When You Don’t Have Any Answers

When You Don’t Have Any Answers

by

Facebook is a terrible way to learn a friend has died.

A heavy feeling settled in my chest as my newsfeed swarmed with strangers writing messages to Julie about shared memories.

When I saw the first “RIP,” I crumpled into a mess of tears.

Julie and I met in the radiation waiting room at MD Anderson Cancer Center. In May 2011, I reported to Waiting Room J each weekday at my assigned time. It didn’t take long to recognize the familiar faces of those with similar appointment times.

Julie struck up a conversation with me during my second week of radiation. She was about my age and recognized me from the ninth floor Sarcoma Center waiting room. (Cancer demands a lot of time in waiting rooms.) Although she was clearly in pain from the growing tumor in her leg, her smile was brilliant, shining from a face adorned with a spunky, color-streaked wig.

We bonded quickly over the chemotherapy regimen we’d both endured and the experience of being moms with cancer. We shared our life stories and cancer stories, and I learned that while chemo caused my tumor to shrink like a snowball in a frying pan, Julie’s tumor grew steadily and ominously.

We celebrated the end of Julie’s radiation, and she stood proudly beside me as I rang the bell at the end of mine. We planned to see each other when I returned to Houston six weeks later for surgery. But by then, Julie was gone.

I never found out exactly how she died. When you make friends in a radiation waiting room you don’t know each other’s people. I never met her friends or family. I had no one to grieve with, no one to share common memories with, no one to answer my questions about her final days. Did she suffer? Did she die in the hospital? Did she have enough warning to say goodbye to her son? I’ll never know.

I’d been battling cancer for nine months when Julie died, and I hadn’t yet asked God why. It’s not because I’m a spiritual giant with unshakeable faith; it just never occurred to me to ask. I knew the brokenness of this fallen world, and I trusted God to use my suffering to accomplish His loving purposes for me. From the beginning of my cancer journey, I could see Him chipping away at my self-sufficiency and drawing me further into dependence on Him.

But when Julie died, “Why?” was suddenly the only question in my mind. Why would God allow a single mom with a young child to die? Why was He allowing me to survive? Again, I didn’t have the answers, and I never will.

I do know one thing: I’ll never regret Julie reaching out to me in Waiting Room J. I’m better for having known her. She inspired me with her courage through pain. She taught me to trust the Lord more deeply, even without the answers I craved.

It’s easy to believe God’s promises when life provides answers to all your questions. But that isn’t trust. Trust is belief that perseveres through adversity. Trust struggles through the answer-less places and strengthens in spite of the questions.

Because of Julie, I wrestled in that in-between place where I’ve been ripped from a problem-free life but still lack answers. In that difficult place, God grows my faltering faith into tested trust.

Are you in that place today, friend? You’re not alone.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me;
your rod and your staff, they comfort me.
Psalm 23:4 (ESV)

I return to that wrestling place often, and each time, the Lord pours out His presence, peace, and rest. I can’t say I like it there. I’d rather have an easy life or a clear understanding of the silver lining to my suffering. But by the Lord’s power at work in me, I’ll keep walking with Him through the in-between, trust-growing place until He takes me Home and all my questions fade away.

This post was originally written in March 2018 by Marissa Henley.

 

[bctt tweet=”In the midst of pain and faltering faith, the Lord pours out His presence, peace, and rest. -@marissahenley:” username=”incourage”]

Faith Like a Child

by

A set of stairs wrapped around the wings of the stage where we stood in single file obscured from view. We stood shivering in the space between the congregation and the huge tub of water on display — like a row of musical notes, our different heights climbing up and down the scale, until it dipped down to reach me, a single note at the bottom of the staff.

At eight years old, I was the youngest of those who had signed up for baptism.

Prior to that Sunday, my parents asked me repeatedly if I was sure about my decision. Between afternoon cartoons or while I munched my morning cereal, my mom would slide a question my way, making sure my decision was one of the heart and not simply a parroting of words I’d overheard in grown-up conversations.

I answered each question from a place of uncomplicated faith. I loved Jesus, and baptism was simply the next step in my friendship with Him. My parents were satisfied with my answers, and weeks later, I found myself waiting in the baptismal wings in that line of notes strung along like a love song to Jesus.

I took a deep breath when the pastors called me forward and another when they submerged my body under water. I rose up from the water appearing like the same eight-year-old I was minutes before, only imperceptibly different on the inside. After church, I ran around with a wet head looking for my church friends, while my parents wrangled my siblings.

Nothing had changed, and yet, so had everything.

I have three children of my own now, all much older than my wee self at eight. When I look back at photos of them in elementary school, I remember how young they seemed at the time. How innocent and untested. How silly and sweet. Life with eight-year-olds is a blur of color and noise and laughter. I don’t remember many deep conversations reviewing the tenets of our faith, sacramental language, or big words used to explain difficult concepts of spiritual transformation.

I remember wondering if they truly understood what baptism symbolizes when my two oldest decided to be baptized on a family trip to Israel.

Like my parents, I questioned my children for sure answers. How quickly we forget that the Holy Spirit woos the hearts of young and old alike. I’d forgotten the sincerity and simple faith of my youth, and how the Spirit is alive and at work in us at every age and stage of life. We baptized two of our children in the Jordan River, while fellow pilgrims sang hymns while waiting for their turn. I snapped photos of my kids with their wide smiles and hair dripping. I wondered what memories they would carry with them, and if this moment was one of faith defined or just another adventure on a family vacation.

When we piled back into the car after our visit, my husband called everyone’s name to be sure we were all present and accounted for. When he called my son’s name, my boy replied from the back seat, “He’s not here anymore, Dad.” To which my husband replied, “That’s right, buddy!”, as I blinked back tears.

A new child had risen out of the brackish water while I took photos and wrangled his little sister.

Nothing had changed, and yet, so had everything.

This post was originally written in March 2018 by Kimberly Coyle.

 

[bctt tweet=”The Spirit is alive and at work in us at every age and stage of life. -@KimberlyACoyle:” username=”incourage”]

19 Ways to #LoveOverAll in Light of COVID-19

by

Our family cuddled on the couch watching a movie as late afternoon rain pelted down. It seemed fitting that there was a literal storm outside as the world stormed around us — the response to COVID-19 was just getting serious here in the U.S. I only half-heard my kids as they laughed at the screen and asked for a snack. I kept thinking about our neighbor.

We’ve waved hello back and forth while pulling in and out of driveways dozens of times, but all I really know is that this elderly wife and husband live alone and never had children. I’d guess they are in their eighties. They’ve lived on our street longer than I’ve been alive but their accent tells of rich German roots. I wish I could remember her name.

I got up off the couch. “Whatcha doing?” my husband asked. He was home too. His work trip had been canceled like most everything would be in the coming days.

“I keep thinking about those neighbors.” I pointed diagonally out our front window. “I feel like I should go see if they need anything.”

My husband agreed and offered his help too. I pulled on my red rain shoes right over my fluffy socks. I didn’t take off my sweatpants or brush my hair. I just went. I popped up my umbrella, ran across the street, and rang the doorbell. After some time, my neighbor opened the door. “Yes?” she said tentatively. She didn’t have on makeup either.

“Hi, I’m Becky. I live across the street. Over there with the three boys. And I was just wondering if you’re okay? Everything is pretty crazy right now with the coronavirus, and I wanted to see if you needed anything.”

“Oh, we’re fine, Becky. But thank you for coming over and asking,” she said, a shy smile spreading across her face.

I offered to run to the grocery or pharmacy anytime she needs. I told her my husband is really handy and is more than happy to fix anything around their house. I asked her name. “Crystal,” she said. “Like the glass.” I handed Crystal a handwritten card with our cell phone numbers and told her again to please call or text anytime. Then I popped up my umbrella and walked back home.

Later that night, I called my sister while I was making dinner. You should know I’m not a big fan of talking on the phone, and life is always busy for both of us so we rarely talk. But as a kidney transplant survivor she’s immunosuppressed. I just felt like I should call. Miraculously she picked up. “You were on my mind. How are you?” I asked while slicing croissants. My call was timely. It was good to talk.

The next morning, a friend was on my mind so I texted her. I’ve seen the memes flying around Facebook, heard about the racial slurs and suspicious looks darting toward anyone of Asian descent. I wanted to check in on one of my Asian-American friends – my gut said she could use the reminder that she is wanted, loved, seen. I was right.

Friends, there is nothing extraordinary in any of these things I did. But I’m sharing them as a reminder to myself and to you that there is power in walking across the street, making a phone call, and sending a text. There is power in reaching out and letting others know they are seen. This is true every day – and perhaps no more so than today.

Long before COVID-19 was ever a thing, (in)courage and DaySpring decided to make #LoveOverAll our 2020 theme. I wrote about it here, but the gist is this: Over everything else, we must put on the love of Christ which bonds us together; over everything else, we get to love one another because God first loved us (Colossians 3:12-14; 1 John 4:19).

In January, I challenged us to consider what #LoveOverAll really means. Now’s the time to live it. Here are some simple ideas for loving well.

19 Ways to #LoveOverAll in Light of COVID-19:

1. Share a square — or a whole roll — with someone who didn’t make it to Costco quick enough.
2. Check on an elderly neighbor and offer to pick up groceries or prescriptions.
3. Pray for those on the front lines of meeting medical needs: doctors, nurses, ambulance drivers, police officers, and firefighters.
4. Pray for leaders making crucial decisions: pastors, business owners, education professionals, and government officials.
5. Donate money or supplies to your local soup kitchen or food bank.
6. Write a card and mail it. (Snail mail always brightens a day.)
7. Drop off games or puzzles you’re not using to another family.
8. Play games and do puzzles with your family.
9. Make a batch of freezer meals and give them away.
10. Pick up the phone and call whoever is on your heart today.
11. Order take out from your local Chinese restaurant or other small business.
12. Smile when others are angry, rushed, or panicked.
13. Let someone cut in front of you in line.
14. Find out if friends or family with a suppressed immune system need anything.
15. Leave a thank you note on the porch for postal and delivery workers.
16. Ask how someone is doing and really listen.
17. Offer childcare for a single mom or working parents.
18. Say thank you to check-out clerks and drive-thru workers.
19. Listen to the Holy Spirit and love others however He leads you to.

I don’t know if Crystal will ever take me up on my offer to run errands or help with chores, but at least on a stormy day when uncertainty swarms around us, Crystal knows that she is not forgotten. She is loved. And so are you.

How can you embrace the opportunity to put on #LoveOverAll in light of COVID-19?
Share your ideas below. We are in this together.

 

[bctt tweet=”There is power in reaching out and letting others know they are seen. This is true every day – and perhaps no more so than today. #loveoverall -@beckykeife:” username=”incourage”]

Crisis, Comparison, and a
Checkpoint for My Heart

by

It happened again just the other day, a trigger that startled me. I thought this weapon had been disarmed, that it no longer carried power to bully me.

Having TSA pre-check status was supposed to prevent this problem: a quick step through the metal detector and I’d be on my way. But as I hurried to catch a flight home recently, I had to go through regular security screening at the airport, and like several times before, the scanner flagged me as a potential threat because of my birth defect.

I was born with a rare disorder, a genetic abnormality that left me with a huge birthmark and one side of my body larger than the other. I try not to think about my birth defect too often these days, but then I’m rudely reminded of it by something like a TSA scanner. Apparently the size difference between my right side and my left side fools the machine into thinking I’m trying to smuggle something nefarious onto the plane.

Nope. Just me, wishing I could pass through the checkpoint without incident.

With flaming face, I step aside and wait for a female guard to pat me down. Soon she realizes that I’m no threat to the security of my fellow passengers, and she waves me through to collect my bags and get to my gate.

I find a seat and breathe deeply. I remind myself of the truth I’ve learned. My heartrate slows to its normal rhythm. I am fine.

Just a few years ago, I was not fine. Scenarios like the TSA incident haunted me, reinforcing what I believed to be true: that I was defined by my defects.

Aware from the time I was a tiny girl that I did not look like anyone around me, I developed a habit of constantly comparing myself to everyone around me, trying desperately to measure up. The older I got, the more I became aware of the strengths of those to whom I compared myself — and more aware of my faults and failures. I weighed myself in the balance and always found myself wanting.

I wanted to be loved and accepted, but I judged myself unacceptable.

I’d spent my whole life in the church, but I found that my faith in God didn’t help me with my thoughts about myself. To be honest, though I knew that God loved the world, I had difficulty believing that He loved me. And though I was married to a wonderful man and had lots of friends, I struggled to believe that they really loved me.

Because I found myself unacceptable, I doubted that anyone truly accepted me.

I knew that God was perfect, and I knew that I was terribly imperfect. I imagined that God was perpetually angry with me or at least disappointed in me. And even when people seemed to love me, I found myself unworthy, so I doubted their love. In other words, I had projected my insecurities about myself onto God and other people.

How grateful I am for the life crisis that ended with me in the office of a counselor, crying my eyes out.

Slowly, slowly I began to understand what I had done. Formed in the difficulties of my childhood, bolstered by incidents like the scene at the TSA checkpoint, my understanding of myself was distorted. I saw and appreciated others’ strengths, but all I could see was my weaknesses.

I had to learn a new way to move through the world, a new way to see God, to see other people, and to see myself. But first I had to realize that the old way was wrong.

Countless times I had read Proverbs 3:5 to trust in the Lord with all my heart, but when it came to my opinion of myself, I relied completely on my own understanding.

My own understanding was that I was defined by my defects, unlovable and unacceptable. God’s truth is that I am His beloved child, dearly loved and completely accepted.

My own understanding was that I was unloved and alone. God’s truth is that not only am I His child, I am part of a huge family! Sisters and brothers surround me, all of them beloved children of God as well. We are all made in God’s image, all designed for relationship, all dependent upon God and one another. Yes, I am imperfect, but so are all my brothers and sisters, and God loves us no less.

Turns out that my own understanding was hard to overcome, but life is so much better when I’m not relying on it.

So now I can sit at my gate at the airport and remind myself of the truth. I repeat the words of Henri Nouwen: “I am not what I do. I am not what I have. I am not what others think of me. I am the beloved child of a loving Creator.”

Then I board the plane and fly home.

 

[bctt tweet=”I am God’s child, made in His image. Nothing can change that truth! -@RichellaParham:” username=”incourage”]

Love Listens Well

by

A year ago, my husband Shawn and I embarked on a new journey. We joined a marriage class at our church called Re-engage. Shawn and I married four years ago after the death of my first husband Ericlee. He joined our family of four girls (including me) when we were in the throes of grief and gently shepherded us through some tough transitions. Last January, I felt like it was time to focus my energy on investing in my marriage with Shawn.

In Re-engage, we learned some important Biblical principles about marriage, commitment, intimacy, and love. One of the most powerful lessons was on communication. The main thesis was “good communication is essential to achieving marital oneness.” Communication is defined not just as exchanging information but as mutual understanding.

As we worked through the homework and listened to the speakers that week in class, I was convicted that I needed to be a better listener in my marriage. Looking back on my life, I had prided myself on being a good listener. Through the years, many friends had confided in me. I had mentored several younger women, including my three daughters. This required good listening skills.

What I realized was that I was not always listening well to Shawn. Listening was hard partly because of our personality differences. Shawn is a thinker, an investigator, an introvert, an internal processor while I am an enthusiast, an extrovert, an external processor, and an activator. He’s not quick to speak or insert his opinions in conversation. He takes time to think things over and respond deliberately while I am off to the races, creating, strategically solving problems, and processing as I go. By nature, he’s a marathoner, and I’m a sprinter.

Part of Re-engage was practicing what we were learning. We asked each other questions and waited for our spouse’s honest responses. I realized that in order to show my love to Shawn I needed to be “quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry” (James 1:19, NIV).

One of the steps I’ve taken is to try to be a ready listener when my husband speaks. This is harder than I expected. This is challenging in a house where our three daughters, our phones, our work, and much more is competing for our attention. Perhaps the hardest thing for me is to listen and not respond until Shawn is finished talking.

Listening well is knowing there is “a time to be silent and a time to speak” (Ecclesiastes 3:7, NIV). Listening well is hearing not just with my ears but also with my eyes, heart, and body language.

Listening well has the potential to transform relationships. God modeled this throughout the Bible. I think of the Egyptian slave, Hagar, who escaped to the desert in Genesis 16. She was pregnant, abused, broken, and unwanted. I imagine she felt invisible and hungry for help. In the desert, an angel of the LORD, which scholars believe was God Himself, finds her.

The angel of the Lord found Hagar near a spring in the desert; it was the spring that is beside the road to Shur. And he said, “Hagar, slave of Sarai, where have you come from, and where are you going?”
Genesis 16:7-8 (NIV)

This is a pivotal moment for Hagar because God seeks her out and cares about her story. Love listens. Let’s keep in mind He is the all-knowing God of the universe. He hung the stars in the sky and carved the ocean waves with His index finger. He knew every hair on her head, every heartache she had endured. He knew exactly where she came from and where she was headed, yet He took time to ask her about her story. He saw her in her desert place and listened well.

This encounter makes all the difference in Hagar’s life. God offers Hagar His Presence and a promise to greatly multiply her offspring until they will be too many to count. Hagar and her son, Ishmael, are written into God’s glory story.

More than two thousand years later, we see Jesus Christ listen well to another woman in a desert place. In Mark 5, Jesus is on His way to heal the daughter of a synagogue leader named Jarius. On His way, a large crowd pressed in around Him, including a woman who suffered from bleeding for twelve years. The woman believed Jesus could heal her so she came behind Him in the crowd and touched His robe. Instantly, the flow of blood stopped in her body. She knew she was healed.

Jesus realized that power had gone out from Him. He turned and asked, “Who touched my robes?” Jesus knew all things. He knew who touched His robes, yet He gives her an opportunity to present herself and her story. She steps forward, falls down before Him, and tells Him the whole truth (Mark 5:33 CSB).

Again, this is a mark of a love that listens. Jesus allows her to interrupt Him on His journey and takes time to listen to her whole truth. Jesus not only physically heals her but also meets her spiritual needs by calling her “daughter” and assuring her that her faith has made her well. We are each called to listen well to our spouses, our children, our friends – our people. Especially in this uncertain time with the coronavirus spreading and so many quarantined, it’s important that we listen well. Even if we have to distance ourselves socially, let’s not let the Enemy have the upper hand in isolating our hearts.

I recently spoke at a conference for Asian American women called “Someday is Here.” Throughout the day, various women from diverse backgrounds were invited to share their stories of grief, hope, and God’s glory. There was an exhale that happened deep inside me, hearing the stories these mothers, mentors, and leaders have lived and overcome. In listening to them, I felt empowered to go out and continue living my story for His glory.

**Dorina loves staying personally connected with readers. Subscribe to her Glorygram newsletter for weekly encouragement and all the behind-the-scenes details about her coming book, Walk, Run, Soar.

 

[bctt tweet=”Listening well has the potential to transform relationships. #loveoverall #lovelistens -@DorinaGilmore:” username=”incourage”]

The Ordinary Nature of Moving Forward

by

We are in the middle of simplifying and downsizing when I come across a sweatshirt circa 1991.

“Lane, this was my favorite sweatshirt when I was eight. Honest to goodness, I wore it every single day of third grade.” It occurs to me how many years it’s been since I was that age, and I sink to the floor as the shocking realization hits:

“Um, Babe. Do you realize we’re coming up on almost thirty years since we were in the third grade? Thirty.”

“Yep.”

“Is this actually happening to us? Are we actually getting older together?”

Typical to us — me the emoter, he the stoic — his response is matter-of-fact: “Yep.”

And it’s true.

Our life has taken a number of twists and turns, but we’ve done it together and that’s what counts most right now. Somehow, both suddenly and slowly, we find ourselves in our mid-thirties, in the middle of raising our family, in the middle of our life, really.

Some might call our life an adventure, but from where I sit, we’re just doing what we’re supposed to be doing. We do what we can to bring a little more light than there was before we came along, and we do it by putting one foot in front of the other, one day at a time.

It’s this “one foot in front of the other” part I think about a lot lately — this very ordinary nature of moving forward. As it turns out, it’s quite a bit harder than it appears, and I don’t think I’m alone in this.

Beginnings tend to have a surge of adrenaline, an the excitement of newness, while endings have the resolution and redemption of a finish line. The ordinary middle tends to be unglamorous, a lamented exercise in fidelity where there’s no other way to go but through it. The middle is when discipline tends to wane, when other options seem a little more tempting, when we begin to look to the right or to the left.

The Israelites knew this dance well.

Throughout the Old Testament, God continually and kindly instructs them on how to live life well, knowing their human tendency to long for another path. He reminds them to stay the course, to continue on. He knew they might start to wander if they saw a path that looked easier or someone else who didn’t have it as hard. He knew they might turn clear around and go right back to Egypt if they wandered too far from His path.

I’m like the Israelites. I look to the right and to the left all the time. My wandering heart could use a little binding, truth be told. I look at kids with different temperaments, couples that get out on more dates, careers that don’t require such transience, and I long for them. Jesus, not surprisingly, offers a solution:

Look at Me instead. Run the race I marked out for you, and keep your eyes on Me. 

Such is the nature of moving forward, of putting one foot in front of the other: the ordinary becomes sacred. As we walk the path laid before us, we become more attuned to the voice of our Guide telling us, “This is the way, walk in it.” The middle becomes less mundane and more purposeful. It becomes the place where we cultivate deep resilience and align our hearts to the presence of God. It’s where we’re always be guided by Love itself, and I’m finding that as long as I’m being led by Love, He’s taking me exactly where I need to go.

This post was originally written in June 2018 by Sarah Sandifer. 

 

[bctt tweet=”The middle becomes the place where we cultivate deep resilience and align our hearts to the presence of God. -Sarah Sandifer:” username=”incourage”]

The Testimony of a Changed Woman

by

Just then his disciples returned and were surprised to find him talking with a woman. But no one asked, “What do you want?” or “Why are you talking with her?”

Then, leaving her water jar, the woman went back to the town and said to the people, “Come, see a man who told me everything I ever did. Could this be the Messiah?” They came out of the town and made their way toward him.

Meanwhile his disciples urged him, “Rabbi, eat something.”

But he said to them, “I have food to eat that you know nothing about.”

Then his disciples said to each other, “Could someone have brought him food?”

“My food,” said Jesus, “is to do the will of him who sent me and to finish his work. Don’t you have a saying, ‘It’s still four months until harvest’? I tell you, open your eyes and look at the fields! They are ripe for harvest. Even now the one who reaps draws a wage and harvests a crop for eternal life, so that the sower and the reaper may be glad together. Thus the saying ‘One sows and another reaps’ is true. I sent you to reap what you have not worked for. Others have done the hard work, and you have reaped the benefits of their labor.”
John 4:27-38 (CSB)

The woman at the well was someone who wanted to hide, to avoid others. She was living a story of shame, but Jesus came and sat with her, talked with her, and brought her life into the light. He didn’t do this to expose her but to free her from the shame and release her into new life. For a woman who didn’t want to be seen, she was seen by Jesus. For a woman who wasn’t known for who she was, she was known by Jesus. Her story was forever changed, and she was bursting at the seams to tell everyone about it.

When our lives are changed, when God’s kingdom breaks through in our lives, in big and small ways, we say to others, “Come and see!” Our testimony awakens others to seek and find, and when one seed bears fruit, it leads to a harvest.

Tell your story and invite others to come and see what God has done.

[bctt tweet=”Tell your story and invite others to come and see what God has done. ” username=”incourage”]

Five Thoughts for Mothers of Teens

by

When a topic pops up continually in conversation or often catches my attention online, I wonder if it’s the Holy Spirit nudging me to write about it for others who are in the same place. Many of my friends and I are parenting teens, with fewer years of children living in our homes ahead of us than behind. We’re looking closely at how we parented our older children, what did and didn’t work, and what we’ve learned along the way. I hope the ideas my friends and I chew over and insight from thirty-three years of motherhood helps you too.

For some mothers of teens, the parent-child relationship doesn’t look like they thought it would. Some children push back against the values their parents have worked hard to instill. Some children push people’s buttons in general, especially their parents. Most days you’d give anything for your teen to put their trust in you again more than their friends and the world. 

With five of our eight children grown and living on their own, three of those married with children and three teens still at home, I’ve parented eight very different teens. I’m far from a perfect mom, but I trust that God specifically put my husband, children, and me together as a family. 

Today I’d like to share five things I’ve learned from our years of parenting teens:

1. They need you. 

No two teens are the same and some are easier to parent than others, but they all need you equally. My mother used to tell me I couldn’t devote all my time to one child, although it’s easy to pay more attention to the ones that demand it. The squeaky wheel usually does get the grease. The quieter, easier ones may think more than they react. They need your help to tackle the more serious decisions and circumstances they face with age and to bounce ideas off of you.

Set your foundation firmly in God’s truth and uphold those principles. They need to see your beliefs and your consistency and know that they can bank on them. 

2. Independence prepares them for adulthood.

If you never require (or teach) your children to do their own laundry, help cook and clean, or share household chores, they will continue to expect you to do those things for them and won’t gain the satisfaction and skills that prepare them to live independently. Set reasonable boundaries and expectations. 

Our teens with jobs learn responsibility, accountability, and that it takes planning to stretch your dollars between paychecks. They put gas in their cars, go out to eat and watch movies with friends, and save for bigger purchases. It’s a taste of adulthood within the safety net of home. 

Give your child the trust they’ve earned and an appropriate level of independence, and they’ll launch more successfully into adulthood.

3. Don’t be easily provoked.

A popular piece of parenting advice is to pick your battles. When you and your teen can’t seem agree on anything, every topic of discussion is filled with hidden landmines. Keep a grip on your temper and don’t be easily provoked. 

Are you discussing an immediate eventuality or one years down the road? Why get into an argument about the future? If your child declares they will school their children differently than what you chose for them and never force their kids to clean their bathroom or fold their laundry, why argue about it? 

You probably know someone who likes to play devil’s advocate and delivers contentious opinions to provoke debate. Teens are maturing and learning to think more logically, and many are masters of this tactic. While some enjoy quarreling, others may just want to get a response from you, positive or negative. At times I have allowed an aversion to conflict to hinder communication between me and one of my children.

Ask questions that help you understand each other and learn to keep your cool.

4. Time brings renewed relationships. 

Be a steady presence and a source of unconditional love for your teen, and when they are older, your relationship may transform in new ways. One who rebelled against your authority at home may value your company and advice when they are on their own, making adult decisions. 

One of my adult daughters tagged me in a Facebook post recently with a graphic that said, “That feeling of ‘I want my mom’ has no age limit, no time limit, and no distance limit.” We butted heads when she was a teen, but now I dote on her babies and we have a fresh relationship. Yes, your teens will be adults someday!

5. Enjoy them.

One of the most fascinating things about the teen years is watching your children mature into young adults. You can have deeper conversations, cheer them as they perform or compete at more advanced levels, and glimpse their true character in how they interact with the world around them. 

I like these precious people we’ve home grown. I treasure the time we have left at home, but I look forward to seeing the adults they’ll become and how our relationships will grow.

Where are you in your motherhood journey?
Which of these thoughts most resonated with you?

 

[bctt tweet=”On parenting teens: Be a steady presence and a source of unconditional love for your teen. -@DawnMHSH:” username=”incourage”]

When You Have Doubts and Questions About Faith

by

Sundays were rarely for sleeping in, except maybe on vacation. Blessings preceded mealtime. Bedtime prayers, a nightly ritual. Our consistent church attendance wasn’t based on legalism; it was simply the rhythm of our lives. Our faith practices were as natural as breathing, second nature, the way things were. If you were raised in the church, can you relate? We just never considered there might be another way people lived.

Let me stop right here and make sure you understand I’m not saying growing up in church is a bad thing. Being raised in a home where faith permeates the atmosphere is good, a blessing, a position of favor. I’m thankful. How we find our way to Christ is never a competition. God is the writer of each person’s story, and it is at His initiative that we turn toward Him in the first place.

Still, when I look back on my upbringing in the church, so much of it came to me by way of osmosis, and that, I suspect, eventually led to a lot of questions.

I  know when I made a public confession of faith because according to the dated certificate, my sister and I were baptized at First Christian Church when I was twelve. My vague recollection suggests it was more about my fear of hell and eternal damnation than it was about love for God, my sinful ways, true repentance, or my need for a Savior. Though our gentle pastor met with us to make sure we understood what we were getting into (or was it to vet our intentions?), I wanted to be a member of our church and to be able to take part in communion. Truth be told, it was less about sacrament than it was about a mid-service snack; I had been waiting a long, long while to drink grape juice from a thimble and eat those tiny fairy crackers.

This is the point where I get all squirmy when asked about my testimony. Oh, I can talk your ears slap off the sides of your head about what God is doing in my life today, but I can’t point to that moment when I passed from death into life. I’ve never been comfortable claiming my baptism as the day I was born again, and I don’t know my “spiritual birthday,” the date others claim as the day they were saved. This has always bothered me. (And it bothers me that it bothers me.)

Church has been an integral, inextricable, and influential part of my life for as long as I can remember. But I suspect for a long while that my faith wasn’t really mine at all. It was more me taking on a fraction of “their” faith — whether that was pastors, loved ones, or otherwise. I was professing to believe all the things I knew in my head but didn’t really believe in my heart. I would have argued I did believe, but my actions pointed to performance as if righteousness could be earned from the outside in.

And I had thoughts. I had questions. I had doubts.

Perhaps you, too, don’t have a dramatic memory of the moment you became a Christian, and if you’re honest, you’ve had thoughts. You’ve had questions. You’ve had doubts.

If you have thoughts, questions and/or doubts related to your faith, the next (in)courage book club – For All Who Wander – is for you.

If you’re asking hard questions right now or struggling with doubt, you’ll find a friend who understands. If someone close to you is in a spiritual desert, you’ll learn ways to actually help them. You’ll see the redemptive value of the difficult parts of your story, how God really is working all things together for good. If you’re carrying the weight of guilt, condemnation, shame, or embarrassment, you’ll discover God as a no-matter-what, always-faithful God who loves you with reckless abandon.

For All Who Wander: Why Knowing God is Better Than Knowing it All isn’t a how-to manual but an amazing story that reminds us that God’s faithfulness has nothing to do with our faith. Understanding how God can use your wanderings to draw you into a closer relationship with Him as opposed to a wedge pushing you away will change your life, now and forever.

Want to join us? We’d LOVE to have you! All you need to do is buy a copy of the book and sign up here. For six weeks, by the magic of email and the power of video, (in)courage Community Manager, Becky Keife, and I will walk through the book with you. Our sincere hope and prayer is to serve you well by reading in community. Isn’t together always better?

Invite a few friends to join you! If you’re looking for a way to connect with other women in real life, take a step of faith and courage, and as our (in)courage contributor Jen Schmidt says, “Just open the door” to your home. There will never be an easier way to host a book club. Simply gather together, watch that week’s video, plan time for your own discussion, and close in prayer. Super fun and no stress, yes?

Are you ready? Sign up below, and you’ll hear from us shortly. We can’t wait to get started!

Sign up for the For All Who Wander Book Club!

 

You Are a Woman of Promise, Not Panic

by

I was standing in line at the grocery store, looking at the prices of products being scanned by the cashier. As I usually like doing,  I noticed who was behind me, an elderly man, and gave him a smile. He took it as an invitation to share something on his mind.

“Did you hear? The coronavirus has been reported in our local hospital,” he said.

“Oh, I didn’t know that,” I replied. I live in the Bay Area in Northern California, and up until that point, the reported cases of coronavirus were far from where I live. Not anymore.

“Yeah, it’s happening.” His words sounded heavy. I saw an opportunity to tuck a moment of God’s kindness into this man’s pocket. I could help him feel heard and be a listening heart of Jesus to him.

“So, how’re you doing hearing the news?” I asked. My question seemed to surprise him, but in a good way. Before he was just talking; now, he was seen.

He shared. I listened. “Whatever happens, the most important thing is to have people to talk to. Like for me, as a mom, enjoying family meals with my boys together makes all the difference to help them not stress out. How about you? What are your favorite foods?” I wanted to help him think about things that bring him peace and joy.

As my new friend talked about what brings him joy, it brought a smile to his eyes.

It happened again as I was waiting for an hour at Walgreen. I’d just come from the doctor’s and needed a prescription to recover from the flu.

The lines were hardly moving.  People were getting frustrated, mumbling under their breaths, just loud enough to say how terrible and ridiculous it was to wait so long. Some were throwing their hands up in the air, and little kids started melting down. People were stressed.

I noticed how the pharmacy staff cashiers were looking haggard and tired, but because they were providing a service, they couldn’t express their stress. They were trying their best to process the orders.

When it was finally my turn at the counter to pay, the person who rang me up turned out to be the pharmacist herself. She looked very worn out. In one hand, she had the phone to her ear on hold with an insurance company for another customer. In the other hand, she was scanning my prescription while telling me about the medication precautions — all while answering questions from staff thrown from every direction.

“I’m so sorry about the wait. We’re really backed up.” She was talking a hundred miles per hour with her shoulders hunched over. I noticed her lips seemed dry and wondered when the last time was that she had a drink of water.

Then I did something I do whenever I see an opportunity to bring someone a moment of God’s peace: I imagined she were my sister or friend.

When we picture someone as a sister, brother, or friend, we can become Christ to them in that moment. Because God’s Holy Spirit is alive in you, when we imagine someone is our friend, we can become inspired to encourage them.

“Thank you so much for your help,” I replied with an empathetic smile. “You have a tough job. You’re doing so great!  You should know that!” I spoke my words slowly, with intention.

She seemed lost for words, “I just feel so horrible about the wait.” I saw her reticence as an opportunity to lift her spirits and help her see how God sees her, and I told her how she was a part of my story.

“Well, I’ve been coming to this Walgreen’s since I’ve been a mom for fourteen years. I’ve picked up a lot of prescriptions over the years for my two boys. You’re always so conscientious telling me about the prescriptions, though I’m sure you’ve said the same thing to a gazillion customers. I want you to know I appreciate you. You didn’t know it, but you’re a blessing!”

When I said that, her eyes welled up with emotion, and she said, “Thank you.”

Friends, we have, as children of light, the power to lift a person’s spirit with God’s peace by simply offering a smile, being present, and seeing what the other person might say. We can offer the gift of listening.

You are a woman of promise and purpose: God’s promise is to love and care for you. When others panic, you have the power to bless them at a time when we all need connection most.

Practice soul care. Turn to your loving Savior Jesus standing next to you – whether in line at the store or wherever you are – and hear the Prince of Peace tenderly whisper, I love you. I will help you. I am with you.

Then offer a loving word or smile to others with the blessing of peace. Turn a moment of panic into promise. Shine your light.

How are you doing, friend? What promise in Scripture brings light and peace to your soul? You are so beloved. Let’s all share our certain hope in our Prince of Peace during these uncertain times. Here’s mine – may it encourage you today:

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned.
Isaiah 43:2 (NIV)

Want to flourish as God’s woman of promise? Join my newsletter , as I encourage you with the life lessons I learn as God’s beloved! I’ll be teaching “How to Study the Bible to Hear God Personally.” Just sign up here for my weekly Beloved Wellness Newsletter!

 

[bctt tweet=”When others panic, you have the power to bless them at a time when we all need connection most. #coronavirus #community -@TheBonnieGray:” username=”incourage”]

Joy and Sadness Tell the Whole Story

by

Recently I watched the movie Inside Out with my family for a movie night. Popcorn in hand, blankets cozied up, and tissues at the ready for me because this movie hits me right in the feels. Have you seen it? It’s a darling animated film about emotions and feelings, and it is so full of beauty and insight and nostalgia that I just sit with tears in my eyes throughout the whole thing. Inside Out chronicles the life of a girl named Riley and the feelings that are at the helm of her emotions and therefore, her experiences and memories. They manage Riley’s dreams, help her develop the five islands of personality that make Riley who she is, and file Riley’s core memories away. We meet all of the feelings as they run the giant navigation board somewhere inside Riley’s self:

There’s Anger, ready to protect Riley with fierce gusto as flames shoot from his head.

Fear runs the board from time to time, compiling volumes of worst case scenarios and having game plans at the ready to keep Riley safe from harms way.

There’s Disgust, helping Riley navigate awkward social situations and not allowing her to accidentally take a bite of broccoli pizza.

Joy drives the boat most of the time. She wants Riley to be happy at all costs, believing that joy and cheerfulness is the best — only  — way to feel. She’s made sure that all of Riley’s core memories are happy ones, and we see Joy exude a fierce love for Riley even in bleak situations.

And finally, there’s Sadness. She’s my personal favorite, actually. She’s not really allowed to touch the board or the memories, as when she does, they turn blue — tinged with sadness. At one point, Joy draws a circle on the floor and tells Sadness to stay in the circle, believing Riley is better off without any blue in her system. But as we watch the story unfold, we learn that Joy and Sadness must co-exist. Not only is there space for them both, they need one another for the full picture.

Together, Joy and Sadness tell the whole story.

Often we want to bypass sadness (or any non-happy emotion, for that matter) and just get to the good stuff. We tell our kids to stop crying. We ourselves are told to not “cry over spilled milk,” meaning that some things aren’t important enough to be sad about. We don’t take our time grieving, rushing through the steps to get to the joy we’re sure is on the other side.

Spoiler alert: there is no other side.

Grief, sadness, tears, are all part of our stories. We need those benchmark moments when we allow feelings to wash over us, consume us, bring us to our knees. It’s when we avoid those feelings that problems arise.

When we stuff down the negative feelings, we pay a price. When we stop the tears, we stop the healing.

It’s why I am so grateful that Jesus wept and that He was tempted in the desert for a season, surely experiencing conflicting emotions. It’s why we’re shown that He grieved the loss of loved ones. I am so thankful that Jesus was allowed the human experience of sadness because it makes space for mine.

I’m not an optimist by nature, like the character Joy from the movie. I’m for sure more of a Sadness, or an Eeyore — a melancholy kind of person. But because of the perfect way Jesus grieved and experienced sadness, I can trust in a God who wastes nothing. No experience, no loss, not one thing is wasted.

. . . to give them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,
festive oil instead of mourning,
and splendid clothes instead of despair.
And they will be called righteous trees,
planted by the Lord
to glorify him.
Isaiah 61:3 (CSB)

God is good, and God creates goodness where there was none. In the midst of, in spite of, maybe because of deep pain, I’ve seen God do good things. It’s one of my favorite things about Him.

We don’t all have to be Joys. We don’t have to lean into Sadness all the time either. But Jesus showed us that there’s room for both. We are built to house both. Our memories can be tinged with blue, and we are still whole. We can feel our feelings with all the voracity we need, wipe our noses after a good long cry, and still be surprised by goodness.

There’s space for it all, and we can live that truth from the inside out.

 

[bctt tweet=”Because of the perfect way Jesus grieved and experienced sadness, I can trust in a God who wastes nothing. -@annaerendell:” username=”incourage”]

Dare to Dream Small

by

I enjoy my coffee without cream, without sugar, and most importantly, without caffeine. That’s because if I consume caffeine, I’m doomed to lie awake in bed until the early morning hours, as alert as an unblinking baby doll. Decaf is essential.

Though it’s a simple pleasure, the comfort of a quiet cup of coffee has become one of the highlights of my day. So when the grocery store ran out of my preferred blend, my disappointment was acute. Several times over the following weeks, I checked the store to see if they had re-stocked. Each time, I hurried to the coffee aisle practically holding my breath with expectation, only to be taunted by rows of empty bulk bins set in stern lines.

Finally, on one desperate visit, I found an employee. She was a tiny sparrow of a woman with short, black hair and gentle, dark eyes. She explained that they were out of every variety of that specific brand of coffee, but when I mentioned that I was looking for decaf, she said, “I have a bag of French roast decaf in the back if you want it.”

My heart fluttered with surprise — French roast is my favorite!

“That would be great!” I answered.

She left to retrieve the coffee, and when she reappeared a few minutes later, she was carrying an enormous five pound bag of coffee beans, plus a generous coupon!

In that moment, I felt as if God gave me a big kiss and said, “Here, sweetheart, have some coffee.” My heart swelled with a sense of being intimately loved, noticed, and nurtured. I walked out of the store with an irrepressible grin stretched across my face.

That evening, as I inhaled the aroma of brewing coffee, this thought swirled through my mind: God cares about the little things.

Mingled with that thought was the apostle Paul’s prayer for the Ephesians: “May [you] have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ . . . who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us” (3:18, 20 NIV).

Though it might sound silly, receiving a five pound bag of coffee was beyond what I had imagined. It never occurred to me to ask for such an extravagantly simple gift. Sometimes it’s easier to ask God for big things than for little things — things that we more obviously need, like a new car, money for a household repair, or healing for our bodies. Like my coffee, we may not consider that God would care, let alone, answer small prayers.

Why is this?

Perhaps because God is so big, we feel deep down that our concern must be big in order to warrant His attention. But by not asking, we reveal our true belief: that He doesn’t actually care about the little things. Sharing the details of our lives — our struggles, needs, fears, hopes, and joys — with someone indicates intimacy and a belief that that person cares about these things. My husband, Paul, knew all about my coffee quandary. I told him because he’s an integral part of my life, and I know he cares about my everyday concerns.

Sadly, too often I give my human relationships more credit than I give God. Even more than a loving husband, tender parent, or loyal friend, God wants to hear about — and help — with the details. My experience with the coffee was both a reminder and an invitation from God: Ask. Imagine. Believe. Stretch your imagination to extremes — trust for mighty moves, as well as miniature miracles. I love you, and I want to show you that in big and small ways.

I’m all for dreaming big and expecting great things from God — things bigger than I can imagine, but maybe it’s time to stretch our imaginations in the other direction. Maybe it’s time to start dreaming small and develop the courage to believe God really does want to be intimately involved in our day-to-day life.

Jesus said, “Ask, and it will be given to you” (Luke 11:9 NIV), and He always keeps His promises. Ask Him to show you His love in the little things and trust that He will answer.

 

[bctt tweet=”Maybe it’s time to start dreaming small and develop the courage to believe God really does want to be intimately involved in our day-to-day life. -Carina Alanson:” username=”incourage”]

Everywhere I Look Is a Mess

by

Everywhere I look is a mess. I can’t look at my house because it is falling off a cliff. Dishes are mounted up to my chin, and laundry, like lava, is overflowing onto all the floors. I can’t look inward because nothing is organized. My sadness is mixing with my anger, and my anxiety is taunting my peace. I am easily triggered. Happiness can only be found if I can escape my reality and my mess, but the mess is everywhere. It chases me when I am on social media, I see it at Target, and I feel it at school pick up. Everywhere I look, there it is.

My five-year-old woke up a headache. This is not how I wanted to start my day. My bubbly little girl is burrowing her body into my lap. I don’t have time for her to be sick. I have emails to send, lists to complete, phone calls to return. I have messes to clean up. I have things to put back in order. But I carry her into my room, tuck her gently into my sheets, and stroke her back. Her head is throbbing. My heart is fracturing. My teenager is hard. He is strong and fierce and full of uncontainable emotions. Every request I make is met with an argument. My other son is quiet. I know he has a world inside of him, but I can’t seem to crack him open. My toddler’s favorite phrase is, “I do it myself!” I so desperately want to stop the madness. I just want to roll up my sleeves and make everything and everyone better. If I can just contain the chaos, everything will be okay. I will be all right.

But I can’t stop the mess. I can’t steamroll sickness, make my boy obey, force my son to talk, or give my toddler all the control. I can’t make people do what I want them to do.

I can only do this: receive and release.

I can open my hands and accept that this very moment is out of my control. I don’t have to push the mess back, but I trust God is using the mess to make sense of my soul. He is using all things to bring my heart back into the right focus. A clean house, healthy kids, returned text messages, and finished projects never clean up the mess inside of me. Never. Only Jesus cleans up the mess. He is the one who holds my broken up, battered down, and bleeding heart. The mess is a gift. The mess is a gentle invitation from Jesus. He whispers, “I’ve cleaned up everything.” God has made us clean. He has taken our twisted hearts and untwisted them. He has taken our tangled souls and untangled them. The mess we encounter in our lives is merely another invitation to receive His love and release our need to fix ourselves.

So, today, I clear out my schedule, cancel appointments, and put my sweats back on. I let the mess pile up in my house, but let God hold the mess in my heart.

 

[bctt tweet=”The mess we encounter in our lives is merely another invitation to receive His love and release our need to fix ourselves. -Anjuli Paschall:” username=”incourage”]

For Better or Worse: a Lesson in Inspiration

by

A couple years ago, on my twentieth wedding anniversary, I tried to keep breathing. I inherited my mother’s brown eyes, my father’s broad, flat feet, and from both of them, poor lungs. Asthma.  

I gather my lips around my inhaler, like a scuba diver on dry land, inhaling two puffs of albuterol while I hold in the medicine that makes my world expand again. I hold my breath to breathe again.

I am a woman who has learned to pay attention to inspiration, breathing in as deeply as possible to stay alive. This has come in handy.

Sometimes, when bipolar depression drags the hope from me, I tell myself, Just one more breath, just one more moment. You just survive a little longer because hope rebounds. I shade my eyes with my hand and look to the far flung sky and wait for hope to boomerang back to me. I just have to catch it, have to keep my hand open and raised to the heavens.

Sometimes it’s my anxiety that leaves me breathless, panting while my lungs hound me for breath, while tongues wag and wonder what could be wrong with me as I abandon my half-full grocery cart in the store and make a beeline for my car, for a Xanax on my palm and a swig of water to wash it down and make it all hush for a second. I try not to retch like a dog with a bone caught in its throat.

So on our anniversary, when Josh and I might have packed an overnight bag and gone on some adventure holding hands while we drove, when I might have thread dangly earrings through my lobes while he fastened my necklace from behind, warm fingers on my neck, our eyes catching in the mirror, when we might have toasted ourselves by candlelight, when I might have brought something with lace instead of cotton, instead we stayed home.

Instead, I tried to breathe. Instead, we knew any extra money we might have had for celebrating would go to surviving. My days strung together hanging haphazardly onto months one after the other, matching and tattered. I could almost picture the dollar signs cha-chinging over each prescription bottle lined up on my nightstand, the cost of nebulizer treatments and urgent care visits.

When May flowers bloomed and the pollen dusted our cars with golden powder, I sat in the small box of sunshine spreading through the window and watched the world go on without me. Our nine-year-old rode his bike in circles around our driveway and the dog chased him. I watched daffodil heads and lily leaves dance in the breeze through a thick pane of glass, smudgy from our dog’s nose and eager paws.

Josh brought home peonies, fish tacos, and paper towels. I can’t think of a better anniversary gift. For twenty years, sickness and health has been so much more sickness. For richer or poorer has been mostly poorer. But for better still wins out over worse. He woke up at 6am to take the kids to school for a field trip. He put up a fence for my mom’s hops to grow along. He edged the lawn. He brought me coffee while I worked on book edits. He warmed up leftovers. He grabbed the glass cleaner and the squeegee and went to work on my window so I’d have a clear view of spring, even if I couldn’t go outside.

It’s when I sat aside the spotless glass and felt the sunshine on my cheekbones, watching the gentle stampede of spring marching across the soil in an army of tulips and hyacinth that I heard a thwack so loud I flinched as though I’d been slapped. Under the windowsill I saw a small yellow bird on its side in the grass. I could see its breast pulsing, but its wings were still. I didn’t know I’d screamed until my kids ran into the room. My son ran out and scooped him up gently bringing him to me. I unwrapped his body and his wing tried to flutter, I felt his chest heaving on my palm.

He was trying to breathe. I was crying and trying to breathe too. It was as if all of my hope was in his poor, broken body.

My ribs were a birdcage hatch shut tight on the flapping, flightless wings of my heart.

I thought maybe I could save him. I imagined googling some kind of bird splint and repairing him with a popsicle stick and some gauze, setting him free to fly towards hope again. Even as I thought it, I knew it was crazy, but I didn’t want to lose anymore. A few breaths later, he stilled. My kids dug a hole and buried him under the tallest lodgepole along the edge of lilies. I googled yellow birds in Central Oregon and think he might have been a warbler of some kind. 

Naming lost things always helps me make sense of them.

I’m no saint; I feel disappointment. My first instinct isn’t always to see the hope, the beauty, the grace.

Sometimes I want to sit in my box of sunshine and feel the darkness pressing in on all sides.

Sometimes even when we have the most beautiful view in our sites, there is brokenness too. Sometimes we’re just trying to catch the light, just trying not to crash, just trying to see clearly, just trying to hope a little longer. Sometimes this brown-eyed, flat-footed, asthmatic woman sits behind her window under the pines, and she just keeps trying to breathe, keeps reaching her palm open to the skies, hoping to warn the warblers. 

 

[bctt tweet=”Naming lost things always helps me make sense of them. -@aliajoyh:” username=”incourage”]

Where My Help Comes From

by

I lift my eyes toward the mountains.
Where will my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.
He will not allow your foot to slip;
your Protector will not slumber.
Indeed, the Protector of Israel
does not slumber or sleep.
The Lord protects you;
the Lord is a shelter right by your side.
The sun will not strike you by day
or the moon by night.
The Lord will protect you from all harm;
he will protect your life. 
The Lord will protect your coming and going
both now and forever.
Psalm 121 (CSB)

When everything seems impossible, when taking the next step seems unbearable, we shout and cry, loudly and silently, asking God to come through, to help. Our prayers don’t go out to a void that can’t reply back to us. Our prayers ascend to the Maker of heaven and earth, and He is ready at all times to hear us, help us, be with us.

How can we pray for you?

Here at (in)courage, one of our greatest privileges is turning to God together in prayer. Let’s hold space for one another in prayer, so  leave a prayer request in the comments and then pray for the person who commented before you.

 

[bctt tweet=”Let’s hold space for one another as we cry out to God. Join the prayer chain over at @incourage!” username=”incourage”]

If You’re Back at the Beginning

by

I saw the sign taped to the back of her car. 

I was driving my hour commute to work, heading from my apartment in the suburbs along the congested concrete highway toward the big city where the skyline is dense and the famous CN Tower stretches to the sky. 

The sign was taped to her rear window on lined school paper. In thick black letters it read, “New Driver”. 

Immediately, I scoffed. Who wants the world to know you’re a new driver? I don’t want the world to know when I’m new at anything. On the first day of my job a few years ago, I tried to act as confidently as possible when I walked into the massive ten-story building. Meanwhile, I had to remind myself to breathe. But I didn’t want to appear like I was new — I wanted to seem like I belonged there.

I shook my head as I read her “New Driver” sign. Merging to the other lane, I drove past her, but not before I saw her hands — white knuckles on the wheel, precisely situated at ten and two. Her glasses were jammed firm on the bridge of her nose, and her eyes were looking out only at the road ahead of her. 

I softened, and the smirk on my lips left. I thought about all the ways I’m a beginner too.

I just started leading a small group in my home on Sunday nights. I have no idea what I’m doing, and frankly, I hate that feeling. My community groups pastor told me to keep it simple, saying a small group is just inviting a few people to sit on a couch, eat snacks, and talk about Jesus. The first Sunday my group launched, I forgot about keeping it simple and anxiously made a full dinner for the entire group. I was stressed out and vulnerable, wanting to impress them and ensure it was the best small group they’d ever been to. 

You see? I’m such a beginner. 

Maybe not in driving, but in a hundred other things. I don’t want to tell someone when I’m new at something. I want to be an expert — in dating and cooking and a new job — even hosting a small group. Instead of admitting my newness, I like to pretend I’ve been doing it forever. The vulnerability of beginning is scary to me. 

It takes courage to start something new, to begin again. I see the courage it takes my friend who just divorced. She is beginning again, learning afresh how to trust God and people. She is vulnerable and she is courageous. 

Zechariah 4:10 tells us, “Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin . . . ” 

I wonder if you are in the midst of a beginning, if unwanted change came and forced you to start afresh, if you, too, feel like that girl on the highway next to me, a big “New Driver” sign taped to your car.

Maybe you just had a baby and feel like you have no idea how you’re suddenly in charge of raising an entire person. 

Or maybe you’re in a new job, or you’re brand new at college, or you just got your license, or you’re picking up the pieces after your painful divorce and have to go home to an empty apartment.

Beginning again can be so hard and so scary, but God tells us not to despise small beginnings — however measly they may feel in the moment.

Because the truth is, that’s all of us. Each of us is at the beginning in our own way. Don’t despise your small beginning; God is rejoicing to see you begin. 

And I think, on that day, God was rejoicing right alongside that courageous new driver — the way she boldly joined the congested highway and chose to bravely begin.

 

[bctt tweet=”Beginning again can be so hard and so scary, but God tells us not to despise small beginnings — however measly they may feel in the moment. -@alizalatta:” username=”incourage”]