The Aroma of Christ Can Smell Like Cigarettes and Bourbon

The Aroma of Christ Can Smell Like Cigarettes and Bourbon

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Our minivan smelled like cigarettes and bourbon. It’s a smell that doesn’t wash out easily. Some smells can never be scrubbed clean. These are the scents that don’t just live in the cushion seams, but in my nostrils and stain my memory. When I was growing up, my mom would regularly pick up hitchhikers. The haggard hair of a homeless man or vacant eyes of a wanderer didn’t make her afraid, but compassionate. She would see a wayward person on Main Street, pull over, stretch her body across the passenger seat like a bendy straw, and barely reach the handle with the tips of her fingers. Then it came, that smell like a gust of wind. Smoke and alcohol.

Sometimes we would drive around for hours. She would tell the new member of our “van family” about Jesus. Between the train station and stop lights, she would listen, make eye contact, and ask questions. Sometimes it was a woman with her small children. Sometimes there were clothes stuffed into garbage bags. Sometimes there was silence from the stranger. But there was never a hesitation from my mom to drive miles out of the way to help a stranger.

Picking up people off the street never felt dangerous. The behavior and body language of the different passengers sitting shotgun were oftentimes striking to me, but I was never afraid. I sat in the backseat curious and confused, but not anxious.

As a parent now, I’m not sure I would give strangers a lift with my daughters in the backseat. But what my mom did has left a long-lasting imprint on me. I don’t want the scent of booze to be bleached out. I’d rather not erase it because it taught me something.

The way of Jesus is not just a mission trip or Sunday morning. His way can not be relegated to a to-do list or secret society for the wealthy, intelligent, or spiritual. A community service project downtown isn’t what will make me feel better about myself. But oftentimes I make following Jesus more complicated than it needs to be. I turn loving people into an agenda instead of a way of life. When I look at the ministry of Jesus, He loved those who were on His path. He was always walking towards the cross, but if I mapped out His journey it would look like He was directionally confused. But He wasn’t. He was moved by compassion by those who needed Him. He had mercy on the leper, the sick, the young, the hungry, the grieving, and the dead.

The way of Jesus is walking the way He leads you. The way of Jesus is becoming like Him. The way of Jesus requires seeing humans as humans. It is being with others.

But how do we — how do I — choose His way? It starts by acknowledging that I am always becoming something. My formation is always in process. My heart is always being shaped. Whether by mainstream media, society, science, community, or Scripture, I am always becoming formed. I am evolving and changing and growing. I am always going somewhere. The voices I listen to, the crowd I surround myself with, and the videos I watch are all a part of my formation. It may be in small ways or large ones, but formation is always occurring. Even in silence and stillness, my heart is being formed to trust in the goodness of God or to trust in other powers. I am always moving forward in either direction.

The question is — where am I going and who do I go with?

For me, the words “come beside her” have recently been rising and ringing inside of me. Come beside her. Don’t come down on others. Don’t preach over others. Don’t treat people like they are a project. Don’t flatline under the weight of holding others up, but come beside her.

There may be a day when I pick up a stranger off the street. But for now, I’m leaning into Christ’s invitation to come beside women. This looks like resting a hand on the back of the broken, offering a seat to the tired, encouraging women to take just one more step.

Where are you going today? Who are you going with? Pay attention to the path you are on and be awake to who God brings to you. Look at each other with eyes of compassion. True, deep, genuine, Jesus-loving compassion. We are being formed into the aroma of Christ. Sometimes that aroma smells like dirty diapers and cleaning detergent. Sometimes it smells like a garden with lilac bushes head high. And, sometimes, it smells like cigarettes and bourbon.

 

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Sorting Out Our Values and Tossing Comparison

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I have never posted anything as controversial on social media in my life.

“I don’t separate my clothes before doing laundry.”

You would have thought I just admitted to being okay with being a lifelong pickpocket.

I got a lot of comments like:

That could never work for me.
I tried it and it didn’t work.
I do it that way too and it’s great.
I’m glad it works for you. I like doing it my way.

Those were the innocuous comments. Other people were losing their minds. Here are some of the more critical comments I received:

No. That’s not okay.
I guess if you want to walk around in dingy clothes, that’s your prerogative.
Really? Does it take that much extra time to just do it right?
You’re wrong.
You must not care about ______ if you don’t do it right.

I’m not here to tell you how to do your laundry. (I’ve learned my lesson in that department.) But what I was surprised about was the strong reaction that many had to that post, bringing it down, essentially, to a morality issue.

Basically, if you are a good person, you will do your laundry correctly. (I know that sounds crazy, but that was the equation some people were making.) I realize that a lot of us have been taught that if you want to feel okay about how you are doing things, it always helps if you can find someone else who is doing it wrong.

I followed up that post by saying, “Hey friends, whether you choose to wash your clothes dangerously because saving time, saving money, saving energy (yours or the power company’s), or because that is the best thing for you right now, it all works. The detergent police are not going to bust down your laundry room door.”

For some people, it’s a radical thought that the way they’ve been taught to do something right, might not be “right” for everyone.

I have friends who take great joy in separating all their clothes, doing small loads of laundry, and then ironing like wrinkles are the unpardonable sin. I have other friends who send their laundry out to have it washed by someone in the neighborhood who is hired through an app. They get their laundry back in nice, neat little piles, ready to put away. And then there are the rest of us, doing the best we can, somewhere out here in the messy middle.

I am one of those people who can keep my whole house looking great, all at the same time, for about thirty-seven minutes (as long as nobody moves). And I think this is the category that most of us fall into.

We live in “working” houses. We cook, we eat, we play, we pray, we work, we study, we create, we rest, we love, and we live in our houses. My house is perfect as long as there is nothing going on in it.

Somehow, we’ve made the idea of a messy house, a pile of undone laundry, or heating up a frozen meal into a morality issue.

My radical thought? Some days, it’s miracle enough to get the laundry done imperfectly.

I used to spend a lot of time comparing my life — my house, my routines, my parenting, my marriage — to other women. It’s only gotten easier to do so in the age of social media, where every Instagrammer’s house appears perfect and none of their kids look like they fished a shirt out of the dirty laundry pile because it’s their “favorite.”

What I finally learned, after way too many years of comparison, is that it is 100% possible to be proud of yourself, get done what you need to get done, work, be married, and raise kids, all without comparing yourself to anyone else at all. So yes. I’m proudly giving myself the participation ribbon.

Galatians 6:4 (NIV) says, “Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else.”

My house is never going to be perfect, but my home is always going to welcome someone in. I value hospitality over perfection. In a world where we all struggle to make connections, I can’t have one more barrier to being with people. If my house had to be perfect, I would never have anyone over.

And here is the beautiful thing — most people feel comfortable with a little mess. I feel honored when someone lets me into their house with some unfolded laundry on the couch. That’s how I know I am welcome to the real parts of life.

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 not only instruction but daily, gentle encouragement.

 

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Get Your Hopes Up

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I’ve been in a fight for over a decade.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m fighting with Hope, wrestling in the desert through the dark of night, begging for a blessing. But this long-standing fight, this particular back and forth of daily cries and deep sighs and tears rolling down cheeks, is a fight for hope, a fight to hope, a fight of hope.

Even now, writing these words brings tears to my eyes. It’s true that hope heals but also? Hope hurts. It’s risky.

When you’ve hoped for something time after time, month after month, year after year, but then everything stays the same, it’s easy to become resigned. Numb. Disillusioned. Apathetic. “God is working in our waiting” sounds lovely until we’re actually waiting. Until things fall apart. Until the diagnosis, the phone call, the silence, the pain, the day after day of the same. It’s still true; it’s just harder to hold onto.

Twelve years ago, I had brain surgery. When they took out the tumor, the symptoms stopped and the insomnia began. It’s taken its toll in a thousand unseen ways, all of them worth it to still be here all these days, but there isn’t a word for the exhaustion that has become my normal. Sleep. All I want is to be able to sleep. To have the energy needed for each day, the bandwidth to show up for my people but not completely crash afterward, to experience rest in a body that tosses and turns until the sun rises and it’s time to throw the covers back and begin another day.

I read the story of the woman who bled for twelve years, who spent all she had and tried absolutely everything (Mark 5:24-34). I can feel it in my tired bones, the absolute desperation in her fingers, her mind, her heart, her broken body reaching for the fringe, one last grasp toward hope.

I hear it in the words of the two disciples as they left Jerusalem, disappointment and despair coloring their conversation as they walked toward the village of Emmaus. Luke 24:13-35 records the moment. I can hear their confusion as they discuss the news that arrived that morning, their heartbreak as they share the story with the stranger who joined them on the road.

“We had our hopes up that He was the One,” they say. “We had hoped…” drifts away with the breeze as they put one dusty foot in front of another, unaware that Hope is literally walking them home.

I think of this as I make another doctor’s appointment, as I pull into the parking lot and dare to show up, knowing that hope might crash down again. After all, it’s been twelve sets of 365 and the only thing that seems to have changed is that I sleep less than ever before.

If I’m honest, at this point it would be easier to give up the fight and avoid the heartbreak of disappointment. There would be relief in saying “it is what it is” and attempting to make the best of it, firmly shutting the door on the hopeful expectation that something will change. Twelve years of prayers, of tossing and turning in the dark and yawning throughout the day, tells me that choosing to hope again is not just risky — it’s foolish.

But I remember the man who wrestled with God through the night and walked away with a limp (Genesis 32:22-32). I remember the woman who desperately reached out and was named “daughter,” the disciples who didn’t recognize Hope Himself until He blessed and broke the bread as they sat down for a meal, and I see a God who doesn’t tease, a God who comes close and says hope won’t put us to shame (see Romans 5:1-5).

I don’t actually believe “it is what it is” . . . I believe it’s so much more, so much better. I believe the God of the entire universe became a baby in a womb and that what was once dead can rise and walk alongside two discouraged friends on a road to Emmaus. More than twelve years of history tells me the Author is good.

With everything in me, I believe God is healer. What I’ve come to see, though, is that healing doesn’t always look like what I’ve pictured. Sometimes the answer to our prayers is not a yes or a no but a Person. We get God, and in my desperate reaching, I’ve found Him to be enough.

Will this year bring healing? Will I fight for hope only to watch it crash down? I don’t know, but I’ll risk finding out, trusting that Hope will be the anchor and no matter the coming waves, I will not sink.

There’s a mystery and a miracle in the blessing and the breaking, and while I’d choose just the blessing myself, I know Him most intimately in my heartbreak. It’s only when the One who truly broke reaches out and breaks the bread that His disciples can truly see: Every hope that felt dashed was held in nail-scarred hands. Every prayer was heard. Every heartbreak was seen. Every tear was witnessed. They spoke in past tense, but Hope was present, always there, walking right beside. They were never alone.

Our waiting won’t be wasted. All that is broken will be mended. We will not be put to shame.

I’m getting my hopes up.

If today’s post resonated and you’d like more encouragement from Kaitlyn, her book Even If Not: Living, Loving, and Learning in the in Between will help you choose hope for tomorrow when today feels like a question mark.

 

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The Lost Art of Play and Why the Church Needs More Fun

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I have fond memories of my church youth group from when I was a teenager. My mom would drop me off every Wednesday evening at church for two hours of games, laughter, and Bible study. To be honest, I looked forward to the games as much as the Bible study. We’d kick off our time together with ultimate frisbee or charades, dodgeball or a card game. No matter what we did, there were always two rules: 1) everyone had to participate, and 2) the game had to be fun. By the time we got around to reading and studying the Bible, our cheeks would be aching from laughing, and our hearts and minds were primed to go deeper.

The games we played at youth group were the gateway for developing deeper bonds of trust and respect with one another.

I look at adult Christians now, myself included, and often wonder: Why don’t we play together more often as a church? Where did all the laughter and the fun go?

Somewhere between growing up, having jobs, and starting families, church became far more serious. For many of us, the games and jovialty of life together became replaced with a mundane checklist of teaching, preaching, discipleship, and evangelism. Now, everything from Sunday mornings to mid-week small groups and outreach initiatives are all work and no fun.

I don’t want to sound reductive. I know that the life of a church is complex. But part of me wonders if one of the reasons why we have so much fighting and divisions in the church today is because we’ve lost our ability to play together.

Our God is a playful God, and in shaping us in His image, He created us to be playful too. In the book of Ecclesiastes, it states, “So I commend the enjoyment of life, because there is nothing better for a person under the sun than to eat and drink and be glad. Then joy will accompany them in their toil all the days of the life God has given them under the sun” (Ecclesiastes 8:15). God intended for us to take time to eat good food and drink together and just laugh until our bellies ache. God designed life to be full of joy. We were created to take intentional breaks from our work to be together, play, and have fun.

The Christian life, and by extension Church life, was always meant to be surprising, funny, and even, dare I say, at times silly. As Pastor Ondrej Szturc from Evangelical Christian Fellowship in the Czech Republic once said, “One of the signs of a healthy community is laughter and the ability to have fun together.”

Many of us feel burnt out these days. We’re tired and weary of each other and even the church at large at times.

What is the way forward?

Yes, we need the fellowship of Sunday morning services. Yes, we need to be taught and nourished by God’s Word through sermons and Bible studies. But what if the path forward for healing and deeper bonds also included a commitment to playing together more?

Perhaps you could invite a family from church over to play a board game. Maybe you could organize a weekly movie night or nature walk and offer an open invitation for folks to come as they can. You could also invite church families into your own personal celebrations. Birthday parties and cultural holidays are simple, easy ways to get to know folks better, while just kicking it over a delicious cold drink and some cake.

When we grow distant from one another, the remedy just might be food, games, and laughter. When a church is hurting (or when you personally are hurting), perhaps the best step forward is to cancel the regular program or meeting and just find someone to go out for coffee with. In the spirit of Ecclesiastes, we can pray for God to use that warm cup of coffee and perhaps a funny story (or maybe even a card game!) to be the medium to reconnect with a fellow brother or sister in the Lord.

Who knows if God might use that Saturday afternoon grill out to begin healing ethnic divides in your community. Who knows how God might use a game night to begin the work of reconciliation between two individuals or families who have grown apart. God can use a bowling match or a pool hang out or a cooking class to help fellow co-laborers in the gospel to also become friends. 

Play is essential for us as human beings and as fellow believers on mission to live life together. The more ways we can find to laugh together, the healthier and happier we will be as we seek to advance God’s kingdom together.

 

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How to Make a Legacy Bible for Someone You Love

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I found my daughter sitting at the kitchen table, and tears pooled in my eyes before I said a single word. There were so many things I wanted to say, so many things I still wanted to teach and show her. This girl at the table was only days away from leaving for college.

All grown up, resilient, optimistic, hopeful.

“I have something to give you . . . ” I sputtered, and laid a Bible in her hands.

She looked perplexed. She already owned several Bibles, so why would she need yet another Bible?

But this Bible was different. This was a “Legacy Bible.” I had secretly written in the margins of nearly every page. Each note was written especially for her. They were all the things I wanted her to remember, and most importantly, all the things God wanted her to remember.

“Daughter,” I wrote on the first page of the Bible, “you’ll read a lot of books in your life ahead. May you hold the Bible closest to your heart! God is the author of your story.”

And then, day after day, I wrote and wrote, always praying for her as I moved through the pages, letting her know the verses I had clung to for years, and sharing fascinating new revelations as I re-read old stories. It was one of the most meaningful seasons of Bible-reading in my entire life.

When I handed her the Bible, I saw how much it meant to her. And then, a few weeks later, I began a new Legacy Bible, this time for our second daughter.

I have plans to continue this practice as I move forward in life, God-willing, and will give away those Bibles, perhaps to future grandchildren, nieces, or nephews.

Ever since I started writing in these Legacy Bibles, friends have asked me how to get started so they can create Legacy Bibles of their own. And today, I’m sharing my simple plan with you. It doesn’t take a lot of money, but it does take a commitment to sit down and do the work of reading, praying, and sharing your heart in the margins of a journaling Bible.

Start by purchasing a journaling Bible and pen, or set of pens. My first two Bibles were completed with this ESV Single Column Journaling Bible. I plan to use this Illustrating Bible next. You don’t have to use colorful pens or have an artistic flair. I use simple, inexpensive pens. I believe our loved ones care more about content than polish.

Set aside a time each day, or a few times each week, to work through the Bible. Decide how long you need — one, two, or three years, for instance. Then, find a free Bible-reading plan online. I finished our first daughter’s Bible in a year. Our second daughter’s Bible is being completed in two years’ time. Commit to a plan that works for you.

Try to write at least one reflection on each page. Consider verses you’ve clung to over the years. If you know verses that meant a lot to a grandmother or family friend, include those. Highlight passages that your loved one can hold on to in times of trouble. Don’t be afraid of chapters that feel more difficult, such as in Leviticus. All of it points to our need for Jesus. I also like to include remarks about passages that confuse me. I have relieved myself of the pressure to have all the answers, and instead show my daughters that, as an adult, I’m still learning.

Pray for your loved one as you read and write. When working through each Legacy Bible, I kept my child top of mind, always asking, “What would I want them to know about this story today, and also years from now? What does this passage reveal about God?” My remarks include everything I’d want my daughters to know if I didn’t get to have another tomorrow. It’s what I want them to cling to when they get rocked by storms of life.

Give your Legacy Bible to the recipient during a milestone moment. Legacy Bibles make memorable gifts at birthdays, graduations, Christmas, or confirmation. You could also give one on the occasion of having a baby or moving into a first apartment or home.

More and more, as months slip into years, and years slip into decades, I am convinced that the best thing we can give to the next generation is a deep sense of who they are in Christ and how great our God is.

What do you want the people you love to remember most about you and about God? What do you hope they hold onto when the storms of life roll in? Write it down in a Legacy Bible.

A few days after I placed that first Bible in my daughter’s hands, we were standing face to face in a campus parking lot, at college drop-off. Tears ran down our cheeks. I looked her in the eye and told her how much I loved her. How I would always be here.

Then, I wrapped my arms around her and held her as long and as tight as I could.

And then I let go, knowing God never would.

 

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Why Brain Fog Is No Joke and How to Reduce Mental Fatigue

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I finally got hit with COVID and I was scared.

After two years of avoiding coronavirus, I found myself nursing a very painful sore throat and a fever that gave me chills one minute and had my body burning up the next. It was hard to sleep while my bones ached and my muscles and joints wrestled with pain. Lying on my bed, feeling like I was hit by a ton of bricks, what surprised me was how demoralizing it felt to lose my sense of smell and taste. I had no appetite and the comfort foods that used to soothe me, like chicken soup and Chinese fried rice, offered me no relief. It felt like I was chewing on cardboard pieces and it affected my morale.

What was even more unexpected was the fear and worries filling my mind as I lay there exhausted. Logically, I knew I’d likely be okay and it was only a matter of time before I’d recover. But all those news articles I’d read over the years about health scares gripped my mind. What if I don’t fully recover? What if I can’t shake this fatigue?

Even more discouraging was that I was facing a deadline for my fourth book due the same month! One stressful thing might not be so bad, but when multiple circumstances are layered on top of each other, chronic stress can settle in. I was suffering from brain fog and mental fatigue. My inability to focus felt debilitating. I lost track of my thoughts and struggled to concentrate.

Do you find yourself struggling with mental fatigue or chronic stress, too? Brain fog doesn’t just affect those with COVID. Mental fatigue happens when we juggle too many things, while also pushing our emotions to the side. Our brains can only handle so much information. We become overloaded. We figure we’ll process how we’re doing later, after whatever personal crisis is hitting us. Yet, without space to stop and breathe, our brains start to tire.

When your brain is exhausted, it becomes harder to think, reason, and focus. Stress negatively affects our well-being and emotions. When we carry stress over time, inundated with the deluge of information, we can experience mental fatigue.

Helping my brain recover didn’t require a big overhaul. Little changes can make a big difference! Have you ever opened up so many tabs on your computer that you suddenly get the spinning, colored wheel and your system freezes? That’s what happens to our brains when we’re overloaded. So, by simply closing those “tabs” of activity and stress, our bodies and emotions can breathe and recover.

To reduce mental fatigue and relieve brain fog, here are three soul care tips to rest that helped me, and I know they’ll help you too!

1. Choose grace, not guilt.

Extend yourself the kindness and comfort you generously give others. Ironically, the times we most need God’s comfort are times we deprive ourselves of care. We may feel selfish. Yet, God says we can comfort others only with the comfort we first receive ourselves (see 2 Corinthians 1:3-4).

Prioritize your well-being. Ask for help. Or simply say no to extra demands or others’ requests temporarily, so you can say yes to taking better care of yourself. I asked for a book extension, even though I was afraid of disappointing my publisher. By asking for support and help, I received it!

2. Take microbreaks.

Studies show taking a microbreak, just thirty seconds to five minutes every thirty minutes, to disengage from your work and move your body reboots your brain and calms your body.

One simple way to take microbreaks and take better care of yourself is by drinking water. Studies show that drinking water keeps stress levels low. But not drinking enough water increases the stress hormone cortisol, inducing anxiety and stress responses, such as an increased heart rate, nausea, fatigue, and headaches. Studies show dehydration affects our moods. When we stay hydrated, our bodies run better, leading to wellness. Water is God’s natural stress reducer!

3. Let the Spirit intercede.

Even when we’re too stressed to pray, the Holy Spirit helps us by praying for us. Romans 8:26-27 promises, “In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans. And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for God’s people in accordance with the will of God.” Verse 34 assures us that Jesus Himself is also interceding for us! Ask Jesus and the Spirit to pray for you so you can prioritize your well-being.

As I gave myself permission to take a break from obligations and commit myself to a season of rest, I focused on God’s goodness: “But as for me, the nearness of God is good for me; I have made the Lord God my refuge” (Psalm 73:28 NASB).

Your loving Savior Jesus whispers, Come to me all who are weary and burdened. And I will give you rest (Matthew 11:28). God is faithful to provide all you need.

You are God’s beloved.

For tips to stress less, download Bonnie Gray’s FREE Stress Less devotional here! Also, listen to Bonnie’s popular wellness podcast, BREATHE: The Stress Less Podcast. Listen and subscribe anywhere you listen to podcasts.

 

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One Step at a Time

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God doesn’t expect you to be perfect. He doesn’t expect me to be perfect. This is great news, because I make a lot of mistakes. I say the wrong thing, I act out of selfishness, I tear down others to build myself up. The gospel isn’t only for those who have it all together, who make big moves, and who dream big dreams. The gospel is also for those of us who are afraid, feel unsure, and aren’t courageous in the slightest. As we’ll see in the story of Zacchaeus, one step of faith at a time is all it takes to draw closer to Jesus:

Jesus entered Jericho and made his way through the town. There was a man there named Zacchaeus. He was the chief tax collector in the region, and he had become very rich. He tried to get a look at Jesus, but he was too short to see over the crowd. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore-fig tree beside the road, for Jesus was going to pass that way.

When Jesus came by, he looked up at Zacchaeus and called him by name. “Zacchaeus!” he said. “Quick, come down! I must be a guest in your home today.”

Zacchaeus quickly climbed down and took Jesus to his house in great excitement and joy. But the people were displeased. “He has gone to be the guest of a notorious sinner,” they grumbled.

Meanwhile, Zacchaeus stood before the Lord and said, “I will give half my wealth to the poor, Lord, and if I have cheated people on their taxes, I will give them back four times as much!”

Jesus responded, “Salvation has come to this home today, for this man has shown himself to be a true son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and save those who are lost.”
Luke 19:1-10 (NLT)

As these verses tell us, Zacchaeus was desperate for a glimpse of Jesus. Sure, he was culturally known as a sinner because of his chosen career as a tax collector, but that didn’t stop him from taking a brave step to be closer to Jesus. This story demonstrates to readers that the good news of the gospel is for everyone, including outcasts and sinners. As he lumbered up the tree in his dusty tunic, he didn’t expect to be noticed for this act. He didn’t do it to be seen but to see the Son of Man. His small step toward God — climbing a sycamore tree — changed his life forever. Zacchaeus receives the gift of salvation after later hosting Jesus in his home, but it all started by climbing a tree.

Today, what if moving one step closer to Jesus looked like doing something out of the ordinary to see Him more clearly? You never know what repercussions that first step of faith might have. There is salvation, beauty, and healing in your story.

Even if you don’t see it just yet, take one step of faith. You never know where it might lead.

Let’s pray: Lord, thank You for the reminder of Your life and faithfulness through the story of Zacchaeus. Please open my eyes today to how You are working in my story. Help me to be bold in taking one step closer to You. Thank You that I do not have to be perfect in this life; I just have to rely on You. Holy Spirit, be near me as I look for ways to draw closer to You. Amen.

This article was written by Ellen Wildman as featured in Everyday Faith Magazine.

Did you know DaySpring has a magazine? It’s true! And the brand new summer issue just hit newsstands!

From cover to cover in each issue of Everyday Faith magazine, you will find stories and articles to inspire hope and encouragement and to remind you that you are His. In this summer issue, you’ll find tips for summer roads trips, a summer book club pick, stories of hope during difficult times, and ideas about how to live your faith this year. There are tear-out prayer cards, scannable QR codes for freebies, and an exclusive Summer Downtime Planning Calendar tear-out tucked inside!

These pages are full of the best kind of hope and encouragement — truth from God’s Word!

You care about your faith — that’s why you’re here today! — and Everyday Faith magazine will help you know and share God’s love in fresh, true, and inspiring ways. This article by Ellen is just one of many featured throughout Everyday Faith magazine, which, by the way, is perfect for tucking into your purse, bringing to the beach, and sharing with a friend.

And to help you do just that, we’re giving away FIVE sets of magazines — one for each winner and one for each of them to give to a friend! Leave a comment telling us whom you’d gift a copy to, and we’ll draw five winners.

Giveaway open to US addresses only and will close on 6/27/22 at 11:59pm CST. 

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Passing Notes: a Lesson in God’s Love for Us

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It seemed like yet another, increasingly common, back-and-forth frustration between me and my daughter. I couldn’t help but sigh in exhaustion, wanting to discount, in this case, the emotions surrounding a child not finding her Chiefs shirt for “Red Day” at school. She shouted up and down the hallway throwing insults at anyone who walked by. My husband was at a meeting, and I had a sore throat and aching bones from some sort of quick but debilitating virus. I got frustrated and yell-whispered from my bed with a scratchy voice, “Honey, I’m sick, and I physically can’t help you find the shirt. I don’t have the energy to argue with you, so you’re going to have to find your shirt in the laundry on your own.”

She said under her breath, “I hate you.”

I never understood this sort of interaction between parent and child when I would watch television shows or movies in elementary school. I was not allowed under any circumstances to verbalize that I hated my parents even if my emotions felt so loud that I did think it. Growing up, everything did feel so big and so awful that sometimes I projected what I felt on others, including those who loved me the most. I can see that now. But as those words left her mouth in that moment, I must have winced. My eyes showed hurt. We both felt the pain of her words unleashed, watching, almost visibly, the arrows move from her mouth and land into my heart. 

“You’re frustrated, and I know you don’t mean that. But you’re grounded tomorrow so you have some space to think about your words.” She stomped away loudly. A good half an hour later with her face hidden by a pillow, she showed up at my door. And while her words hurt me, I almost wanted to laugh at her journey through the long hallway blinded by a decorative twelve-by-twelve soft cotton shield. She stormed in and threw a note on my bed. 

I am stupid and a bad kid you don’t want, it said in sloppy handwriting. 

Ah, I knew this feeling. When I’ve been wrong and felt shame for acting out, I’ve said similar things: I am so bad I cannot be redeemed. I am so messed up that now I will be rejected. I am so far beyond, you don’t want me now. And don’t I do this with God? Don’t I struggle with the same shame when coming to Him — or when deciding not to come to Him — because I think He’ll reject me based on my performance, on being able to control my emotions and actions just so?

Watching her agony, my heart was endeared to her. This was not about a lost shirt; this was about worthiness. 

Being a parent is tedious work. If we’re not listening or watching, we can inadvertently discount really harmful thoughts and let our children believe they’re abandoned in their shame. I pulled a note from the poet Kate Baer, who crosses words out from hateful letters she receives and corrects them with love.

My new crossed-out, fixed version of my daughter’s note read, “I am stupid stupendous! And a bad kid you don’t want!”

Then I passed the fixed note back to her room via an interconnected web of other children who were waiting to see how I would respond to the Tasmanian devil outburst. Not a minute later, she came to my door, laid her head on the frame, and whispered defeatedly, “I’m sorry.”

I said, “Do I love you more when you obey me? Less when you don’t? Or do I love you the same either way?” This was a softball. She laughed, “Always the same.” She walked back to her room with her face unhidden, her shoulders a little higher. We had rehearsed this phrase for moments like these, when you can’t believe the goodness you’re being shown, especially when you might not deserve it. 

The next morning, when I was scrounging for a sharpie in her room, I found the crossed-out, edited-by-me note by her pillow, and it made me tear up. I figured she’d thrown it away in her anger, but no, she clung to it. She needed to reread my love for her, my reframing of her shame, the assurance of forgiveness.

In the Bible, David made a huge mistake and was tempted to live in shame because of it. But he writes this in Psalm 103:12-13, 

 As far as the east is from the west,
so far has he removed our transgressions from us.
As a father has compassion on his children,
so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him.

I do this same cycle with God — of feeling shame, repenting, fighting to believe He loves me beyond performance, and holding fast to my true identity. And what a tender way to remember that I am just like my daughter in that tendency. We’re all very much eleven-year-olds who need to know that we’re wanted, loved, adored, worthy, and good. If we can somehow let that child inside of us know the true remedy for our shame is God’s love, maybe we too could walk a little lighter, a little less hidden, with our shoulders a little higher. What a free way to live that would be!

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All I Wanted Was Chips and Guacamole but I Couldn’t Leave My House

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I craved chips and creamy, tangy guacamole. But after watching the news coverage about the mass shooting of thirteen people, including eleven African-Americans in a supermarket in Buffalo, New York, I couldn’t bring myself to drive to the store to pick up the ingredients. Like a mobile app that freezes on a screen, my mind got stuck on the thought that perhaps one of the victims, who was African-American like me, made the decision to run out for chips and avocados — and that decision cost their lives.

After the initial shock and sadness for the victims, I worked to normalize my thoughts and emotions. I put down my phone and took some deep breaths. Stretching my arms and bending my knees to push the blood around my body, I also forced rational thoughts to flow through my mind. I reminded myself that Buffalo was hours away and the odds of a copycat crime in my neighborhood were low. I was determined to prove that someone’s hateful actions couldn’t intimidate me or control my behavior. Snatching up my keys and grabbing my wallet, I coached myself through the steps of walking through my door and driving the ten minutes to the store. I proposed that I could speed up my trip by only squeezing three avocados instead of my usual twenty. Race-based anxiety, you aren’t going to win. I can do this!

Nope.

I took a few steps and stopped. I couldn’t move any closer to my door. The anxious thumping of my heartbeat was too loud. I also felt the mental tug-of-war between knowing the low likelihood that I was in danger that day and knowing the reality that too many people who look like me have died doing the equivalent of going out for chips and avocados.

I slumped in my chair, stuck, frustrated, confused. Can you relate? If so, how do we get unstuck from anxious thoughts even though there may be a real basis for our fear? These days, I’m thinking of friends who are watching their loved ones deal with serious medical conditions and other loved ones navigating tricky relational challenges with real risks and uncertain outcomes.

In the Old Testament, David began as King Saul’s favored warrior. David revered Saul but soon had to run for his life because Saul was on the hunt to kill him. There’s a point at which David holes up in a cave to hide from Saul (1 Samuel 22). It was a literal and spiritually dark time in David’s life. He later wrote Psalm 142 to capture his mental tug-of-war between fear, frustration, and faith.

All David wanted was to honor God, fight for his king, and live with his family. No matter how simple David’s desires, his reality was complicated. I love that David admits to being overwhelmed, which many of us can relate to.

It’s frustrating when we are struggling and afraid, especially when answers allude us or change seems slow to come. As a believer who is a person of color, it’s been a lifelong journey to learn how to trust God to meet me in the places of racial anxiety and ask for His help. Until something racially changes in our country, I don’t want to get stuck in an emotional and mental tug-of-war every time there’s a racial incident. Chances are, you’ve got a recurring pop-up of anxiety in your life where there’s a tug-of-war between fear, frustration, and faith, too. Thankfully, no matter our problem or pain, God specializes in bringing His children to freedom and out of stuck places. You may not be able to change your circumstances, but you don’t have to be stuck in your suffering.

As the tug-of-war continued throughout the day, I kept inviting God to dislodge whatever was keeping my thoughts stuck. It sounded a lot like: “God, I know that You’ll move me through this. My fears are real, but I choose to give You the final say.” This prayer wasn’t a quick fix, but it was a slow, sure thing. Each time I offered that prayer, I could feel God tugging me closer to Him and away from the life-sucking stuck of that looping, anxious thought.

In Psalm 142, David tackled his fear and frustration in a similar manner. He didn’t receive that instant spiritual band-aid that we tend to look for when life gets uncomfortable. While David bounced back and forth between fear, frustration, and faith, he persevered, and eventually, God worked through David’s faith to pull him out of his stuck place, even though he was still physically living in the cave.

You are my place of refuge. You are all I really want in life.
Psalm 142:5 (NLT)

This is our declaration today: In our stuck places, God will free us. Anxious thoughts can cause tough tug-of-wars at times, but we always have God’s power to pull us through.

To learn more about how to walk through anxiety, check out Barb’s Winning the Worry Battle: Life Lessons from the Book of Joshua book – now available as an audiobook!

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The Fellowship of the Lonely

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I didn’t expect the loneliness.

When the world shut down and people drew sides, when wars raged at home and halfway across the world, I didn’t expect the unrelenting losses to simultaneously deliver a deeper layer of loneliness.

Normally, I’m not someone who needs a lot of time or conversation with friends. It’s true that I love people and enjoy being with people — but in small groups and small increments, allowing for plenty of solitude in between. The older I get, the more I need silence, wide-open and unscheduled spaces to be present with my own thoughts. Perhaps this is merely a result of the fact that I don’t get much of it. With six kids, the majority of whom need a lot of attention and constant conversation, moments of solitude and quiet are rare. Thus my love of and need for both.

Still, the loneliness came, even for someone like me. And the weight of it crushed. This surprised me, in both its presence and intensity. What exactly was I lonely for? Was it loneliness for companionship? Perhaps, but I don’t think so. I didn’t feel a need to call up a friend or meet someone for coffee. I wasn’t likely to host a dinner party or join a neighborhood bunco group. And heaven knows I had more than enough Zoom meetings.

The loneliness wasn’t so much for companionship as it was for comfort. In this season of protracted suffering, first one year and then two going on three, relief remains consistently out of reach. About the time we think things might get better, another gut punch. More losses, more insecurity, more unknowns. Over and over again, we’ve picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves off, and tried to muscle our way through, only to have the circumstantial rug pulled out from beneath us again.

The result? Suffering. Grief. And, yes, loneliness.

Do you feel it, too?

Regardless of the source, suffering creates an otherness, even when we are all suffering together. Pain — whether emotional, physical, or spiritual — acts as a prison, isolating and eclipsing. It convinces us we are alone in our grief, separated by our pain. And the resulting loneliness only adds to the weight of our suffering.

David understood this, I think. Thus the reason he poured out his lament before his God:

My eyes are ever on the Lord,
for only he will release my feet from the snare.

Turn to me and be gracious to me,
for I am lonely and afflicted.

Relieve the troubles of my heart
and free me from my anguish.
Psalm 25:15-17 (NIV)

“I am lonely and afflicted . . . ” he said. This great king of Israel, this warrior who mightily took down giants and fought vast armies in the name of His God, dared to publicly admit his loneliness.

Perhaps that is the secret. Because in David’s courage, I find a little of my own. And perhaps that is what God has wanted for us all along — to share in our collective loneliness and, thus, find relief in it.

Today, I cannot solve your pain or cure your suffering. I can do nothing to change your circumstances or ease your losses. But this is what you and I can do: We can create a small fellowship of shared grief, a place where we’re safe to admit our loneliness and need right here, in the presence of each other and the Father who loves us all. We can choose to see each other, as we are, and allow a little space in this corner of the internet to not be alone in it.

I’ll go first.

I’m tired, friends. This life I’m living often requires more strength than I have left to give. It is hard, and some days I want to quit. Even worse, the weariness of it all sometimes leaves me drowning in loneliness.

How about you? Will you join me here? Will you add your voice to mine, so we can cry out to our one, true Refuge together?

Come, Lord Jesus. Our eyes are ever on You, for only You can free us from our anguish.

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Courage Is the Practice of Risking to Trust

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We often expect God to be a parent who scolds us rather than a shepherd who soothes us. We come to God in the pages of Scripture and the hard parts of our stories carrying apprehension of judgment rather than the anticipation of kindness.

In the early months of getting sick, I spent most of my time in bed. I was a junior in college whose landscape for living had suddenly shrunk to the size of one dorm room. I felt like God had forced me to lie down, as though my ambition and busyness were sins for which I needed punishment and discipline. The traditional English translation of Psalm 23:2 is “he makes me lie down,” which certainly sounds akin to putting a toddler in timeout.

I was plied with others’ platitudes and crushed by a theology of cause and effect; if I was sick, surely it had to be some hidden sin in my heart that needed punishment. So I prayed and prayed, begging God to let me get out of bed.

My prayers were a loop of longing and loss. God, heal me. Tell me what I need to repent of, and I will. God, help me find out what’s wrong with my body. God, give me answers. God, do you even hear me? Father, heal me. Eventually, I would run out of words and stare out the window instead, peering over the edge of Lookout Mountain and its forests and boulders, pining for the day I could climb out of bed and climb its stone face again instead.

It was on one of those lengthy days of longing that I realized I was waiting for the wrong thing.

Suffering was silencing me. I needed words to wrap around my wounds. I needed speech to break the silence of the violence of the autoimmune civil war raging inside my body.

I found my voice again in the words of the psalms.

The day my longing found lament, my prayers for healing became prayers to see God.

I had opened my Bible to Psalm 27, where I encountered a saint as hard up as me. David, who wrote both Psalm 27 and Psalm 23, knew what it was like to have an enemy, knew how it felt to be afraid, and knew how much it hurt to wonder if you are heard. Yet in his haunting fears, he told himself to trust.

By the time I got to the end of the psalm, I was stunned into a better story. 

“Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!”

All those days looking out the window, I had been waiting on God to heal me. But the psalm showed me that what I was really waiting for was God. I was being led through one of the darkest valleys of my life, facing more suffering than I imagined I could endure. I thought I was waiting to be rescued. God was waiting for me to see that He was already with me. Hearing my cries. Moved by my pain. Ready to meet me with mercy for the season ahead.

The interpretation of “he makes me lie down” in Psalm 23 can lead us into a story of either punishment or peace. And the translation history of this passage tells a different story than the common English translation leads us to expect. The Greek translation of the Old Testament uses the word kataskenoo in this passage, which can be translated as “rest” or “settle down.” The Arabic text in the London Polygot (1657) similarly translates this as ahallani, which means “he settles me down.” Many scholars prefer to translate this line of Psalm 23 as “he settles me down,” noting how the more forceful language creates unnecessary problems and expectations.

I thought God was a shepherd who made me lie down. I needed to encounter God as a shepherd who settled me down.

That day, I started realizing that to be strong and let my heart take courage, I needed to wait on the Lord not as the one who was punishing me with pain and expecting me to be stoic about it but as the Shepherd coming to care for me. 

I needed to encounter my emotions not as signs of failure but as cries for connection.

I needed to change the goal of my waiting. I had to shift the aim of my anticipation.

There is a Shepherd who stands with scars still on His hands, who is always reaching toward you in every moment of your stress, because He has been where you are and knows the way home.

As we pay attention to ourselves as people Jesus already loves and is already seeking, we will experience our stress differently. Our sensations don’t have to tell the same old story. We can practice anticipating the Shepherd’s presence — even when we fear we have been left alone.

And the beautiful thing about a practice is you do not have to do it perfectly. You can begin right where you are. In your fear. In your overwhelm. In your stress. You can stumble and struggle while building trust that you are being strengthened.

Courage isn’t the opposite of fear. Courage is the practice of risking to trust that we have a Good Shepherd who is with us always — no matter what.

—

How can we cultivate courage when fear overshadows our lives? How do we hear the Voice of Love when hate and harm shout loudly? When therapist, author, and (in)courage contributor K.J. Ramsey stepped through her own wilderness of spiritual abuse and religious trauma, she discovered that courage is not the absence of anxiety but the practice of trusting we will be held and loved no matter what.

Her latest book, The Lord Is My Courage: Stepping Through the Shadows of Fear Toward the Voice of Love, offers an honest path to finding that there is still a Good Shepherd who is always following you. Braiding contemplative storytelling, theological reflection, and practical neuroscience, The Lord Is My Courage walks through Psalm 23 phrase by phrase, exploring the landscape of our fear, trauma, and faith and revealing a route into connection and joy that meets you right where you are.

The Lord is My Courage is now available! Pick up your copy today wherever books are sold, and leave a comment below for a chance to WIN a copy!

Then join K.J. and (in)courage community manager Becky Keife for a chat all about The Lord Is My Courage! Tune in tomorrow, 6/22/22, on our Facebook page at 11am CST for their conversation.

Giveaway open to US addresses only and closes on 6/24/22 at 11:59pm CST.

 

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Marriage Is a Partnership, Not a Competition

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A few years ago, my husband and I had the opportunity to celebrate a big anniversary in Hawaii, not only in style but at a budget price. A friend who works for an airline offered us buddy passes, saving us hundreds of dollars in airfare, and by agreeing to attend a timeshare presentation, we stayed at a luxury resort for a fraction of the usual cost.

It was both serene and surreal. We spent a week in tropical paradise, although the trip got off to a rocky start — at least it did for me.

Our first flight was from Atlanta to Los Angeles. We sat at the gate, eyes glued to the monitor, hoping and praying there would be two available seats — and there were! But as we walked down the aisle of the plane, the last people to board before takeoff, a flight attendant stopped my husband and led him back toward the front of the plane.

I panicked. Surely they hadn’t over-calculated the number of available seats? But just as I sat down in the last seat in the back of the plane, I got a quick text from my husband saying not to worry and that he was still on board.

I offered up a prayer of gratitude. We got seats for our flight and were safely on our way.

Once we landed and reunited and my husband told me what had happened, things suddenly didn’t seem quite so sunny. The airline had a special club for its best customers and one of those million milers had been on our flight. Since he was on a trip with his family and wanted to sit with them, he gave up his coveted million miler member seat and all the perks that went with it — to my husband.

While I had sat cramped in the back, munching on my small bag of complimentary pretzels, he had stretched his legs and enjoyed a veritable feast in first class. He had photographed everything to show me, but I was too annoyed to be happy for him. Really? He flew cross country in first class in the front row, and I flew in the last seat in the back. Our experience couldn’t have been more dissimilar.

I knew I had to shake it off and get a better attitude or it would ruin my mood. Thankfully I did, and now it’s one of the travel stories we love to share from our trip.

I would like to say this was an isolated incident, the one time I offered jealousy a seat at our table (or on our airplane), but it wasn’t the first and it won’t be the last. It’s easy for me to get caught up in my feelings and forget marriage is meant to be a partnership, never a competition. As spouses, we should always have each other’s best interests at heart.

1 Corinthians 13:4-6 says, “Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth.”

If you feel a prick from your own conscience, don’t worry; you and I are not alone. The Lord knows human nature can interfere with our best intentions. His instruction can be easier to understand than to follow.

Loving our husbands won’t always be easy. If you find yourself in a place where you are displeased with your spouse more than you are delighted by him, if you’re more likely to compete with him than commiserate with him (Do you debate which of you had the worse night’s sleep or sorer muscles? Do you try to win every disagreement? Are you jealous of him when things go his way instead of yours?), or when you simply know you aren’t loving him the way God intended in marriage, take heart.

Embrace the promise of a new day and a new attitude. Ask the Lord to help you love your husband when he’s less than lovable (and vice versa). Rejoice in each other’s successes because when one wins, you both win. You’re on the same team, called to love one another well. 

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For When You Need a Father’s Hug

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I want to tell you about the time when I was a bride for a day and how I wore white to walk down an aisle between picnic tables under a pavilion in the park.

It was a simple wedding with bagged lunches and tables filled with baskets of candy and Korean treats. I remember the wind blowing through sheets of sheer curtains and my bouquet of flowers, stuffed with roses and blue thistles.

The night before, I sat in the hotel room with my bridesmaids — those friends who became sisters — making memories forever seared into the heart, no matter the many miles between.

There we were, stuffing gift bags for guests and thinking over last-minute details for the big day to come. There was a moment, in all of our laughter, when the room grew small and everything seemed to move in slow motion. There was laughter and chatter, friendship and fun, but I needed something beyond that moment — something that only a father could give.

I slipped outside the room and stepped into the hallway of the hotel. Then I knocked, ever so gently, on the door across from me. It swung open.

“Just needed a Dad hug is all,” I said, falling into the arms of my father.

The moment lasted all but a few minutes. Even so, it was everything I needed for that day and to be carried into the next. This magical memory of my wedding, of having my dad within arms reach and not 1,851.2 miles southwest in San Antonio where he lived, reminds me of the fragility of family. It reminds me just how many of us are missing pieces from the puzzle of our lives. Mothers who move to different states, children who chase professional pursuits in other cities and countries, grandparents who’ve gone off to live how and where they’ve always dreamed, fathers who — for whatever reason — are far from us.

Sometimes, these missing pieces — these people — can be gathered. Sometimes we can travel through time and space to see them. But, sometimes, the pieces — our people — can’t be put back together again. It could be distance. It could be death. It could be danger. It could be disagreement.

It reminds me when Jesus told His disciples — those best friends who became brothers — how He’d soon be leaving them and how the Holy Spirit would come and be with them in His stead (John 14:15-31). And, goodness, am I ever so desperate to be reminded of the Holy Spirit who came — and still comes — to tangibly fulfill the felt needs of those who follow in His footsteps.

The truth is that there is not one day in all of the Gregorian calendar, Chinese calendar, Jewish calendar — or any calendar for that matter — that gives time and space enough for the vast nuances that come with being human. New Year’s Eve will always fold out and be forgotten, Independence Day will always remind us of the ways we are not yet fully free. Mother’s Day will not always bring the depth of rest that mothers crave, and Father’s Day will not always fulfill our hearts to feel the love of a father.

And I know that the words on this screen cannot touch you in all the whole and hurting places that coexist within you. These words cannot replace the love of those fathers that should have been there all along, protecting and teaching their children how to tie their shoes and change their tires.

But the Holy Spirit can touch you — the Holy Spirit can reach deep into every hidden place you hold within your heart. The Holy Spirit can meet you in the chasms on the calendar — the gaping holes in which you are waiting to see and sense love show up on a day like today.

The Holy Spirit is present, even while you are in pain, and He holds space for your heart, like a hug wrapping you up in the arms of a loving father. He whispers:

I am not a distant God. I am closer than your skin, thicker than the air you breathe. My love is louder than your loneliness. I am with you — in the surgeries, in the emergencies, in the celebrations, and in every mundane moment in-between. I am holding out My hand to you with more than a hug for you. I promise you My presence.

The words from one of my favorite worship songs go, “There is a God who loves me, who wraps me in His arms.” (This song is available and beautiful to listen to in both English and Spanish.) As you move and love and celebrate and cry through this weekend, may you embrace this truth: You are held in the arms of your Heavenly Father, and His love is a hug for you. 

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I’m a Stranger in My Own Skin These Days

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I glanced across the room and my eyes could sense her tension. Laughing, smiling women filled the round tables scattered thoughtfully throughout the church room, but my new friend’s body stayed barricaded against the back wall, her feet cemented with uncertainty. While I rushed to see what was wrong, I knew it wasn’t soon enough. I could read her face as she wondered why she agreed to come to this gathering. Eyes moist with the onset of newly formed tears and alone in a supposedly safe space that promised connection and community, her perceived rejection felt palpable.

There’s nothing more lonely than walking into a room of women (make it doubly lonely if they’re Christians), scanning the whole place, and then realizing that no one has saved you a seat. She was living her worst friendship nightmare. I’d invited her to be part of my planned event, and I felt responsible. I cautiously put my arm around her, not quite certain on how to proceed.

There we stood — two, fifty-something-year-old women thrown back into the same realities we battled back in high school of being the new girl, the uncool girl, the stranger, the uninvited guest who stood on the outskirts waiting to be welcomed in.

“Jen, I really don’t want to be here right now,” she whispered.

“I understand, but let’s go find a seat together.”

As a gatherer of people, as well as a lonely woman who’s currently struggling through this threatening territory, I’ll never forget that moment. Even now, I can feel the heaviness we bore — the same load of loneliness and isolation that thousands of women carry. In fact, my eyes well up with tears as I type this because while I know we are not meant to do life alone, to carry burdens in silence nor celebrate solo, what happens when you desire friendships, but it seems like everyone has them but you?

I’ve always been the cheerleader of all things hospitality, and I passionately believe in the life-giving power and gift of a simple invitation, but I’ve been a stranger in my own skin these days and I’m not quite sure what to do with it. I want to understand this lonely season I’m camped in, so as my soul is parched, I reach for the only source of Living Water.

I find part of my answer in Leviticus19:33-34. There’s a reason God impresses the importance of showing love to strangers throughout the Old Testament. He commands:

And if a stranger dwells with you in your land, you shall not mistreat him. The stranger who dwells among you shall be to you as one born among you, and you shall love him as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God.

The Israelites were intimately acquainted with what it felt like to be a stranger, a foreigner, and to literally be held hostage. I can’t imagine the despair they experienced followed by sweet release. Once chained and enslaved in Egypt, they experienced freedom and God’s merciful rescue. And when they didn’t have a home as they wandered through the wilderness, God provided food and shelter (Exodus 16-17).

Over and over, I’m reminded of His goodness and how God wanted the Israelites to remember their own desperate loneliness and struggles in Egypt so they could empathize and create a safe space for others to be welcomed.

Another reason God calls them to care for the foreigner is to model for all the surrounding nations what a relationship with God looks like and who God is. They were to show that God wants to and would welcome the stranger into a relationship with Him.

This is at the core of who God is: He is the One who made a home for us, a welcome amidst our loneliness. As I’m trudging through a hard friendship season, I’m holding on to that truth. It’s not a quick-fix tutorial on how to create instant community and connection; that’s a much longer and often laborious process. But it is foundational to why I’m convicted to keep reaching out even when it feels like I’m on the outside looking in.

We are strangers and wanderers holding the hope of the gospel to invite and welcome. Won’t you join me?

If you’re walking through a lonely season, I wish I could welcome you to my table for some tea or coffee and be a balm to each other’s soul, but the next best thing I’d be honored to do is to hold that close in the comments.

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I Dread Watering My Plants but I Do It to Hold On to Hope

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During the height of the pandemic, when every rhythm and routine of all our lives were tossed around and thrown out, I was desperate for simple, repetitive acts to keep me grounded and sane. So I clung to the two things everyone else seemed to gravitate toward: baking bread and cultivating indoor plants.

So many essays and sermons could be written on the meaningful process of bread-making, but it’s becoming a plant parent that’s got me pondering these days.

It all began with a snake plant from my sister-in-law. It was easy, low maintenance, and it added just the right amount of happy green to the kitchen where it hung. It grew with each watering, and over time, it even sprouted its own little baby snake plant to its side. Proud doesn’t begin to describe the joy I felt.

As death and loss and grief divided and conquered our weary hearts, I began to invest in more plants: a neon pothos plant for the living room, a golden one for the bedroom, a waxy emerald peperomia for the bathroom, a baby zz for my son’s desk, and a heart leaf fern for my daughter’s. I wanted to fill every corner of the house with as many plants as possible, as if I could fight off death with more life.

Years seemed to pass by as the pandemic wore on, but each new leaf on my plants had me clapping with delight. Every day, I’d spritz them with water, say nice things to them, and wipe down their leaves. Every month, I’d gather them into the shower to give them a bath, and all of it filled me with happiness, no matter how brief.

But then winter came. The watering schedule became unstable. The soil wasn’t drying out as evenly or as quickly as it had been. Plants that had once thrived started to shrivel up one yellowing leaf at a time. Tiny mites began to show up, gnats started to form and buzz around the house, and one by one, my plants began to die.

With shame and yet relief, I left some outside on the curb to get picked up by someone else who could better love them. Others just ended up in the trash bin. Then, over time, I started to dread caring for them altogether. I’d watch the pothos leaves lose their vigor, and only when I knew the plant would die otherwise, I would water it. I recently found my resilient snake plant had turned yellow, and when I tried to pull off one of the yellowing stalks, the whole plant came apart from its roots. I had overwatered it after neglecting it, and now it was gone forever.

Hoping these last several years has felt a bit like caring for my plants. There have been times when hope seemed alive and well — or at least, easier — when gatherings at the table were filled with laughter and light conversation, when cheering each other on wasn’t predicated on whether we agreed on everything or not, or, maybe, when ignorance blinded us to the real pain others who have different lives, different skin tones, different abilities and limited access experience.

But when we can’t seem to catch our breath after a tragedy before another one hits, when death clings to us wave after wave of this virus, when finding community feels fraught and the future bleak, the easier kind of hope feels more wishful than real.

Most days now, hope looks less like laughter and light conversation and more like lament and crying out, “How long, Lord, how long?”

There have been many moments when I don’t even want to hope. It feels safer to stay cynical about the world and about people. I tell myself, “It’s better to expect the worst, so don’t hope for the best.” I try to convince myself it makes me stronger, keeps me protected, but my heart calluses over.

In the margins of my cynicism, I’m learning that hope is a practice of staying tender, of still believing — believing God does hear our cries and truly cares, believing healing and change are possible, even now. Hope is staying tender while everyone shouts and fights and straining to see the humanity in us all. Hope is telling your tensed-up body that it’s okay to hope, to dream, to try again.

There are now patches of emptiness throughout our house where plants used to live, their pot saucers like gravestones marking their absence. I continue to dread watering the ones that remain, but every time I see their leaves perk up afterwards, hope shimmers — because they’re still here, still green, still receiving what I can give them when I can give it. Hope is watering my plants even when I don’t feel like it because the practice of doing it anyway will keep my heart tender. It may not be much, but it might be enough to keep me going, to keep me hoping.

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Tips for Overcoming Bible Study Overwhelm

by

There are a few things that are true about me:

One, I’ve seen Friends way too many times.

Two, I have an unhealthy love for Air Jordans.

Three, once you get me talking about the Biblical narrative and the importance of knowing Scripture, I can’t stop.

Believe it or not, that last thing about me hasn’t always been true. In reality, I’ve really only grown in my knowledge and love for the Word over the past few years, despite spending my entire life in the church. Part of the reason I didn’t understand the Bible was that it wasn’t really taught to me, outside of verse memorization and Sunday School stories. The other big reason I didn’t understand Scripture was that it always seemed so overwhelming to study.

The truth is that studying the Bible can feel daunting, but it doesn’t have to be. There are many methods of study, but before you determine the best way to go about it, it’s important to recognize why we study the Bible. There are many reasons to study Scripture, but here are four of the most important to me:

1. Studying Scripture reveals who God is.

The Bible was written for many reasons, but the number one reason studying the Bible is important is that it teaches us who God is. It breaks down the attributes and identity of God throughout the entire book. We learn He provides, He keeps His promises, He protects us, He is our foundation, He is gracious, and the list goes on. We are shown these traits through different historical events, and digging into the Bible helps us know and understand the Lord better.

2. Studying Scripture shows us why we need Christ.

The main point of the gospel is that God sent His Son, Jesus, to come to the world as a man, live a perfect life, and die as the final sacrifice in order for us to be righteous. A lot of the time, however, that’s the extent of the teaching we get on why Jesus’ sacrifice was important.

At a basic level, yes, God sent His Son to die for us because sin was brought into the world. Through the rest of the Old Testament, however, you see so many different instances of a cycle of sin, punishment, repentance, and forgiveness. Not only do these instances teach us who God is, they show us how badly we need another way to redemption. The more we learn about why we need Jesus, the more we understand the sacrifice He gave.

3. Studying Scripture teaches us how to live like Christ.

As Christians, we are called to live like Jesus (1 John 2:6, Galatians 2:20, John 3:30). It’s important to pursue a Christ-like life because it’s our actions that point others to Him. What better way to learn how to act like Christ than to study the book that was God-breathed (2 Timothy 3:16-17)?

While we see Jesus all over the Old Testament, even back to Genesis (Genesis 1:26), some of the more obvious information about how Jesus lived is in the New Testament. We see His life in the Gospels, and the letters of the New Testament show us how other men and women lived out the gospel in their own lives. From these experiences, we see what it looks like to live a life that reflects Christ.

Personally, I find Paul’s letters to be very helpful. He gives some excellent and practical ways to be like Christ in his letters, and he acknowledges the struggles we go through as humans.

4. Studying Scripture strengthens our relationship with the Lord.

Just like close friendships require communication and attention, so does your relationship with the Lord. And it starts with spending time in His Word.

If you’re not regularly reading your Bible, I encourage you to start. You don’t have to jump into daily study if you haven’t opened your Bible in weeks. Start with something you can manage and go from there. In my experience, the more I studied the Bible the more I wanted to study the Bible. What was once a “I didn’t even bring my Bible to church on Sundays” reading habit turned into a daily reading habit that I make time for and enjoy doing.

I won’t lie to you: it isn’t always easy. Whether you’re busy or you’re struggling to understand the passage you’re reading, it can be hard sometimes. But you know what? It’s so worth it!

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If you want to learn more about studying Scripture, are looking for something to guide you in biblical study, or are seeking a Scripture-based devotional to use, Whatever Is True and Lovely is exactly what you’re looking for! By providing practical Bible study tips and favorite journaling techniques in Whatever Is True and Lovely: a DaySpring Devotional Guide, author Carrie Cristancho shares how to make meaningful connections with God’s Word. Your life will be transformed as you dive into Scripture and start seeing the goodness of God at every turn.

Whatever is True and Lovely is now available! Pick up your copy today, and leave a comment below for a chance to WIN a copy!

Then join Carrie and (in)courage community manager Becky Keife for a chat all about Whatever is True and Lovely! Tune in tomorrow, 6/15/22, on our Facebook page at 11am CST for their conversation.

Giveaway open to US addresses only and closes on 6/17/22 at 11:59pm CST.

 

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