Prayer in the Era of Self-Help

Prayer in the Era of Self-Help

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I am not proud to admit that when things go wrong in my life – or in the lives of the people I love – my first instinct isn’t always a posture of prayer.

Instead, I too often adopt a posture of self-help. I act as if my theology is something along the lines of “I’ve got this,” instead of “God’s got this.” Or weirder still: “If I worry about this enough, it will resolve itself.”

I suppose this attitude is a byproduct of the culture in which I was born and bred. The concept of the “self-made man” is so pervasive we buy into the notion that our fates are in our own hands. We believe that with enough hard work, we can get what we want – a bigger house, a better job, a more fit physique, an idealized social status.

If you’ve lived long enough under that sort of ethic, you can begin to think that prayer is no more than a beautiful expression of faith. You might not say it out loud, but deep within you, you might be thinking, “God is great and all, but if I want something done, I’ll have to do it myself.” And let’s face it, so many of us have poured out our hearts to God, begging Him to move urgently, only to feel like our prayers were just an echo in the darkness, especially when we show up at the graveside service.

I found myself falling into this way of thinking recently when one of my children was facing a particularly difficult challenge that had us all in tears. I sat awake many nights in a row devising plans to “fix the problem.” I thought about ways to confront, correct, or control what was happening.

One morning, after a particularly long night, I was studying a verse in John. “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33 NIV).

I kept looking at the tiny, three-word exclamation in the middle of that verse: “But take heart!” Jesus didn’t say, “Take matters into your own hands.” He didn’t say, “Take control.” He said, “Take heart.”

Taking heart is not a posture of self-help. It’s the posture of humility. Indeed, it’s the posture of prayer. Prayer is the acknowledgement that we’re not running the show — God is. It is a way of saying, “I trust Your ways more than mine, Lord.”

I think now about the dozens of biblical heroes whose very lives illustrate the power of prayer. Here are just a few:

Hannah prayed — and birthed a son (1 Samuel 1:1-20).
Esther prayed — and a nation was delivered (Esther 4:15-17).
Daniel prayed — and the mouths of lions were snapped shut (Daniel 6).
Moses prayed to see God’s glory — and he got the greatest show on earth (Exodus 33:12-23).

It wasn’t their muscle or intelligence or strategic planning that worked. It was their willingness to fall to their knees.

One prayer really can change everything, so don’t underestimate the power of your prayers. Don’t fall for the lie that your prayers have to be said a certain way to count. Don’t give up asking. Not now! God hears you, and no prayer is ever, ever wasted. Ask and ask again because even when our prayers don’t change our circumstances, those prayers are changing us.

What are you praying for today? Maybe you’re like Hannah, praying for a child to hold. Or maybe you’re praying for a child to come home, to be healed, to turn back around from where he’s headed.

Maybe you’re like Esther, praying for a nation.

Maybe you’re like Daniel, and that lion you’re praying against is the one who’s been preying on your family.

Maybe you are like Moses, and you just want to see God.

Ask. Pray. It changes things. And then keep your eyes open because His answer might just blow you away.

Remember Peter? He was in prison, and the church kept praying for him. One night, an angel appeared in Peter’s cell. Chains fell, and Peter walked out the door. Even Peter couldn’t believe what was happening! He went to Mary’s house, where the church had been praying. A servant named Rhoda answered the door, and she was so shocked, she forgot to let him in!

Keep your eyes open for a Rhoda-styled surprise. Don’t give up now. You are never as powerful as that moment when you fall to your knees in prayer.

How can I pray for you today?

 

[bctt tweet=”One prayer really can change everything, so don’t underestimate the power of your prayers. -@dukeslee:” username=”incourage”]

Joy Comes from Being His

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Let the whole earth shout triumphantly to the Lord!
Serve the Lord with gladness;
come before him with joyful songs.
Acknowledge that the Lord is God.
He made us, and we are his —
his people, the sheep of his pasture.
Enter his gates with thanksgiving
and his courts with praise.
Give thanks to him and bless his name.
For the Lord is good, and his faithful love endures forever;
his faithfulness, through all generations.
Psalm 100 CSB

When stress and anxiety don’t let up, how do we shout triumphantly to the Lord? How do we come before Him with joyful songs? Joy isn’t easy to embrace when we’re overwhelmed and when grief and loss are closer companions on this journey than we’d like.

But verses 3 and 5 of Psalm 100 guide us toward joy. We acknowledge that the Lord is God, the One who made us and to whom we belong. We are in His care, shepherded by His strong hand, and His faithful love for us endures forever. His constancy is reason for praise. With our hands and hearts open before Him, let’s enter into His presence singing songs of His faithfulness.

God, help us to remember the times You’ve walked with us and how You haven’t changed in the midst of all the changes happening around us. Fill us with Your joy. Amen.

This summer, we’re journeying through the book of Psalms. Join us! 

Click here to purchase the Summer (in) the Psalms 40-Day Devotional Journal for just $7.99! This beautiful journal, only available on Amazon, includes forty days of reading selections from Psalms, twenty full devotions from the (in)courage Devotional Bible, and daily reflection questions with lined pages for journaling your answers. This journal is an all-inclusive, one stop shop for your summer studying!

We’re loving this summer spent (in) the Psalms with you.

Get your Summer (in) the Psalms Devotional Journal today!

 

[bctt tweet=”We are in God’s care, shepherded by His strong hand, and His faithful love for us endures forever. #inpsalms2020″ username=”incourage”]

Lord, Make Us Tenacious

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Grief lies like a foot of flood water in our home. I’m not wading through it all the time, but when I hear of another death — because of COVID, because of police brutality, because of depression, because of chronic illness, because of old age — the waters rise, and it feels as though I can’t tread water long enough to keep myself afloat.

It’s not only loss of life that keeps me trudging through grief. It’s the daily reminders that Black bodies are not safe, that anti-Asian racism is still alive, that people feel stripped of their rights for having to wear masks while others don’t have access to the same kind of privileges or resources or freedom. Grief mingles with wrath and lament and hopelessness, and I don’t have the energy to envision what it could be like in the future.

Twice last week, I cried myself to sleep. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what was wrong, which only added frustration to the restlessness I already felt. Every night, I try to push anxiety to the edges of my mind, but it shows up center stage when my body finally relents and lets me sleep. But instead of rest, anxiety turns sleep into hours of vivid dreams that keep my mind unsettled.

But morning comes anyway, unfazed by the world burning. The sun shines through the slats of the window blinds, telling me it’s time to start the day whether I want to or not. It’s true — the day must be lived. Breakfast must be made, work must get done, fights between children must be managed. Decisions about the future must be weighed even though everything may change again in a day’s time.

News and important conversations are happening, but I’ve become slow at processing information. I hear and read words, but my mind only seems to catch half of it — if that. I feel the pressure to catch up to everyone else, but I know the learning and unlearning process when it comes to anti-racism work, deconstructing our faith from white supremacy, and allyship is a never-arriving road.

People say things won’t go back to normal, and I really hope they don’t. History tends to repeat itself, but I want what needs to be burned to be burned away. I want the broken systems of our country to be fully exposed, so we can no longer look away and say it’s not our problem. I want the Church to get a good look at herself so we can see that so many things are not right and well just because we say it in Jesus’ name. I want the prejudices and biases I’ve learned and lived with to fall off like scales from my eyes.

So even though I wish all the chaos and pain would end already, I think we’re just in the middle of it. We can cross our fingers and shut our eyes tight, hoping for things to calm down or be in denial of what’s really happening around the world. We can even cry out for revival and renewal, but as I’ve written before, is resurrection even possible when what needs to die hasn’t finished dying yet?

I don’t think we’ll get through this by gritting our teeth. It will require more from us than we’re comfortable with, and for me, I don’t know if I have the tenacity to keep going or if I’m brave enough to face what will come.

When I think about what else might happen in the months ahead, what sacrifices will need to be made, what lives will still be lost, my chest tightens with anxiety. I feel helpless, so I close my eyes, take deep breaths, and remember those who came before me.

I remember my grandfather-in-law who recently died at the age of ninety-one. He had lived and fought through war times, eventually immigrating from Korea to the United States to give his children and future generations a chance at opportunities he didn’t have. I remember my own grandmother, who was widowed at a young age and raised her three children as a single mother. I think about Black men and women who marched and fought during the Civil Rights Movement and how their protests, their blood, their words, their lives paved the way for equal rights — not just for the Black community but also for many others, including Asian Americans like myself.

I wonder how they did it — how they lived through and survived trauma, how they kept going when it felt hopeless. I wish for the kind of grit they had, and then it dawns on me: Everyone who came before us gained tenacity because they endured the difficulties they had to live through. They didn’t have a choice but to go through the fire, wade through the waters, and now they are our cloud of witnesses, as Romans 12:1 says. They’ve run this race, and now it’s our turn to endure hard things, fight for the right things, and persevere.

I imagine their hands behind our backs, supporting us, anointing us, and Jesus in front of us. He endured trauma and death at the hands of religious leaders and law enforcement. Jesus was abused and beaten, hung on a cross to die slowly until He couldn’t breathe anymore. When we are weary, when we can’t see what’s ahead, when we grieve and lament in anger and sadness, we can look to Him who endured it all and trust that He will help us persevere.

Lord, make us tenacious. Help us to endure. We look to You. Amen.

 

[bctt tweet=”Those who came before us have run this race, and now it’s our turn to endure hard things, fight for the right things, and persevere. -@gracepcho:” username=”incourage”]

Love Is Still Stronger Than Fear

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Loving other people can feel like stepping across a field of land mines sometimes. Perhaps this is truest of all online. So many angry words, sharp-pointed opinions, destructive assumptions. Why do we do this to each other?

I’ve come to believe this: We are most angry when we are most afraid. It’s the old flight-or-fight response built into our bodies from the beginning. Some of us flee, but others of us pick up our guns and load them with words. We think we are saving ourselves, maybe even saving the world, but we are destroyers in disguise.

I recently talked about this with two friends and fellow writers. During our conversation, this verse came to mind: “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear” (1 John 4:18). We, as humans, tend to think if we can have things our way, then the world will be better. So we fight our fear aggressively and forcefully. We post and shout. We raise our fists and our voices.

But what if instead of spewing those angry words and that tirade online, we simply go to the person who is standing in our kitchen today and say, “I love you and I am for you”? Or we reach out to someone who is different from us because we also fear what we don’t understand? And if we’re spending all our time saying, “Here’s my opinion,” then we’re not listening, not understanding. Fear wins.

One of my friends asked, “What would it be like if we made a commitment to fight for each other instead of with each other?” It’s a question worth considering if we want to defeat fear. Because if we live with swords drawn in defense, then we are always on guard, looking for the next fight, seeing threatening shadows in every corner.

When (in)courage first started over a decade ago, I created a Commitment of Words and we all agreed to it. I find myself thinking of it again with everything that’s going on in our world today.

A Commitment of Words

We commit to using our words to defend and heal, not to harm.

We will not gossip. We will not belittle.

We will guard our sisters by always speaking the best about them, encouraging them into all God would have them to be and offering grace instead of condemnation.

We will be loyal and loving, remembering that even if we disagree, we still fight on the same side — never against each other.

We will use our words to build up and not tear down, to bring hope and not hurt.

We offer our words as powerful weapons to fight for each other on the side of all that is good, right, and true.

We have a Protector. He is good. He is wise. He is kind. And here’s what we need to know: God hasn’t asked us to be right all the time. He has called us to love. This is the harder, braver choice because it requires opening our hearts instead of our mouths. It’s about seeing each other not as threats but as people made in the image of God. It means we lay down our weapons and go, with arms wide open, down a path that could very well lead to a cross.

At first we might be scared. This is not the easy option, after all. But it is the fiercehearted one. And it’s the only way back to grace and peace, mercy and hope, humility and kindness.

I still believe this: love is stronger than fear.

God, You are the Maker of all human beings, those who are most dear to us and those with whom we disagree. Give us eyes to see others as You do, a heart that has compassion like Yours, and the strength to keep on loving. Amen.

Will you join me in this Commitment of Words today?

 

Are you a writer called to use your words to bring hope and encouragement to the hearts of others? Holley created a course to help you! Find out more now.

[bctt tweet=”Love is about seeing each other not as threats but as people made in the image of God. #loveoverfear -@HolleyGerth:” username=”incourage”]

When Roses Preach About Healing from Trauma

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I’m not very good at keeping plants alive. I forget to water them. I leave them in the sun, and sometimes they become parched. I even have a penchant for killing succulents.

That said, I love flowers. Watching them grow and bloom makes my heart swell.

In this time of COVID-19 and sheltering at home for months, I’ve been longing to see more things grow. My heart needs light and color when the world is swirling with disappointment, cancellations, sickness, and racial tension.

A few months ago, I went to a local nursery and picked out two new rosebushes to plant at my house. I walked the aisles and finally chose from among the dozens of varieties.

I’m always drawn like a magnet to the two-toned roses. I picked out two tea rose varieties – one called the “Dark Night,” which promised roses with crimson petals and yellow centers, and the other named “Double Delight,” with velvety white petals that gave way to bright magenta at the edges.

We planted my rosebushes on an overcast day before the heat hit hard. We packed fresh, organic soil around the base of each rosebush and watered them generously. I started a new routine of going out every evening to check on my rose bushes. I felt maternal and nurturing, watering them nightly.

The first week all their leaves and blooms shriveled up and fell to the ground. The second week the stems turned brown as well.

Was I doing something wrong? Watering too much or too little?

I enlisted the help of my mother-in-law, who is the “plant doctor.” She has a knack for reviving any little haggard plant and propagating even the smallest cuttings. She assured me that the rosebushes were okay.

“They’ve just been through trauma,” she said. “Keep watering them. You can’t water roses too much.”

So, I kept watering and wondering.

A week later, my mother-in-law came over again and declared, “We need to prune the rose bushes.” I delivered a set of garden clippers and some gloves and watched her carefully clean off all the dead leaves and trim back all of the branches.

She showed me how the stems were turning green again and the places where new shoots were emerging. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Keep watering them every day,” she reminded me.

So I did.

The stems looked bare. Thorns poked out in all directions like bad morning hair. There were no blooms in sight. But I held onto hope. I knew my babies had been through shock after being transplanted to a new place with different soil.

Like all of us in this strange season, they needed to be watered. They needed to root in the new soil. They needed extra grace when it came to producing. They needed extra attention until they could be brought back to health and blooming again.

I recently hosted a workshop for women leaders where a few of my friends who are experts spoke about trauma. My friend, Dr. Deshunna Ricks, taught me that we experience trauma in a variety of ways, including direct experience, witnessing an event, hearing about something that’s happened to someone close or a member of one’s race. We can even be harmed by repeated exposure to a traumatic event on social media.

Friend, we all have experienced trauma of some kind in our lives. Even this time of COVID-19 and racial unrest in our country has been traumatic for many of us. As women, many of us are leading, parenting, and ministering to people who also have endured trauma in their lives. Trauma affects the brain and our ability to function. We need to speak life and love to ourselves and others affected by trauma.

My friend Whitney inspired me to look at the story in John 4 of the Samaritan woman, who met Jesus at the well through a new lens. This woman had endured trauma. She had five husbands in a time when women were not allowed to divorce men. She carried the burden of relational trauma and perhaps other kinds of abuse. She was an outsider in her community. Even the disciples questioned Jesus for having a conversation with this Samaritan woman. Men did not talk to women, and Jews did not talk to Samaritans, a people group considered unclean by the Jews.

Jesus went to the well with the purpose of healing this woman and revealing Himself as the Messiah.

He tells the woman, “Anyone who drinks this water will soon become thirsty again.  But those who drink the water I give will never be thirsty again. It becomes a fresh, bubbling spring within them, giving them eternal life”
John 4:13 (NLT)

Jesus spoke to her about a living water that runs like a spring and nourishes, heals, and brings eternal life. This water differed from the water that came from a well. Jesus declared that He was the Messiah who brings new life.

The woman was transformed by her encounter with Jesus. She was used by God in her healing and granted the privilege of declaring her testimony to her community. Like the Samaritan woman, we need to be nourished by God’s Living Water, which brings us to flourishing.

Last week, I stepped outside and squealed with wonder when I saw a flash of crimson. Layers upon layers of velvet petals cupped that one glorious bloom. My first “Dark Night” rose embraced the daylight and declared that she, too, had been transformed by the Master Gardener.

Like my rosebush, we need nourishment after trauma. We need to be patient with the healing process. We need to speak love to ourselves and others. We need to trust the Master Gardener is rooting us anew and shaping His roses for the future.

Dorina has written more on how God has designed each of us to flourish for His glory in her Bible study, Flourishing Together: Cultivating a Fruitful Life in Christ. Details here.

 

[bctt tweet=”As we deal with the trauma in our lives, we need to be nourished by God’s Living Water, which brings us to flourishing. -@DorinaGilmore:” username=”incourage”]

From Our Pain We Hold the Power to Help Others

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Holley Gerth recently wrote about how she sent these words in an email to the first (in)courage contributors: “Be courageous and write in a way that scares you a little.” As one of the early contributors, I remember when the email containing those words dropped into my inbox and how it affected me.

I was equal parts frightened and invigorated.

You see, in my early blogging days, I ran every post through a four-part internal filter before I hit publish: What would my dad/pastor/neighbors/family think of this? Would they think less of me? Would I be embarrassed? Would they be embarrassed?

I allowed this internal filter to prevent me from sending words into the world that might have helped other women, women who needed to know they weren’t alone or that someone else felt or thought the same as they did. Insecurity blinded me. It kept me from seeing that I had something to offer if I could get out of my own way and let God use me for His purposes instead of worrying about my own.

Holley’s prompt to write courageously prodded me to lean into my fears. When I did, I discovered something fascinating: the people whose reactions I feared most were the ones who reacted the most positively, as if they knew I had more to give and were pleased when I did. If I was afraid of what my dad might think, invariably he’d liked my Facebook status linking to the post. If I was afraid of what my children would think, I would find they’d left a positive comment.

I let fear quiet my voice. The desire to be a people-pleaser still silences me sometimes, but I rest in the knowledge that the people in my corner support me are are not looking for opportunities to tear me down. The world needs my voice, and it needs yours too.

We find our voice in various ways, but one way to pinpoint it is to identity our most difficult life experiences. The strength we can gain from enduring hardships can become our superpower to help others. When we can harness what we’ve learned from the pain, we can turn it around and use it to help others in similar pain.

Years ago, we visited our family out of state. My husband’s aunt had recently miscarried a baby, and I didn’t know what to say to her. I felt guilty holding my healthy baby boy, and because I didn’t know how to comfort her, I didn’t say anything.

A few months later, I ended up miscarrying our third child, and though I couldn’t relate to my husband’s aunt at that time, I now could understand what it felt like to experience that kind of loss. From that painful experience, I’ve been able to walk with other women who have miscarried, and I advise them not to bottle up their tears and how normal it is to feel sudden anger over advertisements for diapers and baby lotion.

So often we believe we have to have it all together in order to help someone, but it simply isn’t true. Perfection isn’t relatable. We relate to Jesus — and He to us — because He endured betrayal, temptation, and not only the pain but also the shame of the cross.

For in that He Himself has suffered, being tempted, He is able to aid those who are tempted.
Hebrews 2:18 (NKJV)

Think about the experiences of pain you had, and take a moment to write them down. For example, have you suffered a job loss or a financial crisis? Are you a victim of abuse? Have you experienced the loss of a spouse, a child, or a parent? Has your heart been broken by the dissolution of a marriage or a friendship? Have you miscarried a baby? Do you live with physical pain or health issues that impact your daily life?

As you reflect on those experiences, what truths have you learned as a result of your afflictions? Write down what you learned about God and about yourself, and as you hold these testimonies in your heart, know that your pain isn’t wasted. One day, it may bring comfort to someone.

 

[bctt tweet=”So often we believe we have to have it all together in order to help someone, but it simply isn’t true. Perfection isn’t relatable. -@DawnMHSH:” username=”incourage”]

When You Wonder If You’ll Ever Measure Up (+ a HUGE book sale!)

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It is not that we are competent in ourselves to claim anything as coming from ourselves,
but our adequacy is from God.
2 Corinthians 3:5 (CSB)
I don’t remember the first time I felt it. It could have been in the third grade when I was the last one picked for the kickball team. Or maybe when I opened my mouth to sing like my musically talented brother and sister only to discover I was tone deaf. Not being enough has sort of been a faithful companion in my life . . . always there, reminding me of ways I didn’t fit in or belong.

I don’t remember the first time I didn’t measure up. But I do remember the first time I stopped measuring. I was a freshman in college, rooming with my twin sister. I called my mom on the phone and said, “Mom, did you know I’m petite?”

She laughed at my crazy question and said, “Of course, honey. You’re 5’2”. That’s petite by most standards. Why are you asking?”

I replied, “But Mom, I’m the big twin. I had no idea I was petite!”

This new realization was remarkable to me. I had spent my entire childhood being compared to my twin sister. We were born five minutes apart, and I towered over her 4’10” frame. I was shocked when someone referred to me as petite. But that’s because I was measuring myself by the wrong perspective. And that’s what comparison does: it skews our view of ourselves and we begin to believe the lie that says we aren’t pretty enough or smart enough or stylish enough or skinny enough or tall enough or young enough or whatever enough.

We can never be all those things and certainly not at the same time. But that’s okay. We don’t have to be enough. Because Jesus is. All the time. And even better, through Christ, we are enough. He takes our inadequacies and unrighteousness and exchanges it for His perfection. When we don’t measure up, He does. And that is enough for all of us.

Whisper a prayer of thanks — that Jesus takes all our “not enough-ness” and He makes up for everything.

Written by (in)courage alum Kristen Welch for A Moment to Breathe: a 365-Day (in)courage Devotional 

This is an excerpt from A Moment to Breathe: a 365-Day (in)courage Devotional Journal, which is available at DaySpring for only $10 right now! Such a great deal!

DaySpring is having a huge book sale, with titles for just $5 and $10! It’s a perfect time to stock up for birthdays, Christmas gifts, or yourself. There are holiday books, family devotionals, and more. Shop now — the sale only goes through the end of this month (it ends July 31)!

Find all the $5 and $10 sale titles right here!

Being Unraveled by a Knitting God

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My grandma taught me to knit when I was eight years old at our annual family Christmas. Somewhere between dinner and dessert, my cousins and I crowded around her with shiny knitting needles too big for our hands and trained our eyes on her fingers. I clumsily made my way through one, two, three rows, but it wasn’t long before my finger snagged on a hole, right smack in the middle of my scarf-to-be. Despairing at the thought of starting again, I presented the problem to my grandma. With just a quiet “must’ve lost a stitch,” she unraveled my work up to the problem and restored the scarf to its former potential. Her movements were incongruously quick compared to my own and it looked like magic, this unraveling and restoring. To this day, the feeling of grace is accompanied by the sound of clacking knitting needles nestled in my grandma’s hands.

But sin? Sin feels like that stitch dropped unbeknownst to me, the kind that you don’t see until five rows later. Or perhaps, it is like a hole burned straight through the knitted meshwork that makes up you and me and us. All around the edges of that hole, where there used to be woven yarn are fraying loose ends. With every pull, every snag, the unraveling continues, and the hole grows bigger.

The deaths of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and the countless other Black lives lost are some of the loose threads surrounding the smoky hole of systemic racism. Floyd’s words “I can’t breathe” overflowed into streets and toppled statues. The shouts of protests snaking through city streets have defiantly pulled on these threads and exposed the sin of racism more profoundly than ever.

This racism that has existed much too long — in me, maybe in you, in the church, in the very fabric of our society. The unraveling threads reveal how deeply woven racism is from one generation to the next. 

I was raised in Richmond, Virginia, a city that has gained quite a standing in national news recently for the protests surrounding the Confederate statues on Monument Avenue. Every year for as long as I could remember, Richmond hosted the Monument Avenue 10k and when I was thirteen, I ran the race with my mom. There were bands lined up around the medians and thousands of people running alongside me. It was exhilarating and fun, and I did not think twice about the Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson statues that stood as idols to white supremacy.

Just recently, I went back to Monument Ave and saw the very same statues I ran past at thirteen. They were covered in profanity, awaiting their removal. I saw them, and something began to unravel. The profanity that covered the statues became the outward manifestation of the desecration that existed all along. The innocence of my childhood experiences unraveled; a trust in my own righteousness unraveled.

The work of unraveling is similar to the work of confessing. It deals a striking blow to one’s own achievements. Just like the five, lumpy rows of knitting my grandma undid to fix my mistake, the economic, academic, and professional successes I’ve claimed come undone in this unraveling work that has begun in me. As a white woman, my environment, my family of origin, and my privilege have brought me far, lifting me up while also pushing others down, and now I cannot unsee the inequity and injustice.

If I am honest, though, I am scared that as I begin the journey to root out the sin of racism in me, to confess it and to act differently, I will discover that it runs deeper than I knew. (It probably does run deeper than I know.) I am scared my inexperienced fingers won’t know what to do with the pile of loose yarn on the ground, that I won’t know how to make anything better or that I’ll make the same mistakes again.

And then, I remember my grandma. I remember her deft knitting hands and I hear the sound of clicking and clacking grace. I remember that yarn is pulled through fingers for creation, not just desecration.

For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
Psalm 139:13 (NRSV)

God is a knitter, too, just like my grandma. God knit us together when we were just beginning in our mothers’ womb, when all we felt was belonging. Better yet, God didn’t stop knitting — not when hurt came, not when sin tore through us. God did not make us stagnant, winding us up like a cheap toy to set us in motion. No, God is still knitting us into being, unraveling and knitting back, creating, reforming, healing, fixing holes, and weaving the frayed ends together again. As we root through privilege and systems of oppression in which we are complicit, God is still knitting. As we confess what we have done and what we have left undone, God is still knitting, row after row of becoming.

My friends, as we confess, as we act, listen, and change, may we cling desperately and courageously to our knitting God, who requires our unraveled lives for the work of justice and mercy.

 

[bctt tweet=”As we root through privilege and systems of oppression in which we are complicit, God is undoing the threads of racism and recreating us. -@karisophia1:” username=”incourage”]

Three Loving Promises: Why You Can Rest in God’s Love For You

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For weeks, I had tried keeping myself productive. Everything will be fine, I told myself. But deep in my heart, where no one could see, I didn’t feel fine. So much of life has changed in such a short period of time. There are no blueprints for what’s ahead, and everyday there are new uncertainties to shield my children from — as well as trying to process things for myself.

Stress and worries have a way of reappearing on our paths, don’t they? As I hiked up a trail one morning, I doubled up my powers of analysis to solve a dilemma I was stuck in. I figured if I circled around my problems long enough, I’d lasso them into submission and think my way out.

But all it did was fill my mind with more troubling thoughts. As I reached the top of the mountain and turned back to walk down, my heart felt paralyzed and torn, weighing the pros and cons of uncertainty.

Do you ever feel this way too — heart disconnected and longing for rest?

I don’t know what to do. Help me, God, I cried silently.

As I made my way down through tall grass growing unruly, I noticed something I didn’t see on my way up. Specks of orange poppies were blossoming, opening up under the sunlight breaking through the clouds.

How did I miss the poppies walking up?

It turns out poppies close tight as buds when it’s cold and windy. They’re so sensitive to the elements, folding in at night in the dark. Yet, when warmed by the sun in daylight, the petals open, releasing seeds to the wind.

Each of us is like that poppy. Our hearts can close up when we isolate ourselves with our worries, carrying our burdens alone. When we hide our hearts from God, we also end up feeling guilty because we don’t know what to do or how to pray.

But when we cast our cares into the warmth of God’s loving arms, the petals of our hearts open, and we can relax. Even when it might seem as though God is silent, He hears our prayers for help — even when they’re unspoken.

Perhaps you need to hear these truths as much as I do today, so here are three promises from God to help you rest and breathe in His love and peace:

1. When you don’t know what to do, God whispers, Cast your cares on Me.

Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.
1 Peter 5:7 (NIV)

Just like flowers opening by sunlight in the field, you can release your worries to God — not by ignoring them but by confiding in Him. He longs to help you.

2. When you don’t have words to pray, know that Jesus is praying for you and holds you close. 

Who then is the one who condemns? No one. Christ Jesus . . . He is also interceding for us.
Romans 8:34 (NIV)

Jesus doesn’t require your prayers to love you. He knows what you need. He is praying for you and wants you to receive the love and peace He offers to you unconditionally. When you feel overwhelmed and alone (we all have these moments that hit us just when we thought we felt fine, right?), rest in this loving promise of God.

3. When you long for someone to hold you, Jesus reaches out His hand to help you.

Don’t be afraid, for I am with you.
Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you.
I will hold you up with my victorious right hand.
Isaiah 41:10 (NLT)

Jesus will never give up on you. He will never grow weary of you or your worries. He whispers, I see you. Rest in me. My love will strengthen you. 

Picture Jesus with you now, standing in the midst of your troubles and anxieties. Ask yourself, What is it that He longs to give me? What does He want me to receive?

Whatever it is, open yourself to His loving care and let His whispers of rest bring peace to your soul.

What are the cares you can cast on Jesus?

Restore God’s peace to your soul: Listen to Bonnie’s uplifting podcast Lift the Burden of Anxiety & Busy, featuring Holley Gerth! Then, sign up for Bonnie’s Beloved Newsletter here  for more reminders of God’s love and soul care tips to encourage your heart! Join Bonnie’s newsletter here.

 

[bctt tweet=”Jesus will never give up on you. He will never grow weary of you or your worries. -@thebonniegray:” username=”incourage”]

Shine Your Face Upon Us, Lord

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May God be gracious to us and bless us;
may he make his face shine upon us Selah
so that your way may be known on earth,
your salvation among all nations.

Let the peoples praise you, God;
let all the peoples praise you.
Let the nations rejoice and shout for joy,
for you judge the peoples with fairness
and lead the nations on earth.
Let the peoples praise you, God,
let all the peoples praise you.

The earth has produced its harvest;
God, our God, blesses us.
God will bless us,
and all the ends of the earth will fear him.
Psalm 67 (CSB)

In Exodus 33:20, God allows Moses to enter into His presence but tells him, “You cannot see my face, for humans cannot see me and live.” In light of that verse, the blessing at the beginning of this psalm is that we not only get to be in the presence of God but we also have the privilege of having His face turned toward us. He doesn’t turn His back on us when things are not right in the world. Instead, He bends low and enters into the mess, and He is gracious.

The word Selah comes after that sentence to indicate a pause. Selah is an invitation to take a breath and soak in what was just read. Today, let’s look to God who guides us in the unknown and who leads us. Pause and rest in that truth.

This summer, we’re journeying through the book of Psalms. Join us! 

Click here to purchase your Summer (in) the Psalms 40-Day Devotional Journal for just $7.99! This beautiful journal, only available on Amazon, includes forty days of reading selections from Psalms, twenty full devotions from the (in)courage Devotional Bible, and daily reflection questions with lined pages for recording your answers. This journal is an all-inclusive, one stop shop for your summer (in) the Psalms journey!

We’re loving our Summer (in) the Psalms with you.

Get your Summer (in) the Psalms Devotional Journal today!

 

[bctt tweet=”Today, let’s look to God who guides us in the unknown and who leads us. Pause and rest in that truth.” username=”incourage”]

Why It’s Not Enough to Have People of Color in Your Circle

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I used to think I was fine when it came to racism. I had a variety of people of different ethnic backgrounds in my circle — people of color whom I loved, people woven into my life by marriage and friendship and proximity.

As a kid, my family hosted a slew of international students. I was accustomed to sharing life and space with people of many cultures. I remember the hushed tones of two Japanese girls in the downstairs bedroom and the boisterous bursts of laughter from the Argentian girl in the corner room upstairs. College students from Taiwan, China, Finland, France, and Spain gathered around our dining room table to share food, customs, and conversation. Learning to count in other languages was my favorite.

My high school was 65% Latino and my first long-term boyfriend was a Vietnamese guy whose parents weren’t too keen on the fact that I was white.

Through the years my mom dated several Black men and my dad’s second wife was Korean. I celebrated a half dozen Christmases with my three Asian American step-siblings and was fascinated by my stepmom’s kimchi refrigerator. I have one niece and five nephews on two sides of my family who are mixed race.

As a Southern California resident, I’ve rubbed shoulders and shared meals with people who don’t share my pale complexion. I’m used to hearing multiple languages spoken in Target and at school pickup.

I used to think, Look! Clearly this shows that I don’t have a problem with race, so I’m good, right?

Little did I realize that being “good” with race wasn’t the point.

It’s humbling now to admit, but I used to use this list of people of color in my circle to justify my place and participation in this world. Any time a conversation about the ongoing problem with racism would come up, here’s how my line of thinking would generally go: First, I would feel bad about the situation and sorry for the people who were being adversely affected. Then I would secretly scroll my mental list of diversity evidence. Last, I’d pat myself on the back for not being part of the problem.

But this way of thinking is part of the problem.

Without malice or ill-intention, I made the issue of racism about me. I was accepting and inclusive. I wasn’t perpetuating racist actions or beliefs. I felt fine. (I shake my head at my old self.) Evaluating my former way of thinking, I now realize I was guilty of tokenism. I was making individuals in my circle symbols of my “good enough-ness” — tokens to prove racism wasn’t an issue for me and that I didn’t have work to do.

I thought it was enough to have people of color in my circle, but it’s not. It doesn’t make me immune to biases and prejudices. If you’ve thought similar thoughts, if you’ve ever counted your coworkers, friends, or family members with Black and brown skin as proof that racial injustice and inequality are not your problems either, let me gently say as a sister who’s been there that it’s time to change the way you’re thinking.

Scripture clearly defines how we ought to think about others:

Do nothing out of selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility consider others as
more important than yourselves. Everyone should look not to his own interests,
but rather to the interests of others.
Philippians 2:3-4 (CSB)

As a white woman, for a long time I didn’t see racism as my problem because it didn’t affect my own interests. This thinking is unbiblical, and it’s wrong. My pride said, “Look at my diverse circle of friends, family, and acquaintances. Five gold stars for me, please!” It saddens me to admit this.

Admitting our false thinking and sinful patterns is critical to repentance and crucial to reconciliation.

People are not tokens. People are not symbols of status or progress or political correctness. If you have willfully or accidentally made someone a token in your organization, business, personal life, or mind, now’s a good time to confess, repent, and do better.

As the community manager here at (in)courage, I love that our circle of writers includes talented women of many hues. I love that each writer brings her unique voice, stories, and culture to our shared table and together we can learn more what the fullness of Christ and the beauty of God’s colorful kingdom looks like. We are all His image bearers, and I see God more clearly through the kaleidoscope of His people.

But I’ve learned and am learning from my past mistakes. Having a diverse writing team is amazing, but that doesn’t mean we’re off the hook from important anti-racism work. As believers in Jesus, it’s our responsibility and privilege to be passionately aware of and proactively advocating for others’ interests.

One small way we’re going to pursue this in the months ahead is by hosting ongoing (in)courage Community Conversations around the topic of racism. (Find our first one here and stay tuned for more!) We’ll continue to gather as friends and sisters in Christ to humbly listen and learn from each other.

I’m both convicted and encouraged by James’ words:

Post this at all the intersections, dear friends: Lead with your ears, follow up with your tongue, and let anger straggle along in the rear. God’s righteousness doesn’t grow from human anger. So throw all spoiled virtue and cancerous evil in the garbage. In simple humility, let our gardener, God, landscape you with the Word, making a salvation-garden of your life.
James 1:19-21 (MSG)

Friends, I’ve still got so much more growing to do, but I’m grateful the Gardener is patient and He’s provided a community like this to be open with and grow together. Here’s to leading with our ears and giving thanks that tomorrow brings new mercies.

 

[bctt tweet=”As believers in Jesus, it’s our responsibility and privilege to be passionately aware of and proactively advocating for others’ interests. -@beckykeife:” username=”incourage”]

In Case You Feel Forgotten

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The night was sticky and scorching even with the sun setting. The air conditioning broke in my car last summer, so my windows were rolled down and I had my arm out the window, letting my fingertips touch the breeze. 

I saw something in the dusky sky when I turned on the road toward my town. I looked to my left and noticed a group of people, scattered but clearly gathering. They were at a cemetery. They were lighting lanterns and floating them up into the night sky. 

I immediately pulled my car to the side of the road, pushed my hazard lights on, and watched. 

Tears sprang into my eyes. I wondered briefly who the people were honoring with their lanterns, but all I could think of was my beautiful friend Tat. Tat died in a car accident almost two years ago. Floating lanterns can’t help but remind me of her. A few summers ago, while she was alive, we lit lanterns together — like that scene from the Disney movie Tangled. 

A week after she died, our church lit lanterns in her honor. A year later — almost a year after her death — I saw a floating lantern randomly light up the night sky as I drove home from work. 

God keeps sending me lanterns. They remind me of Tat and of God’s tender love and kindness. They remind me that God hasn’t forgotten. 

It’s been almost two years since Tat went to be with Jesus. Two years without her on Earth. This year was different from the last. Last year held all firsts — everything was new, every day another impossible anniversary to navigate. 

And yet . . . she is gone — like a novel ending abruptly mid-sentence. It makes no sense, and even two years later, it’s hard to comprehend.

In the months after her death, the grief was a tsunami. Social media swarmed with photos and mementos of her — people sharing story after story, trying to grasp any moment they shared with her. Thousands came to her funeral. People shared her blog posts, brilliant words she penned that still continue to resonate. 

But now, years later, the social media posts are few and far between, save for her parents and close friends. 

And I wonder if people will forget her. I have photos of Tat — tacked on my fridge, hung on my walls, as bookmarks in my Bible, dangling from my rear view window — anything to remind me of her.

Two years in and I wonder: Will people forget my friend? Will the grief that once stabbed us fade into a bruise? Will people move on and forget the beautiful life Tat lived?

Maybe they will. But God won’t.

God isn’t limited to time or emotional capacity or memory. He holds every single thing about you in the palm of His hand — from the number of hairs on your head to each prayer you utter, whether audible or not. He holds every sharp shard of grief, every unspoken dream, every frustration, every ache in your heart — safe in the care of His hands. 

He cares about the birds and the flowers, and He cares infinitely more about you (Matthew 6:25-34 NIV).

He knows everything about the day Tat died, each detail I may never know, and He knows everything about my grief, two years later. People are forgetful and people move on, but God remains right beside us. 

Even when it feels like everyone else has forgotten — when the social media posts end, when the hashtags are gone, when the meals stop showing up, when no one texts you to check in and see how you are — God hasn’t forgotten.

He sees you, right where you are. Two years or ten years or fifty years later, He still sees you. 

That night, I sat in my car and watched the lanterns float higher and higher. The grief isn’t as sharp almost two years later. I wiped a tear from my eye but didn’t weep. It was a bittersweet sadness deep within my chest: I was grateful to be reminded of her, and yet I ached, knowing she is gone.

I watched them drift into the sky, their fiery light dimming the further they floated. I thanked God for another sign of His personal kindness and unrelenting love.

I whispered a prayer to God for Tat, “Tell her I miss her. Tell her I love her. Tell her I can’t wait to see her someday.” 

Even if it feels like the world has forgotten, God hasn’t. He hasn’t forgotten about you, He hasn’t forgotten about Tat, and He hasn’t forgotten about me. 

In fact, He keeps sending lanterns to remind me.

 

[bctt tweet=”People are forgetful and people move on, but God remains right beside us. #grief #loss -@alizalatta:” username=”incourage”]

Never Alone Even in Our Loneliness

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For the last several weeks, I’ve felt unexpectedly alone.

Oh, not in my home, that’s for sure. There are three kids, two working-from-home parents, a dog, and a partridge in a pear tree in this house. I haven’t actually been physically alone for months (and seeing as I’m pregnant with our fourth little one, I won’t be physically alone for a while yet!).

No, it’s an aloneness that envelops my heart as I scroll my newsfeeds and social media.

Stories of families and friends gathering for fun and celebrations, summer vacations and trips, out for dinner and date nights, attending weddings and graduations — these things and more flood my feed, and once again the ache of feeling alone floods my heart.

At the recommendation of my OB, my family and I are still socially distancing. We are not gathering with family or going out with friends. We haven’t seen my mother-in-law in person or hugged friends in months. I have stepped inside Target exactly one time since March 9th. My husband and I have left our house without the kids only once since February. My kids play with each other, not with neighbors or other pals. We have reluctantly and sadly turned down invitations and bitten our tongues to extend any. So much togetherness in this home, and yet I can feel so alone.

I feel alone when I have a virtual OB appointment and when I go to my ultrasounds by myself.

I feel alone when I wear a mask in public.

I feel alone when it appears that we are the only people left in the world actually social distancing.

And the aloneness sometimes takes over and turns into self-pity, sadness, and anger. I miss my people too! I want to be done with this huge mess too! I want to wander the aisles at Target with an iced latte and no kids in tow too! I want my kids to go back to school and grandmas house too! I want to go back to church too!

Then after a good pout, I wipe my eyes, refill my ice water or homemade iced coffee, give myself a pep talk, and move on. Because deep down I know that really, no matter what, we’re never alone — in the middle of a pandemic, in the midst of a miscarriage, when estranged from loved ones, when we live by ourselves, when facing job loss and financial mess, if our marriage and friendships are strained or even falling apart, when sick and unaccompanied in a hospital room.

When it feels overwhelmingly like we are the only ones who __________ (fill in your own blank), we’re never actually alone.

It might sound like a trite Sunday school answer, but Jesus really does stand beside us. In some of my darkest, most alone-feeling days — miserable at a job, depressed and living far away from family, during my first miscarriage — I felt as though I was literally clinging to an invisible Friend who was more present than my closest loved ones. I’ve felt Him hold my hand and carry me through the loneliest times of my life.

God meets people in their aloneness throughout Scripture, so we can trust Him to do the same for us.

David described being “alone and afflicted,” yet the Lord never left his side. Job and Jeremiah were separated from family and lived through loss, and they still spoke to God as if they knew He was there, listening and being with them in their loneliness. Jesus Himself experienced aloneness, and He gravitated toward the outcast, the vulnerable, and the friendless, giving them a voice, a new song, a story to tell.

Maybe you’re feeling like the woman Jesus met at a well. She was living a life of loneliness, despite company kept within her own walls. I’d guess her loneliness at times also turned into self-pity, sadness, and anger, yet in her encounter with the Lord at the well, her loneliness is quenched.

Then there are promises like these, in which we see the depth of God’s faithfulness:

Be strong and courageous; don’t be terrified or afraid of them. For the Lord your God is the one who will go with you; he will not leave you or abandon you.
Deuteronomy 31:6 (CSB)

For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Romans 8:38-39 (CSB)

The Lord will always lead you, satisfy you in a parched land, and strengthen your bones. You will be like a watered garden and like a spring whose water never runs dry.
Isaiah 58:11 (CSB)

My six-year-old just came downstairs to the dining room table where I’m writing this. She asked what I was writing about, and I told her I was writing about what Jesus says when we’re lonely. And then she said, “Oh, like how even when you feel alone and stuff and there’s no one by you, God’s with you? Even when it feels rough to do something, you can do it ’cause He’s with you? Yeah, I learned ’bout that at Sunday school.”

And that about sums it up. Friend, you can do it — no matter what your “it” is. God is with you, and no matter what your newsfeeds say, you are not alone.

 

[bctt tweet=”Friend, you can do it — no matter what your ‘it’ is. God is with you, and no matter what, you are not alone. -@annaerendell:” username=”incourage”]

Where to Belong When You Don’t Belong Anywhere

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Everyone was laughing, but all I could do was force a half-smile. My skin felt like it was betraying me like a sunburn. I just had to get through the dinner and I’d be okay. I felt angry and awkward and embarrassed. I was engaged and meeting my fiance’s family for the first time. He warned me his extended family could be racist. We sat around a circular table, and I couldn’t escape.

Where do you go when you can’t hide your skin? It’s impossible to disappear.

Shame will always make you want to cover. That moment, with his family, made me want to cover my darkness with something comfortable, like the color white. I just wanted to fit in. The racist jokes were unbearable, but instead of turning the shame back onto the comedian of the night, I turned my shame inward. It became another moment where I just didn’t fit. I wasn’t fully Asian. I wasn’t fully White. I was somewhere in the middle.

I won’t ever forget that night. I won’t forget the way I wanted to scream, cry, and throw something. The racism seemed so obvious to me, but the jokesters were oblivious at the harm they were causing. I did what I normally do: I swallowed the pain and moved on.

I’ve been looking the other way, dismissing my pain and minimizing my feelings my entire life. I’ll never forget last year when an Asian American friend of mine invited me to a conference just for Asian Americans. She texted me the words, “You belong there.” I remember feeling instantly bothered. I was surprised by my knee jerk reaction when she used the word “belong.” The truth is I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere.

Belonging is an embedded human desire. We all want to belong somewhere. We want community, culture, and people who understand us. We want to know we are desired, welcome, and have a seat at the table. When we don’t belong, we are grieved. It’s an ache that rocks us to sleep. The pain is so deep it’s like a hole that tries to swallow us down into a world of darkness. It’s the same kind of darkness I see in our world right now.

As the racism in our country becomes more exposed and fear, pain, and panic escalate, so do our reactions. I am so tempted to find my sense of a belonging with a particular side. I think that’s what has been so tricky for me. I hear things from different sides, and I am torn. No one person, leader, or group fully represents my heart on the issue of racism, and trying to find belonging when I can’t wholeheartedly agree with one side has been futile.

As I try to find my place in all of this, I’m tempted to just bury my head and ignore everything, and I’m tempted to use Scripture or self-pity as weapons, to gather up arguments as ammunition for battle. Like so many, I want to handle my pain apart from God and manage it in my own power. We all want to control how we’re perceived, how others think, how a conversation goes, or what the outcome will be. But when we silence the vulnerable, cup our hands over our ears and only protect our own interests, that’s when our temptation for power is the strongest. And the only force to break it is to worship God.

Power is the attempt to be God, and worshipping Him allows God to be God. It puts us in our place and in a posture where we relinquish our power back to the One who is power and who is in control.

There are still days when I’m tempted to control everything or just bury my head and ignore it all, but I know God is calling me to grow and change. Growth is painful and hard, and it requires me to relinquish control. It means entering parts of my story that are still stinging with pain. But I don’t want to cover my eyes and just get through it the same way I did at that dinner table when cruel jokes were recklessly shot out like bullets. I don’t want to pretend I’m okay. I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to go back to the way things were before.

Life will never go back to normal. And though, there is grief in that reality, there is goodness in it as well. When everything has been sifted and shifted, we will find the gift of deeper belonging when we exchange our power for God’s power and find communion with Him. When we don’t feel like we fit anywhere, acceptance can be found when we admit how unaccepted and powerless we feel at times. We become children asking God again and again for help to see and to have hearts to hear. Relinquishing our power to control everything around us and in us means we must break, opening ourselves to true intimacy — to true belonging.

I broke after that dinner party when I cried until there were no more tears. But in the breaking, my hands were pried open to worship the One who made me who I am and in whom I truly belong.

As we do our best to navigate this current season, may we find the belonging we so desperately crave in Christ, the One who laid down His power to reconcile us back to God.

 

[bctt tweet=”Worship puts us in our place and in a posture where we relinquish our power back to the One who is power and who is in control. -Anjuli Paschall:” username=”incourage”]

You Can Do Hard Things

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Scared and alone, I entered the hospital.

While doctor’s appointments and tests have become a standard part of my life since receiving a rare disease diagnosis, this day was different. I’d grown accustomed — and unquestionably taken for granted — the ability to have a family member or friend by my side. With the pandemic continuing to press on, my only option was to brave the appointment alone as I faced the added fear of being exposed to a disease that didn’t play nice with weakened immune systems.

In the twenty-four hours leading up to the appointment, my emotions ran the full gamut. Every potential scenario played out in my mind: Would I be exposed to COVID? Was my immune system strong enough to handle it if I was? Would this visit counteract the stay-at-home orders I had so rigorously followed?

Fear and uncertainty weighed heavily on my heart as I longed for a different reality.

As I rummaged through the house to create a make-shift mask, my emotions continued to escalate. In a last-ditch attempt not to have to deal with the appointment alone, I asked my husband to drive me to the hospital and wait in the parking lot. As luck would have it, our schedules didn’t coincide. I had to undertake this alone — or so I thought.

You can do hard things, I reminded myself as I drove to the hospital. After enduring a year and a half of chemotherapy, undergoing routine bloodwork should have felt like a walk in the park, but I couldn’t deny the fear and uncertainty that had welled up inside of me. Throughout the years, I’d learned that bravery isn’t so much a choice as it is the willingness to do the hard things even when we are scared.

After I parked the car, I got out, and my feet began to propel me closer and closer to the hospital doors. I took several deep breaths, in and out. Stepping through the automatic sliding doors, peace slowly began to replace my panic, though at first, I couldn’t pinpoint why. COVID prescreen, check. Registration, a breeze. Bloodwork, done in record time.

In less than fifteen minutes, my feet were back on the parking lot pavement making their way to the car. As a sigh of relief escaped my lips, a slow realization dawned on me: I hadn’t been alone. God had been present.

The Bible reminds us that, “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble” (Psalm 46:1 ESV).

Life often requires us to do things scared, to take steps forward in faith. How quick I am to forget that God goes with me through the trials and burdens of this life both big and small!

Isaiah 41:10 tells us, “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

Fear reminds me that it is okay if I don’t feel equipped because my weakness can be a place for God’s strength to shine through. On my own, fear can be a powerful deterrent, but with God, fear does not get the final say.

I won’t always have a family member or friend by my side as I walk through the burdens of this life, but I can take one courageous step after the next knowing that God’s presence is in my midst (1 Corinthians 3:16 ESV). While I cannot eliminate fear from my life, I can cast all of my anxiety on God because He cares for me (1 Peter 5:7 NIV). There is no burden too great or too small for God to bear.

How has God’s presence been a comfort to you in this season?

 

 

[bctt tweet=”Bravery isn’t so much a choice as it is the willingness to do the hard things even when we are scared. -MaryBeth Eiler:” username=”incourage”]

When You Feel the Impact of Jesus’ Skin

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After inspecting the skin on his forearm, my son looks up and announces, “My skin isn’t white, but it’s not as dark as my friend Sam’s.” I nod in affirmation. He cocks his head to one side and asks, “So what color am I?”

As a mixed race, transracial, part Asian American family, it’s impossible to avoid the subject of skin color, race, and ethnicity. Noticing difference has always been normal for me and my kids.

Whenever we can, we affirm our kids’ noticing skin color and tone. Whether it’s their own, a friend’s, a stranger’s, a toy’s, or a book character’s, we talk about what we see and note how beautiful the variations are. Every moment of noticing is an opportunity to tell the truth.

We can’t celebrate, know, or grow alongside what we pretend not to see.

In college, I did a Bible study with a group of friends about the life and ministry of Jesus. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, sandwiched between two afternoon classes — “Literature of the Holocaust” and “Blacks and Jews in the National Imagination” — I walked to a local coffee shop and spent time poring over Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. For hours on those days, my mind was filled with stories of systemically oppressed people groups from the books in my literature classes and the stories of Jesus’ life and ministry told through the gospels.

One particular afternoon, in-between sips of my coffee, I read a paragraph in the study that emphasized how Jesus might’ve looked. It said that based on where He was from, He likely had very dark skin, and course, black hair, like me. Before this, I had never heard anyone describe Jesus as anything other than white. As I considered His face and skin, I cried right into my coffee cup.

I thought about Jesus coming to the house I grew up in. I’m now sure that if He had, He wouldn’t sigh or roll His eyes when my mom would tell Him to take His shoes off. I’m sure He wouldn’t have minded the scent of kimchi that never left our fridge.

I thought about what it would’ve been like to stand right next to Jesus, close enough to see the sweat on His dark, earthly skin and smell the way His clothes, breath, and hair might have carried the scent of cumin, coriander, garlic, and dill.

It was during that semester years ago I became convinced that more than anyone else yesterday, today, or tomorrow, Jesus goes out of His way to notice, lift up, and love those who are treated as if they are unseen. It’s Jesus who sees our skin color, our culture, our humanity.

Imagining Jesus with His Middle Eastern skin moved my faith beyond the barriers that stood between infancy and intimacy.

God didn’t give us gifts of color and culture so we would pretend they didn’t matter. Jesus with His brown skin, poor skin, lonely skin, targeted skin, villainized skin, arrested skin, wounded skin, and resurrected-but-still-scarred skin made every color and culture of humanity matter. He gave each of us our colors so we can learn how to recognize and discover the breadth and width of His perfect love in our diversity.

In the face of our nation’s years of systemic racism and oppression, may we consider the details of Jesus’ humanity, and let them move us one step closer to a posture of humility, repentance, and healing.

So the Word became human and made his home among us. He was full of unfailing love and faithfulness. And we have seen his glory, the glory of the Father’s one and only Son.
John 1:14 (NLT)

God knows what it feels like to be human. He sees your tired skin, tender skin, dark-as-night skin, ripe-as-a-peach skin, hairy skin, freckled skin, wrinkled skin, creamy-hot-cocoa skin, almond skin, smooth skin, changing-color-with-the-seasons skin, calloused skin, and loves every inch of your fearfully-made, intentionally-given skin.

Incarnate isn’t just a spiritual word; it’s the Word made flesh with divine details of culture and ethnicity.

I tell my son, “Your skin is the color of caramel and brown sugar, and I see God’s face and understand His love a little bit more when I see you.”

 

[bctt tweet=”Incarnate isn’t just a spiritual word; it’s the Word made flesh with divine details of culture and ethnicity. -@tashajunb:” username=”incourage”]