The Faithfulness of God in the Midst of Bitter Loss

The Faithfulness of God in the Midst of Bitter Loss

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I remember the moment like it was yesterday. I got a call late in the evening that my oldest sister had passed away from heart failure. While her death and the events of that evening were swift, they felt like an eternity. It was the hardest news I’d been given since receiving a similar phone call about my father who passed away when I was nineteen years old. Loss of life is sobering. I hate it, and I know that it’s not what God originally intended for humanity. I also know that God loves us deeply and purely, and one day He will make all things new. The loss of my sister that I experienced wasn’t a loss of everything; I still had my home and my children. Yet in an extremely small way, I understand a taste of what Naomi must have felt as she faced the loss of her homeland, her husband, and her children.

Loss is something no one would ever wish for. The losses Naomi experienced were the ingredients for a tragic life. Naomi had fled her homeland with her husband and their two sons. While in Moab, tragedy struck and her husband died, leaving behind Naomi with her sons and her daughters-in-law. Ten years later, her two sons also died. Naomi now had to lead her two daughters-in-law, Ruth and Orpah, to find food, shelter, and a new life without their husbands.

Naomi knew she couldn’t survive without returning to the land of Israel to find assistance from the community of her people (Deuteronomy 25:5-10). She was a widow with no money, so these three women set out to return to the land of Israel. Can you imagine the terror each of them must have felt?

It’s clear from the first chapter of Ruth that Naomi loved these women as her own daughters. Naomi instructed them to return to their homes. She urged her daughters-in-law to leave her. Her prayer for them was that the Lord would deal kindly with them and she acknowledged their love and kindness toward her. Most of all, she desired that they find husbands and rest.

Even though her sons had died, Naomi was concerned about the future of their widows. She wanted them to be cared for and to have a future. She didn’t believe it was in their best interest to stay with her, even though she was mourning. She kissed them, another expression of devotion and love, as she attempted to compassionately send them on their way.

Naomi believed wholeheartedly that the Lord had dealt bitterly with her. Twice we see it referenced in the first chapter. She first referenced this bitter dealing as she urged her daughters-in-law to leave her so that they would find a husband and be cared for. She knew that she was too old to conceive, and if she had, the women would have to wait until the sons were grown to remarry. This was inconceivable to Naomi, so she urged them to leave adding, “No, my daughters, my life is much too bitter for you to share, because the Lord’s hand has turned against me” (Ruth 1:13). She didn’t desire any further tragedy for her daughters. The women wept together and Orpah left. Ruth, however, stayed.

The two women traveled to Bethlehem and when the resident women saw Naomi, they asked if it was truly her. Naomi responded, “Don’t call me Naomi. Call me Mara, for the Almighty has made me very bitter. I went away full, but the Lord has brought me back empty. Why do you call me Naomi, since the Lord has opposed me, and the Almighty has afflicted me?” (Ruth 1:20-21). Naomi not only believed that the Lord was angry with her, but she also wanted the women to call her Mara, which means bitter (Exodus 15:23).

Because we know the end of the story, we can see that Naomi was misinterpreting her circumstances and applying wrath where there was none.

Naomi loved Ruth and desired good for her. And to make a short story even shorter, Naomi coached Ruth and instructed her on how to win over Boaz. Ruth obeyed, married Boaz, and bore a son.

What is beautiful is how the same women who Naomi told to call her Mara are the women at the end of the story who point Naomi to the faithfulness of God:

“Blessed be the Lord, who has not left you without a family redeemer today. May his name become well known in Israel. He will renew your life and sustain you in your old age. Indeed, your daughter-in-law, who loves you and is better to you than seven sons, has given birth to him.”
Ruth 4:14-15 (CSB)

Oh, the great faithfulness of God! This is as much a story of Naomi as it is of Ruth. The Lord was faithful to Naomi. The Lord provided above and beyond all that she could have requested through her daughter Ruth. God’s great redemption plan flows through this story as well. Ruth and Boaz’s son was Obed, who was the father of Jesse, and Jesse was the father of King David, whose line led to the Messiah.

Many of us don’t go through tragedy as we see in the story of Naomi and Ruth. Instead, we fear the potential for tragedy. And then there are others of us who, perhaps like Naomi, assume God is out to get us and we wait in anxiety for the next tragic circumstance. But let this story build your faith. We don’t see all that God sees, and we don’t know all that God knows. We only see in part — as we know, we walk by faith, not by sight (2 Corinthians 5:7). We cling to that glimmer of hope and run to His throne of grace. If you are facing a tough circumstance, pray that God would give you fresh faith to walk, though blindly, believing in Him and knowing that He has laid out your path. And like Naomi, for each of us, the path ultimately leads to our Messiah.

This devotion was written by Trillia Newbell for the (in)courage Devotional Bible, originally titled “The Story of Naomi.”

 

[bctt tweet=”We don’t see all that God sees, and we don’t know all that God knows. We only see in part — as we know, we walk by faith, not by sight (2 Corinthians 5:7) -@trillianewbell:” username=”incourage”]

How Do We Measure the Immeasurable?

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I count the white, wiry hairs poking from the part in my scalp. There are too many. I give up and measure the length from root to where the color changes. These markers are comforting to me right now. I’ve never been a numbers person, but lately, I cling to what feels measurable.

I stare at graphs, trying to grasp the invisible movement of a global pandemic. I print and cut out guides for measuring my kids’ ever-growing feet. I check the ratio of water to rice in our rice cooker, making sure it comes to a round curve in just the right place close to my flattened knuckles, before closing the lid and pressing start. I number each page of a letter I wrote and count how many sticks of butter we have left in the fridge. I add up how many days it’s been since Breonna Taylor was murdered, and the days since stack up without justice: 154.

My son begs me to check the weather again, asking me exactly how long the on-going summer storm will last. Irritated, I give him the same answer I’ve given him ten times in the last hour, “It looks like it will last for most of the night, but I don’t really know.” I tell him he’s safe, and I feel like a liar. The muscles in his shoulders and forehead stay clamped together at my response. I recognize my own stress in the creases above his brow. I see the stress of a nation and world in his small, light brown shoulders.

I want to know how long things will be the way they are too, but the things I want to measure most are immeasurable.

Every day, I grasp for answers in places that refuse to deliver. I scroll my newsfeeds, searching for something. I text with a friend. I discuss with my husband while we scrape small clumps of food from the dinner dishes, both of us exhausted from another day of living in this strange time. I read and reread the latest statement from our local school district to see if I missed any details that might offer comfort.

I order more masks and remember a post I read about how “un-American” masks are. As an American kid living in Tokyo in the eighties I was used to seeing them, and my mom sent us cute cloth masks from the Korean store years ago. Am I not American? I feel the collective weight of living while surrounded by the unrelenting dread of waking to another day of hate and tension, like a fog that consumes the whole sky.

I read Jeremiah and remember that God’s people have always lived through hardship and difficulty. The prophet Jeremiah lived through transition and trauma and wrote on God’s behalf, encouraging and instructing his fellow Israelites in Babylonian exile:

Build homes, and plan to stay. Plant gardens, and eat the food they produce. Marry and have children. Then find spouses for them so that you may have many grandchildren. Multiply! Do not dwindle away! And work for the peace and prosperity of the city where I sent you into exile. Pray to the Lord for it, for its welfare will determine your welfare.
Jeremiah 29:5-7 (NLT)

Living through a global pandemic isn’t living through exile. But what if we took those God-given instructions to heart for ourselves today?

Despite everything, build and plant. In Little Women, Jo March said, “necessity is indeed the mother of invention.” What can we build and create in the places that feel lacking and in-need? Where can we plant seeds, tend to them, and believe that life can rise again?

Despite everything, multiply. How can we connect with others and let God multiply our connections despite all of the things that feel lethargic and limited right now?

Despite everything, work and pray. What if we work for the peace and prosperity of where we live and want the same good for our enemies? This one knocks me over inside. It’s easy to understand doing this with people I love, but God told the Israelites to do this for the Babylonians. God’s heart always stretches further than we’d choose or expect. Our welfare isn’t tied to fighting for our personal rights, comforts, national freedom, or the American Dream. It is tied to the welfare of those we don’t understand, those we look down on, and those we don’t want to associate with.

I ask God how long, and instead of a measured forecast, I’m reminded of how far Jesus’ arms stretched from one side of a cross to the other. Unjustly nailed unto death, as far as the east is from the west, His love is immeasurable. His arms reach wide with every longing the world bears to gather us up in love, like a mother hen.

My son wakes after midnight. He stands at my bedside in the dark, asking how long the storm will be. I tell him I don’t know how close the lighting will strike or if hail will pelt our roof again. The words I offer fall empty from my tired mouth. I scoot over, make room, and wrap my arms around his still, small frame. I listen to the ceiling fan whirl, feel the cool air on my cheeks, and hear his rhythmic breath lengthen and relax as he finally falls asleep.

 

[bctt tweet=”What if we work for the peace and prosperity of where we live and want the same good for our enemies? -@tashajunb:” username=”incourage”]

An Easy Way to Make the World Better Right Now

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Ours is a weighty world right now, isn’t it? Where are the carefree days of summer, a mid-year break from responsibility, work, and maybe even most of your worries? Even if you’re able to get away for a few days, it’s impossible to escape the gravity of pandemic and politics and protests. Is there any way to make the world around us a bit brighter?

When I wasn’t even thinking about it, I found an answer. Actually, it was a simple reminder that showed up in the most unexpected of places — on a bag of chips.

Friends recently invited us for a weekend visit, and we had jumped at the chance. Though we’ve been protected (so far) from COVID, cabin fever had set in. That, the monotony of our days, and the ridiculous heat and humidity of middle Georgia had us packing our bags. Almost five months into the practice of distancing, we craved proximity.

Rain threatened to dampen my enthusiasm right when we got to our friends’ home, but I wasn’t having it — especially the irony of not having seen a drop in weeks (bless my veggie patch’s withering heart), and now it decides to pour? But after a lifetime of living in the South, I knew it would pass soon enough.

So, we slipped into our swimsuits and gathered all the things we needed for an afternoon on the lake — eats and drinks and towels and sunscreen. We waited for the storm to pass and caught up with each others’ lives. Pretty soon and just as expected, the sun chased away the clouds. We took our queue and hit the water.

Maybe an hour into our boat ride, my husband dove into the snacks. He walked over to me with a grin on his face, and I realized he was eating forbidden fruit to a man on a low carb diet — potato chips. And not just any potato chip, but the beloved choice of my youth — Lay’s barbecue chips. He held out the bag, and I inhaled deeply, wondering how in the world something so right could be so wrong. In a sweet and selfless gesture, Tad said, “Just two more” and handed over the rest.

While waxing nostalgic, I reached in to grab a handful (no one can eat just one, right?), and it was then I noticed something on the front of the bag, a little message of encouragement:

Be kind today and . . . 

            Ask someone how they’re feeling.

The message resonated immediately. How many times have I asked that very question over the last five months? How many times has someone asked me that question? We’ve been swimming in the same COVID-infested waters for months now, and it has taken a toll on all of us. Couple that with on-going racial tensions and our current political climate, and I imagine we’re all sick and tired of being sick and tired.

I couldn’t wait to get back to our friends’ house to dig through the rest of the chip bags to see what messages were on them. Sure enough, each type of chip had a different message—

Be kind today and . . . 

Show you care by helping out.
Stand up for someone.
Tell someone you appreciate them.

My marketing brain loved the intentional product packaging and design. I applauded Lay’s for including positive and affirming messages (especially for children), for encouraging kindness, and offering suggestions how to do so.

As I sat on the boat among friends, spirits lifted and alone in my thoughts, I marveled at God’s kindness and how a little bag of chips could preach good news to me. As an empty nester with my kids scattered over three states, family out of town, and friends hunkered down, I’ve had intense bouts of loneliness and even low-grade depression over the last few months. While a great thing happened this year – my first book released! – the world has turned upside-down, and the personal implications have been disheartening. I miss corporate worship, going out to eat, seeing the bottom half of people’s faces. I miss all the “normal” things I took for granted. I’ve grown weary.

I teeter-totter between “fine” and “un-fine” day to day, hour to hour, and sometimes moment to moment. As someone who can always find silver linings and bright sides, I do see God at work. But more than ever, I’ve sensed spiritual warfare and realized we aren’t made for this world. We’re made for something more, something better.

Right now our nation is polarized. Civil discourse can be elusive. But kindness will always make the world a better place. We can make make that happen right now.

For starters, love is kind (1 Corinthians 13:4). All of 1 Corinthians 13 offers us practical ways to express love and kindness. Ephesians 4:32 tells us kindness is tenderhearted and forgiving. Galatians 6:10 says “as we have opportunity, let us do good to everyone.” We may not know the details of suffering for those around us, but beneath the surface we’re all battling something. The kindness of others may be exactly what we need.

Scripture speaks to kindness in the Old Testament to the New, and one of the most interesting verses to me is Proverbs 11:17 (ESV):

A man who is kind benefits himself, but a cruel man hurts himself.

Being kind benefits others, but it also does ourselves good. As I extend kindness to the people around me, it offers me a return blessing. It might seem elementary, but it doesn’t diminish the truth: being kind is the easiest way to make our world a better place. Right here, right now.

 

[bctt tweet=”We may not know the details of suffering for those around us, but beneath the surface we’re all battling something. The kindness of others may be exactly what we need. -@robindance:” username=”incourage”]

Step into the Light: a Story of Healing after Sexual Assault

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*TRIGGER WARNING: The post you are about to read deals with sexual assault and abuse. There is no graphic language used, but the subject matter is sensitive in nature.

It was in a coffee shop on an April evening when I realized for the first time I’d been sexually assaulted. It had been three months since the assault, and three months and two days since I’d broken up with my boyfriend.

I had gone to a Starbucks, armed with my laptop, planning to write the pain out of me. I thought if I could just write an angsty poem or a reflective letter, it would all go away. I felt like someone had carved out my insides.

I hadn’t written in months. Instead, I’d gone to journalism school feeling empty and scooped out. I binge-watched two seasons of Pretty Little Liars in three days. I dreamed of snakes and scorpions and my teeth falling out. Sometimes my fear would seep out in a visceral way, and it would take hours to stop my hands from shaking.

I opened my laptop and pulled up a blank page. I stared at the blinking cursor. Before I realized what I was doing, I found myself on Google, slowly typing five words:

Legal definition of sexual assault

The words sat in the search bar, boring into me — black and bold and heavy.

The legal definition wouldn’t lie. It wouldn’t adhere to emotion or feeling. It would be factual, detached. If I could understand the legality, perhaps I could grasp the shards I was holding in my sliced hands.

Over seventeen million results flooded my screen. I clicked the first one.

I read each bullet point, bewildered by the words I was reading — reading exactly what had happened to me. I felt as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped on me, and suddenly, I was freezing.

I tried to slow my breathing, tried not to look like I had just uncovered the magnitude behind my hollowed-out soul.

I found another website, SACHA, a sexual assault center in the core of my city. There was a phone number, a 24-hour hotline. I slammed my laptop down, grabbed my purse, and ran back to my car.

The sun was setting, streaking the sky with pink and orange and magenta. I placed my hand on my heart and tried to take a full breath but my lungs wouldn’t cooperate.

I typed the number in my phone and called. An operator picked up.

“Um,” I stuttered. “I’m looking for SACHA?” I mispronounced the center’s name.

The operator’s voice instantly softened, “You’re looking to talk to someone?”

“Yes, please.” My voice sounded far away and timid, even to my own ears.

“I think someone should be available now. Let me try and put you through.”

Music came across my phone and played for a few minutes. I kept looking out at the parking lot, the dusk light settling on my windshield. The sky was pink and peach — hopeful. What was I doing, calling this hotline? What would I even say?

“Hi, this is Hannah,” a voice came on the other end of the line before I had the chance to disconnect. “I’m a volunteer at SACHA. This call is anonymous and confidential. No information will leave here unless I feel as though you are in immediate danger. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Neither of us said anything. Suddenly I heard myself sobbing, “Mine happened about three months ago.” My nose was clogged, and tears poured down my face.

“Oh,” Hannah said gently.

“I — I don’t know what to do,” I whimpered. “I’m trying to move on, or get help, or heal. I want to get over this so badly. But — recently I’ve just felt so sad. I don’t understand how I feel so sad.”

“That’s a very normal reaction to have. I’m so glad you called. It’s a very good thing that you’re working on moving forward. All of this is progress.”

“Okay,” I wiped my streaming nose against the cuff of my sweatshirt. “I guess what I’m having the hardest time with is the legitimacy. I keep wondering if I’m being dramatic. Other girls have it way worse than me. He didn’t rape me. He was my boyfriend. I should be fine. I didn’t even know if I should call this number because I feel like I should be over this by now.”

“You’re minimizing this,” Hannah said. “Again, a lot of people tend to react this way. And if you’ve been repressing it for three months then you may feel even more like you shouldn’t be so affected by it by now. But you shouldn’t minimize your pain. Your pain is valid.”

I listened to her as she spoke, her voice soft but firm, a complete stranger to me. And yet I had just told this girl I didn’t know the most vulnerable and terrifying experience that had happened to me.

“Thank you for talking to me,” I told her at the end of our fourteen-minute conversation.

“That’s what we’re here for. Day or night, you can call. We have free counseling available too if that’s something you’re interested in. Some people are fairly averse to the idea of counseling. Others find it really helps.” She gave me the center’s number, in case I wanted to call the next morning and put my name down on the waitlist.

I ended the call.

_____

For a long time after the call, I think I’m okay. I see a Christian counselor for eight months. I try to tell her how I’m feeling, but I mostly skirt around the main topic. I can’t ever say it outright. The words feel too dirty, and I think deep inside it must have been my fault anyway.

I date someone else and am astonished by his kindness to me. His kindness makes me angry because I don’t know if I deserve it. I treat him horribly and blame him for all the hurt I experienced in my previous relationship. I leave a heap of damage in my wake. I hurt people because of how much I’m hurting inside.

Counseling is expensive, and I’m not sure what else to say to my therapist. I tell a few of my friends, but I wonder if they will get tired of me wanting to talk about what happened. The nightmares slow down. There are some weeks where I don’t wake up crying.

Over the next year and a half, I put all of my focus into school. I get an overseas internship and go to England. I think I’m ready to tell the world my story, so I write an essay from my miniature flat in London. The essay is angry and forthright and comes from a place of wanting to get over the pain. I send it to some people I love and they tell me not to publish it, which just makes me feel angrier and more ashamed. I wonder if I’ll always feel marred by this.

The night I get home from my summer internship in England, I find out my friend has died. She was killed in a car accident early that morning.

My dad tells me when I get home, his phone dangling from his fingertips. “I think Tat’s been killed,” he says.

I am holding onto my sister’s baby, and I cling to her too tightly, causing her to cry. My friend Tat Blackburn — the astoundingly kind girl I’d been mentoring for the last three years, who helped plant our church, who was supposed to be getting married in October, whom I had just spoken to days earlier — was gone. My heart cannot handle the grief.

Her death cracks me right open, and all of my sadness spills out — grief over the loss of her and the sexual assault from over a year earlier. All of it commingle together, and I wonder if I might drown.

_____

It’s the summer after England, a whole year since Tat died. I haven’t spoken of my assault much, but it’s overwhelming me, coming up over and over in my mind and in my body. 

I sit on my sister’s couch. My friend Michelle sits across from me. I’ve just put my nephew to bed. I’m on babysitting duty, and my sister and her husband are out.

I look at Michelle, and immediately I feel safe. She’s had a grueling six months that are almost unfathomable, and I have vowed to her and God and myself to stick by her side for as long as she needs it.

But she doesn’t want to talk about her year anymore. She wants to talk about me.

“I know stuff is going on with you,” she says kindly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

And there it is: an opportunity to come clean, a chance to pry the secret away from its heavy grip on my chest and release it to her.

I had told other people before. For three years, I’d harbored immense pain and shame. Every time I had told someone my secret, I regretted saying something so vulnerable.

But there’s something about Michelle. She makes me feel safe. She’s non-judgmental. She’s suffering too — and there’s something about sharing in your suffering with someone else that makes you feel a fraction less alone.

I open my mouth and start to tell her.

I explain how my ex-boyfriend sexually abused me three years ago while we were dating. That’s the official word for what happened: abuse. Two different counselors confirmed it for me. Psychological, emotional, and sexual abuse. The words feel heavy, and make my stomach twist. I’m still not used to them because I’ve consistently tried to ignore that it happened. Most people didn’t even know we were dating. I’d never posted photos of him on my social media feed — I’d never wanted to. It had felt like the world was made up of just the two of us, and everyone else had seemed so far away.

“Do you want to tell me exactly what happened?”

She’s the only person who has ever asked that before. And instead of finding it intrusive, I find it strangely freeing.

“I’m scared to tell you,” I say.

She nods.

“I’m afraid you’ll tell me it’s not a big deal or that it’s not real — and if that’s the case, then I have no idea why I’ve been in so much pain the past three years.”

She smiles sadly, but I know it’s an invitation. Michelle isn’t trying to keep me quiet because she’s uncomfortable. Instead, she’s offering me her presence as a safe place to enter into the fullness of my pain — pain I’ve tried to hide from for so long.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she says. But I want to. I push myself further into my sister’s grey couch.

I shake violently as I explain it to her. I can still see the scene replay in my mind from that Sunday night in February. We were in his mother’s living room. There was one lone lamp lit up in the corner; everything else was dark. I remember I cried, and he just looked at me. I remember The Meaning of Marriage by Timothy Keller sat on his bedside table. I remember we got ice cream together the next day.

I can feel the trauma in my body, happening all over again, as I recount the details to her. It is the middle of summer, but I am so cold. I try to start at the beginning, but I can’t think linearly, and I find myself telling story after story in a strange order.

Michelle doesn’t ask me to stop. She keeps listening. Words rush out of my mouth, but I can’t look at her. Instead, I stare at my sister’s fringed carpet, the throw cushions, my fingernails.

My gaze is blurry when I finally turn toward her. I blink through my tears and see she is crying too. For some reason, it is hard to believe she is crying. If she’s crying, perhaps what I’m feeling actually is real.

Michelle looks at me when I’m done, after I’ve taken long, slow, wavering breaths.

She holds my gaze, hardly blinking. “What happened to you is real,” she says. “It is real, and I am so sorry. I am sorry it happened, and I’m sorry no one believed you. I am sorry you felt shame. I am sorry no one validated your experience. I am so, so sorry.”

I feel like I can breathe again.

I think it’s one of the first times someone has listened to my story and hasn’t tried to fix it, spin it in a positive light, or convince me that I’m being melodramatic.

Michelle listens to me and I feel heard.

Michelle listens to me and I start to heal.

_____

I decide to go back to counseling. I find a trauma and sexual abuse counselor online. I call their office and ask to schedule an appointment. I am more confident this time all these years later, but I still feel scared.

Michelle has already decided she will drive me to my intake session. I think she wonders if I might back out, and honestly, there’s a good chance of that. She knows where the center is, so she offers to drive me the day of the appointment. She promises to walk me through the double doors, up the stairs, and into the waiting room. I feel like throwing up just thinking about it, and I’m grateful she will accompany me.

The morning before I go, I sit on my couch in my apartment. As I pray, I see a picture start to form in my head. It’s like a movie reel playing through my mind, but my eyes are open. God knows me better than anyone, and He knows how visual I am. I’ve gotten these pictures a few times over the course of my life, and when they start to play, I’ve learned to stop and listen.

I see a picture of Jesus form. I can see it in my mind’s eye.

I am clothed in darkness. He is bathed in brilliant light. He extends His hand toward me, His smile wide.

“Come into the light with Me, Aliza,” He seems to say. “I won’t leave you alone.”

I look down, and I am in a prison of shame and fear and anger. The prison bars surround me, but the door is wide open, and Jesus is standing outside of it, the light pooling around His feet.

It’s a clear invitation. His hand is open, outstretched towards me.

I take His hand, and I leave the darkness behind me.

I know it’s time to tell the truth now. I know the truth sets me free.

I have decided to step into the light.

On Hearing Christ, Not Chaos and Conspiracies

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I’m sitting on my back porch – our slightly peeling but sunny, little deck – and that’s it. I’m just sitting. A sprinkler is whirling unhurried in one corner of our small backyard. I look at the water. It’s relaxing and calming – a refreshing, dancing trickling that looks clean and sounds nice. I notice the birds chirping. Little children a yard over are playing. A light breeze is blowing. To my ears, indeed, this simple scene is good and sweet.

But why listen? Because if I go back inside and turn on the TV, watch YouTube, scroll through social media, or listen to the radio, the world is screaming.

About what? Panic and pandemonium. The sky is falling. Evil forces are taking over the world — controlling the media, plotting against the government, creating deadly vaccines, using 5G to spread coronavirus, infiltrating our microwave ovens, plotting through a deep state to destroy urban cities, our suburbs, and our world. The message from it all: Be afraid.

Indeed.

You’ve probably heard some of these theories. In the U.S., as we get closer to a national election – and while we endure a pandemic – the intrigues get louder, more unsettling, and scarier. But what are we really hearing through the clamor? And Who can help us handle it?

Well, first, in a word, we’re hearing fear.

Both theologians and psychologists say uncertainty and change leave people feeling threatened and out of control. Enter the conspiracy theorists, all too eager to “explain” what’s “really happening” so that anxious people will “know” the “real” truth. (And, yes, that’s a lot of quotation marks.)

I’m saddened, indeed, to learn that some conspiracy followers tend to be socially isolated and alienated, spending hours following social media feeds and news show talking heads who peddle the latest panic.

Embracing these plots may make people feel “smarter,” experts say, by “knowing” what others “can’t see.” As Bible scholar Dru Johnson, director of the Center for Hebraic Thought, explains, such thinking is a soft form of Gnosticism, the second-century idea that special knowledge (gnosis in ancient Greek) enables redemption, instead of Christ alone.

Lacking, however, in this conspiracy dynamic, says Johnson, is humility. Two key questions that conspiracy followers don’t ask, are “How could I be wrong about this?” and “Could I be participating in misleading others?” — not to mention misleading oneself.

But what happens if we turn to God?

Sitting on my back porch, listening to children laugh and birds sing, I think of what Jesus said to His anxious disciples and reminds us today: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me” (John 14:1 NIV).

In Him, with hearts freed from trouble, we’re granted this stunning gift: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid” (John 14:27 NIV).

Turning off troubling news – a challenge for me, as one of His humble journalists – tests me every time. What if I miss an important news story? A vital press conference? A breaking news announcement? (Or, actually, the latest TV gossip?)

Or I could do this instead: listen to the One who said, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33 NIV). What if we surrender our fears and listen to His bidding – to live in this uncertain time with deep-hearted confidence, trusting and believing His gentle invitation to hear His voice of calm and not chaos?

As He promised, “My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me” (John 10:27 NIV).

So, if we’re tempted to follow those who speak conspiracy not Christ, here’s the best way to respond: Let’s turn them off. And then, let’s run to Him. He’s waiting on our porches – and in our hearts – to give us perfect peace.

 

[bctt tweet=”If we’re flirting with and following those who speak conspiracy not Christ, here’s the best way to respond: Let’s turn them off. And then, let’s run to Him. -Patricia Raybon:” username=”incourage”]

Living Well with Unfilled Longings

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Not too long ago, my pastor spoke on the importance of children and family ministry — ironic, considering the unrelenting baby fever sparked by the cute child peeking over her mother’s shoulder only a couple rows ahead.

“This message isn’t just for those of you with kids,” Pastor Billy remarked (Okay, I’m listening), “We’re all a part of the body of Christ, and the body of Christ is a family. When we talk about raising the kids of this church, it applies to us all.”

At my not-so-great-but-certainly-more-honest moments, I don’t want to hear that spiritual mothers can be such an influential part of discipling and raising up the next generation. You see, I’ve felt a desire to be a mom for as long as I can remember, and I don’t particularly love the idea of letting that desire go. I want actual children, not just spiritual children (which sounds kind of funny anyway).

But that morning at church was different. As I sat, oriented toward the cross centered at the front of the sanctuary, I felt myself longing to accept and appreciate the reality that the Church is a family. At that moment, I wasn’t annoyed by the idea; I was grateful.

The reality exists that I may never get married. I may not be able to get pregnant. I may never have kids to call my own. And despite that sobering truth, a part of me is comforted that when the Church reaches beyond the neat family units and into the lives of those who are single and childless, it does provide a glimpse of what I desire — family. The opportunity to mentor and be mentored. People to welcome into my home and around my table.

It’s not the same as sharing a name with a husband and children of my own. Far from it, really. But it reminds me to step back and consider that we’re living in an imperfect world. We were created for something greater than this place can ever offer. Though made for Eden, we reside in a world marred by brokenness and pain instead.

Some days I find that truth to be comforting. Every good thing in this broken world — laughter, beauty, nature, successful careers, music, marriage, motherhood — is all just a glimpse of the good that is to come. Many days, however, that truth is nothing if not downright frustrating. I get so mentally stuck on my life right here, right now, that nothing in me wants to think forward to eternity. I feel defeated. How could some distant hope ever ease the ache, the desperate longing that I feel?

Yet there is something else I know to be true. If I can’t ever look past the here and now to eternity, I will find myself unfulfilled. So often we’re handed good gifts — the ones we longed for, asked for — and we find ourselves confused. We get what we want and even then it isn’t enough.

The restlessness remains.

A Bible teacher named Amy Gannett reminds us that “waiting is a common theme in the human experience.” She reflects on words previously given her by a mentor: On the other side of waiting is more waiting — a frustrating thought, really, if I’m being completely honest.

If that statement is true — that on the other side of waiting is more waiting — then attaining motherhood won’t fulfill me. It’s easy to think that having a family of my own would ease this relentless lack of peace. But a few years down the road — whether I have a family or not — I’ll search for relief in more meaningful relationships, in improved health, in financial stability, in a faith free from doubts. There’s always something feeding the restlessness we feel.

Waiting is unique for the Christian because we wait for something that extends further than this life. There’s hope in that we will one day experience God’s kingdom in full. The question is, what now? What until then? There must be some way to live well with our current unfulfilled longings.

I’ve spent years waiting for something that I cannot yet have. Nothing’s changed. I don’t want motherhood any less than I did before. And while a “once and for all” kind of letting go would be nice, it’s a bit unrealistic for today.

So, for now, the answer is daily surrender.

This doesn’t mean I’ve stopped asking for marriage and motherhood. It doesn’t mean I wait around passively until God gives me what I want. It simply means that I’ve chosen not to let this unfulfilled longing hinder me from moving forward in obedience and trust. In fact, I’ve learned that sometimes obedience and trust means taking action toward something I desire and then surrendering the outcome in God’s hands.

Surrender also means waking up each morning and in prayer, handing over my very real desire to be a mom. It’s approaching my day with gratitude for what I have to counteract the discontentment I feel. It’s recognizing God’s gift of the Church, through which He has given me a family where I will always have a place.

Will I surrender today? Yes. Day after day after day.

 

[bctt tweet=”Obedience and trust means taking action toward something I desire and then surrendering the outcome in God’s hands. -Samantha Swanson:” username=”incourage”]

The Practice of Authentic Praise

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“Hi, most-wonderful-mom-in-all-the-world!”

My fourteen-year-old daughter floated into the kitchen like a fairy carrying glad tidings. I knew better.

“You know you really are the best mom ever.” She flashed me her most convincing smile. I smiled back, but my smirk carried more of a question mark.

“What do you want?” I asked her, leveling her with my best “mom look.” I was determined to skip the meaningless flattery and get right to her true motive.

“Really? That’s so mean! I was being nice,” she argued, pretending to be indignant. Clearly she planned to keep up the charade a bit longer.

All right, I thought. I’ll play along. And then I proceeded to say nothing. Not a word. It only took her about thirty seconds to spill the beans.

“So . . .”

Here it comes.

“Katie wants to know if we could hang out tonight, do a sleepover, watch movies, the normal. Would that be okay?”

There was nothing wrong with her request. She wanted to hang out with friends, something most teenage girls do. But I felt irritated that she couched her petition with insincere praise. That bothered me more than if she’d just asked for the sleepover without the theatrics.

Am I only as loved as my next fulfilled request? Am I not a good mom because of my daily commitment to love, teach, protect, and provide for them? Do I need to prove myself yet again to deserve a little authentic gratitude or praise?

This entire interaction, though common and insignificant, caused me to pause. Over the last several weeks, I’ve been studying the practice of prayer. You’d think after a lifetime of following Jesus, reading God’s word, and actively serving the Church, I would’ve mastered the discipline of it. But I find the more I learn about prayer, the more I’m faced with how little I understand it or utilize it.

It seems my most earnest prayers spill forth when I’m facing a painful problem. Then, driven by overwhelming need and emotion, prayers spill forth without too much effort. But my words are focused almost entirely on my petitions. Sure, I’ll open with a quick mention of God’s goodness, but then I go right to my driving motivation: the problem I want Him to fix, the health challenge I want Him to solve, the provision I need Him to deliver.

But when was the last time I spent long minutes thanking God for what He’s already done? When was the last time I lingered over His nature, celebrating who He is and His presence and goodness, without demanding proof in another performance?

Is my love for God only as deep as His next fulfilled request?

This, then, is how you should pray:
Our Father in heaven,
hallowed be your name,
your kingdom come,
your will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.”
Matthew 6:9-10 (NIV)

When the disciples asked Jesus to teach them how to pray, Jesus gave them what we now call The Lord’s Prayer, which begins with these two lines of praise. Although not lengthy, these two sentences acknowledge God’s intrinsic value and worth as well as His ultimate authority. It sets the tone of everything that follows, giving voice to the truth that being able to call God our Father and us His children is already gift enough.

I want to grow in my relationship with God, such that I consistently celebrate what He’s already done. Although I will continue to bring my requests and needs before Him, as He’s invited us to do, I want to be more intentional about recognizing and savoring the wealth of what He’s already done. Because more than another divine performance, I need His nearness.

How about you? If you want to deepen your prayers with times of praise and gratitude, here are a few strategies that have been meaningful for me.

  1. Find a quiet place without distractions. I like to sit on my back deck early in the morning before my family wakes.
  2. Open your Bible to a favorite Psalm of praise. I like Psalms 18, 29, 30, 84, 91, and 95-100.
  3. Read it slowly and out loud, personalizing the Psalmist’s words into your own praise for God.
  4. Highlight phrases that stand out to you, perhaps marking the date in the margin.
  5. Using a journal, create an ongoing list of God’s unique qualities that mean the most to you. Add to this list each day you pray another Psalm.

Enter his gates with thanksgiving
and his courts with praise;
give thanks to him and praise his name.
Psalm 100:4 (NIV)

 

[bctt tweet=”I want to be more intentional about recognizing and savoring the wealth of what He’s already done because more than another divine performance, I need His nearness. -@MicheleCushatt:” username=”incourage”]

How to Pray When Healing Doesn’t Come

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On the day my husband received a stage four cancer diagnosis, a group of our closest friends and family gathered at our house to pray. They all crowded in our bedroom and circled around my husband, our three daughters, and me. On one of the scariest days of my life, I was strengthened by the fervent prayers of those in our community.

We cried out to God together for his healing. I knelt on the carpeted floor and with hot tears spilled my worst fears to God in the presence of my friends and family. That time of corporate prayer was powerful and important for all our hearts.

But after my husband’s death in 2014, I wrestled with God. Hundreds of people across the globe had prayed for months for my husband’s healing, and it hadn’t come.

Why continue to pray when our prayers weren’t answered?

As a new widow, I struggled to know how to pray and how to proceed. My faith was strong, but my heart felt fragile. My prayers escaped as desperate whispers on the darkest nights of grief.

But God was patient with me. If He could handle the bold prayers of Paul, the emotional prayers of David, and the heart cries of Job, then He could handle my doubting, imperfect, raw prayers.

Over time, I was reminded that just because we pray doesn’t mean we get our way. We don’t put in a certain amount of time on the prayer time clock to gain a certain outcome. In fact, the purpose of prayer is not to persuade God to do things our way; it’s to draw close to the Heavenly Father and sit in His presence.

Jesus models this for us when He prayed at the Mount of Olives before His betrayal:

And he withdrew from them about a stone’s throw, and knelt down and prayed,
saying, “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me.
Nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done.”
Luke 22:41-42 (ESV)

In this honest prayer, Jesus shows us how to express our hearts to God and how to pray with trust for His will to be done. In the verses that follow, an angel appears to Jesus. He is strengthened by the angel even in His deep anguish.

My heart shifted over time as I realized the purpose of prayer is to connect more intimately with the Father and trust His sovereignty. In my grief, He was close to me. He wept with me. He offered comfort when the ache was heavy and the future seemed hopeless. Now I embrace the sweetness of knowing I can surrender the outcome of every single prayer to a capable and all-knowing God.

I still believe God answers prayers. I believe miracle healings are possible, but I pray differently now. I pray boldly that “if God wills” He would heal my friend, my child, and my neighbor. I preach hope to the wife whose husband battles cancer, to the friend who wonders if his marriage will ever be repaired, to the mother who struggles with her rebellious child. I’ve been in the trenches praying with my people, and I’ve seen God answer prayers quickly, slowly, and in the most unexpected ways.

I also pray that God will give courage, grace, and strength to those who are suffering and enduring pain. My prayers are no longer based on fear and disappointment because He has proved Himself faithful time and again.

Years now after my husband’s death, I am grateful. I am not grateful for his death or our suffering, but I am grateful for the ways God has transformed our grief for His glory. I am grateful God did not reveal the outcomes to me all at once but instead guided me step by step, day by day, prayer by prayer, back into His arms.

This post was originally written by Dorina Lazo Gilmore in August 2018.

How can we pray for you?

Here at (in)courage one of our greatest privileges is turning to God together in prayer. Please leave a prayer request in the comments and then pray for the person who commented before you.

 

[bctt tweet=”I can surrender the outcome of every single prayer to a capable and all-knowing God. -@DorinaGilmore:” username=”incourage”]

Choosing to Make It Through Another Day

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There are days when I don’t want to get out of bed or play with my kids or put on real clothes. My mind feels empty and real conversation feels far too hard. I wake from a daze and find myself giving the kids a bath or reading books or playing marbles and I wonder, “How did I get here?”

There are days when I can’t sleep at night, where thoughts torment me, and I find myself huddled on the bathroom floor, weeping and wishing life didn’t have to be this way.

Nights are filled with Zoom calls, and deadlines feel all the more impossible to meet.

This is quarantine life.

I’m a working mom with no hours during the day to get work done, a woman of color with no physical community to grieve and mourn with, an introvert and an internal processor, who probably bottles up far more emotion than I should. But one day passes and another day comes, and everything starts all over again.

And then the guilt creeps in. I love my kids more than anything in this world. So why am I so impatient with them all the time? Why can’t I just put the deadlines on hold and enjoy the moment? Yes, we’re still in quarantine, but it can’t be that hard to have fun around the house? Shouldn’t I just be grateful to have a house in the first place?

I stare at my body and struggle to see the beauty. Four months with shelter-in-place stripped away all of my new year’s resolutions to better care for my health. But I also fear going outside. Our city has one of the worst positivity rates for COVID-19 in the country, and my son has respiratory issues. The risk is just far too great. But what mom really works out at home? I get one minute into an exercise, and my baby girl demands I hold her. Or it’s nap time. Or it’s lunch time. Or all that movement has upset my bladder and now I need to use the restroom because birthing two kids will do that to you.

My prayers have become smaller lately too. I’ve spent months praying for justice, for the healing of our nation, for systemic change, and for hearts and minds to be changed. Nowadays, I pray for sleep, for one foot to step in front of the other, to make it through each day. Days are not measured in terms of success but by moments of mercy and relief — by those small, precious moments where I can smile and laugh and forget the troubles of the morning.

Tears are ever ready to flow these days. The tiniest altercation on a good day can suddenly make me feel enraged. I’m exhausted by my own emotions and the weariness of my own heart.

But I’m still here. I’m still breathing and fighting and choosing to make it through another day.

The Lord is my Shepherd, even though I am still feel left wanting. The Lord is my Peace, and it is only because of Him that “in peace, I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety” (Psalm 4:8). I might not feel like I’m doing anything great these days, but I can keep choosing to cast my cares before God and commit to sleeping and waking on repeat.

Sometimes, that is enough.

 

[bctt tweet=”I can keep choosing to cast my cares before God and commit to sleeping and waking on repeat. Sometimes, that is enough. -@drmichellereyes:” username=”incourage”]

An Act of Courageous Kindness

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“Lord, God of my master Abraham,” he prayed, “make this happen for me today, and show kindness to my master Abraham. I am standing here at the spring where the daughters of the men of the town are coming out to draw water. Let the girl to whom I say, ‘Please lower your water jug so that I may drink,’ and who responds, ‘Drink, and I’ll water your camels also’ — let her be the one you have appointed for your servant Isaac. By this I will know that you have shown kindness to my master.”

Before he had finished speaking, there was Rebekah — daughter of Bethuel son of Milcah, the wife of Abraham’s brother Nahor — coming with a jug on her shoulder. Now the girl was very beautiful, a virgin — no man had been intimate with her. She went down to the spring, filled her jug, and came up. Then the servant ran to meet her and said, “Please let me have a little water from your jug.”

She replied, “Drink, my lord.” She quickly lowered her jug to her hand and gave him a drink. When she had finished giving him a drink, she said, “I’ll also draw water for your camels until they have had enough to drink.” She quickly emptied her jug into the trough and hurried to the well again to draw water. She drew water for all his camels while the man silently watched her to see whether or not the Lord had made his journey a success.

As the camels finished drinking, the man took a gold ring weighing half a shekel, and for her wrists two bracelets weighing ten shekels of gold. “Whose daughter are you?” he asked. “Please tell me, is there room in your father’s house for us to spend the night?”

She answered him, “I am the daughter of Bethuel son of Milcah, whom she bore to Nahor.” She also said to him, “We have plenty of straw and feed and a place to spend the night.” Then the man knelt low, worshiped the Lord, and said, “Blessed be the Lord, the God of my master Abraham, who has not withheld his kindness and faithfulness from my master. As for me, the Lord has led me on the journey to the house of my master’s relatives.”
Genesis 24:12-17 (CSB)

Before she became the mother of Israel, Rebekah was a simple woman living in Nahor. Abraham sent his servant to find a wife among his family’s people. His servant specifically asked God for a sign of hospitality from a woman in order to know which woman to choose as Isaac’s wife. Without knowing any of that, Rebekah was kind and generous, proving to Abraham’s servant that she would make a fine wife for Isaac. She showed incredible hospitality to Abraham’s servant, giving him a drink from the well, watering his camels, and inviting him to stay with her family.

Abraham’s servant was concerned about finding the right wife for his master’s son, and he was unsure how he would even find one option. He’d been given some strict parameters for this wife-finding expedition, and he was nervous. What if I can’t locate Abraham’s family? What if I can’t find a woman willing to travel so far? What if her family doesn’t trust me? What if I can’t find someone good enough? Rebekah’s kindness was a specific answer to prayer — not just that Isaac would have a good wife, but also that the servant would be able to complete Abraham’s mission successfully.

Abraham’s servant did not have reason to worry as he did. God was guiding him the entire time, leading him straight to the woman He had chosen for Isaac. And Rebekah was lovely inside and out, just as kind as she was beautiful. When the servant picked her out of the crowd to ask for water, she didn’t hesitate. She offered him water and then, going above and beyond, offered to get water for his camels as well. When he boldly asked if her father had room for guests, she eagerly offered their home. And when he finally revealed the reason for his visit, explaining that she would have to leave her home and travel a great distance to meet and marry Isaac, she agreed. And as we learn in Genesis 24:67, Isaac indeed loved her deeply. More than that, we know that their children’s lineage eventually led to the coming of Christ!

Do you ever get “weird” ideas that pop up out of nowhere? Or feel a “random” nudge — to offer help, to share an encouraging word or meal, to invite someone you just met into your event, your home, your life? What if those nudges aren’t actually out of nowhere? What if they’re prompts from God, preparing you to meet someone’s needs, to be the answer to his or her prayers?

What if, by obeying God and offering courageous kindness, you are in turn as blessed as the one you bless?

While it’s not always easy, hospitality is an incredible gift that God’s people can gladly and easily give one another, whether it is as simple as a drink of water or a place to stay the night. Rebekah’s hospitality was exactly the kindness Abraham’s servant needed, and like so many other stories in the Bible, it was yet another way God was preserving the line of Christ unbeknownst to the people involved.

Sometimes what seem like the smallest acts of hospitality are incredible gifts to those who receive them, and even impact the course of salvation history.

This was written by Mary Carver, as published in Women of Courage: a Forty-Day Devotional from the (in)courage community.

 

[bctt tweet=”What if, by obeying God and offering courageous kindness, you are in turn as blessed as the one you bless? #courageouskindness -@marycarver:” username=”incourage”]

Learning to Look Forward and Press On

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For weeks my oldest daughter asked me to find out where she could watch Full House. She’d seen the reboot series (Fuller House) at my parents’ house and was itching to watch the original show. I remembered it fondly from my childhood and figured it would be a fun watch this summer, so one day I found the show on one of our streaming apps and hit play.

When the theme song began playing, my head began nodding without my permission. But the thing about knowing every single word of a song I heard nearly every Friday night as a child and hearing it now, as an adult, is that my brain began processing it through a completely different lens — causing no small amount of dissonance.

Whatever happened to predictability — the milkman, the paperboy, the evening TV?
How did I get to living here? Somebody tell me, please!

At first, I chuckled. Who, living in the year 2020, can’t identify with those thoughts? How did we get here? What is happening? Where did our normal lives go? What happened to our plans, our lives, our world? And then, how do we and when will we get back to normal? What did happen to predictability?

The old TV show playing in my living room made me think of a time gone by, but as I thought about that, I began to wonder: What exactly do we mean when we long for the “good ol’ days”?

Whether we’re looking back at the TV shows of our childhood or our pre-pandemic lives before we’d heard of COVID-19, we can get caught up in exhausting our time by focusing on the past. It’s something we’ll never get back, no matter how much we try — something that might just not be as wonderful as our rose-colored lenses want to remember.

Just because something was considered “normal” before — before today, before the pandemic or the protests, before we moved or got a new job or started a business or lost a business or got married or got divorced or had a baby or finished our degree — doesn’t mean it was better or even good. Sure, some things were good, (I still like Full House!), but just because something was from “back then” doesn’t necessarily make it better.

As I thought about all this, I wondered if I was onto something true or if I was simply trying to make myself feel better about my current reality by taking the fond-memory filter off the past. Instead of posing this question to friends or followers, this time I asked God: What’s up with our white-knuckled grip on the good old days and our desperate grasp for a return to so-called normal? Is this where my heart should be? Am I seeing with clear eyes? What should I be striving toward in this season?

Now, I’m not telling you I heard the audible voice of God respond as if He were playing on Hulu alongside Uncle Jesse. But an Old Testament story I haven’t read in years did spring to mind as soon as I dared to ask those questions. The story of Lot’s wife came to mind. You know, the one God turned into salt because she looked back while escaping her horrible hometown?

Yikes! That is one story I have never understood! Why would that come to mind?

Remember Lot’s wife! Whoever tries to make his life secure will lose it, and whoever loses his life will preserve it.
Luke 17:32-33 (CSB)

Oh, right. Maybe because it was so important Jesus Himself referred to it when talking with the disciples, urging them to put their hope and trust in a truly firm foundation (Him!) instead of memories and what they thought they knew before.

Lot’s wife turned into salt not for looking back to the city she’d lived in, but because her actions revealed her heart’s alignment with the sin of the city. Rather than learning from God’s judgment on the city, she longed for what was familiar, even if it went against God’s law and plans. She was so entrenched in the sin of her environment that she refused to move forward into growth and healing.

Flipping through my Bible again, I came back to a passage I knew well. In the book of Philippians, Paul writes about his relationship with Christ, sharing his own experience in order to encourage the believers in Philippi. In chapter 3, he writes:

I don’t mean to say that I have already achieved these things or that I have already reached perfection. But I press on to possess that perfection for which Christ Jesus first possessed me. No, dear brothers and sisters, I have not achieved it, but I focus on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us”
Philippians 3:12-14 (NLT)

We’re living in dark days right now, and life is hard enough without me taking away your security blanket of nostalgia. I’m not telling you to stop finding solace in comforts, like TV shows from your childhood. But if we’re seeking real solace, if we’re looking for a true way out of our current struggles, if we’re desperate to satisfy our hunger for direction, for certainty, for hope, for everything good our hearts desire, God is clear in His Word: Now is the time to let the past go and look forward to whatever He has for us. 

Now is the time to lean into the Lord who is solid as a Rock no matter what the season, rather than grasping at the mists of a dreamy yesteryear. Now is the time to ask God what He’s doing through all this — whatever “this” might be — and how He wants us to move forward with Him.

Now is the time to look forward and press on.

 

[bctt tweet=”Now is the time to ask God what He’s doing through all this — whatever ‘this’ might be — and how He wants us to move forward with Him. -@marycarver:” username=”incourage”]

Seeing God Beyond My Limited View

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I grew up in a community where the question, “Where do you go to church?”, was like asking someone their last name or asking them in what part of town they lived or worked. In my community — a charismatic, Black, Baptist faith community situated in “Bible Belt” North Carolina — churches punctuated every corner like stop signs. Church steeples, like trees, blended into the landscape, so numerous and seemingly natural that for the most part, I was oblivious to their erected significance. 

The church building was central to our community. The church of my family’s origin is still considered our home church, serving as an anchor for the soul of the community. Our church was not simply a gathering space; it served as the center and compass for a community of folks fostering a common faith perspective. It was also a source of shelter, encouragement, and moral direction. Church was where I was equipped with the agency to restore and build the body — my individual body and the corporate body. My community of like-faith folks served as repair for the soul, rest for the weary, renewal for the mind, and comfort for the heart. 

And also within this very nurturing environment, as a child, I internalized some limiting messaging about the church and her people. I inadvertently perceived church attendance to be the definitive determiner of a person’s value. For example, when I saw a person sitting in a pew each Sunday morning at 11 a.m., I considered her to be worthy of God’s love and attention. But if I didn’t see a person for several Sundays in a row, I assumed her life was in disarray and therefore out of God’s reach. (Yes, I spent a lot of time in church pews!) As children tend to do, I categorized and compartmentalized people to make sense of the world I was growing to understand.  

Fortunately, when we are willing to grow and move — metaphorically or geographically — beyond our social nurseries, God is also there, on the other side of our limited personal and cultural experiences to encourage us to keep growing. With college, marriage, and motherhood came more growth as I moved and lived among communities and spaces where “What church do you attend?” was not considered a colloquial ice-breaker. As a matter of fact, I kept finding myself in spaces and communities where mentioning “church” stirred discomfort. Church was not synonymous with repair, rest, and renewal. Instead, church and church people were associated with shame-imposing, marginalization, and othering — yuck!

But guess who was there in my church-less, pew-less community? God! 

And guess who else was there in my non-Christianese speaking community? People bearing God’s image! Conduits of God’s essence, worthy of God’s favor, love, and attention.

I learned to live God’s love language without relying on the familiarity of my childhood church culture. Living in community with people whose relationship with church was so different from mine, not only broadened my perspective of humanity but also enlarged my capacity to experience God beyond my childhood perception of Him. Essentially, I learned to free God from the theological confines I’d inherited, and once I released God from my little church box, I became more impassioned to love people radically as Jesus loves them.

One day, as our family was settling into a new unchurched community, a mom enthusiastically struck up a “Let’s get to know each other” conversation with me. All was well until she asked me a question that required me to mention “prayer.” I felt her tense up. She walled me off, and then slowly drifted away, increasing the physical distance between us. The overt rejection hurt. But I empathized with her apprehension and precaution. There was a time in my past that I would have deemed her a heathen, unworthy, and invaluable. But God generously graced us with more time and opportunities to get to know each other. And over time, as we worked together to benefit our community, the distance between us grew smaller allowing our love for one another to grow greater.

I think it is somewhat ironic that many of the people who are currently helping to manifest God’s promises in my life do not share my Jesus-centered beliefs. And as we work in community to fiercely love and advocate for the restoration of human rights, there is no expectation for me to suppress or hide my faith. 

When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things.
1 Corinthians 13:11 (NLT)

It turns out that my childhood reasoning about how and who God loves and values was, well, childish. I am grateful to have been encompassed by God’s love — both in and beyond the culture of church. I am grateful for the opportunity to exchange my childish view for God’s true love for people and to know that God’s love will always supersede my limited perspective. 

The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it. The world and all its people belong to him.
Psalm 24:1 (NLT)

 

[bctt tweet=”When we are willing to grow and move – metaphorically and geographically – God is also there, on the other side of our limited personal and cultural experiences. -Lucretia Berry (@brownicity):” username=”incourage”]

Valuing the Beauty of God’s Masterful and Diverse Workmanship

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Years ago, my son raced out of his kindergarten classroom and into my arms and shared a story that I’d long expected but wished we could have avoided. An older student had hurled racial slurs at him during recess.

A white woman interrupted our conversation. “Oh, honey,” she said. “We’re all equal. God doesn’t see color.” Before I could respond, she smiled and walked away.

My son frowned, “God doesn’t see me because I’m brown, Mama?”

“God sees you and loves you,” I said, trying to conceal my anger. Why didn’t I tell the woman that her words hurt me and could have hurt my son if not addressed? Cupping his face in my light-but-not-white hands, I met his gaze. “God chose the color of our skin just like He chose every detail that makes everything and everyone He created special and unique.” I hugged him a little tighter than usual.

He smiled, “That kid needs us to pray for him, huh?”

“Yes, but we also need to ask the principal to make sure this behavior is not accepted.”

That night, my husband and I had our first of many talks about the racism and discrimination our son would face as a Black man in America.

When my son became a teenager, he learned firsthand that his skin color could make him a target for hate, injustice, and abuse in the eyes of some no matter how much of an upstanding citizen he continues to be. On his way home from work one day, a white officer pulled him over without cause. The officer scowled as he cuffed my son, “How can you afford this nice car?” Accusing him of being a drug dealer, the officer slammed him onto the hood of his vehicle. He released my son after checking his license — no excuses, no apologies.

Watching my son sleep that night, I thanked God that we’d spoken honestly with our children about the times when my husband, who holds a PhD and has never broken the law, had experienced discrimination and injustice. We’d prepared both of our sons to respond with exaggerated calmness and respect, in hopes to prevent them from becoming hashtag-statistics when they were the ones racially profiled by authority figures or fellow citizens. We taught them how to reply when boxed-in by stereotypes and cut with racist insults from fellow students, teachers, neighbors, coworkers, strangers, and even church members.

Though God has placed loving people and honorable police officers of all races in our lives, I lament because racism is still the inescapable reality in our world.

Some people claim colorblindness is kind and insist racism doesn’t exist, but my sons and other people of color do not have that luxury. While prayerfully studying Scripture, I’ve learned that racism and injustice were just as destructive in biblical times. But I can’t find anything that leads me to believe our loving Creator doesn’t see color, and I rejoice in the wonderful diversity He intentionally designed and purposed for the good of all.

Sin, especially racism, distorts the beauty of God’s masterful and diverse workmanship, tainting our perception of differences and breeding hate, fear, pride, and a false sense of superiority or inferiority. Sin also blurs our vision so we can’t see our own wickedness, making us quick to anger and judge before we truly listen to others. The psalmist David demonstrates how much we need God to reveal our need for heart-and-mind changes.

Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me into the way everlasting.
Psalm 139:23-24 (NIV)

My son, now a young adult, still can’t avoid seeing the color of his skin when he looks in the mirror or comes face-to-face with blatant or subtle racism. He experiences the results of systemic, institutional, and generational racism in a system that has been set up against him.

Still, I am hopeful change will come. If not now, surely when Jesus returns.

I’m encouraged when people who are different from one another step out of their comfort zones and stand together in the name of righteousness and justice, which biblically go hand-in-hand.

Hard conversations seasoned with grace lead to people hearing one another without deflecting or becoming defensive. Loving our neighbors with our words, actions, and attitudes helps develop a deeper appreciation of our independent and collective value as God’s beautifully diverse image-bearers.

When we see each other and place God above politics and our believed rightness, we can seek to understand and celebrate our diversity while acknowledging our different experiences. We can hear one another and even disagree with one another with respect and compassion, not the kind of tolerance that assumes “differences” must be swallowed like sour milk.

The road toward healing and racial reconciliation often feels too long and too hard. I’ve forgiven those whose self-proclaimed colorblindness denies the pain that permeates my world. I’ve repented for allowing hurts to grow into resentment. And now, I’m willing to be uncomfortable, to saturate conversations with love so we can all be better equipped to serve the Lord as beautifully diverse brothers and sisters in Christ.

Together, we can rejoice in the color of love, displayed from the lightest to the darkest shades of beautiful that God intentionally created us with — for His glory and for our good.

 

[bctt tweet=”Loving our neighbors with our words, actions, and attitudes helps develop a deeper appreciation of our independent and collective value as God’s beautifully diverse image-bearers. -Xochitl Dixon:” username=”incourage”]

When Awkward Leads to Awesome: The Gift of Difficult Conversations

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I run around our dining-living-kitchen room like I do before company comes over, making sure there isn’t too much dog hair on the sofa or too little water in the garage sale pitcher with sunflowers. I peek into the oven and see the peach crisp is finished baking. I turn off the oven, but I leave the dessert inside.

I don’t want to serve lukewarm peach crisp after dinner. And like any self-respecting Enneagram two, I don’t want to serve lukewarm hospitality either.

As I assemble the simple, six-ingredient salad (arugula, parmesan, salt and pepper with a splash of olive oil and lemon juice), our friends, Salena and Sheldon, walk up the front steps. David opens the door for them, and Salena hands me white and yellow daisies, sunshine wrapped in petals and stems.

Salena herself is sunshine wrapped in dark-hued skin.

David serves up drinks before we pray, and then we serve ourselves arugula salad, sourdough bread, and Bolognese sauce and pasta (or as I like to call it, fancy spaghetti).

It isn’t fancy, but it is tasty.

We sit ‘round our table with the three Strong kids, and as is the case with us, we’re barely into dinner before the conversation turns to Serious Current Events. That kicks off three hours of conversation that deep dives into the middle of so many relevant questions:

What’s the best way to move forward through COVID?

How do we reconcile the issues we care about with the conduct of those holding power?

Why is empathy so hard to come by these days?

While we’ve known each other for over five years now, this conversation is similar to the first one Salena and I had back in 2015.

At that time, while speaking at a function for US Army and Air Force spouses in Colorado Springs, I noticed (and appreciated!) Salena’s kind, positive engagement with my talk on change. After I finished yammering and people were milling about, I introduced myself to her and was immediately put at ease with her effervescent personality. We did the small-talk thing for a little while, and then I basically cannon-balled into the conversational pool by asking her a question that set the tone for our relationship today. At that time, our country’s national headlines focused on altercations between police officers and young black men, much like today. Of course, I had my own thoughts on the subject, but I knew my own perspective couldn’t be the beginning and end of the conversation. Since Salena is a Black woman, I really wanted to know her perspective.

Twisting my hands, I asked, “Salena, I have a personal question for you, and if you’re not comfortable answering, then I totally understand.”

She told me to go right ahead.

“Could you help me understand what’s going on concerning the headlines and the racial division in our country?” Salena answered frankly within the context of her story, both her history and her present life. For two hours, we talked about that, our shared history as military spouses, and about raising sons.

While I have other Black friends I’ve known longer, Salena was the first person I felt compelled to “go there” with — to cross the awkward bridge toward a potentially thorny conversation. We didn’t solve any big issues that night, but after listening to her, I moved closer to understanding the bigger picture of why things are the way they are.

The driving force behind all our subsequent conversations has been the same: to peel back yet another layer of our stories as we listen to one another. We talk about uncomfortable subjects, but it’s not uncomfortable to do so because we each come to the conversation with the goal of understanding the other’s perspective — not airing our own Big Important Opinions.

These days, I’m working on humbly listening more and talking less — period. Salena and Sheldon continue to be gracious friends whom God uses to expose blind spots in the hearts of my family and me.

Back at our house around the decades-old, walnut-wood table, I pass out bowls of maple peach crisp with whipped cream to each person. As Salena takes hers, she drops a good word about conversations in general: “It seems that sometimes, the church is building platforms when they should be building tables.”

We all nod, and I tell her I would be writing that one down. YES to tables over platforms.

YES to talking with rather than talking at.

Scripture says, “Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor” (Romans 12:10 ESV). Concentrating on intentionally sitting with and hearing another is a mighty fine place to start.

Forkful of peach crisp midair, I ask Salena another question: “In our first conversation five years ago, was it off-putting to have a white woman come over and ask you the question I did?”

Salena replied that she didn’t feel that way about it because she appreciated the opportunity to engage. She liked being asked the question because she liked that someone cared about what she thought. Most of all, she liked that I listened and believed that her experiences actually happened.

Here’s to humbling ourselves and realizing our own perspective is not the beginning and end of the matter — and others’ perspectives matter.

Here’s to saying yes to crossing the awkward bridge toward an awesome connection.

Here’s to learning and growing through difficult conversations.

 

[bctt tweet=”Here’s to humbling ourselves and realizing our own perspective is not the beginning and end of the matter — and others’ perspectives matter. -@Kristen_Strong:” username=”incourage”]

Love Over All: Love Hopes

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It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
1 Corinthians 13:7 (CSB)

Every month of 2020, we’re featuring the Love Over All theme verse on the first Sunday of the month. We love everything about Love Over All (read more about it here) and can’t wait to share these amazing verses and ways to live them out with you!

August’s Theme is Love Hopes.

This time of year usually feels like ushering in a new beginning, often feeling like a second New Year. Most of us continue to live in the rhythm of a school-year schedule long after we graduate. As the pool-and-BBQs season slowly gives way to back-to-school season, there’s nothing like the smell of freshly sharpened pencils, the newness of a blank notebook, and a fresh new planner.

But this year is different. Many of our kids aren’t returning to school as we knew it, either continuing distance learning at home or attending in person with new restrictions and protocols. Our fears are present and changing daily. There’s not much routine to welcome back, but more changes and stark differences than the normal we’re used to. Honestly, it can feel borderline hopeless.

Is there any hope in the air these days, as we continue to walk through the unchartered unknown?

The good news is that yes, indeed, there is. Hope is always in the air, because the newness that Jesus brings us in salvation and in even small daily moments is true hope. It’s the kind of hope that rises above circumstances. It’s the kind of hope that has confidence in the Giver of hope. Jesus. His love bears all, believes all, hopes all, endures all. And through that strengthening kind of love, we can too.

Even in the midst of unrest and unknown . . . Love Hopes.

 

[bctt tweet=”Even in the midst of unrest and unknown. . . Love Hopes. #loveoverall ” username=”incourage”]

Fully Loved and Always Invited by God

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Here we are two months into the second half of 2020. In January, none of us could have possibly expected all that we would go through or all that we would feel over these past several months. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted from all of the conversations and the endless arguing online.

Honestly, my soul has been crying out for a bit of quiet and fellowship with intimate community. In some ways I have experienced that fellowship, but in other ways it keeps alluding me. For me, friendship is one of my greatest joys and one of my greatest frustrations, and I keep waiting for the day when they will magically get easier.

These past few weeks have very much felt like the same mountain I’ve seen from every angle. You know the story. You make friends, and you have these expectations. But then you find out or see the group photo of the celebration or girls trip that you weren’t invited to, and there it is again — uninvited. No one wants to feel left out or unwanted, but I’ve spent much of my life just outside of belonging, never feeling good enough.

I’ve been trying my best to navigate these hurt feelings without them turning into anger or offense, but my anxiety has kicked into overdrive. Overwhelm has set in. And shame has sent me spiraling. My instinct is to pull away, build walls, and numb out to avoid pain and confrontation, but as I’ve done my fair share of sitting in the Father’s arms and crying my heart out, I’m praying that my instincts are changing by God’s grace and mercy.

Too often I seek the approval of people. I seek their love and attention. When it doesn’t happen, I’m left feeling empty and alone. But recently, my sweet friend Wendy shared this on a Facebook video: “My security is found in Him alone, in His love, and in nothing else.” Her words have been circling my mind for days, and it has helped me understand these three truths again:

1. God always sees us.

 She gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: “You are the God who sees me,” for she said, “I have now seen the One who sees me.
Genesis 16:13 (NIV)

In Hagar’s lowest moment when she had been overlooked, abused, rejected, and abandoned, God met her. In a very real way He showed up, looked her in the eye, and saw her. That is what I have needed more than anything — to see the One who sees me. Maybe you need to know that too. I love that He is more than willing to look right into our eyes. He never shies away from our mess or hard-to-love places. He sees us.

2. God always loves us.

. . . God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them. We love because he first loved us.
1 John 4:16, 19 (NIV)

Super basic, right? But that’s exactly what I need. God is love and love is what He gives to us. The only reason that we can love Him and others is because He loved us first and planted His love within us. Whenever I don’t feel loved by others for whatever reason, I remember He loves me. He loves us because He couldn’t imagine a world without us in it. He loves us so much so that He created us in His image. He loves us so much that He sent His Son to die a death that we deserved. His love is EVERYTHING for us.

3. God always invites us.

Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.
Hebrews 4:16 (NIV)

We can always have confidence that the Lord will welcome us into His love and presence. He stands with arms wide open waiting for us to come to Him. We can bring our joys and sorrows, our successes and failures, our anger and contentment. He meets us with no condemnation and every bit of His grace. He even pursues us with the invitation to intimacy with Himself, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Jesus is our refuge and safe place, where we are fully known and fully loved. He is our anchor and firm foundation, and our hope is found in Him alone. May we constantly find ourselves running to and gazing on the One who sees us.

In the comments below, share about a time where you felt uninvited
by others but invited by God.

 

[bctt tweet=”God is more than willing to look right into our eyes. He never shies away from our mess or hard-to-love places. He sees us. -@karina268:” username=”incourage”]