Do You Have an Ache Today?

Do You Have an Ache Today?

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My back upper tooth, the second primary molar to be exact, began to throb after dinner a few weeks ago. It was almost a phantom pain. Here one minute and gone the next. At night I began to massage it with my tongue. This can’t be anything, I told myself. It will go away in the morning. I’ll eat softer food and floss more. It’s nothing. I decided that it couldn’t be a problem because this tooth pain had already been resolved. In 2019 I went in for a root canal and I haven’t had any pain since then. Well, until a few weeks ago.

I pushed back any notion that there was trouble and went about my life until I couldn’t ignore or avoid the pain any longer. I called the dentist. Immediately, I was referred to an endodontist (root canal specialist). I walked in and the receptionist said, “Anjuli! It’s great to see you again.” I gave her a half smile. This isn’t a restaurant, a church, or your best friend’s house. This is a place I never want to be. A place with pointy needles, drills, and x-ray gadgets that bulge, poke, and make you want to puke is not my idea of hospitality.

But I knew this ache wasn’t normal. It wasn’t supposed to be there. 

Dr. Hollander pulled up my scans and leaned in close. He pointed at the roots of my tooth and proceeded to tell me it was infected. With the backside of his pen, he traced the space where bacteria was growing like it was treasure on a map. “There it is!” 

I reminded myself to breathe.

Anything black on an x-ray means it is open space. Open space at the root of a tooth means infection can fester, grow, and cause pain. My root canal had to be re-treated. This would be a double procedure with appointments stretching out all the way to the New Year. Merry Christmas to me. My heart sank.

I’ve come to a place in life where I don’t want to run away from pain anymore. I don’t want to pretend the throbbing in a relationship will disappear with time. I don’t want a shortcut out of hard things. I don’t want to dodge, bypass, or circumvent the way to healing. I want all the baggage and boulders piled up inside of me to be gone. I want to face the path God has for me head-on. There is something I want more than a pain-free life. I want to arrive at the end of my story having become the woman God created me to be. 

Romans 5:3-5 says,

Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.

Everything I go through leads me somewhere. Either I lean into the pain or I lean away from it. God promises me that if I move towards my ache, He will meet me with hope. Every sour note in my story cultivates my character. This character produces hope. Hope, sister. Hope. When I walk through the fire, I will discover hope. The promise isn’t relief from pain. The promise isn’t financial security. The promise isn’t reconciliation with people. The promise is — hope. I have to believe that the promise of hope is greater than the pain of my current circumstances. The alternative is true also. If I walk away from pain, despair will be inevitable.

When I think about all the things in my life that I don’t want to deal with, it is gut-wrenching to imagine walking toward them. Like my tooth, I want to tell myself that it will be better in the morning. I can think of a million strategies to avoid my suffering. But ignoring it, flippant optimism, or numbing will lead me away from hope.

Today, sister, take an x-ray of your life and see if there are any black spaces. Are there places where infections are growing? Is there a throb in your chest you can’t quite manage? Before you move to fix the pain, lean into Jesus. A lean doesn’t require extra words or long hours of work. It requires an exhale and a sway. Open your heart to Jesus. Remember that your current circumstances are creating in you a character that will sustain you. You will become a wise woman. You will become a woman of faith. You will become someone who doesn’t have to be convinced of hope, but will be carried by it. 

 

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God’s Comfort When Troubles Don’t Stop

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It’s OK. It’s not that bad.
It is so much worse for other people.
Everyone has bad stuff happen.
Everyone is counting on me. Suck it up and push through.

These are the phrases I’ve told myself over and over for the past eighteen months.

I won’t bore you with a long list of the big and small things that have happened to us over the past year and a half, but let me just say that being woken up by a tree falling on the roof smack dab in between where my husband and I were sleeping rates about a 4 on the 1 to 10 “Are you kidding?” scale.

I kept working, kept plugging along. I was behind on everything because I would sit down to work or look at my long list of things that needed to be checked off and freeze.

I’d tell myself:

“Just do the next thing!”
“Stop being so lazy.”
“You have a deadline. Just do something.”

And when I would try, in my own careful way, to explain to a group of people I was working with that life has been especially hard over the past year and a half, the response I got was, “Life has been hard for everyone.”

Yep. I agree.

But the not-so-thinly-veiled message was, “Stop complaining and suck it up.”

I finally began seeing a therapist because I had such a hard time functioning. I  couldn’t be creative or concentrate, and I didn’t want to hang out with anyone else besides my husband and my dog.

My therapist asked some initial questions, and I responded with “Yeah, this thing happened, but it’s not a big deal.” Or, “Yeah, it was hard for me, but other people have had it so much worse—”

She finally stopped me and asked, “Have you heard of compound trauma?”

I hadn’t. She went on to explain. “Yes, any one of those things on their own may not have sunk you. And you could have recovered. But what it sounds like is that life has been unrelenting, and each of these traumas — and that’s what they are, traumas — has left you without the ability to recover.”

And as soon as I heard this, I, a dedicated non-crier, broke down in a flood of tears.

Yes, other people have had horrible things that have happened to them. And I will mourn with them.

But the magnitude of someone else’s suffering does not lessen my suffering. And until I allow myself to grieve, I cannot recover.

So many of us, especially over the past three years, have been through surprisingly hard things. It doesn’t matter if other people are tougher than you. It doesn’t matter if your friend or your neighbor could handle circumstances better than you could.

We must stop trying to tough it out.

God has made it clear that in order to be there for others, we must allow God to comfort us.

2 Corinthians 1:3–4 (ESV) says, “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”

God’s comfort comes in some surprising, and unexpected ways.

Pay attention to the words from your most tender-hearted friends. My friend Grace, when knowing I was struggling with my young dog’s terminal illness, passed on some wisdom. “My vet told me to tell myself, ‘Yes, they are going to pass. But not today. Today is a good day and we are going to be thankful for the good day today.’”

God comforts us through others who are going through similar circumstances. Thank God for Facebook support groups that have helped me with everything from dealing with my dog’s illness to reassuring me that I can have a safe place to ask questions after a car accident.

God comforts us through other people’s creative acts of kindness. Last week a group of friends sent some snacks (for us and our dog Moose), cards and letters, and a few toys for our animals to play with. A talented friend mailed me a card with a painting of our chicken, Bullwinkle, who had passed away. Recently, an old friend of my mother-in-law posted a picture of Roger’s mom on Facebook. We’d lost Betty last year and the picture was a comfort to Roger as his long grief continues.

Through the Word, prayers, and the love of the people God has surrounded us with, we feel His comfort.

While I and others cannot always be trusted to handle my hurt, God does not judge me for not being tough enough to go it alone. He calls Himself the God of all comfort and He proves that over and over again.

Need extra encouragement when it comes to getting your daily list done? Join Kathi and her team over at their Facebook group Clutter Free Academy for instruction and daily, gentle encouragement.

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Don’t Forget to Remember

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For many years now, I’ve asked myself the same nine questions as one year turns into the next. You’ve likely seen a similar “end of the year questions” list, and I can’t help but laugh at myself as I reflect on these questions in August as the store aisles fill with back-to-school supplies. The thing is, this year, one question stretched beyond a winter day of reflection and stayed with me through the seasons: What’s one piece of advice you want your future self to carry into the next year?

In years past, I twiddled my thumbs while thinking over the last twelve months. This time, I immediately began writing down my answer:

Rest. Turn everything off and be unreachable. Don’t wait until it’s convenient (that literally never happens) or until your body forces you to stop. Slow down before you break down. You don’t have to hold it all together or do all the things for all the people. You can just . . . be. After two intense years of long work days, to say nothing of a Global Situation and the grief of losing loved ones, you’ve got to pause and catch your breath. Fill up what has been poured out. It’s time to rest.

Honestly, I’m more comfortable running and doing, listening or creating, checking things off a list or showing up for my people. Resting feels unnatural, and even when I slow down for a moment, “I could be doing XYZ right now” begins running through my mind. It takes intentional effort to turn off the internal clock, to quiet the mental checklist, to ignore the “shoulds” and stop, breathe, and simply be.

That moment of reflection on December 29th was a smoke detector going off, a warning that if nothing changed, there would soon be a fire.

I could feel the heat in the dead of winter. I was running on fumes, but there it was, a giant stop sign on the side of the road, a gentle invitation to slow down and accept the daily grace so lovingly offered. I said yes, not knowing I’d spend most of January sick, February-April struggling with chronic insomnia more than ever before, and May-August physically weaker and wearier than ever before. It’s not lost on me that my last (in)courage article talks about a lack of sleep and a deep, decades-long desire for physical rest. And I believe it wasn’t lost on God that December day, that He already knew everything these days would hold.

The smoke detector went off and the siren sounded: Grace, grace, grace. Rest, rest, rest. Trust, trust, trust.

Perhaps, like me, you grew up knowing the Ten Commandments. Did you read or hear the words in Exodus 20 and mentally add “keep the Sabbath” to your to-do list as one more thing you’re responsible for instead of a gift to receive? If so, I have to tell you what I discovered when I began studying this commandment, knowing it was past time to take rest as seriously as God does.

The first word of the commandment isn’t keep — it’s remember. Remember to rest. Remember that the weight of the world is in God’s hands, not on our shoulders. Remember to slow down. Remember to stop. In other words, don’t forget to remember. It’s as if God knew we’d need a reminder to slow down, that if left to our own devices, our own timetables, we’d fill our calendars and keep our hands busy until we hit a wall. And because they did and we still do, He says it in the Old Testament and in the New and in the Spirit speaking gently within us today.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you,” Jesus says in Matthew 11, “and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

It was never “come to Me, all you who have it together.” It isn’t “come to Me after you’ve done XYZ and achieved 123.” It’s simply — come. Weak, weary, frustrated, confused, angry, exhausted, grieving, doubting. Every bit of you is welcome. Just come to Me, come home, and lay your burdens down.

Like manna arriving each morning for the Israelites who first heard “remember the Sabbath” while in the wilderness, the invitation arrives for us each day. I picture it like a note, folded and passed along, with boxes to check: Will you? Yes, no, maybe.

There will always be more to do, and certainly there are seasons in which we’re to run hard. But rest isn’t a sign that you’re weak; it’s trusting that the tending of your soul matters more than the completing of a task. Rest isn’t a sign that you’ve given up; rest is accepting the gift that has already been given. Rest is an active decision, an intentional choice to slow down and say that although it might feel like the weight of the world is on your shoulders, you’re choosing to trust that it’s truly in God’s hands.

“Come to Me,” He says.

I’m coming. God, don’t let me forget to remember.

 

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Why God Calls Our Troubles Light and Momentary

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I have Bible verses I don’t like. I know I’m probably not supposed to admit that, but it’s true. There are some verses in the Bible that I just get mad at God for including. That’s not to say I don’t believe them, mind you. The entirety of God’s Word is active, alive, inspired, and for our good. I know that. But, man, some of the things God says are hard pills to swallow.

One of the verses in Scripture that trips me up time and again is 2 Corinthians 4:17. It states, “For our momentary light affliction is producing for us an absolutely incomparable eternal weight of glory” (CSB). I’ve never liked the fact that God tells us that our struggles are “momentary and light.” Sometimes, I start having these internal monologues with myself, like, God, if you only knew what I’ve gone through, you wouldn’t call it light.

Have you ever felt that way?

I remember when my sister had double kidney failure and almost died. I was in college at the time, and I could barely function. How could I focus on classes when my sister was fighting for her life in a hospital bed? That didn’t feel like a light and momentary trouble. Around that same time, some of my closest friendships fell apart. I felt alone, helpless, and unloved.

I remember sitting in chapel and listening to a sermon around that time about 2 Corinthians 4:17, and I almost wanted to scream at the speaker. How dare they tell me that what I was going through was momentary? Whenever we go through the trials of life — be it sickness, familial strife, relational heartache, the loss of a job, you name it — it feels like the greatest weight in the world. At that moment, I felt like I was being told that the pains in my life didn’t mean anything.

Some of us have walked through hell. Our bodies are failing us. Some of us have lost loved ones. We’ve been wounded by people in our inner circles. Our mental health is struggling. The pandemic has turned our lives upside down. Many of us have had our hearts metaphorically ripped out and now we’re forced to keep going through each day with open holes in our chests. None of what we’re going through is light. Pain is paralyzing. Heartache and grief can ruin us.

What I’m learning, however, is that God doesn’t scoff at my pain. In fact, as I’ve gotten older and experienced more hardships, I’ve realized that 2 Corinthians 4:17 isn’t about minimizing our sufferings at all.

God isn’t telling me that my struggles don’t matter. He’s giving me a promise that one day my pain will end. In fact, He’s telling us that even the worst imaginable suffering on earth will be nothing compared to the “eternal weight of glory.”

2 Corinthians 4:17 is about perspective. When we experience unimaginable grief, our Abba Father lifts our chin so that we can look up, not out. He whispers in our ear, “Persevere, my child. I’m here. Something better is coming.” In fact, the following verse drives this home: “So we do not focus on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal” (2 Corinthians 4:18). We must endure grief and hardship with eternity in our sight. When life feels stifled in the crippling hands of suffering, our hearts and minds must never lose hope. Our lives are not meaningless, and God is still faithful.

Beloved, I know this might not mean much now, but know this: everything in life is temporary, including our pain. God won’t always take away our pain, but He does promise to be our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble (Psalm 46:1). We can’t quit. We must persevere, because God is guiding us into a glorious future where no tear will ever be shed again. Rest in that promise. This world is not our final home. A day is coming when joy will be ours and no one and nothing can ever take it away again.

 

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For the One Who Feels on the Outside Looking In

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The moment I see the image, the bottom drops out from a place deep inside me. Five friends smile back, only one is missing — me. I too was there that day. I too sat drinking coffee on the patio, laughing and talking about life and writing. But somehow, I did not make the picture.  

Maybe I was in the bathroom. I console myself. Perhaps the picture with me was blurry and not worth posting. They were not intending to hurt me. 

All of it is true. But no matter how hard I try to rationalize the fact I am missing, the feeling of being left out surfaces like an all-too-familiar grief. Belonging has not come easily. My heart bears the scars of a thousand paper cuts, most of them unintended and yet they sting. The wounds remain tender, and as much I wish I were not so sensitive to feeling on the outside, I cannot ignore the ache inside me. The desire for connection is in my veins.  

A few months ago, I told a friend of my tendency to feel left out or left behind. Tenderly, she observed, “It’s like you’re standing on a sidewalk outside a restaurant. You can see your friends sitting at a booth right next to the window, drinking coffee and laughing, while you look on through the glass. You are close, and yet not quite.”  

As she spoke, the same old ache welled up within me, as if it had been waiting and watching for its cue. Tears blurred my vision as thirty-something years of clunky relationships passed through my mind. I was that woman on the sidewalk, the one wanting to be on the other side of the glass but unsure how to get there. I was the one doing all she could to fit in, but questioning if she really belonged. And despite how much I have learned about connection, pieces of that woman remain, haunting me. 

Scarcity loves to lurk in the corners of the mind, whispering through gritted teeth, 

You are the odd person out.
You are the outlier, the wallflower, the one-off who can’t figure out how to have friends.
Your desire is nothing more than a flimsy dream. 

Looking at the picture of my friends, I once again shirk and shrink back, wondering if I am doomed to a life looking through the glass. Because in that window, I don’t just see longing; I see lack. A picture of everything I am not. Standing there, I wonder: Am I the outlier? Does everyone else intuitively know how to navigate the relational waters? Because paddle as I may, all I seem to do is spin in circles, which leads me to conclude the problem is in me. Or worse, the problem is me. 

Longing without the light of hope bends toward despair, but longing in and of itself is not a deficit. Desires are signposts, avenues into something good. We do not want without reason, which leads me to question: What if I am looking at my desire to belong all wrong? What if what I perceive as void is vastness — a divine welcoming into so much more? 

Maybe the window is not a reminder of our lack, but a way to see the longing.  

That’s the funny thing about windows and other things made of glass, isn’t it? While on one hand they allow us to peek at what is on the other side, they also offer a reflection, a way to see ourselves a little more clearly. Windows reveal what we so often ignore. Perhaps what we need, instead of moving on by, is to gaze at what we see a little longer. 

Holding my phone, the picture staring back at me, I pause. I look a little longer at the screen, and as I pay attention to the pain that wells up, I speak my longing out loud. I let the words pass through my lips like a prayer: 

I want to belong.
I want to feel safe and seen.
I want to be known.
I want to be wanted. 

I say the words over and over, knowing my desire does not fall on deaf ears but into the hands of the One who wove us all together in the first place. The One who crafted us from dirt and the warmth of His breath and pulls us to His chest like a mother gathering her young. The One who saw beyond our fractured state and let His prayer echo over us for generations, “May they all be one, as you, Father, are in me and I am in you” (John 17:21 CSB). 

As I name the ache out loud, I remember this holy wanting embedded in my bones. I am not on the outside looking in; I am simply still on the way. This knowing frees me. I take a deep breath and feel my face stretch into a smile as the power lack once held over me diminishes. Grace softens my once-fragile edges enough for me to forgive, to make room for a world where I am wanted, even if I am not in the picture. There in the longing, the hollowness transforms into hope. Because what I see in the glass is no longer an outsider, but a person wrapped in the promise of more — a people of a Bigger Picture, framed in the goodness of the Father’s love. 

Instilling Hope into Your Soul

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In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was formless and empty, and darkness covered the deep waters. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the surface of the waters.

Then God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. And God saw that the light was good. Then he separated the light from the darkness. God called the light “day” and the darkness “night.”

And evening passed and morning came, marking the first day.
Genesis 1:1-5 (NLT)

Perhaps “formless and empty” describe the season you’re in or the year you’ve had. It seems as though nothing good or generative is happening and that you’re stuck in a holding pattern. Or perhaps you can’t see past the darkness that lays heavy on you, one that you haven’t been able to shake for a while.

Then the story of creation may be what you need to hear today. When the Spirit of God hovered over the surface of the waters (water often symbolizing chaos and death in the Bible), movement happened, light came to be, and the first day began.

Creativity.
Transformation.
Hope.

Our Creator God is the same today as He was then. May His Spirit hover over you, creating beauty, breathing new life, and instilling hope into your soul.

Saying No Actually Is Being Like Jesus

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Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed. Simon and his companions went to look for him, and when they found him, they exclaimed: “Everyone is looking for you!”

Jesus replied, “Let us go somewhere else — to the nearby villages — so I can preach there also. That is why I have come.”
Mark 1:35-38 (NIV)

I wash the rice robotically as my mind zigzags between every worry and concern and my increasing to-do list. The braised beef ribs stew in the Dutch oven on the stove, and the aroma of soy sauce, garlic, onions, and ginger fills the kitchen with the smells of home.

I taste the sauce for the beef ribs, and though I’ve made this dish a dozen times before, I still get nervous when I’m making it for a new mama. I want it to be perfect — for her to experience a mother’s love when her own is far away. I was a new mom once with no family close by, so now I want to show up whenever I’m able and provide what I never had. And though my life was overflowing with obligations, I signed up for the meal train anyway.

I pour the rice into the rice cooker, use my index finger to measure the correct amount of water, and I’m amused that somehow it’s accurate every single time. I press the cook button to get it going, and as I turn my attention to the next dish I’ve promised to make, my phone buzzes. I miss the call just as I reach for it and see that a friend has called me twice already.

It must be an emergency. Why else would she be calling me so many times?

I dial her number, and every possible scenario flashes through my head while I wait for her to answer.

“Hi!”

Her chipper greeting dispels all worries, but before I can tell her that I’m busy, she chatters on about her day, how it’s been at work lately, her complaints about this and that person, and how exhausted she’s been. I watch the minutes pass as I try to stir and juggle the phone and make sure I’m on schedule to get the meal delivered to the new mama on time. I don’t know how to get off the phone without seeming rude, so I say nothing but the occasional “yeah” to let her know I’m still listening.

By the time dinner is dropped off and I’m driving home in the quiet of my car, I realize how spent I am. I can feel the whining coming up through my heart to my mind, annoyed at no one specific but taking it out on the slow driver in front of me and . . . myself.

I’ve passed my limit of pouring out, and I knew it was coming. I probably even knew it when I first signed up to provide a meal, but I have such a hard time saying no. I don’t want to be thought of as unfriendly or as someone who doesn’t show up. I want people to know that I’m trustworthy and dependable, that I see them and can carry their burdens with them. The problem is that I want to do that for everyone. It seems like the thing Jesus would’ve done — isn’t He the one who sacrificed it all for us?

But when I look closely at His life, I see that He didn’t do everything for everyone. He wasn’t always available. He made choices, saying yes to some and no to many. In Mark 1:35-38, Jesus’s disciples find Him and exclaim, “Everyone is looking for you!” People are clamoring for Him to heal them and to cast demons out of their loved ones. Everyone needs and wants something from Jesus.

But Jesus responds by saying, “Let’s go somewhere else.” He knows not only His purpose but also His capacity.

He demonstrates this so many times in His life, establishing boundaries with unhealthy people, setting new standards for unsustainable patterns, and upending unjust practices. He retreats to solitary places to pray (Mark 1:35-38). He takes His time and rests when needed, even in the midst of a storm (Mark 4:35-41). He overturns tables in the temple — a hard no to those exploiting the poor (John 2:13-16).

Saying no actually is being like Jesus. He knew the wisdom of setting boundaries, and He empowers us to do the same. When we are being pulled in every direction, we can say yes to His purpose within our capacity.

Lord, You don’t require us to do all the things all the time. Help me not to get the needs of others confused with what You’re asking me to do. Give me the courage and ability to say no, to establish boundaries with those who often cross them, and to see my limitedness as a good thing and not a selfish thing. Amen.

Reflect:

  • In what areas of your life do you need to build healthy boundaries?
  • What’s one no you’re going to say today?
This article was written by Grace P. Cho, as published in Empowered: More of Him for All of You.

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A Lesson from Two Sick Pigs, A Herd of Hogs, and a Divine Farmer Named Jesus

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I live on a fifth-generation family farm in Iowa, and it never ceases to amaze me how farm life offers a metaphorical window into the human experience.

In particular, I’ve been in awe over how the gospel comes to life when I walk around our land. It seems that Jesus is whispering a message in every field and every barn. He made a habit of doing that sort of thing during His earthly teaching ministry. Jesus, whose audience came from a highly agrarian culture, often drew lessons from the land. He spoke of vineyards, seeds, weeds, soil, fields, and farm animals, such as sheep and hens.

Two millennia later, I hear the whispers of a Divine Farmer in a place that feels both beautifully messy and unexpectedly sacred: the pig pen.

Picture the scene, as if you were standing next to me, by the barn, tucked between Iowa fields of corn and soybeans.

When baby pigs arrive on the farm, they show up in the most ridiculously charming way – chauffered inside an old school bus retrofitted for this purpose. The bus driver backs up to the barn, opens the rear fire exit of the bus, and whoosh! A pink streak of squealing swine streams straight into their new home.

And while I try to provide some assistance for my husband, I mostly just coo at those roly-poly piggies and attempt to pick them up for cuddle time and selfies. (Hi, I’m weird.)

Baby pigs really are the cutest. But do you want to know what’s less cute? Baby pigs that get sick.

A few weeks after the recent batch of pigs came to the farm, two of them became quite ill. My husband knew they were sick because every time he walked into the barn, they were laying around, refusing to eat or drink. So he put them in a sort of “sick bay,” an empty pen reserved especially for pigs recovering from illness. (I call it the Hogs-pital.) There, he nursed those little pigs back to health.

Many weeks later, I went into the barn with Scott, and the same two pigs were still in the Hogs-pital. I couldn’t understand why. The pigs had fully recovered. They were eating and drinking normally, just like all the pigs in the regular pens.

But Scott hadn’t put them back with the rest of the population.

I asked him about it, and here’s what he told me:

Those two pigs would get hassled and picked on by the pigs who didn’t get sick. (Yes, even pigs can be bullies.) Turns out, there’s a hierarchy and dominance built into the herd in which the most powerful are safest of all. Because of this, those two pigs would have to remain isolated for the rest of their lives, separated from community, to protect them from abuse.

Looking at those pigs, I thought of how it can feel that same way for a lot of us who have been shunned, disregarded, and set aside because of some struggle we’ve endured.

Maybe you’ve been set aside for an addiction, a personality quirk, a decision that others disagreed with. Maybe you’ve been disregarded for no other reason than a community structure that worked hard to protect the powerful. Or maybe you’ve been disregarded because of the chronic pain you carry or an illness that is your constant companion. You feel like a burden every time you try to re-enter places where you were once accepted with open arms, back when you seemed healthy and happy.

Maybe you know someone like that. Maybe that someone is you. And today, you are feeling on the outside of community.

I’ve felt that way — not only as a child, but as a grown woman.

But One Person who has never made me feel that way is the Divine Farmer. Jesus never waits for people to get pulled-together enough, healthy enough, cleaned-up enough before entering into relationship with them. Instead, the Bible reveals a Savior who went out of His way to hang out with outcasts, the sick, the marginalized, and the broken.

Jesus once said, “People who are well do not need a doctor, but only those who are sick. I have not come to call respectable people, but outcasts” (Mark 2:17 GNT).

As someone who has felt the sting of rejection, I am soothed by a Savior who sits by my side, messy and unrespectable as my private “pen” might be.

If you are feeling discarded, unwelcome, and forgotten today, may you find that you belong with Jesus. He is with you, even in this.

And for the rest of us, those standing securely in a safe community, may we be the ones who open our arms. May we be the people who widen our circles.

And also, may we be the ones who stay keenly aware of the health of the communities in which we dwell. Do our communities invite people in, or shut people out? Do our communities embrace the so-called outcasts, or wait until they clean up? Do our communities protect power structures, or create safe places for vulnerable people? Where do we need to root out herd mentality?

We would all do well to welcome the vulnerable ones to our tables, not only because it’s what people of integrity do, but also because, one day, we might find ourselves looking around for someone who would do the same thing for us.

 

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Overcoming Regret and Why It’s Important to Your Joy

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Do you carry feelings of regret?  Regret can be damaging; it might not appear so on the outside, because we can still be functioning, going to church, and getting things done. But, deep in our souls, regret can be an emotional burden, affecting our ability to soak in joy.

One time, when my sons were still little, we had gone hiking and I noticed that Caleb, my younger son, was dragging his feet. Initially, I just kept telling him to catch up. “C’mon. Let’s keep going. On our walk back, I’ll give you some chocolate.” I rarely gave my kids candy, but on our hikes, I would carry snack-sized candies to motivate them. It wasn’t until we took a water break and I was close to Caleb that I noticed his backpack looked lumpy.

“What do you have in your backpack?” I asked. I discovered his backpack was very heavy.

It turns out this little boy was collecting rocks along the way and putting them in his backpack! No wonder he was so tired!

That’s what regret feels like. You know those hard things that you’ve been through and just tucked away because you figured they didn’t matter? God sees you and He cares about the regrets you carry.

What regrets are you carrying as you go through this day, this week, or this month, as we enter a new fall year?

I once thought regret didn’t harm anybody. I figured, I’m the only one who is affected by whatever it is I regret. But, on my journey to take better care of myself, God led me to learn that there are two kinds of regrets and it inspired me to see and treat my regret differently.

One kind of regret is called the action path. The other is the inaction path. The action path describes the things we regret because of something we did or mistakes we made that resulted in undesirable loss or pain. This is the type of regret that we can grow from — hard lessons learned that we gain wisdom from.

But the other kind of regret comes from inaction — researchers show that this kind of regret leads to depression, which can last for years. The inaction could have resulted from someone who stopped us, outside circumstances, or our own fears and insecurities. Regretting things that we never did, never tried, or were held back from pursuing brings sorrow and affects our emotional health.

Yet, Jesus says that He comes to give us joy and continues to fill us with joy and replenish our joy. In John 15:11, Jesus says that in Him our joy may be made full.

This doesn’t mean God wants us to squash our negative emotions. Rather, God wants us to bring our regrets to Him, so He can redeem them by helping us choose what gives us real joy. When we put feet to our faith, the bumps and mistakes we make along the way are things God will help us grow and recover from.

As I thought about some of the things I regretted not trying, a loving promise from Scripture came to my mind that is empowering me to do new things with God, to redeem regret with joy. I want to share God’s promise to empower you too:

You go before me and you follow me. You place your hand of blessing on my head.
Psalm 139:5 (NLT)

God goes before you. He knows the challenges ahead of you and nothing will catch God by surprise. God will catch you if you fall. You have a soft place to land. But notice something equally amazing: God is also behind you and God follows you! Other translations say, “You hem me in.”

Dear friends, God is not so far ahead that you are walking alone. No, in fact, Jesus is walking with you, and He is right behind you!

He is your shield. Jesus whispers, I am with you. I still place my hand of blessing upon you.

It’s never too late to choose joy. God’s faithfulness will follow you. Moment by moment. Step by step.

I hope this truth empowers you as much as it empowers me. That’s what I’ll be doing as I launch new ideas with God this fall. No regrets.

Let’s do new things together with Jesus. We are not alone. Overcome regret by redeeming it with joy. God is with you. You are God’s beloved!

Share one new thing you want to try, explore, or take a first step to choose joy this fall! Let’s encourage each other!

Download Bonnie’s FREE 7 Prayers & Scriptures to Lower Anxiety and Restore Peace by signing up here. 

 

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

 

Real Relief if You’re Jacked-up, Worn Out, and Weary

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I am forty now and things like simply sleeping can turn out to be a health hazard when you wake up and can’t move your neck! At least that’s what happened to me a couple of weeks ago. I looked like I had been in some kind of terrible accident where you wear a neck brace and have to use your whole body to turn. Except I wasn’t wearing a neck brace and hadn’t been in a terrible accident. In fact, I had slept on a silk pillowcase like a dainty flower. So, I did some stretches, I rubbed some essential oils on it, I put my back massager on the stiff area and it sort of all helped. But as time went on, it was this nagging dull pain that turned into loud pain. My husband, sick of hearing my complaints and knowing my tendency to dig my heels in and not ask for help, scheduled me an appointment with the chiropractor.

As I sat on the crinkle-papered bed, we looked at my x-rays and she told me all the ways my spine and neck were wonky. I reiterated that I just woke up one day and my back was yelling at me. She matter-of-factly responded, “Likely this has been going on a long while and when you slept in a wrong angle, it amplified the deeper issues going on. These x-rays always tell on you, and so does your body.” 

Well, that was rude, Dr. Jess.

It always feels weird when people have x-ray vision and you can’t hide behind, “I’m fine!” anymore. I wasn’t fine.

As time went on, appointment after appointment, I started to feel better. It still hurts and I have some ways to go, but I want to fix that deeper issue so I don’t have to feel this way anymore. More importantly, I don’t want it to get so bad that I can’t do the things I love to do like walking or playing with my kids or beating my neighbors at cornhole (the only sport I play).

It made me think about how far we like to go on our own without asking for help from God or how deep we can get into trouble by hiding behind “I’m okay” with friends — all while the spiritual x-rays of our life would show something different. If you’re like me, you will throw bandaids on things that need a physician’s help, care, and readjusting. And so it is with our faith, minds, and hearts. We can temporarily numb out our pain with a number of things like social media, shopping, eating, drinking, working out, etc. This is especially true after the past couple years of muddling through some very trying times! But the very things that helped us get through can sometimes turn into a big weight, making our posture hunch and inflaming our bodies down to the bone.

In Proverbs 27:19 it says: 

As in water face reflects face, so the heart of man reflects the man.

There’s just no hiding the overflow of our hearts and minds, even though we think we are doing a great job of managing or pushing away the pain.

The x-ray reflected my jacked-up back just like looking in water will show a person’s face. And because I couldn’t hide it anymore, and because I got some help in the proper place (a doctor), I could be readjusted to living in light of how I was supposed to be walking and sitting and sleeping all along. I wasn’t made to carry all this weight on my own, and neither are you. 

As believers, our remedy comes from the Great Physician. But don’t we tend to come to Him once we’re worn out, weary from trying to fix it all on our own? After exhausting all other avenues and coming up short? He knew we would do that — because we’re human. 

Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me — watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.
Matthew 11:28 (MSG)

I read this and breathe in so deeply. I picture myself handing over my huge backpack and Jesus taking it on His own back. I picture letting Him assess my injuries from walking so long with no rest. And the tender care of His touch, the relief I feel from not having to fix the hardest things in life, feels so incredibly good.

If you’re feeling heavy, maybe this will be good news for you too. He will replace your heaviness with lightness; He just can’t help Himself.

 

Listen to today’s article below or wherever you stream podcasts!

In Lament, We Hope

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I’m good at swallowing grief. I eat my own and the grief of those around me. Some days, it gets shoved down my throat faster than I can take it. Mass shootings. Unresolved hurt in relationships. The pain of leaving church and losing community. Parenting blow-ups and intergenerational trauma. Policing and silencing of voices online. The endless, messy internal work of healing. The loss of able and healthy bodies. It piles up, layer by complicated layer, and the rage, the anguish, the tears get stuck right in the deepest center of my gut.

I walk around with all of that lodged inside myself, so used to the feeling that I’m almost numb to it. Or is it that I need to keep it down so I can simply . . . live? And so I go about my life, living but holding — holding the weight, holding the tension, holding my breath.

Soon, I don’t even realize how long I’ve been holding, how much I’ve been needing to release all that’s been building up, until I’m in the presence of others who are holding it all too. In each other’s eyes, in the things left unsaid in our conversations, in the squeezing of each other’s arms, there is mutual understanding without explanation. There is comfort.

Recently, I was in a sanctuary full of women of color, some of us meeting for the first time, all of us just glad to be together, finally. It was meant to be a service, but it felt more like communion — each of us coming to the table, breaking off a piece of each other’s burdens and placing it on our tongues to absorb.

We began by reading a liturgy, written by one of our own, and the lament began. We called out injustices, acts of violence, and the names of those who had died too soon, too many at the hands of those abusing their power. We read the words loudly, even as our voices shook with tears, as a protest that it wasn’t right, it still isn’t right, and God, please come make it right.

Then we took turns leading the group, reciting poems, singing hymns, praying. Our lament filled the room, spilling beyond the walls and echoing into creation. In crying out together, the rage and anguish that was coiled tight inside me began to unravel and flow freely out. I could let down my strength and crumble — not from the weight and tension I was holding but because I didn’t have to hold it by myself, within myself, anymore. I could be weak. I could be held. I could exhale.

Lamenting was our way of declaring, “We haven’t given up hope yet. This is how we hope. This is how we keep going. And we will keep going.”

Without lament to give us breath again, we can drown in despair, overwhelmed by the brokenness we experience in and around us, anguish stuck in the depths of our being. And when we don’t know how to release it, when we can’t find our way through our grief, we need each other to lead the way — to offer us words when we don’t have any, to give us space and presence, to cry first so we can follow with our own tears.

The psalmists understood this and wrote,

Out of the depths I cry to you, Lord;
Lord, hear my voice.
Let your ears be attentive
to my cry for mercy.
Psalm 130:1-2 (NIV)

And in Psalm 37, David wrote,

Hope in the Lord
and keep his way.
He will exalt you to inherit the land;
when the wicked are destroyed, you will see it.
Psalm 37:34 (NIV)

Today, we lament for the wickedness and evil that thrive and for the healing and justice that is yet to come. We beat our chests and cry aloud, and in this we hope: One day, the wicked will be gone, justice will prevail, and we will lament no more.

—

Perhaps nowhere in Scripture do we get as full a picture of the heights and depths of the human experience as in the Psalms. The outpourings of emotion never shy away from the darkest moments of life, and yet they also point toward the light — toward the God in whom we place our hope.

Inspired by Psalm 37, Voices of Lament: Reflections on Brokenness and Hope in a World Longing for Justice is a powerful collection of reflections from Christian women of color on themes of injustice, heartache, and deep suffering. Their essays, prayers, poems, and liturgies lay bare the experiences of the oppressed even as they draw us into deeper intimacy with God and a fuller understanding of each other.

Get your copy today (and pick up a copy for a friend as well). . . and leave a comment below for a chance to WIN one of 5 copies*!

Then join Becky Keife for a conversation with author and #VoicesofLament contributor Grace P. Cho, tomorrow on Facebook and Instagram! We’ll replay their conversation on the (in)courage podcast this weekend too. Don’t miss it!

 

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*Giveaway open until 8/19/22 at 11:59pm central to US addresses only. Winners will be notified via email. Please allow 4-6 weeks for delivery.

Pop Bottle Glasses and the Gift of Spiritual Vision

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When I was five years old, my first-grade teacher sent a troubling note home to my mother. Back then, I was a shy, little, brown-skinned girl who loved wearing colorful barrettes in her hair and played kickball with the boys at recess. However, I squirmed in my chair a lot and wasn’t doing well in my classwork. My teacher, Mrs. Inama, was kind. She didn’t yell when I got the answers wrong. Eventually, she figured out my problem: I couldn’t see.

I don’t remember now what the optometrist looked like, but I remember being scared and gripping the armrests as he leaned in and shined bright lights into my eyes. Later, my little heart raced as he slid a large round metal plate in front of my eyes. There were two holes in the plate and the optometrist snapped different round chips of glass into each hole. He kept sliding the chips in and out while asking, “Which one is clearer? This one? That one?” I couldn’t always see a big difference. After the exam, he told my mom that I badly needed glasses.

A few weeks later, a nice woman in the optometrist’s office slipped a pair of large plastic frames over my nose. Once I saw the world through my new glass pop-bottle thick lenses, the fuzzy world I had been living in instantly became clearer. Not only could I see, but I could finally tell the difference between the shapes and letters. Once I could see, I fell in love with reading and never turned back!

At an early age, I learned the value of sharper vision. There’s a clarity and confidence that comes with being able to see. But our vision isn’t just physical. We need to have a clear spiritual vision as well. Today’s question: How clear is your spiritual vision?

Unfortunately, we’re all born with poor spiritual vision. As a result of sin, our past, or our individual struggles, we don’t naturally see ourselves or our world as God sees it. No matter the root cause, we experience the same result: a fuzzy, fearful, or frantic way of life that lacks God’s hope and peace.

Clear spiritual vision is seeing your circumstances, purpose, and future through God’s eternal perspective. Gaining a clear spiritual vision will get you unstuck, lead you to freedom from sin, and fuel you with eternal hope in your earthly struggles. How do you get clear spiritual vision? This is the good part! God’s clarifying tools include His love, grace, and peace.

God longs to give a clearer spiritual vision to you.

However, God’s invitation requires your courage and willingness to let Him get up close and reveal where you need His corrective expertise and power. I’ve been wearing corrective lenses my entire life. During my eye examinations, I still need to allow the optometrist to lean in close to assess my vision. The same applies to your spirituality. Even if you’ve allowed God to get close at one point in your life, you need to keep inviting Him in!

 Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you.
James 4:8 CSB

Anytime is the right time to draw near to God again! Drawing near to God isn’t just good wisdom and isn’t just for the desperate times in your faith; it’s also for the times in life when you realize that you’re looking at the good things in your life, but not looking at God. The rest of James 4:8 is a warning to those who think they can live well by splitting their spiritual lives between their own desires and God’s plan. That’s like wearing a corrective lens on one eye and not the other, which can result in a painful headache for most of us!

The beauty of drawing near to God is the promise that He will come near, bringing His peace, grace, and the clarity that you need to live confidently in Him. If life has felt confusing for you, drawing near to God isn’t like hitting a magic “fix it” button. Yet, nearness to God moves you into the flow of His peace, hope, and joy that you need to get through what you’re going through.

Just as I must make time to schedule the appointment and sit in the optometrist’s chair for the health of my physical vision, so you are invited today to create some space in your life to address your spiritual vision. That space can begin with a simple prayer adapted from Romans 12:2, which is all about God’s desire to transform you with the blessing of His very best. Pray with me today:

God, give me Your spiritual vision. It’s so hard to see what I should be thinking or doing at times. So, I‘m coming near to You. I invite You to transform my heart and mind by changing the way that I think. I want to see the world through Your hope and eternal perspective. In Jesus’ name, amen.

 

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How Paying Attention Can Lead You and Others to a Beautiful Life

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Last summer our family (my husband, Dave, our teenage son, and I) took a month-long road trip through the United States as part of Dave’s pastoral sabbatical. We made a loop from our home in Northern California through the Southwest to Kentucky and back through the Midwest, visiting family and friends and eleven national parks and monuments along the way. We ate regional foods — fresh-picked peaches from a roadside stand in Fredericksburg, Texas and deep-fried pickle chips in Memphis, Tennessee. We listened to local music — brass bands and zydeco in New Orleans and blues in Memphis.

We paid attention to ‘beauty emergencies,’ a term coined by poet Maggie Smith to describe a natural event happening now; if you don’t look up, you’ll miss it. Like a sunset shifting the Grand Canyon’s cliffs from bright orange to dusky purple. Like elk mamas and babies bugling to one another as they migrated through our campsite. Like a bald eagle swooping low over a Montana river. 

We took about a gazillion pictures that I still haven’t waded through to create a photo book. Considering I’m woefully behind in creating my son’s baby book, it may never happen. For now, the pictures remain on my phone and social media, and I flip through them occasionally to soak in the refreshment of natural beauty and joyful memories. 

One picture, in particular, is so inconsequential I would delete it except for the memory it evokes. It features ordinary, delicate wildflowers, some yellow, others pink with a ruffle of petals so pale they’re almost white, backdropped by tall green grass. The camera focused on the smallest petal tips, resulting in a photo mostly out of focus. We won’t frame and display it, and still, it’s a keeper. 

More than midway through our trip, we had stopped outside Mount Rushmore National Memorial to take a selfie with the park sign, like we had done at every national site we visited. We stretched our legs while we waited for another group to take their pictures. Just as they finished the wildflowers caught my attention, a sprinkling of colorful confetti. I snapped a quick picture of the tiny petals before we meandered over to the sign. 

We took our selfie, another giggle-eliciting photo, our son making a face as he squint-strained against the harsh sun reflecting through his eyeglasses. As we returned to our car, one of the women from the other group dashed ahead of us. Like I had done minutes earlier, she squatted down to capture a picture of the flowers. Standing straight again, she smiled timidly and remarked, “I noticed you taking pictures. Thought I’d take one, too.” 

I had noticed seemingly insignificant beauty, she noticed me noticing, and it influenced her actions. The experience became a potent reminder that others see what we do and how we live. We know that parents model behavior for their children who begin learning almost immediately after they take their first breaths. But others are watching us too. Family members, friends, neighbors, coworkers, and strangers also take note of our lives.

Without saying a word, we may attract or repel someone to us, and ultimately to God, through what we do. 

It reminds me of Paul writing to the Philippians when he urges them to  “…become blameless and pure, ‘children of God without fault in a warped and crooked generation.’ Then you will shine among them like stars in the sky as you hold firmly to the word of life” (Philippians 2:15-16 NIV). While I prefer to think of friends and neighbors not as “warped and crooked” but as God’s beloveds who may not have responded to His love yet, still I long to shine among them like the stars in the sky. Only by God’s grace am I blameless and pure while I hold firmly to the word of life. I hold firmly to the One who called Himself the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and I long for others to catch glimpses of His wonder when they look at my life. 

We spent the last night of our trip camping outside Ketchum, Idaho, where the stars shone remarkably bright. We saw stars in constellations and the swirl of galaxies. We stayed up late staring into the night sky, feeling grateful. I haven’t met anyone who doesn’t at least glance at the stars on a clear night. Noticing beauty points us to the Artist who created that beauty. God created each one of us in His beautiful image and He has given us a great big beautiful world in which to live.

I relish the task of living a beautiful life as I seek and share beauty that may lead someone to Love. 

 

We’re Here to Pray for You

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We always thank God for all of you, making mention of you constantly in our prayers. We recall, in the presence of our God and Father, your work produced by faith, your labor motivated by love, and your endurance inspired by hope in our Lord Jesus Christ.
1 Thessalonians 1:2-3 (CSB)

We are so grateful for you.

You, drowning in diapers. You, confined to your bed. You, working two jobs. You, waiting for a miracle.

We thank God for you! Wherever today finds you, know that you matter to God, to His kingdom, and to all of us here at (in)courage. Your faith, love, and hope are a gift to your Father and to your sisters. Thank you for being you and for being here.

How can we pray for you?

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

 

Fully Known By God

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O Lord, you have examined my heart
and know everything about me.
You know when I sit down or stand up.
You know my thoughts even when I’m far away.
You see me when I travel
and when I rest at home.
You know everything I do.
You know what I am going to say
even before I say it, Lord . . . .
How precious are your thoughts about me, O God.
They cannot be numbered!
I can’t even count them;
they outnumber the grains of sand!
Psalm 139:1-4, 17-18 (NLT)

My degree is in youth and family ministry, and my first job fresh out of college was working with middle and high school students as the director of youth ministries at a large church. As a former camp counselor, I tried to bring those faith experiences into practice in a congregational setting. For instance, we dug a firepit and had bonfires throughout the summer. And it was at one of these bonfires that I shared a favorite devotion I’d used throughout my camp counseling ministry.

I had each student lick their fingertip and swipe it through the dirt under their feet, then told them to count the grains of sand now stuck to their fingertips. Obviously, there was no way they could. Then I asked them to envision a lakeshore. How many grains of sand are there? How about under the lake water? And what about an ocean beach and the grains of sand that make up the ocean floor? The number is unfathomable. And yet Psalm 139 states that God’s thoughts of us outnumber the grains of sand.

From the looks on their faces, I could see that my students’ minds were blown. And I understood their reaction.

When I was their age — and even throughout college and sometimes as an adult — I never felt like anyone’s top friend choice. I never felt truly, fully, wholly known. No friend was finishing my sentences, no friend could seemingly read my mind, no friend wanted to spend every waking hour hanging out or talking on the phone, and no friend could fully understand my feelings. (Note: I realize these are massively high expectations for a school-age or any-age friendship. I blame the copious number of YA novels I read during those years for raising my friendship hopes and dreams.)

As unrealistic as those dreams were, I still have days when it feels like no one really knows me or wants to take the time and energy to get to know who I am. My husband of almost fifteen years is the one who comes closest to knowing me fully. But even with him there are feelings or reactions I need to explain, parts of my personality that surprise even me, and pieces of me that fall apart with little advance notice.

So it’s mind-blowing to realize that the Creator of the universe thinks of us nonstop, knows every single intricate detail about us, and yet adores us.

Being known so fully sounds enticing and also a little terrifying. I mean, fully known means all the way. Completely. Totally. Every single part. There’s a good reason that no person can fully know someone else: it’s overwhelming. God is the only one who can know us completely, and thank goodness. He doesn’t just see the best, prettiest, and most presentable portions of our selves. God also sees every deep, dark, ugly, secret part, and still He chooses to love us. He sees it all, knows it all, and loves us completely anyway.

Psalm 139 contains so many treasures that can bring calm and joy to our hearts. Because of the truths it lists, we can be empowered to rest in being known. We are knitted together by the One who created the original pattern, the One who chooses us again and again, the One who loves us as we are. We are examined and still adored. What a gift!

Lord, You have searched me and You know me, and still You love me. Thank You for an indescribable love that embraces all of me as I am. Even when I feel unknown by others, help me to remember that Your knowledge of me is a comfort. May I spend my days living into the strength You offer in being known. Amen.

Who comes the closest to fully knowing you? How do the truths in Psalm 139 make you feel?

This article is written by Anna E. Rendell and is an excerpt from Empowered: More of Him for All of You.

 

Experiencing Peace That Doesn’t Begin to Make Sense

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It was Valentine’s Day, but I was feeling a little blue. I was still grieving the loss of our family’s long tradition of a mother-daughter Valentine tea. What began as a thoughtful suggestion by my precious mother-in-law when my daughter Rachel was three had continued each year into Rachel’s twenties. Our tea — never limited to just tea — was a celebration of love among three generations of women. Almost as soon as one year’s celebration ended, we were already cheerfully anticipating the next year’s gathering of family and friends.

But eventually, our annual Valentine tea slipped quietly into history with little fanfare. Slowly — and yet seemingly overnight — my mother-in-law’s mind had become trapped in dementia’s snare.

Given our mother-daughter tradition, I had long before stopped viewing Valentine’s Day as a strictly romantic observance. Consequently, my husband was off the hook for lavishing me with flowers or chocolate. Still, ever a words-of-encouragement girl, I always treasured his cards. Now, with my former tradition sidelined, my focus shifted back toward him. How might we celebrate?

Neither of us was interested in going out to a crowded restaurant, so we planned a simple steak dinner at home. Spinach salad with berries and balsamic dressing, baked potatoes with all the fixings, a filet for me, and a ribeye for him. Tad can grill a steak like nobody’s business, and I was already smacking my lips in anticipation. Until I remembered our grill was broken. The part we needed for the repair hadn’t yet arrived.

Undeterred, I changed up our menu. I’d stir-fry a sirloin the way my father had when I was little, with lots of black pepper and a pile of sliced onions. It wasn’t Tad’s favorite, but it was still steak, and for me it held a sweet association with my childhood.

The first hint something was wrong came shortly after dinner. My husband complained about indigestion, an issue he seldom experiences. He just as quickly brushed it off, attributing whatever was going on to taking over-the-counter cold meds earlier in the day. We resumed our movie watching (I’m the fortunate wife who’s married to a guy who likes a good Meg Ryan / Tom Hanks rom-com), but a while later I noticed him holding his upper arm.

“Does your left arm hurt?!” I blurted.

“A little, but it comes and goes,” he admitted, minimizing his own worries but having little effect on mine.

“YOU’RE HAVING A HEART ATTACK!” I shrieked, flinging open my laptop to search “cardiac arrest symptoms.” He insisted he was fine and scoffed at Dr. Google’s credentials. I countered that he was not fine and we needed to go to the ER. My pleas to seek medical attention were about as effective as his attempts to dismiss my concerns.

It was understandable that he wasn’t taking this seriously. Under fifty and in good health, he had no family history of heart disease. Was I unreasonable for jumping to conclusions?

After the movie, I crawled into bed, still unsettled and whispering a looping prayer. Please keep Tad safe, give us Your wisdom, prompt us to act if needed. Somehow, I drifted to sleep.

You might say I won the argument when at 3:30 a.m. we were on our way to the emergency room. Barely an hour later, our suspicions were confirmed. The cardiologist on call swished back the privacy curtain, mounted a stool, swiveled to face us, drew a deep breath, and delivered the news. Though he couldn’t be sure exactly what had happened until further testing, the lab results pointed to a “cardiac event,” a nice way of telling us my husband had experienced a heart attack.

It felt like we were watching a movie. Or somebody else’s life. This wasn’t the kind of thing that happened to us.

That is, until it did.

I felt like we were in the eye of a hurricane. An inexplicable calm surrounded my husband and me, and I wondered when the backside of the storm would whip around and lash us to pieces.

As the medical staff tended to Tad, my natural reflex was to pray. This was no atheist-in-a-foxhole moment. I knew how badly I — we — needed God’s presence to face the next few hours. And I knew beyond shadows and doubts that He was with us because the peace He promises in Philippians 4:6–7 was exactly what we were experiencing: “Don’t worry about anything, but in everything, through prayer and petition with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”

Peace that surpasses all understanding.

At the first chance I got, I enlisted a legion of prayer warriors, inviting family and friends to battle with us. What they offered through God’s Word, their own words of encouragement, and prayer were weapons of heavenly proportion.

It astounded me, really, how calm both Tad and I remained as we learned more about what had already happened and was yet to take place. Paul’s words in Philippians 4:9 contain the key: “Do what you have learned and received and heard from me, and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.”

For most of our lives, Tad and I have attended church; we’ve studied the Bible in group settings and on our own. We’ve learned, received, and heard from Jesus through Scripture and in sound teaching.

So when a life-threatening scenario played out in front of us, we didn’t resort to prayer out of panic or fear; we responded in faithfulness with an already established practice. Praying united us with God and ushered His presence into the midst of our circumstances, and then His peace—a peace that doesn’t begin to make sense—guarded our hearts and minds.

God always delivers what He promises. The natural rhythm of prayer in our lives makes way for His supernatural peace.

Not just on Valentine’s Day but 365 days a year.

This story was written by Robin Dance, and published in the Create in Me a Heart of Peace Bible study.

What a powerful story of peace from the (in)courage Bible Study, Create in Me a Heart of Peace, available now. With stories like Robin’s woven together with Scripture study by Becky Keife, our prayer is that this Bible study will help you experience the real peace God offers each one of us.

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