Do That Thing You’re Not Good At

Do That Thing You’re Not Good At

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I rushed into the kitchen to share the great news with my family.

“You guys! I made it! I got a spot in the musical!” My young teenage heart was pumping with pride and excitement.

My two older sisters looked at each other and then back at me. “Mr. Matthews thinks you can sing and dance?”

They burst into laughter, and I almost couldn’t blame them. I was notorious for lacking rhythm and coordination. I tripped on my own feet just walking across the room. Finding a key to sing in and sticking with it wasn’t exactly my strong suit. But I had always dreamed of performing in a big production and our high school had an exceptional theater department. I didn’t let my lack of natural talent deter me. Thankfully, The Music Man required a large chorus, and I had enough spunk to sneak in.

In my twenties, I once knew a guy liked me because when we were camp counselors, he would get up early to sit next to me at morning chapel and tell me what a beautiful singer I was. Only true love or temporary infatuation could make that statement. By unbiased standards, I have a terrible singing voice. Truly. I’m not being modest. No doubt I would be fodder for the blooper reel on American Idol.

While you won’t find me crooning on any stage (or loud enough for anyone who’s not a relative to hear me), I haven’t let my ineptitude hold me back from singing every day.

Each night I stand, sit, or kneel beside each one of my three sons’ beds and sing them a song. My eight-year-old loves Angels We Have Heard on High (even when it’s not Christmas-time) and my other two like Forever Reign. Yep, even my twelve-year-old with hands and feet bigger than his mama’s, who is edging closer to manhood every day, even he still requests my nightly song.

Clearly, it’s not my vocal talent that my children appreciate but rather the time of connection it creates. I scratch their backs and run my fingers through their hair. I whisper prayers of thanksgiving for what has been and hope for what is to come.

This simple routine has become a rhythm of love for this rhythmically-challenged mom.

And it makes me wonder, what is lost when we hide our expressions of love, art, and creativity because they don’t measure up to the world’s standards? What unexpected blessing are we forfeiting because we’re afraid to offer our less-than-stellar efforts?

Maybe you love painting or hand-lettering but your creations don’t compare to those that get thousands of likes on Instagram squares. So you think, Why bother? Maybe you feel drawn to dance but you believe you’re too old or awkward and others would just laugh. Maybe there is a poet inside you but somewhere in the past you were told words weren’t your forte. What if you decided to ignore the voice that said you’re not good enough and instead chose to explore something new — not for the sake of an applaudable performance but simply for pleasure and enjoyment?

When it comes to God, He doesn’t judge your offerings by the world’s talent criteria. He’ll never boo you off stage or unfollow you for not meeting some invisible standard.

He looks at your heart. He listens with the ears of someone who loves you. He receives your contribution as someone who delights in you.

I love the old King James Version of Psalm 100, which begins, “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord.” Melody, no. Harmony, no. Symphony, no. Noise, yes! I can bring my joy and my noise to God, and He welcomes them with open arms.

The Bible is full of imagery not only of people worshipping God through singing and dancing but of God Himself singing over His people. Zephaniah 3:17 says,

For the Lord your God is living among you.
    He is a mighty savior.
He will take delight in you with gladness.
    With his love, he will calm all your fears.
    He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.

Imagine it. You’re tucked in bed, blankets and pillows fluffed exactly how you like them. Right before you drift off to sleep, Jesus leans over you. He kisses your cheek and sings a song of joy over you. He reminds you how proud He is of you, how the way you showed up in your strength and in your weakness made all the difference. He traces the curve of your cheek and tells you how beautiful you are. In that moment, you know again that you are loved.

You are so loved, friend.

Let that love bubble up and overflow today in whatever expression brings you joy. Don’t worry about what others will think of it. God is already cheering you on.

Does it take courage for you to do something you’re not good at? Leave a comment sharing what you love to do. Let’s cheer each other on!

 

The Wisdom to Keep Loving Anyway

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Her sobs in the darkness stirred me awake. I was confused. My daughter stood over me shaking. I could hardly make out her words. Her hands were practically inside her mouth stuffing her sadness back down inside of her. 

“What is it, Noelle?” I said calmly, still waking up. 

“Mom, I had a dream you died.” She trembled. I couldn’t see her tears, but I could feel them through her words.

I pulled back the covers and invited her in beside me. Her body was chilly, and she instantly suctioned to my skin. 

“Mommy is right here,” I whispered and stroked her hair. 

She was already asleep. My eyes were closed again, and I smiled. It sounds weird, but I smiled. It feels morbid to smile over my daughter’s sad dream, but I did and this is why.

My daughter doesn’t say, “I love you.” I haven’t heard her say those three words in several years. I’m not sure when she stopped. I just remember one day she didn’t reply with those precious words, “I love you too, Mom!”

Noelle is shy and tender and quiet. She holds her feelings close. She doesn’t cuddle either. She doesn’t jump into my arms. When I kiss her forehead, she squirms away. 

For a mom whose love languages are words of affirmation and physical touch, it has been hard for me that Noelle does neither of them. She will make me breakfast in bed, draw me pictures, but never say, “I love you.” She will never let me hug her. 

It’s embarrassing to admit, but there was a season when I stopped saying “I love you” to my daughter because I knew she wouldn’t respond. I didn’t reach for her hand because I knew she would pull it away. I know I am the adult in the relationship, but these small things felt like rejection. So I just stopped doing them. I would hug each of my children goodnight, but when I got to Noelle, I’d just smile and wave.

I think I have the tendency to believe people don’t love me if they don’t receive my love the way I want them to. I’ll love the people who love me back the way I want them to. I’ll love the people who make loving feel good. If someone will affirm my love, I’ll give it to them more. If people reject my love, I’ll stop offering it. I have so many people in my life that give and receive love differently than me. I can make a list of people I know love me, but I don’t believe love me. I convince myself they don’t love me because they don’t show me in a specific way. They don’t love me in a way that makes me feel loved, like with hand squeezes and love notes. So I stop showing up. I stop saying “I love you” the same way I did with my daughter. Slowly, my heart backs away. I think that’s why I smiled when my daughter cried in the middle of the night. I smiled because there was a part of me that believed she didn’t love me. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. 

God made each of us with unique ways to give and receive love.

When someone doesn’t give or receive love the way you think they should, resist the temptation to believe they don’t love you. The easiest thing to do is to stop pouring out love. But don’t stop. There isn’t just one right way to love. There aren’t just five love languages but millions of ways we can love because we all have our own God-given love stories. We were each designed to love in our own way. I’m tempted to make love in a black and white way, but I’m learning it can be very fluid. It can bend, flex, and bleed different colors. 

Love requires wisdom.

Think about the people in your life right now. Think about your neighbor, your family, or the small group you are in. God has placed each person in your life for a reason. It isn’t an accident. Perhaps as you think about these people, pain arises. Maybe someone has hurt you, rejected you, or treated you unfairly. Hold this person and your pain before Jesus. Hand over your ache, desires, and hopes. Release your plan and your control. Release the way you think the relationship ought to go. Commit this relationship to prayer. God is on the move to bring the healing hope of Jesus to every single relationship in your life. Sometimes He uses us to actively pursue people by showing up day in and day out. Sometimes love looks like waiting for wisdom on how to love well. Either way, let us always love with prayer and by the Spirit.

Right now, God is inviting me to actively pursue my daughter. She needs words and touch even when she is resistant. I’m trying not to take it personally when Noelle’s body remains stiff when I hug her. Even though I know she will shake away, I keep reaching my arms around her day after day. I am also learning to make her favorite meal and take her on special outings because I know it fills her heart to the brim. 

May we be faithful to love the people God has placed in our lives on His terms and not just our own. 

God’s Goodness in Everyday, Ordinary Places

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Taste and see that the Lord is good. How happy is the person who takes refuge in him!
Psalm 34:8 (CSB)

I’ve been looking for goodness — for that which is sweet, good for the soul, joyful and light; for God’s goodness in everyday, ordinary places. In the middle of a wet and sloppy spring here in Minnesota, it can be hard to remember that possibilities and hope still exist. These days, it seems like the right move to be on the lookout for good.

What I’ve found is that goodness is everywhere — all around, all the time, in all the places.

This week my baby sister will have her second baby and my youngest will turn six months old. My kids are head over heels in love with their baby brother and their newest cousin. We’ve prayed for these babies, waited for their arrivals, celebrated them at socially distanced showers, decorated for them, and waited some more. Bring on the snuggles, the onesies, the pacifiers strewn about, the late-night texts from my sister while we’re both awake and nursing babies, the pure sweetness of a brand new baby. In a world that still holds that delicious newborn baby smell, there is still good.

My youngest daughter starts kindergarten next fall. Hard as I try to clench my fists around the slippery strands of time, it just keeps marching along. It reminds me of when we attended the kindergarten round-up night at our elementary school with our middle daughter, who was absolutely giddy to be there. She was dizzy with the attention of both parents solely focused on her, the prospect of her own desk filled with pencils and folders, a new teacher, new friends, an entire library to browse during elementary school, and the promise of riding a yellow school bus with her big brother. Her joy was overwhelming, and I couldn’t stop grinning big and silly at her happiness and hopefulness. In a world that still holds freshly sharpened pencils and the joy and hope of attending school, there is still good.

This winter, I made soup. When the temperatures dipped below zero, it was time to drag out the stoneware, dutch oven, and slow-cooker. My knife found a rhythm in slicing vegetables, my ears loved the sizzle of browning meat, and my heart gave a leap as I shook seasonings into the pot and suddenly the soup was more than single ingredients standing alone. Adding a fresh loaf of crusty-on-the-outside, squishy-on-the-inside bread and maybe a tossed green salad on the side, and dinner on a cold winter’s night was ready. The satisfaction of cooking is a motivator for me, and the joy it brings me to set a nice table and welcome my family around it is palpable. In a world that holds tables to gather around, family to break bread, and meals to be made, there is still good.

Daily, I dig into my laundry pile. I sort whites and bright colors, add detergent and swish-swash goes the washer. I vacuum up dog hair, fallen from our dog who loves to zoom and barrel dive into our legs. I load the dishwasher, unload the dishwasher, and load it up again, full of dishes on which meals and snacks were served and enjoyed. I pick up tiny toys and stack books on shelves and go to curbside pickup at the store for shampoo and bananas. I check in with family via texts, keep the calendar up to date (paper for me, electronic for my husband), and place books on hold at the library. I plan meals and turn in my hours for work and collapse into bed at the end of the day, thankful for each task ticked off my to-do list and asking for help to finish the leftovers. In a world that holds housekeeping tasks and teems with minutiae-managing, there is still good.

I sit at my computer, typing out words and creating emails, check in on social media and schedule a few posts, attend video meetings and work with our team to integrate editorial and marketing campaigns. I pray over each word published. This work I’m blessed to do is my sweet spot — ministry + business + writing. In a world that holds work that brings deep joy, there is still good.

God, who loves us as much as He did on day one, makes all things work for the good of those who love Him. He thinks of us constantly, more than there are grains of sand. He created the heat of summer, the colors of autumn, the glittering snow of winter, and the newness of life in spring. He went to the grave and back for us, for me and you. In a world overflowing with reminders of God’s love, there is still good.

The walk to school. The sermon at church. The fresh-fallen snow. The width and depth of the ocean. The warmth of the sun. The crisp pages of a new, blank journal. A hot latte. A letter from a friend. A daisy growing out of a sidewalk crack. Your children, friends, and family. A verse in Scripture that speaks straight to your heart. Goodness isn’t hard to find, especially when you’re on the lookout.

May you taste and see the goodness of the Lord, right there in your everyday (which is really anything but ordinary).

Desperate to Be Chosen

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I knew it would happen, but I forgot how much it would hurt. I had just spent the weekend away with a friend of mine, two depleted mamas making space to simply be and create and laugh and rest. It was only the second time in two years I was away from my daughter overnight, and reentry back home was painful.

“Mama, I don’t want you to hold me. I want Dada.”
“No, Mama, not you!”

Over and over again, as the week went on.

Less eye contact. More distance. Hurtful words. A brick wall built between us — born of sadness, sustained by stubbornness.

The sting numbed my body all over again, just like it did in China in 2018 when I realized my new twenty-month-old daughter preferred my husband over me. After years of grieving infertility, begging God for a baby, and waiting for my girl, I kind of forgot to consider that I might not be all she needed.

When we met Vera, I was able to hold and comfort her first, but after she went to my husband, we soon found out she didn’t want to come back to me. I swallowed my pride and yearning, tears streaming down my face. As mamas (new and old), we know what our babies need, and we’d die to ourselves a thousand times to make sure they feel loved. But that doesn’t mean our feelings always fade as quickly as we’d like.

I was a brand-new mama, with brand-new-mama hopes that were quickly crumbling. The enemy was wedging his way into our sacred space. Her comfort, safety, and well-being were most important. I knew that. I acted on it. But silently, I suffered.

I wanted to be the one she wanted.
I wanted to hold her.
I wanted to comfort her.
I wanted my longing heart to be fulfilled.

That was the problem: I was depending on my new title of “Mama” to be the missing piece, and instead God had something else in mind.

In the midst of my self-doubt, in our two weeks in China, God showed me tiny, beautiful slivers of light and peace, representing the full and strong bond that was to come for Vera and me, little moments paving the way for a big love. And in our two-and-a-half years together since, He’s overwhelmed my soul with the bright and thriving relationship I have with my sweet girl.

But there are days where my insecurities flare up and my faith fizzles out, when my daughter chooses my husband over me, over and over again. And I crack and lock myself in the bathroom to cry.

In 2 Corinthians 12:7-10, we learn that Paul had a thorn in his side:

So to keep me from becoming conceited because of the surpassing greatness of the revelations, a thorn was given me in the flesh, a messenger of Satan to harass me, to keep me from becoming conceited. Three times I pleaded with the Lord about this, that it should leave me. But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

My daughter preferring my husband is a thorn in my side.

I believe God keeps it there to remind me that my worth is not in motherhood. Vera cannot, will not, or should not ever feel responsible for making me whole. Only Jesus can do that. And the beauty of it is it means I can take the pressure off myself. I don’t have to try so hard to pry open closed doors or wriggle my way back to the loving space I know exists between my daughter and me. Instead, I can just be the person He created me to be, show her unending warmth and kindness, and in her own time, when she’s ready, she’ll find her way back and settle into my arms.

After a week of being home from my girl’s trip, after caving into the enemy’s lies and then filling back up on God’s truth and finally believing it, Vera let me back in. Full force. Back into the silliness and tenderness of my sweet four-year-old. Back to the fullness of our bond that is not lacking. Back to reaching for me and snuggling into my side.

“I like hanging out with you so much, Mama.”

I felt relief — like we’d made it through the trenches yet again. But I know it only came because of Him. I know it only came because I took a step back, relaxed, and believed deep in my soul that I already love this little girl the biggest and best way I know how. And more than that, He loves me. There’s nothing more for me to prove or do or try, except let go of my desperation to be chosen by her, because I’m fully, graciously, and fervently chosen by Him.

Need Some Joy? Us Too!

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This year. It’s been a journey — and not like a pretty, ride-off-into-the-sunset kind but more the kind that chewed us up and spit us out. We are all in desperate need of joy — one that’s deeper than a good latte, a beautiful sunset, or even a birthday celebration. We’re in need of the kind of joy that fills our hearts even when it doesn’t make sense to feel joyful. The kind of joy that radiates. The kind that comes from the Lord and is so much deeper, so much more life-giving than the joy of this world.

We need some soul-deep, unshakable, unwavering joy, and we’re pretty sure we’re not alone.

We’re ready to turn away from the world’s counterfeit version of temporary satisfaction and embrace the deep, authentic joy God is offering. So we are thrilled — JOYFUL, if you will — to introduce the second of four Bible studies coming from (in)courage this year . . . Courageous Joy: Delight in God Through Every Season, written by Mary Carver and featuring stories from the (in)courage community!

Isn’t this the perfect topic to follow the year we’ve had??

Courageous joy is both breathtakingly simple and beautifully complex, and it’s what we investigate in this new Bible Study. In Courageous Joy, we’ll dive into the Word of God to learn what He says about joy. We’ll learn to find joy in every circumstance we face and to share it with everyone we encounter. We’ll begin to understand how a person can truly count it all joy, even when the “all” we’ve been given is not the “all” we were hoping for or expecting.

You’re invited to dig deep with us and make 2021 the year we courageously lean into joy!

The Courageous Joy Bible Study is available wherever Bibles are sold, including:

Don’t want to wait to get started? Sign up here and we’ll send you a FREE week from each of the Courageous Bible Studies, including Courageous Joy!

The Mercy of Fresh Starts Every Morning

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Because of the Lord’s faithful love
we do not perish, for his mercies never end.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness!
Lamentations 3:22-23 (CSB)

As we ate our takeout and queued up our shows on the DVR, my husband and I caught up on the business of the week. We talked again about our daughter’s behavior, and I confessed something I’d realized about the situation. “I can’t start fresh,” I whispered. “My frustrations just keep building and building, and there’s no break, no relief, no blank slate.”

The conversations about our daughter’s disobedience and disrespect began bringing other issues to the table — namely, our tempers. We realized that our short fuses were contributing to the problem, but we didn’t know how to fix it. And I knew that this fresh start thing was part of it.

Without a fresh start, there’s no forgiveness. And without forgiveness, I couldn’t find my way out of the garbage heap of anger. I couldn’t see the light of grace.

Of course, everyone says that admitting your problem is the first step — and it is. But even though this realization — and the courage to describe it out loud to my husband — felt huge, it wasn’t enough. I needed to make a change for our family. I needed to do something different.

I wish I could say that difference happened naturally, on its own, that somehow I magically learned how to forgive and forget and shower my child and myself with grace. But that wouldn’t be true.

What happened instead was that I kept feeling angry and frustrated; I kept losing my temper with my disobedient, disrespectful little girl. And I kept remembering that I am part of the problem. I would put her to bed, so mad at the latest argument and so glad to be finished with the day, and then I would cry because I didn’t know how to stop feeling that way.

But then as I lamented our struggle to her first-grade teacher, something did change. My daughter’s teacher suggested we use the same color-coded behavior chart at home that they use in the classroom. I knew several months into this school year how important the color chart was to my daughter.

Every afternoon, her response to my question, “How was your day?” was what color she was on: A green day was good, average, normal, nothing to see here. A yellow (or even red) day meant she was crying before she even got in the car. A blue or pink day, though, was cause for celebration — high fives and hugs all around!

We’d made a half-hearted attempt to use a color chart at home before, and it didn’t help at all. But at this point, I was not just angry and frustrated; I was disappointed in myself and a little desperate for help.

And it worked. It worked! But not for the reasons I expected.

See, at school the colors came with consequences, and the good colors came with prizes. Plus, students had the added incentive of their classmates knowing where they stood each day. But none of that was in play at home. I wasn’t about to give out prizes for simple obedience, and her baby sister didn’t care what color my daughter was on.

What made the difference was that at the end of the day, no matter how ugly or difficult or red it was, I moved my daughter’s pin back to green. Every day started at green. Every day started fresh, blank, clean. It had the potential to be better or worse, but it started on green.

Something about physically moving that clothespin back to the green spot on our laminated color chart reset my heart, too. Even after the worst days, that simple gesture lifted a burden from my heart. Moving my daughter’s pin back to green let me breathe again. It helped me love her better, again. And it reminded me that because of God’s great mercy I get to start on green each day, too.

Though I struggle to be a good mom some days (or some years), God is the perfect heavenly Father. So it should have been no surprise that His methods work for me, too. God promises to wipe our slate clean, to remove our sin as far as the east is from the west. In the sacrifice of Jesus Christ, He offers us an abundance of mercy — and then He promises to refill that overflowing cup every single day.

Part of the Lent season is humbling ourselves. It is lowering our defenses and our pride, allowing God to strip away our sin and our distractions. It’s the grueling work of meaning it when we say, “more of you, less of me,” to our holy and mighty God. But though we begin this season there, God doesn’t leave us in our guilt and shame. He doesn’t force us out of the garden, naked and trembling. No, instead, He reaches for us and covers us in His grace. He erases every sin we confess and loves us through the entire process.

Just like my daughter gets to start on green, so do we. Even when we’re our most disobedient, we are forgiven. And we get to start over again. When we’re washed clean by the blood of Jesus, we get a fresh start. What a precious gift!

Heavenly Father, thank You for loving me so much better than I can ever love my own children. Thank You for adopting me into Your family and loving me even when I’m as disobedient as a child! And thank You for forgiving my every sin, wiping the slate clean, and giving me a fresh start each day. Because, Lord, I mess up every day. I need Your grace every day. And I’m so grateful for it! Thank You, God. I love you. Amen.

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

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

Get your FREE sampler from Journey to the Cross!

One Assumption You Can Make That’s Always True

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When was the last time you assumed something to be true, only later to discover you were off base? How often do you find your assumptions are wrong? My experience suggests more often than not.

When I wrote For All Who Wander, there were chapters I loved and others I had to fight for when my editor challenged their strength or relevancy. Those ended up being some of my favorites. On the other hand, there was a chapter or two I would’ve tossed without resistance, mainly because I wondered if I landed the point and wanted to be sure my illustrations were substantive and clear.

Imagine my surprise, then, that one of my least favorite chapters turned out to be one of the one most commented on to me. Chapter four, “Testimony Envy,” reveals my perception of how “boring” my conversion testimony is, and how I glamorized other believers’ “Damascus Road” experience. My concern was on multiple levels: a) readers might think the chapter was silly or not substantial, or b) I assumed no one would identify with or connect to my brand of angst on the topic.

My assumptions proved wrong. Time and again, people would mention this particular chapter, writing or telling me they’ve felt the same way. Either they wished their testimony were more exciting or dramatic, or they lamented what it took for God to bring them to their knees and how they envied a humdrum testimony like mine.

The grass may look greener on the other side of the fence, but whatever God plants under our feet is the exact shade of green He intends. Meaning, however you or I came to a saving knowledge of Christ is a story we can share for the glory of God.

If you grew up in a Christian home and can’t recall not identifying as anything other than a Christian, praise God! If you never stepped foot in church and broke every single commandment before meeting Jesus, praise God that He delivered you from darkness to light right when He did!

Regardless of how you came to know God, yours is a story worth telling because it is part of God’s story. He’s the hero every time. What Jesus has done on our behalf to rescue us is nothing short of astonishing grace. It is in Jesus’s life, death, and resurrection we find the gospel, and He expects us to share this good news. “Go into all the world and proclaim the gospel to the whole creation,” He says in Mark 16:15 (and in more detail in Matthew 28:16-20)

Regardless of how shiny or dull you think your testimony is, if you’ve been reluctant to share the gospel with others or you get nervous about sharing your testimony, take a moment and read Acts 10. It’s a masterclass in how to do both, the story of Cornelius, a Gentile, and Peter, a Jew.

Keep in mind that sharing your testimony isn’t only about your conversion to faith — a single moment you “walked the aisle” or prayed to receive Christ. Sharing your testimony is as simple as telling a friend what God is teaching you right now or how He’s working in your life. Peter did that for Cornelius when he explained why he was willing to go to Cornelius’ home (Acts 10:28).

Then, in Acts 10:34-43, Peter shares the gospel. In just a few short sentences, he describes the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, and the subsequent implications to Cornelius and those present — ” . . . that everyone who believes in him receives forgiveness of sins through his name.”

Why do we find sharing our testimony to be so complicated or intimidating?

What struck me in particular was the posture of both men: they were focused on God. Of Cornelius, we read that he “prayed continually,” and Peter’s vision from God was preceded by prayer. Would they have been moved to such swift obedience — Cornelius to send for Peter and Peter to drop everything and go — had their attention been focused elsewhere?

The testimonies of both Cornelius and Peter point me to Jesus, modeling a faith that is active and purposeful. Their prayer life was powerful and effective, and they humbled themselves to hear from God. And God, in response, revealed Himself to be Lord of all and without impartiality, and the gift of the Holy Spirit was poured out (Acts 10:45).

There are people in your life who are in need of a Savior and those who will meet Him because of your story. If you’ve ever wondered about God’s will for your life, you can always assume that sharing your faith is part of it, and you can do it confidently knowing it’ll point to Him.

(in)courage sisters, who’s willing to share her story?

The Necessary Practice of Remembering

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My mom used to throw hwatu cards down beside my family and me while we sat on the floor during cold evenings. We played over winter break when it was too dark and chilly to go outdoors, with the sound of Christmas movies keeping us company in the background. We sat close together and close to our low-lying Korean-style table. It was covered with snacks and the sliced fruit my mom served us as both dessert and curated artwork, the way Korean moms do.

I loved the sound of those tiny, plastic, red and white cards slapping the ground like an exclamation.

I studied their pictures as a kid. They were easy to hold in my small hands, and I traced their drawings of flowers, symbols, and seasons with my finger, wishing they could tell me more about where I came from.

Then recently, while trying to remember the rules of the game so I could teach my own family to play for Lunar New Year, I found articles of its origin online. It came from a Japanese game called hanafuda and was brought to Korea during the Japanese Occupation. Before that, the game was inspired by Portuguese traders who traveled to Japan with their own card games.

Japan colonized Korea between 1910 and 1945. My mom was born the year the occupation came to an end, and her entire life from the day she was born has carried the repercussions.

Thinking about all of this made me less enthusiastic about playing.

Historical truths can do that, can’t they? History is always complicated, and whether we like it or not, we are living from its impact.

Our history as the people of God is no less complicated. We are eager to mark and make much of moments of victory, as we should, but we run from the moments that remind us of our capacity for malevolence.

Psalm 53:2-3 reminds all of us — every nation, color, and people — who we are without Christ:

God looks down from heaven
upon the sons of men
to see if any understand,
if any seek God.
All have turned away,
they have together become corrupt;
there is no one who does good,
not even one.

It’s tempting to just ignore the ugly parts of history, slap a “Be kind” t-shirt on, and try to move on. But if we’re honest, that strategy only deals our children and their children a rough hand.

We cannot do better if we forget what’s been done in the past. We cannot do better if we believe that the mere passage of time has the power to make us better humans. We cannot pass a legacy onto our children and their children by singing great worship songs with all of our heart.

Nothing will change from generation to generation in our nation if we believe we aren’t capable of, connected to, and complicit in the atrocities of our ancestors and our neighbor’s ancestors.

When I lived in Germany, I couldn’t walk anywhere in the city without stepping on a brass cobblestone — a stolperstein, literally meaning “a stumbling stone.” They were impossible to miss, and they forced everyone to acknowledge the nation’s history as they went about their everyday life. Alongside of running errands, waiting for the street tram, meeting a friend for coffee, or shopping at the Sunday farmer’s market were these stones of remembrance. Each stone was inscribed with the birth and death of a citizen and victim of Nazi Germany’s holocaust.

In other cities, there are plaques of remembrance placed on known former residences. All of it, whether stones or plaques or memorials, was an intentional communal act of remembrance. They weren’t there to shame Germans who didn’t take part in the Holocaust but to collectively acknowledge and remember what was done, what they had lost and continue to grieve the loss of, and what horrors anyone is capable of. It reminded me of what can happen to any nation when it’s ruled in fear, divided, and when those in power believe a certain group of people is supreme over others and another group is meant to bear the brunt of blame for their problems.

As people of God, we are all called to remember, learn, lament, repent, grieve, and retell stories of redemption through Jesus.

How else can we embody the hope of rebirth, renewal, and rebuilding?

So, now, when my family plays hwatu, they will not only hear about the way my mom slapped cards onto the floor and fed us perfectly sliced fruit like love letters. They will also eventually hear about where the game came from, how my mom finished those game nights carrying a silent but visible sadness, and about the God who meets us in the paradox of our connected pain, as it’s braided and bound tightly to our collective liberation and joy. In their own way and on their own time, my children will need space to lament the pains of the past connected to our family heritage, our spiritual heritage, our nation, and our world, along with the celebration and the goodness of everyday life.

While we laugh, receive joy, and carry hope for renewal, may we also find God as we embrace the necessary spiritual practice of remembering.

When Unity Feels Impossible

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Lately, I’ve been taking a lot of long social media breaks. Even though my career has led me to start social media for major organizations, co-found (in)courage, and help authors and entrepreneurs creatively utilize social media to grow their businesses, I had become discouraged by my own social media experience.

For me and many others, the social media space started to feel unsafe. I watched as friends ripped each other apart over political preferences, shared their toxic feelings about news stories, and fanned the flames of injustice.

During my social media breaks, I realized I was grieving. I was upset how social media had not unified us but showcased how divided we truly are — and not just from a political, racial, and social standpoint. These divisions looked the same in the body of Christ as they do in the world. Yet God calls us to unity.

Before you get uncomfortable with the word unity, let me clarify.

Unity is not asking you to conform. God does not want us to be the same as each other. We are not bricks made by human design but precious stones coming together to hold His presence as the church.

Unity is not a call to same-ness. God made us each unique in the color of our skin, the texture of our hair, the imagination we hold, the gifts we prepare, the places we dwell, the job we are assigned, the way we each love, and the care we need. We are to live as His individual masterpieces, all around the globe and next door, in every color and culture, glorifying God with our uniqueness and celebrating others for theirs.

Unity is not a word created by current culture. During the last supper, Jesus prayed for you and I and all future believers. If some of Jesus’ last words were to us and on our behalf, I think they hold a lot of weight.

What was His prayer about? Unity.

I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message, that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you. May they also be in us so that the world may believe that you have sent me. I have given them the glory that you gave me, that they may be one as we are one— I in them and you in me—so that they may be brought to complete unity. Then the world will know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me.
John 17:20-23 (NIV)

Jesus gave us the secret for the purpose of unity and the only way to achieve it. Without the Holy Spirit’s power, unity is impossible.

You and I are one with Jesus and are to be one with each other, just as Jesus and God the Father are one. You and I are to be intertwined with Jesus, just as He is with the Father. Only then can we be fully connected to each other.

God’s goal for us is to be one, unified with Jesus and each other.

Did you notice why Jesus told us to be one? So that the world may believe God sent Him to save the world. So that our neighbors, those we really don’t like and those we would consider evil, would know that God loves each of them like He loved Jesus.

Let that love remove the frustration, bitterness, fear and rage. Let that love remove the hate you have in your heart towards another that looks, acts, or votes different than you. Let that love propel you to look for ways to unify.

Let the goal of winning the argument, trial, or election be overshadowed by your holy assignment — to be intertwined with Jesus, tethered to each other, and actively pouring out love where it’s not deserved.

The body of Christ needs be stitched back together, each part crucial to this message of sacrificial love. We must be unified to accomplish the goal of the church. And we must confess where we each have fallen short to start the journey to being one.

Will there be conflict along the way? Yes. Unity doesn’t mean there won’t be misunderstanding and disagreement. But there is a unified mission: to love God, love others, and make Jesus known to all, without hurting others in the process.

So, when someone speaks of unity, I agree it sounds impossible, especially in the church. But God reminds me that working towards a goal of unity as the body of Christ is not only our earthly assignment but our preparation for heaven.

God tells us our enemy is not against flesh and blood, and yet we act as though they are, forgetting to protect each other from the real enemy with our prayers and loving action.

God reminds us over and over in Scripture that no person is our King since Jesus holds that honor. And yet we sacrifice friends and family for our preferred elected leader.

God made the nations in all their beauty, colors, and glory, yet we forget to celebrate and protect the differences in our neighborhoods and cities. He has brought us graciously together to learn about all aspects of God’s character through unique cultures, food, languages, and skin tones that make up the tapestry of the creative God we serve.

God wants us to remember unity is His idea.

Our unity is based on the Holy Spirit and the love Jesus has for each of us, not on our common ideals, political party, denomination, race, backgrounds, jobs, opinions, or experiences.

Unity in the Kingdom of God is only achievable by the work of the Holy Spirit, first in our individual lives and then as a collective group. Unity is a miracle of God. Let’s choose to be a part of it online and in real life.

Nothing Lasts Forever, Not Even This

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I pull my coat tighter around me as the winter wind cuts through the layers I wear, causing a shiver to run down my spine. Ice crunches under my feet as I walk through my neighborhood. It is my Sabbath, and although most of the time Sabbath is my favorite day of the week, today I feel restless. 

I bundled myself up as much as I could — hat, scarf, coat, mittens, big sweater, boots — but the wind is cold today. 

I sigh as I walk. I am already longing for spring. I see massive icicles hanging from rooftops — I’d guess they’re more than two feet long, maybe longer. I stop for a moment, wide-eyed. They’re enormous. I whisper a short prayer of safety for anyone who happens to walk underneath one. 

I continue my walk, adjusting my sunglasses against the bright sun. I was hoping this walk would bring a sense of peace and restfulness, but instead I start feeling more antsy. I want spring. I want this pandemic to be over. I want my life to feel different.

A verse gently crosses my mind: There is a time for everything and a season for every activity. 

And suddenly I know: this won’t last forever. Nothing ever does. Not winter time or the pandemic or the stuck feeling I seem to be carrying around with me these days.

It’s a hard and wonderful truth all at the same time — nothing lasts forever. It’s wonderful when it feels comforting: when it’s freezing cold and I want spring weather, when it feels like I can’t handle one more second of this pandemic, when I beg God to change my circumstances, after a break-up or during a root canal. I can take a deep breath and remind myself, “This won’t last forever.”

It’s a harder truth to hold onto when we want to keep things the way they are: when it’s summertime or in the newborn stage, during first kisses or the early days of falling in love, in the midst of a good meal or a sweet friendship, when the pavement smells lovely after the rain or on Christmas morning. It is a hard truth to recognize that those wonderful moments won’t last forever.

Nothing on earth lasts forever. Like Solomon wisely said, there are times for everything — to weep and laugh, to mourn and dance, to be silent and to speak up. Seasons do eventually change. I think maybe that’s why God made four seasons — a gentle, quarterly reminder for you and me that nothing quite lasts forever. 

Snow melts. Buds form. The days get longer, and the sun sets later. 

And yet, there are seasons that can feel everlasting: loneliness, or chronic pain, singleness, or a pandemic. It can seem like they stretch on infinitely. 

But eventually, friend, those will be over, too. I think of Revelation 21:4, one of my favorite verses, “He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.”

This — whatever your this may be — won’t last forever.

The sun starts to set as I continue on my frigid walk, as I ponder the truth I’ve uncovered: how this season will eventually be over. I wonder if I can see God in this season too, even if I’d trade this season in a heartbeat. 

As I turn toward home, once again I see the gigantic icicles hanging from the houses — and I can see God’s handiwork in the icy spears. I feel my heart beating hard, my breath puffing visible wisps around my face — a reminder from God that I am very much alive. I see God in me. 

If I open my eyes and embrace the season I’m in — even if I don’t like it very much — maybe somehow I’ll still see God. 

Through it all — through the hard seasons and the wonderful ones — God will always be with me. And even when the season changes, He never will.

I Didn’t Know What I Didn’t Know

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Recently I was talking with my twenty-six-year-old son, Josh, about when he was growing up. Out of curiosity, I asked if there was anything he wished we’d done differently in our parenting. He paused for a minute to think about it, and then he told me, “I wish you and dad had talked with us about the problem of racism in our country. I know we went to a multi-ethnic church, and you guys had lots of friends who weren’t white. Even half of my friends were Hispanic, Indian, and Black, but I didn’t know anything about racism.”

I wasn’t expecting that answer, but I understood and valued what he was saying. I apologized to Josh and explained that we didn’t sit down and talk about it back then because we didn’t know how prevalent racism still was. Even though we had many multi-ethnic friendships and a wonderfully diverse church family, it wasn’t something that was discussed.

I didn’t know what I didn’t know. And honestly, I thought I was only responsible for what I knew. But a few years ago, I realized if I wanted to fully embody the life, love, and compassion of Jesus, I needed to do the honest, soul-searching, and sometimes uncomfortable work of finding out what I didn’t know about racism.

For the past five years, I have been on a journey of listening and learning from friends and others whose lived experiences have been very different from mine because of their skin color. People with layers of pain and trauma caused by unfair, unjust, and unacceptable realities they can’t choose to not know about. 

And I can no longer choose to not know about it either because racism is still very real for my Asian friends deeply concerned for the elderly and others in their communities due to the extreme rise in violent anti-Asian racism. Racism is painfully real for my Black friend whose grandfather worked hard to provide for his family while trying to set his children up for a better future — only to have his home devalued and his rights dismantled when new zoning policies were put in place to allocate more power and wealth to the white man. And racism is still real for my friend of East Indian descent who was questioned by a white woman at her neighborhood pool, insisting she tell this stranger her address to prove she and her children live in that neighborhood.

There was and still is so much for me to learn, but as I became more aware, I wasn’t sure where to start. What books should I read? What online course should I take? I wanted to know what I didn’t know, but knowledge wasn’t the only thing I needed.

Jesus was inviting me to walk with Him and learn how to lean in and listen to others’ stories with His love and compassion, to sit in sadness and sorrow with them and let myself feel the weight of their grief, to take time to weep with those who weep.

As Henri Nouwen once said, “Compassion asks us to go where it hurts, to enter into the places of pain, to share in brokenness, fear, confusion, and anguish. Compassion challenges us to cry out with those in misery, to mourn with those who are lonely, to weep with those in tears. Compassion requires us to be weak with the weak, vulnerable with the vulnerable, and powerless with the powerless. Compassion means full immersion in the condition of being human.” 

I think back to when I first started my journey of anti-racism, and any time I heard the term “white privilege” I would bristle inside. Or when I was in a conversation where I felt like I should know more about racism, I’d defend myself because I wanted people to know I cared. But over time, Jesus helped me see that I was making it about me. All I needed to say was: “I’m sorry I didn’t know that. I thought I didn’t need to know since it was not part of my reality, but now I can see how that is white privilege.”

Other times when I feared I might say the wrong thing and be misunderstood, I’d remind myself that my uncomfortable feelings or fear wasn’t the point. And over time I learned that the best thing I could do was to ask: How can I love you well in what you’re going through?

I wish I had known what I know now about racism when my sons were younger. Thankfully, it’s never too late to start learning and even though our older sons are on their own and married now, we are all learning about racism together. We are looking for ways to more intentionally love people who don’t look like us by leaning in to listen to and value their stories, to fight against racism and fight for their rights. And when continued acts of racial violence and inequity happen, we are learning how to simply ask, “How can I love you well in what you’re going through today?”

Last year, a few of my (in)courage sisters and I gathered for a two-part conversation about race and racism. These personal stories from our sisters who are women of color were significant in helping me gain a deeper understanding and see racism through Jesus’ eyes. I hope you’ll lean in and listen to their stories.

Part One.

Part Two.

All Together Now — and Not Just Saying It

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In the fellowship hall at our church, the Sunday school tables looked so different. Not grouped for children, teens, or grownups, the tables were manned instead with nurses.

Sitting behind laptops and wearing masks, they were armed with syringes and needles primed with a vaccine against the most deadly virus to grip the world in some hundred years.

Our church has joined the fight against the virus. Thus, on a sunny Sunday a few weeks ago, my husband Dan and I showed up and rolled up our sleeves — getting our first Pfizer vaccine shot against COVID-19. The second came three weeks later.

What we got most, however, was something we didn’t expect. We got our community again. Others are experiencing the same. As we struggle back to our churches, neighborhood rec centers, football stadiums, and other venues — to get a vaccine (of all things) — we’re rediscovering each other. Or surely we’re trying.

As I told a friend, “Just being with other people again, especially to get a shot to flatten the curve — actually felt like doing something holy.” Yes, I said that.

Could that be, however, because God designed us to be together? Connected as one? And not just talking about it?

We surely see that in the Bible, right off the bat, in the second Book of Genesis, when God set Adam in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it (Genesis 2:15). Soon, however, as most of us know, the Lord made his helper Eve because “it [was] not good for the man to be alone” (Genesis 2:18).

This was about a man and his wife, of course, but their God-made bond also provides a model for being in community. We’re not meant to slog and toil through life by ourselves. We actually need each other. No wonder the Bible keeps offering reminders:

Two are better than one,
because they have a good return for their labor:
    If either of them falls down,
one can help the other up.
Ecclesiastes 4:9-10 (NIV)

But if we still don’t get it, this message goes on: “But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up. Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone?” (Ecclesiastes 4:10-11).

Dozens of other verses and stories on community brighten the Bible — the Magi seeking the Christ child together, the woman at the well meeting Christ and then running to tell her whole village, Jesus Himself going to the Garden of Gethsemane, not by Himself but with His friends (even if they fell asleep on the job).

Community, it turns out, is not about just hanging with perfect folks who look, walk, vote, and think like us. It’s about people who will struggle with us.

It isn’t about being nice; it’s about being educated about what others are going through and then caring enough to join with them in their struggle. It’s saying no to hateful actions like anti-Asian racism and violence, and saying yes to seeing the pain of those around us and finding ways to be with people in the struggle.

Indeed, one of the worst aspects of the pandemic, say scholars such as Kyle Harper of the University of Oklahoma, is its merciless impact on community — “of loved ones passing in anguished solitude, of respectful rites denied or deferred.”

So, the irony? The quickest route out of our pandemic sorrow is to pull together — whether that means we stay home when we’d rather be together, masking up when we wish we didn’t have to, or rolling up our sleeves and getting the vaccine. We do what it takes to save countless lives, not just our own.

I understand that not everyone can get the vaccine. A health condition may prevent that. Some may have other concerns. But as one who remembers childhood scourges — chicken pox, measles, mumps, whooping cough, polio — that ran rampant before vaccines were available, I know firsthand the gratitude to fellow citizens who did their part to stop the torment together.

At my church, members and even people we’d never seen before showed up and were welcomed in as Jesus welcomes us. Following Him, I invite us all to reflect on every aspect of our lives to see whether we’re fostering community or kicking it to the curb. As we do, we’ll be reminded that community is tough work. But we get it right if we do what Jesus asks of all of us — stop talking and start loving.

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To Love with No Strings Attached

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Lord, you showed favor to your land;
you restored the fortunes of Jacob.
You forgave your people’s guilt;
you covered all their sin. Selah
You withdrew all your fury;
you turned from your burning anger.

Return to us, God of our salvation,
and abandon your displeasure with us.
Will you be angry with us forever?
Will you prolong your anger for all generations?
Will you not revive us again
so that your people may rejoice in you?
Show us your faithful love, Lord,
and give us your salvation.
Psalm 85:1-7 (CSB)

“How many times have I told you?”

“Why should I believe you when you’ve said the same thing before?”

“Don’t you remember how nice I was to you today? And then you do this?”

“I’m done! I mean it. This is it. I can’t take anymore.”

I’ve said these words. I’ve said them so many times I couldn’t begin to keep track of their frequency, much less their effectiveness. For all their use, you might assume they must do the job. Those searing sentences must cut their recipients to the quick, poking them right in the conscience, right in the deepest part of their hearts. Clearly my word-arrows strike their targets and initiate repentance and change.

Right? Not so much.

Over the past few years, I’ve realized that I am guilty of loving conditionally. As my daughters have grown older and my marriage has grown stronger, I’ve been forced to face some of the challenges I bring to my most dear relationships — and one of the biggest is the ball of strings I have tied to my love.

Perhaps you’ve struggled with this, too. Maybe you also want every advantage of God’s unconditional love but are reluctant to offer that same gift to others. That realization stings, doesn’t it?

Looking in the mirror is hard, friend. It’s hard when our jeans are tight or our face breaks out, and it’s hard when our sinful nature slips through the cracks. It’s hard when we see the expectations we place on people we call beloved, when we see the score sheet we keep against the very people on our team, and it’s hard when we realize how far short our love falls from the love our Father gives us so freely.

In Psalm 85, the author is begging God for forgiveness, for another chance, for one more redemption story. He’s remembering all the times God has forgiven His people completely, and he’s believing that God will do it once again. And He will. He promises that. Our God is faithful, just as the psalmist says. He will forgive us every time because all our sins have already been paid for by Jesus. No more debt to pay. And no matter what, He will love us with an unfailing love. No strings attached.

As we journey to the cross together, I am overwhelmingly thankful for God’s faithful love and the example He gives us in loving unconditionally. When I read through the Old Testament and into the Psalms, I can’t help shake my head at the Israelites. Those fickle, faithless Israelites . . . who . . . just might have more in common with me than I want to admit. Yet, because of Christ, God never shakes His head at me. He never shouts in exasperation, “How many times have I told you?” And He never, ever says, “I’m done.” Let us thank God for His faithful love — and ask Him to teach us to love faithfully too.

Dear God, thank You for loving so much better than I do. Thank You for being faithful to offer me grace and forgiveness, to love me unconditionally even when I don’t deserve it. Please help me love others the same way, Lord. Help me be slow to anger and quick to forgive. Help me see with Your eyes and love with Your love, no strings attached. Thank You, God. I love You. Amen.

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

 

How can we pray for you?

Perhaps God is bringing to mind the ways you’ve been conditional with your love or forgiveness. Let’s bring our honest selves before God and ask for help and grace as we learn to love others and ourselves better. Share a prayer or prayer request below, and then pray for the person who commented before you.

To Live a Life Worthy of the Gospel

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We sat at the kitchen table, sipping our coffee and savoring a few early-morning moments before our youngest three kids woke up to get ready for virtual school.

“I just don’t understand people sometimes,” I said. “How hard is it to be kind?” Over the past year, we’ve noticed an overall increase in sharp and grace-less words from the people we encounter, including strangers we bump into at the gas station as well as friends we interact with in person or online. It seems like nerves are frayed and patience thin, and they have been for months now. On this particular morning, it was wearing through our own self-control and patience.

“Has everyone lost their minds? I just don’t get it.” I shook my head, trying to make sense of it all.

Of course, no sooner had the words left my mouth than I had visions of my own unkind words and impatient responses in the days before. My utter impatience with kids who are home every day but don’t pick up after themselves. My annoyance with a grocery delivery service that didn’t get my order right. And my overwhelming frustration with an entire school year that feels like it’s been wasted.

The truth is this has been an extraordinary year — not because of the multitude of crises, but because of the globalization of them. We’ve all had hard years before — seasons when a struggling relationship, financial challenge, or difficult diagnosis weigh heavy and take us off our game.

But for the last twelve months, in addition to our individual crises and challenges, we’ve weathered more than one global crisis. Like a sinking ship, we’re each looking for someone to save us. But the problem is we’re all drowning. As a result, we claw and grab and, inadvertently, take each other down.

Whatever happens, conduct yourselves in a manner worthy of the gospel of Christ.
Philippians 1:27 (NIV)

I read these words and immediately needed to stop and read them again.

Whatever happens — 

If I’m treated justly, or if I’m not.

If my children grow up to embrace faith in Jesus, or they do not.

If my health stays strong, or it does not.

If my marriage grows and thrives, or if it does not.

If injustices are dealt with, or if they are not.

If viruses and pandemics become a thing of the past, or if they do not.

If our nation becomes a place of hope and safety and unity for all, or if it does not.

Whatever happens, conduct yourselves in a manner worthy of the Gospel of Christ. 

The conviction I felt was hot, sharp, and immediate. There is no list of exceptions, no “get out of jail free” card if this happens or that happens. Instead, Paul makes it clear to the church in Philippi as well as to you and me: We’ve been given the gift of the gospel, the good news of unmerited grace, sacrificial love, eternity promised in the presence of the God who gave it all for us. That means, we have something solid to cling to, even when it seems the world’s ship is sinking.

The question you and I must ask: Am I living as if this were true?

Am I responding to the day’s news with both appropriate grief over the condition of our world and confident hope in the One who holds the world in His hands?

Am I seeing the inherent value of the people I encounter as children of the same God, even when we don’t agree or get along?

Am I offering the same grace and mercy when someone fails or disappointments me as I have been given from my Father?

Am I living worthy of the gospel of Christ, the incredible good news that I am loved, forgiven, safe, and provided for?

I can only answer this for myself. And I must do so day by day, moment by moment. This life is hard and confusing. And this won’t be the last time we’ll find our nerves frayed and patience thin. But we have a promise of a promised land, a hope that will not disappoint, a future that will be free of tears and fears and pandemics. And that means, although the ship will go down, we will not drown.

Let’s live that way.

Flourishing Together: Seeing God’s Image in Others

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When my late husband Ericlee and I were newlyweds, we invited my Grandpa Frank to come live with us. Several years earlier my Grandma Cora had soared to heaven, and our family knew it wasn’t good for Grandpa to be living alone anymore — far from most of our family.

My generous husband offered up our guest room. He knew this was important to me. Of course, neither of us realized that providing a home for Grandpa would enlarge our hearts in ways we’d never dreamed.

While most of our twenty-something friends were going out on Friday nights, we spent evenings around the table with Grandpa sharing bowls of pinakbet stew or taking him to theater productions and movies.

My ninety-year-old grandpa was a bit of a character. Grandpa walked with a signature slow shuffle and a toothy smile a mile wide. The wrinkles on his face danced when he talked. He told outrageous stories and got into things he wasn’t supposed to. He also had a beautiful way of disarming strangers and making them into fast friends.

In that season, my husband and I cultivated heaps of patience and experienced much surprising joy. My grandpa taught us to slow down our pace, to savor every bite, and to count each day as a gift.

When I first read the reports several weeks ago that Asian American senior citizens were being attacked in our country, I felt my chest tighten. Xenophobia and anti-Asian racism has been on the rise in the U.S. since the start of the coronavirus pandemic in March 2020. A restaurant in my own city hung a sign on its door warning people to stay at a distance until the “Kung Flu” was over.

Many of my Asian American friends started speaking out against this injustice, but I felt paralyzed. The tears were caught in the back of my throat as I thought about my precious Filipino-Chinese-Polynesian grandparents and someone singling them out because of the color of their skin, the shape of their eyes, or their perceived country of origin.

I remember my own anxiety last spring about my Chinese-American husband going out for morning runs in the neighborhood or to the post office.

Would someone say something or do something to him?

My heart had to go there. More and more reports popped up on social media of friends who were enduring racial slurs and even physical harm because people were connecting COVID-19 with China and taking it out on Asian Americans of all different cultural backgrounds.

Genesis 1:27 reminds us that humans were created as image bearers of God: “So God created human beings in his own image. In the image of God he created them; male and female he created them” (NLT).

This does not make us into gods. This means we are valued as God’s special creation. As image bearers, we can reflect God’s glory to the world in ways no other part of creation can. God deeply values us, and we have the opportunity to value other human beings of all sizes, shapes, heights, weights, personality types, and skin tones.

My flourishing depends on the flourishing of my brothers and sisters, my neighbors, family, and friends. If someone lashes out against a Black sister because of the color of her skin, we all suffer. If someone treats a Latina sister as “less than,” we all hurt. If someone overlooks an Indigenous sister, we all miss out. If someone attacks an Asian American elder, we all grieve because an image bearer of God has been struck down.

When racism is expressed in the world, we all need to be affected. Racism does not just affect individuals; it affects all communities. We are created as interdependent beings. We cannot flourish in isolation. We can only flourish together in community. 

According to the Bible, we are called to pay particular attention to the oppressed, the marginalized, and those who are suffering. Jesus modeled this again and again in His ministry. He went out of His way to talk to, stand up for, heal, and champion the women and men who were most vulnerable in society. We are called to do the same.

In Romans, Paul writes about the marks of a true Christian: “Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good. Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor” (Romans 12:9-10, ESV).

Paul calls out the Romans and all of us reading God’s Word today to love each other as if we are family. Our love is to be genuine and honoring.

When my grandpa lived with us, we often went on evening walks together. He would grip my hand tightly to steady his body. For decades, the sweat of his brow and the work of his carpenter hands carried and provided for our family. Now my husband and I had the honor of caring and providing for him in his final season of life.

As we strolled the neighborhood, I had the opportunity to be his eyes — watching for cars, looking out for tree roots and cracks in the sidewalk that might trip him up or harm him. It was a privilege to walk with him in this way. On the route, he also gifted me wisdom, stories, and laughter.

Friends, let’s keep each other’s best interest in mind and value each other as part of our extended family.

Let’s stand up and speak up when we see others from God’s family being devalued or harmed.

Let’s walk together and treat each person like an image bearer of God to be treasured.

—

Some of my (in)courage sisters and storytellers joined me last summer for a two-part conversation about race and racism. These personal stories from women of color in our community help shed light and give deeper understanding of these issues.

Watch here:

Part One.

Part Two.

 

Dorina helps women chase God’s glory on unexpected trails and flourish in their God-given identities. Join her Glorygram list for weekly encouragement and recommendations.

When Making Do Doesn’t Make Sense

by

In the thirteen years we lived in our first home, we dumped thousands of dollars and even more sweat and tears and prayers into it. A small, poorly constructed house, it was less a HGTV-type fixer-upper and more a money pit that had a real hard time passing inspection when we were finally able to sell it. Over the years, we had to pick our battles and often had to “make do” with less-than-ideal situations.

More than once, though, I became so comfortable with things that didn’t work that I lost sight of the fact that something was broken. Exhibit A: my refrigerator. At some point, it started leaking. My husband is pretty handy, and he tried to fix it. But nothing he did made a difference, and so we lived with a leaking refrigerator — for months. A towel or two on the floor of my kitchen became “normal” and something we just lived with until one day my friend finally said, “Why haven’t you fixed that yet?”

I sputtered and huffed and glared at her rude question. And then I wondered, “Wait, why haven’t I fixed that yet?” I told her I was waiting for my husband to figure something out. I told her we had to fix other things first. I told her it wasn’t that big of a deal . . . as she pointedly stared at the full-size bath towel soaking up water. The following week, I called a plumber who quickly diagnosed and fixed the problem, for a price that was much more reasonable than I’d expected. Hurting my handy husband’s feelings, dealing with the hassle of calling and scheduling a repair professional, finding the money to pay for it — all of these had convinced me to just make do. It was fine. Fine! Just a little water on the floor. Every day. Drip. Drip. Drip.

I’d like to say this was the first and last time I got so comfortable dealing with something broken that I forgot it was broken. But before that had been our dryer, which literally shocked me every single time I changed laundry. And since then, it’s been our twenty-one-year-old set of knives, so dull they were more dangerous (and far less useful) than the new set I finally bought. It’s been “just dealing with” family dynamics that hurt everyone but feel less scary than addressing the underlying issues. It’s been making do with threadbare towels and feeling guilty every single time my dentists asks if I’ve been flossing.

Am I writing all this to encourage you to fix your fridge and tell your dentist to put “does not floss” in your chart so he quits asking? No. (Although, obviously, if these pieces of advice apply, go for it!) Why am I telling you any of this then?

I’m telling you about my refrigerator because I’m learning that God doesn’t expect us to become so complacent that we ignore brokenness and pain or deny its existence or, possibly worse, find a bit of comfort in it. It’s just the way it is. Fixing it would be too hard, too costly. I’ll just make do . . .

I’m telling you because I recently read a Bible story that I’ve read many times, even recently. But this time, I read it with friends and discussed the confusing part I’d skimmed over every other time. And it’s changing how I look at making do.

In the book of Mark, Jesus is traveling to Jerusalem and, as He’s passing a crowd, hears a man calling His name. A blind man is shouting for Jesus, asking for help, and Jesus stops. He calls the man to come to Him and says, “What do you want me to do for you?” The man says he wants to see, and Jesus restores his sight (Mark 10:46-52).

What do you want Me to do for you?

Every other time I’d read or heard this story, I was confused by Jesus’s question. Why did He need to ask? Wasn’t the answer obvious — to anyone who saw the man’s blindness, much less to our all-knowing Lord? But as I discussed this with my friends, I began to understand that Jesus wanted the man to ask for what he needed. Out loud. Outright. Perhaps to show humility or to acknowledge his need for Jesus, this man’s acknowledgement of what was broken and his inability to fix it himself was a necessary part of his healing.

Is it possible that Jesus is asking me, “What do you want Me to do for you?” when I feel vaguely discontent or when I lean into my pain as if it’s all I can expect, when I pretend like everything’s okay or become numb to the things that poke and prod at my heart or my soul or my mind or my body? Could it be that Jesus is waiting for me to come to Him and ask for help?

Nothing in Scripture promises an easy or pain-free life. God is no genie, waiting to grant us three wishes. As a matter of fact, Jesus says that in this world, we will certainly have troubles. But no matter how much trouble we face — even when, perhaps, it’s too much for us to face head on or all at once, leading us to ignore, deny, and make do — God never leaves us alone. And whether help and healing comes in the way (or time) we expect, or God surprises us with a different plan, He does answer every prayer and request. It might not be as easy as a new set of knives or as dramatic as restoring the sight of the blind man, but when we ask Jesus for help, He will respond.

For so many reasons, we can be tempted to become comfortable with or even cling to the familiar ache of what’s not working, what’s broken, what’s not quite bad enough to complain about yet. But then we miss what God has planned for us. Just making do doesn’t make us noble or brave or wise. It makes sure we miss out — on God’s blessings.

What have you been making do with? If Jesus asked you today, “What do you want me to do for you?” what would you say?