Even in the Silence, He Is There

Even in the Silence, He Is There

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The world didn’t stop. It kept turning, kept moving forward, as though nothing had changed. But for me, everything had.

I remember stepping outside that tragic morning, my heart shattered beyond words. My neighbor stood in his yard, watering his flowers, exclaiming about what a beautiful June day it was. I could barely comprehend his words. How could anything be beautiful in this moment? My voice came out flat, almost detached from the reality crashing around me: “Well, my son just died, so I don’t know how beautiful a day it is.”

I wasn’t trying to be harsh. I was trying to grasp the weight of what had just happened — what it meant for our family and how it would change everything . . . while, for my neighbor, life carried on as usual. The stark contrast was almost too much to bear.

Grief has a way of making everything around you feel distant, like you’re watching life from behind a thick pane of glass. You see it, but you’re not part of it. You exist in a different space — one that is heavy with sorrow and filled with deafening silence.

The silence was the hardest. The absence of his cries — though I could still smell him, see his clothes, his toys, his things — swept over me like a crashing wave, ready to drown me. And, quite frankly, I secretly wanted to succumb to it. There was a tangible void, a gaping hole in my heart that I didn’t think could ever be whole again, could ever beat the same, function the same. The space where his laughter should have been . . . it all pressed in on me, suffocating and inescapable. Even my prayers felt swallowed up in the void. I would whisper my son’s name, cry out to God, but all I got in return was silence.

Had God forgotten me?

I had always believed in God’s presence, but grief has a way of testing even the deepest faith. If God was with me, why did I feel so alone? Why did my prayers seem to go unanswered? How was I even supposed to pray through this kind of pain? What does one say to the Almighty when the weight of loss makes it hard to breathe, when words fail, and all that remains are broken sobs and silent pleas?

Tears were the only words I could speak. And, yet, even in that silence, He was there.

It wasn’t in a loud, dramatic way. There was no booming voice or parting of the sky. But slowly, quietly, He met me in the stillness. It was in the way a friend sat beside me, offering no words, just presence. It was in the soft whisper of Scripture that surfaced in my heart: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18 NIV). It was in the gentle peace that, over time, softened the rawness of my sorrow.

God wasn’t absent. He was mourning with me.

Over time, God started healing the ravaged and broken pieces of my heart in a new way; a way that would never be the same — not the same perspective, not the same attitude toward time spent with loved ones, not the same way I saw problems and disappointments. God began to take my old heart and make it new, different, stronger, braver, bolder, and forever impacted.

I think of Mary and Martha when their brother Lazarus died. They had sent word to Jesus, but He didn’t come right away. When He did, Martha met Him with questions, while Mary fell at His feet in sorrow. And Jesus — before He performed the miracle, before He called Lazarus from the grave — wept.

He didn’t rush their pain. He didn’t tell them to move on. He stood in the silence of their grief and He wept with them (John 11:35). The Savior of the world, God in flesh, mourned alongside those He loved. Such grace that He does the same for us.

God doesn’t just see our grief — He knows it. He willingly gave His only Son to die for us, to suffer in our place. And while I will never fully grasp the depth of His sacrifice, I know the pain of losing an only son. That realization shifted something in me. God, in His love, bore the unbearable to redeem us, to bring hope, to ensure that death would not have the final word.

Grief isn’t something we walk through alone. Even when God feels silent, He is still present. He is in the quiet moments, in the tears we cry in the dark, in the arms of those who hold us when we have nothing left to give. He is the God who weeps with us, the God who stays.

If you are in that place of silence where the world moves on while your heart still breaks, take heart. Even in the silence, He is there. We do not grieve as those who have no hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13). The empty tomb tells us that death does not have the final word, that sorrow is not the end of our story. And, until the day we see our loved ones again, we can rest in this truth:

The One who conquered death is still holding us in the silence.

 

Dear (in)courage sisters, as Mother’s Day approaches, we share this guest devotion in hopes that you feel seen by God. No matter what Mother’s Day means to you, whether your expectations are met with joy or you feel the ache of disappointment, may His comfort wrap around you. Feel free to share your story in the comments — we’d love to encourage you.

If You’re Looking for Jesus, Let it Go

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“Let it go,” the princess croons. “Can’t hold it back anymore.” If you were parenting (or grandparenting) in the early 2010s, that refrain likely echoed through your house or your minivan. For years, my kids twirled through the living room, belting out their adorable (albeit off-tune) renditions of the catchy ballad with full-bodied joy.

I used to think it was a song about glittery snow and fierce independence. But these days, I hear something deeper in the chorus — an invitation to release what’s weighing me down so I can move toward the One who lifts me up.

Not long ago, I sat in a quiet pew while my pastor led us through John 18. We were entering Holy Week, moving toward the garden where Jesus would be betrayed. We read about soldiers and torches. A kiss of betrayal. And then these haunting, holy words from Jesus:

“I told you that I am he. If you are looking for me, then let these men go.”
John 18:8 NIV

The pastor spoke of Jesus’ steadfast love in the face of violence and fear, setting the stage for what was to come. But as I sat in the stillness of that sanctuary, something stirred. It wasn’t audible. But it was real. I sensed the words bend toward me. It was almost as if the Spirit turned them inward and whispered: “If you’re looking for me, Kayla… let it go.”

I don’t know how to explain it exactly, except to say this:

Sometimes, through the mystery of the Living Word, God meets us in the very words we thought we already understood. And something new is revealed — not changing the text, but changing us as we encounter it again.

That morning, I had walked into church herding my (slightly older but still wild) kids, and holding tight to a recent hurt. I’d replayed it all in my mind: my need to be right, my desire to be seen. I had no intention of releasing it or forgiving those who had inflicted pain.

But in that moment, I knew: If I was looking for Jesus, I needed to let them —let it— go.

What is the Spirit inviting you to let go of?

So many of our attachments tangle themselves into our identity. We confuse the burden we hold with who we are. But here’s the deeper truth:

You are never more fully yourself than when you are with the One who formed you from the dust — the One who is whispering a thousand resurrections into your life, if only you’ll look and let go.

Scripture is full of sacred invitations to release what is not ours to hold, full of reminders that if we’re looking for Jesus, we don’t need to do anything else except surrender (in other words… let it go).

  • If you’re looking for Jesus, let your need to be right go.
     “In humility, value others above yourselves…” (Philippians 2:3)
  • If you’re looking for Jesus, let your guilt and shame go.
     “There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” (Romans 8:1)
  • If you’re looking for Jesus, let your bitterness go.
     “Forgive as the Lord forgave you.” (Colossians 3:13)
  • If you’re looking for Jesus, let your fear of the future go.
     “Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.” (1 Peter 5:7)
  • If you’re looking for Jesus, let your thirst for control go.
     “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.” (Proverbs 3:5)
  • If you’re looking for Jesus, let the weight of the past go.
     “See, I am doing a new thing!” (Isaiah 43:19)

I wonder… what do you need to let go of?

If your arms are full of resentment, of fear, of self-sufficiency, you won’t be able to receive the embrace of the One who longs to gather you close, to shelter you beneath His wings (Psalm 91:4). But when you move toward Jesus and let go of what you’ve been clinging to that hasn’t been serving you, you experience freedom. (And you’ll be able to extend that freedom to others, too.)

When Jesus stood in the garden, He was fully aware of what was coming. He still stepped forward. He didn’t resist. He didn’t run. He surrendered so others could be free.

And now, through the mystery of the Living Word, I wonder how it might reorient our hearts to remember that the One who spoke then still speaks today.

“If you’re looking for me… let it go.”

If Jesus made Himself known to the very people who mocked, maligned, and murdered Him, don’t you think He’ll make Himself known to you?

Jesus moves toward. Toward the hurting. Toward the searching. Toward you.

Letting go might feel like a loss. But Jesus tells us something mysterious and wild: Loss leads to life.

He tells us this in Matthew 16:25: “Whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it.”

Resurrection begins in the quiet of surrender. The empty tomb, the very center of hope, was once a place of letting go.

If you’re looking for Jesus, you’ll find Him. You might just have to let a few things go.

Imagine Jesus whispering to you: “Dear one, are you looking for Me? You just need to let ____ go. I’m here. I always have been.”

What are your arms full of today? What might God be inviting you to release? What might it look like to let go? 

If this stirred something in you, you might enjoy Year of Breath, Kayla’s free weekly newsletter of breath prayers, reflections, and soul care for the journey.

 

Listen to Kayla’s devotion below or on your favorite podcast app.

Prayer in the Era of Self-Help

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“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
John 16:33 NIV

When things go wrong, my first instinct isn’t always a posture of prayer. Instead, I often adopt a posture of self-help. I act as if my theology is something along the lines of, “I’ve got this,” instead of, “God’s got this.”

You might not say it out loud, but deep within you, you might be thinking, “God is great and all, but if I want something done, I’ll have to do it myself.” And let’s face it, so many of us have poured out our hearts to God, only to feel like our prayers were just an echo in the darkness.

I found myself falling into this way of thinking recently when one of my children was facing a particularly difficult challenge that had us all in tears. I sat awake many nights in a row devising plans to “fix the problem.” I thought about ways to confront, correct, or control what was happening.

One morning, after a particularly long night, I was studying a verse in John. “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33 NIV). I kept looking at the tiny, three-word exclamation in the middle of that verse: “But take heart!”

Jesus didn’t say, “Take matters into your own hands.”
He didn’t say, “Take control.”
He said, “Take heart.”

Taking heart is not a posture of self-help. It’s the posture of humility. Indeed, it’s the posture of prayer. Prayer is the acknowledgement that we’re not running the show — God is. It’s a way of saying, “I trust Your ways more than mine, Lord.”

One prayer really can change everything, so don’t underestimate the power of your prayers. Don’t fall for the lie that your prayers have to be said a certain way to count. Don’t give up asking. Not now! God hears you, and no prayer is ever, ever wasted. Ask and ask again because even when our prayers don’t change our circumstances, those prayers are changing us.

Don’t give up now. You are never as powerful as that moment when you fall to your knees in prayer.

By Jennifer Dukes Lee from the (in)courage devotional journal, 100 Days of Strength in Any Struggle.

The Glory of Cheering Each Other Onward

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Last spring, my daughter decided to try track and field. In our city, there’s a large community program where the kids participate in all kinds of events, competing alongside others in their age group in a not-too-competitive way. They get ribbons for each event, up to 6th place. No kid is left behind, and they all learn so much. It’s pretty great.

So my girl signs up, and we all go to her first track meet. She’s doing the baseball throw. She’s doing hurdles! And then, they call her name to run the 800-meter. If you, like me, don’t speak sports, the 800 is twice around a standard-size track. TWICE. Running! Maybe it’s the non-athlete in me, but that is a long run… and she was, at the time, a little 8-year-old second grader.

She stepped onto the track all smiles and took off. For a while, she held her own. And then, as she started her second lap, in the way that only a mom could see from across a set of bleachers, a football field, and a really long track, I saw her start to fade. First, her smile turned into more of a grimace. She tried to keep running, but then, clutching her side, she started to walk. As every other runner finished ahead of her, leaving her alone on that last lap, she began to cry… and so did I.

I felt so helpless watching her struggle. I couldn’t do a single thing to help her besides cheer my loudest, which was hard to do with tears on my cheeks and a lump in my throat. I turned to my husband and asked, “How are we supposed to watch this? I can’t bear it!”

And then.

I saw her coaches, who had been cheering her on from the middle of the track, beeline towards where she was limping along. Coming up beside her, they kept cheering, shouting her name, and telling her they believed in her! She could do it! She was gonna make it!

I saw her fellow second-grade teammates follow the coaches, pumping their fists and hollering, “You got this, girl! You can do it, I believe in you!” and running right alongside her. They layered themselves inside the track, and then more kids from other teams joined them, yelling encouragement and waving and making sure she kept going.

I saw my girl keep pushing along that track. I saw her spirit buoyed and her heart bolstered. I saw her start to laugh through her tears. I saw her press on.

And then she crossed that finish line with such joy and pride. Her teammates swooped around her, jumping up and down, and her coaches clapped, and her mom just kept crying in the stands, because there were so many lessons happening in real-time and it was just too much:

  • We are never alone.
  • We are never truly left behind to endure by ourselves.
  • There will always be someone one step ahead of us; even if we want to be where they already are, we need to run our own race as they pave the way.
  • Encouragement is indeed a superpower.
  • We can feel big feelings and let them propel us to action.
  • We are capable of more than we know.
  • Girlfriends really are just the best!

I mean. Take your pick of the lessons that were on display during that moment, and most of them go back to the glory of cheering someone across the finish line.

Throughout our lives — and throughout the Bible — we see story after story of the power of simply showing up for someone. Friendship, support, and encouragement can truly change everything.

Elizabeth cheered on her young, pregnant cousin Mary, and together they carried babies who would change history. Ruth clung to Naomi when they had no one else, making the road ahead less frightening and opening the door to a new future. Jesus chose misfits and outcasts for His inner circle, and changed their lives in countless ways with just an invitation to follow Him.

We see verse after verse about friendship, encouragement, and how to love one another well:

“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”
John 15:13 NIV

“Keep on loving each other as brothers and sisters. Don’t forget to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it!”
Hebrews 13:1-2 NLT

“Friends love through all kinds of weather...”
Proverbs 17:17 MSG

Look. I know we all have our moments. We all have our opinions. And right now, there’s a solid sense of us versus them in the world. But we are created to help. To run beside someone having a hard time. To cheer from wherever we stand. To encourage others when they feel most depleted, offering our strength for the taking.

There are so many ways to be there for one another.

Who can you run alongside and cheer on to the finish line? What goal do you need to keep chasing? Is there something you’re enduring through gritted teeth? How can you empower someone coming up behind you in age or stage?

PS: My daughter decided to do track again this year — and has not yet run the 800 again. Also, in case you were wondering, you bet we went out for ice cream to celebrate after that track meet.

 

Listen to Anna’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts. Just search “(in)courage”!

Rest, Recharge, and Renew Your Mind

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Need a recharge in your life? So did our (in)courage writers. While our writing team was together earlier this week, each writer received a copy of this new Devotional Crossword Book: Renew Your Mind. We’d love to share an excerpt with you today! May your heart be recharged and renewed.

We’ve all experienced the ill-timed red, flashing “2% Battery” notification on our phones, reminding us to charge our device soon or else it will no longer work properly.

Feeling drained of energy can have the same effect on our souls. Our bodies and minds were not meant to operate on high levels of stress without renewal. They are trying to “notify” us when we get sick, when we are irritable with friends and loved ones, and when our thoughts are spinning wildly — especially at 3:30 a.m.! We need to recharge regularly, or we simply won’t be effective in the life God has for us.

Not only do we usually need more sleep, but we need REST. Psalm 23:2 (NLT) says the Lord “lets me rest in green meadows.” I love the idea that God LETS us rest! Often, we think we need permission, don’t we?

Even Jesus broke away in nature to recharge, rest, and talk to His Father. If Jesus needed time to renew His focus and His body, then certainly we can and should. Rest is not only good; it was God’s idea.

What recharges you? Perhaps a walk outside, breathing fresh air, brings renewed focus. Sometimes adjusting your schedule from too many commitments can bring about more peace and less “frazzle.” Maybe a cup of chamomile tea and a crossword puzzle help you unwind after a stressful day. Listen to your body when it lets you know its battery is getting low.

Be kind to yourself because God cares about you.

In the Devotional Crossword Puzzle Book: Renew Your Mind, the process of solving crossword puzzles becomes an opportunity for meditating on Scripture and important biblical concepts. Each entry is focused on renewing the mind, with themes such as Replace, Remember, Refresh, Restore, Recharge, and more.

With 36 insightful devotions and thought-provoking crossword puzzles, the Devotional Crossword Puzzle Book: Renew Your Mind will help you reconnect with the Source of true peace and joy. Solving each puzzle gives you moments to reflect on God’s Word, letting eternal truths sink deep into your soul.

Get comfy, grab a pencil, and get ready for your heart to be inspired, your spirit to be refilled, and your mind to be renewed! 

We LOVE this devotional puzzle book, and we think you will too… so we’re giving away FIVE copies*! To enter, just leave a comment below.

*Giveaway open to US addresses only, and closes on 5/2/2025 at 11:59 pm Central.

When Your Identity Has Been Hacked

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I picked up my daughter-in-love’s phone call. “I think you need to check your blog. Your website has been hacked.”

I raced to my laptop and pulled up my blog, Balancing Beauty and Bedlam.

“No, NO, NO!!!!” I screamed. My daughter scrambled down the stairs. “What’s wrong, Mom?”

Plastered across my blog pages were unknown pictures accompanied by a foreign language. Remnants of my original site were still there, but my entire livelihood had been taken over by an identity thief. A decade’s worth of stories stolen. I attempted to log in, but my password had been changed and the liars renamed it as their own.

Right out from under me, a master manipulator bulldozed his way into my life and uprooted decades of memories and milestones. In full-on panic mode, my body responded in a visceral way.

Why would someone do this to me? Who can I call to help right this wrong? I felt violated, angry, helpless, and foolish. I didn’t know where to turn. It took months to unravel that violation and devastated the income my family relied on.

Identity thieves are crafty, cunning, and quick. They examine our weaknesses and know exactly how to exploit them. While I’ve installed safeguards that alert me to fraud, the attacks have continued through the years — but I’m prepared now to fight back.

Many of us can relate to that panicked moment when something precious has been stolen. It may not be a blog hack, but perhaps a wallet or social security number. Maybe your Facebook or email account was hijacked, and you found yourself held hostage by deception.

When that occurs, we spend hours, even weeks, alerting people to the fraud. We show multiple forms of proof of who we really are. We track down expenses, close accounts, and shout from the rooftop that’s not our true identity.

When our identity is finally restored, money returned, systems secured, and passwords reestablished, we regain access to the freedoms and security we had lost. Then our anxiety lifts and relief floods in.

I still remember when my first hack occurred, how I spent all my energy fighting back against this invisible enemy until my identity had been secured. Yet I can’t remember the last time I fought that hard against the most cunning of all identity thieves. Why don’t we put that same effort into exposing Satan’s strategies?

There are two realms. The seen and the unseen. The physical and the spiritual. Good vs. evil.

Jesus reminds us, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full” (John 10:10 NIV).

Yet we allow Satan to boss us around. He bullies his way into our hearts and minds, planting seeds of doubt, deception, shame, and inadequacy because his whole desire is to steal our true identity and discount our esteemed value as beloved daughters, image bearers of the Most High God.

Last week, our young adult daughter fell victim to an elaborate identity scam.

“You have no idea how believable it was, Mom. They knew years of my personal information. They knew all of my history. I was exhausted and my guard was down.”

Torn between rage at the thief and frustration that we so easily fall prey to lies, I realized the difference between my blog hack years ago and our daughter’s identity theft: She pleaded for help to fight this battle.

In full momma bear mode, I knew how these counterfeiters worked. I understood the opponent’s ultimate goal and stepped into battle on her behalf. We laid down truth and put up guard rails together.

Friends, we must learn to fight back against the devil’s schemes with the same dogged determination. Satan knows our struggles and focuses on our past sin patterns. He wants us to live in our flesh and replay past hurt.

As we wrestle with doubt, the enemy will mimic our voice. He’ll say things to us in a way that sounds like us. A young mom shared an example of this with me: “My husband deserves someone more whole and healed. I can’t conquer [past struggles]. I’m never going to be the mom our son deserves.”

I stopped her, identified the first-person lies Satan taunted her with, and told her that this was not God’s truth for her life. I said out loud as a reminder to both of us that our new birth in Christ is what determines our identity. When we name Jesus as Lord, the gift of the gospel is that God restores our identity as His children. How dare we give the enemy an inch when we have the indwelling, life-giving, enemy-crushing, abundant freedom of new life.

Satan has no hold on us — but when it comes to dealing with all identity thieves, complacency is not an option.

Peter talks about having “minds ready for action ” (1 Peter 1:13 CSB). In the original Greek, the verb is continuous and active, meaning this isn’t a one-time effort. It’s a daily commitment to stay alert and to keep preparing our minds for the challenges and battles we’ll face along the way.

Are we rooted in the truth of Scripture? Do we have others to come alongside us? Are we stretching our minds by becoming critical thinkers? All those are necessary to be battle-ready.

Our daughter now pays $10 a month to a company that alerts her to fraud. A small price for freedom.

Don’t we all desire to live in the true freedom that Christ offers? Then together, let’s agree to fight back against Satan’s identity theft.

 

Listen to Jen’s devotion here or wherever you stream podcasts.

By the Creator Who Doesn’t Make Mistakes

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Sister, lean in close and hear this today:

You are not invisible. You are not forgotten. You are not too much.

You are fully seen, completely known, and deeply loved by the God who made you.

That’s not a warm and fuzzy sentiment; it’s a sacred truth woven into the fabric of Scripture. Psalm 139 invites us to behold a breathtaking picture of how intimately God knows us — not just the curated version we let others see, but the real us. The overwhelmed us. The grieving, tired, insecure, struggling, striving, doubting us. All of it.

“O Lord, you have examined my heart and know everything about me.
You know when I sit down or stand up. You know my thoughts even when I’m far away.”
Psalm 139:1–2 NLT

He knows our thoughts before we think them. He sees our decisions before we make them. He hems us in, behind and before, and lays His hand upon us. This is not a God who stands at a distance. This is a Father who stays close.

Sometimes we feel lost in our own lives. Like everyone else got the map, the purpose, the clarity — and we’re fumbling in the dark. But Psalm 139 reminds us: God’s light is never dim. Even when the path feels hidden, even when sorrow clouds our vision or anxiety presses in, we are never out of His sight. And never without His care.

“I can never escape from your Spirit!
I can never get away from your presence!
If I go up to heaven, you are there;
if I go down to the grave, you are there.”
Psalm 139:7–8 NLT

Friend, you are not alone in your struggle. Whatever season you’re walking through — whether it’s full of joy or full of tears — God is right there. Nearer than your breath. His presence is your anchor. His promises are your firm place to stand.

And it gets even more personal:

“You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body
and knit me together in my mother’s womb.”
Psalm 139:13 NLT

The same God who hung the stars took the time to knit you together. You weren’t mass-produced or haphazardly formed. You were crafted — intentionally, wonderfully, purposefully. Yes, even with the parts of yourself you wish you could change. Even with the weaknesses that wear you out. Even with the story you didn’t ask for. You were made with care and love by the Creator who doesn’t make mistakes.

So take heart today. You are God’s daughter. Not by accident, but by design. Your identity isn’t found in your performance or popularity or how put together you feel. Your identity is rooted in the One who made you, sees you, and will never stop pursuing you with goodness and mercy.

Let’s stop striving to be someone else and start living in the freedom of who we already are in Christ: known, chosen, seen, and held.

You don’t walk alone.
You never have.
You never will.

When Nowhere Feels Like Home

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When someone asks me where I’m from, I hesitate.

I’ve never quite figured out how to navigate the small-talk staple without it becoming a trick question. My brain kicks into overdrive as I mentally scroll through the list of possible answers. By birth, I’m from Georgia. By parental lineage, I’m from Texas. By personal preference, I’m from Alaska. To give any one of those answers wouldn’t be entirely wrong, but neither do any of them feel entirely right. Instead of naming a hometown, I’ve made a habit of plastering on a wry smile and announcing, “I’m from nowhere.”

Inevitably, my answer catches people off guard. Their eyebrows knit together and their foreheads wrinkle in confusion as they try to make sense of my response. For a split second, I wonder if I should have simply picked an easy answer. To do so, though, would be disingenuous.

Growing up as the oldest child in a military family, I spent the first eighteen years of my life bouncing around the United States. My mother, who spent most of her own childhood in a single house, minutes away from her grandparents, often lamented the constant moves my siblings and I endured. As a child, I didn’t fully understand the apologies she made. And, though I knew my life was different from the lives of most of my friends, uprooting every couple of years was the only way of life I’d ever known.

It wasn’t until I started college that I began realizing what I might have missed out on. During freshman orientation, when my new friends talked about the homes they left behind — towns they’d lived in most of their lives — I couldn’t relate. The house I’d left was one I’d lived in for a measly two years. I didn’t leave best friends; I left surface-level acquaintances. I didn’t leave a place that formed me, or neighbors that watched me grow up, or a community whose history I’d watched unfold. At best, my roots were shallow. I never learned what it means to belong.

My husband and I have lived in our current town for eleven years now — more than triple the length of time I’ve lived anywhere else. Even still, I get The Itch: an unshakeable sense that it’s time to move, to leave, to start over somewhere new. It’s what keeps me from hanging pictures on our walls or investing time and energy into decorating our home well. While part of me longs to settle in, to believe that I have created stability for myself, the truth is that I feel just as unmoored now as I did when I was a teenager.

Long before I began wrestling with what it means to have a home, Moses wrote about the same longing. In Psalm 90, Moses declares, “Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations” (Psalm 90:1 ESV). Moses knew what it was to live without permanence. He spent forty years in Egypt after being taken from his people as a child, then forty years as a shepherd in exile, followed by forty years wandering through the wilderness with the Israelites. Moses was always moving, never settling, never fully belonging where his feet were. And, yet, despite a lifetime of displacement, he named God as his dwelling place.

The Hebrew word Moses uses for “dwelling place” is מָע֣וֹן (maon), a word which can describe both physical and metaphorical places. For the Israelite people, a dwelling place was more than just a place of shelter and safety — it was also representative of an identity and community. Home wasn’t just where they lived; it was who they were and how they were known. In calling God his dwelling place, Moses invites all of us — whether we’re wanderers or not — to view home through a different lens. Our home is not a place, but a Person.

I think I’ll always tell people who ask I’m from nowhere, and I don’t anticipate that the tension between wanting to settle and wanting to leave will ever subside completely. But, if God is my maon, my dwelling place, then I’m not unmoored. I am not without a place of belonging. I am not without a home.

If you know God, no matter where you are, you’re home too.

When the Volume Turns Down: Meeting God in the Quiet

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I work at a library.

My title is early learning associate (aka, “the story time lady”), but while I do spend a lot of time with kids and kids’ books, part of my day is also spent on general library duties like shelving books, answering customers’ questions, offering recommendations for what someone should read next, or explaining how to use our public printers. Every morning before we open our doors, my co-workers and I buzz through the shelves pulling books that have been requested by customers at other branches. And every morning as I do this, I pop in an earbud and listen to a podcast episode or audiobook.

One morning earlier this month, I was dismayed to realize my earbuds had somehow disconnected from my phone. As they refused to play the mystery I was in the middle of, I groaned. “Don’t make me listen to my thoughts!” I said out loud. A co-worker passing by gave me a knowing smile as she tapped her own earbud to start up the tunes she works to each morning.

I’d made a joke about avoiding my own thoughts, but it wasn’t all that funny.

As I sat down to write this article a few days ago, I realized that my habit of hiding from emotional pain — which inevitably shows up uninvited should my mind have a single quiet moment — has reached a tipping point. It’s possible, I had to admit, that I’ve evaded my own emotions so thoroughly that I could no longer access them. My feelings and impressions, my questions and observations had been so deeply buried that thoughtful insight was proving difficult at best and, I feared, could be impossible at worst.

For a writer, this is disastrous. If I can’t peer inside my heart and mind to find a nugget of truth to share, I’ll never meet a deadline again. But this isn’t just an issue for writers. My apologies for being the bearer of bad news here, but I think this particular affliction is an issue for any of us who want to connect with God.

If we spend every waking moment filling our ears and hearts and minds – even with good things! – we aren’t leaving room for God to move within us. Don’t get me wrong. God can absolutely speak to us through music or books or other people’s words – and He does. But when it comes to that still small voice that comforts or moves us, well, we can hear it a lot easier when we take a moment to turn down the volume.

We see this with Elijah, the Old Testament prophet who ended up running for his life — right after faithfully serving the Lord through a season of bold ministry. Overwhelmed by fear, danger, and injustice, Elijah spiraled into deep despair. He even begged God to let him die. But instead of rebuke, God sent an angel who offered something surprisingly simple: a snack and a nap. After that, Elijah journeyed forty days and nights to a mountain, where God invited him to stand at the entrance of a cave — because that’s where he would encounter the presence of the Lord.

As Elijah stood in that cave, a hurricane passed by – but he didn’t hear God’s voice. Then an earthquake shook the ground – but he didn’t hear God’s voice. Next, a fire blazed – and still, Elijah did not hear God’s voice. It was only when the winds and flames faded away, when the ground settled, and when the volume was turned down that Elijah heard God.

Then He said, “Go out, and stand on the mountain before the Lord.” And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind tore into the mountains and broke the rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a still small voice.
1 Kings 19:11-12 NKJV

The Lord spoke in a still, small voice. Other translations call it a quiet voice or a gentle whisper. Regardless of the exact phrase, it was something that couldn’t have been heard over my favorite Spotify playlist, an audiobook or podcast playing in my earbuds, or the natural–and not-so-natural–disasters of the world.

The day that the Lord spoke directly to Elijah on that mountain, it happened when everything got quiet.

And Elijah isn’t the only one we see in the Bible slowing down and getting quiet in order to connect with the Lord and be refreshed. Jesus Himself spent time alone in the desert before beginning His ministry. During His time traveling and teaching, Jesus frequently escaped the noise and chaos to pray and hear from His Father.

Before selecting the twelve apostles, Jesus spent the night in prayer. (Luke 6:12-13)

When He heard the news of John the Baptist’s beheading, Jesus went away to grieve alone. (Matthew 4:10-13)

After teaching and feeding thousands of people, Jesus sought solitude to refresh His soul. (Mark 6:41-46)

If Jesus was intentional to seek out quiet, shouldn’t we?

This world is noisy. Our minds and lives are noisy. It can be tempting to let that noise insulate us from the hard things hiding in the corners of our hearts. Let’s resist the temptation and lean into all God has for us. There is great joy and refreshment waiting in the quiet.

How can you carve out a moment of quiet to be still and listen for God today?

 

Listen to Mary’s devotion here or on your favorite podcast app.

Before You’re Anything Else, You’re This

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When was the last time you truly considered your most central identity — as a daughter of God?

Candidly, for me, it had been a while. I too often define myself by what I do — hustling, producing, meeting expectations — rather than by who I am in Christ.

But a few weeks ago, I had an awakening. I was invited to help lead a group of about 100 Christian women writers, communicators, and ministry leaders at a soul-care retreat in Colorado. My role was to pour into these women. These are women who spend so much of their lives pouring into others.

The conference was aptly named Daughters First, a reminder that they weren’t writers first, pastors first, podcasters first, ministry leaders first, or (thanks be to God) social media platforms first. They were, and would always be, daughters first — daughters of the King.

And in a way that only God could orchestrate, this retreat wasn’t held in a generic hotel conference room, but in a legit castle. It was a historic English Tudor-style castle, called Glen Eyrie, nestled in the foothills of Colorado Springs.

So there we were, a bunch of daughters in a castle with a King.

For three solid days, I poured my heart into these women. It was my literal job, but it was also my joy. I know how lonely and exhausting ministry work can be, so I wanted to remind them of this truth: God affirms them, not because of their work, but because of their being. He loves them, comforts them, protects them, and shepherds them.

Near the end of the retreat, a woman asked me a simple question: “What did God speak to you at this retreat?”

In that moment, I didn’t have an answer.

I had been so focused on offering hope and healing to others that I hadn’t paused long enough to receive it myself.

It occurred to me much later that what God was speaking through me… He was also speaking to me.

I, too, was a Daughter First.

Not an author first.
Not an (in)courage writer first.
Not a speaker or ministry leader first.
Not even a mom or wife first.

I am a Daughter First.

I don’t regret a single moment of the work I did in that place; after all, that’s why I had been invited. But it took me a few days to realize that God had me there for a reason, too.

When I got home, I reread the words from my own talk about what it means to be a daughter. And I felt like God was gently saying, 

Those words were for you, too, Jennifer. You’re my daughter, and I’m glad you came to the castle to spend time with Me.

His words settled in my heart like healing balm, especially in the midst of a busy season. They reminded me of the moment in Scripture when Jesus turned to the woman who reached for the hem of His garment, for healing. It’s the only time in all of Scripture that Jesus calls someone Daughter.

He looked at her and said, “Daughter, your faith has healed you” (Mark 5:34 NIV).

And that’s His message for you today, too.

Like me, you are a minister of God’s Good News. You may not do it from a podium or the pages of a book, but you are ministering to neighbors, grocery store clerks, family members, Uber drivers, and even the growliest TSA agents. Every day, you have opportunities to share God’s love.

Keep doing that. It matters.

And also:

Take a moment today to let God minister to you.

The words of grace and kindness you so freely offer to others? Let your King speak them over you.

Because before anything else, you are a daughter first.

God Will Meet You in Your Messy Spaces

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Have you ever felt like everyone else was given the handbook to life, and somehow you missed that day of class?

We are bombarded with messages that acquiring stuff is the goal. Every TV ad, Instagram influencer, and sponsored TikTok video shows the same thing: This one thing will change your life. How many times in a movie do we see someone shopping, buying the right outfit, and suddenly all their problems are solved? (They get the job, the guy, and the admiration of everyone around them.) But we rarely see the beauty of not buying the _______ (fill in the blank).

We ride a rollercoaster of feeling less than, noticing a need, acquiring more, then suddenly feeling like we have too much stuff — most of which we barely use. We feel suffocated by our surroundings, purge and donate things, only to find ourselves starting the same process over again a couple of months later.

If this is you, friend, you are not alone.

Yes, some people are more naturally orderly than others. Often, we marry them or give birth to them — and drive each other lovingly crazy — but I digress. If you feel like everyone “gets it” except you, let me share a few truths:

  1. You are not broken.
    Cluttery women are some of the kindest, most generous, and most creative souls I’ve ever met. If you needed a waffle iron, they’d be the first to offer it (if they can find it).
  2. You are not lazy.
    Just because you struggle with clutter doesn’t mean you don’t work hard. Most of the time, we can replace the label lazy with more accurate words like overwhelmed, overcommitted, or overstressed. When we use specific, nonjudgmental language, we can start addressing the real issues.
  3. You are not alone.
    I have a Facebook group of over ten thousand women all dealing with the same problems. They can be honest with each other because, for the most part, they don’t know each other in real life. The shame of clutter can keep us isolated and hopeless. But when we see others struggle and also begin to change, we realize we can do it too. Those are the first small steps to hope.

As the daughter of a hoarder, I never learned the skills I needed to care for my home, my space, or even myself in certain ways. But hope is the deep belief that with God’s help, we can change.

James 1:5 (NIV) says, “If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you.”

I love the deeper meaning of the word “wisdom” (Greek: sophia) that James uses. While sophia can mean God-given insight, it also encompasses general knowledge or skill. Yes, we always want God’s deeper insight, but we can also ask to be guided to the knowledge and skills we need.

Ask God to surround you with people, books, and practical instructions to make lasting changes in your life when it comes to dealing with clutter (or whatever you’re struggling with today). Also, ask Him to help you understand your own heart and worries — those insecurities that keep things in your home that ultimately steal your peace.

If you are currently struggling with clutter, can I gently invite you to consider why you keep it?

  • Is it fear?
    If you look at something you haven’t used in five years but don’t want to let it go because “I might need it someday,” that might be fear talking. Fear says, What if I can’t replace it? or What if I regret letting it go?
  • Is it guilt?
    If you’re hanging on to a turtle statue you don’t really like because “But ______ gave it to me,” you may need to address guilt. One of my biggest decluttering challenges was learning to separate things from the people who gave them to me. I don’t need seventy knickknacks to show I love my aunt. I keep what’s precious and let go of what someone else would value more.
  • Is it shame?
    If your first thought when deciding whether to donate a pair of shoes you’ve only worn once is “But I spent so much money on these,” shame could be at play. Shame over spending habits, an inner critic that calls you wasteful, or even a parent’s voice. Keeping those shoes in your closet won’t bring back the money you spent. Let those shoes become someone else’s favorite pair.

Friend, know this: God is ready to meet you in the middle of your clutter. He longs to replace your overwhelm with His wisdom and grace. As you step forward — one drawer, one stack, one closet at a time — remember that you are not alone, and you are not behind.

God’s mercies are new every morning, and that includes mercy for your messy spaces and overwhelmed heart.

Today, ask Him for wisdom — and trust that He will give it to you generously. Then take one small action step. Toss the expired coupons, donate the shoes you never wear, or let go of that turtle statue. Watch how God shows up in the everyday details, guiding you from chaos to peace — one faithful step at a time.

Need a community to help you kickstart your decluttering? Join Kathi and her team over at Clutter Free Academy. Just answer a couple of questions to get in the Facebook group, and you will find not only wisdom, but daily, gentle encouragement.

A Forgiveness Beyond Comprehension

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“ If we claim we have no sin, we are only fooling ourselves and not living in the truth. But if we confess our sins to him, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all wickedness.”
1 John 1:8-9 NLT

I used to keep a mental highlight reel of my worst offenses. At the end of even the best day, my brain could hit the replay button, and scenes of my wrongdoings would scroll across the screen of my mind. Although I confessed those sins to God and asked for His forgiveness, I couldn’t seem to forgive myself.

Then I heard something that shook me to the core: to confess a sin, repent, and then continue to ask God’s forgiveness for it multiple times (when you aren’t repeating the sin) is a form of pride. Did I believe my sins were so enormous and unique that they were beyond His ability to forgive? Despite the magnitude of God’s mercy and of the sins I know He’d forgiven, why did I act like He couldn’t handle mine?

We see divine forgiveness in King David’s story. He didn’t recognize the scope of his sin until it was exposed to him by the prophet Nathan. David repented, then followed the Lord the rest of his days, serving and honoring Him.

God is merciful and forgives even the biggest sins when we repent and follow Him.

David could have removed himself from the narrative and wallowed in his own guilt for the rest of his life. Instead, he confessed and repented before God and then led Israel as God’s chosen king for forty years.

Once I recognized how prideful it was to believe God could forgive the sins of others but not mine, I’ve never looked at myself the same way. Our difficult experiences — both the failures and the grace that covers them — can deepen our capacity for empathy toward others.

Our darkest trials can become our greatest testimonies.

God’s grace and capacity for forgiveness are beyond comprehension. When we give in to guilt and focus too much on our role as the villain in our own life story, we forget that God is the Hero who has redeemed us.

Let’s remember that we’re covered in grace. Let’s live in the freedom of His forgiveness.

This devotion is by Dawn Camp from our favorite devotional journal, 100 Days of Strength in Any Struggle.

See God clearer and know Him deeper in the middle of your struggles.

Here is another short devotion from the book. Enjoy this encouragement from Robin Dance: 

When the World Feels Like Too Much

“I lift up my eyes to you,
to you who sit enthroned in heaven.”
Psalm 123:1 NIV

What are we to do when our world no longer makes sense? What are those who follow Jesus to do? I believe an old refrain holds the key:

Turn your eyes upon Jesus, Look full in His wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim, In the light of His glory and grace.

A while back, I had the sweet privilege of serving women in my area as a leader for a community Bible study. Before we’d meet every Thursday, our leadership team began by singing this familiar chorus.

Tendering our hearts in song was effective. The things of earth — never-ending to-do lists, work deadlines, disagreements among friends, challenges with children, arguments with a spouse, health concerns, financial pressures, the clatter of politics, even some of our anxieties and feeling not enough — grow strangely dim. Our worries wither under the blaze of God’s glory.

When we focus on Jesus instead of circumstances, our circumstances may not change, but we sure do.

I know what it’s like to wander around and feel lost, to wrestle in a sea of doubt, to question beliefs you once held dear. And while I don’t know what’s going on with you personally, I know all of us are affected by what’s going on in the world.

How can we possibly handle it? We can’t. We aren’t even supposed to — that’s why we have a Savior! Isn’t that liberating?

Let’s remind one another that the gospel is good news. When we are mindful of who God is and what He has accomplished in our lives and in our world… When we trust that He is good and loves us without condition.. When we study His Word, claim His promises, and accept the forgiveness He offers… When we believe that He holds the whole world in His hands… When we turn our eyes upon Jesus…

We will find peace.

To me, focusing on Jesus isn’t just one way we can best handle a world that feels crazy. It’s the only way.

 

To read more devotions like these, pick up your copy of our devotional journal, 100 Days of Strength in Any Struggle. We know it will meet your heart.

How Baking Bread Beckons Us to Slow Down

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The miracle of sourdough bread begins with five simple ingredients: flour, water, salt, starter, and a generous cup of patience.

I didn’t know if I had the patience to make this specialty bread. My friend offered me some sourdough starter and explained the process one Sunday afternoon. I hesitated.

Did I really have the bandwidth to feed a new baby daily? Was this one more thing to add to my already mile-long to-do list? 

During the pandemic, I watched as the sourdough trend spread and grew, like yeast working its way through dough in a warm kitchen. In those days, taking on a new hobby that required days of attention was not something I welcomed. I felt like I was teetering on the edge of overload and anxiety.

Little did I know that sourdough might just be the thing to save me in a different season and send me straight back to the Savior.

I set my glass bowl on the flat kitchen scale. This scale helps me measure ingredients with precision rather than with uneven measuring cups and spoons. I start with 100 grams of the bubbly sourdough starter my daughter cleverly named Martha. 

Martha sits on our kitchen counter in a large mason jar doing good work. I feed her daily with equal parts bread flour and water. The wooden spoon swirls vigorously until the starter shows the consistency of smooth pancake batter. Then I let her sit and grow. A wide, green rubber band, like a belt around the belly of the jar, helps mark how much Martha expands after each feeding.

Growing and harvesting yeast is like a science experiment in motion. Wild yeast is a single-celled fungus that feeds on sugars and starches and converts them into carbon dioxide. The carbon dioxide creates bubbles, which instigate the rise in bread dough. 

To be clear, I’m a cook by nature, not a baker. I work more naturally by feel, smell, and taste. Concocting savory sauces and simmering soups, which employ the palate over precision, is much more my comfort zone. Surprisingly, sourdough bread making has provided an intriguing challenge and new spiritual rhythm for me.

I pour the warm water into the bowl. When bits of starter float, it’s a sign Martha is active and ready for action. Then I measure the flour and sprinkle 10 grams of sea salt on top. I mix and knead the ingredients until they form a ragged, dry dough. 

Bread is first mentioned in Scripture back in Genesis 3:19 (NASB) as part of the curse:

“By the sweat of your face
You will eat bread,
Till you return to the ground,
Because from it you were taken;
For you are dust,
And to dust you shall return.”

The Hebrew word used in this passage for bread is “lehem,” sometimes translated more generically as food. These words are delivered to Adam after he and Eve ate the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Life. Even here in the midst of consequences, God is serving up a slice of grace. Bread will require work to prepare, but it will also serve as food, a sign of nourishment for all humankind. 

Bread becomes a sign of God’s provision in Exodus 16:4 when the Israelites are in the wilderness complaining of hunger. God tells Moses: “Behold, I will rain bread from heaven for you; and the people shall go out and gather a day’s portion every day…” (NASB). God chooses to provide daily bread for the people, which serves as evidence of His glory and compassionate provision.

While the ingredients rest in my bowl, they come together in a miraculous way. I return after 30 minutes to a dough that is smooth and stretchy, no longer ragged. I stretch and fold the dough before setting it aside to proof. In many ways, this mirrors what happens in my heart when I take time to rest and abide with God. My ragged fears and frustrations begin to settle and smooth as my heart is hydrated by Living Water.

In the New Testament, Jesus uses bread as a sign of God’s multiplication. He performs a miracle in John 6, where He multiplies a boy’s lunch of five small loaves of bread and two fish. Jesus takes the loaves, gives thanks to His Father, and distributes the food to a hungry crowd of more than 5,000 people. Then Jesus sends His disciples to gather the leftovers and witness the miracle. They gathered 12 baskets (John 6:13 ). When the people saw the leftovers, they believed Jesus was the Prophet they had been waiting for.

In John 6:35, Jesus simply, but profoundly, declares, “I am the bread of life; he who comes to Me will not hunger, and he who believes in Me will never thirst” (NASB).

Through Holy Week, we remember how Jesus suffered and sacrificed, how his body was scored and hung on a cross. There is darkness in the tomb for a somber Good Friday and Silent Saturday, but then on Easter Sunday, the Bread of Life embodies the miracle and rises again!

Some days, the headlines weigh heavy on my heart, and the chaos of our world feels insurmountable. And I return to the liturgy of making bread, which beckons me to stretch and fold, knead and kneel, to taste and see the Master Baker at work. I sink my teeth into a slice of homemade sourdough slathered with butter and remember the miracle anew.

Dorina shares her passion for food, books, and travel in her weekly Glorygram and daily on Instagram.

 

Listen to Dorina’s devotion here or wherever you stream podcasts. 

He Is Risen: Hope That Holds Us

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“Why are you looking among the dead for someone who is alive? He isn’t here! He is risen from the dead!”
Luke 24:5-6 NLT

The weight of sorrow hung thick in the air as the women approached the tomb that morning. Their grief was fresh, their hearts heavy. Jesus, the One they had followed, the One they had believed was the Messiah, had suffered an excruciating death. He was gone. Now, all they had left was a broken heart and burial spices.

But in an instant, everything changed.

An angel appeared, light bursting through the darkness, with a message that would echo through eternity: He isn’t here! He is risen!

The empty tomb wasn’t just proof of Christ’s victory over death — it was proof that our hope is not in vain. The grave could not hold Jesus, and despair will not hold us. The same power that raised Christ from the dead now lives in us (Romans 8:11).

Sister, whatever brokenness you carry today, whatever disappointment or uncertainty weighs on your heart — Easter shouts the truth that hope is alive. Jesus’ resurrection isn’t just a moment in history; it’s the reality that reshapes our future. The cross says you are redeemed. The empty tomb declares you are victorious.

You are not alone. You are not forgotten. Your story isn’t over.

So lift your head. Stand firm in resurrection power. And walk in the freedom of the One who conquered death and lives forevermore.

Risen Savior, fill me with Your hope today. Thank You for the victory You won on the cross and through the empty tomb. Help me live in the power of Your resurrection. Amen.

Dark Ink, Dark Nights

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I pull out my Micron pen, safely tucked away in a nearby drawer. Cradling the pen’s cylindrical lightness in my palm, my fingers curl around it like a memory. This pen is a long-forgotten relic, representing a former version of myself: a more creative, carefree version . . . before the burnout, before the pandemic, before my most recent battle with depression.

Lost in thought now, my focus shifts back to the pen in hand. I uncap it. I study its fragile tip. But, it’s not paper I’ll use as my canvas. Instead, I touch the tip of the pin to my inner wrist, to the hollow between my hand and watch strap, and let the ink run like rivers down each crease and crevice of my open arm.

The pen swoops with gentle, cursive letters: I am penning a verse, a phrase, a lifeline.

This is a bygone habit I adopted in years past: etching encouraging truths onto my wrist or forearm, in some spot where my eye could easily catch them. These etchings would act as reminders throughout my day, reminders of important truths about God, of His plans and character, and of my identity.

When days turned into nights — and in seasons where the sun gave way to starless, ivy-cloaked evenings — this is when I turned to my water-soluble pens. I wrote these verses when I needed them most, with, “You are with me,” penned across my forearm.

In our faith journeys, there are seasons when prayers come easily, and there are seasons when prayers feel futile. There are times when God feels as close as ink on bare skin, and other times when He seems distant, far-off, perplexing. One moment we are on the mountaintop, and the next, we are plunged into the valley, the desert, the wilderness. “Dark nights of the soul,” are what St. John of the Cross called these disorienting and disillusioning periods where God trains us, strips us, and sanctifies us through fire and quiet desperation.

I am in a “dark night of the soul” now, once again. And, as I sit in the valley, my truth-stained hands reach for the ground. They dig deep, clawing the dirt and the perceived wreckage around me — wrought with unmet expectations and failure. My fingers sift the sand, searching for hidden bits of God’s goodness. Sometimes, it feels like my hands come up empty — but I know this is a lie. There are diamonds to be found somewhere hidden in this dirt, small gems forged by pressure, heat, and darkness.

So, I keep digging. We keep digging. We keep writing, we keep penning verses onto open arms, we keep reminding ourselves of the truth of God’s goodness. We discipline our minds to search for God’s goodness to us through Jesus and the cross. This is the truth: God’s love pours into our deepest, darkest places, tracing the curves of each sorrow and smoothing the rough edges of our souls. This is what we rehearse in the dark valleys. This is what’s true.

Next time we find ourselves in the dark valley, we will rehearse a new story — one where God’s love runs like ink down the worn creases of our hands, like soothing water in the deserts of our souls. He is here with us. He is here. He is here. It’s His living water that makes us beautiful; His living water turns our barren valleys into canyons, lush and fertile, and dripping with milk and honey.

With every feeble pen stroke, we declare a stronger truth for today, tomorrow, and forever.

The Women Stayed with Jesus. Can We?

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Today, on Good Friday, my church remembers the day that Jesus died. Our pastors enter the worship space in silence, then lie face down on the floor to humble themselves before the great sacrifice Christ made. We hear the Gospel story of the crucifixion, and then members of our community take turns carrying a large wooden cross so that everyone can reach out and touch it, thanking Jesus for what His love has meant for them.

Today stands among the most powerful days of the year in my faith.

But one year, everything changed for me.

In our church, we celebrate Holy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday as if they were one long liturgy, each day leading into the next. That year, after our Holy Thursday service had ended, I caught the smallest movement out of the corner of my eye as I gathered up my family’s coats to head home.

Two women were silently folding the altar cloths. Together they repeated the familiar movements: stretch the fabric wide, join the ends together, meet in the middle, and take up the ends again until the task is done.

As a child, I helped my mother fold sheets, blankets, and tablecloths like this. As a mother, I taught my children to do the same. So on that dark night as I watched the women do this quiet, faithful work, preparing the church for what would come next on Good Friday, I felt tears rise to my eyes.

Here were the women staying with Jesus all the way, as they have done since the beginning.

Each Gospel tells the story of the women in different ways. Luke describes Jesus meeting the women on the road to Calvary: “A large number of people followed him, including women who mourned and wailed for him. Jesus turned and said to them, ‘Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children” (Luke 23:27-28 NIV).

Mark focuses on the faithful women who followed Jesus: “Some women were watching from a distance. Among them were Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James the younger and of Joseph, and Salome. In Galilee these women had followed him and cared for his needs. Many other women who had come up with him to Jerusalem were also there” (Mark 15:40-41 NIV).

John describes an unforgettable encounter between the risen Jesus and Mary Magdalene, who came to the tomb alone and in the dark: “Jesus said to her, ‘Mary.’ She turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, ‘Rabbouni!’ (which means ‘Teacher’)” (John 20:16 NIV). Mary was willing to seek the Lord, to stay weeping at the tomb after others left, and to spread the good news Jesus gave her — and her faithfulness changed the world.

And one of the most powerful — and often overlooked — moments that Jesus shared with a woman in the final hours before his death comes from the Gospel of Matthew. While in Bethany, Jesus speaks a stunning proclamation about the woman who anointed his head: “When she poured this perfume on my body, she did it to prepare me for burial. Truly I tell you, wherever this gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.” (Matthew 26:12-13 NIV).

The loving, faithful, abundant service of women is at the heart of the Gospel.

The woman who anointed Jesus. The women who wept for Him on His way. The women who stayed at the cross. The women who cared for His body after death. The women who found the empty tomb. The women who told of the resurrection.

The women who stayed show us the way.

We don’t need to have all the answers to stay faithful to Jesus. We don’t have to understand exactly what God is doing. We don’t need to have power, resources, or the world’s attention. We only have to stay as close as we can to Jesus.

You are already following in the footsteps of these holy women. You are staying in the hard places where God is asking you to stay — or coming alongside those who need companions.

You stay with Jesus when you bring Him your broken heart: your care for loved ones, your concerns for your community, and your work in the world.

You stay with Jesus when you stay close to those in need: suffering friends, struggling relatives, or sisters and brothers across the ocean.

You stay with Jesus when you are willing to set out while it is still dark, while your heart is fearful but you decide to seek God anyway.

You stay with Jesus when you weep with those who weep. When you keep speaking the truth. When you are open to hearing God’s voice in a way you have never heard before.

Like the women folding the altar cloths in that empty church, Jesus’ faithful followers are hidden in plain view. We see them in our friends, families, churches, and even ourselves.

The women speaking out against injustice. The women reaching out to offer help. The women rallying their communities. The women caring for young and old. The women rising to serve and kneeling to pray. The women weeping at the news and asking, “God, what can I do?”

The women stayed with Jesus all the way — on the road, at the cross, to the tomb, and beyond.

Like them, we can stay with Jesus, too. We will not leave Him, and He will never leave us.

For more of Laura’s writing, check out her essays on spirituality in everyday life at The Holy Labor.

 

Listen to Laura’s devotion here or wherever you stream podcasts.