I had three dreams... (haha, none of them about the end times)

Last night, I had dreams that shook me to my core. Three of them. Each one distinct, yet bound by a common thread—a brutal reminder that I wasn’t enough. And even now, hours after waking, their weight still lingers like fog that refuses to lift.

The first dream was oddly simple yet painfully cutting. I was in my kitchen, crafting the perfect manicotti from scratch. Every detail was just right—the creamy filling burst with flavors so rich and complex they seemed to awaken taste buds I didn’t know existed. The sauce? A masterstroke—an impossible balance of sweet and savory, with just the right hint of spice to make it sing. In that moment, I felt like I had created something truly special.

But then, people came to try it.

One by one, every single person had a critique. Too salty. Too bland. Too much filling. Not enough. Every bite I had once been so proud of became a reminder of my failure. I woke up from that dream feeling mentally beaten down—overwhelmed by the sense that no matter how hard I tried, it would never be good enough.

I shook it off, or at least I thought I did.

The second dream hit even harder. I was preaching a message that, in my heart, I believed would change lives. I could feel the passion burning inside me, certain that God had given me something powerful to share. But as I began, people started leaving—quietly, one by one. Before I had even finished welcoming them, most of the room was empty. By the time I said, "Amen," only five people remained. The emptiness of that room mirrored the pit in my stomach. I had failed. Again.

I woke up in a cold sweat, drowning in the feeling that I wasn’t enough—that my voice didn’t matter.

Then came the third dream.

This one felt different. Warmer. I was filled with joy, thinking about Sandy. I was excited to see her, just knowing that walking through the door to our home would bring comfort. But as I stepped inside, the warmth vanished. She didn’t yell. She didn’t raise her voice. Instead, she calmly listed every way I had failed her. Not strong enough. Not smart enough. Not the husband she needed me to be. Every word hit like a hammer, shattering my confidence. The weight of failure in that dream was suffocating—I could barely breathe.

And then I woke up.

7:34 AM.

The kids didn’t have school, but I couldn’t stay in bed any longer. The dreams clung to me as I got ready for the day, as I headed to the church, as I tried to focus on Sunday’s message. No matter what I did, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was a failure. And then—mid-thought, mid-project—I felt it. Not a whisper, not a gentle nudge, but a snap, like God was jolting me awake inside my own thoughts.

The realization hit me like a lightning bolt: Every single one of those dreams had been about me.

The manicotti? It wasn’t about the people tasting the food. It was about my desire for their approval. The sermon? It wasn’t really about changing lives—it was about me being the one who delivered the life-changing message. Even Sandy’s disappointment in my dream? It wasn’t about my love for her—it was about my fear of not measuring up.

In every dream, I was the center of the story.

That’s when it clicked. When I am the center, failure is inevitable. When my worth depends on the approval of others, it will never be enough. No matter how hard I try, I’ll always come up short if I’m chasing validation from anyone but God.

God showed me something through those dreams—something I didn’t want to admit: I often do things for the wrong reasons. I want recognition. I want approval. I want success. But all of that leads to emptiness because the approval that truly matters isn’t found in the opinions of others.

It’s found in the One who already said, "You are enough." Not because of my talent, effort, or dedication—but because Jesus walked out of the grave.

This isn’t just my struggle. I believe we live in a time where so many of us are chasing the approval of people far more than the approval of God. We scroll through social media, measuring our worth by likes and comments. We pour our hearts into our work, waiting for someone to tell us we’re doing a good job. But when we live to satisfy others, we’ll always feel like we’re falling short.

Maybe those dreams were just for me. Maybe God was keeping me in check, reminding me that I’m not the center of the story—He is. But maybe, just maybe, you’ve felt that same emptiness too.

Here’s what I’m learning: When God is the focus, failure doesn’t define me. My worth isn’t measured by how well the manicotti turns out, how many people stay for my sermon, or even how perfectly I love my wife. My worth was defined at the cross, sealed by the empty tomb.

I’m not the center of my story.

And neither are you.

God is. And when He takes His rightful place, suddenly, being "enough" stops being the goal. Living in His grace becomes more than enough.