If You Feel Disqualified From Love

If You Feel Disqualified From Love

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It was just past five in the morning on a cold January day when my sister called me and told me she’d had a baby. I remember the way the sun was rising ever so slowly as I drove across the bridge to the hospital.

Before I could enter my sister’s hospital room, the nurse stopped me in the hallway. 

“Visiting hours aren’t until 7:30,” the nurse said. It was 5:30 in the morning. 

“My sister just had a baby,” I confidently said.

“You should come back in two hours,” she said. 

But I was a woman on a mission. Nothing was stopping me. “My sister just had a baby, and her room is right down this hallway, and I am going to see them both this minute,” I told her. It was a mixture of exhaustion and annoyance that I saw in her eyes, but she sidestepped me and I waltzed on through. Admittedly, it was not my finest moment. 

I entered the room and caught a glimpse of my nephew. I could hardly breathe. I sat on the edge of my sister’s hospital bed, holding the little boy she’d just given birth to. I couldn’t stop staring at him — he was a magnet, and I was fully attached. I stared at his impossibly small frame, the heavy bags under his newborn eyes—trying my best to memorize every tiny part of him.

I thought of the ocean, the way you can never see the end of it, the way it stretches on, almost infinitely, and I thought, “The love I have for this baby is an ocean. I can’t see the end of it.”

I had never understood love the way I understood it that day. But still, something inside me waned. I am not a mother, so I don’t know what a mother’s love feels like. I am not a wife, so I don’t know what it feels to love as a wife does. 

There are so many times when I’ve let those two labels that I don’t have — wife or mother — make me feel as if I’m disqualified from understanding true love. I see women who have kids or a husband and I can be tempted to think that they know real love and I don’t. 

But that’s not right. The truth is I can give true love and know true love because I am truly loved.

I can’t remember the first time I knew it for a fact. There isn’t one moment I can trace back in my history — no exact point when I felt loved for the first time.

Instead, I have pockets of moments. 

Like when my dad read to me as a girl before bed, the timbre of his voice coaxing my eyelids to close.  

Or when my sister threw a giant surprise party for me when I was seventeen and going to Rwanda for two months. 

Or when my brother-in-law bought me flowers for Valentine’s Day the first year he and my sister got married. 

Or when my dad gave me FaceTime cooking lessons when I was on a college internship with no idea how to make dinner.

Or every time I talk to my mom on the phone, hearing her on the other end, always listening to her finish the call with, “I love you.” 

Each person points me toward my identity — beloved, just as I am.

I don’t need to be a wife or a mother to understand love. I’m not disqualified from knowing true love because I am single. 

I simply need to peel back the layers of my identity revealing the core of who I am — someone who is loved. Not just by my family but by my Father. 

Over and over in the Gospels, Jesus points us to His — to our — Father. He called Him “Abba.” The name Abba is deeply personal and tender, reminding me of the way a tired young child curls up on her dad’s lap because she feels safe. 

We have a deeply personal Father who is tender toward us, who loves us with every fiber of His being. Our Abba. A Father who formed you with hands of love and tenderness, crafting you with purpose and intention, filling you with courage and creativity. 

A Father who calls you beloved.

Like Paul said, nothing in this whole wide world can separate you from the love of Jesus (Romans 8:38-39). Or like John said, we can love others because Jesus loved us first (1 John 4:19).

Nothing can strip you of your identity. Nothing can take away your belovedness. And nothing — nothing — can disqualify you from His love.

At the end of each day, this truth remains: You can give true love and know true love because you are truly loved.

Each of us needs reminders of our belovedness. Loved By Me does exactly that. It earnestly reminds each child of their capacity for bravery, kindness, and the light they offer the world. But most of all, it calls attention to their identity — a child who is beloved, exactly as they are.

Through whimsical, heartfelt words and beautiful watercolor illustrations, Loved By Me takes an honest look at how life can be scary and how sometimes we can feel forgotten or unseen. Using empathy and honesty, Aliza reminds you and your child that even on our hardest days, we are loved.

This is the message we all need to hear, and to spread that message, we want to give away FIVE copies of Loved By Me to five of you! {GIVEAWAY NOW CLOSED} To enter, leave a comment telling us to whom you’d like to gift this book!

Giveaway closes at 11:59pm on February 19, 2021 CST. Open to US and Canadian addresses only. 

The Promise After Pruning

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Every morning like clockwork, I would lace up my shoes, step outside as the sunrose, and take my daily walk. As soon as our state instituted stay-at-home orders last year, I instituted this ritual. With the rhythmic pounding of my feet on the pavement, I found a safe space to process the pandemic. Outside my crowded home, I walked alone and wrestled with my thoughts and feelings, my worries and fears. As I wound my way through suburban streets day after day, I also found a kindred spirit — a grapevine, growing along a chain link fence.

There it stood, severely pruned back, cut down to its bare bones, raw and vulnerable, barren and beaten, exposed and alone. Dark, twisted branches held tight to their vine, supported by an industrial trellis.

Every single day, I walked past that grapevine, feeling understood by my new friend in our mutual loneliness and despair. This grapevine was a physical representation, an acknowledgement of the pain we all experienced in the shadows of COVID. With so much of our previous lives trimmed and tossed away, the pandemic pruned us all back in our own ways.

Day after day, I visited that spot, wondering how long until life might return — for my grapevine and for me. And then, one day, like a miracle, tiny, beautiful buds emerged. Shoots of hope emanated from that which seemed lifeless for so long. I watched breathless as the buds unfurled into leaf after leaf, and the once empty grapevine eventually became engulfed in glorious green.

So many leaves pushed up and out and open, begging the sun for light and life, for renewal and restoration. They were like open hands, receiving every drop of sustenance and strength the sun could provide. As the grapevine sent out its leaves, I sent up prayers to heaven, and we both lay in wait, longing for redemption from the rawness of this pruning.

Months and months of prayer spilled on the pavement as the vine continued to bloom, and finally, after waiting for what seemed like forever for life to show up, full, luscious grapes appeared on the vine. Sweet and abundant life was borne from a cold, harsh season. Praise be to God.

I don’t know about you, but for me, last year was rough. In many ways, I still feel pruned and raw. The idea of producing delicious fruit from my barren branches seems pretty impossible — until I remember that grapevine.

It remained patient through the pain. It reached out and received strength from the sun. That grapevine reminded me daily of the beauty that comes from waiting, the power of prayer, and the promise of God working around me and for me to one day produce fruit in me and through me. It taught me what is actually looks like to be “patient in affliction, faithful in prayer” (Romans 12:12) as I look forward to the day when I will feel less like a barren branch and more like “a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season” (Psalm 1:3).

May we all remain patient in the pruning, staying firmly fixed to the Vine. May we keep meditating on God’s Word and repeating His promises as we hold on for dear life to hope in Christ.

May we all become persistent in prayer, reaching up and out to the Son, relying fully and completely on the light and life that can only be found in constantly turning to Him.

And may we all rest in the knowledge that there will be fruit one day. God will refresh and restore us, in His time and for His glory, because He wastes nothing.

You Are Chosen for Such a Time as This

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Back when I was in junior high and high school, my P.E. coaches would often assign captains to pick teams when we were playing games like dodge ball and soccer. I discovered it was a privilege and a curse to be the team captain because the captain was forced to make the hard choices.

Everyone in the class would line up nervously. The first captain would pick a player. Then the second captain would pick a player for her team. Then back to the first captain. There was some strategy in choosing. A captain might choose the most athletic first if she really wanted to win. She might also consider choosing her friends first so she could hang out with them on the field. I’ve always had a heart of mercy, so sometimes I would intentionally just choose the kids I knew were going to get picked last.

There is a gift and a weight to being chosen.

For more than a decade now, I’ve chosen a word as a theme to follow throughout my year. In January, I gather with a group of my girlfriends and we reflect together on the things God has taught us through our words. Then we reveal and pray over our new words.

My word themes have connected year after year like bright bulbs on a string of backyard lights. One year’s lessons flow into the next year and spark another set of lessons. God has taught me so much through these words: joy, grace, mercy, glory, redeem, flourish, behold, wonder, abundance, and soar.

My new word for 2021 is chosen.

I started to see the arrows pointing to this word back in November and December. The word “chosen” shows up throughout the Old and New Testament. As I began to highlight and circle it in my Bible, I realized I wanted to dig deeper, to understand what it meant to be “chosen.”

The dictionary says someone who is chosen is “the object of divine favor.” Throughout the pages of Scripture, this word is used to mean examined, preferred, and selected.

Back in Genesis, God chose Adam and Eve as His special creation. Everything else He spoke into existence, but God chose to bend low and form Adam from the dust of the earth. Then God knew Adam could not be alone so the Master Sculptor chose to fashion Eve from the rib of Adam. Both were created in the image and likeness of God, according to Genesis 1:26.

Adam and Eve — and all of us — were chosen to be distinct, spiritual and physical beings, reflecting God’s glory to the world. We have been given the privilege and task of stewarding creation well.

Last spring, I was lamenting with a friend that our kids had to live through a pandemic. My eighth grader was missing out on special class trips and graduation celebrations. Many seniors in high school and college were experiencing the same. Weddings had to be reimagined and funerals too.

However, these last few months I have been reminded that my three daughters and all the young people of this generation were chosen for such a time as this.

They were chosen in the way Joseph was chosen to depart from his family and endure prison so he could eventually rise to a place of power that would save the nation and his brothers from famine.

They were chosen in the way Esther was chosen to be taken into the palace as the king’s young bride and eventually to save the Jewish people from annihilation.

They were chosen in the way Mary was chosen as a young woman to birth the Son of God. Jesus was chosen to come to earth to live among us, to die on a cross, and be raised again. He was chosen so we might be chosen too.

The other day I was reading the prophesy of Isaiah that talks about God choosing and redeeming Israel:

“You are my witnesses,” declares the Lord,
“and my servant whom I have chosen,
so that you may know and believe me
and understand that I am he.”
Isaiah 43:10 (ESV)

I was reminded that I am chosen by God in 2021 to know, believe, and understand who He is. He longs for me to draw close to Him as His daughter, to know Him and believe in His character, to understand His heart.

He is loving and kind. He is sovereign and holy. He is faithful and compassionate.

Friend, you and I are chosen by God not by our own merit but because of His grace. We are chosen to bear witness to who He is and how He is working. We are called to tell the story of His faithfulness to a weary world in 2021. We are chosen to be beacons of hope in times of grief and uncertainty.

Our children and grandchildren who are growing up in these strange times were chosen too. It’s not an accident or series of unfortunate events that causes them to live in 2021. They were chosen as part of this generation.

In the New Testament, Peter encouraged the early church and us today with these words:

But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.
1 Peter 2:9 (ESV)

Peter’s words serve as a call to proclaim who God is and the redemption story He chose for each one of us. Let’s choose together to be courageous and compassionate carriers of light to a broken world.

After all, we are chosen.

Dorina loves connecting with readers more personally through her weekly Glorygram. Sign up here to get this insider letter with curated recommendations for good books, podcasts, products, and more.

 

Love Lives Within Us

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But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body. So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.
2 Corinthians 4:7-12 (NIV)

We carry within us the greatest Love — One who died so we could live, One that compels us to die to ourselves so others can also live. This Love is the strength that carries us when we don’t think we can go another step. He’s the path that shows us where to go when nothing makes sense. Love — God — lives within us, and He wants to show Himself to those around us, to the world, through our imperfectness, so others can see Him clearly.

Let’s love as He loved us — generously, keeping in mind that the treasure of His love is meant to be shared.

Black History IS Your History

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When I was in elementary school, one of my teachers told us that Black Americans had not made significant contributions to our country. With this announcement, I was inundated with a sinking sensation of shame and embarrassment. Not because I believed my teacher’s lie, but because I knew how the lie discounted and devalued the lives of humans made in God’s image. Our stories are not simply chronicles of events but are pages in a greater human narrative revealing God’s love. The narratives we inherit, hold, and cherish carve a collective identity, and when entire people groups are rendered invisible, we lose valuable parts of God’s expression. We lose parts of our collective identity. 

Almost every student in central North Carolina takes field trips to Old Salem, a living history museum depicting the restored Moravian community originally settled in 1766. As we’d visit the houses, shops, and churches, the perspectives, beliefs, and culture of eighteenth and nineteenth century Moravians came to life. Even as a married adult with children, I’d stroll through the historical streets of Old Salem talking with our little girls about the Moravians who built and lived there, “This is where they made candles. This is where they gardened. This is where they worshiped.” 

One day while on a stroll, a historian took us inside a small church and unfolded a story that grabbed me. This small church, the “Negro Church,” was erected in 1823 following a congregational vote to segregate worship in accordance with the 1816 state law. Before this state sanctioned segregation, Moravian enslavers and enslaved Africans worshiped together in one church. I was dumbfounded. The school field trips never mentioned that the Moravians, who were regarded as peace-keepers, failed to stick to their initial plans to prohibit enslavement. And before further aligning with racist laws, the Salem Moravian church was a multi-racial congregation.     

I sat in awe of what I had just learned. In sorrow, I peered over at the Negro Church graveyard. I stared at dilapidated, weathered grave markers, wondering about the perspectives, beliefs, culture, and lived experiences of the enslaved Africans who had helped Salem create and maintain its historical standing. I wondered about their families, where they gardened and made candles. Could they have known the liberty of Christ while still enslaved by the nation? I wondered why the lives of the Africans who helped sustain life for the Moravians had not been captured in the living history of Old Salem. And why hadn’t we been taught that the White Moravians exiled African-Americans to a separate Black Moravian church? I grieved, and the grief held onto me.

A few years ago, during our annual family gathering, I sat reading, engulfed in the written family history assembled by our family historian. We’ve always orally shared known pieces of family history, so holding a written, more comprehensive account was new and special. The story began in 1736 in Guinea, West Africa and continued to Salem, NC. I could not believe what I was reading. The enslaved Africans who helped build and sustain Old Salem was — is — my family! The church I grew up attending is an extension of the Black Moravian church I had toured in sorrow and grief. At that moment, I wanted to run back to Old Salem and retouch the walls my ancestors had erected, to revisit the spaces within those walls that they had created. I wanted to re-collect the Moravian and African story. 

I have since learned of Old Salem’s initiative, Hidden Town Project, dedicated to research and reveal the lives, experiences, and culture of enslaved and free Africans who once lived in Salem, NC. Now, school children will not only awe over the Moravian way of life but will also have the opportunity to discover and honor African-American lives whose stories had been hidden and rendered unworthy of sharing.

Carter G. Woodson, in 1915, fifty years after the abolition of slavery in the United States, saw that scholars were not conducting comprehensive studies of Black history. Woodson, along with prominent minister Jesse E. Moorland, founded the Association for the Study of Negro Life and History (ASNLH), an organization dedicated to researching and promoting achievements by Black Americans and other peoples of African descent. They recognized the African-American experience as integral to American history. They write,

“We should emphasize not Negro History, but the Negro in history. What we need is not a history of selected races or nations, but the history of the world void of national bias, race, hate, and religious prejudice. There should be no indulgence in the undue eulogy of the Negro.” (1927)

Because the second week of February coincided with the birthdays of Abraham Lincoln on the 12th and Frederick Douglass on the 14th, which Black communities had celebrated since the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation, Carter G. Woodson designated it as Negro History Week (1926), the forerunner of Black History Month.

Black history is not just my history; it is America’s history. It is to our collective advantage to learn the stories and histories beyond the narrative of European conquests and colonization. When my White elementary school classmate announced to the class, “I wish we could go back to a time when Black people were slaves,” I knew that he had no connection to my God-expressed humanity and significance. He did not see Black people as God-image bearers bearing witness to the Divine. He simply perceived me and all Black people as props in a singular European-American story. Yes, the Black experience in America entails the brutality of chattel slavery, exploitation, and injustice, but from those ashes have risen an expression of God’s resilience, creativity, and love! We celebrate that not just in the month of February but for the whole year — for our whole lives. 

Is your understanding of U.S. history inclusive of Black people beyond enslavement? Whose voices are you listening to as we celebrate Black History Month?

At (in)courage, our mission states that we will be empowered by the strength Jesus gives to live out our calling as God’s beloved daughters. Together we build community, celebrate diversity, and become women of courage. We share stories from the pages of our lives so that every woman will have the opportunity to feel known, less alone, and also learn from experiences unlike her own. And we do all this to point one another to the hope of Christ. Today, with this article by Dr. Lucretia Berry, creator of Brownicity,  we are especially grateful to honor our Black sisters by acknowledging and celebrating the contributions of Black Americans who are an integral part of American history and God’s family.

Where to Bring Your Grief

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Before I even got the call, I knew in my gut that something was wrong.

Ten years ago, my dad died alone in his apartment of heart failure.

Time is such a strange thing. It’s been a decade and a moment and a lifetime.

My body’s calendar of grief told me this anniversary was coming before I even realized the date. I took my tears and tissue to the garage and pulled out a bunch of old pictures. I could only find one of my dad genuinely smiling alongside me and my two older sisters. But there were dozens of other poor-quality 90’s Kodak prints capturing my band concerts and basketball games, award ceremonies and graduation speeches, photos of ASB election skits, pole vaulting runways, cross country finish lines, and musical fundraiser dinners. I didn’t even remember he was there for all of it.

My dad spent much of his life wounded and wounding others. He chased success and pleasure and ways to numb his pain. Ultimately, the pursuits of this world took a toll on his physical body and mental state. The weight of failure and disappointment crushed his spirit. But it was in this pit that he really met Jesus.

Looking through each stack of grainy memories, I thought of Psalm 73:

When my heart was grieved and my spirit embittered, I was senseless and ignorant; I was a brute beast before you.

Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand. You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory. Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

Those who are far from you will perish; you destroy all who are unfaithful to you. But as for me, it is good to be near God. I have made the Sovereign Lord my refuge; I will tell of all your deeds.
Psalm 73:21-28 (NIV)

For all the things I wished my dad had been, I know without a doubt that he loved me and was proud of me. I ache for the fact that he never had the chance to know my sons. He would have loved them too. My dad’s flesh and heart failed, but he did not perish. I will see him again.

Friend, if you are enduring the fresh ache of loss, I’m so sorry.

If you are traveling the long and twisted road of grief, I’m so sorry.

I wish I could invite you to sit in my living room. I’d offer you a cozy afghan and a cup of something hot to drink. I’d light a log in the fireplace and have a tissue box ready if you needed it. Then we’d just sit and listen to the crackle of the fire. After the company of silence, if you wanted to share, I’d be there to listen, to bear witness to your stories and tears. I’d want to hear the memories of your loved one that make you laugh. And the moments that still leave you wrestling with confusion, regret, or pain.

I would tell you that your joy and sorrow are welcome here. You can feel both. We need to feel both.

I’m no grief expert, but if you asked me, I’d lean in and offer you this encouragement:

  1. You need to feel to heal. God didn’t create you with a full spectrum of emotions in order for you to stuff it all away. It’s okay if you can’t fully name or explain your grief. Sometimes the first and best step is just to make space to feel it.
  1. Identify your barriers to grieving. After ten years of missing my dad, part of me feels like I should be okay by now. I battle thoughts like, “You shouldn’t be sad because you know he’s in a better place.” Or, “What right do you have to cry? You weren’t that close anyway.” Or, “Crying and feeling depressed won’t make you a good mom/wife/employee.” FULL STOP. These thoughts are lies. I had to recognize them and then choose to move past them.
  1. Invite others into your grief. When a fresh wave of grief hits, I used to hide. Now I choose to be honest with the people who love me. I told my husband I’m missing my dad. I let my children see me cry. Sharing your grief — even if the other person can’t fully understand or relate — opens the door for you to receive the support you need and for others to grow in compassion.

When Lazarus died, Jesus joined His friends Mary and Martha in their mourning. He wept. It didn’t matter that Jesus knew He would raise Lazarus from the dead. He first entered into the grief of His friends.

Time and time again, God has met me in my deepest sorrow too. I know He will do the same for you.

May the Sovereign Lord be our refuge today.

 

Hope Can Be Renewed Again and Again

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My hair was falling out.

Yup, me, the Asian girl with thick black hair, who has always been told by hair stylists, “Wow! You have a LOT of hair!”, quietly freaked out every time I washed my hair. It had gotten so bad, I started stretching out the days I washed my hair because I felt so discouraged by the amount of hair that collected around the drain.

It started last year during the pandemic. At first, I wasn’t too worried. “Oh, well, it’ll grow back later.” I figured it was a phase my body was going through, like when I had my babies.

When the pandemic first hit last March, I was pretty calm. “Things will be better by the summer,” I told myself. I held my breath, figuring surely by fall, my tween and teen would get back to school and I’d get back to my writing. I had a new book deadline hanging over my head, but I just couldn’t get into that soulful space to write while hearing all the kid activity (aka racket) in the background. My bedroom door became a revolving door of the gazillion hats I wore throughout the day — from cheerleading mom to crisis youth counselor to referee to academic tutor to first-time homeschooling teacher to short-order cook to personal shopper and to just about everything under the sun.

My priorities were my kids and my husband. Me? I’ll figure that out later. 

But the longer the pandemic stretched out, my emotional reserves, once filled with optimism, starting thinning — as did my hair. The more stressed I became, the more hair I seemed to lose.

What I needed was hope. Optimism is seeing how circumstances will get better, but hope is seeing God’s love and care in the midst of bad circumstances. Hope is the refuge in uncertainty when optimism runs dry.

So what could I do differently if I chose to hope again under God’s care? I needed to believe I was worthy of feeding my soul and caring for my body, even if it meant I had to change my expectations of myself. I needed to stop putting on the things God put on my heart on hold until life returned to “normal.” I needed to prioritize my well-being. As I asked God to renew my hope, I asked myself, “How can I live now, in a hopeful way?”

First, I needed to eat better. Because I was trying to squeeze in writing whenever I had time, I was skipping lunch and eating odds and ends. Eat lunch, Bonnie! You need protein.

Second, I needed to face my fear. Even though I was afraid of falling short, I knew I had to ask my editor for an extension. Despite all the worst-case scenarios I played in my head, I asked for what I needed and received it!

Third, I realized I needed to nurture hope throughout my day by doing something that fed my soul. After making the two changes above, I felt less stressed. With my mind more relaxed, I thought of writing outside at the park. I took my lawn chair, a thermos of tea, and started writing outside. To my surprise, the words began to flow again. Doing something that fed my soul during the day relieved my urge to stay up too late at night. And getting good sleep definitely helps with feeling hopeful!

To hope again is to believe God will help us. Hope gives us permission to do things differently and to believe God will be faithful.

Is your soul missing hope too? When we hit the wall of our limits, God gathers us in His arms to say, There is a better tomorrow for you. It might seem easier to just stay in survival mode and to simply maintain living life, but God’s truth refreshes our hearts to hope again. In Romans 5:5 it says, “This hope will not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured out in our hearts.”

The world seems to find hope in producing and accomplishing things, but Jesus offers us a radically different vision of what gives us hope: His love. Hope comes alive when you believe you are worthy to loved. And Jesus loves you so much, friend.

His love fuels your hope, and hope is the oxygen your soul breathes. 

Since I’ve made changes to my schedule, my nutrition, and my expectations, my hair has stopped falling out as much. Over time, I’m hopeful my hair health will be replenished. (My hair loss appears to be stress induced, but please know there are many different medical reasons for hair loss, so be encouraged that God understands the complexities of each woman’s unique health journey.)

God can renew your hope. His faithfulness to do so is like the sun that rises each day to warm the earth. You matter to God, and He desires to fill you with hope to keep going — one day at a time.

How is God inviting you to hope again?

Want more hope to oxygenate your soul? Sign up here for Bonnie’s Beloved Newsletter.   Follow me for daily encouragement on Instagram & Facebook @thebonniegray. Join my newsletter here! I’ll share lessons I learn on the journey to release my new book about finding your true worth.

The Peace Found in Decluttering and Simplifying Our Lives

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The week after my mother passed away, a professional organizer spoke to my homeschool group at an evening moms’ meeting. I had a heavy heart and a busy life, with seven children ranging in age from six months up to eighteen years. I was overwhelmed in every possible way.

Although my mother, who had been in poor health for years, was much better off, I hadn’t quite figured out how I was going to make it without her. Other than my husband, she had been my best friend. I never thought about clutter and organization from a biblical perspective until I heard that speaker, but I desperately needed something solid to hold onto and a focus beyond my grief.

I left the meeting with a signed copy of her book and a plan to tackle the clutter in my home, which has frequently been a struggle for me. Those action steps kept me grounded and productive at a time when I could easily have slipped into deep depression and despondency.

When we moved the following year, I transferred the systems I’d created to organize the contents of our kitchen and bathroom drawers to our next home where I lived for fifteen years, with mostly organized drawers and unorganized surfaces.

This past December, we moved again, and I’m determined to get our stuff in order. I want our new home to be a welcoming place to minister to a friend, to practice hospitality, and to host my new neighborhood’s book club — even if it’s imperfectly.

I once heard a speaker say, “Clutter is postponed decisions.” We leave things where we don’t want them to be because we haven’t decided where they actually belong (which might be the trash). Everything needs a home, and it isn’t on your bathroom counter or piled in front of the books on your bookshelves (two of my personal hotspots).

If we live in clutter, we’ve got too much stuff. Quit worrying about how much you paid twenty years ago for something you don’t want anymore (including clothing). Sell it on Craigslist or Facebook Marketplace, give it to someone who does want it, or donate it to a local charity. It’s incredibly liberating and gets easier the more you do it.

Recognize that your style and tastes may have changed over time and that it’s okay to let things go. (Sing along to “Let it Go” from the Frozen soundtrack if you need some inspiration!)

After moving into our new house, I made a list of personal goals, which include cooking, entertaining more often, and learning to watercolor paint. When my life is cluttered and disorganized, it keeps me from finishing (or even starting) goals because it steals my inner peace.

How can I find time to pull out a new cookbook or my instruction manual and box of paint supplies when there are moving boxes to empty and piles of stuff in the corner? I can’t. It just doesn’t happen. And that leaves me sad and unfulfilled because I want to make time for those things.

As I keep unpacking and organizing our home, I’m remembering the lessons I learned from the professional organizer after my mom’s death:

Our God is a God of order. If being organized means being able to find things, then everything needs a place. He doesn’t want us to live in shame or bondage to the accumulation of material goods, and I can testify that untamed clutter creates both of these things.

God also calls us to a life of simplicity. In Luke 12:15, He says, “. . . one’s life is not in the abundance of his possessions.” In Christ, we have more than what we can tangibly have and hold. Simplicity requires us to have the courage to let go of what we don’t need so we can embrace the peace that comes afterwards.

If you find yourself with things accumulating around you, even small steps towards decluttering and organizing your life can feel like a big accomplishment. The satisfaction and peace is real, and you will see that simplicity is a blessing to your life.

Do you struggle with clutter and organization? What big or baby steps can you take to tame it?

Aside from learning to keep her new house in order, Dawn loves teaching about essential oils. If you want to learn more about natural health for you and your family this year, Dawn’s book It All Began in a Garden might be just what you need.

 

Here’s to the Ten-Second Miracles All Around Us

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A couple years ago, my husband and I ran into one of our favorite coffee shops for a caffeine fix. I expected to leave with a vanilla latte in hand; I did not expect to be reminded that God does miracles in His time, in His space.

I really did not expect to find this reminder on a package of coffee. I especially did not expect this illustration to come from a play in a football game.

While we were waiting for our drinks to be made, I spied a package of “Skol Vikings Blend” coffee near the counter.

We live in Minnesota, where the Vikings are our hometown football team, and a coffee shop chain created this special blend in their honor. We are a low-key football family; we watch games every week without fail, mostly because our son absolutely loves the game – loves it – and the Vikings are his team. He used his own money to join the Vikings Kids Club, roots for his beloved Vikes no matter what the scoreboard says, dresses in jerseys and eyeblack whenever possible, and is training to be a Viking when he grows up. He’s brought his sisters into loving the game, and has big plans for teaching his baby brother how to play when he’s a little bigger. My boy has turned me into a fan too, especially of the family time watching the game brings.

That all in mind, I thought it would be fun to bring home some “football coffee,” so we bought it along with our lattes, and headed back to the car to complete our errands.

Then right there in the passenger seat of our minivan, I teared up as I read the description on the side of the package:

Just like a good cup of coffee, the Vikings have a special way of bringing us Minnesotans together. As we cheer on the team to rock ’em, sock ’em, and fight fight fight each week, we learn that when us Northerners come together as one, there’s not much we can’t accomplish. And that ten seconds is plenty of time for a miracle.

That last sentence, right on the back of the bag of coffee beans, stopped me right in my tracks.

In 2017, during a game — the final ten seconds of the game, to be exact — Minnesota Vikings player Stefon Diggs caught a twenty-seven yard pass and ran it to the end zone for a touchdown as the clock ran out. The announcer went absolutely wild (as did the stadium), and as he announced it, he excitedly said it was “a Minneapolis miracle.” The title and clip of the play went viral — you can see the “miraculous” play here. I vividly remember this game, mostly because my husband hollered so loud that our football-loving son got out of bed and came downstairs, and then we let him stay up and watch the replay.

Ten seconds is all it took for this play to make record books, to get millions of hits on the internet, to be called a miracle, to change history for a few folks.

And isn’t that so reminiscent of the true miracles of God?

How long did it take for Jesus to do His miraculous form of multiplication with a few loaves and some fish? How about when He swapped water for wine? With crowds gathered in both of those locations, both of them hungry and thirsty, I can’t imagine that Jesus took a long time making these miracles happen. People were waiting.

Sometimes God keeps us waiting. Other times, all He needs is ten seconds.

Okay, so I’m not actually comparing the “Minneapolis miracle” to those listed in Scripture, but it did remind me to take pause and remember how many times the miracles in life have taken very little time — when the car stops just in time to avoid being hit by an oncoming car, when I catch my toddlers’ hand just before the van door closes on it, when the diagnosis comes in and they say it was caught in the nick of time, when the phone call is made minutes before the decision comes through and the conversation changes the final decision. You know what I mean? How many times have we cut it too close for comfort and whispered, “Oh, thank you God!”?

And that’s just the protection kind of miracles.

When I raise my eyes from this computer, I see my four children that are absolutely miraculous in their own right, especially considering my years of infertility and miscarriage that came before and alongside them. Babies (all people, really) are total miracles. So very many things have to happen correctly in order to fully develop a human being, with all neurons firing, bodies forming, hearts beating. Each person is a miracle, right there in plain sight.

And then to look outside my window and see the blue sky, the frosted trees, the wonder of snowflakes — each one entirely unique. To hear music pouring from my headphones, artists gifted with both word and voice. To enjoy the transformation coffee goes through as the beans are ground and hot water is poured through. To watch the way ingredients come together, changing from eggs and flour and butter into warm cookies (anyone else immediately think of that scene/quote from Friends? “Ten minutes ago this was all just ingredients!”) To hold a loved one’s hand. There are more miracles in plain sight, beckoning to be seen.

So today, I raise my mug of Skol blend to you. Here’s to the ten-second miracles all around us. May we see them for ourselves. May we be them for another.

When Everything Hurts, Sing Louder

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I hung up the phone completely frustrated. A rhetorical question poked at me as I scrubbed my frustration into the rim of the stained coffee mug: “Who was that?” I’ve known my friend my entire life, yet the person I was talking to on the phone sounded like a stranger. The disagreements since March of last year have been more than my “I hate conflict” heart can handle. I’ve been unfollowed, called out, and shamed (publically and behind breaths). I’ve had relationships strained and doors slammed. But here, today, when I hear a familiar voice speaking foreign words, I am absolutely devastated. I don’t know how I can bear one more thing breaking in my life.

But the breaking keeps coming.

Just last night, my six-year-old daughter sobbed uncontrollably in my lap. Her body shook. What started out as mocking her brother turned into screaming on the floor. She broke. Through gulping for air, she told me how her feelings were hurt and how much she missed her friends. I held her tightly. I sang over her softly. Nothing relaxes a soul like a familiar song. She fell asleep with tears drying on her chin.

I wanted to explain to my little girl that I understand what it’s like to lose people. I wanted to list, name after name, the people I miss too. I miss the way things used to be when we didn’t just talk about politics, masks, and the governor. I spend most days mildly annoyed. World circumstances have put me on edge. I am always prepped for a potential argument. I wanted to tell her that I understand, that I want to scream, cry, and kick on the floor too. Instead, I sang. 

The breaking keeps coming.

From COVID, racial tensions, school shutdowns, and the election — each one a punch in the gut, each one breaking our relationships.

I want to pull the blanket back to a safer time. I don’t want my daughter to hurt. I want peace to mend all the pieces of my fractured friendships. My temptation is to fix it, stop the bleeding, relieve the pain. I want to read an article that can make it all better. If I just scroll a little more, an answer will come. 

But the breaking keeps coming.

Just when think it’s done, it isn’t. Maybe after the holidays, when the kids go back to school, or the vaccine is released, then the breaking will stop. But the breaking will only stop when God allows it. The breaking comes like an avalanche sprinting down a mountain, unstoppable. This breaking is of God.

God is working in our world through the unbearable hard. He has pulled back the sheet of denial, ungodliness, and self-righteousness. He has done this in the world and inside of me. I’ve seen sin in me. I’ve seen it in others. I’ve seen it in the church. Perhaps it was always there, but now it’s been revealed. The invisible has been made visible. We’ve been broken and cracked open like an egg with the yolk oozing everywhere. I am tempted to close my eyes, bear down, and just get through this. But if I do, I miss what all the breaking means. It means healing, and I want to heal more than I want anything. I want to be whole, pure, and right on the inside. 

So when the breaking comes, I let it. I ask God for eyes to see my sin, a voice to confess it, and a heart that is willing to bend into the character of Christ. I cry as my daughter did with a stream of tears. One thing that helps me endure this season of suffering is worship. 

I sing. I sing loud the songs of Jesus. I don’t belt out a tune to drown out my feelings, but as a way to feel my feelings with Christ. I sing louder to remind my own soul that Jesus is stronger, safer, and nearer in the breaking than ever before. God is about my healing — our healing. The breaking isn’t to destroy us but to help us. We worship as a way to see through the dark and remember God is still on the throne. The music from my mouth mirrors the longings of my heart. These songs are my anthem. I will sing in the shower, in my car, while I do my daily chores.

When the world is fragile, I will sing.

When relationships split and the church splinters, I will sing. 

When I’m spiraling out of control, I will sing even louder. 

Songs keep my heart fixed on truth. Like a brace, singing keeps my broken heart safe in one place. Everything that’s cracked must be held still like a cast holds a snapped bone. So I sing over and over again. I sing out of tune and almost obnoxiously. I sing quietly just like I did over my daughter. I am breaking, but I’m also being healed. 

 

Peace for Our Anxiety-Filled Days

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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.
Philippians 4:6-7 (CSB)

Our minds are filled to capacity, cluttered with the latest news on vaccines and COVID precautions or the details of care needed for our aging parents or the anxieties of everyday life as we try to get to the end of the day. We hunch over our desks as we work from home, and we wonder what else we can whip together from the leftovers of yesterday’s meals. The days stretch longer and yet pass us by, and somehow we’re almost a year into this pandemic. The accumulation of everything we’ve had to deal with has made life feel like too much, and the understatement of this year (again) is that we are weary.

And yet, if we’re honest, sometimes it’s easier to stay busy, to keep going at an unsustainable pace, because we don’t want to face the anxieties and realities that are right under the surface. Keeping our hands and minds busy feels productive, and worrying about every possible what-if situation can give the illusion that we’re in control. But worry, control, busyness — none of those things give us true peace.

Instead, true peace comes from having the right posture. When we pray, petition, and present our requests to God, we become grounded again. We remember that God is still real, He’s still present, He’s still in control.

When our minds start to unravel, let’s practice this posture:

Open palms.
Deep, slow breaths.
Our bodies, our minds, our hearts surrendered and at rest.

And as we do, let’s bring all our worries to God and receive His peace.

How can we pray for you?

Are your hearts full of worry? Let’s share them in the comments below and come to God in prayer. Remember to write out a prayer for the person who commented before you.

Remembering to Laugh — Even Now

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I wrap my arms around my niece and scoot back to make sure she’s secure on the sled. Her small body fits snug against mine, and with our snow pants and hats and scarves and mittens, it is hard to tell who is who. We both resemble marshmallows, although at two-years-old, she’s a far cuter marshmallow than me.

“Ready?” I ask softly in her ear.

“Ready!” Her smile stretches wide across her face.

My four-year-old nephew is already pushing my back, shoving me with all his might, and then, my niece and I are off, flying down a snow-covered hill on a flimsy piece of bright blue plastic. 

I hold onto her as tightly as I can — more for my sake than hers — but she isn’t afraid. Instead, she is giggling, her laugh echoing across the hills that surround us and the frozen beach down below. Her laugh is contagious, and as we spin across the icy ground at the bottom of the hill, I can’t help but burst into laughter too. 

I take a deep breath, my lungs gulping the cold air.  

“Again!” She tugs my hand — and although I mostly want to lie prostrate on the ground because it’s hard to get up in snow pants — I roll over, grab the sled with one hand and her tiny mittened hand with the other, and trudge back up the hill with her. 

It’s her brother’s turn next, so I wait at the top of the hill and watch them. A smile is frozen on my face, but even if it wasn’t so cold I wouldn’t be able to shake it. 

I can feel God whisper to me, as I watch my niece and nephew play in the freshly fallen snow, in a soft voice saying, Isn’t it good to laugh, Aliza? Isn’t it good to have fun?

I turn my face to the sky, even though I know the Spirit resides in my very heart, and I laugh again. I think maybe God’s laughing too. 

Because this — this fun, this laughter — is so good for my soul. 

I’m not always good at having fun — at least not these days. I have a tendency of being serious, wanting to focus my time and attention on my apprenticeship to Jesus, on prayer and Scripture reading, on becoming more like Jesus — all of which are beautiful and important things. 

But perhaps part of following Jesus is remembering to laugh.

It’s the middle of winter in Canada. When the snow is fresh, it’s beautiful. When the snow has melted, it just feels cold and grey and bleak. Right now my province is in the midst of a stay-at-home mandate. These days it can be hard to find anything to laugh about. Almost every conversation I’ve had with someone over the past few weeks has included one of us expressing how hard life feels right now. How lonely we are. How tired we are. How we long to see a light at the end of this very long tunnel. 

Life feels serious, hard, and isolating. If I’m being honest, life has felt that way for awhile. 

But the God who created laughter is reminding me to laugh again. Even in the midst of the winter and lockdown, maybe I can find something to laugh about. 

I think of the way Jesus told His disciples to be like little children. Perhaps the children who played with Jesus didn’t play in the snow like my niece and nephew, but I bet Jesus spun them or tickled them or cracked some jokes. More than anything, I bet Jesus had a fantastic laugh.

So I am choosing to laugh. I’ll take a cue from my niece and nephew and I’ll take a hint from Jesus — I’ll try to become like a child again.

I watch my niece trudge back up the hill, yelling my name. “It’s our turn!” 

I give her a huge grin, and get back on the sled, bringing her body close to me once more. Then I take a deep breath as my nephew pushes my back — and I laugh the entire way down that icy hill.

And if I listen quietly enough, I think I can hear Jesus laughing too. 

What’s one thing that’s making you laugh these days, that’s bringing you joy?

Say Yes to God’s Invitation to Rest

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I sit on the edge of my bed, staring blankly at the dresser — no, through the dresser. My eyes are glazed over; I’m not really looking at anything. My shoulders sag, and my whole body feels as though I’m a wilting plant in need of sun and water.

I’m exhausted.

I’ve been saying yes to all the things that I can’t say no to — family obligations, mommy duties, household upkeep, work deadlines. And then there are the yeses I say for my own well-being — therapy, life-giving friendships, time alone, church, mentoring. Throw in a celebration for someone’s birthday, a coffee date with a friend I haven’t seen in a while, or a visiting family member, and the calendar seems to explode at the seams, with no wiggle room even to breathe.

And running in the back of my mind is the low-humming anxiety that I’ll drop a ball somewhere and won’t realize it until it’s too late. I can almost sense failure lurking around the corner, waiting for that ball to drop.

I close my eyes and take some deep breaths. The slow, deliberate breathing wills my body and mind to settle down. I want to curl up like a baby and be carried away to somewhere quiet so I can rest, and closing my eyes, I imagine God doing this for me. I don’t have to hold or control everything so tightly when I’m held in His arms. I can relax. I can truly rest.

I lie on my bed, where I hold my palms open to my sides and close my eyes again. By habit, these verses come to mind — the words embedded into the deepest parts of me since my childhood days of memorizing Bible verses for Sunday school: “He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul” (Psalm 23:2–3 NIV).

Imagining the water, the green, it feels like the space I’m in expands. I don’t have to be controlled by my to-do list. I don’t have to do all the things or meet with all the people, even if all those things would have been good or beneficial for me.

I still need to do the things I need to do, but I look at the calendar with fresh eyes. I cancel meetings where I can. I choose only the absolutely necessary things to get done for the week. I talk with my husband about all the responsibilities I carry, and we hash out how we can better share the mental and physical loads.

In small but decisive ways, I simplify my life. And more than that, I find rest for my soul in the sliver of the day where I pause to breathe, to imagine, and to say yes to God’s invitation to come and receive His rest.

Story by Grace P. Cho, as published in Courageous Simplicity

The beauty of Psalm 23, depicting our Great Shepherd, is that it is also a portal to understanding who Jesus is as Shepherd, King, and Ruler. Jesus — Immanuel, God with us — is also the great I Am.

It makes sense that if Yahweh is our shepherd and will provide everything we need, then when He tells us that we can trust Him to take over our burdens, to exchange them for His way, we can trust that He has our best in mind.

By trusting the Good Shepherd, we can experience the radical simplicity of peace and contentment and courage. As the apostle Peter encourages us, “Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about you” (1 Peter 5:7 NLT).

Reflect on this prayer and make it your own today:

God, I admit I’ve all too often allowed the familiar to become unfamiliar. I’ve allowed the power of Scripture to become mundane in my life. No wonder I struggle to find the peace and simple life You have for me! Give me the courage and strength to let go of what I need to so that I can embrace what You have for me. Amen.

Excerpt from Courageous Simplicity: Abide in the Simple Abundance of Jesus

This week we kicked off our latest Online Bible Study, going through Courageous Simplicity: Abide in the Simple Abundance of Jesus with hundreds of women around the country! And friend, it just won’t be the same without you. Sign up and join us — it’s certainly not too late! In fact, we think you’re right on time. Joining is super simple (see what we did there?):

  1. Register for the Online Bible Study.
  2. Get your copy of Courageous Simplicity.
  3. Check your email for details + an invite to our private Facebook group.

Let’s go, sisters! Let’s journey towards a life of courageous simplicity — together.

How to Clean Up a Broken Glass

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Last week, my oldest dropped one of our drinking glasses on the floor. It slipped from his fingers like a ghost. He’s at the age when independence and dependence keep showing up for a game of tug-of-war, and it’s keeping all of us on our toes. I watched his eyes pop like a puffer fish as the blue Ball jar transformed into a million shards and flew across every inch of our slate tile kitchen floor.

After immediately quarantining myself in the kitchen, I shooed my kids out and away from it. Then I stood there, looking at all of the fragments and splinters. I wasn’t sad over losing the drinking glass; I was overwhelmed by what it had become.

Sometimes life feels like standing in a room surrounded by sharp splinters and rough-edged remnants of what was.

No matter how hard we try, we can’t force something beautiful from the broken we’re surrounded by. Sometimes it’s impossible to see past the mess, the silence, the loss, or the shock of our unmet expectations.

When you are surrounded by shards of glass, the only way forward is to risk a limp.

The first thing I did after standing and staring like some sort of monument of a mother in the middle of a mess was to whisper the word help. Even a paltry prayer for help can wake my hope that God is ever-present and unsurprised by the wreckage in my everyday. The next thing I did was bend down low to see the tiny pieces up close and start cleaning up, slow and steady.

There are a lot of people I love who are hurting right now. It seems like everywhere I look, I see those same shards of glass. It’s hard to know where to step or how to move forward. None of the situations and circumstances are easy. If I’m honest, I’ve doubted God’s care and closeness. I’ve wondered why He hasn’t moved the way I think He should move. I’ve wished He would just fix things and let me check the mending. I’ve wondered how I can keep offering the world around me the message of living water when all of the glasses I’d naturally carry it in keep breaking.

When I’m overwhelmed, I’m tempted to believe in scarcity and turn towards self-preservation. I want to clutch and hoard the little I think I can still keep intact, but God keeps nudging me to remember that He is the God who will lovingly receive what we offer in faith and surrender and multiply it for good and glory.

He’s been reminding me that I come from a long spiritual line of those who, like me, question Him and struggle. Of those who were told to cast out their nets again the next morning when the night left their hope empty and their hearts weary. Of those who offered the little bread and fish they had and watched Him feed and fill a multitude. Of those who poured extravagant love at His feet, and those who at first refused to let Him clean their feet. Of those who spent their life preparing the way for a King they were devoted to, only to come to an end they didn’t expect and a question they never thought they would ask: Are you the one we’ve been waiting for, or should we be waiting for someone else?

Pick up one jagged piece and then another, He whispered back to me in the kitchen that day.

Despite my orders to stay away from the room, one of my sons offered help by bringing a bag for the glass and asking if he could get the vacuum. Another son brought Band-Aids when he heard me yelp in pain after stepping on glass. And our littlest came closer with a box of tissues in hand just like others have done for her when she’s hurt or sad.

Moments like these give us space to see our needs and care for each other. They train us to give and receive love. Grace always weaves its way in and through the wreckage and the wounds.

Sometimes all we can do is stare at the mess long and hard, ask for help, and wait to see new mercies winnow through and make wonder again. When we bend down low, go slow, and look for one piece to pick up, we’ll find that one tiny piece and one more tiny piece become one small space by one small space made safe again. And together, we can choose to remember: we come from a long-lasting legacy. We come from a people who move forward, one shard after another, bringing whatever we have: doubts, questions, tissue boxes, broken hearts, new limps, Band-Aids, and love. And we move forward like we believe that the broken remnants laid down at Jesus’ feet can become a resurrection.

 

The Practice of Noticing

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As I was preparing to walk down the aisle almost eighteen years ago, I remember advice shared by our wedding coordinator that I’ve applied and that has helped me every day: “Take mental snapshots as you go throughout your special day. Make sure to notice and remember.”

It’s wonderful advice to apply to any event but especially for experiencing everyday life — perhaps even more so with Jesus. Notice and remember.

God usually teaches me more about Himself through my daughter than God is probably teaching my daughter through me — one of the gifts of being a parent. Through conversations with her about the adventures we’ve shared and funny stories of her childhood, I’ve realized she can sometimes remember a hard or difficult experience from the same time period much quicker than a positive one. I’m aware I can and have done the same thing through my own life.

Because of that, we’ve been focusing a lot of our energy on noticing what God is doing, remembering the good and focusing our hearts and minds on what Paul tells us in Philippians 4:8-9 (NLT).

Fix your thoughts on what is true and honorable and right. Think about things that are pure and lovely and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise. Keep putting into practice all you learned . . . and the God of peace will be with you.

But this list from Paul in his letter to the Philippine church seems unrealistic for the times we are living in or completely daunting since it feels unachievable.

How do we “fix our thoughts” much less find what is true, honorable, and right in the current state of our world?

Pure, lovely, and to be admired? I can’t even find that in me much less as I walk through each day.

Excellent and worthy of praise? That sounds impossible.

I’m realizing as I work through Paul’s list that these qualities are only found in God. Only when the Holy Spirit is at work can we find God’s attributes and have His help to choose to notice and remember.

Apart from God, this list of qualities is impossible to experience. Only God can give us the ability to see Him at work so we can praise Him and have peace. 

Noticing God is a great place to start.  

What if we approached our days with the eagerness of a real life scavenger hunt? The prize would be finding God all around us, empowering us to live a life of praise and peace for our weary souls.

What if fixing our eyes on Jesus looks like noticing His truth, beauty, and works in His word and as we walk through our day?

If we do, our noticing will quickly turn into love.

Jesus chose to notice those whom others had ignored, giving Him the opportunity to do a miracle. 

Jesus noticed the greedy, short man that everyone wanted to ignore and transformed his life over dinner.

Jesus noticed the woman who was desperate for healing and answered her prayer.

Jesus noticed the woman who was caught in sin and taught her and others what grace really is.

Jesus noticed the man who was given a death sentence and forgave him for all eternity.

And Jesus noticed when the Spirit directed Him to wait, to go, and to stay. And by His noticing, Jesus remembered why He had been sent.

What if our noticing of God’s character in our daily lives is not only to encourage us but also to enable us to love others?

Let’s follow Jesus’ example of noticing God at work and seeing others where they’re at so we can actively love. Let’s go on a daily adventure of noticing God and remembering His goodness, so you can have His peace when you need it most.

How to Harness Remembrance to Fight Fear

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The Christmas lights twinkled, and my French press coffee was hot in my insulated mug, when I sat down to write an hour before my rheumatologist appointment. It was gray, listless, and cold outside but warm and bright inside. My heart felt somewhere between the two: a tiny bit hopeful, a little numb — lukewarm, like my coffee would soon become. This appointment was to check on a positive preliminary test for any number of autoimmune diseases that I’m hereditarily prone to.

One of my biggest fears was looming, but it’d be a while before any clear direction or answers came. I knew this, and I was at peace with it the day of the initial appointment. But when I’d received the lab result a few months prior? Defeat knocked me on my rear end, and fear swept in like a sudden blizzard. When would the proverbial other shoe drop and usher in a new season of chronic pain? This was the question that spoke my biggest fear. I’d grown up with chronic pain in the form of hip dysplasia from age eleven until twenty-two when God healed me through hip replacements.

I thought I was done with chronic pain — and now there was a chance of it coming back in a new form.

When our bodies go through trauma, even if it’s to activate a removal of pain, our hearts never forget. They carry scars of their own that ache a little when physical pain reappears.

Memory is a powerful thing, both in our bodies and in our souls. Muscle memory has to relearn how to walk on a new joint like I did. Our soul’s memory learns to be extremely cautious and stingy with our hope, doubting something good could happen.

After my rheumatology appointment — where the doctor spoke with positivity and hope, ordering further labs but doubting they’d find anything — I began to breathe again. God then used my husband to tough-lovingly push me to confess and act on remembering, and it slowed my scattered spinning-in-anxiety over this mild health scare. I remembered what God had already done in my life, which reminded me of what He was capable of now. Remembering what God has done and how He has led in my past helped me choose courage and faith for my present and future.

Even if my fears do come to pass, He is the same God who moves mountains, sets the seas and skies in their boundaries, and so much more.

This whole remembrance idea is biblical. The entire Old Testament as well as much of the New Testament call for constant remembrance because God knows we are prone to forget. Psalm 77 is a prayer we can use to practice this remembrance in a tangible way when we need to process our emotional turmoil, fear, questions, and anxiety. In this psalm, Asaph is deeply disturbed and cannot be comforted — which I could so relate to at this point in my life, and let’s be honest, I can still relate to often.

Sometimes, the pain and trouble of life, the growing pains of seasons changing, or staying stagnant can steal our words like it did for Psalmist who was so troubled he couldn’t speak.

Have you had moments like this during these pandemic times in which we’ve been living for almost a year?

I said, “Let me remember my song in the night;
let me meditate in my heart.”
Then my spirit made a diligent search . . .
Psalm 77:6 (ESV)

This was intentional action, followed by Asaph asking himself, Do you believe God is who He said He is? Asaph knew the words God had spoken before — that He would not spurn forever, that His steadfast love would never cease but would endure for all generations (verses 7-8).

It’s not like Asaph had utterly forgotten God existed. Remembering is about reminding our souls, engaging in light and truth to fight the good fight of faith through the dark and our fears. Asaph did this beautifully in the rest of the Psalm:

I will remember the deeds of the Lord;
yes, I will remember your wonders of old.
I will ponder all your work,
and meditate on your mighty deeds.
Your way, O God, is holy.
What god is great like our God?
Psalm 77:11-13 (ESV)

What in your story causes a hitch in your breath, a wince, or sigh? Is it a diagnosis coming back, another child facing hardship or walking far from God? Another year of singleness and countless weddings? A negative pregnancy test?

What do you hope doesn’t happen — what do you wish to happen?

There is power in confessing these fears frankly and honestly before God, as many Psalms beautifully exemplify in addition to Psalm 77.

Confessing the dark parts of our hearts and admitting our fears make room for light to come in. It awakens our soul’s memory to unfurl and take action, to practice remembrance because God always has us in view and on His heart. He never forgets us. And this is good news.