Gloria Lynch

Call Directions

Gloria Lynch Aquarium Lover

After my company downsized, I sent out two hundred and twelve job applications. Yes, I counted. I kept a spreadsheet wit...
10/23/2026

After my company downsized, I sent out two hundred and twelve job applications. Yes, I counted. I kept a spreadsheet with color-coded columns. I got eleven interviews and zero offers. By month eight, my savings were thin, my nerves were thinner, and my teenage son had started asking whether we'd have to move. I remember sitting in our parked car outside a gas station, face in my hands, saying, "God, I've done everything." Quietly, almost like a whisper, I felt the nudge: Try a different water. So the next morning I did something I'd never done. Instead of submitting another online form, I called a small local company that wasn't even hiring and asked to speak to the owner. I told him honestly what I could do. He was silent for a moment, then said, "Funny. My operations manager just gave notice yesterday." I walked into an interview that afternoon and left with an offer. The salary was better than any I'd applied for. I think about that spreadsheet now with gratitude, because it taught me how many doors can be closed and still lead to the one that's open. If you've done everything and nothing has worked, try the other side. God is already standing there with your catch. Amen 💼

The flood took our whole crop. We farm eight hundred acres, and for three years running the weather hit us with drought,...
10/23/2026

The flood took our whole crop. We farm eight hundred acres, and for three years running the weather hit us with drought, then hail, then a river that spilled over its banks and buried the lower fields in silt. By the end of the third year, my father had stopped eating at the table. My mother prayed in the kitchen, and I counted the debt at night. I seriously considered selling. One March morning, my father, who rarely spoke about feelings, called me out to the north field. I expected bad news. Instead, he knelt in the churned brown mud and showed me a single green shoot of winter wheat that had survived under the silt, tough and defiant and bright as a new coin. Then we noticed another. Then a hundred more. The flood had killed the surface but left the roots alive. My father, a proud old farmer, put his hand on my shoulder and said, "The ground never forgets how to grow." We replanted the lower fields, and that year the harvest was the best in a decade. We didn't sell. Our debts are almost gone. I've never forgotten how my father looked at that tiny green shoot, as though he were seeing a miracle. Maybe he was. Amen 🌾

I'm a pastor, and for two years I felt like a fraud. Every Sunday I stood at a pulpit preaching hope while privately fee...
10/22/2026

I'm a pastor, and for two years I felt like a fraud. Every Sunday I stood at a pulpit preaching hope while privately feeling nothing but exhaustion. I'd counseled the grieving, married the hopeful, buried the dead, and somewhere along the way, my own well had run dry. I smiled at the door, shook every hand, and wondered if I should quit and drive trucks. One Wednesday night after a long deacons' meeting, I locked myself in my office, sat on the floor, and whispered the most honest prayer of my ministry: "God, I'm empty. I have nothing left to give. Amen." The silence was enormous. Then, a soft knock at the door. A little old woman named Edna, a church member I barely knew, stood there holding a thermos of tea. She said, "Pastor, you look tired. You've carried all of us for so long. Let someone carry you tonight." She poured the tea, sat down on the carpet beside me, and said nothing for twenty minutes. She just sat there, a retired widow with a thermos, being the church to the pastor. I cried quietly into my cup. The next week I took a sabbatical. I came back healed and humbler. The shepherd needed shepherding, and God sent a woman with tea. 🍵 Amen.

I left at 4 a.m. with my two kids, two garbage bags of clothes, and a cracked phone. I'd spent eleven years convincing m...
10/22/2026

I left at 4 a.m. with my two kids, two garbage bags of clothes, and a cracked phone. I'd spent eleven years convincing myself it was my fault, that if I just tried harder, loved more, stayed quieter, things would change. They didn't. That night, something broke in me, and I finally understood that staying would cost my children more than leaving ever could. We drove for three hours until I found a safe shelter. A volunteer named Denise met us at the door in her robe and slippers, and she didn't ask a single question. She just handed my kids warm pajamas and showed us a clean bed. I sat on the edge of it, trembling, and whispered, "God, I'm so afraid. But I did it. Please keep us. Amen." On the pillow was a small handmade quilt with squares of different fabrics. A card pinned to it read, "Made by a woman who sat where you are sitting. You are safe. You are brave. You are not alone." I wrapped my sleeping daughter in it and wept quietly. That was nine years ago. Today I volunteer at that same shelter, and I sew quilts. I tuck a note in every one. 🧵 Amen.

Nobody tells you how loud the silence is after you lose a baby. It was my second loss in a year, and I stopped answering...
10/21/2026

Nobody tells you how loud the silence is after you lose a baby. It was my second loss in a year, and I stopped answering the phone, stopped going to church, stopped saying the word "God" out loud because I was too angry to be polite. For weeks I walked past the little room we'd painted soft yellow and kept the door shut. One rainy night I finally opened it and sat on the floor in the dark. I didn't pray with fancy words. I just said, "I'm so tired, and I don't understand, but I'm still here. Amen." That was all I had. Later, searching for an old recipe, I found my journal from the beginning of that terrible year. On the first page I'd written a prayer: "God, just help me survive today." I stared at it. Then I started counting. Four hundred and twelve days since I wrote that line. Four hundred and twelve todays, and I had survived every single one, even the ones I didn't think I would. I hadn't been abandoned. I'd been carried, quietly, the whole time, like a child who falls asleep in the back seat and wakes up in her own bed. Healing didn't arrive as a loud answer. It arrived as proof written in my own handwriting. If you're surviving today, you're already winning. 💛 Amen.

Everyone told me that having a baby would be the happiest time of my life. So when I felt nothing but dread, I assumed s...
10/21/2026

Everyone told me that having a baby would be the happiest time of my life. So when I felt nothing but dread, I assumed something was wrong with me. I'd hold my newborn son, Eli, at 3 a.m., staring at the wall, wondering why I felt so far away from him. I smiled for photos. I cried in the shower. I whispered to a God I wasn't sure was listening, "Please, I'm drowning. Help me. Amen." One afternoon, I dragged myself to the grocery store just to get out of the house. In the cereal aisle, an older woman I'd never met looked at my face and the baby on my chest and gently said, "Honey, are you getting any help?" I burst into tears right there between the Cheerios and the granola. She didn't flinch. She hugged me, baby and all, and said, "I had it too. It's not your fault. It's an illness, and it gets better, but you can't do it alone." She walked me to the pharmacy counter, waited while I wrote down a number for a doctor. I'm better now. I tell every new mother I meet: if your joy hasn't come, you're not broken. Ask for help. God sometimes sends it in the cereal aisle. 🍼 Amen.

When my husband and I welcomed our first baby, my labor was long and frightening. After sixteen hours, I was exhausted a...
10/21/2026

When my husband and I welcomed our first baby, my labor was long and frightening. After sixteen hours, I was exhausted and scared. At one point, the doctor said we might need an emergency C-section. I gripped my husband's hand, and tears poured down my face. "I can't do this," I whispered. My husband leaned close and said, "You're not doing this alone. I'm right here." We prayed together, in the middle of the beeping and bustle, with his warm hand wrapped around mine. A few minutes later, our daughter was born, healthy and loud. I cried, laughing, and I felt a flood of gratitude. I've thought about that moment often, about how, even in the hardest, loneliest hours, we're not alone. Someone holds our hand. For me, it was my husband. But behind his hand was the hand of God, firm, tender, and unwavering. If you're in a place where you feel you can't go on, look for the hands extended to you. Our daughter is eight now, and every night at bedtime, she holds both our hands and says her prayers. Those small fingers hold my whole heart. Reach for them. You are being held by more than you know. Amen 👶🙏

I fished the cold waters of the North Atlantic for thirty years, and most days, the catch was modest. But one October, a...
10/21/2026

I fished the cold waters of the North Atlantic for thirty years, and most days, the catch was modest. But one October, a cold snap sent a huge run of cod right into our nets. By noon, our boat was filled to the brim, and the other fishermen were celebrating. I stood on the deck and looked at the pile of fish and thought of my neighbors back home, a widow, an elderly couple, and a family struggling after a layoff. When we docked, I filled crates and drove from door to door, handing out fresh cod. My crew thought I was crazy. "You could've sold that for a fortune," one said. I shrugged. "God filled the nets. I'm just passing it on." That winter, my own catch was the best of my career. I don't claim to understand how the sea works. But I know that when you share from what you've been given, the blessing finds its way back. Open your hands. I kept one single cod to bake for my own family that night. My wife added lemon and thyme, and we gave thanks over every bite. Abundance, I learned, tastes best when it is shared. God is not stingy. His nets are always full. Amen 🐟🙏

At sixty-two, I signed up for sailing lessons, mostly because my doctor told me I needed a hobby that would get me outdo...
10/20/2026

At sixty-two, I signed up for sailing lessons, mostly because my doctor told me I needed a hobby that would get me outdoors. My instructor was a weathered woman named Captain Rose, who looked at my stiff, nervous hands and said, "Relax. The wind does most of the work. Your job is to trim the sails and trust." I gripped the tiller like it might bite. For the first three lessons, I fought the wind, steering against it, and nearly capsized twice. Captain Rose laughed gently. "You can't force the wind, sailor. You can only learn to work with it." On the fourth lesson, I loosened my grip, adjusted the sails, and felt the boat lift and glide across the water. I laughed out loud. For the first time in years, I felt free. I've been sailing for ten years now. Every time I feel the wind fill the sails, I remember what she taught me. So much of life is not about forcing but trusting. Captain Rose passed away last spring, and her students sailed out together to scatter wildflower seeds on the bay. I sailed beside them with my heart full. Let God fill your sails. He knows where the wind is going, and He will carry you farther than you ever could row. Amen ⛵🙏

After eighteen years as a software engineer, I was burned out. I hated Mondays, dreaded meetings, and felt hollow inside...
10/20/2026

After eighteen years as a software engineer, I was burned out. I hated Mondays, dreaded meetings, and felt hollow inside. On a whim, I took a weekend beekeeping class, and something in me stirred. I bought a hive and then another. Within two years, I had twelve. I started a small honey business on weekends. My wife noticed that I'd begun humming again. One morning, I realized I'd rather be in a veil among bees than in a cubicle. I made the leap and left the corporate world. I know it sounds risky, and it was. But within eighteen months, our business supported our family. I plant milkweed and wildflowers around our hives, and each summer, monarch butterflies visit. Sometimes I stand among them, watching them drift in the sun. I used to feel like a worker ant. Now I feel like a man who emerged. If you feel trapped in a season that doesn't fit, don't ignore the quiet voice calling you toward something different. Each autumn, my family and I release a few tagged monarchs together at sunset. The kids cheer louder than the butterflies do. God may be shaping a new life in the darkness. Trust the stirring. Amen 🐝🦋

Address

2010 James M Wood Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA
90006

Telephone

+12133866682

Website

Alerts

Be the first to know and let us send you an email when Gloria Lynch posts news and promotions. Your email address will not be used for any other purpose, and you can unsubscribe at any time.

Shortcuts

Sponsored

Share