This Is the Amount of Faith You Need

This Is the Amount of Faith You Need

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Many years ago, a friend gave me a heart-shaped necklace with a mustard seed tucked inside. The mustard seed was so small, you had to look really close to see it. At the time, that’s how my faith felt. I had been emerging from a very long period of doubt that stretched from my early teen years into adulthood.

It wasn’t just that I doubted God’s goodness. It wasn’t just that I doubted God’s love.

I doubted His actual existence.

I wasn’t an unbeliever, exactly. I was, what I call, a “wanna-believer.” I really, truly did want to believe. But a whole bunch of intellectual obstacles stood between me and God. Apparently, being a “wanna-believer” was enough for God. Because over these years, it’s been clear to me that God hasn’t given up on me yet.

For me, the mustard seed has felt sacred. The fact that God could stoop so low to love someone whose faith was so small? Astounding!

In a culture that values strength and abundance, I think we underestimate what God can do with a little. But open the Bible, and there it is: the reminder that smallness does not disqualify you.

“If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move … and it will move.”
Matthew 17:20

And then, in the book of Mark, Jesus compares the kingdom of God to a mustard seed. Even though it is the smallest of seeds, “it grows and becomes the largest of all garden plants, with such big branches that the birds can perch in its shade (Mark 4:32).

In fact, the gospels include several instances where Jesus reveals the power of this tiny seed.

After Jesus met me on my own crooked path toward faith, I thought my mustard seed would eventually grow into the size of a sunflower seed, and then the size of a tulip bulb. I believed this, because I’d met men and women with gigantic seeds of faith.

Wouldn’t that happen to me, too?

What I’m learning is that, quite often, I’m still carrying around a tiny mustard seed in my heart. Yet, I’m learning to be ok with it.

 I’m learning that it’s not the size of my faith that matters, it’s the size of my God. 

These days, I no longer doubt God’s existence. But my doubt shows up in other ways.

I doubt that God will come through when I need Him to.

I doubt that He hears me.

I doubt that His timing is good.

I doubt that He’ll be faithful.

Just this week, I found myself overwhelmed with a long list of demands — and my faith felt too mustard-seed-ish to push through. I reached out to our fearless (in)courage leader Becky Keife and told her I was struggling. I added, “But God hasn’t failed me yet.” Sometimes, a declaration of God’s faithfulness in the past, will propel you to make use of your mustard-seed faith today.

I’m guessing you have your own small-seed stories too. Friend, He won’t fail you.

When you get to thinking you’re too small or weak for the big things ahead of you, think again. Look to the mustard seed. The seed is dwarfed by a pencil eraser. It’s the kind of seed that would get stuck in your teeth. Think dots-on-the-dice small.

But if you stick this seed in the ground, cover it with dirt, and add water, it will push against the earth with great strength. The odds are stacked against that tiny seed, but it doesn’t matter. The seed defies all odds to muscle forth in bloom.

That’s the power of the mustard seed. Scratch that… That’s the power of God in the seed. 

And that’s the power of God in you. 

Your faith might feel small today. But God says it’s worth something. He says it can move mountains.

Stand back and watch what He does.

And listen… do you hear it?

That’s the sound of a moving mountain.

If today’s post resonates with you, we think you’d like Jennifer’s book Growing Slow. It will help you value the good, small things growing in your life — even that mustard-seed faith of yours.

 

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3 Ways to Break Free of Anxiety When You’re Burned Out and Stressed

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My hair was falling out.

Yes, me – the girl with thick black hair whose hairstylists always declared, “Wow! You have a LOT of hair!” —  quietly freaked out every time I washed my hair. It had gotten so bad that I started stretching out days between washings because I was so discouraged watching hair swirl down the drain on the shower floor.

It started during the pandemic. At first, I wasn’t too worried. “Oh, well, it’ll grow back.”

“Things will be better by the summer,” I told myself. I held my breath, figuring by fall, my boys would return to school and life would return to normal. My anxiety climbed as I tried to juggle looming work deadlines with the gazillion hats I wore — from cheerleading mom to crisis counselor, referee, first-time homeschooling teacher, and short-order cook.

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

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

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

Friend, are you also feeling weary, in the middle of a hard season you thought was temporary, only to discover you’re stretched so thin – you’re burned out, losing your joy and hope?

We often don’t know we’re stressed until our body sends us signals. Our hair starts falling out. Fibromyalgia worsens. We might get migraines, eye twitching, or insomnia. These are common symptoms of burnout that women I work with as a soul care coach share. Scientific studies back this up – women suffer from burnout more than men!

We’re so busy taking care of everyone else, we forget about our well-being. And that’s not good because God cares about you. How you feel matters to God. You are His beloved daughter.

How can we keep pouring out if we don’t make space for God to replenish our emotional reserves?

It breaks God’s heart seeing His little girl – YOU – running ragged. There’s a story of a little girl in the Bible who everyone thought was dead as she lay on her bed without breath. Everyone had lost hope that life could be different — and I can relate to that.

But when Jesus came to where the young girl was, He took her hand . . . and His gentle, loving touch brought her back to life! Guess what was the first thing Jesus said? Give her something to eat (Mark 5:43).

Notice: Jesus didn’t tell the girl to serve the crowd gathered outside. Jesus didn’t tell her to go do her chores. Instead, Jesus lovingly focused on her well-being.

It’s important to God that we nourish our bodies with rest and take time to feel His loving touch — which can revive us with hope.

How do you respond to stress? Do you feel uncomfortable taking time out to do something that brings you peace or joy? Or do you try to fill up by doing something productive for “the crowd” or doing chores instead of nurturing your well-being?

To encourage you, I’d like to share three changes that helped me rest when I was burned out. God wanted me to believe I was worthy of care and take action in the midst of my hard, messy now.

First, I needed to eat better. Because I was trying to squeeze in a bottomless checklist of to-do’s, I was skipping lunch, and eating odds-and-ends. Eat lunch, Bonnie! You need protein.

Second, I needed to face my fear and let go of expectations. I had to let go of responsibilities that were no longer healthy for me. Despite worst-case scenarios playing in my head, I asked God for courage and asked friends to support me in creating boundaries.

Third, I began praying Breath Prayers to nurture hope whenever I felt overwhelmed. It’s a simple way to pray using Scripture to release tension in your body and re-oxygenate your soul with God’s peace as you breathe in God’s love and breathe out your worries.

Hand your problems over to Jesus as you pray this breath prayer from 1 Peter 5:7: “Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.”

Inhale: I cast all my anxiety on You.
Exhale: Because You care for me.

With each breath you take, name each worry and give it to God in prayer.

To hope again is to believe God will help us. Hope gives us permission to do things differently and to believe God will be faithful. His love fuels your hope, and hope is the oxygen your soul breathes. 

Since I’ve made changes to my schedule, nutrition, and my expectations, my hair stopped falling out as much. Over time, my hair health began to be replenished.

God can renew your hope. Jesus tenderly folds your hand in His, loving you unconditionally.

Thank You, Jesus, for being my anchor and my hope. Help me rest in You. Amen.

“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.”
Hebrews 6:19

How can you take better care of yourself?  Which of the three changes from today’s devotional do you need to take to heart?

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Do you ever feel so worried, you can’t turn off those worrisome thoughts? In her new practical guidebook to lower stress, Breathe: 21 Days to Stress Less & Restore Chaos to Calm, Soul Care expert and author Bonnie Gray shares 21 stressors and 21 solutions to help you find your spark of joy!

This guidebook will refresh weary hearts to flourish in four areas of wellness – emotional, physical, spiritual, and social. With breath prayers based on Scripture and science, Breathe will help you break free from worry, stress, and anxiety. Order by April 13th and receive a free 4-video wellness Bible Study from Bonnie when you sign up here!

Order your copy of Breathe today . . . and leave a comment below for a chance to WIN one of 5 copies*!

Then join Becky Keife for a conversation with Bonnie this weekend on the (in)courage podcast. Don’t miss it!

 

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*Giveaway open to US addresses only and closes at 11:59 pm central on 4/16/23. Winners will be drawn at random and notified via email. Please allow 4-6 weeks for delivery.

Are You a Rescuer? Try This in Your Relationships Today…

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Someone I love video calls me and as soon as I answer, I can hear the tears in her voice. She’s having a tough time. My first instinct is to try to rescue her. I care about her, after all. Doesn’t that mean I should make the pain stop? Try to fix the problem? Put on my superhero cape and save the day?

For years I thought that was true. But I’m coming to understand there is a better way. So instead, I pause and take a deep breath. Then I ask God to help me see her. Yes, I mean truly see her — pause to give her my full attention, listen closely, stop everything I’m doing, and honor her with my complete focus. But I also mean SEE her, an acronym I’ve started using in situations like this one.

Support – This is different than rescuing, which says, “I’ll do this for you.” Support instead says, “You can do this, and I’m here to help.” One means taking responsibility for someone; the other means coming alongside others as they take responsibility for themselves.

Empathy – Sympathy says, “I feel sorry for you” while empathy says, “I truly want to understand what you’re feeling.” One implies that you’re somehow better than the other person, while the other expresses that we are all on this human journey together.

Encouragement – Spiritual cliches imply, “I want you to feel better because your pain makes me uncomfortable,” while encouragement expresses, “I want to remind you of what’s true — who you really are, how much you’re loved, that you’re not alone — so discouragement doesn’t make you give up.”

Rescuing can feel good in the moment but it eventually undermines relationships and leads to resentment. Why? Because we are created for “one another” relationships. Rescuing creates an unequal situation between people.

The opposite of rescuing is empowering people. My definition of empowerment is living in the fullness of who God created you to be and faithfully following what He has called you to do. For this to happen, each of us must take ownership of our own journey.

We will all have to face challenges, pain, and disappointments along the way. Jesus said, “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). If I had said this it would sound more like, “I have told you these things, so that you may see how much you need me. Then you’ll love me and never leave me.”

So much of my rescuing has come not from love but from fear. If I help this person feel better, then they’ll want me. If I can solve this problem, I’ll prove my value. If I can save the day, then I’ll be invited back into this person’s life tomorrow. Can anyone else relate?

Shifting this pattern starts with realizing that we are already loved. There is no fear in love, says John later on in the New Testament. When we stop being afraid, we can also stop rescuing and start empowering. Because we’re no longer driven to prove how much we’re needed.

At the end of the call, the person I love lets out a deep breath and says, “Thank you, I feel better.” I can see the light coming back to her eyes, the tension in her shoulders releasing, her beautiful spark returning. She didn’t need me to rescue her. She just wanted me to walk beside her.

Isn’t that what Jesus does for us too? He doesn’t rescue us from all of our problems, but He does offer us His presence. He doesn’t fix every failure, but He does support us through them. He doesn’t do the hard work of being human for us, but He does let us know He understands what it’s like.

Jesus invites us to care for each other like He does. I’m still learning what that means, and all the ways His version of love is so much braver and better than just my rescuing.

Understanding who God created us to be equips us to serve and support others. If you’re an introvert, learn more about your quiet strengths in Holley’s upcoming release, Introvert by Design: A Guided Journal for Living with Confidence in Who You’re Created to Be. If you’re an extrovert, share it with an introvert you love!

 

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Our Hope for Easter Sunday

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Mary was standing outside the tomb crying, and as she wept, she stooped and looked in. She saw two white-robed angels, one sitting at the head and the other at the foot of the place where the body of Jesus had been lying. “Dear woman, why are you crying?” the angels asked her. “Because they have taken my Lord,” she replied, “and I don’t know where they have put him.” 

She turned to leave and saw someone standing there. It was Jesus, but she didn’t recognize him. “Dear woman, why are you crying?” Jesus asked her. “Who are you looking for?” She thought he was the gardener. “Sir,” she said, “if you have taken him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will go and get him.”

“Mary!” Jesus said. She turned to him and cried out, “Rabboni!” (which is Hebrew for “Teacher”).

“Don’t cling to me, “ Jesus said, “for I haven’t yet ascended to the Father. But go find my brothers and tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Mary Magdalene found the disciples and told them, “I have seen the Lord!” Then she gave them his message.
John 20:11-18 NLT

We celebrate this Jesus — the One who conquered death and rose again, the One who sees us and calls us by name, the One who meets us in our grief and hopelessness.

He has risen!
He is life.
He is with us.

Our message to others today is the same as Mary’s was then: we have seen the Lord! May this bring comfort to our hearts, and may the power of the resurrection be evident in our lives, even now. We link arms with you, sisters, as we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus. Because He lives, we have hope.

Happy Easter!

It Is Finished

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Jesus said, “It is finished.”
John 19:30 

A few years ago, my church read through the Bible chronologically. As we traveled through the desert with the Israelites and watched them make the same mistakes, over and over and over, I wondered if maybe we’re all programmed to repeat history. I wondered if getting stuck in a cycle is inevitable, if it’s possible to avoid the experience of looking at a hard situation and realizing that you’ve been there before, that it’s not as new or surprising as you initially thought. 

Strangely enough, those Old Testament stories and my wondering made me think of Winnie the Pooh. While Pooh wasn’t looking for a new home outside the Hundred Acre Wood, that silly bear and his friends got lost in the woods so many times! In book after book, movie after movie, we saw them wandering around in circles, following their own footprints, jumping at every mysterious sound they hear, and passing the same landmarks again and again. Winnie the Pooh and his friends were just as lost and confused as the Israelites. And they were just as mixed up and frightened as I am in the same scenario. 

Now, I certainly don’t mean that I’ve spent decades lost in the same forest. Not literally, at least. I’ve never been haunted by howls or Heffalumps; I’ve never been chased by mysterious animals or gotten so hungry for honey that I begin hallucinating. But have I ever crawled to the end of one race only to be tossed into the middle of another one? Have I ever faced trial after trial after trial until it feels like I’m crawling through mud, like I’m dragging myself through the miry clay? Have I wandered away from the path God made for me, following my own desires and dreams instead of His? Oh yeah. 

Sometimes I’m lost because I’m an Israelite at heart, returning to the same fear and pride and anger that got me in trouble in the first place. When that happens I’m almost always slow to recognize the pattern of my own sin, the responsibility I own for my stress. And even once I do, figuring out how to break the cycle can seem just as difficult and exhausting as sitting and suffering in sin. 

Sometimes I find myself [metaphorically] in the woods because this life is hard, because circumstances are out of my control and, seemingly, out to get me. And sometimes saying, “when it rains, it pours,” doesn’t even come close to describing the mind-numbing weariness that comes with one hard situation after another, with a season determined to illustrate Jesus’ claim that we will certainly face tribulation in this life. 

And sometimes we face a situation that is unlike our previous experience but shares enough characteristics with something that’s hurt us or something we’ve struggled with in the past that it brings it all up again. And we find ourselves thinking: Aren’t we out of the woods yet? How can we be lost again? Aren’t we over this thing? 

But not only did Jesus predict that we would face trouble in this world, He declared that He has overcome this world. And when He was breathing His last breaths on the cross, He answered our desperate cries once and for all. “It is finished,” He cried. It is finished. Though we may feel dizzy with the tribulations of this world, Jesus has promised—both in word and in beautiful, blood-spilling deed—that while we may have started the cycle of sin and entered the proverbial woods of this world, He has finished it. He has borne the weight of every one of our sins, every ounce of mud, every dark corner of the woods, every toss of the cruel wind. He took it all, and He rose victorious.

He faced our fears and our doubts and our sin, and He won. It might not feel like it yet, but we know the war is over. 

It is finished.  

Remember, when you face something that feels achingly familiar, it will not torment you forever. We know how our every story ends and who wins the war; God wrote the ending when His Son gave His life for ours. All our reflection and repentance, our sacrifice and serving, our humbling and hoping—it’s all led us here, to the cross. Lent has prepared us to arrive at the very moment when Jesus took our place in the desperate, doomed battle against the woods and won, where He declared, “It is finished.” 

It is finished. Our time in the wilderness and the woods is over. Our Lord has died, for us, but He’s risen again. And it is finished. 

Oh Lord, I am overwhelmed. The thought of You taking the punishment for my sin, the thought of You fighting my every battle—I’m overcome with gratitude, Lord! I am not worthy, but I am thankful. And I’m relieved. I’m relieved to know I won’t be bombarded with the tribulations of this world forever. I’m relieved to know I don’t have to fight this war, that You’ve already won, and that even if it doesn’t feel like it yet, I know You finished this battle once and for all. Thank You, Jesus! Thank You. I love You. Amen. 

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

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

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Where Is the “Good” in Good Friday?

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I was well into my thirties the first time I cried over the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.

Throughout my life, I had listened to hundreds of sermons about Christ’s death. I had read about it extensively, had even understood that His sacrifice happened not only for the world in general, but for me personally.

Yet it wasn’t until noon on a Good Friday that I wept over it.

The breakdown happened at a very small service in the dimly lit sanctuary of our country church. Fewer than a dozen people were in the room. We sat in chairs circling a large wooden cross, which was laying on the floor. Nails and hammers were strewn about.

The pastor gave a short message, read from the Gospels, and then asked each of us to pick up a nail and pound it into the wooden cross. I moved down from the chair, obediently dropped to my knees, picked up a nail between my fingers, and touched the end, feeling its sharpness. I picked up a hammer, set my nail in place, and pounded it into the wood.

I think we were supposed to do just one nail per person, but I couldn’t stop. I picked up another and another and another after that. I couldn’t stop pounding in nails, and I couldn’t stop counting the cost of it all. Thoughts came flipbook style in my brain, reminding me of my past, my present, and my probable future of sin. I saw the sin of my youth, poor choices, misplaced desires, selfish intentions. I saw my apathy, my disinterest in the pain of others, my side-switching heart that had betrayed Christ time and again.

In a moment, I was the thief on the cross, crying out to Jesus with a shaking voice, “Remember me when You come into Your Kingdom.” He looked upon me with love, and I burst into tears.

The service wasn’t over, but I dropped the hammer to the floor and walked out of the circle, out of the sanctuary, out of the church, wild with grief, as every set of eyes followed me out the door, maybe wondering, “What in the world just happened to Jennifer?”

Or maybe they knew I had just experienced a new depth of Christ’s love for me.

I walked across the highway that separates our white-steepled church from the cemetery. I leaned on the graveyard fence, staring out at rows of headstones. So much sorrow, so much death. Yet, the sun shone so brightly overhead that I had to squint. Robins chirped in the trees, annoying me with their cheerful songs. I wanted to shout to them, “Stop, just stop! Don’t you realize that Jesus suffered an unthinkable death?”

I didn’t say that. But I did ask myself this: Where is the “good” in Good Friday, God? Why so much pain? Why couldn’t there be another way?”

The tears and the questions birthed something in me. In that moment, my soul was being awakened to my great need for Jesus, not just once, but every single day.

I don’t like to gaze upon a cross and see a man hanging in pain while paying the debt I couldn’t pay. But I must.

All these years later, I wonder if we all need to weep at cemetery fences during Holy Week. I wonder if we all need to pound nails into wooden crosses and come to terms with the necessity of Christ’s death. I used to wear a t-shirt with the words, “I am the wretch the song refers to,” and maybe I need that reminder a little more often than I think I do.

These days, we all hear a lot of inspiring messages about finding our purpose, recapturing our peace, reclaiming our joy, or making time for rest and self-care. On and on it goes. And I believe all of those messages are vital.

But what about our sin? Why don’t we talk about sin, our very own sin, more than we do?

When we don’t see the gravity of our sin, we don’t really see our need for Jesus. Until my own Good Friday moment, I had missed my own wretchedness. And candidly, I still do. I get caught up in living my comfortable life, giving God a daily list of demands and hoping He’ll come through for me.

I wonder, today, if we need a little bit more Good Friday in all our days. Not that we ought to crucify ourselves — or each other — over and over again. Jesus died once and for all, and yes, He overcame the grave, crushing the enemy forevermore.

But when we gaze upon the cross, it sweetens the victory found in an empty tomb. It insulates us from watering down the Good News into some sort of prosperity gospel that tells believers that a life in Christ leads to comfort and success. God didn’t promise easy lives. He calls us to the pain of sacrifice that demands something of us. He calls us to take up crosses and follow Him.

On Sunday, we will celebrate Easter. But before we do, let’s look upon the Friday hill from which a red-stained sacrifice flows fresh.

Let’s see it for what it is — a full payment for a debt we owed but simply couldn’t pay. He loves us that much.

And that’s what puts the “good” in Good Friday.

This article was written by Jennifer Dukes Lee and first appeared on (in)courage in 2021.

 

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The End of an Era

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Our family will celebrate two milestones in May: our youngest child will graduate from high school and, after 30 consecutive years, I’ll retire from my job as a homeschool mom. This also means we’re in our final sports season with a child at home. We’ve cheered for our children at hundreds of baseball and softball games, as well as countless track and cross-country meets. So much is coming to a close.

To call it the end of an era feels like an understatement.

I’ll be glad to sleep in on Saturday mornings instead of driving to track meets. I’ll be happy to have the option of spending my day in heated or air-conditioned comfort, depending on the weather, instead of standing outside in 40-something degrees wearing three layers of clothes, or on the flip side of seasons, searching for a spot of shade under the team canopy in the sweltering heat. But I’d be lying if I said I won’t be sad about it too. It’s bittersweet, for sure.

I’ve known for years that this final graduation might wreck me emotionally (I shared my feelings about graduating our four youngest within a six-year period here), but admittedly, I’ve focused on how I feel about my daughter’s graduation much more than how I feel about mine. At long last, I’m beginning to glimpse the gift in it. There’s a feeling of lightness when you lay down something you’ve shouldered for a time. Thirty years of homeschooling eight children carries a weight of responsibility I’ve been blessed to bear, but I’m ready to release it.

Several friends graduate a child this year, some their first and some their last; for families with one child, it’s all of the above. Graduations bring transition. They disrupt our routines and change our roles. And for many of us, change can be difficult to embrace.

It occurs to me that this cycle — the graduating, the leaving, the change in family dynamics — has taken place around me all my life. After graduation, my daughter wants to move out of state for a while, closer to one of her sisters, and I have to remember that I was once the one who left home, went to college, got married, and moved away. I only saw it from my point of view then, not my parents.

Children live at home for just a fraction of their lives and for only a fraction of ours too. Our journey together begins with small yet monumental things like changing diapers and learning to walk and talk, and progresses on to teaching right from wrong, how to behave when you win and when you lose, and supporting them when they’re betrayed by a friend. Eventually, we’re planning graduation parties, packing boxes when they move out, and holding their children, our precious grandchildren.

It’s easy to assume our children will need us less as they age — and in some ways that’s true — but as the mother of adults, I’ve seen that as they mature, so do our relationships. I want mine to know Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life and that I’m always there for them. Proverbs 22:6 tells us to “Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.”

Mothers are North Stars, guiding our children back towards the comfort of family and home; our legacies have lasting value.

Fellow moms of seniors, don’t feel dismissed if your graduate thinks they know everything and you know little. Independence is a necessary stage of growth. One day they’ll know the truth we all learn: there are seasons that nothing but the grace of God and the unconditional love of family will carry us through.

I want to step into this new stage with grace and a full heart, thankful for my children, and blessed to be their mom. If you’ve graduated your youngest, I’d love to hear from you. If you’re graduating a senior this year, how do you feel?

 

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How My Grandma’s Forgiveness Footsteps Saved My Life

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My grandmother was born at a time when African Americans, both young and old, referred to any mature Black woman as “Ms.”, which meant that everyone on the Black side of my small town called my grandmother Ms. Magnolia. But I called her Grandma. She was warm, round, and always smelled like Red Door perfume. I still dream about her German Chocolate cake, even though she passed away fourteen years ago. I spent almost every summer day with Grandma while my parents worked. There was a lot about my grandmother’s life that didn’t make sense until I got older.

As an adult, I realized that the choices my grandmother made when I was a child would become the footprints of forgiveness God would use to save my life as an adult decades later.

Before I was born, my grandparents divorced because of my grandfather’s infidelity. I only saw Granddaddy on the holidays, even though he lived in our little small town. Grandma’s hurt and anger blended into bitterness, resulting in dangerous bleeding ulcers and frequent hospitalizations. The seriousness of Grandma’s medical problems sparked a wake-up call in her life that she needed to lean back into her Christian faith. As Grandma began her forgiveness journey, her body began to heal and her joyful attitude returned.

When I was around ten years old, I ran into my grandma’s little apartment and discovered that my grandfather was there. He’d had hip replacement surgery and no one else was available to help him. As a kid, I didn’t understand everything that was going on, but I was able to see that my grandma took care of my grandfather when he couldn’t take care of himself.

After my grandfather recovered, he began stopping by our house almost every day. He’d bring my mom fresh catches from fishing or hang out with my dad. He’d pick me up from sports or drive my sister and her cello to school. Grandma’s forgiveness helped her recover physically and emotionally, but it also opened the door for Granddaddy to become part of our lives. Her forgiveness changed our grandfather, who found ways to regularly slip money to my mom and aunts to help take care of things my grandmother needed.

Little did I know that my grandmother’s journey would one day become a path to healing and peace for me.

A week after my grandfather’s funeral in 2003, my grandmother told me that the best life decision she had ever made was to forgive my grandfather. While she never minimized the pain that his choices inflicted on her and their children, Grandma had experienced the blessing that came with letting go of her pain and bitterness. While there were bumps and setbacks over the years when certain triggers got pushed, Grandma’s footsteps of forgiveness didn’t fade away and her example was imprinted in my mind.

Seven years after my grandmother passed away in January 2009, I was the wounded wife. For a time, anger, bitterness, and self-righteousness started tasting pretty good. Yet, God used my grandmother’s forgiveness footprints to gently press conviction across the raw shreds of my broken and bitter-leaning heart.

On a cold day that January in my prayer closet, I had to make a choice: Would I get better or give in to being bitter? God illuminated the memories of my grandmother’s forgiveness footsteps and wooed me toward better. Following in those footsteps took time. But every step I took away from bitter toward better loosened the chokehold that anger and hopelessness had on my heart. Each time I made the choice to forgive, I experienced a little more freedom and peace, which is what my heart longed for all along.

Much has been written about Jesus’ teaching to Peter in Matthew 18:22 about the 70×7 forgiveness principle:

“No, not seven times,” Jesus replied, “but seventy times seven!
Matthew 18:22

When we’re hurt, our desire is to cut people off in the hope that the pain cuts off as well. Part of our struggle with forgiveness is that the pain doesn’t go away immediately, so our attempts at forgiveness can feel like a failure. Yet, as I reflect on the context of Jesus’ teaching and my grandmother’s example, I see forgiveness as a journey more than just the number of times we forgive someone. Even as Jesus’ 70×7 teaching prompts us toward obedience, could it also be a reminder that forgiveness may need to be repeated over long periods of time?

Life hurts, but God doesn’t want unforgiveness to hold us hostage in negativity and bitterness. So, if we stop seeing forgiveness as an instant action and instead, we live it as a symbol of a process or a journey, we put ourselves in a position to experience God’s freedom and healing peace much sooner. One day at a time, friends. What matters is that we keep moving in the footsteps of forgiveness and do not give up.

 

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It’s Okay to Be Weird

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When I was a little girl, my favorite thing to hear was that I was weird. Whether the words came affectionately from the lips of my mom, or as a critical observation from the kid across the street, I didn’t care.

“You’re so weird” made me beam — because I was weird.

I was a girl who happily (and confidently) marched to the beat of my own very unrhythmic drum.

When I was seven years old, the year was 1989, and neon green biker shorts with a black polka dot skirt and fluorescent pink tank top was my favorite outfit. But I took the typical bright 80’s color scheme to my own Becky level. I was sure to complement my outfit with my beloved dinosaur canvas sneakers . . . that I got in the boys’ section. The shoes came with boring white laces that didn’t meet my high fashion standards, so I swapped them out for primary red.

Add to this charming ensemble the fact that I convinced my older sister to braid my hair in three sections and then crimp my bangs. Yep, weird was probably the word that came to everyone’s mind.

At the tender age of seven, I had yet to grow a self-conscious bone. I was just me. Tree-climbing, alphabet-burping, puzzle-solving, book-loving, roller-blading Becky. And I was hungry for affirmation of what I knew was true — that I was perfectly, wonderfully, and weirdly made.

Gosh, I was a great kid.

At forty-one, I’m still great, but somewhere between then and now, my hunger for compliments shifted. Somewhere along the way, I stopped wanting to be seen for exactly me, and I started striving to please others. Instead of weird, I wanted to be beautiful. Instead of being unique, I wanted to be accepted, influential, admirable, successful. I started caring about others liking me more than I cared about liking myself.

And even deeper than that, I started forgetting who God says I am. Instead, I tried to cram myself into a mold that wasn’t made for me.

Have you done this, too?

It’s natural for our childhood selves to mature into adolescents with greater self-awareness and then into adults with age-appropriate inhibitions. But that doesn’t mean shoving down, casting out, or numbing over the parts of ourselves that make us stand out for the sake of blending in or receiving someone else’s approval.

If you’re a dreamer, don’t cram yourself into the box of an analytical thinker.
If you’re loud, don’t let the world stifle your voice.
If you’re vibrant, don’t dull your edges.

If you’re intellectual or artsy, stoic or outdoorsy, don’t let an outside voice tell you that another personality or strength is more attractive, valuable, or palatable.

The amazing thing about God is that He doesn’t mess up. Your shyness is on purpose. Your love for a good debate is intentional. Your fast talking or slow processing is not a mistake.

Do we each have areas where we need to grow? Absolutely! We are all on a journey of being refined to become more like Christ. But, friend, hear this: acknowledging your growth edge doesn’t negate the essential beauty of who you already are.

One of my favorite quotes is credited to Saint Irenaeus, a 2nd-century Greek bishop, who said, “The glory of God is man fully alive.” God receives glory when we live out of the fullness of who He made us to be.

Have you ever known someone who just sparkles? Who shines from the inside out, not because of what they did but because of Who is in them? The Creator gets the glory when His creation stays true to His intentional design.

“For it was you who created my inward parts;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I will praise you because I have been remarkably and wondrously made.
Your works are wondrous, and I know this very well.”
Psalm 139:13-14

Do you know that you are God’s remarkable creation? If the belief has slipped into the cracks of time, let me be the one to remind you. Sister, the way God made you is wondrous! You are distinct. Set apart. A one-of-a-kind masterpiece!

What would happen if you lived like it?

These days I’m re-learning how to let the bright and bold confidence of my youth reemerge. I wear vibrant turquoise tennis shoes that clash with most outfits. I make up silly songs and sing them off-key in the kitchen with my kids. I stay quiet when people expect me to speak. I keep writing about Jesus even if it’s not the popular thing.

I think it’s okay that I no longer want to be known as weird. Instead, I just want to be known as loved. And from that place of being loved, I can embrace and love others — weirdness and all.

You, sister, are so loved.

When we walk with the assurance that we are God’s beloved daughters — holy and chosen and wonderfully made — we can confidently march to whatever beat He gives us.

 

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I’ve Never Been So Lonely

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I had four hours to fill in San Diego between my son’s volleyball games. I did the calculations and it would only take me about twenty minutes to get to my old college campus, Point Loma Nazarene University. I hadn’t been there in ten years, maybe more. It was time to visit my old home. This once familiar road I drove night and day, now felt more like a distant memory.

I loved college. I loved the people, the experiences, the discovery. I also struggled in college. I didn’t have words for it then, but I do now. I was lonely. I had never been so lonely in my life. I was looking for a place to belong.

As I turned the corner onto campus, I turned off my music. I rolled down the windows and there it was — the faint smell of home. The salty ocean breeze whisked its way through my senses and I couldn’t help but smile. Everywhere I looked, I saw my younger self. I remembered the times I stood in line for a concert, counted down a sunset, and snuck around the library in a game of capture the flag. I saw myself everywhere. To my surprise, the nostalgia I experienced brought me more joy than sorrow. I think I know why. Even though a lot of my days at Point Loma were lonely, without them, I would never be where I am today.

The loneliness shaped me. It led me to dip into the dark places in my soul that I had been trying so desperately to escape.

I filled my life with stuff as a way to avoid the thing I was most afraid of, my loneliness. I used entertainment, relationships, busyness, popularity, socializing, spirituality, and school to avoid seeing my own heart back then. Walking the main campus road, sitting in the chapel, and looking up at the same San Diego sky again made me remember how alone I felt — but now I know, I wasn’t alone at all. God was with me, but I just wasn’t with Him. I was looking for anything or anyone to fill the gap inside of me.

For most of life, we are trying to fill this gap. We are pressing forward. Finish school, get the job, get the guy, get the house, get the baby, get the security, get the peace, get the stuff. It is as though gravity doesn’t hold us down, but pushes us forward like an unstoppable force. We are always in the middle of getting something or going somewhere. We are between children, between relationships, between holidays, between life stages, between jobs. In the middle of things, we have a hard time slowing down. We think to get to the next thing we must hurry up.

One of the greatest disciplines we can do in our spiritual lives is reflect. Reflection slows us down, helps us see, and allows us to remember God.

Reflection might just be one of the most undervalued disciplines in the Christian life. We fail to make the connection that our past is the pathway for us to the future. By remembering God’s faithfulness, contemplating God’s goodness, and recalling the miracles God has done in our lives, we then have the ability to trust God with today and tomorrow.

The invitation for you, if you are in the middle of something, is to reflect. Look in the rearview mirror, walk a childhood street, sit under that tree you used to climb. Reflect. Remember. Recall. The way forward isn’t to get, get, get. The way forward is to venture down the back roads of your past and discover the fingerprints of God in your life. Be reminded of how God’s grace greeted you and gave you the courage to keep going.

I snapped pictures and sent them to some old college friends. I lay for a long moment in a patch of grass that once held a significant conversation. I laughed, imagining how my friends would gather around in the cafe. When I drove off campus, I kept my windows down and played an album that I always listened to on repeat in college. I remembered all the lyrics by heart. I drove twenty minutes back to my son’s game.

My family was my home now. Parking outside the volleyball gym felt like I was reentering reality. I’m not as lonely as I was in college, but I still do lack courage sometimes. I still do run away from my pain. I still am tempted to fill my sadness with stuff. When I do want to outrun my own soul, I remember that every road forward doesn’t lead to the next thing, but every road leads me back to the love of God. Before I pop out of my car, I tilt my head back and reflect on how home isn’t a place, but the person of Christ. 


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A Prayer for Palm Sunday

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Most of the crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. And the crowds that went before him and that followed him were shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!” And when he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred up, saying, “Who is this?” And the crowds said, “This is the prophet, Jesus, from Nazareth of Galilee.”
Matthew 21:8-11

Dear Jesus,

Today, we wave palm branches in Your honor. We sing “Hosanna in the highest!” We shout Your name to the heavens. I want to stay here, Jesus — on the streets with the palm branches, where everyone is cheering for You, hands to the sky. It’s the ultimate party for the ultimate King.

But this parade doesn’t end on the streets. It’s headed straight for the cross. Soon, the “Hosannas” will be a faint echo. People will cry out “Crucify him!”

You knew that, didn’t You? Even as the palm branches brushed against Your arms, You knew where this road was leading. You knew who’d betray You. You knew who’d deny You. You knew how Your biggest fans would run and hide.

Today, we watch You ride into town on a borrowed donkey with Your head held high. It’s the only time in all of Scripture where You allowed Yourself to be exalted. But even then, it was never about the crowd’s approval of You. You had Your face set like flint on the cross.

The cross.

No one knew but You. You had determined from the beginning that You would love us to Your death, so that we could truly be given life.

The magnitude of Your sacrifice is incomprehensible. The depth of Your love is incomparable. And the breadth of Your goodness makes You absolutely irresistible.

When You came into Jerusalem, the whole city asked, “Who is this?”

Today, I answer with all my heart:

You are my Savior, that’s who.

You are my Lord, that’s who.

You are my Friend and my Redeemer and the reason my life has meaning.

You are my purpose and my passion and my pathway to peace.

You are the one true King.

Today, I spread my cloak and palm branches on a different kind of road — the road that leads straight to my heart. I invite You to enter in, to make a home in my heart, and to change me from the inside out. I want to love You at all costs — not to be counted among those who denied You, betrayed You, or hid when the stakes were high.

May You always see my branch waving high for You. May You always hear my voice exalting You above everything else in my life: “Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!”

In Your precious name,
Amen.

This Palm Sunday prayer by Jennifer Dukes Lee first appeared on (in)courage in April 2019.

 

A note from (in)courage:

Sisters, as you make time to praise Jesus today for who He is and the gift of His life, death, and resurrection, we also want to invite you to share your prayer requests. In two weeks, the (in)courage writers will be gathering together and we want to pray for you — our dear readers and sisters in Christ. No concern is too big or too small. It will be our honor to link arms and partner with you in this way.

 

Fresh Starts

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Because of the Lord’s faithful love
we do not perish, for his mercies never end.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness!
Lamentations 3:22-23

As we ate our takeout and queued up our shows on the DVR, my husband and I caught up on the business of the week. We talked again about our daughter’s behavior, and I confessed something I’d realized about the situation. “I can’t start fresh,” I whispered. “My frustrations just keep building and building, and there’s no break, no relief, no blank slate.”

The conversations about our daughter’s disobedience and disrespect began bringing other issues to the table — namely, our tempers. We realized that our short fuses were contributing to the problem, but we didn’t know how to fix it. And I knew that this fresh start thing was part of it.

Without a fresh start, there’s no forgiveness. And without forgiveness, I couldn’t find my way out of the garbage heap of anger. I couldn’t see the light of grace.

Of course, everyone says that admitting your problem is the first step — and it is. But even though this realization — and the courage to describe it out loud to my husband — felt huge, it wasn’t enough. I needed to make a change for our family. I needed to do something different.

I wish I could say that difference happened naturally, on its own, that somehow I magically learned how to forgive and forget and shower my child and myself with grace. But that wouldn’t be true.

What happened instead was that I kept feeling angry and frustrated; I kept losing my temper with my disobedient, disrespectful little girl. And I kept remembering that I am part of the problem. I would put her to bed, so mad at the latest argument and so glad to be finished with the day, and then I would cry because I didn’t know how to stop feeling that way.

But then as I lamented our struggle to her first-grade teacher, something did change. My daughter’s teacher suggested we use the same color-coded behavior chart at home that they use in the classroom. I knew several months into this school year how important the color chart was to my daughter.

Every afternoon, her response to my question, “How was your day?” was what color she was on: A green day was good, average, normal, nothing to see here. A yellow (or even red) day meant she was crying before she even got in the car. A blue or pink day, though, was cause for celebration — high-fives and hugs all around!

We’d made a half-hearted attempt to use a color chart at home before, and it didn’t help at all. But at this point, I was not just angry and frustrated; I was disappointed in myself and a little desperate for help.

And it worked. It worked! But not for the reasons I expected.

See, at school, the colors came with consequences, and the good colors came with prizes. Plus, students had the added incentive of their classmates knowing where they stood each day. But none of that was in play at home. I wasn’t about to give out prizes for simple obedience, and her baby sister didn’t care what color my daughter was on.

What made the difference was that at the end of the day, no matter how ugly or difficult or red it was, I moved my daughter’s pin back to green. Every day started at green. Every day started fresh, blank, and clean. It had the potential to be better or worse, but it started on green.

Something about physically moving that clothespin back to the green spot on our laminated color chart reset my heart, too. Even after the worst days, that simple gesture lifted a burden from my heart. Moving my daughter’s pin back to green let me breathe again. It helped me love her better, again. And it reminded me that because of God’s great mercy, I get to start on green each day, too.

Though I struggle to be a good mom some days (or some years), God is the perfect heavenly Father. So it should have been no surprise that His methods work for me, too. God promises to wipe our slate clean, to remove our sin as far as the east is from the west. In the sacrifice of Jesus Christ, He offers us an abundance of mercy — and then He promises to refill that overflowing cup every single day.

Part of the Lenten season is humbling ourselves. It is lowering our defenses and our pride, allowing God to strip away our sins and our distractions. It’s the grueling work of meaning it when we say, “more of you, less of me,” to our holy and mighty God. But though we begin this season there, God doesn’t leave us in our guilt and shame. He doesn’t force us out of the garden, naked and trembling. No, instead, He reaches for us and covers us in His grace. He erases every sin we confess and loves us through the entire process.

Just like my daughter gets to start on green, so do we. Even when we’re our most disobedient, we are forgiven. And we get to start over again. When we’re washed clean by the blood of Jesus, we get a fresh start. What a precious gift!

Heavenly Father, thank You for loving me so much better than I can ever love my own children. Thank You for adopting me into Your family and loving me even when I’m as disobedient as a child! And thank You for forgiving my every sin, wiping the slate clean, and giving me a fresh start each day. Because, Lord, I mess up every day. I need Your grace every day. And I’m so grateful for it! Thank You, God. I love you. Amen.

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

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

Get your FREE sampler from Journey to the Cross!

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Listen in today for a bonus episode of the (in)courage podcast as Becky Keife speaks with author Michele Cushatt! They discuss Michele’s new book, A Faith that Will Not Fail. Listen to the player below or wherever you stream pods!

For the Days When the Mess Is All You Can See

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I’m a mess.

My house is a mess. My hair is a mess. My stomach is a mess because my diet is a mess. My planner is not a mess because I haven’t written anything in it for weeks.

And don’t assume when I say “mess” that I mean a couple of stray cups or socks or unpaid bills. No, I mean not having room to put down a bag of groceries because another day has passed without me loading the dishwasher. So the counters are full. Of dirty dishes. I mean I’m not totally sure my kids are wearing clean underwear, and I definitely don’t think they’re brushing their teeth on the regular. I mean hours spent staring into space or at a screen as videos roll on by, taking my motivation and window for productivity with them.

I’m a mess.

I’m writing this at my dining room table (that has a giant crack in it, by the way, but we haven’t had time to get it fixed) ignoring the candy bar wrapper sitting next to my laptop as if that wasn’t my breakfast on this, the millionth day I was going to start eating healthy. The unopened mail is on the other side of the bag of clothes that needs to be returned to the store before the store sends me a bill for the five dresses that didn’t fit. And the notes I scribbled in the middle of the night when an idea for this very article hit me? Well, I tossed them across the room when I realized they were nonsense, not brilliance, and all I had to tell you today is that I’m a mess.

But I think it might be okay if all I have to say this time is that I’m a mess. Because sometimes, we are messy. I’m a mess and I’m pretty sure sometimes you are too.

I’m a mess this time (Lord knows and you know, this is far from the first time) because after three months of crisis in my house — crisis that’s not fully resolved yet — I got a new job that has completely changed my family’s schedule and routines. It’s not even a full-time job, but as I recently told a friend, “I know it’s ‘just’ half-time, but I am full-time exhausted!”

My current mess is a mix of good things and bad things, hard things and things that are awesome but also, you guessed it, hard.

There are so many reasons we find ourselves in a mess, find ourselves being a mess, aren’t there? And, of course, sometimes we turn into a mess or find ourselves in a mess for no reason at all (or at least, no discernible reason). It can sneak up on us, little by little, or come out of nowhere like a life avalanche, dumping all the things on our heads at once. The mess can be tangible, with dirty dishes and mountains of laundry and missed appointments and forgotten permission slips. It can also be less visible, with intrusive thoughts and sleepless nights and irritation at the world at large and weariness that we just can’t shake.

Have you been there? You have, right?

Most of us have been a mess before and most of us will be a mess again. It’s the nature of being a messy human in this messy world. I suppose that’s a small consolation, knowing that feeling this way, being this way, isn’t abnormal and we’re not alone. But the bigger comfort is this:

Even when we are a total mess, we are not alone.

Recently I was chatting with a friend as we recorded a podcast episode, and she brought up Elijah. We laughed as we remembered the story of Elijah fleeing for his life. He was so distraught that he asked the Lord to take his life. Elijah was such a mess that it was too much for him. But rather than do as Elijah asked, God looked at this messy human and said, “Son, you need a nap and a snack!” (Yes, I’m paraphrasing, but you can read the story in 1 Kings 19.)

Now, hear me. I am not saying that all our problems can be solved with a nap and a snack. What I’m saying — to myself and to you — is that God is not surprised when we fall apart. He isn’t shocked or dismayed when we get a little or a lot messy. He doesn’t demand that we get our act together before coming to Him. And God doesn’t run the other way when we feel like it’s all too much — or when we are what feels like too much.

When we are an absolute train wreck, when our lives feel like they are spinning out of control or pressing down on us until we cannot breathe, when we’re a mess . . . we’re not alone. We’re not alone, because God is always with us.

Here are three promises you can cling to:

  1. The Lord is with us and He promises never to leave us. (Joshua 1:9)
  2. Our heavenly Father is not disappointed or annoyed or exhausted by our problems. In fact, He wants to take them from us. (Matthew 11:28)
  3. He is with us and He wants to help us, to make us strong again. (Isaiah 41:10)

If you’re a mess today, you’re not alone. I’m a mess, too — and God is with us both.

 

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When Mysteries of the Past Become Clearer in the Present

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You can no longer live in a place, yet that place can still live in you.

From 2004 to 2007, our family lived in a little house outside of Dayton, Ohio. Earlier this month I visited our former abode for the first time in nearly twelve years. When I rounded the corner and saw that humble tri-level home, I teared right up. I could see tiny James and Ethan climbing the crabapple trees and running rings around the house. I could see toddler Faith chasing them, always trying to keep up with her big brothers. When I drove past the house, I could see all three kids playing on the swing set out back underneath the towering maple tree.

Until that visit a few weeks ago, you know what I usually reflected on from our family’s Dayton days? My bonafide exhaustion from chasing little people. With my husband’s busy work schedule, I was terribly lonely. By the time I found friends, we weren’t far from moving again. I also struggled with the exasperating weather that frequently draped heavy clouds, cold and damp, over everything, including my mood.

Sure, I could name good things from that time. Our church family, whom I still miss, for one. My friend, Sherri, and her daughters, Allie and Cassie. The fall festivals, chock-full of some of the best-tasting pie I can remember eating. Ever.

But in my memory bank, the Ohio years held more hard than happy. And while that’s true, it’s also true that going back and standing in a sliver of our family’s history reacquainted me with many good memories.

While the cloudy skies were (from my perspective) a shadow side of living in Ohio, the ability to grow good things there was a strength. The frequent moisture meant our grass stayed green year-round. In the summer, the peonies and tomatoes grew with little to no effort on my part. As I stared at our former residence, I could see how my good man and I grew good things well beyond flowers and fruits. With a whole lot of effort, we grew three children from seedlings to saplings. We grew a sturdier marriage and a hospitality philosophy that sheltered everyone we welcomed inside our home.

There’s a passage of Scripture in which Paul tells the Ephesians: “I keep asking that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the glorious Father, may give you the Spirit of wisdom and revelation, so that you may know him better” (Ephesians 1:17).

That trip held several telling moments in which the Lord revealed His goodness to my family and me in the past. So, I stood there on that janky, uneven sidewalk outside our old house, tears streaming down my face in gratitude for all the blessings of before that I couldn’t even name till long after.

Like the shock of a sunny Ohio day in March, my trip back took me back to all the ways God’s grace showed up for us daily. Somewhere around the year 2040 — if I’m still drawing breath — I’ll probably say the same of 2023. ⁠Time softens the edges of the past, as it’s wont to do. But it also gives us a perspective we can’t always see when we’re neck-deep in the daily demands of our present life. ⁠

My trip to Ohio didn’t only reveal good things I couldn’t see at the time. It also revealed how God has turned many of the hard circumstances — the shadows of those years — into beloved strengths. My loneliness led me to learn how to befriend others and to keep persevering in the practice when I’m not successful. My immersion in little ones repeatedly led me to Christ and full-on dependence on Him.

During that time, too, my faith blossomed and burst forth in a way like never before.

What I really want you to hear is this: If you’re in a season that is particularly difficult, I’m so sorry. If that season is heavy with hardship that makes it hard for you to name what’s good right now, I understand. While Scripture rightly tells us to be thankful in all things, it’s harder to see those good things when you’re snowed under, doing your best to get through. In the struggle, know that God wastes not one drop of your difficulty. After a time, hard seasons can break open into beauty, even if it takes you a while to see and name it.

God is renewing your strength and vision day by day, season by season. He is not idle but actively moving in your life so that you may know Him better. Part of that is showing you and me how the hardship that seemed so unnecessary before can grow into future blessings rising from the mystery.

In that, we see how a place and all we became there can live on in us long after we’ve left.

I’ll continue to look back at my memories and response like Jesus’s mother, Mary, treasuring things from those years and pondering them in my heart.⁠ But I’ll also be more diligent about being thankful for what I have so I can treasure that today, not only at some distant point down the road.

I’ll be thankful that God redeems all my hardships, using them to help me better know Him and His extravagant faithfulness.

Visit here for more encouragement through a difficult life season.

 

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Finding Jesus at a Smoke Break

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The cigarette smoke clung to my denim jacket. I sat on the front step of my church, a man named Hank sitting beside me. His friend Trish stood in front of us. They each took long drags of their cigarettes, the smoke curling into the winter sky. Our church service was starting, but I saw them slip outside and wanted to see if they were okay. 

Turns out they just needed a smoke break. There was snow on the ground, and I was cold as I sat down on the cement stair. But Hank was telling me how he hadn’t been to church in awhile. 

“I haven’t seen you in a few weeks!” I told him. “I’m glad you came back.” 

“Me too,” he said. “I was going to come last week, but didn’t feel like it.”

I nodded. I understood that. Some weeks I didn’t feel like coming to a church service either. 

He motioned to his bag. “But I brought my New Testament with me today.”

I was delighted. “What’s your favorite part? I’m reading Luke right now. I like Luke.”

“I’m in the Acts of the Apostles. There’s some wild things that happen there.”

“I hear you.”

I could hear one of our pastors preaching, the sound muffled through the front door, and I knew the service was well underway and we were missing most of it. My skin felt tight and itchy. I kept thinking about how I could get them to come back inside. Wasn’t it more important to hear the preaching and be inside? 

Then Trish started talking. “I was an actress and a comedian, you know. Before life changed. Before life got harder.” 

“I didn’t know that,” I told her. 

She took another drag from her cigarette. “I had money. I was doing well for myself. Things can change sometimes. They can change quick.” 

She tossed her cigarette into a snowbank and smiled at me. We talked for a while longer, then Trish decided to take a walk and Hank decided to come back inside. There was nothing spiritual about our conversation, not really. Neither of them decided to confess Jesus as their Lord and Savior. Neither of them shed a tear. But I was left with the profound sense that despite the fact that we were sitting outside the walls of our church building, Jesus was sitting right beside us. 

Sometimes I can become so consumed with doing things the “right” way, that I can miss out on how God is working in His own way right in front of me. Of course, I want to be holy and disciplined, and there’s something beautiful to that – but Jesus isn’t always found in the four walls of a church. Sometimes He’s also found outside sitting next to those who are taking a smoke break.

A few weeks ago, another man came up to me before church service. I told him, “I’m so glad you’re here!” 

His eyes filled as he said, “I didn’t think I was good enough to come here today. I almost turned around and walked back home.”

I looked at him with all the compassion in my heart and said, “None of us are good enough. That’s the good news. We each get to come exactly as we are, and you belong here.”

One of the things I love most about Jesus is how He seemed to purposefully gather the most ragtag group of people as His followers. They had all messed up more times than they could ever count. Even as they followed Him, they made mistake after mistake. And yet, the more time they spent with Jesus, the more they began to look like Him. Each of them belonged to Him.

Jesus meets us inside the walls of our churches and outside of them on smoke breaks. You might feel like a ragtag follower, like you don’t belong, like you need to polish up before you enter the building of the church you call home.

But you belong to Jesus and so do I. 

Later that night, I sat on my porch and watched the sun dip slowly. I still smelled like cigarettes from Hank and Trish earlier that morning. I lifted up a heart of gratitude to the Living God who was holding the setting sun and at the same time holding me and Trish and Hank. 

Church isn’t always a sermon. Sometimes it’s a smoke break with two friends whose lives have looked nothing like mine. Jesus was right there – inside our church service and outside too. 

Each of us belongs to Him.

 

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A Faith That Will Not Fail: Dreaming of Heaven

by

I was sitting outside soaking up the summer sun when my phone buzzed with an incoming text from one of our adult sons.

“Can I come home? I need to come home.”

For months, he’d faced numerous challenges. A rigorous college academic load and challenging leadership positions, all exacerbated by a pandemic that wouldn’t go away. Then in the middle of all that, one of his most important relationships went south. This is our optimistic child, the one whose glass is always half full. And the one who thrives on relationship. I could sense his discouragement, no matter how brief the text.

“Of course. Always. I’ll have your room ready.”

I remember doing something similar decades before, when I was a sophomore at a small private Christian college. Although in many ways I thrived, I was still a young nineteen-year-old with a fragile self-image and a desperate desire to be loved. So when a few peers made some thoughtless comments about my appearance, it crushed me. I remember the humiliation and rejection. And I remember lying on the bottom bunk in my dorm room when I made the call to my parents.

Can I come home?

There is a homesickness we feel in places of pain. No matter the size or source, pain shouts, “This is not the way it’s supposed to be!” And no matter the friends we call or distractions we employ, the suffering creates an otherness, alienating us from everything familiar. And causing us to long for home with a cry that rattles our bones.

The author of Hebrews recounts the many men and women of faith who experienced this homesickness in suffering:

“All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one.”
Heb. 11:13–16

Longing for heaven. Homesick. But this kind of homesickness can’t be cured by an earthly solution.

In 2014, I got a phone call from my dad while I was speaking at an event in Florida. While I sat in my hotel room thousands of miles away, my dad told me that he had only a few months left to live. Pancreatic cancer is vicious, and my fathers was no exception.

That was May 8. By August 19 he was gone. In those three short months, I watched my father process the reality of his mortality. Earlier that same year, I’d received a second cancer diagnosis, so I took notes. I watched him mourn his impending death, the future he’d dreamed of with his wife, children, grandchildren, and friends, the memories we’d make without him, and the plans he’d made but wouldn’t achieve.

But I also watched him dream of heaven. As if he were planning a once-in-a-lifetime vacation, I saw his anticipation and excitement and watched as he planned and prepared. He read his Bible more, talked about Jesus more. And although he grieved, he also experienced real joy. After spending his adulthood dreaming of heaven, that dream was about to be fulfilled.

Homesick. He was homesick.

Can I come home?

Of course. Always. I’ll have your room ready.

On August 19, 2014, he finally got to see it.

Although you and I have mailing addresses, this is not our home. It will never be our home. We feel the ache of this truth every time the temporary walls of our lives crumble and crash. It is oh so easy to forget that this life is not all there is. But, as author Randy Alcorn said in his book Heaven, “We cannot anticipate or desire what we cannot imagine.”

What if we spent more time dreaming and planning for heaven? What if we allowed ourselves the luxury of anticipation, of dreaming of the life that is to come with as much enthusiasm as we dream of our next tropical vacation? Doing so is part of the practice of perspective, and one of the secrets to a faith that does not fail.

As real as our challenges are, heaven must become even more real. That pain you feel? You’re homesick. But that’s okay, because to be homesick only confirms that the best is yet to come.

Go ahead and dream, even while you weep. One day soon, you will finally be home. And He’ll have your room ready.

Taken from A Faith that Will Not Fail by Michele Cushatt. Copyright © March 2023 by Zondervan. Used by permission of Zondervan, www.zondervan.com.

Life can be hard. Although there are moments of beauty and goodness, more often than not, life is marked by fear, struggle, disappointment, and loss. And we don’t know what to do with it. We’ve tried to find hope and security in various people and places — but each has proved unworthy of our trust. We need more. Something — or Someone – -who won’t fail us when our world falls apart.

In her new book, A Faith that Will Not Fail: 10 Practices to Build Up Your Faith When Your World is Falling Apart, beloved author and Bible teacher Michele Cushatt presents a better way. By exploring powerful personal, historical, and biblical stories of people of extraordinary faith, she curates and shares ten practices to help you deepen your confidence and certainty in the God who can be trusted with your worry, questions, confusion, and grief. As a woman who has been through immeasurable suffering, Michele writes with both deep compassion and practical insight as she guides you to:

  • Practice lament and process grief without guilt or shame.
  • Understand what keeps you from trusting God and how to navigate doubt with truth.
  • Learn simple ways to foster shalom and gratitude on a daily basis.
  • Develop a fresh, eternal perspective that delivers both peace for today and hope for tomorrow.
  • Savor daily “faith-builder” practices to strengthen your confidence in God’s love and purposes for you, no matter what happens.

There is hope in your hardship and a God who is both with you and for you. A Faith that Will Not Fail points the way to the only One you can truly trust, and ultimately, to a faith in him that will not fail.

Order your copy of A Faith that Will Not Fail today . . . and leave a comment below for a chance to WIN one of 5 copies*!

Then join Becky Keife for a conversation with Michele this weekend on the (in)courage podcast. Don’t miss it!

 

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*Giveaway open until 4/3/23 at 11:59 pm central to US addresses only. Winners will be notified via email. Please allow 4-6 weeks for delivery.