Heels on Holy Ground: When Your Calling Doesn’t Fit the Mold

There was a season in my life when I questioned God's plan for me. Not because I didn’t believe—but because the path He laid out felt jagged, unfamiliar, and at times… painfully humiliating.

I have what some call an anointing. The prayers God spoke through me moved mountains. The sermons He gave for me to preach stirred hearts and provoked thought. The heart and hands He gave to me to serve with, served willingly and without hesitation. And yet, when I was first called to ministry, I was met not with celebration, but resistance. You see, I was an outsider. Not by choice, but by design. Married to the only other available young minister at his small-town family church, I carried a calling that didn’t fit the mold. I came from a big-city rhythm, refined by suburban grace. I wore designer fits, full makeup, and heels that stood three to five inches tall—every day. Not for vanity, but for vision. It was how I showed up. How I honored the stage God gave me.

But seasoned Baptist ministerial tradition had its own expectations. They wanted to see something different—something quieter, plainer, more palatable. Even those who once mentored me raised silent eyebrows. And some, not all, spoke words that didn’t just sting—they carved doubt into the very core of my confidence.

I remember one moment that still echoes.

I was tasked with carrying a lead minister’s books up to the pulpit. A task that newer ministers perform during training. Dressed in four-inch heels and honor, I ascended with grace. But coming down was different. I missed a step—then all three. I fell. Hands and knees hit the floor, in front of many.

I didn’t hurt anything but my ego. But in that moment, the sting went deeper than skin—it echoed through my spirit. To some, it was confirmation. Proof that I didn’t belong. That my heels were too high, my presence too polished, my calling too unconventional. They didn’t see the grace it took to rise again. They didn’t hear the prayers I whispered as I dusted myself off. They didn’t know that God was already preparing a different kind of pulpit—one built not only of wood, but of purpose wrapped in elegance.

That next Sunday, the other ministers pranced up and down the pulpit stairs with ease—as if to say, “See?”

I maintained a stoic expression and posture. Pruning can be painful; seemingly cruel.

But God? He wasn’t done with me. What they didn’t know was some time after that fall, God lifted me onto an entirely different stage. That stumble didn’t disqualify me. It revealed me. Because ministry isn’t about flawless execution—it’s about faithful endurance. And even when tradition raised its eyebrows, heaven never did.

Fashioned by grace. Designed for purpose. Anointed for impact.

Model Calls. Photo Shoots. Makeup. Hair. Fashion. Modeling. Runways. Elegance. I stepped boldly in my high heels onto vinyl and plexiglass runways— and never fell. I fit. I belonged. In fact, I was encouraged to lead. I became the face of fashion lines, the coach to other models, the ambassador of poise and grace. I preached without a mic. I ministered without robes. And God never questioned my presence.

Because He never questioned my calling.

And even then—when I was being exalted in fashion, leading runway teams and glowing in Christian Siriano or Louboutin red-bottoms heels—I questioned it.

Oh, how my soul longed for the sanctuary—the sacred rhythm of being within the church walls, surrounded by the wisdom and warmth of leadership. I deeply missed those moments of divine instruction—sitting under the guidance of my patient, faith-filled husband and our esteemed, profoundly gifted Pastor—whose words didn’t just teach; they stirred something eternal in me.

There was something holy about being in the presence of the elders and fellow leaders. It wasn’t just fellowship—it was legacy unfolding. I cherished every meeting, every prayer, every plan we laid before God with trembling expectation. And when Sunday came… when the Spirit moved and the message we had labored over in prayer was received by the people of God with open hearts and tear-stained faces—it was nothing short of miraculous.

Those moments reminded me why I answered the call. Why I kept returning. Why I served. It wasn’t just duty—it was devotion. And to witness the fruit of that labor, to see heaven touch earth in real time… it was joy unspeakable. A joy I still carry. A joy that reminds me that ministry—true ministry—is felt, not just seen.

But God… He had me on runways, in airplanes, touching down in big cities, staying in expensive hotels and walking through exotic places I never imagined. It was dazzling. Purposeful. But in the quiet moments, I still asked: Was this all God had for me? Couldn’t I be better used elsewhere?

I had spent years praying with power, preaching with passion, and serving with a heart wide open. I knew the weight of ministry. I knew the sacredness of the call. And yet, I found myself wondering—wasn’t ministry supposed to look a certain way?

But what I learned—what God whispered in the midst of my questioning—was that purpose doesn’t always wear tradition. Sometimes it wears silk. Sometimes it walks in heels. Sometimes it speaks through style and shows up in spaces the church hasn’t yet entered. God hadn’t misplaced me. He was revealing how vast His vision really was. He had expanded me.

Ministry isn’t confined to pulpits. It shows up in prayer lines, clothing lines, concert lines, chow lines, grocery lines and any other lines you may encounter. In shows up in fallen moments and fierce ones.

God didn’t reroute me to silence me. He expanded the platform—and dressed it in sequins.

“Ministry isn’t confined to pulpits—it flows through fashion shows, blog posts, and boundary-breaking authenticity.”

And though I have not yet returned to the pulpits or the runways, I know this: God is not finished with me. One day, He will whisper a new assignment—one crafted just for me. And when He does, all I have to be is ready. Willing.

Because God is a wonder. Because calling doesn’t expire. It waits. It watches. It weaves itself into every season, even the quiet ones. And when the time comes, I won’t need to rehearse tradition—I’ll simply respond with obedience. Whether in heels or barefoot, in a sanctuary or a studio, I’ll go.

So, to the woman questioning her place… you’re not misplaced. You’re multi-purposed. Allow me to encourage you with a few truths and steps for walking God's path—even when it looks nothing like the plan you imagined:

Encouragement for the Misplaced Woman

• You aren’t wrong. You’re pioneering. God often calls us into new spaces where tradition hasn’t tread.

• Falling isn’t failure. It’s a sacred repositioning. What shamed you yesterday becomes testimony today.

• Your anointing is not up for debate. God didn’t ask for approval when He chose you. Don’t let others define your divine assignment.

Steps for Walking God's Path and your Calling with Boldness

1. Listen beyond noise. Prayerfully seek clarity. God speaks through peace, conviction, and open doors—not through everyone's opinions.

2. Honor your identity. Whether you're in robes or runway attire, your authenticity is part of the ministry.

3. Serve wherever you're planted. Ministry might be in church today, and backstage tomorrow. God needs you in both.

4. Heal from wounds. Address spiritual and emotional bruises so you don’t carry bitterness into your breakthrough.

5. Celebrate divine detours. Where others see confusion, you’ll see confirmation. Detours often lead to destiny.

Your walk is sacred, even if it doesn’t look "typical." Every step, stumble, strut, and stride are part of the journey that God handwrote for you.

So, walk it well—heels and all.

Your walk, even in five-inch heels, is still holy.

When tradition questioned my steps, God rerouted my platform. From pulpits to fashion runways, I ministered with grace, poise—and unapologetic purpose.

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