When You Think You and Your Work Aren’t Seen

When You Think You and Your Work Aren’t Seen

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There are so many things I do in my life, things big and small, that go unseen.

Most mornings, I’m the one who puts the toaster away and sweeps the crumbs into the sink. I replace body wash and deodorant when they’ve been used up — the new bottles magically appearing on the bathroom counter as the person needs them. I order groceries for meals I plan. I sign up the kids for summer activities and fill out registration forms and pay the fees. I turn off lights and refill cereal dispensers and throw towels in the laundry chute.

All tasks that I just do with barely a thought as I roll through the day. All things that are mostly unseen by anyone else (but would be oh-so-noticed if they didn’t happen).

These unseen tasks and times don’t stop at being a household manager or mother. As a fully remote employee, I don’t have water cooler asides, birthday office treats, or coffee with coworkers in the break room. I am only seen through a screen. There are many times I smile to myself, alone in my home office, and do the task — whether it’s been assigned to me or not. If I see it needs to get done, I just do it. No one knows it was me, and they don’t have to. I know it’s complete, and done well, and I’m satisfied with that. It doesn’t get me accolades or awards, but I have a sense of accomplishment just the same, and usually that’s enough to carry me onward.

Until it isn’t.

There are times when I would prefer to be rewarded, noticed, seen. Times I would rather leave the crumbs on the counter and let someone else deal with them. And while it’s not a great look, it’s the truth.

A few weeks back, during the Maycember rush of concerts and programs and track meets and ball games and end-of-the-year festivities, my 4-year-old got an ear infection. Instead of cheering on the other kids at a Scout bridging ceremony and a baseball game (because, of course, they were happening on the same night), my littlest and I got our sweatpants on and cuddled up for a Paw Patrol marathon. My husband would have stayed in a heartbeat, but as the Scout troop Cubmaster, he was leading the ceremony, and as a coach for our son’s baseball team, he was also coaching the game. It had to be me.

As everyone was getting ready to leave, I was having a little internal pity party for myself. I wanted to go to all the things and cheer and not feel left out. I wanted to be seen. I felt selfish and silly because, of course, I was happy to be with my little one who wasn’t feeling well. And I just also wanted to go.

After everyone was in their uniforms and I had told them all I was proud of them, and after my husband had promised to take way too many pictures during everything, and after I’d hugged everyone goodbye, my daughter paused.

She looked at me thoughtfully and said, “Mom, one thing I love about you is that you always step up to stay behind with whoever needs you.”

I mean.

I was, as the youths say, shook.

She saw me.

When I felt like no one would see me, she looked right at me — and then, even though I was missing her special ceremony, she thanked me for staying back.

We’ve all heard that God loves us. That He sees us (Genesis 16:13), never forgets about us, hears our every whispered prayer (1 John 5:14). He never leaves us and has never forsaken us (Deuteronomy 31:6). We are always on His mind (Psalm 139), and we are always beloved by Him (1 John 4:10-12).

But am I the only one who can’t seem to remember that? Am I the only one who looks warily at His face, wondering if He really means it? Because if no one else sees the small things, the big things, the missed concerts and the tiniest of counter crumbs, does He really?

Yes, friend. Yes, He does. And He appreciates every single one.

Listen for His thank you in the face of a friend when you drop a coffee off on her porch. Feel His thank you in the hand of your youngest, held in the middle of a feverish night. See His thank you in the glory of a sunset as you drive a kid to practice, and in the starry sky later as you drive back to pick them up. Look for His thank you in the heart of a grateful partner, child, coworker, all helped by your unseen work. Hear His still, small thank you in the silence when you’re by yourself, but fully known by God.

I know your life is made up of small, unseen moments. So, as my daughter saw me, I see you and I thank you. Thank you for giving of yourself when no one else sees it. Thank you for staying back with a sick kid, a worn-out parent, a sister in need. Thank you for correcting that error at work, quietly and without fanfare. Thank you for sweeping up the crumbs.

If I could give you a big gold star to display on your desk, I would.

But instead, look for the still, small voice of thanks from the One who made the stars. It’s His heart we impress and glorify in our unseen work. And He doesn’t miss a thing.

Listen to Anna’s devotion on the (in)courage podcast below, or wherever you love to stream. 

The Father Our Hearts Long For

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Father’s Day can feel like a mountain of memories — some sweet, some shattering. Maybe today brings smiles and celebration. Maybe it stirs up grief, anger, or longing for what never was. Wherever you find yourself this Father’s Day, take heart: God sees you. God loves you. And God will meet you right where you are.

Psalm 103:13–14 (NLT) gives us a beautiful glimpse into the character of our Heavenly Father:

“The Lord is like a father to his children,
tender and compassionate to those who fear him.
For he knows how weak we are;
he remembers we are only dust.”

God is not distant or disappointed. He’s tender. Compassionate. Attentive to your pain and understanding of your weakness. Whether you had a good dad, a broken relationship, or no father figure at all, God steps in with perfect love.

He doesn’t ignore your wounds — He binds them up. He doesn’t expect you to have it all together — He draws near in your mess.

This is the Father our hearts have always needed.

His love never runs out.
His forgiveness knows no limits.
His presence never walks away.

Psalm 103 also says, “Let all that I am praise the Lord; may I never forget the good things he does for me” (v.2). So today, whether your heart is light or heavy, offer what you have to your Father. Praise Him for His steady goodness. Thank Him for His constant care. Cry to Him if you need to, and trust that He catches every tear.

No matter what Father’s Day means to you, let it remind you of this unchanging truth: You are deeply known, wholly loved, and never alone. God is your good Father. Always has been. Always will be.

Pray with us:

Father, thank You for being the steady presence in my life, no matter how I feel today. Thank You for Your compassion, forgiveness, and faithful love. Help me to rest in who You are, and to praise You with all that I am. Amen.

Tell Your Faith Story: There’s Goodness in It

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I used to think my faith story wasn’t important, so I didn’t tell it very often. It wasn’t flashy or sensational like girl-meets-God-and-the-world-will-never-be-the-same. But, now I’m seventy-two and I’ve told many stories of God and me — stories of faith and failure, disappointment and joy, hopes gone and dreams fulfilled. Through it all, I’ve seen the value in the telling. I learned all our stories count because God is the Hero and when I tell my story, and when you tell yours, we get a chance to show Him off.

You may or may not relate to my story. Even still, because I’m a supporting character in God’s big story, you’ll see a glimpse of Him in my story . . . and that’s a good enough reason to tell my story any chance I get.

I was practically born in the choir loft. My folks were believers and I was number four of five kids, so their faith had steadied and grown by the time I came along. I was baptized at six — and at age eight I asked Jesus into my heart at a Good News Club meeting at our house. 

Our church was in a different town than my schools, so I didn’t get much faith encouragement from friends. Sometimes, I felt like I was two different people: a church-going girl surrounded by folks who believed in God and felt like family . . . and also that girl growing up alongside neighborhood kids and their parents who didn’t go to church or camp or talk about God much at all.  

At age fifteen, I went on my first missions trip. It was then and there I first heard about something called a “life verse.” It sounded very important and I figured I better get one since I was to be interviewed by the deacons. I prayed and opened my Bible with eyes closed and pointing down at the page. And God, in His great mercy, showed me what turned out to be a most wonderful life verse, indeed: 

“And He died for all, that those who live should live no longer for themselves, but for Him who died for them and rose again.”
2 Corinthians 5:15 NKJV

This verse had to do with logic, which is not my strong suit, but . . . it made sense to my insecure, young brain. God had given all: His Son to die for me. What else could I do but give my all in return?

It wasn’t lightening in the sky. It was words on a page, words that God used to guide my story towards Him. The Word is living and slices to the marrow and it changed my life that day, young as I was. 

As I look back, I realize gifting my life to Christ in return for what He did for me wasn’t much of a trade. At fifteen, I wore glasses — the pointy kind. I had dental crowns on my teeth, leftover from a dodge ball incident in third grade. I had freckles. We lived in a wealthy neighborhood but we weren’t wealthy. Our family shopped at Sears, not Nordstrom. We did our own chores. We didn’t get a car at sixteen.

So, no — giving my life to Jesus wasn’t such a big deal in the world’s terms. Jesus left heaven, died on a cross, and gave me life forever. All He received in return from me . . . was me. But I gave what I had — myself, red hair and all. Kind of like the two loaves of bread and five fish; a young boy gave what he had. Not much for such a big crowd. But God made it work.

It didn’t matter I wasn’t a big deal. He died for me. How could I do less for Him?

My friend, Laurie says, “I make myself available, and God shows up.” And whenever He does, that’s a story worth telling. 

Someone you’ve just met may not know that God wants to be the Hero of their story, too. That alone is reason to weave Him in and through daily conversation. Imagine, your best Jesus-friend needs encouragement for staying the course, so you sidle up to her at Bible study and whisper, “I was late today . . . but God had a reason. I’ll tell you right after this is over.” And then you tell her your story, and her faith is stronger for it.

And, of course, seventy-two or not, we forget so readily what God has done. We pray desperate prayers. God comes through and we’re already on to the next desperate prayer. So, remember your stories — and tell them, too.

Stories are like stones of remembrance. They help us remember God’s goodness and that’s worth all the telling.

I’m In My Plant Lady Era. You, Too?

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I didn’t think they’d make it.

I had recently moved from North Carolina to New Jersey, forgetting the difference in the experience of spring. How summer’s heat comes quickly in the Carolinas and how the bitter chill lingers a little longer in the northeastern corner of New Jersey where I live, nestled along the Hudson River with views of New York City.

The day I planted my zinnia seeds (the same seeds I harvested, preserved, and sorted from the flowers I watered, grew, and tended to . . . all on my own) was the sunniest it’d been since winter. For a moment, I felt that I should save some seeds. You know the old adage: Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.

But the weather was warm and the sun was bright and, after a few days of this summer-like weather, it felt like we’d finally turned the corner, leaving winter behind. So, my sons and I scattered all the seeds, ignoring the thought that maybe I should save some just in case. We watered them and eagerly watched them until, wouldn’t you know, a frigid frost came just a few days later.

Rookie mistake, I know. But the lesson got me thinking about the seeds we sow in the lives of those we know, and how the seeds either fall in good places or not-so-good places. Jesus said it Himself:

“A farmer went out to sow his seed. As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants. Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown. Whoever has ears, let them hear.”
Matthew 13:3-9 NIV

Truth is . . . I’m no farmer. I’m just a woman who loves to watch beautiful things grow. I’m a woman who wants to believe that seeds, when buried, can endure and survive long seasons of darkness. I’m a woman tending to her plants as a prophetic act of belief in what can be true of people, too. That, of the seeds we sow in the world and in the lives of those we know, those planted in fertile soil can and will take root and flourish abundantly beyond anything we can fathom.

When the bitter wind blew and the ground froze cold, just days after I’d scattered my zinnia seeds in the ground, I didn’t think they’d make it. In fact, I literally verbalized my disbelief out loud, rehearsing sentiments like, “They’re not going to make it,” and, “I can’t believe I just wasted all my hard-earned seeds.”

But then, God touched my heart and, stronger than my own utterances and interior thoughts, I began to sense the gospel truth echo and take anchor. Instead of repeating declarations of doubt, I prayed, pleading, “God, please . . . just one. Let even just one seed survive and thrive.”

Weeks later, wouldn’t you know, my sons and I saw not one but seven zinnias sprouting from the soil. Considering the frost (some areas were even hit with snow), it was a miracle. And also? The metaphor isn’t lost on me.

The intelligence and the intention of God is that He uses our professions, passions, and pursuits to call us towards eternal purpose. Here and now, while I’m in my plant lady era, Jesus is speaking to me, calling to me, inviting me to take on His mission and embody His ways.

Come, follow me, and I will make you fishers of men, Jesus said to Peter and Andrew.

Come, scatter seeds of gospel truth, I sense the Savior saying to me.

Come, tend to the soil of hearts, Jesus invites us all. Come, pray for souls to be saved even when all seems bitter, broken, barren, and beyond repair.

Are you in your plant lady era, too? Let the Lord lead you to sow seeds of eternal hope. Are you a teacher? May Jesus use you to unravel the mysteries of God. Are you a homemaker? Allow your hospitality to point to the relentless welcome of God.

We cannot control the conditions of the soil of hearts, or the circumstances that surround us, or the chaos of the world. We cannot control the choices of the ones we love and serve; we cannot make them come or sprout or follow or understand or believe. We can only be faithful to steward the seeds of truth as held in our hearts and as sown from our hands. Whatever your season, whatever “era” you’re in, know that Jesus is calling to and through you.

May you have ears to hear His invitation, courage to keep casting seeds (or nets or whatever “thing” is yours to be or do), and faith to follow the only One in whom we’ve been created and called to bear much fruit.

Friends — I’d love to hear how these words touched your heart — and I’d especially love to hear if you’re tending to any seedlings. Comment below and let me know what you’re growing in your garden!

Listen to Rachel’s devotion here or on the (in)courage podcast via your favorite app.

Resting in God’s Presence

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Need some rest, time to be still, or peace? We get it, and we’ve got just the ticket — DaySpring’s new Devotional Coloring Book: Finding Peace in God’s Embrace. We’d love to share an excerpt with you today! Relax and let your heart be refreshed. 

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to Me. Get away with Me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest.”
Matthew 11:28 MSG 

Life can get incredibly hectic, leaving you feeling worn out and overwhelmed. Maybe you rush from one task to the next, forgetting to take a moment to simply breathe and rest. But God invites you to find true rest in His presence. What is true rest? Imagine lying in a hammock by a serene lake, its gentle sway and the calmness of the water bringing peace to your soul. This is the kind of rest God offers you — a deep, soul-refreshing peace.  

In Matthew 11:28, Jesus extends a beautiful invitation to come to Him, to find true rest in Him. He understands your need for rest and offers you a place of refuge in His presence. Just like the hammock by the lake, God’s presence provides a safe haven where you can let go of your worries and simply be.  

Think about how you feel when you settle into a peaceful place or wrap yourself up in a warm blanket. Think about the way comfort cradles you in this safe space or how a gentle breeze surrounds you and helps you relax. This is a way to imagine how God’s presence envelops you, giving you the rest you so desperately need. In these quiet moments with Him, you find your strength renewed and your heart refreshed.  

No matter how busy life gets, take time to rest in God’s presence. Let Him cradle you in His love and peace. Close your eyes, breathe deeply, and let His presence restore your soul. You’ll find that this rest is not just a pause from life’s demands but a source of true renewal and peace. 

Lord, help me to find rest in your presence. Remind me to pause and seek you when life gets overwhelming, so that I can be refreshed and renewed by your peace. Amen. 

Reflect on the peace and abundant love that is found in God’s embrace. The Finding Peace in God’s Embrace: Devotional Coloring Book provides the perfect excuse for stopping to enjoy the wonder of God’s majesty through comforting Scripture verses and more than 75 devotions matched with beautifully illustrated coloring pages, all hand-drawn by DaySpring artists. It’s an opportunity to pause your busy life with a purpose, as you indulge your creativity, quiet the world around you, and connect with the loving God.

Finding Peace in God’s Embrace: Devotional Coloring Book is a perfect way to savor your early mornings, tame your overwhelming afternoons, and wind down on restless evenings.

Pick up some art supplies, head to a quiet place, and spend time filling your soul with peace and God’s Word.

We LOVE this devotional coloring book, and we think you will too… so we’re giving away FIVE copies*! To enter, just leave a comment below.

*Giveaway open to US addresses only, and closes on 6/15/2025 at 11:59 pm Central.

Giving Thanks for Storms

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We’re laughing like loons out in the middle of a field of corn. The Farmer’s got hold of the seat of his combine like he’s being shot to the moon. It’s harvest time, and a time of thanksgiving, and the corn keeps on coming.

“How in the world?” I can’t take my eyes off the combine’s yield monitor. Stunned wonder isn’t an understatement. We had a drought this year. The sky had locked up hard about the middle of June.

The Farmer had said, “I’ve never seen any crop look so desperate on this farm. If God doesn’t give rain by the weekend, there’s not going to be any corn this year.”

Come November, the digital screen of the combine monitor calculating the number of bushels per acre this field of corn yields, flashes out these little black numbers that are huge, making no sense. The numbers are a bit stratospheric. Grace is most amazing of all, defying what makes sense.

“Get out of here!” I’m slack-jawed over the high monitor spikes and the Farmer looks like he is right out of here and straight over the moon. I slap at his chest like the flapping loon that I am and he grins giddily.

“I know, I know!” And all over again, he’s that laughing teenage boy that made me blush silly.

“Who would ever have thought?” I can’t stop shaking my head.

“You know . . .” He leans over the combine steering wheel, glances past me, past me to the wagon filling with corn. “I don’t know what to think — so maybe I just thank?”

“Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his faithful love endures forever.”
Psalm 118:1 CSB

The corn’s running like flashes of glory into the wagon, streaming in and I can still see the lightning that came right after Sunday preaching way back in July. I remember the gusts of wind and the thickening black to the west. I remember the thunder that rumbled hope and how we stood on the front lawn and begged that rain to come.

And I remember how it went north. Twice. And how the Farmer had stood there, watching the rain come down only two miles away, and I’d whispered wild to him, “What if we get nothing? What if we lose the harvest?”

And he’d said it steady and certain, with the rain coming down right there, two fields over and so far away, “When you know your Father’s loving — what can you fear losing?”

“Let those who fear the Lord say, ‘His faithful love endures forever.’ I called to the Lord in distress; the Lord answered me and put me in a spacious place. The Lord is for me; I will not be afraid.”
Psalm 118:4-6

The rain kept falling to the north and he’d stood in this startling surrender. And then, just before supper, the sky had darkened with hope and opened up to give us our prayers. We all danced on the lawn in that rain.

I turn to him now in the combine, “It was that storm.” Gratitude follows grace as thunder follows lightning. “The storm gave us this yield. The storm was grace.”

There’s no harvest without a storm.

Gratitude follows grace — as thunder follows lightning. And the storm is grace because whatever drives us to God, is a grace from God. It’s all grace.

God gives grace, and ours is to give thanks. This is God’s unconditional demand: That we live thankful.

“This came from the Lord; it is wondrous in our sight. This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
Psalm 118:23-24

And I can feel it — there’s corn. And there’s sky and food and family and a God in heaven and a love we don’t deserve, and there’s grace that comes as storms, and the only answer to God’s unending grace is unending gratitude. When you live in a covenant of grace, you can’t help but live out a covenant of gratitude. The Farmer whispers, “Thank you, Lord,” and I murmur it too.

The way grace and gratitude echo to each other through everything . . .

“You are my God, and I will give you thanks. You are my God; I will exalt you. Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his faithful love endures forever.”
Psalm 118:28-29

This devotion is by Ann Voskamp, as published in the (in)courage Devotional Bible. It has been edited from its original form.

The CSB (in)courage Devotional Bible is an invitation for all women to find their stories within the tapestry of the greatest Story ever told.

The CSB (in)courage Devotional Bible features over 300 devotions from writers you love and specialized Bible reading plans to help you dig into God’s Word and find daily courage for your soul. Buy yours here or wherever books are sold. 

 

Listen to today’s devotion here or anywhere you stream the (in)courage podcast!

When You Need Hope That Is Not Pretty or Calm

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Sometimes I love the worship at my church. Sometimes I… don’t. But personal musical preferences aside, I quite frequently grow emotional during worship, as it’s one of the ways I best connect with God.

Recently during church, I was moved to tears — but not in the usual way. This time, I felt angry. And my anger only grew as the song went on.

The worship leaders sang the repeating chorus, “This is how I fight my battles.” The meaning, as far as I understand it, is that we fight our earthly battles with confidence in a supernatural Lord who loves us and never leaves us. We can endure and even overcome challenges through faith and prayer. This, they sang, is how we fight our battles. Over and over they sang those words in the calmest voices.

I’d heard the song before. I’d sung the song before, and it had been encouraging! But on this particular day, I was not having it. Instead of singing along, I wanted to scream.

Oh, that’s how you fight your battles, is it? IS IT? Just that simple, right? Think positive thoughts and all of a sudden life is manageable? I guess if I’m struggling, I must have forgotten that God is with the brokenhearted, that He will never leave or forsake me. Is that it? My faith must be small if my battle seems big, huh?

These thoughts, these cries of my heart, came fast and furious. But while a storm raged inside me, the pleasant music continued playing as if those women and men on stage hadn’t a care in the world. They’d fought their battles, after all — so it seemed.

Now, it’s quite possible that the song didn’t play on a loop for an interminable amount of time, the way I felt it did.

It’s probable that the music wasn’t nearly as happy, simple, life-is-good-and-easy as I felt it was.

And I recognize, truly I do, that every other person singing that morning may have experienced the song in a meaningful way.

The way my brain and heart interpreted it, though? It sounded like a broken record of a smiling children’s choir chirping, “Jesus Loves Me” — not from hearts weathered by war, but from ones that had never even seen a battlefield.

The notes were in tune, but to me, the whole thing was tone deaf.

I’m not criticizing the worship team at my church now, nor did I on the day the battle song stoked my internal rage. They’re great, for the record! But what I knew in that moment and have continued to think about is that while it may sometimes be enough to meditate on an encouraging verse or sing a chorus at a completely calm, acceptable volume, often our battles require so much more.

Sometimes what we’re facing is too much to bear. Even with all the faith we can muster in a good God who loves us. Even with the support of a community, with a Bible full of verses, and a heart full of song. Even with the hope of eternity, we can sometimes be overcome with grief or rage or fear. Or all of the above. It’s still too much.

When that happens, we may lose our voice for praising the Lord in song. But while that’s certainly been my experience at times, leaving me speechless and soaked in tears during worship, that wasn’t how I felt on this particular day.

When I heard those words, “This is how I fight my battles,” I wanted to growl. I wanted to scream and groan and maybe even spit a little. I wanted someone (the Lord, but also maybe a friend a few rows up or my husband standing next to me) to hear my pain and understand its depth. I wanted my shredded insides to be reflected in the sounds that came out of my mouth.

Emily Dickinson famously wrote that “hope is the thing with feathers.” She described hope as a bird singing through the storm, a sweet tune that kept her warm and never asked anything of her. And maybe that’s how hope feels to some of us, some of the time.

But hope is also a locked jaw that won’t quite close after another night spent holding back sobs. It’s a fire that rages one minute, then is all but doused the next, leaving just one pitiful spark to cast light into the weighted blanket of darkness.

Hope is the gravel in a voice that’s screamed in an empty car, and it’s the twitching eye that betrays a desperate attempt at, “Fine, how are you?”

Hope is a straightened spine and a bended knee. It’s shaking hands and a fierce hug. It’s the gulping of water like a dog run ragged and it’s the cardinal that flies into my office window over and over again, refusing to accept that he cannot break through the glass.

If you’re barely hanging on today and this version of hope sounds familiar, you’re not alone.

There are many of us with deep faith and clenched fists. We’re fighting brutal battles with busted knuckles and weary arms and hoarse voices.

Maybe your battle cry doesn’t sound like a song right now. Maybe it’s a scream, a sob, or the silence between shallow breaths. That’s okay. That still counts. That is how you fight your battles. And even there, the Father surrounds you.

 

Listen to Mary’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts.

And be sure to share with someone who needs a dose of gritty hope. 

Exercising Patience Through Active Endurance

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When people discover I have eight children, they often say, “You must be so patient.” My husband would be the first to tell you that patience is not a virtue I possess. If I ask for help with something and he’s busy, I usually proceed without him, even if it’s unwise and yields mixed results.

I can’t sit tight and wait.

I’m learning, however, that patience can be developed and practiced. It’s an act of will, and often in my best interest.

I’ve been working on my first novel for two years — one year to write, and another to edit drafts two, three, and four. It feels like an eternity. Family situations and shattering my right humerus, which required major surgery, slowed the process.

My manuscript has now been sent to an editor, and I am holding my breath, awaiting her feedback, which typically takes six to eight weeks. Last fall, I registered for pitch sessions at a writers’ conference in May, confident I would have an edited, polished novel by then, in case an agent requested it. Although the timeframe sounded reasonable when I booked my ticket, I’m behind schedule.

I’m happy to say that I left the conference with an agent who requested to read the first thirty pages of my manuscript! My first instinct was to race to my laptop and send it immediately, but when I mentioned I’d hired an editor, the agent told me her request wouldn’t expire and that I should feel free to wait.

It’s the smart thing to do: receive professional guidance, edit as needed, and submit the best possible sample of my work. I get one chance, and as the song says, I am not throwing away my shot. But this time, practicing patience doesn’t feel like biding my time. It requires restraint. It feels like work.

I showed my pastor a verse about patience and asked for his thoughts; he explained that the Greek word used means “active endurance,” not “passive waiting.”

When our hopes are high, patience can be exhausting. 

But Romans 12:12 (KJV) also tells us to be “patient in tribulation.” Last year, when I broke my arm and needed surgery, there were so many basic things I couldn’t do well or at all — my life ground to a halt. I couldn’t maneuver my arm through a sleeve, wear a bra, or zip or button anything. My wardrobe consisted of shoulderless tops and elastic-waist bottoms. I slept propped up because I couldn’t lie flat on my back or on my side. I couldn’t drive. Although I’m right-handed, I brushed my teeth, applied make-up, and did everything else with my left hand. Family members had to wash and dry my hair for me. 

Patience wasn’t a choice; it was a necessity.

In situations where patience is an option, it can be a gift: evidence we have time and freedom from the tyranny of the urgent. When my daughter went past her due date with her first child this spring, her medical team didn’t rush to schedule an induction. My daughter was swollen, tired, and ready to meet her son, but I knew the relaxed approach was a good sign. 

On the other hand, we recently had to make a decision with huge implications in a matter of minutes. No time to weigh the pros and cons, or evaluate the small details or the big picture.

Patience is like a muscle. When we exercise it, the Lord stretches and grows us as we actively endure, not passively wait. 

My manuscript will improve through deliberate editing rather than a hasty submission.

Maybe that’s true for something in your life, too. Are you rushing when a slower pace is needed?

Some circumstances, like my broken arm, take time to mend. No amount of disappointment or desire will speed them along. Have you allowed an unavoidable situation to frustrate you?

Is there a situation in your life that tries your patience? Can you see the freedom not to hurry as a gift, rather than an irritant?

God often does deep, refining work in the waiting. Instead of striving to push forward on your own timeline, lean into the stretch of patience and trust that what’s being formed in you is worth the wait.

 

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

Seeing Our Bodies Beyond the Mirror and Through God’s Eyes

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I remember standing in the mirror in the dimly lit cabin we rented. The morning was a whirlwind of, “Who has the shampoo?” and, “I need more conditioner!” Steam everywhere, three girls were trying to share one mirror for the first time.

As I turned sideways, I caught myself doing something I’d probably done a thousand mornings before — that critical once-over we women seem to master by about age thirteen. But that warm morning, something stopped me. As sunlight streamed through the window, highlighting my perceived flaws that would soon be exposed in swimsuits and summer clothes, I noticed them . . . and I did not despise them.

Through the mirror, I saw the eyes of my stepdaughters watching me — not just my movements, but my relationship with my own reflection. In that moment, I realized that every word I spoke about myself, every gesture of self-criticism or acceptance, would echo in their minds as they stood before their own mirrors in the years to come. So, I quickly straightened my shoulders, ignored my urge to analyze my rounding curves and put the focus on my smile (and theirs) in the mirror.

The years that followed brought plenty of moments less graceful than that first morning. Like the morning I found myself telling my daughter, “You can flood this bathroom floor with your tears, but none of that will make my curling iron and dry shampoo re-appear.” I cringe a little remembering my dramatic delivery on that one but, honestly, those curling iron battles became part of our story. These weren’t just squabbles about beauty tools; they were moments of learning how to love each other through the everyday chaos.

We had our share of clothing debates, too. I remember saying things like, “Your shorts can’t be shorter than mine because mine are already too short!” And my youngest, bless her heart, never met a rhinestone she didn’t love.

It’s funny how these little moments stick with you. God was teaching us something deeper about seeing ourselves as His children first, about finding our identity in being loved by Him rather than in our reflection. As Psalm 139:14 reminds us: “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” 

Years later, we found ourselves preparing for another summer day, but this time, I was the one watching as my daughter gazed at her reflection. Her shoulders were straight, her smile confident — not because she’s perfect, but because she knows whose she is. She’s a woman now, pursuing the purpose God has written on her heart. 

My daughter doesn’t fret about how her body will look in a swimsuit. Instead, she’s excited about building sandcastles, snorkeling with her siblings, feeling the warm sun on her skin, and using the strength of her legs to wade through crashing waves. Her body isn’t something to hide or criticize — it’s a gift meant for living and loving well. 

In that moment, as she applied her sunscreen and a touch of makeup, I noticed what she didn’t do — there was no subtle sucking in of her stomach, no critical tilting of her head. Instead, she saw what God sees: a beloved daughter, created in His image.

And, in the mirror’s reflection, I catch her eye and we share a smile, both remembering all the moments that led us here. 

Sometimes the most real changes happen in these everyday moments, in bathrooms with foggy mirrors and borrowed curling irons, in choosing to see beauty through God’s eyes instead of the world’s lens. Through all of it — the borrowed makeup, the late-for-school mornings, the tears over teenage insecurities — we were building something real. Something that went way deeper than curling irons and rhinestones. 

Perhaps the greatest gift we can give our daughters isn’t perfect bodies or flawless beauty advice, but the freedom to see themselves as God does — as vessels of purpose and love, designed not for magazine covers but for serving others with the unique beauty they bring to the world. Their worth measured not in inches or pounds, but in the love they share and the purpose they fulfill.

Looking back now, I realize those early mirror moments weren’t just about getting ready for the day. They were about getting ready for life, about learning to see ourselves and each other through eyes of love instead of criticism.

And that view? It’s better than any reflection in any mirror could ever be.

When the World Feels Out of Control, Organize Your Sock Drawer

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Last week, I came home from a doctor’s appointment where I got not bad but annoying news. Then, the auto mechanic let me know that the $350 problem I was trying to solve was actually a $2,700 problem that I had to get fixed immediately. This is all after I found out that one of my favorite community programs was getting its funding slashed by over 50 percent.

What is a girl to do?

If it’s this girl, I go attack my kitchen’s junk drawer. Or the supply closet. Or my sock drawer.

It may seem counterintuitive, but when the world feels overwhelming, you will find me elbow-deep in mismatched socks.

Maybe you’ve found yourself in the same place, fretting about the state of the world, so you are inexplicably sorting your spices or scrubbing grout — not because it fixes the state of the world, but, in some small way, helps you breathe. There might be some wisdom in that.

Isaiah 32:18 (NIV) says, “My people will live in peaceful dwelling places, in secure homes, in undisturbed places of rest.”

Notice that “peaceful dwelling places” is not the same as a peaceful world. Sometimes our peace is a choice.

A response.

A boundary.

No, this isn’t about ignoring the world. It is about creating a home that is a “safe base” from which to respond.

I clean, I declutter, and I organize because I want a place of rest for my body and my mind. When I have that, I react to hard things with love and grace instead of snapping at everyone in my life because I’m stressed both inside and outside of my home. If I can refuel at my safe refuge, I’m more capable of being the hands and feet in a world that desperately needs to see Christ made real.

When I was a young mom and wife, I lived in so much clutter that I would often escape my home to go anywhere — the library, the grocery store, Target — not because I needed books or diapers, but for a taste of peace and order.

It’s a vicious cycle. Our house is out of order, so we find a place to escape, and places like HomeGoods or Old Navy feel bright and clean and organized. Our brains thrive there. And because we don’t want to be rude, we pick up a new cup, a cute boho sweater, or a candle, even though we could open a home fragrance shop with all the pillars and jars we already have. So we bring more things to clean, declutter, and organize into our already bursting home.

But now, I’ve worked hard to create a home where I (and others) can escape to when the world feels out of control.

When the news brings so much sadness and I feel like everything is hard, I take to my house and do something I affectionately call “doomcleaning.” There’s a war in a part of the world I’ve never heard of? I can’t do anything but pray and organize my laundry room. There is a tornado in Oklahoma? Okay, I will clean out under the kitchen sink. There is not a thing I can do in the moment except pray about a world that is out of order, but I can put my world in a little bit more order. Then I can think about the next steps to help out there, in a world that needs help.

Cleaning these parts of my home won’t fix the world, but it can restore a bit of agency to my heart and mind. Doomcleaning is truly the sacred pause that my body needs. It is a way to restore calm and create a space to say, “What now, God?”

Much like the old example of putting on my own oxygen mask before putting on my child’s, I need to order my inner world so I can experience enough peace to start thinking about how I can help the world at large.

I need to breathe before I can help. And putting order into my world helps me breathe.

When I can breathe, I pray more clearly. When I’m not drowning in dishes, I can think about who needs a meal dropped off. When I’m not constantly tripping over shoes, I can better recognize my neighbor’s needs.

When the clutter clears, compassion has room to rise.

Maybe today you don’t need to doomscroll. Maybe instead, you need to doomclean.

Maybe today peace begins with a sock drawer.

Need a community to help you kickstart your decluttering? Join Kathi and her team over at their Facebook group Clutter Free Academy, where you’ll find wisdom and daily, gentle encouragement.

 

Listen to Kathi’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts.

How to Run Life’s Hurdles for His Glory

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In high school, my first love was soccer, but my coach recruited me to run track and field because he said it would help me stay in shape, and he could use my speed on the team. I loved the competition and community I found on the track team.

Coach Churchill, whom we fondly called “Church,” had me run races like the 400 meters and the relays, and even do the long jump.

Church walked up to me during one track meet and asked, “How would you like to run hurdles today?”

I raised an eyebrow at him. He had this way of pushing me to embrace new challenges — in the classroom, on the soccer field, and out on the track. Church was a man of faith and someone I trusted as a leader and mentor.

“I’ve never run hurdles before,” I responded.

“I know,” he simply said. “I’ll teach you.”

That was the day I fell in love with the 300-meter hurdles.

Church gave me a quick lesson. I practiced jumping over the hurdle a few times, and then headed to the starting line. There wasn’t time to get nervous. Only a handful of girls were racing that day. I didn’t have anything to lose.

Looking back, I know I didn’t have great hurdle form or strategy in that first race, but I immediately embraced the challenge. I loved that feeling of soaring over those hurdles and the thrill of coming from behind to win the race.

After that, Church had me work with another teacher who ran hurdles in college. Mr. Kritzberg gave me more specific coaching on the best strategy to run hurdles.

I think back to the first bit of advice Mr. Kritzberg gave me: lean in and reach for your laces. The goal was to make my body more aerodynamic. This technique helps a hurdler to maintain balance, propel forward, and get over the hurdle more efficiently.

What if we applied this technique to our life hurdles?

When we see a hurdle in the lane in front of us, it’s easy to get discouraged or overwhelmed. We may want to run away from that hurdle or put on the brakes rather than propel forward.

James writes, “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything” (James 1:2-4 NIV).

James was Jesus’ half-brother who helped build the church after Jesus’ resurrection and ascension. James writes primarily for Jewish Christians with reminders that hold truth for us today.

Joy is probably not our default when we face difficulties, but James encourages us to “consider it an opportunity” (NLT) or to “count it all joy” (ESV) when we face hurdles in life.

Sometimes, leaning in might mean naming the hurdle, but not allowing ourselves to get caught up in worst-case-scenario thinking. We need to consider where there might be joy in the process, even when it feels challenging. This reframes the situation and helps me to take that courageous step forward.

Mr. Kritzberg used to tell me not to jump over the hurdle, but to run through it. That puzzled me at first, but he explained that when I’m in a hurdle race, the goal is to maintain speed and momentum. A good hurdler skims over the hurdle, not jumping high and spending a lot of time in the air, which causes her to lose speed.

I can see how this applies to life as well. Sometimes I work so hard to avoid pain, but the truth is: the only way through pain is through. I have to allow myself to run through the challenges instead of trying to avoid or jump over them.

Now I’ve been coaching track and field for more than 20 years at our local high school, where my husband graduated and now my daughters attend. My 16-year-old decided this year she wanted to run hurdles. She’s always been a sprinter, but she needed something new to challenge her.

I’ve been careful not to push my daughters to pursue something just because I did. I want them to choose their own path without pressure. Of course, I was delighted when she decided for herself to try the 300-meter hurdle race — the very race I learned to love in high school.

As I started coaching my daughter, I noticed she would sometimes slow down and stutter-step right before she got to a hurdle. This is common for new hurdlers. I gave my girl the same advice my coach gave me – keep your eyes on the finish line, not the hurdle. Hurdle races are often won in the final strides of the race.

When we focus on the horizon rather than the hurdle, we can run faster and more efficiently for His glory. Finishing well matters.

Friend, I imagine you have some hurdles you are facing today. Maybe you are facing burnout or traversing depression; maybe your marriage feels tense or your child has wandered; maybe you are overwhelmed by work or today’s headlines. Name some of those hurdles. Then visualize yourself leaning in and running them. Look for the hidden joy in the race. Ask God to grow your perseverance and maturity as you run to complete this leg of the race.

Dorina helps people run after the glory of God through her devotional, Walk Run Soar, and her weekly Glorygram.

 

Listen to Dorina’s devotion here or search “(in)courage” on your fave podcast app!

The Lives We Never Led

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Late at night in the dark, when we don’t have to look someone straight in the eyes, even our closest friends, the truth has a way of slipping from our lips.

“Honestly, sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if we hadn’t gotten married so young. Or gotten married at all.”

Her voice is shaking. I hear the doubt catch in her throat. As her friend, I want to reach out, hug her close, and tell her it will all be okay — though I have no way of knowing.

Instead, I keep my mouth shut and let her talk.

“Sometimes I think about the guy I dated before him. What if we had ended up together? Or what if I had left home instead of staying here? Would everything be different now? Would everything be better?”

Good friends can sit in the silence together. She has done this for me, too. But in the heavy dark, all I can do is pray for her peace. That she might find whatever she is seeking within the life she has today — or whatever changes might come next.

But I know the weight of this wrestling. For me it often happens when a stranger asks what I studied in college or what I wanted to become when I was younger.

“French and art history,” I answer sheepishly, as if apologizing for the degree now gathering dust. “I thought I was going to teach. Everyone thought I should teach. But I wasn’t sure.”

This is my roundabout way of admitting that my work today has almost nothing to do with the subjects I spent four years studying or the language I spent a decade perfecting. But my life holds good work, holy work, hopeful work I never could have imagined back then. And the many callings I have been given — to marriage, motherhood, friendship, families, and communities — have stretched me in ways I never could have dreamed up in my younger years.

Yet I’m still tempted by alternate versions of my own life, too.

Who hasn’t been distracted by the idle daydream, wondering what-if? What if you had married your high school sweetheart? Or gotten that job and not this one? What if you had switched careers? Or moved across the world? What if you had another child, or none at all?

Alternate versions of our own lives — the what-if ones we might have led — can be as tempting as other people’s experiences.

I’ve even heard the plucky reassurance: “Women can have it all, just not all at once!” But the truth is, we cannot. We have made choices — and had circumstances thrust upon us — that created the contours of one particular life, and no other.

I believe it is good and wise to admit that we can never have it all. Because that truth opens our eyes to see that the one life we do have still holds goodness, beauty, hope, love, and abundance.

You may never be an Olympic athlete. Or a brilliant cook, a talented artist, a best-selling author, or the life of the party. You might never marry your soulmate, raise the family you dreamed of, find the perfect job, or own a place to call your own.

But the more fully you inhabit the life you do have, the more you can come into the presence of God who is fully with you, right here and now.

In his Letter to the Ephesians, Paul speaks to this same truth:

“I, therefore, the prisoner in the Lord, beg you to walk in a manner worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace: there is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to the one hope of your calling, one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is above all and through all and in all.”
Ephesians 4:1-6 NRSVUE

Paul knew what he was talking about. (He was imprisoned, after all!) Life does not always go the way we hoped or planned. But his words point out the unity we still need within ourselves.

We cannot lead multiple lives: just one. We cannot let regret or distraction consume our thoughts. Right here and now is the real, raw, rough, but beautiful life we have.

The trap comes with thinking that this life is not enough — that we are too small, limited, or powerless to make a difference. But Christ Himself is our hope. This expansive, invigorating, unending hope is enough to fill any life.

You do not need to be more or less. You simply need to be yourself — with God.

“The glory of God is the human person, fully alive,” wrote Irenaeus, a 2nd-century theologian and bishop. When I found his words as a fresh college graduate turning to the work of ministry that now beckoned, I felt my soul leap.

Decades later, his wise words remind me that God dwells fully within and among us — and we glimpse God’s glory most clearly when we are fully alive.

Wherever you are today, the lives you did not lead don’t have to be ghosts that haunt you in the night. And your dreams of what might yet be do not have to become disappointments if they don’t materialize the way you want.

Instead, your one true hope — the “one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all” — can gently remind you that you are living the only life you are called to live.

Because God does not dwell in the lives we did not lead. But in the glory of each one of us, here and now, fully alive.

 

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

Seasons Change, and So Should We

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“I will never move back to this town,” I whispered as my parents packed the minivan with my college dorm supplies. I was ready to leave and wasn’t going to look back.

And for a long time, I didn’t.

Seasons changed. I changed, too.

I found myself shifting and growing into new versions of myself. I made mistakes and learned lessons that only come with figuring life out as you go. I sat in lecture halls and realized the world was bigger than I ever realized.

I learned. I unlearned. I relearned.

I graduated. Had a job with my very own cubicle. Got married. Became a mother. Bought a house. Moved. Moved again.

I reconsidered things. I looked at life and all its beautiful, terrible glory from different angles. I prayed with an open heart. Sometimes, I was surprised at the miracle. Other times, I was heartbroken at the silence. I read books — novels, memoirs, and how-tos.

My world expanded, and so did I.

Change is obvious when we’re in a transitional moment: graduation, marriage, divorce, the birth of a child, retirement, a health diagnosis — take your pick. But we’re always changing, whether we like it or not. Our bodies quite literally renew themselves over time. Skin replaces itself through a natural process every 27 days. We are not the same people today that we were a month ago. No matter what season of life you’re in, what would happen if you approach this transitional time as an invitation to be transformed in the love of God?

We are all capable of change. Every minute, every second of the day, we’re becoming.

So the question is: Who are you becoming?

What have you made up your mind about? Where do you get your news? Who do you interact with who doesn’t look or think like you?

Do you listen to learn or to help craft your argument?

In fourth grade, my teacher invited us to grab our three-ring binders (mine was of the Looney Tunes variety) to create what she called our “Life-Long Notebooks”. She helped us take loose-leaf paper and her preprinted tabs to create an organized place to add our observations about the newly built butterfly garden, our wonderings about the world, and our hopes for ourselves. She encouraged us to stay curious and open, not just in the classroom but wherever our lives took us.

My first college internship was at a local newspaper. My editor, then in her early 40s (I shudder to admit I thought she was quite old at the time), told me that she stuck around day after day because she was always learning something. She met new people, asked new questions, and learned new things.

You don’t have to be an eager 10-year-old or a seasoned newspaper editor to be a lifelong learner.

A commitment to learning about the world, the people in it, and the God who made it is key to living a faithful life. We can trust God with our wonderings because God gave us the spirit of curiosity in the first place. It’s when Christians refuse to learn and grow that we get into dangerous situations.

I’m not the same person I was five years ago, and I hope that in five years, I’ll be a different person than I am now. I don’t want to alter the fundamentals of who I am, but I want to grow fully into who God created me to be. I want to keep learning — to be, as Romans 12:2 says, transformed by the renewing of my mind. I don’t want to do this to accumulate more knowledge — I want to do this to fully love God and my neighbors.

Spiritual transformation is not always comfortable, but it is sanctifying. Our spiritual walks with Christ are ongoing. We don’t stop learning the vastness and fullness of God, our world, and ourselves the day we say a certain prayer or hit a specific milestone.

When I read my Bible, I feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland, opening doors and going down rabbit holes, often finding more questions than answers. The more I learn, the more I wonder. The more I wonder, the more I learn. A life walking with Christ is comforting yet often confounding. The more we embrace a posture of Christian curiosity, the more our worlds get, as Lewis Carroll put it, “curiouser and curiouser.”

You are allowed to change your mind. You don’t have to draw lines in the sand and dig in your heels.

Take it from me: After 15 years away, I began dreaming of moving back to my hometown.

I changed.

And by the grace of God, I will continue to shift and change with the seasons, knowing that in all my shades of becoming, the steadfast love of Christ never ceases.

As you enjoy all the activities the summer has to offer, may you stay curious and live with an open heart, forming deeper connections with yourself, your neighbors, and the One who breathes every season into existence.

Article by Kayla Craig from the (in)courage archives and featured in Everyday Faith Magazine.

The Summer 2025 edition of Everyday Faith is available now, and you’re going to love it! 

From cover to cover, you will find stories and articles to inspire your heart. Find activities for summer road trips, recipes for summertime gatherings, stories of persevering through difficult times, tips for celebrating seasonal traditions, summer Bible reading guides, and much more. We hope this issue helps you experience and express God’s love in fresh, authentic, and inspiring ways!

The article above is just one of many featured in Everyday Faith magazine, which is perfect for gifting to a friend, Bible Study sister, Sunday School teacher, or neighbor. And to help you do just that, we’re giving away* FIVE sets of magazines — one for each winner and one for them to give to a friend!

Leave a comment telling us to whom you’d gift a copy, and we’ll draw five winners.

*Giveaway is open to US addresses only and will close on 6/7/2025 at 11:59 pm Central.

The Right Friends Are More Important Than We Think

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Roughly 15 years ago, I was standing in a tiny hallway having a conversation with a group of young girls. That conversation led to the heartbreaking realization that these girls expected their lives to be mediocre at best. They were missing out on the abundant life Jesus had for them. I went home and inquired of the Lord about how I could help. That year, the Virtue curriculum was born in my heart.

Since that encounter, the curriculum has transformed into life groups and book clubs across the country. Later, it became a conference and, finally, the book Virtue: Living Uncommon in a Common World. Together with a group of ten incredible ladies who make up the Virtue team, we share the message of living an uncommon life around the world — showing how it leads to life to the fullest, even a “happily ever after.”

These ladies have become “iron sharpens iron” friends to me (Proverbs 27:17). They remind me of one of the most powerful stories of friendship in Scripture, found in Luke 5.

“Some men took a man who was not able to move his body to Jesus. He was carried on a bed. They looked for a way to take the man into the house where Jesus was. But they could not find a way to take him in because of so many people. They made a hole in the roof over where Jesus stood. Then they let the bed with the sick man on it down before Jesus.”
(Luke 5:18–19 NLV)

The man on the mat couldn’t walk. He wasn’t capable of seeking his healing on his own, and his friends refused to let him remain stuck. Their plan was clear: get him to Jesus. But when they arrived, the house was packed. A crowd blocked the door.

I can’t imagine being among the people who saw a paralyzed man being carried and yet didn’t make room for him to get to Jesus. It seems so selfish. Surely they knew why those men were there! Yet no one moved. No one helped. They simply stood there, likely waiting for their own miracle.

But the four friends didn’t let the obstacle stop them. They climbed onto the roof, carried their friend still on the mat, tore open the roof, and lowered him directly in front of Jesus.

“When Jesus saw their faith, He said to the man, ‘Friend, your sins are forgiven.’”
(Luke 5:20 NLV)

And then, to silence the critics and prove His authority:

“’So that you may know the Son of Man has the right and the power on earth to forgive sins,’ He said to the man who could not move his body, ‘I say to you, get up. Take your bed and go to your home.’ At once the sick man got up in front of them. He took his bed and went to his home thanking God.”
(Luke 5:24–25 NLV)

This is one of the most beautiful and powerful stories of friendship I’ve ever read in the Bible—or even heard about in life. This is what friends are supposed to do. We are meant to carry each other to Jesus when one of us is not capable of getting there alone.

This doesn’t always look like carrying someone who is physically lame. A friend might be “stuck on their mat” because of a broken marriage, crippling fear, overwhelming anxiety, or sickness that feels impossible to overcome. Jesus is the answer to it all. His Word still offers healing and forgiveness today, just like He did for the man on the mat.

When our friends are in pain, it’s not enough to just sympathize. Complaining alongside them or offering pity won’t bring breakthrough. What helps is carrying them — pointing them to Jesus, lifting them in prayer, and speaking God’s Word over their situation. “The effectual, fervent prayer of a righteous person has great power and wonderful results” (James 5:16, paraphrased).

Like the four men in Luke 5, we must refuse to take no for an answer. We must be the friends who find a way, no matter the obstacles, because we know the Healer — and we love our friends too much to give up.

That’s exactly what my Virtue team girls do. They pray. They carry each other. When one of their daughters had an accident, they stood in prayer until healing came. They’ve believed together for restored marriages, financial provision, job opportunities, prodigal children returning to Jesus, and courage and strength for weary parents. Again and again, they’ve carried one another to Jesus.

I’m so thankful to be surrounded by such amazing women.

We all need these “iron sharpens iron” friends. And we all need to be them. Life wasn’t meant to be lived alone. If you’re feeling alone today, take a bold step: seek out a church with life groups or serve teams and join one. Open your home to start a book club or gather a group of women hungry to grow in faith and friendship.

Be the kind of friend who carries others to Jesus — and you’ll find yourself carried in your own time of need.

Listen to Tyra’s devotion here or wherever you stream podcasts!

You’re Never Talking to the Air

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“I love the Lord because he hears my voice and my prayer for mercy.
Because he bends down to listen, I will pray as long as I have breath!”
Psalm 116:1–2 NLT

Have you ever talked to someone who seemed distracted or disinterested, nodding but not really listening? It can feel lonely and frustrating. But God is nothing like that.

When you pray, the God of heaven bends down to listen. Not because you’re eloquent. Not because you’ve earned His attention. Simply because you’re His, and He delights in hearing your voice.

This Psalm reminds us of a beautiful truth: God always hears our prayers. And more than that, He responds. Sometimes it’s with rescue. Sometimes with peace in the waiting. But always with love.

No prayer is too small or messy. No request too ordinary. The Lord is near, attentive, and faithful.

So today, let’s lean into that assurance and lift our hearts to Him.

Leave your prayer request in the comments — and while you’re there, take a moment to pray for someone else, too. Let’s be a community that believes together and lifts each other up.

God is listening. And He’s already at work.

How to Let Go and Release What’s in Your Hands

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I arrived at the mall on a mission to revive my water-damaged cell phone. My phone had been stuck in recovery mode for nearly twenty-four hours. The “restore” screen appeared with every attempt to reboot, taunting me as carefully I followed the instructions. After countless tries, I gave up trying to fix it on my own.

Gripping my iPhone, I stepped into the store and prepared myself for the tech’s upgrade pitch. I loved my mini device and had zero interest in the new iPhone. Moreover, I didn’t think my phone had backed up my data before it crashed. I didn’t need a new phone; I needed my old phone with my information — and the possibility of losing all my personal content bothered me.

“This is a great time to trade in your phone for a free upgrade,” the tech told me. “We’re accepting phones in any condition. Even water damage.”

Though persuasive, his sales pitch failed to move me. I shook my head and adamantly refused. I just needed someone to repair my device. Please and thank you.

As I rattled off a myriad of reasons I wanted to keep my outdated phone, an inner voice broke through the chatter, interrupting my monologue: “Why do you insist on holding on to something that is broken? Let it go.”

The question immediately silenced me. My eyes watered upon hearing the still yet firm voice. The Lord had spoken. I slid my phone in the tech’s direction and surrendered my device.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll trade it in.”

I knew the Lord was dealing with me, His question spotlighting an inner struggle much deeper than an inoperable cell device. God used that moment in the store to show me myself: my tendency to hold on to things longer than necessary and staying tethered to what I’ve outgrown — jobs, places, people, friendships, relationships. Even when those things had run their course.

There is something reassuring about dwelling in the familiar. We’ve lived there for a while. We know what to expect. We wrap ourselves in the familiarity like a security blanket providing warmth and comfort on a brisk morning. But our comfort zones give us a false sense of control and relief. The familiar can cloud our perspective and judgment. We resist surrendering with clenched fists, convincing ourselves that what we hold in our hands is the best thing for us, even when it’s marred beyond recognition. Dead. Broken.

I had convinced myself that my phone would work fine if they just repaired it, but in reality, my phone had started deteriorating long before water seeped into the hardware. The battery stopped holding a charge, forcing me to carry around a portable charger everywhere. The performance lagged. And, for good reason, nobody requested using my camera to take pictures. But . . . there I was, doing everything in my power to force that phone to work and keep working for me.

Comfort zones can be a breeding ground for stagnation and immobility. I can recall times I’ve settled out of comfort, allowing fears and doubts to order my steps instead of the Maker who knows me and calls me by name. Sometimes, I rely too much on my limited knowledge instead of listening to God’s instruction to trust in Him with all my heart and, leaning not on my own understanding, submit all my ways to Him (Proverbs 3:5-6).

We serve The One who can do “immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us” (Ephesians 3:20). We can all reflect on moments when God came through at the right time, answering prayers in unexpected ways, flooding our hearts with awe and wonder. He upgrades our lives in the best way.

When I received my upgraded phone, I discovered my data had backed up accordingly, nullifying my fears. Nothing was lost, but much was gained. Since my upgrade, I’ve never once desired to have the old model back. I wished I had let my phone go sooner.

When God leads us to part from something, we might wrestle with relinquishing control and trusting the process. But, letting go and releasing “what is” will ultimately make room for what’s next.

I’m thankful for His gracious promptings, beckoning us to open our hands and let go, awakening us to possibilities, and reminding us there is more.