Being Unraveled by a Knitting God

Being Unraveled by a Knitting God

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My grandma taught me to knit when I was eight years old at our annual family Christmas. Somewhere between dinner and dessert, my cousins and I crowded around her with shiny knitting needles too big for our hands and trained our eyes on her fingers. I clumsily made my way through one, two, three rows, but it wasn’t long before my finger snagged on a hole, right smack in the middle of my scarf-to-be. Despairing at the thought of starting again, I presented the problem to my grandma. With just a quiet “must’ve lost a stitch,” she unraveled my work up to the problem and restored the scarf to its former potential. Her movements were incongruously quick compared to my own and it looked like magic, this unraveling and restoring. To this day, the feeling of grace is accompanied by the sound of clacking knitting needles nestled in my grandma’s hands.

But sin? Sin feels like that stitch dropped unbeknownst to me, the kind that you don’t see until five rows later. Or perhaps, it is like a hole burned straight through the knitted meshwork that makes up you and me and us. All around the edges of that hole, where there used to be woven yarn are fraying loose ends. With every pull, every snag, the unraveling continues, and the hole grows bigger.

The deaths of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and the countless other Black lives lost are some of the loose threads surrounding the smoky hole of systemic racism. Floyd’s words “I can’t breathe” overflowed into streets and toppled statues. The shouts of protests snaking through city streets have defiantly pulled on these threads and exposed the sin of racism more profoundly than ever.

This racism that has existed much too long — in me, maybe in you, in the church, in the very fabric of our society. The unraveling threads reveal how deeply woven racism is from one generation to the next. 

I was raised in Richmond, Virginia, a city that has gained quite a standing in national news recently for the protests surrounding the Confederate statues on Monument Avenue. Every year for as long as I could remember, Richmond hosted the Monument Avenue 10k and when I was thirteen, I ran the race with my mom. There were bands lined up around the medians and thousands of people running alongside me. It was exhilarating and fun, and I did not think twice about the Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson statues that stood as idols to white supremacy.

Just recently, I went back to Monument Ave and saw the very same statues I ran past at thirteen. They were covered in profanity, awaiting their removal. I saw them, and something began to unravel. The profanity that covered the statues became the outward manifestation of the desecration that existed all along. The innocence of my childhood experiences unraveled; a trust in my own righteousness unraveled.

The work of unraveling is similar to the work of confessing. It deals a striking blow to one’s own achievements. Just like the five, lumpy rows of knitting my grandma undid to fix my mistake, the economic, academic, and professional successes I’ve claimed come undone in this unraveling work that has begun in me. As a white woman, my environment, my family of origin, and my privilege have brought me far, lifting me up while also pushing others down, and now I cannot unsee the inequity and injustice.

If I am honest, though, I am scared that as I begin the journey to root out the sin of racism in me, to confess it and to act differently, I will discover that it runs deeper than I knew. (It probably does run deeper than I know.) I am scared my inexperienced fingers won’t know what to do with the pile of loose yarn on the ground, that I won’t know how to make anything better or that I’ll make the same mistakes again.

And then, I remember my grandma. I remember her deft knitting hands and I hear the sound of clicking and clacking grace. I remember that yarn is pulled through fingers for creation, not just desecration.

For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
Psalm 139:13 (NRSV)

God is a knitter, too, just like my grandma. God knit us together when we were just beginning in our mothers’ womb, when all we felt was belonging. Better yet, God didn’t stop knitting — not when hurt came, not when sin tore through us. God did not make us stagnant, winding us up like a cheap toy to set us in motion. No, God is still knitting us into being, unraveling and knitting back, creating, reforming, healing, fixing holes, and weaving the frayed ends together again. As we root through privilege and systems of oppression in which we are complicit, God is still knitting. As we confess what we have done and what we have left undone, God is still knitting, row after row of becoming.

My friends, as we confess, as we act, listen, and change, may we cling desperately and courageously to our knitting God, who requires our unraveled lives for the work of justice and mercy.

 

[bctt tweet=”As we root through privilege and systems of oppression in which we are complicit, God is undoing the threads of racism and recreating us. -@karisophia1:” username=”incourage”]

Three Loving Promises: Why You Can Rest in God’s Love For You

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For weeks, I had tried keeping myself productive. Everything will be fine, I told myself. But deep in my heart, where no one could see, I didn’t feel fine. So much of life has changed in such a short period of time. There are no blueprints for what’s ahead, and everyday there are new uncertainties to shield my children from — as well as trying to process things for myself.

Stress and worries have a way of reappearing on our paths, don’t they? As I hiked up a trail one morning, I doubled up my powers of analysis to solve a dilemma I was stuck in. I figured if I circled around my problems long enough, I’d lasso them into submission and think my way out.

But all it did was fill my mind with more troubling thoughts. As I reached the top of the mountain and turned back to walk down, my heart felt paralyzed and torn, weighing the pros and cons of uncertainty.

Do you ever feel this way too — heart disconnected and longing for rest?

I don’t know what to do. Help me, God, I cried silently.

As I made my way down through tall grass growing unruly, I noticed something I didn’t see on my way up. Specks of orange poppies were blossoming, opening up under the sunlight breaking through the clouds.

How did I miss the poppies walking up?

It turns out poppies close tight as buds when it’s cold and windy. They’re so sensitive to the elements, folding in at night in the dark. Yet, when warmed by the sun in daylight, the petals open, releasing seeds to the wind.

Each of us is like that poppy. Our hearts can close up when we isolate ourselves with our worries, carrying our burdens alone. When we hide our hearts from God, we also end up feeling guilty because we don’t know what to do or how to pray.

But when we cast our cares into the warmth of God’s loving arms, the petals of our hearts open, and we can relax. Even when it might seem as though God is silent, He hears our prayers for help — even when they’re unspoken.

Perhaps you need to hear these truths as much as I do today, so here are three promises from God to help you rest and breathe in His love and peace:

1. When you don’t know what to do, God whispers, Cast your cares on Me.

Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.
1 Peter 5:7 (NIV)

Just like flowers opening by sunlight in the field, you can release your worries to God — not by ignoring them but by confiding in Him. He longs to help you.

2. When you don’t have words to pray, know that Jesus is praying for you and holds you close. 

Who then is the one who condemns? No one. Christ Jesus . . . He is also interceding for us.
Romans 8:34 (NIV)

Jesus doesn’t require your prayers to love you. He knows what you need. He is praying for you and wants you to receive the love and peace He offers to you unconditionally. When you feel overwhelmed and alone (we all have these moments that hit us just when we thought we felt fine, right?), rest in this loving promise of God.

3. When you long for someone to hold you, Jesus reaches out His hand to help you.

Don’t be afraid, for I am with you.
Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you.
I will hold you up with my victorious right hand.
Isaiah 41:10 (NLT)

Jesus will never give up on you. He will never grow weary of you or your worries. He whispers, I see you. Rest in me. My love will strengthen you. 

Picture Jesus with you now, standing in the midst of your troubles and anxieties. Ask yourself, What is it that He longs to give me? What does He want me to receive?

Whatever it is, open yourself to His loving care and let His whispers of rest bring peace to your soul.

What are the cares you can cast on Jesus?

Restore God’s peace to your soul: Listen to Bonnie’s uplifting podcast Lift the Burden of Anxiety & Busy, featuring Holley Gerth! Then, sign up for Bonnie’s Beloved Newsletter here  for more reminders of God’s love and soul care tips to encourage your heart! Join Bonnie’s newsletter here.

 

[bctt tweet=”Jesus will never give up on you. He will never grow weary of you or your worries. -@thebonniegray:” username=”incourage”]

Shine Your Face Upon Us, Lord

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May God be gracious to us and bless us;
may he make his face shine upon us Selah
so that your way may be known on earth,
your salvation among all nations.

Let the peoples praise you, God;
let all the peoples praise you.
Let the nations rejoice and shout for joy,
for you judge the peoples with fairness
and lead the nations on earth.
Let the peoples praise you, God,
let all the peoples praise you.

The earth has produced its harvest;
God, our God, blesses us.
God will bless us,
and all the ends of the earth will fear him.
Psalm 67 (CSB)

In Exodus 33:20, God allows Moses to enter into His presence but tells him, “You cannot see my face, for humans cannot see me and live.” In light of that verse, the blessing at the beginning of this psalm is that we not only get to be in the presence of God but we also have the privilege of having His face turned toward us. He doesn’t turn His back on us when things are not right in the world. Instead, He bends low and enters into the mess, and He is gracious.

The word Selah comes after that sentence to indicate a pause. Selah is an invitation to take a breath and soak in what was just read. Today, let’s look to God who guides us in the unknown and who leads us. Pause and rest in that truth.

This summer, we’re journeying through the book of Psalms. Join us! 

Click here to purchase your Summer (in) the Psalms 40-Day Devotional Journal for just $7.99! This beautiful journal, only available on Amazon, includes forty days of reading selections from Psalms, twenty full devotions from the (in)courage Devotional Bible, and daily reflection questions with lined pages for recording your answers. This journal is an all-inclusive, one stop shop for your summer (in) the Psalms journey!

We’re loving our Summer (in) the Psalms with you.

Get your Summer (in) the Psalms Devotional Journal today!

 

[bctt tweet=”Today, let’s look to God who guides us in the unknown and who leads us. Pause and rest in that truth.” username=”incourage”]

Why It’s Not Enough to Have People of Color in Your Circle

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I used to think I was fine when it came to racism. I had a variety of people of different ethnic backgrounds in my circle — people of color whom I loved, people woven into my life by marriage and friendship and proximity.

As a kid, my family hosted a slew of international students. I was accustomed to sharing life and space with people of many cultures. I remember the hushed tones of two Japanese girls in the downstairs bedroom and the boisterous bursts of laughter from the Argentian girl in the corner room upstairs. College students from Taiwan, China, Finland, France, and Spain gathered around our dining room table to share food, customs, and conversation. Learning to count in other languages was my favorite.

My high school was 65% Latino and my first long-term boyfriend was a Vietnamese guy whose parents weren’t too keen on the fact that I was white.

Through the years my mom dated several Black men and my dad’s second wife was Korean. I celebrated a half dozen Christmases with my three Asian American step-siblings and was fascinated by my stepmom’s kimchi refrigerator. I have one niece and five nephews on two sides of my family who are mixed race.

As a Southern California resident, I’ve rubbed shoulders and shared meals with people who don’t share my pale complexion. I’m used to hearing multiple languages spoken in Target and at school pickup.

I used to think, Look! Clearly this shows that I don’t have a problem with race, so I’m good, right?

Little did I realize that being “good” with race wasn’t the point.

It’s humbling now to admit, but I used to use this list of people of color in my circle to justify my place and participation in this world. Any time a conversation about the ongoing problem with racism would come up, here’s how my line of thinking would generally go: First, I would feel bad about the situation and sorry for the people who were being adversely affected. Then I would secretly scroll my mental list of diversity evidence. Last, I’d pat myself on the back for not being part of the problem.

But this way of thinking is part of the problem.

Without malice or ill-intention, I made the issue of racism about me. I was accepting and inclusive. I wasn’t perpetuating racist actions or beliefs. I felt fine. (I shake my head at my old self.) Evaluating my former way of thinking, I now realize I was guilty of tokenism. I was making individuals in my circle symbols of my “good enough-ness” — tokens to prove racism wasn’t an issue for me and that I didn’t have work to do.

I thought it was enough to have people of color in my circle, but it’s not. It doesn’t make me immune to biases and prejudices. If you’ve thought similar thoughts, if you’ve ever counted your coworkers, friends, or family members with Black and brown skin as proof that racial injustice and inequality are not your problems either, let me gently say as a sister who’s been there that it’s time to change the way you’re thinking.

Scripture clearly defines how we ought to think about others:

Do nothing out of selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility consider others as
more important than yourselves. Everyone should look not to his own interests,
but rather to the interests of others.
Philippians 2:3-4 (CSB)

As a white woman, for a long time I didn’t see racism as my problem because it didn’t affect my own interests. This thinking is unbiblical, and it’s wrong. My pride said, “Look at my diverse circle of friends, family, and acquaintances. Five gold stars for me, please!” It saddens me to admit this.

Admitting our false thinking and sinful patterns is critical to repentance and crucial to reconciliation.

People are not tokens. People are not symbols of status or progress or political correctness. If you have willfully or accidentally made someone a token in your organization, business, personal life, or mind, now’s a good time to confess, repent, and do better.

As the community manager here at (in)courage, I love that our circle of writers includes talented women of many hues. I love that each writer brings her unique voice, stories, and culture to our shared table and together we can learn more what the fullness of Christ and the beauty of God’s colorful kingdom looks like. We are all His image bearers, and I see God more clearly through the kaleidoscope of His people.

But I’ve learned and am learning from my past mistakes. Having a diverse writing team is amazing, but that doesn’t mean we’re off the hook from important anti-racism work. As believers in Jesus, it’s our responsibility and privilege to be passionately aware of and proactively advocating for others’ interests.

One small way we’re going to pursue this in the months ahead is by hosting ongoing (in)courage Community Conversations around the topic of racism. (Find our first one here and stay tuned for more!) We’ll continue to gather as friends and sisters in Christ to humbly listen and learn from each other.

I’m both convicted and encouraged by James’ words:

Post this at all the intersections, dear friends: Lead with your ears, follow up with your tongue, and let anger straggle along in the rear. God’s righteousness doesn’t grow from human anger. So throw all spoiled virtue and cancerous evil in the garbage. In simple humility, let our gardener, God, landscape you with the Word, making a salvation-garden of your life.
James 1:19-21 (MSG)

Friends, I’ve still got so much more growing to do, but I’m grateful the Gardener is patient and He’s provided a community like this to be open with and grow together. Here’s to leading with our ears and giving thanks that tomorrow brings new mercies.

 

[bctt tweet=”As believers in Jesus, it’s our responsibility and privilege to be passionately aware of and proactively advocating for others’ interests. -@beckykeife:” username=”incourage”]

In Case You Feel Forgotten

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The night was sticky and scorching even with the sun setting. The air conditioning broke in my car last summer, so my windows were rolled down and I had my arm out the window, letting my fingertips touch the breeze. 

I saw something in the dusky sky when I turned on the road toward my town. I looked to my left and noticed a group of people, scattered but clearly gathering. They were at a cemetery. They were lighting lanterns and floating them up into the night sky. 

I immediately pulled my car to the side of the road, pushed my hazard lights on, and watched. 

Tears sprang into my eyes. I wondered briefly who the people were honoring with their lanterns, but all I could think of was my beautiful friend Tat. Tat died in a car accident almost two years ago. Floating lanterns can’t help but remind me of her. A few summers ago, while she was alive, we lit lanterns together — like that scene from the Disney movie Tangled. 

A week after she died, our church lit lanterns in her honor. A year later — almost a year after her death — I saw a floating lantern randomly light up the night sky as I drove home from work. 

God keeps sending me lanterns. They remind me of Tat and of God’s tender love and kindness. They remind me that God hasn’t forgotten. 

It’s been almost two years since Tat went to be with Jesus. Two years without her on Earth. This year was different from the last. Last year held all firsts — everything was new, every day another impossible anniversary to navigate. 

And yet . . . she is gone — like a novel ending abruptly mid-sentence. It makes no sense, and even two years later, it’s hard to comprehend.

In the months after her death, the grief was a tsunami. Social media swarmed with photos and mementos of her — people sharing story after story, trying to grasp any moment they shared with her. Thousands came to her funeral. People shared her blog posts, brilliant words she penned that still continue to resonate. 

But now, years later, the social media posts are few and far between, save for her parents and close friends. 

And I wonder if people will forget her. I have photos of Tat — tacked on my fridge, hung on my walls, as bookmarks in my Bible, dangling from my rear view window — anything to remind me of her.

Two years in and I wonder: Will people forget my friend? Will the grief that once stabbed us fade into a bruise? Will people move on and forget the beautiful life Tat lived?

Maybe they will. But God won’t.

God isn’t limited to time or emotional capacity or memory. He holds every single thing about you in the palm of His hand — from the number of hairs on your head to each prayer you utter, whether audible or not. He holds every sharp shard of grief, every unspoken dream, every frustration, every ache in your heart — safe in the care of His hands. 

He cares about the birds and the flowers, and He cares infinitely more about you (Matthew 6:25-34 NIV).

He knows everything about the day Tat died, each detail I may never know, and He knows everything about my grief, two years later. People are forgetful and people move on, but God remains right beside us. 

Even when it feels like everyone else has forgotten — when the social media posts end, when the hashtags are gone, when the meals stop showing up, when no one texts you to check in and see how you are — God hasn’t forgotten.

He sees you, right where you are. Two years or ten years or fifty years later, He still sees you. 

That night, I sat in my car and watched the lanterns float higher and higher. The grief isn’t as sharp almost two years later. I wiped a tear from my eye but didn’t weep. It was a bittersweet sadness deep within my chest: I was grateful to be reminded of her, and yet I ached, knowing she is gone.

I watched them drift into the sky, their fiery light dimming the further they floated. I thanked God for another sign of His personal kindness and unrelenting love.

I whispered a prayer to God for Tat, “Tell her I miss her. Tell her I love her. Tell her I can’t wait to see her someday.” 

Even if it feels like the world has forgotten, God hasn’t. He hasn’t forgotten about you, He hasn’t forgotten about Tat, and He hasn’t forgotten about me. 

In fact, He keeps sending lanterns to remind me.

 

[bctt tweet=”People are forgetful and people move on, but God remains right beside us. #grief #loss -@alizalatta:” username=”incourage”]

Never Alone Even in Our Loneliness

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For the last several weeks, I’ve felt unexpectedly alone.

Oh, not in my home, that’s for sure. There are three kids, two working-from-home parents, a dog, and a partridge in a pear tree in this house. I haven’t actually been physically alone for months (and seeing as I’m pregnant with our fourth little one, I won’t be physically alone for a while yet!).

No, it’s an aloneness that envelops my heart as I scroll my newsfeeds and social media.

Stories of families and friends gathering for fun and celebrations, summer vacations and trips, out for dinner and date nights, attending weddings and graduations — these things and more flood my feed, and once again the ache of feeling alone floods my heart.

At the recommendation of my OB, my family and I are still socially distancing. We are not gathering with family or going out with friends. We haven’t seen my mother-in-law in person or hugged friends in months. I have stepped inside Target exactly one time since March 9th. My husband and I have left our house without the kids only once since February. My kids play with each other, not with neighbors or other pals. We have reluctantly and sadly turned down invitations and bitten our tongues to extend any. So much togetherness in this home, and yet I can feel so alone.

I feel alone when I have a virtual OB appointment and when I go to my ultrasounds by myself.

I feel alone when I wear a mask in public.

I feel alone when it appears that we are the only people left in the world actually social distancing.

And the aloneness sometimes takes over and turns into self-pity, sadness, and anger. I miss my people too! I want to be done with this huge mess too! I want to wander the aisles at Target with an iced latte and no kids in tow too! I want my kids to go back to school and grandmas house too! I want to go back to church too!

Then after a good pout, I wipe my eyes, refill my ice water or homemade iced coffee, give myself a pep talk, and move on. Because deep down I know that really, no matter what, we’re never alone — in the middle of a pandemic, in the midst of a miscarriage, when estranged from loved ones, when we live by ourselves, when facing job loss and financial mess, if our marriage and friendships are strained or even falling apart, when sick and unaccompanied in a hospital room.

When it feels overwhelmingly like we are the only ones who __________ (fill in your own blank), we’re never actually alone.

It might sound like a trite Sunday school answer, but Jesus really does stand beside us. In some of my darkest, most alone-feeling days — miserable at a job, depressed and living far away from family, during my first miscarriage — I felt as though I was literally clinging to an invisible Friend who was more present than my closest loved ones. I’ve felt Him hold my hand and carry me through the loneliest times of my life.

God meets people in their aloneness throughout Scripture, so we can trust Him to do the same for us.

David described being “alone and afflicted,” yet the Lord never left his side. Job and Jeremiah were separated from family and lived through loss, and they still spoke to God as if they knew He was there, listening and being with them in their loneliness. Jesus Himself experienced aloneness, and He gravitated toward the outcast, the vulnerable, and the friendless, giving them a voice, a new song, a story to tell.

Maybe you’re feeling like the woman Jesus met at a well. She was living a life of loneliness, despite company kept within her own walls. I’d guess her loneliness at times also turned into self-pity, sadness, and anger, yet in her encounter with the Lord at the well, her loneliness is quenched.

Then there are promises like these, in which we see the depth of God’s faithfulness:

Be strong and courageous; don’t be terrified or afraid of them. For the Lord your God is the one who will go with you; he will not leave you or abandon you.
Deuteronomy 31:6 (CSB)

For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Romans 8:38-39 (CSB)

The Lord will always lead you, satisfy you in a parched land, and strengthen your bones. You will be like a watered garden and like a spring whose water never runs dry.
Isaiah 58:11 (CSB)

My six-year-old just came downstairs to the dining room table where I’m writing this. She asked what I was writing about, and I told her I was writing about what Jesus says when we’re lonely. And then she said, “Oh, like how even when you feel alone and stuff and there’s no one by you, God’s with you? Even when it feels rough to do something, you can do it ’cause He’s with you? Yeah, I learned ’bout that at Sunday school.”

And that about sums it up. Friend, you can do it — no matter what your “it” is. God is with you, and no matter what your newsfeeds say, you are not alone.

 

[bctt tweet=”Friend, you can do it — no matter what your ‘it’ is. God is with you, and no matter what, you are not alone. -@annaerendell:” username=”incourage”]

Where to Belong When You Don’t Belong Anywhere

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Everyone was laughing, but all I could do was force a half-smile. My skin felt like it was betraying me like a sunburn. I just had to get through the dinner and I’d be okay. I felt angry and awkward and embarrassed. I was engaged and meeting my fiance’s family for the first time. He warned me his extended family could be racist. We sat around a circular table, and I couldn’t escape.

Where do you go when you can’t hide your skin? It’s impossible to disappear.

Shame will always make you want to cover. That moment, with his family, made me want to cover my darkness with something comfortable, like the color white. I just wanted to fit in. The racist jokes were unbearable, but instead of turning the shame back onto the comedian of the night, I turned my shame inward. It became another moment where I just didn’t fit. I wasn’t fully Asian. I wasn’t fully White. I was somewhere in the middle.

I won’t ever forget that night. I won’t forget the way I wanted to scream, cry, and throw something. The racism seemed so obvious to me, but the jokesters were oblivious at the harm they were causing. I did what I normally do: I swallowed the pain and moved on.

I’ve been looking the other way, dismissing my pain and minimizing my feelings my entire life. I’ll never forget last year when an Asian American friend of mine invited me to a conference just for Asian Americans. She texted me the words, “You belong there.” I remember feeling instantly bothered. I was surprised by my knee jerk reaction when she used the word “belong.” The truth is I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere.

Belonging is an embedded human desire. We all want to belong somewhere. We want community, culture, and people who understand us. We want to know we are desired, welcome, and have a seat at the table. When we don’t belong, we are grieved. It’s an ache that rocks us to sleep. The pain is so deep it’s like a hole that tries to swallow us down into a world of darkness. It’s the same kind of darkness I see in our world right now.

As the racism in our country becomes more exposed and fear, pain, and panic escalate, so do our reactions. I am so tempted to find my sense of a belonging with a particular side. I think that’s what has been so tricky for me. I hear things from different sides, and I am torn. No one person, leader, or group fully represents my heart on the issue of racism, and trying to find belonging when I can’t wholeheartedly agree with one side has been futile.

As I try to find my place in all of this, I’m tempted to just bury my head and ignore everything, and I’m tempted to use Scripture or self-pity as weapons, to gather up arguments as ammunition for battle. Like so many, I want to handle my pain apart from God and manage it in my own power. We all want to control how we’re perceived, how others think, how a conversation goes, or what the outcome will be. But when we silence the vulnerable, cup our hands over our ears and only protect our own interests, that’s when our temptation for power is the strongest. And the only force to break it is to worship God.

Power is the attempt to be God, and worshipping Him allows God to be God. It puts us in our place and in a posture where we relinquish our power back to the One who is power and who is in control.

There are still days when I’m tempted to control everything or just bury my head and ignore it all, but I know God is calling me to grow and change. Growth is painful and hard, and it requires me to relinquish control. It means entering parts of my story that are still stinging with pain. But I don’t want to cover my eyes and just get through it the same way I did at that dinner table when cruel jokes were recklessly shot out like bullets. I don’t want to pretend I’m okay. I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to go back to the way things were before.

Life will never go back to normal. And though, there is grief in that reality, there is goodness in it as well. When everything has been sifted and shifted, we will find the gift of deeper belonging when we exchange our power for God’s power and find communion with Him. When we don’t feel like we fit anywhere, acceptance can be found when we admit how unaccepted and powerless we feel at times. We become children asking God again and again for help to see and to have hearts to hear. Relinquishing our power to control everything around us and in us means we must break, opening ourselves to true intimacy — to true belonging.

I broke after that dinner party when I cried until there were no more tears. But in the breaking, my hands were pried open to worship the One who made me who I am and in whom I truly belong.

As we do our best to navigate this current season, may we find the belonging we so desperately crave in Christ, the One who laid down His power to reconcile us back to God.

 

[bctt tweet=”Worship puts us in our place and in a posture where we relinquish our power back to the One who is power and who is in control. -Anjuli Paschall:” username=”incourage”]

You Can Do Hard Things

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Scared and alone, I entered the hospital.

While doctor’s appointments and tests have become a standard part of my life since receiving a rare disease diagnosis, this day was different. I’d grown accustomed — and unquestionably taken for granted — the ability to have a family member or friend by my side. With the pandemic continuing to press on, my only option was to brave the appointment alone as I faced the added fear of being exposed to a disease that didn’t play nice with weakened immune systems.

In the twenty-four hours leading up to the appointment, my emotions ran the full gamut. Every potential scenario played out in my mind: Would I be exposed to COVID? Was my immune system strong enough to handle it if I was? Would this visit counteract the stay-at-home orders I had so rigorously followed?

Fear and uncertainty weighed heavily on my heart as I longed for a different reality.

As I rummaged through the house to create a make-shift mask, my emotions continued to escalate. In a last-ditch attempt not to have to deal with the appointment alone, I asked my husband to drive me to the hospital and wait in the parking lot. As luck would have it, our schedules didn’t coincide. I had to undertake this alone — or so I thought.

You can do hard things, I reminded myself as I drove to the hospital. After enduring a year and a half of chemotherapy, undergoing routine bloodwork should have felt like a walk in the park, but I couldn’t deny the fear and uncertainty that had welled up inside of me. Throughout the years, I’d learned that bravery isn’t so much a choice as it is the willingness to do the hard things even when we are scared.

After I parked the car, I got out, and my feet began to propel me closer and closer to the hospital doors. I took several deep breaths, in and out. Stepping through the automatic sliding doors, peace slowly began to replace my panic, though at first, I couldn’t pinpoint why. COVID prescreen, check. Registration, a breeze. Bloodwork, done in record time.

In less than fifteen minutes, my feet were back on the parking lot pavement making their way to the car. As a sigh of relief escaped my lips, a slow realization dawned on me: I hadn’t been alone. God had been present.

The Bible reminds us that, “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble” (Psalm 46:1 ESV).

Life often requires us to do things scared, to take steps forward in faith. How quick I am to forget that God goes with me through the trials and burdens of this life both big and small!

Isaiah 41:10 tells us, “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

Fear reminds me that it is okay if I don’t feel equipped because my weakness can be a place for God’s strength to shine through. On my own, fear can be a powerful deterrent, but with God, fear does not get the final say.

I won’t always have a family member or friend by my side as I walk through the burdens of this life, but I can take one courageous step after the next knowing that God’s presence is in my midst (1 Corinthians 3:16 ESV). While I cannot eliminate fear from my life, I can cast all of my anxiety on God because He cares for me (1 Peter 5:7 NIV). There is no burden too great or too small for God to bear.

How has God’s presence been a comfort to you in this season?

 

 

[bctt tweet=”Bravery isn’t so much a choice as it is the willingness to do the hard things even when we are scared. -MaryBeth Eiler:” username=”incourage”]

When You Feel the Impact of Jesus’ Skin

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After inspecting the skin on his forearm, my son looks up and announces, “My skin isn’t white, but it’s not as dark as my friend Sam’s.” I nod in affirmation. He cocks his head to one side and asks, “So what color am I?”

As a mixed race, transracial, part Asian American family, it’s impossible to avoid the subject of skin color, race, and ethnicity. Noticing difference has always been normal for me and my kids.

Whenever we can, we affirm our kids’ noticing skin color and tone. Whether it’s their own, a friend’s, a stranger’s, a toy’s, or a book character’s, we talk about what we see and note how beautiful the variations are. Every moment of noticing is an opportunity to tell the truth.

We can’t celebrate, know, or grow alongside what we pretend not to see.

In college, I did a Bible study with a group of friends about the life and ministry of Jesus. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, sandwiched between two afternoon classes — “Literature of the Holocaust” and “Blacks and Jews in the National Imagination” — I walked to a local coffee shop and spent time poring over Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. For hours on those days, my mind was filled with stories of systemically oppressed people groups from the books in my literature classes and the stories of Jesus’ life and ministry told through the gospels.

One particular afternoon, in-between sips of my coffee, I read a paragraph in the study that emphasized how Jesus might’ve looked. It said that based on where He was from, He likely had very dark skin, and course, black hair, like me. Before this, I had never heard anyone describe Jesus as anything other than white. As I considered His face and skin, I cried right into my coffee cup.

I thought about Jesus coming to the house I grew up in. I’m now sure that if He had, He wouldn’t sigh or roll His eyes when my mom would tell Him to take His shoes off. I’m sure He wouldn’t have minded the scent of kimchi that never left our fridge.

I thought about what it would’ve been like to stand right next to Jesus, close enough to see the sweat on His dark, earthly skin and smell the way His clothes, breath, and hair might have carried the scent of cumin, coriander, garlic, and dill.

It was during that semester years ago I became convinced that more than anyone else yesterday, today, or tomorrow, Jesus goes out of His way to notice, lift up, and love those who are treated as if they are unseen. It’s Jesus who sees our skin color, our culture, our humanity.

Imagining Jesus with His Middle Eastern skin moved my faith beyond the barriers that stood between infancy and intimacy.

God didn’t give us gifts of color and culture so we would pretend they didn’t matter. Jesus with His brown skin, poor skin, lonely skin, targeted skin, villainized skin, arrested skin, wounded skin, and resurrected-but-still-scarred skin made every color and culture of humanity matter. He gave each of us our colors so we can learn how to recognize and discover the breadth and width of His perfect love in our diversity.

In the face of our nation’s years of systemic racism and oppression, may we consider the details of Jesus’ humanity, and let them move us one step closer to a posture of humility, repentance, and healing.

So the Word became human and made his home among us. He was full of unfailing love and faithfulness. And we have seen his glory, the glory of the Father’s one and only Son.
John 1:14 (NLT)

God knows what it feels like to be human. He sees your tired skin, tender skin, dark-as-night skin, ripe-as-a-peach skin, hairy skin, freckled skin, wrinkled skin, creamy-hot-cocoa skin, almond skin, smooth skin, changing-color-with-the-seasons skin, calloused skin, and loves every inch of your fearfully-made, intentionally-given skin.

Incarnate isn’t just a spiritual word; it’s the Word made flesh with divine details of culture and ethnicity.

I tell my son, “Your skin is the color of caramel and brown sugar, and I see God’s face and understand His love a little bit more when I see you.”

 

[bctt tweet=”Incarnate isn’t just a spiritual word; it’s the Word made flesh with divine details of culture and ethnicity. -@tashajunb:” username=”incourage”]

What Do You Believe?

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God, create a clean heart for me
and renew a steadfast spirit within me.
Do not banish me from your presence
or take your Holy Spirit from me.
Restore the joy of your salvation to me,
and sustain me by giving me a willing spirit.
Then I will teach the rebellious your ways,
and sinners will return to you.
Psalm 51:10-13 (CSB)

I picture David face down, vulnerable before the Lord, as his guilt and sorrow pours out from his broken spirit. He was left with nothing but humility, recognizing how broken he was and how deeply he needed to be restored by God. He knew the type of sacrifice God required of him. God wanted his heart, a sacrifice of pride, for it is pride that keeps us from repentance. Repentance must precede restoration. Unlike me for far too long, David was fully aware of this. My pride kept me from a humbled, broken posture before the Lord.

Our world today makes it tough to appear anything but stoic, perfect, and in complete control. Peruse Facebook, and in seconds you’ll see this played out. But we know all too well that on the other side of that screen sits a nearly broken spirit — maybe that person is you. Perhaps you have been running and hiding from your repentance because of fear, doubt, or pride. Or, like me, you question that God will forgive you.

God is far bigger than anything our tiny minds can conceive. We were created to live fully. We must put our unbelief aside and choose to believe that God wants to restore us to a life full of His provision, blessing, mercy, grace, forgiveness, and love. Are you desperate for restoration today? Do you believe that your humbled heart, laid out before Him in repentance, will bring restoration? Do you believe God wants to restore you?

Do you believe He will? I am praying that if you are in a place of needing restoration, you will run to the Father now and trust Him with your broken spirit and humbled heart.

This excerpt is by Tam Hodge, published in the (in)courage Devotional Bible and the Summer (in) the Psalms Devotional Journal. It has been edited from its original form.

 

How can we pray for you?

We want to create a space for you to confess, pray, and connect as a community. Please write a prayer or leave a prayer request in the comments and then pray for the person who commented before you.

Also, we’re journeying through the book of Psalms this summer, and we’d love for you to join us! 

Click here to purchase the printed Summer (in) the Psalms 40-Day Devotional Journal for just $7.99! This beautiful printed journal, only available on Amazon, includes forty days of reading selections from Psalms, twenty full devotions from the (in)courage Devotional Bible, and daily reflection questions with lined pages for journaling your answers. This journal is an all-inclusive, one stop shop for your Summer (in) the Psalms journey!

 

[bctt tweet=”@incourage has create a space for us to confess, pray, and connect as a community. Join the prayer chain in the comments:” via=”no”]

Staying on the Hard Road

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I remember walking out of the state-of-the-art fertility clinic with my husband. We had come to seek a second opinion from a highly regarded infertility specialist after four years of testing, treatments, and heartache.

Our appointment with the doctor had not gone well. He was arrogant, overlooked our questions, and seemed flippant about our journey as he outlined his proposed course of treatment. We left his office feeling uneasy and confused about what our next steps should be.

As we stepped into the sunshine and walked to our car, I heard the Holy Spirit whisper, “This is not what I have for you.” My husband felt the exact same pull on his heart.

At the time, we thought perhaps the Lord did not like this particular doctor or his chosen methods for helping us, but as the days went by, we both had a stronger sense that God was actually calling us away from infertility treatments as a whole.

The more I prayed about it, the more I sensed God was asking us to lay our efforts aside. It was time to put away the medication, stop the doctor appointments, cease striving, and join Him on the long, hard road of childlessness.

At first, every fiber in my being resisted. I begged God to give us something else to pursue — a different doctor, adoption, natural remedies for healing my body. Over and over, I heard God say, “That is not what I have for you. Come join me on this road through the wilderness.”

To many people, I’m sure it looked like we had just given up and thrown in the towel on our plans to start a family. The truth is, we were (and still are) obediently following God on this hard road that He has called us to. It may not make sense to the world around us, and it occasionally does not make sense to me either, but I know we are doing what He has asked of us and Jesus has sustained us every step of the way.

God often calls us to difficult things. In Matthew 7:14, Jesus said, “For the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few.” Did you notice where the hard way leads? It leads to life.

Our difficult calling has a destination. God does not ask us to wander the wilderness aimlessly. Our roads are going somewhere glorious — into the heart of God Himself.

The Greek word used for life is zōē, and it holds a sense of vitality, fullness, animation, and devotion to God. It is the absolute fullness of life with God. This is the same word that Jesus uses in John 10:10 when He speaks about the abundant life. These hard roads are highly profitable if we are willing to stay on them.

Jesus was no stranger to walking difficult roads — His entire ministry was fraught with hardship, and the final days of His life were especially lonely and painful.

From the Garden of Gesthemane to standing trial, being beaten and tortured, and then dying on a cross, Jesus stayed true to the call God had given Him. Jesus had plenty of opportunities to step off His hard road. He could have summoned legions of angels. He could have taken Himself down off the cross. He could have avoided the whole ordeal altogether, but He chose to remain “obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross” (Philippians 2:8).

So how exactly do we stay on our hard roads? What kept Jesus on the course that the Father had called him to? 1 Peter 2:23 gives us the answer to that question, “When he was reviled, he did not revile in return; when he suffered, he did not threaten, but continued entrusting himself to him who judges justly.”

Jesus continually entrusted Himself to God. Over and over, He trusted in the love of His Father and in the eternally redemptive outcome of His plan, and we are invited to do the same.

God desires that we might entrust ourselves daily to Him. We do this simply by walking with Him in prayer, reading His Word, and trusting in His good and loving heart. We can stay the course by following Christ’s example.

Friends, I don’t know what hard road God has called you to right now. Maybe it’s singleness or enduring an invisible illness, maybe it’s working in a job you dislike or living with family members who test your patience every day.

Hard roads are hard. The easy way out is tempting, but if God has called you to walk on a difficult path, He will sustain you on it. So fix your eyes on Jesus, entrust yourself to God, and keep putting one foot in front of another as you journey toward the life in God that awaits you.

This post was originally written in April 2019 by Rebecca Young. 

 

[bctt tweet=”If God has called you to walk on a difficult path, He will sustain you on it. -Rebecca Young:” username=”incourage”]

When You Want to Walk on Water

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I remember when I was giving my daughter a bath years ago when she started to do something strange with her foot.

“What are you doing, hon?”

“I’m trying to walk on water, Mom — like Jesus did.”

She told me her preschool teacher had told her a story about when she was a little girl and how she tried to walk on water in the bathtub and never could. Only Jesus could do that — well, Peter did too.

I asked her, “Why do you want to walk on water?”

She answered, “Because Jesus did and I want to too.”

Isn’t that the way we should think — to want to do the same things Jesus did, to follow His examples in the mundane and the miraculous?

My daughter teaches me so much about what I like to call the Jesus-led adventure — a posture of letting Him lead in every area of our lives, following hard after Him so we can be like Him, and dwelling with Him in the promised land He has for each of us.

I love that she thinks if Jesus walked on water, we can too.

Jesus spoke to them at once. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Take courage, I am here!” Then Peter called to him, “Lord, if it’s really you, tell me to come to you, walking on the water.” “Yes, come.” Jesus said. So Peter went over the side of the boat and walked on the water toward Jesus.
Matthew 14:27-29 (NLT)

Peter asked to join Jesus on the water in the middle of the miracle that defined Him as the Son of God. When was the last time we asked to join Jesus in the miracles He’s doing?

Are we looking at current events and uncomfortable with the storm? Or are we asking to join Jesus on the water in the middle of it all? Stepping out of our comfort zone in obedience to God’s calling in each of our lives is exactly what this struggling world needs.

I sometimes forget there were a lot of other disciples in the back of the boat desperately trying to stay in the boat. The other eleven never asked Jesus to call them out of the boat to walk on the water with Him.

But Peter’s faith increased the faith of all the ones shaking in the back of the boat. Their response after Peter did the impossible and Jesus calmed the storm? The others worshipped Jesus, exclaiming, “You really are the Son of God!” (Matthew 14:32-33 NLT)

We want our lives to point to Jesus and to worship Him in such a way that shows others how to worship too. If we ask Jesus to join Him in the miracles He’s already doing, perhaps others will worship Him and say, “Jesus really is the Son of God!”

What are you seeing Jesus do around you but aren’t brave enough to join Him in? By brave enough, I mean joining Him on the water to be with Him, to dwell with Him where miracles happen. It’s not about being brave enough by yourself to get out of the boat or about focusing on what happens when you have a moment of panic like Peter did when the waves got huge. Getting out of your boat is about asking Jesus to join Him in His work, where it’s you and Him and all the power of God at work.

My daughter wants to walk on water with Jesus, and I do, too.

Joining Him in His miracles may look like what the world would call success, serving in the mundane, or probably a combination of both.

For me, I find myself asking for contentment in the day-to-day of motherhood. I ask for the desire to spend focused time with Jesus, instead of scrolling endlessly through online opinions and daily reports on world events. I pray for Holy Spirit-inspired creativity to return so I can fulfill my original callings and for the Lord to give me opportunities to actively serve my neighbors. It doesn’t have to look big from the outside for Jesus to be working in me.

I want to be brave enough to live a life on the waves, no matter if there is disagreement among friends, a global pandemic, financial strain, discomfort in social change, or more uncertainties about my future than I’ve ever known.

And I want to remember Jesus is in the business of miracles, calling our names to join Him, especially when our circumstances look a little scary.

What miracles do you see Him doing in your home, in your neighborhood,
and in the world?

 

[bctt tweet=”Jesus is in the business of miracles, calling our names to join Him, especially when our circumstances look a little scary. -Stephanie Bryant:” username=”incourage”]

Why Admitting You’re Wrong Is Important and Good

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The first half of 2020 has played like the opening lines from a Tale of Two Cities: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

It’s easy to put a finger on the “worst of times.” Bleeding headlines are daily realities for many, but all of us have been impacted on some level. There’s not even a need to rehash the particulars because we’re already so intimately, and sometimes painfully, acquainted.

But what about “the best of times”? How could I suggest such a possibility in the midst of societal, political, economic, cultural, pandemical, and even ecumenical upheaval? In my lifetime, I have never seen our country – or the Church – so battered and bruised, so grievously divided.

If that was where this story ends, it’d be heartbreaking and reason to despair. So, I mean it with everything in me when I say, Thank God, this isn’t the end of our story. I sense we’re in the depths of tectonic shift, and when everything feels uncertain, we need to remind each other what is true: God is still God, and He is always and only good. Thankfully, He remains in control, and not only in an abstract, future sense, but now, in our present world too.

I make a claim in For All Who Wander that explains, in part, why I’m convinced we’re living in the best of times despite the chaos and brokenness: There is no greater evidence of God at work in the world than a changed mind that leads to a changed life.

In this season, I see evidence of God at work in our world because minds are changing. Lives are changing.

Our longing for a better world reveals our desperate need for God. Never have I been more grateful for (in)courage as a companion to my faith. Every essay conveys a powerful and encouraging message of hope, light, and love, pointing to the only Truth that can disperse darkness.

Over the past several years, (in)courage has made a concerted effort to add writers of color. We’ve had the joy of getting to know them through their words here, and I’ve observed how deeply each contributor loves Jesus and cares about you, our precious readers. I’ve seen these women labor over their words to bring glory to God, encouraging and equipping the body while providing invaluable insight.

We tell diverse stories because we’re informed by our unique experiences, but our goal is always the same: to speak truth in love (Ephesians 4:15). Our words are lasers pointing to Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith (Hebrews 12:2 NKJV). We know that He alone is our Hope.

Not one of us claims to “know it all.” We earnestly desire to learn from one another – iron sharpening iron – in order to grow in our faith. We offer our words as a well-worn pair of shoes, so that for a moment, you can walk around in them and see a world so different from your own through a different set of eyes.

We can learn something important, unexpected, and beautiful when we listen with open hearts and ears. But this can only happen when we lay down personal agenda, let go of a need to be “right,” and beg the Holy Spirit to renew and transform our minds, bringing conviction when necessary.

Sometimes we’ll actually realize long-held beliefs or practices are wrong or harmful even when we sincerely didn’t mean it that way. Our intentions really don’t matter; repenting and following the Lord’s leading do.

Like years ago, when I genuinely meant something as a compliment and said to Anthony, a member of a Bible study my husband and I attended early in our marriage:

“When I look at you, I don’t see color.”

As you might conclude, he was a person with skin color different from my own.

For years I used this phrase as a sincere attempt to extol the “virtue” of colorblindness. I thought this was the right way to express equality between white people and people of color. It was a way of suggesting I wasn’t a racist and that I saw people the way God sees them.

I didn’t yet know what I didn’t know, and it certainly hadn’t occurred to me how that the phrase was hurtful. I can’t say whether someone corrected my misguided ideology or the Holy Spirit brought enlightenment, but eventually, thankfully, I realized I was wrong and eliminated it from my vocabulary.

This was all a distant memory until I recently joined a peaceful protest following George Floyd’s death. Among an ocean of signs, a bright green one stood out, a list of familiar hashtags filling its page. The eighth one down was an unexpected trigger. It said #GODDOESNOTSEECOLOR, and I wondered how my Black sisters and brothers felt when they read it. I wanted to tap the well-meaning marcher on her shoulder and help her understand the hurtfulness of that phrase because God sees and values every color.

Like me so long ago, she didn’t yet know what she didn’t know. This may even be the first time you’re noticing the distinction, and there is absolutely no shame in that. We’re learners!

Ecclesiastes 3:7 tells us there’s a time to be silent and a time to speak. Being silent doesn’t equal passivity when we’re listening. Silence allows space to learn (if we’re not being knee-jerk defensive) and for the Holy Spirit to do deep heart work.

Discovering you’re wrong about a thing can be a catalyst for transformation, and admitting it to yourself is a courageous first step in the right direction.

Bravo to the ones who are brave enough to really listen to another’s point of view and to truly reconsider long-held beliefs or ideologies. May we be women of courage who aren’t afraid to pivot.

 

[bctt tweet=”Discovering you’re wrong about a thing can be a catalyst for transformation, and admitting it to yourself is a courageous first step in the right direction. -@robindance:” username=”incourage”]

Will We Judge Young Looters or Learn to Love Them?

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The photo stops me in my tracks. It shows a young man running from Target with stolen goods – some bedding: a package of sheets and a blanket. In the same photo, another young looter pushes a shopping cart filled with a comforter and two floor rugs. In another photo, a young teenager is stealing – what exactly? – an infant’s car seat.

Fascinated, I google “looters at Target” and scores of photos hit my screen. There I see another young man carrying out a floor vacuum. Another is looting kids’ toys – a basketball, a baseball bat, and a doll set, plus a beige floral quilt. A young woman pushes a cart holding a lamp, two floor rugs, a pile of bath towels, and two Mr. Coffee’s.

An odd thought hits me: Who’s getting the second Mr. Coffee?

I ask these questions because recent protests – and the looting that sometimes followed – prompted vicious put downs, even by Christians, against the “lawless” looters, as if these young people were heathens. For stealing a package of bed sheets? Or a pile of bath towels?

Indeed, what are we seeing here? My questions don’t mean I endorse looting or theft from a hard-working business. “Thou shalt not steal,” the Lord declared (Exodus 20:15), and the pronouncement is clear and plain.

Yet during a riot, while tear gas bombards the air and buildings are burning, what kind of teenager uses the chaos to steal a quilt or a car seat for his baby?

Such questions take us deep into the complications of life in our America. We can quickly blame, shame, and point fingers. But does stealing a quilt and a package of sheets make a man or woman a menace to society? A risk to our republic?

Or is the looter struggling to make ends meet? Barely making a living wage, even before jobs dried up during the pandemic? Failing to provide for a family, plus maybe relatives? Desperate to make a hovel feel like a home? Then, someone breaks a store window and there, free and clear, sits the world’s goods and groceries – just waiting for the taking.

What should a mom or dad do in that moment?

Writing about theft in his classic novel Les Miserables, Victor Hugo gives an answer in his main character, Jean Valjean, who has spent nineteen years in prison for stealing a loaf of bread to save his sister’s child from starvation. On his first night free, he’s given a meal and bed for sleeping by a humble clergyman, Bishop Bienvenue.

In desperation, Valjean steals some silver valuables from the bishop’s church and flees, but he’s caught by police. Returned to the bishop to confess, he’ll face even more prison. But the bishop does a remarkable thing. He shows mercy. The silver, he says, was a gift. Then, he gives Valjean two silver candlesticks, telling police Valjean left them behind by mistake.

This bishop’s kindness is the key turning point in the novel, placing Valjean on track to a redeemed life — helping transform a common thief into a man of virtue, who in the end helps transform others.

Just a fictional story? Or a challenge for these times?

Many were inspired, indeed, by the young man who cleaned broken glass and trash from his neighborhood in Buffalo for ten hours after days of protests in June. His reward? A car and a college scholarship.

But my heart? It pulls toward the young people risking arrest and a jail record to pilfer bed sheets and a cart of frozen food. They may have seen little fairness and justice in the world. Or do my words make you roll your eyes – oh, please – as you click to something more cut and dry regarding biblical values and American life?

Do we forget, indeed, the crooked Matthew — the despised tax collector — who, in Christ, became one of the twelve disciples (Matthew 9:9)? Or the thieves in the church at Corinth who were washed clean by the Savior’s blood (1 Corinthians 6:8-11)? Is a young looter worse than Christians who cheat on their taxes (or on their spouses)? Or a believer who cheats God of tithes and offerings?

As we read in Proverbs 6:30-31, “People do not despise a thief if he steals to satisfy his hunger when he is starving” – knowing even if he is caught, “he must pay sevenfold, though it costs him all the wealth of his house.”

How will people of faith decide in these matters? Fight for justice? Show the Savior’s love? Learn to do both?

I don’t have a clear-cut answer. But in times like these, may God help us to arise on His side.

 

[bctt tweet=”How will people of faith decide in these matters? Fight for justice? Show the Savior’s love? Learn to do both? In times like these, may God help us to arise on His side. -@PatriciaRaybon:” username=”incourage”]

An Unveiled Life in the Presence of God

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A city’s gradual emergence from the coronavirus shut down corresponds to a certain atmosphere in its airport. My husband and I took off our masks just long enough to eat subs at a socially distant table, and then, our masks back in place, we settled ourselves near Gate A-3 to wait out the remainder of a three-hour layover in Baltimore.

A pair of uniformed airline employees on their lunch break caught my eye. She, brown-eyed and animated; he, somber and attentive. It soon became obvious this was no business lunch. Their masked interaction at the corner of my eye distracted me from the book I was trying to read.

What in the world would it be like to date with mandatory masking? I wondered. Has Cosmo addressed this in an article yet? I smiled beneath my own mask as I invented titles and tag lines: “COVID-19 Mask Moves: Let Him Know You’re Interested!”

Drawn again to their soft laughter, I looked up just in time to see the young woman lower her mask, unveiling the full radiance of her dazzling smile. It seemed so intimate a gesture. I turned back to my book.

For the last several months, we have all been masked and hidden. We have stayed at home and protected ourselves and our loved ones from infection. At the same time, though, we have cloaked our disappointment as family events and our kids’ milestones have, one by one, been erased from our calendars. We have veiled our loneliness as weeks of lockdown started to make us forget how to function during a coffee date or a face-to-face conversation. We have pulled the curtains on our losses, either too big to put words around or too small to share when others are suffering so much.

Perhaps, in all our safe separation and invisibility, we have forgotten that there is One who sees all, and before Him, we are free to come with unveiled faces. Moses certainly understood what it was to meet face to face with God, but even so, his understanding of the ultimate significance of the Old Covenant under which he lived and labored was, at best, shadowy.

The believer, on the other hand, is privileged with unimpaired spiritual perception: the ability to see the glory of God revealed in Christ — an unobstructed view and an unbelievable freedom:

With that kind of hope to excite us, nothing holds us back. Unlike Moses, we have nothing to hide.
Everything is out in the open with us . . . 
2 Corinthians 3:12 (MSG)

. . . or at least it can be, if we’re willing to take the risk.

Whether or not Moses’s veil and the veiled hearts of his Israelite traveling companions prove to be a helpful metaphor, my fogged glasses and my shallow breathing behind a mask testify to the limitations of veiled living. And this warns me of the dangers of damming up emotions, slamming the door on things I’d rather not deal with, and working hard to project an image that does not line up with the me that lives and breathes (and fails and falters) on this broken ground.

God invites us to enter into His presence and to embark upon an unveiled life. Even while we all stay safe behind our masks, we can choose to live with unveiled hearts. “Nothing between us and God,” urges Paul, “our faces shining with the brightness of his face” (2 Corinthians 3:17).

Your brave yes to God comes in everyday choices, both big and small:

  • When, with no makeup and no fuss, you greet your friend at the door, with no thought for whatever may be pale or blotchy because you trust she’s come to be with the real you.
  • When you raise your hand to volunteer for a job that feels too big, too exposed, but you do it because you believe you’ve been called — and He who calls is faithful (1 Thessalonians 5:24 NKJV).
  • When tears flow because prayer is getting close to the bone, but you go there anyway, knowing that God has an unobstructed view of your heart — and you want a clearer view of His.

I have no idea how long we will be masked and socially distant for our physical safety, but this one thing I know for sure: hiding our hearts behind a veil, hiding our true selves from God and from others is the worst thing we can do for our spiritual health.

When we come to Christ, the veil is lifted. Our lives gradually become brighter, and we become more like Christ. The more we see and grow in our knowledge of God’s faithfulness, the more we will reveal the glory of Christ.

What area of your life do you hear the voice of the Spirit saying,
“Trust me here. Lower your mask. I see you.”?

 

[bctt tweet=”God invites us to enter into His presence and to embark upon an unveiled life, where there’s nothing between us and Him. -@MicheleDMorin:” username=”incourage”]

Pray, Lament, Confess — Repeat

by

I sat in the front row of a mostly empty church, hands clasped, mouth covered with a mask. Appropriately spaced throughout the sanctuary were a hand full of pastors and ministry leaders in our city, gathered together for a prayer vigil on account of the hard realities currently facing our nation. Hard realities — that phrase doesn’t even scratch the surface of what is bubbling and surfacing right now. It’s not that racism didn’t exist before this year. It’s not that black and brown bodies have never been oppressed, controlled, or killed before. But it’s the cumulative effect of it all. So much loss and pain has happened in such a short period of time, and the memory of all the lives who have been cut short in the past are all too near.

That evening, I stepped into that space, feeling tired and emotionally fatigued. It’s hard to even explain the roller coaster of emotions that a person of color experiences in witnessing and processing so much death and violence against the Black community.

Anger. Rage. Fear. Emptiness. Pain. Exhaustion.

But tonight was exactly where I needed to be. With my eyes closed and my hands open wide, I received the first prayer of the evening:

God, we lament for what’s happening in our country.
We lament the loss of life You say is valuable, that You say is important, and that was created in your image.
We cry tonight. We lament tonight. We mourn.

One after another, men and women, black, brown, and white, all stood up and lamented the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, Mike Ramos, and so many more. Every single one cried out to God and let the pent-up pain of too many weeks spill out into words before our Father.

I never knew how much I needed to mourn communally until that night. Because we all came together that night to acknowledge, not just the brokenness in our society, but also in ourselves. Lament and confession go hand in hand, and oh, did we all have much to confess. The white Christians present confessed their own sins of racism, of ignorance, and turning a blind eye to the pains of communities of color in the past. Christians of color, including myself, confessed times when we’ve stayed silent and when we’ve chosen not to stand in solidarity for fellow Black and brown men and women.

That night of prayer was the first step toward solidarity with our Black and brown communities who are hurting right now. More than that, it was an act of public witness where we created space to go before God, lift our voices up, hear from His Word, and consider how our own sins and failures have led to our current predicament right now. We prayed together for God to orient our hearts, minds, and bodies toward love and justice.

Lament is a biblical response to the reality of suffering, and it’s what we need right now.

Each of need to take all that we’re feeling and experiencing, and everything happening in our country right now and lay them before our God in heaven. We must pray as the Psalmist does in Psalm 121: “I lift my eyes up to the mountains – where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.” We’ve all seen or experienced personally the racial tension in our country, and the our starting point for change, for healing, and solidarity moving forward has to begin with lament and confession to God.

So many people are asking me right now what they should be doing. And I get it. We want to do something. There’s a lot of people who are growing in their racial consciousness for the very first time. This topic is completely new to so many and people want to start reading all the books and having all the conversations on race and justice. And those are good things to do in time. But before we act, we need to first lament. Lament the deaths of image bearers. Lament a long, dark history in which Black and brown bodies haven’t been treated as equal to white bodies. Lament our own ignorance to this history — perhaps even our own complicity.

Our aim for this current reality in our country shouldn’t be to just have a conversation on race. Instead, we should lead with lament. Pray, lament, and confess on repeat. That’s what I’ve challenged myself to do during these gut-wrenching days. Every day, a new video, a new threat, a new assault. Lamenting before God is the only way I know to channel my rage. More than that, prayer and lament form the foundation for my activism. Because it’s only if we’re doing these things on repeat that we can humbly begin to have those conversations about race, reparations, and reform.

Friend, will you lament with me today?