In the autumn of 2009, after I’d turned 50 and spent 22 years in pastoral ministry, I felt burnt out, disoriented, and lonely. My marriage was imploding. I knew I needed to leave ministry, but I was so weary and stuck that I couldn’t make a move. I remember a friend asking me a simple question: “Do you like the person you’re becoming?” I instantly knew the answer: No, I didn’t like my future self. I was keeping people at arm’s length and holding myself back from true intimacy. I’d lost my heart for—well, for everything.
Illustration by Hokyoung Kim
During this dark night of the soul, someone made a suggestion that changed my entire trajectory—“You should talk to Leighton Ford.”
At 6’4” with wavy white hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a broad smile, Leighton can’t help but capture attention. He enters a room, and people stare as if they’ve spotted a gentle lion. He was married to Billy Graham’s sister Jean, and early in his career served as a key leader in Graham’s worldwide evangelistic ministry. Leighton’s life bustled with big gatherings and global travel. But a few questions kept stirring in his soul: Where are all the younger leaders? And who is mentoring the next generation?
Then, after the tragic death of his 21-year-old son Sandy, Leighton sensed his life was being deepened and somehow refocused on a new goal. Walking through that valley of grief and living in the shadow of those pressing questions about younger leaders, Leighton made a shift. Later he wrote, “Increasingly I was seeing my calling as one to connect and mentor. To identify, develop, and bring together the emerging young evangelists from around the world … Having been known as a speaker, I was now doing a lot more listening. From addressing large crowds, now I was having up close and personal conversations with small groups and individuals.” From that point, he called himself “a friend on the journey.”
When I contacted Leighton in 2009, he told me to come to his home in Charlotte, North Carolina, and spend three days with him. Each morning we set out from his front door and wandered nearby parks and streams with his dog Wrangler. Along the path, Leighton would ask me questions and then listen. He preferred simple but probing inquiries like: “Who are you? To whom do you belong? What will you do?” Sometimes he’d stop, tilt his head back, and start praying. He believed and lived as if Jesus was walking right beside us. For Leighton, two friends on a journey were always joined by a third.
After my first night with him, I returned to my hotel room and transcribed one of our conversations:
ME: I never had time to be with God or other people because I was always so busy.
LF: Why?
ME: Had to build up the church and meet people’s needs.
LF: Why?
ME: Because there were so many needs, and it was my job.
LF: Why?
ME: So people would like me and then I would be okay.
LF: Why?
ME: Because that was my identity.
LF: Why?
He didn’t have to hammer his point with a lecture. I got it after his third “why.”
That was the essence of Leighton’s ministry of spiritual friendship to me. He simply ushered me into the presence of Jesus so I felt a little more whole and a little more hopeful about walking the path to healing.
At one point that weekend he asked, “What is your dream?” I sighed and said, “I had a dream once, but I don’t dream anymore. That would hurt too much.” At his urging, I described the dream that died: I wanted to be the successful, popular pastor of a thriving church.
Leighton was silent for a long time. We watched the wind blow through the leaves in his back yard. Then he said, “Matt, sometimes there are times between dreams. Have you considered that you’re in one of those?” After pausing, he continued, “The first dream crashed. But what if God wants to bring another? What does that look like for you?”
“Okay,” I said, “I might as well just blurt it out. If I ever pastor again, and that is a big ‘if,’ I want to start a small, struggling, multi-ethnic church in an under-resourced community in Chicago.” The clarity and conviction of my vision shocked me. I felt embarrassed. What am I saying? I asked myself. There are so many reasons why this dream is a bad idea, and I am not the right person to pursue it.
But Leighton smiled, leaned forward in his chair, and said two words: “Why not?”
That dream never materialized, but it didn’t matter. After talking about possibilities, I felt something stirring in my soul again—and the hope of that vision alone was enough to sustain me “between dreams.”
***
Following that visit, I didn’t intend to see Leighton again. But in 2010, I moved to Chicago to work at Christianity Today, and in my editorial role, I reached out to Leighton to see if he would be willing to write a few articles. Then, last year, our paths crossed again when he invited me to an event focused on raising up more men and women to mentor other Christian leaders.
One day during the event, Leighton—92, slightly stooped but still with that wavy white hair and tall, slender frame—joined us to lead one of the sessions. He gave me a hug and said, “Matt, you should come to Charlotte and visit me again. Can we make that happen?” I began to wonder if God was calling me into a new season—away from a busy, broad ministry towards more “up close and personal conversations.”
So, 14 years after that first visit, I enjoy a few more days with the man. His beloved wife of 70 years was very ill at the time, and he had spent long hours caring for her. Leighton looked tired, but he made space for me. We still went for a walk, but this time it was shorter and slower. We spent most of our time together sitting in his study, surrounded by scattered stacks of books on theology, the intersection of faith and technology, philosophy, and of course his favorite—poetry. Lots of poetry.
Leighton still asked his trademark probing questions. “So, Matt,” he started, “why are you here?” Perplexed, I said, “Do you mean why am I here on earth or why am I here sitting in this chair in your office?” He replied, “How about both?”
Now it was my turn to be silent. Leighton tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and waited. Finally, I said, “Leighton, I’m not sure, but maybe I’m here because I want to be more like you. Maybe God is calling me to do what you’re doing.”
Honestly, I’m still not totally sure—about this new dream or my ability to pursue it. But now, after receiving training and funding from Leighton’s ministry, I’m launching my first three-day mentoring group, consisting of five church planters and one global worker from the Middle East.
On one hand, I’m thrilled because I hope this is the first step into the next season of my life. On the other, I’m so nervous. I want everything to be perfect—from the content to the conversations, the accommodations to the coffee and snacks. But then I remember what Leighton modeled for me: It’s about being a friend—a guide who listens, asks good questions, and then listens some more, always making room for that Third Person on the journey. So, when I start pondering the reasons why I’m not the right person to mentor others, I can hear Leighton say, “Why not?”
Years have passed since that difficult season of feeling stuck. I’m a different person than I was, but I haven’t exactly “arrived,” either. And, you know what? That’s okay. I try not to worry about where I land and instead focus on following God’s call, wherever it leads me. Ultimately, what kept me afloat wasn’t a perfect plan. It was a man who encouraged me between dreams—and that’s a gift I hope to share with others.
