And Even If He Does Not

And Even If He Does Not

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I sat five rows from the front, right side of the auditorium. In the half-hour before, I’d heard a compelling and convicting sermon on Luke 11 and the power of prayer. Jesus left no doubt as to the purpose and potential of prayer. His instructions read black and white:

So I say to you: Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened. Luke 11:9-10 (NIV)

To put an exclamation point on the message, the pastor then directed our attention to a video. The video told the story of a woman who had been unexpectedly diagnosed with cancer. A routine CT revealed multiple large masses — advanced and terminal disease. She was devastated, overwhelmed. So she drove to her local church and asked for prayer. Three people surrounded her, laid hands on her, and prayed for her healing and peace. Comforted by the prayers of strangers, she left the church, ready to face whatever came.

Two weeks later, she awoke from the surgery to discover the cancer had disappeared. The tumors didn’t shrink or reduce in number. They simply vanished! When the team of doctors opened her up, they could find no evidence of disease. A miracle!

My heart leapt in celebration with this woman and her unexpected healing. What a gift! God’s goodness and generosity astounds me.

At the same time, I know of too many who haven’t received such a miracle. The tumors didn’t disappear. One surgery became the first of many. The hope of a quick healing became a life shortened by disability or death. When considering such, Jesus’ apparent black-and-white words become a murky grey of disillusionment and confusion.

Why does God deliver some miracles and seemingly withhold others? Why does He heal one woman and not another? Why pray when it delivers such unpredictable results?

I’ve been fighting cancer on and off for almost eleven years now. This is my longest stretch without a recurrence, and for that I’m thankful. At the same time, the fear of it hovers on the fringes, reminding me that I live on borrowed time. Perhaps that is my miracle, still being here.

And yet, I live with the pain and disability of a body that’s been ravaged by disease and the treatments to overcome it. Some days living doesn’t feel like a healing, the pain wears a soul down. Some days I question even while I give thanks: Why the many years of suffering?

I find great comfort in an old, familiar story of three men in the book of Daniel. Faced with being burned alive in a furnace of fire for refusing to worship false gods and a pagan King, Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego had to choose: denounce their confidence in the One True God or believe Him one more time.

Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego replied to him, “King Nebuchadnezzar, we do not need to defend ourselves before you in this matter. If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to deliver us from it, and he will deliver us from Your Majesty’s hand. But even if he does not, we want you to know, Your Majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.”
Daniel 3:16-18 (NIV)

Our God is able, and he will deliver . . . 

But even if he does not . . . 

Hidden in these two phrases is my secret for making peace with the prayers that are answered and those which are not. My God is able, there is no doubt in my mind. He can make tumors disappear, bring prodigals home, heal marriages that are broken. He can make a way where there is no way, and He has done so more times than you and I know.

But even if He does not, He is still worthy of my worship. I trust Him in the healing and the absence of it. I trust Him in the answers and in the questions. I trust Him in what I know and what I do not know.

Why?

Because I need Him more than I need healing. He is my rock, my joy, my True North. The object of my affection isn’t this body, this life. It’s the face of the One who saved me. And although I’ll keep praying bold and audacious prayers, I do so knowing He’s already given me what I need most:

Himself.

Keep praying, my friends. Keep asking, seeking, knocking, and believing, with great boldness and confidence. Our God is able to deliver you. But even if He does not, remember:

What you and I need most is not the thing we’re praying for but the One we’re praying to.

A Forgiveness Beyond Comprehension

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I used to keep a mental highlight reel of my worst offenses. At the end of even the best day, my brain could hit the play button, and as scenes of my sins scrolled across the screen of my mind, I became so depressed and discouraged it was hard to see the light.

Although I confessed those sins to God and asked for His forgiveness, I couldn’t seem to forgive myself. I continued to beat myself up for the same things, over and over, with no end in sight, until one day I heard something that both shocked and shook me to the core: To confess a sin, repent, and then continue to ask God’s forgiveness for it multiple times (when you aren’t repeating the sin) is a form of pride.

Did I believe my sins were so enormous and unique that they were beyond His ability to forgive?

If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.
1 John 1:9 (KJV)

Why was I rejecting the forgiveness He offered me? In spite of the magnitude of God’s mercy and of the sins I know He’d forgiven, why did I act like He couldn’t handle mine?

We see divine forgiveness in action in the story of King David, who took what wasn’t his in Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah the Hittite, and then orchestrated Uriah’s death by sending him to the front of the fiercest battle where the other troops withdrew, leaving him unprotected. David compounded his original sin against Uriah in order to cover up the fact that Bathsheba was pregnant with his child, not Uriah’s.

David did not recognize the scope of his sin until it was exposed to him by the prophet Nathan, using the parable of the ewe lamb. David repented and then followed the Lord the rest of his days, serving and honoring Him. God is merciful and forgives even the biggest of sins when we repent and follow Him. He uses broken people like David, the Apostle Paul, and you and I for His glory.

David could have removed himself from the narrative and wallowed in his own guilt for the rest of his life. Instead he confessed and repented before God and then led Israel as God’s chosen king for forty years. David was a man after God’s own heart (Acts 13:22), and for David’s sake, the Lord blessed his descendants even when they didn’t follow Him as David had (1 Kings 15:3-4).

David’s story comforts me because how often do we beat ourselves up for past sins even after we’ve confessed them to God and asked His forgiveness? We can dwell on them until we sink into inertia and no longer believe we have anything to contribute, but surely God prefers we take Jesus‘s advice to “go, and sin no more” (John 8:11). Accept the forgiveness, resist the sin next time, and continue to serve Him.

Once I recognized how prideful it was to believe God could forgive the sins of others but not my own, I’ve never looked at myself in the same way. Our difficult experiences, both the failures and the grace that covers them, can deepen our capacity for sympathy and empathy toward others. And our darkest trials can become our greatest testimonies.

God’s grace and capacity for forgiveness are beyond comprehension. When we give in to guilt and focus too much on our role as the villain in our own life story, we forget that God is the hero who has redeemed us. Let’s remember that we are covered in grace. Let’s live in the freedom of His forgiveness.

He hath not dealt with us after our sins; nor rewarded us according to our iniquities.
For as the heaven is high above the earth, so great is his mercy toward them that fear him.
As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us.
Psalm 103:10-12 (KJV)

Grace Invites Us Back to the Table Again

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Our husbands were out of town so my friend, Vicki, and her kids came over for dinner. Hot dogs and hamburgers were on the grill and crispy French fries would be coming out of the oven in twenty minutes. Our kids were playing in the living room when we heard a horrible scream and ran to see what happened. Joshua, my then seven-year-old son, was balled up on our living room floor, screaming, “Andrew bit me!”

I lifted Joshua’s shirt to discover a large, bright red bite mark on his hip. Infuriated and embarrassed, I told Andrew, my then four-year-old, to go to the bathroom and wait for me.

Although taking care of Joshua should’ve been my first priority, my focus zoomed in on what the consequences should be so Andrew would NEVER bite another human again. But I also didn’t want to discipline him in anger, so I took a deep breath and shifted my attention to Joshua. I started a mental list of worst possible punishments: Andrew would eat dinner by himself upstairs and go to bed early, no screen time for a week and none of his favorite toys to play with either. Maybe I should put soap in his mouth too? I knew he’d hate that!

Once I knew Joshua was okay and dinner wasn’t going burn, I walked Andrew upstairs to his room, away from everyone else. I still wasn’t sure what to do, but the Lord reminded me it was Andrew’s heart that needed to be dealt with first. His actions would follow.

Andrew cried the whole way upstairs, and as we sat together in his room talking about why he bit Joshua and better ways to deal with anger, he broke down sobbing and said, “Mommy, I just want to pray.”

Andrew told God he was sorry for biting Joshua, asked forgiveness, and then ended with, “God, please help me never do that again.” Afterward, he looked up at me and muttered, “I’m such a bad person. I do such bad things.”

My anger melted into sadness listening to Andrew’s self-condemning thoughts. I wanted to help him see himself and his sin separately. So I looked into his eyes and said, “Andrew, you are not a bad person. I’ve seen you be kind, thoughtful, and compassionate. But today you chose to bite Joshua because you were angry. Biting is what you did, but it is not who you are. You are a child of God and His gift to me. Although I don’t like what you did, I will always love you!”

As I hugged Andrew, the long list of punishments scrolled through my mind. I knew there needed to be a consequences but should they be everything I had thought of? I whispered a quick prayer asking God to show me. And for the first time in the seven years I’d been parenting, God brought to mind the story of the prodigal son.

I remembered how the father responded when his youngest son repented and turned back toward home. The father ran to his son, welcoming him home and into his arms. As the image of a forgiving father holding his repentant son came to mind, God whispered to my soul: Invite Andrew back to the table.

It took my breath away because I knew it was exactly what Jesus would do. Reaching out my hand to hold Andrew’s, I told him he’d be losing a week of screen time and his favorite toys. Then I invited him to come downstairs to eat dinner.

Andrew told Joshua he was sorry, and they hugged. Vicki and I smiled at each other as we both let out a big sigh. Then, as I opened our pantry to get some paper plates out, I sensed Jesus whispering again to my soul: Serve Andrew first.

I stood there stunned by God’s extravagant grace.

When I got in trouble as a little kid, I remember my parents being mad, spanking me and sending me to my room where I lay in my bed and cried. My tears eventually stopped, but my heart hurt for a while. I could feel my parent’s anger against me. It felt almost like a brick wall had gone up between us. I hated that feeling of separation and not knowing how long it would take for them to let me back in. And I think I assumed it was that way with God too.

That night Jesus showed me the depth of His tender mercy and unreasonable grace. He wanted restoration, not separation and to build relationship, not regret. It brought healing to my soul I didn’t even know I needed. I was never the same, not as a mom nor as a child of God.

No matter what we have done in the past or do in the future — Jesus doesn’t want to push us away. God’s purpose for discipline is to bring us back into a relationship with Him and with others. He is loving, patient, and kind. God forgives, pursues, restores, and He always invites us back to the table, again and again.

For more encouragement like this, Renee has an upcoming book on motherhood called A Confident Mom available for pre-order.

The (in)courage Podcast:
Season One, Episode 01

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Today is the day, friends! We are so excited to bring you a brand new podcast!

In this first episode, our very own Becky Keife and Mary Carver introduce you to the podcast and this season’s topic: Courageous Joy. Becky is the (in)courage community manager, and Mary is a long-time (in)courage contributor, as well as the author of the Courageous Joy Bible Study. These two friends are here to discuss what it means to delight in God through every season of our lives.

In each episode, they discuss the good, the ugly, the beautiful, and the broken — and how we can see God in all of it. Nothing is off limits in these intimate, authentic conversations because nothing in our lives is out of God’s reach.

Whether you’ve already studied Courageous Joy or haven’t started it yet, we invite to listen in on this series of conversations. Today, we’re starting with the basics:

  • Who needs joy?
  • What are some of our misconceptions about joy?  
  • How does choosing joy require courage?

Throughout this season, listeners can expect to hear real women talking about real life and how the real living God meets us there. We’ll share our hard and honest stories that don’t always wrap up neatly but do always point to the hope of Christ. We’ll always end each episode with a Bible verse for the week. This week, let’s meditate on Philippians 4:4:

Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!

Scroll down to play the episode, and subscribe today so you don’t miss a minute! You can find the (in)courage podcast anywhere you listen to podcasts. Then tune in next week as Becky and Mary are joined by Aliza Latta to talk about What is Joy? See you then!

Saying No to Guilt and Yes to God

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A text notification flashes on my phone screen: Hey! I’m in your area. Wanna meet for coffee?

Everything in me wants to shut my laptop closed, wave goodbye to the responsibilities of home and work, and drive off in my minivan to the happy land of caffeine and friendship. The possibility of basking in the aroma of delicious, not-made-at-home coffee is almost impossible to resist after a year of not being able to do so. 

I open the text and hesitate; I want to say a wholehearted YES, but something catches in my soul. I begin arguing with myself that my friend wants company, I deserve a break, and who doesn’t need to treat themselves once in a while? I list all the reasons why I could — even should — go, but my own argument breaks down in the silence of being honest with myself. I know I need to stay home, keep writing, and tell my friend no. 

But saying no has never been easy for me to do — especially when it’s something that will benefit someone else and something I want to do. No is usually followed by a heavy load of guilt and frustration for the expectations I can’t fulfill, including my own. I poise my fingers to tap an apology and a promise for a coffee date in the near future: 

Sorry! I so wish I could! I have to . . . 

In the middle of typing, I stop myself and ask, Wait, what am I actually sorry for? Do I need to be?

I had become so used to sorry being the first word out of my mouth when I say no that I hadn’t carefully considered why. I began to parse out my guilt, sifting through what was true and what wasn’t: I felt sad we couldn’t meet up and that it would be another month or so until we could again. I felt fearful that if I didn’t say yes I’d be disappointing my friend. I felt frustrated that I had to choose between two good things — meaningful work and a coffee date with a friend. And when I sifted through all my thoughts and feelings, I found I only felt guilty that I wasn’t able to meet my friend’s hopeful expectation because I was choosing to prioritize my needs and responsibilities. 

But prioritizing my needs and responsibilities is a good thing, not a selfish thing. 

Jesus did the same while He lived on earth. He had His own limitations as a human being, even though He was God. He couldn’t be everywhere at the same time. He wasn’t everyone’s friend and didn’t meet all the needs around Him. He didn’t entrust Himself to anyone simply because they were in His proximity nor did He invest time and teaching into every single person who followed Him. He didn’t turn water into wine at all the weddings He attended or heal every blind person or leper or dying daughter. He lived His life within a certain circumference, among His closest friends, doing the work God the Father had set before Him.

Jesus also spent time not doing anything but resting, eating, being with God the Father, and napping — He knew His priorities and kept them! 

Near the end of His life, Jesus prays, “Righteous Father, though the world does not know you, I know you, and they know that you have sent me. I have made you known to them, and will continue to make you known in order that the love you have for me may be in them and that I myself may be in them” (John 17:25-26 NIV).

Ultimately, Jesus’ first priority was to make God — Himself — known. And He did, within the limitations He had and chose to have. 

So my guilt stemmed from a crooked place — that I wasn’t being like Jesus if I didn’t meet my friend’s expectations, if I chose my needs over hers. But Jesus didn’t base His priorities on what others expected of Him or how they would react if He didn’t fulfill their desires. He chose what was important based on what God the Father guided Him to do and then stayed faithful to that.

God would’ve been there at the coffee shop if I had gone to hang out with my friend, but He was inviting me to stay where I was and keep at the work He set before me. I didn’t need to say sorry or feel guilty about doing that.

So, I erased the text I’d written and started over — not with an apology but with gratefulness: Thanks for thinking of me, friend! 

I explained my situation, sent the text, and released a sigh of sadness and relief. I was going to miss out on something good because I was saying yes to God’s work in me for the present time. I placed my phone face down on my desk, placed my fingers on the keyboard again, and thanked God for helping me say no, work through my guilt, and get me to a place of freedom and faithfulness.

Meet. . . the (in)courage Podcast!

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Friends, we have some BIG news for you today! It’s been a long, long time in the making, and we couldn’t be more excited!

You know you can join us daily here at (in)courage for a new article everyday from one of our thirty contributing writers. They share their unique stories — joys and struggles equally — for the purpose of pointing others to the eternal hope of Jesus Christ. This is what it means to be (in) community. We’re always better when we make time to gather, listen, and learn together. And now . . .

We can do this via podcast!

Yes! The (in)courage you know and love — the virtual living room where we pile together on the couch, lounge in comfy chairs, sprawl out on the floor, and create a comfy circle of sisters who are always ready to shift and smoosh together to make space for more — is now a podcast! Cue the confetti because it feels like a party over here!

New episodes will drop on Thursdays, so subscribe today wherever you listen to podcasts so you don’t miss a minute. Yep, you can find the (in)courage podcast literally anywhere! Open your favorite podcast app, and listen to the trailer today — or you can find it right here at the very end of this article. Easy, right?

To kick off our podcast, Season One will be all about what it means to live with courageous joy. Because seriously, who doesn’t need more joy in their life right now? Becky Keife and Mary Carver will be bringing you funny and vulnerable conversations as they discuss their way through our Courageous Joy Bible Study. They’ll be joined by some dear friends along the way, who will share their honest stories of what joy looks like in their lives. Written by Mary and featuring stories from other (in)courage writers, the Courageous Joy Bible Study looks at what God says about real joy — even when life gets hard.

If you love (in)courage, you’re going to love this podcast! These are the conversations we have every day on our website and social media, in our books, devotionals, and Bible studies. And now we’re bringing what thousands of readers love about (in)courage to podcast listeners! Ta-da! (Can you tell we’re just a little bit excited?) 

So friends, we’re ready to celebrate BIG time with a BIG giveaway! Leave a comment on letting us know how excited you are about the (in)courage podcast, and you’ll be entered to win an AMAZING (in)courage prize pack*!

This is the ultimate (in)courage gift bundle, and includes:

  • (in)courage CSB Devotional Bible
  • 2022 (in)courage Courageous Habits Planner
  • (in)courage Take Heart Necklace and Devotional Gift Set
  • Courage, Dear Heart keychain
  • Coffee + Jesus ceramic mug

Leave your comment, and you’ll be entered. Now friend, put your feet up, listen in, and know that you’ve found your place. Consider yourself officially welcomed to the podcast version of the (in)courage living room. The door is open and you’re invited in. 

Listen to the trailer and subscribe!

 

*Giveaway open until 11:59pm Central on June 24, 2021. Open to US residents only. Winner will be chosen randomly and contacted via email. 

Is There Anything More Beautiful Than Friendships Founded on Christ?

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For many of us when we were young, church was a fertile place to grow — not only in our faith but overall in life. Our church family pointed us to Jesus. We were loved, nurtured, and cared for in deed as much as word. For me, perhaps my deep affection for church is seeded in my first memory in life (in a church Christmas play) or how my church family responded following my mother’s death when I was just nine or my Sunday school teachers’ consistency until I went away to college.

Writing For All Who Wander gave me the unexpected gift of lingering in those memories, and I realized how important, even special, it is to think about the pastors, leaders, teachers, family, and friends who have poured into us spiritually. These are the people who’ve shared and lived the gospel and helped us understand the good news found in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. They’ve been a partner to God’s transforming work in our lives.

Aren’t you grateful for those who’ve strengthened or challenged your faith, who’ve spoken truth to you, who’ve prayed for and taught you or maybe even learned alongside you? When I consider all the people who’ve invested in me, a parade of beautiful faces come to mind, and I send a little prayer of thanks to God for them.

Having a community of faith at every stage in life makes the kind of difference that matters. These are the people we need around us when we have questions, face uncertainty, or when life’s curveballs come hurtling toward us. When we’re wrestling and wandering in our faith, we need those who’ll point us to Jesus.

We need folks like this even more in the day-to-day. When wise and trusted mentors and friends point us to Jesus in everyday conversations, it helps prepare us in advance for inevitable battles. A strong faith community naturally strengthens our faith.

Also, having mature believers speaking truth to us on a regular basis can bring clarity to confusion. And if you’re the one with some age, spiritual maturity, or experience, it’s a treasure to give away. Investing in others is kingdom work, a blessing that returns in greater measure.

It’s hard for me to admit (because it’s painful), but years ago I actually lamented having too many friends. It was a season characterized by busyness more than fullness, and I took my friendships and community for granted. God would eventually deal with me about that — hard lessons I penned that point to God’s faithfulness when I was an absolute brat. The short version is my once rich, vibrant faith community withered away to a shadow of what it once was, and I was lonely and reckless, relying on my own strength and resources rather than turning to God. Thankfully, God was working all things together for my good and His glory (Romans 8:28), and friendships were restored in the most unexpected of ways.

It may sound cliché, but people really do need people. It took a season of void for me to finally understand that.

Fast forward to now, and I think we’d agree that COVID has robbed us of so much. Not being able to gather in person has taken a toll, I believe, in incalculable ways. It’s crazy to feel like hugging someone you care about is a crime. Thankfully, in many places, we’re returning to a new normal that includes meeting in person, and — gasp! — wrapping your arms around the people you’ve sorely missed.

Still, many of us are disconnected from any sort of community — from church community, friends, work colleagues, even from God. The rhythms of attending church or going to work or class in person have been disrupted. This long season of separation from our communities over the past year reminded me of that dark season when I felt all alone in the world, where it seemed as if community was non-existent (a lie, by the way). There were days I was inexplicably sad, shrouded by a sense of desperation. But the difference between then and now is that I know the valuable lesson of sharing what I’m experiencing with the people who love me, and in return, they allow me the space to be honest, pray for me, and speak truth to me from God’s word.

Friends, we need to reconnect back to our people, especially our faith communities. We need to remind each other of what we already know — the truths that ground us and give us hope. As much as we do know, there’s so much more to know, and we need each other to keep learning. The writer of Hebrews speaks to a ministry of mutuality, where we all give and receive:

And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another.
Hebrews 10:24-25a (ESV)

Is there anything more lovely than friendships founded on Christ? There’s a forever quality about them that I cherish. As things continue to open up, let’s love, serve, meet, and encourage one another — a near-perfect definition of community.

For When You’re Tired of Toys and Toil

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My eyes blink open to the wake of another morning, that time of day when we most feel the weight of “tired” wash over. I swing heavy feet out of bed and anchor them to the floor, only to rise rigid and stiff, like an iron statue standing after centuries of slumber.

I reach down for my newborn, cradle him close to my chest. Then, with sleeping legs, I step out to the room where my son is awake and loud with singing and talking and reading. It is only seven in the morning, and already, he busts at the seams with energy.

We descend, making our way downstairs, one step at a time until we reach the room of living and lounging — the place where toys are tucked away and where fun is to be had.

I’ve barely had the chance to brew or steep a cup of warmth and, already, toys spill out in tidy spaces, the crashing sounds like a crushing waterfall. It is only seven in the morning, and I am drowning in blocks and cars and things. The newborn is crying because he is hungry, and the kid is whining because he is not. And there I am yelling, telling my husband that I am ready to throw the toys away because I am hungry too — hungry for food to fill my belly and hungry for hope to hold me on days when I am tired of the toys and the mess they bring.

The truth is that I am not tired of the toys; I am tired of the toil. I am tired of the give and take of bone-deep strength. I am tired of washing up worn and weary from housework and world-work that keeps piling on, like heaps of laundry that gather and grow taller than mountains.

In my breakdown, a dawn comes breaking through, and it is the ancient truth of God whispering in the beginning, breathing calm into the world by calling forth light to push back the throw and threat of darkness. It reminds me of God in the garden, lacing land around wild waters and creating a boundary to control the dangerous deep. Yet, while God calms and controls the dark and the deep, their presence still persists — both literally and figuratively. For the world is not as it should be. It tilts and turns with a dangerous darkness and with the minds of men with free will. And, because of this, there will always be a reason to toil, to work and make this world more of what it could be (Genesis 1-2:2 NIV).

Even still, the story of creation holds out this hope for our hands: God rested, not merely after all His work was done, but He rested even while there’d be more work to do. This truth is hope for every seeking soul: Rest does not come by standing in perfected places. Rather, it comes by staring into the face of the One who shows us true rest — the One who sleeps through storms, only to then speak calm into the chaos and control wild winds with mere whispers of words (Mark 4:35-41 NIV).

Rest comes by looking to the One who came and will come again, as the true Light of the world, pushing back darkness, destruction, and death.

True rest on earth will come to you, not only when you believe in the One who is our rest but when you practice living like Him. Rest will come by pressing pause, by stilling the urge to control all that looms and lacks, all that teems with possibility, and all in need of tending care. It will come by choosing to see the light that is already pushing back the persistence of darkness. It will come by confessing that we’ve never had control, that, truthfully, we’ll never have it because we’ll never be the ones with the power to suspend galaxies and sustain life.

Rest can come, even while there is more work to do — more floors to sweep, more roots to weed, more hearts to mend, more soil to tend, more souls to save, more roads to pave, more work-filled days, more toys to tuck away.

So let your list of things messy and undone be a sign of your faith in a God who is always moving, whose list never runs dry of people and places to work in. Let the piles before you — whether tasks or toys — be proof that there really is more work to do and that God is in the midst of it. And may you practice rest in the midst of this work, trusting deeply that everything you put your hands and heart to will bring forth good in your world, in our world.

Ask yourself, Where am I toiling and where am I tired? Then, practice rest by pressing pause and reorienting to see where God is already at work.

Bringing Light into Our Lonely Silos

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I haven’t said a word in hours. Not because I’m shocked or angry or freezing someone out but because I spend a very high percentage of my time alone. I’m a single woman past the point of youth where you’re running from thing to thing, surrounded by roommates that all pile into a little apartment like puppies. I come home and I fold laundry and make dinner and cut flowers for a vase and try to decide what to do with my downtime.

Being single at this junction is tricky because as a woman in my thirties, I would’ve been burned out by now if I’d spent my twenties running after marriage. I’ve slowly but surely settled into being alone more than I would have expected. But there’s still a deep need I have for community, and we need to talk about it.

First, a little history. In an effort to minister well to sub-groups, the Church over time has broken ministry into sections: children, youth, couples, elderly, parents. And while these things aren’t bad at all, they complicate things for those of us without wedding bands because we never really know where to fit. We’re not college kids needing a family to adopt them and offer to let them use the washer and dryer on weekends. We’re not attending camps geared toward our spiritual growth. We’re not going to conferences just for our season of life and calling it a “Weekend to Remember.” We’re walking the tightrope between cynicism and joyful independence. We want to sink into the rhythms of adult life but wonder if this is all there is. 

The good news is this: this is not all there is. See, the Bible is full of people who encountered Jesus from all kinds of walks of life. They were single, married, betrothed, working, impoverished, wounded, and strong. And when the Church is established, we’re told over and over again that they gathered together and they supported one another. 

Acts 2:44-47 says, “And all who believed were together and had all things in common. And they were selling their possessions and belongings and distributing the proceeds to all, as any had need. And day by day, attending the temple together and breaking bread in their homes, they received their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having favor with all the people. And the Lord added to their number day by day those who were being saved.”

The Church is the gathering of God’s people, and our united faith in Christ is what causes us to have “all things in common.” Is this easy? Heck no. This is tricky. But when we are willing to be inconvenienced to live out the vision painted in Acts of what the body of believers is capable of at its best, the Kingdom is being built.

Am I willing to get interrupted by a toddler who just got out of bed again so I can still connect with a friend who has to stay home after 8pm? Is it possible for me to attend a wedding and rejoice rather than retreat into self-pity? Will my understanding of Jesus’ love be better understood if I surround myself with children and watch them live with wonder and simple faith?

The answer to all of these things is a resounding yes because God made us for community, and it points us back to Him. When we are willing to welcome people with different life experiences, our vision is refreshed and challenged in good ways. When we see what the other members of the Church offer, we can celebrate what God is doing, rather than compare.

When we look at the world, we might have justification for our cynicism and reasons to stay away from those who have what we do not. But the beauty of the upside-down kingdom of God is that we get to draw near to one another and not see it as a threat. I can spend my energy on giving my parent friends a break. I can give my prayer time to asking God to help my friends’ marriages to thrive. I can seek the well-being of others because they are my brothers and sisters.

And those on the other side? You get to do this, too. Invite your single friends to dinner. Ask them to come over after the kids go down. Welcome them into the mess and the toy-covered living room. Be honest about your struggle with infertility or insecurity.

We often don’t get close to one another out of suspicion and division, but we are called to — with gratitude! — break bread together. Because guess what? Moms and wives and students and single gals are all struggling with mostly the same things: not knowing what’s for dinner, how not enough dresses have pockets, how not enough grocery stores carry our favorites. No one has consistent cell phone coverage. No one is reading their Bible without putting forth some effort.

Let’s bring light into the loneliness of being in our silos. May we delight in relationship, knowing that God is pleased when we come together. He is, after all, a Triune God. As a three-in-one Creator, His very nature is community.

So go. Send the text. Meet the person you don’t believe you have common ground with. I guarantee you’re both tired and hungry and looking for Jesus. And honestly? That’s usually the best place to start.

Hospitality Is More than Just Entertaining

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My daughters gather at the stove giggling and chatting. The familiar fragrances of garlic, oregano, and basil permeate the air. The girls take turns swirling the ruby red tomato sauce and meatballs in the big pot with a wooden spoon.

“Be careful with my meatballs,” Nana Maria chides playfully. “You don’t want to break any of them up.”

My Italian mama, who my girls call Nana, stands at our kitchen island with my youngest daughter. They are stuffing jumbo pasta shells with spoonfuls of filling, which includes spinach, ricotta cheese, cream cheese, and ground beef.

My dad butters thick slices of Italian bread. My husband Shawn is in his usual place at the kitchen sink, trying to get ahead of the dirty dishes situation.

We are all in the kitchen together moving through a cacophony of clinking dishes, laughter, singing, colorful ingredients and inviting aromas. It’s a feast for the senses.

Food ignites memories for me. I am transported back to my childhood growing up in the kitchen with my mama, grandmas, and aunties. I come from a long line of women who pride themselves on serving up delectable food and nourishing people well.

I love to gather people in my home and deliver meals when friends have babies or after loved ones have gone on to heaven. Food is my love language. Hospitality is my jam.

Then a global pandemic hit in March 2020.  

We were all forced to stay at home and social distance. Gatherings were canceled. Our schooling, life group, Bible study, and work-related meetings were moved to Zoom. If we wanted face-to-face time with people, we had to do it through a screen instead of across the table. I often felt frustrated and lonely.

I had to learn a different way of expressing hospitality. I couldn’t feed and gather people in the way I had in the past, and I also had to reckon with my theology of hospitality. 

Could I still be hospitable even if I couldn’t open my home?

This year Jesus invited me to go deeper in my understanding of what hospitality means, and I’ve discovered that it is much more than just entertaining. 

Hospitality is an invitation to rest. Abraham models this in Genesis 18 when he invites in three strangers who show up at his tent during the hottest part of the day.

Abraham says, “ . . . if it pleases you, stop here for a while. Rest in the shade of this tree while water is brought to wash your feet” ‭‭(Genesis‬ ‭18:3-4‬ ‭NLT).

Abraham provides for these travelers by greeting them warmly, giving them water to wash their feet, offering nourishing food, and ultimately, a place to rest.

During the pandemic, God showed me that one of the most powerful ways I could offer hospitality during this time of crisis was to invite my parents into our home and be isolated with them. They stayed with us most weekends and some weeknights.

This was challenging at first, especially because my dad and I don’t always agree on politics, but even in an election year, we learned to rest together and nourish well. We enjoyed cooking, playing games, watching movies, and doing puzzles together, and my daughters deepened their relationships with their grandparents. 

I discovered part of hospitality is also offering a safe space for people to share their stories. In Luke 8, Jesus is on His way to heal the sick daughter of a ruler of the synagogue. Along His journey, He is interrupted by a woman who has suffered from bleeding for twelve years. She spent her life savings on treatments and doctors. She reached out to touch Jesus’ garment, believing in faith that simply touching Him would bring healing. Jesus turned to heal her publicly and then invited her to share her whole truth with those listening.

During this past year, racial tension has continued to spread in our country like a match to kindling. I have watched as fellow friends of color have suffered and grieved deeply. I’ve felt challenged to listen well, to lament, and to invest time in reading the stories of my brothers and sisters. Listening to each other’s stories is a powerful way we can show hospitality and invite healing.

I’ve learned hospitality is also an opportunity to sacrifice for others, especially foreigners, strangers, and the poor. God has a merciful heart for the vulnerable. In Luke 14:12-14, Jesus tells the parable of the Great Banquet. He challenges listeners not just to invite their friends and neighbors but to extend hospitality to those who could not repay the favor and were most in need.

Studying this passage this year challenged me to think beyond the friends and family I normally would invite to my table. I was inspired by our church and other local organizations that provided for orphans, kids in our city who were schooling alone, and families that needed food.

Several weeks ago, I hosted my first Bible study in my home since March 2020. As I opened in prayer, the tears caught in my throat because I was so filled with unexpected joy to have these women sitting at my table. I served up warm, gooey brownies and local strawberries along with a new perspective on hospitality.

I do not want to forget what this pandemic year has taught me. Hospitality is much more than fancy dinner parties and spoiling my friends. Hospitality is a generosity that runs deeper and wider than I ever imagined.

Dorina loves to encourage women to flourish in their God-given callings through her weekly Glorygram, which includes recipes, book and podcast recommendations, and coaching tips. Sign up here.

A Hope More Secure Than a Racehorse

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Last month my husband and I celebrated our twenty-second anniversary by going on a movie date for the first time in more than a year. I was a little anxious about this plan, but as we sat in a large theater with six other moviegoers all spread out, I eventually relaxed and became immersed in the story of a small town and a horse.

Much to my surprise, as a person who has never once in her life cared about horse racing, this story captured my attention and my heart. As I watched the horses thunder around the track, I realized my heart was beating fast. Then, when the horse I was cheering for actually won that race, I burst into both tears and laughter.

How did I get so emotionally invested in a horse race?

Dream Horse is a movie about a group of people in a small Welsh town who work together to buy and breed a racehorse. The men and women, who become co-owners of a horse they name Dream Alliance, commit to scraping together a few pounds each week not because they believed they would eventually receive a windfall of riches. Instead, they sign up for this adventure because they desperately need hope.

Watching the movie, I tried to understand why these people did what they did (while also cheering so fervently for a horse that I truly was breathless during a scene or two). I recognized that longing — for a reason to get up in the morning, for a purpose beyond myself, for something strong enough to put my hope in.

After riding the ups and downs of this unexpectedly emotional movie, I realized that while I felt a kinship to these characters (based on real people) who longed for hope, my response to that need wasn’t the same as theirs.

Every time it seemed as if their horse venture wouldn’t work out, the characters’ desperation and disappointment was nearly palpable. I could see on their faces and in their body language how deeply they would be cut by the end of this dream. I could hear in their voices and their words how much they needed this horse in order to be okay.

The contrast between what the horse owners believed and what I know to be true was jarring. Especially as I remembered how many times I have looked and sounded exactly like they did — when I placed my hope in a person or a relationship, when I tethered my identity and purpose to a project or a job, when I let myself believe that the only thing that could make the world, this life, me all right was my church or my party or my own efforts to force reality to bend to my will.

Those were the times I felt the least steady, the least secure, and the most like a racehorse owner watching a neck-and-neck race that could make or break me.

Needing hope that things will get better? I understand that deeply. We all do, right? But when we place our hope in the things (or people or places or animals) of this world, we are guaranteed not just disappointment but the disorientation and emotional whiplash that comes with the ups and downs along the way.

The only thing that is strong and secure enough for our hope is actually a person — Jesus. He is the only one who is worthy of all our dreams and desires, the only one who will never let us down or leave us alone. When we keep our eyes on Him and find our identity and purpose in Him, we can weather whatever twists and turns life brings us.

Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.
Isaiah 40:31 (NIV)

Are you looking for a reason to keep going today? A purpose or a person to believe in? Do you long for a second chance or assurance that you matter, that you are loved, that you can make it through the circumstances you’re facing?

Place all your bets on the Lord, friend. He will keep your heart and your hope safe. Go all in following Jesus, and He will faithfully carry you to the end of your race.

Tenderness Is the Only Way Forward

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A year ago, we hung origami cranes from our crabapple tree. We chose a variety of colors and flowered patterned papers to fold into birds, and then punched a hole at the tips of their tails for the string.

In the midst of a brand new season of school-at-home, with words like “quarantine” and “stay-at-home-order,” cancelled plans, and looking for new headlines by the hour, something as small as folding origami cranes felt like grace for our eyes and our hands.

We watched the pointy birds sway in the wind with the bright blue sky for a backdrop, all colorful and proud. And then the next morning, I’d untangle them from branches and each other. Overnight their strings had wound so tight they were bound. Even the dew at dawn was too much for their fragile paper skins.

My own tenderness towards others was soft in a fresh sort of way back then. I wouldn’t have believed you if you told me just how jostled we’d all become over the next twelve months and more or how so many of us would swing into tangles that seemed impossible to free.

A week after we hung our paper birds, we put teddy bears in our windows. We ordered drawing pencils, sketch books, activity books, and walked ‘round and ‘round the neighborhood as a family. I baked cookies and made afternoon Dalgona coffees on repeat. We marveled over the creative ways our community reached out to one another: texting more, downloading new apps like Marco Polo, Facetiming one another, and celebrating birthdays with signs, drive-bys, porch drop-offs, and video greetings. The grace of God felt near and abundant despite all of our looming fears back then. It was easy to recognize Jesus in all of these acts of love, and I expected them to be enough.

Then summer, then fall, then winter, more months of disappointment come and gone, and the magnitude of losses and mounting racial tensions further shook the foundations we stood on.

I’ve asked Jesus how we’re all supposed to move forward after all of this, and He keeps nudging me to tenderness, and back towards all the pain.

As we begin to re-engage, I feel the impact of what’s been lost everywhere — from walking an aisle in Target, to gathering with our now-altered small group. There’s no going back to what was. There’s only a showing up to what’s become, what’s changed, what’s broken, and what’s still healing.

There is grief I’m still not sure how to approach in the wake of this year. Cynicism has shown up at my door, looking like the stronger and safer guide forward.

I read through the gospels desperate to find the tenderness of Jesus because my own feels like a stranger.

In one instance after another, Jesus’ tenderness leads the way. It moves me to read and re-read John 4, and remember how He went to Sychar, in Samaria. He intentionally arrives there thirsty and tired. Jesus, the Living Water, humbly asks a woman, a Samaritan, for a drink. He puts Himself in a place of need with her. He talks to her about the tensions and walls between their people before revealing who He is.

His patient tenderness towards her reorients me. I read the passage again and again. Did you know the Samaritans and the Jews were enemies who had been violently at odds for centuries at this point? They could not agree to disagree. Their history was full of violence, hatred, deep distrust, and destruction. When the disciples arrive, flabbergasted to find Jesus where He is, talking to whom He’s talking to, He not only stretches their perspectives about people and what’s possible; He stretches their tenderness with His own. And then they all stay in Sychar for two more days — sleeping, eating, and choosing to know and be known by those they would’ve been taught to consider as enemies.

Jesus never asked any of us to muster up our own tenderness; He knew we’d never have enough. He only tells us to follow and abide in the abundance of His.

Our daughter received a colorful stack of origami for her birthday this year. I couldn’t help but think of the cranes I made around a year ago this time. The first day of trying to fold one, she gave up. She crumpled it up, saying it’s not going to work, that the instructions tricked her, and she threw her attempt to the ground. I couldn’t help but see my own weariness in her expression — only my weariness and desire to give up had to do with relationships, loss, and responding to hurt. I listened to my own voice as I instinctively told her, “The special thing about this kind of paper is what also makes it hard: It’s fragile, and the creases stick, don’t they? It’s been made to fold easily, which means it breaks easily, and that’s what makes origami so beautiful.”

The fragility of this paper art makes it dependent on the tenderness of the hands that hold it. I told her to be gentle and patient with herself because that would help her to be gentle and patient with the paper. I told her that each time she shows up to try again, she’s giving this paper bird (and with it, all of us) a chance to fly.

What We Can Learn from French Onion Soup

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The Bible is full of metaphors for how God sanctifies us, but in my book, the metaphor that sticks best is French onion soup. I know, stay with me.

Growing up, my cultural identity was a big question mark. I’m a dyed-in-the-wool third-culture kid: I’m Indian, grew up in Dubai, but attended a British-run school. My ancestors were Christ-followers in a country dominated by Hindus and Muslims. I didn’t feel at home anywhere. 

But when I was eleven, I watched real journalism for the first time: CNN covering the first Gulf War. I knew then that I wanted to be an international correspondent, and I made it my life’s goal to become one. This identity rose above race and religion; it was vocation. 

I got into journalism school in the States, and after graduating, I began working at CNN. My dream was on track — I was a working journalist! But a few years later, I married my college sweetheart, moved to Los Angeles from the news-mecca of New York, and for five long years, every employment door I knocked on stayed shut.

I was unmoored. If I wasn’t a journalist, who was I? A new Christian, I shook my fist at God. Why wake me up every morning if You won’t give me a purpose? Just take me home!

In many ways, I related to an onion: overlooked and stagnant in the darkness of the soil.

The kitchen became my solace. Here, I turned chaos into order, ordinary ingredients into extraordinary dishes. My husband and I launched a cooking variety show on YouTube called Aarti Paarti, and soon after, some friends suggested I audition for Food Network Star, a cooking competition that awarded the winner their own cooking show. 

I knew I could cook a few things, but I wasn’t a chef. Until then, the shame from my journalism career ending had been private; I couldn’t bear America witnessing my inevitable failure as a cook too. But I submitted an audition anyway, hoping they’d say no.

Except they didn’t. Their yes ripped me out of the safety of the pitch black soil.

The first challenge on the show was to make 150 servings of a dish. The lights of the soundstage burned my eyes; sweat streaked my upper lip. The arena was populated by chefs trained in top kitchens and culinary schools. What am I doing here? I’m a dirt-splattered onion on a chopping block, I thought. With my heart in my mouth, I prayed, God, I can’t do this. Help. 

I made Tandoori BBQ Chicken on Scallion Blinis, and to my utter surprise . . . I won! Astonished, I felt the papery skin of self-doubt begin to loosen at the root.

Each week, the challenges threatened to slice my onion-heart open and expose me as a fraud, but while chef after chef lost, I inexplicably remained. With every win, I felt the truth of 2 Corinthians 12:9:

. . . My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.

As the competition heated up, the flames felt unbearable at times. But through it all, God was close, and His voice in my ears said, The only identity that matters is that you’re Mine. And even though I went on to win the show, understanding that truth felt like the biggest victory of all.

I read somewhere that sanctification is the closing of the gap between our identity and our behaviour. That process isn’t pretty, and it for sure isn’t painless. But here’s why it’s worth it: We don’t see all the potential God packed into each one of us. One of the benefits of being a child of God is that He’s intent on unleashing our full potential on the world! 

Take for example, a raw onion. Take a bite, and you’d hardly describe it as sweet. But here’s the crazy thing: all the sugar you taste in a caramelized onion is there in the raw one! We just can’t taste it. Only heat can transform the onion’s large sugar molecules into the smaller ones our tastebuds can detect. And for French onion soup, you must slice the onion in a particular way — across her bow, slicing rainbow arcs that will melt into silky, sweet ribbons. Likewise, God knows how to slice and dice each of us to reveal those innermost parts of His glory.

Though our journeys are unique, one thing that unites us all is the refining fire. Just as onions release their moisture when they first hit the hot pan, God evaporated the misshapen molecules of my identity through the show: that my career was all that I was, that people’s opinions of me were paramount, that I had to earn His affection and attention. He replaced the lies with the truth that I am wonderfully made and that “ . . . he who began a good work in [me would] bring it to completion . . . ” (Philippians 1:6 ESV).

If you’re in the middle of the refining fire, don’t give up! Caramelization only happens at a whopping 212 degrees Fahrenheit. Pull the onions out of the frying pan too early, and they won’t reach their full potential. Our growth and sanctification can’t be skirted or hurried because each step is vital to the end result. 

While I was named a Food Network star, I’m in no way a completed dish. I’m still simmering away on the stove, deepening in flavour. Every day, I trust God’s capable hands to build a dish out of this unpalatable, unremarkable allium that I am — to turn the raw, unpolished sting of my fallen heart into a tantalizing near-perfect bowl of soup, poured out for Him, declaring to all who draw near that there is nothing sweeter than being called a child of God.

Weeds Grow in Hard Places — We Can Too

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2020 was the year that the young, fictional Alexander might describe as a “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad” year.

And what do you do for a year like that? Well, if you’re me, you take a lot of walks.

Last year, I walked more miles along our rural Iowa country roads than I had in the previous ten years combined. On my walks, I discovered what I hadn’t seen before. I found a wild asparagus patch in the ditch near our home. I learned where all the neighborhood sparrows were nesting. And I observed the neighbor’s cattle cooling off in a shallow stream on hot afternoons.

But my favorite discovery of all was a plant I found growing up through the gravel of our dusty country driveway. It was a mustard plant, technically a weed (though that all depends on your perspective). In my way of thinking, this weed was exquisite, with delicate yellow crowns sitting atop slender green stems.

One day last summer, a bunch of my friends began posting pictures of beautiful landscapes onto their Facebook profiles. It was a community effort to help us all remember how beautiful the world really is and that the majesty of oceans and mountain vistas and faraway places would be waiting for us once we could all travel again. I liked that idea a lot and thought it would be fun to take part in making Facebook a prettier place. But instead of posting a photo from a past vacation to the beach, I went outside and took a picture of that humble little weed in the driveway.

The plant reminded me of a couple of things:

  1. Beauty isn’t something to be found in some future time or place. There is beauty right now, if we slow down enough to really see it.
  2. With enough determination, beautiful things can grow anywhere — even in a hard place. Even in me. That mustard plant epitomized the old saying, “Bloom where you are planted.”

I don’t know who else needs to hear this right now, but God is growing you, even if you’re in a hard place right now. Maybe you are having a hard day, a hard season, a hard year. Hard days don’t disappear in a post-pandemic world. Like you, I am dealing with hard things in my life, even as I type these words.

As a result, I have found myself asking God this question: “How can you grow me in this place and in this season?” His answer: Consider Joseph.

Joseph was a lot like that mustard plant. He literally grew up in hard places — tossed into a pit at age seventeen and later into a prison. What I find especially remarkable is that when Joseph finally became a father, he named one of his boys Ephraim. Do you know why he picked that name? Let Joseph tell you:

“It is because God has made me fruitful in the land of my suffering” (Genesis 41:52 NIV).

It floors me to think that God can make something out of the hard seasons I find myself in. I can bear fruit, even in the “land of my suffering.” My first way of praying when I am in my own land of suffering isn’t to figure out how to be fruitful in that land. I want to get out of that land! I want to escape that hard season, that hard year, that hard _______________ (fill in the blank).

Both Joseph and that mustard plant from summer 2020 teach me that it’s possible to be fruitful in a hard place.

Oswald Chambers wrote these words in his classic devotional My Utmost for His Highest: “‘Consider the lilies of the field’ — they grow where they are put. Many of us refuse to grow where we are put, consequently we take root nowhere. Jesus says that if we obey the life God has given us, He will look after all the other things.’

I pray that today I may have the faith to know that God is growing me even here, and that He was growing me in 2020, as horrible as it was. I pray that I don’t have to wait for another time or place to find beauty around me and in me. I can put down deep roots wherever I am, like a simple mustard plant on a long country lane.

And I pray the same for you.

Peace Holds Us When We Can’t Be at Peace

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A Saturday dusk was the perfect setting for a stroll on the new boardwalk along the lake cove’s edge. As my husband and I walked, talked, and dreamed, we also reflected on the drama and trauma that made our picturesque boardwalk stroll possible. 

Three years ago, we bought a home that ticked all the major must-haves on our list. We felt incredibly fortunate. Throughout the entire home buying process — from creating the list of essentials to signing our names on the closing documents — I could sense Spirit’s encouragement and assurance. In praying about our move, I saw a vision of peace and plenty associated with us living in this house. Because I knew very little about the area in which our new house was located, I held tightly to that gracious assurance, and as we settled in, we wasted no time in transforming the house into our home.

About six months later, a local builder began a major construction project surrounding our tiny neighborhood of six homes. Giant mature trees were ripped from their roots, and our quaint, narrow gravel road was widened to accommodate an assembly line of excavators, bulldozers, and other Transformer-looking commercial equipment. Each morning, we were awakened by trucks beeping, banging, and honking. Oversized tire treads converted our gravel road to a cratered obstacle course. Flying clouds of red clay dust chased us inside away from outdoor recreation. The sanctity of our little wooded oasis vanished, and along with it, my peace and assurance seemed to dissipate.  

You may be rolling your eyes, shaking your head, and thinking, “Lucretia, what is the big deal? Destruction for the sake of construction happens all the time! How frivolous!”

That’s what I told myself too with every infraction — flat tires, trucks blocking the road, dodging construction site debris, sliding in the mud, getting stuck in the mud, mud clinging to my minivan and depositing wherever I parked. One day while at the gym, a woman confronted and harassed me about the heaps of mud that had fallen from my wheel wells into her parking lot. Did she think I was mucking up the parking lot on purpose? 

Daily, I tried not to let it bother me or make me anxious. In prayer, I recalled the vision of peace and plenty that had given me a sense of assurance. I focused on gratitude. I practiced Philippians 4:6:

Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done.

But where was the promise of Philippians 4:7?

Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus. 

Do you remember the woman in the 80’s Wendy’s commercial who shouted, “Where’s the beef?”

Well, living stuck in the mud between a promise made and a promise manifested had me pleading, Where’s the peace? I battled frustration and anger. I was outraged that I had to drive my children on a dangerous road. Many times, I was anxious and wanted to lash out at the construction workers. I was furious about the disruption going on around me. And I was exhausted from trying to keep it together.

Post construction, as my husband and I walked along the beautiful new boardwalk, I reflected on how hostile this place felt a short time ago. I felt ashamed that I had allowed the disruption around me to cause me so much stress. I felt like I had failed — as if I’d abandoned peace and surrendered to the chaos around me.

I imagine that if this situation had been a peace test, I would have scored a D minus. Fortunately, God does not evaluate us on the degree to which we are human. Though at times, I may not have felt peaceful, a life in Christ promises that peace is always there for me — always accessible and available for me to have. Peace is not a stagnant state of euphoria nor is it obligated to keep me feeling carefree, safe, and free of stress. In Christ Jesus, peace simply must keep me, hold me. 

Life under construction is stressful — literally and figuratively! I believe that when we moved into our house, our omniscient God graciously gave me the vision of peace and plenty to guard my heart and mind during the muddy process. On those days when my minivan needed to be pushed out of the mud, my anxiety was more clear than the vision. But, nonetheless, the vision was there. There were times when I felt I had let go of peace, but as my husband and I walked the boardwalk that evening, I remembered the truth: God’s perfect peace had never let me go. 

In our muddy situations, peace holds us when we can’t be at peace. Even when we don’t have the capacity to calm our hearts and minds because of the chaos around us, God’s promised peace holds and carries us. 

Distracted? What Are You Looking At?

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Shiny object syndrome may not be a real medical diagnosis, but I have struggled with it all of my life. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked into the mall to buy something specific but got distracted by the sales or the lady at the kiosk selling the latest skin care solution or the perfect hot pink blazer. I have picked up my phone too many times to send an important text only to be distracted by other apps and left double tapping and commenting for hours. Even in my own house, I will walk into my kitchen but forget why because I get distracted by the noise of the TV, thinking about dinner, and yelling at the kids all at the same time. It has become such a normal way of life for me to live in a constant state of distraction.

Sometimes I choose to be distracted because it can be an escape from my reality. As a mom, a healthcare worker, and a pastor’s wife, 2020 was mentally and emotionally exhausting, and I often found myself escaping by scrolling on my phone. It took me down a dark hole of bitterness and depression. What was meant to take my mind off the stress of living through the chaos of the pandemic only made me feel worse about myself.

I saw other mamas who were getting creative with virtual school and doing fun things at home with their children that I couldn’t do. The distraction left me doubting my ability to care for my kids well.

I saw my friends grow their platforms on Instagram and gain followers overnight while I had been tirelessly striving and strategizing to gain some following. The distraction left me doubting if my voice even mattered to others.

I saw other speakers and authors getting opportunities despite the pandemic. The distraction left me doubting my own purpose and calling.

I wanted everything I didn’t have, and I became disappointed with my season. As a pastor’s wife, I felt guilty for even having these thoughts, so I kept it deep inside. But it came out as frustration at my husband and impatience with my children. I knew I was beginning to lose my joy and develop a deep sense of anger at God. All the things I wanted — even the distractions in my life — were good things: being a good mom, using my online presence to share the gospel, and encouraging others with the truth of God’s word. So, why wasn’t God doing anything about them?

This is where shiny object syndrome takes us: Distraction always leads to doubting God.

In Luke 10:38-42, we read about Martha, who loves Jesus and invites Him into her home. But she’s so distracted by how she wants things to look and turn out that she misses Jesus completely. Her distraction is rooted in a good thing — Martha wants everyone to feel welcomed and Jesus to be comfortable in her home. But preoccupied with the wrong thing, she asks Jesus, “Master, don’t you care . . . ?”

Distraction leads to doubt.

In Mark 4:35-41, we read about a storm that shakes the disciples to the core. Even though they had seen Jesus make the impossible possible and though He was in the boat with them, the disciples get distracted by the raging waves and ask Jesus, “Teacher, don’t you care . . . ”

Distraction leads to doubt.

In both stories, Jesus was so close to them, and they loved and knew Jesus. But the distractions kept them from focusing on Him, thus leading them to doubt His goodness.

In our culture today, I truly believe distraction is the biggest deception that keeps us from intimacy with God. We live in a time where there are so many things constantly stealing our attention through our senses and feelings. We live in a state of low-grade anxiety, fear, and overwhelm that keeps us from thriving and enjoying life because we doubt God’s goodness and plan in our current season.

Isaiah 26:3 says, “You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you.”

Distractions are not going away, so let’s intentionally learn to fix our eyes on Jesus — not just on Sundays, not just some days, but every single day. Let’s not get caught up even in the good things and instead keep our minds stayed on Him. And let’s experience the wholeness and peace God promises us when we trust and focus on Him.