The Next Right Thing

The Next Right Thing Plot Summary

Introduction

The phone rings. You stare at it, frozen. A new job opportunity, a possible move, a relationship at a crossroads—whatever it is, this decision feels impossibly heavy. Your mind races through potential outcomes, spinning elaborate scenarios of what might happen if you choose wrong. The weight of indecision has become a constant companion, stealing your peace and clouding your judgment. Sound familiar? We all face moments when the path forward seems shrouded in fog. Emily Freeman understands this struggle intimately. Through her own journey of grief, career transition, and personal growth, she discovered that decision-making doesn't have to be paralyzing. Instead, she found a gentle, soulful approach that creates space for clarity to emerge naturally. This book offers a refreshing alternative to pro-con lists and frantic googling. It's an invitation to slow down, listen to your life, and trust that you can discover your next step—not by forcing clarity, but by creating the conditions for it to arise. Through stories both personal and profound, Freeman guides us toward a way of deciding that feels less like pressure and more like peace.

Chapter 1: Creating Space: The Journey to Soul Minimalism

Emily Freeman sat at her desk, staring at her email inbox with growing unease. What had begun as a simple task—cleaning out old messages—had suddenly revealed a deeper truth. Her inbox was filled with newsletters from business coaches, Instagram teachers, book launch experts, and decluttering guides. She had been collecting gurus, seeking answers from every possible expert, hoping someone else's clarity would somehow become her own. As she combed through these messages, she noticed her breathing becoming shallow and her head starting to ache. The problem wasn't the courses or advice itself. The problem was having too many voices speaking at once. In her search for guidance, she had created a cacophony of conflicting advice that was drowning out the still, small voice within her. Freeman describes this moment as a turning point in her approach to decision-making. She realized that before seeking external advice, she needed to create space—to become what she calls a "soul minimalist." Just as physical minimalists declutter their homes, soul minimalists declutter their inner lives to make room for what matters most. This practice began with turning off notifications on her phone. "Facebook, you do not get to interrupt me," she declared. "Instagram, you do not have my permission to tap me on the shoulder whenever you want to." These small acts of resistance created pockets of silence in her day, moments when her soul could finally speak. The author compares this practice to what happened when a woman named Courtney Carver was diagnosed with MS. Doctors told Carver she needed to "listen to her body," but she responded, "I can't even listen to my family; I don't know how I'm going to hear my body." It was only by simplifying her schedule and her home that she created the space needed to tune in to her physical needs. In our own lives, creating space isn't about emptiness but about possibility. When we clear away the noise, we can finally hear the whispers of our own hearts. Soul minimalism allows us to sift through the day's input, discerning what to hold onto and what to release. This gentle practice becomes the foundation for all decision-making—not by forcing answers but by creating the conditions where wisdom can emerge naturally from within.

Chapter 2: Naming the Unnamed: Confronting Our Hidden Narratives

When medical missionary Nancy Writebol was diagnosed with Ebola in West Africa, her story captured media attention worldwide. After her recovery, she and her husband held a press conference, speaking with gratitude about their experience and sharing how their faith had carried them through. As they finished, CNN medical correspondent Elizabeth Cohen made a striking observation: "It's interesting that it would be very easy for their narrative to be one of traumatization... But it's not a narrative of trauma. It's a narrative of joy." This phrase—"narrative of joy"—stuck with Freeman. She recognized that while the Writebols' public testimony was beautiful, it represented just one moment in their larger story. Within every narrative, there are shadows of gray, moments of questioning, even shaking fists and tears. A narrative implies a story arc, not just a single point on the journey. Freeman realized that unmade decisions often remain heavy because there are things beneath the surface that haven't been named. When we fail to acknowledge what's really happening within us—a fear, a loneliness, a heartbreak, a dream—these unnamed realities exert powerful influence over our choices without our awareness. She shares how she once got a massage for back pain, and the therapist pointed out that the side where she felt pain wasn't actually the side with the most tension. When Freeman anxiously asked what that meant, the therapist simply replied, "It's not bad. It's just information." This response taught her an important distinction: naming is not the same as explaining or diagnosing. Sometimes we resist naming our true feelings because we fear what they might reveal. We worry that acknowledging disappointment means we're ungrateful, or that admitting fear means we lack faith. But as Freeman discovered, naming without judgment creates space for truth to exist without shame. It's like turning on a light in a dark room—suddenly you can see what's actually there. The practice of naming involves asking gentle questions: Is there a hurt you haven't quite let go? A regret that's been following you for so long you think it's normal? An excitement you haven't given yourself permission to explore? When we bring these realities into the light, we're not giving them power—we're acknowledging the power they already have, which is the first step toward making decisions from a place of honesty rather than avoidance.

Chapter 3: Following Arrows: Discerning Direction Amid Uncertainty

In 2011, John—Emily Freeman's husband—experienced a profound loss when his father passed away. Though he returned to his job as a youth pastor almost immediately after the funeral, his soul lingered in grief. The disconnect between his external pace and internal state soon manifested as panic, sleepless nights, and intense fear. This led to a three-month leave from work, a time of complete disconnection from the demands of ministry. During this period, the couple was searching for clarity about their future. Should John remain in youth ministry? Should they move in a different direction entirely? They wanted clear answers, a five-year plan, bullet points for the journey ahead. Instead, what they received were what Freeman calls "arrows"—subtle indications rather than explicit directions. The first arrow came through grief itself, breaking John open and creating space for deeper awareness. Another arrow appeared in the form of desire—noticing which aspects of ministry brought him life and which drained him. A third arrow pointed toward their relationship, strengthening their connection as a couple. For months, they had honest conversations, said prayers in the dark, and sought counsel from trusted mentors and friends. Eventually, these arrows led to a decision to leave youth ministry, though they still didn't know what was next. The first six months afterward were dedicated to rest and recovery. They started attending a small church as participants rather than leaders, learning how to sit together on Sunday morning—a significant shift for a pastoral couple. Nearly a year passed before they had any clear indication of what John's future ministry might look like. Freeman reflects: "It's been almost seven years since that time of our lives. Looking back, it was maddening on some days; we just wanted clear answers and instead we got faint arrows—to desire, through grief, and finally to one another." From her current vantage point, with John now working as the director of a local nonprofit offering soul care for pastors and young men, she can see how those arrows eventually led to the right place. What she learned through this experience was profound: God often gives faint visions of things before they ever come to be—not full forms with detailed steps, but shadows, not focused or clear. Rather than the black-and-white answers we tend to crave, we receive arrows pointing us toward the next step. And sometimes the most important arrow points us back to each other, reminding us that our decisions are not just about what we do but who we become along the way.

Chapter 4: Finding Your People: Mentors, Critics and Co-Listeners

During their time of vocational uncertainty, Emily Freeman and her husband John made a crucial decision: they would intentionally gather a few trusted people to listen to them articulate their thoughts and provide perspective. They weren't necessarily asking for advice, though they were open to it. What they needed most was to not feel alone in their questioning. They carefully selected individuals in different life stages, people who had been around longer than they had and who offered diverse perspectives. One evening, this group gathered in the Freemans' living room. John shared about his grief, his desires, and his hopes for the future. The group listened attentively, asked thoughtful questions, and prayed with them. They agreed to meet again a few months later. As the couple continued to simply do the next right thing in their daily lives—praying together, taking the kids to school, writing, reading—the arrow of community eventually led to vocational clarity. What felt like the main purpose at the time—finding John's next career step—proved secondary to the deeper connection they formed with their community and each other. Freeman distinguishes between different types of people we might turn to when making decisions. There are "gurus"—experts we tend to collect, hoping their clarity will somehow transfer to us. While these voices can be valuable, they're most helpful after we've established our own vision, not before. Then there are "co-listeners"—people who don't necessarily have answers but who create space for us to hear ourselves more clearly. She also introduces the concept of a "No Mentor"—someone who helps us say no to things that don't align with our true calling. For Freeman, this role was filled by her sister Myquillyn, who consistently reminded her of what she valued, what she was about, and what she truly wanted to do. A good No Mentor, she explains, isn't impressed by glitz or glamor and has the health of your soul, family, and work in mind. Finally, she addresses the critics—those voices that can either help us grow or hold us back. She offers this wisdom: "It's not necessary to have people always agree with you, but the critiques to most seriously consider are the ones coming from those who believe in you." If someone who believes in your work points out a weakness, that's worth considering. But if the critic not only disagrees with you but doesn't believe in you, their words deserve less influence. The search for direction often leads us not to definitive answers but to deeper community. As Freeman discovered, "God is less interested in where we end up than he is in who we are becoming." And the most common way he shows his presence to us is through the actual, physical presence of other people who walk alongside us as we discern our next right thing.

Chapter 5: The Courage to Choose: Making Peace with Imperfect Decisions

Emily Freeman stood frozen in the garden center, overwhelmed by options. She had one small ivy plant in her cart but couldn't seem to move forward with selecting anything else. What should have been a simple, enjoyable task had become paralyzing. As discouragement swept over her, she recognized a familiar pattern—the same anxiety that appeared whenever she faced choices in areas where she lacked confidence. Just a week earlier, she had walked through the streets of Coronado, California, admiring the beautiful succulent gardens outside every store. She had returned home inspired to add more plants to her own life. She could picture exactly what she wanted—containers filled with various shades of green. Yet here she stood, cart nearly empty, unable to make even these inconsequential choices. While this moment of indecision was small-scale, Freeman recognized it as emblematic of a larger pattern. Whether selecting plants, choosing paint colors, or deciding which book to read next, these seemingly simple decisions sometimes triggered feelings of being overwhelmed and personally shamed. What should have been life-giving turned life-draining. As she stood there, a phrase arrived in her mind complete: "Pick what you like, then see how it grows." It felt like her own voice but not her own idea. With this simple permission, she began pushing her cart through the leafy aisles, selecting plants based on what appealed to her rather than what might be "correct." She grabbed one with a tag that said "I like low light" and thought of a place it could go. She chose another with "jenny" in the name because it felt friendly. This garden center epiphany revealed something crucial about decision-making: often our fear isn't about the decision itself but about what it might reveal about us. We're afraid of looking foolish, of making a mistake, of confirming our inadequacy. Freeman realized she had assumed plant care should come naturally, unlike other skills that obviously require learning. This assumption had paralyzed her. What if we approached decisions not as tests of our worth but as opportunities for growth? What if, instead of demanding certainty before we act, we simply picked what we liked and then watched to see how it grew? This approach acknowledges that there may not be a perfect choice, a right choice, or an ideal. It creates room for learning through experience rather than demanding expertise from the start. Freeman's garden center moment offers wisdom for decisions both small and significant: we can release our fear of choosing wrong and embrace the courage to choose imperfectly. Every choice becomes not a final verdict but a step in our ongoing growth—a chance to see what blooms and what doesn't, and to learn from both outcomes.

Chapter 6: Expecting Surprise: God's Presence in the Waiting

It was 2014, and Emily Freeman found herself at a gathering called Hutchmoot in Franklin, Tennessee—an event celebrating art, faith, and storytelling. She had received a free ticket at the last minute when someone couldn't attend, which felt like a mini-miracle since tickets typically sold out within minutes each year. After the gathering concluded, she faced a small decision: whether to attend church before leaving town, and if so, which one. Though seemingly inconsequential, after days of being alone in an unfamiliar place, even this choice felt complicated. She eventually decided on Church of the Redeemer since it was where the weekend events had been held. After the service, feeling uncertain about eating lunch alone before her flight, she lingered, gathering her things slowly. The people sitting in front of her turned around and simply invited her to join them. "Come on," they said, "you can ride with us." This unexpected invitation was a gift—not required but certainly welcome. As she climbed into their car, she sensed another invitation, more subtle: "Pay attention. Don't forget to look out the window." After a short drive, they pulled up at a chicken restaurant near Belmont. And there, sitting at an outside table, was Sarah Masen—a musician whose work had profoundly shaped Freeman's life since she was seventeen. Years earlier, when Freeman was in high school, Masen had performed at her youth group. That night, Freeman recognized that Masen didn't just sing notes; she sang story. Masen's music became the soundtrack of Freeman's college years, and her lyrics inspired Freeman's own writing journey. Now, in a completely unexpected encounter, their paths crossed again. This chance meeting wasn't just about meeting someone Freeman admired. It revealed something deeper about control and clarity. "This isn't about Sarah Masen, not really," Freeman writes. "It's about my continual insistence that I am in control of my own life. It's about the endless pressure I put on myself to make the right choice, the best choice, at the right time." The most meaningful moments often come not through careful planning but through surrender to surprise. While Freeman made her decisions—to attend the gathering, to go to church, to accept the lunch invitation—the beautiful encounter that followed wasn't something she could have orchestrated. It was a gift that arrived when she was paying attention. This story encapsulates Freeman's approach to decision-making: we do our part by taking our next right step, but we remain open to what might unfold beyond our planning. "We make our decisions and choose our next steps," she writes, "but we get scared when we can't see the future. What if we chose to finally believe that our steps are leading somewhere good?" The invitation is to expect surprise—not with anxiety but with hope, knowing that our limited vision doesn't limit what's possible.

Summary

Life's complexities often leave us frozen at decision crossroads, analyzing every possible outcome until we're paralyzed by indecision. Emily Freeman's journey reveals a profound truth: the weight of unmade decisions grows heavier when we approach them with cluttered souls and anxious hearts. Her simple yet revolutionary approach invites us to create space through "soul minimalism," turning down the volume of external voices to hear our own inner wisdom more clearly. By paying attention to our bodies, naming our true feelings without judgment, and looking for subtle "arrows" rather than demanding neon signs, we can move forward with gentle confidence. What makes Freeman's path to clarity so refreshing is its emphasis on presence over perfection. Rather than obsessing over making the "right" decision, she encourages us to bring our whole selves—desires, fears, and limitations included—into honest conversation with trusted companions and with God. Whether finding a "No Mentor" who helps us protect our boundaries, gathering "co-listeners" who create space for our truth to emerge, or simply giving ourselves permission to "pick what we like and see how it grows," we learn that clarity emerges not through force but through faithful attention to the present moment. The next right thing isn't about perfection—it's about taking one soulful step forward, trusting that we're held in love even when the path ahead remains unclear.

About Author

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Emily P. Freeman

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