Two Tiny Words That Hold the Power to Reframe Failure

Two Tiny Words That Hold the Power to Reframe Failure

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“So, basically, I blew it.”

Twenty minutes before, I’d walked into my counselor’s office with a light step and confidence. But after replaying the events of the prior weekend and talking through the words said and choices made, I knew I’d failed. Again.

My good mood escaped like air out of a balloon. How had I let that happen? I’d tried so hard to get it right. But here I was, once again, on the back side of an altercation, discovering I hadn’t handled it as well as I had thought I had. Nothing traumatic or irreparable. Still, I knew I had, in fact, blown it — in spite of my efforts to do otherwise.

Defeat pushed me deeper into the leather of her sofa. At the same time, another feeling niggled its way to the front, coloring my neck and face.

Embarrassment. I felt embarrassed.

“I can’t believe I blew it again,” I said, shaking my head back and forth in disbelief. When would I finally get this right?

But she didn’t agree with my conclusion.

“You didn’t blow it,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re learning.”

I don’t think I said anything for a full minute after that. Her words stunned even more than my assumed failure.

Excuse me? I wanted to say. Did you not hear my story?

But she’d heard. Now she wanted me to hear — not my words, but hers. The ones in which she exchanged my words for better ones.

You’re learning.

I’ve thought of her words countless times since that day, while coaching individuals and consulting with organizations. I’ve shared them with members of my team and offered them as a soft gift to a young woman I mentor. But more than using her words to serve others, I’ve used them to serve myself and my own heart.

I’ve long been merciless with my self-flagellation. I remember moments in childhood when I beat myself up for any and every infraction. I thought that was what you were supposed to do when you failed — punish yourself enough and you’re not likely to repeat the same mistake.

But shame and self-loathing aren’t good companions. And, as it turns out, it doesn’t do much to change human behavior. Instead of inspiring change, self-recrimination fuels shame. And shame is a poor teacher.

With her two words, my counselor changed my position after my inevitable mistakes. Rather than positioning myself at the other end of a whip, I prop myself in the chair at the front of the classroom.

Paul said it this way:

Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.
Romans 8:1 (NIV)

In Christ, I am not condemned. Instead, through the power of His presence in me, I am slowly being transformed into His likeness, one day and moment at a time. That means I am a student, not a screw-up. And this shift — as small as it appears — changes everything about my human experience. It changes how I see me, how I process my many mistakes and failures. It helps me turn shame into confession, failure into growth. And, like a buy-one-get-one-free deal, it also changes how I perceive other mistake-laden, imperfect humans just like me.

In other words, I’m a student, not a screw-up. And so are you.

We’re all learning, doing our best to be our best, even when some days all we offer is our worst.

In fact, we’re learning together — if, of course, we can lay aside our whips long enough to let compassion and empathy connect us.

What about you, friend? What is your typical self-talk when you realize you made a mistake? Whether you say it out loud or not, there is a narrative you follow. And that narrative will either lead you to a prison or a classroom.

The good news? You get to choose. So choose well.

The Importance of the Living Table

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Born and raised in Arkansas, I’m as Southern as a girl can get. If my two sisters and I weren’t at school, we were at church, and if we weren’t at church, we were sitting around the table eating together. The table — it’s where I grew up, the place where I laughed, cried, shared exciting news (and not so exciting news), debated with my sisters, and opened my heart to Jesus. I didn’t realize how much that table meant to me until I moved away.

At age twenty-four, I moved to Birmingham, Alabama. For the first time in my life, I lived alone and worked long hours, leaving little time for community and friendships. Lonely and depressed, I thought my life was incomplete because I was single. I threw myself at dating apps and constantly felt discouraged. After weeks of hearing me complain about my terrible life, my mom offered me the best advice I’ve ever received: “God calls us to serve people. Why don’t you cook a meal and invite people over?” And then she finished with a phrase that she has repeated over the years to my sisters and me: “Be a blessing.”

After rolling my eyes and grumbling for longer than I would like to admit, I took my mother’s advice. I cracked open a cookbook and hosted dinner for friends for the first time in my adult life. The four of us squeezed around a table for two — and had the best time. I will always remember that night because I made four-cheese tortellini. It was terrible. But that night God taught me something important: I was lonely, not because I was single, but because I had not been investing in and nurturing a community in my life.

That night Jesus ignited in me a desire for community, a realization of the importance of the table, and a curiosity for the art of hospitality. Fast-forward seven years and here we are.

After four years of cooking for friends and hosting dinner parties every week (around my very small apartment table), I decided to share my love of hospitality with the world and launched my blog, A Table Top Affair. I also started posting my recipes and party ideas on Pinterest and Instagram. I wanted to encourage people who were stuck in a rut, people who didn’t know how to meet others or how to cultivate their own community. So I began trying to put a formula to it — a formula for empowering people to overcome their insecurities in the kitchen and to truly invest in opening their homes even though they might not have the picture-perfect family.

It took me being single and lonely to see that God had big plans for me around my kitchen table. If I wasn’t single or had put off embracing hospitality until I had a husband and 2.5 kids, I would have missed all the memories, relationships, and conversations about Jesus around that table.

At some deep level, I believe we are drawn to the table. When Jesus said, “I am the bread of life,” I believe He literally meant for us to bring people to the table and serve them and to let Him do the rest. When we set the table and prepare a meal, there is something supernatural that happens to our hearts. It’s undeniable!

Throughout my book, The Living Table, it is my hope that you will be inspired to clean off your table and prepare to serve others. In fact, I have an easy go-to handbook that is full of tips on how to be prepared to serve. Trust me, I know life gets overwhelming and busy, but God longs for us to release all our pressures to Him. He wants us to live peaceful lives — lives that are full of joy and fellowship.

No matter what phase of life you are in (single, married, mom with littles, empty nester, or recently retired), loneliness can overwhelm any one of us. It’s our community that encourages us through the ups and downs of our lives, and through these interactions we get to experience the joy of God’s goodness. So, what do you think? Is God calling you to dust off your table and open your door? If so, why not follow His lead? After all, He will be with you throughout the process, giving you everything you need.

My prayer is that the joy of hospitality that permeates the pages of this book will begin to infect your life.

In The Living Table: Recipes and Devotions for Everyday Get-Togethers, Abby Turner shares easy-to-recreate recipes and fun DIY projects that take fifteen minutes or less. Each section starts with a first-hand account of the miraculous ways God has showed up at Abby’s table — how deep conversations have led to deep spiritual growth, how a new friend has become a forever friend, and how tears and laughs and mishaps have become treasured memories. With each section focusing on specific tables (dinner table, coffee table, outside table, etc.), you’ll discover fast and easy ways to liven up any moment, whether that be Tuesday night home with family or a well-thought-out Thanksgiving.

God is asking each of us to open our homes and prepare our tables, and The Living Table devotional cookbook equips the most intimidated hostess. Hosting isn’t about being perfect; it’s about offering care to one another and building community.

To celebrate this beautiful new book, we are giving away FIVE copies of The Living Table!*

To enter, tell us in the comments how you cultivate community right where you are, and we’ll choose five lucky winners!

Then tune in tomorrow, May 26th, at 11:00 am CST on Facebook for a conversation with Abby Turner and Becky Keife as they discuss The Living Table.

*Giveaway is open to US addresses only and ends at 11:59pm CST on May 28, 2021.

What Did David Know That I Don’t?

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When I was eight, I memorized Psalm 23 to recite before our church. I climbed the steps, turned to face the audience, and promptly came down with the worst case of stage fright anyone’s ever experienced in the history of stages.

Other than that awful moment, Psalm 23 has stuck with me. But recently, it became like new when I was struck by an image from verse five:

You prepare a table before me in the midst of my enemies.

Psalm 23 is attributed to David, the shepherd king, and in this wild verse, the shepherd sees his threats but he doesn’t square himself to fight back. He doesn’t reach for a slingshot or a staff or a sword. He doesn’t run. He doesn’t hide.

He sits down.

In the midst of his troubles, he sees a table set for him deliberately, and he sits down, tucks in his napkin, and (I imagine) eats.

I couldn’t shake the image. What did David know about warfare and trouble that I don’t know? David’s enemies were literal killers (lions and bears, Goliath the giant, Saul the manic king who hunted him for almost a decade), and though my enemies aren’t the same, they’ve still felt consuming: crippling self-criticism, fears in the dead of night about God’s goodness, questions about evil that don’t seem to have answers, anger, racism that sabotages my theology, and misogyny. 

But what if I learned to fight my enemies by sitting down to feast? 

It’s a question that has changed my life. As I’ve sat with Psalm 23, my eyes have been opened over and over again to what I’ve become consumed by in search for scraps. I beg for crumbs when all along, there’s a table groaning with good food and a chair with my name on it.

David’s feast is the answer to my enemies.

Instead of scathing condemnation for myself and the people around me, when I sit down at the Psalm 23 feast, I find a platter heaped with my favorite fried, lightly glazed donuts, delicious little pillows of tender compassion and serene acceptance. I find an unending basket of chips and queso, a little bowl of happiness in the form of thanksgiving and gratefulness to ward off the worry. There’s a pot of pinto beans, like my grandmother used to make, to remind me that if evil seems endless, love never sleeps. There’s also a fresh-baked apple pie à la mode with a flaky, buttery crust, to comfort me while I give space to my anger and find that it was grief all along. A bowl full of perfectly ripe Georgia peaches sits on the corner of the table, and as I tear into them, the juices drip down my chin, a reminder that God is both a righteous judge and the payment for my sin.  

This Psalm 23 feast is abundant beyond our wildest dreams, and everything we need is before us. So, how do we learn to sit and eat? We learn to receive God’s love and acceptance, just like Jesus did.  

When Jesus was getting baptized, the heavens opened, and a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased” (Matthew 3:17 NIV). He hadn’t begun His ministry, fed the five thousand, walked on water, raised the dead, or died sacrificially, and still He was entirely loved and accepted by God. And if we are in Christ, so are we.  

The goodness of God takes many forms at David’s Psalm 23 feast. It is the answer to every fear that keeps us up at night, to every surge of anger that takes our breath away. And it is ultimately expressed in Jesus’ sacrifice on our behalf. Jesus’ body was broken for us, His blood was spilled for us, and this is the feast of goodness God prepares for you right now, in the midst of your enemies — His abundant love, grace, help, and presence.

The table is prepared for you, just like it was prepared for David. Just sit down and eat.  

Here Together, Alive and Real

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Tennis shoes, Ugg boots, Converses, and flip flops litter the entryway. It’s the typical yet eclectic assortment of footwear for those of us who live in Southern California, where it’s mild for most of the year with the occasional staccato notes of actual cold and hot. They look so happy all jumbled together on the tile floor, and I snap a photo to remember the feeling of the moment: full. The boisterous laughter from the adult table that comes from a lifetime of knowing each other, the gaggle of children running back and forth through the hallway screaming with delight, the silver disposable trays filled with barbecued meats and sides lined up on the kitchen countertop — the house is full in every sense of the word, and in that moment, I know if I let myself really feel the overwhelming love I’m witnessing, I’ll burst into tears.

Now, the entryway is tidy, with shoes lined up along the wall. It’s been too long since we’ve been able to bring the extended family together with the deaths of both grandparents this past year and because of COVID. With grandma and grandpa gone, it feels like we’re strings loosely strung together, slowly unraveling in the wind. Perhaps we’re not ready to be together because it will force us to face the grief yet again. Perhaps they were what kept us tight, and we need to find new ways to weave ourselves back toward one another again. Perhaps we don’t know how to simply be and enjoy each other’s presence because the last few times we had gathered were for mourning and not rejoicing.

I long for nearness again with people — to sit in coffee shops for hours and spend too much time wondering about the couple sitting next to me instead of writing, to tilt my head back and laugh out loud without worrying about the amount of bacteria erupting from my mouth, to freely embrace friends instead of elbow bumping each other out of caution. Nearness feels like a luxury, a dream for later days, the answer to my children’s prayer at every meal: “God, please make the coronavirus go away.”

I have such few words when I pray these days, so I simply repeat the same words again and again: Lord, Lord, Lord, be near, be near, be near. Again and again, I ask for His presence to penetrate through hospital walls, isolated minds or tension-filled relationships, like the time Jesus showed up in the upper room to a group of frightened disciples. I ask for the miraculous, knowing that many today are like those disciples — alone, unsure, and stuck inside a room. His nearness didn’t make sense to them, so Jesus invited them to touch and see His hands and feet, to give Him something to eat because He was real and not a ghost.

Luke 24:41 says, “[The disciples] still did not believe it because of joy and amazement,” and I wonder if they were like me these days, squeezing the arms of the few friends I’ve seen in person, saying, “You’re real. You’re here. We’re here.”

It’s no wonder that we long for nearness because God came near to us first. He walked in the Garden of Eden with Adam at the beginning of time and then sent His Son to be born as a baby so He could make His dwelling among us (John 1:14). We weren’t only created for community but also for the physical nearness that being in community provides. Being with each other is a taste of God Emmanuel.

One day, I hope we can jump up and down while hugging each other not just because we’re vaccinated but because we just don’t have to worry about getting sick anymore. One day, I hope rubbing shoulders with strangers again and seeing their whole faces will remind us that we’re fellow human beings navigating complicated lives, that we’re more than tiny, smiling icons on a social media profile. One day, I hope the entryway gets filled with shoes haphazardly strewn about — a reminder that we are here, together, alive, and real.

Giving Grace in the Days of COVID

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I can easily recall my emotions from the early days of the pandemic: fear of catching the virus, nervousness that every person or surface I encountered was covered in it, paranoia each day when my husband went to work that he would be exposed and bring it home, and uncertainty for the future.

At the same time, I was fascinated by the idea that our planet shared a group experience. Working from home (or not at all) became the new norm. A tank of gas could last for weeks. We washed our hands like surgeons, counted our rolls of toilet paper, compared notes on the best grocery store delivery services, and searched our homes for the spots with the best lighting and backdrops for Zoom meetings. So many of our concerns felt universal.

Now it’s spring 2021, and we’re adjusting to life in a hopefully waning pandemic. I drive around less than before COVID but shop in person more than I did last year. I participate in two book clubs. My children experienced a fairly normal track season and attended their state meet. Our family sold our house and moved recently. These things feel blissfully ordinary, and I’m thankful for it.

Last March our lives changed radically, almost in the blink of an eye. We’re emerging from the pandemic at a slower pace than we entered it. Stores, restaurants, schools, and theaters closed all at once but are now reopening on their own timetables. We are re-emerging individually on our own timetables too.

Many of our families have been touched by COVID either directly or indirectly; two of my eight children contracted the virus last fall. Understandably, each of us will resume our normal activities and level of social interaction at a different pace, at our own comfort level. Situations that now feel comfortable to you may still leave your best friend or your husband unsettled — or vice versa — and that’s okay.

It’s okay if you’re ready to resume life as usual, and it’s okay if you’re not. It’s okay if you’re comfortable or uncomfortable in public or with groups of friends. The pandemic presented us with an unprecedented-in-our-lifetime shared experience, but our responses to it are varied and unique.

And although COVID took many things from us, it’s offered us an opportunity to extend to each other a new kind of grace: learning to live peaceably with one another even when we don’t agree on how we should be responding. 

If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.
Romans 12:18 (ESV)

Lately, I’ve been feeling the tension of having to make decisions that have no easy right or wrong answer and to know that my friends and family members — including my own children — may or may not agree with my choices. I ponder the question, What would Jesus do?, to guide my decisions, and I understand that my answer to that question could differ from others — whether that has to do with vaccines or gathering in person for church or traveling. I don’t know how He might’ve responded to this pandemic and the choices we’ve all had to face, but I believe He would’ve grieved with those who grieved, rejoiced with those who rejoiced, and loved everyone well. He was the ultimate giver of grace.

This pandemic has forced us to make decisions we may feel ill-equipped to make, and I need to keep reminding myself that while we may not come to the same conclusions, we’re all doing the best we can.

Members of my immediate family have made different decisions regarding social distancing and the vaccine, and we’ve learned to treat each other’s decisions with respect. I can’t choose for them and they can’t choose for me, but we can choose to give each other grace and show kindness when we don’t agree.

Matthew 5:9 tells us, “Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.” A peacemaker doesn’t just listen to words but to the people who speak them. A peacemaker listens with more than ears; they listen with their heart. The pandemic has disrupted our lives physically, socially, and emotionally. Let us be peacemakers and grace-givers who help to bring healing as we seek to understand each other’s choices and give each other grace in the days of COVID — and beyond.

Being Honest Instead of Just Being “Fine”

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I was standing in the lobby at church waiting for my husband when a friend I hadn’t seen in a long time walked up and asked how I was doing. Should I be honest? I wondered. What if she’s just asking to be nice? What if I start crying, and she doesn’t have time to listen?

I could keep it simple and say, “I’m fine,” but I knew I’d be lying. I wasn’t fine. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and really sad. Our daughter had recently been diagnosed with significant developmental delays and multiple learning disabilities. And I was carrying what felt like 500 pounds of uncertainty, not knowing what our little girl’s future would look like or how much to share with others because I didn’t want them to see her differently.

It’s hard to let people know how we’re really doing when the burdens we carry aren’t just our own. Sometimes I act like I am fine because I don’t want to seem weak or like a high-maintenance friend. It’s also easy to think people don’t really want to know when they ask. The truth is, sometimes they are just being nice.

But what about those times when someone sincerely wants to know and I still don’t want to tell them? Honestly, there are times when I will say I’m fine because I want to be. I think that by saying that I can somehow move my emotions in that direction instead of dealing with the messy emotions that are bubbling up inside of me. There have been times when I say I’m fine because I think others expect me to be, whether that’s true or not. And there are also days when hormones and sleep deprivation trump all good manners and if my people are within ten feet they know I am not fine. In fact, if I say I’m fine what I really mean is I’m feeling frazzled, irritated, neurotic, and exhausted!

But not in public — not when telling someone how I’m really doing feels like too big of a risk. And that is how I felt that day in the lobby at church. At a pivotal point of decision. Will I be honest and let her see all of me? Should I let her know how I’m really doing?

Everything in me wanted to keep my guard up, my lips sealed, and my heart safe. But I was tired — tired of pretending I was fine. So I took a risk and let my heart, my words, and my tears spill. I shared the hard parts of countless assessments and these unexpected diagnoses, and the fear of not knowing what our girl’s future would look like.

My friend listened and offered to help. She also prayed for me, and then she thanked me for being willing to be honest and let her know what was really going on. Before she walked away, she paused and told me how often she looked at my life and assumed I was fine and had things all put together. But knowing I needed help, prayers and encouragement — and didn’t have it all figured out — made her feel normal.

That day I saw God working His grace and His strength in my weakness, and I was reminded of the promise the Lord had made to the apostle Paul when He told him, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9 NIV).

I am learning that when I’m willing to be weak, God gets to be strong. And when I’m willing to be real, others get to see, pray for, and get to know the real me and the real God I desperately need and love.

A Woman of Courageous Influence

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A woman from Samaria came to draw water. Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink.” (For his disciples had gone away into the city to buy food.) The Samaritan woman said to him, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask for a drink from me, a woman of Samaria?” (For Jews have no dealings with Samaritans.) Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.” The woman said to him, “Sir, you have nothing to draw water with, and the well is deep. W here do you get that living water? Are you greater than our father Jacob? He gave us the well and drank from it himself, as did his sons and his livestock.” Jesus said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water, so that I will not be thirsty or have to come here to draw water.”

Jesus said to her, “Go, call your husband, and come here.” The woman answered him, “I have no husband.” Jesus said to her, “You are right in saying, ‘I have no husband’; for you have had five husbands, and the one you now have is not your husband. What you have said is true.”

…

The woman said to him, “I know that Messiah is coming (he who is called Christ). When he comes, he will tell us all things.” Jesus said to her, “I who speak to you am he.”
John 4:7-26 (ESV)

The Samaritan woman was at the right place at the right time. This likely came as a surprise to her since she was drawing water in the middle of the day rather than the more common morning hours, possibly to avoid the townspeople who knew of her sins and were critical of her lifestyle. Assuming no one else would want to face the heat, she probably walked to the well in the hottest part of the day with hopes to be alone, to be left in peace. But on this day her plans to keep to herself were thwarted by an unexpected Jewish man asking for a drink.

How startling and confusing and maybe even frustrating that encounter must have been at first! Not only was the well not deserted as she expected, but here was a man — a Jewish man — speaking to her — a Samaritan woman! Though she was acquainted with breaking the rules, she was likely surprised that a religious teacher would do so.

Perhaps the shock of the situation is what emboldened her to question Jesus outright, asking why He spoke to her and where He got the mysterious living water He mentioned. Or perhaps she was simply moved that someone would speak to her kindly and openly. Maybe she thought she’d take advantage of a stranger’s ignorance of her reputation and enjoy a conversation with someone who knew nothing of her past.

What the woman quickly realized, though, is that this was no stranger, and He somehow knew secrets about more than water. He knew her, past and all. Though she’d never met Jesus before that day, and He was presumably a visitor to her town, He knew exactly who she was and what she’d done. But what was equally baffling to this intimate knowledge was His response to it — and to her.

Even knowing what He did about her, Jesus still spoke to the woman at the well. He still asked her for water, then offered her living water. Though He named her sins and forced her to face the truth of her choices, He offered her mercy. He knew her — and He loved her anyway.

He did not condemn her, but instead, revealed her sin for what it was and allowed her to see the truth. He showed her the difference between the life she had and the life she could have in Him. He changed all of her perceptions by breaking barriers and offering grace.

The Samaritan woman walked to the well that day expecting to simply finish a repetitive, daily chore unnoticed. Yet that trip — and her encounter with Jesus — was far from mundane, and it changed her forever. Because she met the Savior who had seen and known her all along, she was transformed.

So changed was this woman that she couldn’t contain her joy. She was no longer striving to remain hidden or unseen — in fact, instead of running away from the townspeople in shame, she ran toward them with good news. She led many in her town to Christ and many Samaritans believed because of her testimony. Her brokenness not only changed the course of her life and drew her to Jesus, but it also changed many lives in Samaria that day and in the days and weeks to come. That’s beautiful brokenness.

As we go about our everyday chores and our usual routines today, may we keep our eyes up and watching for Jesus. May we embrace an unexpected encounter with the One who quenches every thirst and washes away every sin. May we run toward those we usually shy away from, carrying good news of the God who knows them to the same level He knows us. May we accept His grace so fully that we let Him turn our brokenness to beauty.

Originally written by Mary Carver for Women of Courage: a Forty-Day Devotional, and has been edited for today’s article.

Who, like the Samaritan Woman, has been a woman of courageous influence in your life? Tell us about her in the comments!

 

The Best Recommendation We Can Give

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Recently, I was with a group of friends, and we started throwing around suggestions for binge-worthy shows. It was one of those conversations without much substance, light-hearted and fun, and sometimes exactly what you need, especially after a long time without your girlfriends.

Binge-watching Netflix wasn’t new when COVID came along last year, but for many of us, I suspect, it became some sort of coping mechanism. All that time at home and limited options for entertainment, it made perfect sense that the path we’d follow is one of least resistance. Friends and family were on the ready with their favorite recommendations, and I imagine we all watched shows we might not ever have considered before quarantine. It was just that, suddenly, we all had time on our hands, begging to be filled with something — anything, really. How else can you explain the popularity of the train wreck otherwise known as Tiger King? Would I ever have watched a show where chess is the central character apart from friends telling me how great it was?

One of the reasons we’re eager to share Netflix recommendations, I’m guessing, is because those opinions are “safe” topics compared to, say, the lightning rods of politics, gun control, or whether or not we should still be wearing masks. Everyone can add something to the conversation and probably won’t offend you in the process.

Later though, it got me thinking, and an unsettling thought I couldn’t push aside began forming:

Do I have as much passion or enthusiasm when I share the gospel (or about how God is working in my life) as I do when I talk about my new favorite show?

It’s a question that stirs conviction, isn’t it? I realized I can get more excited about telling someone why I found The Queen’s Gambit fascinating or why Ted Lasso is the feel-good show of the year than when I explain how Jesus has changed my life.

Not long afterwards, I read an Old Testament passage that brought those TV-related thoughts and convictions to mind while simultaneously offering something better to hold my attention. In Jeremiah 9:23-24, it says, 

Thus says the Lord: “Let not the wise man boast in his wisdom, let not the mighty man boast in his might, let not the rich man boast in his riches, but let him who boasts boast in this, that he understands and knows me, that I am the Lord who practices steadfast love, justice, and righteousness in the earth. For in these things I delight, declares the Lord.”

Isn’t God gracious in this way? We aren’t left to wonder what delights Him. Without having to search the ends of the earth for answers, He hands us keys that open doors of wisdom and understanding and challenges the identity we find in our own wisdom, strength, wealth, or even our coping mechanisms. By reorienting our thinking to what matters to God, He naturally becomes the center of our perspective. Gone is the pressure of self-reliance as we rightly place our confidence in Christ.  

It’s not that binge-watching shows is a bad thing, but we’re prone to find ways to fix ourselves or to fill the gaping lack we may feel by keeping ourselves busy. It’s a good reminder that our faith has nothing to do with what we bring to the table — what we can do or not do — but everything to do with what God has accomplished on our behalf through the life, death, and resurrection of His Son.

Isn’t it astonishing that God wants us to understand and know Him? From Genesis to Revelation, He reveals His character, and in this passage in Jeremiah, we learn that He practices and delights in steadfast love, justice, and righteousness. When we go and do likewise not only are we following Him, but we’re becoming more like Him.

Any wisdom, might, or money (or all those TV show recommendations) we accumulate does nothing for us when our lives end. But focusing on and delighting in what matters to God carries eternal value.

Ours is a generous God who goes to great lengths to show and tell us who He is. This is the God who saved us. This is the Holy One who has reconciled us to Himself. So, when we start thinking about our favorite things to share with those we love, His is a story we can get excited about recommending!

When God Calls Us to “Go with” Them

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Yazmin lingered in the pews at the back of our church sanctuary, chatting with a friend as she bounced her baby boy, who was just a couple of months old at the time. I knew her from our mom’s group and as a leader in our church’s Spanish service and youth group.

I had just finished emceeing a two-day conference on the theme of discipleship, and as I approached her, she greeted me with a warm smile and dark chocolate eyes.

After a pregnant pause, she said almost apologetically, “I’ve been wanting to ask you something. Would you consider being my mentor?”

The words stopped me in my tracks.

I asked her more about what she desired. She explained she was a new mama and leader and longed for someone a little bit farther down the road to process life and ministry and provide wisdom and accountability.

I thought about the women who had mentored me over the years. Our pastor’s wife Michelle had welcomed me to her Bible study group when I was an uncertain, nursing mother. She’d make me lunch in her home, impart wisdom from God’s Word, and eventually empower me to lead a Bible study group of my own. My thoughts skipped to my friend Serena, who had prayed for me through the years, speaking life-giving words over my leadership and helping care for my daughters.

I didn’t feel particularly wise or ready to be a mentor at that moment, but I said yes to Yazmin. Saying yes was simply answering the call to go with her down the road God was leading her. She needed a friend and a prayer partner.

The first time we met, we hung out at In-n-Out Burger with her sweet, brown-haired boy cooing in his baby carrier. Our mentorship was birthed over Double-doubles and French fries.

That was more than five years ago.

Now, we call on the Holy Spirit together, while folding laundry or making guacamole. I often invite her to “go with” me in ministry. She’s been there when I’ve spoken at churches and conferences and has served on my leadership teams.

In turn, Yazmin has invited me to “go with” her on a journey of healing — mentoring her through a 12-step program and even coaching her to the finish line of a few half marathons.

I never imagined where God would take us and our friendship, but Yazmin has become one of my dearest friends and confidantes. God brought both of us through some very painful and challenging seasons and also ushered us into seasons of flourishing in leadership and life.

She’s one of the few people who consistently showed up for me during the pandemic. Whether we sipped hibiscus tea sitting in lawn chairs in my driveway or met socially-distanced at a local coffee shop, we continued to do life together. She’s ministered to me as much as I’ve mentored her.

My relationship with Yazmin reminds me of the story of Deborah, the only female judge in Israel’s history. Deborah was a boss lady, who shattered the stereotypes about women in leadership during her day. She was a prophetess, judge, mentor, spoken word artist, friend, and wife.

Deborah understood the power of “going with” someone.

In Judges 4, Deborah summoned Barak and gave him a word from the God of Israel. She confirmed that God wanted him to take 10,000 warriors to Mount Tabor to defeat Sisera, the commander of the enemy army. She basically challenged him by asking, “Didn’t the Lord tell you to do this?”

Barak replied, “I will go, but only if you go with me.”

Deborah agreed to go with him, and though Barak hesitated, Deborah exhorted him. Her presence gave him the confidence he needed to move forward in what God was commanding him to do. The Bible tells us Deborah was with Barak every step of the way, reminding him of God’s presence on the journey.

Deborah was God’s messenger of encouragement and strength. Her wisdom and voice empowered individuals and armies. 

As we read in her song in Judges 5, Deborah owned who she was and who God had called her to be. She led the people in worship, bringing glory to God and praising Barak and Jael, the woman who actually killed Sisera.

More than a thousand years later, God sent His Son to earth. They called Him Immanuel, meaning “God with us.” Jesus came to earth to be with us and to lead us — from the cross, to resurrection, to eternal life.

Friend, you don’t have to be in an official mentoring capacity to be used by God. You simply have to “go with” the person He calls you to invest in. This is a gift we can offer each other. Maybe He’s calling you to “go with” your daughter and offer her wisdom and encouragement. Maybe He’s calling you to lead your organization and “go with” your team in a new direction. Maybe your husband needs you to “go with” him and pray over him. Maybe you can “go with” your sister in Christ, who is learning to rise up and voice her story.

Whoever it is, let’s aspire to be mentors, leaders, and friends like Deborah, like Jesus, whose with-ness empowers us to do the same for others.

Who is God calling you to “go with” today? 

 

Dorina is the author of a devotional called Walk Run Soar. Find out more details about her writing and sign up for her Glorygram for regular encouragement here.

The Conversation That Changed Everything

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We were hiding from the heat, sisters in solidarity against vacations on the surface of the sun. While most of our friends lounged by the pool, living their best lives with umbrella drinks and beach reads, the four of us sought refuge in the blessed air-conditioned hotel room. In the privacy of that room, we could finally admit that we were melting and a little bit hangry about it (hangry = hot + angry).

As we commiserated and cooled off, our conversation quickly turned to deeper topics.

I can still see us in that room, two of us on each of the two beds, facing each other and slowly getting comfortable. I’m not sure how we got from “I cannot deal with this heat” to “Some spaces aren’t safe for people who look like me,” but we did. Of the four of us, one of my friends was African-American and one was Asian-American. As they began to share their lived experiences in the world and on the internet, I was shocked.

Listening to their stories, I was shocked both by what I was hearing and learning and by my own reaction. At one point, I sat on my hands in an attempt to remind myself to stay quiet and listen. I’d never before taken the phrase “bite your tongue” as literal advice, but as I felt protests rattling in my throat, I wondered if I would need to actually bite my tongue.

“But I’m not like that!” I screamed internally. “I would never treat you like that — and I’m so mad anyone ever did!” I longed to say. Words of encouragement and empathy tend to be my friendship superpower, but somehow I knew this wasn’t the time. Somehow, I sensed that expressed rage on my friends’ behalf wasn’t what was needed. It wasn’t what would help and it might even hurt.

I sat in that hotel room in the summer of 2017, listening to my friends talk and carefully asking follow-up questions. It took restraint that I don’t normally exercise, discernment and discipline that can only be attributed to the Holy Spirit. And not only did God make it clear that I should talk less and listen more, but He also helped me hear something new, something heart-changing.

When I heard my friends say that they didn’t feel welcome in communities that included very few people of color, my gut reaction was to yell, “But you ARE welcome! I promise! I want you there! You SHOULD feel welcome there!” I don’t think that reaction was completely wrong, but it was coming from a place of ignorance. I didn’t know what I didn’t know, but from that conversation and many more that have followed, I began to learn.

I’ve learned that I really don’t understand what it’s like to be a person of color in the United States. And as much as I’ve wanted to say, “We’re all the same!” and move on, glossing over our differences erases the pain and struggle and the beauty of those very differences. I’ve learned that just because I’m not overtly racist, it doesn’t mean that I don’t have beliefs and benefit from a system that is rooted in racist and wrong assumptions and misunderstandings about people who are different from me.

I’ve learned that I have a lot to learn, and I won’t be able to do that if I open my mouth and shout, “Not me!” and “Not every . . . !” each time the issue of race comes up. I’ve learned that feeling things in my heart is a good start, but it doesn’t actually help my sisters and brothers of color. Well-intentioned emotions aren’t enough. Understanding is just the first step — and a steeper one than I’d previously imagined. Because of my friends’ honesty and the prompting of the Holy Spirit, I’ve come to understand that I can and should take action in creating a world that’s welcoming and safe for all.

That day opened my eyes to the struggles and pain my friends (and others) were facing, to issues I had not understood, and problems I had not considered. Our conversation changed me — and continues to change me still. It was the beginning of my realization that simply feeling sad about racism or shouting supportive words aren’t enough to make a difference. It’s a privilege to listen and hold my friends’ stories, and I’m grateful that in His love, God revealed the ways my posture, my beliefs, and my actions needed to change so I can truly love others as He does.

Fast forward to today, and God has been faithfully persistent in teaching me that embracing and celebrating the diversity of His people is how I can see Him more fully. Through reading books, watching movies, and listening to the stories shared by my fellow (in)courage sisters here, I’m being humbled and keeping my heart soft. I’m learning to sit in the discomfort of challenging my long-held perspectives and knee-jerk reactions, having hard but good conversations with my kids, and doing the long-term work of justice in my everyday life.

I don’t always get it right, but that’s part of the process of growing. We learn. We mess up. We do our best to make things right. And we keep going.

How is God teaching you to listen to others when they share their experiences?

Don’t Give Up in the Valley of Affliction

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The emerald valley folds us in a warm embrace as we follow the trail through thick skunk cabbage. The little one at my side tells me his legs are getting tired, and I pat him on the back.   

“Don’t stop now,” I encourage. “This is when your muscles get stronger.” 

He doesn’t say a word, but he nods his head, and I catch him reaching to check his biceps. We hike another mile, and he doesn’t complain again though he does stop to check his biceps a few more times. 

Later, as the stars sing their silver songs through my open bedroom window, I reflect on the day and smile at my little boy’s tenacity. He’d do just about anything for bigger muscles, and I could learn a thing or two from his determination.   

Our family has walked through some uncharted territory throughout the past year. Like so many families in this unique season in history, we’ve navigated challenges we never imagined facing.   

I applaud moms who homeschool their kids, but it wasn’t in my plan to do that with mine. This past year, I got a glimpse of their lives as I supported my oldest two children through months of remote learning, all while trying to keep a one-year-old happy and quiet.   

I also set aside big goals for my writing career to invest in my family, and I’d be lying to say I wasn’t disappointed. Between the extra responsibilities at home and the painfulness of social isolation, life was and continues to be tough. It’s grueling — kind of like a long walk through a valley that feels like it will never end. 

I’ve broken down in tears more times than I can count (which isn’t like me). 

I’ve lost my temper and wondered if I was failing my kids. 

I’ve looked to the sky and prayed for God to put an end to this long and difficult season. 

As I reflect on my life in the starlight, a phrase comes to mind. It’s the same phrase I spoke to my son earlier in the day: “Don’t stop now. This is where your muscles get stronger.” 

My leg muscles might not be building strength in this valley, but God is gently reminding me about the heart-work He does in the valleys of life. Our loving Father strengthens our spiritual muscles in the valley of affliction.   

I know this is true because I’ve lived it out. The seasons of profound growth in my life almost always coincide with seasons of profound affliction. The longer He asks me to walk through the valley of suffering, the deeper the work He does in my heart. 

It’s downright painful to walk through valleys we didn’t choose for ourselves. It’s hard to set our big dreams aside and tend to humble work in unseen realms of ministry, like caring for aging family members, swaddling newborns at 2:30 a.m., and faithfully returning to a mundane job for years on end. However, when we faithfully keep doing the work God has asked us to undertake, we build a spiritual stamina we will never find on the mountaintops of life. 

We long for difficult seasons to end, and it’s hard to watch the months slip by without a reprieve in sight. Let’s not lose heart. Let’s cling to these words of truth: “So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up” (Galatians 6:9 NLT). 

I consider these words in the dusky silence, and I tell God I don’t particularly enjoy the heart-work that happens in life’s valleys. I struggle to juggle the calling He’s set before me, and it’s not the calling I would have chosen for myself. Also, this isn’t what I wanted my year to look like. 

In the silence, I am gently reminded that we don’t get to choose the valleys we will face in this life. When God places a difficult assignment in front of me — an assignment only I can complete — this assignment is my calling for the season.

I can choose to grumble and stumble through the season with an offended heart, or I can open my clenched fists, receive the assignment, and work at it with all my heart. In the process, He will use the struggle to make me mature and complete.   

I pray you will find the strength to keep pressing forward today, friend. God uses the longest valleys to shape us into the women we are becoming. Don’t give up. Your muscles are getting stronger. 

Our Intention and Impact Resonate

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Recently, I became exhausted and nauseated by the noise of Facebook and Instagram — so much so that I had to take a social media hiatus. Prior to my pause, I loved peeking through posts and images to get updates on my friends’ lives. I enjoyed broadening my understanding through people’s personal stories and gaining professional guidance. But in the last few months, the social-scape has been overrun with weeds of miscommunication, fear mongering, and deafening disrespect. Posts and comments trumpeting to be seen and heard have drowned out the listening to understand and connect. The collective blast has felt unbearable!

Over the years, I’ve learned that the sound I put forth into the world, whether through words written or songs sung, speaks volumes about my Source, my motivation, and my intention. Both my intention and my impact resonate.

In the story of the widow’s offering (Luke 21:1-4), Jesus turns His disciples’ attention to the people in the courtyard who pause at the treasury receptacles encircling the courtyard, to give an offering. Atop each receptacle was a shiny, metal trumpet-shaped receiver, which amplified the sound of coins when they were dropped in. Everyone would be able to hear the sound of each person’s offering.

The rich would lift their loads of shekels up high so that their offering thundered and echoed throughout the courtyard. The pageantry of noise would make heads turn, garner oohs and ahhs, and get the rich noticed. With their noisy offerings, the rich would be considered generous and admirable. Perhaps the priests would offer to inscribe their names on a pew or a parking space . . . just kidding.

And those who were not rich would huddle over the metal trumpet-shaped receiver and inconspicuously place their coins into it so as not to attract attention to themselves.

When the poor widow enters the courtyard and puts two, small copper coins in the receptacle, Jesus points her out to His disciples. I imagine that the widow’s offering barely made a clink, clink. Perhaps her tiny coins, in lackluster fashion, quickly slid down the metal receiver and quietly rested among the mound of coins in the offering box.
What I love is that Jesus sees her — a woman, widowed, impoverished. He hears her clink, clink. In the courtyard, among all of the blaring, noisy coin drops, clanging and clamoring on behalf of worshippers wanting to be worshipped for their riches, Jesus sees and hears her heart. Her clink, clink wins His attention and admiration, and the sound of her worshipful offering — the motivation behind it, her posture, and her effort — becomes the standard by which we should make noise.

Just as Jesus pointed out in the courtyard, the loudest, most boisterous acclamations in God’s name are not necessarily God-centered or Spirit-inspired.

Several years ago, when Holy Spirit invited me to a ministry of racial healing, I created a communication covenant for myself. I wanted to profess my intention and commit to contributing a sound like that of the widow — worshipful and worthy of Jesus’ attention. Because of our society’s lack of shared understanding around race and racism, I knew there would be times that in frustration, I might want to raise “my offering” high above my head to hurl it at people so they could see how worthy I am. But I knew that deafening disrespect would not, could not cultivate understanding and connection.

Inspired by Ephesians 4:29 and Proverbs 12:18, I penned these words when I began my organization, Brownicity:

When I talk about race/ism, I don’t want to contribute to the cacophony of popular race rhetoric that seems to be the norm. I don’t want to fan the flames of the molotov cocktails of personal, political, and religious perspectives void of historical context and full of emotional vomiting, systemically unaware news coverage, and motives void of nurturing understanding, healing, and harmony. I refuse to engage in a way that adds to the fear, anxiety, hopelessness, pain, and injustice that exhausts us all.

I consider my contribution to the healing process and ask myself, “Are my thoughts and actions helpful, hopeful, inspiring, and encouraging? Am I contributing to healing and change?” I do my homework. I do my research. I recognize race ideology as the giant enemy and people as victims of its deception, legacy, and intimidation. I will not sling rocks at people!

As I build my capacity to engage in courageous conversations and live in the chasm of racial division, I will be a creator of spaces where people can be transparent and vulnerable. Inspired and sustained by love, such spaces will cultivate healing and change that overflow into the lives of those around me. That’s what I am going for — because when race/ism is addressed in the context of love, it loses its power.

You probably don’t have a communication covenant for the work you do, but perhaps, you can pause to consider how your sound shapes the social-scape. No matter your offering, may its sound capture the heart of Jesus. May your words, songs, and actions be worthy of Jesus’s admiration.

What Happens When We Wait

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I remember waiting for my mom to finish her chemotherapy years ago. We’d count down the weeks until she’d be done. My dad planted a tree so we could wait for it to blossom, the same way we were waiting and praying for my mom to get better. We waited for her to finish radiation, then surgery, then at last, she finished with her treatments. Now it’s been seven years, and I hardly remember how hard those days were. 

I remember waiting to plant a church. We had meetings where we dreamed and envisioned and hoped and prayed. It took a long time to see that church go from a dream and a few conversations to a group of people who faithfully dedicate themselves to becoming passionate followers of Jesus. But now we’ve been a church family for over four years, and I hardly remember how hard those first days were. 

I remember when I told my friend for the first time about my experience with sexual assault. I had been waiting to be heard for so long. The waiting felt like my soul was dying, like I was walking around with third-degree burns, just waiting for someone to notice. I told my friend, and on a summer evening, she offered space for me to begin to heal. It felt like I’d waited for so long. That was three years ago, and I’m still slowly healing. 

Most days, I still feel like I’m waiting — waiting for lockdown to be over, waiting for this pandemic to end, waiting to hug my friends again, waiting for a vaccine, waiting to see if God answers the prayer for a marriage that I’ve been praying for for years now, waiting for clarity over decisions to make, waiting for one of my dreams to come true. 

I’ve never been good at waiting. When I was a kid at the amusement park, I’d opt out of the most popular rides because they had the longest line and I never wanted to wait. I never liked to wait for the best option if it took too long. I’d settle instead for an okay option because it came faster. 

But what if God’s best for us sometimes comes with a long line of waiting? What if while I was waiting — for my mom to get better, for our church to be planted, for my healing — the waiting was part of what made me strong? 

Isaiah 40:31 says, “They who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.” (My emphasis) 

What if, when I’m waiting for Jesus, He is actually making me stronger? 

What if, in the waiting rooms, God is renewing my strength? Giving me abiding peace and deep trust in my Savior? 

What if — as I pray over and over and over and over again, day after day, month after month, year after year, decade after decade — the Spirit is empowering me to move into deeper trust, to mount up like an eagle, to run and not grow weary, to walk and not get tired?

Not on my own, but through Jesus. With Jesus. Because of Jesus. 

There are so many questions I don’t have the answers to. I don’t know whom I’ll marry or if I’ll marry at all. I don’t know when the pandemic will be over or what life will look like after it ends. 

But I do know that when we trust in Jesus, when we wait on Him, when we follow His lead to surrender everything — our dreams, our finances, our jobs, our relationships — He gives us His strength.

Just like an eagle, I’m empowered — to walk, to run, to soar. 

That’s what happens when we wait.  

The Audacity of Birds and Belief

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A few weeks ago, I found a robin’s nest in our backyard. We have a small circle of five trees that stand in the left corner like five friends. The nest had been meticulously put together, piece by piece, into a haven made to house the hope and fragility of new life. When we moved into our current home, all the trees were in their process of seasonal death. Leaves were burning bright and falling free. We knew it would take time to see what these trees would become in the spring. Three of the trees grew tight fisted buds that grew into bright white flowers. Two of them have remained bare and empty though the sun shines and birds sing. I’m not an arborist or horticulturist, but it doesn’t take much to see death in their branches. Despite that, a mama bird decided to build a home in one of them. Right into its barren arms, she strung together an ordinary brown bowl of twigs and yard scraps to make a home for life to birth and burst forth, to be nurtured and needy, to rest and rise. Her audacity to build life in the arms of a dead tree seemed like a protest to all the things we’ve lost this year. I found myself going out to the tree to peek at the mama bird and her nest daily — like it was medicine. The first time there were two eggs. Then the next day, there were three. And then, later that week, snow showed up in the forecast on my weather app, with red-highlighted freeze warnings. I watched our neighbors cover tulips, daffodils, new lilies, and grape hyacinths with blankets and big sheets. The snow started falling on a Tuesday, and by evening, everything was white. The next morning, all the green leaves were covered in snow, and the branches, too heavy to bear the weight of ice on their bark and leaves, leaned back to touch the earth and dirt where they had begun. I used our binoculars to check on the nest from our kitchen window. The mama sat there, in the snow, occasionally fluffing her feathers to shake the flakes loose. I hoped it would be enough. After two days of snow, ice, rain, and then sunshine afterwards like nothing had happened, I walked back with my son to check on the nest again. There were four eggs now, no mama bird in sight, and they were all cracked open, empty. I almost cracked with them. I thought about the audacity of that mama bird, building life in a dead tree, and my belief that the love of her brood patch could bring it all to pass no matter the severity of Mother Nature’s whims and moods. I was wrong about love, warmth, and desire being enough, but was I wrong to hope for something more? I continue to get texts and messages from friends with more bad news: anti-Asian violence continuing, family members being hospitalized, and friendships and groups being irrevocably fractured. I see evil and injustice walk hand-in-hand, laughing, like they are winning the day. It feels like the world is asking us to build and re-build life in the arms of a dead tree, while unexpected storms move in without a care for the fragility of our humanity. My heart has been frantic and sad for weeks. In my groaning prayers, I ask Jesus, again and again, “How long?” I find myself like I imagine the disciples were on the boat where Jesus slept, wanting to shake Him awake while the storms ridicule our collective risk of drowning. I’m past the point of having the right spiritual answers and doing the right spiritual thing as if hope can be mustered from somewhere good within me. I’m becoming okay with being audacious enough to ask questions and let my exasperation show. And while I want Him to calm the storm and give us all tangible peace, I think what I’m learning to want more is His nearness and the evidence of His humanity. I think about what His eyes might’ve looked like still waking from their sleep, His voice with a crackle, asking me — the one of little faith, His beloved, “Why don’t you believe?” Maybe the desperation of our hope deferred, our hearts weary and weak, our spirits sick with sadness, and thousands of collected thoughts of doubt in our pockets are the very things we need to understand that He’s never been afraid of. God has never turned from us or ceased to come near to our darkness and disbelief. It’s in these very places where He gently nudges us towards the embrace of His perfect love and a deeper belief. I look online and read that robins lay eggs more than once over the course of spring and summer and that sometimes they use the same nests again and again. I wonder what a robin mama remembers. Does she use her own beak to remove her broken, bright blue egg-dreams? How does she keep building and believing after all the grief? No matter what, Jesus is here, undefeated, giving life to the least possible, power to the weakest link, and presence to the ones whose hearts have cracked under the weight of storm and grief.

We Are Here for Such a Time as This

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Before I met the Lord at the age of nineteen, I didn’t know I needed a Savior, but I knew all about God. I went to Mass every Sunday. I even prayed to Him through the tears of my difficult childhood. I would characterize my relationship with Him as very superficial. I didn’t know what I was missing.

If you would have asked me then if I was going to Heaven, I would have said yes. I was a pretty good kid. I didn’t get into a ton of trouble. I wasn’t a cause for worry or concern. I was a good person. That merited eternal life, right? I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

On the night I met the Lord, the veil over my eyes was lifted. I had a revelation. Even though I was good, my good wasn’t good enough. My good would never be good enough. Me on my best day would never warrant me eternity. My righteousness to Him was as filthy rags.

It shook me. I was a sinner, and I was in need of a Savior. There, in a Thursday night service at LSU among a room full of college students, I confessed Christ as my Lord and Savior. That day changed everything. It changed how I viewed God, myself, and the world.

This present era we find ourselves in definitely tops the list of uncharted territory. We are surrounded by an enormous amount of fear and uncertainty. We do not know what the future holds, but we assuredly know Who holds the future.

. . . but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.
Romans 5:8 (ESV)

The header for Romans 5 in my Bible says “Peace with God Through Faith.” Don’t we need more peace and more faith today possibly more than ever? My church has been consistently reminding each other that church has never been about a building; the Church is us. It’s you and me, the very temples of God’s Holy Spirit.

My friend Aimee has been saying this can be our finest hour as Christians. It totally can be. We have a rare opportunity to make choices that will display how the love of God is shown.

This is such a beautiful time where the Church can be the Church beyond the walls of the church. There are countless open doors around us to be the hands and feet of Jesus. Who around you is suffering? Who around you is feeling far from Him? Who are around you doesn’t yet know Him?

We were made for deep and intimate connection. I pray that we would not be afraid to connect with those around us during this season. Reaching out can look like you and your kids baking for your neighbors, taking walks and asking your neighbors if they or someone they know needs prayer. It can be making grocery store trips for the elderly in your neighborhood and church. It can also look like having genuine conversations with neighbors you don’t know very well and asking them how they are doing and even if they have a relationship with God.

May we be people who find ourselves in the secret place with the Lord so He can love us and send us out with His love, His truth, and His purpose. May we be people who make the most of our time here on earth. May we be people who rise up in bold faith in the midst of a world gripped with fear.

We are here for such a time as this.

We, the body of Christ.

We, His ambassadors.

We, the salt and light.

We, the kings and priests.

So much of the world is frightened, hurting, and confused. So many in the world are lost, broken, and dying. What better time to sacrifice and lay down every desire and proclaim the truth of the gospel found in Romans 5:8 and love our neighbor? For the joy set before Him, Christ endured the cross. His joy was a redeemed relationship with His creation. God knew before He ever even formed Adam that sin would enter the world and separate us from Him. He knew, and He still created us in His own image. He still went to great lengths to pursue us at our worst, and He pursues us to this very day.

God loves the world that He made, and it is His heart that all would come to know Him. He made the greatest sacrifice, and now is the time we can show His love to others.

Tell me about a time when you sacrificed in order to share the gospel,
meet a need, or simply love someone with the love of God.

 

Look to the One Who Lifts Your Head

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My husband and I really enjoy gardening together. I know my love of flowers has been passed down through the generations in my family. My parents have amazing garden beds. My grandma, now in her mid-eighties, still has a beautiful garden, though not the size it once was. So, usually, they’re the ones teaching us about new plants, and we’re the ones who enjoy getting transplants from them to add to our flower beds.

But recently, we were the ones who were able to introduce them to a gorgeous new plant they didn’t know about. It has the most exquisite flowers, called hellebores. Their common name is “winter rose” or “Lenten rose” because the blooms appear very early in the year, around the time of Lent.

They are the earliest flower to bloom in our yard and last for several months, with the added bonus of evergreen foliage. This year, they were actually blooming in the snow! They have quickly become one of my favorites in the garden, even though picking favorites is so hard. If you haven’t seen them before, you have to look them up. Trust me, you will be awed!

There is only one thing about these sweet flowers though that makes them really quite different: They are gently nodding beauties. Their flower heads actually face downward, and their true, full beauty can’t be completely appreciated unless you lift them up.

We were in the garden the other day, and I gently lifted each smokey pink flower growing on a dark purple stem to enjoy them. I was thinking about how stunning these beauties were, though they almost seemed sad with their distinctive nodding blooms, and it reminded me of how many times I’ve felt just like those sad, bowed down heads.

I am sure many of us have felt that way or might be feeling like that now. Our heads hanging low by the burdens we carry, by the shame we feel, by all the challenges we battle. Worry consumes us, and it takes a toll. Struggles overcome us, and it takes a toll. Loneliness fills us, and it takes a toll. It all seems just too heavy to bear. We feel like the weight of the world is on our shoulders, and we are bent down under that weight.

But God.

In the darkness, He is a shield about us. In our weakness and brokenness, He is the lifter of our heads. At all times, God is our glory.

Just as I lifted those hanging flowers to admire them, what a beautiful image of our loving Father lifting our heads in the midst of struggles, darkness, and sadness in life and admiring us. Can you picture it now?

He takes your lowered head and gently raises your chin. With tears of frustration or shame or sorrow or brokenness, you meet His loving eyes. You just know, He sees you. He sees your heart. You know He is your protection, your shield, your strength. You know His love for you is beyond comprehension.

None of us have answers as to why we have such darkness in the world and in our own lives. We don’t understand why there are times when troubles seem endless. We don’t have explanations for all the storms, but we do know the One who understands and stands by us. He protects us and fights for us.

But you, O Lord, are a shield about me, my glory, and the lifter of my head.
Psalm 3:3 (ESV)

The One who holds our days — look to Him, call on Him, trust Him. The Lord will lift your head.