Our Hope for This Easter Sunday

Our Hope for This Easter Sunday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Easter!

The Moments in the Middle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where Is the “Good” in Good Friday?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Imperfect? That Might Be Exactly What Someone Needs Right Now

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finding God in a Spiritual Drought

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Launch Day to the Courageous Joy Bible Study!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trauma Takes Time to Heal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Prayer for Palm Sunday

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

Dear Jesus,

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

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

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

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

The cross.

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

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

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

Today, I answer with all my heart:

You are my Savior, that’s who.

You are my Lord, that’s who.

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

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

You are the one true King.

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

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

In Your precious name,
Amen.

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

Being an Asian American Woman in the Midst of AAPI Hate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s Hit the Cultural Reset Button

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Many of us haven’t had to rub shoulders with people of different cultures and ethnicities for quite some time now. I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to have an unexpected run-in with a stranger at an airport, someone who speaks a different language at the grocery store, or a new neighbor or co-worker from a different country. This pandemic has made us insulated, communicating mostly with family and close friends, and I wonder: Will we struggle more with connecting across cultures after the quarantine than we did before? Building cross-cultural relationships is a muscle that requires practice and strengthening, and many of us have not had to exercise this muscle in a while.

Certainly a lot of us feel like we have grown and changed over the course of this past year. We’ve witnessed horrific racially-motivated crimes against Black and Asian communities that have shaken us to our core and forced us to confront the racial divides in our country. Many of us have read a copious number of books and articles and listened to podcasts all related to race and culture, and slowly but surely our racial consciousness has been growing. These are all really good steps. Though I’m saddened that it took the murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor as well as skyrocketing rates of anti-Asian racism to grab the nation’s attention, I am glad that many of us now know better. However, the hard truth is that simply knowing better doesn’t necessarily translate to doing better.

This year is offering us glimpses of possibility. Churches are beginning to meet outside in socially distanced formats, children are reentering classrooms, and families are venturing to playgrounds and other spaces outside their local community. Over time, we will begin to meet more people of other cultures as we become more physically mobile. But it’s important to remember that physical mobility doesn’t automatically translate to cultural competency. 

There’s a lot that we used to do that needs correction. More than that, we must realize that just because we’ve always done cross cultural relationships one way, it doesn’t mean it’s the right way to do things or that it’s the only way. I see this extended quarantine as the opportunity to hit the cultural reset button. We will soon be stepping out into broad daylight, rubbing shoulders with friends and strangers alike, and we have the choice to try something new. 

We’re all in different places along our journey of cross-cultural relationships, so the application of this challenge to hit the reset button will look different from one person to the next. My encouragement for each of us is simply to commit to change.

The next time you engage with someone of a different culture, be conscious of how you talk and act with them. Instead of asking people questions such as, “Where are you from? No, where are you really come from?”, consider asking instead, “What are your roots?” Instead of interrogating people with all the why’s of their culture (e.g., Why do you eat that? Why do you celebrate that? Why do you think that way?), we can choose to simply enjoy someone for who they are as a unique individual. We can enjoy their presence and leave room for open-ended conversations by asking, “Tell me about yourself” and “What’s your story?”.

We can also be mindful of our emotions and whether we are starting to feel uncomfortable or upset. Too often, when we are confronted with cultural differences we have a knee-jerk reaction to resist or control the situation. We complain, accuse, or even leave. But my gentle encouragement to you is to stay. Stay, learn to keep that opinion to yourself, and choose to love. Connecting across cultures is an opportunity to change ourselves instead of trying to change others. 

Loving our neighbors of other cultures will take time, effort, and continual strengthening. We must train ourselves to change and grow; it won’t just happen overnight. 1 Corinthians 9:24-27 says, “Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it. Every athlete exercises self-control in all things. They do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable. So I do not run aimlessly; I do not box as one beating the air. But I discipline my body and keep it under control, lest after preaching to others I myself should be disqualified.” Christians are compared to athletes, who exercise self-control, discipline their bodies, and choose to persevere. 

When it comes to cross-cultural relationships, we have to take time to assess what we’ve done in the past and how we want to do better moving into the future. Before this pandemic is over and before quarantine is a distant memory, let’s consider the ways we can show more love, more hospitality, and more equality to the people around us. We won’t always get it right. We’ll make mistakes. But that’s part of the learning process. Keep hitting that cultural reset button, so you can continue to strengthen your cultural muscles. I promise you, it’s worth it. 

Want to learn more about how to connect across cultures? Pre-order Michelle’s upcoming book, Becoming All Things: How Small Changes Lead to Lasting Connections Across Cultures, which releases April 27. 

The Power of Being Winsome

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One spring before I began tutoring high school students in our local Classical Conversations homeschool program, I sat in on another tutor’s class to observe for a day. Latin, British literature, art and music history, logic, biology — the discussions fascinated me as I imagined someday guiding my own students in their study of these subjects.

But the most memorable lesson came during debate when the tutor challenged the class — and subsequently, me — to think about what it means to be winsome. I’m sure I sneaked a peek at the dictionary app on my phone as I analyzed this word that was unfamiliar to me at the time and which the tutor had stressed when she mentioned being “above winning” as the primary objective of the debate.

Dictionary.com defines winsome as sweetly or innocently charming; winning; engaging. I’ve never forgotten the lesson shared by the other tutor or the power of this word over the past eleven years as I’ve guided classes of tenth graders.

Often, my students don’t know whether they’ll need to argue to defend the affirmative or negative side of an issue until the day of the debate. It forces them to be fully prepared, to research until they understand both sides of the issue, and to be able to defend either one. This is a skill which serves them well not only in debate, but also in life. 

Although they may not agree with the position they’re ultimately asked to support, they know it inside out, both pros and cons. It’s their job to come to class prepared to affirm or reject either side. Can you imagine how that level of understanding could benefit us day-to-day with people whose opinions differ from our own?

The desire to win serves us well if our only concern is a judge’s score-sheet, tally marks on a page, or getting the last word. But the desire to be winsome serves us well if we want to win others to our point of view. Winsomeness is key when telling others about Jesus or when we’re trying to be gracious in a tension-filled conversation.

I once heard a man speak at a high school graduation ceremony. He commanded the attention of the crowd and the respect of many simply by the dignity of his presence. But when he opened his mouth, his words were tinged with anger and disdain for people who disagreed with him. Even though his words rang true, his tone repelled the audience. He was the opposite of winsome.

To be winsome is to be persuasive, and a winsome witness for Jesus Christ will always speak the truth in love. We are imperfect people in an imperfect world living imperfect lives. We won’t influence others by our perfect example — it isn’t possible — but by the love we show them.

“By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.”
John 13:35 (KJV)

Even in the darkest times, as Christians, we carry hope within us because the source of our joy is secure. We touch other people’s lives when we live ours joyously, as winsome ambassadors of Christ’s love.

How can we be more winsome at work or school? Be more optimistic than pessimistic and include those that others leave out.

How can we be more winsome at home? Work to maintain a pleasant atmosphere. If you have children, discipline in love, play and laugh with them.

How can we be more winsome in our friendships? Be an encourager and a supporter — someone who delights in the success of others.

Let your life reflect the love of God by the way you love others.

Do you know someone who is especially winsome? What happens when truth is delivered without love?

 

The Pink Outfit and Learning I Am Worthy of Joy

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I stood on the escalator next to him, one hand on the rail, as we rose higher to the upper level. It felt so grand to be in such a fine place: the children’s department at The Emporium’s. It wasn’t a place where we usually bought our clothes, but today was different. It was one of my father’s first visits after the divorce. I was excited because he said I could pick out whatever I wanted.

My father shuffled beside me with his greased-up hair, baggy pants, and wiry legs moving in sync with my curiosity. He would pull out something random off the shelves. This is pretty . . . you like?

Then I saw it.

Hanging up high, perched on a special display, was the most beautiful outfit I ever saw: a soft bubble-gum pink corduroy jacket with silver buckles and matching pants. It was perfect. It looked amazing to me. Which one should I get — the jacket or the pants?

As I stood there tippy-toed, reaching up to fish the outfit down, my father told me to stand still and placed the outfit in front of me with one arm shot straight out, eyeing me like an old woman threading a needle.

“Turn around,” he said, pressing the sleeves against my wrists. “It fits. Daddy will buy both for you.”

As I stood there at the checkout register, watching my father pay, I couldn’t believe it. The whole outfit? My heart was bursting, full of something beautiful. It was new, and it was all for me.

Never in a thousand years would I have guessed I’d never have the chance to wear that jacket and those pants out in broad daylight.

When I got home and tried it on in front of the mirror in the hallway, I thought it fit perfectly, but I could tell from my mother’s eyes that this was the furthest thing from the truth.

“You look ridiculous,” she spat.

After dinner, my momma took whatever leftover gunk was found in the sink and dumped it on top of my pink outfit that she’d thrown away, with the tags still hanging off of it. I stood there in that gloomy kitchen devastated.

I don’t have anything good anymore. It’s gone. I felt so lonely. Something I thought was perfect and mine was no longer any good.

Maybe this is when I first learned how completely lonely it feels to hope for joy and how hoping for it meant leaving room for disappointment.

It’s easy when you’re young to believe dreams can come true. But if you’ve ever truly had a perfect moment carry you to a place of belief — whether it was a positive pregnancy test, a romance, a friendship, a parent, your health, a career, or a life-long dream — and then had it taken away, then you know what it feels like to see something perfect end up in the refuse of broken dreams and mismatched opportunities. You begin to wonder whether anything is worth delighting in again.

Is anything really worth enjoying if it can’t last anyway?

Rest and joy can feel dangerous. For some of us, joy is connected to times when it was ruined, when a simple moment of happiness was decimated by a person, place, or thing. After that incident, I didn’t feel like I needed joy.

Then Jesus caught me in an unguarded moment and said, I was there, Bonnie. I stood beside you as you cried. As you looked into the garbage and saw something you loved being destroyed, I was there. And I’m here with you now.

Jesus called to mind a man who was battered, imperfect, and bruised. When the young man asked Jesus, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus told him a story of a person lying half dead on the side of the road — a man no one stopped to pay any attention to, except the Good Samaritan. I remembered how Jesus said that precious oil and wine were splurged onto this man’s wounds, and that’s when I realized that joy and rest were the oil and wine missing from my life.

I once thought that the wounded stranger in that story was someone else, but now I understood that joy-wounded stranger was me. That man was carried to a place to rest, and Jesus said to my heart, I will never run out of rest for you, Bonnie. No matter how much you need, no matter how long it takes, I will care for you.

Jesus understands the wounds where joy has been demolished. Your wounds are not invisible to Him, and He has an abundance of joy and rest to pour into them. Jesus calls us to create space — to slow down and nurture our souls so He can fill us. 

Your story will be different from mine, but you might have a pink outfit story too where joy was lost. God can help you recover the courage to reach up again and ask for joy — to choose joy. Let’s give ourselves permission to be real, to go beyond surviving, to uncover what feeds our soul today. You are worthy of joy.

“These things I have spoken to you,
so that my joy may be in you,
and that your joy may be made full.”
John 15:11 (NASB)

How are you choosing joy? How is God reminding you that you’re worthy of joy?

Want more joy for your soul? Sign up here for Bonnie’s Beloved Newsletter.  Follow me on Instagram & Facebook @thebonniegray for daily encouragement.  Join my newsletter here! I’ll share honest stories on my faith journey to help nurture your soul & embrace your true worth!

Our Maker Can Handle Our Messes

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A late night phone call delivered hard news. My mind struggled to keep up as lies unraveled and truth emerged. A family member’s betrayal left me feeling foolish, blindsided, and beyond angry. Years of deception collapsed into a big, complicated mess.

Memories of family beach vacations, holiday celebrations, and dinners around my dining room table appeared tainted and fraudulent. Well-meaning friends offered awkward silence or unsolicited advice. Both felt like salt being rubbed into my wounded heart.

In the months following the difficult phone call, I tried to erase reminders and remove evidence of the person from my life. I purged photos from albums and tossed once-beloved gifts. In precious family pictures, scissors extracted what my heart couldn’t.

In the dark corners of my soul, I envisioned the disheveled family member at my door groveling for forgiveness. But when no apology arrived and no remorse was expressed, the silence invited anger and bitterness into my heart. The deep pit of depression crept closer.

My life was a mess, and I needed help.

In 2 Kings 18 and 19, King Hezekiah faced his own menacing mess. The mighty Assyrians were poised to attack and destroy Jerusalem. But the king handed his problem to the One who could handle it. “Hezekiah received the letter from the messengers and read it. Then he went up to the temple of the Lord and spread it out before the Lord” (2 Kings 19:14 NIV).

King Hezekiah didn’t waste time with worry, freeze in fear, or kick himself for not being stronger. He didn’t try to power through on his own strength, overthink the situation, or pause to elicit advice from his staff. With a formidable foe at the city’s gates, he hitched up his robe, hiked to the temple, and spread the news before his mighty God. “And Hezekiah prayed to the Lord: ‘Lord, the God of Israel, enthroned between the cherubim, you alone are God over all the kingdoms of the earth. You have made heaven and earth.’ ” (2 Kings 19:15 NIV).

Perhaps the king fell prostrate on the floor as his pleas reverberated around the temple’s walls. Maybe Hezekiah’s cries echoed mine: Here you go, God. This is too big, too hard, and too painful. I can’t handle this.

The only way to survive my painful season was to run to God like King Hezekiah. With raw honesty, I emptied my heart. God knew the twisted thoughts that littered my mind and still met me in my heartache. Most importantly, my Maker understood the sting of betrayal and rejection.

Together, we muddled through the mess.

Christian counseling, accountability partners, and Scripture memorization paved the path towards healing. Index cards with verses about forgiveness and hope were taped to bathroom mirrors and kitchen cabinets. God’s Word became a soothing balm for my broken and betrayed heart.

The king’s mess wasn’t unmanageable for God nor was mine. He heard Hezekiah’s prayer and saved Jerusalem from destruction. 2 Kings 19:34 says, “I will defend this city and save it, for my sake and for the sake of David my servant.” The God who heard the king’s pleas in the temple was the same God who heard my late-night cries. God delivered the Israelites from their mess, and He guided me through mine — one baby step at a time.

Dear friend, when we are surrounded by the enemy or wounded by those who claim to love us, we can run to God. He always welcomes us with open arms. Before His throne, we can present our pain, lay down our heavy load, and spread our suffering. Our God is the Maker of Heaven and Earth. Enthroned between the cherubim, He is God over all the kingdoms of the earth, and He can handle our messes.

Joy in Who God Made You to Be

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So God created human beings in his own image. In the image of God he created them; male and female he created them. . . Then God looked over all he had made, and he saw that it was very good!
Genesis 1:27, 31 (NLT)

Some days I look at my thirty-eight-year-old face in the mirror and wonder how I could possibly be attractive, even to my husband. I notice the pores that never shrank, the blotchiness that makes my cheeks look flushed (but not in a cute way), the fold lines on my neck I wish I could iron out. I see my protruding belly in the mirror and swear I must look thirty weeks pregnant, and wonder if I might regain some of my youthfulness if I could just stop eating whatever i want to.

So I pull on my tummy-tucking jeggings and wear a tunic-length shirt to hide the bulges. I patch up the acne scars and dark bags under my eyes with a stick of concealer and blend in another layer of liquid foundation. It’s nearly impossible to find the right shade for my skin color, so two are often better than one. I curl my stubbornly straight eyelashes, inevitably pulling some of them out, and I wear mascara to give the illusion that my almond-shaped eyes are bigger than they really are.

When God made human beings and finished His work of creation, He looked at all He had made and called it very good. Everything was unaltered, natural, and pure. Nothing was hidden, covered, or shamed, because everything in its most basic form was already very good.

I hardly ever say that what I see in the mirror is very good, and I know there will still be days when I slather on my makeup, curl my eyelashes, and tuck in my belly, hoping to see someone new looking back at me.

I don’t have a face or body the world might deem pretty or sexy, and as time passes, even what seems decent now will soon fade away. But I’m slowly learning to respect what is mine — my almond eyes, my flat nose, my round face — and I’m speaking new words over myself:

You are very good.

Story by Grace P. Cho from Week 3, Day 5 of the Courageous Joy Bible Study

While God clearly places much more value on our insides than our outsides, He is the artist who designed our physical bodies. He made us in His image, and then, when He sat back to evaluate His work, He said it was “very good” (Genesis 1:31). God never looks at us and thinks, Well, if only I’d made her eyes a little bigger or her legs a little thinner or her hair a little smoother . . . no! He looks at us and calls us very good.

In our visually oriented society, it can be hard not to feel critical of our appearance. This world offers no shortage of physical standards that are impossible to meet, leaving us perpetually grasping for something we will never reach. Insecurity about our appearance is a reasonable response, but it means we have believed that what the world says matters more than what the Lord says. The better, healthier, holier response is to turn our eyes away from our own reflection and toward God.

When we gaze upon Him and then see ourselves through His eyes, we can’t help but feel love and joy for the person He’s made us to be. As David wrote in Psalm 34:5, “those who look to [God] are radiant, and their faces shall never be ashamed” (ESV).

What do you see when you look in the mirror? How does your appearance — and your opinion of it — affect how you believe God sees you? Looking at ourselves with affection rather than criticism can be a challenge. How will you courageously find joy in God’s creation when you face yourself in the mirror this week?

God, thank You for understanding how damaging this world can be to my sense of value and worth. Thank You for telling me over and over in Scripture that You made me perfectly and that You think I’m beautiful. I know my heart matters more than my hair or hips. When I’m hard on myself, remind me to turn my gaze to You. Continue to make me more like You every day so that I reflect my Creator inside and out. Thank You, Lord. I love You. Amen.

We hope you loved this excerpt from the Courageous Joy Bible Study, written by Mary Carver and featuring stories from the (in)courage community! Courageous Joy is available wherever books are sold:

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God Is with Us in Our Callings

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Then Jesus came with them to a place called Gethsemane, and he told the disciples, “Sit here while I go over there and pray.” Taking along Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, he began to be sorrowful and troubled. He said to them, “I am deeply grieved to the point of death. Remain here and stay awake with me.”

Going a little farther, he fell facedown and prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.”
Matthew 26:36-39 (CSB)

If you are overwhelmed by what you believe God is calling you to right now, by the way He seems to be stretching you and challenging you in this season, you’re not alone. I, too, have felt my shoulders break under the weight of what I know to be a calling from the Lord. Not just an expectation but a purpose. It can be too much at times, too hard, too demanding, too scary. Just too much.

Our callings can feel terrifying, overwhelming, unbearable.

Certainly, we will experience times when we can’t stop grinning and glowing, feeling God’s pleasure as we run the very race He’s given us. We will celebrate and cry buckets of happy tears and know the peace that comes with seeing Him work in our lives. But other times? That calling we were so excited to answer, that purpose we were so thrilled to fulfill? It will be so heavy we think it might just crush us this time.

It’s no accident that God called you, the weak or weary or unprepared or overwhelmed, to this thing. After all, Jesus Himself in His greatest mission and calling — the cross and the resurrection — was weak and weary, too. Yet He relied on the Father for strength, and He saw His calling through. Just as He was with Jesus, if God has called you to love your neighbor, to serve your family, to minister to your community (and He has), then He will be with you every step of the way, too — even the tentative steps, the shuffling steps, the can’t-take-another-step steps.

We are not alone, though our callings are as unique as we are. And though our callings might never be easy or comfortable, they will always be worth it. God has called us to dive in and no matter how many deep ends we face, He will be with us. He will be with us, and we can do this. He will be with you, and you can do this.

The idea of a calling can be hard to comprehend, but it’s not meant to be mysterious. Listening for and following God’s call doesn’t necessarily mean selling everything you own, abandoning everything you’ve known, and moving across the ocean or even across town. God is infinitely creative, and He’s made a unique plan for each of us.

But what we do know — and have in common — is God’s universal call for us to acknowledge His holiness as well as our own sin, to understand that we are incapable of paying the price required to be forgiven of that sin, and to believe that Jesus made Himself the sacrifice so we could once again be in fellowship with God. After all, the good news of Easter is that Jesus not only paid the penalty for our sins, which was death, but He also overcame death and rose! The power of sin, and the penalty for it, had no hold on Him. He got out of the grave and invites us to one day do the same, if we will only believe. Indeed, He calls us to confess our sins and believe in His work on the cross and the resurrection, and once we do, to share the good news with those around us, and to seek Him and His will for our lives from now on.

What has the Lord been saying to you during Lent? What do you believe He is asking you to do in response?

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

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

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The Courage to Lead by Example

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Deborah, a prophetess and the wife of Lappidoth, was judging Israel at that time. She would sit under the palm tree of Deborah between Ramah and Bethel in the hill country of Ephraim, and the Israelites went up to her to settle disputes.

She summoned Barak son of Abinoam from Kedesh in Naphtali and said to him, “Hasn’t the Lord, the God of Israel, commanded you: ‘Go, deploy the troops on Mount Tabor, and take with you ten thousand men from the Naphtalites and Zebulunites? Then I will lure Sisera commander of Jabin’s army, his chariots, and his infantry at the Wadi Kishon to fight against you, and I will hand him over to you.’”

Barak said to her, “If you will go with me, I will go. But if you will not go with me, I will not go.”“I will gladly go with you,” she said, “but you will receive no honor on the road you are about to take, because the Lord will sell Sisera to a woman.” So Deborah got up and went with Barak to Kedesh. Barak summoned Zebulun and Naphtali to Kedesh; ten thousand men followed him, and Deborah also went with him.

Now Heber the Kenite had moved away from the Kenites, the sons of Hobab, Moses’s father-in-law, and pitched his tent beside the oak tree of Zaanannim, which was near Kedesh.

It was reported to Sisera that Barak son of Abinoam had gone up Mount Tabor. Sisera summoned all his nine hundred iron chariots and all the troops who were with him from Harosheth of the Nations to the Wadi Kishon. Then Deborah said to Barak, “Go! This is the day the Lord has handed Sisera over to you. Hasn’t the Lord gone before you?” So Barak came down from Mount Tabor with ten thousand men following him.

The Lord threw Sisera, all his charioteers, and all his army into a panic before Barak’s assault. Sisera left his chariot and fled on foot. Barak pursued the chariots and the army as far as Harosheth of the Nations, and the whole army of Sisera fell by the sword; not a single man was left.
Judges 4:4-16 (CSB)

The time of the Judges was a period of great unrest and turmoil in Israel, when “everyone did whatever seemed right to him” (Judges 21:25). Deborah is the only female judge in Israel’s history. She rose up as the judge of God’s people when the Israelites had been sold to King Jabin of Canaan. In her role as judge she settled disputes, but she also served as a prophet, hearing from the Lord and relaying His messages to His people.

Deborah served Israel faithfully as its judge, until finally, the Lord called her to come against the Canaanites. God told Barak to gather troops to defeat Sisera, the commander of Jabin’s army — a mission Deborah confirmed when she summoned Barak and said, “Didn’t the Lord tell you to do this?”

Hearing his calling corroborated by a prophet and judge surely put Barak’s mind at ease, giving him the confidence to gather soldiers to fight the king’s army. However, though Deborah didn’t exhibit any doubt in God’s plan, Barak wasn’t sure enough to go without her. His reasoning may have been that if Deborah believed strongly enough in God’s plan to go to the front lines (and His protection for those who fought), then he would believe, too.

Showing the same faith and leadership she’d exhibited during her time as a judge, Deborah didn’t hesitate when Barak made his ultimatum. She gladly went with him (though she did note that his hesitation would mean he would not receive credit for the victory in the end). Together, Deborah and Barak led the Israelites into battle and ultimately victory over their enemies, bringing peace that lasted for decades (Judges 5:31b).

Have you been given a message from God? Something you feel compelled to share with someone in particular? Is it something that’s hard to say and even harder to hear? Don’t be scared! As James tells us, God will always answer when we ask Him for wisdom — and He will show you exactly what to say and when to speak up. However, when you do, be prepared to walk beside your brothers and sisters being called by God. Whether it’s something uncomfortable you need to say to another believer or the message of salvation to a nonbeliever, show your faith in God and the message He’s entrusted you with. And show your faithfulness by obeying the same exhortation you’ve imparted to others.

Deborah’s leadership in Israel came at a time when Israel needed it most. After her victory, she sings a song to the Lord, saying, “when the leaders lead in Israel . . . blessed be the Lord” (Judges 5:2). By fearlessly leading Israel against its enemies, both in word and deed, Deborah delivered Israel and, for a time, helped them turn back to the Lord. May we do the same, serving God’s people by sharing His message and linking arms with others as we obey it.

Heavenly Father, thank You for giving me a message to share. Thank You for trusting me to be the one to tell people about You. Thank You for believing in me, for believing that I can be brave enough and bold enough to say the things You’ve laid on my heart. I trust You and believe in You, too. And I know You will give me the courage I need to follow You this way. God, I ask for that courage and also for wisdom, for timing, for soft hearts prepared to hear Your truth when I share it. Help me be brave, Lord, please. And if You ask me to lead by example, I pray that I won’t hesitate. I pray that I’ll gladly follow You into the fight, just like Deborah. Give me courage, God. Give me wisdom. Give me everything I need to be Your ambassador here on earth. Thank You, Lord. Amen.

This is an excerpt from Women of Courage: a Forty-Day Devotional by Mary Carver.