When Unity Won’t Work, Let There Be Harmony

When Unity Won’t Work, Let There Be Harmony

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Over the last few months, I’ve struggled with the word unity. Although calls for unity are necessary and appropriate, the word itself seemed to feel off — as if it had lost its flavor. I cringed when I saw unity used to encourage collective direction. Because I couldn’t understand why the word seemed so ill-fitting to me, I quietly decided not to say, write, or meditate on it. However, I noticed on social media that other people were openly rejecting unity as a timely rallying cry, and I thought, What in the world is going on? Why are we rejecting unity? Why does it seem to miss the mark?

Words are extremely vital — words wield worlds! 

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.(John 1:1)

And speaking the right word is significant.

And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. (Genesis 1:3)

Light was conceived in God’s mind. And with an utterance, light was birthed into being. Light existed. As a seasoned prayer person, I have become keenly aware of the impact of words and the power we invoke when we use them. I don’t take words for granted. I approach them with care and accuracy.

During my struggle, I agreed to give the keynote address for a Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day event. I was asked to include Psalm 133:1, and I winced! I did not want to pontificate on unity. It just didn’t feel right, and I didn’t want to fake it. But when the organizer shared the New Living Translation version of the Scripture, it struck me differently!

How wonderful and pleasant it is when brothers live together in harmony.
Psalm 133:1 (NLT)

Perhaps because I have a musical background, the word harmony spoke to me more distinctly than the word unity. The verses that follow verse 1 of Psalm 133 expound on harmony through the use of similes.

For harmony is as precious as the anointing oil that was poured over Aaron’s head . . .
Psalm 133:2 (NLT)

I dug deeper to learn more about this precious oil that was holy and worthy of anointing a priest. The oil was a mixture of four spices — myrrh, cinnamon, cane, and cassia. Together, they created a fragrant oil, an illustration of different people living in accord with each other. 

Verse three gives another simile to give further clarity:

Harmony is as refreshing as the dew from Mount Hermon that falls on the mountains of Zion . . . 
Psalm 133:3 (NLT)

The dew from Mount Hermon differs entirely from ordinary dew. This dew, or soft mist, of Mount Hermon is a phenomenon particular to the East and Palestine. During the summer when the heat is hottest and the country is scorched by the sun, the dew comes from the Mediterranean and crawls down the plains, reviving and refreshing every living thing (H. Macmillan, D. D.,The Dew of Hermon, Biblehub.com). 

It is to this magnificent phenomenon that the psalmist compares the harmony of those who dwell together as brethren. 

I was stirred by these beautiful and expressive images. The refreshing dew is called into place by the sweltering heat. An oil worthy of anointing a priest is a mix of four different spices. Harmony is a semblance of differences mixed together. Harmony is the interdependent relationship between intense heat and refreshing dew. The word harmony feels right, appropriate for our directive.

Honestly, I am still uncertain why the word unity doesn’t quite hit the mark for me and so many others. Perhaps the word has been co-opted and overused to imply uniformity. Connotations and implications of words do change with the times. Perhaps unity has been mistaken for compliance, and perhaps I needed to fully comprehend the breadth and width of the word harmony. Read these words again: 

A song for pilgrims ascending to Jerusalem. A psalm of David.
How wonderful and pleasant it is
     when brothers live together in harmony!
For harmony is as precious as the anointing oil
     that was poured over Aaron’s head,
     that ran down his beard
     and onto the border of his robe.
Harmony is as refreshing as the dew from Mount Hermon
     that falls on the mountains of Zion.
And there the Lord has pronounced his blessing,
     even life everlasting.
Psalm 133 (NLT)

May we boldly and courageously reach for consonant harmony. And in instances when we feel like our differences are too vast to blend, when the heat feels too intense, and the refreshing seems like it will never come, may we lean in to appreciate the intricate, complex, and interrelated dynamics of harmony.

Thriving in Truth

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When people ask me, as they often do, “How did you break free from your painful past, your poor choices, your food addiction, your insecurities and guilt and regret?” my answer is, “I had to fight.” I had to fight the lies I believed about myself. I had to saturate myself with God’s truth to find a true replacement for the lies.

I know what it is like to feel worthless and to have word curses spoken over you. When I was in high school, an English teacher walked up to me in front of all of my classmates and said, “Sheri Rose, you were born to lose in life. You will never, ever amount to anything.” At that moment, I traded my dreams and hopes for the future for a lie that kept me locked up for years.

Many of you reading this right now may have just recognized the root of the lie you’ve been living in. If you haven’t, take a moment to think it through. Maybe it comes from hurtful words spoken to you by a father or mother, brother or sister, teacher, boyfriend or husband. Maybe it was a stranger who thoughtlessly felt like dumping lies on you. You see, that English teacher did not teach God’s grammar lesson. His grammar lesson is, “Don’t put a period where I have put a comma because I have a plan for every life I create.”

In Jeremiah 29:11, God tells us He has plans for us — good plans. And while the hurtful words may not go away so easily, healing can happen in the heart and mind of a woman when she begins to let go of lies to embrace God’s truth.

Many times the biggest battles we fight are the lies we believe and speak about ourselves. And as hard as it is to fight them, it is even harder to watch our daughters and granddaughters walk in the same lies we do. The reality is if we don’t learn to walk in God’s truth, we will leave a legacy of lies for our own children to battle.

Many of us have experienced spiritual identity theft. We’ve lost our confidence in who we are in Christ, and we feel worthless or wounded by someone’s words. Others of us hold in our hearts a false identity. We believe a lie about ourselves, and that lie defines us.

You do not have to let others’ hurtful words define you anymore. Those who spoke them did not give their lives, as Jesus did, to prove your worth. You are a treasured daughter of the King!

And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.
John 8:32 (NLT)

Jesus promises us that the truth will set us free. Where can we find this kind of truth? How can we get our identity back from the one who has stolen it from us? I don’t know who broke your heart or struck you with lies, but I do know how to help you walk in the truth your soul is craving.

In John 10:10, God warns us that Satan wants only to kill, steal, and destroy us. The best way for Satan to accomplish his mission is to give us a false identity. Jesus gave His life to give you a new identity — the kind of identity that is carved so deeply on our hearts that it can never be erased by another person’s hurtful words.

Embracing our Christ-given identity can only happen if you trade lies for truth. You need to renew your mind by speaking, reading, and believing who you are in Christ. I have learned that if we don’t know our true identity, then we are vulnerable to allowing someone else to give us a false identity. If we are not submerged in God’s truth, we will become victims of spiritual identity theft.

Whenever a lie is spoken to you or enters your mind, speak this phrase to yourself out loud: “That is a lie. The truth is . . .” Then say the truth out loud so your mind will hear your mouth. For example, if someone speaks a hurtful word to you, then say to yourself out loud, “That is a lie. The truth is my worth is not in what anyone else says about me. I will not allow someone’s hurtful words to define me any longer.”

Try a seven-day fast by not speaking anything negative about yourself or repeating any lies that have been spoken over you or about you. If possible, ask a friend to hold you accountable to speak only truth.

And finally, read the truth. Read the following Scriptures about how you are:
– Chosen by God (1 Peter 2:9)
– A new creation (2 Corinthians 5:17)
– Holy and pure (Ephesians 1:4)
– A trophy of His grace (Ephesians 2:8)
– His princess warrior (2 Timothy 4:7)
– His beloved bride (Psalm 45:11)

I am praying for you to experience God’s blessings and breakthroughs as you fight against lies to live in truth.

 

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Fruitfulness Is Better than Productivity

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Zero fruit. My tree had zero fruit. I’d had grand hopes for the satsuma tree in our backyard garden, dreaming of the sweet, juicy citrus fruit it would bear. As the cool days of November drifted into our otherwise warm and humid coastal Texas climate, however, I realized there was no fruit to be found. Exactly zero satsumas. You’d think I would have noticed the lack of fruit long before picking season, but I have a bit of a brown thumb so I’m usually enjoying the garden from the safe distance of the porch, snuggled up with coffee and a book or perched with a laptop for an afternoon Zoom meeting.

Suddenly, I panicked. What happened to the tree? Aren’t satsumas tough and low maintenance? I know we didn’t prune too much because that would require actual maintenance, and we just aren’t garden maintenance people. That’s why we only keep hardy plants, the kind sturdy enough to fend for themselves most of the time — like the satsuma. Still, I wondered, did we unknowingly harm it?

A quick internet search revealed a profound truth: trees overloaded with fruit in previous years get worn out, and from time to time, they decide to take a year off to recover.

Come to think of it, last year’s fruit harvest was almost overwhelming. We bagged countless satsumas and gifted them to every person we could think of. Now, our tree was growing and healthy, boasting vibrant deep green leaves and strong branches — just no visible fruit. A wasted season? Not at all. It was a necessary season, and the tree knew it.

No tree bears fruit year-round, and the seasons without visible fruit are just as valuable. After all, those dormant seasons are where the deep, behind-the-scenes work of rest and growth and maturity occur. An appearance of lack now will produce an abundance when it’s time.

Jesus had plenty to say about garden rhythms as well. During His last conversation with the disciples before the crucifixion, He said, “This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit, showing yourselves to be my disciples” (John 15:8 NIV). Every part of creation ultimately exists for the glory of God, and when we are immensely fruitful, He receives all the glory for the abundance. Yet He clarifies: “I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:5 NIV).

To use Jesus’ illustration, the very nature of alive branches requires continuous connection to the vine. The vine pushes life and nourishment through the branch, and in due season, the result is fruit. The cultivation of fruit in our lives is His work, but my calendar-driven, task-loving, achievement-seeking self tends to live as if it’s mine, forgetting just how dependent I really am on Him and instead relying on my ability to get things done. It’s easy to confuse productivity with fruitfulness. While, in truth, on our own, we can be incredibly busy yet not fruitful.

Due to unexpected circumstances, both of our daughters are currently homeschooled, a team effort among family members and a dear friend. I’ve led the charge of teaching our youngest daughter to read, an exercise in patience and presence. Witnessing her process of learning and growth has been one of my greatest joys, but I never anticipated it cultivating learning and growth in me. One morning in particular, I struggled to stay present. As my phone lit up with text after text because work needed my attention, she kept plodding along, slowly sounding out each letter of each word in her reader. I felt myself grow antsy, wanting to hurry, to get to the end so I could move on to the pile of to-dos I knew was waiting for me. Then I felt the Holy Spirit impress on my soul: “What is slow and uncomfortable is good for you.”

How is our satsuma tree smarter than I am? It doesn’t question the purpose of seasons. It wholly surrenders to the rhythms established for it, of both visible and invisible work, trusting that each moment of every day — the ones where I see fruit and the ones where I don’t — is working together to help it flourish and do exactly what it was created to do.

In the same way, we flourish when we give ourselves completely to His ways, His rhythms, and His work, trusting Him to cultivate fruitfulness in every kind of season. The words of Jesus — and the example of my wise satsuma tree — help us see that the mundane cadence of work and dishes and reading lessons and laundry are full of purpose. The painful days of loss and grief are significant. Days of celebration and fun matter, too, and days of quiet and rest are for our good. All of our days matter, not because of what we can accomplish with them, but because of what our Father accomplishes in us through them.

Rhythms of rest are fruitful, and seasons with no outward fruit are necessary for fruitfulness. We tend to be more interested in visible outcomes, but Jesus is more interested in our dependence and the fruit only He can see. And as our Gardner, He vigilantly tends to each of us, working the soil of our lives to produce His lasting fruit.

Am I Going Out of My Way to Be Mean or Kind?

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It was the same song, fifty-second verse on that late winter day in 2009: One of my precious cherubs said something to rile up his sibling — to push her buttons and make her holler. Literally. Her response, quite predictably, would only serve to egg him on further. I let it go for little while, knowing that part of good parenting meant not jumping in the middle of every little squabble. Often, these scraps would de-escalate and five minutes later they’d be playing again.

That was not the case here.

Nor had it been the case for a while. More and more frequently, I noticed my older child “stirring the pot” to the point that his sibling’s feelings genuinely got hurt, and I worried about what would be next. I care deeply about the relationships between the people under my roof; I’m not willing to sweep something under the rug and hope it just resolves itself. I prefer to charge right through the tension and deal with the thing before it grows into something worse.

So, on that particular day when all was going haywire, I called the offender into the dining room with me. I told him that we, as a family, must be a safe harbor for every one of its members, and any kind of bullying was unacceptable. He attempted to deflect from his own behavior with a “But! She . . . ” and I put my hand up and told him, “Hey, we’re addressing your behavior right now, not hers.”

To further make my point, I employed an idea I’d read somewhere. Standing all the way up on a dining room chair, I raised my right hand over the tabletop. In that hand, I held a raw egg. Once my child locked his eyes on the egg, I let go of it. The egg dropped, cracked, and its contents splattered from one end of the long oak slab to the other.

Stepping down off the chair, I took a seat and patted the chair next to me, encouraging my child to do the same. “Listen,” I said. “I understand siblings are going to tease and argue, but your words and actions have crossed over into mean spiritedness. If you keep this up, you’re in danger of cracking your sister’s heart like this egg here. Next time you’re tempted to be ugly to her, you imagine her heart as this egg. Think of the consequences of your words beforehand, or suffer your own consequences.”

Now, I won’t pretend that my little talk magically made my kid change his tune. It didn’t. But the object lesson, combined with various consequences dolled out (again and again and again!) and repeated reminders from Scripture did eventually get through to his stubborn heart. Over time, age, maturity, and God’s good work from the inside out have made him a sensitive brother who is a source of love and encouragement to his siblings — and everyone blessed to be in his circle of influence. While he’s imperfect like all of us, he goes out of his way to be kind. Anyone who truly knows him will tell you there isn’t a mean-spirited bone in his body.

Not long ago, I watched an online friend’s IG story where she talked about a remark she received after sharing something previously on a different IG story. To that original story, someone commented along the lines of Didn’t you look at yourself in the mirror today? Fix your hair before turning on the camera!

Really, it’s appalling that someone actually took the time to spell this out in a comment.

Maybe I’m largely preaching to the choir here, but I think it’s a reminder we could all use from time to time: Our words can empower a heart or give it a pounding. Perhaps we can call out meanness in others, but after examining our own hearts, we call it something else to justify our actions:

I’m just setting them straight. 

That’s just the way of my sarcastic personality!

Here’s a reality check for me as much as anyone: Sarcasm is often just meanness wearing a cute skirt. And we need to stop going out of our way to be mean, plain and simple. 

A while ago, I talked with my counselor, Gwen, about a difficult personal relationship. I asked her how could I know when it was okay to speak the truth in love and when I was only wanting to vent my own frustration. She responded with something so helpful that I’ve thought of it 283 times since that conversation. Gwen replied,

“When you’re not sure whether or not to respond to someone, ask yourself this: Is your response true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?” 

If the Holy Spirit is prompting our response rather than our own desire to “tell it like (we think) it is,” the answer will be a yes to all three questions.

As always, I’m not saying it’s wrong to voice a different opinion. As my pastor mentioned last Sunday, we’re called to engage in broken systems and make wrongs right. But doing so requires discernment, trust, prayer, and the Holy Spirit’s guidance. So, whether we’re commenting on someone’s hair or her own personal experiences, we want to make sure we’re doing so without the slightest hint of mean spiritedness. We want to ask ourselves: Is what I’m about to comment true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?

And when we respond with a yes to all three, then we can know that we’re caring for — and not discarding — another’s heart.

So, let’s go out of our way to be refreshingly, gloriously kind.

Let’s Not Linger in the Past

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Not that I have already reached the goal or am already perfect, but I make every effort to take hold of it because I also have been taken hold of by Christ Jesus. Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and reaching forward to what is ahead, I pursue as my goal the prize promised by God’s heavenly call in Christ Jesus.
Philippians 3:12-14 (CSB)

Well, it’s nearly spring. January has come and gone. Nobody has asked about your resolutions in weeks, and on the rare occasion you are required to write the date, your hand automatically draws the correct numbers.

We are fully into the new year now, and yet some of us are still living in the past.

We’re not even surprised when we break our resolutions again. Or we didn’t even make resolutions or set goals in the first place because why bother? We look at the hard situation we’re facing and think it will never be over, or we wonder if we’ll ever be out of the woods. Some of us even find ourselves questioning the good things that are happening. Surely, it was meant for someone else. Or maybe it’s not even real. Because we know we don’t deserve this.

A couple months ago, I watched the finale to a TV show about time travel. One of the characters spent much of the episode struggling with guilt over his actions in an alternate time line. As he whined — I mean, lamented — to one of the characters he’d hurt with his actions, she lost her patience. She said:

“Why are you beating yourself up over a history that only you and I remember?”

I couldn’t shake those words, even as the credits rolled. I started wondering if maybe that’s what Jesus is saying to me every time I dwell on the past, forgetting I’ve been forgiven and remembering every one of my mistakes, my bad decisions, my sins. Even He doesn’t remember those things. Psalm 103 says He removes our sins as far as the east is from the west, and Jeremiah 31 says God promises to forgive our sin and never remember it. No, we can’t change our past, but God will forgive it. No time machine or alternate time line required.

So why are we sometimes so determined to remember every misstep we’ve ever taken? Why do we bring to mind the ugly things we’ve said, the regrettable way we’ve behaved, the times we let others — and ourselves — down? Why do we hit “play” on that record, over and over again, until every detail is ingrained in our minds where they can’t be ignored or forgotten?

In the television show I watched, the two main characters were literally the only people who remembered what had happened and how much it had hurt. In our own lives, reality isn’t so kind. But even when forgiveness has been offered and time has begun healing wounds, we tend to hold onto the memory of our mistakes anyway — as if keeping the memories alive is some kind of atonement, rather than abuse. As if accepting forgiveness somehow diminishes our grief and regret. As if we cannot accept forgiveness until we have punished ourselves sufficiently.

Except . . . Jesus.

The One who deliberately does not recall our sins once He’s forgiven them? He’s the same One who took every bit of punishment we deserve. And He did it so we don’t have to. He looked at our dirty, tear-stained faces full of regret or defiance, shame or arrogance, and He loved us anyway — enough to pay the price for it all, in fact. When we asked, He forgave us. And then He washed us clean, white as snow.

So, here we are, stripped bare and standing in the middle of Lent. And we have a choice. Do we move forward into whatever this year has for us, into whatever God has planned for us? Or do we keep looking back at our pasts, circling back to our mistakes, playing the tape of our failures and our faults over and over again?

Let’s move forward, friend. Let’s trust that when Jesus said, “It is finished,” He really meant it! Let’s believe that He no longer brings to mind our mistakes, that He’s removed our sin and washed us clean. Let’s quit beating ourselves up for a past that only we remember.

We don’t even need a time machine to do it. We simply need to accept Christ’s forgiveness and step forward into our future.

Dear God, Why is it so hard to let go of the past? I believe You when You say I’m forgiven, and yet I can’t stop regretting the things that have happened, the things I’ve done. But I want to. I want to live in freedom from both sin and shame, and I know You can help me do that. Please help me! Help me truly and fully accept Your forgiveness and move forward. Please open my eyes to the good works You still have prepared for me and protect me from shame and the lies of the enemy. Thank You, Lord. Thank You for refusing to “beat me up” over a history that You’ve paid for and that you now no longer remember. 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.

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Saying Yes to Joy and Adventure with Jesus

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By nature, I’m the serious type. Although being the oldest of four children, I grew up like an only child, and during my whole childhood, I was surrounded by adults my grandmother’s age. I often found myself eavesdropping on the adults wanting to be a part of their conversations. I wasn’t necessarily super playful or silly, and I lived in the midst of adult situations that children should never be a part of.

Even as an adult now, I’m still serious. I laugh and have a good time, but I’m always conscious about how I’m adulting. I try to do it well and convince others I do it well too. And mostly, this comes down to being a good doer, a get-it-done type of person. Productivity is often the goal, and so I tend to operate more in Martha mode than in Mary mode — busy doing instead of sitting at the feet of Jesus.

With the heaviness of 2020 behind me, I knew I wanted this year to be a bit lighter. I had no idea how to make that happen, but God knew. One day and much to my surprise, my friend Beka invited me on a trip with several of our friends for a girls getaway in Arizona. I’d always heard of these kinds of girls’ trips but had never been on one; I was delighted.

All of my friends are women from the church I’ve been attending for the last couple of years. In more ways than I can count, I still often feel like the new kid. These friends had been in community with one another for years, decades even, but despite my apprehension about belonging, I said yes to going.

Though I travel often, I never do so with the sole purpose of leisure. I like having an agenda, a solid plan, but we made tentative plans that we held loosely. We created room for spontaneity. We slept in. We ate a lot. We lounged, laughed, cried, prayed, watched movies, had adventures, and we even literally stopped to smell the cacti.

The whole trip felt a bit surreal. There were no demands or pressures or expectations from others or the world around us. There was only the present and being present.

Being present isn’t always easy though, and last year proved it. Like everyone else in the world, I felt like God was trying to slow me down, but I fought Him on it. I’m not good at being still or taking my time. I’m not good at resting and not producing.

But during that trip, God reminded me that being present, enjoying leisure, soaking in the beauty of community, and laughing together are gifts of life — gifts from Him. Proverbs 17:22 says, “A merry heart does good, like medicine, But a broken spirit dries the bones.”

My heart was made merry through those friends of mine, and it was like medicine. I didn’t know what I was missing until I experienced it. I had been lonelier than I’d cared to admit, I craved connection with community, and I longed for deeper fellowship. But I had let my expectations of myself and others to hold me back from experiencing the fullness of life that I can have in Christ. I’d let my thoughts weigh me down and had kept joy and adventure at bay.

It was during those days away that the Holy Spirit showed me what I had been missing and unlocked a desire in me for more — more life, more joy, more depth in friendship. I want this year to be marked with letting go of every thought that keeps me from experiencing this fullness and being wide open to adventure with Him.

God is constantly restoring and freeing us to live more fully in Him, and He invites us into an abundant life when we say yes to Him. God’s invitation awaits us — right now, today. He holds His hand out to us and asks us if we’d like to join Him on an adventure. What will your answer be?

Deconstructed to be Reconstructed

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Dear friends, we are God’s children now, and what we will be has not yet been revealed. We know that when he appears, we will be like him because we will see him as he is. And everyone who has this hope in him purifies himself just as he is pure.
1 John 3:2-3 (CSB)

A few weeks ago, I noticed a house in our neighborhood that was falling apart. More than a cracked driveway or peeling paint, this was major disintegration at a rapid rate. And I was super annoyed to see it.

As I drove by that first day, I felt my nose wrinkle and my lip curl in disgust. I assumed that the house in question was simply being neglected, although perhaps it had been completely abandoned. Either way, the lack of attention and care being given the home bothered me — enough that I actually drove a block out of my way to avoid seeing it.

Over the next few days, I realized that someone was actually rehabbing this house. The tearing down was intentional, and a building up was surely coming soon. Strangely enough, that wasn’t enough for this judgmental neighbor. Even though I knew this house was in the process of transformation, I still felt my lip curl as I glanced toward the siding-less house with the overgrown weeds. I did think, with some curiosity, Huh. So that’s what a house looks like under siding. But my response to that thought was immediate and dismissive: Gross.

I know myself. When the work on that house is finished, I’ll be genuinely delighted. On the day I drive by and see a brand new, beautiful house standing where a pile of wood stood just a few weeks prior, I will be genuinely impressed by my neighbor’s hard work and commitment to improving their home.

And yet, while I know I can only truly appreciate the “after” picture in comparison to the “before” shot, I really did not want to witness the in-between. And though I say that I appreciate a homeowner’s labor of love involved in rehabbing a house, the truth is, I didn’t actually want to see the mess or sweat or tears involved.

Transformation — whether we’re talking about a house or a heart — is not a pretty process. True rehabilitation, true change, only happens when the old, crumbling, moldy, and rusty parts are stripped away, revealing the naked truth underneath. It’s only when we are elbow deep in mud and muck that we can see the strong, shining bones below on which we can build something beautiful.

Even during seasons of reflection and repentance, we can be tempted to put too much emphasis on the “after” part of a transformation. Sure, everyone loves gasping and applauding at the big reveal at the end of a home improvement show. And it is absolutely inspiring to read about someone’s triumph over adversity.

But what about when that excavation and rehabilitation takes place in our hearts and our lives? When we are only willing to direct our gaze on the after pictures, we’re missing the hard-fought beauty of that behind-the-scenes battle. We’re missing out on the chance to more fully understand the sacrifice that led to the victory, to more completely appreciate the reward that only came as a result of the work. And we’re missing the whole truth about who we are and how vast the gap between “before” and “after” truly is.

It took me a while, but I realize now that the day my neighbor’s house was at its ugliest and messiest was actually the most amazing one of its entire transformation. Because without that day, I couldn’t possibly appreciate its new siding and shutters and landscaping and front porch light. Unless I face the destruction, I can’t understand the magnitude of the recreation.

This truth is no different when it comes to our journey to the cross during this Lent season. If I wait until I’ve “got it all together” to reveal my struggles, I’m robbing God of the opportunity to shine through my ugliness and my mess. I’m forgetting that He is the only one who can make me into a new creation, and He won’t transform me until I lay myself bare before Him and let Him get to work.

When my house is falling apart, that is the time to open up to God and to others. Not later. Not when I get it figured out. Not when I’ve painted and polished and perfected it all. If I waited for that day, I’d never have a story to tell, for we are all in constant change, constant sharpening and growing and transforming. So when our houses are falling apart, that is the day we should look up, accept the Lord’s help, and meet our neighbor’s eyes. Doing this will undoubtedly help us be more patient, more gentle — with each other and with ourselves. And as we turn to the cross and the One who loves us at our ugliest and promises to redeem our worst messes, it will certainly reveal to us the true beauty of transformation.

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!

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This Isn’t Where Your Story Ends Just Yet

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I walked into the living room, still groggily wiping sleep from my eyes and mentally thinking through my to-dos for the day, and immediately started blinking back tears.

I planted the bulb in December, watered it through January, and kept waiting for it to bloom. An amaryllis grows in winter, when harvest has come and gone and we’re waiting for spring to arrive. When so much feels quiet and still, dead and bare with no signs of life to be seen, the amaryllis slowly begins to rise.

And then, one morning in February, after weeks of waiting and watching and tending, this:

I know it’s true, and I bet you do too, but I’ve needed the reminder lately:

Beautiful things can grow in dark spaces. Even when there’s “nothing to show for it” yet, God is at work.

The week before the amaryllis began to bloom, I spent a few evenings reading (and re-reading) the story of Lazarus in John 11.

Have you heard it before? If so, for the next few minutes would you pretend that it’s brand new, that you have no idea what happens?

I’ll confess that all too often I read a familiar story, one I’ve heard many times before, and I begin to skim through. “Lazarus? Oh, you mean the dead man who came back to life.”

Wait. What? A dead man . . . who came back to life.

There’s nothing commonplace about this story, and what a shame it is when I rush through and miss the miracle.

Night after night, I sat on the couch and read through John 11. I imagined their faces, felt their confusion, sat in their grief. We know, of course, that in verse 44, Lazarus will walk out of the tomb. But everyone who gathered at the tomb of a dead man — his sisters Mary and Martha, the disciples, and the people who came to mourn — thought the story was long over.

They were in the middle of a miracle — they just didn’t know it yet.

As I sat on the couch, the Word in my hands, and the amaryllis growing a few feet away, I found myself saying these words out loud:

“That’s what You do. It’s who You are. You bring what is dead back to life. Because of You, this isn’t where the story ends.”

And then I teared up again. Because there have been things in my life, and maybe yours too, that have felt too far gone and so very dead. I’ve watered and tended, prayed and held onto hope when there seemed no logical reason to hope any longer. I’ve waited and watched for the rising from the dirt and the raising from the dead.

I can imagine their faces, feel their confusion, and sit in their grief because I have known loss and walked roads I never would have chosen.

I’ve doubted. I’ve asked questions that never received an answer. I’ve prayed and instead of hearing a “yes” or a “no,” there has simply been silence.

These are the stories we don’t like to talk about, the in-between seasons that we simply can’t wrap words around as we hold hope in one hand and confusion in the other.

It has never once looked exactly like what I hoped, never once happened on my timetable. Always, harvest has come and gone, the world has slowed and stilled, and I’m left waiting for the color and life of spring. But I’ve learned, and am still learning, that He is not a waster of hurt or hope. He is the God of miracles and resurrection, of life from death and beauty from ashes.

He is the God who comes for us and comforts us, who knows that joy is coming but still chooses to meet us in our mourning.

Because of Jesus, what looks like the end might actually be the middle.

Resurrection might be on the way, right this very minute.

As for me, I will always have hope; I will praise you more and more.
Psalm 71:14 (NIV)

If He ultimately holds the pen, if He’s the Author of our stories, then He gets to decide where to place the period and when to write “the end.”

It’s easier to write in a blog post than to live out, I know.

The truth is, sometimes we aren’t given an answer and what is dead stays in the grave. Sometimes, we don’t receive what we long and hope and pray for.

In John 11:25, Martha runs to Jesus in her brokenness. She seems to question His goodness, wondering why He didn’t show up in time and do something to change the outcome. And with Lazarus still in the grave, Jesus declares that He is the resurrection and the life.

Could it be that when we have Him, we have both? Resurrection and life are already ours, already written into our stories, because Jesus comes and He’s enough.

Resurrection doesn’t look like the “before,” but it is still so very good. It might happen in the way we’re hoping, or it might be a redemption and a healing within us alone. But it will be worth the wait, worth the planting and stretching and dying, because it’s a miracle — a right-on-time, abundantly-more miracle.

If you’re praying for resurrection today, know that I’m praying for you. This isn’t where the story ends.

To celebrate the five year “book birthday,” Kaitlyn’s first book is 50% off through this Friday! Even If Not: Living, Loving, and Learning in the in Between will help you choose hope for tomorrow when today feels like a question mark. Learn to shift from this suspicion that God isn’t kind or present to the truth found in Scripture: on every single page of the story, God is with us and working all things for our good.

Don’t Let God’s Love Disappear

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My mom had a stack full of beautiful cards in front of her — an outpouring of sympathy for the loss of her brother. My uncle had unexpectedly passed away way too soon. She handed me a pretty card with a folded piece of paper inside — this one, she said, I had to see.

I opened the piece of paper, and tears filled my eyes. (They still do as I think about it today.) I looked at the paper covered with pencil hearts and “I love you’s,” and I thought, This is love. This is pure, true love. It was the sweet, unmistakable handwriting of a six-year-old trying her best to make her letters perfect, the eraser marks still visible. She wrote, Please, please be happy. 

It was from my great niece to her great-grandma, my mom. It was all her idea. Because of COVID, they hadn’t been able to come for the funeral, and all she wanted was for her great-grandma to be happy again. She wanted to be sure my mom would be okay.

At six years old, she gets it. She understands that love is about the good of the other. Without even knowing how meaningful her actions would be, she wanted to let her great-grandma know that she was loved.

God created us for love, with love, and to love as He did. He calls us to want the good of others, just as He wants what’s good for us. 

For this is the original message we heard: We should love each other.
1 John 3:11 (MSG)

We are told over and over again in the Bible that we should love one another, so why don’t we? Why is it so difficult? Why aren’t we doing a better job at it? Why have we let this world harden our hearts so much?

I understand that we’re human, that we don’t feel loving every day. We don’t feel loving after endless months of illness and bad news. We don’t feel loving when our routines are awry and we are missing loved ones. We don’t feel loving when things aren’t going according to plan or when others are difficult and unkind.

Love isn’t always easy. In fact, it isn’t easy much of the time. But we can make a choice. We can choose to act in a loving way even when we don’t feel like it because God calls us to.

Sometimes, this might mean that we grit our teeth, take a deep breath, and overlook annoying circumstances to extend love. We can choose to bite our tongue instead of saying everything we feel in reaction to something and extend love. We can let go of hurt when someone wrongs us and extend love through prayer. We can do this because God loves us. Jesus laid down His life so we would know how much we are loved. Then, He rose again and gave us the Spirit who empowers us to love even when it’s hard.

What would it look like to love and want the good of others when tensions are high at home or at work? When we read opposing views on social media? When our neighbor isn’t acting very neighborly? What would God’s love through look like then?

Each day is full of opportunities, big and small, to love well. Whether it’s to our family members, our friends, or even to complete strangers, we can be the example of what it means to love as Christ loves us. They get to see and experience God through our expressed love.

So, be love amid all the darkness and sadness. Be love amid all the anger and hate. 

This is how we’ve come to understand and experience love: Christ sacrificed his life for us. This is why we ought to live sacrificially for our fellow believers, and not just be out for ourselves. If you see some brother or sister in need and have the means to do something about it but turn a cold shoulder and do nothing, what happens to God’s love? It disappears. And you made it disappear.
1 John 3:16-17 (MSG)

We don’t want God’s love to disappear. Let’s be like my six-year-old great niece who understands that love is wanting the good of the other. Let’s love God, love others, and love better.

The Cost of Minimizing Vulnerability

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Grabbing my robe, I rushed to get to the phone. Maybe this would be the call I’d been waiting for all week. I sat down on the window seat, listening to the rush of words from the surgeon. When she said “carcinoma,” I was stunned. Despite the possibility that the biopsy could show cancer, the doctors I’d seen uniformly told me, “It’s probably nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing; it was breast cancer.

The surgeon was reassuring as she told me I would need another surgery and radiation — “caught it early,” “excellent prognosis.” But there was no space, no pause between diagnosis, treatment, and the implicit message that it was “no big deal.”

I understood why she rushed to reassure me, but I learned that her hurried attempt to soften the blow was the beginning of what felt like a concerted effort to keep me from feeling the natural sadness and fear provoked by my diagnosis.

Over the next few days, as I shared the news with family and friends, I often heard comments that, while well-intentioned, minimized the impact of the experience: “Oh well, it is what it is.” “At least they caught it early.” Words caught in my throat; it no longer felt like the person was listening. The conversation moved on to other topics, leaving me alone with my experience, feeling self-critical for reaching out in the first place.

Why the rush to minimize something as significant as a cancer diagnosis requiring surgery, radiation, and years of medication and follow-up visits?

Because we fear vulnerability.

Minimizing blocks the vulnerability of painful emotions like grief, fear, and loneliness. It drowns out the whispered question, “Am I going to be all right?”

On what turned out to be the most vulnerable day of my journey, I was alone because of visitors’ restrictions during the pandemic. The emotional impact of walking into a cancer center for the first time took me by surprise. The empty halls echoed; I wandered around, unsure of exactly where to go. I was still caught up in the wave of emotion when the social worker greeted me with a cheerful smile. Her first words were, “You only have fifteen treatments; you’ll be finished before you know it!” I shifted quickly from shock to anger. Minimizing elicits anger, giving us the energy to advocate for our needs. Sadly, the person that day who was supposed to attend to my emotional needs was on “team minimizer.” Are you surprised to learn that I chose not to share anything with her?

The next part of the appointment involved preparation for radiation. I had to lie with my arms over my head for two hours, bare from the waist up, while I was tattooed and measured and marked in preparation for the first radiation treatment. The staff was kind, but they were all men. Their effort to chit-chat as I lay there freezing felt incredibly awkward. Distress blocked awareness of the Comforter who was with me that day. It was one of the most vulnerable experiences of my life. By the time I got home, I was physically weak from the intensity of the emotional experience. Minimizing had left me utterly unprepared for that day.

Minimizing is just one of the many strategies we employ to avoid vulnerability. We learn these strategies early in life; they help us survive and adapt. But avoiding vulnerability also cuts us off from our authentic experience, creating barriers to connection when we most need it.

Jesus wasn’t a minimizer. He could sense the needs around Him. Rather than dismissing them, He turned towards them. Jesus knew that our greatest need in times of distress is loving connection, so He offered Himself.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”
Matthew 11:28-29 (NIV)

Jesus offers to walk beside us, sustaining us with His gentle presence. He doesn’t bombard us with why we shouldn’t feel sad, lonely, or scared. Jesus was with me when I learned my diagnosis, in the moments when I shared the news, and when I was “alone” in the cancer center.

Imagine walking beside Jesus at this moment in your journey. Pause to feel His presence; accept His offer to bear your burden with you. Do you feel relieved knowing you are not alone, that your feelings are valid and worthy of witness?

It is tempting to minimize distress — our own and others’. When you are vulnerable, practice turning towards vulnerability. You will feel fear, but when you accept it, rather than fighting against it by minimizing, you will notice that you can have more peace. You will have more space for the grace you need, for Jesus’ loving presence as He accompanies you on your journey.

Who Is Your One Person You’ll Invest in Today?

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There’s so much noise floating around right now. Strong opinions and thoughts. Virtual attacks and warnings. Recommendations and advice. As a Jesus girl with her own feisty feelings, I’ve been quiet online this past year. I’ve spent a lot of time listening, more time grieving, but most of all, I dove deep into shoring up my spiritual life. Our hearts are easily swayed by the shifting winds and His Word is the only life raft worth wrapping my whole self around.

I am grateful for the internet and for places like (in)courage who push us and point us to Jesus, but (yes, there’s a but) here’s my “for what it’s worth” opinion: We are not obligated to share opinions, post thoughts, take or defend a stand on Facebook, Instagram, or any of the places I can’t keep up with online — even when friends think you should. That’s their opinion that you ought to, not a fact. But with real life relationships? That’s a different story.

Ironically enough, this discussion came into play with our adult children (ages 17 to 27) who recently deleted all social media. Even though I knew this was a healthy decision and that I should have been a proud momma, I tried to talk them into keeping it. (Their varying reasons are an important topic for another post.)

During this week-long wrestling, we noted “friends” who lived much of their life online, garnered attention there, yet when placed side by side with real life, their online lives and their real lives didn’t match up.

You might be thinking, “Hey Jen, pluck the plank from your own eye first!” Exactly! That’s how this came about. I want no room for hypocrisy.

We questioned, “How much time and resources are we investing to our ‘reach out and touch someone’ spheres of influence?” Imagine if we spent even a fraction of the time that we read, scroll, and post and got serious about life-on-life ministry.

To answer this pondering, I dusted off a thirty-year-old math problem which my friend from yuanpaygroup.org showed me ages ago that revolutionized how I invested my time. I shared it in Just Open the Door, but in this age of isolation, it’s more important now than ever. In my college mentorship class, my Bible professor demonstrated the multiplication process that occurs if each one of us would purposefully invest in the life of one other person for a year.

I’ve never been much of a math girl, but even I could clearly see the exponential power of what he was describing. If each of us came alongside just one person each year — doing life with them, discipling and teaching them about the Bible, unpacking how it interacts and impacts all aspects of their life — and then encouraged them to do the same thing with another person the next year, do you know what would happen? In the course of our one lifetime, hundreds of thousands would be touched by what we started.

The verse from Job takes a whole new meaning, “Though your beginning was insignificant, yet your end will increase greatly” (Job 8:7 NASB).

2020 has been a year many of us have felt unseen, overlooked, and stuck. Yet as those feelings have started to overtake me, I’m reminded of how the invitation to invest in one person really can change a generation.

As I think back on key milestones in my own life, every single one has been marked by an investment from a woman committed to sharing life with me for a season. Their impact wasn’t the result of a larger-than-life platform or words crafted for their blog. No, my life was changed through seemingly everyday encounters with women who believed in the beauty of being deeply rooted right where God had placed them.

They weren’t looking to be launched into a bigger opportunity. They knew (and know) that God had entrusted them to be present and faithful in their immediate sphere of influence.

Debbie. She poured out her wisdom when she invited me to meet weekly and study the classic Richard Foster book Celebration of Discipline. Her desire to raise up the next generation of leaders moved me. She didn’t dumb down our topics but believed a sixteen-year-old girl could change the world given the right foundation. Now I believe the same thing for my own daughters.

Jan. Her kitchen prowess taught me to cook and use the gift of treats as a vehicle to minister to the needs of so much more than a hungry tummy. And because of her, I’ve witnessed how a cold cup of water and a hot meal can woo the soul.

Faye. She demonstrated the importance of shoring up my communication skills so I can boldly proclaim and defend my worldview. Now I live in a culture where truth is considered relative, yet I know the source of absolute truth.

My mom. She was and still is the one whose love, faithfulness, and consistency influence me more than any other. The reason I know Jesus is because my mom modeled His love and because I wanted what she had. I open my home today because she opened her home. I prioritize family because she did it so well.

That’s the power of one person investing in another.

Who is your one person today?

God chose us to champion His love. We don’t have to get our act together before He uses us. I’m a perfect example since a huge part of my ministry is making you feel better about yourself by simply being a willing and available mess who desires to be used for His glory. (Do you follow me on Instagram? Proof is right there.)

Friends, the power of one — the beauty that stems from life-on-life, one-on-one relationships — never grows old. And you know what? You get to be part of that life-giving multiplication process.

You are the someone God wants to use now to impact this next generation. Your unique gift, your untold story, your broken and mended heart, your fierce love, your brave authenticity — all these intricate threads woven together create a tapestry He wants to use to unveil His love to someone who needs to experience it.

You are the one who can meet the need of another today. Who will it be?

In the comments below, I’d love to hear whom you hope to invest in so I can pray with you for this wonderful opportunity.

 

Remembering God’s Creativity in Creation

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Lord, our Lord, how magnificent is your name throughout the earth!
You have covered the heavens with your majesty.
From the mouths of infants and nursing babies,
you have established a stronghold
on account of your adversaries
in order to silence the enemy and the avenger.
When I observe your heavens,
the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which you set in place,
what is a human being that you remember him,
a son of man that you look after him?
You made him little less than God
and crowned him with glory and honor.
You made him ruler over the works of your hands;
you put everything under his feet:
all the sheep and oxen,
as well as the animals in the wild,
the birds of the sky,
and the fish of the sea
that pass through the currents of the seas.
Lord, our Lord,
how magnificent is your name throughout the earth! 

I’m not what you’d call an outdoorsy person. In fact you’d be accurate to call me an indoorsy person. No matter the season or the weather, I prefer air conditioning and carpet far more than fresh air and green grass.

But that doesn’t mean my soul doesn’t crave interactions with the outdoors. It does, but I don’t always realize it until I’m forced outside and catch an unexpected glimpse of God’s creation.

If I’m not careful, I can spend all my days with my head down — staring at a screen or the work of my hands, focused on the immediate and the urgent, ignoring what’s going on outside my reach, my home, my small world. Without realizing it, I’ve secured blinders on my face and my heart, filtering out most of the world and, as a result, most of the One who made that world.

Thank God for brilliant sunsets and blizzards and views from an airplane window. Thank God for puppies and people with different perspectives and all the big and small ways His creation breaks the monotony of the everyday and reminds me just how big this world is (and how He is infinitely bigger than that).

My husband and I have an ongoing debate. We both love the mountains and, in particular, have really enjoyed time we’ve spent in Colorado. We find the magnitude and beauty of the mountains to be breathtaking, humbling, and an undeniable testimony to God’s greatness. We find that our eyes are drawn to the natural beauty whether we’re hiking to a waterfall or driving through crowded streets. Up close or in the distance, the mountains refuse to be ignored and keep us mindful of God at all times.

The debate comes in when we imagine living near such natural beauty. If mountains were simply part of our everyday environment, would we remain so focused on their magnificence and their creator? Would we be able to maintain a posture of wonder and worship, or would we eventually put the blinders back on?

One of us (hint: it’s me) insists that I would never tire of gazing at the mountains in gratitude and awe. I can’t imagine a world in which I don’t even notice the towering peaks and swooping valleys. Surely they would never become normal or grow old; surely I’d never stop hearing the call of nature and crave its message of God’s power and love.

Except . . . this is exactly what happens nearly every day of my life. I stop to breathe in the fresh air. I stare at the bright pinks and oranges striping the sky, blinking away tears of gratitude for such a show. I smile at the calves in the field as I speed down the highway. And then I go about my life, head down, eyes back on the immediate and the urgent, forgetting once again the splendor of this world and the song it sings of God’s glory.

Can you relate? Do you find it easier to keep your head down than to look up and out at the world God created? Could you use a reminder to pause and observe the heavens and the works of God’s hands?

What a difference it might make if we regularly let nature point us to God! What a different perspective we might have when we look back at our small corner of the world after contemplating the vastness of the world He’s made!

As we move toward the time for remembering Christ’s sacrifice and resurrection, the ultimate act of love, let’s also set aside time to remember God’s creativity and power in making the world, the original act of love. After all, the world Jesus came to save had to be made first, and God decided to make it beautiful. Let’s watch the mountains point to the heavens and listen to the seas roar His name. Let’s look up and remember who He is and how powerful He is. Let’s never grow tired of hearing His creation shout the magnificence of His name.

Heavenly Father, I am in awe of You. When I see the mountains or a rushing river, a flower pushing its way out of the ground or a sunset painting the sky, I cannot deny that You are a mighty and powerful God. You are a wonderful artist, and I’m so grateful. Thank You, Lord, for giving us beauty in every corner of this planet — to enjoy but, more important, to remind us of your magnificence. Forgive me, God, for the days I never look up once, for the times I’m so focused on myself that I forget to look for You. Please keep reminding me, keep pulling my eyes up. Don’t let me get tired of or used to the wonder of You. Help me see the beauty of the world You came to save. I love You. Thank 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!

Truth for the Days When You Don’t Feel Good Enough

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I bought myself a pack of gold stars today — just marched right into the craft store and claimed them. No one stopped me and said, “But you haven’t earned those. You can’t just go running around with gold stars for no reason at all.” I didn’t get locked up in imposter jail. The cashier looked entirely uninterested in my purchase.

This purchase was the culmination of months of me saying to Mark, only half joking, “I just want someone to tell me what to do and then give me a gold star for doing it.” With all the uncertainty in the world, I just want clarity followed by kudos. Is that too much to ask? I’m an expectations-meeter, and this past year has upended all expectations. How am I supposed to function without knowing the rules or what’s next? Maybe you’ve felt that way too?

I’m doing an online life coaching course as continuing education, and yesterday the instructor talked about how we all approach life either from a position of “good enough” or “not good enough.” He told the story of a CEO who came to him for coaching because he felt dissatisfied in his career. This CEO started out in the lowest position at the company and seemingly little to offer. But he worked hard and got a promotion, then another, and so it went until decades later he reached his current position.

“Why am I not happy,” the man wondered, “When I’ve been successful?” The problem, it turned out, was that he still didn’t believe he was good enough. He needed the next promotion as proof and when those ran out, when he reached his dream, instead of feeling satisfaction, he felt despair.

I thought about this later and how it felt a lot like my need for gold stars. “Just one more gold star,” I’d tell myself, “then I’ll feel okay about who I am.” I’ve had my share of spectacular failures, but I’ve also had enough success to make those promises to myself start sounding hollow. Yes, maybe for a few minutes or a day I’d feel a little better, but the insecurity would always come back.

I realized being “good enough” couldn’t be based on emotion for me, or it would forever remain elusive. It had to be a decision. But, if so, a decision based on what?

We have a pond behind our house, and every day on my walk I pray, “God, thank You for the bullfrogs.” And every day I mean it. These frogs don’t do anything productive, have won no awards, do not tweet (that I know of), and yet I’m enamored with and grateful for their froggyness.

Maybe bullfrogs aren’t your thing but you’ve probably experienced something similar. The birdiness of birds, the beachiness of the beach, the part of every created thing that brings us joy simply because it is.

It is this essence of who I am that makes me enough, that makes you enough. I am good enough because I am the work of a good Creator. I am good enough because of the mysterious work Jesus did on the cross that made all things right, including us. I am loved for the Holleyness of Holley. You are loved for the youness of you. That is it. That is all.

I am deciding to believe this no matter how I feel. So today I drove myself to the store and bought a packet of gold stars just to show I didn’t need anyone else to give them to me. When I got home I wrote on a little tablet, “I am good enough today, and I have room to grow tomorrow.”

That’s what the gold star junkie in me, who sometimes gets lost from grace, who thinks she has to prove her worth, who forgets that she’s loved not for her “excellence” but her divinely-created essence, really needs to know.

Yes, we are good enough today because God says so, and we have room to grow tomorrow.

The Strange and Unexpected Gift of Waiting

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This is the waiting room. Welcome. You know this place, don’t you? When we are in the waiting room, we eventually have to make this choice: We can either distance ourselves from God or we can trust Him in the wait.

This truth became so evident to me over the last few years, a season when I logged many hours in waiting rooms — literal ones. Waiting for a friend when she had a cancerous lump removed. Waiting for our daughter Anna when she underwent procedures for a health problem. Waiting for my dad when he had a pacemaker put in, and then more waiting when he had part of his right leg amputated.

I’ve found that waiting rooms everywhere are a lot alike. An interior decorator has done what he or she could to make the place inviting. Chairs are upholstered in trendy colors. Fake greenery has been arranged in matchy-matchy ceramic pots.

Meanwhile, the one you love is on an operating table. Your inner “fixer” is paralyzed. Unless you happen to have a degree in neurosurgery or anesthesiology, you are clearly not needed. You are, instead, stuck — feeling rather powerless — in the waiting room. If you’re lucky, a digital board identifies your loved one by a number and provides periodic status reports.

My family of origin tends to be the obnoxiously loud ones in the waiting room. Humor has always been a coping mechanism for us. I suppose there could be worse things than laughing through hard times.

Our stories in the waiting room kept us sane during one of Dad’s more serious surgeries these past few years. Every so often, one of us would step out of our circle, somber faced, to check the digital board. A sister would whisper, “Still in surgery.” We’d pause, and then we’d all start in again. There, in the waiting room, it was about stories, connection, laughter. It was about family.

Oddly, these moments offered an unexpected gift because they caused me to consider the practice of being still. I did not flit or fly. I was a bird on a wire, wings tucked in, waiting for hope to appear, inching up from the horizon.

Waiting has compelled me to understand that I’m not in charge and that my notions of control are all an illusion anyway. Waiting can feel like a weakness, especially in a culture that places value on self-sufficiency and “making things happen.” Waiting is the opposite of sufficiency, and it leaves me exposed and armorless.

I step into so much of my life wearing armor: The armor of ambition. The armor of good performances. The armor of masks. The armor of control. The armor of trying harder.

There is no armoring up when you’re waiting. You can fix nothing; you can only sit vulnerable before your struggle. You are not in charge now — not that you ever were — but the armor you wear on a typical day gave you a false sense of security. You finally realize there shall be no pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. This can be a very beautiful thing. When you pause — instead of push — you do all the things that matter most: You pray. You read Scripture. You sit quietly — or laugh loudly, if that’s more your style — with friends and family. You practice allowing yourself to be still.

In the quietness of a hospital waiting room, I would often turn inward and whisper, “How would we get through this without you, Jesus?” Letting down your faux armor causes you to more carefully inspect your life and discover how incredible it is to belong to Jesus — where, oh where, would we be without Jesus?

Where are you today, friend? Where, oh where, are you?

Perhaps you are in a waiting room of some kind. Perhaps you wish to act instead of wait. You want to take matters into your own hands but haven’t a clue how — or even if you should.

What are you waiting for? The answer to your financial distress? A baby to come? A resolution to a relational conflict? The phone to ring? The wound to heal? The last twenty pounds to drop? That moment when it’s your chance to finally celebrate?

You ask good questions for which there are no immediate answers: Why is this opportunity slipping through my fingers? How am I going to go on now that he’s gone?

Maybe today, you cry out silently: Are you here, God?

Though He may be silent, God has not abandoned you. He is working while you wait.

The work that God does in the waiting room often proves more important than the end result. Here, He will give you clarity for what He wants you to do when the wait is over. Here you will get in touch with your essential self, the one who wasn’t made to wear all that armor.

This is the greatest gift of the waiting room. Lean in close, for when you least expect it, you will sense the presence of Jesus in ways you never could have before. 

Adapted from It’s All under Control: A Journey of Letting Go, Hanging On, and Finding a Peace You Almost Forgot Was Possible by Jennifer Dukes Lee (2018) with Tyndale House Publishers.

 

The Comfort of God’s Silence

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I emerged out of isolation, shaky. The door that had been the barrier between me and my family was open, and every fear I had about passing COVID on to my family had already been made real. My husband’s test had come back positive that morning, and it would be a matter of time before symptoms would show up for my father-in-law and then my mother-in-law. (Somehow, the kids were spared.) We decided it would be okay for me to come out of my room after I had been isolated for a week, but instead of feeling free, I felt hesitant — perhaps even more afraid. Though my symptoms had stayed mild up to that point, there was no guarantee it would be the same for everyone else.

I stood awkwardly in the hallway, as if needing permission to take each step toward my husband and kids. We looked at each other, not knowing how to be without being close and unsure of what was acceptable anymore. Masks covered half our faces, but I could see the uncertainty in my children’s eyes, and I felt the sharp ache of distance between us. I made my way through the living room to sit on the couch, to acclimate myself again to our home, and to drink hot tea and watch the kids play together. But it was as if I were still watching them on Facetime, as if we were still living separate lives.

I took my mask off to take a sip of the hot tea for my aching body, when my son looked up at me and said, “Awww, I miss this part of your face,” as he pointed to his nose and mouth. We had seen each other’s full faces on Facetime, but it was different to be together and not be able to see all of each other’s faces.

At any other time, I would’ve opened my arms to him for an embrace and told him I loved him in between kisses on his head, but this time, I laughed with sad tears dripping down my face, unable to hold both the overwhelming grief and gratefulness within me.

For weeks, I held my breath, waiting for the virus to run its course through my body, my husband’s, and my in-laws’. We missed Christmas and New Year’s and a handful of birthdays. Stress and guilt and shame buzzed in my head about what I could’ve and should’ve done. Each time any of us measured our oxygen levels, everyone would pause what they were doing to watch the little red lines hopefully turn into numbers in the high 90s.

Somehow, by some miracle, each of us would make a turnaround for the better by the fourteen-day mark. I say “by some miracle” because to call it God’s grace would seem to mean that His grace wasn’t present or enough for the many who lost their lives to COVID. And how could that be true if His grace is abundant? None of it makes sense. None of it seems fair. I grieve over how many families are forever marked, forever changed because their loved ones didn’t have mild symptoms or didn’t make it.

Even now, it feels as it did that first moment I came out of isolation — shaky and fragile. I continue to hold both grief and gratitude, and some days, the tears pour out more easily than the laughter, and other days, joy is deepened by the gravity of what we’ve been through.

I’ve pleaded with God for answers to every why and how question, and I’ve struggled with the reality that some are healed and others aren’t. I’m anguished by the pain, and yet, His silence doesn’t betray distance. Instead, I feel His nearness, His grief. He is anguished too. He is pleading too. It’s as though we’re sitting side by side in the Garden of Gethsemane, crying together for another way out. We are without words, but in our weeping, we commune.

We often equate silence in response to our prayers as evidence that God is not listening, that He is not attuned to the ache of our lives. But as I’ve sat in the quiet, I wonder if His silent presence is just what we need. Instead of words, He offers us Himself — the God who understands, the God of comfort.

We Are Not Alone in Our Search for God

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Immediately the Spirit drove him into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, being tempted by Satan. He was with the wild animals, and the angels were serving him.
Mark 1:12-13 (CSB)

I’m sitting at my dining room table, country music playing just a smidge too loudly behind me as my daughters have a dance party on what feels like the seventy-third snow day this month. I reach for my Bible, running my hand down the whisper-thin pages, and close my eyes.

Before I can even say hello to God, much less reflect on His holiness, one of my daughters is crying and the other is shouting about how it’s not her fault — she didn’t do anything! This time, I close my eyes, but in frustration, not reverence.

I settle this latest argument and suggest a litany of quiet activities my kids might enjoy for a while. Finally, peace. My hand hovers over my Bible, but — much as I’m embarrassed to admit it — I hesitate. My phone is sitting right there, just waiting for me, begging for my attention, promising to entertain me and numb all the irritations that have cropped up this day.

Even if I manage to ignore the pull of my phone, my mind and heart are still so prone to wander.

What time is my appointment this afternoon?
Did I return that message? I should do that real quick, right now.
Why is the cat crying? Guess I better give her fresh water.
That reminds me: I need to refill my water bottle.
Maybe I should try that devotional I bought a few months ago.
I’m just going to pay that bill online . . . and answer that one email . . . and check on that project . . .

When I began studying ways to prepare my heart for Easter, something many know as the season of Lent, I read everything I could find about the time Jesus spent in the wilderness. While accounts can be found in three of the gospels, the brief description in Mark is what resonated most deeply with me.

Thinking of Jesus, alone in the wilderness, being tempted by Satan, surrounded by wild animals was a breath of fresh air to my distracted, weary soul. I feel alone! I’m tempted all the time! And yes, at times it feels like I’m surrounded by wild animals!

When we struggle to quiet our lives and our hearts enough to focus on God, Jesus knows exactly how we feel. And what I know from the passages in Matthew and Luke is that despite the desperate situation in which He found Himself, He resisted temptation. The angels served Him. He leaned on His knowledge of Scripture and faith in God, and He resisted.

So what does that mean for me, as I think about one more failed attempt at a simple quiet time? What does that mean for you, as you feel the hunger and isolation of wilderness or battle attacks from temptation of all kinds, as you long for communion with the Lord but feel unable to get there, to stay there, to remember why you were going there in the first place?

It means this: Our Lord and Savior isn’t just the One who can quench our thirst and ease our pain. He is worthy of our praise and adoration, but He also is intimately familiar with our challenges and struggles. He knows the strength it requires to seek Him and abide with Him, and He knows that, without Him, we will perish in the wilderness.

It means that not only is Jesus our goal when we set aside time for Him, He is our solution for fighting through all the distractions and temptations that work so hard to keep us away. It means that no matter how barren and empty our personal wilderness may feel, we are not actually alone in our search for God. Just as the angels were with Him, Jesus is with us.

Dear Lord, thank You for going first into the wilderness — for showing us how important it is to get alone and quiet, to seek God, and to listen. Thank You for going with us when we face temptation and distraction — for giving us the tools we need to resist. Jesus, You are worth every effort it takes to quiet my mind and my heart. You are worthy of every minute I devote to You above all else. Please meet me in this place. Bind my wandering heart to Yours. Keep my eyes set on You. Thank You, Lord, for never letting me go. Amen.

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

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