Discovering Divine Peace in the Dark Days

Discovering Divine Peace in the Dark Days

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My husband embraced me tightly before walking out the door with his bags slung over his shoulder. I trailed behind him as he stopped in the driveway for a hug and photos with our oldest son. My husband, dressed in full uniform, stood with his arm around our little boy, who held a small, black chalkboard sign that read “First Day of First Grade” (it also happened to be his seventh birthday). After photos and final goodbyes, the kids and I watched my husband’s silver pickup truck back out our driveway and pull away. As soon as he was out of sight, an adrenaline rush of anxiety hit me like a shot of caffeine awakening me to the danger he drove toward.

A birthday, the first day of school at a brand new school, and a deployment all in one day was a lot. But this was not our first experience with deployment. In fact, in ten years, I’d lost count of the birthdays and milestones interrupted or missed and the number of goodbyes we’ve said that made us wonder if they’d be the last.

I stood there in my driveway, closed my eyes, and breathed in deeply, slowing my racing heart. I attuned my spirit to the Lord’s dwelling within me. I would live in awareness, not of danger and of the unknown but of the presence of the Lord with me.

Several weeks later, the buzz of my phone woke me just before dawn. The screen showed five missed calls. I immediately knew something was wrong. My phone vibrated again as I held it. I sat up and answered. It was my husband. I exhaled an anxious breath from my lungs. He wanted to reach me before I turned on the TV and saw the news. Through hurried, hushed words that lacked detail, he told me he was safe, but others were not. I felt weak and weepy, but I just listened quietly. He spoke with composure, but I’ve known his voice long enough to hear the emotions he was trying to repress. With forced stoicism, he told me to pray and to tell our two sons that he loved them. The goodbye felt permanent. I slid off our bed onto the floor as tears slid down my cheeks and prayed with my forehead resting against our mattress.

During that deployment, my husband was on a mission that killed one of his friends. Any comfort we tried to offer each other thousands of miles apart in the midst of a traumatic tragedy fell short. And due to his position, I could only confide in a couple of friends. I spent days and nights battling rounds of worry and crying. In the panic, I wanted peace, and in the mourning, I wanted comfort. But I had become a veteran of mental, emotional, and spiritual battles, and I’d learned how to move through them intentionally with the Lord and find endurance through hard seasons. He is the only true source of peace and comfort. 

While I could breathe through anxiety and find solace in the empathetic eyes and arms of friends, the only way through the battles I faced was with a surrendered dependence on the Lord. The Lord was with me always, and His presence went with my husband. The Lord’s presence is a provision of peace that sustains us through the scariest moments of life. I had first learned this almost a decade ago when our newborn daughter died, and it has stayed true through every hard season in our lives.

Life doesn’t always work out. People we love will die. And we might find ourselves in harm’s way, intentionally or not, no matter how hard we pray or how much faith we have. But no matter what arrows come by night, we can find consolation in reminding ourselves of who God is, surrendering the moments out of our control to His sovereignty and drawing near to Him in prayer. God’s divine peace dawns in the dark moments of our lives as we depend on Him.

Wherever you are, whether abrupt news has interrupted your peaceful plans, or the vast unknown looms before you, choose to lean on unchanging truth, not on changing circumstances. Pray without ceasing to discover the permanence of the Lord who goes with you, dwells within you, and will never abandon you. May you take heart in the Lord’s presence and live out your full dependence on Him. It’s in our dependence that we discover that His power strengthens us to fight our battles and endure with the peace of His presence.

The Lord is my shepherd;
I have what I need.
He lets me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside quiet waters.
He renews my life;
he leads me along the right paths
for his name’s sake.
Even when I go through the darkest valley,
I fear no danger,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff — they comfort me.
You prepare a table before
me in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Only goodness and faithful love will pursue me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord
as long as I live.
Psalm 23 (CSB)

Don’t Be Afraid, Just Believe

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The fear grew in my gut with the pending darkness, any semblance of peace fleeing as the sun set outside my window. Something about the nighttime hours seemed to grow my fear, like the monster in my childhood closet. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop pacing or calm my racing heart.

Two weeks before, I’d been diagnosed with cancer for the first time. The doctors still didn’t know the full extent of its spread, nor how to best treat it. And while they struggled to find solutions, I was left in limbo.

This particular night felt worse than the others. I tried praying, reading, watching TV. Even the normal distractions of making dinner and doing dishes didn’t do a thing to settle my spirit. The fear was unbearable, all the pending unknowns about my future intruding on every thought.

Not wanting my anxiety to cause my children alarm, I snuck upstairs to the isolation of my bedroom. That’s where my husband found me, crying yet one more time, inconsolable.

He sat next to me on our bed, no doubt struggling with how to help me walk through this new reality. He’s a man of few words, but this night he looked me in the eye and said quietly and without judgment:

“If you really believe what you say you believe, Michele, it will only get better for you from here.”

I said nothing in response. What could I say? He was right, unequivocally correct. Sure, life might get more difficult, the challenges more painful. But if I really believed in a God who loved me enough to send Jesus to save me, a God who promised He is currently preparing a place for me with Him forever, a God who said this earthly life is but the faintest shadow of the glory that awaits me in His presence, then no matter what happened, the best was yet to come.

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.
1 John 4:8 (NIV)

John wrote those words, long after the Jesus he loved died, rose, and ascended to heaven. Most of his friends and fellow disciples had been martyred. And he himself had faced more hardship than you or I can imagine. Perhaps that’s why his words ring deep and true. Because he knew the only truth that can drive out fear is the unwavering, unending truth of the One True Love. Fear doubts that Love will win in the end.

Although my fear was valid, it spoke of the truth that I didn’t yet fully believe in a saving Love, a love that wouldn’t let death get the last word on my life. Thankfully, because of the truth of my husband’s words and the mercy of a God who woos me still, that night was the beginning of the end of my fear. It would never go away completely, and I still have days when the fear creeps in and threatens my peace. But it no longer holds the power it once did.

Instead, Love does. Love is the defining force of my life. Not the love of my husband and children or the love I have for them. But a bigger Love, the Love of a God who sees all, knows all, and promised to love me anyway.

Overhearing what they said, Jesus told him, “Don’t be afraid; just believe.”
Mark 5:36 (NIV)

Perfect love drives out fear.

Don’t be afraid; just believe. 

Ultimately, love — true love — believes. And that means, ultimately, it comes down to a choice. What will we love most? If we most love this life and our comfort in it, then we have every reason to be afraid. To be human is terrifying. There is so little we can control, so much we can’t predict, so much we can lose. But if what we love most is God himself, then we already have everything we most desire.

And that’s a love we cannot lose.

Don’t be afraid, sister. He loves you more than you know, and it will only get better for you from here — believe!

God’s Presence Is Always with Us

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They set out from Succoth and camped at Etham on the edge of the wilderness. The Lord went ahead of them in a pillar of cloud to lead them on their way during the day and in a pillar of fire to give them light at night, so that they could travel day or night. The pillar of cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night never left its place in front of the people.
Exodus 13:20-22 (CSB)

The phrase “unprecedented times” seems irrelevant to say now. We all know we’re walking in the depths of uncertainty on a daily basis. We feel it in our bones, and we are weary on a different level. And yet, there are also some of us who are starting to dream again, envisioning what the future will hold and how we can get there. Hope and fear, anxiety and joy mingle together, and we cannot go back to what once was. We can only move forward together.

Perhaps that’s how the Israelites felt as God delivered them from Egypt and led them toward the wilderness. All they had was His presence to lead them by day and by night. They had to keep going forward even when they couldn’t see a way through, but God’s presence was always with them — protecting them, providing for them, and redeeming them.

And the same goes for us today. When we can’t imagine how we will survive the day, when we struggle to believe in hope, when everything seems lost, His steady hand guides us. Let’s trust that the God who split the Red Sea is able and willing to make a way through for us too.

My Heritage of Resilience

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Immediately, at the start of our relationship, my husband, who is white, recognized the significance of my African-American family’s tradition of a weekend-long celebration of unity, gathering, and breaking bread together. The commemoration of roots so resilient, that we persevered through enslavement, the Black codes, Jim Crow, and other demoralizing policies and practices is now his and our children’s inheritance. 

For eighty years, our extended family has consistently gathered on a Sunday, at a small country church under the August summer sun to commemorate and celebrate our union. The branches and arms of our family tree travel from all over the country and locally to descend upon a small acreage, host to a central place of worship and a church graveyard where many relatives have been laid to rest. After Friday’s meet-and-greet and Saturday’s cookout at the park, Sunday sings to our souls the songs of those who have gone before us.

When I was a child, attending the 11 am Sunday service was like traveling back in time. Two factory fans, one placed at the front of the left aisle and the other situated on the right, attempted to force the heavy, sticky, hot air into a light airy breeze. The giant fans failed. The noisy blades propelling at maximum speed seemed to only provide busy noise. However, the cacophony was no match for the choir who belted out centuries-old spirituals or the preacher professing a two-thousand-year-old gospel. As a child, I didn’t like this church service. The pews were hard, the air was hot, and the preacher preached too long. However, even as a child, I sensed that this time served as a historical monument preserving a particular and significant story about God’s love for us.

After the final “amen,” the double doors opened, and uncles, grandmothers, and cousins poured from the back of the church onto the lawn in the noonday heat. Three-piece suits, floral pastel sundresses, wide-brimmed hats, and brightly colored scarves gave way to shorts and family-reunion-themed T-shirts. Then it was time for the annual picnic. When my grandmother was alive, she cooked for days in preparation for the family picnic. Once the tables were set, one of the family clergy — there are always several — pronounced a blessing over the food, the family, and the gathering. 

After we’d feast, we’d walk. We’d hold the hands of our children and guide them a few yards from the picnic ground through the Carolina red dirt to the graveyard. We strolled the rows of tombstones and burial plots reciting their names and telling their stories. Some were slaves of the Methodist pastor of Old Salem. Many were named after their enslavers. A few were mulatto — one was even buried in the white cemetery. They were pastors, evangelists, missionaries, and church planters, teachers, librarians, wagon makers, pullman porters, and blacksmiths. They served on the Colored School Board, in WWI, and in WWII. 

Though they were marginalized, their lives, their stories, and existence screamed resilience. Their lives were deemed insignificant by a dominating force of racial injustice. However, when we hear their stories, we hold their stories and glean from them truths about God. Their lives are a witness to how God loves us, sees us, and values us regardless of the marginalizing social, political, and economic stranglehold we live in.

I think about my grandmother, who when she was a girl, was “hired” as a housekeeper in a small, country town ten miles away from her home. When she was told that she would be sleeping on the back porch, she left, walked the ten miles back home, and refused to return. And as an adult, because she refused to give up her seat on the bus to a white person, she was arrested. How many times did she feel like Hagar, unloved and unprotected by society’s caste system? Like Hagar, how difficult was it for her to choose dignity over income or shelter? 

While Abraham and Sarah referred to her as “slave,” God met Hagar in a place of desolation and despair and called her by name. God not only knew Hagar’s name but by using it showed her respect. From Hagar’s story, we learn so much about God. Hagar’s story reveals God as El Roi — a God who sees, a God “who looks after me” (Genesis 16:13 ESV). In seeing Hagar, God affirms her dignity and that of marginalized and exploited peoples. In Hagar’s story, I see that though the prevailing custom is one of apathy, God cares!

The names and lives of our family members who have gone before us are not only captured on tombstones but are engraved into God’s palm. Like Hagar, despite her plight of being treated as disposable and inconsequential, God knew my grandmother’s name and respected her. I imagine as she walked away from humiliation and disrespect, God said, “Virginia, I love you, I care for you, and I am looking after you and your family.” I also imagine that God’s seeing her was the source of her and her family’s resilience.  

Even if you’ve been marginalized by a dominant force, feel excluded or forgotten, know that El Roi sees you, knows your name, and cares. And when you know you are seen, God’s care can transform distress into a testimony of resilience.

Take Heart: Seeing God When Life’s Not Okay

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Here at (in)courage we’ve found one thing to be very true: our heartaches may be different, but our hearts are the same. That’s what you’ll find in this space: stories from women in every season of life — women who have been there, women who understand. We don’t hold back, sugarcoating our experiences and tying them up with a pretty bow.

We live with courage, into and through the painful to see the glory God brings despite our circumstances. And then we write. We write so that you don’t feel alone, so that you know there is hope yet to come. We’ve written these stories here for more than eleven years, and now you can hold some of those in your hands.

We’re thrilled to introduce the next (in)courage book — Take Heart: 100 Devotions to Seeing God When Life’s Not Okay. 

We compiled this book with you, our beloved (in)courage reader, in mind. We know life has been hard. Life is definitely not always okay. And the stories in this book will walk beside you when your heart needs a boost. In this beautiful book, we’ve gathered unique and diverse stories from the (in)courage community that offer heartfelt encouragement for difficult times.

This collection of courageous stories from forty-four different authors is where you can find your story reflected. From struggling with weight, anxiety, and depression to suffering through miscarriage and grieving the death of a husband. From experiencing injustice and questioning our purpose to walking through church disappointments, loneliness, and infertility. The Take Heart writers share from the depth of their hearts and experience so that you will know beyond a doubt that you are not alone and that you are (and always have been) loved.

Take Heart: 100 Devotions to Seeing God When Life’s Not Okay is full of reflections of God’s heart, sure to help anyone share a meaningful gift with a close loved one facing life’s challenges. Our prayer is that this collection of stories will become a place your soul can find a kindred, where you know that you have a place to belong just as you are.

This book is an offering of hope, from one heart to another — sister to sister, friend to friend. We can’t wait to help you take heart.

Get 5 devotions from Take Heart for FREE!

Welcome to the NEW (in)courage Living Room!

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We’ve been waiting for and working toward this day for more than two years — the day we would get to swing wide our virtual doors and welcome you to our new online living room. We wanted to create a fresh home where women can gather in a beautiful, comfortable space to connect deeply with God and others. And the day is finally here! Welcome to the new (in)courage Living Room!

Launching a new website isn’t just about an updated design; it’s about making our visual representation match the heartbeat of (in)courage.

Whether you’ve been part of the (in) sisterhood since its inception in 2009 or you just found us today, we want you to know that (in)courage is a place for authentic, brave women just like you. Through the power of shared stories and meaningful resources, we lean into the strength Jesus gives to live out our calling as God’s daughters. Together, we build community, celebrate diversity, and become women of courage.

And we’re so glad YOU are here! We don’t take one woman, one visitor, or long-time friend for granted.

Welcoming you to our new online home is the perfect time to invite you to get to know us a little more through our three core values: community, diversity, and courage.

Community: There’s a spot for you in the living room.

We believe in piling together on the couch, lounging in comfy chairs, sprawling out on the floor, and creating a big ol’ comfy circle of sisters who are always ready to shift and smoosh together to make space for more. In our living room, you can come just the way you are. We link arms as God’s daughters and champion those who are willing to give voice to our unspoken struggles. We grapple together over issues we can’t easily solve. We lean on one another for wisdom, strength, and insight beyond our own experience.

Community means we bend low, listen long, offer what we have, mourn, celebrate, ask forgiveness, and extend grace upon grace. We gather to speak hope over broken hearts and infuse purpose and courage into the gloriously ordinary every day. We share our unique stories – joys and struggles equally fleshed out – for the purpose of pointing others to the eternal hope of Jesus Christ. This is what it means to be (in) community. We’re always better when we make time to gather in the living room together.

Diversity: We are many voices, stories, and skin tones with one heart for Jesus.

We desire to become a more complete representation of the kingdom of God and foster unity in the body of Christ. We embrace the unique gifting and diverse experiences of different women. We desire readers of varied backgrounds, ages, and life stages to come to (in)courage and hear reflections of their own stories. We also want women to learn from stories unlike their own in order to grow in compassion, understanding, and unity as God’s daughters.

There are currently twenty-four women who write regularly for (in)courage, spanning five decades and representing all different backgrounds, ethnicities, and geographic locations. We celebrate our diversity by sharing what Jesus looks like in our beautiful, mundane, and often messy lives.

Courage: We can become brave together.

Like Shiphrah and Puah from the Bible, we are ordinary women with an extraordinary opportunity to make this one life we’ve been given count. Not that we’re striving for some big moment, but we’re faithfully striding (or stumbling) along, day by day, moment by moment, in step with Jesus so that when He asks us to go, move, leap, we will have the courage to do so. Courage comes from knowing His voice and trusting His heart. We can have courage because we step forward together as God’s beloved daughters.

So that’s who we are and what you’ll find here at (in)courage!

We wish there was a way to hand you fancy sparkling water and spread out a virtual charcuterie board so we all could enjoy this “open house” together. Nevertheless, we invite you to spend some time looking around our new online home.

As you explore, you’ll notice lots of new things, like a fresh color scheme, black and white photos, open space, and lots of resources for encouragement and connection. Every word and color, image and detail was designed to celebrate our three core values while pointing our hearts and minds to Christ. Every decision was layered with meaning. For example, each color in our beautiful pallet is assigned to a specific moment in the life of Christ. So when we use colors like Desert, Midnight, Mustard, and Myrrh, we’re thinking about those moments in Jesus’s life. It’s a behind-the-scenes detail packed full of intention and purpose.

That’s what we really want you to know. (in)courage exists on purpose for a purpose. Every word and image is written and designed with you in mind. We’ve got tons of super exciting new things to share with you in the months ahead! So keep checking back, follow us on social, and subscribe to our daily emails so you don’t miss a thing!

And sister, know that you are welcome here in our living room — always.

We hope you find love and beauty in every nook and cranny. We pray this is a place you will come to discover the power of building community, celebrating diversity, and becoming a woman of courage.

Celebrate with us! Tell us your favorite thing about the new site
or why you love (in)courage.

When You Find Yourself in a Storm of Spiraling Emotions

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I stared at the screen, shocked. My head felt as if it were physically spinning, though I knew I was standing as still as I’d been the moment before I saw the post. I tried to evaluate my emotional and mental states.

What was I feeling?
Was I mad?
Was I sad?
Was I hurt, frustrated, disappointed?

Yes to all of it. Check “all of the above,” because I felt all those things — and more. I felt betrayed and despondent. And most of all, I felt uncertain about what to do next. How was I supposed to react to this situation? How did I want to respond? And was it possible those two answers would resemble one another in the slightest?

Minutes after seeing this social media post that pierced my heart, I was scheduled to attend a Zoom call. At first I thought it might be the perfect distraction from my pain, or possibly even a way to get over all the myriad emotions swirling around my heart and brain.

Spoiler alert: It was not. I did not get over it. At least, not in the thirty minutes immediately following the thing that hurt me. I’m not sure why I thought I could fix a broken heart in a few minutes, although I’m blaming wishful thinking and a good four decades of stuffing my feelings down deep whenever I — or others — deemed them unacceptable.

But this time, I couldn’t “get over it.” I was hurt! I was sad! And angry! And scared and disappointed and — oh my goodness, the list of my emotions seemed endless on that afternoon. No wonder I couldn’t move past them in the blink of an eye (or a swipe of the screen)!

The specifics of what hurt me that day don’t matter here. Because while it was a specific person who took a specific action that led to my pain that day, it wasn’t the first time (and certainly won’t be the last) I found myself in a cyclone of emotion, unsure how to react, what would “fix” things, or even which way was up. And I know I’m not alone in this experience. You’ve felt this sort of pain, too, haven’t you?

What matters is that on that day, God gently and generously whispered, “Stop. Take a moment. Let it out. I’m here.” He pushed the pause button on my agitation cycle, pulling me away from the feeling-stuffing and problem-fixing, opening His arms to hold me as I let it all out.

And He’ll do the same for you the next time you find yourself in a storm of emotion.

Jesus was no stranger to emotions when He walked on earth. In John 11, we see the story of His reaction to the death of His friend, Lazarus. Both Lazarus’s sisters — Mary and Martha — cry out to Jesus when He arrives, saying, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother wouldn’t have died!” (John 11:32 CSB)

When the women express their despair that way, Jesus doesn’t reprimand them. He doesn’t suggest they calm down or instruct them to do something productive with their emotions. He holds space for them and comforts them; He grieves for them and even weeps with them.

As soon as Mary came to where Jesus was and saw him, she fell at his feet and told him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother wouldn’t have died!”

When Jesus saw her crying, and the Jews who had come with her crying, he was deeply moved in his spirit and troubled. “Where have you put him?” he asked.

“Lord,” they told him, “come and see.”

Jesus wept.
John 11:32-35 (CSB)

Jesus knew that in a moment, He would raise Lazarus from the dead. He knew Mary and Martha’s grief would be short-lived and followed with incredible joy. But He didn’t expect them not to feel their feelings, and He didn’t require that they calm down or manage their emotions. Rather, He welcomed their honesty and complexity, offering acceptance and compassion in response.

The Lord will do the same for you and me.

In those moments when we are punched in the gut with something painful, God invites us to take our every emotion to Him. He doesn’t demand we get it together first; He doesn’t require us to tone it down. He simply says, “Come to me. Take a moment and rest your soul here.”

He will give us strength and wisdom and remind us that He will fight for us and finish the good work He’s started in our lives. But right now, when you’re reeling and feeling the sting of your pain, He invites you to let it out. Feel your feelings. Pour out your broken heart. He will hold all of it — all of you — gently. He will be with you in the storm.

God Made Introverts for an Amazing, Powerful Purpose

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My phone lights up with a late-night confession filled with questions from Taylor Thomas, a fellow introvert who’s dear to me, someone who’s likable and smart, funny and kind. She confesses, “Sometimes I truly wonder why God made me this way,” then asks, “Have you ever dealt with that?”

My answer? Yes, I have sometimes questioned who I am too.

I grew up as a quiet, creative kid, who loved reading books (and dreamed of one day writing one). I enjoyed time on my own but cared about people too, creating a little circle of close friends. I needed time to think before I jumped into a conversation. People often told me I was a good listener. My active mind was always thinking or imagining.

Yet in spite of these strengths, I often wondered, like Taylor, if I needed to change. Maybe I should be louder or better at smaller talk. Fear sometimes still got the best of me. But trying to be someone I wasn’t only made me lonelier and led me to the brink of burnout.

After an especially exhausting year, I sensed God inviting me to stop running from who He created me to be, and instead learn how to thrive as an introvert. I read hundreds of articles, brain science studies, and books on introversion. Pursued a master’s degree in counseling, became a certified life coach, and wrote bestsellers. Collected advice, new and ancient, from introverts all over the world.

I discovered being an introvert isn’t about personality but how our brains and nervous systems are wired. (Three very quick examples: Introverts and extroverts differ in the primary neurotransmitter we rely on, part of the nervous system we use most, and the brain pathway utilized for processing.)

When I look at the creation story I see many complementary pairings, day and night, land and sea, male and female. I’ve come to believe introverts and extroverts are another one of these pairings. We are created as introverts and extroverts, both with incredible gifts and potential.

Research shows what introverts see as struggles may actually be their greatest strengths. For example, introverts have very responsive nervous systems. This means we’re vulnerable to anxiety but it also means we often have deep empathy for others. We use a longer, more complex brain pathway so we sometimes need more time to respond, but when we do we add depth and insight to conversations.

Leadership studies show introverts perform equally well as extroverts. Introverts often have deep social networks based on quality over quantity, including long-term relationships that significantly add to their overall physical and psychological health. And introverts contribute generously and creatively to our culture. So many world-changing causes, works of art, and innovations wouldn’t exist without the quiet efforts of introverts.

I believe our noisy, chaotic world needs what introverts have to offer more than ever before. We are here for such a time as this, created on purpose for a purpose. If you ever question who you are too, or someone in your life does, that can start changing today.

On a lovely autumn evening months after Taylor sent me the text I mentioned at the start of this chapter, she walked down a grass-covered aisle as a stunning bride. After the ceremony, all the guests joined the newlyweds in a barn with tiny lights strung from the rafters.

As I watched Taylor dance in her white dress, I thought, There is a woman who knows how much she’s loved. Despite the setting, I wasn’t thinking of love in the romantic sense. Over the previous few months, I’d gotten to be part of Taylor’s taking steps toward becoming more at peace with her true self, beginning to see her introversion not as a reason for insecurity but as a divine gift—a source of her strengths. She looked freer and happier, more whole and at rest.

God calls us a bride, which has always been mysterious to me, but that moment watching Taylor on the dance floor helped me better understand the analogy. Because what I saw in her is what I think He wants for each of us.

To know we’re made “in an amazing and wonderful way” (Ps. 139:14 NCV).

To be not only comfortable but quietly confident in our skin.

 

Holley’s brand new book, The Powerful Purpose of Introverts: Why the World Needs You to Be You, officially releases today! Bestselling author Ann Voskamp described it as, “Practical, researched, and profoundly helpful.” This week is your very last chance to get $75+ of free bonuses (the audiobook, Holley’s popular mini-course, and a personal strengths assessment)! Fill out this form and she’ll send the bonuses your way.

 

To celebrate, we’re giving a $50 gift card to Dayspring.com. To enter, purchase the book and leave a comment telling us where you bought it.

Giveaway ends 9/20/20 at 11:59 pm CST. Open to US addresses only.

If You’re Just Plain Weary from Life’s Difficult Changes

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We’re so deep into summer now that the outline of fall is clearly visible in front of us, and today I’m neck-deep in yet another unforeseen change within this maddening year that is 2020. I’ve had it up to here, and I tell God as much. I mean, it should be enough that we have a global pandemic and national unrest and a political divide wider than the Grand Canyon. But no. Several more problems closer to home are here too. This shouldn’t surprise me, I know. After all, it’s not like job stresses or relationship issues or family discord take a summer vacation. It’s not like the enemy looks you or me up and down and says, “Yeah, she’s had enough for today. Let’s leave her alone.” No, he’s an opportunist, and he relishes kicking us again and again when we’re already down.

Still, when something brand new — and awful, I might add — slides into the home plate of Team Strong, I just about take off running up Pike’s Peak.

It’s amazing how change-upon-change can find your doorstep when you just wish it would lose your address.

Our summer has brought us moments of sparkling goodness, like my husband and I celebrating our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. But it also brought less desirable moments too, including many tears lost because of difficult, I-didn’t-ask-for-this change. And lately, like a sibling squabble that keeps circling back to my attention, the difficult parts have hung around much too long, grossly overstaying their welcome.

I’m not only annoyed, frustrated, or put out by this. I’m devastated and just plain heart-weary.

In the past, it’s my nature to resist allowing the difficult parts of my life to have a seat at the table, to just push them right back out of the room. I fear that if I spend a little time with them, they will grow and take up even more space in my life. So I both pep-talk and chastise myself by saying things like, Get over it, Kristen. This isn’t the end of the world. People deal with a whole lot worse all the time.

Ironically, the more I try to push the difficult realities away, the more they cement themselves to the curves of my heart.

Unlike past times, the persistence of these difficulties and the weariness of my heart means I just don’t have the energy to shoo them away. I don’t have the energy to do anything but simply sit with them and bring them to the light of Christ.

Walk as children of the light . . . when anything is exposed by the light, it becomes visible, for anything that becomes visible is light.
Ephesians 5:8, 13 (ESV)

When we give our difficult circumstances attention rather than deflection, it exposes them to the light of Christ. Simultaneously, it reduces the dark’s power over them.

But this means we have to do the work of walking through it, of first keeping company with the harsh parts of our circumstances so we can introduce them to the power of Jesus. One might think that giving the darker parts of our life circumstances room to flex and breathe pushes hope away. But instead, it becomes the window through which Hope enters.

There is power in bringing the dark into the Light and letting the love and care of Jesus show us how to deal with it.

I want to be aware of the darkness but identify with the light.
Emily P. Freeman, Simply Tuesday

I can be thankful for the abundant good in my life and still be unafraid to call the hard realities what they are — hard. 

I can be joyous about my blessings without pretending the hard doesn’t exist. I can walk as a child of the light because I refuse to just get over the difficulties in my life; I get through them. And getting through them can’t happen till I acknowledge them and bring them front and center into the presence of Jesus first and then into the presence of other safe folks as well.

Life will always be a rhythm of light and dark, easy and difficult realities dancing the two-step together. But within it all, we are growing in grit, perseverance, and resilience. We are growing good things that wouldn’t push through the stubborn earth without it.

And over it all is God’s promise, bending like a rainbow across the sky over our tired hearts, offering us a gentle place to land and rest in Him.

If you’re looking for a reliable place to regularly see the light within your change, check out Kristen’s new Instagram account!

Praying for All of Us

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I’m in my car, driving early on a Thursday morning, when the young woman behind me flashes her lights. Am I going too slow for her? Daring to drive 40 mph because that’s the speed limit? That must be so because she’s trying to pass me, looking impatient when I glance in my rearview mirror to see what she wants. Suddenly, she switches lanes and swerves around me and zips around the next two cars. Seconds later, she swerves back into my lane, speeding ahead only to catch the next red light — along with everyone else she had passed.

My first reaction, sadly, is typical: What is her problem?

It’s the question of the hour these days. Not what is my problem, but what’s the other guy’s issue? We’ve settled into “us vs. them” thinking, knowing full well there’s nothing godly about such a crotchety mindset. I’m guilty, too. More than not, I can be far more concerned about my own life than someone else’s.

The Holy Spirit, however, is our gracious guide. Before the light changes and the young woman screeches off, I find myself heeding His loving nudge to take a second look. Soon a thought occurs: What if this young woman is in trouble or facing an emergency? Maybe she’s racing to the hospital or rushing to work to battle a real crisis or to face unfair criticism.

I can’t know answers to such questions, but I see clearly what I can do. I can pray. Why? Because it is right. Why right? Because God calls us to pray. Jesus, speaking to His sleepy disciples in the Garden of Gethsemane, urged it this way:

Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation.
Matthew 26:41 (NIV)

The Apostle Paul, likewise, in his letter to Timothy, said this:

I urge, then, first of all, that petitions, prayers, intercession and thanksgiving be made for all people.
1 Timothy 2:1 (NIV)

That’s exactly what I need to hear this morning. Watch and pray. For all people. Not watch and complain, gripe, put down, or suspect the worst of others. The temptation to go negative is so powerful, as Jesus knew, that He calls us to watch out for that risk and then to pray — fervently and sincerely.

So that’s what I yielded to do. Considering the young driver as she slammed on the gas, her car shrieking off, I whispered three heartfelt little words: “Help her, Lord.”

After all, she was in distress. And me? I needed a more loving outlook. I also need daily prayer myself. So help her, Lord. Then, O God, help me.

Funny how praying for somebody else circles back graciously to me — yes, to all of us.

A writer friend, Amy Julia Becker, speaks of that encircling prayer grace in her latest book, White Picket Fences: Turning Toward Love in a World Divided by Privilege. She reflects on the line in the Lord’s Prayer that says, “Give us this day our daily bread,” and she writes:

What pops out to me is the corporate nature of those words. It isn’t “Give me this day my daily bread” or “Give my family our daily bread.” [Instead] Jesus instructs us to pray very differently. His prayer includes me, but it is so much bigger than me. Give us. All of us. . . . I’m not just praying for what I need . . . It’s about entering into the needs of others and imploring for all of us.

That includes a young woman I don’t know who was racing through life on that early morning, obviously needing something. First, however, the Lord says she needs Him — so, pray for her. The instruction is so clear, I can’t miss it.

Thus, I humbly propose the same to us this morning. Let us pray. Pray, indeed, for all of us because we all need Him. Even if we don’t vote the same, don’t look the same, don’t pray the same. Or if our problems can seem complicated and a little crazy, and we’re not always sure how to explain them.

Even so, let us pray. 

In the comments below, you’re invited to state your prayer request and pray for the person who commented above you. Let us pray.

This post was originally written by Patricia Raybon in November 2018. 

How to Encourage Someone When You Feel Stuck and Far Apart

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One of my best friends had a miracle baby last month. I haven’t been able to hug my friend or hold her tiny bundle of joy. I haven’t been able to sit on her couch, linger over a cup of tea, and hear how she is really doing while our boys shoot backyard hoops. I dropped off a meal and stood six feet back on her front walkway as we chatted for a few moments. I peered across the gap that felt like miles into my friend’s tired eyes and shouted through the muffling of my mask what a beautiful and amazing mama she is.

Oh, how I long to encourage her.

My sister is about to turn forty. I pictured driving four hours north to surprise her. I’d take her out for boba and pedicures, then we’d head to the movies to watch something on the big screen with an ample supply of Red Vines. But nail salons and movie theatres are closed, and my sister is cautiously keeping her distance to protect her family.

Oh, how I long to celebrate her.

Another friend is struggling in her marriage.
Another friend is heavy with grief over racial injustice.
Another friend just got a promotion while someone else was laid off.
Another friend is drowning in homeschool.
Another friend just got a horrible prognosis.

And more than anything I just long to be there for each of them — to drive to the other side of town or travel across the miles, to show up on each doorstep with their favorite coffee, a box of tissues, and a fiercely warm hug.

In Romans 12:15 Paul says, “Rejoice with those who rejoice; weep with those who weep.”

I’ll be honest, friends. It’s hard right now to fulfill these instructions the way my heart longs to. In my state and county, COVID numbers are still soaring and restrictions are high. The flexibility I used to have during school hours is now different as I shepherd my three boys through distance learning. And though I’m thirty-eight-years-old, sometimes I just want to stomp my feet and whine about it in my very own grown-up tantrum because I can’t comfort, connect with, and encourage my friends and loved ones the way I want to. (Mature, I know. Please don’t tell my kids.)

But then I remember a few more of Paul’s wise words. How he said “let us not get tired of doing good” (Galatians 6:9) and “everyone should look not to his own interests, but rather to the interests of others” (Philippians 2:4).

The truth I have to remember is that encouraging others isn’t about me. It’s not about how I prefer to engage, build up, come alongside, and cheer on. Encouragement is about the receiver. What do they need? How does God want to use me to partner with Him in helping meet that need?

Maybe like me you’ve been feeling a bit stuck in your own longing and frustration and “if only I could love and encourage someone in this particular way” pining. Well, today’s the perfect day to cast off the shackles of “I wish things weren’t like this” and lean into a new way of building up a friend, neighbor, sister, or even a stranger.

Today is National Day of Encouragement, and if ever there was a year people in our lives needed encouragement, 2020 has got to be it!

Instead of thinking of all the ways I can’t encourage others right now, I’m celebrating the ways I can:

  • Send a text with a favorite verse.
  • Pray with someone over the phone.
  • Drop off a meal or bag of groceries.
  • Look someone in the eyes instead of just passing by.
  • Say thank you and compliment the grocery store clerk, drive-thru worker, or the person who lives in your home.

And perhaps my favorite way to hug a friend when I can’t physically wrap my arms around them is to send a snail-mail card. Words of affirmation scrawled in your very own handwriting — even if it’s messy like mine — is a gift of encouragement sure to touch someone’s heart in times of both joy and sorrow.

A card says, I thought of you. A card says, You matter to me. A card says, You are loved and valuable and not forgotten.

Join me today on National Day of Encouragement and send a card (or two or ten) to someone who needs to know they are seen — by you and by God. (I especially love The Struggle Bus card line from DaySpring.)

Worry weighs us down; a cheerful word picks us up.
Proverbs 12:25 (MSG)

Let’s be women who love well, encourage freely, and pick others up with our words.

God Has Not Forgotten Our Grief

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Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort. He comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any kind of affliction, through the comfort we ourselves receive from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ overflow to us, so also through Christ our comfort overflows.
2 Corinthians 1:3-5 (CSB)

As we remember those we lost on this day nineteen years ago, let’s sit in these words from 2 Corinthians. The Father of mercies and the God of all comfort is with us. He has not forgotten our grief nor the pain that continues to linger from the aftermath of tragedy. And as we are comforted by Him, may we offer the same tenderness to others today.

The Fight for Community Is Always Worth It

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I like to be the one who shows up — the one who serves and gives and meets a need. Although I have become much better at receiving, it doesn’t come naturally. I don’t like to come across as needy or dependent. But the Lord has been showing me that that is exactly how He wants us to be. He wants us to be in need of Him — the giver of every good and perfect gift. He supplies every need we could ever have, and many times He does so through the Church — the body of Christ.

It’s okay to need people and depend on them because that’s how it’s supposed to be.

I have had friends over the years who heard from the Lord and blessed me with finances, groceries, rides, help with moving, and even places to live. Every single time, I felt loved and seen and cared for by God and my community.

However, over the last couple of months, I’ve needed community in a different way. My heart needed them. I longed for connection, but my flesh put up a huge fight to try to push people away. I became withdrawn though I couldn’t hide my emotions from them. My community could tell my joy had faded. They could see I was sad, and they became concerned.

One day, I sat in a friend’s kitchen and sobbed while trying to explain my heartache. Another friend texted me almost every day for a week despite my not responding. Another did the same, and we eventually met for lunch. Yet another met me for coffee. My pastor’s wife reached out, and we were able to connect. Several others friends even gathered and prayed for me at my church’s weekly prayer meeting when I wasn’t there.

In those encounters, I wept as I shared my hurt and I was met with nothing but love, grace, and compassion. There were hard truths spoken, challenges issued, and encouragement poured out like oil. It was all so beautiful!

Needless to say, I was blown away by the response of my church and awed by the love of God I felt through them. They carried me like the friends who carried and lowered the paralytic man through the roof in Luke 5:17-26.

There are no details given about the man except that he was paralyzed. We know nothing about his family’s involvement in his life nor about his character or lack thereof. The only thing we know is that he needed healing, and his friends made a way to get him to Jesus.

 When Jesus saw their faith, he said, “Friend, your sins are forgiven.”
Luke 5:20 (NIV)

It’s not always our faith that brings healing. When Jesus saw the friends’ faith, He healed the paralytic man — physically and spiritually. In my mind, I imagine this man must have been paralyzed for years, that he tried everything he could think of to get healed. He may have spent all the money he had on treatments that by the time Jesus came to his town, he was desperate and hopeless.

But his friends were not. He may have run out of faith, but they were full of faith. In fact, they had enough faith for him. They believed that Jesus was who He said He was and that He could do what He said He could do. As a result, their faith made the miracle of healing possible for their paralyzed friend.

I hadn’t experienced that kind of persistent love from a church community before. As they met me and encouraged me, I felt like Moses in Exodus 17 when Aaron and Hur held up his arms when he was too weary. I felt tired and defeated, and the enemy came for me with a vengeance, trying to keep me away from the very people I needed. But my community rose up like an army to defend me. They wielded the sword of the Spirit on my behalf and spoke God’s promises over me. They didn’t give up on me, and they wouldn’t let me give up.

Community is messy and hard, but it is also beautiful and life-giving. The fight for it will always be worth it.

We need each other, and we are truly better together.

How have you experienced the persistent love of a church community?

An Act of Courageous Joy

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And a woman in the town who was a sinner found out that Jesus was reclining at the table in the Pharisee’s house. She brought an alabaster jar of perfume and stood behind him at his feet, weeping, and began to wash his feet with her tears. She wiped his feet with her hair, kissing them and anointing them with the perfume.
Luke 7:37-38 (CSB)

Does any other physical sign show brokenness like weeping? The woman who anointed Jesus’ feet with perfume in Luke 7 shows how beautiful our brokenness can be. She knew she was a sinner, and so did everyone else in the room. She was known for her sins all over town, making her a social outcast. But her brokenness didn’t keep her from Jesus. She knew she would not be cast out with Him. She knew He was the One who would save her.

Desperate to show her gratitude, she brought an incredibly expensive bottle of perfume and anointed her Lord. The aroma no doubt filled the noses of everyone in the room while her weeping filled their ears. Her actions in this moment would have seemed improper to everyone watching, but she clearly did not mind. Unlike those around her, she understood the debt Jesus forgave, and this made her courageous in front of those who would usually make her hang her head in shame. She was no longer overcome with brokenness but with gratitude. Her brokenness became beautiful when she encountered her Lord.

The Pharisee who was hosting Jesus for dinner that night did not see this brokenness and courage as a beautiful thing, however. He didn’t immediately understand Jesus’ response to this woman. Doesn’t Jesus know what a sinner she is?, he wondered. How dare she carry on that way? How dare He let her do so? Given her reputation around town, doesn’t He know what this looks like?

Jesus answered with a parable of two forgiven debtors, one who owed much more than the other. His story made sense of why the woman was so emotional, and also why Jesus accepted her grand display of gratitude as a beautiful gift instead of a waste of money or an improper gesture.

Turning to the woman, he said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she, with her tears, has washed my feet and wiped them with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but she hasn’t stopped kissing my feet since I came in. You didn’t anoint my head with olive oil, but she has anointed my feet with perfume. Therefore I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven; that’s why she loved much. But the one who is forgiven little, loves little.” Then he said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.”
Luke 7:44-48 (CSB)

The woman knew her sins well; she knew just how much mercy she’d been given. And she wanted to lavish that same amount of love back onto the One who’d freed her. But the Pharisee, unsure of Jesus’ power and perhaps unwilling to admit the depth of his own sins, hadn’t experienced that same grace and therefore could not comprehend offering adoration with such abandon. Jesus’ take on things pinpointed the problem: the Pharisee couldn’t express an overwhelming level of love because he had not experienced that level of forgiveness.

In our so-called polite society, emotional displays are often sneered at, judged as messy and unnecessary, or even offensive. That wide brush paints all sorts of behaviors as “too much,” whether it comes in the form of hands raised too high during worship, off-key voices singing too loudly, a flood of tears pouring out during a sermon, or exclamations of “praise Jesus” in average conversations.

But why? Why do we value the reserved responses to Jesus and ridicule the expressive ones? Is it only that the noisy, wet sounds of weeping offend our sense of modesty and propriety, or could it also be that it forces us to confront our own mess? That it brings us face to face with our own shame, our own hidden sin, removing our ability to pretend as if we’re doing just fine by ourselves? Does encountering someone who radiates joy and praise make us uncomfortable because we secretly wish that were true of us? Does witnessing an overtly enthusiastic exchange of shame and guilt for mercy and grace make it clear that we are missing something? That perhaps we’ve gotten it all wrong?

When the Pharisee invited Jesus to his home, he probably expected to impress the teacher with a delicious dinner, beautiful presentation, or prominent dinner companions. He stood tall and proud, adopting the posture of judge and jury when the sinful woman dared to enter his home, kneel behind Jesus, and offer all she had. Instead, Jesus turned toward this woman, prostrate with her messy display of unfettered emotion and raised her up as an example. He accepted her offering and assured her of His mercy and forgiveness.

Can you recall the last time you wept? Do you remember the circumstances that brought you to your knees either literally or figuratively? Did you feel relief as you let go of any pretense that you were okay, as you confessed with your tears that you needed comfort or forgiveness?

No matter what you are holding onto or hiding deep within your heart today, you are invited to bring it to Jesus. Our Savior will take it from you and turn everything hard and bitter and ugly into something lovely and beautiful and pleasing.

By Mary Carver, edited from the Women of Courage: a Forty-Day Devotional, from the (in)courage community.

God’s Goodness in the Waiting Rooms of Life

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The symptoms had started slowly enough: headaches, muscle aches, and fatigue that seemed insurmountable. When their impact on my life became undeniable, I began the quest for answers. But it was only the beginning. In the months that followed, an entire cacophony of symptoms would replace the music of my life. My muscles grew fatigued after standing or walking. I had trouble swallowing, difficulty sleeping. I had tremors and numbness and tingling. Blurred vision made it difficult to work, and brain fog kept me in a confused haze many days.

A progression of life changes followed. I relied on a cane daily. For longer distances, I often needed a wheelchair. A chair lift was installed in our house so that I could reach our bedroom on bad days. I went from full-time work to part-time to not working at all. During flare-ups, I managed only two or three hours of mild activity and was confined to the couch or bed for what was left of the day. I missed out on bike rides, hikes, and basketball games with my kids in the driveway. Many nights I was too exhausted to leave the couch. I frequently cancelled plans with friends because I was too ill to participate. Conversations with my husband sounded more like medical team discussions than those of a married couple. And I grieved. I grieved deeply all the things that I’d lost.

There were no answers for all the tests and studies and doctor’s visits. No answers for nearly three years.

Inevitably, the waiting rooms became the spaces that shaped my faith. In those quiet, long moments, I was alone with God and the questions. There were so many questions. The waiting rooms were my desert, my place of wandering and testing and learning what it meant to believe that God was good.

I’d heard all my life about His goodness. “Taste and see that the Lord is good” (Psalm 34:8 NIV). I’d heard all my life that His plans for me, His purposes for me, were good. “I know the plans I have for you, they are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you hope and a future” (Jeremiah 29:11 NLT). I’d believed in His goodness, trusted in it, even encouraged others to remember it.

But in the waiting rooms, my God felt anything but good. I was angry and heartbroken and grieving. I felt deceived — after all, the plans unfolding in my life were anything but good. How could He promise goodness?

He could — if goodness didn’t mean simply good things.

I thought of my children, of my role as their mother. I knew that in order to be a good parent, I would have to let my children stumble and fall so they could learn. I would need to push them, to encourage them to grow. I would have to let them go through hard things — to avoid it would ruin them. I would need to walk with them, support them, teach them, and comfort them through difficult things. I would need to correct them at times. A child without discipline, without boundaries, without the opportunity to learn from mistakes is a child who is not thriving. There’s more to parenting than filling our kids’ lives with good things. This is the making of a good mother.

I thought of teachers. A teacher who fails to correct mistakes in math is not doing his students any favors. Neither is a teacher who never pushes the child, never teaches new things, never encourages the student to move beyond what is comfortable and easy into what allows them to grow and learn. This is the making of a good teacher.

So, what, I found myself asking, is the making of a good God? A God who spares me hardship and heartache? A God who only allows my life to be filled with good things, comfortable things? Why do I think a good God would be any different from a good teacher or a good mother? Where had I come up with the idea that God was only good if I was protected and sheltered and spared heartache?

That’s not the goodness of God at all.

Rather, God’s goodness is something much greater, much more beautiful. The goodness of God is a God who is unchanging, who never wearies (no matter how weary I am), who never slumbers. It’s a God who walks with me through the fire and water, never leaves my side, and wakes me each morning with the promise of new mercies. It’s a God who gently corrects me and guides me and who refuses to leave me in the messiness of my own wrong ideas and actions. It’s a God who has my wholeness in mind and not just my happiness. And wholeness requires growth — sometimes uncomfortable growth.

His goodness isn’t some kind of deceit. It’s not disappointed hope or misplaced trust. His goodness, instead, is a heart that has my very best — my very fullness — in mind. His goodness isn’t absent just because I am hurting. Actually, it’s more present than ever.
Our lives are full of waiting rooms: those solitary, heartbreaking places full of questions. We question God’s goodness. We question His heart. We question whether He can be trusted in our circumstance. But the God who is good in the easy times is the God who is also good in the waiting rooms of life, in the broken spaces. His goodness is so much more than just good things.

If You’re Somewhere in the Messy Middle

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Several years ago, I followed an embroidery account on Instagram. The wild creativity and intricate detail drew me in, frequently resulting in wide-eyed wonder at the finished projects.

Over and over, I told myself, One day I’m going to try that and This will be the year. Over and over, my fingers scrolled social media, tapping “like” but never picking up a needle.

A few months ago, as the realization settled in that my new normal for the foreseeable future required a screen not only for work but for church and for all communication with family and friends, I knew something would have to give.

My eyes hurt from straining, my arms (much like my apartment) felt empty, and my feet were restless as they carried me from one end of the hallway to the other and back again with nowhere else to go.

I declared this to be “one day” and purchased a beginner’s embroidery kit. When the instructions arrived in another language, I turned to YouTube for tutorials on various stitches. Half an hour later, with a needle in one hand and a wooden hoop in the other, I began.

It was slow-going, confusing, messy, and, if my hand slipped (which it often did), painful. Just as I got the hang of one stitch, I’d find that the next portion required another, and so down went the needle as my YouTube search history grew.

It wasn’t until finishing the pattern that it became clear God was teaching me a lesson with every stitch. When thinking about posting a picture of my very first attempt at embroidery, the strangest thought crossed my mind:

I think I want to display the other side.

From the back — and I promise this is true — it’s nothing short of a mess. You might be wide-eyed with wonder, but it’s from wondering, What exactly am I looking at here?

It doesn’t line up or add up. There are threads in knots and threads unraveling. But when I flip back and forth, looking at one side and then the other, it’s the underbelly and the backside, the tangled mess that brings tears to my eyes.

I know this. I’ve lived it. In some ways, we’re all experiencing it together this year. There’s a great unraveling — a slow-going, confusing, messy, and sometimes painful unmaking.

But something, even here and even now, is being made in us. The other side of the hoop, and the whole of Scripture, tells me this is true.

The Bible opens with a beautiful, creative calling forth. “God said . . . and it was so.” Both the Old Testament and the New Testament agree, we were made in God’s image and declared His handiwork.

If God as an artist made you, then that makes you living, breathing art. Art that smiles and sings, wipes away tears and cooks dinner, tells stories and runs errands. Art that bleeds, art with wrinkles, art with kind eyes and laugh lines.

Art is what you do or make, yes, but it’s also who you are.

“God is not a technician. God is an Artist. This is the God who made you. The same God who lives inside of you. He comes into us, then comes out of us, in a million little ways. That’s why there’s freedom, even in the blah. Hope, even in the dark. Love, even in the fear. Trust, even as we face our critics. And believing in the midst of all that? It feels like strength and depth and wildflower spinning; it feels risky and brave and underdog winning. It feels like redemption. It feels like art.”
― Emily P. Freeman, A Million Little Ways

I think about this as the sun begins to set. I reach for my embroidery hoop and a new pattern, settle into the chair by the window, and pull the thread through as God paints the sky.

Soon, something will exist in what was once empty space. Little by little, stitch by stitch, something from nothing.

I might bleed a little or break a needle. There will be twisted threads and tangled knots. It’ll be messy. But it’ll be beautiful, too, because there’s always more to the story.

Years before embroidery entered my social media feed, I wondered how to best end my first book, the one that asks “Is God good in the messy middle?” The pages within refuse to accept an easy answer or cliche, but I’ll go ahead and spoil the ending: His goodness is woven all the way through. And so I wrote a prayer to close the book, giving it all back to the Answer I was looking for the entire time. It begins like this:

“Lord, help us to recognize that our story finds its meaning only in You. Show us that knowing the ending isn’t necessary for the here-and-now to be beautiful. Remind us that You turn messes into messages and tests into testimonies.”

He’s a kind Artist, a loving Father, a gentle Mother, the greatest of Storytellers. One day, the other side of the hoop will be revealed and we’ll all stand with wide-eyed wonder at the wild creativity and intricate detail of the One who wove us together (Psalm 139:13).

But for today, we simply believe. We wait with hope, we watch for redemption, and we trust that what looks like a mess is something beautiful in the making.

If you’re currently walking through a middle place, desperate to see God’s goodness in the chapters you wouldn’t have necessarily chosen, Even If Not: Living, Loving, and Learning in the in Between is for you. You have not been forgotten or overlooked. There is beauty, even here, and you are not alone.