The Cost of Minimizing Vulnerability

The Cost of Minimizing Vulnerability

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Grabbing my robe, I rushed to get to the phone. Maybe this would be the call I’d been waiting for all week. I sat down on the window seat, listening to the rush of words from the surgeon. When she said “carcinoma,” I was stunned. Despite the possibility that the biopsy could show cancer, the doctors I’d seen uniformly told me, “It’s probably nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing; it was breast cancer.

The surgeon was reassuring as she told me I would need another surgery and radiation — “caught it early,” “excellent prognosis.” But there was no space, no pause between diagnosis, treatment, and the implicit message that it was “no big deal.”

I understood why she rushed to reassure me, but I learned that her hurried attempt to soften the blow was the beginning of what felt like a concerted effort to keep me from feeling the natural sadness and fear provoked by my diagnosis.

Over the next few days, as I shared the news with family and friends, I often heard comments that, while well-intentioned, minimized the impact of the experience: “Oh well, it is what it is.” “At least they caught it early.” Words caught in my throat; it no longer felt like the person was listening. The conversation moved on to other topics, leaving me alone with my experience, feeling self-critical for reaching out in the first place.

Why the rush to minimize something as significant as a cancer diagnosis requiring surgery, radiation, and years of medication and follow-up visits?

Because we fear vulnerability.

Minimizing blocks the vulnerability of painful emotions like grief, fear, and loneliness. It drowns out the whispered question, “Am I going to be all right?”

On what turned out to be the most vulnerable day of my journey, I was alone because of visitors’ restrictions during the pandemic. The emotional impact of walking into a cancer center for the first time took me by surprise. The empty halls echoed; I wandered around, unsure of exactly where to go. I was still caught up in the wave of emotion when the social worker greeted me with a cheerful smile. Her first words were, “You only have fifteen treatments; you’ll be finished before you know it!” I shifted quickly from shock to anger. Minimizing elicits anger, giving us the energy to advocate for our needs. Sadly, the person that day who was supposed to attend to my emotional needs was on “team minimizer.” Are you surprised to learn that I chose not to share anything with her?

The next part of the appointment involved preparation for radiation. I had to lie with my arms over my head for two hours, bare from the waist up, while I was tattooed and measured and marked in preparation for the first radiation treatment. The staff was kind, but they were all men. Their effort to chit-chat as I lay there freezing felt incredibly awkward. Distress blocked awareness of the Comforter who was with me that day. It was one of the most vulnerable experiences of my life. By the time I got home, I was physically weak from the intensity of the emotional experience. Minimizing had left me utterly unprepared for that day.

Minimizing is just one of the many strategies we employ to avoid vulnerability. We learn these strategies early in life; they help us survive and adapt. But avoiding vulnerability also cuts us off from our authentic experience, creating barriers to connection when we most need it.

Jesus wasn’t a minimizer. He could sense the needs around Him. Rather than dismissing them, He turned towards them. Jesus knew that our greatest need in times of distress is loving connection, so He offered Himself.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”
Matthew 11:28-29 (NIV)

Jesus offers to walk beside us, sustaining us with His gentle presence. He doesn’t bombard us with why we shouldn’t feel sad, lonely, or scared. Jesus was with me when I learned my diagnosis, in the moments when I shared the news, and when I was “alone” in the cancer center.

Imagine walking beside Jesus at this moment in your journey. Pause to feel His presence; accept His offer to bear your burden with you. Do you feel relieved knowing you are not alone, that your feelings are valid and worthy of witness?

It is tempting to minimize distress — our own and others’. When you are vulnerable, practice turning towards vulnerability. You will feel fear, but when you accept it, rather than fighting against it by minimizing, you will notice that you can have more peace. You will have more space for the grace you need, for Jesus’ loving presence as He accompanies you on your journey.

Who Is Your One Person You’ll Invest in Today?

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There’s so much noise floating around right now. Strong opinions and thoughts. Virtual attacks and warnings. Recommendations and advice. As a Jesus girl with her own feisty feelings, I’ve been quiet online this past year. I’ve spent a lot of time listening, more time grieving, but most of all, I dove deep into shoring up my spiritual life. Our hearts are easily swayed by the shifting winds and His Word is the only life raft worth wrapping my whole self around.

I am grateful for the internet and for places like (in)courage who push us and point us to Jesus, but (yes, there’s a but) here’s my “for what it’s worth” opinion: We are not obligated to share opinions, post thoughts, take or defend a stand on Facebook, Instagram, or any of the places I can’t keep up with online — even when friends think you should. That’s their opinion that you ought to, not a fact. But with real life relationships? That’s a different story.

Ironically enough, this discussion came into play with our adult children (ages 17 to 27) who recently deleted all social media. Even though I knew this was a healthy decision and that I should have been a proud momma, I tried to talk them into keeping it. (Their varying reasons are an important topic for another post.)

During this week-long wrestling, we noted “friends” who lived much of their life online, garnered attention there, yet when placed side by side with real life, their online lives and their real lives didn’t match up.

You might be thinking, “Hey Jen, pluck the plank from your own eye first!” Exactly! That’s how this came about. I want no room for hypocrisy.

We questioned, “How much time and resources are we investing to our ‘reach out and touch someone’ spheres of influence?” Imagine if we spent even a fraction of the time that we read, scroll, and post and got serious about life-on-life ministry.

To answer this pondering, I dusted off a thirty-year-old math problem which my friend from yuanpaygroup.org showed me ages ago that revolutionized how I invested my time. I shared it in Just Open the Door, but in this age of isolation, it’s more important now than ever. In my college mentorship class, my Bible professor demonstrated the multiplication process that occurs if each one of us would purposefully invest in the life of one other person for a year.

I’ve never been much of a math girl, but even I could clearly see the exponential power of what he was describing. If each of us came alongside just one person each year — doing life with them, discipling and teaching them about the Bible, unpacking how it interacts and impacts all aspects of their life — and then encouraged them to do the same thing with another person the next year, do you know what would happen? In the course of our one lifetime, hundreds of thousands would be touched by what we started.

The verse from Job takes a whole new meaning, “Though your beginning was insignificant, yet your end will increase greatly” (Job 8:7 NASB).

2020 has been a year many of us have felt unseen, overlooked, and stuck. Yet as those feelings have started to overtake me, I’m reminded of how the invitation to invest in one person really can change a generation.

As I think back on key milestones in my own life, every single one has been marked by an investment from a woman committed to sharing life with me for a season. Their impact wasn’t the result of a larger-than-life platform or words crafted for their blog. No, my life was changed through seemingly everyday encounters with women who believed in the beauty of being deeply rooted right where God had placed them.

They weren’t looking to be launched into a bigger opportunity. They knew (and know) that God had entrusted them to be present and faithful in their immediate sphere of influence.

Debbie. She poured out her wisdom when she invited me to meet weekly and study the classic Richard Foster book Celebration of Discipline. Her desire to raise up the next generation of leaders moved me. She didn’t dumb down our topics but believed a sixteen-year-old girl could change the world given the right foundation. Now I believe the same thing for my own daughters.

Jan. Her kitchen prowess taught me to cook and use the gift of treats as a vehicle to minister to the needs of so much more than a hungry tummy. And because of her, I’ve witnessed how a cold cup of water and a hot meal can woo the soul.

Faye. She demonstrated the importance of shoring up my communication skills so I can boldly proclaim and defend my worldview. Now I live in a culture where truth is considered relative, yet I know the source of absolute truth.

My mom. She was and still is the one whose love, faithfulness, and consistency influence me more than any other. The reason I know Jesus is because my mom modeled His love and because I wanted what she had. I open my home today because she opened her home. I prioritize family because she did it so well.

That’s the power of one person investing in another.

Who is your one person today?

God chose us to champion His love. We don’t have to get our act together before He uses us. I’m a perfect example since a huge part of my ministry is making you feel better about yourself by simply being a willing and available mess who desires to be used for His glory. (Do you follow me on Instagram? Proof is right there.)

Friends, the power of one — the beauty that stems from life-on-life, one-on-one relationships — never grows old. And you know what? You get to be part of that life-giving multiplication process.

You are the someone God wants to use now to impact this next generation. Your unique gift, your untold story, your broken and mended heart, your fierce love, your brave authenticity — all these intricate threads woven together create a tapestry He wants to use to unveil His love to someone who needs to experience it.

You are the one who can meet the need of another today. Who will it be?

In the comments below, I’d love to hear whom you hope to invest in so I can pray with you for this wonderful opportunity.

 

Remembering God’s Creativity in Creation

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Lord, our Lord, how magnificent is your name throughout the earth!
You have covered the heavens with your majesty.
From the mouths of infants and nursing babies,
you have established a stronghold
on account of your adversaries
in order to silence the enemy and the avenger.
When I observe your heavens,
the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which you set in place,
what is a human being that you remember him,
a son of man that you look after him?
You made him little less than God
and crowned him with glory and honor.
You made him ruler over the works of your hands;
you put everything under his feet:
all the sheep and oxen,
as well as the animals in the wild,
the birds of the sky,
and the fish of the sea
that pass through the currents of the seas.
Lord, our Lord,
how magnificent is your name throughout the earth! 

I’m not what you’d call an outdoorsy person. In fact you’d be accurate to call me an indoorsy person. No matter the season or the weather, I prefer air conditioning and carpet far more than fresh air and green grass.

But that doesn’t mean my soul doesn’t crave interactions with the outdoors. It does, but I don’t always realize it until I’m forced outside and catch an unexpected glimpse of God’s creation.

If I’m not careful, I can spend all my days with my head down — staring at a screen or the work of my hands, focused on the immediate and the urgent, ignoring what’s going on outside my reach, my home, my small world. Without realizing it, I’ve secured blinders on my face and my heart, filtering out most of the world and, as a result, most of the One who made that world.

Thank God for brilliant sunsets and blizzards and views from an airplane window. Thank God for puppies and people with different perspectives and all the big and small ways His creation breaks the monotony of the everyday and reminds me just how big this world is (and how He is infinitely bigger than that).

My husband and I have an ongoing debate. We both love the mountains and, in particular, have really enjoyed time we’ve spent in Colorado. We find the magnitude and beauty of the mountains to be breathtaking, humbling, and an undeniable testimony to God’s greatness. We find that our eyes are drawn to the natural beauty whether we’re hiking to a waterfall or driving through crowded streets. Up close or in the distance, the mountains refuse to be ignored and keep us mindful of God at all times.

The debate comes in when we imagine living near such natural beauty. If mountains were simply part of our everyday environment, would we remain so focused on their magnificence and their creator? Would we be able to maintain a posture of wonder and worship, or would we eventually put the blinders back on?

One of us (hint: it’s me) insists that I would never tire of gazing at the mountains in gratitude and awe. I can’t imagine a world in which I don’t even notice the towering peaks and swooping valleys. Surely they would never become normal or grow old; surely I’d never stop hearing the call of nature and crave its message of God’s power and love.

Except . . . this is exactly what happens nearly every day of my life. I stop to breathe in the fresh air. I stare at the bright pinks and oranges striping the sky, blinking away tears of gratitude for such a show. I smile at the calves in the field as I speed down the highway. And then I go about my life, head down, eyes back on the immediate and the urgent, forgetting once again the splendor of this world and the song it sings of God’s glory.

Can you relate? Do you find it easier to keep your head down than to look up and out at the world God created? Could you use a reminder to pause and observe the heavens and the works of God’s hands?

What a difference it might make if we regularly let nature point us to God! What a different perspective we might have when we look back at our small corner of the world after contemplating the vastness of the world He’s made!

As we move toward the time for remembering Christ’s sacrifice and resurrection, the ultimate act of love, let’s also set aside time to remember God’s creativity and power in making the world, the original act of love. After all, the world Jesus came to save had to be made first, and God decided to make it beautiful. Let’s watch the mountains point to the heavens and listen to the seas roar His name. Let’s look up and remember who He is and how powerful He is. Let’s never grow tired of hearing His creation shout the magnificence of His name.

Heavenly Father, I am in awe of You. When I see the mountains or a rushing river, a flower pushing its way out of the ground or a sunset painting the sky, I cannot deny that You are a mighty and powerful God. You are a wonderful artist, and I’m so grateful. Thank You, Lord, for giving us beauty in every corner of this planet — to enjoy but, more important, to remind us of your magnificence. Forgive me, God, for the days I never look up once, for the times I’m so focused on myself that I forget to look for You. Please keep reminding me, keep pulling my eyes up. Don’t let me get tired of or used to the wonder of You. Help me see the beauty of the world You came to save. I love You. Thank You. Amen.

Excerpt from Journey to the Cross: Forty Days to Prepare Your Heart for Easter by Mary Carver.

It’s not too late to have a meaningful Lenten season. Let us send you a FREE sampler from our Lenten devotional, Journey to the Cross! Journey to the Cross: Forty Days to Prepare Your Heart for Easter was written with women of all stages in mind so that we can all better experience the power and wonder of Easter with intentionality and depth. We hope it will bless your Lenten season.

Get your FREE sampler from Journey to the Cross!

Truth for the Days When You Don’t Feel Good Enough

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I bought myself a pack of gold stars today — just marched right into the craft store and claimed them. No one stopped me and said, “But you haven’t earned those. You can’t just go running around with gold stars for no reason at all.” I didn’t get locked up in imposter jail. The cashier looked entirely uninterested in my purchase.

This purchase was the culmination of months of me saying to Mark, only half joking, “I just want someone to tell me what to do and then give me a gold star for doing it.” With all the uncertainty in the world, I just want clarity followed by kudos. Is that too much to ask? I’m an expectations-meeter, and this past year has upended all expectations. How am I supposed to function without knowing the rules or what’s next? Maybe you’ve felt that way too?

I’m doing an online life coaching course as continuing education, and yesterday the instructor talked about how we all approach life either from a position of “good enough” or “not good enough.” He told the story of a CEO who came to him for coaching because he felt dissatisfied in his career. This CEO started out in the lowest position at the company and seemingly little to offer. But he worked hard and got a promotion, then another, and so it went until decades later he reached his current position.

“Why am I not happy,” the man wondered, “When I’ve been successful?” The problem, it turned out, was that he still didn’t believe he was good enough. He needed the next promotion as proof and when those ran out, when he reached his dream, instead of feeling satisfaction, he felt despair.

I thought about this later and how it felt a lot like my need for gold stars. “Just one more gold star,” I’d tell myself, “then I’ll feel okay about who I am.” I’ve had my share of spectacular failures, but I’ve also had enough success to make those promises to myself start sounding hollow. Yes, maybe for a few minutes or a day I’d feel a little better, but the insecurity would always come back.

I realized being “good enough” couldn’t be based on emotion for me, or it would forever remain elusive. It had to be a decision. But, if so, a decision based on what?

We have a pond behind our house, and every day on my walk I pray, “God, thank You for the bullfrogs.” And every day I mean it. These frogs don’t do anything productive, have won no awards, do not tweet (that I know of), and yet I’m enamored with and grateful for their froggyness.

Maybe bullfrogs aren’t your thing but you’ve probably experienced something similar. The birdiness of birds, the beachiness of the beach, the part of every created thing that brings us joy simply because it is.

It is this essence of who I am that makes me enough, that makes you enough. I am good enough because I am the work of a good Creator. I am good enough because of the mysterious work Jesus did on the cross that made all things right, including us. I am loved for the Holleyness of Holley. You are loved for the youness of you. That is it. That is all.

I am deciding to believe this no matter how I feel. So today I drove myself to the store and bought a packet of gold stars just to show I didn’t need anyone else to give them to me. When I got home I wrote on a little tablet, “I am good enough today, and I have room to grow tomorrow.”

That’s what the gold star junkie in me, who sometimes gets lost from grace, who thinks she has to prove her worth, who forgets that she’s loved not for her “excellence” but her divinely-created essence, really needs to know.

Yes, we are good enough today because God says so, and we have room to grow tomorrow.

The Strange and Unexpected Gift of Waiting

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This is the waiting room. Welcome. You know this place, don’t you? When we are in the waiting room, we eventually have to make this choice: We can either distance ourselves from God or we can trust Him in the wait.

This truth became so evident to me over the last few years, a season when I logged many hours in waiting rooms — literal ones. Waiting for a friend when she had a cancerous lump removed. Waiting for our daughter Anna when she underwent procedures for a health problem. Waiting for my dad when he had a pacemaker put in, and then more waiting when he had part of his right leg amputated.

I’ve found that waiting rooms everywhere are a lot alike. An interior decorator has done what he or she could to make the place inviting. Chairs are upholstered in trendy colors. Fake greenery has been arranged in matchy-matchy ceramic pots.

Meanwhile, the one you love is on an operating table. Your inner “fixer” is paralyzed. Unless you happen to have a degree in neurosurgery or anesthesiology, you are clearly not needed. You are, instead, stuck — feeling rather powerless — in the waiting room. If you’re lucky, a digital board identifies your loved one by a number and provides periodic status reports.

My family of origin tends to be the obnoxiously loud ones in the waiting room. Humor has always been a coping mechanism for us. I suppose there could be worse things than laughing through hard times.

Our stories in the waiting room kept us sane during one of Dad’s more serious surgeries these past few years. Every so often, one of us would step out of our circle, somber faced, to check the digital board. A sister would whisper, “Still in surgery.” We’d pause, and then we’d all start in again. There, in the waiting room, it was about stories, connection, laughter. It was about family.

Oddly, these moments offered an unexpected gift because they caused me to consider the practice of being still. I did not flit or fly. I was a bird on a wire, wings tucked in, waiting for hope to appear, inching up from the horizon.

Waiting has compelled me to understand that I’m not in charge and that my notions of control are all an illusion anyway. Waiting can feel like a weakness, especially in a culture that places value on self-sufficiency and “making things happen.” Waiting is the opposite of sufficiency, and it leaves me exposed and armorless.

I step into so much of my life wearing armor: The armor of ambition. The armor of good performances. The armor of masks. The armor of control. The armor of trying harder.

There is no armoring up when you’re waiting. You can fix nothing; you can only sit vulnerable before your struggle. You are not in charge now — not that you ever were — but the armor you wear on a typical day gave you a false sense of security. You finally realize there shall be no pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. This can be a very beautiful thing. When you pause — instead of push — you do all the things that matter most: You pray. You read Scripture. You sit quietly — or laugh loudly, if that’s more your style — with friends and family. You practice allowing yourself to be still.

In the quietness of a hospital waiting room, I would often turn inward and whisper, “How would we get through this without you, Jesus?” Letting down your faux armor causes you to more carefully inspect your life and discover how incredible it is to belong to Jesus — where, oh where, would we be without Jesus?

Where are you today, friend? Where, oh where, are you?

Perhaps you are in a waiting room of some kind. Perhaps you wish to act instead of wait. You want to take matters into your own hands but haven’t a clue how — or even if you should.

What are you waiting for? The answer to your financial distress? A baby to come? A resolution to a relational conflict? The phone to ring? The wound to heal? The last twenty pounds to drop? That moment when it’s your chance to finally celebrate?

You ask good questions for which there are no immediate answers: Why is this opportunity slipping through my fingers? How am I going to go on now that he’s gone?

Maybe today, you cry out silently: Are you here, God?

Though He may be silent, God has not abandoned you. He is working while you wait.

The work that God does in the waiting room often proves more important than the end result. Here, He will give you clarity for what He wants you to do when the wait is over. Here you will get in touch with your essential self, the one who wasn’t made to wear all that armor.

This is the greatest gift of the waiting room. Lean in close, for when you least expect it, you will sense the presence of Jesus in ways you never could have before. 

Adapted from It’s All under Control: A Journey of Letting Go, Hanging On, and Finding a Peace You Almost Forgot Was Possible by Jennifer Dukes Lee (2018) with Tyndale House Publishers.

 

The Comfort of God’s Silence

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I emerged out of isolation, shaky. The door that had been the barrier between me and my family was open, and every fear I had about passing COVID on to my family had already been made real. My husband’s test had come back positive that morning, and it would be a matter of time before symptoms would show up for my father-in-law and then my mother-in-law. (Somehow, the kids were spared.) We decided it would be okay for me to come out of my room after I had been isolated for a week, but instead of feeling free, I felt hesitant — perhaps even more afraid. Though my symptoms had stayed mild up to that point, there was no guarantee it would be the same for everyone else.

I stood awkwardly in the hallway, as if needing permission to take each step toward my husband and kids. We looked at each other, not knowing how to be without being close and unsure of what was acceptable anymore. Masks covered half our faces, but I could see the uncertainty in my children’s eyes, and I felt the sharp ache of distance between us. I made my way through the living room to sit on the couch, to acclimate myself again to our home, and to drink hot tea and watch the kids play together. But it was as if I were still watching them on Facetime, as if we were still living separate lives.

I took my mask off to take a sip of the hot tea for my aching body, when my son looked up at me and said, “Awww, I miss this part of your face,” as he pointed to his nose and mouth. We had seen each other’s full faces on Facetime, but it was different to be together and not be able to see all of each other’s faces.

At any other time, I would’ve opened my arms to him for an embrace and told him I loved him in between kisses on his head, but this time, I laughed with sad tears dripping down my face, unable to hold both the overwhelming grief and gratefulness within me.

For weeks, I held my breath, waiting for the virus to run its course through my body, my husband’s, and my in-laws’. We missed Christmas and New Year’s and a handful of birthdays. Stress and guilt and shame buzzed in my head about what I could’ve and should’ve done. Each time any of us measured our oxygen levels, everyone would pause what they were doing to watch the little red lines hopefully turn into numbers in the high 90s.

Somehow, by some miracle, each of us would make a turnaround for the better by the fourteen-day mark. I say “by some miracle” because to call it God’s grace would seem to mean that His grace wasn’t present or enough for the many who lost their lives to COVID. And how could that be true if His grace is abundant? None of it makes sense. None of it seems fair. I grieve over how many families are forever marked, forever changed because their loved ones didn’t have mild symptoms or didn’t make it.

Even now, it feels as it did that first moment I came out of isolation — shaky and fragile. I continue to hold both grief and gratitude, and some days, the tears pour out more easily than the laughter, and other days, joy is deepened by the gravity of what we’ve been through.

I’ve pleaded with God for answers to every why and how question, and I’ve struggled with the reality that some are healed and others aren’t. I’m anguished by the pain, and yet, His silence doesn’t betray distance. Instead, I feel His nearness, His grief. He is anguished too. He is pleading too. It’s as though we’re sitting side by side in the Garden of Gethsemane, crying together for another way out. We are without words, but in our weeping, we commune.

We often equate silence in response to our prayers as evidence that God is not listening, that He is not attuned to the ache of our lives. But as I’ve sat in the quiet, I wonder if His silent presence is just what we need. Instead of words, He offers us Himself — the God who understands, the God of comfort.

We Are Not Alone in Our Search for God

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Immediately the Spirit drove him into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, being tempted by Satan. He was with the wild animals, and the angels were serving him.
Mark 1:12-13 (CSB)

I’m sitting at my dining room table, country music playing just a smidge too loudly behind me as my daughters have a dance party on what feels like the seventy-third snow day this month. I reach for my Bible, running my hand down the whisper-thin pages, and close my eyes.

Before I can even say hello to God, much less reflect on His holiness, one of my daughters is crying and the other is shouting about how it’s not her fault — she didn’t do anything! This time, I close my eyes, but in frustration, not reverence.

I settle this latest argument and suggest a litany of quiet activities my kids might enjoy for a while. Finally, peace. My hand hovers over my Bible, but — much as I’m embarrassed to admit it — I hesitate. My phone is sitting right there, just waiting for me, begging for my attention, promising to entertain me and numb all the irritations that have cropped up this day.

Even if I manage to ignore the pull of my phone, my mind and heart are still so prone to wander.

What time is my appointment this afternoon?
Did I return that message? I should do that real quick, right now.
Why is the cat crying? Guess I better give her fresh water.
That reminds me: I need to refill my water bottle.
Maybe I should try that devotional I bought a few months ago.
I’m just going to pay that bill online . . . and answer that one email . . . and check on that project . . .

When I began studying ways to prepare my heart for Easter, something many know as the season of Lent, I read everything I could find about the time Jesus spent in the wilderness. While accounts can be found in three of the gospels, the brief description in Mark is what resonated most deeply with me.

Thinking of Jesus, alone in the wilderness, being tempted by Satan, surrounded by wild animals was a breath of fresh air to my distracted, weary soul. I feel alone! I’m tempted all the time! And yes, at times it feels like I’m surrounded by wild animals!

When we struggle to quiet our lives and our hearts enough to focus on God, Jesus knows exactly how we feel. And what I know from the passages in Matthew and Luke is that despite the desperate situation in which He found Himself, He resisted temptation. The angels served Him. He leaned on His knowledge of Scripture and faith in God, and He resisted.

So what does that mean for me, as I think about one more failed attempt at a simple quiet time? What does that mean for you, as you feel the hunger and isolation of wilderness or battle attacks from temptation of all kinds, as you long for communion with the Lord but feel unable to get there, to stay there, to remember why you were going there in the first place?

It means this: Our Lord and Savior isn’t just the One who can quench our thirst and ease our pain. He is worthy of our praise and adoration, but He also is intimately familiar with our challenges and struggles. He knows the strength it requires to seek Him and abide with Him, and He knows that, without Him, we will perish in the wilderness.

It means that not only is Jesus our goal when we set aside time for Him, He is our solution for fighting through all the distractions and temptations that work so hard to keep us away. It means that no matter how barren and empty our personal wilderness may feel, we are not actually alone in our search for God. Just as the angels were with Him, Jesus is with us.

Dear Lord, thank You for going first into the wilderness — for showing us how important it is to get alone and quiet, to seek God, and to listen. Thank You for going with us when we face temptation and distraction — for giving us the tools we need to resist. Jesus, You are worth every effort it takes to quiet my mind and my heart. You are worthy of every minute I devote to You above all else. Please meet me in this place. Bind my wandering heart to Yours. Keep my eyes set on You. Thank You, Lord, for never letting me go. Amen.

Excerpt from Journey to the Cross: Forty Days to Prepare Your Heart for Easter by Mary Carver.

It’s not too late to have a meaningful Lenten season. Let us send you a FREE sampler from our Lenten devotional, Journey to the Cross! Journey to the Cross: Forty Days to Prepare Your Heart for Easter was written with women of all stages in mind so that we can all better experience the power and wonder of Easter with intentionality and depth. We hope it will bless your Lenten season.

Get your FREE sampler from Journey to the Cross!

If You Feel Disqualified From Love

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It was just past five in the morning on a cold January day when my sister called me and told me she’d had a baby. I remember the way the sun was rising ever so slowly as I drove across the bridge to the hospital.

Before I could enter my sister’s hospital room, the nurse stopped me in the hallway. 

“Visiting hours aren’t until 7:30,” the nurse said. It was 5:30 in the morning. 

“My sister just had a baby,” I confidently said.

“You should come back in two hours,” she said. 

But I was a woman on a mission. Nothing was stopping me. “My sister just had a baby, and her room is right down this hallway, and I am going to see them both this minute,” I told her. It was a mixture of exhaustion and annoyance that I saw in her eyes, but she sidestepped me and I waltzed on through. Admittedly, it was not my finest moment. 

I entered the room and caught a glimpse of my nephew. I could hardly breathe. I sat on the edge of my sister’s hospital bed, holding the little boy she’d just given birth to. I couldn’t stop staring at him — he was a magnet, and I was fully attached. I stared at his impossibly small frame, the heavy bags under his newborn eyes—trying my best to memorize every tiny part of him.

I thought of the ocean, the way you can never see the end of it, the way it stretches on, almost infinitely, and I thought, “The love I have for this baby is an ocean. I can’t see the end of it.”

I had never understood love the way I understood it that day. But still, something inside me waned. I am not a mother, so I don’t know what a mother’s love feels like. I am not a wife, so I don’t know what it feels to love as a wife does. 

There are so many times when I’ve let those two labels that I don’t have — wife or mother — make me feel as if I’m disqualified from understanding true love. I see women who have kids or a husband and I can be tempted to think that they know real love and I don’t. 

But that’s not right. The truth is I can give true love and know true love because I am truly loved.

I can’t remember the first time I knew it for a fact. There isn’t one moment I can trace back in my history — no exact point when I felt loved for the first time.

Instead, I have pockets of moments. 

Like when my dad read to me as a girl before bed, the timbre of his voice coaxing my eyelids to close.  

Or when my sister threw a giant surprise party for me when I was seventeen and going to Rwanda for two months. 

Or when my brother-in-law bought me flowers for Valentine’s Day the first year he and my sister got married. 

Or when my dad gave me FaceTime cooking lessons when I was on a college internship with no idea how to make dinner.

Or every time I talk to my mom on the phone, hearing her on the other end, always listening to her finish the call with, “I love you.” 

Each person points me toward my identity — beloved, just as I am.

I don’t need to be a wife or a mother to understand love. I’m not disqualified from knowing true love because I am single. 

I simply need to peel back the layers of my identity revealing the core of who I am — someone who is loved. Not just by my family but by my Father. 

Over and over in the Gospels, Jesus points us to His — to our — Father. He called Him “Abba.” The name Abba is deeply personal and tender, reminding me of the way a tired young child curls up on her dad’s lap because she feels safe. 

We have a deeply personal Father who is tender toward us, who loves us with every fiber of His being. Our Abba. A Father who formed you with hands of love and tenderness, crafting you with purpose and intention, filling you with courage and creativity. 

A Father who calls you beloved.

Like Paul said, nothing in this whole wide world can separate you from the love of Jesus (Romans 8:38-39). Or like John said, we can love others because Jesus loved us first (1 John 4:19).

Nothing can strip you of your identity. Nothing can take away your belovedness. And nothing — nothing — can disqualify you from His love.

At the end of each day, this truth remains: You can give true love and know true love because you are truly loved.

Each of us needs reminders of our belovedness. Loved By Me does exactly that. It earnestly reminds each child of their capacity for bravery, kindness, and the light they offer the world. But most of all, it calls attention to their identity — a child who is beloved, exactly as they are.

Through whimsical, heartfelt words and beautiful watercolor illustrations, Loved By Me takes an honest look at how life can be scary and how sometimes we can feel forgotten or unseen. Using empathy and honesty, Aliza reminds you and your child that even on our hardest days, we are loved.

This is the message we all need to hear, and to spread that message, we want to give away FIVE copies of Loved By Me to five of you! {GIVEAWAY NOW CLOSED} To enter, leave a comment telling us to whom you’d like to gift this book!

Giveaway closes at 11:59pm on February 19, 2021 CST. Open to US and Canadian addresses only. 

The Promise After Pruning

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Every morning like clockwork, I would lace up my shoes, step outside as the sunrose, and take my daily walk. As soon as our state instituted stay-at-home orders last year, I instituted this ritual. With the rhythmic pounding of my feet on the pavement, I found a safe space to process the pandemic. Outside my crowded home, I walked alone and wrestled with my thoughts and feelings, my worries and fears. As I wound my way through suburban streets day after day, I also found a kindred spirit — a grapevine, growing along a chain link fence.

There it stood, severely pruned back, cut down to its bare bones, raw and vulnerable, barren and beaten, exposed and alone. Dark, twisted branches held tight to their vine, supported by an industrial trellis.

Every single day, I walked past that grapevine, feeling understood by my new friend in our mutual loneliness and despair. This grapevine was a physical representation, an acknowledgement of the pain we all experienced in the shadows of COVID. With so much of our previous lives trimmed and tossed away, the pandemic pruned us all back in our own ways.

Day after day, I visited that spot, wondering how long until life might return — for my grapevine and for me. And then, one day, like a miracle, tiny, beautiful buds emerged. Shoots of hope emanated from that which seemed lifeless for so long. I watched breathless as the buds unfurled into leaf after leaf, and the once empty grapevine eventually became engulfed in glorious green.

So many leaves pushed up and out and open, begging the sun for light and life, for renewal and restoration. They were like open hands, receiving every drop of sustenance and strength the sun could provide. As the grapevine sent out its leaves, I sent up prayers to heaven, and we both lay in wait, longing for redemption from the rawness of this pruning.

Months and months of prayer spilled on the pavement as the vine continued to bloom, and finally, after waiting for what seemed like forever for life to show up, full, luscious grapes appeared on the vine. Sweet and abundant life was borne from a cold, harsh season. Praise be to God.

I don’t know about you, but for me, last year was rough. In many ways, I still feel pruned and raw. The idea of producing delicious fruit from my barren branches seems pretty impossible — until I remember that grapevine.

It remained patient through the pain. It reached out and received strength from the sun. That grapevine reminded me daily of the beauty that comes from waiting, the power of prayer, and the promise of God working around me and for me to one day produce fruit in me and through me. It taught me what is actually looks like to be “patient in affliction, faithful in prayer” (Romans 12:12) as I look forward to the day when I will feel less like a barren branch and more like “a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season” (Psalm 1:3).

May we all remain patient in the pruning, staying firmly fixed to the Vine. May we keep meditating on God’s Word and repeating His promises as we hold on for dear life to hope in Christ.

May we all become persistent in prayer, reaching up and out to the Son, relying fully and completely on the light and life that can only be found in constantly turning to Him.

And may we all rest in the knowledge that there will be fruit one day. God will refresh and restore us, in His time and for His glory, because He wastes nothing.

You Are Chosen for Such a Time as This

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Back when I was in junior high and high school, my P.E. coaches would often assign captains to pick teams when we were playing games like dodge ball and soccer. I discovered it was a privilege and a curse to be the team captain because the captain was forced to make the hard choices.

Everyone in the class would line up nervously. The first captain would pick a player. Then the second captain would pick a player for her team. Then back to the first captain. There was some strategy in choosing. A captain might choose the most athletic first if she really wanted to win. She might also consider choosing her friends first so she could hang out with them on the field. I’ve always had a heart of mercy, so sometimes I would intentionally just choose the kids I knew were going to get picked last.

There is a gift and a weight to being chosen.

For more than a decade now, I’ve chosen a word as a theme to follow throughout my year. In January, I gather with a group of my girlfriends and we reflect together on the things God has taught us through our words. Then we reveal and pray over our new words.

My word themes have connected year after year like bright bulbs on a string of backyard lights. One year’s lessons flow into the next year and spark another set of lessons. God has taught me so much through these words: joy, grace, mercy, glory, redeem, flourish, behold, wonder, abundance, and soar.

My new word for 2021 is chosen.

I started to see the arrows pointing to this word back in November and December. The word “chosen” shows up throughout the Old and New Testament. As I began to highlight and circle it in my Bible, I realized I wanted to dig deeper, to understand what it meant to be “chosen.”

The dictionary says someone who is chosen is “the object of divine favor.” Throughout the pages of Scripture, this word is used to mean examined, preferred, and selected.

Back in Genesis, God chose Adam and Eve as His special creation. Everything else He spoke into existence, but God chose to bend low and form Adam from the dust of the earth. Then God knew Adam could not be alone so the Master Sculptor chose to fashion Eve from the rib of Adam. Both were created in the image and likeness of God, according to Genesis 1:26.

Adam and Eve — and all of us — were chosen to be distinct, spiritual and physical beings, reflecting God’s glory to the world. We have been given the privilege and task of stewarding creation well.

Last spring, I was lamenting with a friend that our kids had to live through a pandemic. My eighth grader was missing out on special class trips and graduation celebrations. Many seniors in high school and college were experiencing the same. Weddings had to be reimagined and funerals too.

However, these last few months I have been reminded that my three daughters and all the young people of this generation were chosen for such a time as this.

They were chosen in the way Joseph was chosen to depart from his family and endure prison so he could eventually rise to a place of power that would save the nation and his brothers from famine.

They were chosen in the way Esther was chosen to be taken into the palace as the king’s young bride and eventually to save the Jewish people from annihilation.

They were chosen in the way Mary was chosen as a young woman to birth the Son of God. Jesus was chosen to come to earth to live among us, to die on a cross, and be raised again. He was chosen so we might be chosen too.

The other day I was reading the prophesy of Isaiah that talks about God choosing and redeeming Israel:

“You are my witnesses,” declares the Lord,
“and my servant whom I have chosen,
so that you may know and believe me
and understand that I am he.”
Isaiah 43:10 (ESV)

I was reminded that I am chosen by God in 2021 to know, believe, and understand who He is. He longs for me to draw close to Him as His daughter, to know Him and believe in His character, to understand His heart.

He is loving and kind. He is sovereign and holy. He is faithful and compassionate.

Friend, you and I are chosen by God not by our own merit but because of His grace. We are chosen to bear witness to who He is and how He is working. We are called to tell the story of His faithfulness to a weary world in 2021. We are chosen to be beacons of hope in times of grief and uncertainty.

Our children and grandchildren who are growing up in these strange times were chosen too. It’s not an accident or series of unfortunate events that causes them to live in 2021. They were chosen as part of this generation.

In the New Testament, Peter encouraged the early church and us today with these words:

But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.
1 Peter 2:9 (ESV)

Peter’s words serve as a call to proclaim who God is and the redemption story He chose for each one of us. Let’s choose together to be courageous and compassionate carriers of light to a broken world.

After all, we are chosen.

Dorina loves connecting with readers more personally through her weekly Glorygram. Sign up here to get this insider letter with curated recommendations for good books, podcasts, products, and more.

 

Love Lives Within Us

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But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body. So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.
2 Corinthians 4:7-12 (NIV)

We carry within us the greatest Love — One who died so we could live, One that compels us to die to ourselves so others can also live. This Love is the strength that carries us when we don’t think we can go another step. He’s the path that shows us where to go when nothing makes sense. Love — God — lives within us, and He wants to show Himself to those around us, to the world, through our imperfectness, so others can see Him clearly.

Let’s love as He loved us — generously, keeping in mind that the treasure of His love is meant to be shared.

Black History IS Your History

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When I was in elementary school, one of my teachers told us that Black Americans had not made significant contributions to our country. With this announcement, I was inundated with a sinking sensation of shame and embarrassment. Not because I believed my teacher’s lie, but because I knew how the lie discounted and devalued the lives of humans made in God’s image. Our stories are not simply chronicles of events but are pages in a greater human narrative revealing God’s love. The narratives we inherit, hold, and cherish carve a collective identity, and when entire people groups are rendered invisible, we lose valuable parts of God’s expression. We lose parts of our collective identity. 

Almost every student in central North Carolina takes field trips to Old Salem, a living history museum depicting the restored Moravian community originally settled in 1766. As we’d visit the houses, shops, and churches, the perspectives, beliefs, and culture of eighteenth and nineteenth century Moravians came to life. Even as a married adult with children, I’d stroll through the historical streets of Old Salem talking with our little girls about the Moravians who built and lived there, “This is where they made candles. This is where they gardened. This is where they worshiped.” 

One day while on a stroll, a historian took us inside a small church and unfolded a story that grabbed me. This small church, the “Negro Church,” was erected in 1823 following a congregational vote to segregate worship in accordance with the 1816 state law. Before this state sanctioned segregation, Moravian enslavers and enslaved Africans worshiped together in one church. I was dumbfounded. The school field trips never mentioned that the Moravians, who were regarded as peace-keepers, failed to stick to their initial plans to prohibit enslavement. And before further aligning with racist laws, the Salem Moravian church was a multi-racial congregation.     

I sat in awe of what I had just learned. In sorrow, I peered over at the Negro Church graveyard. I stared at dilapidated, weathered grave markers, wondering about the perspectives, beliefs, culture, and lived experiences of the enslaved Africans who had helped Salem create and maintain its historical standing. I wondered about their families, where they gardened and made candles. Could they have known the liberty of Christ while still enslaved by the nation? I wondered why the lives of the Africans who helped sustain life for the Moravians had not been captured in the living history of Old Salem. And why hadn’t we been taught that the White Moravians exiled African-Americans to a separate Black Moravian church? I grieved, and the grief held onto me.

A few years ago, during our annual family gathering, I sat reading, engulfed in the written family history assembled by our family historian. We’ve always orally shared known pieces of family history, so holding a written, more comprehensive account was new and special. The story began in 1736 in Guinea, West Africa and continued to Salem, NC. I could not believe what I was reading. The enslaved Africans who helped build and sustain Old Salem was — is — my family! The church I grew up attending is an extension of the Black Moravian church I had toured in sorrow and grief. At that moment, I wanted to run back to Old Salem and retouch the walls my ancestors had erected, to revisit the spaces within those walls that they had created. I wanted to re-collect the Moravian and African story. 

I have since learned of Old Salem’s initiative, Hidden Town Project, dedicated to research and reveal the lives, experiences, and culture of enslaved and free Africans who once lived in Salem, NC. Now, school children will not only awe over the Moravian way of life but will also have the opportunity to discover and honor African-American lives whose stories had been hidden and rendered unworthy of sharing.

Carter G. Woodson, in 1915, fifty years after the abolition of slavery in the United States, saw that scholars were not conducting comprehensive studies of Black history. Woodson, along with prominent minister Jesse E. Moorland, founded the Association for the Study of Negro Life and History (ASNLH), an organization dedicated to researching and promoting achievements by Black Americans and other peoples of African descent. They recognized the African-American experience as integral to American history. They write,

“We should emphasize not Negro History, but the Negro in history. What we need is not a history of selected races or nations, but the history of the world void of national bias, race, hate, and religious prejudice. There should be no indulgence in the undue eulogy of the Negro.” (1927)

Because the second week of February coincided with the birthdays of Abraham Lincoln on the 12th and Frederick Douglass on the 14th, which Black communities had celebrated since the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation, Carter G. Woodson designated it as Negro History Week (1926), the forerunner of Black History Month.

Black history is not just my history; it is America’s history. It is to our collective advantage to learn the stories and histories beyond the narrative of European conquests and colonization. When my White elementary school classmate announced to the class, “I wish we could go back to a time when Black people were slaves,” I knew that he had no connection to my God-expressed humanity and significance. He did not see Black people as God-image bearers bearing witness to the Divine. He simply perceived me and all Black people as props in a singular European-American story. Yes, the Black experience in America entails the brutality of chattel slavery, exploitation, and injustice, but from those ashes have risen an expression of God’s resilience, creativity, and love! We celebrate that not just in the month of February but for the whole year — for our whole lives. 

Is your understanding of U.S. history inclusive of Black people beyond enslavement? Whose voices are you listening to as we celebrate Black History Month?

At (in)courage, our mission states that we will be empowered by the strength Jesus gives to live out our calling as God’s beloved daughters. Together we build community, celebrate diversity, and become women of courage. We share stories from the pages of our lives so that every woman will have the opportunity to feel known, less alone, and also learn from experiences unlike her own. And we do all this to point one another to the hope of Christ. Today, with this article by Dr. Lucretia Berry, creator of Brownicity,  we are especially grateful to honor our Black sisters by acknowledging and celebrating the contributions of Black Americans who are an integral part of American history and God’s family.

Where to Bring Your Grief

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Before I even got the call, I knew in my gut that something was wrong.

Ten years ago, my dad died alone in his apartment of heart failure.

Time is such a strange thing. It’s been a decade and a moment and a lifetime.

My body’s calendar of grief told me this anniversary was coming before I even realized the date. I took my tears and tissue to the garage and pulled out a bunch of old pictures. I could only find one of my dad genuinely smiling alongside me and my two older sisters. But there were dozens of other poor-quality 90’s Kodak prints capturing my band concerts and basketball games, award ceremonies and graduation speeches, photos of ASB election skits, pole vaulting runways, cross country finish lines, and musical fundraiser dinners. I didn’t even remember he was there for all of it.

My dad spent much of his life wounded and wounding others. He chased success and pleasure and ways to numb his pain. Ultimately, the pursuits of this world took a toll on his physical body and mental state. The weight of failure and disappointment crushed his spirit. But it was in this pit that he really met Jesus.

Looking through each stack of grainy memories, I thought of Psalm 73:

When my heart was grieved and my spirit embittered, I was senseless and ignorant; I was a brute beast before you.

Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand. You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory. Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

Those who are far from you will perish; you destroy all who are unfaithful to you. But as for me, it is good to be near God. I have made the Sovereign Lord my refuge; I will tell of all your deeds.
Psalm 73:21-28 (NIV)

For all the things I wished my dad had been, I know without a doubt that he loved me and was proud of me. I ache for the fact that he never had the chance to know my sons. He would have loved them too. My dad’s flesh and heart failed, but he did not perish. I will see him again.

Friend, if you are enduring the fresh ache of loss, I’m so sorry.

If you are traveling the long and twisted road of grief, I’m so sorry.

I wish I could invite you to sit in my living room. I’d offer you a cozy afghan and a cup of something hot to drink. I’d light a log in the fireplace and have a tissue box ready if you needed it. Then we’d just sit and listen to the crackle of the fire. After the company of silence, if you wanted to share, I’d be there to listen, to bear witness to your stories and tears. I’d want to hear the memories of your loved one that make you laugh. And the moments that still leave you wrestling with confusion, regret, or pain.

I would tell you that your joy and sorrow are welcome here. You can feel both. We need to feel both.

I’m no grief expert, but if you asked me, I’d lean in and offer you this encouragement:

  1. You need to feel to heal. God didn’t create you with a full spectrum of emotions in order for you to stuff it all away. It’s okay if you can’t fully name or explain your grief. Sometimes the first and best step is just to make space to feel it.
  1. Identify your barriers to grieving. After ten years of missing my dad, part of me feels like I should be okay by now. I battle thoughts like, “You shouldn’t be sad because you know he’s in a better place.” Or, “What right do you have to cry? You weren’t that close anyway.” Or, “Crying and feeling depressed won’t make you a good mom/wife/employee.” FULL STOP. These thoughts are lies. I had to recognize them and then choose to move past them.
  1. Invite others into your grief. When a fresh wave of grief hits, I used to hide. Now I choose to be honest with the people who love me. I told my husband I’m missing my dad. I let my children see me cry. Sharing your grief — even if the other person can’t fully understand or relate — opens the door for you to receive the support you need and for others to grow in compassion.

When Lazarus died, Jesus joined His friends Mary and Martha in their mourning. He wept. It didn’t matter that Jesus knew He would raise Lazarus from the dead. He first entered into the grief of His friends.

Time and time again, God has met me in my deepest sorrow too. I know He will do the same for you.

May the Sovereign Lord be our refuge today.

 

Hope Can Be Renewed Again and Again

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My hair was falling out.

Yup, me, the Asian girl with thick black hair, who has always been told by hair stylists, “Wow! You have a LOT of hair!”, quietly freaked out every time I washed my hair. It had gotten so bad, I started stretching out the days I washed my hair because I felt so discouraged by the amount of hair that collected around the drain.

It started last year during the pandemic. At first, I wasn’t too worried. “Oh, well, it’ll grow back later.” I figured it was a phase my body was going through, like when I had my babies.

When the pandemic first hit last March, I was pretty calm. “Things will be better by the summer,” I told myself. I held my breath, figuring surely by fall, my tween and teen would get back to school and I’d get back to my writing. I had a new book deadline hanging over my head, but I just couldn’t get into that soulful space to write while hearing all the kid activity (aka racket) in the background. My bedroom door became a revolving door of the gazillion hats I wore throughout the day — from cheerleading mom to crisis youth counselor to referee to academic tutor to first-time homeschooling teacher to short-order cook to personal shopper and to just about everything under the sun.

My priorities were my kids and my husband. Me? I’ll figure that out later. 

But the longer the pandemic stretched out, my emotional reserves, once filled with optimism, starting thinning — as did my hair. The more stressed I became, the more hair I seemed to lose.

What I needed was hope. Optimism is seeing how circumstances will get better, but hope is seeing God’s love and care in the midst of bad circumstances. Hope is the refuge in uncertainty when optimism runs dry.

So what could I do differently if I chose to hope again under God’s care? I needed to believe I was worthy of feeding my soul and caring for my body, even if it meant I had to change my expectations of myself. I needed to stop putting on the things God put on my heart on hold until life returned to “normal.” I needed to prioritize my well-being. As I asked God to renew my hope, I asked myself, “How can I live now, in a hopeful way?”

First, I needed to eat better. Because I was trying to squeeze in writing whenever I had time, I was skipping lunch and eating odds and ends. Eat lunch, Bonnie! You need protein.

Second, I needed to face my fear. Even though I was afraid of falling short, I knew I had to ask my editor for an extension. Despite all the worst-case scenarios I played in my head, I asked for what I needed and received it!

Third, I realized I needed to nurture hope throughout my day by doing something that fed my soul. After making the two changes above, I felt less stressed. With my mind more relaxed, I thought of writing outside at the park. I took my lawn chair, a thermos of tea, and started writing outside. To my surprise, the words began to flow again. Doing something that fed my soul during the day relieved my urge to stay up too late at night. And getting good sleep definitely helps with feeling hopeful!

To hope again is to believe God will help us. Hope gives us permission to do things differently and to believe God will be faithful.

Is your soul missing hope too? When we hit the wall of our limits, God gathers us in His arms to say, There is a better tomorrow for you. It might seem easier to just stay in survival mode and to simply maintain living life, but God’s truth refreshes our hearts to hope again. In Romans 5:5 it says, “This hope will not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured out in our hearts.”

The world seems to find hope in producing and accomplishing things, but Jesus offers us a radically different vision of what gives us hope: His love. Hope comes alive when you believe you are worthy to loved. And Jesus loves you so much, friend.

His love fuels your hope, and hope is the oxygen your soul breathes. 

Since I’ve made changes to my schedule, my nutrition, and my expectations, my hair has stopped falling out as much. Over time, I’m hopeful my hair health will be replenished. (My hair loss appears to be stress induced, but please know there are many different medical reasons for hair loss, so be encouraged that God understands the complexities of each woman’s unique health journey.)

God can renew your hope. His faithfulness to do so is like the sun that rises each day to warm the earth. You matter to God, and He desires to fill you with hope to keep going — one day at a time.

How is God inviting you to hope again?

Want more hope to oxygenate your soul? Sign up here for Bonnie’s Beloved Newsletter.   Follow me for daily encouragement on Instagram & Facebook @thebonniegray. Join my newsletter here! I’ll share lessons I learn on the journey to release my new book about finding your true worth.

The Peace Found in Decluttering and Simplifying Our Lives

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The week after my mother passed away, a professional organizer spoke to my homeschool group at an evening moms’ meeting. I had a heavy heart and a busy life, with seven children ranging in age from six months up to eighteen years. I was overwhelmed in every possible way.

Although my mother, who had been in poor health for years, was much better off, I hadn’t quite figured out how I was going to make it without her. Other than my husband, she had been my best friend. I never thought about clutter and organization from a biblical perspective until I heard that speaker, but I desperately needed something solid to hold onto and a focus beyond my grief.

I left the meeting with a signed copy of her book and a plan to tackle the clutter in my home, which has frequently been a struggle for me. Those action steps kept me grounded and productive at a time when I could easily have slipped into deep depression and despondency.

When we moved the following year, I transferred the systems I’d created to organize the contents of our kitchen and bathroom drawers to our next home where I lived for fifteen years, with mostly organized drawers and unorganized surfaces.

This past December, we moved again, and I’m determined to get our stuff in order. I want our new home to be a welcoming place to minister to a friend, to practice hospitality, and to host my new neighborhood’s book club — even if it’s imperfectly.

I once heard a speaker say, “Clutter is postponed decisions.” We leave things where we don’t want them to be because we haven’t decided where they actually belong (which might be the trash). Everything needs a home, and it isn’t on your bathroom counter or piled in front of the books on your bookshelves (two of my personal hotspots).

If we live in clutter, we’ve got too much stuff. Quit worrying about how much you paid twenty years ago for something you don’t want anymore (including clothing). Sell it on Craigslist or Facebook Marketplace, give it to someone who does want it, or donate it to a local charity. It’s incredibly liberating and gets easier the more you do it.

Recognize that your style and tastes may have changed over time and that it’s okay to let things go. (Sing along to “Let it Go” from the Frozen soundtrack if you need some inspiration!)

After moving into our new house, I made a list of personal goals, which include cooking, entertaining more often, and learning to watercolor paint. When my life is cluttered and disorganized, it keeps me from finishing (or even starting) goals because it steals my inner peace.

How can I find time to pull out a new cookbook or my instruction manual and box of paint supplies when there are moving boxes to empty and piles of stuff in the corner? I can’t. It just doesn’t happen. And that leaves me sad and unfulfilled because I want to make time for those things.

As I keep unpacking and organizing our home, I’m remembering the lessons I learned from the professional organizer after my mom’s death:

Our God is a God of order. If being organized means being able to find things, then everything needs a place. He doesn’t want us to live in shame or bondage to the accumulation of material goods, and I can testify that untamed clutter creates both of these things.

God also calls us to a life of simplicity. In Luke 12:15, He says, “. . . one’s life is not in the abundance of his possessions.” In Christ, we have more than what we can tangibly have and hold. Simplicity requires us to have the courage to let go of what we don’t need so we can embrace the peace that comes afterwards.

If you find yourself with things accumulating around you, even small steps towards decluttering and organizing your life can feel like a big accomplishment. The satisfaction and peace is real, and you will see that simplicity is a blessing to your life.

Do you struggle with clutter and organization? What big or baby steps can you take to tame it?

Aside from learning to keep her new house in order, Dawn loves teaching about essential oils. If you want to learn more about natural health for you and your family this year, Dawn’s book It All Began in a Garden might be just what you need.

 

Here’s to the Ten-Second Miracles All Around Us

by

A couple years ago, my husband and I ran into one of our favorite coffee shops for a caffeine fix. I expected to leave with a vanilla latte in hand; I did not expect to be reminded that God does miracles in His time, in His space.

I really did not expect to find this reminder on a package of coffee. I especially did not expect this illustration to come from a play in a football game.

While we were waiting for our drinks to be made, I spied a package of “Skol Vikings Blend” coffee near the counter.

We live in Minnesota, where the Vikings are our hometown football team, and a coffee shop chain created this special blend in their honor. We are a low-key football family; we watch games every week without fail, mostly because our son absolutely loves the game – loves it – and the Vikings are his team. He used his own money to join the Vikings Kids Club, roots for his beloved Vikes no matter what the scoreboard says, dresses in jerseys and eyeblack whenever possible, and is training to be a Viking when he grows up. He’s brought his sisters into loving the game, and has big plans for teaching his baby brother how to play when he’s a little bigger. My boy has turned me into a fan too, especially of the family time watching the game brings.

That all in mind, I thought it would be fun to bring home some “football coffee,” so we bought it along with our lattes, and headed back to the car to complete our errands.

Then right there in the passenger seat of our minivan, I teared up as I read the description on the side of the package:

Just like a good cup of coffee, the Vikings have a special way of bringing us Minnesotans together. As we cheer on the team to rock ’em, sock ’em, and fight fight fight each week, we learn that when us Northerners come together as one, there’s not much we can’t accomplish. And that ten seconds is plenty of time for a miracle.

That last sentence, right on the back of the bag of coffee beans, stopped me right in my tracks.

In 2017, during a game — the final ten seconds of the game, to be exact — Minnesota Vikings player Stefon Diggs caught a twenty-seven yard pass and ran it to the end zone for a touchdown as the clock ran out. The announcer went absolutely wild (as did the stadium), and as he announced it, he excitedly said it was “a Minneapolis miracle.” The title and clip of the play went viral — you can see the “miraculous” play here. I vividly remember this game, mostly because my husband hollered so loud that our football-loving son got out of bed and came downstairs, and then we let him stay up and watch the replay.

Ten seconds is all it took for this play to make record books, to get millions of hits on the internet, to be called a miracle, to change history for a few folks.

And isn’t that so reminiscent of the true miracles of God?

How long did it take for Jesus to do His miraculous form of multiplication with a few loaves and some fish? How about when He swapped water for wine? With crowds gathered in both of those locations, both of them hungry and thirsty, I can’t imagine that Jesus took a long time making these miracles happen. People were waiting.

Sometimes God keeps us waiting. Other times, all He needs is ten seconds.

Okay, so I’m not actually comparing the “Minneapolis miracle” to those listed in Scripture, but it did remind me to take pause and remember how many times the miracles in life have taken very little time — when the car stops just in time to avoid being hit by an oncoming car, when I catch my toddlers’ hand just before the van door closes on it, when the diagnosis comes in and they say it was caught in the nick of time, when the phone call is made minutes before the decision comes through and the conversation changes the final decision. You know what I mean? How many times have we cut it too close for comfort and whispered, “Oh, thank you God!”?

And that’s just the protection kind of miracles.

When I raise my eyes from this computer, I see my four children that are absolutely miraculous in their own right, especially considering my years of infertility and miscarriage that came before and alongside them. Babies (all people, really) are total miracles. So very many things have to happen correctly in order to fully develop a human being, with all neurons firing, bodies forming, hearts beating. Each person is a miracle, right there in plain sight.

And then to look outside my window and see the blue sky, the frosted trees, the wonder of snowflakes — each one entirely unique. To hear music pouring from my headphones, artists gifted with both word and voice. To enjoy the transformation coffee goes through as the beans are ground and hot water is poured through. To watch the way ingredients come together, changing from eggs and flour and butter into warm cookies (anyone else immediately think of that scene/quote from Friends? “Ten minutes ago this was all just ingredients!”) To hold a loved one’s hand. There are more miracles in plain sight, beckoning to be seen.

So today, I raise my mug of Skol blend to you. Here’s to the ten-second miracles all around us. May we see them for ourselves. May we be them for another.