In August of 2010, I walked into a classroom as a brand-new teacher, fresh off four years of retail management. I actually liked retail. There’s something kind of satisfying about making things run smoothly, helping people, and solving problems on the fly. But the company I worked for had a habit of moving folks around like chess pieces, and I eventually got stationed an hour from home. Not “an hour in traffic” either—an hour if the roads were clear and I hit every green light.

At first, I told myself it was temporary. That I was providing. That it was just part of the grind. But then came Halloween. Then Christmas. Then New Year’s. I worked them all. Not just once. Every year. Our firstborn was growing up in front of my wife’s camera lens, and I was the guy watching the highlights instead of being there for the moments. We celebrated holidays on off-days and called it “good enough.”

Eventually, good enough was not good enough.

By July of 2009, I left that job, and I went all in on finishing my education degree. I wrapped that up in May 2010, not knowing exactly what the classroom would hold but confident that it would be something worthwhile and a better situation.

What I didn’t expect was how much I’d love it. I mean really love it. The students, the structure, the organized chaos of a school day. It all just clicked. I found myself in a job that felt more like a calling than a career move. Instead of driving to work dreading it, I drove to work anticipating what great thing was going to happen.

By 2017, I was all in as a sixth grade English teacher. I’d fallen in love with teaching, but I wanted to make a bigger impact—not just in one classroom, but across the school. So, I went back to school myself and earned a Master’s in Educational Administration. I felt ready to help lead a team, support teachers, and shape a school culture in a real, intentional way.

After graduation, I did what every freshly credentialed aspiring administrator does. I started applying. Some doors stayed closed. A few interviews didn’t go anywhere. But then, in 2021, an opportunity opened up that felt tailor-made for me.

I prayed hard for that job. And not the casual kind of prayer you mutter while you’re driving or mowing the yard. I mean I prayed. I believed that God and I were aligned on this one. Same goal, same mission.

First mistake.

In hindsight, I should’ve been praying for God’s will to be done—not that He’d line up with mine like some kind of divine endorsement. But at the time, I thought this job was the payoff. The reward. The next step in a line I had worked hard to climb. I had built the résumé and paid my dues. I felt like I had earned it. Dare I say, I deserved it.

Second mistake.

After the interview, I returned to my classroom and wrapped up the day. A few kids wished me luck. A couple of staff members told me they hoped I’d get it. I could see it. I could feel it. My assistant principal office was already decorated in my imagination.

So when the district number popped up on my phone, I took the call expecting to accept the offer.

But that’s not what happened.

The moment I heard the tone in her voice, I knew. You can always tell when someone’s about to deliver disappointing news—they soften their voice, stretch out their sentences, and use words like “unfortunately.” That’s what I got. As soon as she said, “Hey…Maury,” I knew.

I stayed polite. Thanked her for the call. Hung up. Then…just…sat…there.

I sat there in my empty classroom, just holding my head in my hands as the lights went out, the sensors not recognizing any movement, completely stunned.

I didn’t just feel disappointed. I felt like something inside me had collapsed. Like a balloon popped in my chest and all the air rushed out. I checked out my kids at their respective schools, and I left school that day. I couldn’t stay. All the way home, my son would ask me if I was OK. All I could do was lie and say, “I'm fine,” and shake my head.

I was angry—at the process, at the decision, at God.

And yeah, I know how that sounds. But I was. I had prayed so hard, believed so fully, and done all the things I thought I was supposed to do. I’d worked for it, wanted it, deserved it. Or so I thought.

In my mind, the job was already mine. I had already picked out where my desk would go, imagined the first staff meeting, dreamed up new ideas. Losing it wasn’t just disappointing. It felt personal.

I went home and had a very real, very raw conversation with God. The kind where you pace the floor and talk out loud because you’ve got too much in your chest to keep it in. I laid it all out: the hours I’d put in, the dreams I’d built, the financial security it could’ve brought to my family. I told Him how much it would’ve meant to feel seen, to feel validated. I told Him about the raise, the morale boost, the potential it had to provide for my family. As if He hadn’t been providing all along.

God can handle our honesty. Even when it comes in hot.

And then, after I was done venting, I felt it—not a voice, not an answer, but a quiet reminder:

God never said yes.

We sometimes say that, don’t we? “God didn’t answer my prayer.” What we really mean is “God didn’t answer the way I wanted.”

But God always answers.
Yes. No. Or wait.

Readers, I love my memory. I have a mind like a steel trap. It’s why you get stories like these. I remember details, emotions, feelings. A smell or mention of something is like a time machine in my head. Most of the time those memories are a blessing. Other times they’re a curse.

In the weeks that followed, I kept circling back to that moment—sitting in my classroom, phone in hand, staring at the wall like I’d just been gut-punched. But hindsight has this way of gently peeling back the layers until you see what you couldn’t before.

And what I began to see was this: I had been praying wrong.

I wasn’t asking for God’s will to be done. I was asking Him to co-sign mine. I was treating the Creator of the universe like a genie with a clipboard. "Here's what I want, God. Make it happen, please and thank You."

But God’s not in the business of rubber-stamping our agendas. He’s in the business of shaping hearts, building character, and preparing paths we can’t see yet. And sometimes, that starts with a no.

A loud, hard, heartbreaking no.

But here’s what else I learned: no doesn’t mean never. And it doesn’t mean forgotten. It just means “not this one” because something better is coming.

Weeks later, I landed a job that checked every box I didn’t even know I needed. It paid more, had a better schedule, and brought me closer to home—closer to the very family I was afraid of missing out on again. God didn’t just give me what I asked for. He gave me what I actually needed…and it was better.

That’s when I imagined God with His arms outstretched, saying,
“See? I said no to that other one because I had this one waiting.”

That job wasn’t the prize—His plan was.

I’m so glad God didn’t say yes when I asked Him to. How many times do we look back at instances in our lives and think that? As I get older, I'm thankful for the “no’s.”

So if you’re praying hard for something right now, something you think you can’t live without, take it from me:

Don’t just pray for what you want.

Ask Him to give you His best, even if it means telling you no at the moment.

Because His no is never the end of the story. It’s just the beginning of one you couldn’t write on your own.

Because sometimes, no is the greatest yes He’ll ever give you.

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When God Said No