Be Still My Soul: Embracing the Need for Rest

Be Still My Soul: Embracing the Need for Rest

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“I don’t do down time very well.” How often have I thought or spoken these words? Although I know it’s important, I often have trouble embracing my need for rest. I pressure myself to check items off a never-ending to-do list and allow myself to believe the lie that rest equates to laziness.

We’ve pushed past the one year mark of the pandemic, but the news continues to bring me anxiety and sorrow: violence, vaccines, and my family’s unique struggles. Lately, however, I’ve realized rest can help me cope with stresses, both slight and substantial.

In Matthew 11:18, Jesus tells us, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Rest is a gift He offers to the weary.

I’m welcoming it into my life in three key areas, bringing rest to my body, spirit, and soul:

First, I’m embracing rest for my body by delighting in God’s creation. My parents loved plants, and I remember their favorite nursery and the fascination of walking through its warm, humid greenhouses as a child. Our home was filled with the beauty of God’s creation — from the rosy red geraniums my mother added to our window boxes each spring to the majestic ponytail palm in our front window to the graceful weeping willow that stood in the back of our yard.

Now I delight day-by-day as spring awakens the plants and trees in the yard of our new home — flowering pear, cherry, and dogwood trees, hardy lavender, creeping succulents, and a beautiful Japanese red maple.

I pull out old, worn field guides, join online plant identification groups, and text photos to my plant-savvy oldest son searching for answers to my questions: Are these budding bushes rhododendron or azaleas? What are the dozens of new shoots pushing up through the soil around our deck? Is this straggly little Charlie Brown tree actually something special?

For years I believed I could write about and photograph plants but not grow them. I joked about how I couldn’t keep plants alive. Inspired by the Spring chapter in Myquillyn Smith’s book Welcome Home and the way my oldest daughter found comfort through tending plants while isolating last year, I’m filling our home and yard with new life: trailing ivy, shade-loving hostas, fragrant rosemary, vibrant purple hydrangeas, an eye-catching variety commonly called a hope plant, and a quirky little ponytail palm that reminds me of home. I’ve catalogued them in an app that tells me where to place them and when to water them. I don’t want to kill my plants from either too much or too little love.

Appreciating and tending to God’s creation requires me to slow down and engage my sense of sight, smell, and touch. This is rest for my body.

Second, I’m embracing rest for my spirit through reading. I used to end every day with at least thirty minutes of quiet time with a book; it was the perfect wind-down to my day. Over the years, I’m sad to say I’ve allowed catching up on email and social media accounts to edge out that special time.

At the beginning of the pandemic, I bought my first Kindle. It’s one of my favorite COVID purchases. Most nights I prop extra pillows behind me in bed and escape into occupied France during WWII, the heart of the Russian Revolution, sleuthing along with the detective in a whodunit or an occasional romantic comedy.

I pair my Bible study and devotional time with breakfast, so I bookend my day with the written word. I believe reading builds empathy, and we all could use more of that. Through reading, I’m finding rest for my spirit. 

Last, I’m embracing rest for my soul as I pray and release. I used to say yes too often until I was buried by all the tasks I’d agreed to perform. When I learned to delegate, it allowed me to release responsibilities I didn’t need to carry and invited others to share the burden with me.

Worries will weigh you down, but prayer will provide life-changing peace if you unshackle your troubles and hand them over to God. Then, trust Him to handle the outcome. Pray and release: this is rest for our souls.

As Philippians 4:6-7 says, “Don’t worry about anything, but in everything, through prayer and petition with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”

Do your body, spirit, or soul need to rest? How have you expanded or built any new rhythms of rest during the pandemic?

Your Story Is Worthy to Be Told

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Last year February before the pandemic hit, I finished a three-day personal retreat at a conference center along the beach. I spent time praying and journaling on the shore to prepare my heart for writing my new book, Sweet Like Jasmine, about how God makes beauty out of our brokenness. I had packed my bags in the car to go home when I decided to take one last walk.

I saw a woman sitting by herself in a wheelchair looking at the ocean, and as I passed by, I paused, turned to her, and said, “How beautiful you look soaking in the ocean! May I ask what brings you here?”

The woman started crying, tears filling up her gentle blue eyes and rolling down her cheeks. She swallowed to collect herself, struggling to get her words out, inhaling and exhaling each word.

I nodded, relaxed my shoulders, and sat down to show her I wasn’t going anywhere.

“I get . . . very . . . upset . . . when . . . I . . . feel . . . emotional,” she replied with great effort.

“I understand,” I said, pausing to let my patience reassure her. I silently prayed, Touch her with Your peace, Jesus. Help me to listen.

“Most people give up waiting for me to talk,” she continued. “They don’t like that I keep crying.” She spoke each word, flinching with difficulty.

“It’s hard to talk if you feel overwhelmed,” I said to her. “It’s okay. Pain is hard for people to be comfortable with.”

As she wiped her tears, I offered, “I love the ocean. The ocean is never in a rush. We can just rest.”

A smile broke through. I gently asked, “Has it always been difficult to share?”

My new friend shared her story. She had lupus, which debilitated her motor skills and impacted her speech.

When I asked about her faith, she said church friends judged her lack of faith and blamed her for not praying enough. It broke my heart to hear that. I affirmed her, “God is so loving, but I’m sorry you didn’t receive the care you deserved.”

I shared about my own journey of healing and how God helped me to stop hiding my story. I told her the parts of my story that I felt were flawed, but I also talked about how God mended my heart with His love and how He taught me embrace my true worth just as I am.

“May I pray for you?” I asked gently.

“Yes,”  she whispered. I placed my hand on hers. We prayed, then hugged. My friend looked radiant.

It might seem easier to hide our flaws, but God makes beauty out of brokenness when we are willing to be honest and share our stories. When we do, others can feel safe to also share their stories, and God brings us close to one another, even allowing strangers to become friends. Through our stories, we offer the gift of rest and acceptance to each other.

God takes the stories we’ve lived through to show others that He is faithful to carry us through our hard times. Alone and isolated, we stay invisible, but when we open our hearts and share, we won’t be lonely anymore. We will be loved, and we will be made stronger.

Friend, is God calling you to step out of your comfort zone and share more of yourself? If you feel afraid, let me offer you this encouragement:

God values and treasures the beautiful parts of you that others have overlooked. He makes beauty out of brokenness. Everything you endure can become a sheltering tree of peace to others, so don’t be afraid to share. Your story is worthy to be told.

But now, says the Lord—
the one who created you, Jacob,
    the one who formed you, Israel:
Don’t fear, for I have redeemed you;
    I have called you by name; you are mine.
Isaiah 43:1 (CEB)

How is God showing you that He makes beauty out of brokenness?

Receive a FREE audiobook of Bonnie’s new book Sweet Like Jasmine: Finding Identity in a Culture of Loneliness & get access to Bonnie’s Exclusive Book Club when you preorder her beautiful book! Encourage your heart. Sign up here! Follow me on Instagram @thebonniegray.

More Than Meets the Eye on Social Media

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I stack the dirty plates and bowls in the sink, organizing the chaos before I begin the mundane task of washing them. I pump blue dishwashing soap onto the sponge, and while my hands work to wash bits of breakfast and lunch off the plain white Corelle plates, my mind turns to wandering. I look out the window to watch the next door neighbor doing renovations to their house, and I wonder if stress levels are elevated in their home or if this is a normal part of their life. The wall separating our homes only lets me see the heads of the construction workers and half a window — an opening too small to figure out what room it opens up to and what they could possibly be working on to better their living space. 

I don’t know much about our neighbor and his wife except from what I’ve seen and pieced together from our short interactions. The husband is friendly, always waving hi to our kids as they bike by his house, and he walks his two stocky dogs, which remind me of the three-headed dog in the first Harry Potter movie, around the neighborhood at least once a day.

I wonder about their life as I watch through the kitchen window, but at best, I can only imagine the life they lead, what makes them laugh or cry, the level of happiness in their home, and the pain they could be facing. Half a window and neighborhood small talk only give a shadow of a glimpse into their lives and the kind of people they are. 

I think about how little we know of people as I scroll through social media later that night. I live vicariously through pictures of my friends’ beach vacations, and I amen every powerful post written about the intersections of faith, life, our humanity, and justice. For a brief moment, I wonder about the people behind the words, the pictures, and the kind of lives they have, the motivation and inspiration that brought them to their phones to share their convictions and art with us. And though I know this little square window only shows a sliver of who they are, I’m quick to create a whole story about them, adding reasonable assumptions and possible details. I create a person in my mind from what I see, and I either elevate them with honor, judge them without insight, or envy them. I flatten a three-dimensional, real human being into a two-dimensional character — someone easy to compartmentalize and understand instead of the complex people they really are.

And then, in the midst of my thoughts, I see Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey. The people shout, “Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Luke 19:38 ESV), but they can’t see Him fully for who He is. They only see Him for who they want Him to be — a king to rule over them. And He will disappoint them by dying on the cross. They could only see what they could from their perspective, but there was so much more to who Jesus was and why He had come. 

My insides squirm as I remember this moment in history, and defensive words come to the tip of my soul, ready to explain away my part in making an angel or demon of someone I don’t know well enough. I want to argue that this is how social media is and that I can’t know better because what I see is all I see and that everyone else is doing it too. But my defense is lacking, and God invites me to sit in the discomfort of my convictions: I only see in part, and what I see is not the whole of someone’s personhood. It’s just a glimpse.

The rebuke is kind because I need it, and my heart softens in repentance. I ask God to remind me every day, every time, I want to reduce someone to a story I make up about them from the slivers of what I get to see on social media: Help me to see the whole humanity of the person as beloved by You. 

Stories of Courageous Joy

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I know the Lord calls us to be thankful at all times, to choose joy no matter what our surroundings or circumstances look like.

It’s not easy, but I get to choose whether I face the challenges, the frustrations, the disappointments of life with a joyful heart or a bitter one. Choosing joy requires a strength I don’t have, a reserve I can only find when I lean on God and allow Him to turn my resentment to rejoicing.

By Mary Carver, as published in Courageous Joy

We are loving hearing about the ways our new Bible study, Courageous Joy: Delight in God Through Every Season, has been impacting women everywhere, its message already deeply weaving its way into your hearts. We have seen and loved your selfies, underlined passages, shared quotes, and dog-eared pages as you dig deep to experience true joy right where you are.

So today, we’re highlighting a few of those stories from our community! Read on for the ways the Courageous Joy Bible Study has touched hearts (and scroll for info on our upcoming Online Bible Study — it’s not too late to join!):

I have to say I am floored. I’ve done other studies where there are just Scriptures broken up into different parts and then space for notes. That’s it. No real life application. No questions that encourage in-depth study. That is not the case with this study. Not only will you explore joy, but you’ll have real life, practical applications to help you understand and comprehend more. I highly encourage anyone who needs a little bit more “joy” (don’t we all) in their lives to pick up this study. You won’t regret it.
– Adrienne

I would give this book so many more stars if I were able. I am still in the process of going through this study. I find myself wanting to savor every moment and to read and re-read the rich text. The stories that provide an opening to the topic for each day are applicable to every stage of life. I am an empty nester and grandmother, but I find something to hold onto and to apply every day. And I see so much that would apply equally as well to my daughter and daughter-in-law who are raising babies and toddlers. I plan to gift them both with this wonderful study.
– Christina

This Bible study is amazing; one of the best I’ve encountered. It takes real life examples and teaches Biblical truths in a way that touches lives. For me personally, in a time when the stresses of life seemed to be crashing in around me, day after day in the study I was reminded where my joy comes from. Not from life. Not from circumstances. Not from happy events. Only from God! One of many quotes I’ve embraced from the book is this — “God’s great love for us meets us in the middle of our grief and hardships.” Even when life seems overwhelming, we can have joy because God is enough! That is #CourageousJoy.
– Jeannette

This study is exactly what my heart needed in this season of life! Each day is like breathing in new life again. I feel like I’m catching a breath of joy for the first time in a very long time. It’s the reminder that joy — true joy cannot be found in things or people or significance from others. True joy can only be found in relationship with our Father. In Him, constant relationship and communication through His Word is life-giving and fills us with the abundant life He wants for us. I cannot wait to see what else this study will reveal to me, but I know God is walking through it with me, filling me bit by bit with His joy so it will overflow in me! This will be a great group study! Grab your friends and dig into Courageous Joy!
– Shandyn

See what we mean? Such wonderful testimonies about the way this study has woven its way into hearts and lives and has helped women find joy right where they are.

The Courageous Joy Bible Study, written by Mary Carver and featuring stories from the (in)courage community, is now available where books are sold, and we are so excited to hear how the heartfelt stories and biblical truth in Courageous Joy impact your heart. When you get your copy, snap a picture for Instagram, tag @incourage, and include #courageousjoy in your caption so we can share in the fun!

And join us for our upcoming Online Bible Study as we work our way through Courageous Joy together! Sign up for the Online Bible Study, and we’ll send you the first week of the Courageous Joy Bible Study for FREE so you can start reading right away! The study starts May 3rd, so it’s not too late to join (and we so hope you will). Let’s take a deep dive into what God says about joy!

A Letter to My White Mom

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Dear Mom,

I remember sitting on your lap as a child. Our living room was filled with the scent of curry, spice, and summer. The windows were wide open, and the neighbors knew the sound from our floorboards on a Friday night meant worship was happening. I sat on your lap well past the necessary age because being close to your skin felt safest. On Friday evenings, the world would gather in our home. You invited everyone in. You picked up a blind woman from a street corner once, African refugees, and Chinese students that didn’t know any English. You never hesitated to welcome in a stranger, an outcast, a misfit, a non-English speaking foreigner, a wanderer, a person of light, brown, or Black skin. Everyone was equal. In your eyes, everyone needed Jesus. 

I remember sitting in our living room while the drums shook our old farmhouse to the bone. I could feel the beat from the bounce of your leg. I could feel it in my heart. All the accents sang the same words. It made me feel alive. At the bridge of the song, “Welcome to the Family,” the worship leader invited us all to stand up, sing, and greet each other. This was my favorite part. The seventy people crammed into our living room stood and embraced each other. I climbed over couches and folding chairs to extend my arms to strangers who happened to stop by for a meal and worship and to learn who this Jesus person was. Each person needing a home. I was so happy. I couldn’t stop smiling. The drums never stopped pounding until every single person was welcomed. 

I remember sitting on your bed for our daily discussions. You would sip your tea. I’d tell you about my day. You would look at me and marvel, “You are so beautiful. Your skin is the perfect color.” I’d jump off your bed and look at my reflection and smile. I was beautiful. Not because I knew what the measure of beauty was, but because you thought I was, so it must be true.

Mom, I remember the way you sat beside me when the day was done. You would stroke my dark hair down my back and sing hymns, songs, and lullabies as I fell asleep.

You’ve always sat beside me. You are white. I am brown. Your skin burns in the sun; mine only darkens. I wonder if the way through the clash of cultures, race, and cancelation comes when we sit beside one another as you’ve sat beside me all these years. I wonder if moving forward starts when we make space for being wrong. 

Perhaps the way you’ve modeled love to me can give hope to our hurting world. You loved in a generous, selfless, and jaw-dropping way. You love in extraordinary ways. You gracefully clawed against cultural norms and created a God-culture in our home. Maybe that’s what heals all the pain — extraordinary love. The kind of extraordinary love that sees the difference but doesn’t make the difference hiccup, hesitate, hold up, or hold back. The kind of extraordinary love that laid down His life for a world that whipped Him instead of worshipped Him.

Mom, I know you are lamenting the political climate right now. I know you are hurting for the unborn. I know you are anxious about the future. I know you cringe at the hate crimes against your Asian sisters. I see your pain. My pain doesn’t diminish yours. Your pain doesn’t diminish mine. Listen to mine, and I’ll listen to yours. This is only possible because Christ’s arms are wide enough to receive all our pain. His arms were pinned and pulled wide as a way to take on all our hate, hurt, and hidden pain. His love is large enough to hold all the horrible sadness. By His wounds, we are healed. By our wounds, He heals us.

Lament is a love song. Sometimes the love song can sound like a banging drum, heavy metal hate, or fragile violin strings. But we must lament. There is space for us both to fall apart. There is space for me to sing my own sad song. At the feet of Christ, I can cry out for my children, and my soft wounds still fresh from harsh words spoken. My grief is split open with a gunshot. We grieve into our loss. We grieve into our shattered stories. We grieve into our sad storm. We grieve into Jesus. Our grief is heard. Our grief is safe. Our healing comes when we hear God’s love song over us; Christ sings over us (Zephaniah 3:17). 

I’ve pondered deeply how change can happen. I don’t toss out trite ideas, but I am throwing every hope of the possibility of change on the back of Jesus. Hope in our splitting world will require an extraordinary kind of love. The kind of ordinary love that you, my white mom, have shown me. The kind of extraordinary love that forgives the unforgivable, a love that reaches out a hand to those who are different from us, a love that bends into what feels uncomfortable. An extraordinary kind of love that listens to our lament songs, then has the incredible audacity to sing along with us. 

Love always,
Your Asian-American daughter

 

In the end, this letter isn’t just for my mom. It is for all of us — a letter of hope and a way forward for those who belong to the family of God. There is no way without the extraordinary love and sacrifice of Jesus. There is no way without extending extraordinary love to each other. So even when we sing our lament songs off-key and imperfectly, we keep singing. We heal when we hear God’s love song over us, His beloved children. In His perfect love and grace, He alone can create harmony out of our dissonance.

Dear sister in Christ, what are you grieving today? How do you see God healing you? In what ways can you offer extraordinary, irrational, over-the-top, undeserved love to another today?

How God’s Faithfulness Looks Like a Bottle of Trader Joe’s Seasoning

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The discouragement was so deep within me, I could hardly stand it. 

My province was going into lockdown. Again. I knew this was coming, but the discouragement hit me harder this time. I’m not sure why. Just last month, I wrote on how this pandemic won’t last forever, and suddenly I was having a very hard time believing the words I’d once written. 

It wasn’t just the impending lockdown. I’d said yes to too many things and felt like I had too much on my plate. I was overwhelmed and at the end of my rope. I’d gone to bed with a stress headache and woken up with a clenched jaw. (I know, I sound like a blast to hang out with.)

I needed a change of pace and a change of scenery, and because I couldn’t stop the lockdown or magically complete any of my current projects, I settled for the one thing I could control: getting my mail. When I opened my slot in the apartment lobby, there was a little brown box waiting for me. 

I didn’t think I’d ordered anything recently, but maybe I’d forgotten about something. I took the box out from the mail slot and held it in my hands, noticing the name on the return label. 

It was from a friend of mine. She lives almost two thousand miles from me, and I wasn’t expecting anything from her.

Immediately, a smile formed on my lips. I shook the surprise package, and it felt like glass. What could this be? I used my keys to rip the package open before even going back upstairs. 

I opened the cardboard and gasped. 

My friend had sent me four bottles of Trader Joe’s Everything But The Bagel seasoning. 

“What?!” I said out loud to no one. 

I picked up one of the priceless bottles, bringing it to my nose and inhaling the scent, smelling the notes of onion and garlic and salt. I couldn’t believe it.

I live in Canada, and I’d lamented to my American friend months ago — quite dramatically — wondering if I would ever be able to cross the border and go to Trader Joe’s to buy this seasoning again. 

I stared at the box in my hands with those four bottles inside of it. Tears threatened in my eyes. It was just a couple bottles of seasoning and yet they said so much to me: I see you. I hear you. I love you. I’m thinking of you. 

My friend’s small act of kindness wasn’t small to me. It was huge. She didn’t remove the pandemic or the lockdown or even the projects from my plate, but she made me feel seen and known and loved. 

I think God often uses our small acts of kindness in that way — to turn someone’s day or season into a reminder of God’s faithfulness. I’m reminded of how Jesus took the loaves of fish and bread — someone’s small, meager offering — and transformed it into plenty. He happens to take our little and turn it into a lot. His math doesn’t always make sense to me, but I know for certain that He honors our small offerings.

I don’t know if God whispered to my friend in her California Trader Joe’s to buy seasoning for this Canadian girl, or if my friend was just being her kind and wonderful self, but I know for certain that God multiplied her offering. Her small kindness compounded into a thousand reminders for me: of the friendship I have with her, of the faithfulness of God, of how I am seen, known, loved, held, remembered, and cherished.

Sometimes God’s faithfulness looks like loaves and fishes, multiplied into dinner for thousands. But sometimes it just looks like four bottles of Trader Joe’s Everything But The Bagel seasoning.

Trusting God With All Our Heart

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The staircase is dark and looming to a two-year-old. Her little feet push upward, but her pudgy hand can’t reach the light switch. With the kind of determined, stubborn bravery found only in toddlers, she chooses to climb the staircase in the dark, deciding that reaching her goal is worth the moments of fear. Her final target, waiting at the top of the stairs in the light? Mommy.

My brave girl wasn’t the only one navigating a darkened path during that time. That season was one of living in limbo. Our home had sold, and we — a family of five plus a dog — moved into my mother’s townhome. We were living on top of one another with boxes and people underfoot. We submitted offer after offer on homes in the area, and each one was passed over for another. With each offer, we asked God to lead and guide our path to a new home. And isn’t that how we could pray every day? That in following Him, He would guide us Home?

After seven offers had been submitted, my trust was faltering. Would God indeed take care of us? Would we be in our own home by my kids’ birthdays? By Christmas? By next year? I had no idea, but every day we weeded out more options, and it felt like we were making room for God’s path to widen, inch by inch.

Trusting God with all of our hearts doesn’t mean He will wrap up the job like we think He should, neat and tidy with a bow on top. If I’d had my way, we’d have been in a new home the day after we closed on our old one. But that’s not how it shook out. We ended up living with my mom for three months, and the seventh offer we submitted was the first one to be accepted. We moved into that new house with great joy, let me tell you.

Trusting God with all our heart means leaning on His understanding, knowing that whatever it is, His plan is enough, His plan is good, and all will be well. Those months living in such close quarters with my mom had their own kind of difficulty, but they also brought us all together in an irreplaceable way. She and my husband grew closer, and she bonded with our kids in a way that can only happen when living ordinary life together.

Trusting God with all our heart doesn’t mean answers will come swiftly, or even at all. I don’t understand everything, and I sometimes question the path He leads me down. But trusting God with all our hearts means we rely on and trust in God’s own understanding of His plan. It means we trust that God understands the how and why. It means we know that we don’t need to know everything; God does.

Trusting God with all our heart and thinking of Him in all our ways means opening our hearts to His path, scary and new and untraveled as it may be. It means stepping forward in faith, taking one stair at a time until we’re safe at the top, the darkness behind us.

When we’re not sure how to trust, we lean hard and step forward in faith, knowing that God is waiting at the top to welcome us with outstretched arms.

Story by Anna E. Rendell, as published in A Mother’s Love

A Mother’s Love: Celebrating Every Kind of Mom is full of reflections of God’s heart. Featuring unique and diverse stories from the (in)courage community, A Mother’s Love offers heartfelt encouragement to every kind of mom, whether they’re a mother in the traditional sense, mothering in a spiritual sense, or a mother-like figure who breaks the mold. This book is sure to help any woman share a meaningful gift with someone who has been impactful in her life, a new mom learning the ropes, or a close loved one facing the joys and challenges of any stage and type of motherhood.

Compiled with all women in mind so we can celebrate those who made us, shaped us, helped us grow, and loved us well, it’s a beautiful gift for the moms in your life.

To help you celebrate those women, we’re giving away FIVE copies! Just leave a comment on this post telling us about one such special woman, and you’ll be entered to win a copy of A Mother’s Love.

Order your copies of A Mother’s Love today!

The Hope of Ruined Land and Tangled Things

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Our new home has a backyard the size of a baseball field. That’s what my husband said the first time we walked around in it. We stood on the crooked deck, gazing at the sprawling green ahead of us. We’d said we didn’t want a large yard to care for, but while we stood there, staring, what we thought we didn’t want became what we did. I saw future versions of us in that yard.

We live on Kickapooo land, at the end of a cul-de-sac at the top of a little hill, and the furthest part of our backyard backs up to a barbed wire fence with trees and tangled vines on the other side of it. The land on the other side is big and wild. Our kids call it the jungle.

We’ve spent the last few weeks cleaning out that patch of yard on our side of the barbed wire. Winter left the area covered in broken walnut shells, white weeds that look like ghosts, broken sticks, dead pine needles, and vines that fell from the trees reaching too far over the barbed wire.

Cleaning the space feels impossible. More than once, I was mad that it had gotten to the point that it did. I silently wondered if we’d made a mistake. I was overwhelmed about how much there was to do. We filled more than one trash can, then made piles in the yard so we could fill them again next week, then the week after that. And while we worked, it seemed like new weeds sprouted up like a betrayal of the earth behind our backs. Some of the least obtrusive weeds on the surface have the most stubborn, dangerous roots underneath. I tell my kids we have to get the whole root, otherwise, the weed will keep growing quicker than we can keep up.

It reminds me of the work against racism and injustice in the American Church. We tiptoe around hard topics and say yes to unity, while bristling about investing in the tools needed to uproot the weeds that choke its possibility. Just as it was easier to believe in the yard I saw in my mind when my husband and I stood on the deck for the first time, it was easier to believe in working towards a fuller picture of the imago Dei in a community of believers before the work of it made my back ache and my heart break.

Are we out of our minds to persist in learning how to tend to this land under our feet, one weed pulled, one thick vine loosened, or one how-to-tend-to article read online at a time? Are we fools to speak the truth in love, help educate, and persist in sharing our vulnerable stories as people of color, even when it feels like no one cares beyond the hour-long entertainment of a panel on racism or the comfort of another book club?

Church, what will it take for us to love the land we live on and every life that depends on it? What will it take for us to acknowledge the violence and injustice that’s occurred on it for generations and tend to the land as if we truly believe that we all belong?

I search through Scripture, and instead of finding one verse to answer all of my questions or a God who takes sides, I see a God who tends to broken things.

I see a God who, through Jeremiah, told His people to serve the land and people they lived among in exile — the ones they called enemies. He said that their welfare was tied together. He didn’t tell them to build walls and make rules about who was in or out. He told them to plant seeds and seek the prosperity of the whole city.

Recently, my daughter came running from staring at the newly bloomed flowers in front of the barbed wire, to tell me there was a monster screaming on the other side. She was convinced. I walked her back to listen and watch the way the wind blew crowded trees against each other. One stretched across another like a bow moving across a stringed instrument. Giving it another chance, she heard sad music, not monsters.

Are you staring a space of dirt where the trees have gone wild, tangled, and dead, listening to what sounds less like life and more like a thousand monsters overhead?

In Jesus, we have hope for the redemption of every broken, tangled thing.  In Him — the one who bent low to wash the feet of those He knew would betray Him, doubt Him and refuse Him — we find a way to keep tending, uprooting, and repairing.

He knows the hurts and violence sunk down deep into the dirt, and He tends to our ruins, digging up hope enough to bind our welfare together and heal the land beneath our feet.

We’re All Called to Go and Tell

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I have struggled with what it looks like to be a Jesus-following woman who leads, teaches, and tells others about Him. It makes sense since there are many arguments and division in the church about a woman’s role in the body of Christ.

I’ve lived under limitations based on other Christians’ opinions. I’ve struggled with the rules of religion. I’ve delayed obedience to God’s answer to my prayers based on what I “thought” my role as a woman was supposed to be. I know being a woman is complex, with all the nuances of work, relationships, and faith.

I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to freely listen to God’s calling, live the resurrected life, and have courage to run in what God has asked me to do. I’m ready to lead because I follow Jesus and because He wants me to lead others back to Him.

During this Easter season, I thought about Mary Magdelene, Mary, and Joanna. I wondered what I would have done as a disciple of Jesus who was a woman, walking with Him, hearing teachings directly from Him, and seeing Him die and be buried in a tomb. I tried to put myself in their place, especially when they received this special groundbreaking assignment from the angel at the empty tomb:

“Go quickly and tell his disciples that he has risen from the dead, and behold, he is going before you to Galilee; there you will see him. See, I have told you.” So they departed quickly from the tomb with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. And behold, Jesus met them and said, “Greetings!” And they came up and took hold of his feet and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, “Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee, and there they will see me.”
Matthew 28:1-10 (ESV)

Did they think to themselves, “Doesn’t God know I’m a woman? Who will listen to me? What if they don’t believe me? Is this really my role?”

I don’t know what their personal thoughts were, but I know they overcame any potential self-talk and cultural norms with their obedient actions. These women acted in faith of what they knew to be true — Jesus was alive and others needed to know it.

God chose them to be the first to know about the completed salvation message, and they were the first to be told to “go and tell.” As they were on their way, Jesus met them. He greeted them warmly, making Himself known to them, so they could see and worship Him. That’s what we need in the middle of the journey to “go and tell,” isn’t it?

We all need to be reminded that we heard our assignment correctly, that it really was God who called us and empowers us. 

The women responded by grabbing Jesus’ feet and worshipping Him. They didn’t allow who they were to prevent them from doing so, and they continued on in obedience to do what He asked of them.

Jesus showed up to confirm that they were ready for this moment and the ones to come. He wanted them to know that they were created to share the good news and that He loved them and was with them. When Jesus calls us to go and tell of His great love story, He encourages us to stay the course and follow Him no matter what others may think. 

I find it fascinating that Mary got to tell the brothers about Jesus’ resurrection before Jesus revealed Himself to them. Why did Jesus choose this way of doing things? I don’t have an answer, but it’s always good to pay attention to God’s ways when He doesn’t go by what’s expected.

The story of these women helps me remember that no matter what others may think of God’s calling on our lives, He will make Himself known to us and will make it very clear what we are to do to spread the good news. He will meet us as we take the first step of obedience, so we have no need to be afraid to “go and tell.”

Just like the women at the tomb who brought the gospel message to the other disciples about Jesus being alive, you too are empowered to share the good news with others in creative and new ways.

God will go before you wherever He sends you. And there — wherever He’s called you — is where you will see Him for who He really is, fully alive and the Savior to all.

The Best Kind of Friend to Have and Be

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It’s not likely many of us can remember exactly what we were doing a year ago today, but no doubt we were all adjusting to what would become a new normal: life during a global pandemic. If you were anything like me, you scoured the internet looking for updates from the CDC and your own local and national leaders, trying to figure out what to do next. Those early days were bewildering, weren’t they?

Handwashing, mask wearing, and social distancing became routine. Birthday parties, proms, graduations, and weddings were canceled. Zoom provided an alternative for business meetings and meet-ups, and thanks to livestreaming, most churches adapted to virtual worship.

Still, with all the benefit of digital advancements, social distancing gave way to social isolation. Personal engagement suffered. I’ve had some of the loneliest, darkest, and even most paralyzing moments of my adulthood over the past year.

This is what I’ve hated about COVID-19: it has divided people when we needed each other most. It has divided us physically, keeping loved ones from caring for their family during hospitalization and sometimes even end of life, but it has also divided us socially, emotionally, even spiritually as a deadly disease somehow turned into a political agenda.

After a raucous political season, ongoing racial tensions, and lingering questions surrounding COVID, we’re tired. But even if we’ve grown weary, as people of faith, we’re a people with hope! The good news of the gospel found in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus still has the power to save us from our frail, human condition.

Regardless of what we’ve seen the past year related to pandemic, politics, and protest, God still sits on His throne. He is still for us. He is mighty to save. It’s important for us to remind each other about this because fear can creep in when we’re focused on ourselves or our circumstances.

It is against this backdrop of hope that I began reading Romans the other day. Though I’ve read through this incredible book a dozen times or more, its instruction on friendship took me by surprise. Rather than flying through those first few verses in chapter one to get to the “good stuff,” I lingered —

For God is my witness, whom I serve with my spirit in the gospel of his Son, that without ceasing I mention you always in my prayers, asking that somehow by God’s will I may now at last succeed in coming to you. For I long to see you, that I may impart to you some spiritual gift to strengthen you — that is, that we may be mutually encouraged by each other’s faith, both yours and mine.
Romans 1:9-12 (ESV)

The Holy Spirit began imparting beautiful instruction about friendship. Paul begins by pointing his friends to the gospel, and he lets them know he is continually praying for them. What if we did this for our friends? What if our everyday, ordinary conversations were seasoned with salt and life and had the substance of eternal value?

In the second half of verse 10 and the first part of verse 11, can’t you sense Paul’s deep longing to see his friends in Rome? After the year we’ve had where we haven’t been able to see those we love and care about without restriction, I can identify with Paul in a way I hadn’t been able to before. There’s a desperation to his desire to be with them, and as we continue reading, we see that this isn’t self-serving; he wants to strengthen them spiritually.

In this friendship Paul shares with the Roman church, there’s mutual benefit to the relationship. They’re encouraged by one another’s faith. There’s a humility and earnestness in Paul’s words that indicate his heart is truly other minded.

Can you imagine how your friendships might be revolutionized by putting these principles into practice? There’s no better friend to have and be than the kind who points others to Christ, prays continually, and is mutually encouraged by each other’s faith.

Let’s Change the Way We Think About Ourselves

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“What’s wrong with me?” I asked myself in a frustrated and condemning tone. I had missed an important Zoom meeting that morning, forgotten to give my daughter her morning medication, and set off our home security alarm, which meant I had shouted that same question inside my head more than once within a few hours. But when I had done it the third time, I noticed it wasn’t just a question, it was a big assumption I made — far too often.

Whether I forget to do something important or don’t know where I put my keys, miss a deadline or mess up dinner, or walk into a room and can’t remember why I went in there, I assume I’m defective. And that morning, I sensed God wanted me to see how damaging it was by showing me what I was doing:

Every time I ask, “What’s wrong with me?” I actually tell myself, Something is wrong with me.

And unfortunately, the damage of my self-criticism doesn’t end with my internal insults. When I Iabel myself as defective, I live in a state of discouragement and distraction, trying to figure out my elusive faults and find a way to hide or fix them. What I really need to fix is what I’m saying to and assuming about myself.

How often do you berate yourself with questions and assumptions that make you feel defective? When was the last time you thought, What is wrong with me?

I think we all do it for different reasons, but I believe we have at least one reason in common. We have a spiritual enemy who is a pro at pointing out all that is wrong with us (real or perceived) and helping us forget anything that is right with us.

Scripture tells us that when Satan lies, he speaks his native language because he is a liar and the father of lies (John 8:44). His intent is to get us to believe lies that make us feel defective, defeated, and discouraged.

It’s what he did with Eve in the Garden. He got her to take her eyes off who she was and all that she had as God’s child, to focus on what she lacked, and to spend her time figuring out how to hide her inadequacies.

Then the man and his wife heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden at the time of the evening breeze, and they hid from the Lord God among the trees of the garden. So the Lord God called out to the man and said to him, “Where are you?” And he said, “I heard you in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked, so I hid.” Then he asked, “Who told you that you were naked?
Genesis 3:8-11 (CSB)

Notice how God asked them who told them they were naked. In other words, “Who told you something is wrong with you?” By asking this question, God acknowledged someone else was casting shame on them — and it wasn’t Him.

He wanted them to know there was another character in their story, someone speaking lies into their hearts, causing them to move away from Him and each other. We have the same enemy who wants us to believe something is wrong with us, too. But aren’t you tired of feeling like something is wrong with you and trying to figure out how to fix or hide your elusive faults? I am.

What if, instead of going along with him, we stopped and asked ourselves, Who is telling me something is wrong with me? Who or what is making me feel defective and defeated? Is it me? Or is it the enemy of my soul telling me lies I so easily believe?

Let’s change the questions we ask and the assumptions we make about ourselves.

We can start by recognizing Satan’s schemes and defusing his deceit with the Truth. For instance, the next time you feel defeated or defective, instead of asking What’s wrong with me?, stop and tell yourself all that is right with you:

You are God’s “workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works” (Ephesians 2:10).
You are “remarkably and wondrously made” (Psalm 139:14).
“In all these things [you] are more than [a conqueror] through Him who loved [you]” (Romans 8:37).

And then ask Jesus to help you remember where you put the keys or why you walked into that closet. Period. The end. With Christ in you, there is nothing wrong with you. Don’t let anyone, not even yourself, convince you otherwise.

What truth do you need to speak over yourself today?

 

More Than a Bite-Sized Bible

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It’s a Sunday night, and I’m watching All Creatures Great and Small, the British TV drama on PBS from Masterpiece Theatre. So, I have a request. “Please don’t bother me,” I ask my husband. “Just allow me one hour of pleasant TV-watching without disruption.” Then like a good-guy husband, he says yes — even watching with me.

We love the program because it takes us away from everyday life. Set in a fictional town in Britain’s beautiful Yorkshire Dales, it tells the adventures of a country veterinarian, James Herriot, as he cares for animals — and placates their owners – while falling in love with the pretty daughter of a country farmer.

Sounds wonderful? It is.

Or, it was.

After the seven-week drama ended its first season, the internet unleashed scores of articles on “the real story” behind Herriot’s adventures. In fact, James Herriot isn’t a real person but the pen name of Alf Wight — a rural vet whose books were semi-autobiographical, meaning his stories were embellished.

Indeed, his life wasn’t all sweet and light. Wight suffered from bouts of clinical depression, according to his now adult children. His TV love Helen was actually named Joan — not a farmer’s daughter but a secretary at a corn mill. His irascible but lovable mentor, known in the series as Siegfried Farnon, was Donald Sinclair, who, by several accounts, hated his depiction in the Herriot books and TV adaptations.

Thus, while the life lessons in All Creatures were sound, beautiful, and good, they skipped over the hardest moments of the real backstory.

I’ve reflected on these things as I’ve watched our struggles as a nation and even in our community here at (in)courage over the past year. As contributors have shared our plights, and readers have replied, some have pushed back, saying, Enough. Stop this nonsense. Just give us the Bible, not the roar.

That was my approach to the Bible for many years. I wanted the Bible without the human backstory. The throbbing conflicts. The bloody persecutions. The divided churches. The family quarrels. To be honest, I wanted Christ without His suffering, His people without their pain.

Instead, I wanted the pretty parts — to know, as Paul wrote, that I can do all things in the power of the Lord. But did I want His Cross? Or all the hurting people gathering underneath it? Or those pesky reminders that Paul wrote of unity in Christ — not because it was happening but because it still wasn’t?

Like many here, I grew up on Bible lore and lessons — loving it all because I loved the takeaways. But I liked the condensed version, short enough to put on a t-shirt or a flowery plaque to hang on a wall.

That thinking is understandable. Life can be hard, scary, or traumatic at its worst. Just watching the news teaches us that.

So, we crave Bible hope and help. We all understand that. But do we want a bite-sized Bible? Just enough to carry us through the day without thinking too hard about what it cost the people who actually wrote it? Not to mention what it cost our Christ? Or costs the people whose hurt we don’t want to hear?

Frederick Douglass, the social reformer, understood this hunger for light without fire, for action without agitation. Those are folks who “want crops without plowing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters.”

After God releases us from problems and our pandemic, some of us might only want quiet from our Bibles — the sweet not the struggle. (And of course, some might want the roar, too.) So, we’re at a crossroads.

We can run from the Bible, with both its whispers and roar, or we can stand in God’s story in the storms of life, learning to hear all of it, even when we just want quiet and rest. That respite is in there, for certain. But God invites us into His whole story, preparing us to hear each other’s — not just the bite-sized, easy-to-swallow versions but His whole story and our own, even when we may disagree.

Then after we plow, after the thunder and lightning, after the roar of the waves, may we experience the harvest, the life-giving rain, and the ocean in all its beauty and wonder. May the complexities of learning from every part of the Bible — and through the stories shared here — ignite our hearts to surrender. Then, we can love.

Making Space For Each Other’s Grief

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The week after the Atlanta massacre, I found myself lying in bed, huddled up in a ball and too nauseous to move. An Asian woman in New York had been attacked, and after a week of nightmares and continuous phone calls mentoring and counseling other Asian Americans who were grieving, this news put me over the edge. I couldn’t eat. I kept feeling like I could throw up at any moment. That’s how visceral my body’s reaction was to the recurring grief and trauma of the hate crimes against my community.

Later that same day I talked with a Latina friend who said she was trying to hold space for the grief of the AAPI community while also struggling with the painful realities at our southern border. In the late hours of the evening, I had a phone call with an African American friend, who immediately broke down because she was hurting for me and the AAPI community and because the Atlanta massacre had triggered memories of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. 

Then more tragedy struck. My phone flashed with a ticker of the Boulder shooting. It was a reminder that in the midst of racial injustice, mundane evil still exists. People online were talking about how life was just continuing with “normal, senseless killings,” and I think at that point everyone I knew was now grieving for one or more tragedies.

That’s the thing about life. Even in the midst of racial violence and unrest, everyday pains persist — kids struggle with mental health and the strains of virtual school; elderly parents are sick; we are wracked with worry over financial constraints and job instabilities; some of our marriages are not okay; loneliness due to quarantine has become unbearable.

We’re all hurting in different ways, and we need to make space for each other’s pains. 

I’ll admit, it was hard to hear whispers in the wake of the Atlanta massacre that Asian Americans were taking up too much space — that somehow we should stop talking about our pain and be more mindful that other communities are carrying grief right now too. But that’s not the only example of grief comparison I’ve seen. People of all different cultures and ethnicities can fall into the trap of comparing each other’s histories of oppression. We can all be insensitive to the grief of others, especially when we deem their pain as less than our own. 

However, if we try to compete and act as gatekeepers of who can grieve and for how long, we will stay divided forever. If we begin creating parameters about which person or group has suffered more than another person or group, we will become tunnel-visioned and hard-hearted to each other’s pains. We should never tell someone to silence their pain so we can process our own more fully. Nor should we try to silence someone’s grieving by telling them there are worse tragedies in the world. 

We need to find a way for all of us to grieve together side by side.  

In Romans 12:15, the Apostle Paul says, “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.” Paul doesn’t say you’re only allowed to mourn as long as your grieving doesn’t interfere with other people’s grief. We’re just simply called to mourn. As followers of Jesus, we are given permission to make space for our own grief and the grief of others.

We need to be able to say to each other, “My grief is different from yours, and I will not compare the two.” 

The reality is I am a unique individual, therefore my grief is unique to me. You are a unique individual and your grief is unique to you. You may have been bullied in high school because of a physical handicap. I was bullied in high school because of the color of my skin. Can we make space for the pains of racism and ableism as both real, equal, and yet very different?

When I was on the phone earlier with my African American friend, we were both in tears. I knew she was hurting. She knew I was hurting. In the midst of us both carrying so much grief, all we could do was make space to hear how each other was doing and say, “I’m so sorry. I’m hurting with you.” It wasn’t a long conversation. Stringing a lot of words together would have required more emotional energy than either of us had. But presence, connection, and brief verbal affirmations spoke volumes.

When we fight against comparisons, grief can actually become something that binds us together as humans. These deep pains of life are something we all experience in different ways, and the more we recognize this, the more we can give honor to each other’s lives and dignity.

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

You Don’t Need to Cross an Ocean to Find God’s Love

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We slipped past ancient olive trees, their grey-green leaves beckoning us closer. The stillness enveloped us as we walked into the garden of tall, slim evergreens and bare-leaved trees in the coolness of February. Instinctively, we whispered in the sacred space as we took our seats on the low stone wall at the edge of the path. We were on the Mount of Olives.

Last February, my husband and I took a long-anticipated trip to Israel. Our tour group was one of the last to have this experience before the world shut down. In the days leading up to the time in the garden on the Mount of Olives, we had already seen Nazareth where the angel Gabriel announced to Mary that she would be the mother of the Savior. We visited Capernaum, where Jesus did many of His miracles. We sailed on the Sea of Galilee where Jesus calmed the storm and His fearful disciples.

We sat in a garden on the Mount of Olives — perhaps not the exact site of the Garden of Gethsemane — but certainly similar. As we sat on the cold stone wall, we listened to our leader read about Jesus’ struggle in the garden — a struggle to willingly submit to His Father’s plan which ultimately meant betrayal, mockery, pain, and even death. After the Scripture reading, we listened to songs of Jesus’ sacrificial love. While the words “See from His head, His hands, His feet/ Sorrow and love flow mingled down” and “Love so amazing, so divine” played through my headset, tears streamed down my face in gratitude.

Too often, the stories of Gethsemane and Calvary are like well-worn paths in my mind that I’ve traveled so often I no longer notice what they mean. I’ve heard the accounts of Jesus’ suffering so often that the drops of blood, the thorny crown, the cruel nails no longer have the impact they once had. But the time on the Mount of Olives jolted me to awareness — awareness of Jesus’ pain, awareness of His battle with His human nature, awareness of His relentless love for me that propelled Him to the cross despite it all.

Why did it take a trip across an ocean to notice Jesus’ love for me? Why did I need a trip to an ancient garden to internalize His passion? God continually gives evidence of His love in the beauty of this world — even in my suburban Chicago neighborhood. In my ordinary days, He whispers His love through the thoughtfulness of my husband or the smile of a friend. Jesus constantly sends me love letters in His Word.

I determined to pay more attention to God’s gestures of love with a little experiment. While working at my computer, I set a timer to go off every hour or so. When the timer beeped, I stopped for a minute and focused on God’s love. Sometimes I would read or recite a favorite Scripture like, “You are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you” (Isaiah 43:4 ESV) or “I will love them freely” (Hosea 14:4 ESV). Other times I would listen to a favorite song about God’s love, immersing myself in the words and music for a few minutes.

As I continued this simple practice, I marveled at the difference it made in my work, my relationships, my attitude. When I focused on how much Jesus loved me right now, I felt less pressure to prove myself through accomplishment. When God’s relentless love filled my soul, I could better share that love with the people in my life without looking for something in return. When I remembered Christ’s unfailing love for me — demonstrated through His agonizing sacrifice — anxiety and doubt fell away.

I still cherish the time I had in the garden on the Mount of Olives, but I learned that you don’t need to go to Israel to experience God’s unconditional love for you. Try my experiment. Set a timer or alarm to remind you to pause several times during the day. During those pauses, remember God’s passion for you through reading His Word or listening to songs of His amazing love.

Remember, God continually pursues an intimate relationship with you and relentlessly loves you.

The Freedom of Our Father’s Boundaries

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Last week, my two youngest children turned fourteen years old. Yes, twins. And yes, twin teenagers. In addition, their older sister — and by “older” I mean only nine months older — is also fourteen years old. For the next three months until her birthday, I am living in a house with three fourteen-year-olds.

Holy hormones, Jesus come quickly.

In all seriousness, there are many things I love about these years. This isn’t the first time my husband and I have raised teenagers — our oldest three boys are twenty-four, twenty-seven, and twenty-nine. We’ve been here, done this. And there is much to love about watching your kids grow into adulthood. Even so, it’s not easy. And it feels a bit weightier than it did ten to fifteen years ago. The world is different than it was then.

For their birthday, our twins finally received their long-dreamed-of cell phone. You could say we’re old-fashioned. We don’t allow our kids to have cell phones until their fourteen birthday, a way for us to preserve their childhood a little longer and ensure they have the maturity to handle such a responsibility. That means, turning fourteen and getting a phone is a big deal in our house. Exciting and fun, yes, but also serious.

Tonight, my husband and I sat down with our kids and went through the boundaries surrounding their new cell phones. We spent quite a bit of time talking about the power of words and pictures and the long-lasting consequences of what we text and post and say, both positive and negative. Then we had them read through the printed contract spelling out those rules, all thirteen of them. To fourteen year olds, these restrictions felt unnecessary, even rigid and controlling. They didn’t like it one bit. And that is precisely why we spent some time explaining why it matters.

My husband began our conversation by reading these words:

“I understand that the rules below are for my safety and that my parents love me . . . I understand that my parents want to give me freedom, while also giving me enough security to make smart choices.”

Freedom. With security.

I restrained a smile, knowing that although my children would sign this document saying “I understand,” they don’t, in fact, understand. They may read the words, hear the words, even acknowledge the words. But at fourteen years old, they only understand the smallest fraction of the apprehension their dad and I feel about all that could potentially go wrong. Life experience has taught us some hard-earned lessons that guide our use of our own cell phones. We know our kids don’t yet have that experience or maturity, but we’re hoping they trust us enough to take our word for it, even if it feels like we’re being unreasonable.

So we set some rules and hold our kids accountable enough to keep them safe. It is the boundaries — and their respect of them — which will provide them the freedom to enjoy the gift, without suffering painful consequences. In short, the restrictions are fueled by love.

As I sat at the kitchen table listening to my husband read the contract and watching teenage eyes roll, I thought of how many times I have, likewise, felt God’s boundaries and guidelines for my life to be unreasonable and rigid. Is God determined to keep us from having any fun? Is He a micromanaging control-freak who loves nothing more than to keep us under His thumb?

My son, do not despise the Lord’s discipline,
and do not resent his rebuke,
because the Lord disciplines those he loves,
as a father the son he delights in.
Proverbs 3:11-12 (NIV)

Freedom with security — they go together. And they are sourced in God’s love for us every single time. That is the beauty of our Father’s boundaries. Boundaries fueled by love are the only way to feel truly safe and free. The only question is: Will you and I trust Him enough to follow Him?

When It’s Time to Wake Up

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This spring, I studied the book of Mark with a small group of ladies from my church. Each Sunday evening, we met on Zoom to dissect a couple chapters of the book and ask each other what stood out to us from the text, what it taught us about Jesus and people, and what God might be saying to us through the passage we read. A few weeks ago we read some verses that left me flustered.

In Mark 13, Jesus tells His disciples that they must stay alert for His return. He cautions them to pay attention and be on guard to be prepared for the end times. In the English Standard Version (ESV), He tells them to “stay awake.”

My friends and I talked about a few other parts of the passage we’d read, but mostly we focused on this passage. Jill said she felt like God was telling her to wake up and Sarah said Jesus’s words made her want to be more intentional about, well, a lot of things. I stared at them both for a moment and then blurted, “I didn’t even remember that whole section about the end times being in this book!”

I knew that I had indeed read that passage, so how, then, did I not remember it?! Why was I so surprised to find this topic in the gospels?!

After talking with my friends I realized that I must have read that whole chapter on autopilot. It was part of a Lent reading challenge I’d joined, and the day that included Mark 13 clearly found me opening my Bible in order to check a box on my to-do list rather than to meet God and listen to whatever truth He might have for me in those holy words. Just like I can sometimes pull into my driveway and realize I don’t remember the miles I drove to get there, reading the Bible on autopilot means part of my brain computed the words on the page but my heart didn’t absorb or process a thing.

As we talked more about the ways we find ourselves sleepwalking through life, I realized that I had been in a bit of a walking coma for a few months now — not just while reading my Bible but also with my work, my relationships, and several healthy habits I know are necessary for me. And now, it was time to wake up!

On the one hand, I was energized by this conversation. After all, isn’t this what spring is for? To wake up from our hibernation and allow the things God has been doing underground to blossom into something beautiful and life-giving? To get back to the work we’re designed for, to do more than the bare minimum at least some of the time? To shake off the heaviness and self-protection of the past season and reach for the sun (or the Son, if we want to extend this metaphor a bit)?

It is, absolutely. But, on the other hand, I also felt a bit disoriented — the way you do when you take a nap and stay asleep too long, the way you do when you wake up in the wrong part of your REM cycle, the way grumpy cartoon bears do when awoken too early.

When Jesus spoke to the disciples and urged them to stay awake, to pay attention, to be on guard, He knew the difficulty of what He was asking. Though they hadn’t yet visited the Garden of Gethsemane for the last time, He knew they would be unable to stay awake and be present during His most anguished moments just before the crucifixion. He knew that, like us, they would get distracted from their mission by grief and fear, by responsibilities and obligations, by doubts and distractions, by the everyday-ness of life.

And yet, He urged them to wake up just the same.

That tells me that Jesus understands my current state of in-between, that He is familiar with the pull of slumber and numbness, that He recognizes the disorientation of the waking process, and that He knows the endurance required to stay alert and on guard. But He still wants us awake and alert — to our lives, to those around us, to the work He’s doing in our hearts and in the world.

Reading about Jesus’s conversation with the disciples (again, ironically paying more attention this time) has both encouraged and challenged me, and I’m asking Him to wake me up. And though my eyes are still a little blurry and my limbs are hibernation-heavy, it’s working — slowly. I’m waking up little by little. I’m paying attention to what God is doing in the world and in my own heart. I’m staying alert for beauty and joy, for injustice and pain, for all the places I can find God and join the work He’s doing.

Perhaps He’s asking you to wake up, too.

Have you found yourself hibernating lately — in shock as you experience circumstances and chaos you never imagined, out of exhaustion or self-preservation, or as a response to pain or loss or confusion? What do you hear when you read Jesus’s words to the disciples: Stay awake! Where do you need to be more intentional? What do you need to pay attention to? Ask Him to help you stay alert, to wake you up to everything He has for you, and together, let’s walk into spring with eyes and hearts open!

My child, listen to what I say, and treasure my commands.
Tune your ears to wisdom, and concentrate on understanding.
Cry out for insight, and ask for understanding.
Search for them as you would for silver; seek them like hidden treasures.
Then you will understand what it means to fear the Lord, and you will gain knowledge of God.
Proverbs 2:1-5 (NLT)