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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s just the protection kind of miracles.

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

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

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

When Everything Hurts, Sing Louder

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

But the breaking keeps coming.

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

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

The breaking keeps coming.

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

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

But the breaking keeps coming.

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

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

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

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

When the world is fragile, I will sing.

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

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

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

 

Peace for Our Anxiety-Filled Days

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How can we pray for you?

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

Remembering to Laugh — Even Now

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

“Ready?” I ask softly in her ear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But perhaps part of following Jesus is remembering to laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Say Yes to God’s Invitation to Rest

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

I’m exhausted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reflect on this prayer and make it your own today:

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

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

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

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

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

How to Clean Up a Broken Glass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Practice of Noticing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Excellent and worthy of praise? That sounds impossible.

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

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

Noticing God is a great place to start.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to Harness Remembrance to Fight Fear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Good News of God’s Love

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I could hardly wait for the morning my husband and daughter left town for a daddy-daughter getaway. I secretly planned a trip to Six Flags with our two younger sons. It was a hero gift for my thrill-seeking boys; no doubt, they would consider me a rock star. I wasn’t going to be one of those fraidy-cat mamas, either. I’d ride every ride with them and re-live my own youth, where debilitating fear meant nothing compared to peer pressure.

My bravado lasted all of one ride. In one mighty gust, the Georgia Cyclone blew away every smidgen of courage I had summoned.

Strapped in my seat with the boys safely in front of me, I clenched my eyes shut and started pleading with God before we ever left the station. I have an irrational fear of heights, so prayer is vital. It calms me enough to stave off cardiac arrest.

In this case, however, height wasn’t the problem. I had forgotten the iconic wooden roller coaster would feel like someone beating you with broomsticks and baseball bats. If I lived through it, I was unsure I could ever walk again. Jerked along those tracks at 50mph and dropped five-and-a-half stories at a time, I actually worried who would drive Thomas and Stephen home if their mother became an instant paraplegic.

I could not wait to get off that crazy train. It was the longest 108 seconds of my life. (What a difference twenty years had made!)

I’ve felt that way over the past twelve months or so. While last year started with the best of times for me personally, it quickly devolved into something else entirely. With 2020’s parade of unfortunate events — like a ride on that iconic wooden roller coaster — I just wanted to stop the madness.

And, now, here we are.

At times, I’ve been deeply grieved. This country has felt more like the Divided States of America, and hearts have become cauldrons of hostility, a dangerous brew of rage and rights. The consequences have brought daily headlines that stir fear, anxiety, and anger.

And as we continue to wrestle, I hope we can remember that we are a people with hope! The good news of the gospel is greater than any bad news of the day. 

Isn’t it heartening to think about the word gospel? God knew the state of the world we’d be born into, and He offered exactly what was desperately needed: good news.

That good news arrived in human form when God gave us the gift of Himself. In His incarnation, through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, we’re given a life-giving, peace-yielding message of hope.

As I’ve prayed for you, the (in)courage family for which I hold great affection, I wonder if your once-strong faith feels more like a memory than reality. Are you having a hard time handling ___________? That blank could be filled with any number of reasons, each one a fiery dart taking aim at your heart. Maybe you’ve found yourself questioning God, full of doubt, and struggling to know how to respond in light of the world around us? How can we find peace amid uncertain and tumultuous circumstances? Is there a way to become the change we long to see in our world? Is there anything we can do to strengthen a faith battered by protests, the pandemic, politics, and the piles of disappointment?

I’m living proof there is. A year ago, I shared my story with the world, and I’m more convinced than ever that God is at work in our wandering.

Sure, a lot has happened between then and now — 2020 was an explosive amalgam of cataclysmic, history-making events — but the Bible has not changed. We can trust the truth of Scripture. In fact, it’s the only truth we can trust.

In Luke 9:23, Jesus shows us a way to deepen our faith:

And he said to all, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.”

His words were simple calls to action, but not easy ones. They all require intention, a deliberate choice to be obedient to Jesus.

In believing and receiving Jesus as the Way, Truth, and Life, we go after — or follow — Him. “Denying ourselves” is where it gets harder because we must surrender the right to our rights. This is where I think many of us struggle because the idea of “surrender” is contrary to a me-focused culture. We feel entitled to “have it my way.” So, it’s crucial to remember that the cross was an instrument of death, the gruesome weapon that killed our Savior. Taking up His cross is a call to our death, of relinquishing and laying down our way to take up His way.

Following Jesus helps us to become more like Him. When Jesus is our focus, fear, anger, and anxiety diminish, and our faith flourishes. When we allow His perfect love to fill our hearts and govern our lives, we change. Then, the world can change as we learn to love as He does.

It is Christ’s love for us that moves us to love Him and others, empowers us to change, and increases our faith. Love always, always, triumphs over hate.

The Treasure of Wisdom

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Choose my instruction rather than silver,
and knowledge rather than pure gold.
For wisdom is far more valuable than rubies.
Nothing you desire can compare with it.
I, Wisdom, live together with good judgment.
I know where to discover knowledge and discernment.
All who fear the Lord will hate evil.
Therefore, I hate pride and arrogance,
corruption and perverse speech.
Common sense and success belong to me.
Insight and strength are mine.
Because of me, kings reign,
and rulers make just decrees.
Rulers lead with my help,
and nobles make righteous judgments.
I love all who love me.
Those who search will surely find me.
I have riches and honor,
as well as enduring wealth and justice.
My gifts are better than gold, even the purest gold,
my wages better than sterling silver!
I walk in righteousness,
in paths of justice.
Those who love me inherit wealth.
I will fill their treasuries.
Proverbs 8:10-21 (NLT)

We are always in need of wisdom — wisdom to say the right things at the right time, to do what is right on this side of history, to pause and stay quiet, to listen and consider. We need wisdom to choose between what’s good and what’s best, to know how to walk with integrity in our workplaces, in our parenting, in our friendships. We need wisdom to love others well, to treat others with kindness, to know how to live as Jesus did.

James 1:5 assures that if we ask for it from God, He will give it to us generously. And our Proverbs passage today tells us that with wisdom, we will gain discernment, good judgment, and knowledge — everything we are desperate for today. As we seek to find truth and clarity, direction and vision this year, let’s come before God and ask Him for the wisdom we need to navigate our lives and our world, to love ourselves and our neighbors well, and to “walk in righteousness and in paths of justice.”

He Is There to Meet Us in Our Deepest Need

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Alone again. That’s how she must have felt as she walked to the well by herself that day.

But she wasn’t alone for long. Jesus was waiting for her there, in the place where He knew she would soon be. She had no idea who He was and didn’t understand why He was talking to her and asking her to give Him some water. First off, He was a man, and men didn’t talk to women in public. He was also Jewish, which was obvious by what He was wearing, and Jews didn’t associate with people like her.

When He spoke, she heard gentleness in His voice, kindness and humility in His simple request for a drink.

In His eyes, she saw acceptance not judgment, pursuit not avoidance, love not hate.

Many of us know her as the Samaritan woman, but years ago I decided to start calling her Sam to make her feel more like the real woman she was. A woman just like me. A woman who who struggled with hurt, rejection, and loneliness. A woman who needed to be pursued and loved, despite her failures and her flaws.

Jesus was on His way to Galilee that day, but Scripture tells us “He had to go through Samaria” (John 4:4). Yet theologians would tell us Jews considered Samaritans to be the scum of the earth and would do everything they could to go around Samaria — but not Jesus.

He had to go through Samaria. I believe it was because He knew Sam would be there.

Women usually traveled to the well together in the cool of the day to avoid the heat of the sun since they carried heavy jars filled with water back to their homes. But Sam went by herself, during the hottest part of the day.

Instead of avoiding the scorching heat of the sun, it is likely Sam went to the well at noon to avoid the scorching pain of others’ judgment, slander, and rejection. Having been married five times and currently living with a man who wasn’t her husband, Sam knew how painful it was to have others say unkind things about you and to you.

Jesus knew as well. He also knew, that while Sam was running an errand that day, she was also running from those who knew of her failures, shame, and imperfections. Pursuing her with His perfect love, Jesus timed it so she would run into Him.

He initiated conversation and asked her for the only thing she had to offer, a drink of water. It wasn’t much, but it was the beginning of a conversation that changed everything for her. Yet it wouldn’t have happened if Sam had decided to give Jesus some water and get back to her to-do list.

Sam stopped, and she stayed. She let time unfold into a meaningful dialogue, not knowing Jesus would speak the very words of assurance, understanding, and acceptance her heart needed to leave a life that left her so empty.

Jesus intentionally pursued Sam in one of the loneliest parts of her day, and in the same way, He pursues us in the midst of our sometimes lonely and imperfect lives.

He is there when you’re going through the motions, aware of what needs to be done but unaware of how you’re going to do it all.

He is there during endless days filled with projects, Zoom calls, online schooling, diapers, or laundry when you’re wondering if you’ll ever find structure or meaning in the monotony of it all.

He is there when you’re criticizing yourself and questioning whether you have what it takes to be a godly woman, wife, mom, or friend.

He sees you. He notices all you do. And He knows what you long for.

Jesus is the only One who can meet our deepest need to be known, accepted, and pursued simply because of who we are.

And today, He wants you to know this: He is pursuing you with the gift of His perfect love — love that is patient and kind, love that keeps no record of your wrongs, love that won’t give up on you or me.

Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, you are not alone. Jesus is there.

 

Strolling Through Tension with Our Savior

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Snow is falling outside my window. The children across the street are playing in it, running around with wagons, toy shovels and baseball bats (?) — doing what kids do best. They’re having fun. I soak in their sounds of joy because, as you well know, we’ve had one long, hard year.

Feeling overwhelmed, I almost ask myself a wrong question: How did we get here? Instead, I finally do something unusual. Or, as the Bible recommends, I take a break just to “be still.” I turn off cable, stop scrolling, clear off my desk, sit myself down. Then I do nothing. No reaching for my Bible. No calling a friend to process feelings. No writing a blog post to hear myself think.

Instead, in the stillness, I begin to think of something I hadn’t thought about in weeks — an online cardio class (of all things). My husband suggested it a few weeks ago. It’s on Zoom and in real time.

I’m lukewarm about it, to tell the truth. But I find the link and register. In an hour, when the class starts, I open Zoom, and I hear something I haven’t heard in almost a year.

“Hi Patricia!”

This greeting — without meaning anything more than hello — is the kindest thing I’ve heard in too long a time. It’s just a hi.

The teacher, a forty-something physical trainer, is taking the class through its warmups. “Step right. Step right. Two times. Two times.”

To do all the steps and arm movements, I have to do something I’d often forgotten to do this past year: stop thinking about anything else. There’s no multi-tasking in this class, not for me anyway.

Instead, for forty-five minutes, I have to just move, follow the instructions, not second-guess the teacher.

Later, of course, I think of the beauty of always doing that — just following the Teacher, obeying His instructions, repeating His moves, and not second-guessing Him.

“Follow me” is how Jesus put it (Luke 5:27). He was speaking to Levi, the tax collector, whose tax vocation was despised and seen as sinful. Walking up to his tax booth, however, Jesus spoke the words. Then without questioning, Levi (also known as Matthew) “got up, left everything and followed him” (Luke 5:28).

What a beautiful, remarkable response. At the word “follow,” Levi understood its Hebrew meaning — halakh, meaning “walk” — was like Jesus saying, “Walk with Me.”

That’s our invitation from the Lord today: Walk with Me. Not behind Me, running after Me, always trying to keep up — never close enough to truly know Me. Likewise, don’t walk before Me — getting ahead of where I’m going, taking charge of what you don’t control or fully understand.

In the disruptive days of an overheated political era, there’s no better instruction than to walk with the Lord. Strolling along. No hurry. Ignoring pressure.

When we walk with Him, we don’t get lost or off track. No matter where He goes, trudges, or climbs, God invites us to stick close by, setting our pace to His, keeping our eyes on Him, reflecting His stride and not our own. Walking alongside Him, we take on His character and ways, words and means — no matter what else is erupting or occurring.

What we find is a Holy Guide who doesn’t let any strife, pressure, or upheaval boiling around Him affect Him. Thus, earlier in the fifth chapter of Luke’s gospel, after Jesus heals a man with leprosy, even touching the man, “crowds of people” pressed in to hear Him and be healed of their sicknesses by Him. (Luke 5:15). They plead with Him, demanding attention. Our worries, fears, and conflicts do the same.

But how did Jesus walk through such minefields? He “often withdrew to lonely places and prayed” (Luke 5:16).

Strolling along with Him, we can do the same. (We may even learn to play sometimes like little children.) The world may seem to be unraveling — our nation and neighborhoods, homes and hearts sometimes in tatters. But when we obey the Teacher, moving like Him along the road of life, He simply offers this reminder: Walk with Me. Not too fast. A holy stroll.

Then, when we do, we never walk alone.

Learning to Blossom as Cultural Image Bearers

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I was sitting in a virtual chat room one day with women of all ethnicities, talking about our stories and our ethnic roots, when all of a sudden I found a surprising kindredness with my white sisters. Though it can often feel like our stories and experiences are as starkly different as night and day, in that moment I discovered something new. Each of the women there had become disconnected from their ethnic roots, albeit in different ways.

I first shared my story with the group. Much of my story is intertwined with my mother’s. She immigrated to the U.S. in the 70s and during that time lost most of her connection with her own family. It’s a painful story, but it’s not fully mine to tell. I can say, however, that I’ve never met some of my aunts and uncles. I’ve also never met my Ba, my grandmother. There are days where the ache in my heart for my family makes it hard to breathe. I so wish I knew my Indian grandmother. I wish I could tell her who I am and show her pictures of my own family. More than that, I wish I could get to know her, hear stories of her life, while cooking something together or sitting at the table drinking chai. I know parts of my mom’s story, but a lot of what pertains to her family is still shrouded in mystery. It’s something we rarely speak about — it’s still too painful.

Growing up, I wish I had been connected to my mom’s family. I wish I knew what it was like to be surrounded by fellow Indians, who all looked like me, dressed like me, ate the same foods, and celebrated the same things. There is an innate desire in all of us to be known and loved by our families, to have deep bonds and live life together. Often times when we are disconnected from them, we become disconnected to our deep sense of culture and identity too.

Interestingly, as some of the other women then shared, they realized they too felt disconnected from their ethnic roots. One woman with Swedish heritage recounted how her grandparents had immigrated to the U.S. and proclaimed, “We are now American. We are no longer European.” Another shared in tears about how her Dutch parents refuse to share any of their family story with her as an intentional way to disconnect from their ancestral past. Many other women reiterated similar stories. Many of my dear friends are transracial adoptees who have never met their birth parents. I have also spoken to many Black women who feel similarly because of the history of slavery and the way their ancestors were violently uprooted from their African homes. Perhaps you feel this disconnect in your own story as well.

It was a tender conversation and one that united us despite our ethnic and geographical differences. Here was a group of diverse women who, for all different reasons, were wanting to reconnect with their roots and flourish in the way God created them to. We were each created as cultural image bearers after all. In Genesis 1-2 we see that our cultural identity is encoded into the very heart of what it means to be God’s image bearer. Humans were stamped from the very beginning with the imago Dei so that we could be God’s representatives on earth. Every culture with its unique bodies, voices, thoughts, actions, and values reflects a piece of God Himself. Seeing, embracing, and living out our faith through our unique cultural identities and expressions is how we become fully alive.

But as many of my sisters asked that day, what does blossoming look like when you don’t have a model to build from? How do we flourish as cultural image bearers when our history has been stripped from us and reconnecting with our roots feels like an impossible task?

For those of you who feel disconnected from your past, for those who can’t speak to their parents (or whose parents won’t speak with them), I want to offer two words of encouragement:

1. Lean into your culture’s global story.

I’m encouraged by the stories of Indians throughout the global diaspora. Often times, part of the global Indian story becomes inspiration for the ways in which I continue to develop my own cultural identity. The same can be true for you and your cultural roots. Think about your ethnic heritage and the specific people group(s) you’re connected to. Consider this: What are the attitudes, mindsets, and values embedded within your ethnic heritage? What are the stories that are valued and passed down within your cultural community? Who are your culture’s heroes?

This is where reading plays an important role. Whether you have Nigerian, Cambodian, German, Italian, or Russian roots, you can do some digging by picking up a history book and learning about a historical past that you’re connected to. Go to your local library or search Google and find some folktales and legends from your culture. Read them, discuss them with your family and friends, and reflect on how your own story both interweaves and disconnects from the story of your global community.

2. Create new traditions and expressions.

There are a lot of traditions that I celebrate in my home with my husband and children that I didn’t celebrate growing up. There are Indian holidays that I’ve chosen to integrate into our family rhythm, new foods that I’ve learned to cook, and new figures and heroes in the history of global Indian Christianity that I now look up to and seek to emulate.

When our pasts have been stripped from us, God extends us the grace and creativity to create something new. In the same way that He promises to make all things new, He invites us as co-laborers to find our story within God’s story. What it means for you to be Korean or Hawaiian or Colombian or Polish or South African will always be unique to you as an individual, and that’s not something to be ashamed of.

Learning to blossom as a cultural image bearer will take time. The process will be slow, and that’s okay too. Be gentle and patient with yourself and allow God’s spirit to guide you on a beautiful journey of becoming fully alive.

State of (in)courage 2021: What Will Be Our Compass?

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Sisters, I want to talk with you about where (in)courage is headed in 2021. You are our people, our community. You choose to spend time here in the (in)courage living room, soaking up words and stories, sharing pieces of your own hearts in the comments. We are so deeply grateful that you do.

As Community Manager, every year I feel an intense excitement in looking ahead for what God wants for (in)courage. But after a year like 2020, it would feel like a miss to barrel full-steam ahead into hopes and dreams without first making space to acknowledge the great sorrow we’ve endured collectively and individually.

Tears well immediately to the surface just thinking about it. We have lost loved ones to the coronavirus, which also robbed the dignity of saying goodbye. Hospitals remain packed with COVID patients. Lord, bring your healing! Livelihoods have been threatened and forever altered. Racial tensions rose as awareness of injustice increased. Political sides became like battle lines, separating family members and neighbors. Word-wars waged over social media leaving everybody wounded. Many churches and schools closed their doors and have yet to reopen. What is right? What is safe? The questions reverberate — they ricochet like sharp arrows we can’t dodge. The grief is too much. Our mental health has fractured. Our country remains broken and divided. Hope can feel too heavy to keep carrying. Truth can seem too elusive. Which voices can we trust? Which sources actually advocate for our best interest?

Friends, if you feel heavy and burdened and like hope is an unraveling thread that you’re losing your grip on, you’re not alone. But know this: God never loses His grip on us.

Will the next twelve months continue the same late-night anxiety and early-morning uncertainty, alarming headlines, widening divides, prolonged loneliness, and unrest of all kinds that marked 2020? I don’t know.

There’s one thing we don’t have to wonder about: the faithfulness of God and reliability of His Word.

Over and over, Scripture beats the drum of God’s fierce with-ness.

When facing the great unknowns of transitioning from their wilderness years and stepping into the Promised Land, Joshua and the Israelites hung on the assurance that “the Lord is the one who will go before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or abandon you. Do not be afraid or discouraged” (Deuteronomy 31:8).

When facing down a great storm that threw the disciples into a flurry of fear and panic, Jesus reminded them that His very presence had the power to right the boat and calm the raging waters (Luke 8:22-25).

In the face of our own trouble and uncertainty, God alone is our steady rock. Our sure footing. Our refuge and ever-present help (Psalm 46:1).

As we look at 2021 as a community of Christian women, let’s anchor ourselves in the unshakable Truth! Let’s stake our hope, our future, our way forward in God’s Word.

2 Timothy 3:16-17 clearly says, “All Scripture is inspired by God and is useful to teach us what is true and to make us realize what is wrong in our lives. It corrects us when we are wrong and teaches us to do what is right. God uses it to prepare and equip his people to do every good work.”

I love how the Message translation says it, too: “Every part of Scripture is God-breathed and useful one way or another — showing us truth, exposing our rebellion, correcting our mistakes, training us to live God’s way. Through the Word we are put together and shaped up for the tasks God has for us.”

2020 has undone us like no other. Yet, through the Word, we are put together.

Oh, how I wish I could reach through these screens to cup your face in my hands, gently shake your shoulders, and hug you tight, sister! (Of course, no COVID in my dream world.) I want us to look into each others’ eyes and preach the truth to one another. Over and over, as many times as it takes for us to remember that we are not alone. We are not unequipped. We are not without a compass in the storm.

This year we will continue to champion our (in)courage core values to build community, celebrate diversity, and become women of courage by being rooted in the Word.

In addition to the honest stories you find here every day at (in)courage from our team of amazing writers, we are thrilled to study God’s Word more intentionally as a community through our new Courageous Bible Study Series! Every three months, we will release a new Bible study that will help you walk more closely with Jesus and make an impact for the kingdom of God right where you are.

Our first six-week study is Courageous Simplicity: Abide in the Simple Abundance of Jesus… and we want to invite YOU to study God’s Word with us!

Join the Courageous Simplicity Online Bible Study!

Beginning February 1, gather online with your (in)courage sisters as we learn together how to fix our eyes and our lives on Jesus! All you need to do is:

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

We’ll send the weekly teaching videos out via email so if you don’t have Facebook you can still participate. Also, we have created some great resources to help you lead this study with your church or a group of friends. Get your leader guide — it includes leadership tips, ice-breakers, discussion questions, and six teaching videos!

Sisters, are you ready? May we let the power of God’s Word steady our hearts, transform our minds, and set the course for our future.

What truth are you clinging to as you start 2021?
How will you let Scripture be your compass?

 

Fearfully and Wonderfully Made by a Loving God

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I was curled up on my cat-scratched yoga mat, rocking and crying. This is a frequent occurrence so I wasn’t alarmed, but the thought that God was near to me in my pain made me sob even harder — how could my perfect Creator see me like this?

I live with autism, and what had prompted this meltdown was a simple, harmless question:

“What are you learning in your time with God this week?”

For a few months, I’ve been meeting weekly with a spiritual counselor through online video sessions. She asks this question every week, and because of this, I felt as though I should have been better prepared with a verbal answer.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

Memories and images of my daily devotional times flooded my mind, but no words accompanied them. I wanted to be able to express the sweetness I felt that God was near even as the weight of the pandemic was setting in again, but my mind felt disconnected. Translating thoughts into words is what gives me the most trouble in counseling (and in general), and I could feel my speech slipping away from me.

As my counselor waited, I lost my ability to maintain eye contact, which is another challenge. I have to make a conscious effort to be polite and to show interest in that way — even through a screen — and it slipped. I thought I could feel her expectant and disappointed gaze as she gave up and moved on to the next question:

“What have you been reading in the Bible this week that has stood out to you?”

I tried to remember what I’d read. There had been a specific verse I was meditating on — I had written it down! Something in . . . Matthew. It had been the theme and aspiration of my week. However, the more I wanted the words to come, the further they felt from my lips.

I started “hearing the silence.” My mind swirled into a sea of dissonance as I heard my fan roar, my earphones hiss, the computer fan whirl, all while a violin in my mind started whizzing through a Hungarian folk tune. I call this “drawing a blank” because I struggle to communicate using words, though my mind during the session was anything but empty.

“I . . . I can’t seem to remember. My mind is buzzing. I’m sorry.” And then I dissolved into tears.

Apart from my family, my counselor was one of the first people — and the first fellow believer — I “unmasked” with. Even though there was already an established trust between us, I still felt uncertain and terrified that she might not believe me or that she would hold my disorder against me. I had always been taught in church to “always be prepared to give an answer” (1 Peter 3:15b NIV), and I was afraid I had just failed.

The shaming didn’t happen. Realizing I was done speaking for the day, my spiritual counselor took over, speaking words of encouragement from Psalm 139 and praying over me. Although I was unable to respond at the time, I realized these words had made an impact as I reflected back on them after the episode had passed:

You have searched me, Lord, and you know me. (verse 1)
Before a word is on my tongue, you, Lord, know it completely. (verse 4)
What I understood: God understood what I was trying to convey.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. (verses 14-15)
What I understood: I was created with neurodiverse wiring for a purpose. God knew what I was going through and was not embarrassed by my behavior.

Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting. (verses 23-24)
What I understood: While this situation was out of my control, I am still accountable for the intent of my actions. I can work with my counselor to be able to answer this question next time — and if I can’t, God still sees and uses my efforts.

I write this as an encouragement to others who may feel they don’t have the “perfect” words to respond to someone in distress: we can hear your comforting words of truth even if they don’t appear to be helping in the moment. For me, an autistic meltdown is about releasing sensory triggers, but what happens in the moment of the meltdown is saved for later processing and reflection. There are others who may require complete silence, and that is okay as well.

Sometimes I feel so alienated from my body, and I question why I was created like this. I wish I could appreciate all the beauty in the world without my senses being overwhelmed, without melting down, and without getting exhausted. I take comfort that as our Creator, God knows all of the inner turmoils and challenges you and I face, no matter what our situations may be. Because of His grace and love, I can say with confidence: I am autistic, and I am fearfully and wonderfully made by a loving God.

 

Learning to See Beyond Me

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I have a bad habit of walking too fast.

This serves me well when I’m trying to get some exercise and burn off extra calories from last night’s bowl of chocolate chip mint ice cream (please tell me I’m not the only one). But it’s not helpful when I’m walking through my house while simultaneously working remotely, negotiating with teenagers, and doing the laundry. Let’s just say I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve stubbed — and broken — a toe on a table leg or bed frame. Few things throb quite as strongly as a busted baby toe. Although small and seemingly inconsequential, a broken toe quickly becomes all I can feel and think about, the pain all-consuming and blinding.

Even so, I still catch myself moving too fast. My life feels completely overwhelming. And often I’m so focused on where I’m headed and what I need to accomplish that I fail to give attention to everything else around me. I’m like a train, determined to get to the safety of the station that I’m oblivious to the scenery I pass on my way. Problem is, I sometimes plow through more than table legs, including the people in my path, without a second thought.

Like a bruised baby toe, difficult life seasons — like the one we’re all currently in the middle of — can be all-consuming. Whatever our unique crises and challenges, our individual pain throbs like a bruised and broken toe until it’s all we can think about. Personal challenges blind us to the individual challenges of the people all around us. This is understandable, for a time. Pain, by its very nature, requires attention. It’s an alarm that alerts us to the fact that something is wrong. We must heed the warning so that in time we may heal.

But temporary attention can easily slip into a habit of self-consumption. We think our trials are bigger than the next person’s, our struggles more impossible and life-altering than what another endures. Learning to ‘see beyond me’ is about choosing to slow down, to make space, to listen, and to intentionally resist the isolation of individual pain in order to share life — and its heartaches — together. At best, we’re simply clueless. At worst, we’re utterly hardened and unmoved.

Therefore if you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any common sharing in the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion, then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and of one mind. Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others.
Philippians 2:1-4 (NIV)

Following Jesus’ example of humility before God, Paul urges each of us to learn to see (and serve) beyond ourselves. This doesn’t mean beating ourselves to a pulp in constant, tireless service without caring for our health and families. And this doesn’t mean completely disregarding the very real day-to-day pain points that require our honest attention.

But this does mean that we willingly, intentionally, consciously strive to see the faces and challenges of the real people all around us and that we seek to serve them with the same tender compassion and tangible love we ourselves have received from the Savior Himself.

I’m guessing, if you’re anything like me, the past year of near constant national and global crises has left you a bit near-sighted. It’s understandable, my friend. I’m right there with you. I’m juggling more than enough tension and difficulty within the four walls of my home. I have little energy or mercy leftover for anyone else.

And yet, we are people saved by a God who left the comfort of heaven for the predicament of earth. And if I want to follow His lead, as much as my tired flesh will allow me, I need to intentionally push against the self-consumption that tempts me to grow callous and hardened to the needs of a broken world.

Want to join me? Here are a few questions I’m learning to ask when I’m with others. I may not be able to solve their problems or cure their pain, but I can listen. And I can see.

  • What is the best part of your life right now?
  • What is the hardest thing in your life right now?
  • What is it like for you, day to day?
  • What do you wish was different about your day-to-day life?
  • What has been helpful for you over the past few days/weeks/months/year?
  • What do you wish people knew about you?
  • What gives you a sense of peace or joy right now?
  • What do you need more of?

Remember, learning to “see beyond me” isn’t about solving problems or fixing what’s broken. It’s about choosing to slow down, to lift our heads and see beyond our own agendas and stubbed toes, to make space, to listen, and to intentionally resist the isolation of individual pain in order to share life — and its heartaches — together.