I Didn’t Know What I Didn’t Know

I Didn’t Know What I Didn’t Know

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part One.

Part Two.

All Together Now — and Not Just Saying It

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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To Love with No Strings Attached

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

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

“How many times have I told you?”

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

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

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

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

Right? Not so much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

How can we pray for you?

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

To Live a Life Worthy of the Gospel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever happens — 

If I’m treated justly, or if I’m not.

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

If my health stays strong, or it does not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s live that way.

Flourishing Together: Seeing God’s Image in Others

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would someone say something or do something to him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

Watch here:

Part One.

Part Two.

 

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

When Making Do Doesn’t Make Sense

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What do you want Me to do for you?

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

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

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

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

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

When Unity Won’t Work, Let There Be Harmony

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

Words are extremely vital — words wield worlds! 

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

And speaking the right word is significant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Verse three gives another simile to give further clarity:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thriving in Truth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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Fruitfulness Is Better than Productivity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was not the case here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m just setting them straight. 

That’s just the way of my sarcastic personality!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s Not Linger in the Past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except . . . Jesus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Saying Yes to Joy and Adventure with Jesus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deconstructed to be Reconstructed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get your FREE sampler from Journey to the Cross!

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This Isn’t Where Your Story Ends Just Yet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t Let God’s Love Disappear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cost of Minimizing Vulnerability

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because we fear vulnerability.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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