We Were Made to Hold Both the Ordinary and the Glorious

We Were Made to Hold Both the Ordinary and the Glorious

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We are in the thick of my favorite quarter. Anyone else operate on a Q4 mindset? #corporateworklife, am I right? Q4 is my favorite of the whole year. From October 1 til January 2, I am running on full-steam autumn and holiday joy, leaving a pumpkin-spice-scented trail behind me.

Two of my kids have Q4 birthdays — November and December, and my own birthday is in October. We have the start of fall sports and classes, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and of course, Christmas. There are football games, church events, trunk or treats, and holiday parties. We visit the apple orchard, the pumpkin patch, and school conferences. There are band concerts, church pageants, birthday parties, and family gatherings galore. We usually schedule our family photos when the leaves are in peak color. We take the kids Christmas shopping for each other and check our own lists twice. We bake cookies, shop for turkeys and side dish ingredients, and decorate several times for all the major holidays.

And of course, there are the everyday, regular, ordinary time-fillers. Homework. Grocery shopping. Doctor appointments. Dinner. Dishes. Walking the dog. Driving kids around. Matching socks and switching laundry loads. Going to church, making lunches, raking leaves. Checking in on our parents. Calling our kids. Paying bills and cleaning crumbs.

Last week I sat beside my son in a church pew during worship. He whispered, “I memorized all of those words,” motioning to the stained glass windows next to us that spelled out the church year seasons under each picture. “Advent, Christmas, Time after Epiphany, Lent, The Three Days, Easter.”

“That’s right!” I whispered back. “And then you know what’s next? It’s called Ordinary Time. From after Easter till Advent.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of Ordinary Time,” he replied.

And he is correct.

Sometimes I get overwhelmed by all of the ordinary time. It’s always in my face and messing with the special memory-making I would rather be doing. Like I’m never going to choose washing dishes over driving around to look at Christmas lights. And yet, when we pull in the garage late at night, sugared up from cocoa and joy, the dishes await.

So how does one stay present during both the Q4 joy extravaganza and the quiet gifts of ordinary time?

As with most things, we look to Jesus.

Jesus was so, so good at being fully present. When He visited friends and family. When He preached to the masses. When He interacted quietly with widows, bleeding women, and tax collectors. They all had His full attention. . . even when dinner was required.

In Matthew, we read about Jesus trying to escape for a break, but He’s found, and found by a ton of people. He has compassion on the crowds, heals their sick, and then (as it sneaks up on me each and every day) it’s dinnertime before they know it.

The glory of the regular, all mixed up with the holy.

The disciples want to send everyone away to find their own dinner on their own dime and let Jesus get back on schedule. But Jesus. He tells the disciples to feed all the people! And it was a whole thing to do that, because thousands had gathered, and there was definitely not enough food.

I mean, I’ve been there too. During one Q4 birthday party I was hosting for my son, my sister-in-law ran to the store mid-party for additional chickens, because bless my heart, I had never roasted whole chickens before and I hadn’t gotten enough for the full group. (My son requested ‘whole chickens’ for his birthday meal. I don’t know.)

So the people gathered around Jesus don’t have food, and they’re getting hangry. Jesus pulls out a miracle, taking a boy’s offering of five loaves of bread and two fish, and somehow multiplies it so that “all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of broken pieces that were left over” (Matthew 14).

And all the while, Jesus was present. Fully in the setting, fully with the people.

Really, are we even in the season of gratitude and joy if we don’t run into a snag at some point in our plans? Is it even Q4 if we aren’t going through some situation that we fear will take a miracle to get out of? Don’t we all wish we could delegate the menial tasks and let the people fend for themselves so our attention isn’t divided?

Yet, we see Jesus. Jesus shows us how to stay present with the people, immersed in the setting, feeling the depth of all the feelings, and feeding those around him.

He casually changes lives over conversations at watering holes. He heals bodies and souls. He laughs and mourns with friends.

Jesus is all in, wherever He is, whomever He’s with. And you know what happens with those around Him? They do the same. They hold both their ordinary lives with the glory of His presence.

We can live in the extraordinary joy that the festivities and bustle Q4 brings, and we can experience glory in the regular tasks that make up our days. We can hold both. We were made to hold both.

We’re in it right now. Let’s live in it deep.

 

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A Remedy for Cancel Culture

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“Who is the colored guy in my driveway?” I went into shock — my fingers froze and the whole room got quiet.

Let me rewind the story a little for you. I used to do bridal makeup as a side hustle. A client had hired me to do her engagement pictures. Her parents lived on a secluded property with a beautiful backyard, so she wanted her pictures taken there. My husband dropped me off at their house, since I wasn’t familiar with the area. All the family were laughing together, sipping wine, and getting excited planning for my client’s big day. We laughed as everyone shared childhood memories and quirks about her. This was actually my favorite part of bridal makeup; it wasn’t just the client I worked with, but I often would get to meet the whole family.

As I was getting my final touches on her makeup, her dad yelled from the hallway, “Who is the colored guy in my driveway?” It didn’t even phase me at first because I had actually never heard that term used in a conversation in my life. But the laughter and chatter grew quiet around me. He stuck his head into the room and repeated his question, “Anyone want to tell me why there is a colored guy in my driveway?” That’s when I went into shock, my fingers froze in place, and the whole room held their breath. In that moment I felt so many emotions. I was embarrassed of being the other in the room. I was angry for being belittled to a racial slur. I was afraid for what this stranger would do next.

I spoke up, “That’s my husband. He just came to pick me up.” I quickly finished her makeup and gathered my things to leave. We all pretended like nothing happened, even though it was very awkward. I got into the car and told my husband to drive away fast.

I shared with him what happened and I processed my own feelings. The next day, I texted my client and told her that I would not be able to do her wedding makeup as we had planned. I expressed to her that I didn’t feel comfortable or safe working with her family after hearing her dad use racially derogatory terms and having no one speak up for me. She responded back that she fully understood my decision and apologized for her dad’s behavior.

Here is what I didn’t do next: I didn’t get on social media and rant about it, nor did I post her family’s address and name to tell everyone how they had treated me. I think we live in a culture that would rather cancel a person or a group of people than have a hard conversation. But conversations can actually change people; cancelling simply condemns them.

I could’ve just let the whole situation slide and continued to do business with her for her wedding, or I could have laughed it off as ignorance. But I knew that I had to speak up and actually talk to her about it. I don’t know if she ever shared any of it with her dad, or if her dad changed — that’s not my responsibility. My responsibility is to shed light where there is darkness and to call out sin. Jesus never overlooked sin; in fact, at times He would see what was in the heart and minds of people around Him and He would call them out on it. But He never alienated or rejected anyone.

It is easy for us to cancel people that hurt us as a way of defending ourselves and trying to prevent more pain. Especially with social media, we can quickly rally people to join us in canceling those we dislike or disagree with, but that is not an option for a follower of Jesus. Jesus calls us to do the hard work of loving those who hurt us, and that often looks like calling out sin and having an honest conversation with them. This allows them to have the opportunity to understand the injury they caused and repent, rather than continue in their sin. Isn’t that the same love that Jesus offers us?

Perhaps one of the most amazing examples of this is Saul of Tarsus, a zealous Jew who was on a mission to eradicate Christians.

Jesus appears to Saul not to condemn him, but to have a conversation with him. Jesus calls Saul out and shows him that what he was doing is wrong. Then Jesus goes onto call Saul to Himself. Saul, of course, is totally transformed by this beautiful gift of grace; he is renamed Paul and goes on to write more than half of the New Testament as an apostle of Christ.

Like Paul we are also ambassadors of the grace of God, calling out the sin in the world but calling people to Christ. “Instead, we will speak the truth in love, growing in every way more and more like Christ, who is the head of his body, the church” (Ephesians 4:15 NLT). The next time we’re tempted to cancel someone, let’s come back to this: speak the truth in love. 

 

Listen to today’s article at the player below or wherever you stream podcasts.

From Heartbreak to Grace (+ a Launch Day Giveaway!)

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We’re in the kitchen and not talking about Muslims. Instead, my Muslim daughter and I are making pies. Pumpkin. Apple. Crusts just right. Filling on point.

This is the Thanksgiving my daughter wanted. No arguing. No debating. No theological fighting. Just cooking, family, and togetherness. “Look, Mom. We’re bonding,” she says, and we look at each other and laugh. Together.

Both of us know we shouldn’t be here. Together? I shouldn’t even imagine it.

But God.

I want to say those two words so badly—to start preaching “up in here,” as my beautiful urban pastor would say. Instead, I stand in my daughter’s Nashville kitchen, measuring out flour, cracking eggs, politely sprinkling nutmeg in the pumpkin pie filling, keeping myself from jabbering about terrorists and mass shootings and my precious daughter’s wild, worrisome, and theologically unwieldy journey to Islam.

Our Christian daughter is now a Muslim. And I can find grace in that?

Grace is the last thing I expected in 2001 when she walked away from Jesus, leaving the cross for the crescent. In our long-standing and immovable Christian family, her announcement kicked me to my knees—the best place for a believer, but still the toughest.

As a mother and daughter, our faith battle was “royale,” and we fought it hard and ugly. For ten long years we could barely speak to each other without arguing.

Indeed, I was furious with my daughter’s decision. I was embarrassed. I didn’t see it coming—this global shift in our family’s faith dynamic. We were, after all, determined Sunday churchgoers, and we were real satisfied about it.

While away at college, she left the family faith altogether. Still hungry to know a god, as she tells it today, she gravitated to students from the Middle East who espoused a belief called Islam. Intrigued by her new friends’ modest garb, cultural theology, and claims of a deity “who doesn’t need partners”—a reference to Jesus, as she explains it—she left Him for them.

Without warning, she donned a hijab, recited Islam’s short Shahada (profession of faith), and converted.

I got the phone call not long before the 9/11 attacks.

“Hi, Mom. I just called to tell you that I’m a Muslim.”

“A what?”

“A Muslim.”

And there we were. That long road of walking casually with Christ as a family, of watching a daughter pull away but not knowing how to address her emotional departure, of seeing that she didn’t know the Lord for herself but not making it a priority to learn how to fight that particular problem through prayer, had led us to this moment.

“Mom, I’m a Muslim.”

For years I told our story with pain and regret. Remorse and heartbreak almost trapped me in an unyielding state of self-condemnation and guilt: I’m a bad mother. I’m a bad Christian. I’m worth nothing to the kingdom of God, so I should just stop trying to be worth anything to anyone.

But God.

Remember those words?

They show up in the Bible in the most unlikely places: with rain-soaked Noah (Gen. 8:1); with life-exasperated Jacob (Gen. 31:42); with sibling-challenged Joseph (Gen. 50:20). Standing before his starving, cheating, double-dealing brothers, Joseph invokes the two most grace-soaked words of the Bible: “You intended to harm me, but God…”

So, I reasoned that if every “but God” in the Bible is true, it had to be true in my relationship with my daughter too. I had to extend grace to her first. Gritting my teeth sometimes — as she would say now, laughing — I stopped battling over religion and granted her the grace of trusting God with the end of our story.

Humbling, indeed, is any family’s grace journey.

But God.

Grace rises to become the best possible gift to offer a loved one, trusting God with the final say, especially when the two of you don’t see eye to eye. I learned that the hard way. Beating myself up for failing, I received from the Lord not condemnation but an assuring and welcome break: “Yes, you are a good mother. Yes, you are a good Christian. Yes, you are worth much to My kingdom and to this world, no matter what you or your daughter did or didn’t do. So stop sorrowing and get to work. I need you in the vineyard.”

This is grace undeserved, as our theologians say.

Stunned by this grace, I therefore extend it to my daughter. I no longer fight with her. We make our Thanksgiving pies on this Nashville day and never once argue. Instead, I luxuriate in my daughter’s kitchen love, watching this woman I raised cook and stir and busy herself in that way that looks like me—even if when we pray we’re not yet on the same bright path.

I could berate myself all day, moping around the kitchen and feeling sorrowful about our interfaith dilemma. Instead, I choose to let my daughter love me, to let my grandchildren spoil me, to let my husband joke with me, and to let God assure me. In that way I take grace one step deeper: I extend it to myself.

I now pray with hope and accept God’s love on purpose. This lets me walk, live, and serve without looking back.

I could gorge myself on regret until I’m stuffed. Instead, by grace, I eat pie. “Taste and see,” says the psalmist, “that the Lord is good” (Ps. 34:8). He is. Always.

Excerpt by Patricia Raybon, from Come Sit With Me

In our new book, Come Sit with Me: How to Delight in Differences, Love through Disagreements, and Live with Discomfort, 26 (in)courage writers show you how to:

  • delight in your differences
  • honor and value others even when you disagree
  • connect before you correct
  • trust that God is working even when people disappoint you
  • live and love like Jesus by serving others.

These amazing women get fully vulnerable as they share about the real, the hard, even the yet unfinished. From politics to religious differences, from dealing with toxic people to dealing with our own unforgiveness and desire for revenge, (in)courage is here to reveal the struggles no one really wants to talk about – and how we can actually grow closer to God and others through the circumstances we’d rather run from.

It’s launch day, and we’re celebrating!

To celebrate the release of Come Sit with Me, we’re giving away FIVE gift bundles!* Just leave a comment on this post telling us which topic resonates with you the most (find the full table of contents here), and you’ll be entered to win a bundle that includes:

Whether you’re in the middle of a conflict without resolution or wondering how to enter into a friend’s pain, this book will serve as a gentle guide. Discover how God can work through your disagreements, differences, and discomfort in ways you might never expect. We’re thrilled that this very special book is able to be in your hands; get your copy today.

 

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*Giveaway open until 11/4/22 at 11:59 pm central to US addresses only. 

Could Fear Be an Invitation to Trust?

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Stress felt like it was seeping into every part of my life. Logically, I knew it was stemming from looming work deadlines, but it felt like it was bleeding into every facet of my being. I was overwhelmed, stressed, and fearful about seemingly everything. I felt far from God and far from my friends.

I’ve never been one to keep things contained. I don’t tend to compartmentalize. My insides felt like a black ink jar had broken open, staining everything. 

I went to a church service and worshiped; I texted a friend to pray. I did everything I could to grit my teeth and muster my way around the fear. Faith trumps fear, doesn’t it? 

And yet in the back of my mind I remembered the prayer the psalmist once prayed, “When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.”

Not if – but when. 

Finally one morning, I collapsed on my favorite chair and earnestly prayed for wisdom, strength, and the capacity to continue. What struck me suddenly was that everything I was stressed over had once been an answer to prayer. My jobs, my relationships, my friendships, my church – each and every one of them had been something I’d asked God for. 

How could I have so much fear over the gifts God had graciously given me?

I thought back to last year: I was afraid about a variety of different things then. And the year before that? More fear about other areas of my life. I considered the future: might I have things to be fearful of next year, or the following year, or the year after that? Based on my track record, I think so. 

If there’s always something to be stressed about or fearful of, what could I do with my fear? 

The gentle voice of Jesus spoke within me: What if this fear is an invitation to trust Me? 

I thought about that for a moment. Jesus invites us to cast our cares – our worries, our burdens, our stress, our overwhelm, our fear – onto Him. Most of the time, I’d prefer to hold onto my fear. I can trick myself into thinking I have control, and if I simply white-knuckle my way through, everything will be fine. But the truth is, I don’t have much control over anything, and holding onto my fear only makes me more fearful. 

Could fear really be an invitation to trust? 

Instead of falling for the idea that I need to muster up enough faith, or grit my teeth to make my way through my fear, could I instead accept Jesus’ kind and gentle invitation to trust Him with it?

Pastor Tyler Staton wrote, “The thing that calms fear isn’t faith, it’s trust. Faith is the assurance of what we hope for. Trust is confidence in the character of God.” 

I remained sitting on my chair, but I closed my eyes and lifted up my hands. I listed every single thing I was afraid of – things I’d never articulated before – but I kept my palms splayed and open. I said, “Jesus, I give every one of these things to You. I hand them over to You. I choose to submit them all to You. When I am afraid, I will put my trust in You.”

I took a deep breath and opened my eyes again. 

The fear hasn’t passed, not fully. But I am confident in the character of Jesus: kind, and good, and holy. He’s the most trustworthy Person in the world. 

I’ll likely feel fear again, maybe even before the day is up. But I pray I’ll be reminded that my fear is an invitation to trust… and through that trust, an even greater invitation to be brought into deeper union with Jesus. 

 

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God Is Our Safe Place

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We arrived at our favorite beach early in the morning. The crystal-clear waters of Lake Tahoe mirrored the surrounding forest. But even though we were on vacation, I couldn’t relax. I felt spiritually numb — like my faith needed resuscitation. I took the kayak out, paddling toward the coves, hoping the glistening blue waters would revive my lifeless faith.

As I stared at the aquarium of boulders beneath me, stuffed emotions like stacked rocks surfaced. Nobody was around, so I told God how distant I felt from Him. Before I knew it, I was telling God everything I was angry, hurt, confused, frustrated, and worried about.

I lamented relationship struggles, blocked dreams and aspirations, past trauma, confusion about His calling for my future, and loneliness parenting teens who don’t want to talk or hug. Recently, I was diagnosed with a rare autoimmune disease that’s causing scar tissue to grow inside my trachea. Two weeks before this conversation with God, I underwent surgery to open my airway — which was fifty percent blocked. Anxiety lingered over the struggle to breathe, getting the correct diagnosis, finding a qualified Kaiser surgeon, and the prospect of needing repeated dilations for the rest of my life.

It was all taking a toll on me; my problems were like boulders crushing my joy. I longed to feel God’s presence, trying to remember a scripture or song . . . but I couldn’t even think of one. Lord, please show Yourself to me. Help me think of a verse. Please speak to me.

Then came the words God wanted me to hear: Lead me to the Rock that is higher than I.

Shifting my gaze from the depths of the water, I looked up. Majestic mountains towered above me, embracing me like a hug. When we returned to the cabin, I found the verse in my Bible where David prayed these same words to the Lord:

From the end of the earth I will cry to You when my heart is overwhelmed. Lead me to the Rock that is higher than I.
Psalm 61:1-2 (NIV)

A quick computer search for a deeper meaning of overwhelmed read, “to be buried underneath a huge mass of something.” Naming my troubles helped me to get out from under the huge mass of my burdens, to unload my compulsive drive to make sense of circumstances I didn’t understand and couldn’t control. Sometimes, when we tell God our sorrows, doubts, and fears, we may feel like we are being ungrateful and disrespectful. But it is helpful to distinguish lamenting from complaining. Complaining dissatisfies us, whereas lament connects with God, leads us to repentance, and renews our hope.

Lament is a passionate expression of grief and sorrow that draws us closer to God. More than a third of the psalms are laments, all ending in praise. We may lament when we’re grieving, helpless in our situations, struggling with sin, or heartbroken. Through lament, Jeremiah found peace and changed his hopeless perspective (Lamentations 3:1-24). Soon after Hannah lamented — crying out to the Lord and pleading for a child — she felt better and could eat again (1 Samuel 1:9-28). After I poured out my heart before the Lord, God redirected my defeated thoughts.

Look to Me. Don’t base who I am on how people treat you or what has happened to you. I am not them. I am not your circumstances. I am your Rock. The source of your strength and hope to get you through troubled times.

The Lord told me to stare at Him instead of my problems. When I did, my eyes opened to the ways God had moved in every area I prayed about. Sometimes God answers my prayers so gradually that I don’t see His hand at work. Healing is a slow process and takes time. Keeping my eyes on Him, I can see the restoration that God had already done. I wasn’t getting weaker; I was getting stronger. Every trial, challenging relationship, and difficult emotion has been helping me depend on God. I have hope for my future, and I can look forward to new seasons in parenting. God is in control of my health and every breath I take.

When we got home from vacation, I bought a gratitude journal. I can’t explain it but ever since that morning on the lake, it’s so much easier to see the blessings and answered prayers in my life. The next time my problems pile high, I want to share them with the Lord instead of stuffing down my emotions.

When pain is overwhelming, God is our safe place. My friend, if your heart is burdened, tell God why. God loves you even when you’re mad at Him. As we express the thoughts, feelings, and emotions that weigh heavy, we can free our hearts. Lament is often the unexpected pathway leading to the Rock that is higher and bigger than all our problems.

They remembered that God was their Rock, that God Most High was their Redeemer.
Psalm 78:35

The Lord is my Rock, my fortress, and my deliverer; my God is my Rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.
Psalm 18:2

You Are Not Forgotten

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Aren’t five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten in God’s sight. Indeed, the hairs of your head are all counted. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.
Luke 12:6-7 (CSB)

Dear Sister,

Yes, you in the corner cubicle who feels invisible,
Yes, you rocking the colicky baby for endless hours,
Yes, you who are a widow or empty nester, wondering if your heart and home will ever be full again,
YOU are not forgotten.

When friends leave you out, when you get passed over for the promotion, when you’re sitting in the oncology ward, when the world says you are expendable — listen to what God says about you. God says you are not forgotten. God says you are worthy of care and attention. God says just like He holds the sparrows and knows each one, how much more does He know you and cherish you and call you loved.

Don’t be afraid. God sees you, sister. And He is near. 

We Can Trust God Even More Than a Life Jacket

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When you pass through the waters, I will be with you, and the rivers will not overwhelm you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be scorched, and the flame will not burn you.
Isaiah 43:2 (CSB)

My youngest daughter is fearless. Well, not technically, because thunderstorms still send her running to my bedroom at night. But when it comes to leaping from the couch to the ottoman or hanging off the outside edge of the stairs, she doesn’t give a second thought to caution or safety.

It’s the same at the swimming pool. This past summer she had nearly outgrown her life jacket. But as a mom who’s far from fearless, I insisted she wear it anyway. Even though the arm floaties were a smidge tight. Even though she vowed she was just fine without them!

I simply did not trust her swimming skills yet. I did, however, trust that life jacket. That didn’t mean I left her alone at the pool. I didn’t camp out in a lounge chair, eyes glued to a book or my phone. No, I stayed in the pool with her or nearby while watching closely. But in the split second between seeing her jumping off the side and seeing her head pop back above the surface of the water, I could breathe.

On the rare occasion I let her take off her life jacket, it was a different story. Not only did I have to be in the water, I had to be within an arm’s reach. And I absolutely did not breathe from the moment she became airborne until I had her back in my arms above water.

I don’t want to oversimplify matters of faith, but for me, trusting God is like putting everyone and everything I care about in a giant life jacket.

Right now, I have a sticky note on my planner with a list of names written on it. It’s my urgent prayer list: a friend with breast cancer, two friends going through divorce, a friend whose husband has cancer, a friend whose husband lost his job, a family friend recovering from pneumonia. I haven’t written my husband, daughters, or brother on the list, because they never leave my prayers, but at times their needs are no less urgent than these.

If I let myself, I could become completely consumed with fear over each one of those situations. The what-ifs and worst-case scenarios whirl around my brain like a tornado, leaving behind as much damage as an actual twister. Chest pain, shortness of breath, tense muscles, and a flood of tears show up any time my loved ones cross my mind. As I desperately rack my brain for tangible ways to help or clever solutions to suggest, my shoulders reach my ears and my eyes widen to the point of causing a headache. I become completely unhelpful and even discouraging to those I so deeply wish to help and encourage.

Thankfully, I’m not alone in my fear. Though God allows me to go there if I choose, He doesn’t leave me in that dark place. He whispers, “Come to me,” and offers to take my burden (Matt. 11:28–30). And He reminds me that, just as He vows to be with me when I go through deep waters and raging fires, He’s made the same promise to each one of those people on my Post-it prayer list.

God’s promises — to love us, to care for us, to be with us no matter what — don’t just mean I can trust Him with my own safety and wellbeing, with my own life and heart and soul. No, He’s promised each and every one of us—and each and every one of the people I love — the same things. And while those promises don’t necessarily mean we will experience physical healing or safety, they do mean I can trust Him with the hearts and souls of my loved ones as well with my own.

And what a gift that is! What a relief! Because when we trust God with those we love, not only are we relieved of the anxiety that comes from worrying and attempting to control their lives, but we are actually able to love them better. When we trust God with our loved ones, we don’t have to keep them within arm’s reach or in a cage or a bubble. We are freed up to love them without pressure. That’s when they can see the love of God through us and be encouraged by our trust in Him.

Dear God, thank You for always being faithful to Your promises. Forgive me for grasping at the illusion of control instead of leaning on You. Remind me of Your faithfulness, and help me trust You more — with my own life and with my loved ones. Amen.

This article was written by Mary Carver, as published in Empowered: More of Him for All of You.

Mending a Marriage That Was Falling Apart

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I look back on that time in our marriage, and the memories still sting my heart like tiny cactus needles. We survived falling apart, but mending the mess was a slow, pain-filled process. We recognized how we had intentionally hidden parts of ourselves, assuming the other person wouldn’t understand and would therefore reject us. We noticed our patterns of communication, paid attention to what triggered our pain points, and examined the beliefs we had about ourselves, each other, and the world. We faithfully attended our therapy sessions, which included lots of tears, occasional yelling, and working through the same problems again and again.

I often wondered, then, if it was worth it — worth being in the marriage, worth putting in the effort for an outcome I wasn’t guaranteed, worth keeping at it when I couldn’t even imagine what a future together might look like. And the only thing that kept me grounded was the redeeming power of the gospel. If miraculous and impossible things can happen in Christ, such as resurrection from the dead, surely there was hope for us in our marriage. Surely we could change for the better, and it would be worth it to wait and see what God might do.

In Matthew 19:26, Jesus says, “With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.” Though this verse has been used too flippantly in the church as a way to gloss over difficult circumstances, during that season of marital hardship, I held on to it for the promise that it is. It anchored me in hope, giving me the sustenance I needed to try and commit to our marriage for another day, another month, another year.

Mending a marriage or any other relationship is not always possible, but when it is, the hardest part can be doing the simplest things, like having a conversation, asking questions, and staying curious about the other person to get to know them better.

Isn’t that what we all want? To be fully known? Wholly seen?

Even though my husband has thoughts and emotions beyond what he shows, it’s difficult for him to access them and find the words to express them. By asking him directly about his feelings, I give him the opportunity to stay present with himself, figure out how to describe what he’s feeling, and then verbalize his thoughts to me. By asking questions, I open the door for him to take up space, be himself as much as possible, and create connections between us.

The questions will vary based on different relationships and situations, but the key to asking the right ones is to stay curious, which is different from being nosy. Curiosity keeps us tender to each other’s humanity.

When we don’t know someone, it’s easy to dehumanize them and treat them as if they’re an object made for our judgment. We can make assumptions about their character, their background, their family, their life, and feel justified as we do so. But when we stay curious, we keep their humanity in view. Curiosity helps us remember that the person we share a home with and the acquaintance on Facebook are both individuals made and loved by God. We may not agree or have the same values. We may never become close with that other mom at school or that neighbor across the street, but we can genuinely care for one another. We might even find that we laugh at the same things or have similar passions. We might learn we have a shared pain or we’re on a similar journey in life. And perhaps then, even when all hope feels lost, we can take small steps toward mending the gaps created by our differences.

Ask yourself: What is one small step I can take toward mending a relationship with someone where our differences have created a rift?

This story from Grace P. Cho is an excerpt from our new book, Come Sit with Me: How to Delight in Differences, Love through Disagreements, and Live with Discomfort. In this book, 26 of our (in)courage writers help you navigate tough relational tensions by revealing their own hard-fought, grace-filled learning moments (like in Grace’s story above). They show you how to:

– delight in your differences
– honor and value others even when you disagree
– connect before you correct
– trust that God is working even when people disappoint you
– live and love like Jesus by serving others.

Whether you’re in the middle of a conflict without resolution or wondering how to enter into a friend’s pain, Come Sith With Me will serve as a gentle guide. Discover how God can work through your disagreements, differences, and discomfort in ways you might never expect.

Let us send you the introduction and first two chapters for FREE (one is Grace’s full chapter)! Sign up here.

 

Listen to today’s article at the player below or wherever you stream podcasts.

How Loneliness and Quiet Can Lead Us

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There are a few days a week when the house becomes so still I can hear it groan and creak. Birdsong becomes clear, and I can almost hear the wind weave through our backyard trees from inside. I hear the coming and going of my neighbors alongside of all the thoughts I’ve been kept from when our house is loud, bustling, and full.

The silence and solitude are all at once both refreshing and terrifying. In short, silence isn’t the norm for me these days. As a mom of three, when I’m not refereeing arguments or feeding my ever-growing kids, I’m navigating through the noise of people coming and going; I’m connecting with others in the noise of social media, email inboxes that are always too full, and a million more messaging apps that now fill my phone screen. And it’s not just online: the noise in a crowded sanctuary can be overwhelming, the sound of needs and desire for attention from my family at the dinner table can be dizzying, and even in the grocery store, I’m bombarded by the noise of choices.

The culture I live in feels addicted to noise, even in the places that claim otherwise.

When I was little, there was a time in elementary school when recess was so overwhelming, I would go and hide in a bathroom stall. Locking the door and being in an enclosed space with physical boundaries I could see and feel, gave my anxious mind relief for a few needed minutes.

For the longest time, I never told anyone that I did this. From a young age, like water necessary for living, I drank the belief that quietness was wrong, and the message that loneliness was a disease that must be treated immediately. Needing quiet, needing to be alone, and being overwhelmed all felt like there was something wrong with me — something I learned to be ashamed of.

Most of us live in a system that values productivity, programming, busyness, and noise. So often, even good things, like pushes for community and connection, get lumped into this noise. Because of this system, a feeling of loneliness creates an internal spiral. A moment of quietness spurs us into a panic.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating for isolation and rugged independence. I wholeheartedly believe in community; I even wrote about grieving it and rebuilding it my last article here. But I’m weary of the conversations around community that zoom in on quiet and seasons of loneliness as if they are bad or wrong. I’m weary of the message that making margin for quiet space is selfish. I’m frustrated by the cookie-cutter promises that say following these five steps will free you from being alone as if community can be made by to-do lists and slot machine prayers. Lonely seasons and quiet space not only give us needed fuel and margin, they can teach us how to be present and authentic in our lack, our need, and our bodies. Though it seems counterintuitive, it’s the addiction to noise, lack of margin, idolizing community, and inability to be alone with God that lead us to burnout, bitterness, and eventually, living isolated lives.

The experience of God’s presence in my loneliest moments and years are treasures to me now. I didn’t know God’s name when I hid in the bathroom all those years ago, but I still remember a comforting presence with me, one that didn’t ask me to be louder, but gave me stillness and breathing room. Years later, when I read David’s words about a God with him in his mother’s womb and the same God with him in the darkness of his own failures, I already knew and understood that presence. I could look back and see how God had met me and stood with me in hidden places of quiet, sadness, and longing, long before I knew who God was.

On the days that are quiet, I try to keep them that way, counting them a gift. I remember the imaginary stall doors in mind: boundaries to breathe, be, and find God with me. I’m reminded that I am not a machine, nor will I find what I need by grasping for control or reaching for more noise. No, I am a beloved person who is kept, held, seen, and created to be dependent on my Creator.

If I will allow it, the quiet spaces lead me and keep me. Loneliness isn’t wrong, nor is it a destination — it’s a momentary teacher and companion that leads me to God and others. It’s a space where I am comforted and learn how to comfort in return. It’s what leads me forward in seeing others, building community and deep, authentic connection.

 

Listen to today’s article at the player below or wherever you stream podcasts.

 

 

When Finding Friends Is Hard, Ask Yourself These Questions

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While today I’m quite content on the friend front in my town of Colorado Springs, it certainly wasn’t always that way. When we moved here twelve years ago, we knew a few folks — friends we still have today. However, it took us a full decade to connect with a wider circle of people and for me to feel like I was at home here, apart from my own family, of course.

A decade is a mighty long time, y’all.

I’ve lived in places where it didn’t take nearly that long, but here it did. ⁠More often than not, the miracle of making community just takes longer than I think it should. ⁠Is it worth it? Oh, yes. But as is often the case, quality doesn’t mean quickly.

While I relish this garden of flowering friendships in my day-to-day life, it’s not the same story on other fronts. In my work life, I don’t have friendships to the degree I once did. Oh, I still enjoy great relationships with work folks, but many of the relationships I worked hard to cultivate for the last decade aren’t what they used to be. And even as I’ve prayed and reached out and put all kinds of effort into widening my circle, I haven’t experienced the success of connection I’d hoped for. In this field, I feel a little untethered and a lot lonely as I try to create the expansive sense of belonging I once enjoyed.

As a former military wife who spent repeated years making new community, I learned quite a bit about what to do and what not to do to make friends. I’m by no means perfect at it! But I know that you can do many of the “right” things and still see little reward.

And that can cause no small amount of frustration.

In an effort to understand why things are the way they are in my own life, I’ve had to form some honest answers to a couple of questions. If your own friendship landscape looks too barren for your liking — whether that be in your neighborhood, at work, at church, or elsewhere — I welcome you to consider your own answers to these questions alongside me.

First, is it possible I’m discounting some places I do already belong because I’m spending too much time lamenting where I don’t?

I am guilty of ignoring people in places I do belong because I’m spending too much time missing folks who used to be around but aren’t anymore. I genuinely lament the loss of these folks. After all, I really like them and loved their creative energy and personality in my life. It’s okay for me to be sad that these relationships have changed. At the same time, I need to eventually turn the page, accept that things are different, and move forward accordingly.

The truth is that friendships — like the leaves of trees within seasons — change and grow, or change and fade. I’ve been the one to step away from a friendship before, certainly. Not because there was anything wrong with the other person, but because something affected what I could give to that friendship. There was no good guy or bad guy, just the realities of life! In turn, other people have every right to step away from a friendship with me. Like any other relationship, it takes both parties’ investment for it to grow. I can’t do the work for both of us.

Be that as it may, I can take a gratitude-laced look at those places I do belong today and turn my energies towards nurturing the people there, even as I’d like to still nurture new relationships too.

And this leads me to the second question:

If I’m putting forth sincere effort to connect with folks yet making little progress, is it possible I’m going through this less-than-ideal friendship season because the Lord simply wants my attention elsewhere?

I’ve discovered that there are times when the Lord, in His divine, knows-all-things wisdom, temporarily winnows one area of our lives in order to widen our focus on another. Whether we need to tend to some things within our family, our hearts, or our relationship with Him, God helps meet that need by removing some of our distractions. I sense this is the case in my own life right now, but it won’t be the case forever. God’s heart is for us to have our people — no one is the exception to that. But for now, I will tend to the areas He directs me towards.

Whatever your answer are to these questions, know that the way things are right now doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you. While self-awareness and an honest evaluation of our own actions in friendships are always good things to consider, everyone goes through seasons when friends are few or relationships disappoint us — even Jesus. As Ecclesiastes 3:1 says, “There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven.”

There is an appointed time for friendship droughts to begin, yes.

But there’s also an appointed time for them to end, praise be.

While we wait for our own to end, may we be mindful to give others grace and give ourselves grace too.

If you could use a bit more practical direction on how to find your place and people, check out one of my OG (in)courage articles here or my book Back Roads to Belonging: Unexpected Paths to Finding Your Place and Your People.

 

Listen to today’s article at the player below or wherever you stream podcasts.

From Where I Stand

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In the new book From Where I Stand: 30 Days in the Life of Paul, you are invited to trace the footsteps of a man who went from relentlessly persecuting Christians to becoming one of the greatest evangelists in history. 

The path of the apostle Paul is one of transformation. In From Where I Stand, you will be transported back in time to the places where Paul, once a notorious opponent of the faith, preached the Gospel to nations who had long been enemies of God’s people. You will feel what he felt, see what he saw, and encounter the living Christ along beaten dirt roads and within dank prison walls. As you walk in Paul’s shoes, you’ll be encouraged to journal (or even paint, draw, and handletter) along and answer heart-provoking questions that will illuminate your own spiritual journey. 

Read on for an excerpt + giveaway!

—

By day, the heat was relentless. With the cloudless dome of the sky above, and a sea of sand below, Saul’s donkey trudged steadily onward weaving its way through bare, jagged mountains.

When the sun dropped beneath the horizon each evening, the temperature plummeted. Saul huddled close to the donkey’s side for warmth and stared up into the sweeping night sky, strewn with thousands upon thousands of stars.

Day, after night, after day, the cycle repeated as Sinai, the mountain of God, steadily grew closer.

Sinai. The mountain where, as Moses led the children of Israel out of Egypt, God affirmed His covenant with them and gave them the law.

Sinai. Where Elijah, another zealous man of God, had once fled, discouraged, disillusioned, and alone when his life, too, had turned upside down. There in a cave on the mountainside, God met with his weary prophet, Elijah, in the holy silence of Sinai to encourage and renew him, and to recommission him for his purpose and the work that remained.

Now Saul followed in Elijah’s footsteps to seek God’s face, recommit himself to God, and discover what it meant to be faithful now that he knew Jesus was the Messiah.

Finally, sunburned and weary, Saul stood at the base of the mountain. Somewhere, far above him, God had spoken to Moses face-to-face, giving him the law. And there, on the plain surrounding the base of the mountain, the twelve tribes of Israel had once set up camp and committed themselves to obey God, then immediately betrayed Him by fashioning a golden calf to worship instead. And somewhere, in one of the caves dotting the mountainside, was where God met with Elijah and commissioned him to announce Israel’s new king.

On Sinai, the place of covenant and new beginnings, Saul met with God. Afterward, when he turned his donkey back toward Damascus, he, like Elijah, did so with a new mission: Saul (who would later be renamed Paul) would proclaim the advent of Israel’s new king. But this time her King was the Lord of all creation.

King Jesus, the Messiah, would reign forever. He would be called Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace, and His kingdom would have no end.

We all have had times when it felt like our lives were spinning out of control, when we lost focus and a bit of our true selves along the way. When we get face-to-face with God, He shows us the big picture, what we can’t see when we are wounded, beaten down, and weary.

Sometimes we must stop the merry-go-round of life and intentionally seek out a place where we can commune with God without interruption so that He can get us back on track. This isn’t indulgence. This is taking our relationship with God — and how that relationship works itself out in our realm of influence — seriously.

Often, when we look back on these times, we find they are important faith landmarks, after which neither we nor our faith are ever the same.

First Kings 19:13 tells us that Elijah covered his face with his mantle before approaching God. Perhaps some of us hesitate to get face-to-face with God because it can be terrifying to encounter such infinite power and glory.

Our mighty God, however, is also a God of love. He wants to meet with us. He wants to know us, and for us to know Him in return.

God reveals Himself to us in the quiet spaces we consecrate for Him alone.

—

From Where I Stand is by two of our favorite writers, Sherri Gragg and Shanna Noel, and we know you’ll learn a ton, be inspired, and simply love it! Order your copy today . . . and leave a comment below for a chance to WIN one of 5 copies*!

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

 

Listen to today’s article at the player below or wherever you stream podcasts.

*giveaway open until 10/28/22 at 11:59pm central to US addresses only.

The Struggle and Gift of Vulnerability

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I’ve noticed with the passing of recent birthdays, I have become more introspective. I’m newly forty-two and more observant about the relationships in my life. I have tons of dear friends, friends that feel like family, and still . . . there is something missing.

As a child, I spent more time around adult friends of my grandparents than with kids my own age. But honestly, I spent most of my time alone. I didn’t mind. I liked spending time by myself. I played with dolls, colored, wrote stories, watched TV, and sang along to the radio. Fast forward to today and I still love alone time. But, after a couple of days, I crave connection.

I crave real connection, the kind that goes deep fast.

I know tons of people; I have for decades. But, I’ve never been the person that has this one inner circle of deep friendships. I tend to float between friend groups. Again, I don’t mind, mostly. I love how God has made me a bridge and a connector of people. But sometimes it leaves me feeling a bit untethered. All of the bouncing between circles can keep those friendships shallow or just beneath the surface. It also doesn’t allow for vulnerability.

That’s it. That’s what I’ve been missing.

I know vulnerability has been a trendy buzzword in the world. There are books written about it. There are podcasts recorded about it. It’s because we need it. We were literally created to live lives of vulnerability. Prior to sin entering the world, Adam and Eve lived in the garden, in God’s presence, naked and unashamed. That is as vulnerable as it gets. I am desperate to live that way with God and with others. But, I don’t. We don’t. At least, not as often or as much as we’d like.

Sadly, this has led to my life feeling extremely closed off and distant from those who should be my nearest and dearest. No one really knows me fully and deeply. I am not as transparent with God for fear that His unconditional love will suddenly find a condition for withdrawing it. Then, I am not as authentic with those around me for worry of losing control of their perception of me.

Why is that? What else hinders us from living truly vulnerable lives? For me, there’s a mix of reasons. The list seems long, but at the top is fear of rejection and fear of truly being misunderstood. Then there’s my favorite, not being loved. I’m sure many  of you share these same fears. Even though I’ve learned to name them, it’s a constant battle to fight them.

But I don’t have to fight it completely alone. You don’t either. It is our responsibility to cast down those lies and renew our minds with God’s Word (see John 8:31-32, 44). Then, we are told to carry each others’ burdens. Those burdens can be our sins, strongholds, heavy weights, or the web of lies that we’ve been believing.  Revealing and bearing those burdens is no easy feat, but it’s how we create safe spaces for vulnerability. It’s how we obey the way God designed us to live with Him and in community.

Then, we read in James 5:16 that we are to confess our sins and pray for one another. This leads to our healing. The verses before are speaking of praying for physical healing. Along with that, our mental, emotional and spiritual healing is just as important and needed.

At my church, my pastor is a huge proponent of the congregation moving in the gifts of the Spirit that are mentioned in 1 Corinthians 12. The Holy Spirit is welcomed to move as He pleases. The altars are always open. The Body moves around freely. People are healed. People are delivered. Words of prophecy and words of knowledge are spoken. Miracles, signs and wonders are present. His goodness and mercy follow us wherever we go.

Church has become one of the most vulnerable places in my life over the past four years. It is a tender thing to watch and participate in sharing a need, asking for prayer, and allowing the Body to surround you, lay hands on you, and believe in unity for a move of God. I have tangibly tasted and seen the goodness of our God.

That is what a life of vulnerability looks like: unhindered, free, whole, and full of love.

Vulnerability is for our good and the Lord knows it. Our deep desire to know and be fully known by God and the Body of Christ is God-given! Showing up with vulnerability is how we walk as followers of Christ and how we can show love and receive love. It is how we build a rich and beautiful history of trust and intimacy with God and others.

Vulnerability comes at a cost. It will cost you your pride, fear, comfort, and expectations. But, the pay off has been one the sweetest gifts I have ever experienced.

I’d love for you to share about your struggles or wins with vulnerability!

 

Listen to today’s article at the player below or wherever you stream podcasts.

Miracle Chickens and a Reminder of God’s Presence

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It was a cool October night in 1986 when my mom suddenly bolted upright from a dead sleep and walked over to her bedroom window. Looking out, she saw a fierce orange glow dancing on the neighbor’s roof. Fire! Only, it wasn’t our neighbor’s property that was ablaze. It was ours.

By the time my mom woke up me and my sisters and rushed us down the stairs and out of the house, my dad was already in the driveway futilely fighting the roaring flames with a green garden hose. Our garage was consumed and the back of the house soon would be too.

The next day, after the fire had been extinguished and all that remained were black piles of ash, we carefully made our way through the debris and over to the back corner of the yard. My young heart was thankful that our family was safe. (And thankful that my mom responded to my middle-of-the-night wails and had ran back into the burning house to rescue my favorite stuffed monkey.) But now I was terrified that our five chickens were not as lucky.

I looked up at the soot covered electrical pole that towered behind the chicken coop. How could anything have survived?

My mom scooped up one of the Road Island Red hens and began to stroke its auburn feathers.

“Is she… is she dead?” I asked.

Without saying a word, my mom continued to pet the hen. After moments that felt like hours, the chicken started to cluck.

“No, she’s not dead! I don’t think any of them are dead. They’re just frozen in shock.”

One by one, my mom held and patted each beloved bird back to life.

Over the years, I’ve thought back to that scary night and the difficult season that followed. I’ve thought about God’s grace in waking up my mom and protecting our very lives. I’ve thought about God’s kindness in providing the rental house we moved into and even the craft store Christmas ornaments we painted that year because all our cherished decorations were lost in the fire.

But the miracle that comes to mind most often is how God chose to save our chickens.

The heat and smoke alone should have been enough to snuff out their lives. The fences showed evidence that the fire licked its way around the entire perimeter of our yard. And yet the coop remained physically untouched. The chickens, however, were not unmarked by the trauma. They were like five feathered statues frozen in place. It wasn’t until my mom came into their space and reassured them with her presence and touch that they were able to re-engage with life. It’s a story that mirrors our lives in many ways.

Have you ever felt spiritually stuck? Mentally or emotionally frozen, unable to move forward because of pain, grief, or trauma? I know I have. It’s in those very seasons of turmoil and overwhelm when God’s presence can help us find our way back to life.

When my dad died suddenly at the age of 59, I felt paralyzed by the shock and uncertain of how to process my grief in the throes of mothering a toddler and baby. But God was there. He was present in the friend who hugged me when I dropped my boys off at her house so I could have a little space. He was there when I drove my minivan around the block and parked on a random street, turned on worship music, and just cried. In that season, I experienced the truth of this promise: “The Lord is near the brokenhearted; he saves those crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18, CSB).

My sorrow didn’t immediately subside, but I learned that I could still move through life because God was mindful of my broken heart and He was near.

When my clinical anxiety disorder flares, I can easily feel stuck in the mental cycles of overwhelm. When my body floods with extra adrenaline and my mind won’t stop racing and sadness surges, I too become like a statue — cemented in by feelings that seem impossible to fully name or change. Like the hens who made it through the fire, I need someone to come alongside me too and offer the assurance of their presence. My sons do this in their gentle boyish ways, bringing me tissues and wiping my tears. My husband wraps me in a hug when I have no words. And I imagine Jesus petting my hair as I fall asleep for an afternoon nap.

Isaiah 40:11 tells us that “He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young.” God doesn’t expect us to navigate our trauma or move forward in our weakness alone. He draws near to us. He isn’t scared of our brokenness, our messiness, or how stuck we may seem. He delights in picking us up and carrying us.

Flames will come. They may destroy property, mar relationships, and even scar our hope. But God. But God is still writing our story. And the plot line always gets better as we look for how Jesus is stepping into our ashes and creating something beautiful.

Need more encouragement for when you’re feeling stuck? Follow Becky on Instagram for her video series, A Verse a Day for the Anxious Soul.

 

Listen to today’s article at the player below or wherever you stream podcasts.

For When It’s Hard to Wait and Trust

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Out of the depths I cry to you, Lord;
    Lord, hear my voice.
Let your ears be attentive
    to my cry for mercy.

If you, Lord, kept a record of sins,
    Lord, who could stand?
But with you there is forgiveness,
    so that we can, with reverence, serve you.

I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits,
    and in his word I put my hope.
 I wait for the Lord
    more than watchmen wait for the morning,
    more than watchmen wait for the morning.

Israel, put your hope in the Lord,
    for with the Lord is unfailing love
    and with him is full redemption.
He himself will redeem Israel
    from all their sins.
Psalm 130 (NIV)

If you are in a season of waiting, if you are crying out to God wondering if He sees you, hears you, will rescue you — the answer is YES! God has already saved you from the shackles of your sin and permanent separation from Him; how much more then, will He save you from whatever predicament currently entangles you?

Now, this doesn’t mean that your circumstances will immediately change, but it does mean that true hope and the unfailing love of God will meet you right where you are.

Where in your life do you need to watch for God’s goodness? Where do you need to stop putting your hope in people, possessions, or positions, and start putting your hope in God’s Word?

Lean in to Him today, sisters. God is so worthy of our trust.

 

Finding Peace When Our World Is Out of Control

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He reached down from on high and took hold of me; he drew me out of deep waters. He rescued me from my powerful enemy, from my foes, who were too strong for me. They confronted me in the day of my disaster, but the Lord was my support. He brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me.
Psalm 18:16–19 (NIV)

We welcome 2020 as we usually do for New Year’s Day — a lunch-to-dinner gathering at the grandparents’ house. Seventeen of us pack into their two-bedroom retirement home, and the air is abuzz and fragrant. Great-grandchildren find trinkets around the house to play with, their energy too high for any of the adults to handle. The moms and aunts busy themselves with the cooking and make sure everyone has a preview bite of what’s to come. The dads and uncles chat and keep the grandparents company.

It’s a typical beginning to the year, and in our bliss, we are unaware of what is to come.

By February, we hear murmurs of COVID-19 spreading around the world, but we feel untouchable in the US, safe and at peace while the world scrambles. But by March, we’re on lockdown. Fear binds us up in stress and anxiety, and we watch how sorely unprepared we are as a nation to deal with the many, many people who get sick from the disease and who die from it. Hospitals set up makeshift tents to care for patients, and morgues fill up too quickly. Mortuaries and cemeteries are backed up, and those who grieve must wait longer to bury their dead. There is just no more room.

Our kids stop going to school and start distance learning. They are disoriented and grieve alongside us, and we don’t have any answers for all their questions.

By April, we start to hear about friends of friends getting sick, and soon enough it hits our church community. Every day our kids pray, “God, please make coronavirus go away,” and we respond with amens, hoping it really does disappear, though the panic sets in.

I start to feel unsafe going out to get gas or to Costco after hearing about an Asian American family whose faces were slashed inside a Sam’s Club in Texas. They were being blamed for the virus because of their ethnicity. Anti-­Asian racism continues to rise, and I’m afraid for my children, for my husband, and for myself anytime we have to leave the house.

In May, George Floyd is murdered at the hands of police officers, and the world can see how racism is alive and well in our country. He is only one of many Black men and women whose names become a cry for justice. There is no peace when there is no justice, and I search the Psalms for words to pray against the powers that keep systems of oppression in place. I ask God to bring down the wicked, to intervene.

All the while, work doesn’t slow down and deadlines loom over me like dark clouds that threaten to drown me if I don’t meet them. The problem is I’m already drowning, and still there is more pain to come. Peace now feels like a distant dream that won’t come true.

In June, our grandpa passes away, and in July, a church member dies of COVID-19. No more, I beg God. Please, please just make it all stop.

The waters are too deep, the waves too strong. Everything is pushing me further down. When I pause for a moment and take in all that has transpired, I notice my breaths become shallow. My chest tightens. I become overwhelmed by all the heartache.

What is peace at a time like this? I wrestle with my reality, and deep down I know that true peace can be found even now — but only when I’m tethered to God. He is the one steady Person I can fully rely on and the One who understands the anguish of humanity. He knows what it feels like to lose loved ones to death, to be surrounded by people who come after your humanity, and to be betrayed in friendship. He overcame death and was raised to life with a glorified body that still bears His scars.

If He bore it all, surely the peace He offers is real because He embodies it in Himself. I ask God for space to breathe, and He brings to mind my favorite image of peace: a vast meadow where a breeze makes the tall grass sway. I imagine myself standing in the middle of it and take deep breaths. His presence is peace. The Holy Spirit soothes and comforts my soul, and I find my footing again.

God of Peace, I need You. I have no control over what’s happening in my life, and I’m overwhelmed by it all. Only You can help me stay grounded. Holy Spirit, anchor me to Yourself and steady me. In Jesus’s name, amen.

This article was written by Grace P. Cho, as published in Empowered: More of Him for All of You.

Empowered: More of Him for All of You, by Mary Carver, Grace P. Cho, and Anna E. Rendell is designed to incorporate the five major components of our being — physical, mental, emotional, relational, and spiritual. The sixty Scripture passages and devotions invite you to see from different angles how God empowers us, and each day ends with prayer and reflection questions to deepen the learning. Grab a copy now. We pray it blesses you.

For When You Wonder if God Is Really with You

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I’m a thrifter. I get a thrill from attending auctions and perusing estate sales, running my hands over something old and dreaming of a way to make it new. My husband would probably tell you I collect old junk, but that’s beside the point.

I once came home with a 1960s telescope. I know nothing about astronomy, but I love stargazing. The telescope was in pieces, but it seemed like all the parts were there, rumbling around in the old taped-together box. I lugged it into our minivan and brought the musty treasure into our home to the delight of my children and my husband Jonny’s chagrin.

Jonny’s motto is “you bought it; you set it up” when I come home with thrift store treasures. Too proud to ask for his help, I enlisted my 11-year-old son to help me piece together the giant, multi-lens telescope. I tried to find a manual online but only found some intense (and confusing) message boards from the late ’90s.

Our new telescope came with a menagerie of lenses, which neither mother nor son quite understood what to do with. But we made it work, cobbling pieces together with a screwdriver and a prayer. We were proud of our real-life telescope, likely manufactured in the heat of the space race to the moon. It didn’t seem to matter that we couldn’t make heads or tails of the lenses.

A lunar eclipse was coming, and we went to bed pleased with ourselves, visions of shooting stars dancing in our heads. (I know Jonny did some late-night refiguring of our haphazard construction, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Our sons buzzed with the excitement of getting to wake up in the middle of the night to see the moon show its splendor. Soon, I was rubbing the sleep out of my eye and fumbling for my glasses as two little boys tumbled from their beds with anticipation, slipping puffy coats over their pajamas. My husband and I followed suit, adventurers in the night, ready to embark on a space mission. Our footsteps echoed down the stairs, and our dogs followed at our heels, confused at the commotion that woke them from their slumber.

We pulled the vintage telescope through the door and back out into the wild. Shadows danced, and our breath made clouds as we set up in the driveway, hoping to see something bright and beautiful cut through the darkness.

Then, there it was: the moon, big and bold, a reminder that the One who hung the stars was keeping watch over our neighborhood, over us.

“It’s amazing!”

“I’ve never seen anything like it!”

The novelty of the telescope had us crouching down and squinting our eyes. My knees popped as I kneeled but I still felt wrapped in childlike wonder, in whimsy not contained by age. The kids took turns looking through the eye of the telescope. The blurry white circle felt a lot like magic. We shoved our hands in our pockets as we watched the sun that illuminates the day meet the moon that rules the night, a holy communion among the streetlights.

The truth is that the telescope didn’t help us see the moon as much as we expected.

Our decades-old, new-to-us lenses obscured the view. Everything we thought mattered didn’t matter much at all. We squinted into the telescope and adjusted the lenses, but what we saw was a bit … blurry. We found it easier to see with our eyes.

And as we looked up at the moon, I remembered that the kingdom of God is, as the Psalmist wrote, “forever like the moon, the faithful witness in the sky” (Psalm 89:37 NIV).

God’s ever-present grace is like the swirl of the galaxies around us. We may not be able to see it – or even fathom it – but it is with us.

Sometimes we just need a shift in perspective. We can focus so much on having the right set of circumstances (or right telescopes) that we miss the glory all around us.

How often have you fallen into that if, then thinking? Maybe you’ve found yourself thinking something along the lines of, “If I just read my Bible more, then maybe I would see God’s presence in my life,” or “If I just prayed more, then maybe my circumstances would be better.”

The truth is that while Scripture reading and prayer can be a resource, the Kingdom of God is all around you, forever like the moon. The daylight might obscure your vision from the moon, but that doesn’t mean the moon isn’t there. You can trust that God loves you deeply, and doesn’t leave you, even when you feel most alone. You don’t need to have religious-sounding words to pray or a five-step Bible-reading program to bask in that belovedness.

In the moments when you are most overwhelmed and you wonder if God’s goodness can really be trusted, take a look at the night sky, marvel at a photo of the universe, or close your eyes and imagine the stars lighting up all around you. Embrace the wonder of a child being woken up in the middle of the night to catch a glimpse of God’s handiwork illuminating the darkness of night.

Then, reflect on Isaiah 40:26, which invites you to:

“Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens:
    Who created all these?
He who brings out the starry host one by one
    and calls forth each of them by name.
Because of his great power and mighty strength,
    not one of them is missing.”

May the stars remind you that even when you feel most alone, you are not missing to God. The Maker of the heavens and the earth calls you beloved. The presence of Christ says you are worth finding. The grace of God says the Maker of the stars delights in you.

The truth is that the One who set every star in the sky loves you.

The mysterious grace of God says you can set aside all the telescopes you think you need to be loved. God’s presence doesn’t require you to have anything special or do anything spectacular. Just as God breathed galaxies into existence, God knit you together in the womb. And just as the moon and the stars are ever-present — and yet sometimes unseen — we can trust that Jesus is with us, always.

How is the Maker of all things present in your real life, right here, right now?

As you reflect on that question, take a minute to simply breathe. As you deeply inhale and slowly exhale, marvel over God’s glorious love and gracious mercy that will never leave you or forsake you.

 

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