C3 – Come Back

June 19, 2026 ~ Jessica Deveault

Your pay has been docked for late arrival

Matt Muster’s text flicked across her popup screen.

A second message was sent moments later.

HR has scheduled a MANDATORY therapy appointment tomorrow at 11 AM.

Jemma groaned, leaning back against her chair, staring up at her stripped wall. All the case files had been torn down. After the police arrived to investigate her call, they took all her articles away. It didn’t matter how much she protested; it was gone, all of it. Apparently, according to the investigative team, it wasn’t good for her mental health, and it wasn’t the job of a citizen to be worked up about reports. Whatever that meant.

They had taken a look at the emails (she had taken screenshots to make sure they didn’t disappear like before. She wasn’t crazy, okay?) And the police had reassured her that someone would be standing at an outpost near her apartment tonight, just in case it wasn’t a prank, but other than that, they appeared unconcerned.

And now it was decided she needed to go back to the whack-job who was going to try and convince her she was taking this too far.

Why had she even bothered calling the police?

She turned in her chair, staring at the picture of her brother, as if this would conjure some clue when nothing else had.

She breathed out, frustrated, “Couldn’t have left me with something more?”

Alric’s crooked grin stared at her through the picture, and she shifted her gaze away, deflated. She wanted to reread the email, but the police had taken that away, too. The nerve. She drummed her fingers on the desk and scrolled through the long list of emails again, hoping that maybe there would be another message, but there was nothing.

Tonight, though? Isn’t that what the message said?

Maybe it was just a prank message.

What if it’s not?

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, swiveling to look around the rest of her apartment. Her bachelor pad wasn’t much, but it had been her home for…a long time. It was small and rather dark, with a touch of grey shadowing everything. Jemma squinted. The only light that was on was the dim fixture hanging in the kitchen, set over her tiny kitchen table. Jemma slowly got up, chair creaking. Was there really a point to her drive to find Alric? What if he were truly gone? She hated to think that.

A numbness crept up from within. The fight she had been holding onto, the hope of finding her brother, wavered. Maybe he truly was gone, and this is all that was left. Work. Her apartment. A dull ache stretched across her brow, and she pressed a thumb against her temple. Too much screen time. Too much worry. That’s what the therapist said.

“Stupid therapist,” she muttered, folding her arms over her chest, blinking rapidly, as if that would help lessen the pain. Jemma glanced at her empty wall again. At least they didn’t take everything away because of her ‘mental state’. She scoffed.

That’s probably because they forgot you have it.

Jemma opened the bottom drawer of her computer desk and slid it open. A battered shoebox was stowed away. With careful hands, she picked it up. A plain brown box. She brought it over to the kitchen table and placed it under the dim light, then popped it open. A heaviness sank against her chest as she examined items. It held a few pages of character sketches from stories from their childhood, or, at least, she thought that’s what they were. She stared at the drawings of odd-looking creatures and landscapes of worlds that defied the laws of nature on Earth. As she grew near the bottom of the sketches, something clunked at the bottom of the box. Jemma frowned and brushed aside the remaining paper.

A small white marble attached to a leather cord lay tucked at the bottom of the box. She picked it up, frown deepening. Had this always been here? She hadn’t seen it last time she looked through the box. The small marble had a murky white texture to it, as if clouds swirled on the inside, almost as if it were alive. She blinked profusely, leaning in to examine more closely. It did look like they were moving. It–

A sharp pain drilled into her head, and she groaned, dropping the marble back inside the box. She pressed a hand against her head.

These blasted headaches get worse every day.

She needed to go to bed to sleep it off and maybe take a few pills to reduce the pain. Jemma was about to find her medication when something clattered in the kitchen. Jemma jumped, heart pounding as she looked toward the cupboards. Nothing stirred. She took a couple of deep breaths, trying to slow her racing heart.

Stop imagining things, girl. No wonder they think you need therapy.

It wasn’t like this headache helped anything, though.

A loud scratching noise came from underneath the table. Jemma stiffened. Could she be that delusional? Slowly, ever so slowly, she lowered herself to peek under the table. Again, nothing was there. She bit her bottom lip.

I’m going mad.

Pages ruffled coming from the shoebox above. This was getting out of hand. It was time to pop a few pills, put the shoebox away, and go to bed. She pressed a hand against her skull, wishing the pain would subside and that she could think clearly. Jemma reached to put the shoebox away.

Standing on top of the table was a bright green creature no taller than two feet high, foraging through the shoebox. It was a lemur-like reptile, or was it an amphibian? Jemma couldn’t tell. It stood on two webbed feet and had a green scaly face of a lizard. Though, its face was flat like a frog’s rather than pointed like a reptile. It had round, expressive eyes. What confused Jemma even more was that this reptilian creature had two large, fluffy cat-like ears and a long bushy tail. It wore a frilly skirt and a mismatched striped shirt. It stopped peering into the shoebox and looked up, staring at Jemma with its alarming eyes. If possible, its eyes stretched open wider, and it flashed her a huge cartoonish grin.

“About time,” her voice was high-pitched and overly cheerful.

Jemma gawked. I’m losing it. I’m actually losing it.

The creature cocked her head to one side, ears flopping. “Why the face?” She mimicked Jemma’s jaw drop, and an abnormally long tongue lolled out. When Jemma didn’t move, the creature clamped her jaw shut and squinted suspiciously. “You are Jemma, aren’t you?” She cocked her head to the side again. “I mean, you look the same — ish — just a lot bigger.” She stretched her arms to the side, “A LOT BIGGER.”

I’m dreaming. Jemma stared, feeling like her mind was glitching and everything was moving sluggishly. But if I’m not… she reached into her pocket, searching for her phone, to prove that she wasn’t hallucinating.

Her pocket was empty.

The creature whipped out an object from behind her. “Looking for this?” She clutched Jemma’s phone and tauntingly waved it in her webbed hand.

Jemma snapped out of her trance. “Give it back,” she demanded.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she tilted her head, then stuck out her tongue, “No.”

It started to buzz. A name flashed across the screen.

Matt Muster

Jemma didn’t know what he wanted at this hour, but she had to answer that call, otherwise he’d be furious. Well, more so than he already was. She had done enough to upset him for one day, and she didn’t want him to add anything more than that HR meeting tomorrow.

“Give that back,” Jemma demanded, swiping to take the phone.

“Nope!” The creature nimbly darted out of reach. “Gotta catch me first!” She jumped off the table, knocking over the chair onto the floor. The phone continued to buzz. Jemma hissed and scrambled to catch the creature, desperate to answer the call. The little monster scurried around faster than was humanly possible. It ran around in circles, dodging Jemma whenever she got too close, climbing over furniture, knocking over objects, and making a mess.

The phone continued to buzz.

The creature leapt onto a windowsill near Jemma’s bed. The window was open. Jemma hadn’t opened that. Why was it opened? The creature dangled the phone over the edge.

Jemma froze, breath catching in her throat. “Wait!” she wheezed, embarrassingly short on air for only running such a limited time.

“Wow, you’re out of shape,” the creature said, shaking her head disapprovingly. “Guess we’ll have to fix that.” She tossed the phone out the window.

Jemma’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

The creature let out an exaggerated sigh and rolled her eyes. “You’re not going to die without it.”

Jemma bolted toward the window. The creature jumped out of the way as Jemma leaned out, searching for her phone. It lay in shattered pieces on the street below.

Sudden anger boiled within Jemma. She turned to find the creature back on the table. “Why did you do that?” The sharp pain in her head was almost at an unbearable level now. It was growing worse with every second this creature was here. She wanted it to be gone. She wanted this delusional dream to end.

The creature’s ear twitched, and she crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Since when did you allow a machine to dictate your life?”

“It doesn’t,” Jemma shouted, “It –” She stopped herself.

Why am I arguing with something that isn’t even real? I need to wake up.

But she didn’t remember falling asleep.

The creature took the marble out of the shoebox, seemingly unbothered by Jemma’s anger. “Remember to bring this with you tomorrow.”

Now, Jemma was even angrier. Imaginary or not, this creature had no business touching belongings that weren’t hers. It was the only thing remaining of Alric, and she wasn’t about to lose that too. Jemma stormed over to the table and swiped the marble out of the creature’s fingers. “Get out.”

“You’ll be ready for tomorrow, right?” The creature shrank back a little, as if finally getting the clue that she wasn’t welcomed here.

Jemma didn’t answer as she moved toward her bed, hoping that by keeping quiet, the stupid thing would shut up and disappear.

“Jemma?” The creature sounded rather pitiful, but Jemma ignored it as she placed the marble necklace on her bedside table and pulled the blankets back. A good night’s sleep would rid her of this headache and this dumb dream.

Scuttling little feet tapped against the floor. “I thought you wanted to save Alric?”

Jemma let go of the blanket and sharply turned back with a snap. “What do you know about Alric?”

She inwardly groaned. Apparently, she couldn’t keep herself from engaging. They’re going to put me on stronger meds if HR finds out about this.

“Of course I know him!” she perked up with a smile. “That’s why I’m here.”

When Jemma didn’t respond, the little creature’s ears flopped back, the sparkle of amusment leaving her eyes. “You….you really don’t remember me, do you?” Giant, watery tears brimmed in her eyes. “I mean, I know I was the last of your creations, but…” Her lips blubbered. Unexpectedly, the creature threw back her head and let out a wailing cry.

Startled, Jemma jumped forward and slammed a hand over the creature’s mouth. A wet slobbery sob was muffled through Jemma’s hand, and she cringed, wanted to pull it back, but she kept it over and shushed the creature.

“Stop it!”

Someone was going to hear this.

The creature ripped herself from Jemma’s grip and wailed even louder. “You promised you’d come back, but you forgot!”

“Forgot what?” Jemma demanded, wrestling to get the creature to be quiet, but slipped easily out of her grip.

Tears splashed onto the floor, growing into puddles quicker than what should be possible. “You promised!”

“Promised what?”

“That you’d come back,” she insisted.

“Back?”

“To Cloud World,” she exclaimed, “That’s where they took Alric. You need to go back. It’s the only way you’ll find him.”

C2 – Message

June 17, 2026June 17, 2026 ~ Jessica Deveault

DAY 365

One year. Alric was still missing. The police had found no trace of him, and maybe at this point had given up, likely storing the case in a file cabinet for missing persons. The detective had said the apartment Alric had been living in had been empty, save for one shoebox. There had been no evidence of a struggle, no clue as to what had happened; even Alric’s coworkers didn’t know his whereabouts. Jemma had even gone to the apartment in person after being granted a weekend leave by Matt and saw they had been right. The only thing Jemma had come home with was the shoebox with tiny notebooks that had scribblings she couldn’t make sense of. Every day she checked in with the department for updates, hoping the report would be different. It never was. Everyone had seemingly moved on, not even noticing his disappearance from the world, but Jemma didn’t move on. She couldn’t forget.

The number tallied across the screen, blinking with its digital gleam, as if mocking her.

Jemma stared at the number on the screen, fixated on its glow, as if that could somehow change the circumstance. She glanced at her wall, slapped over her old picture frames were news articles of missing person cases, strange stories of people vanished without a trace, stories that somehow were kept out of major headlines. She had pinned statements of co-workers of Alric, trying to figure out what they knew about what he had been doing before that phone call, but nothing stuck out.

What bothered Jemma the most? Was the deleted automail. With all the police’s fancy tech gadgets, no one could retrace it. They couldn’t trace a phantom call, and some had hinted to Jemma that perhaps she had been overworked and stayed up too late on a shift, as if she had imagined the call.

The phone buzzed. Jemma twitched.

8:01 AM

ID Caller: Matt Muster.

Jemma wasn’t logged on yet. The number 365 continued to blink at her. Would Matt even remember what happened a year ago? Ignoring the call, Jemma logged into the network. Her icon popped up. A wall of unanswered, unfiled messages rolled across the screen. She cracked her knuckles, breathing out a frustrated whisper. “It never ends.” The workload had increased tenfold over the last year, almost as if it were to create a distraction, but that, again, some would say was merely her overactive imagination.

The phone continued to buzz. She rolled her eyes, glancing at the screen.

Matt Muster really wanted to talk today, didn’t he?

8:02. AM.

Jemma let it ring until the last possible second then swiped the bar across the screen to answer. “Hello?” her tone was flat.

“Jemma. You’re late,” Matt said, mildly irritated. “This is the sixth day in a row.”

I guess I can’t use the computer malfunction excuse again. She thought to herself as she stared at the monitor and the list of messages she would have to get through today, if she could get through them all. It gave her less time to do other research. She refused to believe that Alric had disappeared without a trace. She glanced up at her article-filled wall and huffed.

“Sorry, boss,” her tone remained detatched.

“Is there something we need to talk about?” he demanded.

“Not at all,” Jemma shrugged, gaze falling back on the number 365, then on the messages, and continued to scroll through the endless list, trying to figure out which was the most urgent message to get to.

“Jemma,” Matt was brisk.

“What?” Jemma snapped, then bit her lip. That was no way to talk to her boss, no matter how annoying he was.

Matt let out a sigh.

“I’ll make up for it,” Jemma said, trying to pull back on her dismissive behavior. Even if she was Matt’s best worker, even he’d have his limits. She didn’t want him to bring up the contract again.

“I can’t have you keep going like this.”

She didn’t want to find out what that meant. Jemma leaned back in her seat, pushing a finger against her forehead, and debated whether she really needed to remind Matt that it had only been one minute, in which she was going to work overtime to make up for that loss. And that wouldn’t even get her through the millions of messages she would respond to today. A million —

A message with a headline typed in call caps caught her attention.

CAN YOU SAVE ME. 365.

She sucked in a sharp breath.

“Jemma?” Matt said.

She stared at the message. There was no sender ID.

“Have you been seeing your therapist?”

Jemma stiffened. HR had assigned her this mandatory way to cope with…well, her brother’s disappearance and, according to the therapist, her apparent ongoing obsession with finding where he had gone. The sessions hadn’t helped much, but she had thought those meetings were confidential. Matt Muster had no business in asking about that.

“Yes,” Jemma lied, though she had stopped seeing the therapist months ago when they suggested she stop hounding the police station about Alric’s disappearance.

“Do you need a day off?”

She rolled her eyes. How generous of him.

“I know it’s been hard for you,” he said, voice softening.

It made her skin crawl. “I’m fine,” Jemma said, then hung up before Matt could say anything else. She wondered how angry he was for prematurely ending the call. Jemma stared at the message headline, then clicked it open.

One line.

I’ll see you tonight.

Every part of Jemma froze, double-checking for the sender. There was none. Her heart pounded. What was she supposed to do? Report it to the police? They’d politely record it in their little book and file it away. Maybe it was sent to the wrong inbox. Yet the headline said “Can you save me. 365.” That was too specific. Whoever sent the message knew something about Alric. Unless it was just some sick joke. Jemma paused, squinting at the text. Could she reply back? If it were an unknown address, it wouldn’t go through but…

Jemma typed.

Where is my brother?

Her finger hovered over the send button, then she clicked. Might as well play along. Jemma kinked her neck, cracked her fingers, and moved on to another file. She didn’t want Matt to start watching how many messages she was getting through in one shift.

A sound pinged. It was a response.

You will know soon enough.

Jemma nearly choked, and pushed back her chair, and leaned closer to the screen. It pinged again.

Alric won’t be coming back.

Jemma called the police.

C1 – Missing

June 17, 2026June 17, 2026 ~ Jessica Deveault

Dull. Grey. It covered every inch of the walls, the floors, the posters that peeled at the corners, and a single text flickered across the digital screen.

CAN YOU SAVE ME?

With a heavy sigh, she leaned back in the swivel chair. It creaked under the well-worn use. The words continued to blink.

CAN YOU SAVE ME?

A bold black against a dull screen. Her gaze drifted toward the wall above her desk. Photos of happier times. The frames were licked with a thin film of dust. It smudged in many places, covering the smiles of friends, and her brother, linked arms together. How long had that been now? She coughed, rubbing a hand against her mouth as her gaze fell back on the screen.

SAVE ME

She blinked, not recalling having changed the wording, but it didn’t matter. Jemma pushed the power-off button. It hissed and sputtered, flickering to dark mode. Jemma placed her hand against her head, combing her fingers through her tangled hair.

I can’t do this anymore.

Something creaked inside her, a coldness spreading, creeping through her body. She was supposed to fight it, she knew, but it felt pointless. It always did. No matter how much she fought against it, it always came back.

A small tick tick tick clicked softly. Jemma dragged her head out of her arms. There was a clock bolted above the door frame of the room she hadn’t left in who knows how long.

She had another shift at 9:00. She pulled at her eyelids, heavy and stretched.

2:43 A.M.

She sat back in the chair, arms limp at her side, as she glanced once more up at the splattered pictures on her wall that needed cleaning. There was never time for that. Jemma almost reached out to touch the picture frame sitting closest to her on her desk when a phone buzzed. Her hand froze, hoping that it wasn’t what she thought it was. It continued to buzz. Reluctantly, Jemma reached for the cellphone and saw the caller ID.

MATT MUSTER

The Boss. At his hour?

Jemma slid her hand onto the desk, touching the phone as it vibrated, counting the number of times it would ring before she absolutely had to pick it up, hoping maybe he would end the call first if she left it long enough. He kept calling. Apparently, he wanted to talk. Jemma swiped the call across and put the phone to her ear.

“Hello?” Even she did not like the flatness in her voice

“Jem? Where are you?”

Jemma slowly blinked. Where any normal human would be at this hour. “Home.”

“Why aren’t you online?”

He was tracking that? Jemma’s forehead creased, and she rubbed her fingers against her temple as pressure built up. She continued to hold the phone against her ear. “I’m clocking out.”

“That isn’t in your contract.” His voice was cold, scaly.

That again? A pounding stretched across her skull, and she placed her fingers against her temple. “I’m pretty sure I finished the assignments.”

“You didn’t,” his voice was crisp, displeased.

Jemma tilted her head back, glancing at the clock. “Can’t…it be done tomorrow?” Her voice was weak, tired, almost desperate, and she hated that, but couldn’t Matt Muster see the time, the hour, the insanity of what he was asking?

“This needs to be done tonight,” he said. “Get back online and finish your job.”

Jemma took a quiet breath, staring at the black screen. There was static in her head.

“Jemma?” Muster barked. “Did you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Jemma muttered, barely audible.

“Don’t make me call you again.” The phone clicked.

Jemma slowly lowered the phone from her ear and placed the cell back on the desk. Why was Muster up at this hour, anyway? Jemma’s vision was bleary. Her finger hovered over the power button, dreading bringing the computer back to life, dreading returning to that mindless machine with its endless tasks. Her gaze fell back on the picture frame where a slightly younger version of herself stood, eyes bright, full of laughter, and standing next to her was her older brother, gangly and tall, but laughing as much as she was. They had the same curly brown hair, except hers was longer. Both wore dark-rimmed glasses. It had been a long time since she’d seen Alric, and she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d sent him a text. Jemma reached for the photo and pushed a thumb against it, smudging the grease away.

Jemma glanced at her phone and scrolled through the contacts and slightly frowned, unable to find her brother’s number. She swore she had transferred it to her phone when her phone was upgraded for work. She groaned, rubbing her eyelids, and glanced back at the black screen, wondering what would happen if she broke her contract, just once? Her finger hovered over the power button, thinking through what excuse she could give Muster. A system crash?

Her phone buzzed.

She jumped. Guilt squeezed inside, and she hurriedly pressed the power button. The hum of the computer came back on. Maybe if Muster saw that she was back online, he would drop the call and leave her alone. The screen flickered, creating a dim light throughout the room. Jemma’s icon blinked back online.

The phone continued to buzz.

“Come on, Matt,” she muttered. “Just leave me alone.”

She ignored the phone, but it continued. She sighed. Maybe he was eager to repeat the details of the contract just in case she decided to quit. Jemma glanced at the number.

UNKNOWN ID

She frowned, staring hard. Was she this tired? She rubbed her eyes. It still read the same.

UNKNOWN ID

But everyone’s ID always came up. It was the law. It had to be a glitch. Jemma placed it down on the desk, moving to start entry data, but paused as the phone stopped buzzing. The screen went blank. Jemma exhaled, relieved. At least, it wasn’t Matt. The cellphone screen flashed back on. In the upper right corner, a small mail icon blinked. A voice memo? From an Unknown ID? Spambots calls were impossible with the new hybrid phones. Her fingers itched with curiosity, and she reached for the phone and keyed in a code to unlock the memo.

Hey, Jemma. It’d be nice if you picked up now and then.

Jemma bolted upright, pressing the phone against her ear, breath catching in her throat. Alric?

I think I’ve found a way out of this.

Jemma fumbled to look up the Caller ID.

Jem — the voice grew quiet. Crap. They’ve found me. They —

Gunshots fired. The voicemail ended with a series of cute beeps. Jemma couldn’t breathe and stared at the phone. With sweaty fingers, she scrolled through the last number she called and redialed it. It rang. And rang.

“Pick up, Alric. Pick up,” she whispered. It went to automail. She dialed the number again. She held her breath. The phone was picked up. Her heart fluttered. “Alric?”

“Jemma why are you calling me?” It was Matt Muster. “I see you’re online, but you’re not working. Is there a problem?”

Jemma’s mouth went dry as sandpaper. She swallowed, then looked at the number she had called. It was Matt’s. Where was the Unknown ID? She was certain she had dialed it. She scrolled through the contacts. It wasn’t there anymore.

“Jemma?” Matt Muster barked, jolting her, but her mind refused to cooperate. Alric. Gunshots. She rechecked for the automail, so she could replay it. It was as if it never existed.

“Matt,” Jemma croaked, voice trembling.

“What?” he demanded.

“My brother, Alric. He’s in trouble.”

“What are you talking about?” Matt sounded exasperated. “Is this a joke?”

Why would she joke about this? Jemma’s gaze locked onto the picture frame of her and Alric. “He just called me.”

“No one can reach you during work hours.”

Except he had. “He’s in trouble,” Jemma repeated, glancing at the clock. Time was ticking. “There were gunshots.” Her fingers shook as the sound replayed in her head.

There was a long pause. “Did you call the police?”

“I…” Jemma’s throat closed. “I…I don’t know where he lives.” She and her brother had moved so many times because of work, and she had lost track of where he currently was.

“Hold on,” Matt said. There was a scratching noise. “Jem?”

“Yeah?” Jemma could barely respond. The clock ticked. The computer hummed. The static buzzed in her head. Where was Alric?

“I’ll call and file a report for you,” Matt said. “Are you sure you heard gunshots?”

She couldn’t answer as she stared back at the picture. Alric smiled broadly, with an arm slung over her shoulder.

“Someone will come to your apartment soon, Jem,” Matt said. “Don’t worry, we’ll get this sorted out.”

Jemma still didn’t answer; a knot formed in the pit of her stomach.

“And I want you to take the rest of the night off. Someone will cover your work.”

As if she’d have been able to continue after this. Another long pause.

“Jem?”

She didn’t want to answer. “Yeah?”

“You are a valuable member of this team. I’ll make sure this gets taken care of.”

Jemma didn’t know what to say.

“Though I’m giving you the rest of the night off, please be back for your next shift. There’s no use worrying about what you can’t fix.”

Jemma didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Alric was in trouble, and though Matt was right that she couldn’t do anything about it, she didn’t want to return to work.

Matt spoke. “See you tomorrow, then.”

The phone clicked. It wasn’t a request. She’d have to show up or break the contract. One didn’t do that with Matt Muster. She knew what happened to those who did.

A numbness filled her as her gaze remained fixed on the photo, wondering why she hadn’t thought to keep up with her brother. Jemma hoped the police would be able to trace Alric and find him, even if she could not.

Realm Makers: The Voice of God

July 27, 2025 ~ Jessica Deveault

Why am I afraid to write this? To explore the idea, rather than to shut it out altogether? I felt as if God put this on my heart this past week to pour out my thoughts on this event, but every time I sat down to write all I heard were the accusations, the scolding, the voices of correction, the disapproving frown, and caution pounding into my skull, seeping into my body with a tightening hold, saying that shouldn’t open my mouth on things that are best left unsaid, or I should stick to a certain way of thinking that is outwardly acceptable and doesn’t step on any toes.

It would be an easier thing to tuck away this memory and keep it to myself rather than face the condemnation, whether it is merely a projection of my own negative thoughts, my past, or from others, than to face the onslaught of accusations that want to shred the encouragement I experienced last weekend, but would I giving into fear rather than obeying God if I kept my mouth shut when He has asked me to write stories, share words, even such as this?

Even if I may not fully understand what it is I am seeking, is it not better to explore ideas in the safety of trusted friends and family? Is it not better to explore and understand my beliefs, rather than to stamp down anything that rises from beneath the surface, and then, when others have questions of a similar nature to simply judge them for it, too, with an air of superiority and self-righteousness that doesn’t point to Christ but causes greater division and unrest?

Over the last year, I’ve been going down a road, taking a few turns, that have been leading me to question why I believe certain things, whether I believe them because they were told to me, or whether I believe that is actually what God teaches. I’m not talking about the gospel, about whether Jesus Christ rose from the dead, I believe this, and will forever believe this with all my heart, mind, and soul. These are foundational, core truths to my faith, but I am referring to other areas where I have been strictly taught that going down certain paths will, well, essentially, I’ll be diving off a cliff or making a train wreck of my life.

And to be fair, I have seen people who pursue certain teachings utterly destroy themselves, but can there be a way to explore ideas without the danger of self-destruction? I would like to believe I can work through ideas without completely unraveling the foundations of my mind, even if it makes some uncomfortable, for it is hard to question what you’ve always believed in is from God or from a set of rules that were introduced and you never thought to dig deeper, and that has led me to ask:

Can one hear the voice of God?

As someone who has been told to be wary of anything that is not explicitly written in scripture, this has been a hard thing for me to grapple with. Not that there’s anything inherently wrong with that statement, for anything that contradicts the Word should be questioned and evaluated as an error, for God would not oppose Himself. Yet, it seems there are certain circles that, out of fear of how this term, won’t even entertain there might be ways God speaks. Is it possible to receive prompting, nudges, thoughts, spoken outside the written text?

On Sunday morning, the last day of the conference, there was a worship service. It was the first one Realm Makers had ever hosted in the 13 years they had been running. The directors talked about how it never felt like there was a place for a worship service until that year, as they had not wanted to stir division, followed by a couple of cracked jokes about the church carpets and drums. By the laughter that followed, it is a common thing that Christians have fought over. And though I was amused, part of me felt grieved for the church in North America. There are so many things that have caused strife among believers that are not even central to the gospel, and we wonder why some criticize the church.

As the song portion of the service ended, a man came up onto the stage to pray before the main speaker delivered the Sunday message. I closed my eyes. It didn’t feel different from any other prayer, but in the middle of it, it was like his words faded out, not because I hadn’t been paying attention; I very much had been. The room shifted, and my world kind of shrank in on itself. A very clear thought, as if it weren’t even my own, came across my mind.

“I will take care of you.”

It was a gentle voice. Different from the constant negative hounding that often followed me. A sense of comfort washed over me, and I took a breath. Was that just… my own thought? Slowly, the room came back into focus, tuning back into the prayer, and I realized the man was saying that if there were any struggles, anything that was lying on our hearts that we would lift that up to God in prayer, and that in return, we would receive what God wanted us to know

Was it a coincidence that I will take care of you came to my mind at this moment when the prayer was about giving our struggles to God and receiving what He has to say?

As someone who has literally stressed about provision since my college years, whether that was living situations, future ventures, or even receiving help when I’m in need, hearing that was a reminder that I wasn’t alone in the direction I have been working toward. It wasn’t just a random phrase. I had been carrying a burden on my shoulder that I didn’t realize was there, and it was a loving reminder that I had a Father in Heaven who had provided for me in the past, and He was going to do so again in my next stage of life.

Well, duh. It’s not like that’s an extra-biblical revelation if that perfectly aligns with scripture. It’s not like that’s anything special you heard.

Except, it was.

It came when I needed it. Do you know how hard it is to live with a constant voice that condemns all the time, that wants to cast doubt at every turn, that literally wants to tell you not to believe the things in the Bible when things get hard? But my mind felt open to hearing God’s Word, and the Holy Spirit used that moment to bring a vivid remembrance of who He was and what He is doing amidst uncertainty. How often, even though we have scripture, we fret about our struggles. We talk about trust all the time, but we’re not very good at it.

Okay, well, that’s not exactly outside of scripture, the “voice” is it?

Fair enough. Another story, then?

Earlier this week, after being challenged by a believer to pray specifically about what God is asking me to do with my writing, I felt a strong prompting that this blog post needed to be written, even if it was only for a handful who would read it. So I would do it.

Yet, when I got through the first draft of this post a few days ago, I sensed as if God were saying that this wasn’t the version He was asking for, and deep down, I knew He was right. I was holding back in my writing, trying to politely tailor my words to make it appeasing to all audiences, telling the story in the least controversial way possible. That wasn’t authentic.

So then I started again, and a series of things happened. The encouragement I had been filled with from the conference left as I was attacked with negative thoughts, doubts, and fears, crushing my confidence that being a storyteller and writer was what God called me to be. It was a back-and-forth battle between “Is this really what God wants me to do, or am I just making this up in my head?” and beginning to question whether I should even write the post at all.

But I knew how strongly I had felt about it and that I couldn’t continue to operate out of fear.

Yesterday, the intensity peaked. An unusual pressure in my chest from fear grew. It made no sense. It worsened as I was around friends, as if the emotions didn’t want me to speak about the joys I had found at the conference, about the joys I was discovering with my faith, my passion for writing, and God.

It wasn’t until I went home later that night and called a close friend that I broke down over the phone saying I was so sick of being ruled by fear, that it was not only holding me back from writing, but holding me back from speaking to friends, and fulfilling the role God was placing in my life. So she prayed with me. Read scripture with me. For over an hour. As she was praying words of encouragement over my life, I could feel the negative voices ramping up nasty words; it almost felt like they weren’t even of myself, as if they would not let me go.

At the height of the spiritual battle, a negative thought spoke, trying to drown out the words my friend was giving. Just give up.

Whoa, whoa, whooooaaa.

Says who? That sounded like remnants of the deep darkness I had walked through months ago, and sometimes still dip into. That wasn’t from God. It reeked of hopelessness, of life having no meaning, and I had to fight it, and God had given me a friend to fight them with. She continued to speak words of truth and life until the lies were silenced. By the end of the conversation, I felt so exhausted and drained as if I had gone to war. I was unable to write anything that night, but the words of darkness were no longer there.

And here I am, a day after. This morning, the negative thoughts tried to return, but I didn’t let them, and later I sat down to finish this post. It still wasn’t easy, but I’m tired of hiding and pretending. I want to be done with that. Whether or not God prompted me to write this blog post, I’m writing it because it is a good thing. I’m looking forward to seeing where God takes me in this adventure and praying that He will help me through the voices that want to deter me from stepping into a role He’s leading me toward. If it isn’t in contradiction to His character and His Word, then who am I to ignore promptings and thoughts from the Lord?

Realm Makers: Reconnecting With Friends

July 22, 2025July 22, 2025 ~ Jessica Deveault

The room was filled with at least 400 people, maybe more. Round tables were covered with white cloths and there were more forks than I knew what to do with, a couple of spoons, and some dishes already set. When I saw on the schedule that there would be a semi-formal dinner, I hadn’t known I’d get this treat! It was Friday evening when those who cosplayed as Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, or really, anything, would walk across the stage and be judged on their outfits. I joined one of the tables along with the other attendees who would happily view the contest.

As the room filled, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a young woman in a red dress weaving through the crowd and tables. She looked familiar. Was she someone from a workshop I had attended several years ago? There wasn’t time to go up and check as the costume parade across the stage began, and the meal followed afterwards

As the evening came to an end, bellies full with delicious food, everyone cheered with the fun conversations of being in a room with writers and creatives, people started to leave. I wasn’t going anywhere quite yet. I rose and made a beeline for where I had seen the young woman in the red dress. As I drew closer, a smile broadened across my face.

“Catherine?” I walked up behind her.

She turned around, with a delightful smile lighting up her face. “I thought I saw you earlier!”

Happy to see each other, we embraced. It was so good to see a familiar face in the sea of strangers, but also wonderful to find a friend I hadn’t seen in years.

The next day, on Saturday afternoon, I browsed the schedule to see which session I was going to next. I had missed Part A earlier that day wasn’t sure which Part B session I should attend. Was there something that would benefit me most? A practice I’d been making more of a habit of, even in the smaller things, I decided to pray, asking if there was a particular one that I should go to. No, I didn’t get any magical revelation. No prompting. Nothing stood out. That’s okay. I glanced over the schedule again before closing it and went into the Expo Hall (as where most went in between sessions, cause look at all the shiny things). I walked through the booths and ended up bumping into Catherine. She was about to head to one of the sessions and said I could join her if I wanted. The one she picked hadn’t been inclined to go to, but I decided, sure. Let’s go with a friend.

As we entered the class, we sat down and pulled out our notebooks. Only five minutes into the session, the speaker pulled up a slide about perfectionism vs. high achievers. Oh, boy. I knew I was meant to be here. I was all too familiar with the ways of perfectionism. Yet, as she drew comparisons between the two, every click of the slide revealing more about the traits of both, it made me realize how unhealthy perfectionism was, and it went deeper than I wanted to admit.

Both Catherine and I scribbled down notes the entire class, shooting each other glances every so often, sometimes groaning, as the points struck us. As the speaker taught, she even drew several examples of what perfectionism was from her personal stories and how it harms us as individuals, and how writers can be susceptible to this slippery slope. I am thankful Catherine invited me to join the session with her as they were words I needed to hear.

Sometime later, or maybe this was before, everything about the conference kind of blurs together at some point, Catherine asked. “Did you know Mr. S is here?”

Mr. S!!!

He was here, at Realm Makers?

“Where?”

I was thrilled to hear!

Though I looked for him that Saturday, I found no trace of where he was.

And yes, he is Mr. S. It’s not because I’m shortening the name for anonymity, but because that is how he is known to his students at One Year Adventure Novel, both Catherine and I had been a part of. He’s just Mr. S to all of us, even years later. He is someone I consider to be one of my first writing mentors, as he taught me how to write a novel in one year as a teen. His ongoing dedication to show youth how to craft stories is amazing (though he’s too humble to talk about himself), and creating a space where young Christian writers can have a community both in person and online to learn. It was back in 2011 that I attended one of the summer workshops, one of my first writing events, and they are still memories I cherish as I befriended writers, joined my first critique groups, and felt filled with a passion for storytelling. So, yes, of course I wanted to find Mr. S, who helped me take the first steps into becoming the writer that I am today.

Sunday morning, after the worship service (might just have to write a blog post about that, too), I went to find Catherine. At this point, I knew where she would likely be located because there was a booth she hung out at. (Am I a stalker now?). I wasn’t at the table long when bagpipes went off. Who in the world was playing bagpipes in the Expo hall? A group of us searched through the Expo, trying to find the one who was playing, but they disappeared. Well, that was short-lived. I hoped they come back. They didn’t.

As we gave up the search, Catherine asked, “Have you seen Mr. S yet?”

No, I hadn’t. I had been looking since she had mentioned it the day before, but hadn’t seen any sign of him.

She pointed, “He’s over there in the red shirt.”

I looked over. Sure enough, he was.

Excited, I hurried over, Catherine coming with. I think I interrupted his browsing, but when he saw me, it felt like meeting an old friend. We hugged, and we talked about OYAN. Catherine and I reminisced about our first OYAN workshops experience, but we also just talked about life, how things were, about hardships over the last few years, and it meant a lot to me that they shared their stories. Really, it did.

It was a real blessing to be able to catch up with friends I hadn’t thought would be at Realm Makers. I don’t know if they’ll come across this post, but seeing both of them this past weekend was a balm to my soul. When you meet people who have a love for the Lord, and just a love for people, you can really tell.

For some reason, the handful of deep interactions I had at this conference and how people just listened with care made me ponder. Are we not but pale reflections of a Creator, of Jesus? Yet these few interactions uplifted my heart so much. If these are but reflections, then I should wonder how much more caring and compassionate a perfect God in heaven is? It’s a concept that I struggle with from time to time as God just feels so distant, but He’s not. He’s closer to you than even your closest friend. If these were just fractions of goodness, how much more is God? I thank God He allowed me to reconnect with old friends and that I was able to lean into knowing Him a little better than before. My faith journey hasn’t been an easy one. Though I have been a Christian for a long time, God has been showing me over the past couple of years that I have some disconnect with my relationship with Him, and He’s been healing that through many different things, and I am thankful for it.

At Realm Makers: Unexpected Comfort

July 21, 2025July 22, 2025 ~ Jessica Deveault

The river rushed by in a peaceful, flowing rhythm, with the beautiful rays of the warm afternoon sun casting a gleaming reflection over its currents. I stared vacantly into its flow as discouragement dimmed out what should have been a lovely view. Ugh, not again. I was sick of these emotions. This was my second writing conference of the summer, and though the anxiety wasn’t the same intensity, other thoughts assailed me. A bit of impostor syndrome. No, wait. A lot of it. Then, conviction. Things I saw about myself that I didn’t like, that needed change. Then came the ever-present inner critic that wanted to pull me back under, even though I had been fighting for months to rewire negative thought patterns. It’s difficult to go against a lifetime of bad habits.

I sat there on that bench, turning my face away from the sidewalk as people passed, as tears began to form in the corner of my eyes, as unanswered questions pestered my mind. Fears sprang up, twisting their gripping words, trying to squeeze out the joy of being among writers, my passion, a place I felt at home. Frustrated, I started to pray. Though they were scattered words, and I didn’t know exactly what I needed in that moment, I knew God had helped me through the first conference in the way I needed, and I knew that He could do it again.

Though I really didn’t want to interact with anyone, my heart still feeling raw and exposed, I didn’t want to miss the conference because of the spiraling thoughts that wanted to take over as they always seemed to do lately, so I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed back up the flight of steps into the conference center.

Hundreds of writers were milling about, laughing, talking, some dressed in costumes, some in nerdy shirts, immersed in conversation. I longed to join in the jovial mood, but it wasn’t possible in that moment. Since it wasn’t time for my next session, I wandered into the Expo hall. More laughter. Liveliness all around. Booths filled the hall, stacked with books, amazing cover art, cute dragon plushies, and fantastical things authors love. I slowly went down one of the aisles, making sure to avoid anyone as I half-heartedly scanned the merchandise. Why couldn’t I leave this burden behind? Why did they have to continually follow me whenever I went?

As I neared the end of one aisle, I looked up and realized I recognized the banner on one of the booths, and standing behind it was the creator of a writing challenge I had been a part of several months ago. It was a challenge that helped me write my second novel within 90 days, the shortest amount of time I had ever completed a draft. Though I still wasn’t feeling myself, I picked up my pace, kind of excited to go say hi and at least thank the man who had developed a challenge and helped me write a new manuscript that I was kind of proud of.

As I got to the booth, I saw he was busy talking to a customer and held back. Since I had stopped, someone else who was manning the booth asked if I wanted to roll the dice to win a prize, so I rolled the dice and got a pretty cool map.

And then I went to say hi.

I wasn’t expecting much from it. I just wanted to say thank you. That had been my intention, but then I started talking about the 90-day challenge, and soon fell into a conversation about where I currently was with my writing and my life. Words just poured out before I could stop myself, and I’m pretty sure I cried. Yes, I did. Seems to me I can’t stop doing that these days, and I love doing that in front of someone I hardly know. Yet, he listened. With compassion. With a sort of warmth and genuineness that invited me to keep going. I felt seen. I felt heard. I felt understood.

It was weird

Not in a bad way. Just…I’m not used to it, still.

For some reason, a part of me is so used to being dismissed, or given awkward looks when I get emotional, or just maybe…annoyance. It’s what I expect, even if that hasn’t been the case mostly anymore; but it’s like my body is waiting for that to come. Instead, I got the opposite.

Then, he asked if he could pray for me.

What?

I had not expected that. Funny, cause the Bible talks about praying a lot, doesn’t it? And yet whenever a believer asks me that question, I always get taken off guard, especially if it’s someone I’ve never talked to before. As if we can’t pray for each other outside of our own local church? Why is that something some of us shy away from, or just simply have never learned to do? We say prayer is important, yet we are hesitant to pray?

Of course, I said yes to prayer. Although let’s be honest, sometimes we say yes just to look like good little Christians, even if we have cynicism hidden away, not believing it will do anything, but it would be a poor Christian thing to do to say no to a prayer. (Don’t worry, this wasn’t one of those times I was being cynical; I would tell you if I was!)

Then, a second thing happened.

He asked if he could place a hand on my shoulder.

Again, what? Excuse me? I mean, yes, I see that happening to other people, but I don’t experience that very often. (Hmm, repeat theme from previous blog post, I see). Of course, I said yes, again. He gently put his hand on my shoulder and we both bowed our heads, in a busy room full of people. I didn’t care. I think a younger me might have been embarrassed by that, but I felt touched and…comforted. It was like I wasn’t alone, carrying my burden. I can’t even remember what he prayed about, but that discouragement I had been battling with started to lift. How could it stay when I knew that this wasn’t a mistake that I had bumped into this fellow believer, who had a passion for writing, who had listened to my story, and had asked to pray with me? That wasn’t a coincidence.

And the prayer wasn’t the only thing I got out of that meet-up. As I was talking through my circumstances, he asked me what I thought God was calling me to do, and I felt myself freeze inside. What was God calling me to do? Yes, yes, typical Christian answer, “Everything you do, do it all to God’s glory!” That’s true, but let me ask you this, although we ought to do everything to God’s glory (whether big or small) what if God is calling you do something with the gifts He’s given you…and…maybe there are things you are holding back on, because of fear, because of uncertainty, because you simply don’t trust Him to provide for you as you take the steps down a path you’ve never done before? What if you are praying for direction, and maybe He’s given it to you, but you’re ignoring that answer because it isn’t the one that aligns with your plans, or how you believe the story should unfold? What if we aren’t taking that step out in boldness that we should be?

In part, I know after my first writer’s conference that I felt assured that I was storyteller, a writer, and that is something He has been putting on my heart that I should be pursuing, but when this question came up, I could almost feel something pressing against my heart, as if I know there are things that are holding me back, but I’m not sure how to tackle them. Or too afraid to. I’m in the middle of figuring it out, with God, and that’s honestly a hard place to be. In the uncertainty. But it’s okay. Because God knows why this journey has been difficult for me, and I am fully confident that He’s going to grow me through it. He has been helping me. Not in ways I expect, but it seems to be that’s kind of how He works, isn’t it?. We don’t often know how our stories are being written, but we have a God who does, and sometimes we just have to realize He knows what He’s doing, even if we don’t know the answers ourselves.

Day Four: Not Ready To Say Goodbye

June 24, 2025 ~ Jessica Deveault

“I don’t want to go home,” I told one of my best friends over a call.

“I was wondering when you’d say that.”

Apparently, she knows me better than I know myself. Even if the conference had started with an absolute mess of a roller coaster of emotions, I could feel my heart deflating when the last session ended. Every class had been infused with so much information and inspiration revolving around writing, stories, and faith. I had encountered and connected with so many writers within those four days who had the same passion and joy in the craft and…I didn’t want it to stop. I didn’t want to go back to the drudgery of daily life where my writing so often got steamrolled, shoved to the back corner as other routines took over.

But deep down, I knew I needed to go home.

Though I still went to bed with a pang of sadness, when I woke up in the morning for breakfast, I sat down with a writer friend I had made during those four days. As we sat together, we started to share our stories about faith and the church, and it soon delved into stories of how legalism impacted us growing up, or still has an impact on our lives. I was thankful for her vulnerability and moved by her story, but something sat heavy with me.

She wasn’t the only one out there who had a story like this.

Over the course of the few days, there were several others I had talked to who had been deeply hurt by the church, by legalism, and how God had been taught to them in a distorted way. These were only a handful of individuals, but I knew there were many, many more who have been affected by this broken version of church, a place where you’re supposed to be safe and protected, and instead met with spiritual and emotional abuse by the church and its leaders.

Now, I used to remember being under the assumption, whenever someone left the church, it was because they were just a “rebellious sinner” who never was in the faith, never loved Jesus. Okay, sure, there might be some who fall under that category, but was that just a write-off so we didn’t have to think about all the reasons why someone might have left? If there was something the church was missing? For what of those who wanted a relationship with Jesus, but were silently suffering as they try to be obedient to all the “rules” placed before them, and the constant feeling of not being enough, the constant fear of judgement when they struggle with doubts and fear if they open up that they will be mocked, dismissed, or rejected?

And perhaps there are those who HAVE tried to work through their struggles, tried to bring them to the church for advice, but have been shamed instead of receiving the love they need. So instead of being helped by the ones who are supposed to be compassionate and gentle, they are crushed, forced into a silent suffering, unable to figure out what they should do, and feeling further and further away from God with each passing day as the cycle of doubt, sin, and brokenness continue.

But apparently it’s all their fault. They just need to trust more. Muster up their own strength (though they say to do everything through Jesus, but what does that even look like?) And when they can’t, it just gets lonelier and heavier until…

They leave.

It seems that God doesn’t love them in their suffering. And the church doesn’t either.

And what does the church do in response?

Judge.

Put more fear into those who are staying with warnings like, “Careful you better become not like them or you’ll end up in hell, forever condemned.”

A faith that says we speak love and truth, but often is void of it. So high and mighty, ready to swing down with a heavy hammer. Because isn’t that easier? To talk about someone’s fault, rather than listening to the broken heart of the sufferer? Maybe unable to help because we can’t even face our own brokenness, and rather than admit we have our own struggles, we bury them deep down and we mask up, pretending we have it all together.

But we can’t keep pretending. Not with so many stories unraveling what has happened or is happening to so many. After listening to to those who have been negatively impacted by the church, I knew it was time to say goodbye as my mind began to spin with ideas, and resolve started to form. For was it by chance that I had written a manuscript that spoke exactly to this issue of legalism and church hurt? I felt that I was meant to write this story, to show there is hope in the darkness, and to show that God did not design the church or the gospel to be represented in such a way.

Though I’m not anywhere near ready to be published yet, I am working towards that every day, for I seek to put words on the pages and weave stories that can help those who have been under bondage or maybe still are. There is hope and freedom in the gospel, not this fear and shame that has been offered. I’m not sure how I’m going to get published yet, but it seems to me that God put this calling on my heart, and if this conference taught me anything? God sees you, in the little moments, and in the big moments, and He can help me get there in His perfect timing.

Day Three: When Your Heart Sings

June 19, 2025 ~ Jessica Deveault ~ 1 Comment

The walls before me were decorated with many drawings of landscapes, of maps intricately designed, showcasing world-building and imagination, along with a collection of book covers that were printed in various editions throughout the years. I hadn’t known there was a museum where I would find both C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien’s works, their desks, the books they owned, and even the wardrobe! I had grabbed one of the tickets for the tour, about twenty-five of us would go on, but I had somehow not gotten the memo that we were meeting as a group before going to the Wade Center. That’s okay. As I waited for the group, I wandered around the room, examining showcases with a quiet awe.

As I came upon a wall that showed Tolkien’s creativity, I stared, almost mesmerized. A strong ache of longing pulsed inside me. This is where I belong. It felt like my heart was saying. This is what I was made for. This is what I love. I almost started crying in the middle of a museum, maybe just the overwhelm of being at a conference that revolved around writing caught up to me, but also just seeing how other authors of the past created such beautiful things was captivating and made me wish that I wasn’t so afraid to pursue what I love more fully. Before any tear fell, I noticed there was a camera directly above, staring down at me with its beady little eye. I pulled myself back together. That would have been embarrassing. They’d wonder why was this random chick shedding tears over a display? Because it’s amazing, okay?

Anyway, whether or not that sounds corny to you, I don’t know. But I can tell you that I’ve never felt that way toward math. Gross. You’re telling me there are people out there who love math (weirdos). Just kidding, we need people who like numbers, so people like me don’t have to.

But really. Here’s the question. Is there anything that makes you just come alive, even if you know others don’t feel the same? I can definitely think of some friends who would have sat through the same sessions at the conference, and their eyes would have glazed over with boredom. When I came home, a friend asked me, “What was your favorite session?” I couldn’t give an answer. Usually, there are some I like more than others, but at this conference? It was as if every single one filled a need that I had. I absorbed everything — except maybe for the one evening session where I was nearly falling asleep from being too tired. My bad.

Yet, every single workshop I’ve been to that involves stories, it’s like my heart sings. I can immerse myself in writing without being bored. Being able to create such amazing stories and worlds and all the things that come with the imagination is where I thrive.

Why did I decide to blog about this? Well, here’s the thing I’ve been pondering. I think some of us have been given gifts or talents or whatever you want to call them, but sometimes we just put them on the back burner, not trying to master skills that we’re designed to do, that come naturally to us, or have a passion for. I’m not talking about those who can’t dedicate time to learning and building on their gifts or talent because they don’t have the time or resource to do so in the stage of life, I’m talking about those of us who might know we can do something with our gifts (even if in small ways) but don’t do anything with them out of fear of failure, fear of not being good enough, fear of well “I’ll never be good as so and so, why bother”? Who cares? You’ll never get better at something if you don’t try, and give yourself the patience and grace to learn how to get better at it. If there is something that makes your heart sing, don’t even do it for others. Do it because it’s something you love to do. Do it because God gave you this ability and gift to do it. Don’t waste the gifts you’ve been given. Instead, find ways to master those talents and enjoy them!

Day Two: Comfort Zones

June 17, 2025 ~ Jessica Deveault

What does it mean for you to try something out of your comfort zone? Would you give it a chance even if it stretched you and caused you some unease? It doesn’t matter how small or big it is. What is something that would challenge the ways that you think, or push you to become a better version of yourself, to give yourself the opportunity for growth, or even new memories?

They weren’t kidding when a speaker said the conference would be a fire hose of information. After my first class of Publishing 101, I knew there was so much about the industry that I didn’t know about, and that my current manuscript wasn’t anywhere near ready to be published, whether that was traditional or self-publishing. As I looked at the long list of notes I had already compiled from part one of three of the Publishing 101, I knew there was a lot of work ahead of me. Yet, strangely enough, I wasn’t deterred. I felt more resolved than before to follow the steps I would need to become successful as an author. Not famous, guys. Just being able to write a novel and publish it well. For I desire to make the content as best as it can be. “Well, you can’t just wait till it’s perfect,” some might say. True. But also, no one wants to read unpolished trash. That’s what critique groups, beta readers, and editors are for. Helping you refine the trash into gold. (I hope my friend doesn’t come to scold me later for calling my writing trash!) Okay, how about beautiful, lovely trash? No? I can hear the growl of disapproval. Well, I wrote what I wrote. Not taking it back now!

Even if my manuscript isn’t perfect yet, though, that doesn’t mean I didn’t bring a few pages of my draft to my 15-minute author meeting session. Oh, boy. I entered a room filled with tables with professionals in the writing industry and found the author I had set up an appointment with. She asked me what I wanted to talk about. Advice. That’s what I wanted. She gave me a few that I jotted down in my notebook so as not to forget for later, and then she asked if I had brought any of my manuscript. Slightly nervous, I pulled out the first ten pages of my current work in project and handed it to her. She started reading through it. Ah! I hate when anyone reads my work when I’m present, yet I wasn’t going to turn down help. So, keep it together, man!

She started marking some sentences and explaining how wording could be improved or tweaked, but as she went through it, she told me that my writing was good. Though there were common first-page errors that writers make, they were things that could easily be fixed. Not going to lie. That little meeting boosted my confidence. I didn’t care if the page was all marked up because the advice she had given me made sense. I thanked her when the time was up and left with a little more pep in my step.

Afterwards, I headed for a world-building class. I was in my element, loving fantasy, sci-fi, and all the details of what goes behind creating worlds for fiction. At the end of the class, though, when it was time for questions, I had one lingering in my mind. Normally, I don’t enjoy talking in class, but I decided to force myself to ask, giving a reference to the tiny dragons that were in my story world. It wasn’t even that big of a deal asking the question, but I spoke up.

As the class ended, a young woman suddenly came up to me with an excited gleam in her eye, asking me more about my book with the tiny dragons. I wasn’t sure why I was so caught off guard, considering I was in a class mainly for those who wrote in this genre, but it really touched me that she was so interested in my book. More writers joined the circle, and we got to talking about issues in our storylines and thinking through ideas. If I hadn’t asked a question, would that conversation have followed? I don’t know. But I made a few friends that day, friends who understood the complexities of writing in certain genres and writers who have the same passion as I do for storytelling.

Finally, dinner rolled around. I found myself sitting alone in the busy cafeteria. That wasn’t such a big deal to me. It meant I didn’t have to talk again. I know, I know. I had great conversations throughout the day, but that didn’t mean all my nerves were completely gone yet, and a break from that felt good. I sat quietly by myself when three Australians (everyone loved the Aussies) came over to my table and joined me, and I was quite happy to have company, even if my nerves weren’t completely settled.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the literary agents — actually, he is probably one of THE literary agents that is well known in the Christian publishing world, and I didn’t even know about that until I researched the conference.

And he asked to join our table.

Panic, panic! Ahh!

He put his plate down by my seat and excused himself as he went to get a drink or something. Um, this wasn’t part of the plan? Not that I had a plan, but oh no. What if he asked me about what I write? Yes, it’s a writer’s conference, but I didn’t have a great answer for my novel. Well, I had an answer. I just didn’t want to be stumbling all over my words. One of the Aussies saw my reaction, I think a little amused, and said there was nothing to be afraid of and that he was a great guy. I didn’t doubt he was a great guy. I just didn’t want to talk about my book.

Well, he soon came back. And we all started talking.

He did not ask me about me about my book. Thank the heavens.

But I was actually super happy that he joined the table because the conversations we had were so fun. I got to learn a bit more about what it’s like being a literary agent, and the publishing industry, and he also made me laugh so hard about a story about a slush muppet. I think I was nearly in tears. Even if I didn’t exactly push myself out of my comfort zone, I’m really glad I didn’t go to a quiet corner of the cafeteria where no one would have seen me, but I placed myself in an area where I left it open for others to join my table. Even the small steps I took to push myself out of my comfort zone brought many new memories. Everything I did was worth it. Maybe next time I’ll be able to take more steps toward growth.

Day One: The Little Things

June 17, 2025 ~ Jessica Deveault

I was sitting down at the Chicago airport, waiting to meet up with a couple ladies I would be taking an Uber with to the conference, and finishing up my overly priced wrap, when a young woman approached me. “Excuse me, can I pray for you?”

The question startled me. What had she just asked? I mean, I knew what she asked, but I was in disbelief. Wasn’t this something I had heard or seen that happened to other people? Surely, not to someone like me. But it was me she had asked.

The only thing my muddled mind could think to say was, “I’m going to a writing conference.” Though inwardly, my insides were an emotional wreck, and that was really what I could use prayer for. I hadn’t slept well that night, and the entire morning, my nerves refused to be reasoned with, even though I tried to pray through it and read scripture.

She prayed over me, wishing my conference would go well. As she ended, I stuttered over my words, but didn’t care as I asked her how she knew I needed prayer, or how she had the boldness to go up and ask people. She told me she was led by God, and that if I asked, that was something God would show me how to do, too. And it truly was a desire of my heart that I could become more bold in being able to encourage others through prayer. Without even asking, she prayed over me again, that this would be something God would help me with in the future.

As she said goodbye, I sat there, unable to quite comprehend that just happened. A complete stranger. A believer I had never met. In the airport crowded with hundreds of people. And I happened to sit down in a spot where this young woman had been standing. That was no coincidence. God had placed each other in our paths, and though my nerves didn’t quite calm down after she prayed, I was assured that I wasn’t alone in this. It felt as if God was saying he saw me, and knew my struggles, and that I was going to be okay.

Except I still hid.

Even after meeting with three lovely ladies (another answer to prayer) who were attending the conference as they helped me navigate through the Chicago airport and order and Uber to take the Wheaton Campus, I left their company as soon as I was registered and went to my dorm room. Part of me wished I could stay there, not move, forget that I had come all this way. Silly, I know. I had invested in this conference, so staying in the room forever wasn’t an option, but my internal struggle did not want to release its hold.

Yet, I got back up, forcing myself to face what I did not want to, and left the safety of my room. Somewhere amidst the wandering, as the opening session wouldn’t start for a while, I sat on a bench outside the main building.

What am I even doing here, Lord? I questioned. Could I even make friends if I were so paralyzed by this ridiculous anxiety?

Just then, a young woman walked by. Then slowed down. Then walked toward me. She smiled warmly and greeted me, and we both realized that we had messaged each other on the conference app a few days earlier. Instead of staying seated alone on the bench, I joined her on a walk around campus. Again, I knew this wasn’t a coincidence that she had walked by me at this timing. God really wasn’t leaving me to struggle alone in my mess.

Now it was time for the opening session.

I can’t remember much of what was said because I was burnt out, so as the session came to a close, and we applauded the speaker, all I wanted to do was get back to my dorm room. Yet the head of WTP Conference came up to the mic with closing remarks, and she invited us to head down to the lounge and meet up with other writers, tempting us with snacks, perhaps, but saying just go there, even if it was only for three minutes. Just three minutes.

I really didn’t want to go, but I could commit to three minutes, couldn’t I? And she did say there were snacks. I like snacks. Slinging my satchel over my shoulder, trying not to make contact with anyone else, I headed in the direction of the lounge would be. When I entered the room, it was already buzzing with activity. Many were already seated at tables, engaged in conversations. I headed to the back of the room where the snack table was and grabbed a small plate of food (they were good snacks, by the way) and wandered back through the main area. I wasn’t intending to sit with anyone, but I guess God had other plans. Again.

An older gentleman was sitting alone at a table, and he waved me to join. Well, I wanted to get to know people, so I should sit down, even if it was only for a little while. As I sat down, I secretly hoped we weren’t going to talk much, or that he would do all the talking. Before we even had much of a conversation, he continued to invite others to the table, and soon the table was filled with friendly faces. One lady started going into the history of C.S. Lewis, and I felt myself settle in, enthralled by the stories of what she was telling us. Though I was still tired, I did not regret staying past the three minutes.

As the night ended, and I headed back to my room, I wondered if there was a chance I would be able to settle into this conference. It seemed that God was using the little things that day to give me encouragement exactly when I needed it. Though it didn’t fix the overwhelm inside, it made it easier to handle. To be honest, I am so used to being the one who goes out of my way to encourage and help others, and for some reason, it didn’t occur to me that God can put people in my path to do the same for me when I feel incapable.

I think what I learned that day was that God sees you, even if it may seem like a small, insignificant thing, and he can help you through that, too. But also, reminding myself that small acts of kindness, whether that be praying with someone, inviting a stranger into your circle, are sometimes bigger than you may realize. You never know what someone is going through, so if you have a prompting in your heart to reach out, maybe step out and do it, for you never know how that will impact someone else and make their day.