Jesus Is Our Greatest Tradition

Jesus Is Our Greatest Tradition

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Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever.
Hebrews 13:8 (NLT)

For many of us, Thanksgiving Day holds more traditions than the rest of the year combined. From the Macy’s Day Parade to the pumpkin pie, the day is steeped in long-standing, deeply rooted traditions.

In our house, we start with a run to the nearest gas station for three newspapers. Our local paper prints a full-page turkey for kids to color, so three kids who can color (my newborn isn’t there yet) = three papers. I grew up coloring that newspaper turkey with my own siblings, and now my kids spend their first hours of Thanksgiving doing the same. While they color, I read the rest of the newspaper and separate out the ads I want to look at after dinner. We turn the parade on TV, and then we start cooking.

Whether we host or visit someone else’s home on Thanksgiving, I cook as much as possible that day. I love preparing Thanksgiving foods! The planning (which I usually begin in August) and prepping, shopping and chopping, whisking and basting . . . I love it all. There are traditions behind the dishes we prepare on Thanksgiving, of course. Mashed potatoes and made-from-scratch gravy are a must, because it’s how Grandma did it. A roasted turkey, recipe perfected and carried out annually by my husband. Both homemade and canned cranberry sauces, because each of us likes a little of both. Green beans in some form have to grace the table. And of course we need pie — pumpkin, pecan, and cranberry are our usual dessert fare.

While I cook, my family cleans their bedrooms and vacuums the house, getting it ready for the next day (that’s when we’ll set up our tree and start decorating for Christmas!). We watch whatever football game is on, and after that we switch to the DVD player and put in A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. We may go over the river and through the woods to visit relatives, or they may come to our house; either way, we usually get together with family. That looks different this year as we are still physically distancing, carefully considering and weighing risks for ourselves and others. This year at our table there will be more empty chairs and more video calls, less physical presence and more longing for “normal.” This leaves the taste of bittersweet in my mouth, and I’m finding balm in holding my beloved traditions even closer.

Traditions can keep us close even when our gatherings or hearts are far apart.

We can make the same sweet potatoes we had as kids. We can play football or take a walk after Thanksgiving dinner like we usually do with our siblings or cousins. We can color the newspaper turkey. We can set the table as always, and we can give thanks.

We can lean on the things that have remained over the years; in fact, it’s important that we do.

Creator of the Four Keys for Practicing Faith, my friend Rev. Dr. David Anderson defines these vital practices as Rituals and Traditions, and he says they are “symbolic actions grounded in the Christian tradition throughout the year, providing a beautiful and holistic way of experiencing the grace of God.” I love his definition because it validates the value found in incorporating and recognizing traditions in our holidays (and regular days, too!). It also gives weight to the feelings that accompany traditions when they’re present, and when those traditions are missing.

I think Jesus has a soft spot for rituals and traditions because He understands how grounding they are to us, His children. He has let us know that He Himself is unchanging, a constant presence on which we can rely. Yesterday, today, and forever – no matter what, Jesus is the same.

He is our greatest tradition.

Lord, I am grateful for the blessings You lavish. For the big ones – family, friends, food, and shelter – and the glory found in the small things as well. Thank You for a day focused on giving thanks. May my life become one of traditions and thankful days. Amen.

Why is it so comforting to know that Jesus never changes?

This devotion first appeared in Pumpkin Spice for Your Soul: 25 Devotions for Autumn by Anna Rendell.

 

Let Our Souls Be at Rest Again

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Death wrapped its ropes around me;
the terrors of the grave overtook me.
I saw only trouble and sorrow.
Then I called on the name of the Lord:
“Please, Lord, save me!”
How kind the Lord is! How good he is!
So merciful, this God of ours!
The Lord protects those of childlike faith;
I was facing death, and he saved me.
Let my soul be at rest again,
for the Lord has been good to me.
He has saved me from death,
my eyes from tears,
my feet from stumbling.
And so I walk in the Lord’s presence
as I live here on earth!
Psalm 116:3-9 (NLT)

Everywhere we look today, there seems to only be trouble and sorrow. Loss, both big and small, have left bruises  that won’t soon go away, and many of us continue to experience overwhelming waves of grief. And where is God in the middle of all this?

He is here. Psalm 116:9 says that we walk in His presence here on earth. He is not far away from our pain, nor He doesn’t stand at a distance, watching us suffer. God is in our midst, and in His mercy, He will come and save us. We can rest in His presence even when the turmoil doesn’t relent, even when there is no peace in our hearts or our homes, and even when we are misunderstood and dismissed. God is kind and good — Lord, help us to believe. Amen.

Sustaining Hope Through Pain

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I savor those first few moments of the morning before I emerge from bed where I experience no pain. I lie still and pray for healing, hoping today I might feel normal again.

I roll out of bed and do the stretches recommended by my physical therapist, but so far they’ve made no difference. Before my coffee is done percolating, the burning begins — in my feet at first, and then it slowly travels up my legs.

I fight the mental battle of whether to take the medication and succumb myself to the unpleasant side effects or persevere through the discomfort. I am reminded of the time I chose the latter, and so the medication wins — again.

On the medication, my thoughts are clouded, and I am more forgetful. Words that used to flow freely drip out like a leaky faucet. Activities that once excited me now exhaust every ounce of my energy. The long-term impact of this on my health, as well as my ability to write and parent well, concerns me.

“Rest for six weeks,” the doctor instructed after viewing my MRI. “Your herniated disk will heal, taking pressure off the nerve roots. Then the pain will subside.” It’s been eight months, including multiple weeks of bed rest since that diagnosis, but there’s still no change in my disk. I’ve seen seven different specialists, yet the pain persists.

With each new appointment, I prayed for answers for how to move forward. Each doctor had his or her own opinion for what I should do, but their treatment plans returned void. God has been showing me that I can pray for answers, but I can’t put my hope in them.

With each new referral, I prayed the new doctor could help me. To some extent, this has proven true. They’ve provided medications that make me more comfortable and exercises to rebuild my strength. They’ve shared stories of those who’ve been in similar situations and come out on the other side — stories that encourage me that I can get there too. But as my emotions ride the rollercoaster of optimism and despair, God is showing me that the inner calm I desire will only come from knowing that He, and only He, is in control — and then actually living out that truth.

I can hope for healing, but I can’t base my happiness on it. I can seek the doctors’ advice, but I can’t put my trust in them. My hope and trust lies in the Lord alone and, right now, surrendering to Him means slowing down, setting aside my ambitions, and letting go of trying to control my health so I can grasp tighter to His promises.

God’s Word tells us, “After we have suffered a little while,  He will restore us and make us strong,  firm, and steadfast” (1 Peter 5:10 NIV). I remind myself that His timing is often not ours; I am no more qualified to define “a little while” in the context of eternity than I am to know His greater plan. His thoughts are higher than my thoughts, and His ways are higher than my ways. But I can trust that He will work all things for good of those who love Him and that He is growing and shaping me through this (Isaiah 55:9, Romans 8:28 NIV).

Could God be using this to redirect me down a different path? To increase my compassion for others in pain? Is He asking me to wait, testing my faith, or teaching me perseverance? When I focus on having all the answers, my anxiety level rises, and I realize I need to reel my thoughts back in — to Him, His Word, and the foundational truths of my faith. Rather than fight against the discomfort, God invites me to use it to cultivate a deeper dependence on Him.

Each day, the pain is a reminder that my body is neither invincible nor eternal but a temporary home for my earthly assignment so that I might be better prepared for my heavenly one. Healing will come, and should God choose to wait until the day He brings me home, He is still good. He is still faithful. I can cling to Him for the hope and strength I need and have peace of mind in knowing He is with me. I can praise Him for modern medicine, His promise of renewal, and a shift in my perspective that profoundly impacts how I view suffering.

In our suffering, we experience the fullness of God’s grace. When our outside world is falling apart, God is making new life on the inside. While our present troubles may seem overwhelming, they are small in the context of eternity and will soon disappear, replaced by complete healing and restoration on the day we meet our Savior, Jesus Christ, in heaven.

That is why we never give up. Though our bodies are dying, our spirits are being renewed every day. For our present troubles are quite small and won’t last very long. Yet they produce for us a glory that vastly outweighs them and will last forever! So we don’t look at the troubles we can see now; rather, we fix our gaze on things that cannot be seen. For the things we see now will soon be gone, but the things we cannot see will last forever.
2 Corinthians 4:16-18 (NLT)

This post was originally written by Jen Roland for (in)courage in November 2019.

Grace for the Perfectionist

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After eight hours of painting my daughter’s room, I stood back, tilted my head, and squinted my eyes. On the little swatch from Sherwin Williams, the color “Danube” was the perfect blue. But now it just looked all wrong. It was bold and abrasive and hard to look at. I wanted a calm, soothing, moody color. I sent pictures to my artsy friends and asked for their opinion. I was trying to convince myself that I loved the color because I didn’t want to use up another day painting or spend more money on gallons of new paint. I was nervous my husband would roll his eyes and be bothered by my indecision. When I finally admitted how truly awful the color was, I said to my friend, “I feel like a failure.” I had to start from scratch. My mistake was exposed. My failure was painted on a wall visible for everyone to see.

I know I’m not a failure because I made a poor design choice. I was just so disappointed in myself. I let myself down. I failed. If you saw inside of me, you might see a lengthy list of my impossible standards. When I don’t reach them, I crush myself like an empty soda can under my foot. It takes me so long to recover. Sometimes it’s as though I cut parts of myself off as punishment. I cut down my feelings if they aren’t “right.” I cut down and overanalyze my actions if they aren’t good enough. I can be my worst critic.

When I can’t reach my potential, I’m tempted to try harder. If I could just work more diligently, I could be the person in my imagination. I could be the perfect version of myself. For so many years, I’ve wanted to be superhuman. But when I fail, the cycle starts again. I fail, beat myself up, work harder, try again, fail, and repeat. I war between my self-inflicted wrath and receiving grace. Honestly, it is more difficult to receive grace and help than my own judgment.

Criticizing myself comes easily. Receiving grace is torture.

I want to earn it, prove it, and show how competent I am. I want to be the woman who does it all. When I fail and fall on my face, I have a choice. I can beat myself into being better or I can accept grace. I can reach out to the hand reaching for me or slap it down.

I walked into my husband’s office and buried my head in my hands. I sputtered on and on about how wrong the blue color was. I was prepared for his judgment of me to be harsher than the one inside my mind. Instead, he said, “If you hurry, you can pick out a new shade of blue before the store closes.” I was ready for anger. I was waiting for him to come down hard on me for my costly mistake. I was ready to prove, defend, and bargain for his grace. Instead, he just gave it. Grace is never earned. It is always a gift.

I wonder how to break my cycle of perfectionism. Perhaps experiences like this one with my husband help, but I don’t think it’s enough. I need grace moments like this all the time. I need to live in it, walk in it, dance in it. I need to immerse myself in it like a long, warm shower cleansing not just my body, but my soul.

I’m not sure if my internal critic will ever be silenced, but I am learning there can be a louder voice, a loving voice that whispers grace over my critical voice. Both can co-exist, but only one will ever love me in return. An intimate relationship with Christ comes when I let His perfect love receive me in grace. I repainted my daughter’s room in a deep sea blue. Grace covering all my mistakes made me smile.

Keep Beating That Drum

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I could see the tears in my friend’s eyes, despite the dark and starry sky above us. It was late, nearing midnight. We were standing in the middle of the park in our town on a late summer evening. 

“So we’ll start tomorrow?” she said. 

“Yeah,” I smiled at her. “Tomorrow.” 

We’d made a pact. We promised to pray for each other’s future marriages for the following fifty-three days. Even now, I cringe slightly as I write this. Singleness and marriage is a bit of a tender and vulnerable spot for me. 

But we were faithful to that pact. For fifty-three days we prayed. We swapped text messages about what we felt God was saying to us about our future marriages — how He was speaking through dreams and words and verses. 

I clung to Philippians 4:6-7, “Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand.” 

I took that verse literally and started to pray about everything (or at least as often as I could remember). I prayed about my day job, COVID-19, world leaders, the weather, my friendships, meal plan ideas, and my friend’s and my future marriages. 

In those fifty-three days, I saw God move in numerous ways. Friends had dreams and visions about me. Each day I felt God increasing my faith. I prayed bold, specific prayers, unlike ones I’d prayed before. I encouraged my friends to pray bold, specific prayers too. 

I wrote everything down in a notebook, recording what Jesus was revealing. It’s not that God wasn’t moving before those fifty-three days, but I was finally opening my eyes to see Him, telling Him about small things I never thought He’d care about. (At one point, I asked Jesus to help me get rid of the stain on my couch. I was taking the suggestion to “pray about everything” seriously.)

I read Jesus’ words in the book of Matthew over and over, about asking and seeking and knocking, and I held tight to His promise that God is a good Father who loves to give good gifts. 

When the morning of Day 53 arrived — the last day of our prayer pact — I woke up excited. I was expectant. I confidently asked God to provide an opportunity for my friend to meet someone before the final day of our pact was over. I thought about how God parted seas and walked on water — surely He could introduce my friend to a kind and godly man. By the end of the day, I fully expected my friend to text me and tell me she was going on a date.

But Day 53 came and went. Radio silence.

I was puzzled. I woke up the next morning, aware that our pact had finished. But I prayed again, for her and for me. 

I prayed the same thing the next morning. And the next day. And the next. 

I’ve lost count now. I don’t know how many days I’ve been praying. 

But yesterday, I prayed again. Then I sighed, audibly, and said out loud to my friend Jesus, “Aren’t you annoyed that I keep beating this same marriage drum over and over and over?” 

Immediately, I felt like I could hear Jesus chuckling. Then I heard Him — softly, kindly, and with a touch of humor — say, “Keep beating that drum, dear one.”

I sat in silence, His words repeating in my heart and head. 

Keep beating that drum, dear one. 

Jesus wasn’t annoyed. He isn’t tired of me asking Him for a good and godly marriage, praying for hundreds of days in a row. I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t fully grasp how prayer works — how some prayers seem to be answered immediately and others take months or years or decades. 

But I do know we aren’t ignored by God. 

I do know that faithfulness and perseverance and persistence seem to be consistent themes in the stories Jesus spoke about prayer. I do know that God is a good Father, who loves to give his kids good gifts. 

So the drum you’ve been beating for days or months or years — for a good and godly marriage, a healthy body, for your child to love Jesus, for a baby or a job? I say this with a smile and all the love in my heart for you:

Keep beating that drum, dear one.

 

Simplicity in Hospitality

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Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling. Each one should use whatever gift he has received to serve others, faithfully administering God’s grace in its various forms.
1 Peter 4:8-10 (NIV)

It was a long holiday weekend and the card came in the mail — a beautiful card simply signed, “Virginia.”

She wrote a note that began: Dear friends. I was so touched by the sincerity of the card, but how could we be dear friends when we always seem to be so busy whenever she calls? We’re always coming and going, and our house is packed with three kids and their teenage friends. Our lives are sometimes utter chaos, and we barely wave to her when we pass her house. Aren’t dear friends ones who have regular access to our lives? Who are there with you in thick and thin?

On Christmas Eve, a cheese ball and crackers showed up at our door, beautifully presented and again another lovely card written to “Dear friends.”

Then a phone call came, and a message was left by Virginia saying, “I’m home now!” The sad part was I wasn’t even aware that she was gone. I began to feel convicted because this generous woman clearly loved and needed our family more than we knew.

Virginia’s gift for hospitality has blessed our family now for four years. When we moved into this home, I went around our neighborhood introducing myself and our family. I exchanged phone numbers and in Virginia’s case, I told her to call me if she ever needed anything. She has several times, and we’ve helped her in various ways.

The word “hospitality” seems to be a scary word for many. In our busyness, we are fearful of commitment, of something taking us away from “our” time. Or we think hospitality only means hosting a huge party or bringing a potluck dish to a gathering. But the blessing of hospitality can be as simple as taking a piece of leftover cake or pie to your neighbor. It can be making sandwiches for the homeless once a week. It’s this kind of hospitality that doesn’t have anything to do with whether you have a home or the state of your home.

It has nothing to do with gourmet food or the perfect timing of a gift. It sometimes starts with a spark, thinking about someone else first, and then acting on the idea by following through with a blessing.

Perhaps it comes down to this simple truth: Hospitality isn’t about you. It’s about making others feel warm and welcome. It’s friendliness, a caring attitude, and sometimes putting the grumbling aside — all ways of showing love and revealing God’s grace.

When’s the last time you reached out to someone in need and how did you live out the simplicity of hospitality?

Originally written by Sandy Coughlin for (in)courage in 2011. 

 

God Welcomes Our Honesty

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For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to harvest. A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to tear down and a time to build up. A time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance. A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones. A time to embrace and a time to turn away. A time to search and a time to quit searching. A time to keep and a time to throw away. A time to tear and a time to mend. A time to be quiet and a time to speak. A time to love and a time to hate. A time for war and a time for peace.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 (NLT)

For some, the holidays can be a time of anguish and pain. Missing family members no longer with us, hearts bearing the marks of infertility, financial problems, and so on. All this and more can hamper the supposed joy of the season that we’re “supposed” to feel.

Thank goodness for these verses in Ecclesiastes, and for our old friend Charlie Brown. They both show us that there’s room in the holidays for emotions besides joy.

Remember in the movie A Charlie Brown Christmas when sweet Charlie confesses to his friend, Linus, that he just isn’t feeling the Christmas spirit?

Charlie thoughtfully says, “I think there must be something wrong with me, Linus. Christmas is coming, but I’m not happy. I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel.”

Or how about when he visits his mailbox, finding it empty again? Charlie says, “Rats. Nobody sent me a Christmas card today. I almost wish there weren’t a holiday season. I know nobody likes me. Why do we have to have a holiday season to emphasize it?”

We can all relate to our old pal Charlie, and we can all find a piece of ourselves in his story. We can have high expectations of our holiday feelings thinking, “It’s Christmas! We are supposed to be rejoicing and feeling all the warm fuzzies! We are supposed to set the tone for joy!”

But sometimes we simply aren’t able to do this. There is no guilt in feeling your very real, very valid emotions.

There is a time for all of them.

As those verses in Scripture say, there is a time for each and every emotion we experience and feel. Often some of the feelings listed in these verses crop up two at a time. Sometimes they take turns or trade off, one for the other. And instead of burying them, these passages encourage us to feel it all — to lean right into the pain if need be. These verses validate and make space for it all.

God welcomes our honesty. He wants us to bring Him the nitty-gritty of our feelings, the raw emotions we often suppress, because He sees us. God sees the pain and fears you’ve been hanging on to, and He beckons welcome.

There is no “supposed to.” There is only God, and He invites your all, right into the Christmas season.

Let’s pray:
God, You know my struggle. You know my pain. I want to be happy, but Lord, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel. So I bring it all to You. I place this pain, this unknown and confusion, in Your hands, and I ask for Your healing to be bigger than my despair. I love You, and I trust You with this. Amen.

What emotions are you harboring this year? Can you bring them to the Lord?

A Moment of Christmas: 25 December Devotions for Moms by (in)courage contributor Anna E. Rendell will help you prepare your heart for Christmas with twenty-five days of devotions and Scripture readings, reflection questions, and extra goodies — recipes, inspiring quotes, and time-saving tips. Toss this book into your diaper bag or leave it on your kitchen counter, and let your heart be encouraged in the cracks of your day. As you prepare your heart for Christmas by reading through these pages, you’ll be inspired to drop the pursuit of perfection and chase holy.

We want to help you welcome the holiday season by giving away TWO copies!

Leave a comment about one of your favorite Advent or Christmas traditions, and you’ll be entered to win one of two copies of A Moment of Christmas!

Giveaway ends 11/13 at 11:59pm CST and is open to US addresses only.

 

Anchoring Ourselves When We’re All Untethered

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The text arrives late morning when my coffee’s gone cold. I stare at my phone, punch in letters with my right thumb to respond, then hit delete until the sentence disappears. I read my friend’s message again: Did you know so-and-so is leaving our church because they don’t agree with wearing masks?

I feel the same ache I felt in first grade when my eonni (older sister in Korean) moved out, or later, when a close friend decided there were cooler people to hang out with, and every other time anyone left or threatened to leave because conditions weren’t right for them. The ache peeks out from my insides like a sharp needle.

I wasn’t close to the family my friend and I text about, but this announcement only piles on top of a growing stack of other “I’m leaving,” announcements. In the last seven months of this pandemic, some have pulled together, and others have fallen apart. Small groups have broken up, unsatisfied families have pulled their kids from schools, friends have distanced themselves from each other over opinions about masks, the election, social distancing, who to blame for everything and anything wrong under the sun, personal transitions, racism, and human rights.

This isn’t just about other people leaving and disagreements though. Last month, I told two of my dear neighbor friends that we’re moving. Our kids have played together and run barefoot from our house to their backyards since they were chubby toddlers. We’ve watched and cried over each other’s kids, shared important news where the grass of our yards meet, prayed in our pajamas on the sidewalk that connects our driveways, and left gifts and meals and cookies on each other’s doorsteps. These relationships were a large part of why we thought we’d always stay where we were, no matter how our family grew in size. For years, I was proud of the fact that we chose community over our home size — maybe too proud.

Telling these dear mom friends that we were choosing to move away from all of this in a few weeks, no matter how close our new home would still be, broke something in me.

I complain to my husband about how I think leaving over masks is absurd. I say my anger is about the insanity of that kind of decision over a piece of cloth, when it’s really about the shock of how little it can take to separate people.

I hear threads of shame in my voice when I talk about moving for more space, when I’ve decidedly been someone who’s scoffed at the American belief that bigger is better for years. I wrestle with my doubts of choosing something bigger even though I know it’ll be better for our family of five and our new work and home life situation now. I feel like I should just be able to figure it out, work through my shame, and be a good spiritual person. But I can’t. I sit in the tension and exhaust myself in the wrestling, and I realize I’m not that different from anyone else. 

My anger and shame keep rising to the surface. They twist together into one thick strand, like a rope. I try to tether it to something familiar, but there’s nothing to tie it to. I’m forced to hold on and feel my way back to where the strands begin with loss, fear, and pride. I unravel them, one tangle at a time.

Everywhere I look, I see confirmation of this common experience: we are tangled and we are untethered. We are no longer grounded in all the ways we once took for granted, and we are tangled up tight in our fears. Our idols have been exposed, our rifts have come uncovered, and we stand face to face with the reality of our common fragility. Our platitudes, empty praise, and hollow relationships may not survive these times of fracture and floating without a fight.

Instead of grasping for control or frantically looking for silver linings in the middle of a storm that won’t relent, let’s bind ourselves to the only thing sturdy enough to anchor all of our wild hearts home. When we make decisions about staying or leaving, let’s be courageous enough to face our feelings and fears, and remember that any freedom we’ve been given hasn’t been given as a right to keep but as an opportunity to serve one another in love.

I sit still in the fog of sadness that surrounds continued losses. In my lament, God graciously re-tethers my heart towards hope, one honest prayer at a time. What if we did the same for one another? The sad faced emojis have moved to the front of my most used emojis over the last few months, but maybe that’s okay if I let the pain speak truth.

No matter what falls apart and what still remains, Christ’s love cannot be untethered from us, and that is the foundation where all good things can grow and begin again.

Praying and Seeking God’s Face Together

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“When I shut up the heavens so that there is no rain, or command locusts to devour the land or send a plague among my people, if my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land. Now my eyes will be open and my ears attentive to the prayers offered in this place. I have chosen and consecrated this temple so that my Name may be there forever. My eyes and my heart will always be there.”
2 Chronicles 7:13-16 (NIV)

After Solomon built the Temple and dedicated it to the Lord, God appears to him at night and says these words. The promise to Solomon, to the Israelites, and now to us is that if we seek Him, He will be found. He will hear. He will heal. But first, we must humble ourselves and pray.

Today, let’s come to God with open hands and rest in His presence, knowing that He will listen to our prayers:

Lord, we call on Your name and remember who You are. You are Elohim, Creator God, who spoke the world into being. Just as You created beauty out of chaos, show us glimpses of Your glory in the midst of turmoil and stress. You are Jehovah Rapha, the God who heals. You turned bitter water sweet in the wilderness, and so we ask you do the same for our bitter hearts. Uproot hatred, grudges, and heal the wounds that first caused them. You are El Roi, the God who sees. When we are made invisible and silent by the hand of others, thank You for hearing our cries for freedom. You are Messiah, Savior, Redeemer, and we long for the day when Jesus will return and all will be made right. And You are Emmanuel, God with us, as we wait for that day.

Forgive us when we have not loved each other as You have loved us, when we have put down and hurt others in secret or with words on a screen. Forgive us when we’ve neglected to care when we should have, when we have been callous or apathetic, when we have thought only of ourselves and our own loved ones instead of considering others and their loved ones as well. 

Heal what we have broken with our own hands and the pain that has been done to us. Heal this country and the Church, even if — and especially if — it means exposing and cutting out what is rotten so that true healing can begin. We are desperate for justice and peace and for new life to come.

Help us to see as You do, to stay tender and compassionate, to be vessels of truth and love, even when it comes at a cost. Help us to be like Jesus. 

We love You, Lord.

Amen.

Let’s pray together.

We usually take up this space every month to share personal prayer requests and pray for one another. Let’s do something different today. Let’s comment with a collective prayer that lifts up others. There are so many apparent needs around us, so let’s bring them before the Lord. When something resonates with you, comment back with an “Amen.” Let’s pray.

When You Need Hope After the Election

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I’m writing these words before I know who our next U.S. president will be or how you will feel about the outcome. I’m proud I was able to vote and I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for the campaigning to be over. I know it’s been a heavy process for most of us trying to make decisions that are best for the future.

I’ve also been exhausted not just by the media and politicians but by the way neighbors, friends, and family have spoken in person and online. Watching and listening to people detest the “other side” over every topic has made me feel hopeless at times. I’ve noticed that no matter the party or the issue, the enraged ugliness does not create the change desired. And what saddens me most is that it’s equally coming from both individual believers and those who don’t know Jesus yet.

I wonder if this election’s results are not just about who gets elected or even about the next four years in the framework of eternity. Maybe what’s being brought to our attention is our response to the outcome and whether or not we really love our neighbor.

I loved what my friend and fellow (in)courage contributor, Michelle Reyes, shared recently on her Instagram prior to the election: “Our allegiance is not to a political party but to King Jesus. Neither Biden nor Trump is our true leader. God is. Our true home is not the United States, but heaven. And we must remind ourselves that we are strangers and ‘aliens’ in the land we currently Iive on.”

Our role as aliens in this nation is to show others God’s love. I don’t believe government policy is the only answer to our country’s problems, but it’s a part of the solution, with each of us taking the responsibility to love each other well so true transformation can happen.

And as neighbors, we need to learn to live together. Our role is “not to have bitterness, wrath, anger or slander, but put those things away, so we can be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another (and ourselves), just as God in Christ forgave you” (‭‭Ephesians‬ ‭4:29-32‬ ‭ESV).‬‬

If you feel like you just can’t love those who believe differently than you, then you’re right. It is not humanly possible to love as Jesus loves in our own strength or willpower. We must first allow Him to transform us with His love and grace, so we might overflow with His peace to others.

We need to figure out how to care for one another despite how we feel about the results of the election. How we live our daily lives reveals whom we trust and believe in, and if Christ is our foundation, we must remember that in Him, we are called to actively love one another in word and deed.

Love will transform our nation for the better, one person at a time. And when we love as Jesus does, others will be able to see God — the Hope that never changes even in the midst of turmoil.

How We Can Best Handle a World That Feels Crazy

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Is the world (still) feeling uncertain to you? Did you, like me, think we’d be back to “normal” by now – after the Presidential election, when COVID numbers declined, etc.? Years ago, Patsy Clairmont wrote Normal is Just a Setting on Your Dryer, and that sentiment is as spot on as ever. Everything’s fine when I’m with family or friends, but if I scroll social media or read the news, I find myself wondering how we’ve lost our way so badly.

On one hand, it’s November! It’s a month that brings with it autumn’s incredible beauty, crisp, clear skies, cozy sweaters, college football, and pumpkin-spiced, well, everything. It’s a lovely season for expressing our gratitude, counting blessings, and gathering family and friends.

On the other hand, it feels like we’re a culture in chaos with circumstances out of our control. COVID changed the way we live. The state of politics in our country seems like two parties have been dropped into a centrifuge, then spun and slung to their extremes. It’s so loud at those edges that all the noise seems to be rendering people deaf from any opinion that doesn’t already align with their own.

What are we to do when our world no longer makes sense? What are those who follow Jesus to do?

I believe an old refrain holds the key:

Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
Look full in His wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of His glory and grace.

A while back, I had the sweet privilege of serving women in my area as a leader for a community Bible study. Every week before our class met, the leadership team showed up early to pray, go over announcements, and walk through the day’s lesson. But before any of that took place, we began our morning by singing this familiar chorus. It was effective. The things of earth – never-ending to-do lists, looming work deadlines, disagreements among friends, challenges with children, an argument with your spouse, health concerns, financial pressures, the chatter and clatter of politics, even some of our anxieties and feeling not enough – grew strangely dim.

The worries of the world wither under the blaze of God’s glory. When Jesus becomes our primary concern, everything else becomes secondary.

We see a perfect demonstration of this in Matthew 14 in an exchange between Jesus and Peter, His beloved friend and one of the twelve disciples. Following a miracle feast, Jesus sends His disciples ahead of Him by boat while He retreats to a mountain to pray. By the time Jesus travels to catch up with them, they are already a good ways out, their boat beaten and battered by the wind and waves.

In this familiar account, Jesus makes His way toward them by walking on water (Can we please take a moment to marvel at this together? Let’s not allow familiarity to dull us to the wonder of a miracle!). Jesus quickly identifies Himself and offers assurance to His terrified friends. Then, in a bold gesture, Peter asks to join Him. Jesus’s response?

“Come.”

If this story is new to you, Peter starts off just fine. He’s fully focused on Jesus. But the second Peter’s attention shifts from Jesus to his circumstances, fear creeps in and he begins to sink. Immediately, Peter calls out to Jesus to save him, and immediately, Jesus does.

Think how this plays out in your own life. Are the “winds” of the world swirling in your mind and carrying you out in a sea of anxiety, disappointment, or despair? Turn your eyes upon Jesus.

Do you worry that circumstances are simmering and seething and have finally reached a boiling point (personally or otherwise)? Turn your eyes upon Jesus.

When we focus on Jesus instead of circumstances, our circumstances may not change, but we sure do.

This calls to mind what we read in Romans 12:2 in the New Living Translation:

Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world,
but let God transform you into a new person
by changing the way you think.
Then you will learn to know God’s will for you,
which is good and pleasing and perfect.

Transformation is accomplished by first changing the way we think.

I know what it’s like to wander around and feel lost, to wrestle in a sea of doubt, to question beliefs you once held dear. And while I don’t know what’s going on with you personally, I know all of us are affected by what’s going on in the world.

How can we possibly handle it? We can’t. We aren’t even supposed to — that’s why we have a Savior! Isn’t this liberating?

Since we’re forgetters, let’s remind one another that the gospel is good news. When we are mindful of who God is and what He has already accomplished in our lives and in our world, when we trust that He is good and loves us without condition, when we study His Word, claim His promises, and accept the forgiveness He offers, when we believe that He actually holds the whole world in His hands, when we turn our eyes upon Jesus, we will find peace.

To me, focusing on Jesus isn’t just one way we can best handle a world that feels crazy. It’s the only way.

Contentment Is an Invitation to Breathe

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It had been five long months of pandemic uncertainty, isolation, and confusion. Cancelled commitments and shifted schedules. Distance learning and living. Life had been turned upside down, sending pieces of my normal flying into the air.

At first I was in shock and then I had peace for a little while. Sadness and tears showed up for an expected visit, and we rode a roller coaster of emotions that ranged from anxiety to acceptance. Things settled over time, and I started to get used to it.

But by the end of summer, I was sick of it. There were days when I woke up feeling as grouchy and frustrated as a spoiled rotten, hungry toddler who needed a nap. I hadn’t even started my day, and I was already mad about it. I could feel the discontentment rising up in me. I was tired of waiting and trusting God. I was sick of being positive and patient. I wanted life to go back to normal (don’t we all?).

One afternoon, as I was making myself a smoothie, I caught myself somewhere between praying and complaining. One minute, I felt like I should be thankful; the next minute, I felt like gratitude meant settling for a normal that stinks. Was this just how things were going to stay and God wanted me to accept them? Or was there a “holy discontentment” stirring in my heart to keep asking God for things to be made better?

I asked Him to make it clear if He wanted me to be content with all the change, uncertainty, and unknown, and immediately, a strong conviction came over me. God didn’t want me to settle for division, oppression, sickness, and sorrow, but He did want me to find contentment in this hard season, no matter how long it lasted.

It sounded like a hard assignment. What would that look like on a daily basis? I looked up the definition of contentment, hoping I might find a hidden rainbow of promise, but it said just what I thought it would. Contentment is defined as being satisfied with what one has or is. However, there was a second definition. Contentment also means “ease of mind.” Slowly, I repeated those three calming words: ease of mind. It sounded a whole lot like peace to me, and I knew I wanted it.

Contentment no longer felt like a restraining order but more like an invitation to breathe — to exhale the frustration of all that wasn’t so I can inhale the beauty of what still is.

It’s through the lens of gratitude that I find contentment. Gratitude isn’t a sign that I’m settling for less than God’s best; it’s the lens that helps me see God’s best right in front of me.

Gratitude helps me open the cabinet and pull out a candle to light for no reason in the the middle of an ordinary afternoon. Gratitude convinces me to let the late blooms of my zinnias stay a few more weeks. Gratitude helps me notice the cute, lime green baby tree frog on my my window sill tonight.

I am learning the secret to contentment isn’t found in my abundance or in my lack. It isn’t found in the normal we were used to or the life we want back. It isn’t based on circumstances around us but on the dwelling of Christ within us; the One who gives us strength to do all things, especially these very hard things.

Ease of mind comes and settles in me, not because I’m getting what I want but because I’m learning how to want what I already have.

The Day After: How Can We Mend Our Broken Fences?

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I’m on the phone talking to a mom who won’t talk to her daughter. She voted one way. The mom voted the other.

But that’s only half of what’s driving a wedge between the two. The daughter has left the church, denouncing all religion. The mother calls her daughter’s choice “evil.” Not exactly words to heal their hearts and rebuild their family.

That’s where we all stand this morning. It’s the day after. Even if we don’t know who won the election yet, the biggest question remains: How do we heal? Can we mend our fences? As a nation, in our families, in our souls?

These past four years have felt like some of the longest in recent memory. The hate, blame, ire, bile, and nasty “us vs. them” battling has consumed our hearts, minds, and lives.

One nonprofit leader was secretly videotaped describing America’s political process as “good vs. evil.” Is that why neighbors ripped out campaign signs from other neighbor’s yards? Even burned them? Why even family members see blood relatives as the enemy?

So, now what? Where do we go from here — together?

Talking to the hurting mother, I hear pushback. She’s not feeling it. “What about my standards? My religion? Why should I compromise my beliefs when I can’t endorse the choices my daughter has made?”

I sigh. How did we get here? And how do we merge our differences when red states and blue states live essentially on different planets? When people get news and information from conflicting sources? When parents won’t speak to adult children with opposing views? When neighbors see each other as enemies?

I tried to reflect on these things as I struggled to write this “day after” essay three weeks before today.

For starters, I reached back to Abraham Lincoln’s famous speech: “A house divided against itself cannot stand.”

It sounds so noble now. Then I recalled that Lincoln’s words, in 1858, were considered blasphemy. The day’s hot issue was slave states vs. free states. Lincoln was running for the Senate. Thus, he proclaimed:

“A house divided against itself cannot stand . . . this government cannot endure, permanently half slave and half free . . . it will become all one thing or all the other.”

True words. And yet? He lost that election. Even his political friends thought his comments were too “radical”. And now?

Sitting in my home office, trying to talk to a hurting mom, I realize she doesn’t need a speech. She needs God. We both do. So, I open my Bible. It’s in those pages, in fact, that Lincoln found his famous words. Here is Jesus:

Every kingdom divided against itself will be ruined, and every city or household divided against itself will not stand.
Matthew 12:25 (NIV)

Will we hear Him today? Will we hear Apostle Paul making the same argument to a young church in Colosse to stop their fighting — over doctrine, circumcision, this issue, that issue. Paul’s words, like the Lord’s and as with Lincoln’s, sound beautiful, raw, brave. “Rid yourselves,” Paul wrote, of “anger, rage, malice, slander, and filthy language from your lips” (Colossians 3:8).

Too hard to do? Paul was writing from prison, and his life would soon be taken. Jesus Himself would proceed Paul, dying once for all by the scourge of the cross. So, Paul was begging, pleading, beseeching divided people to turn not away but toward each other. Yes, stop fighting.

“Therefore,” Paul wrote, “as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.” How? “Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone” (Colossians 3:12-13).

This is Peacemaking 101. It means calling your neighbor whose campaign sign you tore up and saying you’re sorry. It’s accepting such an apology when it comes. It’s putting away our political hats, caps, lawn signs, and T-shirts and then visiting a church across town whose members aren’t white, Black, or whatever you are. It’s looking to Jesus not to politicians for direction and help to forgive the hurt this election has elevated.

“Forgive as the Lord forgave you,” Paul’s letter teaches. “And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity” (Colossians 3:13-14).

I could try to add to Paul’s words — try, as Lincoln did, to evoke the truth of the Bible. Try, on this day after, to stop watching angry people on talk radio and cable TV.

They’ve made their millions off of us, and now it’s our turn. We can now turn them off. Turn instead to mending fences. How?

“Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts,” said Paul, “since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful” (Colossians 3:15). Indeed, counselors say turn off anger by taking deep breaths. Then reassess everything. What’s better? Staying angry and divided or start mending?

My humble suggestion is to mend. If that sounds right to you, then let us turn – on this day after – to neighbors and former friends. Then let’s reach across our broken fences and try this: love.

Be Still and Know That I Am God — Even on Election Day

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The days following the 2016 election were some of the hardest in the life of our church. Many of our congregants are immigrants from around the world, including Asia and Africa; some are undocumented. We are a minority-led, multicultural church in a low-income, disadvantaged community in East Austin, and though there is fear after any election, in this case, many of our members were afraid for their safety and security in this country.

As their church leaders, it was hard to even know what to say. We understood their pain and the best thing we could do was to sit with them in their hurt and confusion, read God’s Word, and pray together.

For days and weeks afterward, we asked God to protect them. We knew in the deepest part of our being that God was sovereign, that He knew the plight of our church family and would care for them, and that only He could pave a way for a more just system for all who live in this country.

This is the hard reality of every election. There will always be people put at risk because of new leadership. In fact, if we’re being honest, most of the time, the poor, the vulnerable, and the marginalized get caught in the crosshairs of politicking. I’m feeling the weight of this reality in this current election as well. Perhaps you are too.

I don’t know who is going to win the election today, but I am certain that some of us will witness the results with dread. I say this as someone who identifies as politically homeless. I’m not trying to dig on one candidate or the other. Whether our next commander in chief is a person from the right, the left, or the middle, their leadership will both positively and negatively impact certain demographics in our country.

There’s no doubt that we will have work to do in the days and months ahead. There will be situations that demand we actively love all our neighbors and raise our voices to speak up for those who can’t. But today, I’m choosing to take a deep breath and remind myself to trust in God.

Whoever the next president will be, it won’t be decided by chance. Theologian R.C. Sproul once said, “God doesn’t roll dice.” Not only does God know who will win the election, He is also sovereign over this next president as well. Daniel 2:21 reminds us that it is God who both removes and sets up kings. God can do this because He is the king of the universe, and today, like every day, He is seated on His throne. God, our one true leader, creates all things, directs all things, sustains all things, and works all things together for good.

On this Election Day, God is asking us to be still and know that He is God (Psalm 46:10). No matter if this day leaves you in smiles or tears, no matter if this day fills you with joy or with dread, God is still king on His throne. Our ultimate allegiance is to Him, and we can trust that He will sovereignly rule over our next president.

We don’t know what these next four years will hold. We don’t know how God will call us to love and stand up for our neighbors. We could exhaust ourselves thinking about that today. So, instead, let’s put our minds and hearts to rest, just for this day. Let’s slow ourselves down. Take a deep breath and choose to be still. God is sovereign. That truth alone can sustain us today.

The Part of Soul Care We Often Forget

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As I watched them play on the driveway, I longed for an ounce of their energy. Five kids were playing chase. Two were playing basketball. It was a beautiful day, and I could hear their laughter from the other side of the window. I should’ve felt joy at the scene before me, but what I really felt was exhausted, depleted. I was running on fumes and clinging to my third cup of coffee.

For years, I operated like this, drinking lots of caffeine but pouring from an empty cup. Somewhere I bought into the narrative that it was my job as a Christian woman, mom, and wife to pour out and then pour out some more. Serve others. Put them first. Sacrifice and sacrifice some more. These are the ways of Jesus.

It took me many years and many tear-soaked conversations with God to finally realize that His command is to love others, but to love them as myself. While I was following the first half of that sentence, I was skipping over the second half. I was forgetting that I had to care for myself well in order to care for others well.

Soul care and nourishment are not good ideas or luxuries. I have learned they are necessary if I am going to live out the ways of Jesus. Love and grace have to come in before they can spill it out.

What’s interesting, though, is that when we think about nourishing our souls, we usually think the answer is consumption. An empty cup needs to be filled, so we consume. We do Bible studies, read devotions, and listen to podcasts and sermons. All of that is good and necessary, of course, but what those years of depletion and exhaustion taught me was that the real reason I was tired was that I was trying to carry too much. My hands were full and holding too tightly to a world I was trying to control. Clenched hands are not a posture of receiving anything, including God’s grace.

So, for me, soul care starts with surrender. This means literally laying my worries at the foot of the cross. Sometimes, I name them one by one. Sometimes I lay them down in a jumbled mess that can’t be put into words. Either way, the process is never as easy as it should be.

I think most of us are usually pretty comfortable laying some of the big things at the cross — things like cancer and selling our homes and job changes. However, we are less likely to “bother” God with the “little things” that we deal with or worry about on a daily basis — things like finding good friends and potty training and keeping up with overwhelming schedules. The problem is that slowly but surely these “little things” add up, weigh us down, and force us to cope in ways that are typically unhealthy for our bodies and our souls.

The Word clearly tells us that God cares about all of the things that weigh us down. He designed us to need Him, and better yet, He wants to help us. The Bible tells us to cast our anxiety on Him, and that His power is made perfect in our weakness. It tells us that He is our rock and stronghold, and that His grace is sufficient.

Matthew 11:28 says it best: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

This invitation to come to the Lord with our limitations is the first step in giving our souls the rest and nourishment they actually need. It turns out surrender is a means of sustenance in the upside-down Kingdom of God. When we finally wave our white flags and say to God, “I can’t do this anymore,” something beautiful happens: He gently whispers, “I know. I never meant for you to do this alone.”

What “little things” are weighing you down today? What can you surrender before the cross? What can you let God carry so that your hands are open to receive all that he has for you?

Odds are our empty cups don’t need more coffee after all. What they really need is a healthy dose of God’s love and grace. We just have to be willing to set down the cup to receive it.

The Hard, Holy Work of Tending Your Heart

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In nine days our family is moving. This isn’t something we were planning to do this year. After all, 2020 isn’t exactly the ideal time to add additional stress and strain. It would’ve been easier to hunker down, ride out the storm, and leave the packing and moving to someone more ambitious.

But here we are. In less than two weeks, my husband and I will move our family from our house of twelve years to another house only twenty-five minutes away. Why, you ask? We have a heart for fixer-uppers. And this new home is precisely that.

It’s not much to look at — not yet, anyway. The previous owner moved out of the state over a year ago. Other than the rare check-in, it has sat vacant and unattended. And the impact of this year-long abandonment is obvious.

Yellowed grass. Faded paint. Weeds left to overgrow rock beds, patio stones, and take over the entire yard. A once-lovely fountain polluted with green sludge. And a rather large family of mice that are holding the garage hostage.

And that’s merely the exterior. The interior isn’t any better. Stained carpet. Damaged windows. Failing appliances.

This kind of disrepair didn’t happen overnight. In fact, it’s the result of a daily lack of attention. The funny thing about houses is that they require regular upkeep — the daily kind. Every day, I need to wipe off dirty kitchen counters or bacteria start to fester. If I ignore the bathroom for more than a week, the shower starts to mildew, and the toilet starts to stain. And if my kids forget to take out the garbage? The fragrance reminds us tomorrow.

As I was taking in this abandoned and needy house, I couldn’t help but take stock of my tendency to neglect the home of my heart. I nurture hurts and disappointments, rehashing words said and wrongs done as if replaying them will make me feel better. I fail to confess the critical comments I’ve muttered and the prideful thoughts I’ve pondered, letting them outgrow the kindness and compassion and mercy I claim to prize. And unforgiveness? Well I can ignore that for years if I want to.

The result? Garbage, weeds, disrepair. The funny thing about the heart is that it requires daily upkeep, too. It can’t wait for spring cleaning or even Sunday. And, unlike a home, I can’t hire out its care. It requires attention — my attention. Daily weeding, daily nurture, daily cleaning, and airing out. When I abandon the responsibility for too long? The fragrance is telling — to me and to those I encounter.

If only I put as much daily attention into the status of my spirit as I did the care of my face and hair! Rarely will I jump on a work meeting or video interview without spending a half hour perfecting my appearance. And yet, too often I dive into my days and to-dos without even ten minutes of inspecting my heart.

Above all else, guard your heart,
for everything you do flows from it.
Proverbs 4:23 (NIV)

As the ground is the source of new life — whether gardens or weeds — the heart is the source of our lives. If we don’t tend it, day after day, we may not like what grows. So what does it mean to “guard your heart”? Here are a few questions I’m learning to consider as a way of closely tending the home of my heart:

  1. Did I acknowledge my absolute need and dependence on God today?
  2. Have I said or done anything to anyone for which I need to apologize or make right?
  3. Is there a wound or hurt that I’m hanging on to?
  4. Is there a person whom I have not yet forgiven?

Yes, in nine days we’re moving. It will take months of hard work and daily tending to turn the abandoned house into a place we can call home. Even so, I believe the effort will be good for my heart. Turns out, God has a thing for fixer-uppers, too. And may He guide my hands and tend my heart so my life looks like the home He designed, a garden swelling with vibrant life.