When It’s Time to Wake Up

When It’s Time to Wake Up

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This spring, I studied the book of Mark with a small group of ladies from my church. Each Sunday evening, we met on Zoom to dissect a couple chapters of the book and ask each other what stood out to us from the text, what it taught us about Jesus and people, and what God might be saying to us through the passage we read. A few weeks ago we read some verses that left me flustered.

In Mark 13, Jesus tells His disciples that they must stay alert for His return. He cautions them to pay attention and be on guard to be prepared for the end times. In the English Standard Version (ESV), He tells them to “stay awake.”

My friends and I talked about a few other parts of the passage we’d read, but mostly we focused on this passage. Jill said she felt like God was telling her to wake up and Sarah said Jesus’s words made her want to be more intentional about, well, a lot of things. I stared at them both for a moment and then blurted, “I didn’t even remember that whole section about the end times being in this book!”

I knew that I had indeed read that passage, so how, then, did I not remember it?! Why was I so surprised to find this topic in the gospels?!

After talking with my friends I realized that I must have read that whole chapter on autopilot. It was part of a Lent reading challenge I’d joined, and the day that included Mark 13 clearly found me opening my Bible in order to check a box on my to-do list rather than to meet God and listen to whatever truth He might have for me in those holy words. Just like I can sometimes pull into my driveway and realize I don’t remember the miles I drove to get there, reading the Bible on autopilot means part of my brain computed the words on the page but my heart didn’t absorb or process a thing.

As we talked more about the ways we find ourselves sleepwalking through life, I realized that I had been in a bit of a walking coma for a few months now — not just while reading my Bible but also with my work, my relationships, and several healthy habits I know are necessary for me. And now, it was time to wake up!

On the one hand, I was energized by this conversation. After all, isn’t this what spring is for? To wake up from our hibernation and allow the things God has been doing underground to blossom into something beautiful and life-giving? To get back to the work we’re designed for, to do more than the bare minimum at least some of the time? To shake off the heaviness and self-protection of the past season and reach for the sun (or the Son, if we want to extend this metaphor a bit)?

It is, absolutely. But, on the other hand, I also felt a bit disoriented — the way you do when you take a nap and stay asleep too long, the way you do when you wake up in the wrong part of your REM cycle, the way grumpy cartoon bears do when awoken too early.

When Jesus spoke to the disciples and urged them to stay awake, to pay attention, to be on guard, He knew the difficulty of what He was asking. Though they hadn’t yet visited the Garden of Gethsemane for the last time, He knew they would be unable to stay awake and be present during His most anguished moments just before the crucifixion. He knew that, like us, they would get distracted from their mission by grief and fear, by responsibilities and obligations, by doubts and distractions, by the everyday-ness of life.

And yet, He urged them to wake up just the same.

That tells me that Jesus understands my current state of in-between, that He is familiar with the pull of slumber and numbness, that He recognizes the disorientation of the waking process, and that He knows the endurance required to stay alert and on guard. But He still wants us awake and alert — to our lives, to those around us, to the work He’s doing in our hearts and in the world.

Reading about Jesus’s conversation with the disciples (again, ironically paying more attention this time) has both encouraged and challenged me, and I’m asking Him to wake me up. And though my eyes are still a little blurry and my limbs are hibernation-heavy, it’s working — slowly. I’m waking up little by little. I’m paying attention to what God is doing in the world and in my own heart. I’m staying alert for beauty and joy, for injustice and pain, for all the places I can find God and join the work He’s doing.

Perhaps He’s asking you to wake up, too.

Have you found yourself hibernating lately — in shock as you experience circumstances and chaos you never imagined, out of exhaustion or self-preservation, or as a response to pain or loss or confusion? What do you hear when you read Jesus’s words to the disciples: Stay awake! Where do you need to be more intentional? What do you need to pay attention to? Ask Him to help you stay alert, to wake you up to everything He has for you, and together, let’s walk into spring with eyes and hearts open!

My child, listen to what I say, and treasure my commands.
Tune your ears to wisdom, and concentrate on understanding.
Cry out for insight, and ask for understanding.
Search for them as you would for silver; seek them like hidden treasures.
Then you will understand what it means to fear the Lord, and you will gain knowledge of God.
Proverbs 2:1-5 (NLT)

Who Will Defend Me?

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I stumbled down the stairs, willing myself to the downstairs bathroom. I’ve never understood the draw of the early morning hours and at seventeen years old, those hours were tortuous.

Mornings provided predictability. Never a day went by when my parents weren’t cozied up on the sofa engrossed in their morning devotional time, but this day offered something different.

On this particular morning, a transforming moment occurred. I didn’t know it then, but the next five minutes would shape the lens from which I viewed core biblical principles. As I tiptoed into the kitchen, I overheard them — my parents, interceding on behalf of that horrible man. This man was bent on ruining my father’s reputation, lying in order to restore his financial success and in the process destroy ours.

I stood behind the wall eavesdropping, all the while becoming more upset with what I heard.

“Blessing over their family . . . reconciliation . . . harmony . . . forgiveness.”

How could they be praying for our sworn enemy?

My pain was so fresh from this betrayal. Yes, even at seventeen, a neat, orderly world can be turned upside down. How could my parents not be outraged?

I wanted to hear their anger cry, their desire for justice, their prayers demanding that the Lord swiftly correct these terrible wrongs because everyone should know of his falsehoods.

I left for school that morning silent. The answers I desired were not within my grasp, and the justification I needed didn’t occur.

Isn’t it something how, decades later, I still feel the excruciating emotions of that day? Pivotal moments do that to you. They sear your heart in untold ways. As my justice-oriented nature wanted to gather the troops and defend at all cost, my mother’s simple retort rocked my world, “The Lord is the defender of our reputation.”

But what about RIGHT NOW? This isn’t fair! Let’s call everyone. Let’s gather our assembly. Let’s tell them what he’s done. We can create community with a common adversary, and it’s completely within our right!

It took me years to truly understand that their choice was not one done out of weakness but out of strong conviction and strength of character. It’s easy to create dissension among the church, and it certainly doesn’t take much effort to spread gossip and split sides. But to focus on bringing glory to the Lord rather than focusing on bringing glory to oneself is something else entirely.

If you must defend yourself, God allows that. It’s not a biblical mandate to stay silent. Often clarification of miscommunication is necessary. But if you turn the defense of yourself over to God, He will defend you. Maybe not in our convenient time table, but He promises His defense.

A.W. Tozer once said, “I don’t have to fight. The Lord does the fighting for me, and He’ll do the same for you. He will be an enemy to your enemy and an adversary to your adversary, and you’ll never need to defend yourself.” (See Exodus 23:22)

I’ll be honest, I don’t always get this right. In painful relational situations, there’s nothing more I want than to rally the troops, but I am continually reminded of my parents’ early morning intercession. For years, they offered their blessing to an enemy. I’ve come to realize how futile it is to worry about a reputation. If I live my life wholly abandoned to the Savior, He’s got me right where He wants me, and as my kids would say, “He’s got my back.”

Only let your manner of life be worthy of the gospel of Christ, so that whether I come and see you or am absent, I may hear of you that you are standing firm in one spirit, with one mind striving side by side for the faith of the gospel.
Philippians 1:27 (ESV)

I could ponder the age-old question of “Why do bad things happen to good bad people?” or even “Why do the bad sometimes prosper?” I could dig out my college thesis on this very issue with deep philosophical words and months of pondering, but the reality is that I’m a simple girl. I like issues tied up with a simple bow. I want us to agree to disagree and leave as friends. In my Pollyanna-like world, I don’t understand why that can’t happen, especially among believers, but the fact is, we’re sinners, and life is messy.

I’ve seen this firsthand: the swindler stealing a family’s investments, a cheater snagging glory for his own advancement, and even the bully who always gets his way.

And here’s the real rub — sometimes we don’t see the restoration in our lifetime. My parents never recovered from that devastating financial blow. They lost their house and business, but they gained so much more. They created a generational legacy that now spans four generations of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren living to glorify Him, and He has been so faithful.

It’s really hard for me to grasp why the bad guys sometimes win, but they do. In fact, I feel that more than ever these days. The world is not just, but God is and that’s enough. That’s more than enough.

Have you ever felt the tension between defending yourself and letting God defend you? What did you choose?

Join Our Courageous Joy Online Bible Study!

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Sometimes, we struggle to find joy — even when we know and love the Lord. And sometimes joy shows up in a tangle of other emotions, and we’re unsure which thread to pull. Joy is often found in the company of gratitude and hope; surprisingly, it’s also available through grief and weariness. For most of us, if we had to describe our relationship with joy, we would say, “It’s complicated.”

This Bible study about courageously seeking and sharing joy will help, so let’s dive in together starting May 3rd!

In our Courageous Joy Online Bible Study, we’ll learn to find joy in every circumstance we face and to share it with everyone we encounter. We’ll begin to understand how a person can truly count it all joy, even when the “all” we’re given is not the “all” we were hoping for or expecting.

Here’s what you need to know:

1.  You will need a copy of Courageous Joy to fully participate in the study. We will provide the reading guidelines, discussion questions, inspirational quotes, and video conversations along the way!

2. Sign up for the Online Bible Study (it’s free to join!). Click here to register, and when you do, we will send you the first week of the Courageous Joy Bible study for FREE!

3.  The study starts May 3rd, will run for six weeks in a private Facebook group, and will consist of readings, discussion, and weekly videos. Sign up and watch your email, especially on April 23rd when we send out the link to the private Facebook group.

4.  There will be a weekly email recap sent out throughout the study, so if you do not have Facebook, you’re still able to access the weekly study discussion videos.

Invite a few friends to join you! Share this page with your friends so they can sign up too! If you’re looking for a way to connect with other women in real life, this is a great way to do so. Simply read each week of Bible study, then gather together (in person or online) to watch that week’s video, enjoy your own discussion, and close in prayer. Super fun and low stress, yes?

Digging into Scripture together — with real-life friends and sisters from around the world — makes it that much sweeter.

Together, let’s make Psalm 100 our anthem:

Make a joyful noise to the LORD, all the earth! Serve the LORD with gladness!
Come into his presence with singing!

Know that the LORD, he is God!
It is he who made us, and we are his;
we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture.

Enter his gates with thanksgiving, and his courts with praise!
Give thanks to him; bless his name!

For the LORD is good;
his steadfast love endures forever,
and his faithfulness to all generations.

We can’t wait to get started!

Hope Always, Always Gets the Last Word

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Colorado never gets the memo about spring till around Mother’s Day — if it doesn’t snow on Mother’s Day itself, which it has done before.

I’m not bitter about it AT ALL.

Just the same, it’s not unusual for me to see a small creature scampering in the woods or along a path during April’s “spring-winter.” You can bet the little guy has weighed the pros and cons of being seen. In my own corner of the Colorado pines, I don’t often see chipmunks this time of year because the chipmunk leans towards sleeping more to conserve energy so his tiny self outlasts our long winter. In his underground home, his heartbeat can go from 350 beats a minute to a barely-there fifteen beats. On a warmer day he might risk being seen by an owl or a fox (or you and me) to check his storehouses of seeds and nuts. But all in all, he will err on the side of resting rather than rummaging.

The cottontail rabbit, on the other hand, leans toward activity. From my office window or the nearby trail, I’m more likely to see her darting about. She regularly monitors and practices the three or four escape routes between her food source — twigs and branches good for chewing — and her hollowed-out space for resting. Long ears bent flat across her back, she’ll likely wait for dusk to zig-zag sprint across the snow toward her food before dashing home again.

Both the chipmunk and cottontail are mighty apt at risk management, and what seems like the best course of action one day may not be so the next.

I don’t often think of myself as having much in common with critters, but I too have discovered that in risk management, what works one day may not work the next. This is never truer than when a circumstance or life occurrence you never saw coming runs right into you.

You shake your head and think, I never, ever could’ve predicted this in a hundred million years.

Of course, none of us could’ve predicted a global pandemic. But pandemic aside, I bet you can think of another time when this very thing happened to you or your family. I know I can. As my family prepared for our future to take a turn in one direction, a change we didn’t see coming threw us in the other. Now, let me tell you something about me: I’m an expert at coming up with worst-case scenarios and making plans to divert them. In this particular case, I thought I had foreseen every possible problem. I took measures to ensure the best possible outcome. I’m not talking about anything outlandish or expensive. Rather, I used good ol’ hard work and productivity to take care of things responsibly.

And then came the turn of events only God saw coming, and all my forethought and “responsible planning” didn’t amount to a hill of beans. None of us asked for or wanted this outcome, but it was what we had.

It’s easier for me to daily assess the risk of doing something than to lean under that umbrella of trust where our Dad in heaven invites me. Because yes, while planning ahead is wise, we can’t put all our stock and security in those plans and in those plans working out the way we had predicted.

But sometimes I act like I can. I act like my efforts are the only component that generates desirable outcomes. I’m swept up in all my doing, and I get too far away from God’s voice reminding me, Working hard is a good thing, daughter, but remember I’m the only One in control. You’re not.

When we are discouraged by the apparently slow progress of all our honest efforts, by the failure of this or the other person, and by the ever new reappearance of enemy powers and their apparent victories, then we should know: the time shall be fulfilled. Because of the noise and activity of the struggle and the work, we often do not hear the hidden, gentle sound and movement of the life that is coming into being. But here and there, at hours that are blessed, God lets us feel how He is everywhere at work and how His cause is growing and moving forward.
— Eberhard Arnold

The smaller that big life event became in the rear view mirror, the more our family came around to seeing it with perspective. In the end, that whiplash turn brought so much good, and I took a big step in placing my confidence in God’s plans rather than my own.

I have no idea what God will allow through the front door of our lives for the remainder of this year. However, I do know Jesus is the door. Nothing comes through it without His permission. Nothing makes it through that isn’t, in the end, heavily slanted toward our success. I don’t say that flippantly or with abandon. I say that because hope always, always gets the last word.

In the meantime, I can set myself up to better hear that hidden, gentle sound that is God’s voice and power moving His good plans forward. I can look at the past with gratitude and the future with hope because He is trustworthy.

Dear one, you and I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Believing this is no risk. It’s a promised guaranteed.

We Become What We Behold

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At the end of February, I went to a songwriters retreat where I met amazing, talented people from across the country. Most of us had never met before, but we came together and instantly became family — that’s what can happen when the body of Christ comes together! We came with open hearts and spirits desiring for God to speak to us and through us, and He did.

During the retreat, we were divided into eight groups to brainstorm and write a song together, and at the end of each day, we did a song share with the whole group. The ones on the last night blew me away. Each song was incredible, but what was even more amazing was to see how God led each group to write one around the theme of beholding.

Since that time, the theme of beholding Jesus has continued. I have listened to sermons, podcasts, and songs that keep mentioning the idea of beholding. Then recently, I received a newsletter containing a graphic that said, We become what we behold. I had heard that quote many times before, but the Lord seems to be breathing fresh life on it during this season.

I think this is a word for the Church today. The enemy would love nothing more than to distract us with temporary things — appearance, reputation, popularity, success, comfort, having it all together, being perfect, or sin and being weighed down by it. But those things will only leave us empty and wanting to fill that emptiness with things that won’t satisfy.

As I’ve been meditating on His Word, the Lord has been sweetly reminding me that I get a better view of His nature when I behold Him.

First, in Hebrews 12:1-2, it says,

Therefore we also, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.

This passage is God’s reminder that we are not alone. With everything that we’ve had to endure this past year, there has been a lot of anger and hopelessness in the world. The weight of it all has been overwhelming, but we don’t need to carry it all by ourselves. Jesus came to set us free from it by actually exchanging our heavy burdens with His light ones (Matthew 11:28-30). When we look to Him to help us run with endurance, He delights to do so. He bore the weight of our sin and the darkness of the world on the cross to bring us lasting freedom. When we behold Him, He gives us the grace to lay aside the weight we carry and live in the fullness of His joy.

Second, Psalm 141:8 says,

But my eyes are toward you, O God, my Lord;
in you I seek refuge; leave me not defenseless.

When we behold Him, He reminds us that He is our refuge and safe place. He protects us from the enemy, from others who wish to harm us, and He even protects us from ourselves when we need it. When our eyes are fixed on Christ, we won’t be so distracted with everything going on around us. We don’t have to build up walls or hide or come up with a clever defense. He runs to our rescue with love, grace, compassion and kindness. He is our defender and shield. He is our strong tower.

Last, in Psalm 16:8, it says,

I have set the Lord always before me;
because He is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken.

I can think of many times throughout my life when I thought people, positions, or the “right” circumstances would sustain me. I thought they would motivate me or fill me or tell me who I am. But they didn’t, and they can’t; they were never designed to. Only God holds that power. He created us in His image, and our identity lies solely in Him. When we behold Him, we’re reminded that He is our firm foundation. His truth about us and His promises for us are sure. When we look to Him and put our hope in Him, we cannot be shaken.

Setting our gaze on the One who sets His gaze on us isn’t always easy, but it is always worth it. The Lord never leaves us unsettled. He never runs away from us. He stands at the ready with arms wide open and pursues us with His freedom, protection, and faithfulness.

How are you beholding Jesus in this season? If you’re finding it difficult to do, I’d love to pray for you!

You Have Something to Offer

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My mouth dropped open at the number on the screen. A few minutes earlier, a friend sent a text that a gift was on the way. “It isn’t much . . . but it’s something!” she said, knowing that medical bills were starting to show up and add up.

Her “not much” brought me to tears. With the click of a button, she completely covered the cost of a medication that I needed to pick up that afternoon.

It wasn’t long before another bill arrived. With no answers in sight, I opened the envelope and skimmed the lines, my eyes landing on the amount insurance would cover: $0.00. I sighed, wrote another check, and mumbled “Really? Nothing? They won’t cover even one penny?” to an empty room.

Two days later, I walked to the mailbox and found a card inside. After months of working on a project for one of my clients, a short and sweet note arrived with this exact sentence:
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“You’re worth every penny.”⁣
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The words were kind, no doubt about it. They would have meant a lot on any day of any month of any year. But more than the phrase, it’s the timing and the specifics that I haven’t been able to shake. Before I held a bill, someone else picked up a pen to write a note with the exact words that I needed.

On a morning when bare branches stood in stark contrast against nearly white skies, I opened Instagram and was instantly hit by a wave of kindness in the middle of winter. Much to my surprise, an acquaintance shared several of my posts with her people, suggested that they click over for more encouragement, and then carried on with her day. In doing so, she pulled out a seat at the table to make a little more room, generously and graciously using that word we all love to hate — her platform — to support another.

These three moments happened over the course of several months. A whole lot of life was lived in between, and yet I continue to come back to these thoughtful gestures.

Each one may have been small to the giver, but they were day-changing, week-making, still-reflecting-on-it-months-later to the recipient.

Three different women offered what they had, and it turned out to be abundantly more.

It reminds me of a story found in all four Gospels. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John each tell of a time when Jesus fed several thousand people with one child’s lunch.

When Jesus, with compassion for the hungry and restless crowd, instructed the disciples to feed those who had gathered, Philip replied “It would take more than half a year’s wages to buy enough bread for each one to have a bite!” (John 6:7)

Quite simply, there wasn’t enough. By any worldly standard, it was impossible. The only solution they could come up with, other than sending the people away, was laughable.

“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)

Does it strike you that the description John gives us — twice — is simply the word small? And yet the story doesn’t end with lack but with plenty.

Each Gospel writer shares their own perspective, but they all have one common theme: abundance.

They all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of broken pieces that were left over. The number of those who ate was about five thousand men, besides women and children (Matthew 14:20-21).

They all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of broken pieces of bread and fish. The number of the men who had eaten was five thousand (Mark 6:42-44).

They all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of broken pieces that were left over (Luke 9:17).

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 6:11-13).

It isn’t printed on the pages of Scripture, of course, but each mention of the twelve baskets feels like a wink written right into the story.

Not only did an ordinary lunch become a small offering that satisfied thousands . . .

Not only did a meager offering become more than enough . . .

Even the leftovers are a miracle in and of themselves, plenty for all twelve tribes of Israel and provision for the entire world.

In the hands of Jesus, “not enough” becomes abundantly more.

And sometimes, as three women showed me over the last year, God uses the body of Christ to be the very same to one another.

Whether it’s our resources, our words, our time, our kitchen tables, or our social media feeds, may we be women who believe we have something to offer and then share what we have, no matter how small, trusting that the Giver of all will satisfy and multiply.

Waiting for Spring to Come

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It’s that time of year when life is emerging from the earth. After a long, dark, cold winter, the time has come for all things new. Here in Nebraska, we still swing between winter and spring for a while. We can go from a low of twenty degrees to a high of eighty degrees within a given week. We are tricked into thinking spring is here, but winter still needs its time.

Our excitement gets the better of us and often on those warm days, we roam outside, anxious to see if anything has begun to pop through the dirt yet, knowing it could be any day.

The seeds and bulbs and roots were all put to bed in the dirt over winter. They need their time of rest in the dark and cold before they can be their best. The last time we checked, there was no sign of anything yet, but we have faith. The flowers we planted in hope, given the right time, will emerge and put on their great show. Even though we may not see it, they are doing their thing, working on busting through that dirt.

Year after year, we know this to be true. The time will come. And we also know, there is absolutely nothing we can do to make those flowers come up any sooner once we plant them in the earth. It can be so hard to wait, and we would love to put a rush on it, but they need their time deeply buried.

So we wait.

It is no different with the seasons in life. We know after hard, long seasons, the time will come for that season to end and for a new one to begin. But the wait is so hard. No matter what we are waiting for, it’s hard. Frustrations and impatience tempt us along the way. We want to speed things up instead of allowing the time needed. We want to push it along faster. We want to fix it. We want to heal it. We want to force it. We want a shortcut. But God calls us to be faithful and to trust Him and His timing.

Wait for the Lord; be strong and let your heart take courage; yes, wait for the Lord.
Psalm 27:14 (NASB)

If you’re in the midst of a painful season of waiting, my heart aches for you because I get it. I understand those confusing, difficult seasons, where it feels vulnerable to wait. Sometimes all we can do is pray — pray and wait. Whether the seasons change quickly or don’t change easily at all, we must wait on the Lord, and we can put our faith in Him.

Trust and hope come in the middle of waiting on God. When we move our focus from what we are waiting for to Him, we can find a sense of peace in His plans and hope in Him. 

God is always at work. Just like the work being done in those seeds, bulbs, and roots that we can not see, we can know and trust that God is working on our behalf. Even when we can’t see it, even if it seems to be taking forever, even if we don’t understand, the seasons will change, the plants will burst forth, and God will come through.

After a little more time and another check in the garden, I notice they’re there — the unmistakable little red heads of peonies peeking through the dirt. And although it will be a while before their beautiful blooms appear, there they are, coming out of the dark earth — just like they do every year.

Be encouraged while waiting on God. Your time will come. Trust and remain faithful in your season. While you wait, remember He is right there with you. And He is really what we want after all.

God, the one and only – I’ll wait as long as he says. Everything I hope for comes from him, so why not? He’s solid rock under my feet, breathing room for my soul, an impregnable castle: I’m set for life.
Psalm 62:5-6 (MSG)

Our Hope for This Easter Sunday

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

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

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

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

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

He is risen.
He is life.
He is with us.

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

Happy Easter!

The Moments in the Middle

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Here we are, in day two — suspended between grieving death and anticipating new life. Unlike Mary and the disciples, who two thousand years ago, lived through the grief of what happened on that Friday, we are living post resurrection, in the resurrection. We can grieve the cruelty of the crucifixion while celebrating the gift that followed.  We have already embodied what happens tomorrow on the third day. 

We know the story: The betrayal. The arrest. The cruelty of His crucifixion. Death lurking. His bellow, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” His final breath. Death consuming. The shock and hopelessness of His followers. The burial. Death’s victory. Disbelief and disappointment. And behold the third day — resurrection. Death defeated! A new day.

I used to wonder what day two felt like — the time between devastation and restoration. But then I realized that we’ve all been in second-day situations at some point in our lives. We’ve felt shackled to unbearable grief, pain, or a dead end. When my aunt was murdered, I felt bewildered and without the ability to make sense of the senseless tragedy. Injustices simmered. I still can’t make sense of it. After my miscarriage, the bewilderment was excruciating. I had no desire to hope for another pregnancy, especially if that pregnancy might return me back to the pain of loss. 

In second-day circumstances, there is no fertile ground for hope to take root. There is no substance, sustenance, or fortitude for forward movement. In a second-day situation, we feel stuck. Our circumstances feel final. Our life feels futile. Our ability to imagine a brighter day is paralyzed. When we are at the end of a tragedy, we find it almost impossible to see that we may actually be in the middle of a trajectory.

As a mom to a middle schooler, almost daily, I attempt to encourage her to gaze beyond what seems to be the hopeless middle. I consider middle school to be the hell of early teen coming of age. So much so that I assure her there is no amount of money anyone could offer me to go back to middle school. Last week, as I hoped to help her see herself beyond what she considers the travesty of middle school, I was reminded of middle school me.  

In my early teen years, I was the embodiment of awkward and insecure. My identity or what I thought of myself was centered on all the wrong things — superficial, fleeting things. But those temporary things were real and lasting to me. They felt massive and fatal. Each day felt like surviving a nightmare — only to wake up to live through another nightmare the next day. I deemed my life inconsequential. I concluded that I was a disposable leftover from my parents’ divorce. Daily, grief consumed me. I dreamed of ending my life. Leaving my life consumed my thoughts.

One evening, while my youth group leader was teaching, I zoned out. In the moment, I had no idea what Scripture or Bible lesson he was teaching. As I sat among a crowd of teenagers, he turned, looked directly at me, and said, “And that’s why you can not commit suicide.” I was stunned into paying attention! He then went on to talk about the relationship between life and purpose. Though the leader was speaking to a room of teenagers, I believed God was directly addressing me. God extended me an invitation to live through my circumstance, to not give up during the second-day, to peer beyond the devastation of the middle. I was awakened to the truth that God sees me and cares deeply for me. 

As I reflected on the pain and confusion of those years, I decided to write a note of encouragement to middle school me to add a hope-filled perspective to her middle moment from where I stood today:

God knows your name. God created the cosmos to meet your every need. God designed you — uniquely crafted you. You are His masterpiece. You are no one’s leftovers. While the pain of your teenage years seems overwhelming, it is very temporary. However, this pain will leave an imprint of empathy upon you for others. Hold this second-day season loosely. The third day is coming, and you will need both hands to grasp all that it has for you. 

While we plan to celebrate the resurrection tomorrow, may we reflect on the holy space of today — the second day, the moment in the middle, between a dead end and new life. Whether a breath, a day, or decades, there is holy space in between. And for those of us who have lived through second-day circumstances to experience a new day, may we be a source of hope and encouragement for those who are in the middle, waiting for the third day.

Where Is the “Good” in Good Friday?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Imperfect? That Might Be Exactly What Someone Needs Right Now

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Thank you for being imperfect. Does that sound strange? Let me explain…

One morning at breakfast I announced to my husband that I’d be doing something hard that day. “What is it?” he asked, thinking he’d perhaps forgotten a doctor’s appointment or book interview. “Hanging out with people,” I replied.

After being in a pandemic so long, my social skills feel like weak muscles and I have to give myself reminders like, “Remember to smile. Ask people questions about themselves. Tell someone you like her shirt.” It makes me think of years ago, in my early twenties, when I went to the library and checked out every book on making people like you.

True confession: Last March when most of us had to stay home because of COVID-19, at first I relished the silence of my home office and lack of social obligations on my calendar. I didn’t have to worry that everyone was hanging out without me because no one was hanging out with anyone. But over time I started missing people with a depth I hadn’t anticipated as an introvert.

So when restrictions finally started lifting, I joined a small group study through a local church. We followed the guidelines carefully, meeting on an outdoor patio and staying a few feet apart. We spent most of our time discussing a book, which was comfortable territory for me. But this week the leader invited us to just “hang out” and I felt nervous.

I arrived at the same time as a neighbor who walks to the study each week. We felt surprised to find the door locked (we’d been told to let ourselves in). It turned out our lovely, much-loved leader told herself that surely no one would want to just come hang out with her, so she was a few minutes away at the grocery store. Her daughter let us in to a house with laundry scattered across surfaces, dishes in the sink, normal life happening.

When our leader came home she was still in her pajamas, no make-up, and she kept apologizing. At one point her enthusiastic dog leaped across all of our laps like a rabbit and stole a coffee cup. It was chaotic and messy . . . and just what I needed.

I realized I’d been craving the imperfection of in-person relationships. That’s what you can’t find online in the perfect pictures and touched-up selfies. I wasn’t lonely for a space where everything was in place or for people who had it all together. I was lonely for imperfection and reality, for the quirks and crazy dog, for the dishes in the sink.

I sometimes think I want a carefully curated life. Isn’t that what the world tells us we need? Hide the messes, put on your make-up, clean your counters. As we start coming out of this season of pulling back because of the pandemic, let’s also give ourselves permission to leave behind unrealistic expectations that make us feel alone and confined.

I’m so glad Jesus said, “Love each other” (John 15:17), not “Impress each other.” He came not to a throne but to a messy manger, not to a palace but to walk dusty streets with ordinary people, not to a spotless corner office but a cross. And because He did, we can have real relationships with each other. We can show up as we are and choose empathy over image, authenticity over accomplishments, grace over trying so hard to look good all the time. Whew. 

The first step? Simply pausing and asking God, “How do you want me to let someone into my life today?”

So many times I think what I want is “perfection” but these last few months have made me realize, even as an introvert, that what I really long for is people. Humans who say the wrong thing, act awkward, run late, track mud into the house, and sometimes stretch my social skills. I don’t want the empty, perfect house. I want to hang out.

Have you been thinking about writing but putting it off because you feel pressure to do it perfectly? Holley’s writing course, Be a Kick-Butt Writer by Friday: Beat the 7 Biggest Mistakes Writers Make so You can Reach People and Your Creative Potential, will empower you to stop feeling stuck and start bravely sharing the messages God has placed in your heart.

Finding God in a Spiritual Drought

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My hands trembled as I opened the envelope. I had studied for countless hours for this professional certification exam and the long-awaited results had finally arrived.

“Yes!” I shouted with total exhilaration. My hard work had paid off. I was another step closer to a corner office in the executive wing.

A few years later, I smiled confidently at my business card — Senior Vice President. My self-assurance, however, was decimated in the coming months by an unexpected phone call after a routine mammogram. I stared at the date on my calendar. It was the one-year anniversary of my mom’s passing from breast cancer. I felt numb as the doctor advised me to come in for additional testing.

In the weeks ahead, fear gripped my heart and occupied my every thought as tests progressed to a scheduled surgery. In my desperation, I devoured Scripture while begging for God’s mercy.

One day, during my quiet time, I heard His gentle but convicting voice, You have been busy building your own kingdom all these years, striving for success and significance through your career.

I had accepted Jesus over a decade earlier, but I had put my faith in a neat package. God was in one box and my career in another. I worked hard to climb up the corporate ladder, eagerly taking courses to further my career but only reading my Bible if time permitted. God was nowhere near the top of my priorities.

In the book of Haggai, God warns His people to evaluate their actions since returning from Babylonian captivity to Jerusalem.

“Consider your ways. You have sown much, and harvested little. You eat, but you never have enough; you drink, but you never have your fill. You clothe yourselves, but no one is warm. And he who earns wages does so to put them into a bag with holes.”
Haggai 1:5b-6 (ESV)

He even repeats this phrase “consider your ways” in verse 7 for emphasis. The people had been building their own houses while His temple laid in ruins. As a result, God causes a drought in the land.

“Therefore the heavens above you have withheld the dew, and the earth has withheld its produce. And I have called for a drought on the land and the hills, on the grain, the new wine, the oil, on what the ground brings forth, on man and beast, and on all their labors.”
Haggai 1:10-11 (ESV)

Haggai points out that the people’s misplaced priorities caused the drought and crop failures.

How often do we focus our energies on building our own kingdoms while neglecting His? God gently reminded me that my own misplaced priorities had caused a spiritual drought.

When the Israelites decide to obey the Lord and begin to rebuild His temple, God sends a reassuring Word through the prophet Haggai and says, “I am with you” (Haggai 1:13). Decades earlier, the prophet Ezekiel warned the Israelites of God’s impending judgement if they did not turn away from worshipping foreign gods. God gave Ezekiel a heartbreaking vision of His presence leaving the temple as His people continued in unabashed disobedience.

The rebuilding of the temple during the life of Haggai invites the long-awaited presence of the Lord to return to their midst. When the people become discouraged in their efforts, God repeats the reminder to them, “I am with you” (Haggai 2:4).

As work progresses on the temple, God sends this promise to His people, “And in this place I will give peace, declares the Lord of hosts” (Haggai 2:9).

Peace comes when we spend time in God’s presence.

In the days leading up to my surgery, His truth, love, and majesty collided on the pages of Scripture, covering me with a pervasive sense of peace. When the day came for the surgery, I called my husband to tell him my instructions from the hospital. As I listened to his soft sobs over the phone, I heard myself calmly saying, “It’s going to be okay. God has told me, ‘I am with you.’”

In that moment, I knew I found significance — not in my striving but in my searching for the One who gives life and meaning.

Are you in the midst of a spiritual drought? God patiently waits for us to earnestly seek Him to experience the fullness of His presence.

Happy Launch Day to the Courageous Joy Bible Study!

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We know for most of us recent times have churned out one instance of pain, confusion, and unrest after another. It’s been a hard season to say the least, and we’re ready for joy. Aren’t you? We’re longing for it, really. Not the kind that all of our social media scrolling claims we need; no, we’re ready to ready to turn away from the world’s counterfeit version of temporary satisfaction and embrace the deep, authentic joy God is offering.

That’s why we’re full of JOY today to tell you that our newest (in)courage Bible study, Courageous Joy, is now available! Cue the confetti! This Bible study features the real-life, going-first kind of stories you know and love from our (in)courage writers, and some seriously non-fluffy Scripture study — like the passage we’re sharing below, written by Mary Carver. Read on for a taste of Courageous Joy:

The Lord your God is among you, a warrior who saves.
He will rejoice over you with gladness.
He will be quiet in his love.
He will delight in you with singing.
Zephaniah 3:17 (CSB)

Sometimes we oversimplify the two parts of the Bible, labeling the Old Testament as harsh or even boring while pointing to the New Testament as the more loving, relatable half of God’s Word. But while the Old Testament is full of battles and wars and armies and kings, it’s also a love letter. Every time God sends a prophet to warn the Israelites to turn back to Him, He tells them how much joy He finds in them and how He longs to bring that same joy into their lives rather than judgment.

In the book of Zephaniah, the prophet urges the people of Judah to turn back to God. He warns them in great detail of the devastation and pain that will come if they do not repent. But then he offers hope by reminding them of God’s faithful love and His promise of redemption. He tells them God loves them so much that He rejoices over them with gladness and singing (Zephaniah 3:17).

Life is complicated and sometimes difficult, and as devoted followers of God, we certainly do have many serious things to think about.

We have hard things to ponder, sad situations that concern us, injustices that cause our hearts pain. But that’s not all God wants for us. He also wants us to think about the lovely things of this world and the joy of our salvation yet to come. What a relief to know that we aren’t required to leave laughter for the foolish and spend our days grim and gloomy. Instead, God invites us into a sacred space of big grins and loud laughs, of deep delight and light hearts.

When was the last time you belly laughed or laughed so hard you cried? What was it that delighted you so much? Can you remember a time when you felt God’s personal delight over you?

Isn’t this just the very subject that we all need right now? The Courageous Joy Bible Study is ready for you and available where books are sold, including:

We’re thrilled that this Bible study is finally able to be in your hands. Get your copy of the Courageous Joy Bible Study, and let’s dig in to what God says about joy.

Trauma Takes Time to Heal

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I remember the strange, green ceiling lights, fluorescent mint glowing on my brother as he stepped out of the elevator. Those are the only things I remember. That and my brother’s words: She didn’t make it. Everything else about the day my mom died blurs around me like a dust storm, but those lights, that silver elevator, and those four words, I can’t forget.

I’d graduate high school five weeks later, barely function through a valedictorian speech, and head off to college that fall. What had been a bright future now terrified very much alone, seventeen-year-old me.

In the years that followed, I began to understand more of what I’d lost. No one taught me to cook Thanksgiving dinner. I had no one to share that magical “this is the one” news with when I started dating my husband, and the front-row space where she should have sat at the wedding remained bare. I couldn’t call mom to ask about what to do when my first daughter didn’t want to poop on the potty or when the third broke her head on the window crank.

I had no clue how a girl-woman crossed that threshold into adult things. We missed the usual initiation, passed down from mother to daughter. So I made it up as I went along. I failed so many times and felt so inadequate in the wandering wilderness of adulthood. More than a few times, I longed to crawl back in time to her arms and the comfort of what I knew.

Truth is, my mom wasn’t even ever all that comforting nor was she a fount of wisdom and tradition. Like her daughter, she usually operated on a need-to-know basis. Yet without anything to moor me in the present, the past I imagined comforted me more than the present I knew.

I taught through Exodus this past year — the year of everyone and everything being far from comfortable. As I re-read the story of the Israelites, I recognized something I hadn’t before. I saw myself at seventeen, uncertain and traumatized.

Do you remember the story? God calls Moses to free His people, but His people don’t seem to want to be freed. They resist. They’re afraid. They know slavery isn’t exactly Chicago’s Mag Mile, but they don’t know what’s on the other side of this thing called freedom. They’d rather stick with the tried and true, even if it’s not all that true.

There’s one line that grabs me on the re-reading: “Moses reported this [all the Lord said] to the Israelites, but they did not listen to him because of their discouragement and harsh labor” (Exodus 6:9 NLT).

Why didn’t they listen? Discouragement. Another translation reads, “because of their broken spirit.” It wasn’t a lack of desire that made them lose faith. They didn’t want to return to Egypt out of a wish to remain slaves.

It was a broken spirit. It was trauma from all that had happened to them as slaves in a brutal empire, dehumanized by a dictator intent on eliminating either them and their hope. They have no knowledge of how to operate in a free world, no more than I had of how to become a woman in my world. They could only hold on to what they knew because what they didn’t was so terribly overwhelming in their traumatized state.

God, in all goodness, understood. He understood the psalmists who cried out in violent rage over injustice. He understood the prophets who wished they’d never been born. God saw their trauma and generously led them toward freedom anyway.

God knew they felt too broken to believe. So He nourished them, led them, kept them, and guided them until they could see through to the other side of freedom. They would make it up as they went along, and they would fail so many times, but God would not leave or forsake them because He knew they were traumatized. Traumatized people take time to heal, and they make mistakes along the way.

If this is how God showed Himself to the Israelites in Egypt, how do you think the Lord is with you and me? How do you think God will deal with us when we’re exhausted, hopeless, hurt, and broken in spirit? As we round the bend on a year of fear and trauma, do you believe God blames you for your worries and grief, or do you trust He hears your cries of fear and gently leads you into freedom that you can’t yet see?

God saw my anxiousness, hidden as it was under a veneer of bravado. The Lord heard my cries of anger and bewilderment and agreed that they were okay. They were normal. We would get to the other side together. God knew I didn’t see the way forward without my mom to be that guide. God recognized my trauma and never expected me to rally in a forward victory march of faith.

Instead, the wandering is slow. It’s healing. It’s devoid of shame, and its Leader is one who, while on this earth, knew fear, uncertainty, loss, grief, loneliness, and sorrow. God takes those of us who have been traumatized and frightened by the hand and leads us through.

A Prayer for Palm Sunday

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

Dear Jesus,

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

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

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

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

The cross.

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

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

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

Today, I answer with all my heart:

You are my Savior, that’s who.

You are my Lord, that’s who.

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

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

You are the one true King.

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

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

In Your precious name,
Amen.

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

Being an Asian American Woman in the Midst of AAPI Hate

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*Author’s note: I wrote this post a year ago to the month in response to the rising rate of anti-Asian racism and violence, and it is maddening how much worse it has become. This year, we have seen the violence toward our elders and the massacre of eight people in Atlanta, six of them being Asian American women, and we are crying out. The post has been updated to reflect current circumstances.*

I can feel my voice getting louder as the white family passes us by, my words coming out more crisply and clearly than I normally would talk. I can’t control the instinctual reaction of my body when there’s even the slightest chance I might be perceived as “one of them.” I’m not other or foreign (I was born here in California), but with the way Asian Americans are being treated in light of COVID-19, I can’t help but feel labeled as dirty, sick, a virus — the virus.

I enunciate my words and speak just loudly enough to be heard because I want everyone who walks by and gives us even the slightest of second glances to know that I’m American, just like them. I want them to know that being Asian American doesn’t make me more susceptible to getting sick. It’s knowing this disease is being used against people who look like me that gets me sick.

Asian Americans are being spat on, beaten down, harassed, bullied, and killed. Asian-owned restaurants and businesses have been avoided or targeted. On top of the fear and stress we all carry concerning the health and safety of our loved ones because of COVID, racism and violence against Asian Americans add another layer to the anxiety, and we are weary. 

I used to find the tiniest bit of relief when quarantine meant staying home and avoiding the possibility that my parents, my in-laws, my siblings, my children, my husband, and I would avoid the chance of being the next victim of hatred and violence. But the former president set a path of anti-Asian sentiment when he’d refer to COVID as “the Chinese virus” or “kung flu.” Words can be wielded for good or for harm, and those were not neutral words. Those were words that have stoked fear and ended lives, and we bear the scars of that harmful rhetoric.

I find relief and solidarity as I lament with other women of color. I’m comforted and held by the text messages, email prayer threads, and Venmo offers for coffee and meals sent by friends. I’m strengthened by the voices of our diverse Asian American community that are calling out, singing out, and protesting online and in person. We share the collective toll this is taking on our souls, but will others be able to see it too?

I write this knowing some won’t understand, that some will deny the racism and violence we’re experiencing, that others will be silent while waiting for “all the facts to come out.” And yet, I have to write this because the more we become aware, the more we listen and try to understand each other’s experiences and stories, the more we recognize the humanity in one another. Perhaps when we do, we’ll learn to think twice before we speak and act, before we mistreat someone who looks or acts differently from us, before we categorize people as “less than” in our hearts, minds, with our words, and with our policies.

I’ve been ruminating on how Jesus looked at people with compassion — people who were distressed and sick, people who were unclean and dying, people who were stubborn and naive and didn’t understand Him.

I imagine what His eyes of compassion looked like, and the face of a Middle Eastern man with brown skin and brown eyes comes to mind. He looks at the crowd, at the rich young ruler, at the woman whose son has died, and His eyes soften. I imagine Him on the cross looking at John and His beloved mother, love spilling over for His people in His last breaths, and His eyes soften. He sees their pain and grief, their hunger, their blindness — both physical and spiritual. He sees their humanity, and His love for them changes the way He looks at them.

In a time when everything feels out of control and isolating, when fear and anxiety rule our hearts and cause panic and pain for others, I become overwhelmed and all my words seem useless. But like clay in my hands, I shape them into crude prayers — Lord, please. Help. Heal. Have mercy.

I pray for those who have been hurt by the silence and gaslighting from friends and the church. I pray for those who are living in overwhelming anxiety and depression while struggling with loneliness. I pray for those who are unheard and further silenced by those who continue to erase our stories and pain. I pray for those who are sick and dying from COVID, for the ones grieving the death of loved ones due to gun violence. I pray for those who are struggling financially and won’t be able to recover from the hardships brought on by the pandemic. My prayers come out in tears, while lying awake in bed, while kneading dough to make bread, while playing with my children at home, while reading updates on the news.

I pray for eyes of compassion that lead to justice, that will cause stubborn hearts to mourn with those who mourn, and for our lives to look more like Jesus’ when He lived on earth as human — absorbing the pain of others, overturning the tables of the greedy, making seen the outcast, welcoming the foreigner, comforting the lonely, exposing the systems that are broken and in need of redemption. I pray we come out of this intense and exhausting time more aware, tender, and with a clearer vision for how to be human.