Letting God Rewrite What I Wanted to Erase

Letting God Rewrite What I Wanted to Erase

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I never wanted a story that includes anxiety and depression. I never imagined I’d write sentences with words like “panic attack,” “abuse,” or “shame.” I wanted a neat and tidy story. Something I could fold and tuck away like a well-written testimony for a women’s Bible study or a perfectly captioned Instagram post.

But what I got was real life — and real life is messy.

Real life is the story I never wanted, a story with chapters I still hesitate to open in public. Like the years I was terrified of failing as a mom because I struggled with anger. Or the nights I laid awake, rehearsing conversations I was too afraid to have. Or the mornings I woke up and wondered why God had let things unravel the way He did.

There was a time I didn’t want to tell my story because I didn’t like that it included spiritual wounds, or the slow unpacking of emotional baggage I didn’t know I was carrying. I didn’t want to write about being a people-pleaser so tethered to external approval that I lost my voice somewhere in the process. I didn’t want a story about financial setbacks, or apologizing to my kids for the ways I parented from fear instead of faith.

But, here’s something I’ve learned: We don’t get to pick the plot, but we do get to choose whether we let God be the Author.

In Isaiah 61:3 (NIV), God promises to bestow, “A crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.” That promise has become my lifeline in the past few years. Not because everything in my life has been redeemed or wrapped up with a neat bow, but because even in the middle of the story, God is faithful.

I used to think I had to wait until everything made sense before I could share my story. Yet, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that God doesn’t waste our broken parts. Especially not the broken parts.

Psalm 34:18 (ESV) says, “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” And I’ve seen this up close. In the counseling office where I finally told the truth about my childhood trauma. In the journal pages where I scratched out prayers that sounded more like desperate pleas. In the long walks and whispered apologies to my kids, when I didn’t get it right but wanted to do better.

Sometimes the most sacred place in our story is the one where we realize God is still writing . . . and we don’t have to rush to the ending.

Maybe your story feels disappointing, too. Maybe you thought you’d be further along, more healed, less messy. Maybe you’ve wondered if the parts of your life that feel untellable are just too broken to ever be beautiful. 

Friend, your story is still being written and rewritten.

You don’t have to love every chapter to believe God is working. You don’t have to share every detail to know He’s redeeming the narrative. And you don’t have to wait until it all makes sense to start telling the truth.

God, in His grace, whispers, “You’re not disqualified. You’re not too late. You’re not too much.” One of the most radical things we can do is to stop editing our stories to make them palatable and instead invite others into this grace that meets us right where we are.

Maybe our real testimony isn’t about being impressive. Maybe it’s about being honest. Maybe it’s time to stop hiding the pages we’d rather skip and start reading them aloud with a trembling voice and an open heart. Because there’s a woman out there who needs to hear your story to know she’s not alone.

And there’s a Savior who isn’t waiting for your perfection — just your permission to keep writing your story and rewriting your story.

Always Someone Better

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When I was 25, I graduated from seminary as one of two women in my degree program. I was a big fish in a small pond and carried in my toolbox a few items that made me especially unique. I had training in biblical languages and theology. I was reasonably creative. I had a background in basic marketing. Plus? I had great handwriting.

I made the move from Massachusetts to Texas for a year-long internship at a women’s ministry that was growing — fast.

The job was a dream. I’d be using all my skills in a vast array of tasks. I’d get to research and write and plan and film and edit and ideate around big ideas that pulled women close to one another and Jesus.

If you were to ask me if I thought what I brought to the table was the most important thing about me, I would’ve told you absolutely not. My years of studying Scripture taught me my worth wasn’t in my performance… But that doesn’t mean that truth had sunk into my heart yet. In fact, my knowledge of the Word may have at times caused me to believe that my greatest asset was my knowledge.

One scroll through Instagram or Facebook would have us believe that we need to show up with our talents and display them for the benefit of others. Which in and of itself is not a bad thing. But when we believe that the only reason we bring value is because of what we do, things start to get a little messy.

My first week or two at my internship went about as well as it could. I was welcomed by the staff, given introductions to the culture of teamwork, and ate more than my fair share of Tex-Mex. So far, so good. But when we rolled up our sleeves and actually started doing the work we were there to do, I found that I was surrounded by immensely talented women. I was no longer the only person who knew about Scripture or the Christian faith. I was no longer the only person who understood how to create good social media content. And I certainly was no longer the only person with good handwriting.

In 2015, hand lettering was at an all-time premium, and several other women on staff had much better skills.

I certainly contributed to the work, but I found myself also comparing myself to my colleagues. This subtle current of insecurity was flowing underneath all the tasks I was undertaking — and slowly eroding the bedrock of how I viewed myself. No one was telling me that I did a bad job or that I wasn’t valuable, but I was certainly telling myself that every time someone else was applauded for their talent in an area that I felt skilled in.

One night, I called my friend and told her how I was struggling with the fact that I was no longer a big fish in a small pond. I was no longer known for what I brought to the table because everybody brought the same thing. I was surrounded by so much talent and expertise. I felt more ill-equipped than ever.

And isn’t that the way it goes? When we are the only ones to do something, we tell ourselves that we’re special. And as soon as someone comes along with the same skills, we feel that we no longer matter. We go from flying high to dragged through the dirt. And it cultivates a sense of competition more than camaraderie.

I have struggled with this feeling for much of my life. Since that internship, I’ve had the opportunity to work alongside immensely talented writers and creatives who have similar interests and more developed skills than I do.

One day, as I was cycling through my usual frustration at my own shortcomings, a phrase popped into my head that has changed everything:

There will always be someone better than you, but there will never be anyone greater than God.

Think about it: there will always be a more patient mother or a more compassionate spouse or a more loyal friend or a better cook or a funnier storyteller. There will always be a more clever researcher or a more brilliant professor or a more gracious host.

If we want to live our lives being the best, we are going to fall short every single time. And perhaps this is what I love about the work of Jesus: He just doesn’t care about that.

Over and over, His disciples try to prove their worthiness, only to be met with a Savior who is asking for exactly none of it.

Jesus can perform miracles and He knows what’s coming next and He can calm storms and is literally God in the flesh. To be frank? He doesn’t need us for anything!

But you know what? He wants us and values us and loves us. Not because we are amazing, but because we are His.

When I started to look for my belonging in the person of Jesus Christ, I started to see myself as He sees me: fully known and fully loved. My sins and shortcomings are no longer counted against me because of the redeeming work of Jesus. 1 Peter 2:24 (ESV) says, “He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed.”

When God looks at us, He sees all of our mess covered by the sacrifice of Jesus so that we no longer have to prove anything. This walk of faith is not about what we bring to the table, but the fact that we are invited to the table. And more than feeling intimidated or exposed, it actually brings great freedom.  It means that we are loved exactly the way we are and we can joyfully use our gifts, knowing that they do not define us. Our fellow sisters are not our competition, and our worth is not founded on our talents.

So go. Make art or parent your kids or run that meeting with joy, knowing that there will always be someone better than you, but there will never be anyone greater than God — and He gave you what you have for a reason.

 

Listen to Melissa’s devotion below or on the (in)courage podcast!

Cling to the Hem of His Robe

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I typically loathe the kind of cliche sentiment and trite sayings that are often uttered with the purest of intentions but fail to convey anything of actual substance or encouragement. I have, however, taught my kids one fave – “don’t yuck my yum!” This has cut down on a LOT of bickering between kids and whining at me over their dinner plates. Besides that one, I reject most inspirational platitudes — it’s just my overanalytical, slightly cynical heart at work.

Okay, I also admit to one other exception: “Be kind to everyone, for you never know who is fighting an unseen battle.”

This one makes sense to me when it’s shared with someone who needs to watch their tone, expectations, or treatment of others. I’m always on board for reminders to be kind.

Plus, it’s true, isn’t it? There are things happening behind the scenes in our lives all the time. Literally all. the. time. Whether it’s illness or raising teenagers or struggling with finances. Caretaking a parent or partner, walking through a crisis of faith, or having a child we just can’t seem to connect with. Issues with coworkers, major company changes, or team and role shifts.

All things that greatly impact our day-to-day, and yet we process silently. These are the situations and experiences that we can’t share out loud for so, so many valid and necessary reasons – not to mention that sometimes we just have to work it out in our own hearts, between us and Jesus. There’s a fine line between transparency and oversharing.

There is always, always more to people than meets the eye. In fact, even as I share pieces of my life publicly here with you and on Instagram, and with my family and friends, over the last year, I have walked through nearly every example listed above. Betcha didn’t know that. 😉 And that’s ok. I have processed it quietly in all the ways – but offline.

I’m just one person with a small sphere, and I carry a multitude of stories. So do you. So does the person beside you. So does the one you cross paths with.

Our hearts are always carrying a heavier load than what our hands hold.

And then one day, you receive a rude email when kindness could have been used. A snippy comment, unprompted and unnecessary. A big ask, no actual question in sight, only an assumption of acceptance. A judgy neighbor or assumptive mom at the park. An unthoughtful… anything.

Oof. Can’t you feel it in your gut right now, just reading those examples? When your world is imploding, and then someone is unkind, it can be the final straw. For me, that means a royal meltdown, deep processing time with my husband, a handful of M&M’s, and a flurry of texts to my besties. For some, it can lead to destructive behaviors and unhealthy coping strategies.

Wherever and whenever unkindness finds you, it strikes the heart and cuts to the bone. It can make us feel alone, isolated, and so very small.

It makes me think of a woman in Scripture. One who has been overlooked and judged and even exiled for that which is unseen – she has been bleeding for twelve years. Can you imagine?? Many of us bleed monthly — yet another thing we don’t often talk about — but here’s a woman who bled for twelve years. Imagine her reception in the time of Jesus, when in 2025 we still don’t really talk about body issues and illness.

She makes her way to Jesus, through crowds of hopeful people and dust, hoping to clutch His robe.

Yes. That was her big, bold goal – to merely touch the hem of Jesus’ robe.

A handful of fabric. That’s it. Not only is that how deeply she believes in His healing power, but at the same time, it’s all she believes she’s worth. Not worth being seen, not worth being noticed, not worth being spoken to, not even worth being looked at.

If she just grazes the hem as it drags on the ground, trailing behind Him, she knows He won’t even need to look at her.

But Jesus never lets any of His children remain unseen. None of us is ever unknown.

She touches the edge of His robe and is immediately healed; Jesus knows something happened. Here’s the part of the story that makes me teary:

Then the woman, seeing that she could not go unnoticed, came trembling and fell at his feet. In the presence of all the people, she told why she had touched him and how she had been instantly healed. Then he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.”
Luke 8:47-48 NIV

She sees that she cannot go on unnoticed. Not by Jesus, and no longer by the crowd that had ignored her so completely that she’d been able to approach Him, to get near enough to brush His garment when His own mother couldn’t even get through (Luke 8:19 NIV). What a shocking change of pace for this nameless woman! And then, on top of being seen, she was healed. Her life was forever altered; her whole world was changed.

Christ’s presence alone can heal us. When we are too overcome to be seen, we can simply cling to the hem of His robe. He doesn’t require a backstory or explanation or reason or justification. He just requires our proximity and our faith in Him.

Today, may we show kindness to everyone, remembering that they could be trying to elbow their way through the crowd to brush His holy garment, running on faith and hope alone. May we realize we are worthy of being noticed. And may the One who heals all hearts do so for yours.

 

Listen to Anna’s devotion here or on your fave podcast app!

Jesus Sees You

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I wasn’t always this way.

I used to love to be the center of attention. I was Mrs. Pugh in “Annie” the musical, as presented by my high school. I floated from friend group to friend group in the cafeteria. I led worship from the stage. I dreamed of writing songs, recording albums, and touring with a band — preferably heavy metal. (Yeah. I know. Wild!)

But that’s not really me, anymore. I often avoid attention. I sit in the back of the church, way back in the corners. When there’s a need, I am not the one to show up at the front door knocking. Instead, I slip quiet cards in the mail. I secretly deliver care packages to front porches. I donate anonymously. I pray without sending a text.

These days, I’m quite content doing things behind the scenes and between the shadows. Except, when I’m not. Because, sometimes, it actually does matter to me to be seen. Sometimes, my heart does need to be heard. Sometimes, my questions do need to be asked. Sometimes, space for all my too-muchness does need to be made, even (and especially) in the most imperfect of times.

Lately, I’ve been finding myself in absolute awe of Jesus’ ability to pay attention. I can’t stop thinking about the woman at the well and how Jesus knew He would find her there, precisely at noon, the hottest time of the day.

​​Now he had to go through Samaria. So he came to a town in Samaria called Sychar, near the plot of ground Jacob had given to his son Joseph. Jacob’s well was there, and Jesus, tired as he was from the journey, sat down by the well. It was about noon. When a Samaritan woman came to draw water, Jesus said to her, “Will you give me a drink?” (His disciples had gone into the town to buy food.)
John 4:4-8 (NIV)

Jesus was attuned to her schedule because it was indelibly tied to her story. The story of a woman who would go out of her way to walk to the well at noon (a time when no one else would be there due to the heat) simply because she sought to avoid the society that didn’t see her.

But Jesus sees through our survival strategies. Jesus sees the ways we circumvent the crowds just to make it through our days. Jesus sees all the ways in which we hide and are prone to outwit the world, like the woman at the well, on guard and challenging every one of Jesus’ questions and statements. And yet it was there, right there, in the heat of the day, in the middle of the mundane, that Jesus met the woman at the well.

Jesus met her at the well, not to condemn her (as the rest of society would have done) but to confound her with His careful listening and attentiveness. When others sought to evade her, Jesus sought to encounter and encourage her.

Isn’t’ it ironic? The thing she avoided the most was, in fact, the thing she most needed. To be seen.

“Come, see a man who told me everything I ever did,” she told the people. Immediately after her conversation with Christ, she testified, inviting others to “come” and “see” the Christ who clearly saw her and deeply knew her.

The day Jesus met the woman at the well, I wonder if her heart had been burning to talk about the many things they talked about that day. I wonder how long she had been burying within her the stories concerning her multiple marriages, nuanced stories that needed space to unfurl every fragmented layer of truth and trauma.

Just a few weeks ago, after a hard, heartbreaking day, I told my husband I wanted to be the woman at the well. I just desperately needed Jesus to see me, really see me. To sit with me, lingering and listening. To hear me. Make miracles out of the seeming mess that is my life right now.

Well, later that day, I received a call from someone unexpected. It was the smallest thing, but what was spoken was an answer to a very specific unspoken prayer. And, here’s the thing: I felt like the woman at the well leaving behind her water jar. Because what meant more to me than the actual answered prayer was the fact that Jesus looked into my heart, and saw and spoke to the hidden mix of hurt and hope that swelled within.

He saw me. He met me in a moment when and where no one else could or would.

I just about melted, being reminded of the truth that Jesus sees me. Jesus sees you. Jesus sees us, His uninterruptible gaze ever cast toward us with fierce attention and deep affection.

For anyone who is feeling unseen in this current season of life, I want to loan you a song that has been reminding me of the unmerited attention of God. Please listen to “This Close” by Steffany Gretzinger, then come back and share in the comments how this song speaks to your heart.

No striving, no fighting for affection. No running away or hiding. No slipping through the cracks or slipping out unannounced. You are irrevocably seen by God, beloved.

Today, tomorrow, and forevermore.

 

Listen to Rachel’s devotion here or wherever you stream podcasts.

Finding Starlight in Your Endless Night

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My family recently watched the Broadway musical version of The Lion King, a story we love and know well but had never seen like this. While much of the music and dialogue is the same as the familiar movie, the stage production includes at least one song the movie does not.

In case you aren’t familiar with The Lion King, it’s a loose adaptation of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. The main character, Simba, is a young lion who must decide whether to keep hiding and avoiding responsibility or return home and take his place as leader. As he faces his dark night of the soul, Simba gazes into the sky and sings, “Endless Night,” a song I hadn’t previously heard.

“Where has the starlight gone?
Dark is the day.
How can I find my way home?

Home is an empty dream.
Lost to the night,
Father, I feel so alone.

You promised you’d be there.
Whenever I needed you
Whenever I call your name,
You’re not anywhere.

I’m trying to hold on,
Just waiting to hear your voice.”

As the actor sang these words, I forgot he was playing a lion. I forgot I was watching a play. I forgot everything but how my heart was breaking along with his, crying out for his father and unable to find him in the dark.

I’ve been walking through a season of darkness for a while now, and over the past several months, the world has felt increasingly dark as well. For someone whose first book was called Choose Joy and who has written an entire Bible study about hope, stumbling through darkness, unsure I will find the light again, has been disorienting.

I recently lamented my loss of certainty, my inability to believe things will ever improve, and my anger at all the horrible things I see and experience every day. When I was asked, “But isn’t there anything good? Anything at all?” I wanted to shout no!

I ached to lay out all the evidence – the times I’ve begged God to help, to intervene, to make it better, only to hear silence. I wanted to make my case that nothing good is left in this world or my heart, that maybe I’d been wrong all those years I’d claimed God’s love meant He never leaves us and He always gives us something good to hold onto.

I wanted to give up. But like Simba, holding on and still listening for his father’s voice, I guess I’m not ready to give up my search for God’s Light in this world.

So for the hundredth time, I started keeping track of the starlight in this darkness. Even while I still feel alone, even when I can’t quite see the Father, the tiny bits of light – like the stars over Simba’s savannah – are leading me Home.

You might be wondering what tiny bits of light I’ve found. (I hope so, because I’m about to tell you!) They’re not miracles of biblical proportion, burning bushes, or billboards covered in encouragement just for me. They’re small gifts, little joys, things that others might not even notice — but they speak God’s love so clearly to me when I pay attention:

The light is a bright pink door on a navy house that’s so cute I had to call my best friend and tell her about it.

It’s the biggest zucchini I’ve ever seen, offered free by a co-worker with a green thumb.

It’s lunch with a friend, dinner with a cousin, texting with my brother.

It’s the new kiosks installed at my library offering multiple languages, including pirate. “Arrr, matey! Ready to check out yer books? Scan yer treasure below!”

The light is the best bagel I’ve ever had, grabbed in the drive-thru on my way to a difficult doctor’s appointment.

It’s two friends handing me the cash out of their purses to help my friend, whom they’ve never even met.

It’s the rainbow I could somehow see, even though the sun had set well before I began driving home.

My friend Shannan calls these things counterweights, the only way we can maintain the delicate balance of being present in this difficult, often dark world without letting it drag us down. I’ve heard others call them glimmers – the opposite of a trigger that pulls you into negativity, something that instead pushes you toward a more positive perspective.

Interestingly, both phrases acknowledge that you’re in a dark, difficult place. Without the dark, we wouldn’t need and couldn’t see glimmers of light. Without difficulty or heavy circumstances, we wouldn’t need light and goodness to balance it out. But we are in the dark, and many of us find ourselves crying out like Simba or, more biblically, like David in the Psalms.

Many of the psalms written by David are categorized as laments — songs and poems filled with fear and pain. But time and time again, he also found evidence of God’s faithful love in the small things and the skies.

“The heavens proclaim the glory of God. The skies display his craftsmanship.
Day after day they continue to speak; night after night they make him known.”
Psalm 19:1-2 NLT

No matter what you call them, these small joys, gifts, delights, tiny bits of light are evidence that, indeed, God is still here and God is still good. God has not forgotten us, and He continues to love us beyond all measure. The clues are all around us; we just have to look for them.

Where have you seen the Light of God in the darkness lately?

 

Listen to Mary’s devotion here or on the (in)courage podcast — streaming everywhere.

When You’re Grieving or Comforting Someone Who Is

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Sometimes I hear prayer requests and have the guilty thought that I’m thankful whatever happened didn’t happen to me. If you’ve never felt like this, congratulations — you’re a better person than I am. Over the past couple of years, however, the major prayer requests seem to be mine.

Experiencing tragedy often prepares us to comfort others who face the same. I appreciate how certain aspects of my personal story enable me to connect with other women and the readers at (in)courage. Still, I never would have chosen to identify deeper with those who’ve experienced the death of a child.

Yet here I am, muddling through the stages of grief as I process our oldest daughter’s recent death while adapting our home to raise her three young children permanently — enforcing naptime with a stubborn toddler, enrolling a child in camp for kindergarteners, and marking the first day of school on the calendar (again).

I’m not only mourning my daughter, but also the loss of freedom and uninterrupted writing time I had gained as our children aged. Perhaps this is a natural response, but these feelings leave me weighed down with guilt.

All of us will experience periods of grief, or times when we hope to comfort someone who’s grieving. As someone in the midst of it, here are some helpful things that people have done to help me and my family:

  • Organize a meal train
  • Set up a GiveSendGo or GoFundMe if there’s a need
  • Lend vases and picture frames for the funeral or celebration of life.
  • Text your friend when you think of them, but don’t expect an answer. (I’ve hearted a lot of messages when writing a response felt overwhelming.)

When you want to help, be specific. If you offer to babysit, I may never take you up on it, even if I believe you’re sincere. But if you say, “I’m available to watch the kids on Tuesday or Friday night if you need a night out,” or if you volunteer to take the kids to get ice cream and hang out at the park (like the text I received today), I’ll probably take you up on it.

If you’re the one grieving and people want to help, let them. A friend delivered a set of stackable cups because the chaos in my cabinets was more than I could handle. Another left a pack of chip clips in my mailbox so I could close all the open bags. They brought these random things because I asked for them, and they made my life easier.

Every little bit helps when your life has spun out of control.

Find someone you can talk to honestly and openly, who can handle anything you say. My sister, a therapist, and my future son-in-law have been especially helpful in this regard. Grief is lonely, and the emotions aren’t just messy; sometimes, they’re downright ugly.

You won’t sleep well. You’ll make stupid mistakes and forget things. Give yourself grace.

Permit yourself to grieve in your own way. Someone donated a bunk bed with a twin on top and a full on the bottom for our grandkids, which is a better option than a seven-year-old girl, a five-year-old boy, and a two-year-old boy sharing a queen-sized bed in our guest room. Three days before our daughter’s celebration of life event, I bought new bedding and paint to make the grandchildren’s room feel fresh, welcoming, and most of all, permanent.

My children urged me to paint the room later, since we had a house full of company, and our grandchildren would spend the following week out of state with our son’s family for some time with their cousins. But I wanted to save those quieter days for grieving our daughter’s death and processing the sudden changes in our life with fewer distractions. Not everyone understood my decision, but for me, it was the right call.

Because I’ve been through it myself, I relate to women who’ve miscarried a baby or suffered the pain and loss of freedom from broken bones and surgery. Someday, maybe I’ll be a sympathetic ear for those who are experiencing what I’m going through now, like a few women who’ve reached out to me. But not now; it’s too fresh.

Not all pain is relatable to all people, but because Jesus came to earth in human form, He has an intimate understanding of grief, suffering, and loss. None of my emotions are too big or unwieldy for Jesus. Whatever I confess, He can handle. He comprehends my pain. He understands this unyielding loss.

Sorrow sneaks up when I least expect it. It’s embedded in photographs, pieces of clothing, a familiar expression on a child’s face. I don’t feel angry with God. He never promised me a life free from suffering. But I believe He’s the security that will keep me from bending until I break. May God bless you all.

 

Listen to Dawn’s devotion here or on the (in)courage podcast anywhere you stream.

For the Days That Feel Too Heavy

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“Is anyone crying for help? God is listening,
ready to rescue you.
If your heart is broken, you’ll find God right there;
if you’re kicked in the gut, he’ll help you catch your breath.”
Psalm 34:17-18 The Message

It can feel like tragedy is always lurking — an unexpected diagnosis, a heartbreaking headline, the loss of someone we love. Some days it seems like sorrow is stacked so high we can hardly breathe beneath the weight of it. And truthfully? It is too much to bear. But we were never meant to carry it alone.

Jesus meets us in our grief — not as a distant observer, but as a compassionate Savior who knows sorrow intimately. He wept at the tomb of His friend. He mourned the brokenness of this world. He carried our pain all the way to the cross.

So yes, we are safe to cry with Him. Safe to lament. Safe to let our hearts break wide open in His presence. Our grief does not disqualify us from His goodness — it draws Him near. Psalm 34:18 tells us the Lord is close to the brokenhearted. He doesn’t turn away from our tears; He treasures them (Psalm 56:8).

And somehow — mysteriously, miraculously — we can hold grief in one hand and the joy of the Lord in the other. Not because everything is okay, but because Jesus is. Because even when sorrow overwhelms us, He sustains us. Even when we feel undone, His love holds every shattered piece.

This world is groaning under the weight of sin and suffering. That’s not new. But it is all the more reason we need a Redeemer. All the more reason to remember that this world is not our forever home.

Until the day He wipes every tear from our eyes and redeems every brokenness, we keep reaching for the hem of His garment — trusting that He’s reaching back for us.


Jesus, some days the pain feels too heavy to carry. Thank You that we don’t have to carry it alone. Thank You for meeting us in our grief and for being a Savior who understands sorrow. Help us to weep with You, to find refuge in You, and to trust that joy and grief can coexist in Your presence. We long for the day when You will make all things new. Until then, help us to keep holding on to You, even with trembling hands. Amen.

When You Long for a Friend + Charcuterie Snack Board Inspiration

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My husband swept the side patio as I hung four little lanterns on the cinderblock wall. I positioned four chairs in a square. As the sun began to set, I plugged in a string of Edison bulb lights. The instant glow was like a warm welcome. I could hardly contain my excitement as I grabbed a La Croix from the fridge. I propped open the side gate, sat down, and sighed with joyful anticipation.

One by one, I heard the crunch of gravel. Three beautiful friends emerged from the darkness. We hugged, so happy to be stealing a little time together.

Earlier in the day, I texted my neighbor a heads-up about my planned outdoor gathering. When the four of us girls get together, let’s just say the volume level is hard to contain. Our delight over sharing ridiculous stories always leads to the best kind of make-your-sides-ache hilarity.

I needed that kind of laughter tonight.

Yet the evening unfolded differently. We were elated to see one another, but our conversation was more somber. Would one friend’s husband’s new job still start as scheduled? Would our friend with the high-risk pregnancy respond to her recent treatment? Would another friend, mothering three littles and battling the terror of a stubborn three-year-old with epic-level sleep regression, ever sleep again?

We took turns sharing all that had transpired in our individual circles over the last many weeks. We were all strained in different ways as moms and wives and working women providing for the needs of our families.

While the hard of what we were all going through seemed to outweigh the good, the good of being together was not lost on me.

You see, these are the friends I longed for, prayed for. Years earlier, I cried out to God, begging Him for just one real friend. One friend to share the ins and outs of motherhood with. One friend to be honest with about how hard marriage can be. One friend that I didn’t have to clean up my house for or slap a glossy filter on my life and pretend that all my imperfections weren’t really there.

God answered that desperate prayer. He answered it abundantly.

The glowing lights cast happy shadows on the ground. Crickets chirped. I inhaled the sweetness of the blossoming star jasmine. And I remembered the sweetness of how God had brought each one of these remarkable women into my life — and slowly, beautifully knit our hearts and lives together.

It was through these women that God also answered my fervent plea for other families to do life with. As introverts, my husband and I like being home. We like being together. I know this is a gift. But for the first decade of our marriage, I also craved the kind of friends who could be our friends together. We were likable enough, but finding another couple we both clicked with proved difficult. It seemed like an impossible dream.

Yet God heard the longing in my heart and again He answered lavishly.

For years now, we’ve gathered for monthly couples’ dinners, family camping trips, and video game nights with pizza for the kids and soul-medicine laughter for us. I can’t tell you how much I’ve learned from my friends about intentional parenting, navigating conflict, and college-day pranks. But even more, their friendship has taught me about the faithfulness of God.

Our hearts were made to do life together. We were made to be known, seen, and cared for by others. If you have that kind of friend in your life, thank God for them today! Then find a creative way to keep building that friendship.

If you long for a new or deeper friendship, keep praying for that one friend. God is listening.

Devotion by Becky Keife from the (in)courage archives.

Who doesn’t love charcuterie?! Perfect for parties and gatherings of all sizes, beautiful to display, fun and delicious to eat. Mid-summer is a great time to pull out your serving trays, load them up with all the goodies, and invite a few friends over to catch up. Our friend Nancy C. has some ideas for your charcuterie boards, along with inspo for plating and serving beautifully!

CHARCUTERIE SNACK BOARD INSPIRATION

Prep Time: 30 minutes
Cook Time: none
Makes about 8 servings.

INGREDIENTS:
  • 2 kinds of cheese, sliced
  • Crackers or baguette slices
  • 6 to 7 types of fruit and vegetables, (e.g., grapes, strawberries, sliced oranges, cherry tomatoes, sliced cucumbers, olives, baby carrots)
  • 1 (6-oz.) pkg. of dried apricots or other dried fruit
  • 1 1/2 cups nuts (e.g., mixed nuts, almonds, or cashews)
  • 1 or 2 kinds of dip (e.g., Ranch dip, hummus, or fruit dip)
  • Optional: salami or smoked sausage slices
INSTRUCTIONS:
  1. Line your charcuterie board with wax paper liner or parchment paper.
  2. Fill a small bowl with dip and place it on the board in the center or slightly off-center.
  3. Arrange the rest of the snack items around the small bowl of dip in sections, starting from the bowl to the edge of the board, like a sun ray. Or have fun creating your own unique arrangement!
  4. Use extra bowls or plates, if needed, for any different dips or snack items, and place them next to your charcuterie board.

Find these beautiful serving pieces and tea towel set in the Mary & Martha home collection at DaySpring. And tell us – what’s your favorite item to include on a charcuterie snack board? Who can you invite over this weekend to snack and chat?

 

Lower Your Standards (and Maybe Save Your Sanity)

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I told the world (okay, social media) that I don’t sort my clothes before I wash them. And the world had big feelings about that.

It was wild to see how upset people got about me — someone they only know through their phones — not separating my jeans from my t-shirts.

There were dire warnings about every article of clothing.

“Your jeans are going to bleed on your white t-shirts.” (Actually, it’s been fine. I throw in a color catcher if I think something might bleed.)

“Ew … you wash your underwear with your kitchen towels? This is why you can’t eat at everyone’s house.” (I said I don’t separate my clothes. I do wash all the towels that need it once a week. And for the record, no one has ever gotten sick from eating at my house.)

“You are wrong.” (Um . . . Okay . . . )

Big feelings.

Why? Because many of us have been trained to believe there is only one right way to do everything, and everyone else needs to do it that way, too.

There’s a cultural pressure — especially on women — to do it all, do it perfectly, and do it without complaint. But here’s the truth: doing everything at 100 percent, 100 percent of the time, leads to exhaustion, frustration, and burnout.

And the solution we’re often given?
Wait for life to “calm down.”
Get more organized so you can return to doing it all.
Try harder.

And to really twist the knife, we sometimes spiritualize it. We’ve confused busyness with faithfulness. And it’s slowly crushing us.

Let me offer another way: The Minimum Standard of Care.

If you’re thriving with your current systems — wonderful. But if you’re underwater, constantly running behind, and feeling like you’re failing at everything, it’s time to renegotiate. Here are some questions to ask yourself:

Can you do less?
Can you do it “less well”?

Can you lower your standards? Not your values or your faithfulness, but the expectations that were handed to you by your mom, your grandma, your friend’s mom, your neighbor, or even your own inner critic.

This isn’t about laziness or neglect.
It’s about stewardship and sustainability.

Consider these suggestions for practical ways to manage what’s on your plate and protect your peace.

Do Less

  • Make sure everyone capable is helping at home. You don’t have to be the default doer.
  • Resign from draining volunteer roles.
  • Buy dinner or get takeout without guilt.
  • Use grocery delivery or pickup.
  • Skip Christmas cards this year (or forever).
  • Let go of thank-you notes for casual events.
  • Buy birthday cakes instead of baking them.
  • Let someone else host the next gathering.

Do It “Less Well”

  • Make sandwiches or cereal some nights for dinner.
  • Use paper plates when the dishes feel overwhelming.
  • Fold laundry imperfectly — or not at all.
  • Clean only what guests will see. You’re not a hotel.
  • Load the dishwasher “wrong” and move on.
  • Leave the beds unmade and close the door.

Let’s visit Ecclesiastes 4:6 (NIV) for some timeless wisdom:

“Better one handful with tranquility than two handfuls with toil and chasing after the wind.”

Is there any better description of trying to keep a house running while people are living in it than “chasing after the wind”?

Doing less — and doing it less well — isn’t failure. Sometimes, it’s the wisest, most loving, and most faithful choice you can make.

It’s time to lower the bar. Not your integrity, not your purpose, but your unsustainable standards.

Jesus never once told us to have an organized spice drawer or themed lunchboxes. But He did say, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28 NIV).

Sometimes rest starts with releasing the unnecessary.
With letting go of perfection.
With refusing to chase after the wind.

If you’re looking for a community of women who are choosing peace over perfection and learning to let go of “chasing the wind,” come join us in Kathi Lipp’s Clutter Free Academy on Facebook — we’d love to welcome you.

You Are Never Too Old or Young to Lead

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My daughters gathered at the kitchen island with me. Together we started to build three charcuterie boards with a bounty of Italian meats, cheeses, berries, olives, dips, and chips. My youngest helped shape the salami roses, while my oldest sliced homemade sourdough, and my middle daughter arranged small bowls of salsa, olive tapenade, and hummus on the board.

As the doorbell rang, we set plates and napkins out on the coffee table. Tween and teenage girls spilled into the living room, greeting each other with hugs and squeals. They filled plates and poured bubbly beverages, then settled onto our comfy blue couch with their Bibles in all different translations and notebooks ready to take notes.

We named this gathering “Bibles and Bruschetta,” and it’s one of the highlights of my summer. The goal is to “recline at the table” together as the disciples did throughout the Gospels. (See Luke 22:14, Matthew 26:20, Mark 14:18.) We break bread and break open our Bibles together.

My heart’s desire is for these young women – ranging from middle school to college – to learn how to study the Bible and to walk away with a deeper understanding of the stories of the women who followed Jesus. God used women to persuade kings, offer hospitality, take out the enemy, feed His people, and birth His own Son.

On one particular night, I led the girls on a treasure hunt, uncovering details about the life of Miriam. You may know her as Moses’ sister, but she was a leader in her own right. She was a prophetess, worship leader, exhorter, and even a historian.

We are first introduced to Miriam in Exodus 2, when she stood watch on the bank as her brother lay hidden inside a basket floating on the river. Scholars believe Miriam was only six years old in this scene, but she already displayed fortitude and ingenuity. When Pharoah’s daughter notices the basket among the reeds, she takes pity on Moses. Then, his vigilant sister, who was in the right place at the right time, said, “Shall I go and get one of the Hebrew women to nurse the baby for you?” (Exodus 2:7 NIV).

Smart girl. She goes to fetch the baby’s actual mother (not just any Hebrew woman). Pharaoh’s daughter provides wages for Moses’ mama, who takes care of him and nurses him until he is older. Then he is brought to the palace, where he grows up. This is God’s rescue for Moses, which emerges through three women: his birth mother Jochabed, his adopted mother Pharaoh’s daughter, and his big sister Miriam.

The girls at our Bible study noticed that young Miriam was observant, resourceful, and courageous from a young age. These seeds of character planted in her little soul continue to grow with her.

Many years later, Miriam joins Moses and their brother Aaron to help rescue Israel from slavery in Egypt. She is named a prophetess, which in the context of Exodus means she was a messenger, a mouthpiece for Moses and God. Miriam bears witness to the ten plagues God brings upon the Egyptians. Then she gets to walk on the miraculously dry river bed across the Red Sea with God’s people before the waters rush back together, swallowing up their oppressors.

Miriam leads the women with her hand drum and singing in Exodus 15 after God triumphs over the Egyptians. Miriam’s words echo through history and exhort all of us today to remember our rescue: “Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider he has thrown into the sea” (Exodus 15:21 ESV). As one of the girls in our circle noted, she led by example with passion and joy.

Scholars estimate that Moses was 80 years old when he led the people across the Red Sea. That means Miriam was close to 86. The girls and I delighted in this detail. In her sunset season of life, she set a precedent of powerful praise.

The prophet Micah reminded God’s people of this truth hundreds of years later: “I brought you up out of Egypt and redeemed you from the land of slavery. I sent Moses to lead you, also Aaron and Miriam” (Micah 6:4 NIV).

She wasn’t perfect, but Miriam was remembered as a faithful leader of Israel alongside her brothers. Many young women in the New Testament were named Mary, a derivative of Miriam, in her honor.

At the end of our night studying Miriam’s story, the youngest girl in the room (my youngest daughter) led us in worship. I marveled as I watched my 13-year-old raise her voice and hands in a passionate song like Miriam. God is growing seeds of confidence and a heart for worship in her.

My eyes lingered on the young women perched around my living room — track stars, newspaper editors, honor students, musicians, cheerleaders, and friends. I saw these daughters of the one true King, pouring their hearts out in worship to their Rescuer and Redeemer. This felt like a full-circle, sacred moment, kissing the past and peering into the future.

God’s pleasure and presence were in our midst.

Friend, you are never too young or too old to live out your purpose in God’s Kingdom. If He can use young Miriam and older Miriam, He can utilize you and me in whatever season of life we find ourselves in. Whether you are a girl or a grandma, you were fashioned in your mother’s womb for a purpose.

Let’s rejoice together over our rescue!

Dorina helps people feast on the glory of God through her weekly Glorygram and her new Bible study, Redeemer: God’s Lovingkindness in the Book of Ruth.

 

Listen to Dorina’s devotion here or on the (in)courage podcast wherever you stream!

Can We Find Manna Each Morning?

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The morning had soured faster than expired milk. Summer heat hung heavy. Kids woke early and cranky. Work loomed long and deadlines late. Everywhere looked undone: grimy floors, laundry heaps, cluttered counters — and an empty fridge. Everyone was hungry.

To make everything worse, I’d made the mistake of starting the day by picking up my phone and scrolling through the news. Now I was convinced we were collectively heading to hell in a handbasket (again), and what could I do to help, in my tiny corner of the world?

Against a chorus of whines and protests, I pushed the back door open into sweltering humidity, stubbornly determined to gather blackberries for breakfast before storm clouds on the horizon cracked open. More than anything, I needed two whole minutes to myself.

Swatting away mosquitoes and black flies, I dug into the brambles. Thorny branches scraped my legs and tugged on my sleeves, but I didn’t care. Turned out there were more ripe berries than I realized—and many more to find when I crouched down and turned over leaves to discover juicy clusters of the shining dark beauties.

I’d planned to pick alone, but soon I was joined by two little boys in muddy boots who wanted to help. Our bowls filled as fast as our bellies, and our fingers stained purple. When the sun beat down, we turned a corner to find shade. When we thought everything had been picked clean, we pushed aside another leaf to find more.

Soon the kids were laughing. Slowly my mood began to rise like the sun. Somehow when we walked back inside, the day didn’t seem as daunting. Suddenly the metaphor became as clear as shining dew on the morning leaves:

Stepping outside and searching for what we wanted, we found exactly what we needed.

For weeks, I savored the memory of that sour morning turned sweet. How often do I forget that what I need is closer than I realize? My prayer life had shriveled dry after a long season of drought. But one morning of manna was enough to remind me that it makes a difference whether I walk into the world expecting abundance or scarcity.

It reminds me of a story I’d stuck back in the past, pressed between the pages of my childhood picture Bible — the story of God feeding the Israelites in the desert. This tale becomes magical or mythical if we don’t remember it is teaching us something theological: God provides. Not always in the ways we want or even expect, but in abundance we often overlook.

“The Israelites did as they were told; some gathered much, some little. And when they measured it by the omer, the one who gathered much did not have too much, and the one who gathered little did not have too little. Everyone had gathered just as much as they needed.”
Exodus 16:17-18 NIV

Food called manna lying on the ground, free for the taking? Enough each morning, spoiling if it’s hoarded? Nourishment for forty years, full bellies for the whole sojourn in the wilderness? It’s a wild story to trust, let alone believe, within the challenges and contours of our own lives. But that’s exactly what God asks us to do.

Years ago, one of my professors talked about “functional atheism”: the irony that we profess belief in God, but then operate in our daily lives as if it’s up to us to get everything done. How quickly such attitudes (and anxieties) creep into our thinking. How often I pivot from prayer time to personal worries, trying to get everything done on my own time and terms, forgetting the sacred words of surrender I prayed only moments before.

Over the years, I have dug deep into trying to trust the manna. When I force my own will or whims, everything spoils. When I run headlong into my own desires, I suffer — and so does everyone around me.

But when I trust that God will show up, surprising things happen. Time or space or energy arrives for the work that needs to be done. Inspiration sparks at the right moment. Or an opportunity knocks on a long-closed door. I learn how to tune my ear to listen for the Spirit’s movement instead of marinating in the worries of my own heart.

I still have to remind myself of this every day: there will be enough. We often have to shift our vision of what enough means. But manna always arrives, fresh every morning, just for today.

If you need manna for a troubled relationship, a new stage of life, or a season of uncertainty, remember that manna is made for the wilderness. Not forever, but enough to meet our needs, generous enough for generations. Enough is not everything, but it suffices and sustains. Enough peace, enough grace, enough hope can get us over the next mountain and into the closest clearing to catch our breath.

It’s easier said than done — to trust in God for yourself and for others, to trust in God at work and at rest. But sometimes a simple encounter — even five minutes in the abundance of God’s creation out your back door — can be enough.

It’s never up to us in the end. Thank God for that.

For more of Laura’s writing, read her essays on finding God in daily life at The Holy Labor or follow her reflections on surviving cancer at The Compassion Brigade.

 

Listen to Laura’s devotion here or wherever you stream podcasts.

How a Dusty Penny Became a Sacred Invitation to Pray

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There was nothing special about the penny.

It was scratched, dull, half-buried in the dirt like so many I’d passed before. This time, however, I paused. I bent down, brushed it off, and, more out of habit than anything else, I slipped it into my pocket. But as I stood, a quiet thought surfaced:

What if this was an invitation? 

What if this ordinary coin was a simple, sacred prompt to pray — to turn my heart toward God right here in the middle of my errand-running, list-making, everyday life?

That moment started something. Since then, every coin I spotted on the sidewalk or in a parking lot became a sacred signal. A penny meant: pause and pray. Just one moment to look up, breathe deep, and remember that God is always near — even here, even now.

At first, it was simple. I’d pray for the first person I saw after picking up the coin. A stranger in the parking lot, a neighbor checking the mail, a cashier behind the counter. I didn’t know their stories, but God did. So, I’d whisper, Be near, Lord. Let them know they’re not alone.

Later, the practice shifted. I began looking at the year stamped on the coin and letting it guide my prayer, thanking God for something meaningful that happened that year . . . or asking Him to heal something that still felt unfinished. A few of those dates brought tears. Most sparked gratitude. All drew me closer to God.

I never set out to build a habit, but the habit found me. Every coin became a reminder to slow down and see not just the world around me, but the God who walks beside me.

Eventually, I started collecting the pennies in a jar because I loved to remember. Each coin marked a moment I chose connection over hurry, presence over distraction. The jar became a visual record of the many times I’d found God in the dust and pavement of everyday life.

One day, I’ll use what’s in the jar — not just to remember my sacred practice, but to bless someone else. Maybe I’ll donate the pennies to a ministry I love, or convert the coins into a gift card, tucking it into an envelope with a note for someone who needs to know they’re seen.

I have a feeling God has a creative plan for this, too. Because the point isn’t to merely collect — it’s to give. That’s always been the rhythm of grace: God meets us, and we get to pass it on.

This practice has also reshaped how I see prayer. I used to think it had to be long or eloquent or tucked into quiet corners of the day. And, sometimes it is. But penny-jar prayers are different. They’re short. Spontaneous. Often unfinished. They remind me that prayer doesn’t begin with having the right words — it begins with having a responsive heart.

Collecting pennies taught me that prayer isn’t always about asking or explaining. It can simply be noticing. It can be breath and stillness and thankfulness for nothing in particular. That realization softened a pressure I didn’t even know I carried. I never needed to sound spiritual. I just needed to show up with an open heart.

That’s what God invites us to bring. Not our polished perfection, but presence. Not performance, but participation. The penny jar sits on a shelf in my studio now. Every few days, I find another coin on the ground, and the practice begins again. I look up. I pray. I remember.

Maybe you don’t find coins like I do. But perhaps there’s something else that catches your eye — a feather, heart shapes everywhere you look, a number that keeps appearing.

What if that’s your invitation? What if God is using something small to invite you into something sacred?

A shell on the shore. A verse that keeps repeating. A song you can’t shake. These small things aren’t distractions — they might be invitations.

You don’t have to chase God down. You just have to notice when He draws near. You don’t need to have the right words. You don’t need to be in the right place. You just need to be willing to notice.

Because God really is near.
Even here. Even now.


LISTEN to today’s devotion here or on the (in)courage podcast!

You’re the Victor, Not the Victim

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My daughter, Tayliana, and her husband, Sam, just celebrated their sixth wedding anniversary. I remember the day well because their wedding took place in our backyard. We had moved into our home a little less than a year before. It had sat vacant for two years before we bought it. The kids got engaged there in February and planned their wedding for June 14. That didn’t leave us much time to get the house ready, but we jumped into full wedding mode.

Part of the preparations involved planting wildflowers along the perimeter of our lawn. As the wedding day approached, not a single wildflower had sprouted. So we bought numerous flowers and plants and placed them all over the yard. The result was beautiful.

Years later, we looked out into the yard one mid-summer day and saw flowers growing everywhere. They had sprung up all over the place! The seeds we planted years ago had finally come to life. What a fantastic and surprising gift! It reminds me of Galatians 6:7 (GNT): “Do not deceive yourselves; no one makes a fool of God. You will reap exactly what you plant.” Later, in verse 9, it says: “So let us not become tired of doing good; for if we do not give up, the time will come when we will reap the harvest.”

I’m not a botanist, so I don’t know why it took so long for those seeds to produce flowers, but eventually blooms came from a long-forgotten planting. And I think of those wildflower seeds as being like some of my prayers. It’s taken a while for some to produce a visible result, and some I’m still waiting for the first signs of growth.

In the middle of waiting for the harvest from our prayers, it’s tempting to think that things aren’t working. We wonder if our prayers aren’t good enough, or maybe if God doesn’t care. Sometimes, we might even feel forgotten and be tempted to give up — or worse, complain and then actually give up. 

It’s easy to slip into a victim mentality. We ask questions like, Why do other people get their prayers answered and not me? What am I doing wrong? Has the Lord forgotten about me? Or we may start doubting whether we should pray about anything at all. If the Lord hasn’t heard me in these things, why would He hear me about other things?

It’s okay to ask the Lord earnest questions; He’s not upset by them. He loves communicating with His children. But we need to be careful not to fall into a victim mentality. We are not victims. We are victors. The Lord has called us victorious and more than conquerors (1 Corinthians 15:57, Romans 8:37).

The problem with adopting a victim mindset is that we lose trust in the God who gave us His Son. 

Romans 8:32 (NLT) tells us: “Since He did not spare even His own Son but gave Him up for us all, won’t He also give us everything else?” That doesn’t sound like a victim’s existence to me.

Just because the flowers of our prayers haven’t blossomed yet doesn’t mean we should give up on them, lose hope, complain, or stop expecting them to come to fruition. Maybe we just need to water them with faith. Let them bask in the sunlight of our worship of a faithful God who loves us. The Lord says you will reap exactly what you’ve planted. The key is to remember that the God who gave us His Son will also give us everything else. He is a God who keeps His promises.

Whatever seeds of faith, worship, and prayer you’ve planted, don’t give up. Just like my wildflowers reaped a harvest, so will your prayers. Don’t give up.

LISTEN to Tyra’s devotion here or on the (in)courage podcast!

Real Joy in a Hard Summer

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“Always be full of joy in the Lord. I say it again — rejoice!”
Philippians 4:4 NLT

Summer is supposed to feel light, isn’t it? Like lemonade and laughter, barefoot walks and backyard cookouts. But real life doesn’t take a vacation just because the calendar says July.

Babies still wake up teething. Bills still come due. Aging parents still need more help than you feel equipped to give. Friendships strain. Grief lingers. Dreams stall.

Joy can feel like a foreign concept when your days are heavy or your nights feel endless.

Yet, Paul’s words in Philippians don’t offer joy as a suggestion; his encouragement is a command: “Always be full of joy in the Lord. I say it again — rejoice!”

At first glance, it may feel impossible. But God isn’t asking us to slap on a fake smile or ignore our pain. He’s inviting us to a deeper joy — a soul-rooted gladness that isn’t dependent on perfect circumstances but on a perfect Savior.

Joy in hard times looks like praising God through tears.

It’s thanking Him for small graces — the quiet moment, the ripe peach, the child’s giggle — while trusting Him with what’s unresolved.

It’s opening your Bible when anxiety would rather scroll.

It’s clinging to truth when your feelings fluctuate.

Joy doesn’t deny the hard; it declares God is still good in the midst of it.

Jesus isn’t distant from your struggle. He’s with you: in the nursery, the hospital room, the counseling session, and the lonely kitchen. He’s steady when everything else feels shaky. When you choose joy, you’re not faking it. You’re fighting for it. You’re anchoring your soul to the One who never changes.

This summer, let’s be women who notice the beauty and name the blessings. Who weep when we need to, but worship anyway. Who call each other higher — not to perfection, but to presence. God’s presence. His joy.

Because He is here.
He is hope.
And He is worthy of our praise.

A Prayer for Joy in Hard Times
Father, thank You that joy in You is always available, even when life feels anything but easy. Remind me that Your joy is not about my circumstances but about Your unchanging character. Help me see glimpses of Your goodness today. Give me strength to choose praise over pity, truth over fear, and hope over despair. Anchor me in You. Let my life reflect Your light even in the dark. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Let’s Keep Running to the Refuge

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My eyes bolt open, adrenaline surges through my sleepy body. I hear my daughter’s small voice wake me up. “Can I sleep with you?” she asks. “I had a bad dream.”

Breathing a sigh out, I shift over in our bed to make room for her. My daughter often has vivid nightmares that wake her up in a fearful panic, leaving her unable to go back to sleep. I know the feeling; I still have some unsettling dreams that can pull me out of a deep sleep.

Like many children, she makes the trek through the dark to her safe place — her parents’ bed. As she snuggles in, she whispers of the fears that woke her. I pull her close, her small body pressed against mine, my arms wrapped around her, holding her safe.

Psalm 91:2 NIV says, “I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.’”

The word refuge in this verse is often also translated as hope or shelter or trust. It is the Hebrew word, mahase which, literally and figuratively, means a place of protection — a hopeful place, a home, and a sanctuary. Psalm 73:28 uses this word as well: “But as for me, it is good to be near God. I have made the Sovereign Lord my refuge; I will tell of all your deeds.”

Our hope is in God, our shelter, our safest place. It is good to be close to Him.

When my daughter comes to our bed looking for refuge from her bad dreams, her hope isn’t in that king-size bed. Her hope is in who is in the bed. When our waking lives feel like the stuff of nightmares, we, too, have a place to flee. Perhaps shaky finances are crowding our minds with worries about bills and the future. Or the shattering news of a family member’s illness bringing waves of grief and uncertainty. Maybe it’s the overwhelm that comes from good things, things we prayed for, like a spirited “threenager” or new challenges at a job we love or a calendar full to the tip-top with activities. It could be a relationship that drains us daily, church drama that erodes our peace, or the divisive roar of politics that leaves us disheartened.

When we wonder if anyone cares and if we truly matter. When these moments steal our peace and leave us feeling utterly exposed—into all of that scary, messy stuff, God still speaks.

The Lord will roar from Zion and thunder from Jerusalem; the earth and the heavens will tremble. But the Lord will be a refuge for his people, a stronghold for the people of Israel.
Joel 3:16

We may feel like life is hopeless and things are falling apart. We may feel like the heavy and hard will never leave. But God is roaring in our favor. He has promised to be a refuge for us — a place of hope, protection, and nurturing.

We are safe with God.

Sometimes I wish we could physically run to our Heavenly Father’s bed and curl up in His arms. Yet, while we don’t have that physical embrace yet, we do run to Him as we read and meditate on His Word, allowing its timeless truths to settle down to our souls and speak peace to our anxieties. We take refuge in the Father as we wrestle through difficulties and frustrations, pouring out our hearts and voicing every fear and concern to Him, knowing He truly hears. God meets us and shelters us through His people, as we love and care for one another in personal and practical ways.

Let’s keep running to the refuge, dear sisters in Christ, no matter how dark the night is. Let’s be steadied with the truth that God can handle our deepest fears. Trusting not in a place, but in the One who is always there — our ultimate hope and stronghold.

His Goodness Is Chasing After You

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A week from today, I’ll be married. 

In just a handful of days, I will stand before God and family and friends and marry the man I love. 

Next Friday evening, I will walk down an aisle in a garden and vow to choose to love him for as long as we both shall live.

It’s still surreal to consider the gravity of the covenant we are making next week. I have no idea what the future holds and no concept of what marriage will feel like. I am, in many ways, a starry-eyed bride who dreams of a beautiful life together. In other ways, I’m old enough and have seen enough of life to know we carry scars. We are two imperfect and selfish people promising our best to love each other, no matter what. 

Next week is the culmination of years of prayers coming to fruition – both mine and my fiancé’s. We cannot wait to celebrate the faithfulness and kindness of God. When we were thinking about what music to have at our wedding, I knew immediately the song I wanted to walk down the aisle to: “Goodness of God.” 

We chose Psalm 34:3 as our wedding text: “Come, let us tell of the Lord’s greatness; let us exalt his name together.”

That’s exactly what we want to do together – tell the world how good God is, and how kind He has been to us. 

But here’s what I want you to know today: God is not good simply because I’m getting married next week. In Psalm 16, David wrote these words that I’ll cling to and believe in until the day I die: “Every good thing I have comes from You.”

All of it is a gift from Him. Each day, each breath, each flower bursting forth after a long winter.

I look back at my thirty-one years on this planet and see God’s kindness in every season. I couldn’t always see it in the moment, but I see it now. There were days I thought God forgot me, but God was preparing something better than I could have imagined. There were moments I questioned if God cared about the desires of my heart, but He was planning someone for me that I couldn’t have even dreamed of. God’s goodness has been there every step of the way. His goodness has been chasing me down from the moment I was born.

As we’ve been planning our wedding, I can’t help but think of the Wedding Feast we will all be a part of someday. If you don’t see the goodness in your life now, hold fast to this:

There is goodness coming. Goodness is on the way. Goodness is chasing after you! 

There will be a day when all crying and mourning and tears will be gone forever, and you and I will dance and eat and celebrate at the Greatest Wedding there could ever be. 

It’s all goodness – and it’s all because of Him.

Next week, I will wear my wedding dress and walk down the aisle to stand before the man I love and this song will play behind me: 

All my life, You have been faithful
All my life, You have been so, so good
With every breath that I am able
I will sing of the goodness of God

And as we vow to love and protect and hold and cherish and respect each other until death do us part, I want to also vow to always remember the goodness of God.

Maybe it’s easy for me to say all of this now, a week before I walk down the aisle. But I wonder if we could all look back and gaze at the glimmers of goodness God has been chasing us with — every moment, every breath, every day.

No matter the season, every good thing comes from Him.

 

Listen to Aliza’s devotion here. Or find the (in)courage podcast anywhere you stream!