

And reminding me I was never the owner.

Only the steward.

Only the sojourner.

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Lord, oh how I forget so quickly. How I grip too tightly. I convince myself this job, this life, this stability is mine to own and manage. But You are the Master. The Maker. The true Vineyard Keeper. Forgive me for trying to claim what was never mine. For walking by sight, not faith. For acting like the tenants in the parable You told. And during this awkward and painful and exhausting in-between, when anxiety rolls in like a tide I can’t stop, remind me that You have not forgotten me. That You ordain every step, every email, every application. And that You, not man, and especially not me, hold the keys to every door. Amen.