A few days ago, my husband and I drove down a familiar road in an established area of our city. Trees that have existed for decades upon decades waved over our path, their fall leaves showing off in the late morning sun. Even though the trees had endured storms of every kind, they stood as sentries, witnesses of what had taken place in this part of town for almost one hundred years.

We passed by one street that led to the home we shared for three years right after our honeymoon. The home where we housed five children whom I did not give birth to, and eventually a sixth child who camped out in my womb eleven days past her due date. I can still hear my daughter’s jabbers and squeals as she toddled through the house and interacted with those other shining kids. I can hear their peals of laughter at her antics and their funny comments at dinner.

We drove past the school next door, the oldest in our city. A public school that had once been failing but had been infiltrated by volunteers from the ministry my husband worked with. When the school eventually closed down, that same ministry — by the grace of God and generous donors — was able to purchase it for area students. A gleaming cream and white anchor and a testimony of the goodness of God.

We made our way around the rest of this old mill town that now housed a bakery, coffee spot, leather workshop, and even a wellness spa. The history wasn’t erased. You could see it in the bones of the buildings, in the texture of the floors and walls, and from the mouths of the people who lived there long ago.

As we parked and prepared to meet a young family for coffee in that refurbished mill, I couldn’t help but think about what it was like over twenty years before. When pizza delivery and police cars alike didn’t want to venture in. When you heard more about violence and poverty, and never envisioned that in the future we would be raving about how delicious the baked goods were from the French bakery.

There are people who will walk down the streets of Lincoln Mill and never be able to comprehend what was, because someone was bold enough to take a leap of faith towards what could be.

Someone is called to step out in obedience. Someone has to be courageous enough to make the first move.

The ministry founder, local pastors, my husband, and so many others did. They took bold steps of faith to see a community transformed and the gospel shared. It has been a picture of tangible kingdom expansion into one of the darkest communities in my hometown. A place that lacked so much light is now literally one of the most well-lit streets in our city, with lovely ornate metal lamps arched over all who walk the sidewalks below.

Yes, risk requires sacrifice, and often comes at a cost.

I remember the night we got the call that the children’s home we were renovating, not too far from that ministry area, had burned down. An act of arson, two months before we were to move in — just a few more months before my first daughter was due. I remember the struggle my husband had when our home filled up, and he was no longer doing what he loved. But these hard and unexpected shifts didn’t limit God — the One who gives direction and calls and nudges.

Out of the ashes of my husband’s fallen dreams came a pull toward his home country. Because of what took place, my husband started praying earnestly about what God would have him do. God led him to release even more of his former ministry roles and even his salary. God was teaching both of us what it means to rely fully on Him and showed us the beautiful way He can provide more than we can ask or imagine. In the risk of letting go of what had defined him, a new dream was born, and redemption came forth. My husband returned home to Iceland with our family and saw God not only impact the hearts of people, but also redeem his childhood places of hurt and disappointment.

That nudge towards risk allowed my husband to be in the position of proclaiming God’s good news and His kingdom to people who saw him fail grade after grade in childhood and wondered what would become of him. But God doesn’t need a perfected vessel to release His glory. He just needs a heart that obeys.

The greatest example we have of this type of risky obedience is Jesus. In the verses from Isaiah below, we get a prophetic glimpse of what came out of His obedience and how He brings beautiful redemption out of the hardest situations.

“The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me, because the Lord has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor and the day of vengeance of our God, to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion—to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor.”
Isaiah 63:1-4 NIV

Consider the risk Jesus took to come to us, to be with us. On the other side of His obedience unto the cross was our reconciliation with the Father we never could have acquired on our own.

Often when we take a risk, we don’t see the reward as quickly as we think we should. Perhaps our prayers feel like they’re mostly echoing around our room and not hitting the ear of the One who makes mountains move. But God doesn’t do things as we do.

Often on the other side of risk is the tipping point towards redemption we can’t even imagine.

This is the nature of the gospel. This is the good news.

You never know what God will redeem on the other side of your obedience.

What step of faith or risk may God be nudging you to take? What beauty does he want to make out of your ashes?

Leave a Comment