Quiet Time

Quiet Time

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“Immediately the Spirit drove him into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness for forty days, being tempted by Satan. He was with the wild animals, and the angels were serving him.”
Mark 1:12-13

I’m sitting at my dining room table, country music playing just a smidge too loudly behind me as my daughters have a dance party on what feels like the seventy-third snow day this month. I reach for my Bible, running my hand down the whisper-thin pages, and close my eyes.

Before I can even say hello to God, much less reflect on His holiness, one of my daughters is crying and the other is shouting about how it’s not her fault — she didn’t do anything! This time, I close my eyes, but in frustration, not reverence.

I settle this latest argument and suggest a litany of quiet activities my kids might enjoy for a while. Finally, peace. My hand hovers over my Bible, but – much as I’m embarrassed to admit it – I hesitate. My phone is sitting right there, just waiting for me, begging for my attention, promising to entertain me and numb all the irritations that have cropped up this day.

Even if I manage to ignore the pull of my phone, my mind and heart are still so prone to wander.

What time is my appointment this afternoon?
Did I return that message? I should do that real quick, right now.
Why is the cat crying? Guess I better give her fresh water.
That reminds me: I need to refill my water bottle.
Maybe I should try that devotional I bought a few months ago.
I’m just going to pay that bill online . . . and answer that one email . . . and check on that project . . .

When I began studying ways to prepare my heart for Easter, something many know as the season of Lent, I read everything I could find about the time Jesus spent in the wilderness. While accounts can be found in three of the gospels, the brief description in Mark is what resonated most deeply with me.

Thinking of Jesus, alone in the wilderness, being tempted by Satan, surrounded by wild animals was a breath of fresh air to my distracted, weary soul. I feel alone! I’m tempted all the time! And yes, at times it feels like I’m surrounded by wild animals!

When we struggle to quiet our lives and our hearts enough to focus on God, Jesus knows exactly how we feel. And what I know from passages in Matthew and Luke is that despite the desperate situation in which He found Himself, He resisted temptation. The angels served Him, He leaned on His knowledge of Scripture and faith in God, and He resisted.

So what does that mean for me, as I think about one more failed attempt at a simple quiet time? What does that mean for you, as you feel the hunger and isolation of wilderness or battle attacks from temptation of all kinds, as you long for communion with the Lord but feel unable to get there, to stay there, to remember why you were going there in the first place?

It means this: Our Lord and Savior isn’t just the One who can quench our thirst and ease our pain. He is worthy of our praise and adoration, but He also is intimately familiar with our challenges and our struggles. He knows the strength it requires to seek Him and abide with Him, and He knows that, without Him, we will perish in the wilderness.

It means that not only is Jesus our goal when we set aside time for Him, He is our solution for fighting through all the distractions and temptations that work so hard to keep us away. It means that no matter how barren and empty our personal wilderness may feel, we are not actually alone in our search for God. Just as the angels were with Him, Jesus is with us.

Dear Lord, thank You for going first into the wilderness — for showing us how important it is to get alone and quiet, to seek God, and to listen. Thank You for going with us when we face temptation and distraction — for giving us the tools we need to resist. Jesus, You are worth every effort it takes to quiet my mind and my heart. You are worthy of every minute I devote to You above all else. Please meet me in this place. Bind my wandering heart to Yours. Keep my eyes set on You. Thank You, Lord, for never letting me go. Amen. 

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

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

Get your FREE sampler from Journey to the Cross!

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Today on the podcast — a bonus episode! Listen in as Michele Cushatt reads her chapter, titled Staying Curious When You Want to Run Away, from our newest book, Come Sit With Me. Listen at the player below, or wherever you stream podcasts.

How I Find My Way Through the Violence of the World

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I take my time, strolling through the aisles of Costco, snapping photos of the prices of sandwich bread, apples, cheese, paper towels, and everything on my long list of youth retreat supplies to compare to prices elsewhere. I had volunteered to buy groceries and prep the meals for this year’s winter camp, and I didn’t know then how much these mundane tasks were exactly what I needed that week to steady me.

The Saturday before, in the midst of Lunar New Year celebrations, shots were fired in a ballroom dance studio in Monterey Park, California. Eleven were killed. Then, just two days later, another shooting, this time in Half Moon Bay, California. Seven were killed. Reading the news, I felt at once numb to the commonplace reality of mass shootings and unnerved that this was our reality. What do we do with this kind of news? How do we grieve, rage, and preserve our sanity? Do I post about it? Talk with others about it? Is that enough? Is it helpful in the slightest?

I don’t know, to be honest.

I reshare someone else’s post because I never have the right words in these moments and because I’m afraid this sort of news – news about Asian Americans – won’t be widely seen or heard or cared about nationally.

And then, with all the groceries now littering the kitchen counters, I sit down at our dining table with a Korean-style plastic basin filled with garlic heads and start to peel one clove at a time. I could’ve just bought the bag of already peeled garlic from Costco, but I couldn’t justify the price nor loss in flavor. And this is the work my body instinctually knew it needed to be doing.

It’s slow work, but I don’t mind. It reminds me of my grandma. I try to remember if she ever sat with a plastic basin full of garlic heads, but she must have, whether or not I can recall. This is her posture, her movements, her hands that I see in mine. Soon, my mother-in-law joins me to help, and together we sit quietly and peel off the paper-thin wrappings.

This is when I realize: Ah, herein lies the gift, the grace, the goodness. When the world is hurting, when people are fighting, killing, and desperate, the ordinary is where we find God again – in the small acts of love, in the memory of being loved, in the everyday work required to feed and care for one another. It’s holy work, and it brings us back to the presence of our God who sits with us in silence, holding our grief and grieving too. And knowing He understands and carries all of the tragedy and trauma in His hands quiets the flustered anguish inside me. The stillness makes space for sadness and joy to have a place at the table, and I’m grateful to feel again and be grounded once more.

I long for the day when violence will cease and we will no longer be afraid. I keep asking, “How long, Lord?” and “When will it stop?” but there are no answers to my questions for now, perhaps ever. In the tension of the wait, hope for a better world can start to wane and my heart can easily callous over. When that happens, I know now how to find my way through, how to find my way back. I go to the kitchen, gather the ingredients for a simple dish, and settle into the movements of ordinary work. And there, God invites my questions, soothes my soul, and reminds me His love endures forever.

He remembered us in our low estate
His love endures forever.
and freed us from our enemies.
His love endures forever.
He gives food to every creature.
His love endures forever.
Give thanks to the God of heaven.
His love endures forever.
Psalm 136:23-26

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He Said How Many Times?

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I felt the weight of my morning schedule as it derailed.

Dashing into the Bible study room, I scrambled to find an open seat. I hate being late, especially when I’m the new person, so with a frazzled heart and some deep breaths, I privately celebrated my punctual arrival. Sometimes simply showing up calls for a declaration of success and it was definitely that kind of morning. I’d withdrawn lately and with loneliness settling in, I was finally ready to dig in and connect in community.

Scanning the room, I hoped to find someone I knew, but suddenly my stomach sank. My breath quickened. My hands shook. I can get along with nearly anyone, but there is one person in my lifetime of “peopling” that I wouldn’t choose to see ever again . . . and there she sat. The visceral reaction that occurred in my body and mind shocked me.

I wanted to scream, “Lord, are you kidding me? Of all the people in the whole wide world and it had to be her? In my new Bible study?”

Sensations catapulted me back many years to when this woman maligned my reputation without really knowing me. I’d spent a challenging, extended season clinging to God’s Word, begging He would renew my mind as I detangled emotions over that traumatic situation. I had cultivated a spirit of forgiveness, but all those feelings I’d ushered aside came swirling back.

That night, an internal dialogue played over and over again as I lay awake in bed. The details of how she unjustly wronged me. The apology never extended. The raw wounds once scabbed and scarred over now pricked back open. I fought to take those burdensome thoughts captive, but I couldn’t quiet my mind. I tossed and turned all night. Finally, as the sun broke, I pondered Peter’s question on forgiveness.

“Lord, how many times must I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? As many as seven times?”
Matthew 18:21

I bonded with Peter over his frustration. I mean enough is enough. Surely there must be a limit. Peter offered a number he assumed was overly generous. To forgive seven times — the number of perfection amongst the Hebrews. In fact, the Jewish rule mandated one only had to forgive another person three times before moving on. It was the law, so Peter intended to go above and beyond the cultural norm in forgiving his enemy, but Jesus pushed those limits. He turned everything upside down when He commanded us to not only forgive “seventy times seven,” but to love our enemies and lay down our lives for each other as He did.

Candidly, I wasn’t quite ready for this. Did Christ understand the sacrifice? The steep ask of our vulnerable heart? He did. More than anyone, Jesus is keenly aware of the mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual implications when we allow seeds of bitterness and resentment to fester. I thought of my sleepless night. If I was already exhibiting ramifications from one evening, how much deeper the impact might it be if I didn’t uproot any lingering unforgiveness or bitterness?

This process didn’t happen overnight. Every week I saw her, and often toddler tendencies resulted in my internal kicking and screaming of, “This isn’t fair!” But I brought my disappointment, frustration, and heartache to the Lord. My varied emotions didn’t catch Him by surprise. I trust that He ordered my path to intersect with hers for His ultimate purpose. While I often wondered what that might be, I begged Him to transform me along the way more into His image.

At times it feels impossible, but when we step forward in love toward those who have wronged us, it is undeniably of God. And while we aren’t usually put in situations where we literally have to give up our lives for another, we are called to surrender. Surrender our frustrations, our pride, our need to be right, our bitterness, our justifications and excuses for why we shouldn’t have to because of all they’ve done to us. We are commanded to lay aside all that for others, for her, for the ones most difficult to forgive. It’s where we allow the Holy Spirit to tutor us on loving amidst undeniably painful situations. This is how the world knows that we are different. It’s how the world will know we are His disciples.

I don’t remember much about that Bible study, but I kept going back when I wanted to run. I never did receive an apology, and honestly, I don’t really like her, and that’s okay. The Lord did major heart surgery on me because it expanded with love for her that I never expected. It’s still a minuscule seed of love, but it’s love, and that’s a start.

Are you struggling with unforgiveness? You’re not alone. Sometimes it’s just so hard. I’d be honored to link arms with you in the comments.

 

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You Are Not Stupid

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She told me I’d been doing it wrong. All this time, the days folding into months, I’d been placing it in the wrong spot and at the wrong angle, therefore targeting the wrong muscles and stretching the wrong curves in my spine.

She continued telling me about the solution, how we could fix this, easily, with just a tweak here and a tweak there . . . but I couldn’t follow what she was saying. I wasn’t ready to talk about solutions. She was a hundred miles and a day ahead of me while I was still stuck at the problem.

I hesitated, mumbled a few incoherent syllables, and then let the words cascade out of my mouth like a confession.

“I feel so stupid,” I said. Tears gathered in my eyes.

“No,” she reassured me. “You’re not stupid. You’ve worked really hard.”

“But I’ve been doing it wrong. I’ve wasted all this time,” I insisted. Then, I sat there, crying in the chiropractor’s office.

I have pain that’s anchored in the lower left side of my back — a few car accidents, inflammation in the hips, and leg braces as a kid will do that to you. And so, I do everything I can think of to stop this pain and address the root strain from which it all stems.

I stretch, I rub arnica and peppermint oil, I research, I drink water, I drink teas, I pray, I supplement, and I shelve out money I do not have for the relentless rounds of chiropractic appointments, week after week after week after week.

I do everything in my power to not only heal the pain, but to prevent and alleviate the strain it will put on my body in years to come. I learn what I need to learn and do what I need to do. Strategically, I think and plan ahead, always cognizant of the possibilities that can and will come in the future of my tomorrows.

I have to heal now so that the pain doesn’t persist.
I have to stretch to be strong and keep up with my kids.
I have to fix what is broken so that it doesn’t break me.
I cannot make mistakes; I cannot waste time.

Crying in the chiropractor’s office was the first of many miraculous moments, like a seed taking root in the soil of my soul, crawling and climbing out of darkness and into the light. I began to see within myself an insecurity, not merely in regards to my abilities but more so everything to do with my capacity.

I know that I am brilliant and bright — I know that I have ideas that sparkle with innovation and ingenuity. I know that I’m a learner and a logical thinker. I know that I can solve problems, create systems, and dream up new solutions. But somewhere, somehow, a lie crept in. It’s not the first time I’ve said it aloud or whispered it under my breath. In the last year, or so, I’ve unconsciously repeated it like a mantra.

I feel so stupid, I once confessed to my friend as I told her about how I didn’t prepare for a crisis that I never even saw coming. I’m so stupid, I’ve whispered within myself as I thought through the many twists and turns of my life, pondering how I could have prevented them.

Only now am I beginning to see a trend in this train of thought: I want to fix broken things and, deeper still, I want to prevent things from breaking. And I crumble, altogether fall apart, anytime I realize I cannot fix everything . . . nor can I, in fact, prevent things from breaking, or failing, or persisting with pain.

Proclaiming, I am stupid, is a sign of faith coming out sideways, a sign that we’ve come to trust in our own limited capacity rather than God’s unlimited one. It’s a sign that we’ve lost sight of His sovereignty, the fact that He is and has always been in control.

I often ponder how Peter felt after he disowned Jesus and the rooster crowed three times. I often wonder if that moment of bitter weeping was filled with flashbacks, Peter flipping through memories in his mind like a Rolodex, thinking through the ways in which he wished he could go back in time. Would he do things differently? Would he have tried harder at preventing that whole scenario from playing out?

As I think of Peter’s guilt, I can’t help but think of God’s grace. I think of the love in Jesus’s eyes, always full of mercy for the moments — in both our sin and in our insufficiency — when we know not what we do.

I need that grace, I need it right now and I need it every day. Do you? I need the reminder to relinquish my control, to put my trust in God who holds all things — all hurt, healing, hardship, and hope — in His hands.

“Be nice to you,” said my chiropractor, handing me a tissue and then hugging me. “You’re not stupid.”

I breathed in the words until I believed them, taking hold of the truth that tells about God. I can almost hear Him say . . .

You’re not stupid. What you are is limited in your capacity to know and to solve everything. You cannot see into the future. You cannot shield yourself from every failing or fracture. You are not stupid, but you are fragile and finite. You are made from dust and to dust you will return. Trust Me, turn to Me. Look to Me, lean on Me. Focus on Me, follow Me. When life and health and love and dreams fall apart, fall on Me.

 

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Wisdom Is Learned Through Understanding Knowledge

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I held the small catechism book in my lap and traced the letters of its title with my fingertips. The bumpy texture of the cardstock cover reminded me of the feel of braille, and I pleaded with God that the words I had obediently highlighted in pink would help me see the truth. I kept my thumb on the first page, constantly flipping the booklet open and closed because the wording of each question and answer was awkward. My mind struggled to understand how these words were supposed to help me in my faith, so I simply strung them together side by side, like a puzzle I’d understand when all the pieces were snapped together at the end. I repeated the questions and answers over and over again, like a prayer that could get me to heaven:

Q.1. What is man’s primary purpose?
A. Man’s primary purpose is to glorify God and to enjoy him forever.

Q.2. What does the Bible primarily teach?
A. The Bible primarily teaches what man must believe about God and what God requires of man.

Q.3. What is God?
A. God is a Spirit, Whose being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth are infinite, eternal, and unchangeable.

Instead of learning who God is behind these theological concepts, I simply committed the words to memory through repetition, knowing I’d only be asked to recite them correctly in Sunday school — not to understand them.

This was my spiritual education in my youth group and college days, gathering and hoarding knowledge. And eventually, like a sheep without a shepherd, I regurgitated what I knew and fed it to the youth group students who came after me, faithfully following in the footsteps of those before me.

My prematurely formed theological knowledge became the foundation on which all my beliefs were grounded. It was the soapbox on which I’d stand to look down on anyone I deemed unenlightened. It was proof that I was wiser than my peers, who had the audacity not to care. It became the ten-foot pole I used to measure people’s worthiness, including my own, and I was thoroughly disappointed in all of us whenever we didn’t meet the standard.

I remember the intensity of those days and how exhilarating and powerful it felt to know so much. Even now I can almost smell the acidity of the thick paper from that sturdy little booklet, and I can instinctually recite what the chief end of man is. I was shaped by those catechisms, by the teaching and culture of my church at that time. And while I’m grateful for what I was taught and for the pastors and teachers who passed on that knowledge to me, I’ve come to realize that not everything I learned was good and right or even true. I’ve had to live through the consequences and take responsibility for the ways that ingested theology shaped the way I saw myself, how I treated others, and what I thought about the rest of the world.

My theology has changed and expanded, re-formed again and again over the years. I’ve learned to sift through everything I was taught, to examine it in sober judgment, and see if it holds true not just for the elite but for everyone. I’ve learned that knowledge without understanding builds a flat, often unlived faith that lacks nuance and grace for self and others. And though knowledge can be good in and of itself, I’ve learned that the way we use it, why we believe it, and how we live it are what can lead to wisdom.

Recently, my husband and I bought and set up three bookshelves in our room to better organize the (possibly unnecessary) plethora of books we’ve accumulated over our lives. I began the satisfying work of sorting them, perfectly lining up the spines in just the right way, and tossing the ones I didn’t need anymore into a donation box. When I got to the stack of books I had read during those formative years growing up, I paused. I thought about the ways they had been both helpful and harmful and how much fuller my library had become since I had read them.

I decided to keep them on their own shelf as a reminder of where I’d come from while acknowledging that so much of life and faith isn’t clear-cut and categorical the way I’d thought it was. Instead of spouting knowledge as a way to position myself, I now try to take things in more mindfully, chewing on the information slowly and deliberately, seeking to understand more deeply. I’ve become comfortable with telling people, “I really don’t know the answer,” and letting uncertainty hang in the air. I trust that wisdom will come not because I amass knowledge but because God will help me understand what I need to learn.

God, thank You for not expecting me to know everything in order to know You. But I also recognize that in order to know You, I need to understand more. Help me digest what I read in Your Word and what I learn about You from others through books, sermons, podcasts, or my community. Let what needs to sink in, sink in, and let everything else float away according to Your wisdom for my life. Amen.

Isn’t wisdom just what we all need to seek right now? (Raising my hand high!)

That’s why I’m so excited to share with you Create in Me a Heart of Wisdom.

It’s the third in our series of four transformational Bible studies. If you loved Heart of Hope and Heart of Peace, you’ll love this! But you can also just jump right into Heart of Wisdom, which is now available wherever books are sold, including:

This Bible study was heart-and-life-changing to write, and I believe it’s going to help you encounter God and fall in love with His Word in fresh ways too.

Get your copy now because our online Bible study started THIS WEEK! (I can’t wait to talk together about all things wisdom and Jesus on Thursday!) FIND ALL THE ONLINE BIBLE STUDY DETAILS HERE. And be sure to SIGN UP so we can send you the first week of the Create in Me a Heart of Wisdom + a printable Scripture page for FREE!

Join the online study and let’s seek hearts of wisdom — together.

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Where Do You Look When You Can’t See Past Loss?

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During my sophomore year of college, one of my best friends and I came early to every theology class so we could score front-row seats to best take in our favorite professor’s every word. After class, a group of us would hurry over to the wooden booths of the cafeteria where we’d pore over our notes while drinking terrible coffee and ask the questions about God that most haunted and hallowed our hearts.

Katie and I were always the last ones at the table, lingering long over the wildness of things like perichoresis and union with Christ. As two cradle-conservative Christians, it was the first time in both of our lives that we were realizing our female perspective on God wasn’t fundamentally flawed. We had no idea that wonder was widening the space where we could later show up as our full selves. We had no idea that our collective awe was a bridge into a belonging that later pain could never topple. We just knew we were astonished by the mystery of a God who dwells with us.

Looking back, I know we were gathering courage as we gathered our notes and books and swallowed the dregs of our coffee, preparing ourselves for the day our thoughts about God would reach much, much farther than the confines of that wooden cafeteria booth.

One afternoon we decided that we weren’t satisfied with everyone’s normal way of ending conversations. Friend after friend had filed away from our booth with a “See you later!” or “Have fun!”, both of which we decided were not sufficiently deep enough parting words for us. (If you are not rolling your eyes yet, you have permission to do so now.)

Look up.

That’s the phrase we landed on. We wanted to carry our theological imaginations with us from that table with an imperative. We wanted to lift our eyes to the hills and expect that God would help. We wanted to look up to the cloud-covered mountain of all we could not understand about God and grace and grief — where paradox is a peak rather than a problem.

We were (and are) such nerds. But the thing is: that phrase has now been lifting my head for sixteen years.

I didn’t know then how much I’d need our sophomore wisdom for the suffering that was to come. And I didn’t know then how those two simple words were actually a summons into wholeness right within my own soma — my body.

The next year of college, pain became a daily part of my life. Katie’s words echoed in my head when I was too sick to get out of my dorm bed. Look up. A sliver of sky, a cloud passing by — looking up became medicine.

Our parting words paved a path in my imagination, giving me a way through pain, through problems, and into the presence of the God who is already here. Sight made my life sacramental. What began as words to remember God became a way to watch for Goodness and Love everywhere I went — especially when I felt stuck.

Sight is one way we can get unstuck.

What I didn’t know as a college sophomore is that our eyes are part of our brains and offer the fastest path back into safety when we feel stuck, ashamed, or stressed. Our retinas are always responding to our environment to regulate how awake or activated we need to be. By looking up and out for beauty and goodness, we can work with our bodies to shift out of stress and into connection.

You need glimmers of goodness to remember God cares. Simple, straightforward, and free visual cues can remind you — on a physiological level — that Goodness is here.

You need to see the smile of a stranger to feel safe enough to show up in your life. You need to notice the colors of the books on your bedside table and the way the light gilds dust to gold to sense that your life is still enchanted by Love. Sight speaks a kind sermon for anyone willing to look up.

Last week I got to sit in another booth across from Katie. Over much better coffee, I listened as she shared that she got her dream job as a tenure-track psychology professor, a job she’s worked towards all these years in the midst of deep grief and massive challenges. I was there in Michigan to speak to a crowd about my newest book and told Katie how much my own vocation has surprised me with joy. We both looked up at each other with tears in our eyes.

We remembered (and laughed at) the college sophomores we were — who latched on to looking up. We honored the women we became — who both saw so much suffering in the years that followed. And we sat there in awe of the grace in each other that led us forward even when we couldn’t see past the season we were in.

When we hugged in the diner parking lot, Katie turned around with a twinkle in her eye and said, “Look up!”

 “Your eye is a lamp, lighting up your whole body. If you live wide-eyed in wonder and belief, your body fills up with light. If you live squinty-eyed in greed and distrust, your body is a musty cellar. Keep your eyes open, your lamp burning, so you don’t get musty and murky. Keep your life as well-lighted as your best-lighted room.”
Luke 11:34–36 MSG

Light of the World,

You said wonder
will fill us with light.

May we look up
to watch for the wonder
that is already here.

Though some say
to keep heaven in mind,
the way to heaven
is straight through our eyes.

Amen.

A prayer from KJ’s new book, The Book of Common Courage: Prayers and Poems to Find Strength in Small Moments.

 

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How to Hear His Voice in a World Full of Noise

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It’s been three months since we brought home a little flock of Katahdin sheep. Only seven of them, but already they are making themselves at home and weaving their way into my heart.

I’ve always been a farm girl, having spent the first ten years of my life on a dairy farm with a myriad of animals ranging from pigs to chickens and a few ornery goats. All these years later, I find myself stewarding a little farm with a handful of chickens and guineas and now . . . this tiny flock of sheep. As simple as they are, these Katahdin sheep are teaching me something about what it means to follow Christ and recognize his voice.

When the sheep first arrived at our farm, they were wary and skittish of me. I was not their shepherd. Their previous shepherd was now thirty miles away from where we are. As we left the sheep farm that day, the young man who had been their shepherd since they were born said to me, “Don’t worry, they’ll get to know you. Just spend time with them . . . and a few sweet treats wouldn’t hurt either.” I’d hoped he was right.

Each morning, as the sun greeted a new day, I came to the sheep paddock, calling to each one with sweet treats in hand. Each evening, I returned to check on them, adding fresh water to the trough and, at times, moving them to a fresh paddock of grass. As time went on, I found myself pausing to sit in the field with them — talking to them softly and watching them graze the green grass.

One by one, they began to approach me on their own. First the older and more experienced ewes, followed by the spring lambs growing bigger and stronger.

Every time they came close, I held my breath, internally willing them to trust me. Day after day we sat like that, me and my little flock of sheep. Each day, they willingly came closer and closer as I, in turn, came to know them individually by their own unique markings and quirks.

One morning, as I hopped out of my truck, I gave them a call, just as I had done every morning before. But unlike the other times, this day was different. Instead of just lifting their heads and going back to grazing, the oldest ewe let out a bleating call and ran to the gate to greet me. As if on cue, the other six followed suit and before I could even get the gate open, they were crowding one another to see who could get closest. As a new shepherdess, it was a wonderful feeling to know they finally seemed to trust me. I wondered if it would last or if they would go to simply anyone holding sweet treats in their hands.

A few days later, as I pulled up to the sheep paddock, my daughter Anna popped her head out of the barn while working on a few of her own animal chores. As we chatted, I told her about the response of the sheep to my arrival a couple days before. I shared how excited I was that they were starting to come to me when I called, yet still wondered out loud if they only came because of the sweet treats in my pocket.

Anna paused from her work, looked at me and said, “No, Mom. It’s you. They recognize you and they know your voice.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Because . . . when I got to the barn, they lifted their heads. But when I came up to the fence and called them, they went back to eating. They never came over to the gate . . . until they saw you and heard your voice. Then they all came running! They know your voice, Mom. You’re it. You’re their shepherd!” said Anna.

In that moment, I realized that my sheep knew my voice — really knew my voice! Today, not only do they come when I call, but now they literally follow me across the field, through the gate, and down the lane as I lead them to new grass. Now, as I sit in the field with them, they immediately gather around, pressing their noses to my hands and grazing close as we co-exist in that green field together.

In the quiet moments of sitting with my little flock, I am profoundly reminded of what it means to be shepherded by my own heavenly Father. In a world full of noise and so many voices, I want to be a woman who knows my Father’s voice and responds without hesitation. Not only do I want to know His voice, but I want to draw so close to Him that I know His character and trust Him without hesitation as He leads me to new places.

In a world full of noise, do you know His voice? He’s calling you — draw close, be seen, be known by the very one who created you just as you are.

“My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.”
John 10:27 (ESV)

A Prayer for When Everything Breaks

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My health may fail, and my spirit may grow weak,
    but God remains the strength of my heart;
he is mine forever.
Psalm 73:26

Lord, thank You. Thank You that even as our bodies are failing and our spirits are broken, our hearts can thrive because of Your strength. This world will falter and fail and change. But You, Mighty God, remain faithful! You are the same yesterday, today, and always.

Thank You for Your steadfast presence. Thank You, Jesus, for being Immanuel — God with us. Thank you, Holy Spirit, for making Your home in our hearts. As You dwell in us, help us to dwell in You.

Father God, You have chosen us as your forever children. We choose you forever too. Amen.

Giving Your Not-Enough

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To live what I like to call the simple difference, we have to exchange the way we see our not-enough for the way God sees it.

I can’t help but think about the boy who gave his small lunch. You probably know the story: A huge crowd — five thousand men, plus all the women and children — has been following Jesus and His disciples, eager to see Him heal the sick. They are in a remote location. It’s getting late, which is problematic because there isn’t enough food to feed the crowd and no easy place to get some.

The disciple Andrew points out, “Here is a boy with five small barley loaves and two small fish, but how far will they go among so many?” (John 6:9). In essence he’s saying, look at what we have — it’s something, but it’s not enough. Have you ever done this? You’re aware of a huge problem or predicament, you want to do something to help, but the resources available to you fall painfully short.

We don’t know if the boy who gave up his meager meal did so willingly or begrudgingly. What we do know is that Jesus transformed what was not enough into more than enough.

“Jesus then took the loaves, gave thanks, and distributed to those who were seated as much as they wanted. He did the same with the fish. When they had all had enough to eat, he said to his disciples, ‘Gather the pieces that are left over. Let nothing be wasted.’ So they gathered them and filled twelve baskets with the pieces of the five barley loaves left over by those who had eaten.”
John 6:10-13

Scripture doesn’t say if the boy was hopeful that his little lunch would help or if it felt like an empty gesture toward a lost cause. But here’s the thing: how we feel or what we think about the resources we have to give doesn’t dictate or limit God’s power to use them. It wasn’t up to the boy what became of his food. It was up to him to be aware of the needs around him, assess the resources available to him, and respond to the opportunity to make a difference.

This miracle of multiplication was fueled by God’s power! Only He could take a total lack and turn it into total satisfaction. But the spark that started the blaze of provision was one small act of obedience.

Time and time again I’m faced with what I perceive as my own inadequacy and lack. What I have to give rarely feels enough for what is needed. A friend needs help moving, but I don’t have a truck. Someone needs a babysitter, but I’m buried with work. A family can’t pay rent, but what I have to give can hardly make a dent. In times like these we need to remember that iGod’s power fills in the gap.

We have the delightful opportunity to show up, give freely, and put the responsibility of the outcome squarely where it belongs — in God’s sovereign hands.

TODAY: When a need feels too big to meet, just give exactly what you have.

-Written by Becky Keife, adapted from her (in)courage book, The Simple Difference.

 

When the world’s problems loom large and your ordinary life stretches you thin, is it still possible to be a difference-maker? Absolutely! One small, intentional, extravagant act of kindness at a time. The Simple Difference: How Every Small Kindness Makes a Big Impact by Becky Keife will help you to stop getting buried in busyness and distraction and discover countless opportunities for impact right where you are.

Rather than trying to do more, learn how to see more: more of the people in front of you, more of God’s lavish love for you, and more of His power within you. Grab a copy of The Simple Difference now. We pray it blesses you.

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Today on the podcast — a bonus episode! Listen in as Jami Nato reads her chapter, titled Will You be a Flamethrower or a Fire Extinguisher in the Dumpster Fire of Internet Comments?, from our newest book, Come Sit With Me. Listen at the player below, or wherever you stream podcasts.

Tired of Trying to Make Everything Okay? Here’s a More Peaceful Way…

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I’m sitting in a drive-through line pondering a situation I can’t seem to control. My husband and I are in snowy Colorado coming home from a trip with family. We’re catching a flight in the morning, which means staying at a hotel tonight and fast food is the only nearby option. In a quest for comfort, I order the same meal I did as a kid — filet-o-fish and hot fudge sundae (don’t judge).

Our time here has felt magical — skiing, sledding, making snickerdoodles, cozying up under warm blankets. But I’ve been vaguely distracted by a situation back home. “I can’t figure out how to resolve it,” I tell my husband when he asks what I’m thinking. I’ve fixated on this particular problem for months, looked at it from every angle, broken it apart and put it back together. But I can’t find peace.

Now, even on vacation, there’s no rest inside my mind. I feel weary, so tired of worrying, exhausted from carrying the weight of what I can’t seem to make right. I pause and pray these words:

God, give me the wisdom to know what work is mine to do today. I release everything and everyone else to You. Amen.

I feel a shift within my soul as soon as I finish. I realize I thought I wanted a solution but what I really needed was to surrender. Stop fighting what I can’t change. Start focusing on my own life instead of what I can’t fix. Release responsibility for other people and return to what God has asked of me.

I was doing work that wasn’t mine.

Work that isn’t ours:

– Trying to be responsible for everything and everyone
– Telling ourselves something is our fault when it’s the result of a broken world or someone else’s choices
– Carrying more than our share of the emotional weight in a relationship
– Forcing an outcome rather than taking the next small step of obedience

Work that is ours includes taking responsibility for our thoughts, words, feelings, actions, desires, and needs. It involves taking care of our hearts, souls, minds, and bodies. It means we “run with endurance the race God has set before us… keeping our eyes on Jesus” (Hebrews 12:1-2).

The funny thing? The second I said “amen” the person I’d been struggling with sent me a text message. I’d been holding on so tight and when I finally let go, it seemed to unlock something in a way beyond what my human mind is able to comprehend.

Of course, I still want to try to take control again. The situation isn’t fully resolved and I want to put a nice checkmark next to it. I want to clean it up, put it in a category, make it neat and tidy. I don’t want to deal with the mess, the uncertainty, my absolute inability to cause things to turn out the way I want.

I’ve had to pray the same little prayer I did that night in the drive-through over and over again. I’ve said it at least five times this morning and it’s only 9 a.m.. I might say it a hundred times before I go to sleep tonight.

After I say “amen” I ask, “What is my work to do right now?” Then I clean up the kitchen, hug my husband, walk a few steps, or pull out my laptop and type words that will remind me of what is true, and hopefully do the same for you.

(Confession: I don’t always want to do this. Sometimes I’d much rather whine, pout, and try to take charge again. Sometimes that’s exactly what I do. And that’s okay. Surrender is often a process, not an event.)

If you’re worn out from trying to control something or someone, I’m inviting you to say this prayer and ask this question with me too.

Today let’s do our work, and let God do His.

If you struggle with anxiety or would like a little extra encouragement today, the first 3 devotions in Holley’s newest devotional, What Your Mind Needs for Anxious Moments are free! Enter your email here and you’ll receive the devos in your email inbox right away.

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Taking Another Route

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Being single is a whole dang thing. Being single in the church where people are more into marriage than the broader culture? Well, that feels a bit elevated. I want to be clear: I don’t think that marriage is a bad thing. In fact, I love celebrating my friends when they say “I do” to their spouses. I love getting to dance and cheer and applaud when they have that first kiss.

But at the end of all of the wedding festivities, I go home alone.

Last night, there was a noise in my kitchen that woke me up and I had to lie there, debating if I should go check it out, because there was no one to turn to and say, “Did you hear that?”

Aside from the occasional bump in the night or helpless carrying in of bags after a road trip, the rhythms of my life are not that unlike those of a married friend. I’m still a busy human being (despite the fact that many believe single people have loads of free time). I still have full-time work and commitments and social engagements. I still have to pay bills and get the car inspected and grab groceries. I am a full-grown, adult woman who happens to be single, but I often feel like there is an otherness about me in the eyes of my married friends. And yes our lives look different. But also? They’re not that different.

We’re headed to the same places a lot. We are committed to our local churches and ministries, we are all trying to save up for a house one day, we are all figuring out next steps for the future. But the language we use to describe our marital status? It makes single people feel like we’re not autonomous adults with responsibilities, dreams, and desires. And beyond that? We’re all headed to the same eternity. The same fully-realized Kingdom of God with the new heavens and the new earth (where, as a reminder, the only Marriage we’ll know is for all of us in our union with Christ at the Marriage Supper of the Lamb).

So if we’re headed in the same direction, why do we use language that removes commonality?

Here’s what I mean: You’re at a church event or having coffee with a friend and they say, “You’re in a season of singleness” or “That stage of singleness is lonely at times . . . .” And while I understand that this is a common term that’s better than some alternatives like, “You’re stuck in singleness” or “You haven’t fully arrived at adulthood,” (yes, I’ve heard these), I think that for the sake of our friendships between married and single friends, we need to talk about these phrases.

You see, when we categorize people using the language of “season” or “stage,” we insinuate that life has this upward trajectory. That there’s a point A and B, all the way to Z. A formula for what comes next. And it begs the question: What if I’m always single? Do I not experience the seasons of life fully? Do I not move to the next stage of life? Or am I perpetually lacking or left behind?

These categories of Stage and Season create an untrue idea that singleness is a temporal thing or a problem to be fixed. But you know what’s actually true? For some, singleness is not going anywhere anytime soon. I may live and die without a band on my ring finger that has a match with a man to whom I’m committed in holy matrimony. I may never have a spouse who tells me they love me. I may have to watch some friends buy homes nearly a decade before me because I’m living on a single income.

But can I be honest honest for a moment?

Singleness is a thousand joys and a thousand small griefs and to say that I’m a season (behind?) or a stage (before?) is minimizing at best and insulting at worst.

So I am here to humbly request that we start using a new turn of phrase: What if we spoke of our friends as if they’re on different routes? We may meet up or share a vantage point here and there, but we will also likely see things the others won’t. Our elevation gain or loss may shift with different intensities. Some parts of the trail will be overgrown while others are easier to navigate than those on other paths.

See how this sort of imagery levels the playing field a bit? Maybe even offers some . . . dignity? Now, we get to focus on what matters most: traveling along toward the great Destination of Heaven, fellow pilgrims who walk together at times and blaze different trails at times. We’re all just taking different routes to get there.

So much of Scripture celebrates the differences of experience within the church and calls us to honor one another. Listen to this from 1 Corinthians 12:26-27: And if one part of the body suffers, all the parts suffer with it; if a part is honored, all the parts rejoice with it. Now you are Christ’s body, and individually parts of it.”

We belong to one body, sisters. So let’s not put married above single or single above married.

Let’s struggle together and thrive together, rejoicing as we travel Home along whatever route God has for us. 

Listen to today’s article at the player below, or wherever you stream pods!

Simple Things to Help You When Life Gets Really Hard

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Once upon a time, there was a lovely season when Valentine’s Day was my favorite holiday. It wasn’t due to grand romantic gestures or socially-sanctioned chocolate binging; I cherished our tradition of the Valentine Tea. Three generations deep, the girls in our family would gather around a magnificent table to use our best manners, nibble on treats as pretty as they were delicious, and connect in important ways. My precious mother-in-law initiated the tradition when my daughter – her first grandchild – was just three. Thoughtful and deliberate, Sarah had a knack for making things beautiful and memorable.

From Rachel’s pre-school years through college, we’d look forward to the Valentine Tea, and it never occurred to me that one day it would stop. For a year or two I downplayed the signs that something was amiss. Probably, I just didn’t want to believe that what was happening, was actually happening. But the time Sarah mistook a glittery heart decoration for candy, our sweet tradition sputtered to a sorrowful end. Sarah’s mind was gradually stolen by the bully of dementia.

Life is a gift and life is beautiful, but sometimes life is plain hard.

We all face giants that threaten to slay us. No one is immune to tribulation. A diagnosis, infidelity, the prodigal child. A breach of confidence. Financial uncertainty. Betrayal or injustice. An enslaving addiction we hate beyond measure.

When life becomes a runaway train throttling out of control toward a cliff, what are you to do? How do you respond? Do you become paralyzed with grief or fear? Are you tempted to give up or shake your fist at God? Does your faith wander or whither?

There’s no shame in a knee-jerk response born out of our humanity and emotions. I’m ever-thankful to God that through the power, strength, and leading of His Spirit, our very human first response to heartache seldom remains our final response. Seeking and being surrendered to God changes us and how we respond to our circumstances.

When David battled Goliath, his weapons didn’t compare to the giant’s javelin, spear, and sword. As a shepherd, all he had was a stick (a staff) and a sling. Isn’t this the way of God, for Him to equip us with what we need, when we need it? To the bystanders looking on, it must’ve looked like David didn’t stand a chance. But God used simple tools David was already familiar with to defeat his enemy.

When we’re in pain or when life’s inevitable battles come our way, we also have familiar tools at our disposal.

Here are six simple things that have helped me when life gets really hard:

Remember that God is always with you. Knowing you are not alone makes a huge difference. God is ever-present, eager to impart His strength and comfort. Isaiah 41:10 says, “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you  with my righteous right hand.” Do you see how this is about what God will do? We don’t have to conjure what God has already offered.

Pray. Prayer is powerful, helping us to find peace and clarity. Even if you’re struggling in your faith, prayer maintains a connection to God. We can pour out our hearts to God regardless of what we’re feeling, trusting Him to do what’s best. Psalm 107:28-29 says, “Then they cried to the Lord in their trouble, and he delivered them from their distress. He made the storm be still, and the waves of the sea were hushed.” 

Practice self-care. It‘s so easy to neglect our own needs. But taking care of ourselves helps us to cope. Meditate on Scripture. Eat healthily. Make sleep a priority. Go for a walk. Do something creative. Refreshing your heart, mind, and body matters. 

Be thankful. It’s easy to be thankful when life is good, but a challenge when you’re suffering.  Still, practicing gratitude is a fierce act of obedience that comes with a blessing. Philippians 4:6–7 reminds us to, “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Supernatural peace arrives on the coattails of gratitude. 

Invite others into your pain. Community is reflected in the Trinity; God is three persons, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Yes, God is with us, but Galatians 6:2 tells us to bear one another’s burdens. Some things are just too heavy to carry alone. Drawing from 1 Corinthians 12:24-26 we read that “God has so composed the body…that the members may have the same care for one another. If one member suffers, all suffer together….” Whether a friend, your small group, or church leader, it is life-giving to have someone else praying for you, listening to, acknowledging, and empathizing with your hurt, speaking truth to you, and maybe even offering insight or resources from a similar experience. We are not designed to go it alone. 

Cling to the Word and truth of the Gospel. The Bible isn’t an instruction manual but it’s the primary means through which we know God and learn about what’s important to Him. We get to meet Jesus, observe His life, grieve His death, and celebrate His resurrection. He is no stranger to hard things, but His story is one of good news! No matter what we’re facing, we have a Savior who’s acquainted with our sorrow, who can identify with our pain, and who promises us life everlasting. Our heartache serves a purpose because it can loosen our grip on this world and remind us we aren’t made for it, anyway. 

When life gets really hard, it’s paradoxical to me that the things that help me most are actually pretty simple.

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Finding Jesus in the Psalms

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When I was eight years old, I crammed a stack of Monopoly game money into an offering envelope during a Sunday morning service. I followed the instructions on the front of the envelope, and carefully printed my name, address, and phone number on the lines provided . . . using a purple Crayola crayon. I happily dropped that envelope into the metal plate as it passed by. Each week, I heard our pastor talk about how God loves a cheerful giver and since I usually didn’t have money to give, I often felt bad. But on that day, I was pretty happy with myself.

My mom received a phone call later that afternoon. Back then, telephones were mounted on the wall and the length of the cord dictated how much one had to whisper to keep things private. Turns out the church treasurer got excited at seeing a plump giving envelope in the offering bag, but quickly got angry when my game money fell out. The phone call was to relay displeasure over what a few adults at the church considered a distasteful childhood prank.

After the phone call, my mom gave me a stern talking-to about not stuffing the offering plate with play money. I’m pretty sure that the corners of her mouth quivered upward while her words sharply emphasized the importance of taking all things related to God seriously.

My earlier happiness disappeared. I trudged to my room wondering if God was as disappointed with me as the church treasurer and the other adults were. As a kid, I didn’t know about legalism and crabby Christians. Instead, I was overwhelmed with feeling bad about doing something for God that I thought was good. Therefore, I came to a theological conclusion that would hover over my spiritual life for decades to come: Even if you try really hard, God may still be disappointed with you. That new belief was accompanied by a new sensation that would play a significant role in my spiritual journey: Guilt.

How often does guilt surface in your Christian life? For many of us, it’s far too often.

On February 22, known as Ash Wednesday, Christians around the world begin the annual observation of Lent. Originated by church leaders sometime after 325 A.D., Lent was created as a season of fasting patterned after Jesus’ 40 days of fasting in the wilderness. The intent of Lent is for Christians to put aside certain comforts or attachments to re-align one’s focus on God.

As I’ve talked with Christians about Lent’s 40 days of spiritual emphasis, many release a lethargic sigh. First, no one really likes giving up the things that they love. Second, Lent tends to stir up guilt because the focus on connecting with God usually stirs up failed attempts to connect with God, therefore a lot of guilt. For far too many Christians, guilt is associated with almost every function of the Christian life. There’s guilt around going to church, missing church, reading the Bible, as well as not reading the Bible. Have you ever fallen asleep while praying? Big guilt there, right?! But what if Lent could be about experiencing life-giving grace and hope instead of guilt?

Would you like a new path that guides you away from exhausting guilt to a new journey of freedom and grace?

In my new book, Finding Jesus in the Psalms, readers are invited to engage in a six-week Lenten book study that explores the heart of God and the idea that God wants more for us than from us. Each featured Psalm pointedly identifies a Savior, a Messiah, and a coming King. Since the Lenten season leads up to Easter, this book study offers a scripturally rich, spiritually-challenging, yet easy-to-read resource to equip you to focus on God during the Easter season. There are two takeaways that offer an opportunity for deeper faith and less guilt:

First, knowing that God wants more FOR you than from you.

Second, that Lent is a preparation season rather than a performance season. God wants to prepare you to receive more of His grace rather than grade you on how good you’re doing at giving up stuff.

As one of the most popular books in the Bible, the Psalms sing with the heartbeat of our humanity. Not only do the Psalms capture every emotion of our human experience, but the multiple Spirit-led authors of the Psalms teach us a divine language to communicate with God, especially when we’re in hard places in life.

One of the intriguing features of Finding Jesus in the Psalms revolves around the multiple layers of discovery. Even as the Psalms reveal Jesus, the same Psalms also reference King David, the author of approximately half of the book of Psalms and considered to be Israel’s greatest king. Readers will look at portions of King David’s life that point to more about Jesus.

Best of all, you don’t have to know anything about Lent to experience Finding Jesus In The Psalms. All you need is to have the desire to intentionally draw closer to God and deepen your faith. If you aren’t sure if that’s your desire, you can find inspiration in King David’s stories and be encouraged by his faith.

It’s my prayer that as you experience Finding Jesus in the Psalms, you are blessed by a renewed connection with God. His dream is for you to experience the life-transforming gift of salvation and break the chains of guilt, shame, and religious rules once and for all.

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Make your Easter season more meaningful this year! Join Barb Roose for a journey into one of the most popular books in the Bible with Finding Jesus in the Psalms. Each chapter includes opportunities to apply life-giving spiritual themes — like worship, prayer, confession, forgiveness, courage, and faith — to your life. You can do this book on your own, with a group, or sign up for Barb’s free online Finding Jesus in the Psalms Bible study beginning February 22nd and going for six weeks.

We’re so excited for this very needed message to get into your hands!

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 Barb 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 2/17/23 at 11:59 pm central to US addresses only. Winners will be notified via email. Please allow 4-6 weeks for delivery.

You Are Loved as God’s Daughter

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The hallway started to feel a little toasty on that December afternoon at the Fresno County Courthouse as forty friends and family packed in for the momentous occasion. The joy in the air was palpable for the official adoption ceremony of my three daughters by my husband Shawn. 

Shawn and I married seven years ago after my first husband Ericlee died of cancer. Of course, Shawn has already been a faithful father to the girls all these years. He has helped them with homework, taught them how to ride a bike, worked to put food on our table, and held them when tears of grief streaked their cheeks. 

This ceremony was an official declaration of his heart to support them forever. Before the judge and this cloud of witnesses, Shawn pledged to support and care for the girls.

In the car on the way to the courthouse, I got choked up as I heard him tell the girls they were chosen. We don’t choose our children as biological parents, but Shawn had the privilege of intentionally and willingly choosing my three daughters to be his own. Shawn honored his dear friend Ericlee in heaven when he signed those papers to become their legal father.

I remember the early days of my grief and how heavy I felt thinking about my girls growing up without their gregarious and loving daddy. The weight of that reality almost felt heavier than thinking about my own future without my beloved.

But God in His sovereignty had other plans I couldn’t even dream up or imagine for my girls and for me.

Deuteronomy 10:18 reminds us of God’s heart for the vulnerable: “He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the foreigner residing among you, giving them food and clothing.”

I never imagined that verse and others like it would apply to me and my children — until it did. I was widowed at age 37 and my girls were suddenly fatherless. Part of God’s redemptive plan for our family was bringing my husband Shawn to defend, love, and support us.

As I sat inside the courtroom watching my girls sign the papers taking on a new name, I couldn’t help but marvel at my heavenly Father’s lovingkindness toward us. We are all “Gilmore Youngs” now. We carry the name of their daddy Ericlee Gilmore in heaven and the name of Shawn Young, their daddy here on earth. 

In our hearts, we are daughters of Yahweh. He is our Abba Father, who chose to adopt us as His own children. When we take on our Daddy God’s name, it changes everything.

The Apostle Paul explains this in his letter to the church in Galatia:

“But when the right time came, God sent his Son, born of a woman, subject to the law. God sent him to buy freedom for us who were slaves to the law, so that he could adopt us as his very own children. And because we are his children, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, prompting us to call out, ‘Abba, Father.’ Now you are no longer a slave but God’s own child. And since you are his child, God has made you his heir.”
Galatians 4:4-7 (NLT)

Paul’s adoption imagery here is poignant and powerful. He reminds us that God sent His son Jesus to buy back our freedom. We were once slaves, but He purchased our liberty. Jesus redeemed us by choosing to die on the cross and then rising from the dead. We are no longer slaves, but adopted as daughters into God’s family.

God chose us, according to Ephesians 1:5, in much the same way Shawn chose my daughters. When Shawn stood before the judge, she asked him if he promised to provide financially for the girls and to care for their needs. As God’s chosen children, we are also invited to enjoy His daily provision and inheritance, which is eternal life. 

Many of us know this to be true, but we have a kind of soul amnesia and do not live like we are heirs in God’s family. We strive to earn our keep. We question our callings. We fret about the future. 

Friend, what would it look like for you to live like you are a beloved daughter of the King? What behaviors and attitudes would you leave behind?

Here’s the heart of the matter: His love for us is unconditional. He signed the papers for our adoption with the precious blood of His Son Jesus. Now we are all invited to be branches of His family tree. 

After the adoption ceremony of my girls, our friends, and family joined us for coffee and ice cream at one of our favorite local spots. We marked the moment. We publicly rejoiced in the redemption of our story that only God, the author of Love, could have written.

Dorina writes about discovering God’s glory in unexpected places. Subscribe to Dorina’s Glorygram here for weekly encouragement.

 

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

When the New Year Feels a Lot Like the Old One

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My December was rough. And based on what I heard from several friends, family members, and social media connections, I was not alone.

As I was dealing with sickness, frozen pipes, a broken vacuum and a deep freezer on the fritz the day before company was coming, I was reading messages and posts about similar situations for what seemed like everyone I know. Hospitalizations, unexpected bills, travel plans canceled by weather, and even funerals.

The end of the year was hard for a lot of us.

The beauty of the end of the year, though, is that it’s the end. Right? We’re finishing projects, crossing days off the calendar, making it through exams and deadlines, and wondering when is too early to take back our house from the Christmas clutter (or, conversely, deciding to leave up those twinkly lights because they’re cozy and that’s enough reason for you). The end of the year often brings a mingling of joy and grief, but no matter what your circumstance, it brings hope.

Hope of a new year. Hope of another chance. Hope of a fresh start.

More than once, I’ve found myself saying something like, “Here’s to a new year (may it be better than the last one)!” Sometimes the hope of a new beginning is the thing we desperately need to help us endure a hard season.

So, the end of the year was rough, but of course I survived. I survived — for a few moments I may have even thrived — and then January came with its new planner, prepped lunches, and a plan to plug in my treadmill again. My January even came with a new job, so I had all the expectations in the world that this year would! be! different!

I felt so optimistic until the moment I received a phone call, making it clear that 2023 would be the same as last year, that nothing had changed, that “new year, new us” was a big bag of lies.

(As you see, I went from hopeful to hopeless real fast.)

I hung up the phone and threw it on the couch, crying out loud, “Why, God?!! I thought we were past this! I thought things were better! Why is this still happening?” I looked at my calendar and wondered how God could break His promises for fresh mercies, for clean starts, for a new year to mean a new life, a new reality, a new everything.

Spoiler alert: God did not break His promises. He never has and He never will.

My confusion came from my misunderstanding of those promises, perhaps a bit willfully as I tried to twist God’s Word into a guarantee of earthly goodness. I know better. But that didn’t stop me from plucking a few verses out of the Bible and clinging to them for what I wanted, rather than what is true.

Perhaps you’ve fallen prey to this temptation too? Maybe you’ve suffered through a painful season, treading water and grabbing anything that looks like it might keep you afloat. Maybe you’ve felt so weary and worn down that analyzing the Bible and remembering what you’ve studied and learned in that past truly is too hard. Or maybe you’ve looked squarely at Scripture and simply not liked what you saw.

That’s pretty much where I was in January, wiping tears off my face and wondering where God was and why He wasn’t doing what I wanted and needed and expected. But like the patient heavenly Father that He is, God didn’t roll His eyes at my tantrum or ignore me until I got myself under control.

No, He gently reminded me of the exact words of those scriptures I’d been clinging to and asked me to look at them again.

“The thought of my suffering and homelessness is bitter beyond words.
I will never forget this awful time, as I grieve over my loss.
Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this:
The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease.
Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning.”
Lamentations 3:19-23

“For I am about to do something new.
See, I have already begun! Do you not see it?
I will make a pathway through the wilderness.
I will create rivers in the dry wasteland…
Yes, I will make rivers in the dry wasteland so my chosen people can be refreshed.”
Isaiah 43:19-20

See what it says? God’s mercies begin fresh each morning, and He makes rivers in the desert. Yes, praise Him for that!

But it turns out God didn’t promise to reverse our loss or even to end our suffering; He promises never ending mercy and faithfulness. And it turns out God didn’t promise to pull us out of the desert — He declares He will provide water to refresh us while we’re there. As Jesus said in John 16:33, we’re gonna have troubles in this world. But He is stronger than the world and He will be with us through all those troubles.

When I flipped open my new planner on January 1, my life didn’t magically improve. My daughter is still sick, my marriage is still hard, my finances are still a mess, and I even found myself coughing and sniffling again just like I was in December. Everything about my life and this world is the same as it was last year — and that includes the Lord.

When this new year feels a lot like the old year, remember that this is actually a gift. It’s not evidence of a broken promise; it’s the fulfillment. God is faithful and true to every one of His promises. So just like last year and the year before that and the year before that, He is with us. He loves us, He cares for us, and He will never leave us alone. He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

 

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The Secret Place Where Contentment Is Uncovered

by

I feel guilty admitting that waves of grief wash over me every time I notice my father’s delight when he holds his grandchildren . . . grandchildren that are not mine.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my nieces and nephews. They have been a constant source of comfort in my life, and I adore seeing how happy they make my father — especially when he’s not feeling well. I am grateful that he has them and that they get to grow up knowing him.

But I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I sometimes feel like I’m missing out . . . because I don’t have children — and the best fertility doctors in Las Vegas can’t seem to explain why. 

This grief intensifies as the years go by, as my father grows older in age and more feeble in strength. Infertility holds incredible power to inflict pain on its victims with each milestone life brings. I used to allow the waves of grief to pull me under their current as if I was a helpless victim. Succumbing to the pressure, I would act as if I believed myself too weak to fight. 

I used to give in to that overwhelming current, driving myself further and further into my work at any cost. I created the excuse that I needed to work hard, handling it all before the babies arrived. I convinced myself that it was acceptable to let my work hours linger longer and longer into the night.

I was fueled by the lie that life would be worth living, and my home worth enjoying, once those babies arrived. But to live like that was a lie and, finally, I’ve started fighting the downward current to keep my head above water.

Looking back, I now see that I was numbing my disappointment and ignoring the reality that I am growing older without children. I began to see that this lie produced greater problems than the ones I found myself focusing on. I had begun to ignore the very people I’d once prayed to have strong relationships with — my husband, my family, and my friends.

I’ve finally learned how to fight against grief’s pressure. I’ve finally learned that keeping my head above water means closing my laptop at a consistent time, even if the work is not complete. It means finding new ways to enjoy my home, slowing down and sitting on the couch, discovering new interests and hobbies, and reading for fun. It means appreciating time with my family instead of worrying and wishing that it could be different. All of this, and more, leads me to find greater fulfillment in each of my days.

Over the past year, I’ve slowly but surely started learning that life is worth living, family and friends were created to be enjoyed, and emotions are powerful teachers, however obtrusive they may feel. The enjoyment available to us in life is not dependent on our ability to get married, birth children, maintain a model-sized figure, or take family vacations that inspire envy in others.

Our ability to enjoy life depends on the intimacy we cultivate with the Lord — even, and especially, when we’re confused and discontent.

The apostle Paul told us that he’d learned the secret to being content. “I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well-fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength” (Philippians 4:12-13, NIV).

I pray that you feel the Lord’s strength pulsing through you, helping you push against the current that’s trying to pull you under, in any and every area where it exists.

God is with you, and every milestone you pass has been meticulously thought out and planned by an intentional and loving God who desires the best for you. Continue to pursue His presence, because it is there that we receive a perspective that is far greater than ours. That perspective leads us to experience peace, joy, gratitude, and delight in the everyday — and everything about it is worth the pursuit.

The gratitude you experience as you allow God’s perspective to shift your attention away from your grief will flow from the time you spend with Him.

The secret place where contentment is uncovered is found in His presence. I hope you’ll go there with Him . . .